The Time Traveler's Christmas (Guardian of Scotland Book 3)

by Amy Jarecki

  He shivered against the chill in the air.

  No one had come past since the guardsmen had locked him inside a couple of hours ago, he reckoned. Damn. Lachlan wasn’t wearing a watch, he didn’t have his phone and his toes felt like ice.

  Next time I relax on a strange bed, I’ll keep my socks on—maybe my shoes, too. And I’ll never accept another gift from Uncle Walter as long as I bloody live.

  While he sat, he tried to make sense of the turn of events. He’d given up pinching himself. Aside from the nicks on his feet, he had a cut on the heel of his hand from his little sparring session with the mail-clad ape Lady Christina seemed to admire so much. The bleeding had stopped, but the throbbing hadn’t. No dream could possibly be this vivid. Hell, movies weren’t this vivid.

  Did I pass through a time warp?

  What had they said about Eva? It’s a common enough name, but the irony was that there were too many parallels to ignore.

  Lachlan looked a lot like his stepfather, Bill Wallace, who never used William because referring to himself as William Wallace was simply too disrespectful of Scotland’s hero. Lachlan admired the man. Loved him like a true father. He was a decorated British colonel. His parents had told Lachlan the truth when he graduated from university. Weird, though. Lachlan looked more like Bill than he did his redheaded birthmother, Eva.

  What if she’d really time traveled? If she had, why didn’t she tell me about it?

  Lachlan’s mother was a world class expert on medieval history and knew more about William Wallace than anyone on the planet.

  Drumming his fingers against his lips, he contemplated his mother’s background. She’d taken him on archaeological digs when he was a lad, had filled his head with countless details, but until now he’d never thought much about where she’d gained all that knowledge. Mum had studied historical journalism at university and was sharp as a tack. But now that he was stuck in this hellhole, Lachlan wondered about the vast amount of pure detail she could spew at the drop of a hat. And Walter’s note said she’d worn the medallion. Christ, there were too many coincidences.

  Not to mention, Robert Boyd, a man who was known to be one of Robert the Bruce’s favorites, had said flat out that Lachlan looked like William Wallace.

  What the hell?

  He tugged the medallion from beneath his sweatshirt and held it to the light. The damned thing had warmed against his skin. Why? Was it because Lady Christina had introduced him to Sir Boyd or because she’d mentioned Wallace? And when does a hunk of bronze grow warm without something heating it up?

  Lady Christina and Sir Boyd had thought their Eva might be a witch because of her medallion…and she had an odd accent just like Lachlan did, though he could tell anyone who listened that his wee burr was the normal one.

  He sighed and turned the medallion over in his palm. Something had to be tied to this relic.

  He thought back.

  Walter had written a note…

  What had it said?

  Goosebumps spread down Lachlan’s arms as he pictured Walter’s scrawling penmanship in his mind’s eye.

  “This isn’t a gift, but a loan. I lent it to your mother before you were born after she’d experienced a tragedy and it turned her life around in a miraculous way.”

  Fuck—why hadn’t he thought of that before?

  Because I’ve been a wee bit occupied.

  He’d bet a million bucks the Eva Sir Boyd mentioned and his mother were the same person.

  Christ, I’m going to be sick.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead.

  How the hell do I get home?

  He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

  Don’t jump to conclusions. There have to be answers out there. A person doesn’t just fall asleep and wake up hundreds of years in the past...

  The door opened and someone stepped inside holding a blinding torch. Lachlan shaded his eyes while footsteps approached. Once the torch had been placed in an iron holder on the wall, he made out Lady Christina, a lad he hadn’t seen before, and two guards armed to the teeth with helms shoved low over their brows.

  He gave the men a good eye roll. One that said he wasn’t interested. The problem with being six-foot-six was that everyone wanted to pick a fight with him to see if they could win. Early in his life, Lachlan had taken a liking to martial arts and teachings of inner peace and self-defense—to gain superb skill and only use it when necessary. But he also learned he could stop a brawl with the minimum of effort. Now it appeared his skill surpassed his inner peace—at least in their minds.

