The newcomer spared her no notice and strode into the room. He spoke urgent words in Gaelic and tossed an object onto the chieftain’s desk, landing with a heavy thud.
Traci stepped closer, while Iain cursed.
On the table lay a burnt piece of wood covered in blood.
Iain stared at the Crann Tara—the summoning stick, or fiery cross as the Sasannaich called it—its message clear to any Highlander: join us, or else.
His uncle held up a hand, stopping the messenger from saying anything further. He speared Iain with a harsh glare and barked in Gaelic, “Get her out of here. This is not for her ears.”
“What’s going on?” Traci’s worried voice cut through the room’s tension as everyone’s focus landed on her.
He grinned widely. “Nothing, my wife. Clan business only. We’re done here.” He held out his arm to her. “Shall we?”
Her brow furrowed, but she stepped across the room and took his arm.
As they crossed the threshold into the hallway, the import of the messenger’s delivery was like a physical pressure on his back. He had no need to hear the messenger’s report to know what purpose the cross fulfilled: Dundee demanded the clans to rally support for the rightful king. Talk and speculation were over. It was time for action.
Chapter Eight
My laddie can fight, my laddie can sing,
He's fierce as the north wind, and soft as the spring…
“My Laddie,” Jacobite Reliques
That night, Traci lay curled up in the huge, dark-timbered, four-poster bed, hearing every scurrying noise in the rambling stone edifice that Iain’s clan called home. Let’s be real, it was a friggin’ castle. And it was just so damned…quiet. Outside and in. As if the quiet were a heavy weight, so that every whisper of a noise became a giant ripple through that weight, kicking her heart, her nerves.
Who knew that even a curtain moving in some unseen breeze made a noise? Well, it did. A kind of swish-thurr. And there were curtains on all four sides of her bed. A weird mixture of safety and fear infused her, being enclosed like that. As if she were wrapped in her own cocoon made up of just her bed, its covers, and pillows. But, on the other hand, she couldn’t see what was on the other side of those heavy curtains. What if that scrrritching was a seventeenth-century rat coming to gnaw on her shoes? Or to steal up into her bed and gnaw on her bare toes?
She pulled her feet deeper under the covers. Man, if it was a rat, she’d friggin’ lose it. She shivered. She’d hated rats ever since she’d been introduced to her creepy cousin’s pet rat Ivan. Ivan the Terrible, she called it, because her cousin had trained it to sneak up on her whenever she was alone and press its disgusting, whiskery nose on her bare feet. Her cousin apparently lived for her shrieks.
A much louder sound than some would-be rat ricocheted through the room, and she stiffened, her heart pounding. A drawn-out creak followed.
The door. It was the door opening. Iain. It has to be.
She’d gone to bed much earlier—on purpose—to avoid the awkward moment when they had to go to sleep separately. But then she’d lain awake for several hours, trying to absorb all that had happened, her mind unable to shut up.
A soft glow of light bloomed from the direction of the door, muted by the thickness of the bed curtains. A rustle and a thump. A muffled curse. The light bobbed and shifted from the left to the right side but didn’t come closer to the bed.
It was Iain, right?
She eased back her covers, careful not to make a noise. She bit her lip and rolled up onto her side, placing her head near the gap in the curtain to her right. She reached forward and edged the fabric back, just a fraction.
She sucked in a breath but clamped her lips shut.
Oh. It was Iain all right. He stood, three-quarters of him facing her, highlighted by the orange glow of the lingering peat fire, his candle perched on the mantel. That light, mixed with the moon’s feeble glow from the lone window, cast his form in shifting shadows. But, oh boy. It was enough to see.
See as he unclasped his kilt where it draped over a strong shoulder. See as the fabric rustled downward to pool in drapes along his back side. See as he grasped his linen shirt and dragged it up by slow degrees, revealing his powerful torso in the dim light. His muscles bunched and flexed as the fabric swished over his head.
