Sexy Scot (Highlander's Through Time Book 2)

by Cecelia Mecca

  “Oh. Some do here, of course, as well.”

  “I mean nearly all of them do,” he corrected, “even the wealthy ones.”

  Her brows furrowed. “How do you make alliances, then?”

  “I’d be happy to tell you about social circles and the antics of the rich and famous, but suffice it to say, people think of alliances very differently in the twenty-first century.”

  “Rich and famous . . .” She could hardly think with him so close, his breath warm on her cheek. “Are you rich and famous?”

  “Yes.”

  His answer was so quick to come Marian had no doubt it was true.

  “My father owns, owned, a shipping company based in the Port of New Orleans. My brothers and I took it over a few years ago.”

  “You have brothers?”

  “I do. Three of them. One came through time before I did, which is how I knew my father was right about my mother’s disappearance. We really did think the grief of losing her had driven him mad.”

  Marian wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Long story short, my father became ill, went into a coma . . . a deep sleep. But before he did, Dad begged us to come find mom. We figured we owed him at least a look around his study, which he always kept locked. Even my youngest brother, Ian, who lives with him, hasn’t been allowed in that study in years. Which is strange since Dad wanted us to believe him. Maybe he was afraid we’d take the things he’d collected. None of us wanted to encourage his flights of fancy.”

  Despite herself, she had to ask. “What happened to your brother, the one who you said came through time?”

  “Rhys? He was the one who figured it out somehow. We’d found the chant, the one my aunt apparently used with my mother. But there was also an ancient book of spells in the study, something my dad had bought at an auction. Rhys tore into it, started muttering something about the wrong words, and then wrote down a different version of the chant. We thought it was bullshit, to be honest. But we grabbed the old cross like my father’s notes said to do, recited Rhys’s new and improved chant, and . . . yeah . . .”

  Greyson winced.

  “He disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” she repeated.

  “Quicker than my brother Ian used to take off whenever my mother gave us chores. Gone.”

  Aware they stood much too close, Marian backed away just enough to see his face without straining her neck. If only they could remain here all eve rather than attending supper in the hall. She was about to ask what had happened next when another knock on the door was followed by the appearance of two young male servants. Their eyes widened at the sight of them.

  “Apologies my lady, my lord. We expected you to be gone already to supper.”

  The wooden buckets they carried announced they were here to empty the tub, an undertaking that would take some time.

  “No apologies necessary. We were leaving for supper now. Thank you for the bath.”

  Both boys bowed their heads as Marian hurried from the chamber, Greyson following her into the corridor. She stopped suddenly.

  “When we arrived, Ross said, ‘He’s here,’ and I’ll admit I’ve been wondering about that all day. Is all well? Who is ‘he’?”

  Greyson’s fists clenched.

  “He is a man by the name of Yearger Irvine.”

  Marian did not know of him.

  “And he is here at Quinting Castle? Do you not care for this man?”

  Greyson made a sound that very clearly indicated his answer. “Care for a man who tried to kill my mother? Not so much.”

  “Tried to kill your mother?” she asked in an undertone, looking about to ensure no one had overheard them. They were alone in the passageway. “This man is here? What are you planning?”

  If so, Marian had a feeling his days left on this earth were few in number. Although Greyson was quick with a jest, he looked serious and deadly now, in the bright torchlight.

  “Was here. We’re told he’s gone on some overnight hunting trip and is expected back tomorrow.” Greyson bent his elbow, and Marian slipped her arm inside. “My only real plan is to follow my uncle’s lead. But Yearger Irvine is the real reason he volunteered to take the Guardians of Scotland’s message here in the first place.”

  “And what do you suppose your uncle is planning?” she asked, belatedly realizing she’d fallen into step with Greyson’s claim of Ross being his uncle. But the shape of their faces, their strong, distinctive jawlines, was eerily similar.

  “He hasn’t said exactly, but I hope this Yearger is enjoying his hunting trip. I’m pretty sure it will be his last one.”