  Still wearing a drab black gown and grey veil covering everything but her face, Lady Christina stopped outside the cell door with her arms laden. “I’ve brought ye a cloak and a basket of food, and Peter has an armload of hay for ye to make a pallet.”

  Lachlan stared. He should thank her, but with the present circumstances as they were, he felt anything but mannerly.

  “Now dunna move,” said a guard, working a key into the lock while the other toad stood with his pike at the ready.

  Lachlan could take both of them if he wanted to—just might have to if this bullshit kept up, but he’d play along for now until he figured a way out of this mess. “Did you bring any shoes?” he asked none too nicely—to make a point, dammit. It didn’t matter how much his mother had drilled in his manners, he was bloody cranky. “Socks? My feet are cold.”

  The door creaked on its hinges and the lady waved the lad inside. “Apologies. I’ll have a cobbler measure ye for a pair of boots on the morrow.”

  The boy was dressed much like the pictures Lachlan had seen of a squire—a rough-hewn tunic, chausses and leather shoes that looked homemade and a bonnet that was too big for his head. He tossed his armload of hay to the dirt and shuffled backward out the door, the eyes in his dirty face as round as coins.

  Lachlan chose to ignore him. “Yeah, well I reckon you don’t have any size sixteens lying around anyway.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She stepped inside and handed him the cloak.

  Made of wool, it was surprisingly thick. “A cobbler would be great,” he replied. God, these people didn’t understand anything he said.

  She set the basket beside him, followed by a ewer and a tankard. “I brought ye some ale as well.”

  Lachlan finally gave in to his mother’s voice screeching in his head. Damn, it never hurt to be polite. “Thank you.”

  “Is there anything else ye need afore we head for our beds?” Dear Lord, she could stand up inside this box without hitting her head.

  “You said before you needed someone like me.” He took her hand.

  “Watch yourself,” warned a guard.

  His gaze slipping to the maggot, Lachlan tightened his grip, but not too hard. The fine bones in her hand were utterly frail and petite compared to his. “I want to help you find your son.” He stared up at her. If she allowed him to help, he’d be released from the cell—might find a way home. “I’ll go stir crazy if you keep me in here much longer.”

  She smiled. Warmly. How was it women could look so winsome when they had a man by the balls? “I want ye to be the de Moray champion—but ye heard Sir Boyd, ye must prove your loyalty.”

  Lachlan snorted. “How am I supposed to do that when I’m locked in here?”

  “The king must decide.”

  “Please.” He tried for the pleading, puppy-dog eyes look. It always worked on women, especially Mum. “I cannot maintain my strength sitting in these cramped quarters. I need to work out.”

  Shaking her head, Christina gaped at him like he was speaking Martian. “To what?”

  “To spar, to run—do things that build muscle and strength.”

  “Oh, aye.” She returned his hand squeeze. “I dunna want ye turning into a tub of lard, either.”

  Was he cracking the ice? He poured on the puppies. “Look. I’ll give you my promise to be on my best behavior, but I need at least four hours per day of exercise.”

  She
drew a finger to her lips as if thinking. “I shall do my best to influence Sir Boyd to allow ye a modicum of freedom.”

  Lachlan released her hand. “Thank you, m’lady.”

  She leaned down and patted his shoulder. “I have told the king ye are my champion.”

  “Then allow me to prove it.”

  She nodded. “Give me time,” she whispered. “I ken ye have a good heart. I feel it in my bones.”

  Chapter Five

  Christina slept fitfully, her mind bouncing between her son and Sir Lachlan. The only thing that had kept her thriving through thirteen years of captivity was the need to free Andrew from the clutches of those English tyrants. Yesterday’s failure cut her to the quick, but if anything, it made her more determined. When faced with adversity, she was one to find an open window. She’d been a prisoner herself, constrained to the walls of her castle. Her new freedom infused her with confidence. As she sat up and stretched, a ray of light shone through a wee gap in the window furs.