Oh, what a lovely chest. So she had remembered that correctly.
And then… And then his long, strong fingers settled onto the belt holding his sporran and plaid, the light sprinkling of black hairs across his powerful chest narrowing down to a point where his hands had paused. His chin raised, and his eyes lifted to her position, but with her nestled in the dark depths of the bed, he couldn’t possibly see her. All the same, she felt the heat of his stare, and she squirmed.
The light played across the planes of his strong hands and forearms, allowing her to note the miniscule shifting of muscles signaling his next move. His shapely fingers moved with practiced ease, and he unclasped the belt. The kilt dropped.
Iain ducked his head toward the fireplace to hide his grin. The little minx was watching him. He was sure of it.
When he’d slipped into their room, some fae sense told him she was awake. And if not, he’d discreetly hit a small chair on the way, its muffled scrape loud enough to catch her attention if she were a light sleeper but low enough to sound accidental. She thought she could resist him? He’d play her game and see who won.
Her eyes had been on him as soon as he reached the fire, caressing his skin and warming his blood as much as the fire. The air between them hummed with expectation and untold possibilities. But he exercised probably the most control he ever had in his whole, sorry life not to look in her direction. Instead, he’d angled toward her and undressed. Slowly.
His control was sorely tested, though, when her tiny, suppressed gasp emerged from the depths of the four-poster bed.
He’d tried to undress slow enough to tease, but not so slow that it was obvious. It could’ve been a tired sort of slowness, he reasoned. For once, he was keenly aware of the feel of fabric brushing across his skin as he lifted his shirt, knowing she watched every move. Keenly aware of the feel of his hair falling back into place against his neck after disposing of his shirt. His skin felt tight. Edgy.
Lord help him, but he couldn’t resist one peek before he dropped his féileadh. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t see past the bed hangings, but oh, he knew. Knew she was there. Watching. Did her eyes wander all over his body in a feverish attempt to encompass all of him as fast as she could, or did they linger on one spot, and then move on? If so, which spot? His skin tightened all over, and his heart beat a touch faster, imagining where his troublemaker’s eyes were at the moment.
He stretched his arms upward, flexed his biceps, and yawned, his jaw cracking from the force of it. Aye, but he was tired in truth. He flexed his arms back, enjoying the pull on his sore muscles, and stretched to one side and the other. He threw in a small flex of his arse muscles. Ach, now he was just showing off.
But knowing she watched had his cock stiffening in the warm air near the fire, his balls a little heavier in anticipation. Heat curled in his lower back, licking its tongues of flames on his burgeoning lust.
She could resist him? He dug his fingers into his hair and kneaded his scalp. Let her resist him and see how far that would go. His fingers stopped as he caught up to his thoughts—this was only a role. He could not have her for true. She was a spy.
But what if she weren’t? He could make this handfasting last past its allotted time. He was more than a companion for bed sport. He was more than a useless appendage to the clan. He’d prove it.
Voicing their suspicions in front of her to the chieftain had been a calculated risk. Her shock seemed genuine enough, and even if she were a spy, making her aware of their knowledge and feigned complacency could throw her machinations.
Doubt about winning her for true seeped into his mind, cloaking the small kernel within him that, ag
ainst all reason and proof, was convinced of his worthiness. Now, standing naked before her, he no longer felt randy or cocksure. He felt exposed. For it was not in attracting the lasses that he failed—they were plentiful and eager. It was in the keeping.
An aching loneliness and a touch of bitterness rushed past his exposed vulnerability and settled in his gut. His erection drooped. But instead of feeling defeated, a new determination filled him at the challenge.
Once ’twas clear she was no Campbell spy, he’d prove his worth. Perhaps this time he’d change his approach. A slow siege instead of jumping to the pleasures to be had. Why not? Through the ten years he’d been falling in love, his usual approach had proven its ineffectiveness. True, he and his minx of a wife had already jumped to those pleasures, and he ached to again experience her lusty demands in bed, but perhaps they should begin anew.
