Highland Charm: First Fantasies

by April Holthaus

  * * *

  Donald lay on the floor atop the young woman’s crumpled clothing, hidden behind the storage barrels cluttering the room. Dim light from a small window above allowed him to watch her at her labors. Blood rushed through his veins and throbbed in his cock.

  Pressure built. He thrust, his hands pressed against the back of her head. She took him deeper. Good. The whore was good, very good. He rode the crest of release.

  His heart thundered. His blood raged. He shot his seed with an explosion of intense pleasure.

  Pushing her away, he grinned with satisfaction. She swallowed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She smiled seductively. Believed she held him by the balls. She was naught but a pawn.

  The door burst open, banging heavily against the wall.

  Donald grabbed the whore and hauled her back against him. He slapped his hand over her mouth, warning her to silence.

  * * *

  Laurie was dragged into the semi-darkness of a storage room. She clawed at the large hand clamped over her mouth, but was quickly subdued when he used his body to force her roughly against the wall. Not again. Oh God, not again.

  It was the same man. She knew it instinctively. She tried to fight him, the attempt futile. His weight pressed hard against her, the ridge of his sex stabbing at her belly.

  She gasped at the cold steel blade skimming her face.

  “I will scar your tender cheek. Make it look like mine if you struggle or make a sound,” he said in a low, harsh voice.

  Blinking, she went perfectly still. She recognized her captor, his ugly face close to hers in the dim light provided by the small window high on the back wall.

  She nodded several times.

  “Wise lass, you are.” The knife disappeared.

  Her breath came in and out, hard and fast, her heart beating furiously against her chest. Yet she remained perfectly still. A cold chill ran down her spine and bile burned her throat.

  He pulled her peasant blouse down over her shoulders exposing her breasts, barely hidden beneath the thin linen of her chemise. He stared at her in the dim light, pressing against her. Her terror thrilled the bastard. His twisted smile depicted pure evil.

  She cringed. Though it might be foolish and even dangerous to try to stop him, her mind raced. How could she escape without getting cut?

  She inhaled a deep breath, trying to take a firm hold on her fear.

  He cupped a large rough hand over one of her breasts, squeezing it painfully as he took her mouth, thrusting his tongue between her lips, forcing entry. She shuddered with revulsion.

  He ravaged her mouth, his possession choking her, bruising her. He tasted foul. Unable to pull away from his tight grip, her panic mounted. Oh God, this can’t be happening, not to me.

  Abruptly, he released her and the sharp blade was at her throat with enough pressure to cause a tiny puncture. She felt a trickle of blood slide down her neck. She tried to scream, but no sound came from her dry throat.

  He lessened the pressure on the blade. “You will agree to the marriage proposal Lamont offers for you. You will wed with me or your lover will die.” He released her suddenly.

  She tried for his balls, but missed and slammed her knee into his upper thigh.

  He slapped her hard, and her head hit the wall, stunning her. “Feisty wench. I look forward to breaking you.” He grinned then backed out of the storage room.

  Laurie slumped against the wall and slid to the floor. Tremors wracked her body. Oh God, what will I do?

  She swallowed hard. Straightening her clothing, she inhaled several breaths to calm herself. She stood on shaky legs, made her way to the door and peeked into the passageway. No one was there. She darted to her room on rubbery legs.

  She needed to go home.

  * * *

  Donald and his woman lay silent for several minutes. “Get dressed.” He pushed the whore away.

  He watched her shimmy into her gown, her movements meant to entice. Her voluptuous assets no longer made him hard. He’d more important matters on his mind.

  “I have another task for you.” She smiled wickedly and slid the gown from her shoulder. “Cover yourself. I refer to your other skills.”

  She pouted, but when he said no more, her eyes narrowed. “What will you give me?”

  “Are you not satisfied with what I have already given you?”

  “Bah.”

  Donald jiggled the purse at his waist and the whore smiled. She wet her lips. “What do you want me to do?”

  He leaned close and told her.