  The fire had ebbed to coals and under most circumstances, Christina would pull her comforter over her head and dream until Ellen came with the bellows. But not this morn.

  The light filled her breast with a beam of hope. Sir Lachlan Wallace had come into her life for a reason. To her, he’d already proven his valor. She might be merely a woman, but he had saved her from the humility of rape and, quite possibly, death. Scraping her teeth over her bottom lip, a twinge of guilt needled at the back of her neck. She should not have stood idle while they locked him in the gatehouse cell. True, she’d done what she could to make him comfortable, but her champion deserved better, especially at this time of year. Yule was neigh, for heaven’s sake.

  She hopped out of bed. The floorboards cold underfoot, she dashed to the hearth and stoked the fire with squares of peat. Then she hopped in place a few times to grow warm before she braved her chilly garderobe.

  After dressing, Christina headed for the great hall to break her fast—and, more importantly, to find Sir Boyd.

  Fortunately, she found the knight seated alone on the dais.

  She climbed the steps and took a seat beside him. “Where are the other nobles, m’lord?”

  He plunged his spoon into his porridge. “Still abed, the lazy bast—um—I mean the lazy Scots.”

  “I woke with the sun.” A servant placed a bowl of porridge and spoon in front of her. “And it is fortuitous that I find ye alone.”

  “Oh? Why is that?” The young knight arched his eyebrow. Though Robbie had grown into a handsome man, she was six years his senior. She had been ten and eight when she’d first met the lad—the same day as the Battle of Stirling Bridge. Robbie had been a sandy-haired, wide-eyed lad of twelve, ever so proud to be William Wallace’s squire. At the time she’d come to visit with her husband, she was pregnant. On that very day, Christina had also met Eva MacKay. She’d always remember how Lady Eva had placed her hands on Christina’s belly and told her the bairn would be a lad—the lass had the gift of a seer for certain.

  Gathering her thoughts, she cleared her throat. There was no use thinking about the past and if there was anyone at Roxburgh Castle in whom she could confide, it was Sir Robert Dominus Boyd. “I think we are treating my new champion unjustly.”

  He drank down a bit of cider. “How else should I treat such a man, especially when the king is sleeping within Roxburgh’s walls?”

  “I think Sir Lachlan is the knight I need to help me save Andrew.”

  “Aye?” Robbie shoveled a bite of oats in his mouth. “I dunna trust him.”

  Christina picked up her spoon. Regardless of her trust, she needed to tread carefully when it came to Sir Boyd. He had great influence with the king as well as with the men. “I trust him. He saved me the horror of being violated and then shared my horse to Roxburgh, behaving the perfect gentleman throughout the journey.”

  Sir Boyd wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He could have used ye to ferret inside these walls.”

  Christina’s ears grew hot. Goodness, this man could think of every angle to thwart her purpose. “I think not.”

  “What if he’s a sorcerer?”

  She slapped her hand on the table. “Then he is but an angel.”

  “Blasphemy,” said the knight in an accusing tone.

  Though she, indeed, must tread lightly where Sir Boyd was concerned, it didn’t mean she should play the meek widow and allow him to bamboozle her. “Nay—do not think angels only exist in the Bible, good sir. God has sent us angels throughout history.”

  “Aye,” he agreed with sarcasm in his voice. “Like those who destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  Little did he know he’d opened a window for Christina to further her purpose. She snatched the opportunity. “Do not tell me ye believe Scotland is filled with unchaste subjects.”

  He chuckled and reached for his tankard of cider. “Far less than England, at least.”

  “Is it Sir Lachlan’s medallion that’s bothering ye?”

  He took a drink. “Of sorts, and the way he seemed to materialize from nowhere.”

  “Aye, well, I believe Eva MacKay—the last person with such a medallion—was an angel of sorts. What say ye? As I recall, ye spent far more time with her than I.”

  “Jesu.” Sir Boyd ran a hand down his face and looked to the rafters. “Willy loved Lady Eva almost as much as he loved Scotland. But she disappeared for eight years—his darkest years.” He shook his head and chuckled. “I’ll never forget the day she returned. If ye remember, she was taller than most men.”

