A Highlander in Her Past

by Maeve Greyson

  Trish stared at him; disbelief dropped her chin to her chest. Was he seriously thinking about climbing back into bed with her? Naked? She had two words for the man: Hell. No. Trish tossed the metal candlestick to the floor with a resounding thunk. Waving a hand toward the door, she slid down into the covers. “You can sleep all you want. Out there. Somewhere. In another room.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing.” Trish rolled over on her side with her back toward Maxwell. “You said you wouldn’t foist yourself where you weren’t wanted.”

  “Lass—”

  Pulling the covers up around her ears, Trish shook her head down deeper into the pillow. “Find another place to sleep, Maxwell. Go foist yourself somewhere else.”

  Chapter Eight

  Trish centered the door facing between her shoulder blades, leaned hard against the wooden beam and slid her body up and down. Damn. She hated wool. Even with a linen tunic between her skin and the borrowed dress, the heavy weave scratched her skin like a branch of stinging nettles. Trish didn’t care what Ciara advised. As soon as she figured out where they’d stashed them, she was switching back into her own clothes.

  Giving up on the useless rubbing, Trish grabbed the neckline of the dress and yanked it back up into place. The dress’s previous owner must’ve been at least two sizes bigger because there was plenty of room to spare. She smoothed her hands along the darted seams running down the sides. Trish frowned, noticing the unusually small circumference of her waist. She must’ve lost a few pounds while she’d been out of commission. Peeping inside the front of the gown, Trish shook her head. Yep. The girls had definitely shrunk at least a full cup size. The boobs were always the first to go.

  Her stomach growled as the warm yeasty fragrance of baking bread wafted under her nose. Trish sniffed in an approving lungful of the mouth-watering scent, swallowing hard against her empty belly flooding her taste buds with anticipation. She was starving. Maybe if she followed her nose, she’d score a buttered crust of the delicious stuff.

  Trish trailed her hands against the pale gray wall of the hallway, concentrating on maintaining her balance. Her stomach growled a louder protest as a fresh wave of savory aromas floated through the air. Pressing a hand against her gurgling waist, Trish curled her toes in the soft doeskin slippers as a brief wave of dizziness stopped her in her tracks. The roughly woven carpet centered on the floor didn’t look like it would be a very adequate cushion for a fall. Trish leaned against the wall and closed her eyes until the spinning sensation passed. She wasn’t about to bust her butt in the hallway on her first foray out of her room. She inhaled deeply through her nose and blew out short controlled bursts from between tightly pursed lips. “I can do this. I’m just a little weak. I’ve just got to get my land legs.”

  “What the hell are ye doin’, woman? Are ye tryin’ to end up back in the sickbed?”

  Trish jumped at the sound of the booming voice and flattened her back against the wall. Maxwell. She should’ve known. He’d been a bit bossy ever since she’d ousted him from her room when she’d first regained her health. Bracing her hands against the stone blocks at her back, she bit back one of her favorite expletives and opted for good old sarcasm instead. “So, you think startling the living crap out of me is going to help matters?”

  Maxwell’s scowl deepened, his bushy eyebrows knotted tighter over an irritated gaze. “Ciara said ye wished to join the family downstairs. She also said she told ye that I’d be up here soon to fetch ye and help ye navigate the staircase. Ye’re still a bit weak and ye don’t know yer way around the keep. Do ye never listen to what’s best for ye?”

  Trish flattened her palms tighter against the grainy surface of the wall and steadied her balance by shifting her feet a few more inches apart. “I believe I know what’s best for me a lot better than anyone else around here.” Irritation fueled more adrenaline into her veins, flushing her skin with prickly heat. “And I know my way around this keep as well as you do. Back in my time, I usually stay here about five months out of the year.” Lordy, she wished she’d found her clothes. This wool was eating her alive. Trish slid one hand up the bell-shaped sleeve of the other arm and scratched as high as she could reach.

  Maxwell glared at her, thumbs hooked in the wide black belt around his waist and feet spread as though he were about to tackle any entity happening along. He didn’t say a word, just narrowed his eyes into a fierce stare and slightly tilted his head.

