The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karen Marie Moning

  “Isn’t the lord supposed to decide those?” Lisa asked acerbically.

  Circenn’s gaze shot to her. “How would you know that? And what business of yours is it?”

  Lisa blinked innocently. “I must have overheard it somewhere. And I was merely curious.”

  “One would think you might learn to tame that curiosity, seeing where it has led you.”

  “And while Galan was in the village,” Duncan forged on, “he realized the villagers are expecting to have a celebration.”

  “I don’t understand why you don’t hear the cases. Aren’t you the laird?” Lisa pushed. “Or are you just too busy mucking up everyone else’s life and brooding all the time?” she added sweetly. Her inactivity was getting on her nerves, and if she didn’t start being mean to him, she’d end up being entirely too nice. Her resolve might not withstand another dessert with him.

  Duncan’s laughter rang to the rafters.

  “It’s none of your business why I doona hear them,” Circenn growled.

  “Fine. Nothing’s any of my business, is it? What do you expect me to do? Just sit around, ask no questions, have no desires, and be a lump of spineless femininity?”

  “You could not be spineless if you tried,” Circenn said with a long-suffering sigh.

  “A celebration,” Duncan said loudly. “The villagers are planning for the feast—”

  “What are you blathering about?” Circenn grudgingly rerouted his attention to Duncan.

  “If you would permit me to complete an entire sentence, you might know,” Duncan said evenly.

  “Well?” Circenn encouraged. “You have my full attention.”

  “The villagers wish to celebrate your return and the upcoming wedding.”

  “No celebration,” Lisa said immediately.

  “The idea is appealing,” Circenn countered.

  Lisa glared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I am not marrying you, remember? I’m not going to be here.”

  The three warriors turned to regard her as if she’d just informed them she would sprout wings and fly back to her time.

  “I will not be party to this,” she snapped.

  “A celebration might be just the thing for you, lass,” Duncan said. “And you will have the opportunity to meet your people.”

  “They are not my people, nor will they ever be,” Lisa said stiffly. “I won’t be here.” With that she turned and fled up the stairs.

  * * *

  But she found she couldn’t stay away for long. Stealthily, she crept back to the top of the stairs, fascinated by the events ongoing below.

  They were planning her wedding, and it was enough to boggle the mind.

  There they were, sprawled around the table in the Greathall, and the overbearing but irresistibly sexy hunk of a Highland laird had his hands buried in fabric.

  “Nay. It is not soft enough. Gillendria, go fetch the silks stored in the tapestry room. Adam gave me something that should suit well. Bring me the bolt of gold silk.”

  Duncan leaned back in his chair, his arms folded behind his head and his boots propped on the table. The front legs of his chair hovered precariously a few inches above the floor, then hit the floor with a thump when Galan kicked the back of the chair.

  “What is wrong with you, Galan?” Duncan complained.

  “Keep your feet off the table,” Galan reprimanded. “They’re dirty.”

  “Leave him be, Galan. The table can be wiped,” Circenn said absently, fingering a pale blue wool and discarding it with a shake of his head.

  Duncan and Galan looked at Circenn as if he’d lost his mind. “What have we come to? Mud on the table? You—sorting through fabric? Does this mean tupping in the kitchen is acceptable now, too?” Duncan asked, disbelievingly.

  “Far be it from me to regulate tupping,” Circenn said mildly, lifting a fold of crimson velvet.

  Galan snapped Duncan’s mouth shut with a finger beneath his chin. “I thought you hated the gifts Adam brought you, Circenn,” Galan reminded the laird.

  Circenn tossed aside a pale rose linen. “Only bold colors for the lass,” he told the maids. “Except perhaps lavender.” He glanced at the seamstress standing near his chair. “Have you any lavender?”

  At the top of the stairs, Lisa blushed. He was obviously recalling her bra and panties. The thought sent a flush of heat through her. But then her brow furrowed: Who was Adam and why did he bring gifts and why did Circenn hate them? She shook her head, watching him pick through the bolts spread across the table. A half-dozen women were gathered around Circenn, picking up the fabrics he had approved.

