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

by Hazel Hunter

  “Lass?”

  “Sorry.” Although he’d been completely candid with her, Kinley wasn’t yet ready to tell him her story. “This is why you had me take the oath.”

  “All mortals entrusted with our secrets do, or they cannae share them.” He tipped up her chin. “Do you regret it now?”

  “No, and even if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t tell anyone about the clan.” She heard a knock on the door and quickly pulled his shirt over her head as Raen came in with a tray, followed by Evander.

  “My lord,” Evander said, “we have received word that–” The seneschal went silent and still as he saw Kinley.

  She almost felt like shimmying her boobs at him, trollop that she was, but instead she settled for a nice, though slightly snide smile. “Morning.”

  His composure held, just barely, but his dark green eyes flared with ire. “I will return later.”

  Evander slammed the door on his way out, while Raen handed her a mug of Meg’s morning brew. “Will you teach me how you do that, Kinley?”

  “It’s easy.” She glanced at the door. “Just change into a woman and breathe.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  EVANDER WAITED UNTIL nightfall before he left the stronghold for the mainland. Once away from the clan he no longer had to feign indifference to the other men’s sly looks and half-muttered remarks.

  She’s spent the night in his bed.

  ’Tis why he kept her at the castle, I knew it.

  You’ve seen his rod. Och, wee thing will want a month to recover.

  Talorc must have shouted with joy to see the little wench warming Lachlan’s blankets.

  If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes Evander would have dismissed it as idle gossip. But burned in his memory lay the image of Kinley Chandler, her hair mussed and her lips swollen, whisker burn patching her long, lying throat, perched on Lachlan’s bed as if it were her new throne.

  And the way she’d smiled at him.

  So Lachlan had finally facked the little hoor. Why did it stick in his craw like a jagged fishbone? Hadn’t he predicted as much after Lachlan had brought her to Dun Aran? She’d likely plotted worming her way into the laird’s tartan trousers from the moment she’d interfered in their battle with the undead.

  Three messages of warning Evander had already sent to the druids, all unanswered still. That the magic folk seemed supremely unconcerned about Kinley Chandler only piled more knotwood on his anger’s pyre. It was plague enough that the haughty, unnatural wench had spent weeks strutting about dressed as a man, meddled in clan affairs, and seduced the wits from every careless fool who cast an eye on her. Now she had set her cap on the laird. By month’s end she’d be calling herself queen of the McDonnels or some other such nonsense.

  Walking into the loch, Evander thought of a remote brook on the mainland, and felt the light swallow him as the water bubbled around him. Then everything blurred as he gave himself over to the bond of magic that made his body go liquid. Moving through water usually made him feel better, but what he suffered was not a physical injury. The loch could not repair the damage done to him this time.

  Once he emerged from the brook, Evander walked without noticing where he went, crossing pastures and croplands as he wandered, in search of some haven where he might fume in peace. When his legs stopped he found himself standing outside Fiona Marphee’s cottage. He had no business here, not with bitterness swelling hot and sour in his gullet. He needed to leave his mistress be tonight, and find a brothel, where he might release his darker demons.

  The door opened, and Fiona smiled up at him. “Milord, I didnae hear you.”

  She did not listen for him. Lachlan remained deaf to his warnings. Not even the facking druids paid him heed. Did he have no voice? Were his words unclear?

  Evander bent down, flinging Fiona over his shoulder as he came in and slammed shut the door. He carried her into her little bed chamber, where he tossed her on the coverlet and stood over her, his hands clenched to keep from touching her again. He knew he should leave her, but the rush of hot blood to his head made it impossible to listen to his own sense.

  “Oh, milord, forgive me,” Fiona implored and sat up, arranging herself in a penitent pose. “I was carding wool, and dreaming as I do, so I didnae hear your knock.”

  Evander stared down at her, and once again saw Kinley in the laird’s bed. The golden-haired slut had been fair glowing with sunlight, as bright and lovely as a pale fire. He’d hated her on first sight, but seeing her thus, and then the smile she’d given him… If he hadn’t walked out, he would have lunged at her.