He’d woo her, he would.
This approach would still allow him to fill the role the clan wished of him—keep her distracted while they planned their insurrection—but he’d get a head start on his plans to win her for true.
With that resolution, despite knowing her eyes remained on him, he gathered up his feileadh mòr, shook it out, and spread it across the straw and heather pallet he’d arranged on the floor. He lay down so his back was to her—only scant feet behind him—and fell into a fitful sleep.
Iain parried Gavin’s strike with his targe and pushed him off-balance with a decisive kick to his hip. Gavin stumbled back and grinned.
“Again,” Iain shouted, and they fell on each other with a clash of steel. He welcomed the abuse his muscles were taking on the sparring field. Anything to push aside his urge to seek out Traci. He’d vowed to hold back, and he wasn’t sure he could last a day. He was that pathetic.
He roared, parried, thrust, and drove himself and his men to their physical limits. It was here, when he worked out with Duncan, Gavin, and a few others of his age that he felt most in control. Most in harmony.
“Enough,” Gavin panted and drove his sword into the ground. “I yield.”
Iain looked to Duncan, but he remained lounged against a tree. “Nay. You’ve worked me over enough this day.”
Lochloinn shook his head at Iain’s silent plea. “We’re no match for you on a normal day, but today it’s pointless.”
They sprawled on the ground, their pants the only sound for a short while as they passed a flask of whisky.
Iain wiped his mouth. “Duncan, what do you know of Aenghus’s widow?”
“Only that she’s having a hard time feeding her little ones now her husband’s gone.”
Iain drew his sgian-dubh and flipped it into the air, catching it by its tip. “So I’ve heard as well. Why has not my uncle seen to assisting her?”
Gavin and Duncan grumbled. Lochloinn answered. “He claims our harvest this year was too meager.”
Iain frowned. Even so… It was a chieftain’s duty to share what little he had with his people. Their repast earlier today had not been one of a chieftain doing poorly.
In the castle’s courtyard, located on Island One, as she called it, Traci played with some of the children—a game very similar to ring toss—and took stock of her situation. Two days had passed since her arrival. Two days of doubt and anxiety and shit-did-I-do-the-right-thing.
True to the chieftain’s word, he’d sent out a search party for her sister early yesterday morning. As they gathered before the gate, she’d avidly watched from her bedroom’s window. Seeing them check their saddles, attach their belongings, and kiss loved ones goodbye, the energy of a fresh adventure was almost palpable, even from the height of her window. Almost, almost she stepped away to rush down and ask to join them, but she’d resisted. She’d do the mature thing and let them do what they did best. It left her directionless here, but that couldn’t be helped. What was boredom and frustration next to her sister’s welfare? When they rode through, she’d climbed up onto the battlements and watched them disappear into the green and rocky distance to the west, her hands gripped tight on the stone in front of her.
They had to find Fiona. They had to.
She’d poured her frustration into her morning workout routines. With a found piece of rope, she jumped rope and worked through the rest of her calisthenics routine. In the past, it had been the only thing keeping her from plumping up, but now it calmed her. The growth spurt she’d had in college had helped her shed the last of her baby fat, but she always felt as if she was shoveling sand out of a hole as far as her weight was concerned. Especially since she refused to eat only rabbit food.
Thankfully, Iain had kept his word and slept on the pallet the last two nights. She’d been surprised he hadn’t been sent with the search party—Fiona knew him—but the uncle insisted he was needed here. She suspected it was to keep an eye on her, though she only saw Iain at meal times.
But it had been enough to revise her earlier assessment—it was only the uncle who didn’t take Iain seriously. All the others—from his fellow warriors to the servants—treated him with respect.
The only time she’d been alone with him was last night when she again pretended to be asleep and watched him undress by the meager light. Lord, was he a yummy sight. From her spot behind the curtains, her face just behind the gap, she drank in the erotic display when he undressed and settled into his bed.
