Must Love Kilts

by Angela Quarles

  “You want to have relations with the bed?”

  “I don’t…” She clamped her mouth shut when his eyebrow notched up a hair, and his eyes held an extra gleam. “Ha. Ha. Funny.” Even when he made bad jokes, he was charming, the bastard.

  He shrugged. But his lips twitched. “I’ll see if I can get an extra pallet up here, though the servants might wonder. Perhaps I can tell them it’s to avoid wakin’ the others with a squeaky bed.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Just get the pallet.”

  He gave an elaborate bow, complete with a hand flourish. “Aye, my lady. As you wish.”

  He raked his gaze down her body and back up again and sauntered out the door whistling.

  Well, someone thinks he’s funny.

  And, no, that heated perusal had not tested her resolve.

  But as she suspected, he wasn’t too upset by her request. Now all she had to do was make sure he kept his end of their other bargain—recruit a search party for her sister.

  Traci swallowed hard as she stared around the cozy hall. Overhead, arched stout wooden beams held up huge chunks of…granite? But, unlike castles in her own time, this one appeared new—the wood fresh, the mortar still whole between the stones. Newly woven hangings decorated the walls, their colors sharp.

  Neither did the hall echo as much as she thought it would. Must be the wall hangings and how the place was filled with people and objects. The room was located on the second island. From what she’d seen so far, the three-island castle was a wonderfully complex series of connecting bridges and buildings. The first island was a courtyard surrounded by high stone walls and a double tower gate. This led over a wooden bridge to the second island, whose stone keep rose straight from the island’s rocky cliff sides. The third island, which housed all the private apartments, could only be reached from a wooden bridge at the top of the keep and likewise rose straight from the cliff sides.

  Now she sat with Iain at one end of a wooden slab of a table at the front of the hall, the chieftain and his wife in the center.

  The latter weren’t eating—not an official mealtime, Iain had whispered—but the rest of their traveling party crowded around the chieftain at the table, eating their fill and answering the chieftain’s many questions about the state of the lands they’d patrolled.

  At least that’s what Iain had also whispered to her, since they all spoke in tongue-twisting Gaelic. So far, no one paid her any attention, which was fine by her. The less she interacted, the better. She could just see herself getting ensnared by some lie she’d have to tell, or accidentally showing her ignorance of the time and culture. A history buff, she was not.

  The phrase “stranger in a strange land” looped through her mind as everyone talked and laughed around the table in their strange clothes with their strange customs. And their even stranger language. A weird sense of unreality seeped into her to see such animated conversation and laughter and sharing and not understand any of it. She felt separate from her surroundings, like Oliver Twist staring into the window of a restaurant, into a world he could have no part of.

  An undercurrent pulsed along the voices—that much she could pick up—and it seemed to center around the chieftain and Iain. Though Iain seemed unaware. Several times she caught the chieftain staring at him with narrowed eyes whenever Iain was focused elsewhere. Just like he’d done from the battlements on their arrival.

  “They speak now of the night at the inn.” Iain’s warm breath brushed her ear, and his low voice rumbled through her. Would he quit that? She edged away from his seductive self and noticed the glances thrown her way—some curious, some suspicious. What could they possibly suspect her of?

  She did not like the sudden attention.

  And then the full force of the chieftain’s penetrating intelligence centered on her, and she squirmed in her seat. “So you were at this inn of an evening, with your sister? And you say she disappeared?” His English was very good, and his voice rang with authority.

  Shit. She straightened. “I know she did. We had just arrived, when…” Fierce heat rushed up her spine and flared across her face. “We met Iain and Duncan, and we…” God, she really just couldn’t come out and admit what happened that night to this formidable chieftain.

  Iain draped his arm around her and tugged her close. Her heart sped up. “You know how such matters proceed, my uncle. We struck up an understanding, handfasted that evening, and spent the night together in the time-honored tradition of the newly committed.”

