Falling for the Highlander: A Time Travel Romance (Enchanted Falls Trilogy, Book 1)

by Emma Prince

  Falling for the Highlander

  A Time Travel Romance

  (Enchanted Falls Trilogy, Book 1)

  By

  Emma Prince

  Copyright

  Falling for the Highlander: A Time Travel Romance (Enchanted Falls Trilogy, Book 1) Copyright © 2018 by Emma Prince

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact emmaprincebooks@gmail.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. V 1.0

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Thank You!

  Books by Emma Prince

  Teasers for Emma Prince’s Books

  About the Author

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  Chapter One

  “Ready?”

  Caroline glanced at Hannah, then Allison. Her middle sister’s hand firmly clasped hers, but Caroline didn’t miss the faint tremble in Hannah’s fingers. She gave Hannah’s hand a reassuring squeeze, her lips spreading into a smile.

  “On the count of three. One… two… three!”

  As one, the sisters launched from the mossy rocks and into thin air.

  A shriek of excitement tore from Caroline’s throat. Her ears filled with the whoosh of air and the roar of the waterfall beside them. Though Leannan Falls was about twenty feet high, the water in the pool below seemed to rush toward her with dizzying speed.

  But this was why they’d come to Scotland—for adventure. To make memories that would last a lifetime—together. If practical, type-A Hannah and gentle Allie would’ve had their way, they would have kept to the path, taken pictures of the falls from a safe and sensible distance. If it hadn’t been for Caroline urging them to have some fun, they wouldn’t be soaring over the edge of the falls right now.

  Or more like plummeting. Caroline’s heart leapt into her throat as she stiffened in preparation for contact with the water.

  Just then, the pool below seemed to waver, as if it was being shaken out like a spread picnic blanket. Allie and Hannah’s hands evaporated from Caroline’s. Maybe they’d just let go in anticipation of hitting the water.

  Caroline didn’t have time to contemplate that further, for a fraction of a second later, she plunged into the pool. Her momentum carried her deep. With the water swallowing her, the whole world went quiet, and all she could hear was her own heartbeat. It thrummed with excitement—and a twinge of unease.

  She tried to surge toward the surface. Where were her sisters? Had they felt the same rush she had—and seen the strange shimmer of the water just before they’d broken through?

  But before she could emerge from the water, everything began to tilt and whirl. It was like she’d been trapped in a washing machine on full spin cycle.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but water rushed in. She felt herself being pulled down—and through something that was thicker than water. It tugged at her, stretched her until her skin burned. A blast of light blinded her even though her eyes were closed.

  Just as abruptly as it had begun, the spinning stopped. Her limbs floated in suspension, buoyed by the water’s gentle caress.

  Water. She was still underwater. Lungs burning, Caroline tried to orient herself. Which way was up? Her mind was already growing hazy from lack of oxygen. She thrashed, wasting precious energy, until she felt herself drifting upward. Kicking and pulling with the last of her strength, she broke free and shot into the air.

  Caroline dragged in greedy gulps of air, though it made her sputter and cough. When she’d finally caught her breath, the haze began to ebb from her brain.

  But even before she blinked the water from her eyes, Caroline knew something was very wrong.

  She couldn’t hear the roar of the falls or the slap of water against the pool in which she treaded. Her eyes snapped open, to be met with unfamiliar surroundings.

  What the hell…?

  She was in a lake. The water was calm except for where it rippled around her. A dozen yards away, a pebbly beach skirted the water, and beyond that was an expanse of lush green grass.

  Gone was the waterfall. Gone was the pool she’d jumped into.

  And gone were her sisters.

  Caroline thrashed toward the shoreline, her stomach twisting with panic.

  “Hannah! Allie! Where are you?”

  When her bare feet scraped against the rocky lake bottom, she winced. She’d taken off her shoes at the top of the falls before they’d jumped. The gears in her mind lurched and grated to comprehend what the hell had happened since then, but she couldn’t freak out and lose it now. Not when she needed to find her sisters.

  “Hannah!” she screamed again, fear edging her voice. “Allie!”

  Her only answer was silence. She dragged herself onto the lake’s shore, her gaze sweeping frantically over her surroundings. The sun was bright and cheery overhead, the vibrant blue sky mottled with puffy white clouds. A gentle breeze made the verdant grasses and the trees beyond sway gently.

  The rolling landscape looked much like what she and her sisters had seen over the last two weeks on their vacation. Was she still in Scotland, then?

  She pulled in a deep breath, preparing to call for her sisters again. Just then, the ground beneath her hands and knees began to tremble. The tremble turned into a rumble that sent vibrations up her arms and legs.

