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

by Rebecca Preston

  She was reminded of a story her mother always told about a man praying to the Lord to save him from a flood. A rescue team came past in a truck and offered him a lift – No, he said, God will save me. Later, when the floodwaters were rising around his house, a boat came past and called to him to jump aboard. Don’t worry about me, he replied, God will save me. Finally, sitting on his roof as the waters began to lap around his feet, a helicopter descended from on high, and a rescuer extended her hand to him from the rope ladder. No need, he called over the noise of the blades – God will save me. And the waters had risen, and risen, and risen, and he was taken under, and drowned. When he reached the afterlife, there stood God, waiting to meet with him. Deeply offended, the man railed at God. Why did you forsake me? he demanded. Everyone else panicked, but I had faith in you to save me – why didn’t you help me in my hour of need?

  I sent a truck, a boat and a helicopter, replied the Lord. You couldn’t meet me halfway?

  Could she really do better than Eamon as an escort on her journey? Was she going to rely on complete strangers’ love of gold to help her on this impossible mission – this calling, she knew now, from the higher power who had brought her here – or was she going to accept the help that had clearly been put on her path for her to find? Unconventional he may have been, but he was the right man for the job. What kind of fool would turn that down?

  “Eamon MacClaran,” she said after a long pause, “I know we’ve only just met, but how do you feel about a trip to Italy?”

  A smile broke out across his face. “Marianne, nothing would make me happier.” He paused. “I don’t even know yer last name.”

  She laughed. “Perfect. What could go wrong?”

  He clunked his heavy tankard against hers and they drank to the success of their journey – and Marianne could feel the warmth of the ale in her stomach. It complemented the warmth in her heart. Whatever the logic of the situation, she could feel, in that strange and difficult to understand part of her spirit that she knew instinctively had to do with the unreliable magic she’d been practicing since she was a child, that this was the right decision.

  “But we’re not leaving straight away,” Eamon clarified, all business – she marveled at how quickly he switched gears. “I’ll want to make some enquiries first. I know a lot of people who know a lot of people, lassie – I’ll get us as much information as I can so we’re not seekin’ a needle in a haystack.”

  “Great,” she agreed, nodding. “I was hoping you’d have some connections that can help us. Italy’s a big place, especially on foot.”

  “Well, we’ll take horses, surely,” he contradicted her, raising an eyebrow, and she realized with a worried jolt that she’d been thinking of cars — had almost mentioned them, in fact, in this medieval tavern with a man who’d lived and died six hundred years before she was born. A few mouthfuls of ale and she was speaking without due care – she scolded herself quietly as she took another sip of ale to hide her discomfiture. That was a question she’d have to confront sooner or later, actually – if this man was to be her travel companion, how much of her real story was she going to tell him?

  She’d only just secured his loyalty – would he be as willing to travel with her if he knew she’d come from the far future? Or would he think she was mad and refuse – or worse, believe she was a witch? Where did he stand on witchcraft, for that matter? If they were going to seek out this man, she was going to want to rely on her magic – as hit-and-miss as it was, there was a chance at least that it could help them, but it absolutely wouldn’t do them any good if the minute she got the cards out and started talking about ancestors and gods he drove his sword through her heart. Would he do that? Surely not. He’d loved Elena so dearly – and she’d been accused of witchcraft.

  Only accused, though, she thought to herself, worry gnawing at the pit of her stomach like a rat. Not actually guilty. If Marianne was accused of being a witch, the truth would not defend her. Of course, there was nothing ungodly about her practice – plenty of modern Pagans had absolutely no problem with other churches, operating on a ‘live and let live’ principle, and gods knew if she rejected religion entirely she’d see even less of her family than she already did – but these weren’t distinctions that were generally made by the medieval Church, from what she could tell. No, for the time being it was best to keep her witchcraft from Eamon. And her origins from another, far distant world. It was a shame – she wanted to trust him – but perhaps there would come a time when she knew for certain that she could.

