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

by Amy Jarecki

  She clasped her hands—a gesture he’d noticed her often do. “I’ve a question to ask and I want ye to promise ye’ll tell me true.”

  Finished with tying the second shoe, he held up his hands. “I’ve told you the truth about everything so far.”

  “Verra well.” Her knuckles turned white. “Are ye a sorcerer?”

  Christ, he nearly blew snot out his nose. “I am not, never have been, and do not intend on becoming one, m’lady.”

  “Then how can ye fight with the strength of five men?”

  “I’ve said I’m a warrior and that is true. I started training at a very young age.” He wanted to say he’d joined the armed services and had done a turn in the Holy Land …or Afghanistan. Did Afghanistan exist in the fourteenth century? Bloody hell, Lachlan didn’t know. His mother was the historian in the family. He gave Christina as sober a look as he could. Who knew how much fighting techniques had improved over the centuries? One only needed to look at boxing pictures from the early 1900s and compare them with modern photos to know mankind had made great strides in understanding physical fitness in the past hundred-plus years. It was one thing to be strong and oafish. It was another to turn a man’s natural aptitude into a fighting machine. “I work hard every day to maintain my strength. I eat well, too. A man cannot be at the top of his game unless he has a well-rounded diet.”

  “Ye mean meat?”

  “I mean everything—especially meat, dairy, grains, fruits and vegetables.” He’d said the same to Boyd.

  “Och, if only all that was in season year round.”

  “If only.” If he ever got out of this cell, he’d find out about their cellars and storage and canning, pickling—whatever they did to keep food through the winter.

  “So if Scotland’s army ensured they ate hearty, they’d become better warriors?”

  “I’d bet on it.” He eyed her. “I can help them…and just maybe that’s why I’m here.”

  “Ye dunna ken why ye’re here?”

  “No—it’s as if I’ve suffered a concussion and awoke in the midst of a battle.”

  “Ye’d suffered a what?”

  “A blow to the head.”

  “Well, for what ’tis worth, I reckon ye may be right. But I think ye were sent to me to rescue my son.” She twisted her lips. “The only question is…”

  “What?”

  “Will ye do it?”

  “Yes,” he said without hesitation. If it meant he’d awake the next day back in Uncle Walter’s flat, he’d do just about anything as long as it wouldn’t land him in jail for the rest of his life. “Unless…”

  Her crystal blue eyes grew startled. “Unless?”

  “Unless you aim to continue to keep me in here like a criminal.” If that happens, I’ll dig my way out of this hellhole.

  “Please. I will bring ye anything ye need and I’ll speak to the king again. I give ye my word I’ll find a way to see ye released from this cage and those irons removed, mark me.”

  He tipped up his chin, insuring he didn’t appear too trusting. “From the hospitality I’ve seen thus far, I’m not convinced.”

  “Och, ye dunna understand. We are a kindhearted people.”

  “Really?” he held out his manacled wrists. “Who knew?”

  “Ye’ll soon discover we are hospitable once a man proves his worth. Ye must ken, after years of war, we’ve hand no choice but to be suspicious of newcomers—especially folks who appear out of the blue, fight like Goliath and have no kin to speak on their behalf.”

  She reached through the bars and grasped his hand between her palms.

  Lachlan’s heart skipped a beat as if her touch thrummed with electricity.

  And on the other side of the bars, the lady’s lips parted with a wee gasp. Had she felt the sudden zing, too?

  Slowly, he raised his eyelids until he met with the intensity of her blue-eyed stare. A pink tongue moistened her lips. “Trust me,” she whispered.

  His heart squeezed. Hell, she was prettier than a rose in full bloom. Rarely did Lachlan ever do anything without thinking about his action first, but when he raised her hands to his lips, pure emotion seized his sanity. Closing his eyes, he inhaled her scent—the heady fragrance of woman—the same ambrosia he’d noticed when they’d ridden together. Unfortunately, it had the same effect on him now as it had the last time he’d kissed her hand—a scent heady like jasmine, winsome like the sea. A slightly stuttered breath slipped through his lips as he kissed, then again inhaled her delightful fragrance.

