Must Love Kilts

by Angela Quarles

  That’ll have to do. It better—the last time she’d ridden one of these things was at horse camp one high school summer. “You’re now Glenfiddich, because I couldn’t parse what he said your name was. Sorry.”

  Traci had argued with Katy about her need for the pony. Because she was just popping back, grabbing her sister, and returning, but Katy kept harping on one thing: you need to be prepared. So, Traci had bought her and the antique side-saddle from the riding stables in Ratagan, thirteen miles northwest along the shores of Loch Duich. She’d paid a pretty penny to the owner, who was reluctant to part with one of his stock. He’d even grumbled about her last name. “Never trust a Campbell.”

  Traci led Glenfiddich to one of the many boulders peppering the landscape and swung up into the saddle, securing her leg around the first pommel like she’d seen pictured on the web. It might be called a pony, but it was nearly as tall as a horse. God, this was like a real-life computer game—saddling up and heading to her first quest location. Except this was way too real. She shivered as chills prickled along her skin.

  She clasped the calling card case and glanced around. All clear. She gripped the pony’s mane in case she needed actual contact—not just through the saddle—and made her wish.

  Nausea gripped her insides, and the pony stumbled. Blood pounded in her ears, and she leaned over, squeezed her eyes shut, and murmured words to stay-calm-be-a-good-girl to her new pony.

  Her ears popped, and she pried open an eye.

  Whew.

  She and Glenfiddich had made it. She thumped the pony’s side and led it up the incline, the oddness of riding side-saddle just one more thing keeping her off-balance that day. The stable owner had assured her the pony was trained for a side-saddle, so there was that. At the rise, she pushed out a relieved breath.

  Gone was the paved road winding past Cluanie Inn. In its place was a well-trod path. She peered at the sky. The sun was a little toward the west. That would match with her present time—2:30 PM. Katy and Isabelle had figured out one rule: once a new person used the case, time passed at the same rate in both places. Which explained why Traci hadn’t been able to go back to before all this mess had started.

  Now to find Fiona. Who had better have stayed put. Traci shoved aside any other alternative, because, well, those just weren’t possibilities. Though Katy had considered them, hence all the supplies she carried, and Glenfiddich.

  Traci gently steered Glenfiddich toward the inn. Early afternoon light speared down through the heavy clouds overhead, and despite being in the same place, the time period was immediately apparent by something as simple as sound. Specifically, its lack.

  Her pony’s hooves clomped down the emerald green hill as she trotted toward the open glen and the inn nestled within. Spanning the horizon were the green slopes of the South Glen Shiel Ridge, splashed with swaths of purple heather. Sweat slicked her palm at the enormity of her task.

  That bet—oh, boy—had it gotten out of hand. When would she learn? Always, she screwed up where her family was concerned. And always, she screwed up when alcohol was involved. And a hot guy.

  Her whole body flushed as images of Iain and all that they’d gotten up to flooded her brain.

  Jesus Christ. Could she stop thinking about him for one second?

  She’d make this right. She had to.

  Up ahead, a lone groom tended several ponies in the stable yard, and Traci adjusted her course.

  The stable boy caught sight of her and loped out to help her get down. Unfortunately, he didn’t speak English, so with hand signals and patience, she got him to hold her pony temporarily while she went inside.

  What was “thank you” in the Scottish Gaelic Fiona had taught her? Ah, yes. “Tapadh leibh,” she said hesitantly.

  She pushed open the door and stepped into the inn. The now-familiar smell of the room evoked more memories from last night. She found Maggie cleaning a table. Fearghus the dog was walking in a tight circle before the hearth fire and flopped down with a beleaguered grunt. Otherwise, the room was empty of guests.

  “Hi there, Maggie. Do you have a moment?” They’d lucked out with their choice of inn—Maggie was a Lowlander and spoke English.

  “Aye. What are ye after, then?”

  “Last night my sister Fiona and I…we shared some…drinks with Iain and Duncan. But at some point, my sister disappeared. Is she still here?”

  “You lost your sister?” Her voice held a trace of disbelief as well as a healthy dose of scoffing.

