by Amy Vansant
Broch stood. “Move. Let me up.”
“I’m listening,” she hissed.
“Let me up. If something happens I’m strong enough tae open the door and get up there at them.”
She stared down at him for a moment, her eyes aflame with determination, before she relented. “Fine.”
He stepped back to let her drop to the floor and then scurried up the rungs. He was nearly to the top when the sound of a gunshot nearly made him fall.
The dogs both let out a loud yip and Catriona gasped. He locked eyes with her.
“Run,” he said, before slamming the trapdoor with his palm.
A second blast roared and Broch slipped a rung as a bullet struck the open door above his head.
“Broch,” called Catriona below him.
Broch hauled himself upward once more and popped his head from the hole like a gopher. He caught a glimpse of Thorn, sitting up on the ground, now twisting away from him to return his focus to Sean. Sean sat at an odd angle, his back against the chair they’d seen earlier. Blood stained his shirt.
Thorn lowered his gun towards Sean.
“No.” Broch leaped from his spot on the ladder and into the basement. He charged Thorn and tackled him, jerking his aim from Sean’s still body. Another shot rang out and a bullet struck the ceiling before the gun skittered across the dirt toward the stairs.
Straddling Thorn, Broch swung. The big man’s cheekbone collapsed beneath the force of his blow as if his face was made of papier-mâché.
Reaching up, Thorn grasped Broch’s shirt, his eyes wide with fury. His jaw worked in its ragged path, but Broch heard nothing but a wet, gurgling breath.
Another gun blast exploded in the shallow basement.
Broch covered his head.
Feeling nothing strike him, he peered from beneath his arm to find Catriona at the bottom of the stairs, Thorn’s gun in her hand. Another handgun tumbled down the stairs and dropped to the dirt. A man’s body collapsed on the steps.
“Nice shot.”
It was Sean’s voice. His eyes were open and locked on Catriona. “The others are gone, but they’ll be back soon. We need to get moving.” Sean struggled to stand and Broch leapt to his feet to assist. He tried to remove the zip ties on Sean’s wrists, but found the material unusually strong.
“Check his pockets,” said Sean, nodding towards Thorn.
Broch did so and retrieved a Leatherman pocket knife. He showed it to Sean, hoping it was something useful.
“That opens into a knife,” said Sean.
Broch squinted at Sean and Catriona huffed and plucked the knife from his hands. Opening it, she cut the plastic bands and threw her arms around her adopted father.
Broch watched the old man wince.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” she said.
“You know you can’t get rid of me.”
Broch turned and stared down at Thorn.
“What about him?”
Sean released Catriona and looked down on his old foe.
Thorn’s body had gone slack, his eyes glazed.
“He’s dead, lad. Drowned in his own face.”
Catriona winced. “What? Ew.”
Broch turned his attention back to Sean and watched the blood soak into his shirt.
“Yer wounded, old man.”
Sean glanced down. “Not mortally.”
“How dae ye ken?”
Sean chuckled. “If I were dying, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The local police allowed Broch and Catriona to stay in nearby Knoxville while they sorted out the mess at Thorn’s hideaway. Catriona came up with the idea to tell the police that Thorn had been trying to muscle his way into the Hollywood drug scene. Since Thorn was the best known drug dealer in the county, no one doubted he was capable of all they described, and the terrible ligature marks on Sean’s wrists and ankles, as well as the gunshot wound to his upper chest, went far in convincing them their kidnapping story was true.
The poodles were picked up by private car at the police station. When Catriona called Lulu to tell her what a disaster her poor planning had nearly been for the dogs, the star made a grunting noise that could have been mistaken for an apology. Catriona took what she could get.
They’d been assured that Sean was stable at Vanderbilt University Medical Center hospital and that they’d be allowed to visit in the morning. The police drove Broch and Catriona out of Campbell county for their safety and dropped them off at the Knoxville Hilton.
After over twenty-four hours in a plane, the woods, a tunnel and a police station, all Catriona could think about was a hot shower and a long night’s sleep. It didn’t help that Broch couldn’t stop asking questions about the police, the police car, hospitals—everything he saw that didn’t exist in the mid-eighteen hundreds. It was a little like babysitting a three-year-old. By the time they reached the hotel, she’d forbidden him to ask any more questions.
After sleeping in the woods on a shared kilt, she didn’t see the point of getting separate rooms. Instead she requested one with two queen beds.
She considered it a sort of wishful compromise.
“So the queen slept here?” asked Broch as they rode the elevator to the seventeenth floor.
“What?”
“She said we’d have the queen’s bed. The lassie downstairs.”
“Queen is a size of bed. Beds can be twin, full, queen or king size.”
“Hm.”
“No more questions. Remember?”
“Aye. Sorry.” He put his hand over his mouth to show his restraint.
She tilted her head back and closed her eyes.
I am going to fall asleep on my feet.
