Ladies Prefer Rogues: Four Novellas of Time-Travel Passion

by Janet Chapman

  “Do not contradict me, girl. If I say the peat boy stole from me, then the peat boy stole from me.”

  “Will you hang him?” a second man asked.

  Iain scowled. Lord Morrison.He knew an instant of vertigo, so strange it was hearing the voice of the man he’d recently killed.

  “I’ll hang the peat boy—”

  “Father!” Cassie screamed. “It’s my fault. You can’t hang him. We wish to marry. He is my one love, my true love.”

  Iain’s heart soared to hear the words. He had to see her, had to see with his own eyes his Cassie, young again. He snuck higher up the stairs. He couldn’t believe she lived. If this indeed was hell, he embraced it. He’d endure the wrath of Lucifer himself for one more moment in her presence.

  “What do you know of love, chit? You know naught. Wait”—the laird’s voice grew steely—“has he soiled you?”

  The room stayed silent.

  “Bedded you,” he snapped. “Has the boy bedded you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Good,” Morrison chimed in. “Because our bargain is off if your girl is no longer a virgin.”

  “What bargain?” Cassie asked hesitantly.

  “You marry Lord Morrison, and I’ll not hang your peat boy. That’s the only bargain you need concern yourself with.”

  “So?” Morrison demanded.

  There was a shuffling, then Cassie spoke, her voice barely a whisper. “I will.”

  “Louder, girl.”

  “I’ll do your bidding, but you must swear to keep Iain alive. Swear you won’t hurt him.”

  There was a grumbling, and MacLeod snapped, “Calm yourself, Morrison. I’ve a dungeon with the boy’s name on it. Nobody will stand in your way.”

  “I don’t trust you, MacLeod. Our agreement isn’t final until I’ve had a chance to confirm she’s a maiden still. I’d not buy a horse before putting it through its paces, and I’ll not wed your daught—”

  Iain didn’t give Lord Morrison a chance to finish. He flew up the rest of the stairs, angling for a fight.

  His eyes went straight to her. It was Cassie. The same Cassie of his youth, sweet and lovely, but with a look of fear pinching her brow. He swayed on his feet.

  “How can it be?” he whispered. “Is it truly you, lass?”

  “What’s the meaning of this?” MacLeod unsheathed the dagger at his waist and stalked to Iain.

  “No father!” Cassie shrieked.

  He tore his gaze from her. They might all be ghosts, or flesh and blood brought back to life, he didn’t know. But he did know he needed to act. He’d once chosen a path, and it’d been the wrong one. Was this his chance to change his destiny?

  He’d save Cassie. Cassie would be his bride. He’d sworn a vow beneath the Callanish Stones.

  A light flickered in his mind. Was it the standing stones that had brought him back? Was his promise more sacred even than magic?

  The laird stopped, waiting and staring, a look of bemusement on his face. “What do you propose to do now, peat boy?”

  Revulsion curdled his belly. And not because the laird spoke words of disdain for him. To Iain, the man had been dead for decades. But to see him treat his daughter so? Like chattel, or livestock, the MacLeod traded Cassie to another man.

  Iain had killed the laird once, was it his destiny to kill him over and over for all eternity? He faced the MacLeod head-on, realizing with dismay that he was armed with naught but his wet plaid and bare feet. Still, Iain snarled. He flicked his eyes from the laird to Morrison and back again. “I suppose you’ll not talk this through like men.”

  Iain rubbed his hands together and flexed his fists. Cassie gasped. He wondered distantly if it was the conspicuous absence of a weapon that had startled her.

  He snuck another look at her. He couldn’t keep his eyes from her.

  Morrison stepped to her side and placed his hands hard on her shoulders. Cassie turned from Iain. She canted her body, tucking herself into the old lord.

  Iain’s vision wavered. It couldn’t be. The image was so like that moment, before, by the cage, when Cassie had turned her body from him. Iain had been trussed, helpless. And helpless he’d watched her die.

  And now, here, again she’d turned from him.

  He’d been helpless then, but he was a helpless boy no more. Was she seeking comfort from the old man? Iain stepped toward her. She might not want saving, but damn the girl, he’d save her anyway.

