Highlander Warrior_A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Rebecca Preston

  “When did you forsake the Lord your God for witchcraft?”

  “The answer’s not going to change, you piece of garbage!”

  Another blow to the side of her head. Tears ran down her face, mingling with the blood on her cheeks.

  “When did you forsake the Lord your God —”

  “Stop it,” she whispered. “Stop —”

  Crash. Blackness, then the room again. More blood, and she was swaying where she knelt.

  “When did you forsake the Lord your God for witchcraft?”

  “Pater noster,” she murmured, half awake. “Qui es in caelis. Sanctificetur —”

  The blow struck again, but this one didn’t hurt as badly. The words she spoke bolstered her, gave her strength, brought her a kind of strange courage in this dark, dark place. No matter what happened, God would be here with her. Despite the sins of evil men, she would cleave to Him and His teachings, just as Mary had taught her all those months ago in Scotland, at Castle MacClaran, her home. She should never have left.

  “When did you forsake the Lord your God for witchcraft?”

  “… nos inducas in tentationem,” she whispered, “sed libera nos a malo. Amen.”

  “You profane these holy words, witch,” the man said, still sounding bored.

  “Pater noster,” she started again, louder now. “Qui es in caelis —”

  “Very well. We’ll find another way of quieting your tongue.”

  She woke up, screaming, with Ian’s arms curled around her and his worried face above her. He rocked her until the worst of the panic had eased, until the specter of the man and his blade began to fade into memory. She clung to him, once the panic had faded, because it was replaced with grief, with fear and sadness and rage at what had been done to Bellina, to her ancestor whose only crime had been the knowledge of herbs and healing that Cora herself had inherited. They were so alike — so alike — to think that the woman had been put to death, and such an awful, lingering death, too, was almost more than she could bear.

  “They’re getting worse, aren’t they, lassie?” Ian asked, his voice low and quiet in their darkened room.

  She nodded silently.

  “You were speaking, in this one.”

  “I was?” Now she thought about it, there had been words in this dream — more than she usually heard, at any rate. They tended to be very image-heavy, and though she knew Bellina was being interrogated, she never heard the questions. “Strange — so strange — I understood every word, but — but it wasn’t English. They were speaking Italian.”

  “She spoke four languages, our Bellina. Quite a scholar. Gaelic, English, Italian — and Latin.”

  Cora smiled despite her sadness. “We have that last one in common. Church Latin, anyway. The perks of a Catholic upbringing.”

  “Good Catholic girls, both of you.”

  She grinned into his bare chest. “I’m not so good. Do you remember what I was saying? Was it in Italian?”

  “I don’t think so. It sounded more — rhythmical than that. Like you were repeating the same thing over and over. Pater something…something, something in caelis…”

  Cora’s eyes widened. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis?”

  “That’s it!”

  “That’s the Lord’s Prayer.” Tears came to her eyes again. “She was reciting the Lord’s Prayer in Latin.”

  “To show them she was devout, maybe?”

  “No. To give herself strength.”

  Ian took a deep breath and pulled her into his arms, the only comfort he could offer. They lay in silence for a long time before sleep finally claimed them.

  Chapter 20

  Cora and Ian were a little subdued at breakfast, still saddened by the awful dream that Cora had shared with her lover — made all the more awful by the fact that it wasn’t a true dream, but a memory, an insight into real events that neither of them had any power to change. It was like being in the room herself, imprisoned and powerless to help, made to watch over and over again as Bellina was tortured, broken and killed by men who should have been upholding the faith she was so devoted to. The servants whispered and joked that Ian and Cora had been up all night making love, and she felt very tired — she wished that that had been the case, that she had nothing else on her mind but her new lover and the things they could do together. What a blissful life that would be.

  The Laird and his wife had stayed away overnight — some kind of diplomatic meeting at a nearby castle with the English. Colin was still wary of letting the English come to Castle MacClaran itself, Ian had told Cora — it was only recently that they’d stopped taking young newlywed women away on their wedding nights to be deflowered by strangers. A barbaric practice, to be sure, and one that Cora was glad Colin had managed to stamp out (with Audrina’s help, of course.) Traveling so soon after giving birth was not exactly the best idea, and Cora had made some very disgruntled noises about it, but Colin had taken the largest and most comfortable coach that the castle had, and Audrina had promised to spend the whole journey sitting inside it and looking out the window.

