Lachlan (Immortal Highlander Book 1): A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Hazel Hunter

  Quintus closed the old, priceless book and handed it to his freedman.

  “Orno, put this back with the others in the archive room. Who warms the tribune’s bed tonight?”

  “One of the wenches taken from the lowland dairy.” Orno’s round face creased with worry. “She has served him since the scythe moon.”

  That meant her suffering would end tonight. Quintus disliked the use of females as blood thralls. He’d been raised to respect women. But he had not brought this curse upon the legion, and he could not starve his men or deny them the other needs they suffered.

  “Choose the most comely among those untouched for his next.”

  “Yes, Master.” The former slave bowed and retreated.

  Before he left his quarters Quintus drained his goblet and took down his mantle from the twelve-pointed antlers Orno had mounted above his pallet. His servant took pleasure in collecting the bones of long-dead lynx, bear and reindeer found in the cave’s ancient midden piles, and carving or fashioning them to be useful. To Quintus, they were a silent reminder of what happened to predators when they became the prey.

  The sentries on duty snapped to attention as he passed them, and he spared a nod for each before crossing the gallery above the tunnel. Below him he counted nine battered, grim-faced men returning from the hunt. They passed under the rotting remains of dense curtains once used to shield them and their brethren from the sun’s lethal rays while they were digging out their lair. At the end of the tunnel they filed in one rank through the new wall of planks Quintus had ordered erected as a more permanent light barrier for the lower levels.

  From there the tunnel widened to a large, dark cavern dimly lit by braziers and torches. Quintus left the gallery to join the legion’s commander, Tribune Gaius Lucinius. The most powerful man among the legion sat on a dais perched high above the cave floor on the platform built for his exclusive use. It made the tribune resemble an emperor looking down upon the masses, which was why Quintus had commissioned it.

  Since being cursed to exist as an undead blood-drinker, Gaius fancied himself transformed into a god. As that kept the tribune happy, and less inclined to indiscriminately slaughter their men, Quintus did everything he could to cater to his delusions.

  Tonight the tribune had taken particular care with his dress. His purple toga and golden laurel crown might shout imperial status, but Gaius had been born advenae—the son of freed Hispanic slaves—and everyone in the legion knew it.

  “You are very late, Prefect,” Gaius said as soon as Quintus joined him. “I begin to think you avoid me.”

  The shrieks and cries of newly-caught mortals came from the garrison behind them, and echoed around the cave before fading away as their captors fed on them. The metallic stink of their blood sharpened the dank air, making the eyes of all the men on duty glitter with lust.

  “Forgive me, Tribune.” Quintus knelt on one knee briefly. “Time escaped me while I was reading.”

  Although the scents and sounds made them shudder with thirst, the mud-spattered soldiers returning from the hunt filed into ranks before the platform. Once the men stood in proper order they bowed their heads and slammed their gauntlets against their chest plates.

  “You waste yourself on the words of dead men, Quintus. Better you make tribute to the gods, for only they bestow real wisdom.” Gaius regarded the men before him without expression. “This does not appear promising.”

  “Centurion Brutus Ficini,” Quintus said, “Report.”

  One of the older men stepped forward and extended his arm in a salute. “Our patrols lured the McDonnels away from the village to the appointed place.” Ficini paused as his flat, emotionless voice echoed in the silence of the cavern. “Half died before we separated the laird from his men, and summoned the reinforcements. A female appeared and defended the laird against our efforts.”

  Quintus moved to stand before the centurion. “A woman defended the McDonnels? How so?”

  The older man’s face grew bleak. “She burned the execution team with flames that came out of her hands.”

  Gaius sat up and gripped the golden armrests of his dais. “Ficini, do you mean to say this woman threw fire at them?”

  The centurion bowed. “Yes, Tribune.”

  “Why did you not kill her?” Before Ficini could answer the tribune rose. “Am I to understand that you had the laird, and lost him to a female, and then retreated?”

  Quintus couldn’t help but wince. When their commander grew agitated his voice became shrill. The girlish sound did not instill admiration or respect among the men.

