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

by Amy Jarecki

  “No.” Lachlan flicked her veil behind her back, giving her a better view of him from the corner of her eye. “What else can you tell me about Eva?” he asked.

  At least this time he hadn’t used that godawful term “mum”. Christina thought back while she pushed in the needle for the last suture. “We called her Miss Eva until she married William—”

  “Wait.” Lachlan grabbed Christina’s wrist. Practically crushed it under his powerful grip. “Were you at my mother’s wedding?”

  “Nay.” Her shoulders tenser than a pouncing cat, she met his wild stare. “Goodness, Lachlan, it canna be. Ye are far too old to be Eva’s son, even if ye do look like Willy.”

  His hand shook as he released his grip and held up the medallion. “You’d best start believing in fairies, m’lady, because I’m here on account of the powers behind this wee chunk of bronze.”

  Shrinking from the medal, Christina snipped the thread. “I’m afraid ye’re in your cups, sir. Ye’re making no sense at all, which is no way for a lady’s champion to behave.”

  “Listen to me.” Lachlan sat up and grasped her shoulders. “I’m as sober as a rock and I’m telling you Eva MacKay is from the future, and so am I.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Christina ran up the wheeled staircase as fast as she could. Her entire world was shattering around her and Lachlan had the gall to tell her he was from the future? Heaven help her, how much more could she take? She had Andrew to worry about. Now her champion was spewing rubbish about the future and insisting he was Eva MacKay’s son? Worse, she could hardly be in the same chamber with Lachlan Wallace and keep her heart from thrumming out of her chest.

  The man was braw and handsome and smart. He had a gentle nature, yet could crush her with his fist. She’d poured raw spirit on a six-inch gash across his chest and he’d shown few outward signs of the agony. She’d stitched him up and he hadn’t so much as grimaced. Dear Lord, not even her husband was as rugged as Lachlan—yet the poor man was touched in the head. He’d been benumbed by the fairies for certain.

  Tears stung her eyes as she dashed out onto the wall-walk, sucking in deep breaths. It was cold and the wind blew bitter, but Christina didn’t care. If she could, she’d mount her horse and ride for miles. If only it were safe to be alone. If only she could run away from her problems and hide.

  Curses, curses, curses. Why must thoughts of Lachlan continually plague my mind?

  The man knew she was beside herself with worry about Andrew. Why did he have to become a pain in the backside now? Holy crosses, if she didn’t persuade her son to support King Robert, the de Moray lands would be forfeit. Lachlan knew she was in no state to receive such disturbing news about his mother. Aye, there had been something uncannily odd about Eva, regardless of the fact that Christina liked her. But being from the future? Holy Moses, Sir Boyd had said he thought the same only sennights ago. And Christina had defended Lachlan to the knight as if he was an angel from God.

  Is the medallion the work of Satan? If it is, then why does Lachlan perform good deeds?

  His magic from this morn could very well be evil. Though she’d been married, she had little experience with such things. And how did he make her body respond with such rapture, yet with such coveting?

  I should be entirely focused on Andrew and, yet, my body aches with desire for Lachlan. This is not a normal state of affairs.

  This very morn when she’d accused him of being a sorcerer what had Lachlan said? “There’s nothing magical about making a woman come.”

  Come?

  Is that what happened?

  Why hadn’t it happened when I was with Andrew?

  “Lady Christina—are ye unwell?” Sir Boyd marched toward her from the opposite direction.

  She could have melted on the spot. The last thing she needed was another knight brining bad news or worse. “Nay, I just needed a walk and fresh air.”

  “Ye look as if ye’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Perhaps I have.”

  He eyed her, moving his fists to his hips. “Whatever do ye mean?”

  She let out a long sigh. “Remember when ye said ye thought Eva was from the future?”

  “Shhh.” Robbie glanced around all sides to ensure they hadn’t been overheard. “’Twas only the thoughts of a verra young man.”

  “Nothing makes sense.” She threw up her hands and started walking west—where they would encounter fewer guards. “Lachlan is a man of thirty. And Eva was older than I, but not so old she could possibly have a son the age of my new champion.”

