Passion Over Time

by Natasha Blackthorne

  Enjoy!

  Tarah

  LORD KEEPER

  No man bargains for war when he chooses a bride, but when he steals her from holy ground, he can expect nothing less.

  Iain MacPherson swore he was nothing like his father, but his kidnapping of Victoria Hockley, the Countess of Lansbury is the first step toward the same obsessive jealousy that fueled his father’s life-long feud against the chief Iain’s mother loved.

  A kiss, a midnight race for freedom, and a royal missive force Victoria into her captor’s arms. Hallowed ground can’t save her from the devil that followed her from England. Yet the Scottish lord who swears to protect her is far more dangerous.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Scottish Highlands 1508

  Iain might have been standing on the edge of a dream when the abbey door opened and she stepped out into the morning light. Though separated by a small earthly measure of holy ground, he sensed her mind to be as far from him as heaven was from hell. His heart stilled with the sudden blaze of auburn hair against the Highland sun, and he determined to learn what color eyes matched such fire.

  With a nod in response to Father Brennan’s statement that the Menzies clan was rumored to be raiding land to the north, Iain slid a hand along his horse’s neck. The beast nickered and shifted beneath him. Behind him, one of his men’s horses whinnied in answer. Careful not to give away his intention, Iain slid his gaze across the heather covered hills beyond the abbey and covertly monitored the woman’s progress as she strolled along the grounds, a book in hand. Another moment and she would be off Montrose Abbey.

  She slowed.

  Annoyance flared. Curse the archaic law that kept her safe on holy ground. What if he ignored the civilized directives instilled by his education and simply took her? He dropped his attention to the intricately carved leather wristband that covered his arm from wrist to elbow. A deep scratch spanned the leather, a reminder of the battle that almost took his arm, had taken the lives of many good men, a battle fought in the name of justice.

  Iain looked up in response to Father Brennan’s report that four Menzies clansmen had passed the abbey yesterday afternoon. He was in no mood to encounter marauding Menzies on his return home, particularly considering his change in plans. He breathed deep of the Scots pine scent carried on the keening wind. The law forbade him taking the woman while on holy ground, but sanctioned the kidnapping once she entered the outside world. No law would be broken, no war begun when he claimed her.

  Ticking off the seconds in his mind, he gauged her progress away from the grassy expanse that marked the distance needed to intercept her race back to the monastery. Any resistance would be hampered by the heavy skirts of her expensive brocade dress. She took the last fateful step. Iain flashed Father Brennan a grin as he grasped the hook on his claymore’s scabbard and unhooked latch from hook. Sword and scabbard dropped to the ground. The priest’s eyes registered surprise, then understanding. He whirled as Iain dug his heels into the horse’s belly and broke ranks with his men.

  “Run!” the priest shouted.

  She looked up from her book. In seconds, Iain drew close enough to discern the expression of a doe catching first sight of the bowman. His heart surged. Mayhap the wide-eyed stare wasn’t fear, but fascination? Understanding lit her features and Iain laughed at his folly. The doe realized the bowman meant to have her after all.

  She dropped the book and yanked up her skirts to run. Iain veered right and leaned from the saddle as she darted left. He seized her waist. She gave a muffled “oof” and kicked when he dragged her against the side of the galloping beast, her legs tangled in her skirts. She screamed. The horse snorted, his gait faltering with the uneven burden. He steadied and Iain hauled her across his thighs.

  His groin pulsed with the weight of her derriere across his lap. He laughed to himself. If she understood the pleasure her struggles afforded him, she would cease. His horse snorted and Iain threw a leg over the lass’ shins, hugging them close to the belly of the beast. She grunted with the effort of trying to slide from the saddle, then stiffened with his firm grip on her thigh.

  “Iain,” Father Brennan said in a loud voice.

  Iain forced his attention from the disheveled mass of velvet hair that cascaded down slim shoulders and looked to where the priest had retreated onto holy ground. Father Brennan motioned him forward. Iain smiled and gave a shake of his head. The hand at Father Brennan’s side fisted.

