Swept By The Highlander: A Scottish Time Travel Romance-Highlander Forever Book 3

by Preston, Rebecca

  James was stuffing bread rolls from a plate into his pockets, and she smiled a little to see that he already had a half-eaten bread roll stuffed in his mouth. The rolls looked freshly baked, with that rustic unevenness that marked them as home-made, not as neatly uniform as the kind of rolls she usually bought from the supermarket in plastic packaging. She thought briefly of the stew she’d eaten earlier and reflected that a bread roll would have gone very nicely with it. But James was gesturing to her, and she followed him over to an open door that led into what looked like a larder.

  “The Headwoman keeps the wine they cook with in here. The good stuff’s through that trap door,” he added, jerking his head toward a trapdoor in the floor. “But it’s impossible to get down there without being spotted. And if you don’t have an excuse for being down there… well, watch out. Blair’s the scariest person I’ve ever met, and I’ve met goblins before.”

  Elena hesitated. She had an impulse to dismiss that claim as childish fantasy — her own niece and nephew were always telling her wild tales about the fairies they’d met at the bottom of the garden, the mythical creatures they’d seen on their walks to school. But there was no air of fantasy or whimsy to the way James had spoken — he said it so matter-of-factly, the way a child might mention that their family had a pet dog. And if Elena was going to believe that she’d been transported back in time to medieval Scotland, who was she to assume that goblins weren’t real?

  Another wave of dizziness hit her, and she leaned against the kitchen counter. God, how was she going to cope with any of this?

  Chapter 9

  James sidled out of the pantry and pressed a cool bottle into her hands — then murmured an apology and scurried out of the room, probably heading back to whatever chores he was avoiding in the interests of helping her. She appreciated his support — the kindness of a strange young man went some way to easing a bit of the roaring chaos in her own mind. The wine bottle was reassuring, too — she gripped the smooth glass of the neck of the bottle, a little embarrassed by how much of a relief it was to have a bottle of wine in her hand. Something familiar, in this terrifyingly new and different place.

  She moved through the kitchen with the bottle tucked unobtrusively under her tunic — James had been furtive with it, and she wasn’t completely sure this was a strictly legal move on her part. But god, she needed something to stop her from succumbing completely to a panic attack, and a bottle of cooking wine would just have to do.

  She felt a pang of guilt as she moved, searching through the ground floor of the castle for a good spot to hide. There was something about this… about using wine to self-medicate problems with anxiety… that hit her a little too close to home. Hadn’t it been just the day before that she’d been arguing with her father, telling him off for his reliance on alcohol to cope with the world? She’d fully empathized with all his problems, of course, but she still found it problematic that he relied on scotch to get him through… wasn’t she doing the exact same thing now?

  The sense of guilt in her gut was almost enough to make her march right back into the kitchen to return the bottle of cooking sherry, or whatever it was. But then she hesitated. Her father’s problems were that he wasn’t especially well-adjusted, emotionally. Her problem was that she’d been transported back in time and across the sea to medieval Scotland with no clear way to get home, no way of contacting anyone she’d ever known and loved, and no clear plan for what the hell she was going to do about it. They may have been father and daughter, but these two situations were not comparable. She’d just have to make a quiet resolution not to make a habit of drinking away her problems and get on with it.

  Feeling more confident about her plan of action, even if the guilt at being like her father hadn’t quite dissipated yet, she marched outside, figuring the best place to do some surreptitious drinking was where nobody would run into her. Sure enough, the castle wall could be followed around — she soon found a quiet little alcove where nobody seemed to be passing, and she settled herself down against the stone. It was almost pleasant, here — the stone was cool, but it had been baking in the sun enough that it wasn’t as chilly as it could have been, and she was able to rest her head against it and gaze up into the clear sky, letting the weak sunlight warm her skin. Scotland, huh? Definitely not a warm place, so far — and she had a sneaking suspicion that this was about as good as the weather got.

