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

by Amy Jarecki

  “Why in God’s name did ye tie the lad?” growled Boyd’s voice.

  “He wasn’t exactly willing to be rescued,” Lachlan huffed as he made his way toward the horses with Boyd running beside him.

  “With all that ruckus, there’s no time to change into dry clothes. Dear God, it sounded like the Battle of Stirling Bridge in there.”

  Lachlan focused on pumping his legs, moving toward the waiting men. “Cloaks will do until we reach Roxburgh.”

  “Can the lad ride?”

  “Not if he doesn’t want to go.”

  “Then throw him over the horse and we’ll tie him on.”

  Lachlan did as Boyd suggested, a grunt belting from his gut with the release of the weight.

  “Jesu, ye’re wounded,” said the knight, handing him his cloak.

  “No shit—thanks to the young whelp here.” Lachlan pointed to a soldier. “Someone throw a blanket over Andrew’s back and tie him on.”

  Shivering, he staggered to his horse and fastened his cloak around his shoulders.

  “Are ye good to ride?” asked Boyd.

  “Let’s go.” Lachlan mounted. Christ, what in God’s name was he doing? Riding a horse on the medieval border between Scotland and England? Soaking wet and in the midst of winter? It was only due to pure determination he could manage to stay mounted on the mule and urge him forward. He drove a goddamned car, not a smelly beast.

  But right now, he picked up the reins and dug in his heels. Smelly or not, this horse was his only ticket to survival.

  Chapter Twelve

  Wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, Christina paced in the guard tower above the main gate of Roxburgh Castle. For two days she had maintained her vigil. But this night, not even Ellen, her chambermaid, could coax her to retire to her bedchamber.

  White clouds of her breath swirled in the air as she paced, then stopped and stared out the narrow window used for dropping hot oil and the like on the tops of attackers’ heads. Over and over, she maintained the combination of pacing and staring while the guard occasionally brought in peat to stoke the brazier that smoldered in the center of the stone floor. Though it had burned to all but coals now.

  Awhile later, a guard entered with an armload of fuel. “’Twill be dawn in a couple of hours, m’lady. Ye really ought to try to sleep.”

  “Nay, not when I could see my son any moment.”

  “They could be another day, mayhap two.” He placed a square of peat onto the coals.

  She held her hands out to the warmth. “What are two days out of three and ten years?”

  The man bowed. “I shall leave ye to your vigil then.”

  “My thanks.”

  Clutching her cloak closed, she returned her attention to the path leading from the castle gates. She could see the river, thanks to the moonlight dancing across the swift current. With her next blink, movement came from the tree line. Gasping, she leaned forward as far as the thick walls would allow. Her heart fluttered as the entourage became clearer. Indeed, they’d returned. But someone was hurt, no two men were injured—one was draped across his horse’s back and another hunched over his horse’s withers.

  Please, lord, it cannot be Andrew.

  Christina headed for the stairwell at a run. By the time she reached the bottom, the retinue had ridden into the outer courtyard, lit by torches.

  Frantically, she searched the faces for Andrew and saw not a young face. Lachlan lolled over his horse’s neck, his face white as snow. Her gaze shot to the man tied across the horse’s back. His thick, brown locks hung in waves. Instantly, her stomach clamped into a rock. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

  Lachlan slid from his horse, took one step and collapsed to the cobbles.

  “My God.” Torn between the urgent need to help the faltering knight and to finally embrace her son, she looked from Andrew to the man who was supposed to have saved him.

  “It appears the lad didna take kindly to being rescued.” Sir Boyd dismounted and moved beside her.

  Christina clutched her hands to her chest—she must have misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

  With a grim scowl, Boyd drew a dirk from its scabbard. “Andrew slashed a dagger across Sir Lachlan’s chest.”

  “No.” She vehemently shook her head, her face growing hot. “Merciful heavens, no. Not my son.”

  Still shifting her gaze between Andrew, wet, gagged and hogtied to the horse, and Lachlan, wet and unconscious on the cobbles, she wanted to scream. How could this be? Her son attacked the man she’d sent to rescue him? Christina thrust her finger toward the west tower. “Carry Sir Lachlan to my chamber and fetch Ellen—tell her there’s a wounded man who needs tending.”

