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

by Amy Jarecki

  He glanced at the pile. “You did? Clothes?”

  “Aye, ye wouldna want to continue looking like a shabby tinker. If ye’ll be staying on with us, ye’ll need to dress like a proper knight else ye’ll never look like ye belong.”

  “Uh…I guess you’re right, thank you.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “I rinsed out my things before I climbed in the bath.”

  Christina peered around him. Sure enough, his trews and shirt hung from the mantel. “I’ll just set these on the bed and then be on my way.”

  “All right…but…” He looked away, a wee blush making the cheeks above his beard turn red.

  “Is something ailing ye?”

  Glancing to the pile of clothes, he cringed, looking rather uncertain for a braw warrior. “Would you mind helping me with those?”

  Now Christina’s cheeks burned—blushing for certain. “Ah, ye have no squire?”

  “No.”

  Of course he didn’t. She knew that. Lachlan had been alone with nothing when he’d rescued her. Drumming her fingers against her lips, she glanced to the door. Heavens, she shouldn’t be in a chamber with a man whilst he was bathing in the first place. “I used to help my husband, though I canna say ’tis proper for me to remain here with the likes of ye.”

  “What if I promise to keep my hands to myself?” He swathed the cloth across his chest. Merciful mercy, must he make everything look sensuous? “I’m about done here anyway.”

  “Have ye washed your back?” Christina drew her hand over her mouth. Gracious, where had that remark come from? Aye, she must remain impartial, but offering to wash the man’s back? She wouldn’t have offered to do that for Hamish or any of the guardsmen in her service. Why this man?

  Unfortunately, he wrung out the cloth and held it up. “Would you mind?”

  Her fingers trembled as she reached for it. After dipping his hand between his thighs and fishing in the water, he handed her a bar of soap—rosemary soap. Then he had to go off and grin—a wicked, devilish grin. Why on earth was such a man blessed with perfectly straight, white teeth and eyes that shone like sapphires? Dear lord, everything about Lachlan Wallace was ridiculously unnerving. With a gulp, she moved behind him, working the soap to a lather with trembling hands. “Ye told the king ye’d been married. May I ask what happened?”

  He tugged on the medallion that still hung around his neck. “My wife left me for another man.”

  “A cuckold?” Christina spat out, her eyes popping. “Holy saints, what woman in her right mind would opt to be unfaithful to a man as braw and gifted as ye?”

  His shoulders shook with his laugh. “I wish I knew.” Then he dropped his chin to his chest.

  Christina swirled the cloth over his back, a powerful back banded and sculpted, just like the front. She worked the lather in, pressing firmly to soothe his muscles. “I’m sorry.”

  “I suppose it was my fault. I must have been too focused on winning tournaments.”

  “Aye, being a knight is a verra demanding vocation.”

  “Huh. I guess you’re right.” He didn’t sound convinced, however.

  Christina dunked the cloth in the water and then swirled a bit more, the scent of rosemary making her swoon a bit. Her lightheadedness had to be caused by the soap, because she was impervious to the dark, shoulder-length hair sending droplets of water down his flesh or the fact that he’d trimmed his beard. Good heavens, simply the neatly groomed facial hair made her jaw drop when she’d entered.

  “Mm,” he moaned, making a spike of heat swirl low in her belly. “That feels so good.”

  He leaned a bit further forward as if he wanted her to massage lower. Christina glanced down. Merciful fae, his back tapered to a sturdy waist, supported by incredibly well-sculpted buttocks. Her entire body took on the heat from the hearth. Her heart hammered as if it would leap from her chest. After forcing herself to close her eyes and clear her mind of all she’d seen, she splashed water over his skin, quickly rinsed the soap away and gave him a firm pat. “That ought to set ye to rights.”

  He regarded her over his shoulder. “Thank you. After spending the past few days in the bowels of this hellhole, your talented fingers helped soothe away the knots from sleeping on a bed of rocks.”

  “’Twas nothing.” Standing, she brushed her hands off and held them toward the fire. “I shall keep my back turned whilst ye dry yourself and put on your braies.”

