Must Love Kilts

by Angela Quarles

  God, the morning’s events were so grainy. “Me? You were the one gone, not me.”

  “I left for a wee bit to use the privy, and when I returned, I found the woman who’d pledged to spend a year with me gone from our bed. Looked all over the inn for you, but no one had seen ye leave. ’Twas like you’d disappeared into thin air.”

  Iain reached her side and kicked dirt onto her pitiful fire. “C’mon, lassie. Let me take you to our camp, and we can discuss this further.” The edge of his plaid draping across his hip brushed her arm, and she shivered. She stood rooted to the ground as the air crackled with the magnetic pull of this maddening but handsome man. Having him so close, his heat buffeting her, his strength looming over her, brought back all the memories from last night in a rush, brought back all the ill-advised reasons that had urged her into sharing a night with him.

  And dammit if her body wasn’t going yay, let’s do it again.

  Long ago, she’d learned that she had the worst judgment when it came to men. Specifically ones who were too hot for their own damn good. She’d taken to embracing those bad decisions—having fun with them, but not expecting anything more. Otherwise—hello, heartache. But this time, she’d embraced a bad decision a tad too hard.

  She was married? To a hot, playboy Scot in 1689?

  Epic. Even for her.

  As Traci hiked between the two hulking giants beside her, she tried to remain calm. Her sister would be at that camp—these two had no chance to warn the others to hide her—and she’d grab Fiona, make her wish, and disappear. And she gave zero shits if the Highlanders witnessed them disappearing.

  They could just chalk it up to magic, or faeries, or aliens, for all she cared.

  Glenfiddich nudged her neck from behind, her soft sigh near her ear her only comfort.

  They forded the stream where she’d taken a drink earlier that evening and penetrated deeper into the dark rolling glen, the moon’s feeble glow barely illuminating their path. A chill evening wind whipped around their bodies, tugging at her skirts.

  And then, good God, it hit her.

  She was walking with a pony, in a dark glen, with two Highland warriors.

  And she wasn’t the least bit afraid.

  She felt safe with them, which didn’t make any sense. She instantly became wary, because her romantic instincts were shit.

  Now each darkening ravine they passed through, each casual brush of Iain’s body against hers made her draw inward, muscles tightening. By the time they reached the outskirts of their camp, she was exhausted by the tension. Tension wound so taut within her, she’d swear the next crunch of heather underfoot would make her splinter into a million fractured pieces.

  Yeah, she needed to get to her sister and kiss this damn time period bye-bye before she got herself into any more trouble.

  Iain and Duncan strode into the camp, but Traci hung back, ready to flee if either of them made a grab for her.

  Confident that she was following right behind them, Duncan and Iain greeted their men. She scanned the flickering light, heart lodged in her throat.

  Where are you, Fiona?

  She circled the group, keeping Glenfiddich close beside her. She edged up to a lone tree, taking comfort in its solid presence at her back and her pony on one side. Her gaze skipped along each figure around the camp fire.

  None were Fiona.

  What the hell? Where was she?

  Had Maggie lied?

  Iain spun around until he found her. “Ah. There’s my wee wife. What’re ye doing huddled by that tree? Come into the fire’s warmth. No one here will harm ye.”

  Wee wife? Was he making fun of her? She’d only been “wee” when she shot out of her mother’s womb. She’d not let his taunts affect her.

  Traci studied each man—about a dozen—and they stared back with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. She crept forward, her bag gripped in her fist. It packed a wallop if they got any ideas. Or she’d jump on her pony and flee.

  “Where’s Fiona?” Her heart pounded at voicing the question, because she’d now get the confirmation she could already guess at: her sister wasn’t here.

  Duncan swept a hand around the camp fire. “As you can see, we have her not.”

  “But why would Maggie lie? I need to find my sister.”

  Iain crossed his arms. “Perhaps we can aid you in your quest. She could not have ventured far.”

  She swallowed hard. “But she didn’t ‘venture’ off. Someone took her. Maggie said the MacCowans. She could be in danger.”

