10 Timeless Heroes; A Time Travel Romance Boxed Set

by P. L. Parker, Beth Trissel, L. L. Muir, Skhye Moncrief, Sky Purington, Nancy Lee Badger, Caroline Clemmons, Bess McBride, Donna Michaels

Darkness cloaked all.

  "Murdo?" Katie whispered.

  Where is she? And what is she doing? Blinking, I searched the doorway. "Katie?"

  Something moved in the murky shadows.

  "I thought you'd sound happier to see me," she accused.

  She's inside my room. "Castration doesn't promise a happy future. What are you doing in my room?"

  The shadows shifted toward me.

  "I need to be with you." She hastened forward.

  Moonlight cut through the gap in the curtains to paint her shirt and shorts a soft glowing white.

  Truly angelic. Fey. By the Gods, she is a fairy. A trickster who could lure me into trouble. And Uncle John is afoot. "No, stop my love. Turn around. Your uncle will cut off my testicles and cram them down my throat. Not under his roof until we've wed. They know naught of the handfasting and only see fornication. I believe that will be misconstrued as my abuse of your virtue."

  Light bounced off a ghostly hand she extended to my shoulder.

  No. "Are you mad?" I shoved away into the uncooperative mattress. "The need is part of the binding. Fight it. Go back to your bed. There's time for Holy Union later.We'll be together soon, Katie."

  "No, it's the twenty-first century--"

  "You Centurians vary from culture to culture. But this is Scotland where a man reigns over his household. Don't push your uncle, or I'll lose my head." One head or the other. Either would be trying.

  " But--"

  "Go back to your bed, Katie." She must go.

  In silence, she turned and silently stepped across the planking. Shadow engulfed the whiteness of her clothing, creating darkness like the void of space. The door whined, then gently thumped.

  Praise the stars and all the secrets therein. Throwing my head back onto the soft pillow, I stared at the ceiling.

  Shadows fingered out from the room's edges and corners. Darkness struggled to claim all, but not me or this night. I thrust a handful of fingers through my hair.

  She acted irrationally because of anam cara. Only a traditional Centurian wedding ritual taking place would keep us out of trouble. But the Holy Light of Union graced our marriage ritual already. Fairy magic drew us together. We'd have a time keeping out of trouble with the sexual demands of anam cara.

  ****

  After waking and showering, I struggled to don a freshly starched pair of blue jeans that were as unforgiving as my Murdo. Neither leg could bend these pant legs. Auntie Iona must stop starching blue jeans. Only a good round of squats broke them in after each round of laundry. But the pressure numbed my need for Murdo's bewitching caress. Somewhat. Or is merely a distraction. I'd best figure out how we're going to continue consummating this relationship, or it's back to the circus for Murdo. Okay. Figuratively. I strode to the mirror and stared into my reflection's blue eyes.

  It's amazing I wasn't blue from asphyxiating in these damned pants. Blue, huh? I wear the blue for you. I blinked.

  There they are. Blue eyes. Almost a weird bright blue. Like Mother's eyes.

  The hairs along my arms popped to chilly attention.

  Everything is too damned weird. Ghosts. Mr. Perfect. Time travel. The sword. And now my eye color and a man's time-traveling blue tattoos. Oh. Just stop thinking. I dragged hairbrush bristles through her hair.

  And I'd declared my love for a man I've only known for three days. Four counting today. I rolled those baby blues at my reflection that reciprocated the gesture. "You love him, Katie Innis. Do what needs to be done." I ignored my reflection's cynical mask, sectioned my hair, wove a braid down to my waist, and bound it with a stretchy band.

  The cut on my hand stung a bit.

  Yes. I'd even gotten cut. I uncurled my fingers to view the long red scab crossing my palm. Nasty. But I'm up to date on my tetanus shot. It's back to normalcy now. To work. I donned my hiking boots and headed downstairs.

  The kitchen cackled, perfuming the house with mouth-watering aromas of bacon and ham, the full Scottish breakfast a la Iona. Katie rounded the doorway.

  Aunt Iona bustled along the far counter near steaming pans on the stovetop. All three men sat at the table, working forks and knives.

  My gut rumbled.

  Not bad timing.

  Uncle John looked up from the table's end. "Alas, the sun has risen. Sit with me, Katie. Tell me about Duke Ronat." He pointed the point of his knife at the empty chair next to his.