  Marian glanced over to confirm Greyson was quite serious.

  “So how exactly do y’all deal with murder in the Middle Ages?”

  12

  Christ, she was beautiful.

  Greyson sat across from her at a table that looked like some kind of portable picnic table. But much nicer. Unlike him, Marian fit into this world perfectly. When she’d opened her bedroom door earlier, Greyson had forgotten about everything for a moment. His dad lying in a hospital bed, in a coma. His mother and brother running around Scotland somewhere . . . or dead. Reikart and Ian . . . who in the hell knew where, or when, they were?

  Greyson had to remind himself this trip to Quinting Castle wasn’t a delay. They’d come here to find one of the men responsible for his mother’s disappearance. Responsible for trying to kill her, according to Ross.

  He found himself thinking again about fate, and how it had brought him and Ross together. Had it brought him to Marian too? Perhaps they had been meant to help her. To stop those men from murdering her like they had her companions.

  Nonsense. He was taking the idea way too far.

  “So how did my lady come to be in the company of these men?”

  Asshole.

  Unfortunately, they were seated with two men outside of their party—“Englishmen,” Ross had muttered like a curse when they were seated. He hadn’t bothered to whisper, which was probably the reason they seemed so pissed off now. Between the two of them, Greyson was pretty sure every color in the rainbow was represented.

  “When my father’s men were murdered by a group of border reivers, these men saved my life,” Marian said. “And ensured our attackers met with the justice they deserved.”

  She said it so prettily, Greyson could hardly believe she’d just told the English dandies her father’s men had been slaughtered. Her bluntness did its job. The guy was clearly at a loss for words, although that didn’t stop him from eyeing Marian like she was the next course. If he didn’t look away soon, Greyson would find out how they handled rudeness in the thirteen century. Because in his time, this guy would already have a black eye.

  But it wasn’t the time or the place for a brawl. They sat in a hall filled with more than a hundred other men and women, surrounded by at least double that in candles, and the head table looked like it was literally made of gold, or at least gilded with it . . .

  Greyson wasn’t the only one on his best behavior. His uncle had admitted that Yearger’s temporary absence may have been a blessing. He couldn’t guarantee what would happen when they questioned him, so perhaps it was best done away from the castle. This way he could at least deliver the Guardians’ message in the spirit of diplomacy in which it had been intended.

  Their personal mission could come later.

  “We should be thankful for your assistance, then,” the dandy finally said to Ross, who was clearly their leader.

  Music began to play in the corner of the hall. Greyson couldn’t see the musicians, but the sound was as fine as any of the symphonies he’d attended. If only his mother could see such an affair. She had always loved throwing elaborate dinner parties . . .

  She had seen such a thing before. Jesus! According to Ross, his mother had been a lady-in-waiting to the Queen of Scotland. A few appetizers and drinks for the New Orleans elite must have been child’s play for her.

  His uncle grunted. “Eng
lish reivers, by the look of them,” he shot back. His attachment to diplomacy was apparently only so strong.

  “Hmm. Seems odd, indeed, for English reivers to attack the daughter of the Earl of Fenwall.”

  Unless they knew about the dowry. But he kept that thought to himself. Ross had ordered him to speak as little as possible. Besides, it probably wasn’t the best idea to advertise the fact that she carried a trunk of gold, even in this audience.

  After he figured out what to do with the piece of bread that had been placed in front of him—apparently it was actually a plate—Greyson resigned himself to the role of observer for the evening. He listened to the exchanges around him, ate a surprisingly good piece of meat that neither looked nor tasted anything like those big turkey legs at a Ren Faire, and tried not to stare at Marian.

  It wasn’t easy.

  He caught her looking back a few times, once even smiling when their unwanted companions asked about her marital state. His father had always claimed that to listen is the greatest skill a man, or woman, could possess. He should try it more.

