Tempting the Highlander

by Janet Chapman

  “I’m dreaming. Just like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, I was hit on the head during the storm and knocked unconscious, and I’m dreaming.”

  Robbie gave her a firm kiss on the mouth. “Ah, Catherine,” he said, tucking her against his chest. “Now I’m understanding why you’re being so calm.” He leaned down and tried to see into her eyes, using his thumb to lift her chin. “But what if it’s not a dream? What if all of this is really happening?”

  “It’s not,” she said, reaching up and feathering her fingers over his smile. “Because it’s impossible.”

  “Okay,” he conceded. “So will you allow me to be your guide through this dream? Will you promise to listen to me when I tell you to do something?”

  “It’s my dream,” she said, turning rigid in his embrace. “You can’t boss me around.”

  “Catherine, you’re dreaming that we’re in the thirteenth century, when women had little or no say in their lives. If you wish to survive here, you’ll have to defer to me. Especially in front of others,” he added.

  “No. I promised myself never to be in that position again.”

  Robbie pulled her back against him with a weary sigh. How in hell was he going to protect her if she wouldn’t cooperate? How could he make her understand?

  Ian came back and dropped his load of firewood, then sat down beside them with an even wearier sigh of his own. “I’m old,” he muttered. “And my eyesight is gone. I can’t tell what I was picking up for wood. Hell,” he said, waving at the pile of sticks. “There could be a snake in there for all I know.”

  Robbie set Catherine back beside him and used a piece of the wood to scrape out a fire pit. He then started arranging the damp sticks in the middle of it.

  “Matches weren’t invented in the thirteenth century,” she said, wrapping her arms around her knees and leaning closer to watch him. “How are you going to start the fire?”

  “With magic.”

  Ian sucked in his breath and leaned away. “Ya can do that? Just like the priest?” he whispered, sidling farther away.

  “Aye, Uncle. I’ve recently discovered I can do a lot of neat tricks.”

  “Like what?” Ian asked, moving a few more inches away.

  “Like this,” he said, reaching his hand into the center of the pile and coaxing the wood to release its stored energy. He leaned over and softly blew on the smoking sticks until they burst into flames.

  Ian stood up and moved a good distance away. Robbie chuckled and also stood up. “It’s okay, Uncle. I’m still the nephew you used to carry on your shoulders. That I’ve finally realized the full extent of my calling is to your benefit,” he said, reaching out and laying a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “It’s how you got here,” he softly reminded him.

  The flames from the now dancing fire reflected in Ian’s hazel eyes as the old man stared back at him. “I…I’m just surprised, is all,” he whispered, suddenly wrapping Robbie in a fierce embrace. “Aye. Ya’re still my young pup,” he said gruffly, pounding Robbie’s back before stepping away and swiping at his eyes. “I hate being old,” he muttered, walking to the edge of the clearing. “It’s a terrible affliction. The air is always making my eyes water. I’m going to look for more wood.”

  Robbie watched him disappear into the night forest and turned back to the fire, only to find Catherine staring at him, her jaw slack.

  “You’re dreaming, remember?” he said, sitting down beside her again. “Now, how about I show you how to wear a plaid properly?” He kissed the tip of her nose. “As cute as you look, you’re going to be laughed out of the village tomorrow if you walk in dressed like that.”

  “Ian’s not coming back to modern time with us, is he?” she whispered. “You…you brought him back here to die.”

  “Nay, Catherine. I brought him here because he asked me to, and because he wants to be with his wife and children and grandbabies. He’s got many good years in him yet and should spend them in the bosom of his family.”

  “Do the others know he’s here? Your father and Greylen?”

  “I’ll tell them once I get back.”

  “He…he didn’t even say good-bye to them?”

  “He did. They just didn’t know it. They’ll be happy for Ian, once they think about it.”

  “Do they want to come back, too?”

  “Nay. Their wives and children and grandbabies are in Pine Creek, and they’ve lived with the fear of being torn from them for the last thirty-five years. That’s why it’s so important I bring back the spells for Daar to stop it.”

