Highlander's Heart: A Scottish Historical Time Travel Romance (Called by a Highlander Book 3)

by Mariah Stone

  She grew tighter and tighter around him and breathed faster and faster. Her voice grew louder and more and more needy.

  She was close. And he wanted her to have more. He wanted to show her all the stars in the sky.

  She’d said she found the commanding man desirable…

  Ian withdrew, and in a fast move, flipped Kate over on her belly, dragging her delicious arse in the air, and bit her playfully.

  “This arse is better than yer food,” he murmured, taking two handfuls, kneading the firm, abundant flesh.

  She sucked in a breath. Ian bit her again on the other cheek, and couldn’t stop a growl from the sweet slide of her silky skin against him.

  He continued to bite her softly, here and there, feeling himself harden even more. He didn’t think he had ever been this aroused. His balls would burst if he didn’t have her right now.

  But this wasn’t about his pleasure.

  This was about her.

  His bonnie, kind, golden goddess from the future. Broken, like him.

  He slid his hand between her thighs and found her sex again. She shuddered as he spread her folds gently and rubbed her while biting her at the same time.

  “Ye like that, lass?”

  “Oh God, yes,” she breathed.

  “Ye will like this even more,” he promised.

  He stood on his knees and placed his throbbing erection at the entrance to her sleek, wet sex. She gasped softly and made a circular movement with her arse, rubbing against him, and sent a lightning bolt of bliss through him.

  He made a sound that was similar to a bear’s roar, then guided himself into her.

  Oh dear lord. She was tight and sleek and took him in as if made for him. With one hand, he grabbed a handful of her hair, careful not to hurt her. With the other he held a handful of her hip. She was gorgeous, all his, and he all hers.

  Oh, how he wished this was not the last time. But he would make it one to remember for a lifetime. A memory he could hold on to in the nights spent without her.

  He moved out of her, then came back with a thrash, bursts of sunlight spreading through him. Then another thrust, and another. He bent and began fondling her engorged little bud. Kate whimpered, letting out small noises that made him drive into her even more wildly.

  He sped up, the need to have her, the need to own her and be owned by her burned through him like a wildfire. She squeezed him, and he knew she was right there, on the thin blade of the orgasm.

  He tightened, her excitement always spurring his own. With a violent wave of ecstasy that pulled him under like a storm surge, he spilled into her. He grabbed her hips to steady himself, thrusting over and over, wanting to give himself to her whole.

  Till his last drop.

  Her body shuddered, rocked by waves of delight as she cried his name again and again.

  Then they both stilled, panting.

  Kate flopped forward, then turned over and lay on her back, pulling him on top of her. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, meeting his lips in the most gentle kiss. They lay like that and breathed together, being one.

  Even if just for a few moments.

  She looked at him after a while. “I don’t want to go,” she said. “I also don’t want you to go to war. I want this to last forever.”

  Ian brushed her head with his palm. “I wish this, too, lass. I wish this, too.”

  And as he squeezed her tighter to himself, willing the borders between their bodies to dissolve, he knew that his whole life was worth it, just because of today. Just because of this night.

  But as time passed, as the first sunrays illuminated the room, he knew that the fairy tale was over and that when Kate left he’d be back to his old destiny.

  The destiny of a broken man.

  Chapter 27

  In the darkness of the night, the MacFilib farm was quiet. Tents stood around the house and in the oat fields that spread like giant silver blankets on the ground. Two campfires burned, and Ian guessed they were where the watchmen would be. The rest must be sleeping.

  Arrogant bastarts. Must be so sure they wouldn’t meet any opposition.

  Craig and Owen hadn’t shown up. Mayhap, Craig didn’t get the message or he wasn’t able to come because he was dealing with his own issues. But Ian just couldn’t afford to wait any longer or he’d have to deal with the English reinforcements as well.

  “Is Frangean ready?” Alan asked, crouching next to Ian behind a boulder.

