“Aye, ‘tis,” he admitted with a heavy sigh.
“There are lots of little boys running around the keep with auburn hair and green eyes. Are any of them yours?”
“Nay.”
“How come?”
Lachlan slipped his arms behind his head so he could look down at her with luminous green eyes. There was no anger in her tone, nor in her expression, just genuine bemusement. “Are ye asking me why I did no’ see fit te sire a bastard?”
“Yes. I mean, you’re obviously very skilled in that area,” – he smirked smugly at this – “so I know you weren’t keeping Mr. Happy in your pants all these years.”
He arched a brow, wondering if he would ever not be surprised by what came out of her mouth. He sincerely hoped not.
“Nay, I was no’ celibate,” he agreed. “But I had no wish te breed a child out of wedlock, either. ‘Tis different for a laird, ye ken. ‘Tis my heirs that will inherit Dubhain, and I did no’ think it fair my firstborn be denied that right simply because I did no’ fancy his mother enough te wed her.”
She considered this, petting him softly once again with her fingertips. It was one of the things he had missed most during their time apart. He wondered if she even realized she was doing it.
“So... a son born to you out of wedlock couldn’t inherit Dubhain?”
“Nay. He would be an important member of the clan, but an illegitimate son could hold no title according te our laws.”
“Hmmm. Well, I guess that settles it, then.”
He looked at her suspiciously. “Settles what?”
The soft petting became a firm (and somewhat painful) poking. “If my calculations are correct, you have about five months to plan our wedding and get us hitched.”
It took a while for her words to sink in. When they finally did, his eyes opened wide. “Ye are with child?”
She nodded. In the next moment she was on her back, Lachlan rubbing his hands over her abdomen. “My child rests here?”
“Yep.”
He leaned down and kissed her belly with nothing less than reverence. When he looked up at her, his green eyes were shiny.
* * *
Aislinn looked down at him. Her beautiful, fierce laird. The look on his face threatened to steal all of her breath away. Eyes glistening with awe and so much love she felt it, like a warm blanket wrapping around her, melting the last bit of ice around her heart. In that moment, she knew that this man would do anything for her.
Then the first tear fell, hot and wet, on her skin. Followed by another. Lachlan lowered his head and pressed his cheek against her belly. His powerful arms slipped around her and held her tight, as if he was afraid she might slip away if he didn’t.
“Lachlan?” she asked, stroking the waves of his auburn locks.
“I almost lost ye,” he whispered against her skin, his barely audible voice thick.
“But you didn’t,” she answered softly.
“I was a fool, Aislinn.”
“No argument there,” she agreed, but there was no bite to her tone.
Lachlan lifted his head enough to press kisses against the expanse of now-moist skin from hip to hip. “I.” Kiss. “Will never.” Kiss. “Let”. Kiss. “Ye out.” Kiss. “Of my sight.” Kiss. “Again.”
The familiar heat began to build in her core with each one, those full, masculine lips nothing short of magical. “Oh?” she hummed, closing her eyes, allowing her other senses to rise to the occasion. “Don’t I have anything to say about that?”
He nipped at her hip. “Nay. Ye are mine.”
There was something incredibly hot about a possessive, aroused Highlander, she decided. No wonder it was such a popular romance genre. Aislinn bent one leg at the knee to stroke the proof of his interest with her calf. Doing so also had the added benefit of opening her up to him.
He cast his eyes up to hers and grinned wickedly. “Something ye be wantin’, lass?”
Her core clenched. His brogue always thickened when he was really aroused, just as his clear green eyes darkened to fine emeralds.
“No,” she lied.
His eyes blazed. “Liar,” he breathed, lowering his head to nuzzle her. She might have whimpered. Just a little.
“Ask, loving. All ye have te do is ask.”
The smug bastard was torturing her. He knew exactly what she wanted. Knew that with every light rub of his slightly-whiskered jaw against the inside of her thighs he was driving her crazy. She gripped his hair, hard, and tried to angle her hips to position herself exactly where she needed to be.
He laughed, staying so close but just out of reach. The deep rumble, combined with the hot puffs of air over her most sensitive bundle of nerves nearly sent her over the edge. It was against her nature to ask for anything, so the breathy, desperate plea that left her lips was unexpected.
“Please,” she begged.
Surprise lit his eyes. Surprise and something else. Something inherently carnal. “That’ll do, lass.”
He kissed her tenderly, slowly. Drew out her passion with long, languorous licks and gentle sucks and pulls until she thought she just might die from the exquisite torture.
“Lachlan,” she wheezed. Fully focused on his task, he did not hear her at first. “Lachlan,” she said again, adding a substantial tug on his locks to gain his attention. He looked up at her, his eyes heavy and dazed with desire. If her heart hadn’t already melted, it would have in that moment.
“I want you inside me.”
His eyes blazed. With one last kiss he moved up her body, settling in the cradle of her thighs. Her arms and legs wrapped around him as she finally spoke the words that had never once passed her lips: “I love you.”
