Must Love Kilts

by Angela Quarles

  She snapped her fingers in front of him. “Eyes up here, Romeo.”

  “Iain. And where were we?”

  “My sister?” She said each word distinctly, as if she were losing patience with him. Ach, maybe she was.

  “Ah, yes. So, you see, I’ve been tasked to find out why you’re truly here.”

  She looked up to the sky as if praying for patience. “I already told you. We’re here enjoying our leisure time.”

  “With no chaperone or escort?”

  “Yes,” she ground out.

  He took a deep breath. He hated to do this, but this was why his chieftain had tasked him with this chore. “I’m sorry, my wife, but I don’t believe you. Besides the improbability of what you say, you’re keeping something back. I can sense it.”

  She whirled around and stepped away a few paces, arms still crossed. She rubbed a spot in the ground with the toe of her shoe, her back stiff with tension. That action alone confirmed his guess—she was keeping something from them. From him.

  His instincts had been right. A weighty decision held her in its clasp. Whether to trust him, he felt certain.

  A strange elation lifted him at the thought of her, of anyone, trusting him with something obviously serious, if her demeanor were any indication.

  She spun around, determination written across her face, the wind teasing one dark red strand from her braid and fluttering it against her pale neck. Right where he’d like to nuzzle. Lucky hair.

  “Okay. I’ll tell you.” Her voice was equal parts fierce and vulnerable. “But you have to promise me you won’t tell anyone else. Not even your chieftain.”

  He almost opened his mouth to agree, so excited was he by her trust, but he caught himself in time. “I can’t promise this. What if it places my clan in danger? My duty is to them.”

  She cocked her head and looked him up and down. “What about to your wife?”

  Oh, she played dirty, his wife. “Are we married in truth in your heart?”

  She hesitated but finally shook her head.

  Pain lanced through him, though her denial wasn’t a surprise.

  “Then you’ll understand that until such is the case, my duty is to my clan first, and then to you. But know that I will protect you and will keep your secret, as long as it does not place them in danger.”

  Her gaze focused on the horizon, and she chewed her lower lip. She looked down, her shoulders slumping. “I suppose that’s all I can expect. I don’t think my secret puts them in danger, so you should be able to keep it.”

  “That sounds fair.”

  She stepped toward him and worried her lip some more. She looked to the side and then down to the ground.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m getting to it,” she said, her voice containing a bit of an edge. “It’s just that it’s really big, and it also puts my life in danger if you don’t believe me.”

  She was serious, and he ached to be that man who could be looked to for important matters. He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Look at me.” He stroked his thumb under her chin and directed her face upward to his. “I’ll not put your life in danger, even if I don’t believe you.”

  She swallowed so hard he heard it. She nodded and took a deep breath. “Okay. Oh boy.” She stepped away, letting his hands fall. “See, the reason we just appeared and have no better explanation is that we’re from…” She took another deep breath and stiffened, as if strengthening her defense, her resolve. “We’re from the future,” she finished in a rush of breath.

  Chapter Ten

  Let Sol curb his coursers, and stretch out the day,

  That time may not hinder carousing and play…

  -from “My Laddie,” Jacobite Reliques

  Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

  Traci’s heart pounded as if it had only seconds to beat and was trying to squeeze out every last bit of life while it could. Jesus Christ, she’d just up and blurted that out, hadn’t she? Just…just plopped her trust into his hands. But so much of what she needed to accomplish depended on his cooperation. And to be thought a spy? Not helping.

  Iain’s eyes widened, and he cocked his head. “I’m…I’m not sure I ken. What do you mean, you’re from the future?”

  Fear bloomed, and goose bumps pebbled across her skin. No going back. “I’m not from Cornwall, like I said earlier. I’m not even from this time. This is the year 1689, correct?”

  He nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing.

  “Well, I’m from about three hundred years in the future. My sister and I are. We, er, we used this magical device to wish ourselves to this time for a bet, and, well…now she’s missing, and I need to find her so we can return to our own time where we belong.”

  He frowned, took a step back, and crossed his arms. “Let me see if I understand. You somehow magically came back in time to ours? From three hundred years in the future?”

  “Thereabouts, yes.”

  “Using magic?”

  “Yes.”

  His lips thinned, and he swept his gaze down her body and back up. “Are ye a witch?”

  She stepped back. “No! Neither of us are. And that’s precisely what I’m afraid of. I can’t risk people accusing us of witchcraft.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you have a bit of the sìthiche in you then?” His voice sounded genuinely curious.

  “Shee-what?”

  “Faeries, I think you English call them. They’ve been known to muddle with our folk.”

  “Our folk?”

  “Aye, humans.”

  He was completely serious, and it almost made her laugh, seeing this tall, muscular warrior of a Highlander discussing faeries with such a straight face. “Er, I don’t think so. Though we don’t know how the artifact got its properties.”

  “So you came through one of the standing stones,” he whispered. “There have been tales, but I’d never met such a traveler.” He looked at her with awe clear on his face.

  Wow. This was going better than she thought. “You mean like Stonehenge?”

  “I know not of that one, but there are many stone circles that still dot our land.”