  Uncle Ross was such a badass that, despite hurling several subtle and not-so-subtle insults at their new English friends, he had earned their respect and even reverence by the end of the meal. Greyson had learned something else too. He’d seen more of the other side of Marian—the woman who was sick of following her father’s rules. The spunky woman who might just turn those rules on their head if given the chance.

  Not for the first time, he found himself wondering how she would do in the future. He could imagine her flourishing there, just as his mother had. And not only because it would free her from her dipshit fiancé’s thumb. He liked the thought of her sitting across from him at a wrought iron table tasting a beignet for the first time after a walk through City Park.

  “You’ve a quiet one among you,” the talkative Englishman said, looking straight at him.

  Never, not once in all his life, had he been accused of being quiet. Forthright, at best. Under his father and brother’s shadow, at worst. But quiet? He’d love for his brothers to get a load of that one.

  He tried to emulate the speech of his clan. Or his mother’s clan. Whatever. “You were speaking of the reivers earlier, aye?”

  Greyson couldn’t look at Marian’s face. He could tell she was holding back laughter at his poor attempt to sound Scottish, and if he saw her smirk, it wouldn’t help matters.

  “We were.”

  “And your disbelief the men were, indeed, English?”

  Ross gave him a look of warning. They’d made nice, but he could ruin that with a few ill-placed comments.

  Before the man could answer, Greyson continued. “I find disbelief of the horrors committed by our fellow humans a fairly ignorant stance.” And that was the kindest word Greyson could think of after the dandy had ogled Marian all night. “The mind of man is capable of anything.”

  He tried not to smile. This was sort of fun. Like cosplaying, only with infinitely higher stakes.

  “The most any of us could hope for is some knowledge of ourselves and, since that usually comes too late, a crop of inextinguishable regrets.”

  Thankfully, Joseph Conrad wasn’t born yet and couldn’t complain that Greyson may have butchered his quote a bit.

  The Englishman wasn’t the only one unsure of how to respond. Forcing himself not to smile at his private joke, Greyson took a chance at breaking protocol.

  “It appears some guests are taking advantage of the fine music to dance. Shall we, my lady?”

  When none seemed to flinch at his request, Greyson breathed a bit easier. He might not fully understand thirteenth-century protocol, but he did know how to mind his manners, as his mother would say. And those manners seemed to come in handy now. Marian stood as he made his way toward her.

  Even better?

  Medieval nobles weren’t prudes, at least. The dancers held each other closer than he’d ever dared to hold a partner at a formal event. His hands itched to touch her, to pull her close, but there were more than a few reasons for him to calm the fuck down.

  She was engaged.

  They’d be dropping her off soon with her future husband.

  No to mention, he was from the future. With any luck, Greyson would not be staying here for very long.

  But none of those things seemed to matter, or at least they didn’t change his reaction to her. As they joined the other dancers and he took Marian into his arms, his heart raced and his pants tightened. Seeing her like this, in her element . . .

  “Greyson”—Marian lowered her voice as she whispered into his ear—“I have a confession to make.”

  That did nothing to calm his pulse. If her confession was that she wanted to return to her chamber and have wild, passionate sex with him, he was pretty sure all of the reasons he shouldn’t would mean squat.

  “What is it?” He pulled back enough to ask. And probably shouldn’t have done it. Hell, he definitely shouldn’t continue to look at her this way.

  “I am enjoying . . .”

  You. I’m enjoying being with you.

  “The freedom of being without a guardian. Exploring this grand castle, speaking to whomever I choose. ’Tis wonderful, really.”

  Damn.

  “As you should. Have you ever been without one before?”

  He knew the answer before she gave it. Greyson couldn’t imagine such a leash on his life. The board of directors, and the press, were bad enough. But to have someone literally following him everywhere he went? No, thank you.

  “Nay. My father could be a difficult man at times.”

  “At times?” She was being generous.

  Marian laughed. “Many times,” she agreed.

  Screw it.

  He pulled her as close as some of the other dancers. And here Greyson thought he could dance.

  “You do this well, for a woman so sheltered. And I mean no offense.”

