Highlander Guarded: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander In Time Book 10)

by Rebecca Preston

  With a sigh, Scarlet reached down to pinch herself firmly on the hip. The dull pain that shot through her put to rest any suspicion that she was dreaming. This was real. It was real, and weird, and she might have had more time to worry about it if she hadn't been so utterly cold, and tired, and drained, and miserable. If she was in some medieval-ass re-enactment village, so be it. So long as there was an open door and a warm hearth for her to sit by, she'd even put on a silly accent, if they wanted her to. Play along with the ren fair loonies, or whoever the hell was running this place.

  As if summoned by her distinctly grumpy thoughts, her eyes widened as a taller building loomed up out of the fog. It was surrounded on all sides by smaller houses and cottages, all of them medieval-looking, all of them shut and barred… but this one, to her acute relief, had lights on in the windows and a distinctly cheery, inviting atmosphere. There was a sign hanging from the building, but she couldn't read it in the low light… and at any rate, she didn't really care what it was called. She knew a bar when she saw one… and she'd never felt more grateful to see one in all her life.

  Hopefully, it wasn't too fancy a place, she thought, running a hand through her still damp hair to put it back in order and hoping that her jacket wasn't too wrinkled. At least it wasn't actively dripping water any longer — the walk had seen to that. Maybe she'd explain her sob story to some well-meaning gentlemen in there and they could cover her drinks for her. She wasn't especially interested in using her cards, not with a potentially crooked cop on the lookout for her, and a clearly murderous ex-boyfriend no doubt on her tail as well…

  All of that could wait until she was warm. Scarlet took a deep breath, then hurried up the handful of steps to the front door of the bar, hesitating a little. This wasn't a bar, was it? It reminded her a little of an English pub she and her father had visited once. They'd had all kinds of silly things — warm ale and meat pies and a bartender who was doing a very enthusiastic — but very fake — English accent. Was it possible she was in some kind of historical re-enactment village? At least that was a little familiar… and bracing herself, she pushed the doors open and stepped inside.

  Anything would be better than the cold night air and that clinging mist outside.

  Chapter 4

  Scarlet took a minute to stand in the doorway and peer suspiciously around the building she found herself in. She had a suspicion her bet had been correct — this was definitely some mix between an English pub and the kind of renaissance faire nonsense she'd always done her level best to avoid. Her father had always had a soft spot for this kind of thing, of course — she had a suspicion that that had been why he'd taken her into the English pub in the first place, going out of his way to tell her the story of Robin Hood as they sat and ate a plate of thick fries. Her father didn't usually have much time for stories, so it had been an unusual afternoon. An old English guy who'd lived in a forest, robbed from the rich and given to the poor… she'd listened patiently enough, but she didn't really see what it had to do with them. After all, they might well rob from the rich… but as far as she was concerned, she had no obligation to give what she stole to the poor. After all, she was the poor, wasn't she? Still, the idea that there was honor in their line of work had stuck with her, like most of her father's lessons.

  This definitely looked like the kind of bar Robin Hood would have drunk at with his merry men, she mused. It was very rustic indeed — there was a roaring fire in one wall, an enormous fireplace spilling warmth and light into the room. It wasn't as busy as she suspected it got earlier in the evening — from the looks of the clientele, things were starting to wind down. God, how long had she been trudging through the fog? It had been early evening when she'd fallen off the roof into the river. That was still bothering her actually. Something about never having seen a building close enough to the river to jump from the roof straight into it… but she was quickly pulled from that distraction by the eerie realization that all of the men in the bar were wearing what could only be described as … well, costumes. They looked ridiculous. Medieval attire, mostly — rough cotton shirts, thick leather boots, coats and jackets made from wool or hide… she had to admit that the attention to detail was very good. But what the hell were they doing here in the middle of the night? Cosplaying? Or just getting drunk?

  She made a beeline for the fire, operating on her usual policy of walking into places like she owned them. It was amazing, how far you could get if you walked with confidence. Sometimes, she barely needed her skills as a thief to rob big buildings — simply walking like she was meant to be there would get her deep into all kinds of buildings, and if she amplified the effect by carrying a clipboard or wearing a lanyard with keys on it… well, there was no stopping her. No lanyard now, no keys… but all she had to do was get to the fire and settle down by it.

  It was a welcome relief, the warmth of the fire spilling over her skin, and she sighed with soft satisfaction as she took the weight off her feet on a little stool that sat close to the fire. Good spot — back to the wall, nobody could creep up on her, and if she needed a weapon, there were half a dozen nasty looking black iron fire tools she could grab and brandish. One poker in particular looked particularly vicious, and she was just considering picking it up and giving the fire an idle prod as a smokescreen for testing the weight and heft of the thing when she realized someone was looking at her.

  She'd gotten a few curious looks when she'd walked in, of course. A woman like her usually did — and in this place, it was no wonder she was getting eyeballed, what with everyone but her seeming to have received the memo to dress like some daffy old English peasant. Well, she wasn't going to dignify any of them with her attention… still, she wanted to figure out where the itch on the back of her neck was coming from. Someone was definitely staring a lot more than all of the others. She knew better than to look straight at them — that was a good way to start a fight, or at the very least, a conversation you didn't want — but she shifted idly on her stool as if getting more comfortable, twisting her neck this way and that as if stretching it… there. Over in the far corner of the place, slouched in a comfortable armchair, his eyes burning a hole in the side of her face. That was her spectator.