  “Don’t stand there glaring at me like that. That look might scare children but it doesn’t faze me in the least.” Trish yanked her sleeve back into place, pushed away from the wall and turned to walk away. The red weave of the carpeting centered in the hallway heaved up like a rolling wave, undulating back and forth in her field of vision with a nauseating spin. Trish slapped a hand across her mouth and swallowed hard against the rising bile burning at the back of her throat. She staggered sideways. The walls spun faster and dodged away from her extended hand. Trish closed her eyes as a pair of rock hard arms circled about her shoulders and scooped behind her knees to pull her against a warm firm chest.

  “Ye’ve not eaten in days, woman. Ye’re weak as a newborn calf.” Maxwell settled Trish more comfortably against his body, his voice lowering to a gentler scold as he leveled his gaze with hers. “And ye’re a damn sight too stubborn for yer own well-being.”

  The steady beat of Maxwell’s strong pulse thumped through the scratchy folds of wool and warmed Trish’s flesh. Safety. Possessiveness. Caring. Claiming traits intuitively transmitted into her awareness with every beat of Maxwell’s heart. Trish shivered against the mesmerizing comfort she felt while cocooned in Maxwell’s arms. What the hell was wrong with her? He was just a hard-headed man. Trish squirmed against his broad chest. “I’m fine. Put me down. My head just started swimming a bit because I turned around too fast.”

  Maxwell’s warm breath caressed her cheek as his arms tightened their hold. His full lips flattened into a determined line beneath the curls of his reddish moustache as he swung into a long legged stride.

  Trish wiggled again and poked his shoulder, struggling against the annoying urge to relinquish the fight and snuggle deeper into his arms. “I said you could put me down. I’m not dizzy anymore. I can take it from here.”

  Silence. Maxwell stared straight ahead, swinging Trish back and forth in his arms with the rolling rhythm of his gait.

  “Are you ignoring me?” Trish poked him again.

  Maxwell’s bottom lip twitched but he still didn’t say a word. He just hitched her higher against his chest and sidled sideways down the curving staircase.

  “Latharn was right. You are an insufferable asshole.” Trish yanked her arms into an irritated cross over her chest. One way or another, she’d show Maxwell Sullivan that fourteenth-century behavior toward women wasn’t going to work with her. “And I’m gonna tell Ramsay that his father described you perfectly.”

  Maxwell’s bottom lip twitched again, as did the corner of his right eye. Trish couldn’t tell if the man was about to growl or burst into booms of laughter. “Would you please do me the courtesy of responding?”

  A quiet chuckle rumbled up from Maxwell’s chest. “Sorry, lass. I guess ye could say I was lost in my thoughts.”

  “Lost in your thoughts?” Trish huffed. Damn him. How the hell could he be lost in his thoughts while lugging her down an endless flight of steps? Trish shifted her shoulders against the hardened muscles cradling her body. Damn him straight to hell! The more Maxwell pissed her off, the worse the infernal wool irritated her skin. She couldn’t decide which was worse: burning with fury or prickling from the attack of the flesh-eating wool. “Well since I’m apparently too boring to hold your attention, would you mind telling me what you were thinking?”

  One corner of Maxwell’s mouth trembled beneath the shadow of his moustache as he paused on the first landing of the curved staircase. “I was just remembering a mare I once had. Ye’re quite a bit like her.”

&nb
sp; She reminded him of a horse? Trish clawed at the itching skin burning at the back of her neck. If he ever set her down, she was going to kill him—after she stripped off the torturous dress setting her skin on fire. “And how, pray tell, do I remind you of a mare you once owned?”

  Maxwell’s face finally split into a blinding smile as he settled Trish on the carved wooden bench waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “My sweet little mare was quite the beauty. All who saw her loved her. But ye’d best take care when drawing close to her stall or ye’d discover the viciousness of her bite.”

  The viciousness of her bite? Trish clenched her teeth with an irritated grind, as she rubbed her itching back against the jagged carvings of the bench. She’d show him bite. “You’re quite the charmer, Maxwell. No wonder your sweet little mare tried to bite you. Whatever happened to her?”

  Maxwell grinned and before Trish realized what he was doing, slid his hand down the back of her dress and scratched the elusive burning itch prickling just out of reach between her shoulder blades. The very itch she’d been dying to scratch ever since donning the cursed dress.

