Must Love Kilts

by Angela Quarles

  He flexed his hands, which already missed the warmth of her curves.

  Anticipation sluiced through him, and heat flared in his lower back, tightening his cods.

  Her use of English instead of Gàidhlig only increased her mystery. Said lass regarded him, aye, but not with lust. Nay. Apparently, judging by her expression, he’d grown three heads since he’d been admiring her pleasing form.

  Hmm. Not how it usually went.

  Her cheeks turned an endearing shade of pink, like the underside of a poppy he’d seen drawn in a botany book at university.

  “The myth…er, the myth about…” Her accent was oddly flat, unlike any he’d heard, even from the English who’d managed to penetrate this far into the Highlands.

  The accent might be flat, but the tone was enticing, like a promise. Of course. Because why wouldn’t it be? He sighed. Here we go, heart.

  The lass eyed her companion, who remained silent, then returned her gaze to Iain’s, her cinnamon-brown eyes alight now with a new determination.

  “The Loch Ness monster. That myth.”

  “Aye, well, that one’s real enough too.” He waved over his cousin Duncan, who’d reacted to his suggestion of a drink as if he’d been tasked to watch sheep being sheared. The others in his patrol of the MacDonell’s territory would follow shortly, but they could fend for themselves. This would be exactly the spirit-lifting his cousin needed.

  He spoke in Gàidhlig to the nearest men. “These ladies are indeed with escorts, but I thank you for your concern.”

  In a lower voice, he said to the ladies in English, “May we interest you two lasses in a wee dram, in the promise of tales to enliven this drab evening, and compare notes on what’s real and what’s myth?”

  “I don’t think that—”

  “Yes! Thank you,” blurted the other lass, whose eyes immediately rounded. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth. Oddly, her fingernails were painted purple.

  His heart’s fancy shook her head and tugged on her friend’s sleeve. “We were just leaving,” she murmured and avoided his gaze.

  Nay. Not so soon.

  The friend pulled back, her expression mulish. “Oh no, we’re not. I’ve won our bet now, and we’re staying.” To him and Duncan, she flashed a triumphant smile, her gaze lingering appreciatively on his cousin, who blushed clear up to St. Peter’s gates. Interesting.

  That’s the spirit, lass. “Here, listen to your companion.” Iain swung around the nearest empty table and seated himself on the bench. He motioned to wee Maggie, who wasn’t so wee anymore. “Over here, would ye please?”

  She bustled over after setting down a tray of drinks several tables over. “And what will ye be having, Iain?”

  “Four whiskies to warm our hearts and our cheeks, I thank you.”

  To his extreme gratification, the ladies settled opposite, with Duncan beside him. A warm hardness nudged his leg, and his heart kicked up a notch. Had the lass come around?

  A groan floated up from under the table, and a heavy weight plopped onto his feet. Och, nay. Just flea-bitten Fearghus, the mutt Maggie kept for protection.

  He peeked under the table, scratched the fur ball’s ear, and was rewarded with two thumps of his tail on the wooden floorboards. Iain unearthed a bannock from his sporran and tossed it to the bugger. Thankfully, the other men at the inn turned back to their own companions, and cheerful banter soon filled the room. Nearby revelers began singing, “Bithidh an Deoch-sa an Làimh mo Rùin, This Drink will be in the Hand of my Love.” Well, wasn’t that a hopeful sign.

  “Now, lasses, I’m Iain, and this here’s Duncan. What brought ye to our fine establishment?”

  His new love examined him most unenamoredly, indecision clear on her features. She exchanged a weighted look with her friend.

  The friend, bless her, extended a hand across the table, straight toward Duncan, her grin wide. “I’m Fiona.” Duncan flushed a deep red. “And this is…” She stumbled when Duncan awkwardly took her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. Her eyes rounded again. She swallowed. “And this is my sister, Traci. We’re just here for a little bit of adventure,” she finished on a whisper.

  Adventure. Iain liked the sound of that. Acutely aware of Traci watching him while he kept his gaze on the sister, he said, “Well, then you’ve come to the right place.”