  Well, what exactly did he want from her? She hadn't gotten a proper look at him, but he didn't seem to be dressed any differently to the other men in the bar — few women here, either, she noticed with a frown, scanning the crowd. Less female re-enactment nerds, maybe. Still, it made her feel unsafe, being stared at so intently in a room that was mostly men. Men, in her experience, wouldn't do anything to intervene if a woman was being hassled… especially if the hassling was taking the form of flirting, of compliments, of offers to buy her a drink. Women would move heaven and earth to get you out of there if they sensed you weren't happy with the attention you were getting — she remembered one woman loudly greeting her by a fake name and engaging her in a loud and excitable conversation about their history together as college roommates. Scarlet had never finished high school, let alone college — but the guy who'd been trying to hit on her quickly gave up and went to find a woman who wasn't deep in a boring conversation.

  Not that Scarlet couldn't handle herself… but it felt good to know that a complete stranger had had her back. And she did her best to return the favor to other women, where she could. Sisterhood.

  But there would be no women coming to save her from this guy. He was hot, at least… just her type, broad shoulders, kind of dumb-looking, blond hair and a pair of blue-green eyes that might have been rather nice to look at if they didn't seem to be attempting to bore a hole straight through the side of her head. She snuck another glance at him and realized too late that she hadn't been subtle enough… he got to his feet so quickly she saw him knock his head on the wall behind him and stifled a laugh. It didn't seem to stop him, though. There was a dull gray flagon in his hand that he brought with him as he approached her, and she sighed to herself as she saw the tell-tale signs of drunkenness in his stance
. The men he'd been sitting with didn't seem to notice him going — not close friends, then. Or used to him pulling this kind of behavior, she thought with a thrill of worry going through her. She could handle herself… but she didn't much feel like picking a fight in this bar tonight. Not after everything she'd been through already.

  But as he got closer, she realized he didn't look like the kind of man who was going to give her trouble. Quite the opposite — he looked absolutely stricken by something, like the faintest blow would knock him down. His eyes were shining with what she realized were tears, and he was staring at her as though he'd seen a ghost — she fought the urge to glance behind her, so intense was his stare, so worried his expression. Had she grown a second head, perhaps? She stared back at him, utterly nonplussed by the attention, forgetting even to worry that he might be about to give her trouble. Something about him told her that trouble was the last thing she could expect from him.

  "Is it really you?" he breathed. She frowned a little, her ears seeming to struggle to keep up, just a little. That wasn't the accent she was used to around here. And there was something else, too, as though his voice was coming to her across some great gulf, spurred on and aided by… something. What a strange impression to get from someone.

  "What do you mean?" she asked, forgoing a smart-ass reply in the interests of not antagonizing this very strange man. He flinched back at the sound of her voice, as though shocked, and began to reach out one trembling hand.

  "You're not a vision, then," he breathed, eyes widening. "Are you physical? Are you —"

  "Don't touch me," she warned him, debating whether or not to reach for the poker. "Not if you want to keep your hand."

  An unexpected chuckle ripped its way out of him, and he covered his mouth, clearly as surprised by the sound as she was… and as he did, a warm smile crinkled his eyes. It made him look younger, and she realized with a jolt that he was about her age. Strange, how grim and craggy he'd looked before he'd smiled… but why was he staring at her like this? He was a complete stranger. "You haven't changed."

  "We've never met," she told him firmly, wanting to head whatever strange train of thought he was on off at the pass.

  "You've changed your hair, but I'd know your face anywhere. My Emily. I prayed you'd come back — I prayed for months on end until I thought my faith was all but gone —"

  "Hey, come on, now," she hissed as he dropped to his knees before her. They were beginning to draw attention from the men around them, and she didn't like that — didn't need anyone telling stories about the short-haired blonde who'd wandered in off the street, sopping wet. Who knew how close on her heels those cops were right now? This man was clearly drunk enough to have mistaken her for some other woman… and as annoying as it was, it was her problem now. "Get up, dude, c'mon…"

  Obediently, he scrambled up, grabbing another seat from nearby and drawing it close alongside her — too close, as far as she was concerned, but she had bigger problems to worry about. There were curious looks coming their way from the men around them, and she took a deep breath, trying to make the scene look as neutral as possible so they'd lose interest. Making a fuss was a really good way of getting remembered well enough for a tip-off to the cops when they came to visit later.

  "Listen," she said softly. "My name's not Emily, okay? I've never gone by that name," she added, frowning briefly as she did a quick run through her last few dozen fake names. No — she'd never used Emily. It had been her mother's middle name; that was why… it felt like she was dishonoring her memory, somehow, to use names that were even close to her mother's. She'd never used Emma or Amelia, either. So why the hell was he calling her that? For someone who was very much used to going by other names, she found it oddly grating.