  “I shall take none, as I was sheltered indeed. ’Twas one of my father’s good qualities, his affinity for music and dance.”

  They slid around the dance floor, gaining what was probably too much attention. But he was feeling reckless. Too reckless. He saw it in her eyes when they caught his ever so briefly. She knew his thoughts but didn’t seem to be as wary of them as she should.

  Lord help him.

  “I have a confession too.”

  “Oh?”

  He spun her in a move that had no place here. It did, in fact, garner more looks than he should be comfortable with. But Marian’s happiness encouraged him.

  “I am enjoying this day too.”

  13

  His hands boldly explored parts of her body that no man had ever touched. They moved from her waist up toward her breasts, his mouth finally lowering to hers, hard and yet soft. She’d been dreaming of this kiss, of how Greyson’s lips would feel on hers.

  A loud knocking at the door forced its way into her mind.

  Marian’s eyes fluttered opened. It had been a dream, which was the only place where such a kiss could ever happen.

  Disappointment threatened to choke her. But it was tempered by memories of the previous evening, of dancing with Greyson. Marian had told him about her day of freedom, and how much she’d enjoyed it. Dancing with him had been like a sweetmeat to a wonderful meal. In truth, yesterday had been one of the best days of her life. Holding James’s head in her arms, the life gone from his eyes. That had been the worst.

  He hadn’t laughed at her at all. But he had laughed after confessing to having quoted a famous author to that pompous fool they’d been forced to dine with last eve. She’d asked for him to offer more quotations, as he called them, and he’d rattled off one after another, all attributed to famous people she’d never heard of. Because, he said, they did not yet exist. She remembered, particularly, a man named Shakespeare and a woman named Toni something that his mother liked. He’d seemed so certain, and the writings he’d spoken of were so wildly different . . .

  Could i
t be possible? Could he really have traveled through time?

  “My lady?”

  The maid from last eve peered her head inside the door.

  “Apologies for waking you, my lady. But your companions asked me to help ready you.”

  Reacting to her panicked tone, Marian jumped out of bed.

  “They are leaving—”

  “Immediately, my lady. Master Ross advised me to tell you they are already gathered in the courtyard.”

  Allowing the maid to assist her, Marian quickly dressed, wondering what had happened. After Greyson had told her of Yearger Irvine, she’d assumed they would stay at least long enough to await his return. She assumed Greyson’s uncle had already done his duty as envoy for the Guardians of Scotland. As for Clan MacKinnish’s real reason for visiting the castle?

  She doubted it would be resolved so easily.

  “Come, my lady,” the maid said, rushing to the door. “They advised me to make haste.” Four servants waited outside the chamber, apparently there to gather her trunks. “Master Greyson asked that I remind you to stay with your belongings until he can secure them,” she said.

  Marian watched as both trunks were lifted and carried from the chamber. As she followed them through the dimly-lit corridors, she tried to imagine what could possibly have happened this morn. No answer came to her. By the time they made their way out into the courtyard, Marian unable to even thank their host, the others were all mounted, ready to leave. All except her.

  Two of Ross’s men rushed forward to secure her trunks on a cart as Greyson rode up beside her with a horse.

  “I’ll explain on the road,” he said. “Can you ride quickly?”

  “Aye.”

  They hardly waited for her to mount before they started to move out. The sun was just beginning to rise as they made their way across Quinting Castle’s courtyard. Wide open meadows and grass glistening with morning dew greeted them. She’d hoped to get Greyson’s explanation sooner rather than later, but their speed prevented it. Finally, as they slowed to climb a ridge, Greyson fell in beside her.

  “Irvine has allies in the castle. He must have gotten word we were here, according to one of Bruce’s allies here at court. Ross didn’t want to raise their suspicions by riding ahead, but now that we’re out of sight . . .” He spoke quickly, darting glances at Ross and another of his men at the head of their small party. The two looked impatient. “. . . a few of us are going to ride ahead.”