by Amy Jarecki
Christina wanted to wail and crumple into a heap. What she wouldn’t do to turn back the tides of time so that Sir Andrew Senior would have lived, so that her son would have been raised with a father who was a strong example. So that her son would have no doubt as so who he was and learn to hold dear the clan he was born to protect.
Slowly she lowered her hands to her side, stretching tall and showing nothing of the quivering nerves making her heart race. “I give ye my word. Allow me to take my son home. To show him the beauty and grandeur of his lands. To prove to him how deeply a mother’s love runs. Please, please, please, for Andrew is still only a child.”
“A child who should be well on his way to becoming a man.”
Christina gave a single nod. “A child who has been held captive for so long he kens nothing else.” She would not back down, not when she was so close to purchasing time.
The king drummed his fingers—still eyeing her with intelligence and cunning. “I give ye until Christmas next. Ye will come to court and bring the lad before me. If he has not accepted his lot by then, I shall have nay other choice but to grant the lands north of the Moray Firth to a trustworthy and stalwart nobleman.”
Blinking back tears, she bowed her head. “Thank ye, Your Grace.”
“Make no bones about it, Lady Christina. I will also grant your hand to that same nobleman. Ye have royal blood running through your veins, a lineage more important to the kingdom than any one subject. Do ye understand?”
She curtseyed, keeping her head bowed. “My service shall always be for my king and for Scotland.”
He thumped his fist on the armrest. “Aye, then ye’d best make certain your son believes the same in short order.”
“It will be done, Your Grace. With so much at stake, given your leave, the de Moray guard and I shall depart at dawn.”
Chapter Sixteen
Lachlan was totally convinced the obstreperous horse Hamish had given him couldn’t walk a straight line if there were walls encroaching on either side. And Lachlan had no doubt the bull-headed guard leading this medieval diamond formation was chuckling right down to his toes. The more Lachlan pulled on the reins, the stroppier the nag became. If he squeezed his knees, the damned mule-brained gelding reared.
Is the beast even broke?
The horse must have had some training, because Lachlan managed to mount without much difficulty. It wasn’t until he tapped his heels that the mangy, bird-brained donkey decided to be a shit. He hadn’t had this much trouble riding to Norham. At least the horse he’d borrowed from Boyd had been reasonably well-behaved.
They’d been riding for five hours with nine or so to go until they reached Leith where Christina said the de Moray birlinn was moored, which would save them weeks of riding, according to her ladyship. When given the choice of riding or sailing, Lachlan decided he’d rather sail. He’d be comfortable manning an oar, though he didn’t know much about sails.
Doubtless I’ll learn.
“Ease up on the poor bugger’s mouth,” said Andrew, riding alongside Lachlan, with Christina on his other side. The lady had decided that, as her champion, Lachlan should be responsible for riding with her and the lad. She wanted to make Andrew feel an important part of the twenty-man retinue, but kept him in the center of the formation partially for safety, though mostly to ensure he didn’t try to run.
“Huh?” Lachlan asked, rubbing his fingers over the annoying stitches in his chest.
Andrew gave him an adolescent guffaw. “The harder ye pull on the reins, the more your mount will try to resist ye.”
Lachlan dropped his hands to the horse’s withers and the gelding immediately lowered his head and began to amble like the others. “You seem to know a thing or two about horses.”
“Indeed, I do.” Andrew almost smiled as he patted his mount’s neck. “A squire would not be worth his salt if he wasn’t sure of his seat.”
“Where did you learn?”
“From Lord de Vere’s stable hands—he hires the best horsemen and owns the best destriers in England.”
“Destriers?” Lachlan asked.
“Do ye not know anything?” Andrew rolled his eyes like a typical teenager. “Destriers are the best warhorses in all of Christendom.”
“Aye, I’ll agree to that,” said Christina.
Lachlan gave Andrew an appreciative nod, an idea forming in his head. He knew kids and they all craved respect.
Hmm.
Riding across a burn that cut through a picturesque lea nestled between rolling green hills, Lady Christina cupped a hand to the side of her mouth. “Hamish,” she hollered. “We shall take our nooning here.”
“Verra well, m’lady.”
Lachlan had never been so glad to have a break. He had to pee, the stitches in his healing chest itched like he’d been bitten by a hundred mosquitoes, and he was so hungry, he could eat half a cow—not that he wasn’t accustomed to pain, it just he’d been afflicted with one too many complaints at the moment. “What’s on the menu?” he asked, dismounting his horse and adding sore thighs to his litany. Good God, now he knew why cowboys walked like they were bowlegged.
“Cheese and oatcakes,” Christina said, holding out her hands, waiting for someone to act gentlemanly since her son had already dismounted and was ladling water into his mouth from the swiftly running burn.
Lachlan hobbled over and helped her, his fingers closing around her waist. His heart hammered at the friction of her soft breasts sliding down his chest. Why on earth did his errant male instincts have to hone every time he touched the woman? Christ, they were surrounded by an army and his cock gave a hearty ping.
Down big fella.
“Ye dunna look too happy about the fare,” she said, pushing a mahogany curl beneath her hood—black, of course.