  “This woman would have burnt us to ash, had we stayed and fought.” The older man stared at the cave floor. “Had we died on the field, you would know nothing of her, Tribune.”

  “A fine excuse for your cowardice,” Gaius spat. He paced back and forth before the dais before he stopped and made an imperious gesture. “Have them whipped,” he told Quintus. “Twenty lashes each.” With that order he stalked off the platform.

  The prefect watched his commander leave the cavern, and only then gave the order to administer the punishment. “Once it is done,” Quintus told the whip master, “see to it that they are given enough blood to heal.”

  Ficini heard this, and bowed to the prefect.

  Quintus left to find Gaius, who had retreated to his private chamber. He coughed politely when he saw his commander had his blood thrall naked and braced against a wall, but the tribune only motioned for him to come in.

  “Failure again, Quintus,” said the tribune. He kicked the cowering female’s legs apart. “I vow it shall drive me mad.” To the thrall he said, “No weeping this time. It distracts me.”

  He sank his fangs into the back of her neck. As though he were moving too fast to be seen, the tribune’s body vibrated, changing into the woman’s, then back to his own, then back again. Long ago the legion had learned that taking the victim’s blood caused the transformation, if only briefly. Over the centuries they had learned to control the change, but come the morning they always reverted back to their original bodies.

  As Gaius finished drinking, he quickly became himself again. With a quick bite to his own palm, he produced a two drops of blood. A careless swipe of his blood across the woman’s wounds made the injuries vanish. It would do no good to have her bleed to death or summon the hungry. The tribune hiked up his toga to fist his shaft and rammed it into the slave woman.

  Even Quintus’s cold heart thawed with a measure of pity for the blood thrall. She tried to weep silently as the tribune’s thrusts slammed her into the cave wall again and again.

  “Ficini is no coward,” Quintus said. “He was correct to retreat and bring news of this woman to us. If she can throw fire, she can kill us.”

  “Really, Quintus, a mortal fire-thrower? What next will Ficini regale us with to explain his failure? Tales of swans and showers of gold turning into horny gods?” Gaius grunted and stiffened as he climaxed, and then withdrew and shoved the woman toward the pallet that served as her bed. Idly he rubbed the scar where his testicles had once been before he straightened his toga. “Never say that you believe him.”

  “We have served together for centuries, and he has no motive to lie. Some of the men who survived have burns on their limbs.” Quintus filled a goblet from a bottle of wine mixed with blood and brought it to his commander. “Tribune, perhaps it is time now for us to seek out a safer territory to inhabit.”

  Gaius laughed heartily. “We do not leave Scotland until the curse the McDonnels cast over us is broken, and we kill every one of them. Again.” He drained the goblet. “Send word to our spy. If this fire-throwing wench is real, I want to know everything about her. Who she is, where she abides, and how we may take her from the fucking highlanders.”

  Quintus nodded, saluting the tribune before he retreated. But instead of returning to his quarters, he slipped through a passage known only to him. He followed it to the small space he had discovered while looking for a particular obse
rvation post. It had taken days of careful drilling to create the spy hole, which permitted him to watch everything Gaius did when he was alone.

  Tonight he used the blood thrall’s mouth and ass for his pleasure before binding her on the small altar he had erected in the corner of his chamber. There the tribune went down on his knees, spilling wine over her belly and praying to the statue wedged in the wall directly above the mewling woman.

  “Father Mars, I entreat thee to look upon thy servant and my offering. I pray that thou shall make me strong and resolute in my command. Take this female whom I have fucked with my sacred phallus and from whom I have taken that which nourishes my spirit.” Gaius produced a blade, and rose as he held it over the twisting, screaming wench.

  Quintus turned away as Gaius gutted the mortal and began to bathe himself in her blood.

  Chapter Six

  FROM THE KEEL-shaped ridges of the Black Cuillin mountains, Evander Talorc strode down toward a broad glen. Before standing first watch at the loch he had gone to the castle’s dovecote to send a messenger bird to the druid settlement. The reply had come just before he’d been relieved by the day sentry.