  Caroline’s head snapped up. Ahead, a band of men mounted on horseback crested the grassy rise—barreling straight for her.

  She scrambled to her feet, but once she was upright, she froze. Should she try to flag the men down? She’d sound completely crazy if she told them she’d jumped into a waterfall and popped up in this lake. Then again, maybe they’d seen her sisters.

  That decided it. She waved her arms at the approaching men, but as they drew nearer, her stomach dropped with trepidation.

  The men all had on some sort of costume. They wore fitted pants tucked into their boots and plain white shirts, with red and blue checked plaids thrown over one shoulder. Craziest of all, they had long swords belted to their hips.

  Well, at least their costumes confirmed that she was still in Scotland. But Caroline doubted these LARPe
rs or historical reenactors or whatever they were would be able to help her.

  Unfortunately, they’d already spotted her. One of the men at the front of the group shouted something and wheeled his horse toward her. The others followed after him.

  The apparent leader reined in before her, and Caroline froze. He was a handful of years older than she was—maybe around thirty. Wavy brown hair touched his broad, muscular shoulders. Even seated atop his horse, she could tell he was tall and powerfully built. He definitely didn’t look like the normal reenactor type.

  But what made her barely organized thoughts scatter once again for a heartbeat were his eyes. They glowed amber and cut through her like a knife.

  The man’s dark eyebrows dropped as his gaze swept slowly over her. He said something in a language that might have been Gaelic, but she didn’t understand. She opened her mouth to ask him to speak English, but just then the ground began trembling beneath her bare feet again.

  The leader’s gaze jerked away, fixing on the hills to Caroline’s left. She followed his narrowed stare to find another band of mounted men, these ones with red and green plaids over their shoulders, riding hard toward them.

  With a barked word that sounded like a command, the leader dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and reached for his sword hilt. All the men behind him did the same, their swords hissing from their sheaths and their horses surging toward the newly arriving group.

  Their metal swords. Weren’t LARPers supposed to use foam weapons? Caroline stood rooted, her jaw slack as she watched in stunned confusion.

  The two groups of men drew closer and closer. If this were some sort of Highland Games event or show put on for a group of tourists, they would pull up. They had to. Now.

  But instead of drawing back at the last moment, they crashed together in a maelstrom of war cries, horses, and weapons.

  A shriek of terror rose in her throat as a full-blown battle erupted. Crimson blood flowed as the men savagely hacked at each other. One man’s battle cry turned into an agonized scream as he toppled from his horse.

  Time seemed to stretch as she stared in horror, yet the skirmish couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes when suddenly a whistle cut through the air.

  The second band of men disengaged, wheeling their horses around and fleeing in the direction they’d come. Two of them hastily threw their fallen compatriot over the back of his horse before spurring after the others.

  And just like that, the clash was over. Silence fell, broken only by the distant chirping of a bird and the soft rustle of the grass in the breeze. Yet inside, it was as if a bomb had gone off in Caroline’s stomach.

  Her legs began to tremble so badly that she thought she would fall on her face to the pebbly shoreline. Yes, she was in Scotland, but this wasn’t where she’d been just moments before—or when.

  Just then, the leader of the first group of men turned and pinned her with his gaze once more. His face was splattered with mud and blood, yet his eyes burned with an amber intensity that made her mouth go dry.

  He wiped his blade across his thigh, then guided it into its sheath, never releasing her from his gaze. He murmured something to his men, then urged his horse into motion once again—right for her.

  Whatever he meant to do to her, it couldn’t be good. Caroline had no intention of standing there like a stump to find out.

  She turned and ran for her life.

  Chapter Two

  Callum MacMoran frowned at the fleeing lass. What the bloody hell was she doing bathing in the loch that divided MacMoran and MacBean lands? And why was she dashing off toward the trees on the loch’s south side nigh naked?

  Nay, she wasn’t quite naked, but what she wore could hardly be considered clothing. The men’s trews she had on were cut off well above her knees, exposing every lithe, creamy inch of her thighs.

  And on her torso she wore what could only be described as the top half of a chemise. A very revealing chemise. Her shoulders, arms, and the upper slopes of her breasts were exposed for all the world to see.

  Mayhap she’d been wearing those strange undergarments to bathe in, but that made little sense. Everyone within a two-day ride knew that Loch Darraig was no place for lolling about. It was one of the many places along the contested border between MacMoran and MacBean land that had turned dangerous of late.

  Or mayhap… A new possibility occurred to him as he watched her bolt away. Mayhap she knew very well the risks of that spot. That would explain the terror that had filled her eyes when he’d approached her, and again when the MacBeans had fled, leaving her alone with a band of MacMorans.