  Would she find out more about the seasons here? What season was it, even? It may have been summer back home in Baltimore, but it was also the twenty-first century back home in Baltimore. Impossible to tell whether she’d been dropped in the same season as the one she’d left. She supposed she should have asked James… but then again, she’d had a fair bit on her mind.

  God, what was she going to do? Every time she spent more than a few seconds thinking about her situation — even the innocent parts of it like what time of year it was — she felt her heart start to pound and the panic in her chest start to rise up and choke her, for all the world like the icy black waters of the Loch that had nearly drowned her in what she now knew was not a dream. How was she meant to get her thoughts in order and her head clear if her body insisted on entering fight-or-flight mode every time she tried? Frowning, she took a swig of the bottle of wine, wrinkling her nose a little. It was definitely cooking wine… not the kind of stuff that you’d drink unless there were no other options. For a moment, she entertained the notion of going back to the kitchen and creeping down into the cellar that James had pointed out. But there’d been something about the somber note in his voice when he’d told her about Blair, the headwoman, that warned her off the idea of trying to steal a better bottle of wine. She’d only just arrived here… probably best not to make any enemies if she could avoid it.

  God, if she hadn’t already stuffed that up. She thought back to her conversation with Anna and Nancy, frowning to herself as she took another swig of the wine. She’d been pretty rude, hadn’t she? In her defense, she had thought that they were messing with her, or trying to embroil her in some kind of stupid game… and she took solace in the fact that neither of them seemed particularly surprised by her resistance to the information they were trying to give her. They both had accents like hers, she realized with a lurch. Did that mean that they’d both been through what she was currently going through? God, she should have listened more closely to what they’d said… but she’d been so disoriented and confused, still worried about her partner back home, still trying to figure out how she was going to solve two murders that wouldn’t happen for hundreds of years.

  Now there was a disorienting thought. If it was true that she’d travelled through time, then it was also true that nobody she knew was alive right now. They wouldn’t be born for hundreds of years. Depending what year it was, it was very possible that her own city didn’t even exist yet… or at least, not in the form she remembered it. That thought made her dizzy, and she took another deep draft of the cooking wine, which was already becoming a lot more palatable as she warmed to the task of getting as drunk as possible. The sun was pleasant on her skin, the warmth matched by a gentle buzz of the liquor stirring in her body, dulling her edges, soothing the anxiety a little.

  A little, she thought, grimacing. Not enough, though. And she took another deep swig, gritting her teeth against the taste. It wasn’t that bad. Definitely something she could get used to, if she put her mind to it. She’d certainly need something to lean on if her body was going to insist on manning panic stations every time she thought about where she was.

  God, it was tempting to just resign herself to insanity. It would be a lot more comfortable to just assume that everything she was seeing, and hearing and feeling was an elaborate hallucination — maybe she’d hit her head falling down those stairs and she was lying in a hospital bed somewhere, having this very elaborate dream. She let herself believe that for a few minutes… then shook her head hard, frowning. She just couldn’t ignore the evidence of her eyes and ears like that. Ever
ything was far too vivid, far too consistent to be a dream. Why, the dreams she had could barely keep a location straight for more than a minute — her dreams tended to move seamlessly from place to place, so that one minute she’d be in her old English classroom, the next in the briefing room at the precinct, the next in her family’s summer home… This place, as wild as it was, was very consistent. Even the stone behind her head hadn’t moved, and neither had the pattern on the wall opposite her. No, her dreaming brain couldn’t come up with something this consistent… or this unbelievable.

  She took another sip of the wine. She was pleasantly buzzed now, and she could feel the claws of the anxiety beginning to relinquish their grip on her just a little. It was a relief… and thanks to the wine, she wasn’t even worried about the troubling implications of leaning on alcohol to handle your mental state. It was an extraordinary day, after all. She’d go back to more healthy coping mechanisms once the cooking wine had gotten her over the worst of what she was feeling.

