Time For A Highlander (Real Men Wear Kilts)

by Maxine Mansfield

  Skirt perhaps?

  Why was it, men who had the most to offer a woman in certain areas were almost always a little strange in others?

  The cross-dressing, probably gay guy, whoever he was, stood with his booted feet planted right beside her ears. He suddenly bent over, and his hands reached down toward her. Big, strong-looking hands with long, thick, meaty fingers.

  She sighed, and then another thought struck her.

  If she wasn’t mistaken, and Beth, when she managed to calm her racing heart, was pretty sure she wasn’t, this man probably wasn’t a gay cross-dresser at all. And the skirt probably wasn’t even a skirt, either, but a kilt. And though the sight beneath it was quite impressive and had finally answered a question about what was truly worn, if anything, under a kilt, wherever she now was, probably wasn’t the heaven she’d expected to see when she opened her eyes after the earthquake.

  And if this wasn’t heaven, then perhaps she wasn’t as dead as she expected to be after pushing the little boy out of the way of the falling stone.

  Conceivably, she could’ve been hit with just a glancing blow by the huge slab of rock falling over and simply been knocked unconscious. Seeing what she’d seen and having the strange conversation with an even stranger man in the interim could’ve been simply a hallucination of some sort or an undesired side effect of the sudden trauma.

  Yes, that’s exactly what must have happened.

  People were talking excitedly, and Beth concentrated on the sound. The voices belonged to at least two men and one woman, and they were all speaking words she couldn’t quite comprehend. The accent was vaguely familiar, though. It sounded Gaelic? Then she shook her head. Of course, it sounded Gaelic.

  She was in Scotland, after all, in late March, on the last day of her spring break vacation, and on a guided tour of the islands. Had these three also been on the excursion with her? She didn’t remember ever hearing their voices before, but then there’d been so many tourists, the company had needed to book two buses just to get them all to the ferry that took them on the day trip.

  Suddenly, as if a switch flipped to the on position in her brain, she understood every word being said.

  “Is she dead? Please, tell me she isna.”

  One of those big meaty fingers poked her in the chest, hard.

  It was the woman’s voice who answered. “I nae believe so. For a moment, I thought perhaps, but now it looks as if she’s breathing.”

  The man with the set of impressive nether region parts backed up a little and leaned over even farther. Beth gazed up into the most amazing set of sea blue eyes she’d ever seen.

  “Are ye all right then, lass? Tell me ye are.”

  Even though her head pounded like the devil, his voice flowed over her, filled her, and drowned out every other sound in the room. Beth managed a slight nod as she glanced back one last time hoping for another glimpse of his impressive intimate aspects.

  It wasn’t to be, however, as anything below his kilt was now well out of her line of sight. So she tamped down her disappointment and steeled herself to face him. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she accepted his hand as he helped her into a sitting position and turned her until she faced him.

  “Easy there, lass,” he whispered.

  Beth sighed again. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five or -six, if he were a day. Thick, dark-brown hair curled playfully about the collar of his white tunic and teased at his neckline.

  Her face burned even hotter when she grinned up at him, as if she were a teenager again. The idea that the hair on his testes looked as chocolaty rich as the hair on the top of his head had Beth clamping a hand over her mouth before she giggled like a school girl or said something completely inappropriate that would, no doubt, embarrass them both. What was going on with her today?

  Then she looked into his eyes again and was mesmerized. They were the same shade of blue as a stormy sea and rimmed with long, dark lashes any woman would covet. Even a woman of her age couldn’t be blamed for losing herself in their depths. Was there nothing about this specimen of prime manhood, who looked as if he’d stepped straight off the cover of a Highland historical romance novel, that wasn’t perfect?

  Her eyes wandered down his proud angular nose to his lips. They were luscious and full, so tasty-looking, with tiny laugh lines around the edges. His strong chin complemented his handsome face perfectly with its hint of a dimple. And his impossibly broad chest and tree-trunk sized arms were the stuff dreams were made of.

  Wow!

