Highlander Returned: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander In Time Book 9)

by Rebecca Preston

  “It’s not that simple, I’m afraid,” Baldric broke in.

  He’d finished his breakfast while she and Robert had been talking about the curse, and a servant emerged to whisk his plate away. She was still toying with her own meal, or what remained of it, part of her admiring how consistent the delusion was. The eggs had gotten cold at exactly the pace she’d have expected.

  “The curse has already been broken.”

  “It has?” She frowned. “Then why am I here?”

  “The Laird believes it has to do with the second part of the curse,” Robert said softly. “My dear Brianna died before the curse was lifted… but the only part that was broken was the part saying that the women would die. They left the part about women returning. We’re expecting a few more women to return from the future before all is said and done,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll admit, I was skeptical myself until I laid eyes on you, Lady Brianna.” He smiled, looking simultaneously pained and happy. “I know you’re not my lost wife … but God, it’s good to see your face.”

  Chapter 8

  Brianna sipped slowly at a mug of water that had been poured for her, her breakfast forgotten in the wake of everything that Robert had just told her. Despite her determination to figure out what was causing the delusion and break it, she couldn’t help but feel oddly drawn into the story that Robert had told her… even though she knew that logically it was her own mind spinning a story, that didn’t stop her being intrigued by it. It had something to do with Robert, she knew that. He was so handsome… just her type, tall and broad-shouldered, and those blue eyes were utterly to die for. The first boy she’d ever fallen in love with had had eyes like that – he’d been in her biology class in the tenth grade, and it had been all she could do not to spend every class staring at the back of his head, just hoping he’d turn around and grace her with a flash of those eyes.

  She was feeling similar when she looked at Robert, actually. Was her attraction to him part of the delusion? Was her mind just giving her something fun to occupy herself with as an escape from the horrible things that reality kept delivering to her door? First that traumatic failed negotiation, then four years of post-traumatic stress, then her boyfriend cheating on her with some teenager… she certainly needed a break. Trust her brain to wrap that escape in a stupid story about curses and dead wives. Even her romantic fantasies were full of tragedy.

  She pinched herself a few more times, tried a few discrete ways of shocking her body – held her breath for long enough that her head started swimming, bit her tongue and lip, even tried to willingly trigger flashbacks to the trauma of the failed negotiation, just to see if one trauma could pull her out of another. But nothing worked. Everything around her stayed stubbornly solid and real – the dining table, the room, the windows behind her looking out into a courtyard that was decidedly not full of cars like the one she’d arrived in the day before… the servants bustling back and forth, the low conversation of the men as they discussed current affairs. No matter what she did, everything stayed as real and consistent as the world always had. If this was a dream, it was becoming clear, nothing she could do was going to wake her from it.

  So, she decided, it was probably best just to play along. For all that she was confused and frightened of what was happening to her mentally, it was clear that there was nothing she could do about it but play along… perhaps if she leaned into whatever silly story her mind was telling her, she’d be able to gather enough information to get a clue about how to get out. Or maybe not… maybe she’d just get lost deeper and deeper in the delusion… but what else could she do? Just sit here, waiting for her psyche to snap completely – if it hadn’t already?

  No, the only course of action she was remotely interested in was… just playing along. Because for all that she knew it wasn’t real, she couldn’t help but be a little bit interested in the story that was playing out here, and in the characters… specifically in Robert, who was handsome enough to stop her caring whether or not it was a dream. She wondered idly, as she sipped her water, how realistic the dream would be if he took her to bed… then she blushed, a little shocked by how brazen that thought had been. She’d been in a monogamous relationship for almost a year… it wasn’t at all like her to be eyeing up strangers like this.

