“I do ken it.”
“Then say yes, Isobeille. Say you will marry me.”
She looked into his eyes, staring into the soul of the man she loved more than anything on earth.
“Aye, Nick Peterson, I would be honored te be yer bride.”
Nick took full and instant possession of her mouth. “I love you, Isobeille.”
“And I ye,” she said, fidgeting beneath him. “Can we be getting along with the claiming now?”
“Impatient, are we?” he laughed, but he was already positioning his body over hers. She hissed in pleasure at the feel of his skin, naked and hot against hers. She reached down between them and grasped him in her hand, guiding him to where she needed him most.
“Have I told ye ye are a bonnie, fine mon?”
He smirked and kissed the corners of her lips. “You have.”
“Ah. I think we must be adding braw and large as weel.”
His eyes shone with love as he brushed the hair away from her face. “You are sure about this, Isobeille? You don’t want to wait?”
“Verra sure.”
In case he needed further encouragement, she slid her hands over his tight backside and angled her hips in invitation. His eyes never left hers as he began to push forward very slowly.
It was a wondrous thing, the sensation of him coming inside of her, entering her body for the first time. She held her breath as she stretched around him, adjusted to him. His mouth closed over hers, thrusting through her maidenhead until he was seated deeply inside her.
“Are you alright?” he whispered, holding himself still.
“Aye,” she answered breathlessly. “Do please continue.”
He laughed again and began moving slowly, stoking her desire until it threatened to set them both aflame. Only then did he increase his pace and the force of his thrusts. Isobeille instinctively lifted her hips to take him even deeper, wanting to wrap herself around him completely, to hold on tight and never let him go.
Before long the telltale tingle began to grip her once again as it built in intensity. Isobeille’s nails curled into his back; Nick hissed and clenched his teeth as she tightened around him. Mouth opened in a silent scream, she shattered even as she felt the warmth exploding deep within.
“I love you, Isobeille,” Nick whispered, placing one more kiss to her lips, this one infinitely tender.
She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back, murmuring words that made his heart soar. “And ‘tis a good thing ye do, Nick Peterson, for ye will be making an honest woman of me now.”
Epilogue
Nick managed to finagle a couple of days off and took Isobeille home to meet his mother during the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Since it was the holiday, most of Nick’s brothers and sisters were visiting with their families, too. Isobeille was instantly adored, as he knew she would be. It scared him a little, actually, because there were times when his family seemed more interested in Isobeille than him, but he didn’t mind too much, because he made sure he was always by Isobeille’s side.
For her part, Isobeille blossomed under their attention. Nick had never seen her smile so much nor look quite so radiant. Of course, he liked to think that he had a lot to do with that, too.
When the new semester began in mid-January, Isobeille officially began her first real job as Ian’s personal research assistant. She sat through his lectures, and helped him with his research. Her fluency with ancient languages was a tremendous asset, as was her knowledge of many things that had been lost to time.
Isobeille took to the academic life like a fish to water. Her new position gave her carte blanche access to the University resources, and for a woman who was always too curious for her own good, it was nothing less than nirvana. Ian’s students loved her, and she, in turn, thrived under all of the positive attention. It was a bit overwhelming at first, but Ian was quite protective of her; he kept her under his watchful eye and ensured that he was always nearby, at least until she became more acclimated to her new world.
Nick loved seeing her happy, loved seeing the sparkle in her eye when she told him about whatever new fascinating thing she’d uncovered that day. They still had breakfast together and most nights, dinner, too, though sometimes it was Nick surprising Isobeille with a home-cooked meal (or take-out) when Ian had a late lecture (Mrs. Anderson was only too glad to help).
Ian turned out to be a valuable ally and friend, as well. True to his word, he helped Isobeille get all of her papers in order. It took some doing, and a couple more pieces of her dowry to the right people over in Scotland, but eventually Isobeille Aislinn McKenna had a legal birth certificate (they listed her birth year as 1990 instead of 1390).
