A Scot to Remember (Something About a Highlander Book 1)

by Angeline Fortin

  His heart sang like a tune with the sweet lyrics of her words. “Shush now.” He kissed her, tracing his tongue along her lips. “Let us have this night. The morn is soon enough to dwell on the rest.”

  Running a hand along her thigh and up to her lush bottom, he began to move within her again. Her sweet gasp caressed him, and he grinned down at her. “Ye dinnae think I was done wi’ ye, did ye?”

  He never would be. Lip to lip. Tongue against tongue. His body gliding over hers. Her honeyed heat holding him. His heart shaken by the force of their connection.

  It left him panting, weak. All powerful. He’d never known anything like it. Would never get used to it. It would tear out his soul to lose it forever.

  They’d find a way around it. He would fight for what was his. What was meant to be his.

  “Forever, my love,” he swore. “Let’s get started on it, shall we?”

  Chapter 36

  Brontë awoke in the pre-dawn light to the gentle stroke of Tris’s hand as she snuggled against him. Down her shoulder, to her waist. Up over her hip and down her thigh, then back up again. While sensual, the caress wasn’t sexual. Simply his enjoyment of the contact, an appreciation of her curves.

  His lips brushed the nape of her neck, a sensuous tickle. With a contented sigh, she slipped off to sleep again.

  When she woke again, he was asleep next to her. Ordinarily he was the early riser. For once she was the one fully aware and not at all groggy. Then again, he’d had a long and trying day. Seeing what he had and absorbing it all had to have taken something out of him.

  Thinking to let him sleep, she slipped out of bed, pulled on a sweatshirt and boxer shorts and padded down the stairs. Her grandmother’s room was still quiet, unusual as well. Starting a pot of coffee, she dug her favorite caramel macchiato creamer out of the fridge and considered the contents, wondering what to feed her hungry man for breakfast before…

  Before she took him home.

  Not a problem to entertain before caffeine.

  Filling her cup and doctoring it appropriately, she carried it to the living room. The sun was bright this morning, setting the rich colors of Granny’s garden alive. The sight beckoned her. Opening the door, she paused and went to the front hall to fetch her purse, then took it outside with her. Granny had a rickety wicker patio set so splintered it was a wonder they hadn’t disintegrated to sawdust. Brontë had added a pair of padded loungers when she’d first moved here. She sat in one and set her coffee cup on the small table next to it. Pulling Hazel’s diary out of her purse, she ran her hand over the cover with a silent prayer in her heart.

  Opening it, she latched onto random tidbits here and there. The ramifications of her interference in the past had never been profound. Now Brontë could feel the consequences of her presence begin to sink in. She found the source in Hazel’s new sense of positivity for the future. An attachment to her extended family that kept her from the isolation of past renditions. Though by her generation, there were few personal links to the MacKintoshes, Brontë knew of them with fondness. It all derived from Hazel’s extended years of relationships with the clan.

  In the diary, she found more details. Births outweighed deaths in the prolific family. Hannah married after a few years, though no one had been pleased by her choice. A scoundrel after her fortune by all accounts but she’d been adamant that she would see it done. One page lamented Laurie’s enduring bachelorhood. The still unnamed keeper of his heart having wed another leaving him bereft.

  Finding the page she’d marked prior to her departure yesterday, she read on from there, skipping the news about her and Tris’s mysterious disappearance. All that would be erased the instant she took Tris back home. The entries regarding Phineas remained the same. The three children grew with leaps and bounds — there was no mention of another baby in the next two years bringing their run of a child a year to an end.

  Dorian wrote often from his post on the western front. Unharmed, she was thankful to hear. He’d been promoted to colonel and moved on to the command headquarters. Off the battlefield, for the time being. Other family members joined the fighting as war gripped the country and the years passed. Her brow tightened as did her grip on the book as she read the names of those who volunteered. His three young cousins, all barely in their twenties. Two of Hannah’s brothers, the eldest held back as an heir to a title without a child of his own, as was Laurie and his stepbrother, the future Earl of Glenrothes. In America, Hazel’s brother Ellis had joined the war effort.

