The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karen Marie Moning

  She shook her head, bewildered and more than a little angry at what life had dealt her. How dare her life keep getting worse? She stiffened her spine and her eyes flew open. “I must get back home,” she insisted.

  “It is impossible, lass. Returning you is not in my power.”

  “Do you know anyone who can?” she pushed. “You must concede, it would be the best solution. All our problems would be solved if you simply sent me back.”

  “Nay. I know no one who has such power.”

  Did he hesitate briefly? Or did her desperate need to cling to hope conjure the illusion? “What about the flask?” she said quickly. “What if I touched—”

  “Forget the flask,” he shouted, straightening to his full height and glaring down at her. “It belongs to me, and I have already told you that it cannot return you to your time. The flask is my property. You would do well to forsake all thought of it and never mention it to me again.”

  “I refuse to believe there is no way for me to return.”

  “But that is the first fact you must accept. Until you acknowledge that you cannot return home, you will have no hope of surviving here. One of the first lessons a warrior is taught is that denial of one’s circumstances only results in failure to recognize real danger. And I assure you, Lisa Stone, there is infinite danger in your present situation.”

  “You don’t scare me,” she said defiantly.

  He stepped so close that his body brushed against hers, but she refused to back up an inch. For all she cared, he could stand on top of her, but she would not yield ground; she had a feeling that lost ground was not something a person ever got back from Circenn Brodie. She returned his glare.

  “You should be afraid of me, lass. You are a fool if you are not afraid of me.”

  “Then I’m a fool. If I went through time once, it can happen again.”

  “Would that it could, for it would certainly make my life easier. Then I would not be caught in this dilemma. But I doona know how to make it happen. Believe that much, at least.”

  Lisa found herself studying his face the way he’d searched her eyes moments ago, seeking some way to gauge if he was telling her the truth. But she was intelligent enough to recognize that she was in the defensive position—he being the massive and invincible offense. She would be wise not to push him too far.

  “Temporary truce?” she offered at last, not meaning a word of it, resolved to find the flask at the earliest opportunity and fight him any way she could.

  “You will abstain from climbing my walls?”

  “You promise you won’t try to kill me without first telling me, so I can have a bit of time to accept it? A few days would do,” she countered, postponing the possibility of death any way she could.

  “Will you pretend to be cousin to the Bruce, as I told my men?” he said gravely.

  “Will you promise that if there is a way for me to get back home, you’ll let me go? Alive,” she added, stressing the word.

  “Say ‘aye’ first, lass,” he demanded.

  Lisa held her breath for a moment, looking at him. She had little choice but to pledge this bizarre truce to him. If she tried to back out now, she suspected they’d be fighting again in a matter of moments. “Aye,” she mimicked his accent.

  He studied her, as if measuring the depth of her honesty and commitment to her words. “Then aye, lass. If a way can be found to return you, I will help you do it.” The corner of his mouth twitched in a strangely bitter smile. “It will get you the hell out of my life and my compromised integrity,” he added softly, more to himself than to her.

  “Truce,” she accepted. Integrity, she jotted in her mental file of significant facts about Circenn Brodie. It was important to him. She experienced a flash of hope: The precise knightly characteristics that might drive him to fulfill his oath—which included integrity, honor, protection of those weaker than he, and respect and chivalry toward women—could also be prevailed upon to prevent him from doing it. Killing a helpless woman would surely not be easy for him. She knew that sealing an agreement was no small matter to a knight, so she extended her hand for the seal of a handshake, not realizing how thoroughly modern-day the gesture was.

  He eyed it for a moment, took it, then pressed it to his lips and kissed it.

  Lisa snatched back her hand with a scowl. Heat tingled where his lips had brushed her skin.

  “You offered it,” he snapped.

  “That wasn’t what I—oh, forget it,” Lisa floundered, then explained, “We don’t kiss hands in my time—”

  “But we are not in your time. You are in my time now, lass. I cannot stress enough how important it is for you to remember that, at all times.” His voice was low, his words clipped as if he were irritated by her response. “And so there are no further misunderstandings between us, I will explain: Should you offer me a part of your body, lass, I will kiss it. That is what men in my century do.” His smile was mocking, couching a none-too-subtle challenge.

  Lisa folded her hands behind her back. “I understand,” she said, casting her gaze to the floor in a deceptively submissive manner.

  He waited for a moment as if not quite trusting her acquiescence, but when she didn’t raise her eyes again, he turned toward the door. “Good. Now we need to find you decent clothing and teach you how to be a proper fourteenth-century lass. The better you blend in, the less risk you will face, and the less risky your presence will be for me.”

  “I will not empty chamber pots,” she said firmly.

  He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  * * *

  Circenn returned Lisa to his chambers, had hot water sent up for her to wash with, then went off in search of clothing for her. Chamber pots, indeed. Did she think they were so barbaric that they did not have garderobes? Chamber pots were used only for nocturnal emergencies, primarily by children and the infirm, and in his opinion there was no reason why anyone could not manage to make it down the hallway, unless they were possessed of extreme laziness and lack of discipline.

