Sexy Scot (Highlander's Through Time Book 2)

by Cecelia Mecca

  “She really did it,” the big man murmured under his breath. “Grace isn’t mad.”

  Mad meant crazy, didn’t it? He had an inkling of what was happening here. “She sent her, my mother, didn’t she? Grace sent my mother to the future?”

  This time, the Viking looked at him as if he were an alien. Which, he supposed, was kind of accurate. But then the man sheathed his sword and stuck out his hand. Another gesture that apparently transcended time.

  “Ross MacKinnish, brother to Shona MacKinnish.” A quick glance around, as if to ensure they were indeed alone, and he added, “Well met, nephew.”

  Yeah, not so well met. But Greyson would let that one slide.

  Shaking his hand, he said, “Pleased to meet you. Maybe now you can tell me where we are. And where my mother is. And maybe you’ve seen her other son, my brother Rhys?”

  But he could tell from Ross’s expression that he had no idea what he was talking about.

  “We’re in England. Just south of the Scottish border. I’ve not seen your brother, and as for Shona, you’re going to help me find her.”

  Help me find her.

  So she was still lost. Greyson swallowed.

  “But not”—Ross nodded toward Greyson’s suit—“in that.”

  4

  Prior to the journey, Marian had wondered at her father’s decision to send her off with such a small riding party. Gilda, who’d always attempted to persuade her that her father did, indeed, care about her, had simply shrugged and said, “He must know ’tis a safe path from Fenwall to Pittillock.” She’d managed to say it with a straight face, although they both knew such a thing could not be true. The borderlands had become more dangerous than ever of late. “Or perhaps he trusts Sir James to keep you safe.”

  And, indeed, Sir James was quite protective. Whenever they came near any other travelers, the marshal would instantly fall in beside her. However, he’d developed a cough these last days, and she worried about his ruddy appearance. Her concern for him was undercut by her worry about the riding party that had just come into view ahead of them. There appeared to be at least six riders to their own twelve. But these were no ordinary men. Each one of them sat taller than all of her own companions save Big John. None of the riders had glanced back, which struck her as odd. Did they not hear them coming?

  Did they simply not care?

  “Scotsmen,” James muttered, falling in line beside her once again.

  Would Duncan be a protective husband? Likely not, if even a fraction of the gossip were true.

  “Stay close, my lady.”

  The party ahead of them had slowed to a crawl, their leader stopping to dismount. Apparently they’d seen them after all. He did turn toward them now, and Marian shuddered. A more fearsome-looking man certainly did not exist in her country, or his.

  “Well met,” James called to them. Their group slowed too, the rest of the men falling in around Marian while James rode ahead, coming to a stop next to the blond, bearded man. She couldn’t hear their words from such a distance, but the men appeared friendly enough. None made a move toward them, and her own men appeared relaxed enough. She’d begun to sense the difference between friend and foe, and from all appearances, these Scotsmen fell into the former group.

  With her mount dancing impatiently under her, Marian reached out a hand to steady the mare—which was when she felt herself being watched. Inching forward, she turned toward the man. Immediately flooded with warmth, Marian shivered for a very different reason than before.

  He was unlike any man Marian had ever seen. His hair, most unusual. Shorter on the sides than the top, raven black, it was a striking contrast to the cream of his shirt. His jaw firm, set in its assessment of her, the man neither smiled nor frowned. He simply stared at her with such intensity she had no choice but to continue watching him.

  Marian simply could not look away.

  Nearly as large as their leader, he sat atop his mount as if he were the former king’s heir, though, of course, Alexander had none. What manner of man stared so openly, so boldly?

  What manner of woman am I to hold his gaze?

  Marian forced herself to shift her gaze to James and the leader. But the men who flanked her were moving away, the mood lightening, and she found herself tightening her grip on the reins and peeking.

  Her mouth dropped. He was still staring.

  Perhaps they were no threat, but this man’s behavior marked them as heathens, her father’s favorite word for the Scots. Of course, she’d pointed out he’d chosen to marry her to one of them for the sake of an alliance. He’d merely scoffed and turned away.

  If they were closer, Marian might have admonished this man for his poor manners.

  And then, as if his behavior weren’t inappropriate enough, the man smiled at her. A slow, sensual smile that held promises which would be left unfulfilled. The kind of smile that might be given to a servant but never a noblewoman. But try as Marian might, she could not seem to turn away.

  “Lady Marian?”

  James called her name much too loudly, as if he’d been attempting to gain her attention for some time. With a deep, steadying breath, Marian cleared her throat and took his cue, spurring her mount forward.

  The Scotsman watched them as they passed, their kindly faces not what she would have expected from such men.

  She would not look back at the handsome rogue. She would not. But an itch to do so swept over her, compelling her attention. Maybe just a quick glance? What harm could that bring?

  Sucking in a fortifying breath, Marian looked back over her shoulder and gasped.

  Had he just winked at her? If her father had been here to see it, he would have challenged the Scotsman for such an action. His honor would have demanded it, not any protectiveness for his daughter.