  “Braies?”

  Holy snapdragons, must she explain everything? She pointed behind her, not daring to turn. Who knew what he was doing at the moment. “The linen undergarments on the top of the pile.”

  “Right.” The water rushed with the sound of him standing. A cloth rustled like he was rubbing himself dry.

  Peering over her shoulder, she nearly swooned. Perhaps she mightn’t be as impervious as she thought. Water glistened over a virile bottom that could only have been forged by a divine hand. Buttocks sculpted like a prized stallion. With a wee gasp, she snapped her head back and clapped a hand to her chest, trying to steady her breath. Christina’s heart thrummed with the frantic rhythm of a battlefield drum. She pressed her face into her palms.

  I am being utterly ridiculous. He is but a man and a younger one at that.

  The floorboards creaked with Lachlan’s footsteps.

  Peeking through her fingers, Christina regarded the braies he’d been wearing earlier that day hanging from the mantel hook. They were a dark blue—an odd color for undergarments. She took a step closer and ran her finger over the damp material. In a bold move, she plucked them from the hook and held them up. Goodness, she’d never seen anything the like. They even had a compartment for easy urination. She tugged the waistband. It pulled out and snapped back into place as if by magic.

  Heaven’s stars.

  “How do you keep these boxers up?” Lachlan’s deep voice rumbled from behind.

  Before she caught herself, she turned. Lord, help her, Christina’s knees wobbled. How much more could she endure? The blue garment dropped to the floorboards as her mouth went dry. Lachlan faced her, holding the waist of the linen braies to his hips. But she could see everything. Every chiseled muscle in his abdomen, the deep cut of sinew at his hip, the dark line of hair trailing from his navel and beneath the linen. Before Christina could stop herself, her gaze dipped lower. Holy saints, the outline of his manhood stretched the cloth taut. She’d never seen a man so well endowed. Taking a deep breath, she pressed her hand against her forehead and tried not to swoon while she forced herself to snap her gaze to his face. “They’re braies, not box-ers.” She bent down, picked up his blue ones and held them up. “Ye ken?”

  “Right, bra-ie-s,” he said as if it were a new word for him. “How do you keep them up?”

  “There should be a bit of rope in the pile. I told the tailor ye needed everything.” She hung his wet blues on the hook, pattered past the tub and found the rope. “Here it is.”

  He tied it around his hips and looked down. “They don’t look very secure to me.”

  “That’s because ye need to roll them down around the rope. Have ye not worn them afore?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Huffing, she stepped in and made quick work of untying, rolling and retying. “Ye see. ’Tis simple.”

  “Once you know how.” He gestured to the pile. “What’s next?”

  “My heavens, they surely do things differently on the continent.” She snatched up the tunic-length shirt. “Then your shirt, chausses, jerkin…do ye have a set of mail?”

  “Chainmail?”

  “Aye.”

  “Can’t say I do.” He took the shirt and pulled it over his head.

  “All fighting men need to wear mail lest they be cut to the quick.”

  “That stuff is awfully heavy—really hinders a fighter’s ability to move fast.” He scratched his neatly cropped beard. “What about a leather couton?”

  “I havena seen one of those for years.”

  “I would prefer
a coat of arms like that…you know, made from layers of compressed leather. My mother has one on display in her castle.”

  “Your mother has a castle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why havena ye mentioned her afore?”

  His eyes shifted like he harbored a secret. “You didn’t ask.” He reached for the set of chausses and pulled the legs apart. “Hmm…I’ll need a little help with these, too.”

  She pointed to the ties on the sides of his braies. “Ye affix them with those.”

  He gave her the blankest expression she’d ever seen in her life. “But where’s the crotch?”

  She snatched them from his grasp. “That’s why ye wear braies, silly. The linens are for your top bit and the chausses are for your legs.” Heaven help him if he were to travel to the north by Ormond Castle and attempt to belt on a plaid.

  He fingered a woolen leg of the chausses. “It’s a lot easier if they’re all one piece.”

  “Aye? Well, that’s just not how ’tis done.” She handed him one leg. “Step into these and I’ll help ye tie them.”