  “What did you say to me?” Evander asked his mistress.

  She ducked her head, and twisted her hands together in her lap. “Please, dinnae be angry with me, milord.”

  The vision of Kinley changed back into that of his dark-haired, white-skinned mistress. Fiona liked to play such games with him, pretending to be at fault when she had done naught wrong. He knew she did it so he could use her roughly, something she craved more than any kind of bed play. On another night Evander would have indulged her desires, for they pleased him as well. Now they just drove home the fact that all women, his mistress among them, were devious, scheming liars.

  “Stop simpering and look at me.” He had to make her do that, and felt furious when he saw mock tears gleaming in her eyes. “You are naught be a slut, like all the rest. I care naught for you. What I come to do here is fack you. Always. Only. What do you say to that?”

  Yearning flickered across her face. “Whatever I am, I am yours. Do with me as you want.”

  “You think I jest?” He dragged her half-off the bed, shoving her face-down as he ripped her skirt from her waist. He swore at her as he held her by the nape, and bared her curvy white arse. Then he plied his palm against her ripe cheeks, slapping her over and over until her flesh splotched bright pink, and his hand went numb.

  Fiona sobbed into the mattress, her pitiful cries like the mewling of a kitten, but when he touched her between her legs she slicked his fingers with her wet heat.

  Evander gently stroked her quim. His cock felt ready to burst through his trews, but plowing her now seemed worse than the skelpin he’d given her. “What have I made of you, lass?”

  He brought her to climax by rubbing her pearl, and then gathered her up and held her as she shuddered through the last of her delight. She wouldn’t look at him, her eyes closed tightly, and yet she clutched at his tunic as if she meant never to let him go. Finally she pressed her face against her sleeve, using it to mop up her tears before she slipped out of his arms and picked up her ruined skirt.

  “I’ve been with no man but you, milord,” she said, her voice more flat and harsh than he’d ever heard. “When you are done with me, I’ll have no other. For me ’tis only ever you.” She regarded him as she folded the torn garment over her arm. “Now call me slut, and fack me, or no’, and be on your way. It doesnae change me. I cannae be made anything but what I am: yours.”

  She shamed him more surely than Kinley Chandler ever could. He took the skirt from her, and put it aside, and drew her back to the bed. This time he made his touch as gentle as it had been their first time together while he undressed her, and lifted her onto the bed linens. She pillowed her face with an arm to watch as he stripped to his skin, and reached for him when he stretched out beside her. Her fingers drew four unseen lines from one shoulder to the other, and then plied the muscles of his upper arm.

  Evander drew her thigh over his hip, opening her for the nudge of his cockhead. Her lashes fluttered as he worked into her sweet, pleasure-soaked quim, and when he had skewered her with every inch, he held himself still and reached around to gently caress her abused arse. He wanted to beg her forgiveness, and tell her that she was his, now and forever, but his pride would not allow the first, and the awakening made the second impossible.

  He felt her shiver under his stroking fingers, and wondered how much more undeserved pain he would inflict on her. “You will want a cush
ion for your weaving bench these next days.”

  “I like the ache of you on me. It feels as if you still touch me, in secret.” She brought his hand up to her lips, and down to her breast. “It makes me dream of the time when you next will again. ’Tis all I have of you sometimes.”

  Evander tugged her over atop him, guiding her to move herself on the ferocious spike of his cock. Fiona did so slowly, her head flung back and her full breasts swaying, and the close clasp of her massaging his shaft. When he was close he clamped his hands on her buttocks, squeezing them just enough to make her moan and shake. Inside her body her softness tightened, and milked the seed from his throbbing length.

  She fell onto him, her limbs quaking and her skin hot. “Now I will need a cushion,” she said, gasping against his neck.