  But he wasn’t a stranger, was he? He was her husband, technically speaking… or she was his wife… or she was the descendant of his wife, or whatever the flimsy justification had been that had made him take her into his arms. Was that why she was so attracted to him? Was that why he was just her type? Whatever the reason for her brain inventing him, she was grateful… and she hoped that she’d be seeing more of him as the story unfolded from here. Hadn’t Baldric said something about him being the one who’d be taking care of her? Hopefully that meant she’d be going with him back to the castle… where there were more women from the twenty-first century, apparently. They’d be interesting characters to meet, that was for sure.

  “And will you be taking Lady Brianna with you when you return to the Keep?” Baldric asked, the sound of her name bringing her attention to the conversation the men were having.

  She leaned forward, interested in the answer to this, but Robert was looking worried.

  “Any other day I’d say that was the necessary course of action,” he said heavily. “But the refugee situation is becoming drastic. I was almost beset on the road here this morning by bandits.”

  Weatherby made a shocked sound in his throat. “Bandits? On my road?”

  “On the road between the Keep and the Manor, aye,” Robert said wryly, giving Weatherby a sidelong look. Brianna found herself wondering about the politics here. “They’re starving,” he said bleakly. “I wish there was more I could do for them.”

  “No excuse for turning to crime,” Weatherby said primly. “It’s not our fault that their lands are in famine.”

  There was a flash of real anger on Robert’s face – Brianna could see him working to control it. “With respect, Lord Weatherby, it’s your countrymen who are partially responsible for the disturbances that caused such a dismal harvest in Stuart lands –”

  “Incorrect,” Weatherby snapped, “and downright rude of you to suggest. It was nature to blame – unseasonable storms. It wasn’t the English to blame for the Scots not having any emergency supplies laid aside for just such an occurrence –”

  “They did,” Robert snapped. “Supplies that were confiscated by the English —”

  “At any rate,” Baldric said firmly, clearly hurrying to put an end to this particular conversation, “the refugee problem is… troubling.”

  “Aye,” Robert said, grudgingly moving on though the anger in his eyes lingered. “The brigands on the road are one problem. We’re also aware that plenty of the refugees are interfering with local farms, stealing food and the like. As many as a hundred are without quarters… the Keep is full to the brim and couldn’t house more if we tried…”

  Brianna thought of the empty guest rooms in Weatherby’s spacious manor, but didn’t trust herself to bring it up, choosing instead to keep listening.

  “Thieves,” Weatherby said dismissively. “They just need to be dealt with swiftly. A few armed guards will see them off, you mark my words.”

  “Aye, the Stuarts have been complaining of your armed men,” Robert said, shaking his head. “You understand, Lord Weatherby, what a position it’s putting the Laird in. The Stuarts and the MacClarans swore an oath to one another – the clans are distant kin, and they’ve promised to protect one another when it comes to it. Laird Donal is obviously not in support of thievery… but he also sees the desperate condition that these people are in…”

  “It’s none of my concern what the Laird does about his political problems,” Weatherby snapped dismissively.

  Brianna could see Robert biting his lip and was impressed by the way he controlled himself in the face of the Lord’s rudeness.

  “At any rate – I wouldn’t want to risk Brianna on th
e road up to the Keep,” he said, shaking his head. “These men are desperate… they wouldn’t hesitate to rob a lady, and we’d be well and truly outnumbered.”

  “So take some guards.”

  “And risk a bloodbath? They’re desperate men, not criminals,” Robert said levelly. “At any rate, even if we could get Lady Brianna safely to the Keep, there’d be no space for her to stay. They’re sleeping ten to a room in some places – even the Laird and Fiona have a Stuart staying in their quarters.”

  “Lady Brianna’s more than welcome to remain here for as long as she needs to,” Baldric said quickly, and Brianna could see the way his sharp eyes darted to Weatherby, who’d looked like he’d been about to say something. “Lord Weatherby is always happy to extend his gracious hospitality to those in need.”

  “That’s right,” Weatherby said, giving Baldric a dirty look.

