Highlander's Love: A Scottish Historical Time Travel Romance (Called by a Highlander Book 4)

by Mariah Stone

  A thread of hope moved in Owen’s chest. “Mackenzie land,” he said.

  “Aye.”

  Owen swallowed. Whose side was Muireach on? The Sassenachs had taken Stirling from the Scots at the beginning of the war, so if Muireach worked in the castle, he could be on the English side, like the MacDougalls. But he was a Highlander. The Bruce had spent some time during the winter of 1306–1307 in Eilean Donan Castle, the seat of Mackenzie clan. Was it possible Muireach was still a supporter of the Bruce? Owen had to be very carefully now.

  “Are ye a Mackenzie?” Owen said.

  “Aye. From my mother’s side. Came to Stirling as a young’un. But I’m a Highlander to the bone.”

  Owen looked for a twitch, for a hitch in his breathing, for something that would tell him if Muireach was lying. There was nothing.

  “My wife and I were taken prisoner at Inverlochy,” Owen said. “De Bourgh tried to take the castle back from King Robert the Bruce. He tortured her.” He gestured at Amber, and Muireach looked over to where she lay in the cell. “I'm afraid if she doesn’t get treated, she’ll die.”

  Muireach didn’t respond. He seemed indifferent. Owen was beginning to lose hope.

  “Ye must be careful who ye talk to,” Muireach said.

  He scoffed, took the torch, and walked away.

  “Wait!” Owen called. “Please, help her. She’s an innocent woman, she has nothing to do with the Bruce or the English. My family will reward ye if ye help us… Muireach!”

  But the hunchback didn’t turn, he only sped up. Owen gripped the iron grating and shook it. Would Muireach tell de Bourgh that Owen had tried to bribe him? Would de Bourgh punish Owen or Amber? Had he just made things worse?

  The heavy door to the dungeons rattled and closed. Owen cursed and kicked the loaf of bread. It bounced against the wall and fell on the floor again. He shouldn’t have done that. It was their only food, and he and Amber both needed strength. He picked up the bread and ate a bit of it. It was hard, stale, and tasted moldy. But it was food.

  He picked up the waterskin and sniffed. Water. He drank hurriedly, only now realizing how thirsty he was. He could easily finish it all, but he had to leave something for Amber. She’d wake up eventually, and she’d need food and water more than him so she could recover. Hell, she’d need all the help she could get.

  Owen came to sit on the floor by her side. Gently, he stroked her curly hair. It was a little wiry but soft to the touch. He studied her face. God, she was beautiful. Those big, slightly slanted eyes with long, curly eyelashes. The full and kissable lips, her wide mouth… He wanted to make her smile, to see how bonnie she’d be if she smiled. She had an elegant neck he craved to kiss.

  “Please, live,” he whispered. “Ye must live.”

  “I wish I were dead,” she croaked.

  Owen sat straighter. “Lass?”

  Her lashes fluttered, and she opened one eye.

  “Jesus,” she said. “My back is on fire. Did the son of a bitch peel off my skin?”

  “Nae. But I will peel off his.”

  “It wasn’t de Bourgh that flogged me. He has a man for that.”

  “Both of them, then.”

  “I don’t remember anything after the first several lashes. I think I passed out.”

  “Ye have about a dozen as far as I can tell.”

  “How bad?”

  Owen inhaled sharply. “’Tis nae good, lass. They all bleed. And I dinna have anything to help ye.”

  Amber closed her eye and swallowed. “Well, damn.”

  “I have water and bread, though. Here, try to drink.” Owen held the waterskin to her mouth and tilted it. Amber drank some and then coughed.

  “God, I’d give my arm for some Advil,” she muttered.

  Ad— What? That must be something from her time. But that wasn’t important right now.

  “Shush. Save yer strength. Eat.” He broke off a piece of bread and brought it to her mouth. She moved her arm under the cloak but hissed, winced, and stopped. Then she bit into the piece and chewed slowly.

  “That’s awful,” she said through a mouthful.

  “Aye. When we get out of here, I’ll make ye my famous field stew. It tastes only a little bit better than this.”