  Oh lord have mercy. Please don’t stop. Trish shivered and without thinking, flexed her back and turned into Maxwell’s hand. “Lower and more to the right.”

  Maxwell’s grin stretched wider but he complied, treating her burning flesh to the heavenly relief of a well directed scratch. “Aye. Yer just like my little mare. Ye’re both divine sweetness and fully tamed as long as ye’re scratched in all the right places.”

  Trish released an ecstatic shudder.

  Leaning forward, she braced her hands on her knees and shifted her body into his magical fingers like a cat directing its master’s caress. “Less talk and more scratching. Every time you open your mouth, all you do is piss me off.”

  Maxwell shook as his deep laughter exploded through the halls of the keep. Tucking his chin with a single nod, his eyes sparkled with amusement as he angled closer and adjusted the direction of his satisfying touch.

  “As ye wish, my little mare. As ye wish.”

  Chapter Nine

  Maxwell scanned the winding paths trailing about the private gardens. Thank the gods no one appeared to be about. He returned his gaze to Trish’s shapely derriere, seductively swinging from side to side in her revealing pair of close fitting trews.

  God’s beard. Maxwell scrubbed his face with one hand, ending the motion with an absent-minded pulling of hair on his chin. Did all the women of Trish’s time walk about in such revealing clothes? Lore a’mighty. From the back, the skin tight clothing showed the cleft of her buttocks and the view of the front hinted at the treasures waiting to be enjoyed.

  Maxwell adjusted his swollen member to a less obvious fold of his kilt and prayed for a sudden blast of cold Highland wind to give him some relief. Perhaps he’d best remain outside even after Trish decided to go in for supper.

  Trish’s laughter rang out as she lobbed an odd-shaped ball across the garden to Ramsay.

  Maxwell grinned as he eased closer, taking care to move down an alternate path shielded by a row of carefully planted firs. The young trees barely reached his chin, the perfect height to observe Trish while she took in a little fresh air and played with the boys.

  Maxwell chuckled at how Ramsay and Keagan took right to the lumpy ball Trish had fashioned from scraps of leather. What was the word she’d used to describe the knobby orb? Base ball? Aye…that was it. Maxwell moved soundlessly closer to the trio, biting back the urge to laugh as Ramsay spewed a Gaelic curse word as the ball flew past his head.

  “Ramsay?” Trish shook a finger at the red cheeked lad. “I’m not positive about what you just said but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to use that word.”

  Ramsay ducked his head as he turned to run for the ball but not before shooting a mischievous wink to Keagan.

  “I saw that, Ramsay,” Trish warned as she pulled her collar closer about her neck.

  Maxwell edged his way through an opening in the firs and stepped out into the clearing. “The wind grows colder. Do ye no’ think ye’d best be coming inside?”

  Trish squeaked and jumped aside, one hand pressed against her throat. “Will you please stop sneaking up on me?” Waving a hand toward the two boys at the other end of the clearing, she shook her head. “And no, we’re not ready to come inside. We’ve only been tossing around the ball for a little while. If you’re cold, go on in. I know the way back to the kitchens.”

  Maxwell snorted, squared his shoulders and turned into the wind. “I’m no’ cold. I’m a Highlander, lass. I find the bite of the breeze refreshing.” And thank the gods for the chilly air cooling the stubborn member between his legs, or else he’d ne’er be able to walk. Maxwell shifted his stance and forced himself to keep his gaze fixed on Trish’s face. “The color’s high upon your cheeks and your wee fingers are red with the cold. It’s no’ been that long since ye were unwell. Ye need to take care.”

  Trish sniffed against the cold and pulled her sleeves down farther over her hands. “My fingers are a bit numb with the cold. I wish my gloves had followed me down the rabbit hole.”

  “Rabbit hole?”

  “Never mind.” Trish grinned with a shake of her head.

  Maxwell caught the ball, scowling at Keagan for lobbing it toward his head. Rubbing a thumb over the rough seams of the leather orb, Maxwell grinned at the uneven stitches. “I hope the stitches on your clothes are better than these else they’ll never last.”

  Trish caught the corner of her lip between her teeth and hugged Ramsay to her when he ran to her side. “I don’t sew my own clothing. I buy it. Ready made. In a shop.”