  She nodded, eager to do whatever he requested. Surely, she already felt his coins in her pocket.

  * * *

  Dirty. Violated.

  Laurie sat on the large bed in Patrick’s bedchamber.

  Pushing up from the mattress, she walked to the mantel and poured wine from a flagon into a mug that sat there. She rinsed her mouth with the sweet liquid and spit it into the washing bowl. With a shudder, she poured water from the pitcher on the washstand onto a cloth and carefully scrubbed the dried blood from her neck. She applied more pressure to the cloth, scrubbing her chest until the skin became raw. Could she ever scrub hard enough to wash the filth of Maclay’s evil touch from her skin?

  Laurie paced the length of the room. She must leave. Make her own way to Fir-wood and try to return home. She had to get away from these barbarians.

  Deep in her heart, she understood she’d never be the same again. She would never love another man as she did Patrick. But she couldn’t stay in this dangerous place. And she certainly couldn’t risk what might happen to Patrick if she told him about Maclay.

  Fear fueled her anger. She hated being a victim, making her all-the-more determined to escape. She’d find a way to get to Fir-wood and attempt to return to the twenty-first century on her own.

  What would she do if the time gate didn’t work this time?

  She couldn’t worry about failure now. If she did, she’d fall apart. She’d worry about it later, if and when the time came.

  A soft tapping sounded. Swallowing her anxiety, Laurie scooted across the room. “Who’s there?” she asked.

  “M’lady, may I speak with you.” Laurie hesitated at the unfamiliar voice. She chewed on the edge of her lip, uncertain. “What do you want?”

  “I must speak with you. Please.”

  Laurie opened the door a crack. A young serving woman stood in the passageway. Laurie narrowed her eyes, having seen this woman before. She was the buxom brunette, who the other evening sat on Donald MacLachlan’s lap, giggling, while he fondled her breasts in front of everyone in the hall.

  The woman darted nervous looks up and down the passageway and then back at Laurie. “Please, m’lady, I am Moira. Mayhap I could come in? I need to speak to you in private.”

  Laurie stepped back from the door, and waved the young woman in. Moira again peered in both directions before entering the chamber and closing the door behind her.

  Several shocking minutes later. Moira left. Laurie sank to the bed, staring blankly at the stone wall.

  Later in the evening, Patrick sent a meal to her with orders she was not to leave the bedchamber. He thought it best she dine alone, hidden away while Lamont and his warriors were in the castle. At least that was the message she received from the lad who delivered the food.

  How considerate.

  All she had to do was glance at the food and her stomach rolled. She stepped away from the table and peered out the window into the gloom.

  After several minutes, she walked to the door and tried the lever, even though she was sure she’d find it barred from the outside. To her amazement, the heavy oak door opened. She peered out and looked both ways along the passage.

  No one lingered. No one guarded her chamber. Where was Duncan?

  Well, there was probably no longer any need for her to have a guard since Patrick would soon wed Isobell. Laurie would miss Duncan, the big, burly teddy bear, when she was gone.

&nbs
p; She waited for what seemed like hours for Moira to return. Pacing and sitting. Pacing again. The castle was eerily quiet. Eventually, she heard what she waited for, the soft tap at her door.

  Laurie greeted Moira. The young woman carried a coarse, dark-colored cape, similar to the one she wore herself, which she helped Laurie don over her traveling clothes. They pulled hoods up over their heads, hiding their faces within the folds of heavy material.

  “We must hurry, m’lady,” Moira whispered, taking her by the hand. They crept down the passage to the circular stairs.

  The usually well-lit passageway was dim. How had the girl managed to find her way? Laurie tried to tread as softly as possible. Moira was as quiet as a mouse, sneaking along the shadows in silence, leading her back to the storage room, the place of the attack. Laurie trembled as she followed the girl into the room. Was she out of her mind to trust her?

  Moira showed Laurie a hidden trap door.

  “Outside is a stair, which will take you to the beach.”