  Then the conscription began in Britain in 1916, as Brontë had known it would. One by one, all the men were drafted into service. Right down to Hazel’s young brother Mal, only nineteen years old when the draft began in the US in 1917. Unable to watch them go and do nothing, Henry had taken a commission into the King’s Army and…

  She slammed the book shut.

  Her wish hadn’t been for Henry to meet with some new tragedy in the years after Wyndom’s attack. She didn’t want any further harm to come to him, however she’d selfishly considered the idea that if the years held further trials, she could convince Donell to let her continue on in her role as his champion.

  Even if he did, how was she to conquer a challenge like this? As Granny had pointed out regarding her father’s death on D-Day in World War II, changing the mind of a man set on defending his country was an impossible task.

  “Brontë?”

  Tris called for her from inside. Retrieving her now cold coffee, she went back in.

  He was dressed, all tucked in and proper. Tackling his growing beard hadn’t been possible here so he was deliciously scruffy looking. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, my love.” He kissed her, long and sweet until she melted against him with a sigh. The urge to convince him to stay with her washed over her again, yet as quick as a tide receded. What would she do if he went back only to be killed in the war effort? How could she keep him from it? Run away to Siberia to avoid conscription?

  He lifted his head. “Is that coffee?”

  She nodded and led him to the kitchen, shaking her head as he patted her ass along the way. Pouring him a cup, she made herself another as well and dosed it up with more of the sweetened creamer than normal. She needed it.

  “What are you reading?” he asked once they were seated at the table.

  “Hazel’s diary.” She couldn’t refrain from jumping to the dark moment of the plot. “Henry’s going to sign up for the war.”

  Not that the implication of his voluntary enlistment needed to be said, she was surprised when Tris nodded. “We had been discussing it since Dorian made the decision to join. Henry was hesitant given his lack of an heir.”

  New baby and problem solved.

  Brontë frowned into her cup. “You have to stop him. Convince him not to do it.”

  The corner of his mouth tipped up in a sad smile. “How am I to do that when I had every intention of joining the effort as well?”

  “What?” Surely, she hadn’t heard him right. The look he shot said she had. “This is serious, Tris. This is the war to end all wars. The great war. It went on for years. Millions of people lose their lives. Almost all of your cousins are drafted into it.”

  “I’d wager the rest volunteered.”

  She shook her head. Not, did they live? Did they die? “Can you be serious a minute?”

  Tris took a long drink of his coffee, his expression hooded. “Do we win?”

  Her hands flew into the air in exasperation. “That is not the point.”

  “We do then.” He looked pleased by the prospect. “Even if I weren’t casting about me for purpose, the needs of my country would have called to me. I dinnae ken what things are like in this time, but there are things worth fighting for, lass. And dying for. King. Country…You.” Tris caught her hand and pulled her around the table onto his lap. “A Scot doesn’t give up without a fight and I’ve determined I won’t either.”

  She reached out for the book. “But the diary�
�”

  “Bugger the bloody diary, lass!” He took it from her and threw it aside. “I say we burn the bloody thing rather than let it rule our lives. Face the days ahead without continually fretting over what’s to come. The future will be what we make it.”

  “We let the people we love die then?”

  “Hell, no!” He laughed and squeezed her tight. “I didn’t say we would give up the fight, did I? We’ll face each day, right the wrongs when needed. We’re going to keep your device and I’m going to keep you as well.”

  “Aye, right. Is that what ye’re thinking now?”

  * * *

  They both jumped in surprise at the old man in the doorway, Tris so badly he nearly dumped her off his lap. “What the feck?” Tris swore. He’d picked that one up from her over the past several weeks. He gaped in shock then frowned in confusion. “Auld Donell?”

  Brontë stared between them in surprise. “You know him?”

  “He owns the house between Henry and I on Moray,” he told her, setting her back on her feet and rising to stand at her side. “Though I haven’t seen him about in years.”