  “Why can’t Daar get his own spells, if he’s a wizard?”

  Robbie shook his head. “There’s another drùidh here, named Cùram de Gairn, who doesn’t want that to happen. He’s younger and more powerful than Daar. That’s why the priest sent me.”

  Her eyes clouded with worry in the dancing firelight. “Is he more powerful than you?” she whispered, leaning closer and clutching the front of his plaid in her fists. “Is he the one who keeps beating you up?”

  Robbie laughed and pulled her hands up to his mouth and kissed them. “Nay, little Cat. Cùram is keeping himself and his tree of spells hidden from me.”

  “A tree? I thought spells came from a book or something?”

  “Tradition thinks of it as a book, I guess, but it’s really a tree of wisdom. All drùidhs have one that they guard and nurture. I’m looking for Cùram’s tree, so that I can steal a piece of its tap root.”

  She pulled away, wrapped her arms around her knees again, and silently stared into the fire for several minutes, obviously trying to understand what he was telling her. She looked at him again. “So, if you get this piece of root, you won’t have to keep coming back here?”

  “Aye. Daar will use it to grow his own tree of wisdom and cast a new spell to keep the Highlanders in modern time.”

  She stood up, her fists clenched at her sides as if she were expecting a fight. “Then I’ll help you. We’ll find this Cùram de…this wizard guy and his tree and steal the root so you won’t ever have to come back.”

  Robbie also stood, the tips of his bare toes touching hers.

  She didn’t back away but only smiled up at him.

  “You can’t help me, Cat. This isn’t a treasure hunt but a dangerous quest. Cùram is dangerous.” He waved at the landscape around them. “Hell, this whole world is dangerous for a woman.”

  She snorted, lifting her chin. “It’s apparently dangerous for guardians, too.” She crossed her arms under her breasts, leaned back on her hips, and angled her head at him. “Do your magical powers make you infallible?”

  “What? Nay, of course not. I’m a mortal man.”

  “Then who watches your back?”

  Robbie rubbed a hand over his face. “Haven’t we had this conversation before? I don’t need anyone watching my back. I’m the guardian here,” he growled, thumping his chest.

  “It’s my dream,” she growled right back, thumping her own chest. “And I can give myself whatever powers I want. And I think I’ll be your guardian angel.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “Lord knows you need one.”

  Robbie couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss that sassy smile off her face or shake some sense into her.

  “I’m thinking we should say Catherine helped me escape from the English,” Ian said, walking back with an armful of sticks. He dropped them by the fire and turned to Robbie, his eyes shining with excitement. “And I brung her home to reward her. She can stay with Gwyneth and me until ya have to go back. That way, I can keep an eye on her while ya do your business.”

  “That sounds like a good plan, Uncle.”

  “Aye,” Ian said, puffing out his chest. “I was thinking it would also explain why she can’t speak Gaelic.” He looked at her and shook his head. “But the plaid’s got to go.

  “Nay, wait!” he said before Robbie could speak. “I have a good tale. We can say she was stolen by a MacBain who was wanting a wife and that I stole her back. And I took his plaid as
a prize and sent him home bare-assed.” He nodded, his chest puffed even more. “Aye. What do ya think of that tale?”

  From the way Catherine was glaring at Ian, Robbie guessed she didn’t think much of it. “It’s perfect, Uncle,” he said, patting Ian’s shoulder. “And it’ll ease my mind to know you’re watching out for Cat. She’ll be safe from any other warriors looking for wives.”

  Cat sat back down on the rock, and Robbie looked over just in time to see her cover a yawn. Come to think of it, he was quite tired himself. And Ian looked as if his plaid was holding him up rather than his weary old legs.

  “I think we should call it a night,” Robbie said, crouching to feed more wood to the fire. “We’ll bed down on that moss over there,” he added, using a stick to point to the other side of the fire. “Cat, you can sleep between us to stay warm. Ian, you take the side near the fire.”