  “No riding whatsoever,” Cora threatened. “Or I’ll kill you myself.”

  It was midmorning that day when Colin returned to the castle, stomping through the great double doors with uncharacteristic force, and one look at his face told Cora that something was seriously wrong. She’d never seen the quiet Lord so angry — there was a line of tension down his jaw that looked strong enough to snap, and not even Cora’s stories about what the babies had done in his absence could calm his silent fury. But it was Audrina that struck the most fear into Cora’s heart — Audrina, who was usually so animated and chatty, was pale and withdrawn, silent at Colin’s side as though she’d seen a ghost.

  “Right, you both need to tell me what’s going on,” Cora said finally, putting down the mug of tea she’d been sipping. She and Ian were sitting with the Laird and his wife in the mostly-empty dining hall, trying to coax some kind of information out of either of them with no success. She could tell Ian was worried by the way he kept fidgeting in his seat, shooting glances around the room and occasionally taking her hand and squeezing it absently, as though that would bring about the answers they needed.

  “It’s the English,” Audrina said finally — it was the first thing she’d said since she’d gotten back, and Cora was relieved to hear her voice at last. She’d had too many dreams lately about tongues being cut out. “Lord Cotswold is coming to stay.”

  “Here?”

  “Over my dead body,” Colin growled at that.

  Audrina put a calming hand on his forearm, but her eyes were full of the same murderous rage. “Not here. Lord Weatherby’s castle. But it’s only an hour’s ride from here. He’ll be here, that — scum. Here, in my country. He doesn’t deserve to see the light of day, let alone to put his boots all over these fields.”

  “Easy, love.”

  “Why isn’t he dead!” she exploded suddenly, and Cora realized that her silence hadn’t been sadness — it was rage. It was the same rage she’d felt when she found out about Bellina’s death — an overwhelming mixture of anger, frustration and fear, the kind of emotion that was spurred on by powerlessness. “He ought to be dead! He ought to have been fed to his pigs, the disgusting — not only is he alive, he’s still a Lord. Weatherby promised us he’d be punished, but clearly that counted for nothing —”

  “Now, lass,” Colin murmured heavily. “Nobody’s more angry with him than me —”

  “ — I am,” Audrina corrected him coldly, and Cora recoiled in surprise at the rage in her voice. She’d never seen her friend look at Colin with such hostility before. “I am angrier with him than you are, Colin, thank you. Do I need to remind you of who it was that he raped and murdered?”

  Colin shut his eyes for a moment. “You’re right,” he said shortly. “I’m sorry. What I mean to say is — Weatherby’s hands are tied. He did us a courtesy, warning us.”

  “Courtesy my eye,” Audrina muttered,
eyes blazing. “Maybe I’ll do him the courtesy of wringing his neck —”

  “And risk another Lord like Cotswold being put in his place? Weatherby may not have handled Cotswold the way we wanted him to, but he’s an honorable man who’s doing his best. It’s the English who deserve our anger and our contempt. Weatherby’s doing the best with what he’s being given, which isn’t much. And he’s given us fair warning that Cotswold will be in the area. We don’t need to see him, or interact with him. We’ll just wait until he’s gone.”

  “I’ll be waiting with a knife between my teeth,” Audrina hissed.

  “Why is he coming back?” Ian wanted to know, leaning forward over his cup of tea. “I’d have thought after the humiliation he suffered here, he’d want to stay miles away from Castle MacClaran until his dying day.”

  Colin hesitated, and glanced at Cora with a look in his eyes that made worry pool in the pit of her stomach like lead. That wasn’t a good look.

  “It seems Cotswold found a newfound devotion to his faith when he was recovering from his little episode out here,” the Laird explained quietly, as Audrina seethed silently at his side. “He devoted himself to the word of God…even traveled to Rome on a pilgrimage to get more in touch with his faith. And while he was there, he learned more about the Inquisition.”