  “I ken, ’tis why I tried to put the whole foolishness out of my mind when he told me Eva was his mother.” Boyd gave her a sidewise glance. “Except…”

  “Except?”

  “The resemblance between Willy and Lachlan is too similar. I lay abed at night thinking about it, trying to make sense of it all. But in my estimation, their child should have only attained the age of nine.”

  “Unless your suspicions about the medallion are true.”

  He stopped, looking over his shoulder. “What are ye saying?”

  Shaking her head, Christina covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m making no sense at all.”

  “No, ye arna and those thoughts could see ye burned if the bishop at Kelso Abbey heard such sacrilege.” Sir Boyd then snorted as if he thought the whole conversation amusing.

  She backhanded the knight’s arm. “Ye are to tell no one.”

  “Ye ken I’ve shared my own suspicions, so I’d be every bit as guilty.” He gave her a bow. “Your secrets are safe with me, m’lady.”

  “And I thank ye…else I wouldna have opened up to ye the way I did.”

  “’Tis good to ken ye are comfortable coming to me with your woes.”

  Christina chewed on her lip. Whom could she ask? Sir Boyd was an attractive knight, though far too young for her. But he was popular with the ladies. He might know. “May I ask ye a—um—rather sensitive question?”

  “Ye should feel free to ask me anything, m’lady. There are not many of us around who rode with Willy, who kent what it was like in the early days living in caves.”

  “This is personal in nature.” She cringed, doubting herself.

  “Aye? The same holds true, I’d reckon.”

  “And ye are popular with the women folk.”

  Again he stopped walking and eyed her. “Tell me what’s on your mind afore ye make me blush to my toes.”

  “Um.” It was her turn to look over her shoulder to be absolutely certain she wasn’t being overheard, though she doubted with the gale blowing like a rushing torrent in their ears that anyone outside of three feet away would be able to hear a thing. “Have ye ever heard of making a woman come?”

  Dear Lord, no man hath ever turned such a brilliant shade of red. The corners of Sir Boyd’s lips pulled down, his face growing even redder until he turned and looked out over the River Tweed and ran his hand down his face. “Aye, m’lady. ’Tis one of the few pleasures known to man…or woman. I think ’tis God’s greatest gift.”

  Christina’s cheeks burned as she let out a long breath. Now that Sir Boyd knew what she’d been thinking she should be more than a bit embarrassed. But it was embarrassment mixed with relief. At least Sir Lachlan hadn’t put a hex on her—right?

  “Have ye slept with him?” Sir Boyd asked.

  Aside from keeping him warm last eve? “Not slept as in lain…”

  The knight donned a battle hardened scowl. “Has he said inappropriate things to ye?”

  “Nay. He has been a gentleman, as I would expect.”

  “Then where did ye hear such crude talk, may I ask?”

  She squared her shoulders. “Ye may not.”

  “Verra well, but if your virtue should need defending, ye must call upon me at once.” Sir Boyd snapped his fingers. “Goodness, with all this talk, I nearly forgot why I came up here.”

  “Is it Andrew? I dunna ken if we can turn him around afore he meets with the king.”
<
br />   “We canna. ’Cause the Bruce is already speaking to him at this verra moment.”

  Christina’s heart nearly pounded out of her chest. “Pardon? Why in heavens name did ye not tell me this as soon as ye saw me?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Andrew de Moray stood straight, his lips pursed, every muscle in his body tense right down to the fists clenched at his sides. If only he had a dagger hidden up his sleeve, he’d end Robert Bruce’s reign here and now. It didn’t surprise him that his capture was as Lord de Vere had proclaimed. “Scots are devious, filthy savages”. After the earl had told Andrew he could become a knight, the youth had done everything to ensure he wasn’t mistaken for a heathen Scot. Hell’s bells, he’d been teased by every boy in England, including the servant’s children until he’d declared his fealty to King Edward. True, Andrew may have been born to Scottish parents, but his father was dead and his mother had never been a part of his life. He didn’t even recognize the woman. He didn’t even look like her—not too much, anyway. Nearly a man, Andrew’s choice had been made ages ago. Who had fed and clothed him? Who had allowed him to work with horses—his only true love? Not the matron who claimed to be his mother.