  But that particular line of thought was interrupted by the sound of boots. She frowned, scuffling upright and shoving the bottle of wine down beside her, trying to hide it from view — she felt absurdly like a teenager being caught skipping classes as the sound of the footsteps got nearer.

  “What’s this, then?”

  A rumbling Scottish accent, that rather pleasant lilt on the vowels giving him away. The man’s voice was deep and pleasant, and not accusatory — she blinked up at him, trying to make out his features, outlined against the sun as he was. He was wearing armor, she realized with a dizzy jolt — honest-to-God armor. There was a bow slung over his shoulder like that was a normal thing to be carrying around, and she could see a quiver of arrows at his belt, too. That is a deadly weapon, she thought remotely. He was wearing a helmet, too — the ensemble was familiar, and she realized with a jolt that it was the uniform of the men she’d seen walking around on the walls of the castle.

  “Are you a guard?” she asked, feeling a little stupid — but the alcohol had well and truly loosened her tongue. “Am I not supposed to be back here?”

  He raised an eyebrow — she lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, trying to get a better look at his face. It was mostly covered by a thick, dark beard — it set off the dark eyes that were peering curiously down at her, and the wavy dark brown hair under his helmet. He couldn’t have been much older than her, she realized. And he was a bear of a man — even from this angle, she could tell that he was tall, and he had broad shoulders and a powerful frame. She’d certainly think twice about attacking the castle, if this was the kind of guard they had on duty.

  Not that she was especially interested in attacking castles.

  “Aye, I’m a guard,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Captain of the Guard, actually, if we’re getting technical. And who are you?”

  “Elena Cross,” she said, her hand automatically flying to where she usually kept her badge… she heaved a sigh to find only the fabric of her unfamiliar clothing. “I’m — visiting, I guess.”

  “That’s an interesting accent, Elena Cross.” He squatted down in front of her, suddenly much less intimidating now that he wasn’t looming over her like some kind of vengeful giant.

  Yes, definitely a good-looking man, she thought unexpectedly, feeling a slight blush rising to her cheeks. Must be the wine, that’s all. When she got drunk she got… well, she got lonely, she supposed.

  “Where are you visiting us from?”

  His eyes twinkled a little as she opened her mouth and closed it, unsure how to explain to a medieval Scottish guard where Baltimore was.

  “Or should I ask — when?”

  Chapter 10

  Elena stared up at him, nonplussed. “When?”

  “When are you from?” he clarified patiently. “I’ve only heard a voice like that on two other women before you, and both of them are from a few hundred years in the future. I figured the same might be true of you. Am I far off?”

  She couldn’t help but grin. It seemed the concept of time travel was only really posing a problem to her, at the moment. “No, that’s about right. It was 2019 the last time I checked. I understand that is no longer the case.” God, she was slurring her words a little… her mouth had that unpleasant cotton-wool feeling that tended to hit her a few glasses in. Could this bear of a guard tell she was drunk? She hoped not. Maybe he’d just assume it was a feature of her accent, if he didn’t know Americans very well…

  “Definitely not,” he agreed, smiling gently. “When did you wake up? I haven’t talked to Anna or Nancy, but I assume they would have tried to explain what was going on…”

  “They tried,” she admitted, feeling a little sheepish. “I didn’t believe them.” Why had she drunk so much wine? She was going to make a fool of herself in front of this handsome Scottish guard… and why did she care about that? God, Elena, get a grip. “It’s pretty…it’s pretty weird, you have to admit.”

  He nodded. “I can only imagine. Is that why you’re… three quarters of the way through a bottle of Blair’s cooking sherry?”

  She jumped like a scolded child — but his eyes were still twinkling, no hint of reproach in them.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell her. It’s strong stuff, though. I’d slow down a little, if I were you. Have you had anything to eat?”

  “Someone brought me some stew,” she admitted, biting her lip. It must have been a cop reflex — she felt awful for having broken the rules, even a tiny bit. “But it was a while ago.”