  Reporting for duty. As usual. I passed a smiling Murdo and sinister Sticky Fingers.

  Oops. Tricky moment. Just pretend not to favor one over the other. If only to keep Uncle John guessing about last night's activities. She sank into a squeaking seat behind an empty white plate.

  The dish whisked away.

  By Iona's intrusive hand.

  Food is on the way. "Well, the duke adored his sword." I grinned at Uncle John. "Murdo and I snuck away before the testing took place."

  "Oh?" Uncle John winked, hefting a brown slice of thick shiny bacon to his lips.

  That was anything but traditional for a Scotsman to eat in the morning. He just did it to tease me. And I think he really liked bacon. Who wouldn't?

  "You didn't wait around to try your hand with the blade?" Uncle John gnashed down on strip of meat.

  Wish I had a bite. But the way he studied me, I'd have to reply. "I hate it when they put me on display. It's like I'm a pink toy poodle in a bright purple handbag."

  "Of course you are." Uncle John chuckled and turned back to his breakfast.

  Not a good reaction. Where's respect for the girl?

  Sticky Fingers chortled.

  Uncle John's attention snapped to his son. "What in the bloody Hell are you laughing at?"

  Sticky Fingers shrugged off the question.

  Jerk.

  Uncle John turned back to me, his growl vanished. "The other ladies aren't swordsmen, lass. You fascinate them."

  The whole female thing is what chapped my hide. "I'm not a swordsman or swordswoman."

  "Close enough for intrigue, lass." Uncle John reached for his coffee, held the white cup to his lips, and gulped loudly before handing the vessel to Iona. "More coffee please, Mother."

  My non-Scottish version of breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon landed in front of me.

  Aunties sure went out of their way to please everyone every day even though I swore I could eat my eggs hard like everyone else. No oatmeal though? There must have been some strange shortage of oatmeal at the Innis house. Or in Scotland. Gruel is disgusting. And good to see it's absent. "Thank you," I said to the vanishing Iona. I glanced at Murdo.

  He stole a look at me, then surveyed the room.

  Strange. What did he search for?

  "What's that?" Sticky Fingers barked and eyed my hand.

  Like I clutched something precious. Of his. "What?"

  "Your hand's sliced open," he sneered and pointed.

  How to explain the cut?

  Uncle John gasped and locked a stern gaze on me. "Aye, lass. I thought you didn't parry last night."

  Air. I need air.

  Auntie Iona pushed into my shoulder, hovering, reaching for my hand. "Let me see to it before it gets infected."

  One thing a girl doesn't need today is a doting Auntie.

  Uncle John's unwavering gaze insisted I speak. How could I lie? "I didn't fence." How to get off this sinking ship? Could I admit the handfasting? Or play like something else happened? As long as they don't notice Murdo's cut, everything will be fine.

  Iona poked the stinging cut.

  "Murdo has the same cut on his hand," Sticky Fingers growled.

  Chapter 19

  I'm dead meat. Oh. My. God. And Murdo's probably just as dead. Just piece something together brain, to distract them. Anything sensible would do. But what? Murdo isn't a choice selection. Iona had a fit with the heathered hills in my hair just last night. Face it. Murdo and I cruise aboard the same time-traveling boat of impoverty. We'd be lucky to afford two tickets to fly over to sleep on Pam's h
ard floor and get me that job.

  Everyone was unusually quiet.

  Someone needed to say something. Any freaking thing. I chanced a glance at Murdo.

  He leaned back in his chair, serenely watching my uncle who mirrored his expression.

  Did time travelers even have a damned passport? Can he even travel out of the country?

  "Handfasted," Uncle John blurted.

  Rather cheered. What? Something is wrong. Oddly bizarre. My ears aren't working. Uncle John sounds happy. And Murdo is smiling a wicked smile.

  "What?" Sticky Fingers shrieked.

  "Handfasted," Aunt Iona lilted, grabbing my shoulders, leaning her smile into view. "How romantic, dear."

  What? I searched my aunt's face for clues.

  Auntie Iona beamed. And Uncle John leaned forward even more on a fist, grinning.

  What is going on? "You aren't angry?"

  "Whatever for?" Uncle John timbered. "We were wondering when you'd find yourself a man? Weren't we, Mother? And a kilt to boot!"