  Good God. She could barbecue a whole rack of ribs, her face was flaming so hard. And what was with her embarrassment? She was not a blusher. Not anymore. No man would make her into a blubbering fool again.

  Especially not flirts like Iain.

  She raised her chin a notch and stared boldly at the chieftain, daring him to say anything to shame her. But to her surprise, he reared back his head and laughed. “Indeed. Say no more, nephew. It’s surprising, it is, to see you settle for one lass.”

  Inexplicably, Iain stiffened beside her, though he laughed easily along with his uncle.

  The chieftain drained his wine cup and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But this doesn’t explain the sister’s disappearance. How did that transpire?”

  “When I woke up the next morning, I…I couldn’t find her. I asked around and was told she’d been carried off by a group of men.” She left out what she’d done in the interim and cut to the more pertinent tidbit. “I set out to search for her and ran into Iain and his men.”

  The chieftain scratched his chin. “Do you have any notion of who took her?”

  Was it her imagination, or did some of the men exchange wary glances? “I don’t. Maggie, who runs the inn, thought Iain and his men had taken her, but she wasn’t clear. I asked her what tartan they were wearing, but she ignored me.”

  The chieftain frowned. “Why would that matter?”

  She cocked her head. “If they were wearing one particular plaid, then I’d know which clan took her.”

  He looked vaguely amused. “Would you now? And how is that?”

  “I…because…don’t you guys have a clan tartan and you only wear that tartan? For instance, the Campbell tartan is a dark and light blue, crossed with dark and light olive green, and—”

  “Lass, I know not what parts of Scotland you’ve visited, but you’re obviously misinformed. No clan has a set pattern that’s readily identifiable as theirs.”

  They don’t? What the hell?

  She closed her mouth, unwilling to risk more ignorant comments about this time popping out. This was exactly why she hadn’t wanted to attract attention.

  “But it’s not hard to fathom,” the chieftain continued, “the mighty Campbell clan presuming to claim one for their exclusive use. Their poor weavers—they must be bored to tears, weaving the same pattern over and over.” He grumbled some other words under his breath, but only those nearest him heard. They chuckled, avoiding her gaze.

  She fought to make her natural sass remain an inner sass for now. Like it or not, she depended on him and the others and couldn’t risk pissing him off. Her sister was relying on her. She repeated that over and over to her sassy side.

  One of the warriors leaned over and whispered to the chieftain, his eyes darting to hers as he did so. The chieftain nodded and replied in a low tone.

  While they talked, worry and fear gnawed at her enforced calm. So many things could go wrong. She had no allies, she didn’t know the countryside or customs, and she suspected the law lay in the hands of the odd mix of sternness, suspiciousness, and easygoingness that was the chieftain.

  As if sensing her discomfort, Iain, whose arm was still draped around her shoulders, brushed his hand down her arm and squeezed. You have me, the squeeze seemed to say. But did she? Who was he really? No one here seemed to take him seriously, if their reception at the gate was any indication. Could he really be depended on?

  No. She had only herself.

  But a long bur
ied and lonely part of her yearned to inch closer into the warm shelter of his arm and body. A body that was—for once—taller than hers. To take advantage of his natural flirtiness and feel his comforting heat beside her. How ridiculous was that?

  The chieftain stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. Several of the men nearby reared back, respect clear in their faces.

  Yes. They would defer to whatever this man decreed. A shiver ran through her body. Shit. She was so out of her depth here.

  The chieftain motioned to the two of them. “We shall speak privately,” he barked in English. “Follow me.”

  She glanced at Iain, who appeared just as confused by this statement. But he stood, and she did the same. What sort of reckoning was she going to face now?

  Chapter Seven

  Let foe come on foe, as wave comes on wave,

  We'll give them a welcome, we'll give them a grave

  Beneath the red heather and thistle so green.