  He complied. “Do you know of anyone who could make me a couton?”

  She bit her lip. “We could ask the tanner.”

  “Of course.” He smacked the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  She laughed. Though as big as an ox, the man could tickle her insides like no one she’d ever met. Fortunately, he needed no help with the thigh-length jerkin and tied it closed.

  She gestured to the last garment. “I had a surcoat made with the de Moray coat of arms. I hope ye dunna mind wearing my colors.” She’d paid handsomely for the swift embroidery of a blue shield with three stars and the de Moray motto.

  He held it up. “Wow. This is cool.”

  She glanced back to the hearth. “Truly? I thought it was rather warm.”

  “No, I meant it’s nice.” He pulled the surcoat over his head and pointed to the lettering. “What does Tout Prêt mean?”

  “The short version is, finish everything.” She waggled her eyebrows. “But to a de Moray, it means, go forth against your enemies, have good fortune and return with captives.”

  He chuckled, running his fingers over the embroidery. “Wow, all that in two words. But I hope to return with a liberated captive.”

  “God willing.” Christina’s stomach flitted with excitement at the thought of seeing her son. “Dressed like a proper knight, I pray ye will be successful.” She stepped back and allowed herself to admire him. “Do ye like your new suit of clothes?”

  He shook a leg and took a couple of steps. “I love it. Aside from the braies, it’s a lot more comfortable than I thought it’d be.”

  “That does make me happy. If only Sir Boyd had seen fit to give ye a coat of mail.”

  Lachlan gestured to the corner. “He gave me a few weapons and a leather strop for sharpening.”

  She followed his line of sight and guffawed. “My word, those things look rusted beyond repair.”

  “I had a close look at them and they’ll be fine once I’ve had a chance to buff out a polish.”

  “But I dunna want my champion bumbling around the countryside with a rusty old sword and dirk.”

  “I’ll have them fixed up in no time.” Lachlan stepped closer and twirled a lock of her hair around his finger—one that had slipped from her veil. “Is your hair naturally curly?” he asked, his voice decidedly deeper.

  “Aye—the mop hangs in ringlets.”

  “I’d like to see it without the veil.” He reached up, but she clapped her hands to her crown. “May I please? Just a wee peek?” His eyes looked so shiny and trusting, how could she possibly refuse a stare such as his?

  With a nod, she slowly lowered her hands. Lachlan removed her bronze circlet and pulled the silk veil away, his eyes growing darker. Unable to bear the embarrassment, she spun away and drew her fingers to her lips. “’Tis an unruly tangle of tresses. When I was young, my mother feared she would never see me married.”

  He gathered her hair in his hands and ran his fingers down the length of it until the ends dropped back to her hips. “I think it’s gorgeous,” he said, his voice soft, deep and ever so raspy.

  Good gracious, she suddenly felt as nervous as a finch and those blasted flutterings in the pit of her stomach started again. Sir Lachlan was so barbaric, yet he made her feel like a young woman for the first time in more years than she could remember. She mustn’t allow him to flummox her sensibilities. Taking a deep breath and casting aside those accursed tingles, she crossed her arms. “Please, sir. I must tell ye I am a matron of four and thirty. Not a maid to be trifled with.”

  Touching her shoulder, he encouraged her to face him. “Thirty-four?” His brows arched over intelligent eyes. “You are still a beautiful young woman with a lot of life left. And I reckon every man in Roxburgh is quite aware of your allure.”

  Her tongue slipped across her bottom lip. “Sir, ye mustn’t.”

  “I know.” He took her hand and kissed it. Though he’d done it before, this time, he watched her eyes. Christina could have sworn the warmth of his tongue caressed her flesh. Her head swooned with her wee gasp.

  “Am I being too bold?” he asked.

  “Ye toy with me.” She drew the kissed hand to her nose and caught his scent—rosemary with a healthy dose of raw male. Before her knees turned to boneless mollusks, she snapped her hand away. “I’d best go. And ye’d best remember to attend the feast after the compline bell.”

  He walked her to the door. “Yes, m’lady.”