  Evander held her as she drifted off, his lust sated but his thoughts ensnaring him again. He could not bring Fiona to Dun Aran, or even to the village on Skye where their servants kept their families. Because she was not clan, or tribe, she could never share his days or his bed. He could not even explain to her why she could not, for that, too, was forbidden. When Fiona began to grow old, he would have to put her aside altogether, else she might question why he didn’t age like her.

  Lachlan had no such burden on him. He had brought his hoor into the castle. He would share his bed with her as long as he wished. He was the laird, the head of the clan, and none but the druid conclave could overrule him. Even on those rare occasions, the magic folk had to have very good reason…

  Evander went still. Such as when a mortal grievance caused by the clan was brought before them.

  Carefully Evander disengaged their bodies, covering Fiona with her blanket before rising from the bed and pulling on his clothes. He would need to borrow a mount from the village stables, and ride until dawn to reach the druid settlement where the conclave dwelled. Cailean Lusk would be there to bear witness. All Evander had to do was tell the truth.

  Kinley Chandler had been brought to Dun Aran against her will, and had been held captive there for nigh on a moon. She was mortal, an outsider, but had done no wrong.

  It was time she was set free.

  Bluebells gently swayed on their bowed stalks as Cailean Lusk walked through the glen, his steps stirring the tiny trumpet blooms carpeting the highland glen. Beyond the slopes lay his home in a secret valley, which in another life he had protected with charms that clouded the eyes of mortals. There his small village of the magic folk dwelled for a thousand and two hundred years, practicing arts much older than their settlement. From the rich, black soil in which they grew their spell gardens to the mist-veiled groves where they honored their gods, the druids walked the path of the immortal within the mortal.

  Cailean stopped and watched Bhaltair Flen climb a hilly slope to stand before a weathered stone altar. There the stout, gray-hired druid carefully placed wood wands around a basket of fruit, nuts and bread. Everything had been arranged in triple clusters, as was proper to honor the Goddess of the Three Faces. He lifted his hands up in entreaty as he recited the ritual spell that had been taught to him and his bloodline for one hundred and forty generations.

  “You, lady, who walked widdershins thrice around the Well of Segais, and for your pride lost your thigh, hand, and eye to the waves of the Boyne born,” Bhaltair Flen intoned, “accept these humble gifts as comfort, and healing. We see you whole and well among us, Very Shining One, and hope you grant us your favor.”

  Cailean remained at a respectful distance, observing while silently repeating the ritual words. It had taken many incarnations before he had finally risen to the rank of Ovate, a spell-caster and ritual holder, and he had memorized all of the enchantments known by his master, Bhaltair Flen. He had not yet rid himself of his novice desire to practice, but he did not consider that a hindrance.

  Bhaltair completed the spell by kneeling and touching his forehead to the base of the altar, and then came down the hill, his black eyes searching Cailean’s face. “Strife, this early? ’Tis barely dawn. I’ve no’ even had my morning brew.”

  “The McDonnel seneschal is arrived and seeks petition. He claims grievance.” He plucked from his sleeve band the three messages he had received from Evander Talorc. “Again.”

  “Oh, that woman the laird brought to the castle,” Bhaltair said. “I remember now.” His round face wrinkled with displeasure. “I shall see Lachlan about the matter, and examine the female myself to assure she’s no threat. The laird has needs, and rarely indulges them. Mayhap they went to his head. ”

  “The seneschal comes to us on her behalf,” Cailean said. “He claims the laird abducted her and now keeps her at Dun Aran. Since she is mortal, and an outsider–”

  “I ken clan law, Ovate. Lachlan and I wrote it.” His master made a dismissive gesture. “Come. I remember his seneschal as a proud one.”

  As they walked together back to the settlement Cailean related what he had found at the oak grove where the woman had been taken. “The rains washed away any trail she might have left, but I found a strange mark on one of the standing stones.”

  Bhaltair came to an abrupt stop. “What manner of mark?”

  “’Twas silver and green, and shaped as a winged Pritani serpent.” He murmured a light spell and used the magic to draw the image in the air between them. “It had been burned into the stone with great power. The mark felt as smooth as glass.”

