My Dark Highlander

by Badger, Nancy Lee

  Nay, ‘tis the way her chemise, beneath her bright yellow shirt, parts to reveal the creamy skin above her rounded breasts.

  “You used to call me Jenny. After all we had shared…”

  Tense moments passed, and he assumed the silence meant she had heeded his demand, and sought help. When two strips of leather slapped his arse, he yelped. His leather trews offered some protection, but the thump had surprised him.

  “Sorry. They’re the reins from a black horse I found grazing nearby. Grab on. We’ll try to pull you up.”

  As he wrenched a shoulder attempting to reach the reins, he said, “We?”

  “The horse and I.”

  “To Hell with Falcon!”

  “You named your horse after a bird?”

  She was questioning him about a choice of name? “If ye canno’ pull me up, I shall be taking an unwanted bath.” Waves crashed on the jagged rocks below; the same rocks on which his brother might have died.

  “Hold your horses. Did you grab the reins?”

  The musical lilt of her Sassenach-accented voice, so out of place in Scotland, was actually a calming influence, and he grasped the reins. “Aye, as well as a handful of dirt and roots. What now?”

  “Back up,” she said.

  Gavin glanced toward the sea behind and below. “What the devil?”

  The leather slipped through his gloves, and more sandstone crumbled beneath his boots. Tightening his grip on the leather straps, a sudden jerk propelled him upward, and he kicked against the rock face for greater purchase. When his head rose higher than the cliff’s lip, Jenny stood by his garron, urging Falcon to move back from the edge, with soft words and pats against the stallion’s neck.

  His knees slammed against sharp rocks, and leather ripped. He groaned. The warm ooze of blood stirred him to climb faster. Only after his chest slid onto solid ground, followed by his hips, then his knees, could he inhale air and release a sigh of relief.

  Releasing the reins, he rolled onto his back. Sunshine warmed his face, but a stiff wind buffeted his body, reminding him he lay precariously near the edge of the cliff. As he rolled away from the lip, the sudden arousing scent of lavender made him turn his head, until he faced Jenny.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, kneeling beside him. Worry lines above her arched brows softened the tirade he had planned to launch.

  “I am better than I was the first time ye asked.” Sitting up, he brushed dirt and leaves from his shirt and leggings. He winced when his fingers snagged the rip in the leather at both knees.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Heat washed over his cheeks. “Yer right. I owe ye my life, even if ye caused me to fall.”

  Jenny stiffened, then pushed to her feet with a huff. Her dull brown skirt swung as she walked, revealing her rounded hips. She patted his garron’s neck, turning toward him. When Gavin remained silent, her gaze bore into his chest.

  “You’re angry, but something else is going on. I’m getting tired of secrets.”

  The only secret he held back was the way his body reacted in her presence, and the fact he practiced sorcery. “What do ye mean? Who be keeping secrets from ye?”

  Instead of answering, she tapped her foot. “Well, you know what they say, ‘Suspense is worse than disappointment.’”

  “Who says?”

  “The Scottish poet Robert Burns, of course.” Jenny turned on her heel and marched away.

  “Robert who?” Should he go after her? No, he had avoided her for more than a fortnight. Thoughts of her filled his restless evenings with memories. Their one night together, wrapped in each other’s arms for warmth, was a poignant interlude he would rather forget. She hated him the moment she learned of his betrothal to her friend, Izzy, but had let her guard down that one night. It would be better for them both if she returned to her time. He would then have one less problem keeping him from his important tasks. Searching for his brother was the highest priority.

  A stiff breeze blew inland from the North Sea, grabbing at Gavin’s filthy shirt and hair, a subtle reminder that winter would soon arrive. People starved in the Highlands during winter if their lairds did not prepare. He shivered. He ought to be home, at Tulac Castle, cleaning up his sire’s mess. He stood, brushing off his leggings.

  He’d seen the way Jenny’s nipples poked through the yellow fabric. Her sun-kissed skin was nearly as brown as the long skirt that fluttered about her calves, revealing pale brown doeskin slippers. She was a beauty, even in farmer’s clothing.

  Shunning feeble thoughts of lusty pursuits, he concentrated on his mission. Niall was out there, somewhere. Their father was another problem. For too many years, Angus Sinclair had ruled his clan with an iron fist. He used mercenaries to steel cattle, and women, from other clans. He fed his paid warriors very well, while his own people starved.

