“What be pregnant?”
Right. 16th century.
“With child.”
Fia clapped her hands again. Her childish response made Iona nervous. Things were much different in 1598. Women married early, delivered many children, but a high percentage died in childbirth. The thought of Haven having her baby here, without modern medical assistance, turned Iona’s blood to ice.
Her plan was clear, now. She’d follow Cameron to the Gunn clan holdings, seek out Haven, and help her in any way she could. She’d keep her use of powders and potions to herself from now on, too. With horses and supplies, she and Cameron no longer had need to use ancient spells.
Except when we want to get back to my time.
When her thoughts strayed to Cameron, Iona chewed on her bottom lip. He wouldn’t want to leave his world. 1598 might seem medieval and harsh to her, but it was his home. She wasn’t part of it.
The day passed and a chill gripped her. One wrong step might persuade anyone that she didn’t belong here, or that she practiced witchcraft. Besides, she missed her soft bed, modern conveniences, and clean water.
In the tiny guest room, she’d washed her face and feet from a bowl of water of unknown origin, and tried on the dress Fia had borrowed from Joan. The gown was a dull shade of copper, but fit her like a glove. It managed to compliment her unruly head of red hair that swirled around her shoulders. The bodice was square cut, yet the pale swell of her breasts were visible. Iona shivered. Would Cameron react?
Do I care?
She slipped her dry feet into soft, leather boots, then brushed her hair. It fell loose around her shoulders. Jake’s iron spikes belonged to another woman. She’d leave her hair down at dinner, then tie it back once they rode away. A borrowed cloak of light brown wool and a pair of kidskin gloves rounded out her new wardrobe.
A lack of under things caused her cheeks to warm, but the dress was long and covered her well. No one would discover she’d rolled up her threadbare chemise and drawers, and stuffed them in a blanket roll since her leather satchel had not yet been returned to her.
Dinner was announced by a servant girl no older than fourteen, she guessed. What had her life included when she was fourteen? School, boys, summers in the antique store, trips to flea markets alongside her father. A different life, for sure.
A good childhood, I guess.
The massive curved stairs led down to a dark hallway. Voices rose near one end and she followed the sounds. The hall deposited her into the great room. All the tables were covered with bowls and baskets. The aroma of roasting meat and Scottish ale drew her closer.
Cameron stood. He was dressed in a different outfit. A worn, wool kilt of muted red and blue stripes had replaced his vest and pants. He had added a white shirt, laced at the neck. The new clothes gave him a hint of sophistication, and appealed to her on a feminine level that the leather getup had not. It reminded her of the threadbare kilt he’d worn the day they met. This was much nicer. He mirrored her scrutiny by glancing up and down at her borrowed dress.
His slow smile fueled a deep, heated response she hoped didn’t show on her face.
He gestured to an empty chair beside him, to the right of Fia. She walked across the room and ignored the stares and whispers. Besides Fia and the servants, she was the only woman among dozens of huge, well-armed men.
Iona ignored Cameron throughout the meal, and spoke with Fia about various safe topics. The meal ended, and she bid Fia and her husband goodnight. A servant with a lit candle led her to her room on the second floor, then lit the small candle beside her bed. Someone had tossed a nightgown on her bed.
“Is this for me?”
“Aye, my lady. Our mistress said ye had lost all yer belongings to ruffians. I hope it will fit ye. ‘Twas mine.”
“How thoughtful. I will return it in the morning. I had a leather satchel. Have you seen it? Otherwise, I have nothing—”
The servant shut the door and turned to Iona. Whispering, she said, “I know what ye are. We witches stick together in these times.”
“But, I don’t—”
“The master has taken your belongings and will discover yer secrets soon enough.”
Iona wasn’t sure what he’d find that could make Marcus deem her a witch. Her powdered herbs were for healing, but what would he think about the book of spells?
The servant crept closer and tugged on her forearm. “Will ye take a message to Lady Skye in Keldurunach? She is like us. She must be warned.”