  But Cassie shocked him then. She pulled away from the lord, his dagger gripped in her small hand.

  Iain reeled. She hadn’t betrayed him, that day. She’d been trying to save him. His sweet, maddening Cassie had thought to slay the lord with his own blade.

  He laughed. It was a manic laugh, relief and joy and disbelief. And sadness, too, for having ever doubted his Cassie’s love.

  He’d never make that mistake again.

  Iain had the body of his youth, but he’d the experience of an old salt. He felt the laird rush at his back. He smiled. Fool.

  Iain let the man attack. He was eager for it. He braced, feeling the MacLeod charge from behind.

  Another time flashed to him, the MacLeod at his back with Iain trussed like an animal. It had happened so long ago, and yet, somehow, it appeared that it had never happened. He gave a shake to his head. He’d not contemplate the ways of time and the universe. He had a man to fight.

  He felt a rush of air, saw the shadow of the laird’s upswept dagger arm. But Iain simply stepped back, into the attack. In a single motion, he pivoted, grabbing the MacLeod’s outstretched arm, twisting it down, and wrenching it back up again.

  A look of shock seized the MacLeod’s features. It’d been MacLeod’s own force that thrust the knife. He toppled, stabbed in the heart by his own blade.

  Cassie yelped, struggling. Lord Morrison was peeling her fingers from the hilt of his dagger.

  Iain rushed to her. She’d died for him once. Vivid in his mind was a sky blue dress, stained scarlet with her blood. She’d not spill a drop more, so long as he lived.

  He pushed between them, and Cassie fell away. Iain grabbed Morrison’s throat with one hand, and stilled his blade arm with the other. He’d crush this vermin with his own two hands.

  Fury blinded him to all but the man before him. Iain tightened his grip. The small bones of Morrison’s wrist crunched, and his dagger dropped to the ground.

  The lord clawed at him, gasping for air, his mouth working wordlessly as Iain squeezed his throat, crushing the air from his body.

  Words echoed in his head. Worthless. Test ride. She lay like a dead thing. “I killed you once, Morrison. I’ll kill you again. And again in hell, if need be.”

  Cassie was suddenly there, by his side. Iain knew a moment of panic. Then he saw that she’d snatched Morrison’s dagger from the floor.

  She stood, driving it into his belly, splitting the lord open like a gut fish. “Rot,” she snapped. “You’ll not ride me, you . . . you . . .”

  She stared at Morrison with unseeing eyes as he fell to the ground. Finally Cassie broke.

  She wept and shivered, and Iain pulled her close. “Hush, sweet Cass.”

  He shuddered. To hold her once more was a relief so profound, he thought he’d expire from it. A part of him waited, to wake up or to disappear from this moment like a puff of smoke.

  But he didn’t. And Cassie remained solid and warm in his arms. He hugged her closer still, kissing her hair, her brow. “Och, Cassie, love. Are you alright?”

  She wrapped her arms more tightly around him and wept, and he let her. “Hush, now. You’re safe now. You’re safe with me.”

  “But!” she gasped suddenly, raising wild, panicked eyes to his. “How will we explain? Morrison, my father . . . You’ll be blamed—”

  “Hush, lass.” He stroked her hair, pulling her back into him. “Nobody will come for me. We’ll tell folk they killed each other. That it was a fight over . . . property.” He shook his head, disgusted.

&
nbsp; Cassie nodded gravely, turning her head to look at her father’s lifeless body. Her face crumpled, but the tears had stopped.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her quietly. “I tried . . . He came for me, I tried not to kill him, but . . .”

  “I know,” she said simply. She scrubbed the damp from her face and repeated more loudly, “I know, and it’s alright.”

  “But he was your father.”

  “Aye. And I imagine he’d have traded me for a cask of good claret and twenty head of cattle.” She looked up at him, raw sincerity in her eyes. “No, Iain. You are the only man I belong to.”

  “Och, love, you belong to none but yourself.” He gave her a broad smile. “I’m not that great a fool to think I could ever own such as you, Cassiopeia. But I will ask you the honor of being my bride.” He grasped her hand in his. “Will you, Cass? Will you finally, finally be my wife?”