  Now she did laugh, the relief was so acute. “No. We didn’t use one of the stone circles. It’s a little silver calling card case. I can show you. I have it stashed away with my things in my—our—room. I also brought proof, in case you don’t believe me.” That was one of the things she’d made sure to secure before she left her time. Just in case.

  He strode away from her and then whirled back to stare. “It’s hard to credit, to be sure, but it makes a certain sense. Is that where you got the idea that each clan had a specific tartan? Do we do that in the future?”

  “Yes. Each one claims a certain pattern.”

  “Amazing. That would make it easier to distinguish in battle.”

  “How do you do that now?”

  “Each clan has a specific plant. We pin a sprig of it to our bonnets before battle.”

  Yikes. That seemed a bit tough. Would certainly take an extra moment to discern an enemy.

  She shook her head. “We’re getting off track. I can show you proof of my story.”

  He waved his hand. “No need. Though I would dearly love to satisfy my curiosity, I believe you.”

  “You do?” Relief ran through her so quickly, her knees loosened a bit. “Thank God.”

  “Though we should refrain from telling my clan. I’ll do my best to convince them you’re not a spy.”

  “Thank you.” She took a deep breath. “What about my sister?”

  “Aye, fuck.” He marched away, his strides short and deliberate as if he were angry. His clan’s castle filled the horizon behind him.

  Dread curdled in her stomach. There was something he knew. Knew about Fiona. And something told her it wasn’t good.

  Iain crossed his arms and peered at the battlements that protected the castle. His home. The home of his clan, his only family.

  And debated what to tell this woman.

/>   Aye, he believed her. Tales were not few of time-walkers, though they went through the stones. But this required a more weighty consideration than he normally gave.

  If she were lying, if she were a Williamite spy, his careless decision to trust her would put his whole clan in danger.

  Perhaps he should see this proof of hers. Too much was at stake, and he couldn’t allow another decision of his to endanger his clan.

  He should do the rational thing and demand to see this proof, no matter how much doing so might hurt her pride. Playing the fool, as long as it didn’t hurt anyone but himself, was fine. But actually being a fool and risking his family? His clan?

  Nay. He’d deprived them of his father, their chieftain, by his tomfoolery. He’d not do that again, if he could help it.

  And he would not dwell on her assertion she was planning to return to her time.

  But, torr caca. Would taking away his belief in her ruin his chances to win her heart? He’d appear fickle. Frustration lanced through him, and he glared at the beloved contours of his family’s stronghold.

  No matter.

  He whirled around and stalked back toward her. Again, he placed his hands on her shoulders and caught her gaze.

  “I find I do require this proof of yours.” He tapped his heart. “I feel it here that you tell me the truth. Please believe me.” His voice cracked a wee bit on the last three words. He swallowed and held her gaze, wordlessly willing her to hear him out. “However, it’s too important for me to trust my feelings in this. Especially with you concerned. Forgive the crudeness, but how do I know it’s not my cock ruling my head? Nay. For once, I need to do this right. Do you understand? And can you forgive me?”

  Her eyes grew rounder, and she swallowed. “Of course. Believe me, when it comes to wanting to make the right decision, and worrying about trusting your gut, I totally get it.”

  “Get it?”

  She placed her wee hand over his, which still rested against his heart. “Er, I completely understand.”

  Relief washed through him. “That eases my mind. Truly.” Seeking to lighten the mood, he asked, “So you make poor decisions too?”

  She pulled away with a soft chuckle and looked skyward. “Oh, jeez, do I ever. Coming here was probably my biggest. It’s my fault we even came here. My sister is missing because of me. But, yeah. Especially with my family, I just can never seem to do things right in their eyes.” She returned her gaze to his. “No, that’s not quite right. It’s not that my decisions are usually piss-poor, it’s just that…the decisions I make for myself are not the ones they want me to make. To them, I make piss-poor decisions. Anyway, the proof is in our room.”

  He held out his arm and tucked her hand in its crook. A new awareness suffused him as she nestled against his side—one of kinship in understanding. He chuckled. “It seems we share something in common in a way, for I’m the family cock-up.”

  Her hand tightened on his arm, and she looked at him in surprise, which gladdened his heart. “How so?”

  “Let’s just say that, like you, I can’t seem to make a correct decision where they’re concerned. I don’t even bother trying anymore, and they let me have the freedom which comes from no responsibility, as long as I stay out of clan business.”

  Though he spoke his words with a light tone, resentment weighed heavy in his heart. He’d been a mere lad when his father had been killed. Killed when Iain hadn’t taken their reiving party serious enough—treated it as a lark—and got his father, the chieftain, killed.

  The last words his father said as the blood drained from his body still echoed through Iain’s heart, his mind: Can’t you take anything serious, lad?

  By now they’d reached the gate at the end of the causeway, and they remained silent lest anyone overhear their speech. It wouldn’t do to have anyone hear of her origins until—if—it was necessary.

  They edged around several pigs rooting in a patch of mud, and all the while he kept a tight hold on her arm, their strides matching as they crossed the courtyard.

  It hit him then. He was escorting a lady who had traveled back in time. His wife!