“Who is Lady Skye?” Iona certainly couldn’t begrudge the woman if she needed help. Not after lending her the clothes off her back, “and where can I find her?”
“She lives in the tower. She be the sister of the Gunn laird.”
* * *
Skye skipped along a forest path that headed up a hill. Her doeskin slippers kicked a pinecone and crushed fragrant pine needles. She marveled at the birds that flew overhead; a species she had never seen in all her eighteen years. Anticipation bade her to continue on her way, even though she wished to stop and inspect every bush and tree.
The world she had traveled to looked and felt different in many ways. The trees were taller, the mountains were larger, and the berries abundant and delicious. Even the air smelled unfamiliar. The odor of Highland cows and sheep mixed with the aroma of roasting meat and something sweet.
When Skye stepped into a clearing, the sun blinded her. She cupped her hand at her forehead, and glanced around. The village was rustic, but inviting. Several tents surrounded the main square where a large campfire burned. Soup or stew bubbled in a pot hanging from a black iron tripod. Strangely dressed people walked around the tents, pointing and talking. Their clothes were odd, but the people they pointed at looked normal in their kilts and long dresses.
Suddenly fearful of the scene in front of her, Skye rubbed the tiny moonstone pendant that hung from her neck. The sacred gem had protected her during her travel through time. In preparation, she had drunk a tincture of blackthorn mixed in wine for protection against evil and had practiced her spells. Her sgian dubh rested in the pocket of her travel dress, ready for danger.
Had she arrived at the correct time and place? She might find herself stranded here if she failed to find old Dorcas. Her vision told her this is where she would find the old witch. Her instincts warned her that her brother would soon need the old crone to fight the evil on its way to Castle Ruadh, the same place her brother was headed. The Keith stronghold was doomed to feel the wrath of a deranged person,
A man hammered on a large metal anvil. Sparks rose from a nearby fire pit, but her attention locked on his muscled back. He wore nothing but tight, black leather trews and a brown artisan’s apron. As he swung the hammer and slammed it down onto a hunk of glowing metal, the clang echoed off the surrounding forest.
“A handsome man, that. He underestimates his potential.”
Skye jumped. Dorcas Swann stood beside her, and grinned up at her as if she had read her mind.
“ ‘Tis easy to know what a bonnie lass like yerself sees in a man like my Jake.”
“Jake? Is that his name?” A memory made her turn back toward the man’s glistening muscles. Skye swallowed as an odd sensation flowed through her, turning her limbs to liquid. “Is he the fellow Lady Haven mentioned?”
“Aye. He worries about Haven and her friend, Iona.”
“Do I know Iona?” Skye asked, momentarily curious about another woman in the blacksmith’s life.
“Nay, but she needs yer help. Witches get into the biggest trouble when they openly practice their craft.”
Skye crossed her arms over her chest, then looked down at Dorcas. “Ye sound like my brother.”
“Aye, Kirk loves ye, child. He does not want ye hurt. Discretion is a virtue.”
Skye stared at the blacksmith, and felt anything but virtuous. She had traveled forward in time to help her brother, not fawn over a strange man. Dorcas was exactly who she needed.
“I need ye to help
our clan, Dorcas Swann. A powerful sorcerer came into our village. He carried a staff of blackthorn and stole Haven’s healing herbs, potions, and minerals when he could not find her or Kirk. We think he means to harm them.”
Dorcas gazed up at her, then down the mountain toward the gathering. “I know of who ye speak. His agenda is wide-reaching, and deadly.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Andreas Borthwick and he fell in love with Helen, daughter of Lachlan Gunn of Braemore. Helen refused his advances as well as that of Dugald Keith. She was kidnapped, then jumped to her death.”
“ ‘Tis a horrifying tale,” Skye said as she clasped a hand to her chest, “and I promise never to fall into such a predicament.” As sister to the laird, many men offered for her hand. So far, Kirk allowed her to refuse. “What does he want?”
“Borthwick wants revenge on the Gunns for her refusal and on the Keiths for causing her death. He hates all MacKays. He sees them as descendents of Aed, the pagan god of fire. The Mackenzies fare no better as he sees them as descendants of another pagan god.”