  "You've come back just like the others," the man breathed, staring at her like she was made of stardust or something. Despite her worry about everything else that was going on, there was something about the starry-eyed look on his face that was very pleasing. Didn't every woman want to be admired like that? Even if he was drunk, and thinking of someone else… God, was she really that starved for attention after her terrible three months with Ryan?

  "Buddy, I have no idea what you're talking about," she said patiently, trying to smile. It was working, at least… pretending to be having a normal conversation with this distinctly abnormal man seemed to have caused the majority of the spectators to lose interest, and though she could tell a few of them were still listening curiously, she was feeling better about the whole scene.

  "That's understandable," he said softly, clicking his fingers as though trying to remind himself of something. "Forgive me. I've — had a few too many to drink. You know my bad habits."

  "Nope," she said, feeling her patience already beginning to fracture. "Again, I've only just met you — you and the rest of your medieval cosplayers…"

  That put a frown on his face, and he shook his head. "Of course, of course. You don't know. You women never know what's happened to you…"

  Scarlet felt her temper flare. She could tolerate a lot of nonsense from drunk men, but she drew the line at misogyny. "Better explain exactly what you mean by that," she said, pitching her voice low and deadly. "Quickly."

  "The time-lost ones!" he said, eyes widening. "Sorry. I didn't mean — good Lord, I'm making a mess of this. Let's start again, shall we?"

  "Good idea," she said, eyes narrowed. "Start with your name."

  A pained look crossed his face for a moment. Clearly, the idea that his lost Emily — whoever the hell that was — didn't remember his name was painful to him. Well, tough. She wasn't Emily, and she didn't know his damn name, and she didn't drag herself out of a river after nearly being shot dead by a cop just to play nursemaid to some heartbroken man's precious feelings.

  "Kieran," he said finally. "Kieran MacClaran. I — I was your husband."

  Chapter 5

  She gave him a long, measured look at that particular revelation. It was a trick her dad had taught her — leave them to stew in their own silence, don't be too quick to rush in to help them out, especially when they were saying downright stupid things. Her father had meant it more in the context of running cons… but she felt it applied here. Especially when it felt a lot as though this Kieran was the one who was trying to con her. Her husband? Really?

  "Does that actually work on people?" she asked finally, when it became clear that Kieran had said his piece for the time being. "Do you run this on every woman who stumbles in here?"

  "I understand that you won't remember," he said softly, shaking his head. "It's painful, of course, but what can I do? You're here, and that's the important part. You're here, as I dreamed you might be."

  "Yeah, yeah. What's the scam? You going to ask me for money? Or I'm meant to fall into your arms and wake in the morning to find my purse missing?" She was being unkind, she knew… but clearly this guy was running some kind of scam, right? "You're not that good-looking, pal. I mean, you're easy on the eyes, sure, but … well, you've picked the wrong target, let's just leave it at that."

  He shook his head, smiling a little. "You're like her but you're not like her. That sharp tongue… I remember it well. Though her accent was quite different."

  "Oh, I've got the wrong accent, have I?" She almost felt like laughing. "Last I checked we were in Pennsylvania, dude, not Ireland."

  For the first time, he looked actively affronted. "Ireland?"

  "Your accent." She hesitated. "Or are you Scottish? I never quite figured out the difference —"

  "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," Kieran said with a dignity that, despite everything, did make her grin a little apologetically. "We are in Scotland, of course. MacClaran country, no matter what old Lord Weatherby might think of it."

  "Right. So, this is some renaissance faire thing. You guys run a bit late, don't you? Isn't it past your bedtime?"

  He looked at her closely. "You really don't know where you are, do you?"

  "Not exactly," sh
e said irritably, not seeing the point in trying to lie about being a little lost. "I dove into the river for — for personal reasons — and swam some distance out of Philly. Not sure where I ended up, exactly, but I'm assuming some kind of —"

  "No, I mean — you don't know what year it is. What country we're in."

  What was this, some kind of brand-new turbo-gaslighting pick-up tactic men were experimenting with? "I've heard about this shit," she said thoughtfully, narrowing her eyes at him. "Are you going to tell me I'd be really hot if I lost ten pounds next?"

  "What? No. I — " He rubbed his forehead, clearly as confused and mildly exasperated by this conversation as she was.

  It was bizarre. She didn't get bad vibes from this man at all — his body language and her gut were both telling her that he was doing his best to be helpful, that he wanted to be kind here. But the stuff he was saying was absolutely unhinged. Was it just that he was drunk? Drunk and maybe something else? There were plenty of hallucinogens that could make you this… weird. Not that Scarlet was any kind of expert on that kind of thing. She was a thief, not a drug dealer.

  "Let's start again."

  "We're doing a lot of that," Scarlet pointed out, amused. "You could start by asking my name." He stared at her for a long moment, and she sighed, rubbing her head the way he'd rubbed his minutes earlier. "It's not Emily. I'm not Emily. Come on, Kieran, you have to keep up here —"

  "Right," he said quickly. "You're… of course. You're someone else. It's a pleasure to meet you…?"

  Fake name, her instincts said, "Scarlet," her mouth said, before she could stop it. Damn. Well, at least she hadn't given him her last name.