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

by Amy Jarecki

  Chapter Eleven

  Lachlan stood beside Robert Boyd on the shore of the tiny islet that split the River Tweed directly across from Norham Castle. Wearing only his braies and his new boots, Boyd’s squire had wiped Lachlan down with whale oil. Bloody hell, they used whale oil for everything. How times had changed. The entire United Kingdom would be in an uproar with so much illegal oil everywhere.

  “Once ye dive in, ye’ll be on English soil,” said Boyd, handing Lachlan the leather satchel containing rope with a grappling hook, leather thongs, a couple of spare daggers and a few things Lachlan had collected for his survival kit. Under the circumstances, he would have preferred to have a few sets of zip tie handcuffs, if only he could figure out how to pop in and out of his century. He chuckled. A barrage of oddball thoughts like that had swarmed through his head as they’d ridden from Roxburgh to Norham while keeping to the Scottish side of the border.

  Under cover of trees over the past couple of days, they’d watched the comings and goings at the English stronghold. Another thing Lachlan would have brought with him was a set of binoculars, not to mention night vision goggles, a canteen with cutlery, a good set of hiking boots, a glock and a bazillion magazines of ammunition, and most of all, a dozen pairs of jockeys. Holy hell, the braies Christina had given him were scratchy and roughhewn, and the fabric had relaxed so much, the family jewels didn’t feel secure at all. Nothing like setting out on a dangerous mission with your unit wagging to and fro.

  Lachlan tied the satchel around his waist, careful to pull it secure under the sword he had strapped to his back. “You sure you don’t want to come with me?”

  Sir Boyd chuckled with a wink. “Say the word and I’ll strip down.”

  Lachlan thought about it for a moment. Under most circumstances, having Boyd with him would be the way to go, but they hadn’t trained together and they didn’t know each other’s signals. “Maybe next time. Right now my best chance is to go in alone.”

  “Then go with God.” Boyd slapped his shoulder.

  Lachlan gave the man a nod. “Go with God” wasn’t common lingo for a military sendoff, either. He’d prefer something like “kick some ass”, but the words didn’t matter. Robert Boyd was beginning to grow on him. If he’d been a real fourteenth century knight, Lachlan would have liked to call the man a friend. Instead, he dove into the fast moving torrent and pumped his legs and arms with every shred of strength he could muster while the current pulled him downriver. Holy shit, the icy cold sapped a man’s strength like nothing else.

  When Lachlan reached the shore, he looked back to Boyd and gave him a wave. It was difficult to make him out through the darkness. Caching the moonlight, the alabaster of the knight’s face shone slightly through the trees, but if Lachlan didn’t know he was there, it would have been difficult to spot him.

  Shivering in the freezing air, Lachlan climbed the hill wearing nothing but his wet underwear. Reminded of night ops in Afghanistan, it could get cold there, too, though there were nowhere near as many trees. Fortunately, Lachlan aimed to use the tree line for cover. They’d watched enough of the English guard to know the river side of the ramparts was patrolled by only one sentry. It was also the furthest wall away from the big tower house, which would be an advantage.

  But he didn’t fool himself. Something always went wrong on a mission like this. Always.

  Though he wanted to scale the wall and spirit inside as fast as possible, he waited in the trees, rubbing his arms to stave off the cold and watching until the guard made his pass. The bastard stopped and stared out over the top of Lachlan’s head for what seemed like an eternity. Had the guard seen him? Did the man sense he was being watched? Whatever the reason, Lachlan didn’t move, taking shallow breaths through his mouth, praying the chump didn’t have a bow and quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder.

  When the guard finally moved on, Lachlan crept to the edge of the trees and listened until the footsteps faded. Then he dashed across the narrow path between the trees and the stone wall, the hasty movement making him warm.

  It took him three tries with the grappling hook. Each time the iron tines scraped the stone above like the sound of a lorry in need of a brake job. Letting the rope hang, Lachlan stepped back and surveyed the length of the wall.

  No Sassenach bastards in sight.

  Perhaps the screeching had only been loud to his ears?