  “No,” Cora whispered.

  “I don’t know how much he knows about Bellina and her family, Cora — obviously I couldn’t ask in a room full of English lords, it would have raised too much suspicion. But I do know that he’s on a witch hunt, and he’s got a squad of Italian Inquisitors with him.”

  Cora sat back in her seat, her mind reeling. This couldn’t be happening — Audrina’s old enemy, back from the dead and riding to her gates with an Inquisition at his back…she felt sick to her stomach at the thought of it.

  “It’s alright, Cora. It’s me he’s after, most likely. To be safe, I’m going to destroy my supplies up in the tower.” She sighed heavily. “It’s such a shame to lose them, but I’ll rebuild the stores the minute that scum is out of the country again.” She reached across the table and took Cora’s hand. “Listen, love, we’re going to be fine. If he even dares to come here, he’s got absolutely no evidence of any wrongdoing from any of us. He hasn’t got a leg to stand on, the cur.”

  There was no evidence of Bellina’s wrongdoing, either, Cora wanted to say — but Ian squeezed her leg under the table, and she realized that Audrina was as frightened as she was — that she was reassuring herself more than anyone else. The return of this horrible man had shaken her to her bones, Cora could see. Her friend needed her to be strong, now. So despite the fear gnawing at the pit of her stomach, despite wanting nothing more than to fall into a heap and cry and cry, Cora straightened her back and smiled a tight smile.

  “He’s got nothing against us, Audrina. Warrior women, remember?”

  Audrina smiled — a real smile this time, one that touched her eyes. “Warrior women.”

  “I wouldn’t be in Cotswold’s shoes for all the world,” the Laird said, grinning at his cousin. “Not if it meant coming up against these two.”

  Chapter 21

  Bright and early the next day, Cora met Audrina at the foot of the stairs that led to her tower. The redheaded woman looked pale and drawn still — she clearly hadn’t slept especially well. She wasn’t alone in that. Cora had gone to bed so full of dread of her nightmares that she suspected she hadn’t actually dropped into restful sleep the whole night. Every time she’d felt herself beginning to nod off, a flash of panic would bring her back to consciousness with a jolt. Ian hadn’t complained about her keeping him awake, but he was a little quieter than his usual self at breakfast, and she caught him suppressing a yawn once or twice. Well, he’d known what he was getting into when he found her screaming blue murder in the middle of the night in an abandoned room. She hadn’t made him take her up to the battlements and kiss her, had she? A little sleep deprivation was a small price to pay for the pleasure of her company, as far as she was concerned. But she appreciated his kindness and his support nonetheless. It felt so good to have someone in her corner — she’d spent her whole life relying on herself alone.

  Well, not alone. She’d always had Audrina — at least, up til the two long, lonely years of their separation, which were already fading in her memory. The years without Audy didn’t count, not really — they were just some empty time she spent doing things that didn’t matter until the day that fate (or was it magic?) brought them back together. And here they were, setting about a sad but necessary task together. They gathered all the bundles of dry herbs into a basket, and the bottles of liquids went into a small cloth bag. It was only a small room, but it felt a lot emptier with all of Audrina’s handiwork removed. She sighed, rubbing her thumb over the inscriptions that had been carefully traced onto the bottles.

  “Maeve did these,” she said quietly. “It’s one of the only connections I have to her.”

  “Audy — I’m so sorry this is happening.”

  “It’s not your fault, love. It’s Cotswold’s.” Her eyes narrowed and her face twisted in a way that Cora was quietly glad she’d rarely seen before. “He’s the piece of excrement that’s making me do this — the abscess on the face of the world that I wish someone would just — burst.”

  “Maybe he won’t come here,” Cora said hopefully. “Maybe he’ll stay away — if you really did scare him last time, maybe —”

  “No. He will. Men like that never give up. Remember Stephen?”

  Cora blinked, then opened her mouth in horror. “God! Yes! Gross! I’d almost forgotten about him!”

