The Parchment Scroll

by C. A. Szarek

  “Cold?”

  “No.” His body heat at her back was keeping Jules warm, staving off the goose bumps on her legs from rising higher. She’d cooled off from her run, but her heart still pounded. As much as she hated to admit it, she was cozy in the barbarian’s unyielding embrace. She wouldn’t tell him that, though. “What year is it?” Jules blurted.

  “The year of our lord, sixteen hundred and seventy-five.”

  Three years off… “Claire came to 1672.” She spoke more to herself than him, but her captor cocked his head to one side—she felt more than saw it.

  “So yer parchment said.”

  “Magic,” she whispered.

  He didn’t comment. Jules wanted to ask him a hundred things, or demand to know where they were going. She needed to make a plan to find her sister. Then get them home, damn the nonsense about love and marriage. Claire—and Jules—belonged in the twenty-first century.

  She’d have to work on getting away from the barbarian first. Then find Bree. Jules was going to need the Irish chick to get home.

  “We’re almost there.” He broke the silence as if he could read her mind.

  “Where’s there?”

  “Armadale.”

  Armadale.

  She’d heard that name before. The bartender, Rob MacDonald had told her his clan’s stronghold was in ruins—at least in the twenty-first century. “MacDonald.”

  The man stilled. “Aye. Ye know of me?”

  She glanced over her shoulder and shook her head. “I know Armadale is the stronghold of Clan MacDonald.”

  “Aye. My clan.” His tone bled pride.

  Jules’ heart skipped a beat. Her mind ran in circles. Websites, books, magazine articles flashed before her eyes, and she didn’t like the math her head was doing. Clans MacDonald and MacLeod were rivals—enemies.

  They’d been at war—real war—not even a century before the seventeenth.

  How did we end up three years off target?

  Never mind that…

  If Claire’s letter was at all true, Jules had fallen into the hands of her sister’s husband’s enemy. She swallowed a gulp. Fear skittered up her belly, sliding down her arms and legs. Her pulse thundered in her temples.

  What’s he going to do to me?

  Police training fled as the reality of what she’d done—where she was—settled over her. Jules was almost naked, without a weapon, and in the arms of a man who’d already proven he had a savage streak. He’d chased her down after she’d punched him in the nuts.

  What kind of revenge will he seek?

  “Please don’t hurt me.” The words tumbled from her mouth, and she shook in his grip. She twisted around to look at him.

  “Who said anythin’ abou’ hurtin’ ye?” The man reared back. Looked insulted.

  “My sister married a MacLeod.”

  He chuckled. “Poor lass.”

  When their eyes met, the satisfaction she read there pushed away her fear, reigniting her anger.

  This guy’s a pompous ass.

  Jules frowned. She should probably rejoice he didn’t seem angry anymore—about the punch or the chasing. But he was ticking her off.

  “Ah, there’s tha’ fire I like. Glare a’ me, lass. Yer no’ weak.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “If you’re not going to hurt me, what do you plan to do to me?”

  Those dark eyes flashed and Jules’ stomach fluttered.

  When his lips parted, her heart kicked up another notch. She remembered his mouth moving over hers against her will. And his hands at her waist—then on her bare thighs.

  If she hadn’t been so out of it, she would’ve probably kissed him back.

  Stranger or not, the guy could kiss.

  I’ve lost it.

  Maybe time travel-induced insanity.

  Since when am I attracted to pushy bastards?

  No. Way.

  Not even if the circumstances were different. This guy’s nowhere near my type.

  He said nothing, but she couldn’t stop staring at him.

  The barbarian stared right back.

  The horse kept walking, paying neither of them any attention.

  Her kidnapper’s five o’clock shadow begged for her touch. Her fingers twitched in his grip.

  Okay.

  Seriously?

  Knock it off, Juliette McGowan.

  “I’ll tell the MacLeods I hold ye captive.”

  She jumped when he finally spoke. “C-c-captive?”

  “Aye. Yer fer ransom.”

  Chapter Six

  “Ransom?”