  After testing the rope for soundness, he hefted himself up the wall—up a good thirty feet or so. Hand over hand he pulled himself higher while his feet stepped up the vertical wall. The cold forgotten, Lachlan’s psyche shifted to covert mode. He was on the mission of his life and nothing would stand in his way. Nothing.

  His arms shook when he peered through the open gap of the crenel—just as he met with the deadly sharp point of a blade leveled only an inch away from his eye.

  “Thought ye would come in and help yourself to some of our stores did ye, thief?” asked the guard, his English burr rolled with a hint of Liverpool.

  Holding onto the rope, the balls of his feet digging into the craggy stone wall, Lachlan used his peripherals to verify no one else was standing nearby. The thickness of the stone prevented him from gaining a clear line of sight, but no one stood beside or behind the Sassenach. “Aye,” he growled, watching the man’s eyes.

  “Then climb over like a good thief and we’ll see what his lordship has to say about ye.” He chuckled. “The last blighter we caught left here short one hand.”

  Lachlan tightened his grip, thinking of all the ways he could take down the blighter right now. With a twist he could impale the bastard with his own sword. If he dropped a bit, he could use the rope to swing to the next crenel. But he needed a bit of information first and the best way to do that was to play nice. “I canna believe ye caught me.” He poured on the auld Scots burr.

  “Now come on, nice and slow. And don’t think about dropping, else I tell ye true, the Norham guard will hunt ye down and run ye through.”

  “I wouldna want that,” Lachlan said as he pulled himself through the crenel, watching the bastard’s blade for the slightest flicker of movement.

  “Bluidy hell. Ye haven’t a stitch of clothing aside from your braies?”

  Lachlan didn’t answer. Now with his feet planted firmly in the crenel, he had a better scope of the scene and this trickster had no idea what was coming.

  Holding his sword in one hand, the guard beckoned with the other. “Now give us your weapons.”

  “Verra well.” Lachlan pretended to reach back for his sword, but with the motion, he snatched the man’s sword-wielding wrist, twisting and bending it forward so far, he had no choice but to drop the weapon. Skittering backward, his opponent led with his left. Lachlan blocked and dove forward, taking the man to the stony wall-walk floor. The sentry’s helm flew from his head while sinew crunched. The thug cried out in pain. Moving like an asp, Lachlan trapped the guard with his body and slammed his hand across the man’s mouth. “Shut up.”

  Kicking his feet, the bastard tried to fight.

  “Stop struggling.” Lachlan jammed his thumb in the nerve in the guard’s neck where it would cause excruciating pain. “Don’t make me kill you.”

  The thug showed some sense and his body went slack, though he was still breathing like a rabid dog.

  “Where is the prisoner, Andrew de Moray?”

  Eyes shifted to the east for a split second, but he didn’t talk, didn’t move.

  “Where?” As soon as Lachlan moved his hand, the bastard spat in Lachlan’s face, then started bellowing like a mad bull.

  Lachlan slammed his fist into the bastard’s temple, knocking him out. “You had to go and make me do that, didn’t you?”

  “Ye there?” a shout came from down below. “Are ye well?”

  Lachlan shoved the man’s helm over his head and rose to his knees. “Aye. Dropped me sword on me toe. Hurts like holy hellfire, it does.” He prayed he sounded remotely similar to a local.

 
“Bluidy clumsy maggot,” came the reply, but the sentry headed off, thank God.

  On his knees, Lachlan peered over the courtyard to the east. The stone building looked just like the stable at Roxburgh. A barn? That makes no sense. But the guy looked over there. I’m certain of it.

  He had no time to be wrong and less time to argue with himself. He untied the guard’s cloak and slung it around his shoulders. After tying and gagging the unconscious goon, Lachlan dragged him to the corner tower and shut him in a small pie-shaped room. He doubted the Sassenach would be blowing the whistle before morning and by that time, he planned to be long gone.

  It took him no time to slip down the winding stairwell. Keeping to the shadows, he made his way to the barn and stole inside. Shit, if he needed night vision goggles before, he needed a goddamn blowtorch now. He stood against the wall and waited for his eyes to adjust—long enough to see his breath. Christ, standing still made his toes feel like ice cubes. Lachlan jogged in place, closing the cloak taut. Dammit, the last thing he wanted was to leave a trail of bodies on his quest to locate the lad. But he hadn’t expected to find a congenial guard on the wall-walk to give him explicit directions, either.

