Laird of Her Heart (Dundragon Time Travel Trilogy Book 1)

by Sabrina York

  Dominic stilled. “You are a Macintosh?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Macintoshes of Seattle?”

  Um. Sure. “Yes.”

  “Why have I never heard of this sept?”

  “I told you. We’re from the west.”

  “I know all the clans to the west.”

  “We’re from across the sea.”

  His eyes narrowed. “There is nothing across the sea.”

  “There is.” Seattle, for one thing. Also, Vegas. But she didn’t see the point in mentioning that.

  He was silent for a long while. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and somber. “All right. Assuming you are, indeed a Macintosh from Seattle…why are you here?”

  Oh crap. How the hell was she supposed to answer that? She didn’t know. Not really. She decided to go with her gut. To give him the one answer that had been humming in her soul since she clapped eyes on his picture.

  “I came to meet you, Dominic of Dar. I came to meet you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Something whipped through Dominic like a howling wind. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was hot and needy. Certainly, she was a strange little thing. Certainly her story was suspect. But he couldn’t shake this sense of…recognition. The overwhelming sense of inevitability. As though the two of them were meant to meet. Meant to be together. Meant to—

  And yes, his passion was high.

  He wanted her with a hunger he had never known. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her, ravage her, claim her.

  But his brain overruled his hunger. It had to. He had hundreds of kinsmen beneath his banner and he was devoted to protecting them. He could not succumb to simple lust with a woman who could be a traitor. Who could be lying every time she parted those pretty lips.

  But it wasn’t simple lust, was it? There was nothing simple about it.

  He sat back and studied her, but in truth, he needed a moment to rally his resolution, his sanity.

  “You say you have come from Seattle to meet me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Her mouth opened. He fixated on it. He hardly even noticed the fact that she didn’t actually respond, that a flicker of befuddlement crossed her face. Would she not know why she had come to meet him?

  At length, she burbled, “Well, to meet the great Laird of Dar, of course. Everyone knows of you in Seattle.”

  Again, he had the sense her words were lies, but he didn’t dwell on the suspicion. There seemed little point. All that mattered here, all that should matter, was keeping his people safe from their enemies. There had been many raids on his lands of late, many treacheries from the Cameron Clan to the east. Whispers of betrayal abounded, especially now, with the forming of the Chattan Confederation. The Camerons had not been included in the federation of clans and—resentful of the exclusion, or worried the combined forces of so many families would become too powerful—were determined to scuttle the union.

  More than one Cameron spy had been captured, and many Cameron lads had come to Dar to cause mischief. They were becoming a familiar nuisance.

  But they’d not yet sent a woman.

  Though he was certain she was lying, he was also certain she wasn’t a spy.

  What she was, was a mystery.

  One he was determined to unravel.

  Declan pushed into his tent and when he saw Dominic and their prisoner enjoying a drink at the table, he glowered. He glowered a lot.

  “You were supposed to wait for me before you interrogated her,” he grumbled.

  “I’m no’ interrogating her. I just thought she might like something to drink…after her stroll.”

  “Her stroll?”

  “Aye.” Dominic gestured to the ropes on his pallet. “Apparently Ewan’s knots were no’ strong enough to hold her.”

  “You did tell him to be gentle.” This Declan said with a hint of repugnance.

  “Oh, did you?” Maggie asked. Her expression brightened. She fluttered her lashes. “That was nice.”

  “I dinna want him to hurt you. But I expected him to tie you securely at least.”

  “Oh, the ropes were very secure,” she said with a solemn nod.

  Again, a lie. Why it made him want to grin, he didn’t know.

  “Well, now that I am here, we can begin,” Declan said. There were no more chairs, so he stood, looming over Maggie with his arms crossed. To her credit, she didn’t seem intimidated in the slightest. “Who are you, wench?” he barked.

  For some reason, she grinned. “You’re the second person to call me that today.” But she seemed disinclined to answer, which annoyed Declan heartily.