  Heat crept up the back of Traci’s neck, and she crossed her arms. “Well, things got involved last night, and when I woke up, I…I couldn’t find her.”

  “Well, she left with the MacCowans, didn’t she?”

  Good God. Had her sister just up and left? With a group of men? Was she that kilt-addled? Yes. She was. Mom and Dad hadn’t had to drag her every October to the Highland Games in Stone Mountain, Georgia.

  “Who are the MacCowans?” She was missing part of the picture, and Maggie’s thick accent didn’t help.

  Maggie straightened from rubbing the table with a rag and planted her fists on her hips. “Why, Duncan and Iain and their men. At least I think it was them. Can’t expect me to keep track of everyone, can ye?”

  “Did she leave willingly?” What the hell was she going to do now?

  “She seemed willing enough, if ye ask me.”

  “Where would they have gone?”

  “I imagine they headed back to Dungarbh keep.”

  Gah. Did she have to milk every single answer out of this woman? She pasted on a smile. “And where would that be?”

  Maggie pursed her lips, but complied. Ride two days southeast along Loch Cluanie, then along the river down to Loch Loyne, and south to Loch Garry. Traci repeated the directions. Thank God, Katy had insisted on the pony.

  “Are you sure it was Iain and Duncan? What clan tartan were they wearing?”

  Maggie swiped her broom at her. “Are ye daft, woman? Now I’ve told ye all I ken, so be off with ye if you’re not paying for anything. Some of us have to work.”

  Traci stormed out of the inn and retrieved her pony. “You’re lucky I already have the time off, Fiona,” she muttered. They’d been in the first week of her three-week vacation. Would serve her sister right if she left her here. It probably fulfilled all her friggin’ fantasies.

  She pulled up short. But what if Fiona hadn’t gone willingly? Or what if she’d changed her mind?

  The stable lad held out her reins, and she swung up into the saddle and aimed her pony east. “Jesus Christ, Fiona, what have you gotten into?”

  Her throat tightened, and she latched onto the outrage now searing through her—anything to shove aside the fear and guilt and regret that had been building all day. If she’d been a better sister—if they’d been closer—Fiona would’ve known that Traci wouldn’t abandon her. Or maybe Fiona was worried about what had happened to her?

  She kicked Glenfiddich into a canter. She really did feel as if she were in a real-life quest game. Maybe soon she could vent her frustration with an epic battle.

  Ha. Yeah, right. Those skills didn’t translate here.

  But as she rode, her mismanaged actions this morning replayed over and over. If she’d stayed, if she’d somehow sidestepped those men and shouted the inn down until she found Fiona…

  She reached the peak of the first hill and reined in her pony. Almost the full length of Loch Cluanie stretched out below, disappearing among a range of mountains on the horizon. On either side of the blue loch stretched more green mountain ranges. Before coming here, she’d known Scotland was mountainous but had pictured it like either the Rockies or the Blue Ridge Mountains—a swath of land butting up against mountain ranges. But the Highlands were all mountains, or foothills and bumpy bits leading up to a mountain. As if the land were a huge green and purple paper bag that a giant had scrunched up, with the low bits filled by the bluest lakes.

  Time travel achievement unlocked. Now if s
he could only level up her scouting abilities.

  But all that rolling and craggy emptiness sent a slither down her spine.

  Somewhere out there was her sister. Somewhere out there, she might be scared and in trouble.

  And it was all Traci’s fault.

  Chapter Three

  The Campbell and the Graham are equally to blame,

  Seduc'd by strong infatuation.

  “The Awkward Squad,” Jacobite Reliques

  “I’m telling ye, Duncan, I heard a noise down by the burn when I went to wash myself. Someone’s about, and I don’t fancy learning when it’s too late that it’s some trespasser on our lands.” Iain pulled on his lèine and belted his féileadh tighter around his waist.

  He didn’t need any more surprises this day. A day which had inexplicably left him feeling restless. He never felt restless. In truth, his blood fair rushed at the prospect of a good fight. Traci occupied too much space in his thoughts today, and he was sick of it—sick of himself and his mooning.