  He snorted, focusing his mind on the task at hand. He couldn’t give her run of the keep until he’d managed to hide some of those curves and long legs beneath the ugliest gown he could find. His men needed no distractions. He gathered the maids and instructed them to procure a gown, all the while brooding over what to do with her.

  When he’d questioned Lisa last night, he’d nearly begun to believe she was innocent. She had a disarming air about her, an attitude of sincerity. He’d relaxed a bit, even glimpsed a wry humor in their conversation. Then she’d admitted that she was from the future, and he’d realized that his curse had inadvertently carried her through time.

  Although it had stunned him, it made sense: Her strange English, her odd clothing, her mention of countries of which he’d never heard, all were explained by her being from the future. He could certainly understand her people fleeing England, he thought wryly—who wouldn’t want to? It didn’t surprise him that in the future, England was still trying to control everyone.

  He laughed softly, thinking that she didn’t know how lucky she was that she’d been brought to him and not some other medieval lord. Circenn accepted time travel, but he was an extreme exception. Any other laird would have burned her for a witch. But then again, he thought dryly, no other laird would have had the power to curse the damned flask to begin with.

  It was due to Adam Black that he was familiar with the art of sifting time. Adam did it frequently, had often spoken of other centuries, and he’d brought Circenn odd “gifts” in some of his attempts to buy the laird’s loyalty and obedience. They were gifts Circenn had refused, but when Adam wouldn’t take them back, he had locked them securely in a private room off his chambers, not trusting their powers. He knew that Adam was trying to tempt him, hoping to make him become like Adam—a thing Circenn would destroy himself before permitting that to happen.

  The lass had been wearing one of those strange “gifts” fastened about her wrist, before Circ
enn had slipped it from her arm in their struggle last night. He’d inspected it later; it was what Adam had once called a “watch.” Adam had found it endlessly amusing, saying it was how mortals counted their “pathetic span of life.” Her watch seemed to confirm her story.

  If he believed her version of events, his chest had washed down the river, surfacing in some remote area. It had not been found, and, over time, nature had buried it. Hundreds of years had passed before it had been dug up, and when she’d touched it, it had brought her back to him.

  Was it possible that in the future, men still sought the hallows and the secret of the flask as avariciously as they did in his century? Was it possible she had come there to uncover the treasures of the Tuatha de Danaan and the Templars? He might have suspected Adam’s involvement in this, but for two reasons: There was no point in Adam’s bringing to him a woman he was forsworn to kill, and Adam didn’t manipulate events unless there was a very specific thing he wanted to gain from his devious machinations. Circenn couldn’t see one possible thing Adam might be after in this tangle. The flask and the hallows already belonged to Adam’s race; Circenn was merely the guardian. Adam had already shaped Circenn as he wanted—there was nothing more he could possibly hope to “change” about the laird of Brodie. No, Circenn mused, there was nothing of Adam in this. But the lass might be in league with the “employers” she’d mentioned; she could well be from a treacherous future, after his secrets.

  He would have to watch her, study her, keep her near. It would take time, and time was a luxury he could ill afford in the thick of an ongoing war. Besides, he brooded, any time spent in the lass’s presence was a slow torture. Loath though he was to admit it, he was susceptible where she was concerned. Stunning, proud, sensual, and intelligent, the woman would be a formidable foe—or a valued ally. He hadn’t met a woman like her in centuries.

  Curse me home, she’d said. Circenn snorted, recalling her plea. The only person who could send her back home was the one person who would kill her instantly if he knew she was there: Adam. He certainly couldn’t call on Adam and ask him to send the woman home, nor could he risk meeting with Adam to dig for clues as to whether he was somehow involved. The blackest elf was far too clever to be probed, even by Circenn.

  He was acting against everything he had lived by, all his careful rules designed to keep him human; he was breaking an oath, defending a person who could be a spy, lying to his men. He was taking a huge risk by letting her live, and if he was wrong …

  Sighing, he finished giving orders and headed off for the kitchen to prepare his men for the introduction of Lisa MacRobertson, cousin to Robert the Bruce.

  * * *

  Adam Black didn’t bother to materialize. He remained invisible, a wisp of sultry air lightly scented with jasmine and sandalwood, dogging Circenn’s footsteps, consumed by curiosity. That perfect paragon of a man—Circenn Brodie, who’d never broken a rule, never betrayed a weakness, not once wavered on rigid issues of morality—was breaking a sworn oath and willfully deceiving his men. Fascinating, Adam marveled. He’d long thought the laird of Brodie had no breaking point, and had nearly despaired of ever finding the proper catalyst.

  He sensed that Circenn didn’t believe Adam was involved in his present tangle, because he couldn’t pinpoint anything Adam might want. Adam smiled faintly. Circenn hated being manipulated. It was best that the laird of Brodie remain blissfully unaware that Adam had carefully orchestrated every move in this game, and was playing for the highest stakes of all.