  “Aye,” she whispered. “I’ve merely been waiting for you to ask it.”

  “As I have been waiting. Waiting quite some time indeed . . .”

  She smiled back at him then. Tilting her head, she asked, “You do ken, I’m a very wealthy bride?”

  Iain laughed, long-buried joy erupting from deep in his soul. “You are all the riches I need, Cassie.”

  Epilogue

  Cassie watched her husband sleep. It was one of her favorite things. She’d always been a restless soul, her mind needing but the barest nudge to set it spinning from dusk till dawn. But not her Iain.

  He had only to shut his eyes and think of sleep for it to come. She fully believed it was his hours in the fields that brought sleep with such ease. That and his pure soul.

  She rested her head dreamily on the crook of her elbow. Nobody was luckier than she. Her Iain had an honest and joyful heart. And he also happened to be the handsomest man Cassie had ever laid eyes on.

  She sensed he had secrets, but those would come, in time. Cassie had kept a couple secrets herself.

  She fought the urge to touch him. To trace those muscles so hard-won. In marrying her, he’d inherited quite the bounty, but still he insisted on applying himself physically. He loved walking the hills, surveying their lands.

  Not that she paid that any mind. She was the one who benefited, Cassie thought with a smile. Often, she’d rub his shoulders and arms at the end of the day, working those thick knots of muscle, impermeable as granite under her fingertips.

  She stifled a giggle, remembering the first time she’d done it. The feel of his bare skin in her hands—how she’d swooned! She should’ve been ashamed at her reaction to him, mounting her husband as she had, like she were a mare and he some prized stallion. But the feel of him, his broad and healthy strength . . . She purred a little sound of contentment, remembering.

  No longer able to resist, she tentatively reached out to trace the hard silhouette of his upper arm. He may have a gentleman’s title now, but he had the body and the sun-kissed skin of a man. He could go back to peat farming for all she cared. She’d not complain.

  It was his looks, after all, that had first attracted her to him, so many years past. Someday she’d confess her secret to him. Someday admit how she’d eyed him from afar.

  She’d first spotted him when she was but a young girl. Even then, he’d stood out from the others. He’d been young still himself, and yet he’d already had much of his height. Standing tall over the other boys, with a body made of straight limbs and strong edges, Iain was like a prince from a fairy tale.

  And his hair. She sighed, relishing the fluttering in her belly. That thick, gorgeous hair, the color of burnished copper. There was a day she’d seen him at market, and the sun had caught that hair and set it afire. She’d been desperate to know if his eyes would match. For years, she’d wondered if those eyes would be as blue as the sky or brown like the fields. Or even darker still, mysterious like the sea at night.

  She’d been such a foolish, lovesick girl. The memory tickled her, contented her. There were so many memories of him, etched in her heart. Playing them in her mind, in these wee hours, it was as though she could relive a story whose happy ending she was assured.

  She’d spied him again, a couple years later, and he’d grown even taller, and broader, and the sight of those long, straight limbs and that auburn hair had her body thrumming in shocking and unexpected ways.

  For so long, in secret, she’d wondered who he was. It had become too much, though. How she’d begged her lady’s maid to find out his name! Iain MacNab, she’d told her, and Cassie had swooned from the very sound of it. She’d imagined it matched the man: strong, upright, steadfast.

  She had seen him again and was desperate for just one glimpse more. It was what had brought her so far afield on that day, the day they first met. She’d snuck out, braved the bogs, and spied on him hard at work. And what a glorious sight he’d been.

  His broad shoulders flexing with each strike of his peat iron. His plaid, so proud, fluttering in the breeze. His strong and steady legs. She blushed at the memory.

  And then she accidentally sank into the bog. She’d been mortified!

  But then he appeared, cresting the hill, a smile on his face . . . she’d thought her heart would stop.

  He’d swept her out, easy as you please, and that thrumming she’d felt before was nothing to the melted butter she became in his arms. And finally—finally!—she learned the color of those eyes. Wondrously, amazingly, they matched his hair. His hair and his eyes, the same striking rich auburn. Like gingerbread. They’d warmed for her, their edges crinkling.