  “A cloak from the velvet,” he said, “with black fur at the rim of the hood and cuffs. My colors,” he added smugly.

  Lisa froze, thrown off balance by the possessive note in his voice. My colors, he’d said, but she’d clearly heard him say, my woman.

  And it had thrilled her.

  She stepped back quickly and ducked into a corner, leaning against the wall, her heart pounding.

  What was she doing?

  She’d been standing at the top of the stairs in the fourteenth century, watching him select fabric for her wedding gown!

  Dear God, she was completely losing herself. The immediacy of the present was so compelling, so rich and exciting, that it was eroding her ties to her real life, undermining her determination to return to her mother.

  She sank to the floor and closed her eyes, forcing herself to think of Catherine, to imagine what she was doing, how sick with worry she was, how alone. Lisa remained crouched on the floor, brutally forcing herself back to reality until she felt tears sting her eyes.

  And then she rose, determined to take control of things for once and for all.

  LISA PRESSED BACK INTO THE DEEP STONE ARCH OF THE doorway, scarcely daring to breathe. Her feet were numb and cramped from huddling on the chilly floor. She tightened her fingers around the hilt of the knife she’d filched from the kitchen. It was a lethal blade, razor sharp, as wide as her palm and at least twelve inches long. It would serve nicely to demonstrate her point. She was through biding her time and trying patiently to find the flask. She was going to get back to the future—now.

  Watching him plan her wedding gown had been the final straw: Circenn had accepted that she was going to be here forever—worse, she had started to accept it as well. Concealing the knife in the folds of her gown, she’d slipped up to the second floor and hidden in the shadows of a doorway diagonal to Circenn’s chambers, waiting for him to come up to change for dinner, as he did every night. She conceded that if she hadn’t had an ill mother, she might well have embraced this experience. In her century, there were no men who could begin to compare to the masculine splendor of Circenn Brodie. But Catherine needed her and would always come first.

  The staircase creaked faintly and she tensed. Peeking around the corner of the doorway she glimpsed Circenn gliding silently down the hallway. For such a large man he certainly moved quietly. In a moment, his back was to her. He inserted the key in the lock and she realized the time was upon her. She would obtain the flask, no matter whom she had to go through to get it. No more passive, bewildered, susceptible-to-seduction Lisa.

  She surged from her hiding place, pressed the tip of the blade to his back, directly in line with his heart, and commanded, “Move. In the door. Now.” Placing her other hand at the small of his back, she pushed him forward.

  His spine went rigid beneath her palm.

  “Now, I said. Get in the room.”

  Circenn kicked the door open and entered the chamber.

  “Stop,” she ordered. “Do not turn around.”

  “I saw you spying in the Greathall, lass,” he said easily. “If you doona like the gold silk, you needn’t get so fussy about it. You may select your own gown. It was not my intention to offend you with my choice.”

  “Don’t be obtuse. You know that’s not what I’m upset about,” she hissed. “The flask, Brodie. Now. Get it.” She pressed the tip of
the blade harder against his back to illustrate her resolve, and bit her lip when a drop of blood blossomed below his shoulder blade, spreading on the white linen of his shirt. She wished desperately that she could see his face. Was it dark with fury? Was he amused at her tenacity, or foolishly underestimating her resolve?

  He sighed heavily. “For what purpose do you wish my flask? Are you in truth the traitor we feared?”

  “No! I want to go home. I have no desire for your flask, I only need it to take me back.”

  “You still believe the flask will return you?”

  “It brought me here—”

  “I have explained to you—”

  “All you’ve said is that it isn’t the flask’s power, but you won’t tell me what it can do. Do you expect me to trust your word? Why should I?”

  “I would not lie to you, lass. But I see that you will not believe me. Had I known you still harbored this foolish hope, I would have obliged you sooner.” He pivoted so swiftly that she fumbled, but recovered and jabbed the tip of the knife into his chest. More blood blossomed as the lethally sharpened blade slipped through his shirt as if it were butter.

