10 Timeless Heroes; A Time Travel Romance Boxed Set
Page 108
Scotty's expression never changed. "You're her guardian." He pivoted toward the dark doorway and strode off. "Make bairns. That's a chore in itself."
And the man has a lovely sense of humor. "Everybody's a court jester."
"I'll let you know when you can be of service," Scotty replied over his shoulder. "The marquis always has a place for another man-at-arms."
Well, there seems to be plenty of time on our hands. Making weans is an honorable task. Duty called. I shot her a wicked grin. "I'm rising to the Call."
Her eyebrow arched into a doubtful curl. "Call?"
She'd forgotten the meaning of the term. "My calling. Didn't we have this discussion once before?"
"Yes. Your call to serve. But what is your call at this point?" She cleared her throat. "In time."
How would she react? That in itself would make the detour through the twenty-first century priceless. "Making bairns."
Her smirk of disbelief melted into shocking realization, then those blue eyes widened. "Here? Where's the disinfected hospital full of cutting-edge equipment and doctors who make pain vanish and catch babies?"
Gods' damn. I hadn't thought I'd terrify her. "I'm sorry, Katie. I didn't mean to make you fear giving birth--"
Her mouth opened, wordlessly, the lower jaw flapping, then shut.
Done. How can I undo the damage? "Look now." I snaked an arm around her shoulders and hugged one into my chest so I could still she her face. "Remember the swords Uncle John fussed over on his wall?"
She nodded, her eyes frozen wide.
"That, my love, is why you're here." It has to be. Maybe there's more behind the reason. But I could work with what I know. "We study swords awarded to Brothers by the fey. Swords made by fairies. And you're here to repair swords. There can be no irony there. Now, you're here and there are many swords like those your uncle grieves over. Those that tell a story. And Druids tell stories. I think we've been brought here so you can keep those stories strong by repairing swords in history. And maybe, just maybe, you will crack the greatest mystery of all."
She blinked.
Again and again. Thinking. Digesting the words.
Her shoulders relaxed. "What mystery?"
Bait taken. Just like with the cadets. Easily persuaded to bend to The Cause. "Help us study the swords to understand how time travel works."
Those eyes grew as wide as saucers. "You don't know?"
Intrigue resonated in those words. Beautiful blessed intrigue. I wagged my head. "I bet Destiny brought us here to learn the answer." Aye. Led me to her because I had a subtle way with persuasion. And she had so many things about her that begged for endless persuasion.
****
Katie felt the hum of life in her belly. But morning nausea made life suck. It's hard to focus on the duke's hidden stash of broken claymores when Murdo hadn't realized I was pregnant yet. No one had. But Murdo would today. I'd drop the bomb. Make him sweat and squirm because he's taking me to the future to give birth. Whether he knows it or not. I stretched my legs beneath the oaks where I always walked back from the castle, weaving in and out of gnarled tree trunks on the mile hike to the croft.
Ring Master MacKenzie had insisted on walking me home, but there's very little to fear these days on Ronat's lands. So, I'd left him about a hundred yards back and hurried the last few minutes to the river where our quaint house stood. Where Murdo lurked. Waiting. To mark his territory every day after MacKenzie departed in turning back to the castle.
Murdo's such a silly man! Although, sex was the greatest prize for all I'd been through to get to this paradise with my Murdo, I still had to make the announcement. Declare my demands. But he'd be all over me the moment he spotted me. I rounded a copse of hawthorn and spotted the partially completed grass-thatched roof of the McEwen abode.
A ribbon of smoke curled into the blue sky through the latticework of beams Murdo had left to cover with thatch.
What lured him away from finishing the roof? I cleared the front of the house.
Murdo stood in the river, bent over, bare arse pointed upstream out from beneath the tails of his soaked white shirt with his face thrust into a glass-bottom bucket.
Silly man determined to get rich on pearls. But, Lordy, what a view. Hopefully, the neighbors weren't out hill walking. That was some prime beef on display. I gulped down a laugh. "Murdo."
He jerked upright, spotted me, and grinned. "Home at long last?"
Well, he might want me to go back to the castle in a minute. "Won't you come out of the river for a while? You'll freeze in there." Which is true. The damned Tay River is icy cold. It took forever to boil the water for my baths.
No time passed before he stepped onto the grassy bank in nothing but his dripping tunic that draped his undulating musculature. Somewhere under that cloth, something surely lurked, shrunken into nonexistence from the ice water. A very sad turkey leg. Well, sad until his thoughts warmed it up. Talk about a bend in a sword worth fixing. I could throw his corded steel on the ground and force that metal into more babies. Easy. Oh the similarities in love and metalwork. But now I had an announcement to make. "You're dripping," I faked a chide. The one noting he'd get sick and implied that what I called medicine wasn't actually medicine in this century.
"One period's witch doctor is another period's savior." He winked, swinging his glass-bottom bucket at his side, and strode toward me. "What of you though? You're home early. Are you ill?"