  Come to the fairy pool by the old bridge.

  He felt no qualms over sending for the druids without consulting the laird. As Dun Aran’s seneschal Evander’s first responsibility was to the castle and its safety. The female Lachlan had brought back had attacked the laird, which made her no friend of the McDonnel clan. If the fire-tossing harpy did not belong to the druids, they could facking well keep her until they found her people.

  If they would not, well, then, she was mortal, and the loch very cold and deep.

  The thought of drowning her did give Evander pause. For all that he despised women, he’d never murder one. When had his temper grown so brutish?

  Quick to anger, and slow to joy. A man better suited to killing than loving. That was what Baeral had said to him the day before they were supposed to wed. That the whore had given herself to his chieftain’s brother that night, and run away to the lowlands with him had made Evander glad, for at least she did it without his name. When the Talorc had forbidden Evander to pursue them or take vengeance, he’d simply laughed. Well rid of Baeral he had been, he assured his leader.

  Well rid, but never to forget. The slut had gone to her grave so long ago that surely naught remained of her but dust—and still Evander burned with unspent fury over her betrayal.

  A flash of movement and dun-colored fur on the other side of the glen caught his eye. Evander lifted his spear, feeling its weight in his hand. He sighted along the shaft, his cheek next to the mark he’d carved so that all would know who made the kill. Quickly, he spun with the weapon and flung it. The whistling of the shaft through the air made the hare try to hop away. But the shaft skewered it through the neck in mid-air, and it fell dead in the grass.

  Evander collected the carcass and tied it to his belt. Mistress Talley would welcome the meat for her morning pottage, and making the kill soothed his pride. Few clansmen still hunted with spears, and none could have hit the hare at such a distance.

  Halfway across the glen he came to a small, narrow spring fed by a waterfall. The villagers who dwelled by the island’s shore called such places fairy pools, and still left pagan offerings at them for luck, love, and fertility. Several garlands of woven wildflowers had been hung on the rocks at the edge of the water, along with a crude cloth poppet that had been stuffed until its belly bulged.

  He picked up the doll, which some female had left doubtless in hopes of conceiving. Tossing it in the water wouldn’t drown its maker, but gave him a small measure of satisfaction.

  “Have you some pressing need, Seneschal?” a mellow voice asked.

  Evander turned with his dagger in hand to see the slender, graceful form of Ovate Cailean Lusk walking out of the trees. The druid looked no older than sixteen, but his youthful appearance had nothing to do with his genuine age. While druids lived mortal lives, when they died their souls reincarnated in the next newborn among their kind. Cailean had already lived many lives. Evander had known him for nigh on six centuries.

  The ovate, however, was not the druid Evander wanted to see. Evander lowered his blade.

  “I sent word for Bhaltair Flen to attend me. He understands the strain of my duty.” And he had complained to him more than once about Lachlan’s regular disregard for the security of Dun Aran.

  “My master couldnae leave his work. I am sent in his place.” Cailean halted at the edge of the spring and glanced down at the poppet slowly sinking to the bottom. “’Twas no’ a kindness to do that.” He stretched out his hand, murmured some words, and the doll rose from the water to plop on his palm. “Children are a gift,” he said quietly, smoothing a thumb over the round of the belly.

  Evander scowled at the young man. “What would an ovate ken of it?”

  The druid smiled a little sadly. “More than one might think.” He placed it atop a sunny stone to dry before his large, serene blue eyes met Evander’s gaze. “How may I assist you?”

  Druids always made it sound as if they served the clan, when the truth of it was the McDonnels did all the work. “Very well. We’ve one of your females at the castle. The clan would be obliged if you’d come and take her away.”

  Cailean’s smooth brows rose. “None of our druidesses have been sent to you, Seneschal. What is her name?”

  Evander clenched his jaw. “I dinnae ken it. She came to meddle with us at the oak grove in Carstairs Valley, where the tribe’s old stones stand.”