  The lady opposite politely cleared her throat.

  His eyes flashed open. The poor woman turned redder than a ruby as she slipped her hands away and clasped them over her heart. “Until the morrow,” she said.

  Lachlan nodded. “Tomorrow, m’lady.” Christina may have vexed his heart for a moment, but with a blink, he regained his senses. Who said “the morrow” unless they were performing Shakespeare?

  A complete and total nut.

  No, no. He mustn’t let a soft-spoken, blue-eyed woman with a pretty face get under his skin—especially when he was the idiot who’d allowed himself to be locked behind bars.

  Chapter Seven

  With Hamish’s shove in the back, Lachlan stumbled out onto the wall-walk. Tripped over his feet was more like it. Without socks, the new boots Christina had given him needed to be worked in. He swiped a finger through the quarter-inch of snow sitting on top of the wall. “It’s November, right?”

  “Aye. November three and twenty,” said the old guard. “Looks as if we’re having an early winter, which leaves me wondering why a man would ask to take a turn around wind-blown ramparts when he should be sitting afore a hearth.”

  “Sorry. There are no hearths in my cozy accommodations.” Lachlan craned his neck, looking over the top of the guard’s head and closing his new cloak against the chill. “Where is Kelso Abbey from here?”

  “Ye’ll see it on the other side.” Hamish pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “Nary a man could miss the monstrosity.”

  “Oh?” Lachlan asked, though he didn’t elaborate on the true purpose of his question. He himself had seen the monastic ruin that loomed over the small village. He remembered it well—no roof, lots of gravestones. It stood as a testament to the ravages of Father Time assisted by years of border wars between England and Scotland. He jogged around the wall-walk with Hamish huffing on his heels.

  “What the devil? Now ye’re up here, are ye in a hurry to climb down again?”

  “No,” Lachlan said over his shoulder, quickening his pace. “I thought you were a warrior?”

  “What does that have to do with running?”

  “Everything.” Lachlan chuckled to himself until he ran past the towers and the abbey came into view. After skidding in the snow, he stopped himself by wrapping his arms around a stone merlon before he slipped through a crenel and broke his neck.

  “Holy shit,” he mumbled while a clammy chill coursed down the outside of his limbs. Before him emerged no abbey he’d ever seen. There wasn’t only a west tower, a twin eastern tower jutted toward the sky looking just as impenetrable, while two crossings cut through the nave in a double cruciform layout. Black smoke spewed from dozens of chimneys. The cathedral’s slate roof was fully intact. Not one, but many cloisters surrounded stone buildings with pointed roofs, lightly dusted with the morning’s snow.

  “What is this, ye say? Holy shit?” asked Hamish.

  Lachlan stood dumbstruck. “Shite,” he corrected while staring at the abbey.

  Bloody fucking hell, this isn’t possible.

  The guard laughed. “Ye do have a sense of humor, aye? Well, I say a man hasna been to the borders if he hasna seen Kelso. ’Tis the grandest of the border abbeys.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” In the past few days, Lachlan had tried to convince himself he was among a mob of zealots and he’d play along with their game until he figured a way home. But this? He surveyed the entire scene. Roxburgh Castle didn’t
exist in the twenty-first century except for a pile of rubble. Kelso Abbey was but a single-tower relic. When he was a lad, his mother had dragged him to enough old ruins for him to know nothing this authentic existed—not even Torwood Castle—restored by his mum—possessed this kind of expansive detail. How the hell could it? Everything Lachlan saw was medieval. He scanned the horizon. Not a bloody power line or wind turbine in sight. No cell towers, no contrails, and no car parks. No cars for that matter. No paved roads he could see either, aside from a stone bridge with three arches.

  Hell, that could have been built by the Romans for all I know.

  “Well, I reckon ye’ve had long enough up here. The wind’s blowing a gale.”

  Lachlan blinked. “I’ve only just begun my workout.”

  “Your what?”