  “There’s no one in these parts but our sept and that of our clan, MacDonell of Glengarry. If she’s near, we will hear of it.”

  She faced Duncan. “What about you and Fiona? What happened last night?”

  Duncan’s jaw tightened. “We drank for a while longer, but she insisted on having her own room for the night. I stayed in the common room. I saw neither of you again after we parted last night.”

  There was something more there; she could tell in the set of his face. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  What looked like hurt, quickly concealed, crossed his face. “Nothing other than the particulars of the discussion that transpired between us. Which is private. If your sister shares it with you, that’s her decision.”

  Frustration strained her voice. “When I woke up, I…I panicked. A group of men was after me, so I, er, escaped without Fiona. I wonder if they took her?”

  Iain stepped toward her, a frown marring his smooth, high forehead. “Who were these men? What did they look like?”

  She gave a description as best she could. Duncan glanced at Iain. “Sounds like Ross.”

  “Who’s Ross?”

  “Ross MacCowan is one of our leading tacksmen and currently the leader of our patrol. But he wouldn’t have taken your sister.”

  “Then why did it look like he was after me? Is he here?”

  Duncan and Iain shared another look. Iain waved a dismissive hand. “Probably only to question you as a stranger in these parts, that’s all. ’Tis his duty. He split off with a smaller group to investigate some trouble with one of our tenants.”

  Had Maggie been mistaken? They seemed sincere.

  Iain continued, “Come. Our patrol is over, and we’re making for our keep. Accompany us, and we can assemble a search party.”

  It felt as if all the rocks in the vicinity were now pressing into her chest. This couldn’t be happening. The old memory of the last time she’d made a bet with her sister—and had to find her when she’d gone missing—added to the dread and disbelief. She’d been eleven, and her sister eight, and their stupid game had not only sent her parents into a panic, but all participants at the Highland Games that year.

  Traci had been awash in guilt and shame and determination to make things right for her sister and her family. And then insidiously, when she’d found a sobbing Fiona and brought her back in triumph to her parents at their tent, she’d been awash in jealousy at how her parents had fussed and cooed. While the adult in her now knew her parents hadn’t loved Fiona more, at the time she’d been tangled up and helpless, looking on the reunion scene from the outside. Another example of how she didn’t fit in with her family.

  She shoved the old memories aside and studied Iain and Duncan, then the rest of the party. But especially Iain. One of her personal rules? Never interact with insatiable flirts after they slept together. It kept things neat. And by things, she meant her emotions and her boundaries and her expectations.

  She paced away from him, and back. Could her need to find her sister really depend on a hot playboy in a kilt? One she’d gone so far as to stupidly handfast with? Really, universe?

  She took a shaky breath. “If I go with you, you promise you’ll help me?”

  Iain nodded. “Consider it a sacred vow. If your sister is on our lands still, we will find her.”

  What choice did she have? She didn’t know the land or its people. At all. Her shoulders slumped. “All right. But what about to
night?”

  Iain looked her over, satisfaction and wariness flashing through his eyes. “Tonight, we rest.”

  She surveyed the bare dirt, grass, and rocks and dropped her bag to the ground. Keeping one eye on the curious stares of the men, she pulled out her thick blanket. She’d planned on sleeping on the ground tonight anyway, so she might as well claim a spot. But she wouldn’t sleep a wink.

  Iain kicked a guy who lay near the fire. “Move your arse, Lochloinn. Allow the lass a spot near the fire. And take care of her pony, would ye?”

  She edged closer, eyeing each man.

  “Here, let me help you.” Iain clasped part of her blanket and stepped close, his rugged male scent washing over her, making her skin prickle with recognition. She’d bet her sister would be all gushy about that smell, want to bottle it, and call it something like Eau de Hunky Highlander. Her throat tightened, and she backed away, needing to put space between their too-close bodies. The only way this could work—partnering with him—was to keep her distance.

