Sexy Scot (Highlander's Through Time Book 2)

by Cecelia Mecca

  Pretty much, they were all good and fucked.

  10

  “Holy shit.”

  Greyson had been to Scotland before, with his family. But he’d missed out on seeing Edinburgh Castle. On the day the rest of them had gone, he’d been back in the hotel vomiting. To this day he thought it was probably food poisoning. But his mother, who’d stayed back to take care of him, had disagreed.

  Food poisoning, a stomach virus. Whatever it was, it had disappeared almost as quickly as it had come on. That was the only tour they’d missed. But Greyson couldn’t imagine the castle everyone had come back raving about was any more impressive than this one.

  Nearly two full days after he’d screwed up, telling Marian the very thing he should have kept secret, they rode over a ridge that gave them a full view of the court in the north, as Ross had called it.

  “There are no castles where you are from?”

  She rode up next to him, teasing as always. He suspected it was her natural state, although the reality of her situation caught up with her at times, and when it did, she looked very much as if her world had ended. Friends taken, and pretty violently too. A betrothed who Greyson hated more and more every time she talked about him. Which wasn’t much except when he asked questions. He knew the important parts. Marian’s father, who also seemed like a bit of a dick, wanted an alliance with the Scottish Earl of Fife, and that was pretty much the beginning and the end of her story, in terms of her impending nuptials.

  But he’d learned a few other things about her, namely, she wasn’t as uptight as he’d expect from an English earl’s daughter. In fact, just the opposite. Marian laughed easily, joked with the men as if she’d known them her whole life. Self-deprecating, she talked about how easily she forgot information. When Alban had asked when she’d acquired such a poor memory, Marian had thought about it for a few moments and said, “I forget.”

  The big, hulking Vikings they were traveling with had laughed at that—big, deep belly laughs—and Greyson had almost forgotten, if only briefly, that he was living in a dream, or near enough. It was like that around Marian. She woke him up.

  If only he hadn’t opened his mouth about the whole time travel thing. Greyson almost wished it had freaked her out. Instead, she treated it as a big joke. At every turn, Marian whispered things like, “There are no castles where you’re from?” not even pretending to be serious.

  Still, it was better than her spilling the beans to the others.

  After realizing his efforts to convince her of the truth weren’t working, Greyson had started playing along. His phone clearly hadn’t done the trick, and now the battery was dead. Although Marian still asked about it, she seemed to think it some kind of clever trick rather than proof of his story.

  “Nay,” he teased back, the term flowing more easily from his tongue, “there are not. And definitely not like that one.”

  “There are few to rival it along the borderlands. At least here in England. Kenshire, perhaps.”

  This was the second time he’d heard they had passed the border. He wasn’t sure when the hell that had happened, but apparently England looked exactly like its northern neighbor.

  “Are they very different, England and Scotland? They look much the same. People seem to dress the same. I’ll admit my history is lacking in this area.” None were close enough to hear them, but even so, he shouldn’t have made such a slip. It would be too easy to do it around the wrong person.

  “Your history.” The corners of Marian’s very full lips turned up. “If you were more learned in this area, you would know borderers’ first loyalty lies with themselves. And other borderers. Then perhaps to their own countrymen.”

  “And women.”

  They rode at the back of the pack, but Greyson could see guards moving at the top of the castle walls. They were everywhere. What a different sight than pulling into a parking lot on the castle grounds and seeing a line for tours.

  This was the real deal.

  When Marian didn’t respond, he glanced over to find her puzzled.

  “And women?” she asked, her brow creased.

  It struck him then that his mother must have loved the future.

  “In my time, we’d say both—countrymen and women. Although to be fair, I don’t recall hearing a lot of people say ‘countrywomen,’ but my mother would have. She was pretty careful about using inclusive language, and I suspect I know why.”

  “Inclusive language?”

  Jesus. They might as well be talking two different languages.

  “When you say man, what does it make you think of?”

  “Someone such as you?” She offered the question innocently, so Greyson knew he should take it that way. Though the idea of being a model of manhood for this woman was much too appealing.

  “But not a woman, right?”

  Marian shook her head. “Certainly not.”

  “And that’s the point. Language has power. Words matter. Inclusive language means, in this case, including both men and women.”

  In that moment, watching Marian blink as she attempted to grasp the concept of women being included in anything, Greyson realized his mother had been this woman once. Raised in thirteenth-century Scotland. What a shock it must have been to her to find herself in the future, in New Orleans, no less . . .

  He’d always admired his mother, but no more so than now. She’d overcome so much to become the strong, warm, brilliant woman who’d raised him. Marian deserved the chance to be her own woman too, but she wouldn’t get it. After Ross delivered the Guardian’s message, they would escort Marian to her fiancé. Shit. Greyson shifted in the rudimentary saddle, troubled by the thought of leaving her with a man like Duncan.

  But how could he avoid it?

  They stopped just before the drawbridge, which was actually down. What was the point of a moat and drawbridge if it wasn’t raised? Everywhere he looked, there were fully armored knights. A small army of them.

  “Are all castles this heavily guarded?”