  A deft little maneuver, Brianna thought with a grin. Lord Weatherby couldn’t exactly disagree with Baldric without looking petty and selfish… and besides, it was clear he didn’t want his gracious hospitality being prevailed upon any further. Robert, to his credit, didn’t bring up the question of why Weatherby couldn’t take in a few of the refugees if he had so much free space.

  “Until this crisis is over,” he said softly, “you’ll be safest here, Lady Brianna.”

  “Thanks,” she said faintly, looking at Weatherby. “I’ll try to earn my keep somehow.”

  “Nonsense,” the lord said briskly. “I’ve more than enough servants to be getting on with without you adding yourself to the mix. What about you, Robert?” he added, his eyes flicking to the kilt-clad man. “Will you be riding back to the Keep presently?”

  “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, of course,” Baldric said quickly through gritted teeth.

  Brianna was beginning to get a sense of the relationship here. It seemed Baldric was the brains of the operation… how long had he spent babysitting his Lord through conversations like this? From how rude and objectionable Weatherby was, it seemed fairly clear that it was Baldric who had kept relations between the English and the Scottish somewhat civil. But the complicating factors of the Scottish refugees from another part of the country… well, it all seemed rather tense, didn’t it? She was amused by her own mind’s intricate storytelling. She’d never been interested in medieval politics like this, all those old stories of war and political maneuverings… it was very curious to find herself in the middle of one.

  “I’d like to stay,” Robert said firmly. “I suspect Lady Brianna will have more than a few questions about what’s happened – I’ll make myself entirely available to you, Lady Brianna, and do my best to answer any questions you have.”

  She felt a blush rise to her cheeks at that, thinking that there were other things she wouldn’t mind having Robert MacClaran available for…

  “Thank you,” she managed, not sure exactly what the etiquette here was. “I guess I’ve got a few questions.”

  “I’d love to learn more about you, too,” Robert said softly.

  She remembered with a jolt that she was supposed to be the reincarnation of his dead wife. Maybe their conversation might get a little more intimate than just a question and answer session… she scolded herself for that thought, a little shocked at the strength of her attraction to this man. She was torn between the seriousness of the situation and her profound attraction to Robert… if this was a delusion, then nothing she did mattered, right? So it should be fine to just throw herself at Robert and to hell with the consequences… so why did part of her resist that idea? She wanted him, yes… but at the same time, she didn’t want him to think ill of her. Why was that? He was just a delusion… wasn’t he?

  The problem was how realistic all of this seemed, she thought with an irritated sigh. Everything seemed so solid and real… it was hard not to get drawn into it, to act as though it was actually real, that something as farcical as time travel had actually happened to her. But she couldn’t entertain that possibility. If this was all real, then that meant she was hundreds of years and thousands of miles from home, stuck in an utterly foreign place, far from her family, from everything familiar to her, dependent on the kindness of a rude English lord and his long-suffering bodyguard to keep her safe from harm… no, there was no way she was entertaining that possibility. This was all a dream.

  Her head was swimming, and she shook it a little to try to clear it, feeling suddenly faint and woozy. Robert tilted his head, looking at her as though he was waiting for her to answer him, and she realized in a rush that the conversation had gone on without her while she’d been lost in her own thoughts.

  “Sorry,” she said, rubbing her head, trying to get herself under control. “I just… I feel a little faint…”

  “You’re dealing with a lot,” Robert said gently. “It’s no surprise that you’re feeling a little overwhelmed. Would you like to return to your quarters to rest?”

  She felt like a toddler being sent off for a nap. But despite her irritation at the gentle way he was speaking to her, she had to admit, the idea of lying down in that soft, warm bed was oddly inviting. She hadn’t slept well the night before, after all. “That might be a good idea,” she admitted, irritated with her own weakness. “But don’t you want to talk about –”

  “That can wait,” Robert said firmly. “Lord Weatherby and I have much to discuss. You and I can talk once you’re rested. Alright?”