  Duncan was roasting a hare over their camp fire, and he pulled it from the flames and speared the stick into the ground. “Mind the fire, lads. We’ll be away but a moment.”

  The others in their patrol grunted, turning back to cooking their food, sharpening their sgianan dubha, or scratching their wee balls.

  “All right, then, cousin of mine. Let’s see what this noise is.” Duncan clapped a hand on Iain’s shoulder, jostling him forward. His mother’s nephew, Duncan had spent his fosterage with Iain’s family and stayed. He’d also been in love with Iain’s older sister and was distraught when she’d been given to the MacLeods to strengthen an alliance two years past.

  They strapped on their broadswords and ensured their pistols were loaded with dry shot. They’d had trouble recently with reivers from the MacKenzie clan. But as they slipped into the darker depths of the glen, his mind did the usual foolishness when his heart had been snared. There, the bark of the tree, highlighted by a glint of the moon, was like Traci’s hair when he’d brushed his fingers through to reveal the darker tresses beneath. And there, the pale rock’s color was the shade of the spot underneath her ear…

  Ach, concentrate, man. Concentrate.

  After Traci’s disappearance, Iain had rejoined his men, crushed, again, that another dalliance had ended so swiftly. Without even a leave-taking. All were convinced the lasses were traitorous Campbells, sent by the clan that had been behind every depredation his clan had suffered since before his grandfather’s day. Their power had grown too great in the Highlands.

  He thinned his lips. He’d thought that after what they’d shared—and what they’d promised each other—she’d last longer than his usual interludes. He shoved thoughts of the lass of the curling red locks from his head. And his heart.

  At the stream, they searched but found no malingerer, or even a trace of one.

  “Over here,” Duncan called.

  Iain trudged to Duncan’s side, who crouched by a wind-stunted rowan tree. “Someone passed by recently.” He pointed up the slope. “And headed that way.”

  Anticipation quickened Iain’s steps. He hoped it was a party of MacKenzies; his muscles fairly itched for a good fight. Aye, that would chase the lass’s memory from his mind.

  Silently, they picked their way up the ravine until they reached the summit. They crouched and surveyed the near darkness below, illuminated only by the half-moon above.

  Iain nudged Duncan and pointed. “There.”

  A wisp of smoke trailed up from the top of a patch of trees, its light-gray plumes barely discernible against the darker green foliage.

  At Duncan’s nod, they worked their way down and crept to the spot they’d seen. As they neared, the way ahead grew lighter from the fire, the orange glow casting shifting shadows along the overarching branches.

  The light outlined a lone figure, leaning to the side and seemingly asleep with his head propped up in his hand. No weapon was strapped to his side, nor was there one within reach.

  Wariness tightened Iain’s muscles, and a shiver of awareness streaked from the back of his neck down his spine. This was too easy. He waited for the time it took for the fire to pop once, twice. He eased his pistol from its spot at his back. As silently as he could, he pulled back the hammer.

  With his free hand, Iain signaled to Duncan, who nodded and crept around to the other side of the clump of trees.

  Iain waited for Duncan’s signal and studied the scene, though he did not stare directly at the light—he had no wish to impair his night vision. He strained to hear others lurking in ambush, but all was quiet except for the occasional pop from the intruder’s fire.

  Even without directly looking at the figure, something seemed familiar. The slope of the neck, the shape of the hand resting on a bent knee…

  Before Duncan could signal he was in place, Iain stood, a wide grin on his face. A new anticipation tightened his muscles, and his restlessness suddenly had a focus. He took back his wish to not have another surprise this day. This was indeed a surprise, but it was a welcome one. He’d screwed up this morn—their patrol leader had not been pleased—but here was his chance to redeem himself.

  He whistled an all’s-well to Duncan, uncocked and holstered his pistol, and strode into the firelight, uncaring at the noise he made.

  The figure by the fire startled, straightened, and shot her gaze to his, her eyes wide. She scooted back and dragged an ungainly lump of a bag into her lap like a shield.

  Iain crossed his arms and leaned back slightly on his heels. “Well, hello, my lovely wife.”