  The muffled sounds of horses came through the alleyway. Something creaked on the floor above. Lachlan’s gaze darted to the right, catching the outline of a ladder that led to the loft. Through the opening came a faint glow.

  Someone was up there for certain.

  Eyes rarely ever lie.

  Swiftly, he climbed up the ladder, stopping when his gaze was level with the floorboards.

  Shit.

  Four forms slept in the hay. The good news was that above them glowed a copper overhead lamp. It didn’t cast much light, but enough for him to see more than a few feet in front of his nose.

  The next problem? Which one of the sleeping bodies wrapped in blankets was Andrew?

  While Lachlan crawled out of the hatch to his knees, he took a closer look. The man snoring the loudest was too big for a fifteen-year-old boy. The one on the far end looked like he might be older as well, which left the two in the center sleeping side-by-side. Hell, this would be a lot easier if he had a glock in his hand rather than a sword. With a gun, he could wake them all up, have Andrew tie and gag the others and then slip out easy peasy.

  Tiptoeing around to the heads of the row of dreamers, he got a better glimpse of the lads. One had lighter hair and the other had a thick mop of dark waves—that had to be Christina’s son for certain.

  Lachlan hesitated. He could speak the lad’s name, tap him awake, or just heft him over his shoulder and make a run for it. Years of training told him the last choice would be the most reckless and the most likely to cause mayhem. He glanced to the others, not liking the prospect of rousing Andrew, either. No matter what he did, the kid would be startled.

  And why wasn’t the lad locked in a cell? He slept on his side with his head tucked atop his arm like he was in dream heaven. Were all these boys prisoners? Was the snoring hulk their jailor?

  The most dangerous is the burly giant sawing logs. Where are my zip cuffs when I need them, dammit?

  Stealthy as a ghost, Lachlan slipped a length of rope from the satchel and made a noose. Without a sound, he placed it over the man’s head, making a snare. The jailor’s snores stuttered like he might be coming awake. Lachlan snapped his fingers away and rocked back into the shadows. Once the man’s breathing returned to normal, he tied the end of the rope to a post. The noose would stop him and if the man woke with a start, he’d end up with a nasty whiplash. At least it wouldn’t kill him.

  A floorboard creaked when Lachlan slipped over to Andrew’s head. The boy mumbled restlessly. Lachlan placed his hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Andrew,” he whispered.

  Eyes flashing open, the whelp gasped like he was being murdered. “Help!” he shouted.

  Lachlan motioned with his finger to his lips. “Wheesht. I’m here to take you home.”

  Snarling like an angry wolverine, blankets fell away as the teen leapt to his feet and sliced a dagger across Lachlan’s chest.

  Dumbstruck, he snatched the boy’s wrist and disarmed him. Christ, he didn’t even see the knife coming—nor did he expect it. And it stung like a son of a bitch. “Do you not understand? I’m taking you to your ma.”

  What the hell? Is the lad sleepwalking?

  “Huh?” With an angry gnash of his teeth, Andrew took a swing at Lachlan’s temple. “I do not even know my mother,” he shouted, sounding like he was an adolescent King Richard in Shakespeare’s Richard III. Throwing aimless punches, the boy obviously wasn’t going to go without a fight.

  The big man with the noose struggled against his bonds, bellowing garbled curses, only to make his ropes tighten.

  Before Lachlan could subdue Christina’s son, the other two teens charged. The sandy-haired lad yelled like a banshee wielding a pike and the other with a spiked mace. Ducking, Lachlan shoved Andrew out of harm’s way. The pikeman charged. Lachlan rolled to the side, reaching for the weapon. Clamping his fingers around the shaft, he flipped his attacker, slamming his back to the floorboards. The lad didn’t move.

  The mace came at Lachlan’s temple with a whop. Blindly, he bobbed and twisted. The young man teetered with his miss. Lachlan walloped him in the back with the staff of the pike, sending him sputtering to his face.

  Andrew raced for the ladder.