  “As soon as I give him the signal,” Ian said.

  “Aye.”

  The troops stood hidden in the woods around the farm, swords and bows at the ready.

  Ian looked back into the forest. Somewhere there, Kate hid. She’d refused to stay behind in Dundail, sure that she could be useful, too, somehow. She’d take care of the wounded, at least give them water and bandage them, as well as steer the horse-drawn carriage with the wounded if need be. Ian had taught her how to do that.

  Ian’s heart thumped in his chest. This wouldn’t be a straightforward battle. Nor a fair one. The English were a stronger force, battle-honed and armored, whereas most of the Highlanders lacked armor and experience. Attacking in the darkness and using their cunning was their way to even the chances.

  Was Ian truly going to kill again? So cold-bloodedly, cutting the throats of distracted men?

  Yes, he was. Because they’d come for his land and the land of his people. They’d come to kill.

  Because they were about to take Ian’s freedom and the freedom of many more Highlanders. And Ian wouldn’t let that happen.

  If he was going to be a monster, freedom was one thing he was ready to go to the depths of darkness for.

  His stomach as hard as rock, his blood pulsing in his temples, he murmured the prayer for victory:

  All-seeing God,

  Satisfy and strengthen me;

  Blind, deaf, and dumb, ever, ever be

  My contemners and my mockers…

  Alan’s voice joined him, then more and more men echoed, until everyone whispered together:

  The tongue of Columba in my head,

  The eloquence of Columba in my speech;

  The composure of the Victorious Son of grace

  Be mine before the enemy.1

  They finished as one. One clan. One prayer. United like one sword. Silence hung over the woods. Only the wind rustled the leaves and the branches, which seemed to carry the last words and pass them to one another.

  It felt like the verra land was on their side. The trees, the rocks, the sky watched over the farm, waiting, ready.

  And so was Ian.

  He curved his hands around his mouth and hooted like an owl. “Hoo-hoo. Hoo-hoo. Hoo-hoo.”

  He counted the six hoots in his head, then repeated the call.

  The Highlanders around Ian rose from their crouched positions. Ian narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the darkness if there was any sudden activity or movement, which would mean Frangean had been discovered.

  But everything remained silent.

  And then, thick smoke, gray against the black sky, rose from the building. Then orange-gold flames glowed behind the thatched roof. Sparks flew like flies with fiery wings into the darkness above and disappeared.

  The English ran around the camp. Worried outcries filled the air. They went to the well and passed the bucket of water towards the house.

  Alan leaned towards Ian. “Now?”

  “Nae yet,” Ian said. “Wait.”

  Tension crackled around the Highlanders like a lightning charge. They leaned forward, their postures stiff like wolves about to launch, faces tense, eyes dark in the growing glow of fire before them.

  Ian could barely hold his own body back, his legs taut as bowstrings.

  And then the moment came. There was not a single man down in the farm who wasn’t trying to put the fire out.

  Ian raised his arm high for everyone to see, then swung it down.

  “Cruachan!” Ian said, not quite a cry and n
ot quite a whisper.

  It had enough strength and power for his men to echo it, but they all did so quietly enough that the enemies would not hear.

  Like wolves, they moved stealthily through the night, claymores glistening in the light of fire.

  Ian slashed his first sleeping man with no more sound than the gurgling of a cut throat, ignoring the twitch of guilt in his chest. He slayed the second one, who was lying next to the first. His men around him were doing the same, and soon, the air filled with the sounds of quick death.

  A third man raised his head and opened his eyes, but Ian cut his throat. Pain and the realization of death in the man’s eyes bruised Ian.

  More and more were waking up. More swords gleamed orange in the light of fires. More and more screamed as steel cut their throats and sank into their flesh. The metallic clash of swords combined with the roar of flames as dark figures fought and the red-orange storm consumed the farmhouse.