There's nothing like a husband who always stalked you with a hungry look in his eye. "You can call it that."
His stride lengthened, eating up the hungry ground between us. "What are your symptoms?" His gaze squinted into slits.
I'd tell him after he placed his expensive bucket on the ground.
He did so and grabbed my elbows, drawing me against his wet warm solid chest.
Good. He needed to show some concern. I want to give birth in a twenty-first-century medical facility. Am determined to do so. "You're getting me all wet." I waited to see his reaction.
But he scowled with a thoughtful straight-lipped smile.
Heck, I'd never get to tell him. I'd burst with the news. There'd be no need to zip to the future and find someone qualified to numb me from the waist down. Yes. That's extremely important. Time to make certain Murdo understands.
His huge warm palm tested my forehead and cheek. "What ails you, my love?"
So lovingly executed. Every movement. Each syllable. He'd be so excited. What did it care where I had a baby? When?
Tears choked me up, deep inside my chest.
I'd tease him a little. Just for fun. "I vomited a few times."
His dark eyebrows straightened into one long grave line. "There's no sign of ague?"
His serious mask almost made me laugh. Almost. "Of course not. Pregnancies don't give women fevers."
He winced then suddenly leaned down in one measured motion indicating his awareness until his nose touched mine. "A bairn?"
A million emotions flashed across his features. He snatched me off the ground and carried me toward our home's door.
The man probably would have skipped if I weren't pregnant. He so wanted a baby. "Where are we going?" I laughed.
"To warm you up," he lilted.
Excellent idea. "Under the covers I hope."
"You're smiling, Katie McEwen."
Yes. Yes. I am. "In this kooky world, I think I am." I'm not certain if I needed a career or just a sword to make my life complete. But one thing rang true. The fairies could play one wicked tune with a sword.
[THE END]
A word about the author…
Skhye resides in Texas where her husband, daughter, and cats keep her extremely busy. She holds a B.S. in geology and gave up working on her thesis in bio-archaeology when bitten by the writing bug--a creature wielding a truly wicked contagion.
Aside from muscled men in fur, leather, denim, or kilts, Skhye loves cultural ecology, cultural evolution, cultural relativism, and natural process
es. Big ideas. Simple concepts that manifest in world building to crazy people like Skhye who studied anthropology and geology before turning to writing romantic fiction. Her rule of thumb is to love the good, the bad, and the ugly of every culture in her tales so every aspect of her stories resonates as real as possible.
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Skhye's other titles…
TIME GUARDIANS SERIES
SWORDSONG #2
HE OF THE FIERY SWORD #3
NAKED ON THE STAIRCASE #4
FORBIDDEN ETERNITY #5 (coming soon)
THE SPELL OF THE KILLING MOON #6
HEAVENLY HIGHLANDS #7 (coming soon)
FERAL SERIES
FERAL FASCINATIONS #1
FERAL FLAW #2
FERAL FEVER #3
FERAL FALLOUT #4
FERAL FORETASTE #5
WERESCAPE SERIES
COUGAR #1
RESURRECTING THE BEAST #2
BEAUTY AND THE BRUTE #3
LOVING LUCIUS #4
SEDUCING BEAUTY #5
BIG BAD BEAST #6
BLACKBERRY WINE #7
CYBER OPS SERIES
#1 INTO THE SLIPSTREAM
Highland Mystic
By
Sky Purington
Two romances. Four destinies. One extraordinary outcome.
Alan Stewart loves the lasses. Beautiful all, he's never been one to settle. Until, that is, Caitriona appears. Shy yet alluring, her unexpected and rare gift gains his respect. Though his need to protect her grows, a dark ending looms. Only Alan knows that her death soon comes and he will not be able to save her.
Caitriona Devereux is not who she seems. Her fate was foreseen long before birth and so important it will impact all future MacLomains. When dreams of Alan Stewart begin, she knows the time has come. But how to convince a Highland laird from another century that he must die for her? Especially when it soon becomes apparent that she couldn't bear his death.
When their paths cross with Stephen and Arianna of the Broun clan, a powerful prophecy begins to unravel. Though promised to Iain MacLomain, Arianna Broun is in love with Stephen. They'll do anything to be together. Alan and Caitriona will afford them just such an opportunity.
Betrayal and loss will intertwine with passion, friendship and new beginnings as the four race toward their destinies. All will discover how far they are willing to go for love. But will the journey be worth the ultimate sacrifice?
Find out in HIGHLAND MYSTIC.
Highland Mystic
(The MacLomain Series- Early Years)
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Sky Purington
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Edited by Cathy McElhaney
Cover Art by Tamra Westberry
Published in the United States of America
PREVIOUS RELEASES
~The MacLomain Series- Early Years~
Highland Defiance- Book One
Highland Persuasion- Book Two
Highland Mystic- Book Three
The MacLomain Series- Early Years Boxed Set is also available.
~The MacLomain Series~
The King’s Druidess- Prelude
Fate’s Monolith- Book One
Destiny’s Denial- Book Two
Sylvan Mist- Book Three
The MacLomain Series Boxed Set is also available.