  Before he pulled down on the latch, Christina stopped and regarded his face—presently the safest place to look. The question had been needling her ever since he’d told her about his ma’s castle. “Your mother—who was she?”

  A long whistle slipped through his lips as he hesitated and shifted his gaze to the ceiling. “I cannot lie to you, m’lady, as I couldn’t to Sir Boyd earlier today. My mother’s name is Eva MacKay. I think you may have met her.”

  Chapter Ten

  Lachlan sat on the floor with a pot of whale oil and sharpened his weapons. Christina had been right when she said they were in poor condition, but he didn’t want her to worry. Dear Lord, all color had fled from the poor woman’s face when he’d told her his mother was Eva MacKay. He could practically see the cogs in her head spinning, trying to pull the logic from his mind-blowing admission. Finally, she’d blurted, “That makes no sense at all.”

  She could say that again. Nothing made sense to Lachlan, either, but he had no choice but to roll with it. Christina had followed her comment with a question, “How can Lady Eva be your ma? Ye are a grown man of thirty.”

  To that he had no reply, except for to say there were a great many things he didn’t understand, either. He just opened the door and let her walk away, shaking her head in bewilderment. He couldn’t explain why he was there. He couldn’t say how long he would be visiting the fourteenth century. And God knew, he couldn’t stay. At some time, he’d find some portal leading home—his mother obviously had, so there must be every chance he would. And he damned well couldn’t explain what happened to his mother. By God, Mum had a lot of explaining to do when he got home. What if his father really was William Wallace?

  Jesus.

  It was for the best if Christina didn’t get too close. From the moment she entered his chamber, his mind had raced with all the ways he could coax her to kiss him. Dear God, he wanted to do a hell of a lot more than that. And heaven knew, he’d been about two blinks from wrapping her in his arms and showing her how a twenty-first century man could turn a woman to molten honey with a kiss. Not a peck on the back of the hand, but a lush meeting with those ripe, bow-shaped lips. How long had it been since the woman had been properly kissed? Too long. She’d been a prisoner for thirteen years and he doubted she’d entertained a lover.

  Thank God his erection hadn’t shot through the top of the bath water after she came in, her lips pursed like she was t
rying not to notice he was naked. Did she have any idea how erotic it was to have a gorgeous, fully-clad woman raking her gaze over his body? Suddenly, he’d been reminded of exactly how long he’d gone without sex. Christina couldn’t have hit him with the fact any harder if she’d smacked him between the eyes with a mallet. He wanted the woman with a need driving so hard, he couldn’t remember feeling that kind of desire since he was dating Angela.

  Dammit.

  Lachlan had hidden his unwarranted attraction by kissing the back of Christina’s hand, but it took a fair bit more control than he’d like to admit not to pull the lady—seven hundred years his senior—in his arms and give her a real kiss. Washed up at the age of thirty-four? Given other circumstances, Lachlan would have enjoyed showing her exactly how alluring she was. He hadn’t stretched the truth when he’d said every man in Roxburgh knew it. They all looked at Christina with desire in their eyes. Who wouldn’t? She was adorable even with the frumpy veil.

  Running his fingers through her hair had been a mistake—and she smelled too damn good. His first thought was to bury his face in her neck and lose himself in the thick tangle of chocolatey curls. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman with natural ringlets hanging all the way down to her hips—shapely hips at that.

  Mercy.

  The more Lachlan thought about Christina’s allure, the harder he worked on the task at hand, honing the iron blade with every pass down the leather strop. By the time the compline bell rang, he had the dirk looking like new. The sword wasn’t half bad, though it didn’t yet shine like the dirk. He slid the knife into his belt, slung his cloak over one shoulder like he’d seen Boyd do, and headed to the great hall.

  Thanks to his ma, he even knew what a great hall was.

  After ducking out of the stairwell, Lachlan followed the noise and found the crowd toward the back of the fortress. It appeared he might be a little late because all the tables were already full. Sir Boyd sat on the dais with the king and the other nobles Lachlan had seen in the king’s solar earlier that day, but there weren’t any women up there.