  She’d been lost then. She was his from that very moment.

  Cassie had never met anyone like him. Everyone else seemed so . . . ordinary. But Iain was nobler, somehow. She’d known it from the start. All eyes went to him when he entered a room, as though folk naturally looked to him for guidance. He was special, so good, so courageous.

  So very handsome.

  And he was hers. She smiled.

  His eyes fluttered open, and she stole her hand back fast to her side. Too late, though. He’d spied just what—and who—had woken him.

  He smiled his crinkle-eyed smile and Cassie’s heart kicked. Would she ever get over this feeling?

  “You’re up with the birds this morning.” He tugged her possessively to him for a kiss that stole her breath. Iain pulled away and chuckled, sensing her reaction to him.

  “What has you roused, wife?” he asked, his voice mischievous and hoarse from sleep. He stretched and looked to the window. The sky had lightened to dark gray, but full dawn was still a half hour away. “ ’ Tis too early to get to work.” He pulled her on top of him, kissing her shoulders, her neck. “Whatever should we do?”

  It became immediately apparent to her that Iain knew exactly what it was he thought they should be doing.

  She nestled her body down, just right, over him. He moaned, closing his eyes, jarred by a surge of lust.

  She wriggled her hips for good measure, settling her weight fully upon him, loving the sudden control she’d won. She gave him a little feline smile of satisfaction, and he gave her a dark and hungry look in return. He’d know exactly what she was doing, and he’d not stop her by any means.

  “But your mates had said they were off to fish today,” she said innocently. “Are you certain you don’t have a mind to catch them and go for a sail instead?”

  “Och, no, bonny Cassie,” he answered quickly, adamantly, laughter in his voice. “Trust me, lass, I’ve lost my taste for the sea.”

  He kissed her hard, growing serious, and rolled her beneath him. Now it was Iain’s turn to nestle his body just so. He smiled wickedly at Cassie’s gasp.

  “No, my bonny, bonny bride. On land, in sky, in the sea, the only creature I have a mind to catch I hold already in my arms.”

  Sixteen Decades

  Trish Jensen

  To Chris White,

  for making me laugh even during thunderstorms,

  and for helping me brainstorm the funny.


  One

  Little Fork, Nevada, 2010

  “Okay, who’s missing?” Sheriff Ty Coltraine asked.

  Fannie Mae, the madam of Little Fork’s claim to fame, The Rooster Ranch, scowled up at him, her smudged lipstick and caked-on makeup not doing her scrawny little eighty-year-old butt any favors. Tonight she was wearing a hot pink chiffon number that clashed a little with her flaming red Farrah wig hair. “Like I’m going to name names.”

  “How am I supposed to find this person if I don’t know who I’m looking for?”

  Fannie laughed. “I’m guessing you’ll figure it out right quick.”

  Ty sighed. “One of your girls, a client, your dog, what?”

  “Let’s just say it was a friend who dropped by to say howdy.”

  “Was this friend male or female?”

  “Don’t get many female callers. Oh, a few now and then but—”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?” Ty interrupted, before she could elaborate.

  “Around eight.” She pointed at the chalkboard that held the evening’s menu. Each of the ten bedrooms were numbered and named; names like Little Bo Peep, The Dungeon, Room Service, and—

  “Ten Little Indians? Good Lord, Fannie.”

  She shrugged. “Different strokes. Anyways, he was heading to six, The Court Room, but he never showed. None of the girls have seen him, so he didn’t take any detours.”

  “How do you know he didn’t just change his mind and go home?”

  “Beemer’s still in the lot. And his clothes are still in the dressing room.”

  “I know I’m going to regret asking this,” Ty said. “But what was he wearing the last time you saw him?”

  “Judge’s robe.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Court Room? Duh, Ty. If you’d come around once in a while, blow off some steam, you’d be a much happier sheriff. And a handsome man such as yourself? Stunningly handsome, if my old eyes do say for theirselves.” When he just raised an eyebrow, she added, “He was wearing a judge’s robe. Nothing else.”