  A thought struck her as heat wicked up her insides from the pit of her belly all the way to the top of her head. If she were twenty years younger, forty—make that fifty—pounds lighter, and about three inches taller, she’d definitely be tempted to lie right to this man’s face and tell him that, oh yes, she definitely needed his assistance in order to stand. What wouldn’t she give for a chance to be lifted into those arms, held against that chest, if only for a single moment in time?

  Heat filled her face again. Oh God. What would her friends back home at the Tuesday night book club meeting think of her, a forty-five-year-old divorcee, having such naughty thoughts and desires? It would almost be worth the shocked looks and embarrassed laughter she’d be forced to endure if she were to tell them this story. They, of course, would snicker and label her the most terrible of fibbers.

  But the chance to experience what it would be like to be held within the circle of those long arms, against a rock-hard, tight, beautifully muscled body like his just once in her lifetime, might well be worth their teasing.

  “If you’re through looking me over, lass, I’ll be glad ta help ye up. If nae, then continue ta take in ye fill. I’m in nae hurry.”

  Even though her face burned like fire, she couldn’t curtail the sigh that escaped her lips. All that gorgeous masculinity and a Sean Connery—in his prime—accent to boot. Perhaps this was heaven, after all.

  He extended a hand, and even though she was completely embarrassed to be caught needing his help, she accepted it, with as much grace as she could muster, and stood. Waves of dizziness immediately enveloped her, and she had no choice but to cling to him or fall. Oh yes, the arms and the chest were even better than she’d imagined.

  Tiny sparks of electrical energy scampered up and down her spine, and everywhere his body touched hers, she burned with the desire to wrap herself around him and never let go.

  Thankfully, she hadn’t totally lost her mind yet. She certainly didn’t want to gross the young man out by forcing him to ward off the advances of a chubby, middle-aged, bat-shit crazy female who, just a little while ago, thought today to be her last. So instead of holding onto him as she would’ve liked, she took two deep breaths and forced herself to push away.

  Beth glanced around the room to its other occupants. “I’m fine now, thank you. Really I am.”

  She wasn’t fine, though. Something was very wrong.

  For one thing, she was no longer out in the chilly open air surrounding the Callanish stones. Instead, she was now in a large room with a very high ceiling. Stone walls surrounded her, and a hot blaze roared and crackled in a huge blackened fireplace.

  A scarred wooden table stood before her with scattered chunks of messy looking bread and—and eating utensils of some sort upon it. A runny-looking soup or stew of some kind, dripped from the table’s edges. And an overturned bench lay at her feet, with what looked to be hay littering the floor all around it.

  How had she gotten here?

  Had someone picked her up and carried her to this place after the accident?

  “Where am I?” she asked. “And who are you?”

  Three voices rang out at the same time, but it was the gorgeous man who’d helped Beth stand whose voice she heard above the rest.

  “Ye are home. Castle Frasier, in Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis. Where else would ye be, lass?” He grinned. “I’m Laird Quinton MacLeod. But, ta ye, I’m simply Quint or my laird. Do ye nae remember me, at all, lass? I
’m so verra sorry. I didna mean ta cause ye harm. It was an accident, ye ken? Ye must believe me. I didna see the serving girl ’til it was ta late. I bumped the wee lass, and the hot stew went flying. I tried ta avoid it and, instead, landed right up against the board. The blasted table scooted forward, and ye toppled backwards and hit ye head. Ye are gonna have quite a nasty bump for a while, I’m afraid. Ye really did hit the floor hard, lass. Verra hard.”

  Beth shook her head. “What are you talking about? This isn’t my home. That’s not how…”

  She didn’t get another word out before the other man in the room grabbed her arm painfully and attempted to pull her away. “Come along, Lady Elspeth. I will personally escort you to your chamber. You’ve had more than enough excitement for one day, my dear.”

  But she pulled back and refused to budge. “Elspeth? Who’s Elspeth?”

  Why did the strange name sound so familiar?