  Sticky Fingers shoved himself up, his chair screeching across the floor, threw his cloth napkin onto his half-eaten breakfast, turned, stomped past Murdo, and vanished around the doorjamb.

  Murdo watched the departure.

  "Don't mind, John. He's had a hard time of it lately." Iona patted my shoulder.

  Hard in that he couldn't get in my pants or find release. I choked down a laugh. Not hard to do when confused. "I'm not certain what just happened. Can someone explain what just happened?"

  Iona patted the top of head. "Eat some breakfast, Katie. It'll all make sense after breakfast. I know. You need some oatmeal."

  "No. Not oatmeal." Katie's gut flopped.

  "It'll keep you're pipes clean," Uncle John boomed, pointing at my plate with a fork. "Eat up, lass. Things are getting awfully hectic around here."

  Tell me about it.

  "What of the wedding ceremony, Da?" Iona chimed across the kitchen. "Can I plan it?"

  "Of course." Uncle John waved a big palm. "Whatever suits you." He winked at me. "And Katie, of course."

  Things are just plain weird these days. Any second, a pink-polka-dotted elephant would pass through the kitchen to spray the dishes clean. Or worse, the beast would flap its ears and carry me through time on its back. Some magic carpet. I stabbed some scrambled eggs.

  ****

  Not more than an hour later, Uncle John whistled my direction while gripping the steering wheel like a man thrilled with his niece's life. Okay. Whatever. A girl knows better than to ask stupid questions when expecting pink-polka-dotted elephants to show. The blasted seat belt gnawed at my neck like life clamping down on the remnants of my sanity. Or trying to slit my throat for me. I guess I just needed to lean back and just let all the stress go. Just go with whatever. I stared out the front passenger's window.

  No matter how much the car merrily bobbed en route to the foundry, I couldn't shake the eerie nature of the day. Sticky Fingers sulked in front of me, staring out his window. Kilted Murdo casually winked beside me as if Uncle John couldn't see. What else could happen today? A tornado? The stretch of clear blue sky behind Murdo promised peace. Reason. That's all I wanted. Something to pop up and announce everything is perfectly normal. But then, how does one measure normal in a foreign country after falling in love with a time traveler?

  I did not just think that.

  "And what of your sword, Murdo?" Uncle John asked. "Should we attempt to heat the blade slowly, increase the temperature incrementally?" He peered into the rearview mirror, his gaze riveting upon Murdo.

  "'Tis fine. If you damage it, I'll find another," Murdo replied.

  But the sword is a unique alloy. And if it's damaged we can't time travel. If that's even possible. Or, maybe Murdo wants it destroyed so he doesn't have to admit he can't time travel.

  Murdo blinked passively.

  Everyone was too bloody calm aside from Cousin John. I turned back to the normalcy of nature beyond road.

  Back to the future unraveling before me like a zany yellow-brick road. One can't hide from the future with one's auntie ordering wedding cake and tartan. How will I survive choosing between lavender-flavored or coconut cake?

  The car pulled into the foundry's drive.

  At least inside the foundry I wasn't trapped in tight quarters with everyone. I bolted from the car and lit the forge while the three men hemmed and hawed over the sword. Their long discussion offered no new information. But I'm sitting way over here, out of the mix, on the bench.

  Uncle John extracted the orange sword from the forge and carefully avoided his hovering male audience as he placed the blade upon the black anvil, raised a hammer over his shoulder, and smashed the head down atop the hot blade. Racket clanged long and loud. The hammer bounced. Uncle, cousin, and Murdo huddled around the sword, blocking my view. All I could see are amazing kilted McEwen hips.

  Fine. I don't need to see if the kink remained. Murdo had said there's no way a twenty-first-century smith could mend the sword. I slid my gaze across the opposite mirrored wall and out across Fort William's blue sky.

  How's a girl to watch her wonderful uncle agonize over an irreversible dent? Two-hundred degrees ago I can't bear watching him try to straighten the blade. Seven one-hundred-degree increments later, the pyrometer read 2000 degrees Fahrenheit. Uncle John's sweaty mask of confusion materialized much earlier at 1700 degrees. And with each increase in temperature, Murdo would shrug his shoulders. The gesture didn't help Uncle John in the least. Nor did Sticky Fingers do much in the way of assisting either. He stood around, shifting his foothold on the cobbled floor. Uselessly.