  “Careful with that thing, lass. Unless it pleases you to ruin my shirts.”

  “Don’t move and I won’t have to cut you,” she snapped.

  He dropped his hands to his side. “I must move to collect the flask.”

  “I’ll follow you.”

  “Nay, you will not. I will not take you to my lair.”

  “I am the one with the knife,” she reminded him. “And it currently rests above your heart.”

  If he moved, she didn’t see it. All she knew was that one moment she had the knife at his chest, and the next it was gone.

  She blinked, trying to bring the room back into focus.

  The blade was flush against her throat.

  Her eyes flared wide and she gasped. “How did you do that?”

  “You cannot control me, lass. No one can,” he said wearily. “If I give to you, it is because I choose to give to you. And, Lisa, I would choose to give you everything, if you would but permit.”

  “Then give me the flask,” she demanded, ignoring the cold metal at her neck.

  “Why do you seek it? To what do you wish to return? I have told you I will wed you and care for you. I am offering you my home.”

  A groan of frustration escaped her. Nothing was working out as she’d planned. He had so easily disarmed her, stripped away her control. I am offering you my home, he had said, and a treacherous part of her was deeply intrigued by that offer. She was doing it again—vacillating. She glared at him, a sheen of tears clouding her vision.

  At the sight of her tears, he flung the knife to the bed, where it landed with a soft thud. Pulling her into his arms, he caressed her hair tenderly. “Tell me, lass, what is it? What causes you to weep?”

  Lisa pulled from his embrace. Thrumming with frustration, she began pacing between him and the door. “Where is my baseball cap, anyway? Did you have to take that away from me, too?”

  He cocked his head. “Your base ball cap?” he repeated awkwardly.

  “My”—what had he called it?—“bonnet.”

  He moved to a chest beneath a window, lifted the lid, and retrieved her clothing. Her jeans and T-shirt had been neatly folded, and atop them was her cap.

  She leaped toward him and snatched it greedily from his hand, clutching it to her breast. It seemed a lifetime ago that she and her father had sat in the third row, in the blue seats, directly behind home base. They’d laughed and yelled at the baseball players, drunk sodas and eaten hot dogs drenched with mustard and relish. She’d decided that very day that she would one day marry a man just like her daddy. Charming, smart, with a fabulous sense of humor, tender, and always willing to take time for his family.

  Then she’d met this capable, mighty warrior, and in his shadow the real Jack Stone had come into sharper focus. As had her real feelings about him.

  She was angry at her father. Angry at his irresponsibility: his failure to have cars serviced, to take out life insurance, to carry adequate auto coverage, to plan for a future that might stretch beyond his present. In so many ways her father had been an overgrown child, no matter how charming he was. But Circenn Brodie would always plan for his family’s future. If he wed, he would keep his wife and children safe, no matter the cost to himself. Circenn Brodie took precautions, controlled his environment, and built an impenetrable fortress for those he called his own.

  “Talk to me, lass.”

  Lisa dragged herself from her bitter thoughts.

  “If you tell me why you seek so desperately to return, I will bring you the flask. Is it a man?” he asked warily. “I thought you told me there had been no one.”

  The tension that had quickened in her veins while she’d sat in the doorway, clutching the knife and waiting for him, dissipated suddenly. She chided herself for her foolishness: She should have foreseen that force wouldn’t work with this man.

  The primary reason she’d refused to discuss Catherine with him was that she hadn’t wanted to make a fool of herself, to start talking and end up weeping openly before the impassive warrior. But her emotions were no longer under her control, and the need to talk consumed her, the need to have someone to trust, to confide in. Her defenses slipped further, leaving her raw and exposed. She sank to the floor. “No. It’s nothing like that. It’s my mother,” she whispered.

  “Your mother what?” he pushed gently, sinking down beside her.

  “She’s d-dying,” she said. She dropped her head forward, creating a curtain with her hair.

  “Dying?”