  “You’ve mistaken me for someone else, I’m afraid. I’m not Elspeth, I’m Beth.”

  He stopped any further words she’d meant to say with a cold, hard stare. Again, he squeezed her arm, and pain shot all the way up her shoulder. “Surely, you at least remember your own name, my dear? If not, then that most certainly must have been quite a blow to the head you took.”

  Even if his grasp hadn’t been hurting her, there was something about this man that made her skin crawl. It wasn’t really how he appeared so much as it was the way he looked at her. He had an expression of wide-eyed…almost fear, mixed with a cheek-twitching, sneer she’d only ever witnessed on one other face. It made her stomach suddenly want to empty itself upon the stone floor along with the spilled stew.

  There wasn’t really anything out of the ordinary about him she could put her finger on. He was of average height and build, his hair a plain brown, his nose a tad long for his face, and his lips no more than a thin line. Still, there was something sinister about him. Something in those dark, wolf-like eyes that reminded Beth of her ex-husband of all people.

  She shuddered.

  The other female in the room suddenly intervened. “It won’t be necessary for ye ta escort Lady Elspeth above stairs, my lord. I’ll gladly see ta her well-being. It was a very generous offer of ye, though, but not in the least proper. And with ye being a titled viscount and a good friend of the king, I’ve no doubt you wish ta maintain proper decorum at all times.”

  The creepy guy stiffened beside her. “You misunderstand, Lady Lydia. Until after tomorrow morning’s festivities, the girl is still my responsibility. And trust me”—he narrowed his eyes—“I take my responsibilities very seriously.”

  He suddenly smiled. “And after all, this is no time to quibble about protocol. Poor, dear Lady Elspeth has obviously suffered a grievous injury. The child doesn’t even seem to know her own name at the moment. There’s no telling what insanity she may spout next. I’ve seen this type of injury before, my dear, and have experience with it.”

  He waved his free hand. “You remain here in the hall where you belong and see to the clearing of this—” He gestured toward the table and the floor. “—mess. We shall continue with the remainder of our meal when I return. I’m willing to discount propriety just this once and personally see Lady Elspeth safely above stairs.”

  Beth shook her head again. Child? Had the creepy guy really called her, forty-five-year-old Bethany Ann Anderson with more gray roots than brown these days, a child? Were any of these people for real? Not to mention, she had no intention of going anywhere, let alone up a set of stairs with the guy, and if he tugged on her arm one more time, she was going to make sure he knew it.

  A moment later, though, Beth realized she needn’t have worried. The Lady Lydia person took care of the entire situation and with only a handful of words.

  “Nonsense, my lord, ye are a guest here at Frasier Castle. I cannae have it being bandied about that I encouraged improprieties or put my own responsibilities off on ta another, especially nae on such a prestigious member of King Charles’s court. I’ll personally see ta all of Lady Elspeth’s needs, myself. I insist.”

  Beth racked her pounding head. Charles was king? When had that happened? And what of Queen Elizabeth? It was no secret the grand lady was getting up in years. Had she finally turned over her throne and her country to her eldest son, or had she, God forbid, died?

  There was a good chance anything could’ve happened, and she wouldn’t have been the wiser. Even though she was in the United Kingdom this very moment, she’d been so busy sight-seeing, she’d completely neglected current affairs everywhere.

  She didn’t even have a clue as to what was going on back at home, and she really didn’t care. After all, she was on vacation. And that was why she hadn’t bothered to turn on her cell phone when she’d first landed in Inverness or bothered to watch a moment of TV or listen to a single radio station. Those things she could do anywhere. Scotland was for seeing where history had been made, up close and personal.

  But she was curious as to what had happened to the queen, and it was right on the tip of her tongue to ask, when Lady Lydia spoke once more.

  “Unfortunately the stew has been ruined, but there are still the main courses ta look forward ta. The servants will see ta the cleaning. And I will return in a few moments ta dine with ye both.”