  Traci took another sip of Scotch. Boy, was this stuff stronger than she was used to. But her whole body—heck, the whole room—was humming with happiness. She’d been reluctant to stay, but alcohol had already colored her judgment, and Fiona had been a freaking bulldozer on a mission. Now here they were, sitting at a table drinking whisky with two seventeenth-century Highlanders.

  One of whom—Iain—was a delicious presence beside her. He pressed closer, his heat and scrumptious scent enveloping her—leather, clean wool, and a musky-something that was already driving her nuts. And he was waiting, with eyebrow raised and one lock of dark hair caressing his forehead, for a response to…

  She laughed, and even she could feel how free it made her feel. “I have no clue what you just said.” Seriously, his English was a lilting, rolling puzzle at times. Oh, and what cute ears—they were almost pointed, like an elf’s. Maybe his head would move again, and she could get another glimpse.

  She kept watch.

  Aaand leaned over too much and bumped her cheek into his shoulder. They both laughed as he gripped her shoulders and set her upright. Damn, this whisky was strong. She rubbed her cheek. Somehow, she was now on the same side of the table.

  He spoke slower. “I said, the stars have always enthralled me.”

  Oh yeah, she’d remarked on the brightness of the stars outside. It was becoming harder to focus.

  Iain set down his whisky. “The philosophy club I attended while at university in Edinburgh discussed an Italian named Galileo Galilei who believed stars are a great distance away and that perhaps the sun shares much of the same properties.”

  “Galileo, the father of modern science!”

  Iain chuckled, the sound coming from deep within. “That’s quite an accolade, being the father of knowledge, but aye, he was an enlightened man.”

  Traci opened her mouth and snapped it shut. She was forgetting when she was, she’d been having such a fun time.

  “Some of the regents at university didna wish to discuss his views, of course, but there were some scholars who had read his papers and held forth at the clubs.” He propped an elbow on the table and rested his head against it, listing forward. “But I’m not understanding this stardust notion.”

  “Well, if the sun is a star, and stars have life—birth and death—then there are pieces of stardust that make up our world.” She plunked her elbow onto the table as well and rested her head. God, that had sounded much clearer in her thoughts. Plus, having to monitor what scientific ideas she mentioned made her head spin. Or was that the alcohol? “So…” She trailed off, because how the hell could she talk about the conservation of mass, which probably wasn’t proved yet?

  “So if the Greeks were right, ‘nothing comes from nothing,’ then…” He clasped her hand and brushed his thumb over her palm in light, enticing circles. She shivered. “Then your wee hand could be made from stardust.”

  He understood! Three years ago in her senior level astronomy class, her mind had been all shit-this-is-so-cool, like only a college kid can get.

  Warmth bloomed across her skin as he still held her hand. Seriously, handholding was getting her all hot and bothered? But she was. The space between them had less air. Not in a can’t-catch-her-breath way, but in how there was less of a wall between them. As if he easily fit in her space. For sure, the smile she sported was a dopey grin.

  He smiled, his head tilting, and his hooded gaze dropped to her lips. Oh! There was his ear making an appearance. Such an adorable ear.

  And was that her hand skimming a finger along his ear? Whoa, the room tilted a little too much there—

  —She laughed at Fiona’s q
uip. All four of them huddled around the table, another round of drinks in the space between.

  Iain tossed another lump of some kind of hard bread to the dog—Fearghus—under the table. “Aye, but ye don’t know the full of it. I’d never seen my uncle so flummoxed.”

  Joy danced through her like champagne bubbles, and she wanted to keep sipping forever. Being here with Iain felt so natural, somehow—

  —She was standing, her hand clasped in Iain’s while everyone around them was singing or shouting in Gaelic, egging them on. Her dopey grin was out again. The door banged open, and two rough Highlanders strode in and scowled at the enthusiastic crowd, which quieted a notch.

  “Dinnae mind ol’ Ross there. His scowl is worse than his tongue.” Iain leaned down and winked.