His mouth sealed over hers as he slid deep, and Aislinn knew that her wish had finally been granted.
Epilogue
Six Months Later
“He is perfect,” Lachlan said softly, cradling his son in his arms. Small downy wisps of auburn, a bit darker than Lachlan’s, covered the boy’s head; his eyes, already fading from the newborn blue, were a unique combination of mother and father – a clear, luminous green ringed by a beautiful amber around the edges. It had been a long labor – the boy had the brawn of a true Brodie, but his wee wife was a strong, fit woman. Not for the first time, he was thankful for that. “I want at least a dozen more.”
Aislinn, too exhausted to lift her head, laughed into the pillow.
“Fine, braw lads, o’ course,” he continued. “But I was thinking that Dubhain could use a few more bonnie lasses about as weel.”
“I’ll see what I can do about that,” she mumbled sleepily, making him chuckle. He could not imagine a man happier than he was at that very moment.
“I think ye were right after all, Aislinn, my love.”
“Of course I was,” she agreed without hesitation. “About what?”
“It does feel like a dream.”
She was surprised by his words. Neither of them had spoken of dreams or her sudden appearance since he’d found her in the clearing and brought her back to Dubhain. They were no closer to explaining how she came to be there, but it no longer mattered. And, as Aislinn adjusted to her new life as if she had been born to it, no one really even thought of it anymore.
But sometimes, in the middle of the night, Aislinn would snuggle against her big, warm husband and remember her last night in the city. Of bowing her head at midnight Mass and offering that one desperate prayer: to know true love.
Aislinn believed, with all of her heart, that her prayer had been answered. It didn’t matter why or how.
Offering up a silent prayer of thanks, she leaned against her husband and kissed her son’s feathery soft head. She gave Lachlan a smile, the kind she reserved only for him. “If it is, then I never want to wake up.”
He smiled right back at her, encompassing her and their son in his large, powerful arms, and she knew she was there to stay. Her laird would make sure of it.
Glossary
; afore
before
albeit
although
amnae
am not
aye
yes
behoove
to be necessary or proper for
cannae
can not
coffer
treasury, funds
dinnae
did not
doesna
does not
doona
do not
garderobe
a medieval bathroom
inte
into
isnae
is not
ken
know, understand, comprehend, perceive
laird
lord, overseer
mayhap
maybe, perhaps
mon
man
sennight
week
te
to
tome
book
trencher
plate
trews
close-fitting trousers
untoward
improper
verra
very
wee
small, little, tiny
wouldnae
would not
ye
you
Thanks for reading Aislinn’s story
Have you read Part I? Remember Newton’s Third Law: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. If Aislinn went back, then someone else had to go forward.
If you want to see what happens when a 15th century Scottish peasant girl suddenly finds herself dropped into the heart of modern-day NYC, check out Isobeille’s story in Maiden in Manhattan (formerly Lost in Time I).
If you liked this book, then please consider posting a review online! It’s really easy, only takes a few minutes, and makes a huge difference to independent authors who don’t have the mega-budgets of the big-time publishers behind them.
Log on to your favorite online retailer (or Goodreads) and just tell others what you thought, even if it’s just a line or two. That’s it! A good review is one of the nicest things you can do for any author.
As always, I welcome feedback. Email me at [email protected].
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Thanks again, and may all of your ever-afters be happy ones!
Special Thanks...
... to Carol Tietsworth for her mad proofreading skills
... to Cindy, Susie, and Aubrey for their infinite patience and willingness to put up with me
... to Heather Black | Studio 410 Designs, for her beautiful, one-of-a-kind photos and custom cover design (background image from pixabay.com)
... and to all of you for selecting this book – you didn’t have to, but you did. Thanks
Excerpt from Maiden in Manhattan:
Nick was halfway through his second beer when the delivery guy appeared. In a classic case of poor timing, Isobeille chose that moment to emerge from the bathroom. Without turning around, Nick knew that it could not be good. The open-mouthed gawk of the nineteen-year-old in his doorway told him as much.
Steeling himself, Nick turned and swallowed hard at the sight before him. There was Isobeille, in vivid glory. Her towel-damp, glorious curls cascaded down to her hips, a shade of dark red that glistened like a shiny candy apple under the lights. The jeans he had provided were several inches too long at the bottom and too narrow at the waist, requiring that the zipper be left hanging open. If that wasn’t bad enough, the designer T was at least two sizes too small, accentuating substantial breasts and revealing a fair part of her midsection.
He swallowed hard. Forget the St. Paulie girl. She looked like the quintessential poster ad for Hooters.
“Nick, I doona think I did this right,” she said simply.
“Fuck me,” the delivery boy murmured, and Nick was forced to agree with his assessment. In her costume dress, she had been sexy. In tight jeans and T-shirt, she was nothing short of drool-worthy.