  “Indeed I do—she towered over me for certain.” Christina leaned forward, encouraging him to continue.

  “Aye, well that day she came to us wearing a wee skirt—the length of a tunic. Her legs were bare, except covered by a sheer cloth that clung to her skin—made her flesh shimmer. She wore shoes with tall, pointed heels that looked practical for nothing. If I werena a God fearing man, I would have sworn she’d come from the future.” Facing her, he pointed his finger under Christina’s nose. “Never repeat such words.”

  She clasped her hands over her thumping heart. Dear Lord, and he thought she was speaking blasphemy? Repeating such words could see her burned at the stake. “Ye ken I willna.”

  His stern countenance softened a wee bit. “Then their love affair resumed as if they’d never been separated. There was no’ a thing she wouldna do for him. And she stayed beside him until the end.”

  Christina sighed. “Aye, she did.”

  “She healed him, too.”

  Gulping, Christina lowered her gaze to her bowl of oats. A familiar and sickly lump swelled in her throat. “Unfortunately, she couldna heal my Andrew,” the words slipped from her lips with an icy overtone.

  “What happened that day?” Robbie asked. “I’ve always wondered. It was the verra day Eva disappeared the first time.”

  “I dunna ken.” Her eyes blurring with sudden tears, Christina blinked and swiped her hands across them. “I went to the chapel to pray and the next thing I kent, my husband had died and she was gone. William spent an entire sennight in solitude and I had no choice but to return home alone to birth my bairn at Ormond Castle.”

  Sir Boyd scratched his head—reminding her of the old Robbie she knew. “Lady Eva was like a mother to me. Though I didna ken much about her, she always kent the right things to say. She was the only woman I could go to with questions.” With a gasp, his jaw dropped, eyes growing round as sovereigns. His face grew white and he leaned forward, resting his forehead in the palm of his hand. “My God, the warrior’s name is Lachlan.”

  Christina placed her hand on his shoulder. “Aye—?”

  Boyd looked up, pain etched across his face. “Eva was in Scone when my friend took an arrow and died. I wanted to kill Willy that day. I’d never had a friend my age and Willy made me mind the horses whilst the lad joined the ranks of the archers.” Sir Boyd’s lips trembled. “I bawled like a bairn at the funeral whilst Eva held me in her arms and made the pai
n go away.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Nay—ye dunna understand. My friend’s name was Lachlan.”

  “Ye dunna think…?”

  Sir Boyd shook his head. “They’re not one and the same. Ye canna bring someone back from the dead. Besides, your warrior looks too much like Willy.”

  “Do ye think William and Eva may have had a child?”

  The knight smirked. “That makes no sense. Willy died childless nine years ago and the behemoth behind bars in the gatehouse is in his prime.”

  “Well, I’ll be the first to agree there’s something odd about people who wear those medallions, but I’ll also be the first to testify they are sent to us to perform good deeds.” She picked up her spoon and shook it. “I want ye to allow Sir Lachlan to spar with the guard.”

  Sir Boyd eyed her as if considering. “Have ye any further requests, m’lady?”

  “Not this day.” She smiled inside. She couldn’t have asked for the conversation to have proceeded any better if she had scripted it out.

  ***

  Two-fifty-three, two-fifty-four… Lachlan counted while pumping pushups. The far door screeched open, but he didn’t stop to see who it was. So far this morning, they’d brought him a bowl of watery mush and he wasn’t at all happy about it. Surely they had eggs and sausages in a place like this. Was that too much for a champion to ask, even if he was incarcerated?

  “Tiring yourself out, I see?” a deep voice echoed between the stone walls.

  Lachlan stopped and rocked back to his knees. “Sir Boyd?” The great knight was flanked by two guards.

  “Ye look surprised to see me.”

  “I admit you weren’t the first person I expected.”

  “Lady Christina convinced me to have ye spar with the men. Are ye up to it?”