“…We’re retrieving my sister…” She frowned and glanced back at the keep. “Yes. That is strange.”
“Strange indeed.” Iain cupped her thigh and squeezed. “We’re to follow Gavin east. I’ll deliver you safely to your sister. After that, I’ll do my best to get you alone so you may depart.”
She nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He nodded back, gave her thigh another squeeze, and swung up onto his saddle with an ease that said he’d practiced that move. Probably to impress the ladies, and, yeah, she had to admit, it was pretty manly.
As if sensing her thoughts, he looked back over his shoulder and winked, the imp. He clucked softly to his mount, and they trotted through the open gate and across the causeway, their ponies snorting into the air, their heads bobbing up and down, eager to be given their heads.
The clatter of the ponies’ hooves grew muted as the last of the party cleared the causeway and stepped onto the path around the lake. She glanced over, taking in the lake and the rolling vastness on its far side. She craned her neck up the green ridge they’d descended on their arrival the other day. And over that ridge lay another swath of wild, tempestuous, wide-open Highlands. She shivered.
At least her sister was safe.
Soon the drizzle stopped, and their party traveled along the rocky shore of Loch Garry and across the glen bordering the river of the same name. Occasionally, the ground dipped into small pockets, blanketed in fog, and Traci shuddered because she couldn’t see a damn thing below her knees.
After several miles, her stomach rumbled with hunger, but she kept silent, unwilling to waste time. They would be at Invergarry castle in another hour at most, if she judged the sun right.
They dipped into yet another of these foggy hollows, and Glenfiddich stumbled. She pitched forward, and Traci lost her seat, tumbling into the fog.
She landed with a soft “umph” on her right hip. “Shit.” She rolled to a sitting position and placed her hands out so that the pony wouldn’t bump into her. If she’d been astride, that would not have happened. A murky soup of fog surrounded her.
Oh, crap. Her case. She patted her hip and found her bag. Still there and still closed. She gripped the cloth to feel the comforting shape of the case.
“Traci?” Iain’s strong, melodic voice rang out.
“Over here.” She flipped onto her hands and knees and slowly rose, testing her weight on her ankles. Whew, nothing felt sprained or broken. She glanced up—her head and shoulders now above the fog. She twirled around until Glenfiddich came into view, a few feet away. Iain bore down on her, his pony stepping carefully.
“What happened?” he asked. The other members of the party crowded around her too.
“I’m not sure. Fiddich tripped on something, and I fell.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
Iain swung off his pony. He cooed to her mount and bent over near the front side, lifting one of her pony’s legs. He repeated the action on the other side.
“Mo Chreach! She’s thrown a shoe, and we’re not like to find it in this cursed fog.”
He patted Fiddich’s neck and straightened. “There’s nothing for it. You’ll need to ride with me. Glengarry’s blacksmith can repair it when we reach the castle.”
He took her reins and attached them to his own pony. That accomplished, he approached her, a grin splitting his face. “You up for a ride? With me?”
“That depends. What kind of ride will it be?”
“One you won’t forget, I can assure you.”
His innuendos were a keen reminder that he was nothing more than a flirt, handfasting or no, their conversation this morning notwithstanding. And she’d do well to remember that. It certainly made it easier to resist him.
“You promise, my husband?”
The men chuckled, and her face flamed. Oops, forgot about the audience. Her face heated further, because dammit, she wasn’t a blusher. Flirting was her forté, and no one would make her feel ashamed of that. She’d give as good as she got.
“Aye, ’tis a promise. Come, let me assist you onto our delightful, and shared, conveyance. You know you cannae resist.”
Normally, she’d assume he spoke from arrogance, but she could tell it was all just a fun exchange of words. Like her, perhaps, he used flirtation to keep others at bay?
She stepped close and placed her hand in his, which he held above the line of fog. She ignored the jolt she received when her skin met his. He reached behind her with his other hand. Since it was beneath the fog—and so out of sight of the others—he gave her ass a quick squeeze.
She glared at him, and he winked. “Up ye go.”
He grasped her waist and lifted her onto his pony, sitting sideways.
“Ready for me, lass?” He winked and swung up behind her, standing straight in the stirrups. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. This willna do.” He raised her up, sat himself, and settled her back down, her hip snug against his stomach on one side and the high pommel of his saddle on the other. It put her at an angle that tipped her toward him and of a height with his face. She had no choice but to settle her head against his shoulder so he could see. Their saddle didn’t leave a lot of room for any other position.
He snaked his arm around her middle and secured her against him.
“Here, let’s get you more comfortable, my wife,” he whispered in her ear, his warm tones sending a shiver of delight down her back. His wicked hands clasped her waist. Under the guise of “adjusting” her, he wiggled her around a little more in his lap.
He was incorrigible. If it were anyone else, she’d turn around and pop him right where it’d hurt the most. It was as if he knew she wouldn’t object and took full advantage. Or was testing his boundaries with her.
“Aye. There we go,” he rumbled. He said, a little louder, “You comfortable yet, my wife? You sure are finding it difficult to settle down.”
She dug her elbow into his ribs and was satisfied to hear a soft grunt and another chuckle.