  “I know yer no’ daft, lass, so why’re ye repeatin’ everythin’ I say?” Hugh bit back a chuckle when she glared harder and those green eyes flashed. This lass was a fascinating contradiction of strength and weakness and he wanted her. Burned for her.

  You’ve lost your mind, Hugh MacDonald.

  Chasing her had fired his blood, despite the pain that’d rocked his tender parts when she’d hit him. But his cock twitched when he’d swept her up into his arms, so at least it still worked—praise Jesus.

  He’d almost put her on Dubh’s back facing him so he could kiss her again. Holding her against his chest wasn’t a chore, even though he was restraining her.

  “Screw you,” she bit out, breaking their eye-contact.

  The phrase was odd, but he got the gist of her meaning. “Ye offerin’?” He should tell her how badly he wanted her. Then she wouldn’t speak to him as such. No one showed him the disrespect this lass was.

  What would she say if I told her?

  By way of answer, she pounded his thigh with a tight fist and Hugh laughed.

  “I’m glad you think this shit is funny. Just let me go. I want to go to the MacLeods anyway. I’ll find my way to Dunvegan. You won’t even miss me. Let me do what I came here to do.”

  He didn’t blink an eye at her vulgarity; he admired her ability to speak her mind. His fascination of her shot up a notch. “And just wha’ is tha’, exactly?”

  She froze, as if she realized she’d said more than she’d wanted to. “None of your business,” his foundling bit out finally. Her neck and cheeks were stained pink, and he couldn’t stop staring. “It’s not like you’re gonna help me,” she mumbled, tugging against his hold.

  “Wha’ are ye called?” Words fell out of his dry mouth. Hugh cleared his throat.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve ta put a name to my demands, do I no’?”

  The lass leaned away from him as much as she could, a scowl marring her pretty face. It just made him want to kiss her even more. “Demands?”

  “What if I go first?”

  “What if I don’t care what your name is?” she snapped.

  Hugh threw his head back and laughed. “I like ye, lass.”

  “I don’t like you.” She harrumphed and it took all he was made of not to grab her face and suck on that plump bottom lip.

  “I’m The MacDonald.”

  She scoffed. “Like the only one?”

  “Nay. Laird of my clan. My given name is Hugh.”

  “Great. I’m stuck with Chief of the Barbarians.” Her voice was low, more to herself than to him.

  Hugh couldn’t stop grinning. “Aye.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Aye, ‘tis quite.”

  “Obviously sarcasm is lost on you, Hugh.”

  He should chide her for being so casual with his name, but Hugh liked the sound of it on her lips. Hell, he liked her lips….and tasting them. His cock stirred and he shifted on Dubh’s back.

  If she realized what she was doing to him, his little lass would be even angrier. He wanted to keep her calm. He was enjoying their conversation. So he banished his desire—for now—and met her gaze when she looked his way again. “And ye are…”

  “Pissed off.”

  “Odd name.”

  His foundling sighed. She cast her eyes skyward. “Jules.”

  “Jewels?”

  “It’s short for J
uliette. Juliette McGowan. My name.”

  “Juliette.” Her name rolled of his tongue smoothly, so he said it again. He liked it. A name as beautiful as she.

  She shivered in his grip. Awareness shot down his spine and he couldn’t muster a comment about her surname. Juliette might be angry, but the lass was affected by him. It fired his blood—and his cock—in a way he didn’t need right now.

  “Don’t say my name like you know me,” she growled.

  Hugh swallowed a groan. That tone, and the look on her face made heat shoot right to his crotch. He glanced down, catching sight of her bare upper thigh.

  Seeing the expanse of creamy pale skin didn’t cool his ardor, either. He didn’t need a reminder that she was clad in only his tunic. Or remember what she looked like beneath it.

  Juliette squirmed and he held her tighter, nestled against his chest. Hugh needed her to sit still. She was too close to his bollocks to not notice his interest. Friction was a bad thing.

  “Doesna matter if I know ye.” I still want you. He cleared his throat again as his stomach flipped.

  “How do you know the MacLeods will care enough to pay a ransom for me anyway?”