  Marian looked at him as if it were the strangest question he’d ever asked. What had he done wrong now? It was almost like being back home under his CEO brother’s watchful gaze. Rhys had always looked at him like that, questioning and a little disapproving, when he didn’t agree with him.

  “When the king’s regent is in attendance, yes.”

  Made sense.

  “Edmund of Cornwall,” she said as they waited for Ross to get them into the castle.

  “Pardon?”

  “The second Earl of Cornwall. The king’s lieutenant on his campaign in Wales, now his regent since King Edward has left for Gascony. The earl was born in Hertfordshire but resides in Quinting Castle during the summer months. He will very likely return south soon.”

  “I see.”

  Marian brought her mount closer to him and spoke more softly. “You realize, do you not, that your uncle”—she said the word as if she still didn’t believe their relationship—“is an important man?”

  Must run in the family.

  “I know he’s bringing a message from the Guardians of Scotland, a bunch of guys who decided to accept a baby as their heir. That’s what he’s supposed to be telling your regent.”

  Greyson decided this proper Englishwoman rolling her eyes at him was much preferable to Ian doing it.

  “Those ‘guys,’ as you call them, are the most important men in your kingless country at the moment.”

  “Yeah, Ross said the man he serves is pretty important. And history seems to agree.”

  “Robert the Bruce?”

  “Yep.”

  “I would imagine there’s a reason he and men like Balliol and Comyn were not appointed as Guardians.”

  He didn’t know who they were, but the history lesson would have to wait. They were moving again, and as they passed his uncle, he sensed the man’s mood had changed. He definitely wasn’t happy.

  “Something wrong?”

  Ross darted a glance at Marian. “Nay,�
�� he said, his thick brogue sounding even thicker, as if he’d become more Scottish as they traveled deeper into England. “The opposite. He is here.”

  Greyson was as confused as Marian for a second, thinking he meant the regent. Of course the regent was here—wasn’t that the whole point?

  “Oh,” Greyson said, realizing who his uncle meant. Irvine. “Good.”

  He gave Marian a look that promised an explanation later. But right now, shit was about to hit the fan. At least one of the people responsible for his mother’s disappearance into the future was in this castle. And based on what he’d witnessed two days ago, they dealt with attempted murder a bit differently in this time.

  Things were about to get really interesting.

  11

  Marian had never relished a bath quite so much as this one. It felt wonderful to wash off the long days on the road, the horrible attack. Her father may have been absent, at best, but he had always kept her sheltered at Fenwall. Lonely, but pampered. Purposeless, but well treated.

  When she’d first left for Pittillock, a small part of her had craved the adventure she had always sought. A very, very small part. She’d never have chosen to marry Duncan, of course, but it had at least been an opportunity to venture into the world. The prospect had soured further when Gilda had been ordered to stay home, but a spark of hope had remained in Marian’s chest. Adventure had found her, after all, but at a horrible cost.

  A quick knock was followed by the appearance of the same lady’s maid who had overseen the filling of the tub. Marian stepped out of the water, blushing as she covered herself with a drying cloth. She chided herself for the show of modesty. For someone of her rank, it was both normal and expected to be attended by servants. But Marian rarely traveled, and her maid had practically raised her from a babe.

  “Your gown is laid out, my lady,” said the girl. “Shall I help prepare you for supper?”

  “I would thank you to do so.”

  As Marian dropped the drying cloth and stepped into her hose, the girl moved so deftly Marian had no doubt she’d been serving here for years despite her young age. Ten and six, perhaps?

  “I’ve not been to Quinting Castle before,” she said, impressed at both its size and opulence. “Inside the great hall, one could hardly tell the sun had set.”

  Another of the maids had offered her a tour, which she’d gladly accepted. The men were off seeing to their business, and it was the first time in her life she could ever remember having no one to answer to at all. The freedom was thrilling. Roaming the estate, Marian had been struck by the candles and torches that filled every room, keeping it bright despite the growing dusk. Her father was wealthy, but he abhorred waste, and they’d never been allowed to use more than the necessary number of candles and torches.

  “Visitors sometimes say they can spy the keep from the other side of the Torshire River.”

  Marian did not doubt it.

  “The men who arrived with us . . .” Marian ducked for the girl to help her slip on the deep green kirtle. “Have you seen them recently, by chance?”

  “I have not, my lady.”

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Marian closed her eyes as the girl ran an ivory comb through her hair. “Do I smell thyme?”

  “Aye, my lady. And mint.”

  She was accustomed to Gilda’s perfumes. This one was unfamiliar, but sweeter for it.

  The maid started to pull her hair away from her face, but she requested to wear it down, something she always did at home.

  “Surely I should use some adornment?” the girl asked.

  Though many years her junior, the young maid sounded very much like Gilda in this. But as always, Marian refused.

  “You may leave it loose.”

  Though she would be expected to wear it up once she was married, she was still a free woman. And this was one thing she could control.

  “I will be covering it soon enough.”

  The girl didn’t comment but finished her ministrations. Standing back, she seemed pleased. “You look lovely, my lady.”