  Ian’s lungs filled with the acrid, smoke-filled air. Chaos spread around him. There were so many more English than Highlanders, and Ian could only hope that the courage and spirit of his people would help them win when everything was against them.

  Out of the darkness and smoke, a man came at him—a knight, wearing chain mail but no other armor. Flames shone against the bright metal as the Englishman raised his sword. Ian’s claymore met it with a loud bang above his head, the impact going through his muscles like ripples on the water. The man pulled his weapon back for the next strike, and Ian spun out of the way and hit him against the chain mail. The man grunted, and Ian used the moment to thrust his sword into the man’s face. But his claymore was blocked at the last moment, and the man hit Ian in the cheekbone with his elbow.

  Ian’s bone cracked from the iron-heavy hit, white spots flashing against his vision. His head spun, and another hit sent him back.

  No. Not like this.

  He called for all the might he had, for all fury. He roared, louder than the screams around him. Louder than the howling fire. He came at the man with downward strikes, his muscles light and singing with purpose. With one final strike, he crushed the chain mail and planted his sword in the man’s chest. The knight fell, and Ian didn’t watch the moment of death in the man’s eyes.

  He didn’t need to.

  Looking around, he saw many more fallen Highlanders than fallen English, and fear mixed in with his fury, like a splash of poison.

  No. He couldn’t let fear sway him, or allow himself guilt or compassion towards the enemy. They had none towards him or his people. They would have none towards Kate.

  He screamed again. “Cruachan!” He called for the last bits of courage and strength left in him and his people.

  His blade flashed red before his eyes as he ran into the skirmishes.

  “Here!” he cried. “Here, ye English bastarts. Ye pig cocks. Here, take me!”

  And as heads turned to him and three men ran at him, he went somewhere else. To the place where his head became empty. Where body and his instincts reigned, where his claymore sang its uneven, deadly song. Where he was free of thought and doubt.

  He set the killer within him free.

  Bodies fell. His blade sprayed blood. He sweated and ached. And his sword wanted more.

  He didn’t know how long he fought before a familiar face staring up into the sky made him stop. Alan. Dead. A gaping wound in his stomach.

  Ian turned around and saw more Highlanders wounded or dead. Alpin Mac a' Bhàird, Caden Rosach, Donal Umphraidh… Many, many more. He became aware of the smell of burning flesh and woodsmoke in the air, so thick he could taste it on his tongue. Nausea rose in his throat.

  They were losing.

  They’d already lost. He could see only half of his men still standing, and many more English.

  His stomach sank. What had he done—he’d sentenced his people to slaughter. Two men fought with Frangean, and Ian went towards him to help.

  Ian didn’t see the man coming until he was upon him, a big Englishman with a wolfish grin. A huge, black-haired monster of a man. His sword gleamed as it came towards Ian’s throat. He wouldn’t even have a moment to block him.

  Goodbye, Kate.

  He closed his eyes.

  A low, pained grunt came… But Ian didn’t feel anything. He opened his eyes. A spear pierced the man’s stomach, his hand grasping the end that protruded.

  “Cruachan! Cruachan!” called dozens of voices over the rumble of horses’ hooves.

  From the darkness of the woods, the fierce riders descended, swinging their swords, cutting down the shocked English.

  Who?

  Craig’s drawn face among the first row of the riders said it all. Owen rode right next to him, taking down the English one after another.

  They came.

  With renewed strength, Ian called, “Cruachan! Our brothers have come!”

  But whether that would be enough or he’d be sentencing even more people to death, he didn’t know.

  All he knew was that he was not ready to say goodbye to Kate. And all he could do was fight.

  Kate paced the woods. When she’d seen Ian and his men go into battle, she’d brought the horse closer to the action in case they needed immediate help.

  Her hand on Ian’s dagger, she paced between two trees, her eyes glued to the orange-red glow in the small valley below.

  Shadows and figures flickered there. Men fighting with swords, with fists, men throwing each other in the fire. The scent of burning hair and flesh was like a sickening barbecue. Cries of pain, fury, and surprise reached her, as well.