“Hm,” grunted Broch again as the elevator doors opened.
Catriona walked into the hallway and began searching for their room, desperate to ignore whatever inane question Broch was pushing to make. When he grunted again, she could take it no more and whirled to face him.
“What? Why do you keep making that noise?”
He waved her away. “Och, ‘tis nothing.”
“Then stop.”
“Aye.”
She located the door and slid the card through the reader. The lights flashed red and Broch grunted again.
She rested her forehead on the door and mumbled. “What? Just say it.”
“Whit?”
“What do you want to know?”
“It’s just—ah was thinking—shouldn’t it be prince or princess bed, queen and king?”
She squinted. “What?”
“The beds. Or, mebbie, yer king and queen have twins?”
Catriona took a deep breath.
I should have gotten two rooms.
She turned to him. “You mean the bed sizes?”
“Aye.”
“Twin beds come in pairs; that’s why they’re called twin. There’s also full beds. It all has little to do with kings and queens and we don’t have either anyway. We have presidents.”
“Presidents,” he echoed.
She ran the card again, the lights flashed green, and she pushed inside. Setting down the bag of necessities she’d bought at the hotel store, she opened the shades and took a moment to study the minibar offerings.
“They should probably call them president beds then, don’t you think?”
It sounded as if Broch’s voice rang from an echo chamber. She heard the sound of running water and realized he was already in the shower.
“You bastard. Who said you get a shower first?” she shouted at the partially closed door.
“Hey, howfur did ye open the door with that little white square?”
“Howfur—”
Catriona released a little frustrated scream and peeled back the top cover of one of the beds. She flopped down on it, plotting her revenge.
Catriona smiled. She felt warm and cozy. Something smelled amazing, like lemon and basil. Her fingers touched something soft a
nd fuzzy wrapped around her waist.
She opened her eyes.
The morning sun shone through the drapes. Looking down, she realized the furry wrap around her waist was Broch’s arm, his hand cupping her breast. She could hear his steady breathing, feel it ruffling her hair.
I’m the little spoon.
She pulled away from him and tumbled out of bed. Broch’s eyes popped open and he lifted his fist, ready to repel attackers. His eyes seemed to focus on her and he smiled.
“Good morning, lassie.”
“Good morning? Why are you in bed with me?”
“Ah found ye asleep on top of the covers. Ah was keeping ye warm. The poodles weren’t here to dae it.”
She rubbed her eyes. “I can’t believe I fell asleep. What time is it?” She looked at the clock and saw it was seven-thirty. “We have to go see Sean.”
“Aye.” He stretched and rolled onto his back beneath the covers.
She noted the pitch of a tent where his crotch area lay and twisted her lips to the right. “You’re naked under there, aren’t you.”
He put his hand over the lump. “Aye. Sorry. That happens in the morn. It tisn’t ye.”
“Oh well gosh, thanks.”
“I mean ah’m not trying tae bother ye.”
She smelled dirt and realized the lovely smell to which she’d awoken had been him. She still smelled like forest and tunnel.
“And I smell terrible. I never got my shower.”
He nodded. “That tae.”
She jerked the pillow off the other queen bed and threw it at him and he deflected it, laughing.
Chapter Thirty
“How did you get here?”
Sean stared up at Brochan from his hospital bed. He seemed in good spirits and the color had returned to the old man’s cheeks.
“Ah sneaked oot while she was in the shower and the lady in the big hall downstairs called me a car.”
“Did you pay the driver?”
Broch tapped himself on the forehead with the heel of his palm. “Och. That would explain how come he seemed sae angry with me.”
Sean patted his hand “You’ll get the hang of it.”
Brochan grimaced and steeled himself to ask the question he’d been eager to share.
“Yer book said ah was yer son.”
Sean’s eyes watered. “You are. I can feel it. And you’re the spitting image of me at your age. Maybe not as handsome—”
Broch scoffed. “Ye hasnae seen me with mah hairspray.”
Sean laughed and then grabbed his side. “Ow. Stop. You’re literally killing me.”
Broch pulled up a chair, turned it around and sat. “Whit happened? How come did ye leave our time?”
Sean sighed. “Thorn killed your mother and I thought you as well. There was a battle between his people and the ones I swore to protect; Rob Roy’s people. I knew Thorn would be there. I found him on the field and I had him dead to rights—and then—”
Sean’s gaze drifted.
“Whit?”
“I—I heard a voice calling my name. I lost my concentration for a split second and Thorn ran me clean through.”
“And ye dinnae die?”
“No. Time traveling heals. I traveled to live. I didn’t think I had any reason to stay, anyway.”
“And Thorn came with ye?”
Sean nodded. “It was an accident. Though it couldn’t have happened to a nicer fella. The jump killed him. Slowly, but it did.”
Broch took a moment to digest the information. “Ye say time traveling heals?”
“Yes. Time heals all wounds. Ha. I like to think it was one of us who said that first.”
