by Amy Jarecki
If it weren’t for the pain searing across his chest he would already have the woman on her back, begging for her share of morning love making. As he closed his eyes, he drew on years of meditation to block the sting. Once the throbbing in his chest stopped, he felt like hell on wheels—on top of the world.
He nuzzled into her neck and trailed kisses up the lady’s nape.
“Mm,” she said, coming awake.
Gradually he inched up her shift, higher and higher. When his fingers found the hem, he slid his hand up between her thighs.
“Dear lord,” she gasped, trying to pull away.
“Stay,” he growled into her ear, slipping his finger between the woman’s moist softness.
Christina tugged against his hold, though her effort wasn’t exactly herculean. “We canna. We must not.”
He swirled his hips against her buttocks. She was right—partly. But this woman had suffered for so long. Years. Her husband died, what? Fifteen years ago? And then her son had been taken from her and she was imprisoned in her own home. And now the lad had shunned her. No, Christina de Moray hadn’t known love in years. A tragedy. Lachlan couldn’t think about himself when she needed affection so much more. “Let me give you pleasure.”
“But—”
“Let it be my gift to you—only for you.” Pushing through her thighs, he found the nub that would drive her mad. With a light touch, he swirled his finger. “I promise not to ravish you.” He grinned, burying his face into her mass of curly locks.
“Ye…what?”
“Sh.” Though lying down, he could feel the tension in her body ease as he worked his magic. Pushing his finger further, he slid into her entrance. “Will you open for me?”
She relaxed enough for him to slide his finger all the way inside. In and out he stroked her. In and out. Then he returned to her clitoris and used her moisture to increase the friction. “Close your eyes and imagine me inside you.”
She gasped, as if the thought were too sinful to consider.
Lachlan rocked his hips in the same lazy rhythm as before, her feminine scent driving him to the edge. All he needed to do was incline his cock a bit and he would be inside her. He would be thrusting his hips like a cowboy riding a bull. He’d feel that warm, tight sleeve squeeze around him, giving him blessed release.
But he needed to do this for Christina. He needed to show her that she was alive and sensuous and utterly desirable. That she was a vivacious flesh-and-blood woman and that she could feel passion again.
Her breath caught when his finger brushed lighter than before. She liked it—feathery touches. Letting her wee gasps and moans guide him, Lachlan worked his finger until a sharp gasp caught in the back of her throat. Then he rose up on his elbow and captured her mouth in his, muffling her cry of elation.
Panting, she opened her crystal blue eyes and stared at him. “Now I ken ye’re a sorcerer.”
He grinned and waggled his brows. “There’s nothing magic about making a woman come.”
She brushed a strand of his hair away. “Nay. There is everything magical about it.”
He nuzzled into her silken hair. “I wish it weren’t morning already. There’s nothing I’d like more than to spend the day right here.”
With a sigh, she glanced toward the door. “I must rise and meet the day face on. And Andrew needs to ken he has a mother who cares for him, whether or not he wants me.”
“He wants you. He just might be twenty-five before he realizes it.”
She sat up. “Five and twenty?”
“Adolescents tend to think they don’t need their parents. It’s not until they graduate from university and head out on their own that they realize their parents were smarter than they gave them credit for.”
“Well, for all that is holy, I do not have ten years to wait around for Andrew to realize I am a good mother.” She hopped out of bed and strode to her pile of clothes.
Lachlan combed his fingers through his hair with a cringe. “Sorry. That was a careless thing to say.”
“Aye, it was.”
He almost slipped out of bed, but then rethought. If Christina was angry, she wouldn’t want to see exactly how much he wanted her right now. He watched her dress. When she dashed out the door without a backward glance, he dropped to the pillows and stared at the canopy overhead.
What the hell am I doing here? I spirited her kid out of Norham Castle. Why hasn’t the medallion sent me home?
He held up the hunk of bronze and studied the inscription. “You need to take me home now, dammit.”
