Roam: Time Walkers World Special Edition

by E. B. Brown

  Dagr waited for Malcolm in the Laird’s study. He laid his heavy cloak over a chair to dry, the fur dappled with remnants of snow. A wave of heat from the fire washed over him as he leaned on the hearth and stared down into the flames. The rowan tree wood gave off a peculiar smoky scent, different from the oak and cyprus smell he was accustomed to. He tried to let the smoke clear his scattered thoughts as his father once taught him to do, but his head would not be so easily managed. There were so many times he wished he was more like his father, and as he felt the heat of the flames upon his tired body he prayed for guidance on how to carry on. Yet the longer Dagr stayed in the Highlands, the less he felt like the son of a Chief. Would father be proud of the man he had become?

  Memories of home hit him sharply, the images of his past like a bittersweet knife in his gut. Although things had been far from perfect between them for a long time, Malcolm was his brother. So many times others had asked why he defended him, but to Dagr, it was a simple answer. He is my brother.

  And a loyal brother did not covet his brother’s wife.

  “It seems I owe ye my thanks once more,” Malcolm announced as he walked into the study. Burrowed beneath a thick fur cloak, the extravagant trappings made Malcolm seem even younger. At seventeen he was a man, but he still held the softness of boyhood in his round face. His time spent pretending to be the Laird’s heir had changed him in many ways, but to Dagr, the uncertainty still showed through. Malcolm had an incessant desire to be a leader, yet he had never truly known the reality of leading men. Frustration burned through in his green eyes as he brushed the fresh snow from his shoulders. Malcolm glanced briefly at Dagr before he rubbed his hands together and placed them over the heat of the fire.

  “No need,” Dagr muttered. He did not deserve thanks for what he had done. Betraying the woman he loved? He was a swine. Even admitting to himself that he loved her was akin to disloyalty, knowing she was betrothed to his brother. If his father knew what Dagr had done, he was certain Winn would be ashamed of his first-born son.

  “My men grow weary of chasing my wayward bride. I canna blame them,” Malcolm said, staring into the fire. “Did she confide in ye? Am I such a heinous prospect?”

  It was then that the boyish Malcolm emerged, insecure and needful of his older brother’s advice. Dagr sighed.

  “She fears the life a Blooded One lives in this time. If you show her your sincerity, perhaps she will trust you mean her no harm,” Dagr replied, his throat dry. “Have no doubt, brother, that I will let no man hurt her. Not her kin. Nor you. So think on how our father cherished our mother, and treat Lady Skye the same way.”

  “I would never hurt her. I know what greedy men in this time do to the Blooded Ones, but surely, you know I am not like them,” Malcolm said.

  “Then give your words to Lady Skye and leave her no room for doubt.” Telling his brother how to soften his bride felt like a dagger through his chest, but what choice did he have? Both Dagr and Malcolm wanted to keep Skye from running away again.

  “You speak as if you will be here to watch over her. Do you mean to stay?” Malcolm replied quietly, his voice edged with a hopeful tone.

  Dagr shook his head. “We do not belong to this time. Even now, you do not see it?”

  “No, you’re wrong. This is where I belong. You will see,” Malcolm said stubbornly.

  “I see a boy pretender who is losing control of his men. I see you have enemies who are ready to take your place. That is what I see now, brother.”

  Malcolm unsheathed a knife from his belt and placed it on a table beside Dagr. Anger blazed in his eyes and he leaned over it on both hands, glaring at Dagr.

  “I hold the McMillan’s blade. See that? It is just like father’s knife. I hold the Chief’s blade, and no man will take it from me!” he insisted. Malcolm was right. The knife was similar to Chief Winn’s with runes carved into the handle and a Bloodstone embedded in the hilt. It was a sacred symbol of duty and respect, one that was carried by those of importance. To see Malcolm fawning over it as if it were a toy he managed to steal made Dagr sick. Dagr had no doubt Malcolm’s inflated ego would get him killed in short order.

  “There is much more to being a leader than holding a knife,” Dagr replied.

  “And I know that well,” Malcolm snapped.

  Dagr pushed the knife across the table back toward Malcolm, who readily picked it up.