He clucked to his pony, and his thighs tensed under hers as he directed his mount up out of the hollow. The voices of the others fell in behind. She peeked around his broad frame and saw Fiddich following docilely behind.
Soon they reached another fog-drenched hollow.
She asked what she’d worried about earlier. “How do you know it’s not just a drop-off into a ravine?”
“Och, dinnae fash. We know these lands. And so do our mounts.” He hugged her a little tighter to his body. “See that slightly worn area in front of us? That’s a wee path with which we’re familiar. It’ll take us safely through this patch and up to the other side.”
They approached the edge and descended. This time, the fog inched higher and higher up her body. Would it swallow up over their heads? At the height of her shoulders, however, it leveled out. The chalky white tendrils swirled and eddied around them, taking on a different pattern as they sliced through it, their life-sized witch’s cauldron.
The whole time she’d been sitting in his lap, Traci had been achingly aware of Iain’s solid strength below and beside her. Every time he adjusted the direction of his pony, his thighs tensed and shifted below hers. The heat radiating from him was enough to keep her warm too, as they pushed through the chilly fog.
Again, he tensed below her, and she thought he was adjusting the direction of the pony. But his hand brushed across her waist, and now she tensed. He pressed her against him, his erection nudging against her hip, until she was snug against his chest.
What was he doing?
Nothing, apparently. Just getting a little more comfortable, the imp.
Every nerve ending was strung taut, awareness zinging up and down her at his nearness. It was strange wading through the fog with only their heads and shoulders above it, and, yeah, she’d not begrudge him huddling her closer against him. Not that she needed the extra security. Nope. But she’d not turn away his warmth.
His hand inched, oh so slowly
, up her stomach. She pulled in a shallow breath. He was just adjusting his hold on her, that was all. But it edged up. Up again, almost so incremental she could have been imagining the glacial progress. Except this was Iain.
Gavin pulled up beside them. “Scouts ahead report the way is clear to Invergarry. If we keep to this pace, we’ll reach their keep ’ere night falls.”
She smiled her thanks to him for speaking in English.
Iain lifted his chin, and again his muscles shifted below her as he angled toward Gavin. “Very good. I know my wife is eager to see her sister.”
They talked logistics as they plodded along, their cadences, his warmth and closeness lulling her until she jerked in surprise—Iain’s hand had continued its glacial slide up her body and now he cupped the underside of a breast. She darted a glance over to Gavin, shocked by Iain’s boldness. But Gavin didn’t appear to notice.
She glanced down. Ha. That was why—everything Iain did was beneath the fog. An illicit thrill spiked through her, and she clenched her thighs together.
He wouldn’t dare.
But yep, as he continued talking, his strong, warm hand eased up another fraction until he cupped her entire breast.
And pinched her nipple.
Holy shit, she should totally slap his hand away.
But she didn’t.
Not because she was afraid to make a scene. She couldn’t care less about that.
No. She didn’t slap him away because the whole damn thing was such a thrill—her legs atop his strong thighs, the proximity of the others, and the way he slyly used the cover of the fog to toy with her breast.
Well, two could play that game.
Er. Maybe.
She frowned, trying to figure out which of his body parts she could reach.
Chapter Thirteen
I met a man in tartan trews,
I speer'd at him what was the news…
“The Haughs of Cromdale,” Jacobite Reliques
Iain gently tweaked his wife’s perky nipple again and bit back a grin as she tensed.
Gavin continued to drone on, and Iain tried to pay attention, he really did, but with the bit of distraction he had in his lap, could anyone blame him?
As they’d ridden toward their destination, having her bundled and snugged up so tightly to him played havoc on his self-control. To have her in his lap, her lovely bottom pressed so enticingly against him, would drive any man insane. He’d laugh at the first man who’d deny it.
Each mile they traversed, he felt his resolve to resist her drain that much further away. When he’d grabbed a quick bite at the castle before setting out, he’d tried to absorb all that she’d told him and its implications. God, he still wanted her, but learning where she truly came from had made it clear that this was not her world. If he’d been daft enough not to figure that out on his own, she’d cinched it with her stated resolve to find her sister and return to their time.
By the time they’d descended again into another hollow, and the fog covered their bodies, he wasn’t at all surprised to find his hand starting to wander.
His body had decided for him. As always.
When Gavin had started with his chatter, his attention was stretched to its max.
Another pinch, her breath hitched, and triumph surged through him.
He was answering a question of Gavin’s when he nearly bit his tongue—she had managed to slip underneath her skirt and brush his cods with her knuckles.
His whole body stiffened, and he stopped mid-sentence.
Gavin shot him an odd look. “What about Glengarry?” he asked, frowning.
Iain cleared his throat, and Traci gave a low, throaty giggle, which shot a jolt of lust straight to his groin. He pinched her breast again in retaliation. “Remember ’tis only our chieftain we’ve convinced of my wife’s innocence.” Again unease settled in his gut at how easy it had been.
“Do you expect trouble?”
“We should always expect trouble, I think.”
A strange look crossed Gavin’s face. He nodded and allowed his horse to fall behind. Iain brought his hand, reluctant to leave such a luscious handful, to rest on his thigh. But they’d soon be ascending.