  “Many thanks for your assistance.”

  Just before leaving the chamber, the girl called back, “A chambermaid will be along shortly to remove the tub, and I shall find an escort for you to supper.”

  The practice was customary in a great household such as this one, but Marian contemplated making her own way to the great hall. She’d enjoyed her taste of freedom, and surely she could find it easily enough. A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Marian waited for the chambermaid, or her escort, to enter. Instead, another knock landed on the wood.

  She opened it and sucked in her breath. Freshly washed, he’d somehow acquired a black surcoat trimmed in royal blue and gold. He appeared a true nobleman, but with an edge none of the men here could possibly hope to match. Marian had purposely not allowed her thoughts to stray to this very man. They’d been too consumed with him of late, and Marian was unsure what to believe. His claim was simply so fantastical. She’d gone out of her way to convince him she did not believe it. And she truly didn’t . . .

  Except she couldn’t banish the memory of that image, the one in the little black box, or ignore the fact that he simply didn’t belong here. He didn’t know any of the things he ought to know or talk like he should talk . . .

  “I sent away your escort. Hope that’s okay?”

  Okay? Aye, there was no doubt he spoke like no one she’d ever heard before.

  “You know the keep well, do you?” She stepped back and swept her hand inside, indicating he should enter. Reaching behind him, Marian closed the door as their eyes locked. Quickly turning back to the chamber, Marian began to blow out the candles that had been lit for her. Chambermaids would continue to stoke the fireplace, but keeping candles lit in an unattended room was akin to wishing for disaster. Thankfully, she’d been able to avoid starting a fire herself despite her occasional clumsiness.

  When she finished, the only light from the chamber coming from the fireplace, Marian joined Greyson. She’d been alone in a bedchamber with a man before, of course. But they had been servants. And this felt very, very different.

  “As well as any keep. It’s only the fourth one I’ve been inside in my life, and the other three were on tours.”

  Marian found she enjoyed teasing him on the topic, even though it truly wasn’t funny. She should think him mad, but he didn’t seem mad. Nor could she forget the things he’d shown her, told her.

  “In what type of dwelling, pray tell, do you live in . . .”

  “New Orleans. In America. The United States of America.”

  She would play along simply because she wanted to stay here with him. To talk with him. Once they left her chamber, Greyson’s clan would demand his attention.

  “New Orleans,” she repeated. “Tell me about this place.”

  Greyson made a sound that reminded her, once again, that they should probably leave. It was much too tempting to be this close to him, to be alone with him, but she wasn’t ready to step away from him just yet.

  “New Orleans is the best city in the world. It has its problems, like any city, but the mix of cultures, the music, the food . . . there’s nowhere quite like it. When I left for college”—he smiled—“university, I liked traveling in the Northeast. There are some great places up there too. Boston, especially. But New Orleans is in my blood. I’ll never leave it. Unless coastal erosion forces my hand.”

  She was about to ask what he meant by “coastal erosion” when Greyson shook his head. “So much you don’t know about. Thinking of Boston reminds me of a really interesting story involving your people and mine.”

  “Clan MacKinnish?”

  “No, the Americans. And the English.”

  “I do not know this . . . America.”

  “You wouldn’t.” He shifted his weight between his feet, as if he wanted to leave. As if he felt uncomfortable being alone with her. It was the only thing that could have convinced her to go. Stepping past him,
Marian attempted to do just that when his hand on her arm stopped her. Though she couldn’t feel him through the heavy fabric of her gown, Marian had a very clear memory of being held in this man’s arms. She thought about it each night.

  “I think you misunderstand.”

  They stood so close now, Marian could feel the vibrations of his deep voice. She knew she should step away but could not.

  “We should be moving along,” she said, her voice tight.

  “Marian.”

  She looked up, and wished she hadn’t. That look . . . it was much too knowing.

  “I don’t know how it is in your time.”

  My time. As if he truly means it. But he did, of course he did. She knew that. She’d known it all along. The question was whether she could suspend her own disbelief to believe it too.

  “But in mine, when a woman is engag—betrothed, that means hands off.”

  Her heart beat faster in her chest. Was he implying . . . ?

  “Otherwise, I’d have kissed you ten times over. Or more, maybe. But I have a feeling that’s frowned upon now. If the history I know is true.”

  He dropped his hand, and a good thing because Marian could not back away quick enough. The thought of him kissing her . . . she’d been kissed once, and though the experience had been pleasant, she had a feeling it would be even more so with him.

  It would make it that much harder to do what she needed to do and marry her intended.

  “’Tis not proper in my time”—she couldn’t help a small smile at that—“for an unwed woman to be alone with a man this way. Unless, of course, he is a servant.”

  “Of course.”

  “Nor is the discussion of such topics considered appropriate.”

  “Hmmm.” Greyson took a step toward her, standing so close she could smell the river on him. So he’d bathed in the nearby river. A chilly prospect, to be sure. The thought of his bare chest dripping with water made her bite her bottom lip.

  “In my time”—she stared at his lips as he spoke—“a woman chooses her own husband.”