  Dominic sucked in a deep breath. “Her name is Maggie Spencer, of Seattle—”

  “Seattle?” Declan’s brows beetled. “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s to the west, across the sea.”

  “It’s a lovely town.” Maggie leaned forward. “We have flying fish.”

  Declan snorted an imprecation and she batted her lashes…again. It almost seemed as though she enjoyed riling him. Which, upon reflection, was not terribly wise. She was fearless. Or foolish. He wasn’t sure which.

  “She claims she was coming to visit…Dar and became lost. This is why she was sleeping in the ciorcal cloiche.”

  “Technically, I wasn’t sleeping.”

  “What were you doing there then?” Declan snapped.

  She lifted a shoulder. “Falling, I presume.”

  His brother’s lips worked, as though he found her too confabulating for words. But then, Dominic did as well. He didn’t understand half of what she said. Finally, Declan huffed, “Well, none of this changes anything. She’s a Cameron—”

  “I’m not a Cameron.”

  “She’s a Macintosh.” They both spoke at the same time.

  Declan fixed his stare on Dominic. “A Macintosh? But why is she wearing blue?”

  “Apparently everyone in Seattle wears blue.”

  “Everyone? Inconceivable.”

  “Well, not everyone.” Apparently she felt the need to clarify. “Just lots of people. It’s doesn’t mean anything there. It’s just blue.”

  Dominic shook his head, trying to make sense of this. “How can you tell which clan people are from?”

  “You don’t.”

  Both Declan and Dominic gaped. “You doona? How on earth did you know if you’re with friend or foe?”

  “In Seattle it doesn’t matter. Everyone lives together in peace.” She paused and thought about that for a moment, then added, “Well, almost everyone. God help you if you cut in line at Starbucks.”

  He had no idea what Starbucks was, but Seattle did, indeed, sound like a wonderful place, one where a man did not always have to be watching out for a dagger in the back.

  But again, probably a lie.

  Or a fantasy.

  Maybe she was touched.

  Oh, he didn’t like that prospect in the slightest, but he did have to consider it.

  After all, flying fish?

  Maggie sighed. “I’m enjoying this interrogation and all, but would you mind so terribly much giving me something to eat while you barrage me with questions?”

  “I’m hardly barraging you.”

  “I haven’t eaten in hours. I’m starving.”

  She didn’t look as though she was starving—far too many curves for that—but there was no denying the growl from the general region of her belly. Dominic nodded to Declan. “Bring her a slice of the venison.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Bambi?”

  Ironically, Declan’s nose wrinkled too. “I doona want to leave you alone with her. She could be dangerous.”

  Dominic glanced at her, the tiny wee thing. He knew she had no weapons on her; Ewan had found nothing but a strange metal tube in her pocket when he’d checked for them. And she was…small. Delicate. Feminine. “She’s no’ dangerous.”

  “Oh, I’m very dangerous,” she gusted. “I know jiu jitsu.”


  Declan shot her a frown, then turned it on Dominic. “I’m hardly a serving boy.”

  “I know that. But I would verra much appreciate it if you could bring our guest something to eat. Before she collapses again.”

  She set her hand on her stomach and arranged her features in a pleading moue. “I am verra hungry.”

  “Well, hell.” Declan glared at both of them and stomped from the tent.

  “My,” Maggie said, staring after him. “He’s grumpy.”

  Dominic tried not to chuckle. Declan was grumpy. Moody and dour. But he was one of the fiercest warriors Dominic knew, and he loved him very much. Enough to overlook his disposition. “You understand why he is suspicious of you, do you no’? You come to us wearing the colors of our enemies at a time when hostilities are high—”

  “Hostilities were always high between the Macintoshes and the Camerons,” she said.

  Something prickled at his nape. “Were?”

  “Um, always have been?”