  Another possibility followed as quickly—could she know the outcome of their planned rebellion? Could her knowledge aid his clan? If she could save them from grief, from coming to any harm, he’d risk much for her.

  Suddenly, he couldn’t wait till they were alone in their room. And not for the usual reason.

  Mayhap she held the key for restoring—who the hell was he kidding—placing him in a position of honor with his clan.

  That position, which he’d always scoffed at needing or wanting, was very important now that ’twas possible.

  A new sense of purpose, of possibility, flooded him, making his steps light.

  Chapter Eleven

  And when James again shall be plac’d on the throne,

  All mem’ry of ills we have borne shall be gone.

  No tyrant again shall set foot on our shore,

  But all shall be happy and blest as before.

  -from “Come, Let Us Be Jovial,” Jacobite Reliques

  Back in their room, Traci strode into the latrine, which “graced” the corner of their room. She stuck her arm through the hole in the wooden bench and grasped the small sack she’d tied to the underside. She’d been surprised the first time she’d used the room that there was no smell, for it emptied straight into the loch.

  Her larger bag, she’d kept under the bed since having one hadn’t been a secret. It held her period clothes and her supplies, though the latter were disguised as seventeenth-century items—precautionary painkillers in a cloudy glass bottle with a stopper, for instance.

  She straightened. Iain’s head jerked up from blatant butt ogling, and his lips curved, his eyes sparkling with a yeah-ye-caught-me glint. She smirked back and brushed past him, settling herself before the warmth of the peat fire. She pulled out the contents from her secret bag, arranging them on the rug. She picked up her phone, which she’d tucked inside a leather case with a lock.

  She couldn’t blame Iain for wanting proof. And when he’d been so anxious for her forgiveness when he told her he couldn’t trust his heart? Part of the wall around her heart cracked. He’d seemed so earnest. But scariest of all, she’d glimpsed a different person behind his devil-may-care attitude. Someone just a little vulnerable.

  Iain stood warily by the fireplace, and she waved him over. He eased down beside her, his warmth and scent enveloping her, and their knees touched. He caught her gaze, his eyes a combination of wariness and excitement.

  Taking a deep breath, she pushed the power button on her phone and waited for it to boot. The logo flashed onto the screen, and Iain gasped. He leaned closer, and she caught his scent more fully—so intoxicating.

  Argh. No.

  Highland men were not intoxicating. Iain was not intoxicating. None of this was intoxicating. She would find Fiona and get their modern butts back where they belonged.

  After the screen lit up with its icons, Traci retrieved a photo of her standing in front of the same inn where she’d met Iain, but in her own time.

  While the building hadn’t changed substantially, she’d made sure to include people in the background, a car, its gas station, and the modern sign.

  “What is this?” Iain grasped the phone from her hand and peered closer. He stared at her and back at the screen, his eyes wide. “It’s a rendering of you. The detail…”

  “Yes. Like a painting, but it’s done with a…machine. It captures what was in front of it at the time. We call it a camera. So that’s me, standing in front of the inn, but in my time, not yours. In my time, it’s called the Cluanie Inn. Look closely.”

  Iain frowned and peered closer. His finger touched the screen, and he jerked back.

  “Oh. Sorry. You accidentally switched it to another image.”

  “It appears to be another image very similar to the earlier one, though your face looks different.”

  “Yeah,” she gru
mbled. “That wasn’t a good shot. I should have deleted it.” She reached over and switched it back to the other image. “See the inn? And see how it’s changed? It’s the same building…” She went on to explain the other objects and the clothes.

  “You mean to say that women traipse about in such scanty apparel in your time? I believe I would like that.”

  She pushed his shoulder. “I bet you would.” She leaned over and switched it to several photos back. “If that doesn’t convince you, how about this?”

  “Oh, Mary Mother!” Iain gasped and dropped the phone, which hit the rug with a dull thud. She’d taken a picture of him and Duncan while no one was looking. It’d captured him while he was laughing at something Duncan had said, though the scene was dark because she hadn’t used a flash. “That’s…that’s me.” With trembling fingers, he picked up the phone again, pushed it farther away, and then closer. “Uncanny,” he whispered. “How does this work?”

  “It’d be too complicated to explain, but this contraption captures what it sees at the push of a button. Watch.” She took the phone from him, held it up, and snapped a picture of the two of them. She brought it close for him to see.

  He backed away, falling back to rest on his hands. “It’s scary how accurate that is. Finer than any painter.” His voice held only awe.

  His face went blank, the muscles in his jaw bunching. “Enough.” He shoved to his feet and strode to the lone window, resting his fists against the window ledge. “I believe you.” He inhaled and blew out a sharp breath. “Which means neither you nor your sister are spies.”

  He whirled back around, his face strangely hopeful. “Does this mean you know the outcome of historical events?”

  She stood and brushed off her skirt. “Er. Only for really major events. History is not my strong suit.”

  “Strong suit? Never mind. I take your meaning.” He shoved away from the window, hands fisted at his sides. “Can you tell me if we put the Stewarts back on the throne?”

  She shifted and stared off to the side. Ha. Yes, she did know the answer to that. “I…I can’t tell you.”