Highlander Protected: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander In Time Book 3)

by Rebecca Preston

  A thrill ran down her spine, tempered only a little by the cold of the forest. If that was true – well, it would certainly reaffirm a lot of things she’d been worrying about lately. Like who she was, and what she was doing with her life, and whether she’d made a terrible, terrible mistake in dropping out of college and excommunicating herself from her family and becoming a telephone psychic — Marianne. You’re overthinking your own vision.

  She straightened her back and took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders and fixing her eyes on the horizon. An old trick she’d learned in college, years ago, studying theatre of all things – act confident, and you’ll feel confident. Here she was, in the middle of a vision. Time to prove what kind of witch she was. She set off walking. It took about an hour before her conviction began to falter. There was nothing in this forest. Well, there were plenty of goddamn trees, and shrubs, and the occasional rustling of birds and animals in the undergrowth, but there wasn’t much else. And no matter how hard she worked to keep her mind clear and her senses attuned to the world around her, panic was beginning to set in. It had been a really, really long time. Her feet were starting to hurt from the uneven footing.

  There was nothing of use in her pockets – she missed her phone fiercely. And the suspicion was beginning to creep in that this place was where she actually was – not her spiritual self, or an astral projection, but her actual real body and soul. And her actual real body was getting hungry. Back in the office it had almost been lunch time. Morale improved somewhat when she came upon a road – such as it was. It was just dirt, but it was obviously man-made, and there was something deeply reassuring about being reminded that human beings existed. She set off along it, grateful for the steady footing, her breath a little labored (she wasn’t unfit, exactly, but it had also been a long time since her last trip to the gym.)

  And sooner or later, the road opened up, to reveal — an actual, honest-to-God, medieval-looking castle. All grey stone and foreboding, narrow windows, a big wall around it just like in the pictures. Marianne stopped and stared, a little surprised to see something so – well, so obvious. Castles represented a lot of things, in the Tarot – but the one that came to mind immediately was security. Safety. She tried to analyze. Was this a message about Cora? Was the cosmos telling her that Cora was safe and secure somewhere? Or was it more personal – was it responding to her fears about her own security, her career worries?

  There was a crash that startled her out of these reflections, and Marianne realized there was a woman standing outside the castle gates. She was dressed strangely – or maybe it was Marianne who looked strange, standing on a dirt road in front of a castle in jeans and a cardigan. The woman was wearing a long, ill-fitting brown dress with something like an apron over it, grey-white and covered in what looked like food stains, and her eyes were wide and frightened, fixed on Marianne as though she were looking at a ghost.

  “Elena,” the woman gasped.

  Marianne, thoroughly distracted from her reflections about witchcraft, took a few steps closer. There was a pile of firewood at the woman’s feet, and a few sticks still clutched in her hands – she must have dropped them when she’d spotted Marianne gawking up at her castle. She took an impulsive step to help pick the sticks up, but stopped just as quickly at the look in the woman’s eyes – mostly frozen joy, but one part fear.

  “Sorry if I startled you! I was just walking through the woods, and—”

  “Can it be true?”

  Marianne frowned a little, trying to place the accent, and who exactly the woman reminded her of – but before she could do much thinking, she was pulled into a bruising hug. This stranger was a full head and a half shorter than her, but she more than made up for it with sheer brute strength – Marianne struggled to breathe, unable to even return the embrace with her arms pinned to her sides as they were. It was unexpected, but there was something nice about it. At least the woman was warmer than the cold air around them.

  “You came back, darling, my darling girl, you came back to me,” the woman was murmuring over and over, her hands clutching the back of Marianne’s cardigan, soaking her T-shirt in tears. Marianne shifted uncomfortably, but she’d placed the accent – Scottish. She’d met a Scottish girl in a bar once, who’d drunk her under the table while telling her the funniest stories she’d ever heard – but that girl had had bright red hair and eyes the same brilliant green as Marianne’s. This woman’s hair was a dark brown, and her eyes – when she peered up into Marianne’s face – were chestnut brown like her mother’s had been. Marianne had her father’s eyes, something she hated. “I’m sorry,” Marianne said gently, “but you’ve mistaken me for someone else. My name is Marianne.”