Two days after the paperwork was finalized, Nick and Isobeille were married in a small, quiet ceremony. Only once he slipped that golden band onto her finger, did Nick finally breathe a sigh of relief. His greatest fear was that somehow Isobeille would be taken away before he could fully bind her to him. He didn’t really believe that Fate would be so cruel, but then again, that knight back in Gwynnevael probably hadn’t thought so, either.
Each night, Isobeille found the most amazing ways to reassure him that he was the real reason she had travelled six hundred years into the future.
There was no longer any doubt in his mind that Isobeille was his soul mate.
For all of eternity.
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 Isobeille’s story ...
... but it’s not the end. Remember Newton’s Third Law: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. If Isobeille came forward, then someone else has to go back.
If you want to see what happens when a modern-day NYC girl wakes up in 15th century Scotland, check out Aislinn’s story in Raising Hell in the Highlands (formerly Lost in Time II).
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 one
s!
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 Raising Hell in the Highlands:
Aislinn slowly returned to consciousness. Her eyes were heavy, her limbs like lead. For all intents and purposes, it felt like she was suffering the aftereffects of one hell of a bender, though she was not one to overindulge. As a rule, Aislinn liked to remain in complete control of her faculties, and would never willingly have made herself that vulnerable, especially not without her team to watch her six.
The errant thought slipped through the walls she’d erected around her heart and scored a direct hit before she could stop it.
You don’t have a team anymore.
Before the survivor’s guilt could gain full hold again, she forced those thoughts away, citing the mantra the Army shrink had made her repeat until she could almost believe it: There was nothing she could have done. Nothing anyone could have done. Bad shit happens.
So what the hell had happened this time? She tried to think back. She remembered leaving the church, walking up and down the streets, her feet taking her where she needed to be. Usually it was the bus station, or a train station, or the occasional dock - someplace where the criminal element thrived. Somewhere where it wasn’t difficult to find someone who could benefit from her taxpayer-funded skills training and life experiences.
But she hadn’t been drawn to any of the usual haunts. After wandering aimlessly for a while, she had cleared her mind and found herself moving toward the park. She must have circled the outer path twice before coming upon the pile of shivering rags huddled between the bench and the trees.
It wasn’t the first time, and the odds were that it wouldn’t be the last. There were too many like that. Too many homeless, too many addicts, too many who had no place to go and no one they could turn to for help.
She remembered reaching down to see exactly what she was dealing with when she felt the back of her head explode and everything went black...
Aislinn lifted her hand and gingerly touched the base of her skull, wincing when it shot a fresh wave of pain right through to her frontal lobe. Her fingers came away sticky and dark, which meant the wound was probably still bleeding a little, but it didn’t seem to be life-threatening at least. She’d had a lot worse.
Thank God for small favors, she thought wryly.
She’d definitely had her bell rung, though, as evidenced by her current level of disorientation. Aislinn endeavored to push the pain and haze into the background and focus. Distraction was a good way to get herself killed. Or worse.
She could feel the grass beneath her and see the fuzzy outline of trees through her blurred vision, but it felt different somehow. It was no longer dark, she realized; maybe that’s what was throwing her off. Exactly how long had she been out?
Her hands automatically went toward her weapons as she patted around her body. All present and accounted for, she thought, sighing with relief. Even her pack was still loosely slung over one shoulder.
She pushed herself up to sitting, closing her eyes while the world spun wildly around her and messed with her senses.
It wasn’t just the daylight that seemed incongruous. Aislinn didn’t feel the biting cold as she should, either. Snow had already begun to fall in earnest during her last foray along the path, promising a white Christmas for the first time in years. But rather than finding herself face down on frozen ground, she was laying on what appeared to be soft – albeit uncut – grass. And it was warm.
The scents were all wrong, too. Snow had its own smell – anyone who spent any time up North knew that. But there was no hint of it now. Nor was there any discernable whiff of trash, dead leaves, or the ever-present aromas of stale beer and urine usually so prevalent in the park. She expanded her lungs, pleased when they didn’t protest too much, and drew in the scents of grass, clean air, and oddly enough, something that smelled like dried herbs. Lavender, maybe, or heather.