  She nodded, grateful for the reprieve, and Baldric summoned a servant to escort her up to her room. To her surprise, she found herself needing the girl’s support on the stairs – it seemed the stress had taken it out of her more than she’d thought. The servant escorted her to her quarters – her new room, she thought sourly, thinking of the old room she’d shared with Ben – and it wasn’t long before she’d sunk into the warm, soft embrace of the bed. What kind of a delusion involved a need for sleep? she wondered drowsily. But before she could worry too much about that, she was finally claimed by the comforting blanket of unconsciousness. And this time, there were no dreams to disturb her.

  Chapter 9

  By the time she woke, the sun was high in the sky, the light through her little window falling across the floor. Brianna sat up slowly, still feeling a little woozy, but much better rested than she had that morning. She glanced around the room, immediately suspicious, searching for any inconsistency, any indication that maybe her delusion was faltering… but no, the wooden furniture, the bed, the stone floors were all exactly as she remembered them. But could she even trust her memory? Probably not, she decided, settling back against the pillows and gazing through the window. At least the weather was pleasant… clear blue skies, a nice change from the rain of the previous day, with weak sunlight falling onto the end of her bed and across the floor. How was this delusion so vivid? How was it so consistent? Wouldn’t it take an incredible amount of energy to maintain something so… real?

  To distract herself from those thoughts, she climbed out of bed, brushing her fingertips along the wall, the table, the bundle of cloth that was lying there, just to see if they all still felt real… sure enough, they did. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since she’d changed her clothes, and Brianna noticed with some bemusement that they were feeling pretty grimy – yet another nice little detail from her deluded mind. Maybe she’d missed her calling as an artist. Could she bring herself to change into the clothes that that friendly servant had brought along for her? She sorted through the pile of fabric, finding some kind of petticoat as well as a brown dress that was clearly meant to go over the top of it. Well, why not? If she was going to be having this ridiculous daydream, she may as well dress the part.

  It took a little while to wrangle herself into the gown, and it was hard to tell whether she’d done up all the fastenings correctly in the small looking-glass that was in the room, but the dress felt more or less comfortable. The skirts were surprisingly thick and heavy, interfering a little with her natural movement, but a few laps of
the room gave her the hang of walking comfortably – though she wouldn’t have wanted to risk trying to run in them. Did medieval women really deal with this on a regular basis? No wonder it was always the men you saw riding around on horses, getting things done… she shook her head, a little troubled by that. If she really was in medieval Scotland —which she wasn’t, of course… but hypothetically… — then she’d have a lot of fairly serious stuff to confront where it came to gender. Not that being a woman was the easiest thing in the world in the present — she refused to think of her own time as ‘the future’, unwilling to let the delusion win — but the medieval era… that was a whole different ball game.

  It was a good thing all of this was a dream, then, she decided with a grimace.

  Dressed and ready, she took a deep breath before letting herself out of her room and into the hallway. It was quiet in the manor, with the hustle and bustle of breakfast well and truly over with, and as she descended the stairs she realized it must be well into the afternoon. The dining room was empty, with Weatherby presumably off doing whatever English lords did in the afternoons, and she lingered a little while, gazing around the room in futile search for a detail that would give away the delusion. Maybe in the portrait of Weatherby? No… she stood in front of it, staring into the rather flattering depiction of the man… this was all still consistent.

  Curious, she let her feet carry her into the next room, and through a pair of doors into a warm, cozy space that she realized must have been the kitchens. Here, a few servants were working, leaning over great wooden barrels as they scrubbed at pots, pans and crockery. Of course, she realized blankly – no running water, not in the medieval era. Where did they get the water from, she wondered? A river? Or was there a well nearby? Why would her own delusion put in details that wouldn’t have occurred to her otherwise? How was it that she had forgotten about running water… but her delusion had remembered? Not to mention all the details on the men’s armor and weaponry, the architectural touches in the manor that had changed since she’d entered it in reality…