10 Timeless Heroes; A Time Travel Romance Boxed Set

by P. L. Parker, Beth Trissel, L. L. Muir, Skhye Moncrief, Sky Purington, Nancy Lee Badger, Caroline Clemmons, Bess McBride, Donna Michaels

  Someone rapped at the door.

  A smiling Iona.

  "What a lovely gown." Iona pushed into the room.

  The compliment was little more than a distraction to gain entry into this girlie ambiance. Iona had seen me in the only dress I owned countless times. Compliments aren't necessary.

  "And what will you do with your hair?" Iona reached for the barely-damp stringy mess.

  "I was hoping some great miracle would occur. Perhaps I'd pass out and wake up with perfect hair."

  "Och! You've lovely hair, dear." Iona's hands pushed me backward until the mattress bumped the back of my knees. "Sit down. Let your auntie at those locks."

  Well, Iona could work magic. No argument there.

  "There's many tales of grand miracles." Iona clicked three times with her tongue. "But I'll tell you what I think." She locked her bright gaze on my eyes in the mirror. "You just need to try a little harder."

  Right. I forced a smile.

  "Ask for help," Iona added.

  Be a bother to become girlie? Lord. I gulped down a laugh and just let Iona do her magic.

  Tugging and pulling, Auntie wove two long golden ropes into my hair.

  Braids? Why not a fancy twisted coronet? "Is that fancy enough?"

  Again, Iona's adamant gaze riveted upon mine in the mirror. "Of course. The style reminds me of your mother." Iona's insistent mask slipped into a warm smile. "Anyone who'd clean my house to spare me from my son's disrespect deserves the best magic I can muster."

  Poor woman. I grimaced and slid my gaze down to the pile of dirty clothes from the foundry. "I'm sorry, Auntie. He doesn't care about anything but himself. I wish better for you."

  "And you give it to me every day."

  Gladly. Cousin John had no idea what he had in his parents. What I'd love to have. A home and a family.

  Warm arms encircled my shoulders.

  "Every day." Iona hugged me. "Now you go downstairs and have a lovely evening with your young man."

  With a push, Auntie launched me to my feet. Those comforting hands slipped away. And I suddenly felt ten years old.

  Iona sidestepped to smile. "I'm so proud of you Katie. Your mother would be proud of you too. You go catch that young man. He's bound to have a fierce grip on a lass when kissing her." She winked.

  Just what is Iona up to? For some reason, I expected her to suddenly give me a piece of candy and send me skipping out to play.

  Iona turned, as if sensing my distrust, and exited. The door thumped shut.

  "Hm. Just what is dear Auntie up to?"

  My reflection didn't answer.

  Absolutely nothing. I'm in trouble with Iona backing the SCA to send me out for a night in a medieval gown to deliver a sword. A dress and high heels? No. Not both. Not with Murdo and his muscles looming. Waiting. To grab me for a kiss. I'd fall over. I searched the mussed floor for the low reliable silver pumps.

  The one-inch heel is all I ever manage to balance upon. Spotting a bit of silver flashing from beneath my rumpled blue jeans, I kicked the dirty pants aside and slid both feet into their tight pointed quarters for the evening.

  No stockings. No twenty-first-century girl would battle with stockings for the sake of medieval authenticity. But I can wear the elaborate brass necklace. The one wielding countless rows of interlaced chain and pearls. The gift for my service to the SCA, two months past. Maybe my wearing the bauble would make the courtly ladies feel good about their thoughtfulness. I might even get another expensive sword order.

  Bound and primped, I grabbed the silk drawstring bag containing the carved wooden hair combs. They're a great prize in a quick dice game of Rolling the Bones. Just in case I got sucked into another round of gambling. I made for the stairs.

  The damned shoes clicked loudly, rudely heralding my approach to anyone and everyone. Me in a ridiculous dress. But the sound died when I stepped onto the strip of carpet running the length of the hall.

  The television's chatter reached the top of the stairs.

  News, Uncle John's favorite. I draped a palm over the cool banister, just in case I slipped in the bloody girlie shoes, and descended with a careful step.

  The first step onto the bottom stonework rang out like cannon fire. The second step was equally thunderous. I struggled to tiptoe, staring at the slabs of interlocked gray slate.

  To no avail.

  At the end of the hall, movement caught my eye.