  “I’ve been busy, lad.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You have no idea.”

  Donell looked at her, his pale blue eyes assessing. “Ye dinnae do precisely what I meant for ye to, lass.”

  “I kept Henry safe and I want to continue doing so,” she said defiantly. “Phineas, too. They didn’t threaten Hazel’s life, but that doesn’t mean either one of them is safe.”

  “Phineas?” Tris echoed. “What are ye talking about?”

  “Nay,” Donell answered her. “Their vision of the future is narrow. It has nae occurred to them yet.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I want to fight it. Fight that evil.”

  Donell crossed his arms as well and mirrored her frown. “One thing I’ve learned through all my trials is that there is no fighting evil. Nae defeating it with defense and might. I’ve tried.”

  That took some of her wind. Her arms fell to her sides and she unconsciously reached for Tris’s hand. “We’re to let it run us down then?

  “Nay, lass,” he said, going to the counter to pour himself a cup of coffee. “I said there’s nae defeating evil. I’ve tried it before. Years of maneuvering and manipulation to bring about the one who would defeat the tyranny that had taken over the world. What I dinnae see then is that a dictator who stokes fear in his followers cannae be defeated. He feeds off the fear of his people, validates their hatred, excuses their discrimination, nurtures all of it until it grows beyond control.”

  “What do ye do then?” Tris asked. “Take him out before it happens?”

  “Kill him, ye’ve made a martyr of him,” Donell told them, sipping his coffee. “Kill him and ye’ve given his followers a cause to raise their banner to and perpetuate his evil for all time. Another will rise in his place. Where there is a breeding ground of discord there will always be someone ready to lead it. Though my initial solution seemed to work for a while, my efforts failed in the end because I dinnae ken that simple truth. Do ye hae any of those lemon cakes left?”

  Bemused by the abrupt change of subject, she went to the pantry and pulled out the pastries. Whatever hopes she’d had for a hearty breakfast were gone with his news. “What can we do?”

  Donell selected one of the cakes and munched on it as if this were an everyday conversation. “One of yer fellow Americans, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. once said something that has resonated wi’ me of late. He said, ‘Darkness cannae drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannae drive out hate; only love can do that.’” He paused with a solemn nod. “What one cannae defeat, one maun overcome. Raise up a voice to counter him. A movement of opposite ideals. Fight darkness wi’ light. Hatred wi’ love. Give the people someone else to multiply their hopes instead of their fears. What ye’ve accomplished for me is only the beginning.”

  Brontë traded a puzzled look with Tris. “What?”

  “I’ve got plans. Grand plans,” the older man went on. “As wi’ any great offensive, there is a defensive counterstrike. A movement by those who would see progress toward a goal undone. Ye’ve seen it, and been a victor in one wee battle in the war to come. The man ye kent as Wyndom willnae be the last.” He looked at Tris with a wink. “Ye always were a canny one, lad. Spirited, too. I kent ye’d be the one to step up. Dinnae ye say as much a moment ago?”

  “I said there are things worth fighting for.”

  “Aye.” Donell nodded. “And so there is.”

  “Aye, right, there is. However, ye’ve been remarkably circuitous and lacking in detail in explanation of exactly what it is yer fighting for,” Tris pointed out.

  “I’m fighting to save the world, lad. The future of us all.” Donell’s tone indicated that should have been abundantly obvious.

  Tris looked down at the old man he towered over with a renewed determination akin to that she’d seen on his face before Donell’s surprising appearance. “Ye’ll no’ be taking back yer device from Brontë. She’s going to keep it…we are going to keep it for a cause that is just and right as yer own.”

  Donell’s grin was so broad it deepened the wrinkles on his face into folds. “Of course, ye are. Isnae that what I’ve been saying all along? Yer cause goes hand in hand wi’ my own. Ye’re just the sort of man I want to assist me. With a proper ally at yer side, that is, aye?” He turned to her with a wink. “Ye wanted to be a part of a noble cause, aye? Bring a new meaning to be being a warrior for social justice.”