  “Well, I haven’t had lunch yet. Would you care to join me for a late one? You can tell me all about twenty-nineteen.”

  He extended a hand to her, his dark eyes twinkling, but she hesitated, full of trepidation. Could she trust this stranger? Wasn’t it medieval times? Could men be trusted to be alone with women without… going feral? She wasn’t exactly a historian, but she’d seen the terrible things that contemporary men were capable of first-hand. She never walked home alone without a weapon on her, and even then she felt worry flare up if she saw any men walking in the same direction as her. And if men were like that even after decades of feminism, what had they been like before all that?

  But something about this man made her feel… well, he didn’t make her feel safe, exactly. She made herself feel safe — she knew she had the training to take him on if he tried anything, knew she could handle herself. But somehow, this man just didn’t read as a threat. He read more like… a colleague. Someone she’d be happy to have on her side in a firefight, someone she’d trust to have her back going into an abandoned building to see what kind of horrible things had gone on in there. Someone, yes, she had to admit — a little like Billy. He was a guard, she realized, pieces fitting into place. And a Captain. Was it possible that this was the closest thing she was going to get to meeting someone with a job like hers?

  “C’mon, lass. I’ll bring you back to this little alcove later, if you’re so attached to it.” Amusement in his voice — and the smile on his face sealed her decision.

  She took the hand he was extending, and he pulled her effortlessly to her feet — Strong, she noted dizzily, losing her balance a little as she struggled to get her feet under her. He was very strong — and she was drunker than she’d realized. He steadied her with one hand on her elbow, and she caught herself a little more inside his personal space than she’d intended, felt her hand brush against the chain mail armor he was wearing.

  “Chain mail,” she said, feeling oddly shy and wanting to fill the odd silence that had fallen. “I’ve only ever seen this in pictures.”

  “Keeps arrows out,” he explained easily, turning to give her a better view of it. “Plate’s stronger when it comes to hand-to-hand combat, but it’s hot and heavy, so when you’re manning a wall most of the time… chainmail’s best.”

  “Interesting,” she said, thinking of the bulletproof vests they wore back home when they were heading for situations that might involve some gunshots. The riot squad had shields,
too, and padded outfits to absorb stray punches… she supposed armor wasn’t exactly a concept they’d left in the past. “Is there a blacksmith here, then?”

  “Not here,” the guard told her as they walked along the castle wall, heading back toward the huge doors she’d passed through earlier — she supposed the kitchen entrance wasn’t exactly the standard method of getting into the building, or maybe this man just didn’t want to bother the kitchen staff. “There’s a man in town who does most of our work for us. There’s an old forge in one of the stables, but it doesn’t get much use these days. Better to give the work to the folks in the village. Good to keep those relationships strong.”

  “The village,” she echoed.

  “Aye, there’s a little place up the shore, maybe a twenty minute ride. I imagine you haven’t had time yet to visit?”

  “No,” she said faintly, feeling a little overwhelmed. “I’ve barely had time to — breathe, if I’m honest. This is all … it’s a lot, that’s all.” She took a deep breath — then clapped her hands over her mouth, shocked by her own rudeness. “I haven’t even asked your name!”

  He laughed, a pleasant rumbling sound. “Brendan Grant.”

  “Brendan. Good to meet you. How rude of me,” she added, waving a hand irritably. She sounded like her mother.

  “I understand. You’ve got a lot on your mind. And most of a bottle of sherry,” he added in an undertone, grinning as she blushed. “Did you really drink all that yourself? You hold it well.”

  “Runs in the family,” she said, smiling a little at the compliment. “Plus, practice makes perfect.”

  “Tell that to my cousin Malcolm,” Brendan said, grinning as they crossed the entrance hall. “He talks a big game, but every gathering we have he drinks too much and ends up embarrassing himself — or worse, passed out in a corner. It’d be funny if it weren’t so sad.”