  Ignoring Hamish, he started to run. Jesus, he needed to think. If he truly was in the fourteenth century, how the hell was he going to return to his time? Christ, if he didn’t find a way home soon, Angela would end up with everything. And when the hell was this band of medieval Scots planning to give him his freedom? He hadn’t even committed a crime. All he’d done was fight off a few barbarians to save Christina and for that they’d been treating him like a dog. He’d thought to go along with them until he figured out a plan. But for the love of God, he was in the fucking fourteenth century.

  What the hell was he going to do now? Rounding a corner, he pulled the medallion out from under his sweatshirt and held it in his fist.

  Send me home, goddamn you.

  He ran a few more laps, concentrating on things from home. Mum. His dojo. His partner, Jason. His car. Uncle Walter’s flat. The spare room—the last place he remembered being before he awoke to this nightmare.

  He ran past Hamish who’d quit two laps ago, clutching at his chest. “You’re not a runner?”

  “I’m a cavalry man,” the warrior wheezed. “Running’s for pikemen.”

  “I disagree.” Lachlan increased his pace. In his estimation, a lap had to be a half-mile or more. He could run around the wall-walk all day. Let Hamish stand there and freeze.

  After a couple more laps, the guard gave up and fell into step behind him. “I think ye’ve lost your mind.” Hamish had already started gasping for air.

  “Why’s that?” Lachlan asked, barely winded.

  “’Cause ye push yourself like ye’re heading for the Crusades.”

  “I push myself because if I don’t, I’ll grow soft and lazy.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I feel better when I’m fit.”

  “Aye, but isna this a wee bit extreme? I think it looks like the sky’s brewing up another snowstorm any moment now.”

  Lachlan glanced over his shoulder. “Are you cold?”

  “Bloody oath, I’m freezing me cods.”

  “You’re already soft, Hamish.” Lachlan pointed to the river. “I could swim to the far shore right now if necessary.”

  “Och, nary a man would make it across the Tweed alive on a day as chilly as this.”

  “It’s only November.” Lachlan turned and ran backward, egging the guard to run faster. “I could swim across and run five miles thereafter.”

  “Ye’ll sink for certain. That river has a strong current that will drag ye under and wrap around your legs. The weed alone will trap your calves like a spider’s web.”

  Sir Boyd stepped out from the stairwell and waved them over. “Good morrow. I see ye’re enjoying our icy autumn morn.”

  “Aye, and he reckons he’s going for a wee swim next,” said Hamish.

  “In the Tweed?” Boyd gave Lachlan a once-over. “There’s a bit of ice on the shore. Ye’d succumb to the cold afore ye reached the other side.”

  Looking between the two men, an idea popped in Lachlan’s head—probably a bad one, but hell, all he had in the world right now was an old bronze medallion he’d been given on a loan. Might as well go for broke—as long as I choose my words carefully. “If a man has the right training, he can control his mind and body.”

  “Now ye’re sounding like a sorcerer,” said Hamish.

  “Nope, there’s nothing underhanded about it.” Lachlan jammed his finger into Sir Boyd’s chest. “In fact, I could teach you and your men to do the same—make them stronger—give them an edge over those English bastards who keep trying to invade your lands.”

  Boyd raised his eyebrows as if considering. “Prove it first.”

  “All right, but I need a couple of assurances from you beforehand.”

  The knight scowled. “Ye are in no position to be making demands.”

  “If I’ll be staying here, I want your trust.” Lachlan held up his wrists. “Remove these manacles and I want my own place to sleep.”

  “Ye have a place to sleep,” said Hamish.

  Lachlan eyed Boyd. “Where do the other men bed down? Behind bars?”

  “In the hall, of course.”

  “The hall?” Bloody hell, maybe he was better off in the cell. “Whatever. No more manacles and no more treating me like a criminal—you have no grounds on which to detain me.”

  “King Robert determines whom he trusts.”

  “But he listens to the knights and nobles who support him.” Lachlan shook his finger under the knight’s nose. “Especially you.” He watched Boyd’s face. The nobleman met him with an unfaltering stare that suggested he was a man of his word. Regardless, if they didn’t cut him some slack, he’d take a flying leap from the wall and take his chances in the river, manacles or not.