  Niall had decided to distance himself from their father’s tyranny. He left the castle in the middle of the night with thirty clansmen. Once Gavin learned that their father admitted to Izzy that he had killed his last wife, as well as their mother, he had left.

  Izzy and Bull had defeated his sire not once, but twice. After Izzy had wounded Angus Sinclair with a potion that had burned his skin, the laird had disappeared. Gavin assumed the old warrior was in hiding, in order to heal.

  Likely in the bed of a woman.

  He chuckled. Everyone knew of the man’s proclivity for female companionship, and his dead wives showed that marrying him was dangerous. Praying that his father stayed hidden, Gavin had taken over the running of their clan’s ancestral home, Tulac Castle. His goal was to improve their peoples’ lives. The poor state of the fields was bad enough. Their clan suffered the loss of the majority of their cattle, and would starve if he failed to turn things around.

  Gavin had accepted gifts from Izzy. In exchange for several cows, a Highland bull, a dozen hens, kegs of ale, as well as hay and apples, he would allow her to expand her land into Sinclair territory, where she planned to build tenant homes. She had not only offered sanctuary to her clansmen, but also to several starving families from his clan. Her thoughtfulness and caring was to her merit and a surprise, especially to a clan whose laird had abducted her and her cousin.

  Sadness washed over him. He not only lost the chance to wed Izzy, a wealthy property owner, but Jenny planned to return to her home. Why her departure affected him, making his gut cramp and his eyes moisten, was a mystery. Jenny was a poor working lass with no family or property.

  She was a stranger he had met under unusual circumstances, and he knew little of her world. They had met outside her home, in the future. She had run out of a barn at the same moment he had drawn his sword and threatened Bull, the man he had found in Izzy’s home. A sneaky little Scottish brownie magically tossed him, Jenny, Isobel and Bull here, to a time and place not of her choosing.

  Why was Jenny leaving? She had survived a battle, then followed him in their attempt to get to safety. What happened later, in Izzy’s barn’s loft, might have tainted her opinion of him, and his homeland. Simply recalling that night turned his male part to stone. Kissing her, caressing her…

  “Ye seem quite pleased, Sinclair.”

  Gavin’s smile fell. Ignoring Rae Wilson, he stormed over to his stallion and grabbed his long black cloak that lay across Falcon’s saddle, shoving his arms in it. The added layer would help shelter him from the North Sea’s unrelenting wind

  “I won an argument with Lady Morgan, ‘tis all.”

  “Aye?” The farmer crossed his arms over his chest, turned his back to the wind, and stared down at his own long brown tunic, and lighter brown leggings. Then he glanced at Gavin’s bloodied knees. “Did she have anything to do with yer ripped trews?”

  His bleeding knees ached. “She tried to kill me, and I declined to die.”

  “What?” Rae sputtered.

  Gavin slapped Rae on his shoulder. “An accident, I believe. I hold no animosity toward her. Besides, she is leaving.”

  Rae gazed
at his face, wiggled his brows, and smiled. “Ye doono’ care that the lovely lass plans to return to her home? I hear she loves men in--what did she call it--kilts?”

  “ ‘Tis nothing I can do to change her mind.” His plan to replace his ruined leggings with a Highlander’s plaid, appealed to him more than it did a minute ago. Turning away, he patted his garron’s withers, and mounted. Wincing in pain, he gathered the reins that had saved his life and said, “If ye will excuse me, Falcon deserves an extra ration of oats.”

  Rae nodded, yet he did little to hide his smile.

  Heading toward Castle Ruadh’s main gate at a slow pace to keep his knees from further damage, Gavin pondered Rae’s attitude. The farmer sounded happy that Gavin and Jenny’s short-lived relationship did not continue. Did he plan to convince the lass to stay?

  Gavin laughed loudly, and his mount skittered sideways. He patted Falcon’s black neck, and they headed through the gates and into the bailey, leaving Rae behind.

  Reaching the stable, he dismounted, landing gingerly. Pain radiated up and down both legs. When the initial jolt passed, he sensed eyes boring into his back. His gaze roamed the stable yard, but all appeared normal. A young stable boy headed his way, and Gavin handed the reins to him.