  A weak smile lit up her face. Owen’s breath disappeared from his body at how beautiful was.

  “You said, ‘when’ we get out of here… Do you still believe we will?”

  He didn’t know what he believed. But he had to make sure they had hope. Or there wouldn’t be a point to any of this.

  “Aye,” he said. “I swear to ye, we will get out.”

  The door to the dungeon rattled again, and there was the sound of steps shuffling through the hall. Owen frowned and peered into the darkness. He didn’t want to leave Amber’s side in case they’d come back for her.

  But it was Muireach who stopped in front of the bars and glared at Amber.

  “The lass woke up,” he said. “Better if she were asleep.”

  He passed a cloth pouch through the bars and put it on the floor with a dull clunk. Owen stood and went to pick it up.

  “What’s this?” Owen said.

  “Put the salve on her cuts. It’ll help her heal and protect against rot. There’s a drink that’ll dull her pain. Give it to her first. Put the salve on when she sleeps, or she will scream, and guards will come. There’s also a bone needle and catgut thread if her cuts need stitching. Give her more of the drink if ye do, or she’ll wake up from the pain. Also, there’s some boiled mutton and bannock for her and for ye to keep yer strength up. Ye will need it.”

  Owen came closer to the bars. He was ready to kiss the old man.

  “Thank ye,” he said. “Highlander to Highlander. Thank ye.”

  Muireach faltered. “We both ken who the true king is. ’Tisna the old Edward, and ’tisna his son. I canna do much from Stirling, but I can help a fellow countryman. ’Tis long overdue that the English leave our lands. And God be my witness, I will help ye both escape or die trying.”

  Owen looked back at Amber. She was smiling.

  “I told ye we will get out of here,” he said to her.

  “But first,” Muireach said, “ye must make sure she doesna die.”

  Chapter 9

  Amber blinked against the fog. Something bothered her, a sensation at her back. Not quite pain, or maybe a distant pain. She was cold. Her head weighed a hundred pounds, and she couldn’t feel her body. Through her blurred vision and the darkness, she noticed someone on their knees by her side.

  She shifted her head to look at them better, and the movement sent a sharp agony ripping through her back.

  Owen. With the name, her memories came back. The time travel. Being captured by the English.

  The lashing.

  She groaned as she remembered the sensation of torn flesh, of fire consuming her skin.

  “Lass?” Owen said. “Are ye in pain?”

  “A bit.”

  “Can ye hold on for a wee bit longer? I’m almost finished.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Stitching ye.”

  “Oh.” The word stitching caused an immediate rush of adrenaline, which sharpened all sensations. It felt like red-hot needles pierced her all over. “Is there any more of Muireach’s magical potion? It knocked me out good.”

  “Nae, I’m afraid there isna.”

  Amber took a deep breath in. “Fine. I’ll be fine. Just do it quickly.”

  “Aye. Dinna move.”

  She felt a sharp pull at the small of her back and sucked in more air.

  “Just a couple more.”

  Another sting, stronger than the one before. “Ahhh, mother of—” She bit her finger.

  “Tell me something about yerself,” Owen said. “To distract ye. Something good.”

  Something good? What was there to tell that was positive and good? One positive thing was her mother. She’d been the strongest and the kindest woman Amber had ever known. She died sever
al years ago of cancer, and after her death, Amber’s stubborn dad had given up on life.

  “Mom’s fried chicken,” Amber said. “That was so good.”

  Owen chuckled. “Fried chicken does sound verra good. Yer ma did it herself? Ye didna have a cook?”

  Oh crap. Yeah, she still needed to pretend she was from this time. Another pinching stitch caught her breath.

  “Breathe, Amber,” Owen reminded her. “Send yer breath through that pain.”

  She exhaled through the place in her lower back where it hurt. Surprisingly, that dissolved the pain and relaxed her. She kept inhaling and exhaling.

  “No. We didn’t have a cook,” she said, already regretting telling him the truth, but it was as though her tongue couldn’t stop moving. “Did you?”

  “Aye, we did. Nae a verra good one. But, aye.” He chuckled. “He hated me.”