When nothing happened, he dropped the damned thing and closed his eyes. What the hell was he missing?
Lachlan?
His eyes flashed open. Holy Christ, he could have sworn he’d heard his mother’s voice as plain as if she were in the same room. He pushed himself up. “Mum?”
I’m here. Not here, but using psychic traveling to contact you.
What the heck? That sounded like something he’d hear in the fortuneteller’s tent at a fair.
“You’re in my head?” he asked aloud.
Of sorts. I’ve only done this a couple of times and the connection doesn’t last long. So tell me, are you okay?
He replied with his thoughts... Yes, except for a knife wound across my chest.
Oh, no. Damn Walter Tennant for giving you the medallion without telling me! Is it deep?
Maybe in a couple of places where it’s bleeding a lot. Otherwise, not too bad.
Have you stitched it?
No.
Stitches will help you heal faster. And keep it clean.
I’d rather go home and have it stitched in a hospital with antiseptic…What the hell am I doing here? My life is a shambles and I’m stuck in the frigging fourteenth century.
What is the year?
Thirteen-fourteen. But I need some answers. I’ve met Christina de Moray and Sir Boyd. They say they know you. Boyd says I look just like—
William Wallace…Mother hesitated as if letting the news sink in.
A chill raced across Lachlan’s skin. Holy fuck, the conviction in Mum’s thoughts was palpable. Yeah—William Wallace. What about that?
Um…He’s your father.
Lachlan’s gut turned over while he spread his enormous palms across his lap. What the hell, Mum? Why didn’t you tell me this before?
Oh, right, I can see it now. My boy heads to primary school telling everyone his father is the greatest hero and martyr that Scotland has ever known? Not to mention he was seven hundred years my senior. If that news was ever leaked to the media, it would have had me committed for life.
But what about the medallion? I rescued Christina’s son. Wasn’t that what I was supposed to do? Why haven’t I been whisked back to the twenty-first century?
There came no reply.
Lachlan’s gaze darted around the room. “Mum?”
Still no answer.
The door opened. “How are ye today, Sir Lachlan?” asked Ellen. The maid wore a white coif atop her mousy brown hair. She averted her eyes as if embarrassed.
He looked at the chambermaid, half-expecting her to be carrying a message from his mother. When she stood there waiting for him to answer her question, his gaze snapped down to the bedclothes—at least he was covered to his waist. “Can you sew, Miss Ellen?”
“Och, Lady Christina is better with needlepoint than I.” She started backing out the door. “I’ll just give ye a moment to dress.”
That figured. Who would have thought a chambermaid in the fourteenth century couldn’t sew? “Would you please bring me some whisky and tell Lady Christina I need her help when she has a moment?”
“Straight away, sir.” Ellen slipped all the way out and disappeared.
Lachlan stared at the door—carved in an arc to fit in the stone medieval jamb, complete with blackened iron reinforcement nails. His skin went clammy as the reality of his predicament set in.
I’m stuck in a goddamned nightmare.
F
or how long?
How long was Mum here?
Christ, long enough to end up pregnant.
She slept with William Wallace? I. Mean. The. William bloody Wallace?
He dragged his fingers through his hair. Shut up!
Sliding out of bed stretched the wound on his chest. A stream of blood trickled down his abs and he sopped it up with the cloth beside the washbasin. Still shaking his head, he donned his braies, rolling the linen with the rope as if he’d been wearing medieval boxers all his life.
Fuck!
He needed to go home, even just to confront his mother. Moreover, he needed some normalcy in his life. True, he had a divorce to face, but if he let Angela keep everything, she ought to leave him alone—go off with her lover and, hopefully, never bother him again.
No, Lachlan didn’t want to face the ugly side of divorce, but he needed the routineness of the dojo. God, he loved teaching, he loved the kids, loved seeing them improve. There was nothing better than watching a young person’s face the first time he broke a board with his or her bare hand. There was nothing better than pushing young people to their limits and seeing them reach goals they never thought possible.