  “I’m not sleeping with you here,” she said in an undertone so only he could hear. She’d flirted and fooled around with him, because he was the type it was easy to do that with, where no expectations for more existed. But it was good to be clear.

  His chuckle was low, sounding like sin running through her blood. “Aye, that I ken. Plenty of time for that later.”

  She regarded him from the corner of her eye, and he winked. Yep, a flirt.

  But, dang, was he tall. She’d never felt dainty in her life, but she did next to him. He had to be at least six four. And while his brute strength and nearness should have set off alarm bells, they were ridiculously silent.

  She tugged the blanket from him, and he let it go with a chuckle and another outrageous wink. Ignoring his draw, she arranged her spot near the fire and curled up on the hard ground, its coldness seeping into her.

  She strained to listen to the movements around her, especially when Iain went from man to man and held a quick, but low, conversation with each. Finally, when no one bothered her, she relaxed. And exactly because her romantic instincts were shitty, she slipped the knife from her boot and gripped it tight under her blanket. A presence shuffled behind her—a swish of cloth against cloth, a masculine grunt—and a strange heavy awareness along her back told her it was Iain. And that same awareness told her he was being just loud enough to tell her his location. Directly behind her. She kept her back to him, though she could feel his stare like a physical touch.

  Then, body no longer twitching at every little noise, her mind whirred off to the main problem at hand: her sister.

  Fiona, where the hell are you?

  Iain visually traced the dips and curves of his wife’s body curled up by the fire, her posture and attitude all fierce independence. And a wee bit prickly.

  Prickly he could deal with.

  But this independence?

  Ach, nay, it did not bode well. Not at all.

  How in all the bumps on old Nessie’s back was he to keep her from discovering their plans? Everything—everything—hinged on secrecy.

  Once again, a spontaneous action of his had endangered his clan. The hairs on his arm rose. Had she been placed in their path at that inn to dupe him or another clan member into marriage? When Ross had discovered his foolishness in handfasting a Campbell spy, he’d given him but one task—distracting the lass. He ground his teeth and jerked his plaid across his shoulder.

  Letting her disappear on him hadn’t exactly highlighted his competence either.

  And he didn’t believe for one moment that her sister had “disappeared.”

  Aye. Mighty suspicious, to have two obviously highborn Campbell women playing at commoners at that inn as his clan prepared to depose King William and restore the rightful King James to his throne. Treason in the eyes of the English. And he’d fallen right into their hands, as gullible as a newborn babe. He’d handfasted with her. With a Campbell. Clearly, he had a knack for the peat-headed decisions. Could he be any more of a cock-up?

  He could only hope bringing her back to the keep didn’t compound his errors.

  All in his party were agreed, though: best to keep this one close, even if ’twas her aim to be led to their keep. She’d learn nothing but carefully planted misinformation. The pledge to search for the sister had been an easy one to make, for she must be found before she ferreted out their treasonous plans.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. Did the lass have to be so damn lovely? Every glimpse of a rounded shoulder or a bent elbow, no matter that her skin was obscured by cloth, conjured the erotic images of their night together.

  He flopped onto his back, relishing the bite of the rough, cold ground. He forced his head to follow, to deny himself the sight of her shoulders covered in her flowing hair, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip.

  He tightened his plaid around his body. If only he could as easily force his inconvenient cockstand to subside.

  Why did she have to be a Campbell? And possibly a spy? This was most decidedly not Campbell territory. For such a pro-government clan member to be deep in MacDonell territory could have only one purpose—reporting treasonous activity. ’Twas just his luck.

  Because no matter how much his body and his heart were already curled up and staring doe-eyed at his wife, she could not be his. So what was he to do with her? No matter what, he must make things right with his clan.

  God’s blood, perhaps Ross had the right of it. What had he said when he’d stopped by the inn in time to hear her name during the handfasting? In truth, Iain had been shocked at hearing her clan name, but he’d been too deep in his cups and too enamored.