  “That is no’ the work of the Pritani.” His master’s lips pressed so tightly together they went white. “Did you look at the trees?”

  Cailean nodded. “There were new roots everywhere in the grasses. But master, none of us have used that grove since we resettled.”

  “’Twas no’ our doing.” Bhaltair paced for a moment in a tight circle, and muttered invocations under his breath before he stopped. “I will seek counsel with the conclave, but until they can be convened, we must attend to this female. Today.”

  Cailean wanted to ask why, but the look in the other man’s eyes held his tongue. When they reached the settlement, and entered the meeting house, they found Evander Talorc pacing with impatience.

  “Master Flen,” the seneschal said. He bowed to Bhaltair, and gave Cailean a surly look. “Ovate Lusk. I am come with grievance against the Laird Lachlan McDonnel–”

  Bhaltair held up his big hands. “As Cailean has already told me, my son. We will travel with you this day to Dun Aran, and speak to your laird about the female outsider.”

  Evander’s expression tightened with suspicion. “Talk does naught. You must remove her from the stronghold.”

  Bhaltair slipped his hands into the ends of his robe’s flowing sleeves. “Do you mean to command a member of the conclave, Seneschal?”

  The highlander held his hands up palm-out. “I overstep,” he said, his voice gruff. “My apologies. ’Tis my duty to protect the castle and the clan that compels my urgency.”

  Cailean felt the dark emotions tainting Evander’s aura. They had always been present, for the past haunted the man, but now they had grown enormous. Whatever ate at him, it had driven him here.

  “Master Talorc,” Cailean said, “what has changed with the woman since last we met?”

  Evander gave him a barely-veiled look of contempt. “Come and see for yourself, Ovate.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  ENTERING THE GREAT hall of Dun Aran always gave Cailean pause, and not merely to soak in the power and magnificence of the place. Here was a perpetual reminder of his own people’s power, embodied in the fierce, brawny men of the clan. Even the ancient Pritani blades and axes that adorned the walls of their stronghold was a reminder of it. But it also represented their greatest failure, that which was the dark side of the gift they had bestowed on the brave warriors.

  Had they not made the McDonnels, the undead would not exist.

  The moment they came into the castle, however, their presence sent servants fleeing and clansmen into the hall. A conclavist like Bhaltair Flen rarely came to call on the McDon
nels, but when he did it meant grave matters were at hand.

  Lachlan McDonnel came out of his tower to greet them, which he did with visible respect and obvious wariness. “Master Flen. Ovate Lusk. ’Tis good to see you both.”

  That, Cailean thought, was an interesting lie. The laird’s aura radiated displeasure, although it seemed not directed at them. “My master and I would speak to you, my lord. May we find a quiet spot to do so?”

  Lachlan took them out to the thriving kitchen garden, where he sent away a pair of maids gathering cooking herbs. In the center of the garden sat stone benches around a large catch basin used to collect rain for watering. A few sparrows perched on the edge, dipping their diminutive beaks to drink.

  Cailean smiled his thanks to the laird. Druids felt most comfortable being out of doors and surrounded by nature. By bringing them here he meant to put them at ease.

  As they sat down, Lachlan remained standing. “I reckon my seneschal summoned you here.”

  “We came of our own accord,” Bhaltair corrected him, and grim lines deepened around his mouth. “Tell me of this mortal female you discovered in the oak grove.”

  “Her name is Kinley Chandler, and she is from a far-off land called San Diego.” The laird told them how she had saved his life during the battle. “She has no living kin here or back in her homeland. Since I owe her a life-debt, I have taken her under my protection.”

  “She works for you now, mayhap as a maid servant?” Cailean asked.

  Lachlan smiled a little. “She is my lover, and gave her vow of loyalty to me last night. I expect Talorc didnae mention the latter.”

  Bhaltair rubbed his face with his hands, sighing into them before he slapped them against his heavy thighs. “I will say this to you now because this female is dangerous to you and your clan. She is no’ from a far-off place. She was brought here from another time.”