“Devil’s own luck, he hates everyone!”
Dorcas chuckled. “Ye sound like Haven. Come, let us fill our bellies and make a plan. Ye might find these games to yer liking.”
“Aye. I heard tell of these modern games from Lady Haven.”
“Ye know where ye are? I dinna think she shared word of this time with other than Kirk,” Dorcas said as she puffed on her pipe.
“She dinna mean to! One night, Haven ate a little too much honey cake. She spoke of dancing, parades, and the caber toss with a devilish gleam in her eye. Her description sounded similar to our Beltane festival, but the crowds I see here are colorful, and—”
“Modern?”
A bagpiper tuned his instrument beneath a large tree.
“Loud!”
“Aye, this crowd’s applause could wake the dead,” Dorcas said.
“Haven finally fell asleep in her solar, beside the fire. My brother was away on patrol, so I helped put her to bed. Before she dosed off, she mentioned the men. Lots of men, said she. She spoke the truth.” Skye’s gaze swept down the hill toward the field filled with competitors, then returned to Jake.
“Aye, but ye shall find no finer than our Jake, I bet.”
Skye assumed the question was moot. Dorcas knew everything, it seemed.
Their combined laughter made the blacksmith pause his hammering and turn toward them. When he smiled, Skye’s mouth dropped open. Embarrassed, she grabbed Dorcas by the arm, and pulled her down the path toward the sound of drums and more bagpipes.
CHAPTER 19
Cameron walked toward Iona’s room, his footsteps light and silent. His cousin Kirk had taught him to use stealth in combat. Kirk had taught him many things, but still had the audacity to banish him. Using the man’s teachings in order to join Iona for a night of passion was clearly not what Kirk had intended all those years ago. Cameron wanted her.
When he reached her door, his stomach clenched and his fingers trembled in anticipation. The door gave way with a high-pitched creak, and he shut it behind him with a groan. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark room. Iona's sleeping form was evident beneath the covers.
With his ear to the door, Cameron waited; no footsteps, no cry from a guard. He turned back toward Iona, and his heart beat rapidly at the pleasure he planned to share with the young traveler. He wanted her in the worst way.
I will not be denied.
He had dreamed of this ever since she had stumbled into him outside Dorcas’ tent at the New England Highland Games. He yearned to join her in her bed and strip her naked. He saw no other way to calm the wicked thoughts that had plagued him since that fateful day. He had no notion if she felt the same.
With his head filled with thoughts of Lady Haven, he had come to realize that the images of the black-haired, tart-mouthed beauty faded with each moment he spent near Iona Mackenzie. Ages had passed since he had lain with a woman. Any woman, and he would no longer resort to his own hand.
Cameron laughed. If Iona did not agree to share her bed, he would never force the issue. No matter how much he promised himself that failure was not an option, but he would never hurt a woman.
His heavy breaths made him cover his mouth with his hand, lest he wake the sleeping woman. He crossed the room, and slipped the heavy curtain slightly open. Moonlight spilled into the room. He pulled a chair to the edge of the bed, and sat with his hands clasped. He rested his forearms on his thighs and watched a sliver of moonlight highlight her pale skin and berry-red lips. Curls of molten fire covered her pillow. Her unruly curls were an ever-present delight.
Praying she would awaken, open her arms, and pull him into her bed, he stared at her beauty. If she allowed him entrance, he would make love to her. They would toss and turn, entwined as one, through the night. He would find heaven between her legs.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Startled, Cameron sat up straight, his hands on his knees to keep from reaching for her. Iona’s wide-opened eyes and unruly hair made him chuckle.
“Leave it to ye to break the mood, lass.”
“Me? You're the one in my bedroom in the middle of the night.” Iona sat up in bed with anger and something else in her eyes. The covers fell to her waist.
His breath hitched. She wore a translucent nightdress, and her nipples pebbled against the gauzy fabric. He couldn't take his eyes off her ample chest.