  “You know what the witch hunter looks like, then?”

  “Father Teodoro? Aye, couldn’t forget him. Tall bastard. Almost my height, which is sayin’ something. Almost my height,” he stressed, sounding a little defensive. “But I’d ruin him in any fair fight. Skinny bastard, looked like he’d never held a sword in his life. Of course he hadn’t. Men like him have servants to do all their dirty work for them. I don’t even think he so much as tied Elena’s knots with his own hands.” A murderous look in those dark eyes. “I’d like to break those hands of his, I think, and tear out some of that greasy black hair.”

  “First things first, we have to find him,” Marianne said, trying to derail that particular train of thought before it got too grisly. “How long will it take you to ask your friends?”

  “I’ll need to travel to a few of the surrounding villages to visit. Might be a few days or even weeks before we get anything useful that we can go on.”

  “That’s fine. It’ll give us time to prepare.” She felt a flash of disappointment that they weren’t simply going to ride off into the night that very evening – but she knew this was better. Preparation was everything, especially when it came to magic. “I want to learn to fight.”

  “Aye, not a bad idea,” he agreed.

  “Oh, good. I was worried you’d tell me women shouldn’t fight.”

  “Like anyone could stop them.” He laughed, waving away the idea as though it was ridiculous.

  She thought of her father telling her she couldn’t take boxing lessons like her brother because it wasn’t ladylike.

  “Talk to my cousin Ian. He’s an adequate swordsman, but the best teacher I’ve ever known.”

  “I will.” She hesitated. “You’ll send word when you’ve got information?”

  “Ye’ll know as soon as I do,” he promised. “But for now – keep a low profile.” He rose to his feet, dropping some coins on the bar – the woman breezed past and collected them in an instant with hardly an acknowledgement. “And learn to handle a sword! We’ll spar when ye’re good enough.”

  Marianne stared at him. “Are you sure?”

  “Certain. And don’t expect me to go easy on ye just because ye’re a beginner.” He grinned, a light in his eyes that made him look younger and far less downtrodden than he had. “And Marianne?”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s three ye owe me. Not that I’m counting.”

  Chapter 16

  On the ride back to the keep, Marianne caught herself thinking of it as ‘home’ and smiled broadly to herself in the dark. It felt a lot shorter than the ride down to the tavern. She’d finished her ale after Eamon had left, but hadn’t wanted to stay too much later – the days of irregular sleep and the terrible dream that morning had left her fairly exhausted. It felt good to have a plan, for things to be in motion – she could be patient while Eamon did the research they needed for their quest. She was glad to have him on her side. She was a smart woman, good with people and tough, but this was a whole other world than the one she was used to.

  Eamon clearly knew things – things and people, for that matter – and it would definitely help her to have someone as streetwise as he was by her side. She wondered if he’d recommend hiring a group of mercenaries anyway, to give them a little bit of extra firepower – surely Eamon would know people they could trust – but she felt strangely reluctant about the idea of adding more people to their party.

  More people
means more chances of betrayal, she told herself the explanation had to be, but it was difficult to hide from the truth that she wanted to be alone with him. Don’t be ridiculous, Marianne. This is a business arrangement, pure and simple. Besides, he’s clearly besotted with Elena – do you want the memory of a dead girl hanging over your head, even if he is interested in you as well?