Broch touched his side. “Time dinnae heal me.”
Sean nodded. “Ah. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that. Do you remember how you were injured?”
Broch shook his head. “Ah dinnae.”
“What about your eye? That didn’t heal the way it should have either.”
Broch touched his scar. “That ah mind. A man on a horse. A man in black who killed mah mothers. I think ah was a boy.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
“Na. He wore a hood and it all happened so fast. But his arm—it was made of metal, inside.”
“Inside?”
“My sword sliced the flesh of his hand and beneath the peeled flesh was metal.”
“And this man cut you across your eye?”
“Aye.”
“Then what?”
Broch shrugged. “Ah dinnae remember.”
Sean looked away.
“Whit is it?”
“Time travel doesn’t heal the wounds we give each other. But—it’s impossible. I killed the last of the Quislings.”
“The whit?”
“The Quislings—traitors. I don’t know who this metal man is. We need to find out, discover if the same man stabbed your side, and—”
“There you are.” Catriona walked in, sending the door swinging, her expression lit with frustration.
Sean blanched.
“And whit?” Broch shook his father’s arm, doing his best to block out Catriona’s interruption.
The old man’s voice dropped low. “—and protect her at all costs.”
Broch’s eyes grew wide. “Catriona?”
“What?” asked Catriona, leaning in gingerly to offer Sean a hug.
“Nothing. It’s so good to see you,” said Sean.
Catriona glared at Broch. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
Broch grunted. “Och. Ah cannae wait for ye all day, wummin.”
She stood and pointed a finger at him. “Hey now, Kilty. You better watch it with that wummin stuff. I’m not one of your tavern wenches.”
He scowled. “Whit tavern wenches?”
She ignored him and turned her attention to Sean. “So, they said you’re doing well and we can leave soon. You have a lot of explaining to do, Ryft.”
Sean nodded. “I’m sure.”
“Like is your name Sean or Ryft?”
Sean sighed. “Ryft. I called myself Sean when I arrived here because everyone thought I was Irish. It was better than Paddy.”
Catriona pressed on. “Where did—”
Sean held up a palm. “Easy. I have plenty of time to answer all your questions.”
She bit her lip. “But that leads me to one question I need to ask now…”
He grimaced. “Fine. One.”
She looked from Sean to Broch and back again. “Are you both sticking around for a while? Or should I expect to wake up and find you whisked away through time and space?”
Sean smiled. “We’ll be around for a bit. I think we have a lot to do.”
She grinned and rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with two dirty time travelers.”
Broch straightened. “Ah’m nae dirty.”
“And I have bad news for you, dear,” added Sean.
“What’s that?”
Sean placed his hand on hers.
“You might be the dirtiest of us all.”
Broch watched Catriona’s jaw drop.
THE END
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Kilty Conscience
Kilty Romantic Suspense: Book Two
Amy Vansant
©2017 by Amy Vansant. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by any means, without the permission of the author. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1546721925
Library of Congress: 2017907852
Vansant Creations, LLC / Amy Vansant
Annapolis, MD
http://www.AmyVansant.com
Cover art by Steven Novak
; Copy editing by Carolyn Steele.
Dedication
For the fans who keep me writing and help me name my characters when they’re being mysterious.
Chapter One
Brochan watched her from a distance, her dark hair streaming behind her as she galloped across the glen upon a chestnut mare.
Like a princess from a fairytale.
Over her shoulder, she flashed a smiled.
He urged on his mount.
Though he found himself increasingly fascinated with the other rider, their horses weren’t fond of each other. His gelding nipped at her mare’s neck when they rode side by side, so he’d fallen back.
What a happy accident to gain such a lovely view.
Reaching a lone oak, she reined in her horse and dismounted. He joined her, leaving his gelding on the opposite side of the great oak so the horses didn’t antagonize one another. Both creatures dipped their heads to graze. No friends or foes when there was grass to be eaten.
The woman stared across the glen at Edinburgh castle, her back to him.
“We should return. People will blether,” he said.
She glanced at him, the light in her eyes dancing with mischief. “You worry too much. No one saw us. And it’s no matter. I’m from America. Here, they already think I’m scandalous for one reason or another.”
He smiled and rested a hand on her hip, leaning close to whisper in her ear. “But it’s mah duty tae protect yer honor.”
She spun and placed her hands on his chest. “Then I have nothing to fear, do I?”
She tilted back her head to smile at him and he kissed her. He couldn’t not.
“Look whit ye made me dae,” he said.
She slipped away from him, laughing. Patting her mare, she fussed with the bridle. “It’s eighteen thirty three. Times are changing.”
He frowned.
Eighteen thirty three?
“Catriona, whit did ye say?”
He reached out to touch her shoulder and she faced him, scowling. “What did you call me?”
Something about her had changed. He withdrew his hand and wiped his eyes. Refocusing, he saw her staring at him, but her features remained blurry.