Side-by-side with the illicit thrill, however, was a deep, aching pull all along her skin. A pull that demanded she slip out of the bed and approach him, then tug him, falling and laughing, into the cocoon of her big, made-for-sexing, four-poster bed.
But she’d resisted this too. It made absolutely no sense getting involved with his type, even if he were in her own time. Nothing but trouble and heartache. His type was safe to flirt and have fun with but no more. Though it’d been a long, long time since she’d had to deal with one still knocking around in her life after they’d had sex. Each night, she fingered her ruby ring to remind herself what had happened the last time she’d succumbed to a flirt.
She tossed another metal ring to a ginger-haired boy with the cutest, roundest cheeks, whose turn was next. The children were easier to interact with; they had no expectations for her behavior. The others? Traci looked at the surrounding activity. Everyone seemed infused with a purpose as they went about their tasks and chores, an invisible space enveloping her that they didn’t cross. The feeling of being separate, in her own bubble, wasn’t helped by the fact that she couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying.
Another worry plagued her now. She’d woken up this morning remembering Katy’s caution that if she stayed too long in the past, she might get visited by a Mr. Podbury. Katy had explained that he was a man who’d been studying time travel when Isabelle met him in 1834, and who must have succeeded, for he’d shown up in 1295 when he tried to take the case away from Katy.
The ginger-haired boy caught her toss and shrieked with unabashed laughter. His sound of happiness was dwarfed, however, by a commotion at the gate. Shouts erupted from the barbican, accompanied by the grinding gears of the ferry gate opening.
The kids dropped their toys in place with an endearing trust that they’d remain exactly where they’d left them and rushed toward the commotion. She gathered her skirts and followed at a slower pace.
Had they found Fiona already? Her heart, as well as her feet, picked up its pace, her skirts swishing between her legs. She pushed through the flow of clan members heading in the same direction, for once feeling in sync with those around her. But wasn’t it too soon for them to have found her sister?
Oh God, maybe this whole nightmare trip—well, nightmare except for Iain—would soon be over. She’d hug Fiona, take her to her room in the castle, and with the silver case, zap them back to their own time. Where they belonged.
The possibility quickened her steps. At last, she broke through to the front and then stepped back to make way for the men of the returning party. Fingers crossed, she eagerly scanned the members.
Di
sappointment seized her heart—Fiona wasn’t with them. She peered closer. These weren’t the same men who’d left yesterday. In fact, they were smaller in number, with a man she’d swear looked like the one they called Ross. The one who’d chased her at the inn.
She couldn’t run up and ask them what was going on, but she knew someone she could ask: Iain.
Iain thought nothing of the returning party until the chieftain requested his attendance in his strong room. What could he possibly want? That party had split off from theirs at the inn to check on a tenant to the north. Besides, the chieftain was interrupting Iain’s seduction plans. He’d kept away for over two nights and a day, which was as long as he could stretch his resolve for the slow wooing. For while he’d kept himself removed from her, he’d kept an eye on her—watching her movements, whom she interacted with. And was convinced she was no spy. He’d been about to interrupt her game of quoits when this summons had waylaid him.
Now he crossed to the strong room, wariness weighting his steps. Rarely was he brought in on clan discussions and decisions.
Unbidden, memories assaulted him of walking the same path as a wee lad to meet his father for one reckoning or another. His father had been a stern but fair chieftain. His uncle, however, was stern and erratic. Mistrustful. Nothing like his brother. Aye, his father had been fair—to others—but Iain had found him impossible to please, no matter how much he’d tried. His knees had been as weak as a newborn calf’s on each and every walk to that strong room.
He always wondered why he’d given a damn. Perhaps because his father’s approval was so unattainable—the exact opposite of his mother. His mother fed off of his antics, his gaiety, as if she needed it to keep her spirits lifted. Until there came a time when even he could no longer keep her happy. She now lived a retired life in a nunnery on the French coast.
Must Love Kilts Page 7