~The MacLomain Series- Next Generation~
Mark of the Highlander- Book One
Vow of the Highlander- Book Two
Wrath of the Highlander- Book Three
Faith of the Highlander- Book Four
Plight of the Highlander- Book Five
~Calum’s Curse Series~
The Victorian Lure- Book One
The Georgian Embrace- Book Two
The Tudor Revival- Book Three
The Calum’s Curse Series Boxed Set is also available.
~Forsaken Brethren Series~
Darkest Memory- Book One
Heart of Vesuvius- Book Two
Soul of the Viking- Book Three- Coming Soon
~Song of the Muses Series~
Highland Muse
Prologue
Northern Scotland
1210
“Wake up,” she whispered. “Please wake up.”
The man in her arms stirred but his eyes remained closed.
Caitriona brushed the hair from his face and said, “You asked me to come. I did. Now you must open your eyes for me.”
His lips parted slightly as though he meant to respond. Nothing came out.
“I dinnae think we are safe here much longer. You must awake, my Laird.”
Her eyes skirted to the fallen warrior nearby. She shook her head. Death ruled this place now. It ebbed and flowed around them as surely as the air. With a deep, cleansing breath she laid her head on the chest of the man in her arms and murmured, “You must awake. We have little time.”
Ocean crashed against rock far below. Leaves blew in the wind. Still, time seemed to pass far too slowly. Could it be he survived only so that they died? When a large hand cupped the back of her head, Caitriona’s eyes shot to his face and she sighed with relief.
He was awake.
“What happened?” he croaked.
Careful not to jostle him too much she moved her head slowly until their faces were mere inches apart. Deep, dark brown eyes hid behind drowsy thick black lashes. A finger to his lips, she said, “Shh, you must remain quiet. Danger is close.”
Alan nodded, confused. “Aye,” he whispered, eyes drifting shut.
Caitriona slowly relaxed.
This had gone better than she hoped.
Then, in the blink of an eye, she was flipped with a dagger to her throat. Blade tight against her flesh, eyes wild and dangerous, voice low and lethal, he said, “Who are you?”
Perhaps it had not gone so well after all.
“Caitriona Devereux,” she whispered.
“Norman?”
“One generation removed. Broun on my Da’s side.”
He leaned closer. “What sort of lass carries her Ma’s name?”
Caitriona didn’t dare swallow. “One who didnae much like her Da.”
Alan’s eyes scanned her face. “You have the look of the Norman’s. No good.”
Familiar anger bubbled inside. “You have the look of the Scots. No good.”
That was probably not the best thing to say to a Scotsman with a blade to her throat.
But her sharp reply didn’t seem to faze Alan Stewart. He studied her for several long seconds before he chuckled and rolled away. “You are a ragged looking bairn. And too far from home I would say.”
Bairn? Caitriona sat up slowly and frowned. Aye, she was small in stature but she was no child. At twenty-two winters she’d seen her fair share of life. When Alan came to his feet so too did she. It pleased her to see him regain his strength so quickly. She didn’t think he would.
Then again, he was a strong man in both spirit and stature.
Despite the fact he’d been at the brink of death he now stood tall, well over six feet. With long black hair and intense features surely inherited from his Viking blood, Alan was unlike any man she’d ever seen. He was, by all definitions, almost too handsome. From afar his deep brown eyes appeared as black as his hair.
She found it unsettling, frightening almost.
Profile suddenly turned to granite, Alan crouched over the dead man. Deliberate, maliciously, he gr
abbed the dagger protruding from his chest and twisted.
“I send you to the devil himself, Angus MacLeod,” he said bitterly and spit on the man’s face. “When he doesnae want you, come back and find me so I can kill you again.”
Quick and precise, Alan pulled free the dagger, wiped it clean and tucked it in his plaid. The Stewart Laird then flung the dead man over his shoulder, walked to the cliff and hoisted him over the side. For several long minutes the Stewart looked out at the sea as though he said goodbye to something…or someone.
And it wasn’t the dead clansman.
No, Caitriona suspected it was someone else altogether.
Again that feeling of not being safe here overwhelmed her. She shook her head and said, “Laird Stewart, I dinnae think…” But her words squeaked to a stop when yet another blade pressed between her shoulder blades.
Alan didn’t turn. “You have no idea about any of this. You are but a stranger who stumbled upon me.”
“But I am not,” said the man at her back, his voice loud and stern. “In fact, you are but a stranger who stumbled upon the new MacLeod Chieftain.”
Chapter One
Alan inhaled, turned slowly and eyed his surroundings. How could he take down the MacLeod without him ever being the wiser? There was always a way.
“Throw down your weapon, Stewart,” Macleod said.
“Aye.” He tossed aside the dagger.
“And the other.”
With a small grin, Alan reached beneath his plaid, grabbed a smaller blade and tossed it aside.
“The last two as well, lad.”