  The castle was a lot darker than it had been when she rode in through the gate, giving a nod to the guard who checked carefully who she was before allowing her into the courtyard. Sweetpea moseyed around to the stables almost without any input from Marianne at all – she wondered if the horse would even put herself away. Working mostly by guessing, she took the saddle and the bridle off the horse, gave her a few strokes with a brush she found in the stables, then opened the gate to the stall she’d watched a groom get the horse out of. Sweetpea ambled in as if she’d never left and happily buried her nose in a half-full bucket of water. Marianne felt remarkably pleased with herself. Maybe this rural lifestyle wouldn’t be too hard to get used to after all – but she quietly added ‘horse and tack care’ to the list of things she’d need to get on top of before they left on their journey. Dolores was waiting up for her, a pot of tea at the ready on the table and a fire crackling in the gate. She removed her borrowed cloak as she stepped into the room, smiling a greeting and was delighted to notice that Dolores had saved her some pastries from dessert. Taking a seat in what was rapidly becoming her chair— strange, how little habits became so binding— Marianne nibbled at a pastry and filled Dolores in on the new developments to their plan.

  “Eamon MacClaran!” Dolores breathed. “Careful there. They say he killed a man in a brawl.”

  Marianne sighed. “They do say that. I have my suspicions that Elena isn’t the only one who was falsely accused of something.”

  “But Laird Colin exiled him from the castle for that crime.” Dolores didn’t seem convinced.

  Marianne got the sense that Laird Colin could do no wrong in the woman’s eyes. Fair enough, too – he’d saved her life by taking her in after the death of her daughter. Marianne was sure that Father Teodoro would have had her killed just to tie up that loose end, but thankfully the MacClarans were a little too much to tangle with. Knowing that he was a coward made her feel better about their chances.

  “He exiled him because he couldn’t explain where he was. But three men spoke in his defense, said he wasn’t even at the tavern that night, so it’s not exactly black and white.” She waved a hand, dismissing this fruitless line of enquiry. “At any rate, I need someone tough on my side if I’m going up against the Church. And he knows people who might know where to find Teodoro.”

  Dolores flinched visibly at the name and Marianne realized, a little late, that she avoided saying it whenever she could. Gently, she touched Dolores’s hand.

  “I know you’re afraid. I know he hurt you terribly. And I know that this revenge won’t heal all the wounds he left you with – but it’s a start, at least. And I really believe that Eamon is the right man for the job. Will you trust me?”

  Dolores nodded, but her eyes were still troubled. It would take her a little while to come around to Eamon, it seemed. “Elena always liked him,” she murmured, half to herself. “Maybe she was right. She was always better with people than me.”

  Not for the first time, Marianne wondered at the peculiar mother/daughter relationship these two must have had. Dolores was whip-smart in her own peculiar way – but she didn’t cope well with a lot of elements of regular life, especially when it came to dealing with other people. Elena must have done a lot of the socializing for the pair, Marianne reflected. Funny, how children grow to compensate for what their parents lacked.

  That would explain why I’m capable of love and empathy, Marianne thought darkly, thinking of her father. They talked a little longer before their yawns overcame them – Dolores, too, had had a restless night and not enough sleep. But when Marianne settled into her bed, she was troubled by the memory of the nightmare she’d had – and sure enough, though she willed herself to settle down and sleep peacefully, it wasn’t long before the walls began to close in on her vision. This time, though, she wasn’t alone. There was the simple bed, the empty side table, the walls built of wood, nothing like the stone walls of Castle MacClaran – and there, perched on a rickety wooden chair, was a tall, cruel-faced man dressed all in black with a curtain of lank, dark hair falling past his shoulders and past his face as though it wanted to hide his cold eyes from the world.

  He was staring at her intently, as though trying to look right through her, and though he was speaking she couldn’t make out a single word he was saying, so distracted she was by the fear and anger in her chest. Was it even English? Could it be church Latin? Or Italian?

  It didn’t matter, because now the fire was beginning to curl around her toes again, moving up to the simple white dress she was wearing, and when she opened her mouth to scream a gust of flame erupted from her throat as though her insides had already been consumed – and there stood Father Teodoro, wreathed by the fire tearing its way out of her ribcage but completely unscathed. And though she should have felt pain, or fear, or grief at losing her life, at never seeing her mother or her loved ones again, at the end of her time in the material world, all she could think as the fire finally demolished the last of her – was of her anger at him, and her need to have revenge.