  And now the usurper, the self-proclaimed king, sat across the chamber glowering like the tyrant Andrew knew him to be. The Bruce’s eyes drilled through him with the gaze of a falcon. Just what Andrew expected from a ruthless murderer of innocents, an imposter, a backstabber.

  “Ye do not bow before your king?” said the imposter sitting on the throne.

  Andrew’s gut twisted. “I will not be intimidated by a puppet king.”

  The Bruce threw back his head with a belly laugh. “I believe ye have me confused with John Balliol.” Then he leaned forward and jammed his finger into the armrest, his look penetrating, as if he could read all the vile thoughts swirling in Andrew’s head. “I assure ye, I am no puppet, and I am your king. After years of tyranny and bloodshed caused by the English, I have united the Kingdom of Scotland, lands rich with black soil and fat cattle, and nobles who pay me fealty.”

  Andrew’s fingernails bit into his clenched palms. “Ye are but a pustule on the face of the great King Edward.”

  The man scoffed. “Ye are awfully certain of yourself for a whelp.”

  “I am a squire for Sir Robert de Vere. He will make me a knight—”

  “Is that so?” The king stood and walked around Andrew. Though Robert Bruce was a good hand or two taller, the young man refused to be intimidated. “Ye ken ye were born into one of the most powerful Scottish families in the kingdom?”

  Andrew focused his gaze on the hearth. “That is what I’m told.”

  “Where have the bleating swine kept ye all these years?”

  “My care has been entrusted to de Vere, the Earl of Oxford.”

  “Did he turn ye into a man? Did he feed and clothe ye? Give ye a bed to sleep in and books to read?”

  “I was given ample food and my clothing is adequate for a squire.” A memory of being dressed in rags and bone-thin from hunger flashed through Andrew’s mind. Though he’d received little in the way of comforts, his poor treatment as a young child had only served to make him stronger. Andrew’s knees buckled a bit and he curled his toes. Once he’d grown taller, everything had changed for the better. He was on the road to greatness before being captured. And now, the Scots would try to break him—they had no idea how tough he’d become. “I was given a tutor when I was ten.”

  “So ye can read?”

  “Yes.” Andrew wasn’t about to give this false king the courtesy of answering with “Your Grace” or even a “yes, sir”.

  “What other skills did de Vere teach ye?”

  “I’m good with horses—the best. I can break them and ride like hellfire. I’m to join the tourneys when I reach my majority.”

  “Are ye now?” The Bruce arched an eyebrow with his patronizing smirk. “And de Vere has treated ye like a son, took ye under his wing and given ye the highest quality instruction in all of Christendom?”

  Andrew gulped. Blast it all, why must his mouth grow dry at a time like this? “Yes.” Of course, de Vere didn’t treat him like a son…the great earl was teaching Andrew how to be a warrior. Andrew had rarely been inside the enormous castle, apart from the kitchens. Even the two years he’d endured with the tutor were in the kitchens. He slept in the barn with the stable hands and learned his trade from de Vere’s guardsmen—not the man-at-arms, but good, rugged warriors all the same.

  I will be a knight for de Vere.

  “And King Edward will grant ye lands and riches?” the Bruce persisted.

  “In time, he will.” Why doesn’t he understand?

  “Are ye certain of yourself?”

  “Ah…Yes.” Andrew now clenched his fists so hard his knuckles burned.

  “So ye would give up your lands and riches in Scotland to follow a tyrant king?”

  Bloody hell! Andrew felt like he was about to burst. The evilest despot in all of Christendom was calling Edward II, a man with impeccable lineage, a tyrant? “Edward is benevolent, and k-kind, and steadfast, and—”

  “Ruthless?” bellowed the king, his eyes turning charcoal black.

  “No! He is strong.” Blast it all, Andrew’s voice cracked.

  “Ye have a great deal to learn afore I recognize ye as a nobleman in this realm. Do ye ken what it means to be a Scot?”

  Andrew ticked up his chin in a show of defiance. “Ye mean a backstabber?”