  There was another pinch and a pull.

  “Ufffff,” Amber breathed out. “What? How can anyone hate such an angel like you?”

  Owen chuckled. “The story involves his daughter, the midsummer night bonfire, and a big raspberry bush.”

  She shook her head. “You’re a manwhore, aren’t you? I knew it.”

  She shouldn’t call him names like that. But it was as though her filter had taken a vacation. Maybe Muireach’s potion was something like a truth serum.

  “Dinna fash, lass. ’Twas nae but a kiss. I was fourteen, and she was a year younger.”

  Thankfully, he wasn’t offended. And she was relieved it wasn’t a story of seduction. Something dark twisted in her when she thought about Owen and other women.

  He chose that moment to put the needle through her again, but the pain was weaker this time.

  “That gives me an idea,” Amber said. “Let’s play a game. Two truths and a lie. Do you know it?”

  “Nae. Are ye sure ye can play games, lass?”

  “I think I absolutely need to.”

  “Aye. All right. How does the game go?”

  “I tell you two truths about me and one lie, and you need to guess which is the lie.”

  He cleared his throat. “Do ye play games like that wherever ye come from?”

  Amber’s head began clearing, and with that, pain grasped her back harder. She also suddenly realized she was completely naked from the waist up. How much of her boobs had he seen? Heat rushed to her cheeks.

  “Yeah,” she said. “We do.”

  Had the potion worn off? Would she even be able to come up with a lie?

  “Aye, let’s play this game of truths and lies.”

  “Okay. I’ll go first.”

  She was already regretting her choice of game. She’d told him as little as possible about herself, hiding the biggest truth of all—that she was from the future. She needed to be as general as possible.

  “I like apples,” she said. “Hate romantic comedy. Want to get married.”

  Ah! So she could lie to him. Good. She hadn’t been sure. Owen didn’t move for a moment, and she could feel his gaze on the back of her head like red-hot coals.

  “What’s a romantic comedy?” he said.

  Oh shoot. “It’s like theater. A story about love, and it’s funny,” she said, then muttered to herself, “and full of clichés.”

  “What did ye say?”

  “Nothing. Which one’s a lie?”

  “Why do ye nae want to get marrit?” She could feel him pinch the sides of her skin and pierce her flesh. She sucked in a sharp breath and exhaled slowly through that pain.

  “How did you guess?”

  “I dinna see ye enjoying a funny show about love, and who doesna like apples?”

  She shifted her head and looked back at him. His profile was pure concentration. His lips were tightly pressed in the midst of his scruff, his nostrils were flared, and his brows were drawn together. Despite the pain and fear she’d get an infection, the fact that this gorgeous, hunky man was closely working on her body suddenly made blood rush to her face.

  “I said dinna move, lass.” There was a hint of frustration in his voice.

  “Bossy much?” She turned her head back and laid it on her hand.

  “So why dinna ye want to get marrit?” he said and pierced her again.

  She wasn’t ready for this pain. “Ahhh!” she screamed.

  The other prisoner at the end of the dungeon screamed, too.

  Owen took her free hand and lowered his face to her. “Breathe, lass,” he said gently but firmly. His handsome, green eyes were right in front of her face, full of concern, and a lock of his blond hair fell on his forehead.

  She inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Please tell me you’re nearly done.”

  “One more stitch. Then I’m done. Tell me why ye dinna want to get marrit. My sister Marjorie didna, either. Did someone abuse ye?” His voice jumped with the last two words.

  Bryan had been angry and irritable after he’d started working closely with Major Jackson and had becoming increasingly controlling in bed. The final straw was when he’d duct-taped her to the bed and spanked her. He’d hit her so hard she couldn’t breathe, and tears had run down her cheeks. He’d stopped when she’d asked, and she had agreed to it in the first place. So was it abuse?

  “No one abused me,” she said to Owen. ”But let’s just say there are things in my past I wouldn’t want anyone to have to deal with.”

  She couldn’t imagine truly trusting anyone enough to get married to them. And in the unlikely event that there existed a man who wouldn’t try to control her and blame her for all his faults and problems, how could she ever connect her life with anyone and have children when she could be taken to prison or even sentenced to death at any moment?