  “Yep.” Ramsay bobbed his head up and down in complete agreement. “Her and Mama buy a lot a stuff online too.”

  “Online?” Maxwell frowned. What the hell was online? Sometimes Trish and the boy said the oddest things. The future must be quite different.

  “Yeah. Ye know. Online with computers and stuff.” Ramsay pulled out from under the curve of Trish’s arm and motioned out the shape of a box in the air.

  Trish took the ball out of Maxwell’s grasp and shoved it into Ramsay’s hands. “Enough, Ramsay. Remember what we talked about. Why don’t you and Keagan play a little more ball and then it’s back to work.”

  Ramsay’s smile disappeared and he tucked his chin against his chest. “Yes, ma’am.”

  As Ramsay scampered away to join his cousin, Maxwell searched Trish’s face. “What did ye mean when ye told the boy to remember what ye’d said? He didna say anything amiss.” An uneasiness stirred in Maxwell’s gut. Secrets were rarely ever good.

  Trish shrugged as she shuffled her feet in the thin layer of snow coating the flagstones of the path. “Ramsay and I have to be careful while we’re here. It could be dangerous if we changed the past.”

  “How?” Trish’s suddenly wary tone stirred Maxwell’s already growing sense of uneasiness. “What do ye fear, Trish? Ye must know that none of us would ever allow anything to harm either you or the boy.”

  “I know.” Trish edged a few steps back and worried a hand through the longer length of her unruly curls. “It’s one of those things that’s hard to explain.” Trish paused, frowning as she struggled to continue. “It’s like the perpetual riddle: if I go back in time and accidently kill my father before he meets my mother, how will I be born to go back in time to accidently kill my father?”

  “God’s beard, woman. What the hell kind of madness is that?” Maxwell sucked in a lungful of the icy winter breeze. Surely, the cold air would clear the confusion from his head.

  “Think about it. It makes my point.” Trish tucked her hands up into her armpits and squinted against the rising wind peppered with bits of snow. “Ramsay and I have to be extremely careful about anything we say or do while we’re here in the past. The consequences of our actions could be disastrous.”

  While they’re here in the past. An unfamiliar weight pulled against the corners of Maxwell’s heart. Trish and
the boy didn’t plan on staying. Maxwell ran his tongue across the base of his moustache, licking away the melting snowflakes trapped in the hair. Why the hell did it bother him so much? The fact that they might go away? “When do ye plan on leaving? You and the boy.”

  Trish brought her reddened hands up to her face, cupped them together over her mouth and blew out a steamy breath. Rubbing them together, she raised her shoulders in the faintest shrug and stared down at the ground. “I don’t know when we’ll be able to leave. Ramsay’s got to figure out how to get us back since it was kind of an accident that we ended up here in the first place.”

  “I see.” Well no. He really didn’t see. He’d just begun to grow accustomed to the fact that the keep seemed a much more interesting place with the addition of the fiery redhead. Maxwell unwound his plaid from about his shoulders and wrapped it around Trish. “I know ye canna stand wool but the cold grows stronger and that bit of cloth ye’ve got around yer body will do no good against the storm.” Maxwell paused, his face close to Trish’s hair as he tightened the cloth around her shoulders. Damn. But the woman smelled fine. She had an alluring sweetness about her, like the spices Ciara used in the treats she fashioned during Yule. Trish’s wild curls blew against his skin. Maxwell closed his eyes, forcing himself not to bury his face in the silk of Trish’s tousled hair.

  “Thanks, Maxwell.” Trish cleared her throat and eased a step back.

  Maxwell opened his eyes; his gaze centered on Trish’s flushed cheeks and nervously shifting eyes. Trish wouldn’t meet his gaze. Her focus darted everywhere except for Maxwell’s face. Surely, she could feel it too. It couldna be just him.

  Maxwell reached out, cupping her chilled face in the palm of his hand; his thumb caressed the velvet of her cheek. He had to know. Steeling himself, Maxwell leaned in and bent his head to hers. With the barest touch, he tasted her mouth, sampled the softness of her lips. Relief flooded through him as the weight of her hand eased up the side of his neck and pulled him closer still. Aye. She felt it too.