  Good. The priest understood no MacPherson would set foot on holy ground today.

  The woman’s muscles tightened in another attempt to throw off his leg, and Iain gave the flesh a warning squeeze without breaking eye contact with Father Brennan. The priest ran the back of a forefinger in a slow line along each side of his mustache. Iain understood his shrewd look, but the curiosity in his eyes was a surprise. He strode toward them, and the warriors who had ridden in with Iain drew up alongside as the priest neared.

  “It doesn’t seem she is taken with your charm, Iain,” Father Brennan said.

  “Charm?” his captive snapped. “What madness is this?”

  “Patience, lass. It is a simple mistake.” The priest looked pointedly at Iain.

  “Aye,” she blurted, “and this barbarian would do well to release me before he discovers just how grave a mistake.”

  Iain glanced at his companions when someone unsuccessfully stifled mirth.

  Father Brennan clicked his tongue with impatience. “Iain, you cannot take her.”

  Iain responded with a raise of his brows.

  “Aye, then,” Father Brennan muttered, “you can take her, but ’tis not fair play. I had not informed her of this tradition. A tradition long dead,” he added with asperity.

  “I believe it was you who said ignorance of the law is no excuse,” Iain reminded him with a low laugh.

  Father Brennan hesitated. “You must know she is English. Are you sure you want her?”

  The lady gasped. Iain started to demanded explanation for the slur, but forestalled at something unknown in the priest’s demeanor and replied in an unruffled tone, “If I did not want her, I would not have taken her.”

  Relief flickered in Father Brennan’s eyes, but his voice remained insistent. “This is wrong. She did not know it was unsafe to step from holy ground.”

  “Unsafe?” Iain echoed.

  Father Brennan’s expression darkened. “You heard what I said, Iain MacPherson, unsafe.”

  “Is she entering the convent?” Father Brennan’s frown deepened, and Iain added, “It is, no doubt, a grievous sin to lie about such matters.”

  “By the saints. Nay, you scoundrel, she has no such intentions.”

  “Why is she here?”

  “Sweet Jesu,” the lady cursed. “What concern is that of yours?”

  Iain shifted his gaze to her. Fury ruled her gaze, but it was the challenge in the lift of her chin that gripped his heart. “Where is your husband, lass?”

  Silence hung thick in the air, and every nerve stood ready for the answer he dreaded, hadn’t considered, until this moment.

  “In a grave in England,” she answered at last.

  That was unexpected and Iain wasn’t sure whether to praise God she was free or feel compassion she had lost a loved one. Guilt surfaced with the realization that he gladly chose the former. He wheeled his horse around.

  “Nay!” She kicked the stallion’s belly.

  The beast reared. Iain yanked back on the reins, but she kicked again. The stallion reared a second time. Iain seized the pommel, but felt their bodies slipping from the saddle. He rolled, hugging her close so that she landed on top of him as they crashed to the moist ground. She shoved away from him. He held tight, laughing in spite of the dull pain in his shoulder when she growled. She jabbed an elbow into his ribs. Pain lanced through his gut. His grip faltered and she broke free. The closest of the warriors shot after her and was upon her in a few short strides and grabbed her.

  Iain leapt to his feet and lung
ed after her. “Release her!”

  The man dropped her. She jumped up, tripped on her skirts, and barely scrambled up again as Iain brought her down like a wild animal.

  He flipped her over and straddled her. “I should have let you break my fall.”

  She grabbed his shoulders and dug nails into the hard muscle. Iain seized her wrists and shoved them above her head. He slid his body along hers until he covered her length and his face was an inch from her mouth. She continued to struggle.

  His groin thickened. “At least you might have been knocked senseless long enough for me to get you to my bed and shackle you there.”

  She stilled, eyes wide. Regret stabbed at him. He had enjoyed the thrust of her slim hips against him.

  The lower edge of Father Brennan’s scapula came into view beside them. “Let her up, Iain.”