  All the same, she was glad she had Iain and Duncan as protectors—

  —“Oops.” She giggled and grasped Iain’s arm as they stumbled up the steps—

  —Oh, yes—

  Chapter Two

  O far far frae hame full soon will I be,

  It’s far far frae hame, in a strange country

  “Our Ain Country,” Jacobite Reliques

  After dawn, the same inn, 1689

  Bang!

  Traci bolted upright, clammy confusion thickening her pulse. Where the—? This wasn’t her bed. She pressed her hands into the thick covers and blinked. Vacation. Oh, yeah. But this wasn’t their bed at the Cluanie Inn either. Pounding footsteps and strident voices charged past her door.

  Oh, shit.

  Her stomach heaved, and she frantically scanned the room, which was bare except for the bed, a rickety chair, a table, and a dresser. The window. She clamped a hand over her mouth, scrambled to the open casement window, and threw up a whole river of stomach-processed Scotch.

  She gripped the window ledge with shaky hands and pressed her forehead to the cool sill, breaths erratic. Oh God. Her clammy skin flashed cold, and the world’s sharpest, orneriest, oh-shit-that-hurts pain speared her head, radiating from the crown.

  Her stomach empty of ill-advised alcohol, Traci eased down onto her butt on the floor and transferred her forehead to the plaster wall under the window. She needed a Bloody Mary IV, stat.

  Where was she? Okay, think. Glaring fact number one: she’d had one hell of a bender. Her thoughts croaked backward, lurching around, trying to piece last night together.

  Oh, yeah. The bet. With her sister.

  Her heart faltered.

  Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap.

  Please don’t tell me I was such an idiot as to get rip-roaring drunk while in a different era!

  Her memories fractured after they’d zapped back in time and started drinking at the inn. Two handsome faces populated most of them. A name—Iain.

  Her eyes bugged wide as another very telling fact registered. She glanced down. Jesus Christ, she was as naked as a damn jay bird. Her stomach threatened another revolt, and she pawed her way to the sill and threw up again until she was dry heaving.

  Shit. She wiped her mouth, leaned on one elbow, bent partway around, weight on the sill, and eyed the tousled bed.

  Empty.

  But… More images surfaced. Her in the bed. With that guy. Iain. The impression that they’d had sex. Damn good sex. Iain laughing over something she’d said. Some snuggling.

  She groaned. There might have even been a bout of blanket-fort making with his kilt, which, jeez, she’d had no idea the gobs of fabric it made up.

  No surprise to find him gone, though. She’d just shove that niggle of disappointment aside. She raised her chin. This was why she preferred to sleep with flirts like him in her own time. Because they both knew, going in, that it was just sex.

  She cradled her head in her hands and leaned on the sill, relishing the slight, but cool breeze from the window. Okay, so she had been stupid enough to get drunk, zap back to the seventeenth century, get more drunk, and sleep with a guy. That bet… She’d wring her sister’s neck.

  She lifted her head. Fiona.

  Shit. Where had she gone last night? Traci couldn’t remember. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Her gaze darted around the room. There—her clothes. On shaky legs, she shuffled to the crumpled pile on the floor and with verrrry slow movements, donned each piece of clothing. Anything faster or more jarring was just not an option with the pain pounding in her head. By the end, one question was solved that she’d been afraid to know the answer to—at the bottom of the stack lay her pouch.

  Jarring be damned, she yanked open the stringed top and shoved her hand inside. Oh-thank-God—the calling card case was still there. She closed the pouch and tied it to the belt of her outfit.

  A pitcher on the dresser next to a bowl caught her eye. She stepped to the battered piece of furniture, poured the water into the bowl, splashed her face, and rinsed her mouth.

  Okay. She could now upgrade her health stats to 2/100. She focused on the door. Somewhere in this inn was her sister. Well, she better be.

  Stomach still behaving? Check. New mission: retrieve Fiona.

  She pressed one hand to her stomach and another to her still clammy forehead and approached the door, her body curled in on itself as if it were ninety years old instead of twenty-five. She put her ear to the wood and listened; she really didn’t want to bump into anyone. Except Fiona.