  Iona stood in the hall, clutching her hands beneath her chin, beaming. "Saints be praised. If I had a daughter of my own, she'd never look as beautiful as you."

  Ick. God save me from another one of these events. Why couldn't someone pick up the damned sword at the foundry? Besides, Katie Innis had never been beautiful. Maybe smart to some degree. Pretty from time to time. But Auntie dreams were pipe dreams.

  Movement stirred at the living room door.

  Producing a grinning Uncle John who burst into the hall. A scowling Sticky Fingers followed him. Then a tartaned Murdo assumed vigilance at Uncle John's elbow.

  Are they just going to stare? They made me feel naked like the SCAers running around in their birthday suits at a wingding in the forest. Time to rip this joint. "It's time to go, Murdo. Or we'll be late."

  Murdo plied past Cousin John, stepping straight for me with a smile on his lips. "I see 'tis," he timbered. A few of his long strides brought him to tower at my side. He produced an elbow.

  Oh. Kind of nice. Probably because it was Murdo's elbow. This elbow thing is worth donning a gown and girlie shoes. I wrapped my fingers around the iron and sinew of his arm covered by his white linen sleeve.

  Real man. There is no letting go now. Did he even realize where my thoughts are? Time to throw everything on the table. Better yet, a bed. Family is what it's all about. This is where family starts.

  Murdo tugged me along, ushering me by my grasp on his arm toward the door.

  "Katie," Uncle John called.

  I turned to see Sticky Fingers stomping back into the television room.

  Uncle John cast Murdo a stern glare. "You take care of my lass, Murdo McEwen."

  "There's no reason to fear I wouldn't." Murdo's arm tugged at my grip again.

  How true. He'd always taken care of me. Murdo McEwen. My completely trustworthy guy. He could have me blade-crossbar-handle-and-pommel. The whole sword. Without a second thought. We'd make the perfect bride. Metal or tissue. What more could a smith ask for?

  ****

  Leading my maiden toward the car outside the Innis house in the night's chirping darkness, I almost choked on the pride swelling in my chest. Why not with the most exquisite soul mate on one's arm? Katie is pure fey.

  The bloody rapier bobbed at my waist.

  No matter the time a Ring Master landed, duty haunted him. I'd see the sword safely to Duke Ronat. And I'd escort my charge. I smiled down at her glistening hair woven into Druidess braids.

  She couldn't have known a Druidess wore two. Could she? How ironic she'd fancy the style.

  She slid her gaze to mine. "I'll drive."

  Not the sleek terrestrial bullet fashioned for a man's touch.

  "Come on." She held up a palm. "You can't expect me not to return the care-taking favor."

  Duty is never a chore. "What makes you think I need you to tend to my needs?" A second thought redefined needs.

  "I can't let them arrest you for appearing soused while driving a car."

  Lost in his cups? A Scotsman is never drunk. Save for Cousin John. There existed a paradox. Is the bastard truly Scottish?

  She suddenly blocked my path, setting a spitfire gaze on me. Moonlight glinted in her Druid blue eyes. "Please, Murdo." She placed her warm palms against my chest.

  Those palms scorched a brand through my soul.

  All the blood in my body drained into my groin.

  Nice distraction. If we weren't outside her uncle's home, I'd have to show her how much her touch affected my body. And those pouty lips. Awfully demanding.
/>
  "Please," she whispered as if worried her aunt was listening. "We'll eat dinner, have a little fun, and then I'll take you to Loch Nevin."

  Why the loch at night?

  "Murdo," she whispered.

  With those sweet lips. I trailed the pad of a thumb across her velvet lips.

  Maiden lips. How could I refuse my soul mate something like a trip to the loch at night? We'd be safe.

  ****

  Gripping the vibrating steering wheel, I focused on the road as the high beams shafted through the darkness en route to the dinner at Ronat Castle. The light did all but shine on Mr. Perfect. As if ignoring my needs. My right to claim him. How can I wait one more moment for unification with Murdo and his intoxicating vibes? I just want to drive off around some corner and yank him out of the car. De-kilt him as he recited poetry.

  Get a grip on yourself, Katie Innis. Or what he carried under that kilt!

  Hell. Change the subject. "What did you do with Cousin John today?"

  The sign pointing to Ronat Castle flashed in the light of the high beams.