  She gaped at him. “You mean…?”

  “Aye, I’d no’ send ye off to find yer heart only to rip it away from ye. I’m nae monster.” He turned to Tris. “I ken ye’ve always had a mind to make a difference in this world. This is yer chance. One ye can take on together.”

  “Together?” Brontë looked up at Tris processing what Donell said and imagining the potential impact. “We can save more lives.”

  Donell shook his head. “I think ye’re getting ahead of yerself, lass.”

  “We could stop the war itself,” Tris said with an ambitious light in his eyes. He looked at the older man. “Is that possible?”

  “Major changes are no’ as easy to orchestrate as ye might think, but ye’re welcome to try,” he said. “I’ll no’ be there to clean up after ye. I’ve got bigger fish to fry, so ye’re on yer own, ye ken?”

  It sank in then, what he was saying. A challenge they could take on together.

  They were on their own.

  “Do you mean it? We can stay together?”

  “Hae ye no’ been listening to a word I’ve said, ye daft lass? Aye, together.” Donell pulled a device identical to the one he’d given her out of his pocket. “The center of the circle returns ye to the time ye left. If ye press here,” — he slid his finger up and another smaller ring appeared above the other — “it will bring ye to yer true time. That is, if ye were say, traveling about the world for six weeks for yer man’s job in…oh, time management, let’s say, ye’d return six weeks after ye left. Natural time progression, ye see? For as long as ye care to live two lives, they will be there for ye.”

  Brontë smiled up at Tris, a world of possibilities before them. “And if I can turn time back, can I move it forward, too?”

  “That functionality has been disabled on this particular model.” He tipped back his cap and scratched his head. “Dinnae fash so about the future, lass. Ye’ve a whole life to live.”

  Yes, she did.

  A life with rewards and purpose where she could make a difference and if not change the world completely, at least spark change for the future.

  A life with Tris.

  The Scot she thought she’d been destined to remember as a piece of the past had become her future. There was no doubt in her mind or uncertainty in her heart. Theirs was a love meant to defy fate and endure. He would be hers for the rest of her days. There to inspire, to share in triumphs and console in defeat. By her side. In her he
art. Her arms.

  Forever.

  The love for all time that she dreamed of had become reality. He was everything she’d ever hoped for…even her trickle down man.

  His strong arm slipped around her waist and drew her close. Her joy reflected in his green eyes as he looked down at her. “Didn’t I say ye would be my own forever?”

  “You did.” She nodded.

  His lips softened to mold to hers as they met and settled in for a long, drowning kiss. A firm hand at the small of her back held her flush against him as his mouth played on hers. She needed no encouragement to stay close. She was where she meant to be for the rest of her life. Looping her arms around his neck, she melted against him, kissing him back with all the passion and promise in her heart.

  “Good morni —” Violet’s greeting cut off with a chuckle as Tris and Brontë drew apart…Their lips, in any case. “Well! It is a good morning, isn’t it? Why Donell, you old dear, what are you doing here? It’s been ages!”

  Brontë shook her head, disbelief warring with amusement as Donell took her grandmother’s hand and kissed her cheek. “Vi, ye’re looking as bonny as ever. Merely stopped by to pick up my car. I lent it to yer granddaughter.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know you knew each other.”

  Tris pressed his lips to Brontë’s temple with a chuckle. “We may have the power to see time, but we’ll never know everything, will we?”

  She smiled up at him knowing their future would be as bright as the adoration shining in his eyes. “As long as I know you love me, I’m all good.”

  “Then, aye my love, we’re all good. For all the years to come.”

  Epilogue

  “You’re going to travel six months out of the year?”

  “We kind of have to. For his work, you see?” Brontë told her grandmother while they washed the dishes together that night, standing side by side at the sink. “We’ll be back and forth. Three months in and three months away to begin with and then we’ll go from there. There may be areas” — vast areas in time — “where I’ll be unable to text or email. Are you certain you’ll be okay with that?”