Lachlan stared into the polished brass mirror—or was it bronze? Hell, he didn’t know. But the image before him distorted as if gazing through water rather than a mirror. Everything around him was strange. Sure, he’d had some exposure to medieval history, but that wasn’t his passion like it was his mother’s. He needed health food drinks, his gym equipment, good running shoes and a goddamned coat. He needed coffee and his cellphone and his Fitbit. Most of all? He needed those kids. When things were going haywire around him, he could pour his heart and soul into the dojo. God dammit, Lachlan would rather help solve the problems of an adolescent school kid than face his own.
He stepped up to the mirror and ran his hand over his beard. It needed trimming again. Christ, his hair looked like he’d scrubbed it with a brillo pad.
Was my father as hairy as me?
Lachlan shuddered. He’d just thought about William Wallace as if he bought in to his mother’s story.
But he was tall like me…and Boyd said he looked like me…Holy fucking shit!
***
It was almost a relief when Ellen found Christina and told her Lachlan needed some stitching done. Andrew had broken his fast in silence. After, he’d consented to take a stroll with her on the wall-walk, but the lad said all of two words. It was painful to take a turn with someone who held her in such poor esteem. He didn’t need to say anything. The anger oozing from his very flesh was enough to tell her it would be a very long time before Andrew developed any sort of affection for her at all—if he ever did.
The blasted English had ruined her son—had turned him against her and his country. Never in her life had she seen anyone, let alone a child of noble birth, so confused as to his identity.
Her shoulders sagged as she opened the door to her chamber. Lachlan immediately stood, wearing only his braies and chausses. He must have found her comb, because his hair shone, brushed away from his face, emphasizing his chiseled features. Though Lachlan, too, seemed agitated.
“Are ye well, sir?” she asked, trying not to allow her internal turmoil to boil to the surface.
“Yes, thank you.” He pointed to the blood-seeped bandage wrapped around his chest. “Would you mind making a few stitches? My mother thinks wounds heal faster if they’re stitched.”
Shocked, Christina’s gaze panned the chamber. “Is your mother here?”
“No.” Lachlan didn’t explain further. He moved to the bed grasped a flagon from the table. “If I lie down, would you cleanse the wound?”
“Is that whisky?”
“Yes.” He tugged the end of the bandage and began unraveling.
“Merciful heavens, the spirit will burn ye like hell’s fire.”
He gave her a cocky wink. “That’s why I’m planning to lie on the bed. I might be tough, but I doubt my knees will hold up if I try to stand.”
“Ye’re serious? Why would someone ask for such torture?”
“It’s the only thing in this time I know of that will clean the cut and prevent infection.”
“Good Lord.” She gave him a once-over, the wheels churning in her mind. If only she had the nerve to ask him what he meant by “in this time”, but she didn’t want to know the answer. Not now. Not with Andrew being a total disaster. Christina could only handle one catastrophe at a time. “Verra well, if Eva believes in the spirits’ healing powers, I certainly am not one to question such an odd request.” The sooner she poured the whisky, the sooner the abominable torture would be over. Besides, she’d seen far worse torture in her days. Pouring on a wee bit of spirit shouldn’t kill him.
At least, I dunna think it will.
Lachlan handed her the flagon and reclined against the pillows.
“Are ye certain ye dunna just want me to stitch ye up?”
“It’ll be all right. Come now, do it quickly before I change my mind.” His jaw tensed beneath his dark beard.
“Ye look nice with your hair groomed back,” she said, taking the flagon and pouring a line of whisky across the six-inch wound as fast as she could.
Nearly bucking off the bed, a strained and agonizing bellow pealed from Lachlan’s throat. His entire body shuddered as if he were fighting the devil. His eyes blinked in rapid succession while he bared his teeth and panted, followed by a high-pitched hiss.
Christina clutched the flagon to her chest and took a step back. “Are ye dying?”
Arching his back, Lachlan pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Nnnn-o.”