  The woman’s eyes had slid away from hers almost as soon as they’d met them, but she frowned fiercely at the empty air. “Marianne? No. No – Elena. I called you Elena.”

  “What is this place?”

  “Castle MacClaran,” the woman said sharply, her mind clearly still somewhere else. “Home o’ the MacClaran’s. Clan MacClaran. Good people, fine people, kind people...”

  Witch mind still working, Marianne tried to pull some kind of meaning from that name. It wasn’t one she’d heard before. MacClaran — clear — clarity, maybe? Was she being told to look for clarity? Of what? Purpose? Thought?

  She’d settle for clarity of vision, actually. Marianne blinked a few times, worried by the way her eyesight seemed to be blurring. The strange woman stole another look at her face, and Marianne reached out to steady herself as she felt her balance begin to fail her. The woman caught her, eased her as she fell to her knees, and she clung desperately to consciousness as a haze of stars rushed into her vision. Was this it? Was this the end of whatever strange magical venture she’d been on? She walked for hours through a forest then passed out at a castle gate while a stranger called her by someone else’s name? What on earth was any of that supposed to mean? What information could she glean from that? This was worse than the Tarot cards. At least they didn’t make her legs hurt… or get dirt and mud all over her jeans…

  The woman was cradling her now – she’d sagged sideways from her kneeling position, and her face was pressed into the apron. Whatever she did, she just couldn’t quite muster the energy to get back on her feet. Or her knees. Or even to keep both eyes open. The woman smelled of wood smoke, roast meat – an oddly comforting smell. Familiar, kind of. Marianne felt her push a lock of her hair out of her face with an almost maternal tenderness.

  Strangely enough, she felt safe. But she couldn’t pass out. She was a witch, and she was here on a mission, and Belinda would never let her hear the end of it if she went on a whole vision quest of her very own and didn’t even ask her question of whatever spirits or gods she’d managed to contact.

  “Where’s Cora? I need to find Cora,” Marianne managed to murmur, with the absolute last of her strength, and then everything was darkness.

  Chapter 3

  This awakening was much more pleasant. Warm, and soft – her body was being cradled by something that felt like a huge furry blanket. Drowsily, she opened one eye and realized with a start that that was exactly what she was being cradled by.

  Rough stone walls, the crackling of a fire in a grate, the kind of table that didn’t look like it had even heard of Ikea – it looked like it had been hewn straight out of some tremendous tree like the ones she’d walked past, earlier, in her vision. Ah, yes. Her vision. Marianne struggled upright, the fur shifting underneath her as she moved, and the room lurched around her as dizziness soared back into the forefront of her mind. Alright. Sitting up was about the extent of her ability, then. That was fine. She could work with that.

  “Still here, then,” Marianne muttered, beginning to feel the stirrings of the first real fear she’d known in a long time. She was clearly still in the same place she’d been when she passed out – that brown-haired woman from outside the castle must have brought her inside. Ridiculous concept, castle – were there even castles
anymore? Had there ever been castles in America? She wished, not for the first time, that she’d paid a little more attention in History class. But here she was, propped up on a bed by a window that looked down and out onto a vista of trees and not much else. Marianne leaned a little closer, trying to make out recognizable landmarks – but all she could see was the dirt road she’d walked along for a little while, weaving its way through the forest and then vanishing. Nothing she recognized in sight. No city skyline, no skyscrapers – hell, she’d have settled for a 7-11 at this point.

  Marianne was beginning to suspect it was time to confront the possibility that she’d lost her mind. This sobering reflection was interrupted, however, by a gentle tapping on the huge wooden door to the room – and after a moment, a creak as it opened. There was the woman from earlier, eyes wide, hesitant as she peered around the door – and then a rush of relief and delight rushed across her face as she saw Marianne awake. As she bustled in, Marianne saw a great platter in her hands, covered in what looked like an assortment of pastries. Her stomach made a pointed gurgling sound and she realized with a start that whether or not she was suffering a mental breakdown, she was ravenously hungry.