  Before he could blink, Robert the Bruce backhanded him across the face. “Insolence!” the man boomed.

  The iron taste of blood spread across Andrew’s tongue. But the sting radiating on his cheek infused him with confidence. He’d taken a strike and still stood his ground. Puffing out his chest, Andrew stood taller.

  “Scotland is a land of lush moors and mountains that touch the sky.” The Bruce spread his arms wide. “Scotland is a land skirted by tempestuous seas and sculpted by the rush of the north wind. Her people are hardy and hard working. They fiercely protect clan and kin, and hold dear their honor. But do ye ken what a Scotsman holds dearest in his breast?”

  Andrew shook his head, the palms of his hands clammy.

  “Freedom.” The Bruce stopped and stared, his gaze penetrating to Andrew’s soul. “Freedom, lad. We’ll not be bowing to a ruthless overlord—a man who murders and rapes pregnant women and impales hard-working farmers on wooden spikes.”

  Andrew gasped. “He would nev—”

  “Silence!” The Scottish king slammed his fist into his palm. “Ye are but a whelp and ye have nay seen the atrocities carried out in the name of England. Ye have been mollycoddled and protected by a villain who claims he will make ye a champion.”

  “He will!”

  “Aye? But he canna make ye a great man—a nobleman who will take his seat beside a king, paying fealty, and, in return, given leave to gain riches off his lands and to lead his clan. A young noble could gain honor, could rise to be a legendary knight, could lead his people to become the greatest clan in the north.”

  Andrew gasped when the Bruce’s gaze again met his. Even gooseflesh rose across his skin.

  “But such honor is reserved for the best of men. Not for lovers of tyrant English kings and definitely not for young pups who ken no manners.” The king sauntered so close, his breath rushed through Andrew’s hair. “Ye didna bow to me and ye didna use my proper address. Not once.”

  Andrew looked to his toes and tried to swallow. His skin pricked, his face felt too damn hot. If only he had a knife, he’d plunge it—

  The self-proclaimed king lowered his voice. “The next time ye come before me I will make my decision as to how I will dispatch your lands. I hope ye’ve grown a pair of cods by then.”

  ***

  Christina stepped from the stairwell just as six heavily-armed guards escorted Andrew from King Robert’s solar.

  “What is the meaning of this?” She looked from one to the next. “My son is no
criminal!”

  “Lady Christina,” bellowed the king from within. “Come here and shut the door. I need a word.”

  She swept into the solar with a fire igniting in her belly. Her son might be a bit misguided, but that was not his fault. It was the fault of the English despots. Treating Andrew like a criminal would only serve to distance him further from his country and kin. “For the love of honor, Your Grace. Six guards?”

  King Robert glowered, standing naught but a foot away. “The lad needs to learn a modicum of respect.”

  “He is confused.”

  “That is an understatement. He is unhinged. I have no doubt if Andrew had the use of a weapon he wouldna have hesitated to use it, just like he did on your champion.”

  The walls closed in around her. “He doesna ken what he’s doing. The English have brainwashed—I mean, they have filled his mind with falsehoods and hogwash.”

  “I think ye are not being truthful with yourself.” King Robert threw up his palms. “This situation is dire. The lad may never come around.”

  Wringing her hands, Christina’s heart hurt so badly, it nearly burst. “Please. I’ve waited three and ten years to have my son home. He needs time—time in the country away from court and away from this bloody border for certain. Ye ken as well as I we could fall under attack at any moment.” She steepled her fingers and pressed them to her lips in a praying motion—praying that God would place the right words in her mouth. Words that would buy precious time. “Please, my king. I had hoped to spend Yule at court afore we returned to Ormond Castle, but now I see we must haste away from here at once. Two or three years growing to love his clan and kin will set my son to rights. Of that, I swear to ye.”

  The Bruce sat in his chair and scowled. “I havena three years. By God, a year stretches me to my limits.”

  Christina’s heart fluttered. Could there be a chance? She kept her fingers touching her lips while she listened.

  “Ye ken I need a strong leader at Ormond Castle. I need a man—a warrior who can defend our northern shores from attack be it from English or Norse. I need a man like your late husband, God rest his soul.”