  Laurie stood motionless, her hand pressed against the wooden door. Fear tightened her gut. She didn’t want to leave, hated the idea of never seeing Patrick again. The thought almost paralyzed her. She couldn’t allow the weakness to rule her though. She had to go.

  When she finally managed to push the door open and step through, a cold, damp breeze hit her face. Shutting the door, she leaned back against the rough wood, her heart pounding so fast, she thought she’d have a panic attack.

  In reality, only dread twisted her gut. She waited another moment, unsure if she were doing the right thing. Swallowing her fear, she descended the stairs, crossed the grassy bank, and slipped into the shadowy thicket along the edge of the beach.

  * * *

  Duncan spent the better part of the evening searching the castle and grounds, trying to find Maclay. To his dismay, he always seemed to miss the man. He heard from others that Maclay sent the messenger to Toward Keep. Since then, no one had seen him.

  Where was he?

  Duncan made his way to the suite Lamont and Maclay shared. Shadows slid across the stone wall. Two short, furtive figures crept along the passageway. He hid until they passed then stealthily followed them to the storage room. Leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, he guarded the door they’d entered. Pursing his lips, he waited, expecting to catch a couple of servants thieving.

  The wait wasn’t long. One of the cloaked figures emerged.

  Duncan reached out his hand and grabbed the individual by the shoulder. Her softness gave her away. He held a woman.

  She trembled. “Please sir, dinnae hurt me. He forced me.”

  Duncan shook the woman and the hood of her cape fell, revealing her face. Moira. Donald’s whore. “What mischief are you about? Are you thieving or whoring this night? Where is your other wee friend?”

  She stared at him, eyes wide.

  “Who forced you to do what? Tell me,” he demanded, shaking her again.

  “To…to send the Lady Laurie away.”

  “Cursed wench.” Duncan tossed the woman aside. “I will deal with you later.” He entered the dark storage room. The trap door hung open. He stepped out, bracing against the chill breeze.

  At the water’s edge, three bulky figures huddled near a currach. One hurried away.

  Duncan had descended several steps when a petite figure joined the two remaining near the boat.

  Lady Laurie? He leapt the remaining steps and ran for the beach.

  * * *

  Dense clouds covered the moon tonight. Laurie needed to reach the faerie knoll before tomorrow night’s full moon. She stood perfectly still, allowing her eyes to adjust. She shivered from the cold and pulled the heavy cloak tighter, cautiously making her way through the dark and dreary night to the beach.

  Two short men, heavily muscled, with lots of straggly hair covering their heads and faces waited for her. She didn’t recognize them from among Patrick’s fighting men. They must be his uncle’s men.

  She hesitated, wishing she could turn back.

  This was the only way. She had to go with the men even though they gave her the creeps.

  Laurie had accepted Uncle Donald’s assistance and told Moira she wanted escort to the Fir-wood. Moira said the men would escort her across the bay and provide her with a horse. After she reached Fir-wood, she’d be on her own. She only needed to be in their presence for a short time.

  She wouldn’t be able to find the wood without their guidance.

  The men did little more than grunt at her. Laurie inhaled a deep breath, reining in her anxiety and allowed one of the men to assist her into the small boat. She cringed and rubbed her palm on her cloak, repulsed by the scabby feel of his hand. She swallowed her distaste and sat on the bench he indicated.

  The two men jumped aboard and busied themselves. Talk about claustrophobia. And they smelled raunchy. She buried her nose within the fabric of her hood.

  They pushed away from shore and into the bay. Laurie glanced back at the castle, at the light shining in Patrick’s study. She wiped away the single tear that slipped from a stinging eye. Her heart was breaking. She wished she could have at least said goodbye.

  Apprehension pulsed through Laurie’s veins, her heart pounding a rapid beat. The two hulking men remained silent, the slapping of the oars against the water the only sound. The rhythmic repetition grated on her nerves.

  She stared into the darkness, her anxiety growing. It was taking much longer than it should. The clouds cleared the moon, creating a silver glow on the water, but she still couldn’t see the shore. She was sure they should have reached the mainland beach by now.