Her senses were returning to her slowly but surely. As her hearing came back online and the annoying buzz faded, her brain struggled to identify the sounds. One was easy enough – men. Loud, bellowing men, grunting and spewing forth colorful vulgarities in a thick brogue.
And ... horses? Not that she was particularly familiar with the beasts, but even she could recognize a few snorts and whinnies.
There was something else, too – a repeated, rhythmic clanging that resounded in her skull painfully and immediately roused her self-preservation instinct.
She rubbed at her eyes until the last of the little black dots faded away. And then shut them again quickly in disbelief. Clearly the blow to her head had caused significant damage, because there was no way what she had seen could be real. She decided she must be suffering from some kind of displaced psychosis resulting from a head injury and repeated viewings of The Highlander during late night bouts of insomnia.
She pinched herself – hard – then opened her eyes again, but the surreal scene hadn’t faded. She tried again and caught her breath. Yep. Still there.
The more she watched – she had quite a vivid subconscious imagination, it seemed – the more entranced she became. Especially by the super-sized guy sporting the black and green plaid. A warrior, for sure, with his long, flowing auburn hair braided at the temples and a symphony of rippling muscles. With the face of an archangel – hard and masculine yet otherworldly beautiful, sinfully defined arms and legs, he moved with lethal grace and skill.
Despite his size and obvious proficiency in combat, he seemed to be a bit overwhelmed at that moment. Aislinn counted no less than six men attacking the warrior all at once. They, too, were large men sporting kilts, but they didn’t have the same skill with a sword – and holy shit, was that an axe? - as the really big one, and the colors of their plaids were different.
The big guy was holding his own, she noted with no little amount of respect. But then a movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention. As Aislinn watched in growing horror, three more men emerged from the trees behind the warrior. With all of his focus on those in front of him and along his sides, he didn’t see the threat as she did.
It’s just a dream, she told herself, most likely the result of blunt-force head trauma. But before she could fully process that thought, she was on her feet, shoving her personal discomfort aside and stealthily moving toward the action as her training kicked in. It might be just a dream, but it was her dream, and she’d be damned if she’d allow such a fine warrior to go down by a sword to the back in any dream of hers.
Aislinn launched herself into the fray, pulling her blades from her boots as she did so. In a series of lightning fast kicks and spins, she took out the three men attacking her warrior from behind before they even knew what hit them. As the Mel Gibson look-alike turned around to see the commotion, she caught the flash of a sword sailing through the air – right at her warrior’s head.
Also by Abbie Zanders
Contemporary Romance
Dangerous Secrets (Callaghan Brothers, Book 1)
First and Only (Callaghan Brothers, Book 2)
House Calls (Callaghan Brothers, Book 3)
Seeking Vengeance (Callaghan Brothers, Book 4)
Guardian Angel (Callaghan Brothers, Book 5)
Beyond Affection (Callaghan Brothers, Book 6)
Having Faith (Callaghan Brothers, Book 7)
Bottom Line (Callaghan Brothers, Book 8)
Callaghan Brothers Guide
Five Minute Man (Covendale Series, Book 1)
All Night Woman (Covendale Series, Book 2)
Celina (Connelly Cousins, Book 1)
Johnny
(Connelly Cousins, Book 2)
The Realist
Celestial Desire
Time Travel Romance
Raising Hell in the Highlands (A Timeless Love, Book 2)
Paranormal Romance
Vampire, Unaware
Black Wolfe’s Mate (written as Avelyn McCrae)
About the Author
Abbie Zanders loves to read and write romance in all forms; she is quite obsessive, really. Her ultimate fantasy is to spend all of her free time doing both, preferably in a secluded mountain cabin overlooking a pristine lake, though a private beach on a lush tropical island works, too. Sharing her work with others of similar mind is a dream come true. She promises her readers two things: no cliffhangers, and there will always be a happy ending. Beyond that, you never know...
Maiden in Manhattan: A Time Travel Romance (A Timeless Love Book 1) Page 13