  “The Thistle of Scotland,” Jacobite Reliques

  “Why don’t you tell me what really happened at that inn, my dear.” The chieftain had ushered them into what she assumed was his study, located in a corner tower staircase one floor above the main hall. She was gawking at the swords and pikes mounted on the dark-paneled walls, when his question and suspicious tone caused her heart to hitch for a beat.

  She whirled around. “What do you mean?”

  He eyed her warily as he strolled by her to his desk. He was shorter than her, but his shoulders were massive. “You’re holding back. I wish for the truth, please. I’m sure I need not impress upon you that the clan’s welfare rests on my shoulders.” He darted an odd glance at Iain.

  How the heck did she have anything to do with the welfare of his clan?

  “What we told you is true.” She’d purposely added the we to bring Iain into the narrative and give him partial responsibility. Probably not fair, but what did it matter at this point? “We handfasted and spent the night together. When I woke up, I couldn’t find Iain or my sister.”

  The chieftain’s penetrating gaze snapped to Iain’s. “And where were you?”

  Iain coughed. “I was visiting the privy and got caught up talking to Ross and the other men in our party on the way.”

  The chieftain turned to her. “Why were you there with this supposed sister?”

  What the hell? “She’s not a supposed anything. She is my sister.”

  “And what were two obviously highborn ladies, sporting the name o’ Campbell, doing at a lowly drover’s inn wearing clothes that belied your status?”

  Her heart beat a bit faster at that, as the only explanation she had was one she couldn’t reveal. “We’re, uh, new to the area and thought we were dressing appropriately.”

  He crossed his arms. Damn. He wasn’t taller than her, but right now it felt as if he somehow stared down at her. “So you admit to dressing in an attempt to blend in with the locals?”

  “Er. Yes?” Why did she feel as if that were the wrong answer?

  “Where are you from?”

  Since she doubted they’d believe she’d taken the perilous journey from America, alone with her sister, she’d opted for Cornwall. It was as distant as she could be from here and still be on this island, and she doubted they had ventured there.

  “Truro, Cornwall.”

  “Then why did your sister explain your presence by saying you were looking for a cattle-herding brother?”

  Alarm constricted her chest—she vaguely remembered Fiona giving that excuse. Dammit. “Er… That was just…”

  “An excuse?” He folded his hands. “You can see why I’m having trouble with your tale—you have missing siblings everywhere.” He tapped his thumb over his other. “Now you’re not even from the region. I’ll play along. What brings you to Scotland?”

  “Vacation.” She’d better stick as close to the truth as she could before she tripped herself up even more.

  His thumb stopped tapping. “Vacation? I am unfamiliar with this English word.”

  “We were visiting here for fun.” How would they phrase it? “During our leisure time.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Interesting. And was this at the behest of kin? A family member perhaps. Like the Earl of Argyll?”

  It was clear he was trying to catch her at something, but she had no clue what. She did remember from her family’s obsession about all things Clan Campbell that the Earl—later Duke—of Argyll was the head of the main branch of the clan.

  “No…I don’t even know the Earl.”

  “You’re not related to him then, are you?”

  “Distantly, maybe.” And boy, was that distant.

  His eyes narrowed again, and she glanced at Iain for support. Why, she didn’t know. Though his brows pinched together, he didn’t stick up for her. And why would he anyway? He had no clue about her or what had happened. His loyalty was to his clan and his chieftain.

  All they’d done was flirt and have sex. And get handfasted.

  But Iain pushed away from the wall where he’d been leaning, his face transforming into an uncharacteristic scowl. She’d known him for only a day, and already she knew that wasn’t a normal look for him. “Why don’t we stop speaking in riddles? It’s giving me a headache. Aye, it looks suspicious that two Campbell lasses appear in our lands out of nowhere, but I just can’t see them as spies.” He waved his hand at her.

  She reared back and stared at them both. Spies? That’s what the chieftain suspected?