  The druid’s eyelids closed as he went still, so that all that moved were the folds of his robe. When he looked at Evander again the dreamy look had vanished from his eyes.

  “Take me to her, please.”

  Cailean remained silent on the walk up into the ridges. When they reached the castle Evander took him in through a little-used side entry and through a back hall that led to the base of the laird’s tower. Halfway up the steps, Raen Aber appeared, stopped, and crossed his huge arms.

  “Fair day to you, Master Aber,” the druid said politely.

  “And you, Ovate Lusk.” The bodyguard eyed Cailean before he regarded Evander. “You’ve been busy.”

  One day, Evander thought, he and Aber would fight, and he’d teach him just what he could do with a spear. “The ovate has come to see the female,” he told Raen flatly. “Step aside.”

  “I’m told she may be druid kind,” the boy said, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture. “I wish only to speak with her a moment, so that I may learn her name, and why she came to you.”

  The shaggy dark head shook. “She’s no’ to be disturbed. Laird’s orders.” When Evander tried to push past him he shifted to block his path. “Remember that beating you gave the lass? I hit much harder, and no’ from behind.”

  Cailean turned to gape at Evander. “You struck this woman?”

  “She was attacking the laird, and she can throw fire from her hands.” Evander flung a hand at Raen. “And this one, his own bodyguard, stood there and did naught to stop her.”

  “She’s a woman, Evander,” Raen bellowed. “Did your da never teach you that we’re supposed to protect them?”

  “What was I to do?” he shouted back. “Let her burn off his facking face?”

  The druid’s gaze bounced between them for a moment, and then grew shuttered. “I think ’tis better I go now. ’Tis likely the female isnae druid kind. Beg your pardon for the trouble, Master Aber. Master Talorc.” He nodded to Evander, and before he could stop him hurried back down the steps.

  Since indulging his temper would only end in a fight he might not win, Evander tried reason. “That wench cannae stay here. She’s an outsider. She’s mortal.”

  “Aye, and she can burn up six undead with a gesture. If the laird doesnae want the lass, I may wed her myself.” The big man turned and went back upstairs.

  Back down in the great hall Neacal Uthar hailed Evander with a loud “good” and a whimpered “morni
ng” before he propped his head between his hands. “Come and break your fast, Seneschal. Meg’s making a cannel brew and oat cakes.”

  Evander sat at the trestle table and watched the tower entry. “Where is the laird?”

  “Sleeping in the stables, according to Meg.” The bald chieftain cracked open one eye. “That young wand-waver ran out of here at a fast trot. Makes a man wonder what the floor-dusters are plotting now. Might it involve our bastart-burner?”

  Even with a sore head Neac saw more than most.

  “Cailean claimed she wasnae druid kind,” Evander said. “What else could she be but one of theirs? Do you ken a mortal wench with hands of fire?”

  “Why do you care what she is? ’Tis the laird’s problem.” The chieftain sat up as the chatelaine arrived with a tray of cakes and tea. “Ah, here’s a fine lady with real magic.” He winced as she thumped it down in front of him. “If only you’d wield it a wee bit quieter, lass.”

  “Ye drink too much whiskey, ye wake with a pounding pate. After a thousand years ye’d think a man could learn that. Sip the brew slow, or ye’ll puke again. And as for ye, Seneschal.” Meg poured a mug for Evander and added a dollop of honey to it. “Mayhap this will sweeten yer temper, ye black-hearted woman-beater.”

  He rose to his feet to tower over the chatelaine. “I didnae beat her.”

  Meg looked up at him, sniffed loudly, and retreated from the hall, her back stiff with disapproval. As soon as she disappeared into the kitchens Evander sat back down and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

  “Well done, lad,” Neac said. “She’ll be spitting in your meals until Lammas.” The chieftain drew out a flask, and added a generous measure of whiskey to Evander’s brew. “Come now. ’Tis almost certain the wench’ll run off herself. She nearly got out last night while we were toasting our victory. I had to distract her with talk so the laird and Raen could snatch her back.”

  Now Evander felt even angrier. “Why did you stop her?”