  Iain shook his head. “Nay. I am enjoying this more than anything else this morning.”

  A round of approving grunts and laughter went up from his men. As an afterthought, Iain lowered his mouth on hers. She stiffened, but the scent of rose water mingling with the heather crushed beneath her assailed his senses and he breathed in the arousing scents. Shifting, he found the curves of her body held the expected promise. He couldn’t help a glance in the direction of the forest where privacy lay but a moment away.

  “MacPherson,” the priest growled.

  Iain jerked his gaze back onto her. Fear tinged her expression. A twinge of guilt gave way to the desire to kiss away the small tremor on her lower lip.

  “Iain.”

  “Aye.” He rose, pulling her to her feet.

  She bolted, but he yanked her to his side.

  “Please.” She worked to pry his hands from her arm as he led her in the direction of his horse.

  The desperation in her voice halted Iain’s march.

  Father Brennan gave her a fatherly pat on the arm. “All will be well, lass.”

  She scowled. “What an absurd statement.”

  Iain laughed and received a kick to the shin for the offense.

  “I am to blame, child.” Father Brennan sighed. “I did not warn you to remain on holy ground when we had visitors.”

  Iain angled his head in acknowledgment, then faced her. His brief inspection earlier suggested her long skirts hid feminine curves and shapely legs. Yet, her carriage had intrigued him above all. A woman of intellect and gentle breeding, she would suit him well. To his surprise, she had spared but a cursory glance in his direction before turning back to her book.

  He touched the spot where cheekbone met eyes. “As blue as the waters of Loch Ericht.”

  Startled understanding appeared in the blue depths and satisfaction rippled through Iain. Luck was with him today, luck and his captain’s suggestion that he visit Montrose Abbey to investigate rumors of trouble with the Menzies.

  Her eyes narrowed. She shoved his hand away and faced Father Brennan. “You are saying that because I took one step too many in the wrong direction this…this man can take me and I have nothing to say about it?”

  “Well, ’twas more than one,” Father Brennan corrected.

  She gave an unladylike snort.

  “Lass,” Iain cut in. “I am Iain MacPherson, leader of my clan. I will provide you a fine home and swear by God to keep you safe.”

  Her severe expression turned with deliberation on him. “King are you—”

  “Clan chief,” he corrected. “A difference King James is sure to appreciate.”

  She raised a scornful brow. “That gives you the right to take me prisoner?”

  “Nay, my lass.” Iain yanked her to his chest. “The fact I am a man gives me that right.”

  Determined fury darkened her eyes. He tangled a hand in the soft tresses behind her neck and pulled her mouth to his. She shoved at his chest. Iain tasted her with slow consideration, not forcing the tightly clamped lips apart, despite the compelling desire to thrust his tongue inside. The length of him hardened to near pain and his heart pounded at breakneck speed, but he ended the kiss. She twisted in an effort to free herself, yet Iain didn’t miss the tremble in her body.

  “Nathan, fetch my horse.”

  The young warrior broke from the band and, a moment later, brought the horse up alongside with Iain’s sword strapped to its side.

  “Hold fast the reins.”

  Nathan complied and Iain lifted her. She braced her hands against the horse’s ribs, but he hoisted her into the saddle.

  “You will keep her?” Father Brennan crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Aye.” Iain kept an arm around her waist as she tried to slide down the opposite side.

  The priest nodded. “Since you take advantage of her stepping from holy ground, you will abide by the law and wait until she consents.”

  “She will wed me of her own free will,” Iain stepped into the saddle and encircled her waist as he took the reins that were handed to him.

  “That is not what I mean and you know it.”

  “I do not force women,” Iain replied.

  “Perhaps because no woman has ever refused you before?”

  Iain locked gazes with the priest. “Beware that your good intentions do not take you too far, Father. You know I have never taken an unwilling woman.”

  “Liar,” the lady interjected.

  Iain leaned her back in his arm and stared into her eyes. “You do not know me, lass. Why say such a thing?”