  “I made your favorite,” the woman murmured, placing the platter on a low table beside the bed.

  They smelled so good that Marianne didn’t even bother correcting her – just smiled her thanks and picked one up. It was piping hot, all hot, buttery, flaky pastry and some kind of fruit in the middle, and Marianne demolished three of them before she felt ready to talk. “Those are absolutely amazing,” she informed the woman, brushing crumbs from her front with a chuckle. “Thank you. But I have to tell you – I don’t know who you are.”

  “Lost your memory, my love,” the woman said solemnly. “It happens, especially given what you’ve been through. I’m – I’m Dolores.” She hesitated, glancing left and right as though worried they’d be overheard. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of you this time.”

  Marianne was startled to see that there were tears standing in the woman’s eyes – she reached out to take her hand, squeezing it to comfort her. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you, Dolores. You seem very kind.”

  There was something strange about Dolores that Marianne couldn’t put her finger on – something in the way she kept avoiding her eyes, the way she held her hand for just a moment then let go, the way she kept fidgeting at the worn strings of her apron. It was as though she was hiding something – but somehow, Marianne didn’t think that was the case.

  “I’ll get Lady Cora,” Dolores said abruptly, turning to the door. Marianne blinked.

  “What?”

  “Lady Cora. Earlier, you said you had to find her. I’ll get her.”

  “Dolores, wait—”

  But she was gone. Marianne went to follow her, but a wave of dizziness made it clear that bed was the best place to be for the time being. Cora…of course, she’d been searching for Cora when she entered whatever kind of psychotic trance she was in. That’d teach her to half-ass magic, she supposed, feeling guilty. But she’d meant well, really. She just wanted to know that her cousin was safe…and now, here she was in some kind of delusion. Where was she really? In her office still, twitching on the floor as the women gathered around her? Or had they taken her body to hospital already?

  However, as much as she tried to think practically, she couldn’t help but doubt these interpretations of events. This all just felt too – real. The taste of the pastries, the texture of the stone walls as she ran her fingertips gently across them, the crackling of the fire and the smell of wood smoke…could a hallucination really be this detailed? So full of things she’d never seen before?

  Well, what’s the alternative, Marianne? Did you teleport yourself into a medieval castle? No offence, Marianne, but at its best, your magic helps you find your car keys and navigate tricky social situations. You’re no Hecate.

  But what was the alternative? She worked her meditative way through another three pastries as her mind ticked over the problem. At least the food seemed to be helping. It always did. Marianne was the kind of person who easily forgot to eat when she was under pressure, and it always came back to haunt her eventually – once in college she’d actually passed out in the middle of a performance. Who on earth was Dolores going to get, she wondered? Some poor unfortunate woman with her cousin’s name, no doubt, dragged from whatever castle duties she had to meet with a psychotic visitor who was covered in pastry crumbs.

  Marianne giggled a little to herself, trying to tidy up. A Lady. That was like a Lord, wasn’t it? She wished she’d bothered to put a little more makeup on that morning as she ran her fingers through her dark hair, trying to straighten it. Maybe this Lady could give her a little more insight into where the hell she was. Part of her hadn’t given up on the hope that she’d wake up from this strange dream sooner or later – but that part was beginning to shrink. And it disappeared entirely when the door opened and her lost cousin followed Dolores into the room.

  The women locked eyes – Marianne halfway through reaching for another pastry, Cora halfway through giving an instruction to Dolores.

  “There she is,” Dolores was rattling on urgently, “safe and sound, like I told you, my Elena says her name’s—”

  “MARIANNE!”

  Cora’s voice sent birds shooting out of the trees outside the window. Within a heartbeat, Marianne found herself accosted – her cousin had thrown herself onto the bed and pulled Marianne into a hug that threatened to break every single one of her ribs. She squealed as the bed slammed against the wall with the momentum of Cora’s assault and made a series of alarming groaning noises – the other woman had her by the shoulders and was staring into her face, looking absolutely blown away.