  She didn’t know how long she waited. Time lost its meaning while the images of Ian wounded and hurt invaded her mind. They knocked the air out of her lungs and made her gasp like an asthmatic.

  “Oh, Ian,” she whispered over and over again, “please be all right.”

  Then, surprising herself she prayed, “God, please keep him safe.”

  A tall, muscular figure walked towards her from the direction of the farm, holding a sword in one hand. She couldn’t see the man’s face, but his broad-shouldered stance, like he was ready to take on the world, could only belong to Ian. Relief flooded her, filling her lungs with freshness and life.

  “Oh, thank God!” she cried and flew into his arms.

  He wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug. He smelled like smoke and iron and sweat.

  And he was alive.

  She leaned back too look at his dirty, blood-sprayed face. From behind him, two more men approached, and Kate tensed.

  “We won, lass.” He grinned. “My cousins arrived with help. Owen was in Falnaird with Craig and Amy. We won.”

  “Oh, thank God,” she whispered again, mindlessly stroking his dirty, bloody coat which served as armor.

  He kissed her, quickly, almost roughly. The rush of the battle must still be thundering in his veins. Kate’s head spun, her body weakened, but one of the men cleared his throat, and Ian stilled. Then let her go unwillingly. He turned and shook his head with a friendly chuckle.

  Kate studied the men. There was an undoubtable resemblance between the three of them, although the other two looked more similar. All three were tall—giants compared to her. Ian was the most muscular. One of the cousins was a little older and had dark hair reaching his jaw, whereas the second one had hair the color of pale gold. Although it was hard to see their color in the darkness, both had catlike eyes. The three shared gorgeous, high cheekbones, square jaws, and straight noses any Roman statue would die for. Both of his cousins were handsome, strikingly so, but she only had eyes for Ian.

  “Craig, Owen, meet Kate Anderson,” he said, gesturing at first the dark-haired and then the blond cousin. “Kate is the best cook I’ve met in my life.”

  The cousins studied her, assessing, and Kate felt an urge to make them like her. In another life, if she were from this time and she didn’t need to go, maybe she’d hope for his family to accept her, to welcome her. She felt Ian straighten next to her, h
is shoulders tensed and rose. Did he want them to like her, too? The thought warmed her cheeks.

  “Good evening, mistress,” Craig said with a small, polite smile. He watched her intently, and Kate had a strange sensation of being under an X-ray machine.

  “Good evening,” Owen said and flashed a smile. “I canna wait to taste some of yer cooking that has impressed our Ian so much.”

  Kate’s face flushed a little and she smiled, fidgeting with the edge of her dress.

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about you from Ian.”

  Craig’s smile fell and he frowned. So did Owen. Both glanced at each other, then back at Kate.

  “Where do ye come from, mistress?” Owen asked.

  Oh no. What should she say? Again, her accent must have betrayed her. She glanced at Ian but then raised her chin. She’d just be evasive.

  “From far away,” she said.

  “How far?” Craig took a step towards her.

  Ian moved closer to her. “Why, Craig? What does it matter?”

  Craig continued drilling Kate with his eyes. “It matters because the lass speaks with a peculiar accent and manner. So peculiar, I’ve only heard it from one other person.”

  One other person? Could it possibly be he’d met another American? A time traveler like her?

  “Who?” Kate said, her throat dry.

  “My wife, Amy.”

  Kate cleared her throat. “Your wife?”

  “The one and only.”

  “H-how did you meet?” Kate said.

  “’Tis a good story. Involving an underground storage room in Inverlochy Castle. And a tunnel.”

  “Through time?” Kate exhaled.

  A smile spread across Craig’s face. He clapped Ian on the shoulder. “Ye bastart. Did ye find yerself a woman from the future, too?”

  Owen eyed Kate with an open mouth.

  Ian raised his eyebrows. “Ye marrit one?”