  “Extra oats, this day.” Gavin said, then strode slowly to a barrel by the barn entrance. He lifted the lid, and scooped water into a ladle. Lifting it to his lips, he drank.

  “Aye, laird.” The boy, leading Falcon, disappeared inside the shadow-filled structure before Gavin could correct him.

  “ ‘Tis the truth, the boy speaks.”

  Why are people sneaking up on me?

  Gavin turned toward the old witch at his elbow. Dorcas Swann puffed on her ever-present pipe, leaning on her cane. Gavin spent little time around her, except when she and her cart visited his castle. He had purchased herbs and potions, earning a raised eyebrow from the old woman. He assumed she knew he dabbled in sorcery.

  “Dear lady, I beg to disagree.”

  “A fine laird ye will make, and a woman shall honor ye with her body. Soon.”

  “What? Nay, I have more important things to do than waste time begging a lass to fill my bed.” He tipped the ladle filled with water to his mouth, again.

  “If I found ye on yer knees in my bedchamber, begging me, life would be bliss.”

  Gavin spit water everywhere.

  CHAPTER 3

  Jaden-Tog hid in the shadows beyond the water barrel, close enough to hear the conversation between the witch and the Sinclair laird’s spawn. Gavin Sinclair had nearly caught him spying on them, but Jaden-Tog was great at hiding. For a brownie enchanted with magical powers, such as the ability to travel in time, he wished he had never tangled with Angus Sinclair.

  “The man ‘tis pure evil, and now out of favor with his people,” he whispered. When the Sinclair laird had hired him to capture the MacHamish witch, and had promised him gold in return, he had tried.

  Twice.

  “I washed my hands of the dirty cur after I witnessed his abuse of poor Izzy.” Jaden-Tog had no qualms against abductions, but he drew a line against the mistreatment of women. His future was in peril. He was unsure if he was welcome at Castle Ruadh, which was a problem, because he was hungry. His stomach grumbled, and a tankard of cider, or a trencher of roasted meat would go far to satisfy the emptiness.

  “Why are ye hiding back here?”

  The brownie squeaked, tumbled from behind the barrel, and raced inside the stable. From behind a stack of baled straw, he peeked at the interloper. A young woman stood near his previous hiding spot with a basket perched on her hip. Her pale blonde hair lay in one long braid over her shoulder, and she had tied a triangle of linen around her head. Wide-spaced eyes glared at him, the nearly black orbs appearing to see him in the darkened barn.

  Tearing his gaze from hers, he used magic to look around. The muffled sound of grazing animals assured him they were alone. The stable lad had settled the dark laird’s beast in a stall, and had departed.

  “Who are ye, lass? There is a familiar look to ye, but I would remember such a beauty.”

  “Doono’ turn my stomach. Ye be the brownie Rae Wilson speaks highly of, though I doono’ understand why. Brownies are selfish, money-grubbing, imps. ”

  “Ye wound me, lass,” he answered, clutching his chest.

  “Doono’ deny this, as I recognize yer clothing. I overheard him describing ye to my laird’s woman.”

  Looking down at his leather jerkin, green wool leggings, and muddy boots, he said, “I wear clothes that are comfortable.”

  “Aye, and dark, for prowling through woods, or a castle.”

  He met her gaze. She was haughty, small, and shapely. He liked what he saw, and puffed out his chest while straightening to his full three-foot height. When she adjusted her basket, and a fresh-picked apple tumbled to the ground, his empty stomach growled.

  Her laughter echoed off the high beams, and the barn filled with responding whinnies from several garrons.

  “What be yer name, wench?” he asked, then scooped up the apple. When he bit into it, the tart flavor burst on his tongue, and juice dribbled down into his beard. He gazed at her gauzy shirt, the color of the sky, riding low across her shoulders. Bare feet peeked from beneath a dark blue skirt, muddy along the hem.

  “I be Cinnie. Do ye no’ recognize yer own daughter?”

  Jaden-Tog choked.

  ***

  “Gavin Sinclair is aggravating!” Jenny was looking for a little sympathy, but she sensed Jake hadn’t heard a word. Instead, her friend stared in the direction of the athletic events, probably looking for his wife.