  Staring at his brother, he could see the heat rise to Malcolm’s cheeks. Dagr was accustomed to his spoiled displays of anger, but he knew his brother needed to guard himself better if he truly meant to make a life in the fifteenth century. Malcolm was a tragedy waiting to happen when left to his own devices. With an emptiness in his chest, Dagr faced his brother.

  “Keep your word. That is all I ask of you,” he said.

  Malcolm raised his brows. “Of course. And make no mistake, I will hold you to yours, as well.”

  Raising his blade, Malcolm leveled it at Dagr’s chest. Dagr remained still, glancing down at where the blade rested firmly against his heart next to his Bloodstone pendant. It puckered the linen tunic he wore yet did not pierce it, leaving Dagr with the distinct impression that his brother was dangling on the edge of madness.

  “Will you kill me to ensure my silence, brother?” Dagr asked, meeting Malcolm’s irrational gaze. Malcolm shook his head, his entire body quivering.

  “I told you someday you would regret how you’ve treated me – and that someday you would envy me.”

  Dagr fought the urge to throttle his brother.

  “I envy nothing, and I have always treated you as my brother,” Dagr said evenly.

  “Do not try to take her from me, Dagr,” Malcolm replied, his voice unsteady. “This is my life. My time. I have the Leabhar Sinnsreadh, only I control the runes. Skye belongs to me. If you try to take her or help her flee, you’ll never go home again. I’ll toss you in my dungeon and let you rot. I promise you that, my brother.”

  Malcolm sheathed the knife. He turned briskly on his heel and left the study, his cloak swinging out in a wide arc behind him.

  With a sigh, Dagr followed, closing the door behind him. As he made his way down the narrow corridor toward his quarters, he heard a click and the swish of a woman’s dress behind him. Turning back, he could see a woman carefully closing the study door.

  Gone was the sweet impetuous gaze he once knew from her. Her eyes bore into his as if she looked straight through him, slicing what was left of his heart into ragged shards. He did not know how long she had been hiding and listening, or how much she knew of the truth, and he suspected he would never know.

  As she broke the connection and left the corridor, it took all the strength he had not to run after her.

  After all, soon she would be his brother’s wife – and unless he figured out a way to change Malcolm’s mind, all three of them would be living together under one roof.

  THE FIFTH KEY

  Chapter 1

  Castle Dunloch

  1435

  Dagr

  HE WATCHED HER for what seemed hours before he announced his presence, keeping to the shadows of the Laird’s study. With her hair falling in a wave of golden-brown curls down her back, her face was tipped slightly upward as she gazed at a row of books on the shelf. Her plum colored gown shimmered as she swayed, tapering to a petite waist that he knew fit his hand. As he watched, he imagined holding her once more. It had been so long since he felt her in his arms, and he feared never having that chance again. After all, she was betrothed to his brother, Laird McMillan. Yet the thought of his brother marrying Skye brought a scarlet rage over his vision in a flash, and he pushed away the thoughts of loving her as he turned to go.

  “Dagr?” she called just as he placed his hand on the door. He paused, his breath frozen in his chest as he heard the swish of her skirts reveal her approach.

  “My apologies,” he murmured. Her hand was warm where she placed it on his arm, her pale skin so lovely against his. “I dinna inte
nd to disturb you.”

  “I am not disturbed,” she replied, her voice mischievous. “And if I recall correctly, you have never kissed me here in this study.”

  He swallowed hard as he looked at her. She was entirely too close, her scent intoxicating to his senses. Ignoring the cries of reason roaring through his ears, he took her hand and pulled her close. She was eager – too eager – and it was not until he kissed her thoroughly that he realized something was amiss.

  “Dearest Dagr,” she whispered sweetly.

  “Hmm,” he replied, his lips tracing a line down her neck. With a strength he did not know she possessed, she suddenly thrust him backward against the wood paneling. A twinge of amusement surfaced as he glanced down at his side where she had her sgian dubh jammed firmly into his ribs.

  “I know you and Malcolm are hiding the Leabhar Sinnsreadh,” she hissed. “Tell me where it is and I won’t hurt ye!”

  Riled beyond measure in more ways than one, he swiftly changed their positions. He grimaced when he pinned her knife arm above her head as he did not wish to hurt her, but he would be damned if he would let the mite of a woman make him bleed. She let out a cry as he pried the sgian dubh from her clenched fingers and gripped it in his hand.