  Panic set in. She twisted to question one of the men and something hard struck the back of her head. She fell to the side. The boat swayed. Her world went fuzzy.

  “You fool! Why did you do that?”

  “The lass moved about, agitated like. The laird paid good coin for her. He would nae want her to fall overboard. At least not afore he has his way with her.”

  “He will likely drown her hisself afterward.”

  Both men guffawed, continuing to row. Laurie fought the darkness enveloping her. She needed to get away from these men. They weren’t here to help her get away. She got her hands under her, but couldn’t lift her weight. The gray at the edges of her vision crept closer.

  Patrick, what have I done?

  Gray turned to black.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Present Day, Anderson Creek, North Carolina

  Finn stared, fixated on the antique claymore hanging on the wall over the checkout counter. Fine hairs at the nape of his neck hummed with static electricity. No matter where he stood in the Celtic Image shop, the sword grabbed his attention and held on like a tenacious nuclear-altered vine from a classic B-movie, pulling him ever closer.

  “Can I help you?”

  When he tried to tear his gaze from the blade to respond, Finn’s pulse sped up and he panted as if he worked through reps at the gym. He couldn’t look away from the large moonstone in the center of the cross. He took a step forward and reached for it.

  “Sir?” The sharp voice snapped Finn out of the hypnotic fugue and he let his arm drop.

  “I want to buy that claymore,” he said before realizing his intention.

  “Who says it’s for sale?” The kilted, big guy—at least five inches taller than Finn’s six-foot-two height and slightly broader built—quirked a brow and gave Finn the one-two with a long glance.

  “I must have it.”

  “Do you know how to use a sword?”

  “I did a bit of fencing in the military, but I’ve never handled a claymore.”

  The man silently studied Finn. Minutes passed. “Here’s the deal. I’ll consider selling the piece to you if you hire me to instruct you on how to fight with the weapon.”

  “When can we start?”

  Something akin to approval flashed in the man’s eyes and his lips curled slightly up on one side. He strod
e to the door, locked the handle, and flipped the cardboard sign hanging in the window from open to closed. When he returned to Finn, he held out a hand. “Douglas McKinnon.”

  “Finn MacIntyre.” He grasped the man’s hand—firm handshake coupled with solid eye contact. Good man. You could judge a lot about a man from his handshake.

  Douglas took the sword from its rack and two-handed it over. “Shall we step outside?”

  Finn followed him through a storeroom full of Scottish weaponry—claymores, broadswords and targes, dirks, and a Lochaber axe or two—into a large dirt courtyard behind the Celtic Image and Baked Potato shops fitted out like medieval lists. Or what Finn believed medieval lists would look like.

  “Give me the sword. I’ll show you two ways to grip it. Which is your stronger hand?”

  “Right.” Finn hesitated not wanting to give up possession of the two-handed sword, but finally relinquished his hold on the weapon. He rubbed his chest, feeling angst he didn’t understand. He wanted to grab the sword back. He hated seeing it in the other man’s hands.

  Douglas narrowed his eyes then started the lesson without commenting on Finn’s reluctance. “Space your hands as you would on an axe handle with your right hand under the cross guard and the left just above the pommel like so.” Douglas demonstrated. “With the second grip, the forefinger of your right hand will be locked over the cross guard thusly.”

  Douglas returned the sword, and the moonstone in its center winked in the sunlight. Finn inhaled deeply surprised by the intensity of relief he felt with the claymore’s cold steel in his hands again.

  “Once you practice the grips we’ll move on to the guards. I’ll teach you where to place your body and feet for the best footwork execution. Then we’ll discuss the positioning of the weapon to facilitate successful attacks and defense.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “What the—” The man’s eyes widened and he spun on his heel and stared into the narrow alley between the two shops to the street.

  “Is something wrong?” Finn asked.

  “No. Let’s continue.” Douglas turned back, gripped the sword, and moved one of Finn’s hands to a better position. Then his gaze slid back to the alley and he frowned.