  It looked as if his housekeeper didn’t care for that plan, either. But she picked up her stick, walked around the fire, and stood staring at the moss. She looked over at Robbie. “Can’t you conjure up a feather bed or something?” she asked, lifting her chin and daring him to try.

  “It’s your dream. You do it.”

  She looked back down at the moss, gave a sigh that finished in another yawn, sat down, laid her stick on the ground on the side where Robbie would be, and tried to readjust her plaid to cover her shoulders.

  “I can show ya how to fix that,” Ian said, crouching beside her. “It’s long enough to wrap over yar arms like a shawl and around your legs. Here,” he said, grabbing one end of the cloth and taking three wraps from around her, which still left her well covered. “That’s how ya do it,” Ian instructed. “My Gwyneth showed me how women cover themselves differently than men. Tomorrow we’ll get ya a MacKeage plaid and a blouse to wear with it.”

  “What about shoes?” she asked, concentrating on what Ian was doing. “What do women wear on their feet?”

  “Leathers,” he said. “Tall leggings with double-soled bottoms so ya don’t get stung by sharp rocks. And wool socks to keep ya warm.”

  She looked up at him and smiled. “I’ve never had a dream that involved a history lesson.”

  “A dream?” Ian asked, his face screwing into a frown. He looked at Robbie. “She thinks she’s dreaming all this?”

  Robbie shrugged, picked up his sword, and walked over behind Catherine and sat down just as she yawned again. Ian settled himself between her and the fire so that the two of them made a warm and protective sandwich around Catherine.

  Catherine lay back rather stiffly, looked at Robbie, then at Ian, and turned on her side toward the older man, tucking her hands under her head and snuggling into her MacBain plaid.

  Robbie reached his arm around her, pulled her back against his chest, and sighed when she went as rigid as a board. “Relax, little Cat,” he whispered, tucking her head under his chin and pulling some of his own plaid over her. “You’re only dreaming that I’m holding you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Catherine woke up expecting that she was home in her bed, that the breath she felt on her neck…and the weight across her legs…and the hand tucked inside her pajamas between her breasts…all belonged to Nora.

  But she opened her eyes and discovered she was still locked in her fantastical dream, that Robbie MacBain was the one taking such intimate liberties with her body, and that Ian MacKeage had nearly rolled into the dying fire and was snoring loudly enough to wake the dead.

  So, what would Dorothy do upon finding herself still in Oz—not with a tin man and a lion and a scarecrow but with an owl, an aging warrior, and a handsome knight who wanted her to believe they had traveled through time?

  “Are you second-guessing your promise not to run?” Robbie whispered in her ear.

  She turned her head to look at him. “I keep my promises.”

  He kissed her cheek and pulled her more firmly against him. “How’s the dream working out for you this morning?”

  “Pretty well, actually,” she said, covering his hand between her breasts, pressing it closer instead of pulling it away. “Because if this were real and I found myself waking up with you wrapped around me, I’d likely have a panic attack.”

  His eyes sparkled in the rising sunlight, and he moved his thumb just a bit, just enough to brush the inside of her left breast. “So you’re saying that since it’s only a dream, I could make love to you and you wouldn’t be afraid?”

  Catherine had to think about that.

  What an intriguing idea.

  She turned in his arms, leaned in, and boldly kissed him on the lips, then smiled up at him. “They didn’t have condoms in the thirteenth century.”

  “But pregnancy is of no consequence in a dream,” he said, his own smile making his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Or are you worried we might truly be making love, even though you’re dreaming? Like sleepwalking?”

  That got rid of her smile. “Thanks,” she said with a snort, pulling his hand out of her plaid and sitting up. “You just ruined your best chance to score, MacBain.”

  He sat up beside her. “Aye. I realized my mistake the moment I spoke.” He stood up, picked up his sword, and settled it over his back, then reached out his hand to her. “There’s a stream running down the mountain about a hundred yards through those trees,” he said, facing her toward the woods once she stood up. “Why don’t you go do whatever women do to start their day, and I’ll wake Ian and cook breakfast? Mary will go with you,” he added, gesturing at a pine tree.

  The owl was sitting on a branch, staring at them.