  Owen hemmed. “Things in yer life,” he muttered.

  Was he daring to judge her? “Yes, things in my life,” she said. “Things you have no idea about.”

  “Aye. I havna. Because ye dinna tell me.”

  He slid the needle in her again, and she felt every excruciating detail of that pain.

  “Mhhhhhh,” she released a half scream, half moan into her hand.

  He finished quickly and then covered her with the cloak and sat on the floor by her side, crossing his legs.

  “’Tis done,” he said. “Now my turn for yer game.”

  Amber exhaled. She didn’t have any energy to play anymore, but she needed some distraction from the throbbing, burning mess that was her back.

  “Okay, champ. Bring it on.”

  He looked at her intensely. “My cock was once hard for a whole day. I shot a squirrel in the eye. And you were born in my time.”

  His words didn’t quite register at first. “What was that last one?” she mumbled.

  “Ye were born in my time. Which one is the lie?”

  Well, the good news was, she didn’t feel any pain anymore. Instinctively, she shifted her arm to push herself up and try to sit, but she felt like the stitches would explode at any moment.

  Owen glared at her. “I told ye nae to move.”

  “You know?” she whispered.

  “That ye are from the future? Aye. I ken.”

  Had Muireach’s potion caused her to lose her mind? Did it induce hallucinations? She’d accepted the idea that she’d traveled in time, but hearing it from him like it was the most normal thing in the world… Once, in Afghanistan, a bomb exploded next to the Humvee she was in. The butt of her gun had hit her in the solar plexus, and she’d been unable to breathe for a moment. She hadn’t been able to hear anything beyond the ringing in her ears. That was how she felt now.

  “How do you know?”

  “Yer clothes. Yer accent. Yer words. Yer fighting. Everything about ye. I realized it from the beginning.”

  “But—”

  “I ken others who’ve came from the future. I’ve heard an accent like yers before. United States of America, aye?”

  She felt the blood drain from her face, and cold tingles covered her skin.

  “Did you say the United State
s of America?”

  “Aye. I dinna feel at liberty to say who those people are. ’Tis nae my secret to tell.”

  “So there are more…”

  “Aye. There are more.”

  What was this? This crazy reality where people from the States had traveled back in time to medieval Scotland? Was this her life now?

  “And were they all sent by Sìneag?” she asked. “She said she’s a Highland faerie, and that she loves matchmaking people through time.”

  Owen chuckled and shook his head. “The Highlands are full of superstitions and legends. I was raised on those stories. Some people see faeries, kelpies, and magical folk behind every boulder and tree. I dinna. I havena heard of a faerie that matchmakes through time, but I have heard stories of another world—the faerie world. They have a kingdom of sorts that we people canna see. They’re invisible to us unless they want to be seen and heard. But ’tis all legends.”

  Amber bit the inside of her cheek. “Looks like a legend came to life. What about that Pictish magic she talked about?”

  Owen shrugged. “Picts were Celtic people who lived before us Scots. They’re ancient folk, and I ken only stories of them. Stories of druids, of Beira, the queen of winter, and the great hero Diarmid the Boar. ’Tis told that my clan originates from Diarmid. We Highlanders are a strange people, I suppose. We believe in our Lord Jesu Christ, and yet we dinna build a new house without planting a rowan tree somewhere by the entrance for protection against evil spirits. A groom wouldna get marrit without a blossom of white heather on his bride. A midwife opens all windows and doors in the house during childbirth and she dinna let people sit cross-legged.”

  He rose to his feet, walked towards the bars, and leaned back against them. “So, aye, I believe ye met a faerie. And I believe ancient Pictish magic sent ye back through time. So ye can stop pretending ye’re from the caliphate.”

  Accusation saturated his voice.

  What was he accusing her of? He had no idea what it was like. She scoffed. “Do you suggest I announce to everyone I’m from the future?”

  “Nae. But I dinna understand why didna ye go back through the stone while we were still in Inverlochy Castle? Isna it where ye belong?”