Shaking himself free of the erotic images now dancing in his head, he hastily paid the kid and pushed him out the door. Tossing the pizza to the side, Nick then proceeded to take Isobeille by the arm and lead her back toward his bedroom. He would never manage to get anything past the constriction in his throat if he didn’t do something.
He rummaged in his drawer for a minute, trying desperately to ignore the way Isobeille was feeling up the down comforter and the fluffy pillows on his bed, mumbling to himself until he extracted a pair of gray sweats and an old football practice jersey. He placed both in her hands.
“Try these instead,” he said, wishing his voice didn’t sound like he’d just swallowed a cup of ground glass. Then he left, closing the door firmly behind him.
He would not think of how much bigger her breasts were than Gloria’s, nor the contours of her perfect heart-shaped ass. He would not think of how good she smelled, or how soft and utterly lickable her creamy skin looked. And he would not, under any circumstances, consider the kinds of sounds she might make as he buried himself repeatedly in her lush little body or screamed out his name in that thick brogue of hers.
He had a girlfriend, goddammit. A girlfriend who he would be with right now had he not been running late. If he had picked Gloria up on time, she never would have been in her little cubicle when the editor came by with an extra assignment, and he wouldn’t be pacing back and forth in his tiny living room sporting the hard-on from hell.
Was it unusually hot in the apartment? It sure felt hot. Nick exhaled heavily and checked the thermostat, which displayed a completely illogical seventy-one degrees. That was obviously not right. Nick made a mental note to call the building super first thing in the morning and get it checked out.
In the meantime, he pulled his thermal over his head, leaving him in his plain white, short-sleeved cotton T and went back to the problem at hand.
What was he thinking about again? Oh, right. Gloria.
At least she hadn’t sounded too pissed that he’d blown their date. Nick wasn’t quite sure what that meant, exactly. Maybe Gloria was glad for the opportunity to get a little extra credit. Her job and her career were very important to her; she was always trying to suck up (though she preferred to call it ‘capitalizing on an opportunity to advance her career’).
Or maybe Gloria was glad for the chance to put things off between them for a little while longer. Hadn’t she told him that she wanted to keep things from getting too complicated too quickly? That she needed ‘space’ and ‘time’ to ‘discover who she was’ before she could even think about committing to something more than the occasional, albeit exclusive, hook-up?
He would have to wait and see; the answers weren’t going to magically come to him tonight, and he had other, more pressing issues to deal with at that moment. In any event, Nick had managed to wrestle his hormones back under some semblance of control by the time Isobeille emerged from his bedroom.
“Does this please ye better?” she asked doubtfully.
He brought his hand up to his mouth to try to hide the smile he could not completely contain. Tiny feet peeked out from beneath his baggy sweats, rolled up several times at the ankle. His old jersey hung to her knees, but sufficiently covered all of those tempting curves from view.
Thank God.
“Infinitely,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Now let’s take a look at that hand, then we can eat.”
Nick was acutely aware of Isobeille’s gaze as he examined her hand. As a paramedic, he was used to all sorts of reactions from the patients he treated. Some were grateful, some were scared, some were just plain nasty. Occasionally he would feel the heat of a woman’s stare (or less commonly, a man’s) as he tended to their injuries. Bu
t none of them seemed to affect him quite as strongly as Isobeille’s. It felt warm, like the sun on his skin, and sank down deep into his bones (and various other body parts).
Outwardly, he remained coolly professional. But inside his chest, his heart pounded out a thunderous tattoo. A viscous warmth spread from where he held her hand in his, travelled up his arm and into his chest, settling somewhere around his midsection. This time, he didn’t bother checking the thermostat.
And it wasn’t just her tangible gaze or the blossoming warmth from holding her hand that was messing with his senses – it was her scent, too. With each breath he took, he drew in the scent of fresh snow and wildflowers. He had to wonder where the hell that came from, because he couldn’t think of a single product in his bathroom that smelled like that. Maybe Gloria had left something.
Then again, Gloria never smelled like this. Like nature at its finest.
“Ye have a gentle touch for such a strong mon,” she said softly, bringing his ears into the sensory party. The only thing left was taste, and he was so not going there. “Are ye a healer?”
A healer? “Sort of, I guess. I’m a paramedic.” When she didn’t seem to know what that was (and why was he not surprised?) he explained simply, “When there’s an accident or someone is hurt, my job is to assess their injuries and treat them until we can get them to a hospital.”
She smiled at him as if he had just told her he’d hung the stars in the sky. “Ye help people.”
Nick felt his cheeks burning. Jesus, was he blushing? “It’s no big deal.”
“Aye, ‘tis,” she insisted, her smile growing wider.
He decided to drop it, focusing on coating a few of the deeper scratches with some antibiotic cream and applying some band-aids. She seemed legitimately impressed with him, yes, and that made him feel pretty good, at least until he remembered that she’d been pretty damn impressed with a light switch and a flushing toilet, too.
Raising Hell in the Highlands: A Time Travel Romance (A Timeless Love Book 2) Page 11