  “Your chamber, m’lady?” asked Hamish.

  “Do it, I say.” She then dashed to Andrew’s horse. “Untie him. Now!”

  Boyd complied as she removed the lad’s gag. Holy Moses, he was wet and shivering to the bone. She shot Robbie a heated glare. “This is not how I envisaged greeting my son.”

  They set Andrew on his feet and she opened her arms. But the lad glowered and scooted away. “I do not know ye, madam.”

  Dear God, he sounded like one of them. A Sassenach. She dropped her arms in disbelief. “Young man, ye are Andrew de Moray, chieftain of Clan de Moray and I am your mother.”

  “He canna be trusted,” said Sir Boyd. “He’ll run.”

  The lad’s teeth chattered.

  She stamped her foot. Deciding against wrapping Andrew in her embrace, she grasped his shoulders firmly. “Then put a guard on him at all hours.” She shook her finger at Robbie. “I make it your responsibility to see to his safety and see to it he has a change of clothes forthwith.”

  “Aye, m’lady.”

  She slid her palm to the small of Andrew’s back. “Can ye walk?”

  The lad nodded. Goodness, he had her eyes.

  “I’m taking him to Sir Lachlan’s chamber. Post a guard. I do not want there to be a moment when he isna watched. For pity’s sake, he could verra well catch his death.” She started leading the shivering child toward the tower. Heaven’s stars, he was taller than she by two hands, but that did nothing to allay the ire burning in her breast. “Ye men are disgraceful. How long did he ride with wet clothing? ’Tis freezing!”

  Not waiting for an answer, she hurried her son up the four flights of stairs, hastening to Lachlan’s small chamber. A guard had already gone ahead and set to lighting the fire and the mantel candles, bless him. She ushered Andrew to the bed. “We shall have ye warm in no time.”

  The poor child’s teeth still chattered. But he gaped at her with distrust in his eyes. “When can I go back to Norham? Lord de Vere promised to make me his squire as soon as I broke his new stallion.”

  “de Vere?” Christina took a step back. She’d heard of de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, and none of it was good. “He is not your father.”

  “But the horse is ready.” Andrew scowled with an angry face. “I planned to show him on the morrow.”

  “Do not think of that evil man for another moment. I have saved your father’s sword and ye will become a knight of King Robert the Bruce.”

  The lad slid away from her, crossing his arms against the cold. “No, no, no. Bruce is a usurper—not a king.” Andrew shook his head adamantly. “I’m to become a great knight and ride for Lord de Vere.”

  Was he delirious? Why on earth would he be talking such drivel? It was all Christina could do to bite her knuckle and not take the lad by the shoulders and shake him. Instead, she tottered across the chamber and rubbed his hands between her palms to warm them. “I ken ye’ve gone through a terrible ordeal. But hear me true, ye will become a knight and ye will be lord of your castle. But first we need to make ye warm.”

  She reached for a blanket and wrapped it over him as heat from the fire swirled through the chamber. A guard brought in a fresh shirt and chausses. Christina turned her back as her son changed. He spoke not a word when she draped his wet garments over a chair
, then sat with him until he drifted off to sleep.

  ***

  Daylight shone through the castle’s arrow slits as Christina made her way to her chamber. For years, she’d pined for this day and now that it had come, she was more confused than ever. Through her entire life, fleeting moments of happiness always turned to complete despair in a heartbeat. Why must it continue to be so?

  Arriving at her bedchamber, Christina found Ellen rinsing a cloth in the bowl. “How is Andrew, m’lady?”

  “He’s sleeping. Pray he doesn’t catch his death.” Exhausted, Christina glanced to the bed. “And Sir Lachlan?”

  “He’s asleep as well.” Ellen folded the cloth and draped it over the rod affixed to the table. “What happened?”

  Christina explained the whole mess—at least what she knew of it.

  Ellen’s brow furrowed as she wrung her hands. “I canna believe the lad would run a blade across Sir Lachlan’s chest when he was trying to rescue him.”