  Diving, Lachlan tackled him as they fell through the hatch onto a haystack. Wrestling the lad’s arms behind his back, he quickly bound a thong around his wrists while he growled in the boy’s ear, “It’s about time you met your mother. She’s been pining for you for thirteen years and the least you can do is come along with me without a fight.”

  Without another word, Lachlan threw Andrew over his shoulder and raced for the stable door. Shouts from the battlements echoed throughout the inner bailey. Against the moonlit sky, soldiers ran along the wall-walk, their blades glistening in the icy moonlight.

  Blood soaked through Lachlan’s braies, but he couldn’t think about stopping the bleeding now. “Is there a gate to the river?”

  “Put me down! I refuse to leave with an outlaw.”

  Lachlan stood the boy on his feet, grabbed his collar and shoved him against the wall. “I’m hauling your ass out of here whether you like it or not. You will meet your ma and then the two of you can sort out what happens next.”

  Andrew bucked.

  Lachlan stopped the whelp by crushing his forearm against his windpipe. “We have about two seconds until I’ll have no choice but to use you as a human shield. If you want to live, you’ll tell me how the hell to slip out of here.”

  Andrew sputtered and gasped, his eyes round with terror. If the boy didn’t want to be saved, Lachlan needed him to be scared shitless, else they’d never escape alive. “The moat,” he gasped. “There’s a sluice gate.”

  Finally.

  “On the river side?” Lachlan flung the cloak from his shoulders.

  “Aye. But ye will not make it. I’ll holler.”

  “The hell you will.” Before the boy could raise his voice further, Lachlan shoved his hand over his mouth, pulled a rag from his satchel and gagged him. For the second time, he hefted the backstabbing little turd over his shoulder and headed for the shadows at a run, wishing he could wring the pipsqueak’s neck.

  An arch leading to an abyss stood thirty yards ahead.

  That has to be it.

  “There!” someone yelled from the top of the ramparts.

  An arrow hissed just over Lachlan’s head.

  Andrew squirmed—about a hundred and thirty pounds of flopping juvenile delinquent.

  Lachlan ran faster.

  Another arrow shot through the air, spearing the turf in front of them.

  Two paces ahead, the ground dipped toward the water.

  Lachlan skidded downward through the mud until his feet completely lost their purchase. Flying through the air, he clutched the boy’s legs hard against his ches
t. Arrows hissed as, together, they hit the moat with thundering dunks. Looping his arm between Andrew’s bound wrists, Lachlan kicked with his legs and swam with one arm, pulling their bodies through the water as fast as he could. The rear archway was too goddamned far away.

  Guards swarmed above them everywhere. The deafening sound of iron creaking screeched through the air.

  They’re lowering the gate!

  Andrew sucked sharp gasps through his nose, his jerky fighting worse than dead weight.

  “Kick with both your legs!” Lachlan shouted.

  The gate dropped rapidly, now only a foot above the waterline.

  Lachlan swam with every fiber of strength, his muscles burning, the cut in his chest searing.

  Six inches to clear.

  Lachlan pushed Andrew’s head beneath the water. Holding his breath, he kicked and swam, demanding power from the sinews in his body now punishing him with hot, burning pain. Submerged in pitch black water, he held on to the lad and surged ahead with the outflowing current.

  His feet cleared the arch in the nick of time. The gate clipped his toe as it sliced through the water and boomed closed with an enormous wave pushing them down the far hillside. Tumbling over and over, Lachlan clamped his arms around the boy and gave in to the force, careening with their bodies and hurling down to the river in a muddy torrent.

  They hit the Tweed hard, immediately swept downriver by the current. Lachlan fought for the surface, pulling them both skyward until their heads broke the surface. Pain throbbed across his chest with every stroke. His head spun as he searched for the far shore.

  I’m losing too much blood.

  But he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t think of himself. Christina was relying on him, regardless of whether the sack of lard in his arms wanted to be rescued or not. She deserved to see her son and, like it or not, Andrew deserved to know about his roots. Grinding his teeth, Lachlan persevered until his feet hit the silty bottom.

  He dragged the boy out of the river while the sound of an army trampled down from Norham Castle’s ramparts. Hefting Andrew over his shoulder, Lachlan staggered to the tree line. Once protected by the forest, someone grabbed his arm.