  "He slept until his father returned," he replied.

  Likely story. "And the motor?"

  "'Tis fully functioning. Your uncle said his friend was working on some small terrestrial four-wheeled vehicle. The motor would suffice."

  Yes. My Murdo had showed up Cousin John without even trying.

  "You're smiling, Katie Innis."

  A flash of light, from the rearview mirror, illuminated his arched brow.

  A car revved its engine on my bumper though. I turned back to the surreal road leading to my future.

  Good. What a welcoming sight. "I'm glad you rebuilt the motor without his assistance. Cousin John's a moron."

  Hazy tree trunks lit up on the right side of the road as the oncoming car buzzed past us.

  "Are you proud of me?" Murdo grinned from ear to ear.

  Lord. There's no avoiding the obvious. I'd prove it. We'll take care of business before the feast, and I'd finally learn what real men wore under their kilts. I braked and steered the car to the side of the road.

  Chapter 16

  "If you stop this car, Katie, you'd best be ready to muss that gown," my beloved warned.

  I don't know if I like his patronizing tone. But one thing's certain. "I'm ready." I steered the car onto grass, beneath an over-arching supportive shadowy apparition of tangled tree limbs.

  The tires wiggled a bit with the shift from hard road to vegetation.

  Murdo reached over and grabbed the steering wheel, guiding the car back onto the road. "Give it some gas."

  "What are you doing?" I fought against his grip on the wheel.

  "Gun the gas, lass." With great earnest, Murdo riveted a serious gaze upon me. "There'll be plenty of time after we've delivered the sword. You cannot show up in disarray."

  Delays are becoming more and more annoying.

  "I don't think I like the look on your face, my love," he cooed.

  My love? I tried to shake the confusion loose in my head and managed to gun the gas.

  Love is good. My love even better. Possessive.

  The dark trees parted, producing Ronat Castle.

  Thank God. Amber light shot toward the dark heavens, creeping up the stone walls, painting the fortress into the night sky. Square turrets capped with conical magicians' hats, all backed by black velvet studded with twinkling rhinestones. I suddenly felt like I was in a Disney movie. Where else would I be with Dafydd Emyr? And Murdo had called me my love. I almost got giggly. Almost. Now to deliver the sword.

  One of Duke Ronat's attendants waved reflective white gloves, the only thing I could see of him in the darkness. Then the headlights hit the man, revealing his powder-blue costume of eighteenth-century waistcoat and knickers.

  "What's this about?" Murdo studied the valet.

  Who knows why SCAers are so into costume parties? "That's one of Duke Ronat's servants." I braked.

  The car rolled to a stop in front of the attendant.

  Murdo's brow twisted.

  Like he's confused. "New Zealand isn't big on historical reenactments, I take it." I grabbed my silk sack and combs from the backseat. "This is a society into historical reenactments and stuff. Come on. Let's get this over with." For more than one reason.

  The valet grabbed my door handle.

  Well, servants do make a girl feel special. I'd explain a little. "We're just in time for a medieval feast. Duke Ronat is notorious for hosting the most elaborate SCA celebrations." I swung my snug girlie shoes to the asphalt driveway.

  Mr. Ian Andrews grinned from ear to ear. "The duke is waiting inside." He bowed.

  Pomp stinks. I managed a quasi-curtsey and sidestepped.

  Thank goodness for low heels.

  Murdo skirted the front of the car. The sword's hilt at his waist glinted in the headlights. Ian slammed the door shut. Murdo produced an obliging elbow.

  Oh. I'll hang onto him forever. I curled my fingers around that solid corded muscle of his forearm and fought a budding smile.

  Murdo smiled like a bronze statue in the faint moonlight.

  "Shall we venture within?" My period vernacular stunk as much as my faux pomp. But who cared when holding onto Murdo's arm? "The sooner we deliver this sword, the sooner we can leave." That's all that is important.

  He nodded.

  The sooner we could get to sex. "Oh?" I managed a pert blink.

  Murdo canted a few inches toward me, pressing the cool air into thick un-breathable gas. "Save your ohs for later, Katie Innis." He murmured a warning and tugged me toward the tall dark door.

  Oh. Boy. Threats are good.

  Wicked anticipation will kill me.