  Stephen had been a patient of Audrina’s back at the hospital. A young man who’d come in one day with a broken leg, he’d clearly taken quite a shine to the red-headed nurse who cared for him — misinterpreting her professional courtesy and kindness for something more. When his leg was healed, he asked for her phone number — and she’d politely but firmly told him no, that she didn’t date patients.

  Every night for a fortnight, he would loiter by the hospital, waiting for her to come out so he could follow her and beg her to reconsider, to give him a chance, he was a nice guy — and the tone of these complaints grew steadily less pleasant. By the end of the second week, he was screaming at her, calling her a tease and a whore, accusing her of sleeping with every single one of her patients except for him. She’d had to get hospital security involved, and only the threat of a restraining order successfully deterred him — everyone had a suspicion that he had more than a few of those already.

  “God, six hundred years in the future and the same stupid shit is still going on. Do men really never change?” Cora wondered aloud, bending to grab a small bundle of herbs that had been overlooked — and double-checking the back of the cabinet while she did so.

  “Some men,” Audrina said flatly. “Our sons will be different.”

  They walked down the staircase together and out into the mid-morning sun. In the center of the courtyard there was a flat, clear area where they’d built a fire earlier. Cora squatted by the fire and began coaxing it into a full, roaring flame, while Audrina stared at the horizon, clearly making her peace with Maeve. One by one, they tipped the tinctures out of the small bottles — the liquids sizzled and evaporated. Upending the basket of dried herbs, they watched as the whole pile went up in a conflagration of smoke and flame — the sweet smell of the herbs drifting across the courtyard.

  They sat for a while like that in the weak autumn sun, watching the fire burn down to ash, taking all trace of ‘witchcraft’ — of their healing supplies — with it.

  “I hope nobody falls ill,” Audrina murmured after a while, and Cora patted her shoulder in wordless comfort. Once the fire had burned out, they disposed of the ashes and headed inside for lunch. Though it was frustrating to have to destroy the precious supplies, it felt good to know that no matter what, Cotswold wouldn’t have a shred of evidence to level against either of them. With any luck, that wo
uld be enough to get rid of him…though the knot of worry in Cora’s belly hadn’t loosened at all. Bellina hadn’t had herbs of any kind in her possession when they took her.

  Lunch was a sober affair. Laird Colin sat with Ian, deep in conversation — apparently the visiting party had already caused quite a scene at the local village tavern, accusing every woman there (including the publican) of being whores and she-devils. Maudie was an extremely friendly woman, it was true, but she was a good-hearted soul and didn’t deserve such venom from men who were intruding on the village’s hospitality as it was. They’d also been cruel and demanding with local merchants, paying pittances for supplies and threatening violence when challenged.

  “I’ll send some of the men down. A military presence might make those bastards think twice,” Colin was saying, fist clenched. Ian opened his mouth to counsel caution — after all, it wouldn’t do to aggravate the Inquisition any more than necessary — when the doors to the dining hall burst open. A servant ran in, almost in tears with dismay, and bolted right up to the Laird’s table.

  “Laird, so sorry, we tried to stop them, but they just barged right in — claimed to have God’s right —”

  A man barged through the door then, and Cora knew without a shadow of a doubt as she looked at him that this was Lord Cotswold. She didn’t need to hear Colin’s whispered curse, or feel Audrina’s hand tighten on her leg under the table, or see the dozen soldiers leap to their feet at the very sight of him, hands flying to their weapons.

  “Hold your peace,” Colin barked, and the men relaxed, though their faces were furious. Clearly, this man had not made a good impression his first time there. He wasn’t making too good an impression now, either. Tall and stooped, he had the sickly look of a man who’d lost a lot of weight quite quickly. His watery blue eyes were bloodshot and the capillaries in his face had burst — a classic sign of a drunk, Cora knew immediately. From what Ian had told her, the man had lost his family and his fortune, and imposed himself upon Lord Weatherby, an unwelcome but unremovable guest. He certainly held himself with a lot of authority for a man with no status.