  Aye, mayhap she recognized his tartan as that of her clan’s enemy. If she was a MacBean, it made perfect sense for her to flee him, the MacMoran Laird.

  A seed of an idea took root in Callum’s mind. He and his men were lucky not to have sustained any major injuries in this latest skirmish. But he’d lost enough clansmen to know that they were tempting fate with every engagement. Next time they might not be so lucky.

  What was more, who knew when the MacConnell Laird would be ready to formalize their clans’ alliance? With all hope, it would put an end to the MacBeans’ troublemaking once and for all, but until then, Callum was on his own.

  But mayhap the bonny MacBean lass currently sprinting away could provide a temporary solution of sorts, a wee bit of leverage to force the MacBean Laird to cease his raids and quarrels over where to draw the border—at least until Callum had the support of the MacConnells to quell him.

  “Wait here,” he said to his men, then squeezed his heels into his horse’s flanks.

  “Careful with that wee fish, Laird,” Bron called behind him. “She seems a slippery one.”

  Callum ignored the warrior’s teasing comment and the chuckles that rose from his men in response. Instead, he trained his gaze on the lass’s back. His horse’s hooves devoured the distance between them, and even before she could reach the tree line, he was nigh on top of her.

  The steed was trained for warfare, and Callum had ridden a horse even before he could toddle. He maneuvered the animal with ease in a tight arc around the lass to cut off her path to the trees. She scrambled to a halt, panting and staring up at him.

  He’d been so distracted by her ridiculously revealing garb earlier that he hadn’t absorbed just how bonny her face was, but now he looked his fill.

  Brown hair so dark that it was nigh black hung in dripping clumps past her slim shoulders. Her blue eyes were light as shards of ice and wide enough to swallow him whole. The apples of her cheeks were flushed pink from her exertion and her lips were berry-red, a stark contrast to her pale skin.

  He gave himself a little shake. Bloody hell, now was not the time to be gaping at a lass—a MacBean, no less.

  “What is yer name?” he demanded, infusing his low voice with all the authority of his position as Laird.

  She blinked at him.

  “I ken ye are a MacBean, for I would recognize one of my own clanswomen,” he went on with a frown. “No harm will come to ye, lass, but I would have yer name.”

  She shook her head slowly, and Callum got the impression that it was more for herself than him. “What the hell is going on?” she muttered.

  In English.

  If Callum hadn’t been as good a rider as he was, he might have fallen off his horse.

  What the hell was a bloody Englishwoman doing this far into the Highlands? And on the MacBean border, for that matter.

  An ominous sense of foreboding swept over him. Though it was rare for the English to venture so far north into Scotland, it wasn’t unheard of—but only if they knew they would be safe from the wrath of the majority of Scots who wouldn’t welcome their presence.

  If the lass wasn’t a MacBean, had she been summoned by them? Would Laird MacBean truly harbor an Englishwoman on his land?

  It was possible. Though most in these parts detested the English for all the havoc and suffering they’d caused in their seemingly endless d
esire to conquer Scotland, the Scots had never been a unified people. Even so deep in the heart of the Highlands, alliances and loyalties could shift with the wind. Callum knew better than most that a man would do almost anything if he thought he acted in his clan’s best interest.

  “Ye are English, then,” he said when he could find his tongue again.

  Her eyes went even wider. “Yes. Well, no. That is, I’m American. But you speak English.”

  Callum’s brows lowered. What the hell was he supposed to do with that jumbled response? And what did “American” mean?

  “Yer name,” he said flatly.

  She hesitated, but after a moment, she gave in. “Caroline Sutton.”

  An English name, spoken in the English tongue. Yet she sounded different than any Englishman he’d ever heard. Mayhap she was French, or Irish, or even Flemish.

  He muttered a curse. The fact was, it didn’t matter. She was on the MacMoran-MacBean border, and she sure as hell wasn’t a MacMoran.

  His mind made up, Callum leaned out of his saddle and snaked an arm around her waist. She yelped as he plucked her off the ground and dropped her onto his lap.

  “What are you doing?” she snapped, struggling in his hold.

  Bloody hell. Bron had been right—she was a slippery one. His arm tightened around her, both to prevent her from sliding off his horse and to keep her still so that she stopped grinding her nigh bare arse against his manhood.

  For his efforts, he got a sharp elbow to the gut.

  “Hold, woman,” he grunted. He drew in a breath to calm his temper. If she truly didn’t speak Gaelic, then she hadn’t understood when he’d said earlier that no harm would come to her.

  “I willnae hurt ye,” he said again, this time in English.

  “Then why the hell did you grab me?” she shot back.

  Good God, the lass had a tongue as sharp as his sword.

  He didn’t have to explain himself to her, but he found himself answering anyway.