  It was a bad idea to flirt with a lady—a real medieval lady—and yet Greyson couldn’t help himself. He’d never seen anyone lovelier, and his mind was still racing from everything he’d learned in the past day and a half. Once Ross had accepted the fact that they were, implausibly enough, uncle and nephew, he’d brought Greyson to a secluded corner and told him what he knew of the strange tale in which they were both enmeshed. First, though, he took a long swig of ale that would have made Ian proud to call him uncle.

  “My brother Colban and I were at our family home, at Castle Hightower, when Grace comes running through the courtyard as if someone was chasing her, screaming for Shona. Your aunt Grace has always been . . . different. Some even called her “ban-draoidh,” but Grace is no witch, just a very skilled healer. She and your mother had been at Castle Kinghorn serving Queen Yolande as ladies-in-waiting.”

  “Mom served the queen?” he’d asked. His uncle had already told him the MacKinnishes were allied with Robert the Bruce. Of course, Greyson’s mind had immediately jumped to the future king of Scotland, but further conversation had revealed this Bruce was the future king’s grandfather.

  “Aye, lad. Clan MacKinnish is as well-positioned as any in Scotland, courtesy of our father. Your grandfather. ’Tis a tale for another day. And I’m sorry to say the tale Grace spun was one I could not believe. She told us that Shona had been asked by Deidre Irvine, the queen’s head lady-in-waiting, to deliver a message to King Alexander at Edinburgh Castle, asking for him to come immediately. As she returned to Kinghorn with the king, Yearger Irvine—Deidre’s brother and one of Shona’s escorts—apparently attempted to stab her. She escaped his clutches only to witness the other two guards in their riding party, Nigel, along with another guard named Loxton, scare the king’s horse off the cliff.”

  “They killed him?” Greyson had been stunned by the news.

  “Aye, they killed the king. And your mother delivered the message.”

  Greyson, who’d taken a liking to his uncle after their less than convivial introduction, had immediately turned defensive. “You didn’t believe she was innocent?”

  But Ross was already shaking his head. “’Twas not the part of th
e tale I didna believe. According to Grace, Shona made her way back to Kinghorn, went straight to the healing room to see Grace, and told her what had happened. When Deidre and Yearger came for Shona, Grace said she had no choice but to act quickly. Pulling out a cross given to her by the fae—”

  “Fae? As in, fairies?”

  Judging by his uncle’s rather intimidating frown, he gathered the word fairy hadn’t been invented yet. He wanted to ask more about the fae—what they looked like and if they were smaller than “normal” people—but he’d already been exposed to enough of the impossible. So he waved for his uncle to go on.

  “Grace claimed to have grabbed the cross and said the words given to her by her fae friends, sending your mother, well, she thought back to Hightower. After she discovered your mother wasn’t there, Grace kept repeating over and over, ‘I did it wrong.’ None knew what she meant, but we did know the king was dead. And Shona was missing.”

  “So when I showed up . . .”

  Hearing the other side of the story had helped put the events in Greyson’s time into context. He told his uncle about the cross, and the way the stories fit together had made it impossible for either of them to deny the truth. Grace had accidently sent his mother through time rather than back to Hightower. But knowing that did nothing to answer the shitload of questions they both had.

  Where had Grace gotten another cross to pull his mom back through time, if indeed that’s what had happened when she’d disappeared five years ago? And most importantly, how exactly was it possible to time travel? Because, scientifically, it couldn’t be done. He’d spent several sleepless hours researching it after Rhys had vanished in their father’s study.

  In the end, it didn’t matter how it had happened, only that it had. The so-called “traveling chant” somehow actually worked. And neither Greyson nor Ross believed he’d been plopped nearly into his uncle’s lap by happenstance. If he hadn’t believed in fate before, Greyson was quickly changing his opinion on the matter. Perhaps his mother had been meant to come to New Orleans. With luck, maybe Rhys had also ended up in a time and place that made some lick of sense.

  Because, according to his uncle, who’d volunteered to bring a message south from the so-called “Guardians of Scotland” to the English king’s regent, his mom’s life had been threatened before she disappeared. And the cause of that threat was a man named Yearger Ross intended to question. Greyson had agreed to accompany him to deliver the message in the hopes of learning more about the whereabouts of his mother and Rhys.

  Not that he had much of a choice. And if what Ross told him were true, they’d be doing more than talking to this Yearger character.

  Greyson had never had more on his mind, so why, as the lovely lady rode in front of him, did he find himself wondering if perhaps they’d come across her for a reason too?

  5

  Partly listening to the men’s chatter as they headed to Quinting Castle, where King Edward’s regent was currently holding court, Marian attempted to slow her rapidly beating heart.

  Another coughing fit from James pulled her out of her reverie. In truth, the marshal did not appear as hardy as normal. Concern prompted her forward . . . and then she noticed them.

  Not again.

  This time the party rode toward them. At least ten men traversed the wooden bridge they’d crossed before turning south. Unlike the Scotsmen they’d just passed, these men had an entirely different air about them. Dressed very differently than her men or the Scotsmen, their horses smaller than normal, something was not quite right with these men. Even as she thought it, Marian found herself surrounded.

  “Fenwall!” one of the newcomers shouted as they thundered toward them.