“I am here to inform ye we leave at dawn for Keldurunach. Tonight, I plan to relieve ye of yer problem.”
“My problem?”
“Aye, lass. Ye were born to be loved and loved ye shall be.”
“Loved?” she whispered.
Cameron quickly realized the words had another meaning to women, but he only meant he wanted her for sex, nothing more.
“I plan to make love to ye in a proper bed. Tomorrow, we sleep in the forest. Not a comfortable place for yer first time. I want to make ye feel verra good.” He slipped the fold of plaid off his shoulder, shoving the chair backward as he stood.
When she stared silently up at him, Cameron loosened the laces on his borrowed shirt, then pulled it up and over his head.
“Cameron! What are you doing? This is my bedroom.”
“Aye, lass, but ye doona want to waste the night sleeping.” His statement seemed to catch her off guard. She did not move. “I doona want to sleep, do ye?”
“What else is there?” she swallowed, but did not turn away as he loosened the belt holding up his kilt. His swollen manhood pressed against the wool.
He smiled at her naivety and dropped his kilt to the floor. His staff pointed in her direction, then quivered and bobbed.
Iona did not shriek. She said nothing, yet crawled toward the far side of the bed. He worried she would drop off the side.
“Stop. I will do nothing ye doona want me to do.”
“I don't want you to do anything. Go away, please.”
Cameron sighed. He would have to change his technique if he was going to enjoy the night with her. He slipped beneath the covers, and lay his loose hair on her pillow. The sliver of light that peeked between the heavy window draperies rested on his face. Squinting, he could barely make out her face in the low light of her darkened room.
The opportunity to scurry off the bed and run presented itself, but she stayed. He had prayed she would not run, and she had not. He reached out and ran his finger down her cheek. Like silk and damp from…tears?
Dragon’s teeth. She be crying.
Cameron dipped his hand to her waist and tugged. Iona fell against his chest. Her body trembled, and he cursed aloud. “Woman, I will never hurt ye.”
Iona’s body relaxed, and warmth spread from her through her nightdress to his skin. He cuddled her under his arm, her hand splayed on his naked chest. Her hair tumbled over his arm. When her trembles stopped, and she raised her face to meet his eyes, he read need, want, and desire.
“Ye mig
ht be a virgin, lass, but ye look like a woman sorely in need of pleasuring. Are ye saving yerself for some reason?” Different cultures valued a woman’s innocence. The English, for one. The Scots shared their bodies more often than not, and the woman in his arms made him want no one else.
Not even Haven?
His guilt over the MacKay beauty had slowly dissolved into nothingness the day he met Iona Mackenzie.
She shook her head.
“Let me show ye the pleasure a woman can share with a man.”
“Okay.”
* * *
Iona couldn’t believe she was lying beside a naked Cameron, and had just agreed to have sex with the man. What kind of woman gives up her virginity on a whim?
Me, that’s who.
As a strong woman who lived with her father, ran a successful business, and volunteered at the Highland Games, she had fallen in love with a Highlander from 1598.
Love? Me? I’m doomed.
Doomed because Cameron had mentioned someone special waited for him in the past; the past that they had jumped to, together. When he hooked-up with the other woman, he’d forget all about her. Wishing Haven were here to talk to, and certain Fia would tell her to ‘lie back and enjoy it’, Iona stroked Cameron’s chest.
She fingered the mat of golden curls barely visible in the low light that peeked through the curtain. The mostly dark room kept her from seeing much of anything, but she’d gotten a good look at him. He was huge.
Ha! I have little with which to compare.
A few of her more amorous suitors had exposed themselves during their last dates, but she’d never touched one.
When she slid her hand down his chest and over his abdomen, his body shuddered. Her power over this large piece of handsome male flesh she called Cameron appealed to her, but she assumed he was giving her the lead.
Seconds later she curled her fingers around his swollen length. Surprised by the velvety softness, she squeezed. Cameron groaned. She marveled at the feel of hot skin covering rigid steel, and was surprised when a drop of fluid dampened her thumb.
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