  “I am unwilling, yet you force me to go with you.”

  For an instant her logic confused him and memory of another woman made captive by a man who claimed love flitted through his mind. “Aye,” Iain agreed, through tight lips. “But you will choose to marry me.” He gave a quiet order to one of his men and pulled on the reins, once again wheeling his horse away from the abbey. “Come to us in ten days, Father,” Iain threw back before they were out of earshot.

  “He will only come to bring me back,” she said through clenched teeth. “I will never marry you.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  A drop of moisture splattered on Iain’s forearm. He looked heavenward. Gray clouds edged past a sun that hung low in the western horizon, but no rain threatened. He reined in his horse and leaned the woman back in the crook of his arm. Tears distorted the blue irises that stared back at him. She pushed wildly at his chest as if to scramble to a far corner of the saddle, and he realized his arm had tightened around her.

  Iain cursed under his breath and gathered the edge of the sash that hung around his shoulder. He dried the tears pooled in each eye, then traced the fabric down where tears streaked her face. His manhood pulsed in sudden awareness to the agitated rise and fall of her breasts.

  Her eyes widened and he consigned his lust to hell when she jerked her head aside. This woman was no serving wench to be bedded without preamble. Still…he released the breacan and, with a finger to her chin, brought her to face him again. Her gaze dropped to the leather wristband as he slid fingers around the nape of her neck and into soft tresses. No doubt a mistake to kiss her again so soon, but the quiver hovering on the edge of her lips was more than he could resist. He lowered his mouth to hers.

  Her lips remained closed, but the promise of a soft response was evident in the tremor he sensed. Iain released her. She righted herself and threw her head against his chest in an obvious attempt to discomfort him. He answered with a low growl and hugged her closer.

  An hour later, Iain commanded a halt. He dismounted and reached for his captive. She shoved his hands away.

  Iain gave a weary sigh. “Come, sweet. I am too tired to do battle tonight.”

  He pulled her from the saddle. She threw her arms around his neck, hugging herself to him. His loins sprang to life. Blood roared through his ears and a mental picture leapt up of her beneath him as he pounded into her gloved warmth. The haze of desire evaporated with her cry of pain. Murky clouds hovering over ash and pine trees snapped into focus and understanding hit.

  “Christ,” he muttered. He
hadn’t considered the possibility she wouldn’t be accustomed to so many hours in the saddle. He reached around and rubbed the knotted muscles in her back. “The pain will pass in a moment.”

  Her hands slid down his chest. Iain stifled a groan at the thought of those fingers continuing downward. She batted at him and he released her.

  “There is a stream within the trees,” he said.

  Suspicion formed in her eyes.

  “You need not worry, lass. No one will bother you.”

  Her gaze shifted to the sword strapped to his horse. “Mayhap I should be allowed protection?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say he’d give her use of his sword from now until eternity, but he squashed the impulse. “I give my word that no one, least of all me, will venture near you until you ask.”

  She hesitated, then turned. He winced when she reached to massage the small of her back as she limped across the rocky ground toward the trees. Tomorrow, he would be sure to halt throughout the day so she could rest from the saddle. If she—a thought struck.

  “Lass,” he called.

  She halted, her back to him.

  “What is your name?”

  An instant of silence passed, then she turned. “You should have asked Father Brennan before you stole me.” She whirled and disappeared into the trees.

  Iain stared, openmouthed. Was the wench refusing to tell her name? He swung his gaze to where his comrades sat, only to discover they looked just as dumbfounded as he. Iain took a step after her, then broke into a broad grin. So, the doe would revenge herself on the hunter.

  * * *

  Victoria burrowed within the surrounding warmth. Vague recollections seeped past the unfamiliar smell of damp wool and fresh pine. She stretched her arms in a slow, lazy action, bringing a rush of cool air down along her limbs. She lowered her arms to her sides and her left elbow hit something hard. In a flutter, the night sky met her startled eyes and she froze. The warmth she nestled against was her captor.