  With half of her mind focused on monitoring her questionable stomach, she slipped out and crept down the low-ceilinged hall. Ahead lay a gap in the floor with steps leading down, but her foot froze mid-air. Footsteps. Several of them.

  She spun around and stepped inside the first unlocked door. A dark shape was hunched under a mound of covers. A voice croaked from its depths, a sleepy mumbled string of Gaelic.

  Her muscles tightened, but the figure didn’t move. Outside the door, the footsteps passed by, and a door slammed open and shut. She bit her lip, eased the door open, and checked the passage. Clear.

  She hustled down the steps, her head protesting with each jerky step. “A Bloody Mary with all the spicy fixings. Item One on the agenda when I get back,” she whispered.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she eased into the main room. Duncan—was that his name?—was huddled over a table, eating. Alone. She pivoted and headed toward the back. Asking about Fiona would be her last resort, since that risked encountering Iain. First, out back, where she had a vague recollection of a privy. Maybe Fiona had come down with Duncan and…

  A harsh voice at the landing above hollered in Gaelic. Her head whipped up, and her steps quickened because, while she couldn’t understand his words, he was pointing at her and beckoning to his cronies with his other hand. They bounded down the steps, two at a time. Fear jolted through, creating a nasty mix with her hangover. Their stern faces and their alien tongue fused with another memory—these same men entering the inn last night and a subtle tension coloring the crowd’s mood. They’d glared at her and Fiona then too.

  And now these men were after her for some reason?

  Duncan. She hesitated, turned to dart back into the main room, but the lead man had one step left before he reached the bottom and blocked the way.

  Shit.

  Okay. She could fix this. Traci fumbled into her drawstring pouch and bolted for the back door. Perhaps, like in her computer games, she could return to an earlier saved version. Return to before she met Iain and Duncan, grab her sister, and come back. She slammed through the door and fell back against it. Breaths coming in sucked-in-gasps now—because what the hell?—she gripped the silver case and made her wish just as the first body slammed into the wood.

  Bam.

  The force jolted her forward, but she pushed back, surprise working in her favor. The world spun, and that now-familiar atom-swirling feeling swept through her. Shit. Not helping her hangover.

  But then the swirling just…stopped. The door banged at her back, the impact vibrating through her bones. Heart now pounding as if she’d quadrupled her jump-rope routine, she tried again. And again.

&n
bsp; Oh crap.

  So. No manipulating whatever-the-heck kind of magic this was to be in a time stream twice. Got it.

  Forgive me, Fiona. She made a different wish—the door crashed open and threw her forward. As before, the world tilted, and the fuzzy feeling sluiced through her body. The whatever-vortex spit her out the other side, and she fell onto her hands and knees.

  Oh. God. She pulled a slow breath through her nose as her stomach went all queasy.

  She lifted her still-pounding head and glanced over her shoulder. She buckled to the ground, relief rendering her muscles into goo. She’d made it back to her own time. A blacktop road now threaded past the inn and opposite, on a small rise, flapped the six flags welcoming tourists to Cluanie Inn from various nations. But her relief was short-lived. Now what? On its heels came a stomach-curdling thought—in her hungover state, she’d panicked. And abandoned her sister.

  “Okay, this has to work.”

  Several hours after the frantic phone call with Katy, Traci stood in a ravine across the road from Cluanie Inn. She tightened her grip on her cloth sack—Katy had nixed the backpack. Too conspicuous.

  Oh, she’d royally screwed up. Again.

  She had to make things right. Again.

  She had to find—and rescue—her sister. Again.

  She tied the sack onto the pony she’d purchased—another Katy suggestion—and eyed the docile mare, which was unlike any horse she’d seen. It was a shaggy Highland pony. Broad-shouldered and sturdy.

  “Please go easy on me.” She listed forward, pressed her forehead to the pony’s fluffy neck, and pulled in a deep breath, the earthy scent of pony and leather oddly calming. “Okay, you with me? Let’s do this.”

  The mare blinked, her ears kinda loose.