“I didna think pouring pure spirit on your wound would be smart. Blast, Eva MacKay.”
As his breathing returned to normal, Lachlan lowered his hands and regarded her. “Why do you say that? I thought you were friends.”
“She was there the day my Andrew died, my son’s father. I dunna ken exactly what happened that day ’cause she sent me to the chapel to pray. The priest found me on my knees when he came to give me the news that Andrew has passed. And Eva disappeared for eight years after. It was as if she’d flown away like a hummingbird.”
Lachlan grimaced. “Do you blame her for Andrew’s death?”
Christina shook her head. “Nay, he was already too sick. The physicians had tried everything. Andrew was unconscious and barely breathing when Eva came into the chamber with Willy, asking for clean rags and boiling water…” Tingles spread down Christina’s arms. “As a matter of fact, she called for whisky then as well.”
“He was wounded by an arrow?”
“Aye, from a crossbow.”
“With a lead arrowhead?”
She nodded. “Most likely.”
“Mum said he died of lead poisoning.”
“Pardon?” Christina’s head spun. The whisky must have seeped through Lachlan’s skin and caused him to be inebriated. “I must have poured too much spirit on your wound.” She retrieved her sewing basket and busied herself threading a needle—the finest, thinnest bone needle she owned.
“How did you meet her?” Lachlan continued to persist in pursuing this bizarre line of conversation.
“Lady Eva?” Christina still couldn’t believe that he’d continued to refer to the woman as his mother. He was too old to be Eva MacKay’s son.
“Yes.”
Pulling the silk thread through, she let out a huff. “The first time I met Eva was right after the Battle of Stirling Bridge—William had sent for me.” Gooseflesh again rose across her skin. “Because Eva had told him to—they said she was a seer—she even placed her hands on my belly and told me my unborn would be a lad.”
Lachlan nodded as if the news didn’t surprise him in the slightest. “So, Sir Andrew had already been wounded?”
“Aye, but it took months for him to succumb to his wounds. He was a verra strong man.” Christina held up the needle. “Are ye ready for this?”
“Yeah.” He watched he
r as she leaned over and studied the gash.
When she pushed in the needle, the big warrior didn’t flinch. That’s when Christina knew without the slightest doubt how much pouring whisky on raw flesh had hurt him. “Eva was tall, lithe and lovely with green eyes the color of spring grass.” Christina chuckled with her next stitch. “She always used the oddest twists of phrase—much like—.” She stopped mid-stitch and met Lachlan’s midnight blue-eyed stare. Merciful stars, his dark gaze was too much like William’s. It just wasn’t natural.
“She used speech that seemed odd?” Lachlan clarified, rolling his hand.
“Aye, as if she hailed from a faraway land.” She wasn’t about to admit that Eva’s burr was much like Lachlan’s.
“Would you believe the future?” he asked.
“Och, if wee fairies would make my bed in the morning and keep my porridge warm on the coldest day of winter I might be inclined to believe it.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he pointed to the other side of his chest. “I think I need a few more stitches over there.”
“I dunna recall saying I was finished.” Christina returned her attention to the task, biting the corner of her mouth. She hoped Lachlan would come sober soon, for he was suggesting the unthinkable. His words bordered on heresy.
“So then,” he continued, blast him. “You said Eva disappeared for eight years. Did you see her after she returned?”
Thinning her lips, Christina nodded. “She came to visit me when I was being held prisoner at Ormond Castle—asked me to help William raise an army of Highlanders.”
He sucked in a shallow breath with the next plunge of the needle. “How could you do that if you were a prisoner?”
“That’s exactly what I told her. But I did help—I sent a messenger throughout the Highlands asking for men to join William.” Chills again tingled down Christina’s arms. “Willy did train those men, though they didn’t march with him—they fought for Robert the Bruce.” She tied off another stich.
Shaking his head, he clapped a hand to his forehead. “Holy shit.” Even his skin had grown clammy.
Christina pulled back, trying to hold the needle steady. “Did I hurt ye?”