  “I’m sorry, Jenny. My mind is…elsewhere.” Jake had located his horse, and was leading him toward the castle’s portcullis, when he’d stopped beside her.

  She patted the old horse. She shivered, and wrapped her arms around her waist. Thick clouds had gathered over the ocean, ominous and dark. She turned toward the castle, and Jake’s smiling face. “I ought to go find a coat.”

  She was getting used to muscular Scots parading around in ancient versions of kilts, but Jake was good-looking in leather. Of course, the leather-clad Gavin Sinclair, who irritated her to no end, was an exception. She’d never seen him in a kilt.

  And isn’t that sad.

  “Have you made your decision?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Really?”

  “Dorcas is taking me. She says Rae will accompany us.” She might have shocked him with that part of the news.

  “Rae is going to the future?”

  Jenny nodded, already missing Jake. She wrapped her arms around his waist, and he drew her into his chest. A simple hug always did wonders for her, and the familiar smell of leather and horses reminded her how much she’d miss him. When Jake’s lips pressed a kiss to her forehead, she whimpered.

  “I’ll miss you too, squirt.” Jake’s arms squeezed her breathtakingly close, then loosened.

  Fighting to quash the prickle of tears, Jenny stepped out of his brawny arms. She kissed his cheek, then cupped his chin, rubbing her thumb over his bottom lip.

  From the corner of her eye, a tall, kilted Highlander marched toward them. His dark windblown hair, partially hid his eyes and he aimed his fierce scowl at her.

  “Dear Lord.”

  “What’s wrong?” Jake asked, turning.

  The approaching warrior’s muted plaid had a purplish tint, reminding her of New Hampshire lilacs that grew near her home. He’d belted the wool low on his waist and draped a section over one shoulder. A brilliant amethyst brooch pinned it in place. A simple black leather pouch, or sporran, hung over his groin, and black boots cupped his thick, muscular calves. The sleeves of his black linen shirt billowed in the breeze.

  “That shirt makes him look like a pirate,” she whispered.

  “Argh,” Jake answered. As he laughed, his hand circled her waist.

  She slapped his arm. Racing toward them, Gavin’s scowl erupted
into a roar, and he pulled a dirk from the short sword’s leather scabbard at his hip.

  Jake shoved Jenny behind him, as a scream clawed at Jenny’s throat. Gavin’s growl made her peek from behind Jake.

  “Stay out of this, wench,” Gavin said.

  All she could do was gawk. How dare he...

  “ ‘Tis between this Sassenach and myself.”

  “I’m not an Englishman, Sinclair. I’m an American. You have no beef with me,” Jack protested.

  “Ye kissed a young unmarried lass in public, ye fool. Do ye wish to be leg-shackled in the blink of an eye?”

  “I didn’t…I would never…I’m already married!”

  Jenny ignored Jake’s embarrassment, and couldn’t help the desire twirling inside her womb for the dark warrior. Gavin’s skin peeked from his shirt’s open neckline. The loosely tied leather strips flapped in the breeze, then went limp as he slid to a stop, inches in front of Jake. He’d replaced the black slacks, what he called trews, he always wore. A sky-blue aura hovering over him indicated he had well-developed basic instincts. One of those instincts seemed to be kill the Sassenach.

  Jenny swallowed dust, and licked her dry lips. She’d never seen Gavin wear a kilted plaid. At first glance, she missed the tight, revealing fit of black leather. However, when a gust of wind sent his wool plaid up, revealing bandaged knees and muscular thighs, her throat closed.

  “Sinclair, please put your weapon away. I am unarmed.” Jake raised his hands, palms outward.

  “I saw what ye can do with yer arms. She seemed to enjoy it, as well.”

  What was he talking about? She glanced at Jake’s tense shoulders, then back to Gavin’s sneer. “Gavin! Are you jealous? Give me a break!”

  “I will no’ break ye, lass. Him, though, ‘tis another story.”

  She stepped between the men. “Dear Lord, you’ve got to be kidding me.” When Jenny shoved Gavin aside, Jake crossed his arms over his chest. A wisp of smoke drifted from between his tense lips. When she stepped closer to Gavin, he stepped back, grunted what she assumed were Gaelic curses, and sheathed his weapon.