  The MacLeod-Quint person simply smiled and nodded, but the creepy viscount sneered. “It truly is unfortunate the first course was ruined. I was so looking forward to watching you enjoy it.”

  He bowed slightly. “Until your return, Lady Lydia, and sleep well, Lady Elspeth.”

  Beth looked gratefully toward Lydia. She was young, probably even younger than the could-have-been-a-romance-novel-cover-model Quinton MacLeod. And she was pretty. Dazzling green eyes smiling, she had an air of confidence about her that immediately put Beth at ease.

  But why was she and everyone else in the room calling her Elspeth? Perhaps it was the Scottish equivalent of Beth. That must be it. And what had Lady Lydia meant when she said Beth was her responsibility? Had this Lady Lydia person perhaps been one of the tour guides earlier in the day? For the life of her, she couldn’t remember.

  To her way of thinking, though, it didn’t really matter. All that was important was finding a place to lie down, if only for a little while. Her head pounded so badly even the very root shafts of her hair hurt, but the touch of Lady Lydia’s guiding hand was warm and comforting upon her own.

  Beth took three steps forward, then stopped in her tracks.

  Something was wrong. It was as if her body had suddenly forgotten how to function properly. Her legs wanted to move, but they were somehow foreign.

  Where was the familiar brush of one thigh against the other? Why did they suddenly feel longer and stronger, but at the same time, her feet seemed smaller? And where was that everyday twinge of arthritis and the pain and popping in her knees she’d grown so accustomed to after the…

  Beth cringed. She must have hit her head really hard when she’d fallen. She probably suffered some kind of concussion. Should she be concerned? Should she ask to see a doctor? Did she even care right now?

  She shrugged and smiled to herself. She was simply too tired to worry about anything at the moment, even a brain injury. And if her head still hurt when she woke, then she’d be concerned, but not now.

  Obediently, she followed.

  It wasn’t as if Beth didn’t try to focus and concentrate on where she was and where she was going but nothing seemed right about any of this. Was it possible it was all simply a bad dream?

  Perhaps she’d never even gone on a trip to Scotland in the first place. Perhaps right this very moment she was home, in Anchorage, Alaska, safe and sound, asleep in her very own bed.

  Perhaps she’d made the mistake of eating turnips once again at dinner, even though they not only gave her horrible gas, but nightmares, too.

  Perhaps, with a modicum of luck, any minute now she’d wake, refreshed.

  Perhaps …

  La
dy Lydia escorted her up a set of narrow stone steps to a chamber, opened the door, and led her inside. A cozy fire warmed the room comfortably, and the large wooden-framed bed looked too inviting to resist. It was all Beth could do to keep her eyes open long enough to climb between the sheets.

  She didn’t remember what she’d been wearing, how she’d gotten undressed, or how she’d gotten into the bed itself, and she didn’t care about any of those things, either.

  All Beth wanted to do was slip into a deep slumber until this weird nightmare ended.

  Even Lady Lydia’s parting words of “Sleep well, my dear. Ye’ll need ta be fully rested for ye wedding on the morrow” didn’t faze her.

  She giggled to herself as she dozed off.

  Wedding? What freaking wedding, and to whom?

  How silly.

  Smiling into her pillow, Beth turned to her side and snuggled deeper under the warm furs, cocooning her. Now she knew beyond any reasonable doubt she was dreaming, or instead of this possibly being some weird version of heaven, it had to be her very own personal hell.

  For there was no way on earth she’d agree to marry any man, anywhere, for any reason, ever again. One quick set of vows and nineteen long years chained to the hip of a madman had been more than enough marital unbliss to last Bethany Ann Anderson a lifetime, and then some.

  Chapter Two

  March, 1643

  “Wake up.”

  Beth swatted away what she thought was a paw and rolled onto her side. “Five more minutes, Kato. Give me five more minutes, and I promise, I’ll get up and let you out to pee. Good doggy, I’ll even take you for a walk as soon as my head stops hurting.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not Kato, madam, and we don’t have five minutes to simply dally. Time is of the essence. You need to wake now.”