  “Aye, well, Andrew thinks he’s an Englishman and now I must do everything in my power to ensure he kens he’s a Scot.”

  “And an important Scot at that, m’lady.”

  Her stomach sank to her toes. “He willna be if Robert the Bruce hears the same words Andrew spewed above stairs a few moments ago. Our lands will be forfeit and my hand will be given to whomever the king deems worthy.”

  “Och,” Ellen lamented. “When I was a wee lassie, I always wanted to be a princess. But after watching all your trials, I’m glad I’m but a commoner.”

  Christina tried to smile. “Life is never easy, no matter your lot. Look at King Robert. He’s still trying to negotiate with the English for the release of his queen.”

  Across the chamber, Sir Lachlan shuddered.

  Ellen hastened to the bedside, placing the back of her hand on his forehead. “He’s ever so cold. I havena been able to warm him.”

  Christina stepped up to the bed and rubbed her champion’s icy fingers between her palms. “We need more blankets and add more peat to the fire.”

  “Verra well, m’lady.”

  Ellen brought two woolen blankets from the garderobe and Christina helped her spread them atop the shivering man. Then Ellen moved to the hearth and reached for a square of peat. “Ye shouldna had the guards bring him here. Ye need your sleep, m’lady.”

  “And so do ye.” Christina smoothed her hand over Lachlan’s forehead. “Set up a pallet for me and then head to your quarters. ’Tis almost daylight already.”

  Once Christina was alone with Lachlan, she leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “I do not wish for ye to suffer on my account.”

  “Not to worry,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “The wound is not too deep.”

  She straightened. “Ye’re awake?”

  “I’ve been in and out. I’m freezing.”

  “I have some wine. That might warm your insides.”

  “Any whisky?”

  “A lady doesna keep whisky in her chamber, sir.”

  “Of course.” He shivered. “How could I have been so lamebrained?”

  Chuckling at his funny word, she moved to the sideboard, poured Lachlan a cup of wine and returned. “After watching ye spar, I’m surprised a lad of five and ten could cut ye so.”

  “It was dark and I wasn’t expecting him to be sleeping with a knife—after all, I thought he was a prisoner.” Lachlan pulled himself up and the bedclothes dropped to his waist, exposing the blood-soaked bandage Ellen had wrapped around his chest. “It was my fault. I should have expected that they’d brainwash him.”

  “They did what?” She gave him the cup.

  He took a wee sip then tugged a plaid about his shoulders. “They made him believe he’s an Englishman.”

  Exhausted, Christina leaned her legs against the side of the bed. “I still canna believe how he speaks. He sounds like King Edward’s ward.”

  “Unfortunately, he does.” Lachlan shifted his seat and grimaced. “Damn.”

  A bit of fresh blood seeped into the bandage. “My heavens. Do ye need to be stitched?”

  He pulled the cloth away and looked beneath. “I don’t think so. It has nearly stopped bleeding.” He shivered again.

  Christina pointed to the cup. “Drink some more, ’twill make ye feel better.”

  Nodding, he drank down the rest. Gooseflesh rose across his skin as he handed it back to her with chattering teeth. “Thank you.”

  “Ye’d best slide back down beneath the bedclothes and wait whilst the spirit warms your insides.”

  He did as she asked and rolled to his side. “Do you know what the best thing is for hypothermia—I mean for someone who is having trouble warming up?”

  “There’s more we can do?”

  “In fact, there is. It helps immensely to have someone lie beside the patient and impart their body heat.”

  Christina gave him a sobering blink. He wanted her to warm him with her body at a time like this? “Where did ye learn that?”

  He patted the mattress. “At university.”

  “Honestly?” Goodness, this man continued to surprise her at every turn. He’d attended university? No wonder he’s so smart.

  “It works best when they lay skin to skin—the heat from the warm person meets with the skin of the cold person much faster that way.”

  Her cheeks burned like someone had held her face to a brazier. “Mayhap I should call the physician for ye?”

  He chuckled—a deep, low rumble. “Not in this century.”