  “As ye said, yer sister married a MacLeod.”

  “So? They don’t know me.”

  “They’ll pay ta have ye safely returned, worry no’.”

  Juliette stilled, that green gaze sought his over her shoulder. “I thought you said you weren’t going to hurt me.”

  “I willna hurt ye.”

  She frowned.

  Hugh grinned. “They doona’ know tha’.”

  His foundling narrowed her eyes but said nothing. She muttered something under her breath he didn’t catch.

  He didn’t goad her into talking to him. Hugh could feel her ire, but also her uncertainty, and a part of him didn’t want to scare her. He was pleased she was strong and not afraid of him.

  Armadale came into view, and caught her attention. Juliette stared at his vast, glorious home up ahead, as if fascinated. Her eyes trailed the wall, the battlements, the gates, everything.

  Hugh wanted to puff his chest out with pride, and tell her everything about Clan MacDonald at the same time. But the longer she stared in silence, the more he realized she wasn’t admiring his home. Her gaze was calculating, as if she was planning an escape route. He was torn between laughter and admiration. “The Highlands are full of brigands and thieves. Lasses doona’ do well on their own.”

  Juliette harrumphed. “I was doing just fine on my own.”

  “Aye. Naked and confused on the beach.”

  “I would’ve figured something out.”

  “In tha’ case, I should leave ye to go abou’ yer way.”

  They approached the gates, and Hugh nodded to his guards. They were blood kin, and both clad in kilts made of MacDonald tartan.

  Juliette’s gaze was shrewd as they rode into the bailey. “I don’t believe that for a second. Not after all the trouble you went to, catching me and all.”

  Hugh threw his head back and laughed.

  His cousin Colin looked at him as if he’d grown a third eye.

  He ignored the man three years his junior, and slid from Dubh’s back. Hugh reached for his feisty foundling.

  “Don’t touch me,” Juliette barked as his hands enclosed her waist.

  All the MacDonalds about the courtyard stopped their tasks, interested in their laird’s activities. For some reason he wanted to snarl at all his kinsmen for looking at Juliette’s nearly bare form.

  “My laird?” Colin asked.

  “Mind yer duties,” he barked.

  His cousin inclined his head and returned to the gate as Hugh pinned a protesting Juliette to his chest.

  “Let me go, or I’ll scream.”

  “Scream away, lass. We’re surrounded by my kinsmen. I’m laird. No one will pay ye notice.” But they were. All his clansmen—and women—were staring.

  “Great, you’re all barbarians?” Her question was part demand, part plea.

  Hugh strode forward, giving her the choice to walk with him or get dragged.

  Her struggles echoed in the great hall, but he didn’t bother hushing her. Soon they’d been in his quarters, and then Hugh could—

  “Hugh? Who’ve ye go’ there?”

  He froze, one foot on the wide staircase.

  “Help!” Juliette hollered, renewing her efforts to jerk against his hold.

  His aunt shuffled over, her cane making a tap-tap on the stone as she hurried faster than her uneven legs should be able to carry her.

  Any concern for her health dissolved when he met her dark eyes—and her scowl. A look that would have made him tremble if he was still a lad.

  “Hugh MacDonald, who is tha’ lass?”

  “No one of yer concern, Auntie.”

  “Help, he’s kidnapped me!” Juliette yelled. Her nails bit into his wrists.

  Hugh growled and swung her up over his shoulder, giving her delectable bare bottom a slap in the hopes the shock would silence her.

  Juliette yelped and pounded his back with both fists.

  Aunt Mab gasped. “Upstairs, lad. Now. Explain yerself!”

  He groaned.

  * * * *

  “Yer goin’ to wha’?”

  Jules wanted to peek around the corner and see whoever was yelling at Hugh, despite the fact he’d barked at her to stay put. Delight bubbled up from her stomach. “Looks like someone’s bigger and badder than you, Hugh MacDonald.”

  The someone was female.

  She sucked back a giggle.

  Wait…female?

  What if he was married?