  Marianne sat bolt upright in her cot again – it was pitch dark, the fire long out and the light of dawn clearly still hours away. Breathing heavily, she at least hoped she’d managed to avoid screaming the castle down around her ears again – it seemed that way. Small mercies. If she was going to wake Dolores up every night screaming up a storm, she might as well find new quarters to spare both of them the hassle. She settled back into the bed, heart still pounding, and tried to settle her mind.

  In a way, the dreams were good. They were proof of her connection to Elena – proof that all of this madness was happening for a reason, and that she was on the right path in seeking vengeance. Gods it was sad, though – so terribly sad to revisit the thoughts and feelings of that poor woman, who died so many hundreds of years before Marianne had even been born.

  She had to confront the knowledge that Elena was her ancestor – that somehow, though they were different women, they occupied the same place in history. Did that mean Elena had always been with her, even in her life back in the twenty-first century? And what did it mean for her future here? Unless Dolores was leaving something rather significant out, Elena hadn’t had children before she died…

  Did that mean that Marianne was destined to fill that role? It wasn’t as though she hadn’t thought about it – being from a Catholic family, it was impossible not to at least consider the prospect of babies – but knowing that her entire family line depended on her having kids here in medieval Scotland was a rather daunting prospect. A soothing one, too, in a way – surely she was guaranteed to succeed in her quest to bring Father Teodoro to justice. If he killed her, she’d not be able to have children, and therefore would never exist in the first place to have come back, to be killed, or to have never existed in the first place, to have come back… These thoughts formed a soothing rhythm that eventually lulled her to sleep.

  She awoke after dawn, the little room filled with weak sunlight, feeling a little more rested than she had after the nightmare – and though it was tempting to drift back to sleep, she knew it was important to get started on the preparations for the trip. Step one: learn how to handle a horse. Well, step two. Step one could be breakfast, she supposed. Something about the freezing Scottish weather had kicked her appetite into a whole new gear. Cora was already downstairs in the dining hall, sitting at a table that was rapidly becoming their usual breakfast spot – Marianne joined her and filled her in on the surprising developments from the night before as they made their way through a delicious breakfast. She was a little hesitant about Eamon as well, though for a different reason.

 
“Don’t tell Ian, alright?” she asked seriously. “I don’t know where he stands with all the unpleasantness, you know? He might get angry if he knows Eamon’s involved, or worried about you. I’m a bit worried about you too, truth be told.”

  “I know. But my instincts are telling me – my magic,” she added, lowering her voice and speaking through her teeth, “tells me that I can trust him. Cora, I really think there’s more to the story.”

  “Well, if you’re going to be spending a lot of time with him, maybe you can find out where the hell he was that night. Because he certainly won’t tell his family. Maybe you can clear his name.”

  That was a possibility that hadn’t occurred to her. She considered it thoughtfully as she finished off her bacon. That would definitely repay him for the favors he’d done her so far, she thought with a smile.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  “Nothing. Hey, can you teach me to ride a horse?”

  Cora laughed. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Remember when you used to bully me for not knowing how to drive stick?”

  “Driving an automatic isn’t driving, it’s steering.”

  “And riding a horse is a whole separate ballgame.” Cora grinned. “Your legs are gonna hurt like hell, fair warning.”

  “Bring it on.”

  Chapter 17

  Cora wasn’t joking. Marianne limped up the stairs that night with a very real fear that she wasn’t going to make it. There just seemed to be so many muscles on the insides of her legs that she hadn’t until right this minute known were there – and they were all making up for lost time with a vengeance. However, Cora had been pleased with her progress as a student, at the very least – she’d learned how to move with the horse in a way that would save a huge amount of its energy in the long run, keeping the animal safe and reducing the risk of injuries — which she knew could be fatal on a long ride. A lame horse was worse than a flat tire, because there was no roadside assist in medieval Scotland, it seemed.