  The chieftain watched her closely, seeming to note her surprise. “Hmm,” was all he said though. He faced Iain. “That’s why I’m chieftain, and you’re not, boy.”

  Iain flinched but held his ground. “All the same. What could she be spying about?”

  A new light of respect glinted in the chieftain’s eyes, and he flattened his hands on the table. “What you say is true. It would be a fruitless endeavor even if they were spies.” He smiled wide at her. “For we have nothing to hide.” He spread his hands. “You must understand—as chieftain, I must be extra cautious.”

  She nodded, as he seemed to expect some kind of response. But, really, what the hell was going on? A strange vibe permeated the dark interior.

  She drew her back straighter. “Now that we have that out of the way”—she hoped—“Iain said you’d help me search for my sister? I don’t know the area and could use whatever help you can spare.”

  The chieftain darted a quick glance at Iain. “Of course, my dear. You’re family now, and by extension, so is your sister. We shall organize a party at once and send them out at first light. Provide us with a description of her.”

  She shook her head. “I’d like to go with them.”

  “I dinnae think that’s wise.”

  “Because I’m a woman?”

  The chieftain seemed taken aback, but he recovered quickly. “Our clan does not underestimate the abilities of our women. You will learn that soon enough. Nay. ’Tis only that the men will move faster and less conspicuously without you as a member of the party. There will be places they may be forced to go that would not suit you.”

  She gritted her teeth. “I don’t mind. This is my sister.”

  Iain stepped close and placed a hand on her shoulder. Heat radiated from the point of contact, and Traci hardened her resolve, itching to shrug off his too-comforting hand. “But I mind, my wife. Trust me. Trust our chieftain. If your sister is out there and in trouble, our clan will find her and bring her to you.”

  Not going after her sister herself went against every instinct she had, but as she stared into Iain’s eyes, which were momentarily serious, she sensed his sincerity. She glanced at the chieftain, who nodded.

  She stepped away from Iain, letting his hand drop, and wandered over to the lone window in the dark-paneled room, its surface made of the diamond-paned sections of glass she always associated with Shakespeare’s time. She peered through the wavy surface to the loch beyond, bent and warped from the imperfecti
ons of the glass. She shifted slightly to the side, and the blue waters of the loch rippled with the movement. The impression of Iain’s hand on her shoulder—its weight and heat—remained, competing for space in her thoughts.

  What to do? She trailed a finger along the mottled surface of the window pane, its cool, textured surface helping to center her. What would Katy do? For sure, she’d think everything through, five gazillion times.

  Traci doubted she’d last that long but, dammit, she did need to think it through more than she normally would. Traci’s quick assessments and decisions were what made her good at her job, and—ha—good at her role-playing games, but as she well knew, this was no RPG. She had no do-overs. She couldn’t muck things up like yesterday, reacting too quickly and assuming she could zap back to earlier and fix everything.

  Her sister depended on her, but was she the most qualified to find her? Traci had no skills and certainly was no horsewoman—she would slow them down. They’d also have to accommodate her with simple things, such as going to the bathroom.

  She blew out a breath. They’d move faster on their own. Feminine pride wanted to be stubborn and insist on going with them, but her throat choked at what was at stake: Fiona. And her sister didn’t need her to be all Female Power. She just needed her to make the decision that would find her by the quickest and safest route.

  Guilt and worry threaded through her, but she pivoted and swallowed her pride. “Fine. I agree.” She took a deep breath. “And thank you for your help. I’m extremely grateful.”

  The chieftain bowed. “I’m glad you agree.” Was that bow made and his words said with a note of irony? Who cared if it was? They were going to find Fiona and bring her back. And then she could skedaddle back to the modern era with her baby sister.

  She stepped toward the desk. “Give me a moment to write a letter, so she knows it’s safe to go with them.”

  Behind her, the door burst open, and Traci jumped. A towering Highlander pushed aside the guard who’d opened the door. Grime smeared his face, and his chest was still heaving from exertion.