  “Did ye truly think ye might threaten me?” he demanded with a surly grin. The thought was almost comical, except for the fact that she was dead serious. By the furious look in her eye, he had no doubt she would stab him now if she had not intended to in the first place.

  “I’d kill ye if it meant I could leave this place!”

  He returned the blade to her hand and lowered her fist to his chest, keeping his hand over hers as she pointed the knife at his heart.

  “Do it then,” he said softly. “Kill me and release me from this misery.”

  The room was still, save for the sound of their ragged breaths. He leaned into the blade and placed his lips gently on hers, reminding them both of what they shared and what they meant to each other as she kissed him back. Neither would admit it aloud, yet there it burned, like the simmer of a fire begging to blaze bright.

  “You lied to me,” she whispered, her eyes meeting his. “You never meant to help me. Ye only saved me to hand me over to Malcolm.” He could see she fought back her frustration, the edges of her brown eyes glistening with tears. Her breathing came in short bursts, her chest pressed against him as he tried to control his own racing pulse. The fight suddenly left him as he gazed down at her, and all he wished to do was ease her distress.

  “Ye need not stab me to have my help,” he chided her. “Ye need only ask, and it is yours.”

  She softened a bit, her rigid stance subsiding in his arms. Her plump lower lip parted, driving him further into that dangerous place where she belonged to him instead of his brother. He kissed her hard, not caring as the knife grazed his thigh and clattered to the floor. The only thing he could feel was the way she clutched his tunic and the way her mouth felt against his. Soft. Inviting. As if they were meant to be one.

  “Help me, then,” she whispered, tearing her lips away. “Please. I cannot marry Malcolm.”

  Dagr tried to steady his breathing. He held her face in his hands, pressing his forehead to hers.

  “I know,” he admitted. Of course he knew it. It consumed his every waking thought and haunted his dreams each night.

  “Then why do you help him?” she asked. Her voice rose a pitch, more of a demand than a request. He owed her the truth, yet the truth was not something they revealed to each other.

  “I am his servant,” he said, his voice hoarse. The lie was stagnant on his tongue, as stale as the thought of handing her over to Malcolm. Skye did not know Malcolm was his brother, nor was it a secret Dagr was free to share. As much as it stoked Dagr’s anger, Malcolm was in control of their lives until Dagr could make him see sense.

  “There is more to your loyalty than that. What did he offer ye? A title? Lands? What did he promise ye that is so favorable?” she demanded.

  Dagr released his grip on her and backed away.

  “He did not buy my loyalty,” he replied. He has it by the right of his birth as my father’s son.

  She stared at him as he widened the space between them, her fists clenched in her skirts. “Fine. Keep yer secrets, and rot here in this time if ye must. I know where Malcolm’s priest hides the book. I am going to retrieve it.”

  “Then why do you need my help?” he countered.

  “I can’t do it alone. I – I need ye to keep him occupied while I fetch the book. If he does not see me in the courtyard when he fights today, he will send for me.”

  He let out a sigh. Shoving a hand through his hair, he gripped the back of his neck.

  “What do you need me to do?” he asked.

  Dagr had no illusion that anything had changed. Although Skye was convinced she could get her hands on the Leabhar Sinnsreadh, he would not let her use the runes to leave. Neither of them knew enough about the Keys to use them safely. He was not willing to watch her risk her life to get away from Malcolm. Yet, somehow there Dagr stood, accomplice to what could amount to a disaster he would likely have to save the stubborn woman from.

  The courtyard hummed with the sounds of jovial banter. Malcolm stood watching the morning training session amidst the crowd of men, his head of dark curling hair standing out like a beacon over the mantle of his white speckled fur cloak. When Duncan McMillan stepped down and handed the reins of power over to Malcolm, none of the men had voiced dissent outright, yet Dagr recognized the seeds of unease around them. Dagr had spent enough time at their father’s side to know the difference between loyalty and patience – and he had no doubt that many of the McMillan clan were simply waiting for the opportunity to take the arrogant young laird to his knees.