  Christina wasn’t overly fond of physicians, either. They had done nothing to save her husband. In fact, deep down, she believed their bleeding him may have caused his early death.

  Lachlan grasped her hand with icy fingers. “Please, m’lady. You need to sleep and I need your warmth.”

  She bit her lip. “But it would be so improper.”

  He heaved a tired sigh. “Bolt the door. I won’t tell anyone and, Lord knows, I’m in no shape to take advantage.”

  “Are ye certain something as trivial as my heat will set ye to rights?”

  “It will surely help me a great deal.” He opened his eyes and gave her a forlorn-looking stare, one she surmised wasn’t as innocent as it appeared.

  “Verra well.” She slid the bolt across the door, then turned with her arms folded. “I’ll strip down to my shift but no further.”

  “That’ll be better than nothing.”

  Her hands trembled as she removed her circlet and veil. Then her kirtle overdress and her underdress and, lastly, her slippers. Shaking out her shift, she eyed him. He watched her intently. Heavens, it had only been a few nights since they’d both lost their senses in the tailor’s shop, groping for each other like starved lovers.

  “Don’t you wear a corset?” he asked.

  “A what?”

  “Never mind—corsets mustn’t have been invented yet if a refined lady such as yourself hasn’t heard of them.”

  “Whatever do ye mean?”

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “Forgive me. I must be light in the head.”

  She tiptoed toward him. “Now are ye certain ye dunna want me to sleep on the pallet?”

  He lifted the bedclothes, welcoming her in. “Positive.”

  “Verra well, but I must have your word that ye willna try to ravish me.”

  “Only if it pleases your ladyship,” he said in a deep burr. He flapped the linens. “Now come here.”

  She crawled beside him and lay on her back staring wide eyed at the canopy above. How on earth was she supposed to sleep when in a bed with a braw warrior? The mere scent of him sent her senses into a frenzy. Merciful snapdragons, even her heart was hammering fast as a dog chasing fleas.

  He pressed his body flush against hers and draped an arm over her waist. “It works best if the two people spoon.”

  Had his voice always been so deep? “Spoon?” she squeaked.

  “Roll to your side.”

  Ah yes, she realized what he meant. Goodness,
sometimes it was as if he were speaking a foreign tongue. Christina usually slept on her side anyway, but when Lachlan placed his palm on her tummy and spooned into her body, her eyes popped open. Indeed, his skin was cool, but she was anything but. Oh, for the love of everything holy, she would give her eye teeth to have all well with Andrew so she could be free to enjoy the comforts of Lachlan’s arms. But life had dealt her another blow—one she must find a way to fix afore Robert the Bruce decided it was time to meddle.

  A long sigh slipped through her lips. “What am I to do about Andrew?”

  Lachlan pulled her even closer with a wee hum. “Take it one day at a time. Show him who his family is and what he means to Scotland.”

  She clutched his hand and held it over her heart. For the first time in years, she enjoyed the comfort of a caring soul. “I’m so afraid he willna want me.”

  “The lad will come around. It may take time, but he won’t be able to stop himself from loving his mother.”

  “I hope ye’re speaking true.”

  “I am.”

  She lay in Lachlan’s arms for a time listening to his breathing. The rhythmic sound of it soothed her, until she remembered his reward. “Sir Lachlan?”

  “Mm,” his deep voice lulled as if he were nearly asleep.

  “I’ve a purse for ye in reward for bringing Andrew home.”

  “Hmm.” It almost sounded like he chuckled. “Is it a leather purse?”

  “Aye.”

  “Good. Now go to sleep…unless you want me to ravish you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lachlan awoke warm and more comfortable than he’d been in days. Better, he was surrounded by the most erotic scent he’d ever imagined. It reminded him of lying in a field of lavender on a sultry summer’s day. Wavy long hair surrounded him and his cock thrummed with the most heavenly morning erection. Swirling his palm around Christina’s tummy, he pushed himself between her buttocks.

  Mm, oh, yeah, did that feel good. He thrust his hips forward, allowing himself a moment to revel in pleasure.