  He sat back and studied her, his mind awhirl. The Macintoshes and the Camerons had not always been at odds. The feud had begun only recently, with the convocation of the Chattan Clans. When Torquil Cameron had been excluded from the discussions. But he was an ornery bastard. Hot tempered and rash. “So you know of the disputes between our clans in Seattle? It is written in this book?”

  She nodded.

  “And what else does the book contain?”

  A flush rose on her cheeks. “Well, lots of stuff.”

  “Such as?”

  “History. The lines of kings. Lairds. Battles. I know that Dar came to the Macintoshes through William the Lion in 1155. The lands were expanded through an alliance with the Shaws in 1214. There was a kerfuffle in 1281 when King Alexander died and Clan MacBain tried to claim the land. And then in 1291—”

  She broke off and glanced at him. Her flush deepened.

  “In 1291?”

  “Nothing.” She shook her head. “Nothing. That’s all I know.”

  He did not believe her. She knew more. She knew something. He leaned forward and pinned her with an intense look. “What happened in this year of our Lord?”

  “This year?”

  “Aye. 1291.”

  Her throat worked. “It’s 1291?”

  He shot her a dark glance and she shrugged.

  “I’ve…lost track of time.” A huffed and manic laugh. “Where does it go?”

  “What happens?” A growl.

  “Clan Chattan formed, of course.”

  No. There was something more. Something she was keeping from him. But he did not have a chance to probe deeper because Declan returned with a platter of venison, which he dropped before her with a clang.

  She studied it askance. “Is this a lead plate?”

  Declan narrowed his eyes. “’Tis pewter.”

  She sighed and picked up the meat between two fingers. “You really shouldn’t use pewter,” she said.

  For someone who was starving, she nibbled at it rather gingerly.

  He had to ask. Just had to. “Why should we no’ use pewter?”

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s made with lead. Lead is poisonous.”

  He nearly laughed out loud. Cups and plates had been made from pewter for centuries. If lead were poisonous, they’d all be dead. Still, she ate the venison in tiny bites, meticulously avoiding the side that had touched the plate.

  Declan watched, his hands on his hips, an expression of disgust on his face. “So,” he said. “What do we do with her?”

  Keep her. The thought rang in Dominic’s head. Keep her. “We’ll take her back to Castle Dar.”

  Declan’s head whipped around. He frowned. “But we’re no’ done hunting.”

  “We have a good start.”

  “Not nearly enough for the winter.” He glowered at Maggie, who shot him a cheerful grin as she licked her fingers. “We should stay a little longer.”

  A trickle of concern dribbled through him. Surely it was not fear he might lose her if he did not secure her in his keep? She’d already escaped once. No doubt she would try again. But Declan was right. Winter was coming and they needed to prepare for the long, cold months ahead. “A few more days then. But we’ll be keeping you under guard.” This he said to Maggie. Just so she knew they would be watching.

  He disliked the thought of keeping her tied up, but disliked the thought of her slipping away even more. He didn’t have the time or the inclination to explore the conundrum, because just then, Declan nodded and said, “We shall tie her to a tree for the night,” and every thought flew from his head.

  He bounded to his feet as annoyance and fury and something more whipped through him. “We are no’ tying her to a tree.” There was no need to bellow, the tent was small after all, but the roar was out before he could stop it. Surely he hadn’t been entertaining the thought of keeping her here? With him? On his pallet? Wound together?

  Surely he hadn’t been entertaining other thoughts as well, there in the dark and shadowy recesses of his mind.

  Guilt slithered through his gut.

  All right, perhaps he had been. A little.

  Declan crossed his arms. “I doona have time to build a cage for her.”

  Dominic gaped at him. His jaw dropped. “A cage?”

  “She is a spy.”

  “She’s a wee lass.”

  “I’m hardly a lass.” He ignored the sniffed rebuttal from his side. “And I am hardly wee.” She brushed down her thighs. “But thank you for saying that.”

  “We doona know who or what she is, Dominic. Think on it. Who knows what mischief she could cause?” Declan glowered at Maggie. She fluttered her lashes at him. “The Camerons are a murderous lot.”