  Sir Boyd ran his fingers down his beard. “I think I’d like to see this feat of mind control.”

  ***

  By the time they’d made it to the river, the sun was higher and most of the snow had melted. The area must have had a lot of rain recently, because the river was swollen and the current strong. A crowd of onlookers stood several feet away at the top of the bank.

  Shrugging, Lachlan removed his cloak, folded it and placed it on a rock to keep it dry. Then he pulled his sweatshirt over his head and tugged down his karate pants. He stripped down to his jockeys for two reasons. The first was being unencumbered while swimming and the second being to keep his only clothes dry. A swimming contest he could handle. Coming down with pneumonia because he had to sit in wet clothes all afternoon would have been plain stupid.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he gave the onlookers a thumbs up. After sucking in a deep breath, he took a running dive into the swift moving torrent. Plunging into the icy Tweed was akin to a whirlpool bath filled with ice. He hadn’t become a martial arts expert without injury and the shock of being encased in icy water wasn’t a new experience. Though the river’s current was angry, the weed reaching up and brushing his legs as he pumped was just as troublesome. Holding his breath as long as he could, he pulled himself toward the surface. When his head broke through, he used a burst of energy to block his mind to the frigid cold and swam.

  Lachlan powered through the water with his eye on the shore. At the halfway point, it didn’t surprise him to see Sir Boyd standing with his boots and clothing on the other side. Not that Boyd came across as a bleeding heart. The two of them needed to have a private conversation sooner or later. One that centered around trust and how they would retrieve Lady Christina’s son. Now he realized he was stuck, there had to be a reason. There had to be a reason he’d awakened on the battlefield beside Christina de Moray. And she was on the borders to rescue her son. It didn’t take a genius to realize his purpose. He might be the only person in Scotland who could actually pull off a successful rescue of her son. Aside from his loss in Brussels, Lachlan was a world champion. Few men on the planet could outfight him and by the looks of Scotland’s army, few men even knew how.

  When his feet touched the silt, Lachlan filled his lungs with air and stepped out into the icy cold. He clenched his teeth to prevent them from chattering. “You doubted me?”

  Boyd handed him a drying cloth and the cloak. “Nay. After your stunt in the courtyar
d, I kent ye could swim across and back if need be.”

  After wiping down his skin, Lachlan tossed the cloak around his shoulders. “I am serious about helping her ladyship rescue her son.”

  “Ye may be.” The knight dropped Lachlan’s boots in front of him. “But first, I have some questions of my own.”

  “Fire away.” After drying his legs, he slipped his feet inside the chilly boots.

  “Where did ye come across that medallion?”

  That was one thing Lachlan hadn’t removed when he stripped down. The damned thing now warmed against his skin, though it was still close to freezing outside. “My uncle gave it to me.”

  Boyd’s eyes shifted. “Ye ken I’ve seen a medallion like that afore?”

  “I recall you mentioned so, right before the crowd started shouting to burn me.”

  “We dunna take kindly to people who materialize from nowhere—and in the midst of a battle to boot.”

  Lachlan had no logical explanation for the man. “I only wish I knew how I ended up here.”

  “But there’s a reason ye are, I’d wager.”

  “Why is that?” Lachlan wanted to hear Sir Boyd’s ideas before he blurted his own hypothesis.

  “’Cause there was a reason Eva MacKay came to see Willy.”

  MacKay? Lachlan’s knees nearly gave out. Jesus. MacKay was his mother’s maiden name. “Ah…what did this woman look like?”

  “Nearly as tall as me. Red hair. Pretty.”

  “And what was the reason for her visit?”

  “I was only a lad the first time she came, but even then ’twas obvious to me she and Willy were meant to be together. Something happened the day she tried to save Andrew de Moray—Christina’s husband, and Eva disappeared. Willy refused to tell me what, though—said I wouldna understand on account of my being a wee lad.”

  Had Mum tried to save him? If she had, she would have altered the past. Hmm. “Then she came back again?”

  “Aye—I reckon Willy would have died if she hadna returned to tend him—she didna seem all that happy about it, either.”