  “Did she get a rabbit?” Catherine asked, looking around.

  “Aye. Two,” he said, pointing at the rock by the fire.

  Catherine put her hands on her hips and canted her head. “I thought cleaning game and cooking was woman’s work in medieval times.”

  He lifted a brow. “You volunteering?”

  “No,” she said, heading toward the stream. “Just checking to see how authentic my dream is.”

  “Well, then, little Cat, I’d say you’re about to get the history lesson of a lifetime,” he said with a chuckle.

  The moment she stepped into the forest, Catherine pressed her hands against her still throbbing breasts. Whew! If she were dreaming, she hoped she never woke up. It had felt so wonderful to wake up in the arms of a man, so sensually exciting it had been all she could do not to attack him.

  Dismissing the idea that they could make love because this was only a dream had been prudent, but it also might have been rather foolish. This could be her chance to feel again, actually to make love without risk.

  Catherine decided she could control Robbie’s actions even if she couldn’t exactly predict them. That was the funny thing about dreams; they didn’t follow the usual laws of nature. In them, people could fly, be animals, run without going anywhere, and not really feel pain. Even time didn’t exist.

  Then again, dreams could suddenly spin out of control and turn into nightmares in the blink of an eye. It had happened more than once to Catherine, and she was not willing to risk it happening again.

  Especially not with Robbie MacBain. He was her dream guy. The perfect male, handsome and rugged, protective and possessive without being a caveman, patient and good-natured, and sexy as all get-out. Even when she was wide awake, the guy could woo her into forgetting herself. Heck, but for his noble intentions, she might not have needed this dream at all. His kisses in the barn and the kitchen could have led to a rather salacious conclusion with only the slightest urging from her.

  “What are you staring at?” Catherine asked, smiling at Mary, who had glided down to perch on a rock in the middle of the tiny stream. “Yes,” she said, going to her knees and dipping her hands in the cold water. “If Robbie can talk to you, then I might as well, too.”

  But Mary said nothing, not even a rattle.

  “He’s blaming you for my being here,” Catherine said, continuing the one-sided conversation. “You made me fal
l off that ledge and bump my head. That’s the thanks I get for sewing you up.”

  Catherine tucked her tangled hair behind her ears, splashed water on her face, scrubbed her cheeks with her hands, then leaned down and drank directly out of the stream. She used the corner of her plaid to wipe her face, stood up, and looked down at Mary—specifically at the pink threads on her belly.

  “You…ah…didn’t get hurt while helping Robbie hunt for that wizard’s tree, did you?”

  Mary spread her wings, stretched to her full height, and bobbed her head.

  Catherine stepped back in surprise. “What did you say?” she whispered, finally knowing for sure that she was dreaming. She could swear she had heard a voice, a woman’s voice, say that it was time to get back to camp, that there was danger in the woods.

  She twisted the knot of her plaid. “H-How do you know that?” she asked, scanning the dense forest as she took another step back. “What MacKeages?” she breathed, staring at the owl, shaking her head to clear it. “What warriors?”

  Catherine decided she didn’t care who was talking, she was getting back to Robbie. She spun on her heel and ran smack into a solid chest. Large arms wrapped around her so tightly her scream of surprise came out as a squeak. She was lifted off her feet, only to find herself nose-to-beard with a wild-haired, dirty-faced, green-eyed giant.

  And if that wasn’t enough, the stinky brute was grinning. Or he was until the blade of a sword silently slid between them, right along the man’s neck, actually slicing off some of his beard.

  The giant stilled, his eyes rounded in surprise.

  Catherine didn’t dare breathe.

  Robbie, his voice guttural and soft, said something, in what Catherine guessed was Gaelic, that sounded rather threatening.

  Her captor opened his arms without warning. Catherine tumbled to the ground, scurried backward like a frightened crab, and stood, not once taking her eyes off Robbie, who was holding his sword under the man’s chin and glaring at him so hard it was a wonder the guy didn’t fall over.

  “Go back to camp, Catherine,” Robbie said, keeping his eyes on the man.