  As Dagr watched his younger brother, he longed for the counsel of their father. Winn Neilsson, born of a Paspahegh mother and Norse father, served his people beyond the stretches of time and place. Although Winn was from a time two hundred years in the future, Dagr knew his father would have known how to lead the McMillan men. The heart to lead men was something born in the blood, yet the skill to carry it out was a task learned by experience. Dagr stood beside his father many times, watching the way he guided his kinfolk along the best path. Winn Neilsson never aspired to be Chief – he walked, and the men merely followed.

  Malcolm, however, had envied Dagr’s place as Winn’s heir since the time they were children running along the sand in the Virginia Colony. No matter how much Dagr sought to mend that rift, Malcolm kept it raw, feeding his demons with the whisper of greatness. In this past time, Malcolm was the man he always wanted to be. Even if he was a leader by pure default among his McMillan ancestors, it was all the same to him, the vestige of power too much of a temptation for the younger Neilsson to resist. Yet Malcolm did not have the tools to see it through, and Dagr knew it would not be long before Malcolm ended up with his head on the end of a spear.

  Would it be Angus Cameron? Dagr wondered. Skye’s cousin was high on the list of potential problems. Occupying the space next to Malcolm, Angus was the picture of robust Highland brawn, with his thick blond hair twisted into war braids and leather thongs wrapped around his burly upper arms. Even with the fresh purple bruise under his eye from Dagr’s fist, Angus remained a threat they needed to keep in check. Angus kept close to Malcolm, his position at the Laird’s side assured by the upcoming betrothal. His loyalty was only as secure as the marriage, which Dagr knew better than anyone was a tenuous bond at best.

  Malcolm lifted his arm and motioned for Dagr to approach as soon as their eyes met across the courtyard. Threading his way through the crowd, Dagr placed his palm on the hilt of the knife at his waist; being a recent addition to the ranks was risky enough without being immediately elevated to the position of Advisor. The Highlanders whispered about Dagr’s dark skin and long, straight hair, casting rumors about where he came from and what his purpose was. He did not blame them for their suspicions, long accustom
ed to men who feared those who were different. The English in Virginia sought to eradicate his Powhatan kin well before Dagr set foot in Scotland, so that was one sort of fight Dagr understood.

  “It looks like it will be Gareth today,” Malcolm commented as Dagr reached his side. Dagr nodded, his eyes scanning the crowd. Kanor Bystrom leaned against the entranceway to the outer corridor, his hulking form partially concealed in the shadows despite the bright sunshine overhead. The Norseman was canny, keeping his presence silent, yet Dagr could see his gaze was fixed on Malcolm.

  “Oh?” Dagr replied. “Did he win his match?”

  “He gave Vadi a sound thrashing. I’d say I’ll have a good fight.”

  Vadi Hildirson was about Malcolm’s age and not yet secure in his grappling skills, a match that Dagr would have preferred Malcolm make instead of that to the Highlander, Gareth. As resourceful as Malcolm could be, he was not yet a seasoned warrior, no more than a prideful disposition trapped in his own body. In the time they were born to, Malcolm might have been considered grown, but compared to the Highlanders and Vikings, he still had plenty of growth to do.

  Malcolm shrugged his cloak off his shoulders and handed it to Dagr, his face twisted in a surly grin as he faced Gareth. Perhaps Gareth will not thrash Malcolm too hard, Dagr thought. He winced when Gareth started the match by kneeing Malcolm in the belly and Malcolm’s face hit the ground.

  A dusty cloud shielded the grapplers for the first few moments so that Dagr could not see who had the upper hand. When the dirt settled and the men became visible once more, Dagr was pleased to see Malcolm was not yet beaten. The young Laird found purchase on Gareth’s knee, taking the Highlander down when Malcolm was able to land an elbow to his opponent. A solid thump elicited a loud groan, the coarse sounds of the fight dimmed only by the rowdy shouts of onlookers.

  Grappling was a right of passage for them, one Malcolm could not abstain from. Even Malcolm was wise enough to see he needed to become one of them to lead them, despite the fact that he was putting himself up against an inevitable defeat. Dagr felt a surge of pride for his younger brother as Malcolm nearly pinned Gareth, scraping the man’s face along the gravel to make him bleed. When Gareth was able to twist out of the position and put Malcolm in a chokehold, Dagr was no less impressed. From either pure desire or spoiled stubbornness, Malcolm was holding his own, an impressive feat considering the brawn of the man he faced.