  His ire rose, along with his voice. “We’re no’ locking her in a cage—”

  “Excellent. Because I believe I mentioned I doona have time to build a bluidy cage—”

  “She’s staying here. With me.”

  Silence fell like an anvil. Declan stared at him. And, for that matter, so did Maggie. He hadn’t intended for the words, the intention to escape, but it had. And now that it was said, he would not reverse his decision.

  “Pardon me?”

  He turned to her. Stared down at her beautiful face. Imagined lying next to her all night…and aching. He wouldn’t get a wink of sleep. Maybe the tree was a better idea…

  “Aye?”

  She forced a smile, though he saw the wobble in it. “I can’t help noticing…you have only one bed. Well, pallet, really. Where would I… Where would you…”

  Oh, he liked this. He liked seeing her assurance crumble. Not that he didn’t appreciate a confident woman, but this one was too confident by far. He didn’t mind intimidating her a little. He didn’t mind in the least.

  He curled his lips into something of a smile. “Why, we shall sleep together, of course.”

  “What?” She and Declan squawked at the same time.

  “’Tis the only way I can be sure you doona slip away into the night.”

  Because, by God, she would not escape from him again.

  * * *

  Oh good Lord. She wasn’t going to sleep a wink and she knew it. For one thing, he was large and hogged most of the bed. She couldn’t even get comfortable because he’d tied her hands—securely this time—and bound the rope to the tent stake.

  For another thing, he smelled.

  Oh, not the stench one might expect of a man from the thirteenth century without the benefit of body wash and a steam shower. It was something tantalizing and evocative. She couldn’t put a name to it, other than the fact that he smelled, quite simply, like a man. A man who worked hard every day, who used his muscles and toned his body and ate healthy food.

  With each breath she drew it into her lungs, his essence, his taste.

  It was driving her crazy, making her dizzy and causing unwanted thoughts to careen through her mind.

  Well, perhaps they weren’t unwanted, but they were certainly unwelcome.


  She’d been attracted to this guy long before she’d met him. She’d been half in love with the lines on his face. Confronted by his person, the power of his presence, the thrum of his energy, she found herself sliding quickly into the mire of obsession.

  His snore riffled through the room—it annoyed her that he could sleep—and then he rolled over, toward her. His heavy arm fell across her belly. She tried not to wince. He pulled her closer, against him. His heat scorched her.

  When he huffed out a sigh, his breath caressed her face. Ah. God.

  She could turn her head, just a little, and they would be lip to lip. She could taste him.

  The force of her desire startled her, and maybe frightened her a little.

  As attractive as he was, it wasn’t wise for her to start anything with him. Not in her situation. She was their prisoner. His brother wanted her dead. Worse, if she made a slip and indicated how very not-from-here she was, it might be the end of her.

  People from this century were not very open-minded about the prospect of time travel.

  Or educated women. Who knew things.

  Like the fact that at some point in the near future, he and most of his men would be murdered. And later in the fall, a flood would take out all their crops. Most of the clan would starve to death when the snows came.

  1291 had been a banner year for the enemies of the Macintoshes.

  It was a pity she couldn’t warn him.

  But even if she could—and he did not burn her at the stake—he wouldn’t believe her.

  Hell, she wouldn’t believe her.

  She stilled as his palm flattened over her belly…and then began to rove. He made a sound, something like a murmur. It rumbled through her ear. He edged closer, curling his body against hers. And shit.

  That hardness against her thigh?

  Unmistakable.

  She nearly came out of her skin as his breath brushed her neck, and then his lips.

  Jesus, God, they were warm and damp and sent skitters of delight through her body. Who would have suspected that such a simple touch could set her on fire? He opened his mouth and suckled her there and then his kiss walked up her neck to her lobe. A nibble there made her gasp. She tightened her hands into fists to keep from grabbing him—even though there was no fear of that, as they were locked above her head.