  "Hopeless," Uncle John muttered. He tossed his hammer onto the workbench.

  The long-winded clang reverberated around the space like heckling sword song.

  Without another word, Uncle John thrust the blade back into Hades. "What to do?" He rubbed his brow while staring at the furnace.

  No one offered a consoling word.

  Uncle John began to pace.

  Poor man. I wanted to run over and hug him. Tell him this was some weird futuristic metal he tried to force into submission. An unyielding bride. A futuristic alloy. But I'd promised secrecy.

  Murdo slowly spun, turning until he stood with his back to the mirrored wall, eyeing me warily.

  What now? If only I could read his mind.

  Sticky Fingers wandered to the open doors, gazing across the craggy horizon.

  Wander off, moron. Maybe he'd never return.

  "I know," Uncle John spun to face us, digging furiously in his blue jeans' pocket for his car keys. "I'll need a book from the house. Keep an eye on the thermostat." He darted out the door.

  Murdo shrugged.

  Mr. Perfect could try a little bit harder to enlighten everyone. "Show a bit of enthusiasm," I whispered. "The poor man's trying."

  Murdo rolled his eyes, turning his profile to the forge.

  Stare at the furnace all day? Right. Like it would make a difference. I turned back to the hilly vista beyond the door.

  The car's engine revved.

  Maybe I could find something on the Internet. I sidestepped to the enormous foundry doorway and glimpsed the red end of Uncle John's car shrinking in the distance.

  Sticky Fingers was nowhere outside. He'd gone with Uncle John. Good riddance. With him accompanying Uncle John to the house, I get a few precious moments alone with Mr. Perfect. Oh. Boy. Turning back to Murdo, I focused on his slightly bowed legs.

  Running hands underneath a time-traveling kilt would really help the time pass. What a magic carpet. Tartan served a higher purpose. Much more than a zany pink polka-dotted elephant.

  Murdo looked my direction, his brow arched curiously. "You look mischievous, my love."

  The way he stood was so sexy. The way he spoke, sexier. Three naughty steps brought the kilt dangerously close. I tried not to smile, studying the way the brown leather belt accentuated his lean waist. And we're alone. I peered up at his dark curls
. "They've gone to fetch a book."

  He rubbed his jaw. "They?"

  "Even Cousin John has gone." I took the last step to him, placing my palms against the heat of his shirt, feeling the undulating chest beneath.

  Sculpted steel. And the best part is right there beneath his magic tartan carpet. "We're alone. I feel like flying." Forget the key we agonized over. Murdo had the perfect gearshift to catapult us through time.

  His sexy smile made my head swoon.

  "Do you know how that smile of yours makes me feel?" I grinned.

  "Katie Innis, they're certain to return in half an hour."

  He's actually admonishing me. "But--"

  "Och!" He lifted a finger, all the fine lines blackened with soot. "I'll not shame you in front of your uncle. We've work to do."

  "Work?" Trying to pout, I thrust my fingertips into the heat and onto the succulent skin beneath the placket of his shirt.

  Warm silken hair teased my fingers from where those hairs hid beneath the off-white cotton.

  "There's nothing we can do here." At least actual work.

  "No?" He flipped open his sporran, digging furiously, and extracted a piece of white paper.

  A business card? Is he looking for work to keep me busy? "What are you doing?"

  "I require the use of a communication system. Something that starts with tele--"

  So he wanted to make a phone call instead of making love? What kind of man turned down sex? Just who are these futuristic time-traveling historians? "A phone?" I didn't just snarl, did I?

  "Aye." His gaze spoke of nothing more than duty.

  But call whom? Wives had a long list of honey-dos. Doesn't he realize they started here and now? But his gaze was miles away. So who would he call? "You have friends in this century?"

  He nodded.

  "Murdo, I'm getting tired of this game. Just tell me who you're going to call."

  "A wee bit sassy there, aren't you?" He licked his lips. With a flick, he presented the business card's text before my eyes.

  Upside down. I turned the card right side up.

  Black ink spelled out Black Liam's Charters. "Black Liam? Where did you get this?"

  Murdo's gray gaze was unwavering. "He gave it to me."

  "When?"