  “Yes.” She drew a deep breath. “I’m all she has left, Circenn. She’s ill and won’t live much longer. I was taking care of her, feeding her, working to support us. Now she is completely alone.” Once the words had started coming, they tumbled forth more easily. Maybe he did care enough to help her. Maybe if she told him all of it, he would find a way to return her.

  “She was in a car wreck five years ago. We all were. My daddy died in it.” She stroked the baseball cap lovingly. “He bought me this a week before the wreck.” A bittersweet smile crossed her face at the memory. “The Reds won that day, and we went to dinner afterward with Mom, and that’s the last time I remember us all being together except for the day of the wreck. It’s my last good memory. After that, all I see are the crushed, jagged pieces of a blue Mercedes covered with blood and …”

  Circenn winced. Placing a finger beneath her chin, he forced her to look at him. “Och, lass,” he whispered. He traced her tears with his thumb, his eyes mirroring her grief.

  Lisa was soothed by his compassion. She’d never spoken aloud of this, even to Ruby, although her best friend had tried many times to get her to talk about it. She was discovering that it wasn’t as hard to confide in him as she’d feared. “Mom was crippled in the car wreck—”

  “Car wreck?” he asked softly.

  She struggled to explain. “Machines. The Mercedes was a car. In my time we don’t ride horses, we have metal”—she searched for a word to which he might relate—“carriages that carry us. Fast, sometimes too fast. The tire … er, wheel of the carriage came apart and we crashed into other machines. Daddy was crushed behind the steering wheel and died instantly.” Lisa blew out a breath and paused for a moment. “When they released me from the hospital, I found a job as quickly as I could, and a second one to take care of me and Mom and pay the bills. We lost everything,” she whispered. “It was horrible. We couldn’t pay the lawsuits, so they took our home and everything we had. And I’d accepted it—I had—I’d accepted that was how my life would be, until you took me away in the middle of something that I have to finish. My mother has cancer and only a short time to live. No one is there to feed her, pay the bills, or hold her hand.”

  Circenn swallowed. He could not interpret much of what Lisa had said, but he understood that her mother was dying and she had been trying to take care of every
thing for quite some time. “She is entirely alone? There is no other of your clan left alive?”

  Lisa shook her head. “Families aren’t like yours in my time. My father’s parents died long ago, and my mother was adopted. Now there’s only Mom, and I’m stuck here.”

  “Och, lass.” He drew her into his arms.

  “Don’t try to comfort me,” she cried, pushing against his chest. “It’s my fault. I’m the one who had to work in a museum. I’m the one who had to touch that damned flask. I’m the selfish one.”

  Circenn dropped his hands and expelled a frustrated breath. There was not one selfish bone in her body, yet she was lambasting herself, carrying the blame for everything. He watched helplessly as she rocked back and forth, her arms wrapped around herself—a posture of deep grieving he’d seen far too many times in his life. “No one has ever been there to comfort you, have they?” he asked grimly. “You carried the weight of it all alone. This is untenable. This is what a husband is for,” he muttered.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Well, you do now,” he said. “Let me be strong enough for both of us. I can, you know.”

  She wiped angrily at her tears with the back of her hand. “I can’t. Now do you see why I must return? For God’s sake, will you please give me the flask? You promised when we were at Dunnottar that if there was a way for me to return, you would help me. Was that something you said merely to placate me? Must I beg? Is that what you want?”

  “Nay, lass,” he said violently. “I never want that from you. I will give you the flask, but I must collect it. It is in a safe place. Will you trust me? Will you go to your chambers and await me there?”

  Lisa searched his face frantically. “Will you really bring it?” she whispered.

  “Aye. Lisa, I’d bring you the stars if it would cease your tears. I did not know. I knew none of this. You did not tell me.”

  “You never asked.”

  Circenn scowled as he mentally kicked himself. She was right. He hadn’t. Not once had he said, Excuse me, lass, but were you doing something when I snatched you out of time with my curse? Were you wed? Did you have children? A dying mother who relied upon you, perhaps? He helped her to her feet, but the moment she had her balance she tugged her arm from his hand.