  “He…kissed me.” Elation dissipated and Jules screamed at herself. “I wouldn’t care if he was married.” And besides, no seventeenth century woman would talk to her husband like that. Definitely not a husband like Hugh.

  His mom?

  No.

  He’d called her Auntie before they’d come up come stairs. Jules hadn’t gotten a good look at her though, not with all the shifting against Hugh’s chest and her hair in her face when she’d been upside down over his shoulder.

  She ignored the memories of his big hands on her ass and thighs. His touch was hot, burning her though he still hadn’t hurt her.

  Jules shivered and chided herself. She planted her hands on her thighs and leaned forward, trying to make out the screaming conversation in the corridor. Listening to the big strong barbarian backpedalling was kinda funny.

  Conversation was no longer the right term. Hugh raised his voice when his aunt did.

  “Shouting match.” Jules grinned and shook her head.

  Both had thick brogues, so she couldn’t make out every word, anyway.

  She looked around the room as their voices faded in and out. Hugh had planted her on the bed. He’d barked, “Doona’ move,” as he’d gone, rushing back out of the room and slamming the thick door.

  Two windows were open, heavy drapes tacked back. Light streamed into the sizable room, and the fire was lit in the big fireplace, warm and inviting. Peat moss tickled her nose, but the scent was earthy and inviting as it wafted through the air.

  There wasn’t much inside; stone walls empty save for a painting on the far wall she was too far from to inspect. It was a fair-haired woman, but that was all Jules could see.

  The whole place had Hugh written all over it—sparsely decorated. Masculine. What little furniture was oversized dark wood, including the huge bed she was seated on.

  I’m in his bed.

  Jules looked at the four carved posters and large headboard. It was made for a king, complete with fluffy-looking pillows and plaid blanket under her ass.

  She pictured Hugh, naked and spread out all over this bed, sheets mussed. If his bare chest was any indication, the rest of him would look fantastic, too.

  Gawd, knock it off.

  Why are you playing Stockholm-Syndrome-Girl?

  Jules rubbed her arms when tremors chased each other down her spine.
Just because he looked good, didn’t mean he was. So far, her acquaintance with him proved that, if nothing else.

  Hugh MacDonald was all barbarian, no matter what the packaging looked like.

  The door swung open, hitting the stone wall hard.

  She winced and jumped.

  “Lass, are ye hurt?” A little old lady shuffled forward, leaning heavily on a wood cane and walking fast enough to make her pant. Her awkward gait didn’t seem to impede her step as she closed the distance to the bed.

  Jules shot to her feet, worried the elderly lady would trip and fall. She tugged Hugh’s shirt down as far as she could, but didn’t take her eyes off his aunt.

  “Ye can wipe tha’ look off yer face.” The woman straightened and drummed her fingers on the top of the cane. “I am well. ‘Tis ye I’m concerned wit’.”

  “I’m okay.” She stumbled over the words, feeling heat scorch the back of her neck as the woman’s eyes trailed her frame.

  “Talk funny, ye do.”

  Hugh came into the room, his arms crossed over that broad—and still bare—chest. The look on his face was as dark as his eyes. “Auntie—”

  “Ye and I are finished speakin’, Hugh MacDonald.”

  Jules arched an eyebrow.

  The old woman’s tone was hard as nails, to match the glare she threw at him. But her expression softened when she looked back at Jules.

  Hugh hovered like a socially inept teenager. Practically in the corner.

  She didn’t know whether to look at her suddenly humbled barbarian or the woman who was appraising her.

  “Pay no heed ta the lad. I’ll call for Catriona and ge’ ye some clothin’.”

  The lad?

  Hugh had to be at least thirty.

  Jules tried not to snort when he shifted from one boot to the other at the end of his bed.

  He said nothing, but he wore his brooding like a shroud.

  “Lass, are ye hungry? I’ll have a bath drawn as well.”

  “No. I’m fine. Don’t go to trouble over me, please. I’ll take the clothing, though.”

  The woman smiled, taking years from her wrinkled face. “Yer no’ trouble.” She pointed to Hugh with her cane. “This one, on t’other hand, is nothin’ but.”