  LISA STEPPED INTO THE GOWN AND TURNED TO FACE the polished metal propped against the wall. She’d been surprised when a mirror had been brought to her chamber. Sifting through her history studies, she recalled that mirrors dated as far back as Egyptian times, perhaps earlier. She knew the Romans had constructed sophisticated sewage systems thousands of years ago, so why should a mere mirror surprise her? It was too bad she couldn’t help them rediscover plumbing, she mused. She rubbed at the soot on the chipped metal until it revealed her shadowy reflection.

  The soft dress clung to her hips, so full of static it crackled. She struggled for a moment, trying to pull it up over her shoulders, but the gown had been made for someone considerably smaller than she. Although she was slim, she was tall and had full breasts; half of her wouldn’t fit in the dress. Sighing, she slipped the gown from her hips and stepped out of it. She was moving toward the bed to retrieve her jeans when the door opened.

  “I brought you—” The words terminated abruptly.

  She whirled around to find Circenn frozen in the doorway, his gaze fixed on her, a cloak tossed over his arm. It slipped to the floor, unheeded.

  Then he stepped into the room and kicked the door shut behind him. “What manner of dress have you donned?” he thundered. His dark eyes glittered as they swept her body from head to toe. He sucked in a rough breath.

  Lisa shivered. He would have to catch her standing there in the only frivolous thing she owned, a pair of lavender bikini panties and a matching lace push-up bra that Ruby had given her for her birthday. And skin. And a damp nervousness she attributed to fear.

  He stalked to her side and slipped a finger beneath the delicate lace edging one cup of her bra. “What is this?”

  “It … it … Oh!” She couldn’t form a coherent sentence. His finger lay against her pale skin, and she was mesmerized by the contrast in colors and textures. He had large hands, callused and strong from swordplay, with elegant fingers, one of which now rested against the smooth swell of her breast. She closed her eyes. “Bra,” she managed. Grasping at formality, she pretended she was giving a history lesson in reverse, teaching him what the future held: “It’s a garment designed t-to protect a woman’s, you know, and k-keeps them from, well, you know. …”

  “Nay, I doona think I know at all,” he said softly, his lips a few breaths from meeting hers. “Why doona you enlighten me, lass?”

  Her breath caught in her throat with a small gasp—a consummately feminine sound, and she cursed herself silently for it. Just pant, why don’t you? she berated herself. They were scant, dangerous inches from full body contact, his finger tugging gently at the edging of her bra. She was acutely aware of her near nudity, of her nipples beneath the thin fabric in perilous proximity to his hands, and the fact that he wore nothing more than a drape of easily discarded cloth. She felt electricity race through her body everywhere his gaze skimmed. If he ripped off his plaid and covered her body with his, would she have the strength to protest? Would she even want to? How could her body betray her to a man who was her enemy? “The gown was too small,” she managed.

  “I see. And you astutely concluded this would cover more of you?”

  “I was just about to put my j-jeans back on,” she informed his chest.

  “I think not. Not until you tell me what this”—he tugged lightly at the strap—“keeps your ‘you knows’ from doing.”

  Was he teasing her? She forced herself to meet his gaze and instantly wished she hadn’t. His dark eyes were intensely sexual, his lips parted in a faint smile.

  “Drooping when you get older.” The words escaped her in a rush of air.

  He tossed his head back and laughed. When he lowered his head she saw the unnerving intensity in his eyes, and she realized he was aroused. By her. The knowledge astounded her. She’d decided that his kiss last night and his innuendos today had simply been part of his strategy, but now, looking at him, she understood that he had a fierce physical reaction to her, possibly as painful as her attraction to him. It was simultaneously a heady feeling and a frightening one. She had a sudden premonition that if she gave him the slightest indication of her interest, he would descend upon her with the gale force of a Saharan sirocco, every bit as hot and devastating. Hungry for it, aching with inexperience and curiosity, she wanted desperately to discover what a man like Circenn Brodie might do to a woman.

  But she dared not explore that desire. She would be as a lamb to the slaughter. She had never bee
n romanced, and the laird of Brodie could seduce a saint, she thought. Although she’d wanted him to be aware of her as a woman, thinking it might make him more protective of her, she had a dreadful feeling that she would lose herself entirely if he kissed her again. He was just too overwhelming. She had to defuse the sexual chemistry between them, and the best way to do that was to get her clothing back on.

  She dropped to her knees, lunging for the gown pooled at her feet, but he moved in flawless accord and she ended up kneeling nose to nose with him, and he was holding her dress.

  They stared at each other while she counted her heartbeats; she’d reached twenty before he favored her with a slow smile. Tension crackled in the air between them.

  “You are a beauty, lass.” He cupped her cheek with his hand and swept a light kiss across her lips before she could protest. “Long legs, beautiful hair”—he slipped his hand into it, letting silky strands sweep through his fingers—“and fire in your eyes. I have seen many bonny lasses but I doona believe I have ever encountered one quite like you. You make me think I might discover parts of myself I doona know exist. What am I to do with you?” He waited, his lips mere inches from hers.

  “Let me get dressed,” she breathed.

  He searched her face intently. She held her breath then, terrified that if she opened her mouth she would cry, Yes! Touch me, feel me, love me, damn it, because I don’t know what it feels like any more to forget that I hurt and that my mother is dying!