  Chapter Four

  Mony a traitor ‘mang the isles

  Brak the band o’ nature’s law ;

  Mony a traitor, wi’ his wiles,

  Sought to wear his life awa.

  “Will He No Come Back Again,” Jacobite Reliques

  Wife?

  When Traci’s heart returned from being flung up into the treetops, she took a deep, calming breath. Or tried to. It was shaky as all hell. And her heart was still quibbling about returning to her chest.

  The firelight limned the strong, tall—holy God, he’s hunky—lines of the last person she thought she’d see again. And that she’d really hoped not to. Despite the fact her sister was with his party.

  Her sister.

  At that sobering thought, she scrambled to her feet and braced herself, gripping the neck of her cloth bag tightly. And jumped when a branch snapped behind her, making her heart go all bat-shit crazy again. She whirled around. Jeez. She was going to have a friggin’ heart attack.

  Duncan strode into the fire’s orange glow and struck an identical pose to Iain’s—arms crossed, muscles bunching under his linen shirt, kilt falling in loose folds against his muscled legs.

  “Where’s my sister? Where’s Fiona?” She faced the man she’d shared just a leeee-tel bit too much with last night. Her body flushed with heat remembering his seductive words, his skilled hands, his heavy-lidded gaze. Yeah, more charged memories returned. “And what do you mean ‘wife’?”

  Iain chuckled, and his head tilted forward, his gaze seemingly trying to latch onto hers over the popping, sparking fire between them. “Dinnae pretend ye forgot. My feelings are trampled, no doubt.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I think I’d remember a wedding ceremony.” And where the hell was her sister? She squinted past the too-hunky man, but all was darkness.

  “We handfasted, lass. Don’t ye remember?”

  “Handfasted?” she squeaked, and her gaze snapped back to his. In the fuzzy memories of the night before, one sorted itself in her mind’s eye—a cloth wrapped around their clasped hands and her repeating some words in Gaelic, Fiona’s and Duncan’s grinning faces egging them on. “Was that what that was?”

  A sick feeling curdled in her stomach as she vaguely remembered laughing and joking with Iain about giving their attraction a go, or some such crap. Obviously Scotch made her act like a romantic idiot.

  Glenfiddich, yo
u are officially on my shit list.

  Iain clasped his hand to his heart and staggered back a step, the ham. “Aye, you’ve wounded me. I think me pride has suffered a mortal blow.”

  “Your pride will survive, I think,” she drawled.

  “Not with you about, I fear. ’Tis at least a wee bit bruised. Will ye kiss it to make it better?”

  “I can’t kiss your pride.”

  Duncan stepped around her, laughing and looking at her over his shoulder as he passed. “Ah, but, lassie, you dinnae ken what he calls his pride and joy.”

  Unbidden, her gaze shot to Iain’s kilt and what lay hidden below.

  Iain jutted his hips forward and bounced once on his toes. “I see ye remember now.” His voice was pitched a touch lower, and the rumbling, intimate tone wound through her, sparking more memories and twining them tight into her.

  Heat flared up her neck to her cheeks. “Enough. Where’s my sister?”

  Iain and Duncan exchanged a look. “We don’t have your sister.”

  An icy chill flashed through her veins. “But Maggie said she left with you this morning.”

  “Then Maggie was mistaken,” Duncan said, his voice firm.

  “Why would she lie? She said Fiona left with the MacCowans. Where are the rest of your men?” When they remained silent, irritation edged into the flash of fear. “Take me to your camp. Now.”

  “Bossy thing, aren’t you?” Duncan looked her up and down.

  “Aye, that she is.” Iain winked at her. “Very bossy.”

  Another memory surfaced, of her ordering Iain onto his back when they’d fallen into their bed. Her lady parts clenched.

  She shoved her stupid libido aside and crossed her arms.

  Iain sighed. “We’ll take you to our camp. Had no other idea in mind. Besides being my wife, ’tis not safe for you to be out here alone.” He approached her, and a heated awareness grew inside her with each step. She thumbed her ring, taking comfort in its familiar presence.

  “And,” he continued. “I’d like to know why you disappeared on me this morn.”