  He'd better perform in the best ways I'd heard about from my chatty friends. I focused on another attendant, one in full red Highland regalia, waiting with his arms crossed over his chest near the doorway.

  A small dark hedge ushered us along the walkway toward the man.

  The man's robust stature said mouthfuls for Highlanders. Not as tough as Murdo though. "He's a tough one."

  "Aye."

  So much for small talk.

  My girlie shoes clipped along the stone path.

  Seven rattling steps brought me to stand before Angus Dubh, a man with a ridiculous handlebar moustache. "Hello, Mr. Dubh."

  The faint sound of a crying violin wafted through the stoic massive door.

  Angus stood motionless like a sentry, his gaze riveting upon the sword at Murdo's hip. "And I see you've brought the duke's rapier. 'Tis a beauty."

  "Thank you." I forced another smile. "This is my escort, Mr. Murdo McEwen, a New Zealander." I waved a hand between them. "Mr. Angus Dubh."

  The men presented broad hands and shook.

  "New Zealand?" Angus boomed.

  A whole can of hairspray had to lock his handlebar moustache into position.

  "I've a third cousin over there," Angus added.

  "'Tis most likely everyone does." Murdo nodded.

  Both men chuckled.

  Great. Now they'd chat all night. Time is wasting. "It's chilly out here."

  "Ladies." Angus blinked at Murdo, then nodded, pushing the door wide. "I'll see you later."

  What? Instead of shining my girlie shoes with dung found up Angus Dubh's sexist Scottish arse, I plowed through the doorway into warm golden light imbued with sweet music. Chivalry relied heavily upon engendering the weak female. That was one costume I wasn't about to appreciate. Not to mention, I'd have to buy a new pair of horrific girlie shoes after waxing them with Scottish dung. Shoe shopping totally sucked.

  Inside, kilted men congregated around a large marble fireplace, carved in simple lines. Each man wore a sword, most sheathed, but some claymores hung exposed, glinting with wayward firelight. I walked into the center of the entry hall, pausing to scan the crowd.

  Murdo waited quietly at my side.

  Faux torches flickered above two women in fourteenth-century velvet gowns. The women turn
ed, smiling wickedly.

  Why? The culprit had to be my dress. The same one I always wore to SCA functions. I should have bought another five-hundred-dollar medieval dress. Spent the money. So, I hadn't bothered to waste the money. Recreating history isn't my ideal hobby. Maybe sparing a bit of history by repairing broken objects people took to my uncle is my hobby. That is all. Now to just deliver the sword and embark on life. Yes. Life. Where is Duke Ronat? "I don't see the duke." I turned back to Murdo.

  His attentive stare set gooseflesh tingling down my arms.

  I need some peanut butter. Who cared if I looked like Jennifer?

  "Well?" he asked.

  Forget the duke. Find a dark secluded spot in the garden. I snaked a hand around his elbow. "This way." Or that way. Anyway minus Duke Ronat would be nice if we are alone. Pulling his arm, I made for the ladies.

  Half a dozen steps revealed Duchess Ronat's younger sister, Amie. All blonde and breasts. Amie grinned far too much for comfort in a hot ruby dress. But introductions were part of proper etiquette.

  "Amie Murray." I waved at Murdo. "This is my companion, Murdo McEwen of New Zealand."

  Amie stepped close, presenting her hand.

  Not another perfect manicure on that petite paw. Jennifer. Competition.

  "Lady Murray." Murdo bowed slightly, reached for the hand, and planted his lips.

  My silken lips, upon Amie's skin. Good thing Murdo carried the rapier.

  Amie turned a smug smile my direction. "He's adorable. May I borrow him later?"

  Somehow, I didn't screech. "If you must."

  "And this is my cousin, Ann Gillespie." Amie touched the tall redhead's arm, standing at her side. "She's visiting from Florida."

  "Hi," Ann flashed sparkling teeth at me. "This is a scream. Isn't it?"

  At least, Ann didn't produce a hand for a kiss. "Yes." My accent and lack of interest in courtly behavior was suddenly undeniably refreshing.

  "Katie's the other lass from the States, Ann," Amie noted.

  Best to scoot Murdo toward the Great Hall before Ann had a chance to change her mind about the kiss. "We'll have to exchange stories later. I need to deliver the duke's sword." I hurried toward the milling crowd.