  “I can’t believe it! It’s you! It’s really you, you’re here, you’re literally here and you’re wearing a cardigan for God’s sake!”

  “Cora!” Marianne gasped, trying to catch her breath. “What – what – why – how—”

  “We’re in Scotland! It’s fourteen hundred and something! Can you believe it?”

  “No!”

  Cora’s laugh was pure and clear as a bell.

  “What do you mean, fourteen hundred? Like – two in the afternoon, or —”

  “No, like the fifteenth century! Or the fourteenth. Is it the fourteenth century?”

  “Fifteenth,” Dolores interjected solemnly.

  Marianne had forgotten she was there. She was standing by the bed as though this kind of thing was perfectly understandable, fidgeting with the strings of her apron – tying and untying them and looping them around her fingers in a rhythmic pattern.

  “I know it sounds ridiculous but that’s what’s going on. We’re back in time. And place. Oh my god, Marianne, is Hamish okay?”

  Marianne reeled a little. “What?”

  “Hamish. My cat. Did someone take him?”

  Marianne trawled through her memory, feeling extremely lopsided. The memory of a Facebook post from a neutral cousin surfaced – a big cat sleeping stretched out on a sofa, the caption welcoming the new arrival to the household. “Yeah. Bella took him, I think.”

  Cora exhaled a long breath. “Thank God. I was picturing him starving to death in my flat.”

  “I would really love to know what the hell’s happening. You know. If it’s okay by you.”

  Comfortingly, Cora touched Marianne’s shoulder. “I know how you feel. Trust me, I’ve been there. Though my arrival here was a bit more – dramatic. I was driving home,” she started to explain, rapidly, and Marianne relaxed. Finally, some useful information. “A car came out of nowhere and I swerved off the road. Next thing I knew, I was lying flat on my back in the mud in a rainstorm with a horse about to trample me.”

  “They found your car,” Marianne interjected, eyes wide, “but no trace of you.”

  “Well, that’s because I was here. Ian – he’s the one who found me – brought me back here, to Castle MacClaran, in the mi
ddle of the night. He’d been riding in search of a midwife.”

  “And you’d just so happened to be transported back in time at that very moment?”

  “Crazy coincidence, right?” Cora grinned. “No. Our theory is that Audrina brought me here.”

  “Audrina?” Marianne racked her brain. “I don’t think – wait, that redheaded girl from your birthday? Your nurse friend from the hospital?”

  “Yeah!”

  “She – brought you here.”

  “Yeah. She was in labor. Who you gonna call, right?” Cora laughed.

  “How? Witchcraft?”

  Marianne’s impulse to laugh died at the sudden look of seriousness on Cora’s face. At the end of the bed, Dolores had suddenly gripped the strings of her apron tight enough that her knuckles were white, and though her expression was still neutral, Marianne could see fear in her eyes. Fear – and anger.

  “Dolores? Are you okay?”

  “You shouldn’t talk about witchcraft like that,” Dolores growled, and her voice was something else – low, laden with anger and menace. “It’s dangerous, Elena. You don’t – you don’t remember how dangerous. They’ll find you. They’ll find you out again. He’ll take you.” Her hands rose to cover her face and she gripped the brown locks of her hair in both hands. Cora took a few adroit steps to her side and put her arms around her, squeezing her tightly in a bear hug that seemed to calm her down.

  “It’s okay, Dolores. You’re safe here and so is she. The MacClarans are going to protect you both.”

  “Who are the MacClarans?”

  “The clan that own this castle and the lands around it,” Cora explained, coming back to sit on Marianne’s bed. “I’m not really across the politics of it all, but there’s the Laird – that’s Colin – and all his relatives, and they’re the kind of – in charge of the village and the lands around the place.”

  “Very specific,” Marianne said drily. “And do they make a habit of adopting random American women from the future?”