  Ross had pulled him aside when he’d left their room to take a leak. “What’s done is done. We all know what you do best, cousin. Apply your amorous talents toward the spy. Get her secrets and prevent her from learning ours.” Iain gave a dry laugh—a mission that had lasted all of the space it took him to return to their room and find her gone.

  Aye, he could play the happy-go-lucky bridegroom with a woman who’d duped him and distract her until they reached their keep and he turned her over to his uncle, the clan’s chieftain. Didn’t mean he’d like the pretense.

  Chapter Five

  The piper came to our town

  And he played bonnielie

  He play'd a spring the laird to please

  A spring brent new from 'yont the seas

  And then he gae his bags a wheeze

  And played anither key

  “The Piper o’ Dundee,” Jacobite Reliques

  Traci swayed in her saddle and gripped the pommel. She pushed her feet harder against the stirrups—Lord, her butt couldn’t take any more abuse. Her pony splashed through the shallow, slow-flowing river, wetting the hems of her skirts, adding to the early morning chill on her skin. Once clear of the river, Glenfiddich picked her way up the rock-strewn path that Iain and his men told her led to their keep.

  Every step of her pony thudded in her consciousness, for every step stretched, thinner and thinner, the invisible link to her sister. She worked to ignore the sensation, because for once, Traci was doing the smart thing. Her knowledge of the region in her own time was for crap, so her stunningly logical mind—ha!—had figured her knowledge would be for crap in the seventeenth century too.

  But, yeah. It would do her sister absolutely no good to go running off in her usual slapdash manner.

  Traci must face this challenge the right way, and the right way meant having help and a plan. Her sister’s life and well-being depended on it. Her sister’s words from the other night came back to her, taking on a different shade of meaning: No way. I want to stay. There’s more here for me, I can feel it.

  Traci rolled her lips inward. Even if Fiona was just exploring, indulging in her love of all things Scottish and hunky, Traci had to be smart about it.

  Iain had promised the help. If that ended up not happening, then she’d strike out on her own. And damn the consequences.


  Meanwhile, she’d do the other smart thing—stop Iain with this “wife” thing. She wasn’t here to flirt—okay, she’d ended up flirting on their ill-conceived night out clubbing in seventeenth-century Scotland, but now was not the time or the place. Nothing good would—could—come from that. Ever. Not only did she not want to live in 1689—hello, no running water!—but Iain was not the settling-down type.

  As if her thoughts conjured him, Iain pulled up alongside, his knee brushing hers, and she tensed. Glenfiddich shied to the side, and she softly cooed to her and patted her muscled neck.

  “So, wife.” His stupid-sexy voice plucked the strings drawing her to him. “You ready to take your rightful place? By my side and in my bed?”

  Direct, wasn’t he? She glared at him and opened her mouth to say that, no, she’d not be doing that, it had all been a mistake, yadda, yadda, yadda, when mirth sparkled in his eyes that he made no effort to hide.

  She changed tack. “Why, yes I am. Especially since I’m not convinced I properly sampled the wares.” She injected a bit of seductive teasing into her tone and eyed him up and down.

  Shock widened his eyes. He reared back, and a rich, melodic laugh echoed down the path and jangled her senses. His pony danced away. “Aye, you sampled, lass. More than sampled. But if ye wish to make extra certain, I’d be happy to oblige.” He dipped his head in a bow, his gaze holding hers. “Only say the word, and I’ll be by your side. Or across it. Or on it. Whichever way you desire.”

  On the last word, his voice dropped in pitch, and its rumbling, seductive tone instantly put her back in that bed with him. Her body flashed with heat. It remembered him well.

  She ruthlessly shoved her response down. “Talk. Talk. I think that’s all you’re good for. I know your type.” And she did. Some of her situational frustration slipped away as she fell into the familiar and harmless banter she always enjoyed with guys like him.

  “Type? I dinnae ken.”

  She waved a hand in the air. “A flirt. You’re all about the chase. The bigger the challenge, the sweeter the victory. And then it’s on to the next challenge.”