  “Lady Marian, to the trees.” That was James’s voice, in a pitch she’d never heard before. Angry and panicked. She had no time to respond before he urged her horse forward, into the thick woods beside them. Pine needles scratched her cheek as her spooked mount veered too close to wayward branches.

  Stopping to look back at the racket of shouts and clanging metal, Marian stared in shock at the sight behind her. From this distance, all she could see were men grappling. Her father’s men were being attacked. Or were they doing the attacking? She could not be sure, but James had wanted her to escape. To hide. A surge of strength flooded her, and she rode away from the action again, moving as fast as she dared over the uneven ground, only to find a different sort of danger in front of her.

  No. No, no, no.

  She could see the water through the trees, but she kept riding toward it, hoping to find some escape. But the lake stretched out in front of her in both directions, its stillness so at odds with the screams that continued to ring in her ears that Marian had difficulty reconciling it. The water lay as smooth as the glass-paned windows of which her father was so proud. Only the wealthiest could afford such a luxury, he’d boasted.

  Her father. The same man who so adamantly refused to train her. Training that could have proved quite useful at this moment.

  There was no way around it, but mayhap she would swim across.

  The bank across from her beckoned as she sat atop her horse, immobile.

  Too far. Too cold. She could swim, but even if she made it, she might die from cold. And while she could ride along the bank, she was uncertain about which way to go.

  She only knew she could not go back.

  Into the woods, James had said.

  But if she stayed atop her horse, she would surely be seen. The men wouldn’t have to ride far to find her. Dismounting and praying she made the right decision, Marian gave a final soulful look to her faithful horse. And ran.

  Back into the woods, but south. At least she thought it was south. It was so difficult to discern in here. But did it matter, really? Marian was alone without a weapon.

  And someone was coming.

  She would die this day.

  Hiding as best she could in a thicket of bushes, she cursed herself for a fool. Why had she not kept riding? Although she could hide better on foot, she would not be able to run from an attacker.

  The surge of strength from earlier had faded, leaving in its wake a dread worse than what she’d felt upon learning of her betrothal. Mayhap this would be a quick death, unlike the promise of a slow one as Duncan’s wife.

  Nay, I will not simply wait for death.

  Her hiding spot, as sound as any, would protect her until James returned. As skilled and strong as any knight, he’d served her father well, was chosen as marshal for a reason. He would come for her.

  Someone shouted her name, surely one of her own men? But the voice sounded foreign to her ears. Balling her hands into fists to attempt to stop them from shaking, Marian crouched even lower, cursing the bright blue of her riding gown.

  “Marian?”

  Another shout, but surely it was not one of her men. None would call her by her given name.

  God, please save me. I promise to be less foolish and happy, and act more like a lady. I will serve my new husband as a wife should.

  Shame washed over her. She was about to die, and here she sat, lying to God.

  Nay, God, I shall not lie to you.

  Too many times I’ve attempted to be the kind of woman who would make my father proud, and too many times I’ve failed. I fear ’tis not possible. But I do promise to serve Duncan well, or as best as possible given my temperament.

  Still, it felt like a promise she might not be able to keep.

  Allow me to live, and I promise to temper my unkind thoughts of the Scotsman.

  Surely she could manage that much.

  “Marian.”

  He was much too close. Marian didn’t intend to shift, but she did, and the snapped branch echoed as loudly as the first clang of metal in the attack on the road. This time, there was no stopping her hands from shaking. She was losing control of her body as it warred against her, urging her to release the muscles she tensed. Biting the insides of her lip to keep herself from making a sound, she continu
ed to remain still.

  “Marian?”

  The man had heard the branch and was coming closer.

  She would fight. Marian would not die without at least attempting to overpower him. Intending to do just that, she lunged at the sound of footsteps just beyond her hiding spot.

  And tripped on the hem of her gown, falling. She anticipated the pain of hitting the ground, but a pair of strong arms caught her instead. She looked up and gasped, surprised to find herself staring into the very last eyes she’d expected to see.

  6

  Greyson rushed forward and caught her just in time.

  Hands still shaking from what had just happened, nearly overwhelmed with relief that he’d found her alive, he did the only thing that seemed logical. Pulling her against him, Greyson wrapped his arms around her, though for whose comfort he wasn’t sure.

  He could sense her pulling back at first, but just when he loosened his grip, the Englishwoman held on to him for dear life. He could feel her sobs against his chest, and though it usually made him feel useless and uncomfortable when a woman cried in front of him, Greyson had no desire to release her. He understood it, the overwhelming flood of emotion.

  I just killed a man. Maybe two of them.

  Countless hours of hitting targets, first in high school and then in college, and never in his wildest dreams had he imagined he might one day use a bow and arrow to kill a human being. His uncle’s pleasure at learning Greyson was proficient in archery, though certainly not with such a rudimentary bow as the one they’d purchased in one of the villages they’d passed through . . . well, he understood it now. Less than two days here, and he’d already seen his first battle. Ross had warned him, but he never imagined it to come so soon.

  “What . . .” Shoulders heaving up and down, she didn’t seem inclined to finish, so Greyson answered her unasked question.