He chuckled when their ascent finally dawned on his wife. She scrambled to straighten her skirts.
Dusk came early as the last rays of the sun fractured over the mountain tops behind them. As they trotted along the northern edge of the foothills of Ben Tee, an imposing five-story stone castle rose from a jagged rock. Castle Invergarry. The calm waters of Loch Oich sparkled in the background.
This was a site Traci had visited with her sister, so seeing it whole instead of a crumbling ruin was incredible. There were far fewer trees, and a wide swath of green pasture led up to the entrance of the castle’s curtain wall. A scattering of oblong stone cottages dotted the land to the right, and the Highlanders’ particular breed of cows—black and hairy as heck—dotted the area to the left.
Iain’s arms tightened around her waist as their pony ambled down the hill to the glen leading up to the castle’s entrance. She was grateful for the reassurance. Any time she interacted with anyone from this time, she ran a risk of exposure. But her sister was in there. Soon she’d have her safe at her side, and they could zap back to their own time.
“He’s expecting us, right?”
“Aye, he is at that. But be aware, he shares the same suspicions my uncle had. We will need to allay those.”
“What if he doesn’t believe me? We were lucky with your uncle.”
“Och, ’twas not hard for me to convince him that such a one as you, with your bonnie face and manners, was not a wicked spy.” He rubbed her hip, but while his voice was light, she detected a thread of unease. “Besides, all we require is the chance to get you with your sister. I think I can at least get you alone with her. And then you can…”
She only noticed the hesitation because she was pressed against him and she felt his swallow.
“You can ignite your magic and return to your time.”
She pulled in a deep breath. “If we don’t get a chance to talk alone before then, I want to thank you for all of your help. I couldn’t have found her without you. I’d have been lost. And Lord knows what would have happened to Fiona.”
“The MacDonells are a good clan. No harm would have come to her. Our clan is bonded to theirs by manrent.”
“Manrent?”
“We are pledged to serve them in exchange for protection. She’s in good hands.”
“And she does love Scotland.” Traci laughed. “In fact, I wonder if she even wants to go back. I guess we’ll see.”
By then, they’d reached the glen, and the others in their party had bunched around them, so she didn’t talk further. The gate opened ahead, and out rode a dozen men on Highland ponies.
Iain pulled up on his reins, and the others halted. Right next to a tannery. Ugh.
Wood-lined streams snaked and intersected a patch of ground on the bank of the River Garry, and hides in various states of being skinned and tanned lay stretched over wooden poles. Traci gagged. The smell was absolutely vile. Worse than any porta potty at a summer music festival. Her eyes watered from the ammonia. The workers at the tannery, indeed all the villagers she could see on both sides of the road, wore less colorful plaids. Most were a natural, off-white color, the variegated stripes barely visible. She’d noticed the same thing at Dungarbh—it seemed the poorer classes in both places sported less colorful tartans. Perhaps they couldn’t afford the dye?
The welcoming party—God, she hoped that’s what they were—pulled up in a flurry of hooves, their ponies nickering and prancing in place before them. She stretched up, surveying the party for a peek of her sister. No such luck. But that was okay. She was close. If all went well here, they’d soon see her. Had it only been four days ago that all this mess had started?
The leader, a huge Highlander with a broadsword hanging from his belt, wore tartan pants and had three eagle feathers pi
nned to his blue bonnet, while the others were dressed in great kilts. A string of Gaelic followed, Iain answering back. Seeing this party of nobles in their bright tartan patterns next to the drabber versions of the villagers lent credence to her theory of a class distinction.
The exchange between Iain and the welcoming party seemed friendly. Couldn’t they hurry up with all the posturing so she could get to her sister and this whole escapade could be over?
It was friendly enough until all the muscles in Iain’s body stiffened. “Mo Chreach!” he said, in an explosion of breath.
She’d gathered enough Gaelic to know that was an oath. Chill bumps pricked her skin. “What’s going on?” she whispered.
“Your sister is gone.”
Chapter Fourteen
Pox on every sneaking blade
“Here’s to the King, Sir,” Jacobite Reliques
An hour later, Traci was tucked between Iain and Gavin in the great hall of Invergarry Castle. It was easily twice as large as Iain’s main hall. The high-backed wooden chair seemed to swallow her up, a feeling enhanced by being between the two tall forms of her protectors. It was a strange sensation, feeling small and delicate.
Thankfully, Iain had convinced the clan chief and the rest to speak in English, so she was able to follow the conversation. It wasn’t lost on her that it was only the three of them from their group sitting at the table with the MacDonell chief and his men. The rest of their party stood behind them, alert.
Iain set down his flask of whisky. “My uncle and chieftain sends his greetings. I thank you for your hospitality and the repast. Now that our bellies are full and our throats wet, I wish to beg your forbearance further that you might tell us news of Fiona Campbell, my wife’s sister.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her tight against him.
At first, she was annoyed that he kept going on with the wife business, but then she realized that his gesture wasn’t a simple one. He was letting them know that she was part of his clan. And so under their protection.
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