He took a step back to distance himself from her wicked, mind-consuming scent. In the future if he wanted to bamboozle an opponent in the karate ring, all he had to do was splash on some eau de Christina. Two feet of distance and the cold air helped to cool his lust. No, Lachlan wasn’t one to let the weather bother him—but he didn’t have a proper coat or winter boots or a hat. A motorcar with a heater would come in handy about now—especially if he could drive to Uncle Walter’s flat and give him hell for this charade. Fourteen hours to travel from Kelso to Edinburgh? He could do it by car in an hour.
“The food’s fine…for a bird,” he answered, giving her a grin. He looked around. Teasing her ladyship was probably not expected from her champion, but protecting her from possible attack was. Remembering his purpose, he turned full circle, before choosing his vantage point. “I’m climbing to the top of the crag. It should give me a good look to ensure all is well.”
She smiled as if pleased with his suggestion. “I’ll save a portion for ye, then.”
“Thank you.”
Working his legs in a brisk climb was exactly what Lachlan needed to stretch out his saddle soreness. In no time, he was breathing deeply, taking longer and longer strides. In fact, he was feeling more like himself. He wasn’t a goddamned complainer and he didn’t like the way his attitude had dipped over the past few hours.
At the top, he inspected the horizon with a critical eye. Once certain they weren’t being followed, he stepped behind the brush and relieved himself. Indeed, the view was magnificent. Far more forested than in modern times, the land below was speckled with farms and crofter’s shielings. Harvest had come and gone. There were still a few haystacks that hadn’t been stowed for the winter, but it looked like winter nonetheless—bare tree limbs stretching like brown skeletons flanked by the odd evergreen. Between it all were verdant grasslands carpeting the lowland hills—nowhere in his travels had Lachlan ever seen such a brilliant green, green that could only be found in Scotland.
He turned and watched one of the guards doling out the oatcakes and cheese while Christina perched on a log, having been served first as was the custom. Yesterday, she’d come to him to tell him they were riding in the m
orning. She hadn’t asked him to go, she’d just assumed that as her newly proclaimed champion, he would drop everything and take up the old sword he’d been issued for Andrew’s rescue. She’d given him a leather pouch, a “purse” to reward him for the return of her son. He’d nearly tried to give it back, then thought twice. There was only one thing worse than being stuck in a century where you could end up with your head, or any other appendage chopped off for the slightest misdemeanor and that was to be stranded without a mere pence in his pocket. At least now he could buy a pint of ale or an eating knife and not have to rely on the charity of others. Off to the side, Andrew slowly moved away from his mother, looking like he’d done something naughty.
When he’d slipped a good ten yards away, he broke into a run, dashing straight for the horses.
The lad untied his mount and leapt on its back. The crack of the reins reverberated all the way up the hill as if the boy had slapped the leathers right beside Lachlan’s ear. Down below, Christina shouted orders while Hamish and the others scrambled to their feet, but Andrew was already a hundred yards ahead and gaining, taking the path around the outcropping.
Lachlan’s legs took over, pumping down the other side of the crag, his knees absorbing the shock of the steep decline. Clamping his teeth, he eyed the spot where Andrew must traverse before hitting the open lea. Gripping his fingers into tight fists, Lachlan demanded more speed from his thighs, ignoring the searing pain in his chest, ignoring the jagged rocks beneath his thin-soled boots. The little schemer wasn’t about to escape. Not on Lachlan’s watch.
Thunderous hoofbeats pummeled the ground. Dear God, the boy hadn’t exaggerated when he boasted about being a horseman. The little shit could ride like a jockey at Ascot.
A flash of brown zipped behind the trees. Lachlan focused on his path.
Two steps to impact.
His blood thrummed through his veins like jet fuel. He had this. Christina would not be disappointed. Not today.
Leaping through the air, Lachlan focused on one thing. Andrew’s back.
When he hit, his fingers latched on to the boy’s shoulders.
Andrew shrieked.
The horse reared with the impact.
The boy held on, slapping his reins. “Get up!”
Lachlan clamped his wrists in a gable grip and fought to stay on. “Stop the beast,” he growled in Andrew’s ear. He steadied his seat before forcing his hands down to the leather reins.
“Let go,” Andrew shouted, his voice cracking.
“No. Bloody. Chance.” Using brute force, Lachlan pinned Andrew’s hands down with his wrists while tugging the reins hard. The horse skidded, dipping its hindquarter, his forelegs rising off the ground as he reared and twisted his head against the tug of the iron bit. Lachlan squeezed his knees to stay on but the horse responded by rearing so high, both Lachlan and Andrew flew backward.
Midair, the young lad squirmed to break free. Keeping his arms wrapped around the boy, Lachlan held tighter. “You’re not going anywhere.”
They hit with a bone-jarring thud that made Lachlan’s teeth rattle, his ribs crushing beneath the weight of the sturdy fifteen-year-old squire, the stitches in his chest tearing his flesh.
Thrashing and kicking, Andrew wrenched an arm free and threw an elbow to Lachlan’s jaw.
“God dammit.”
“Ye cannot make me stay.”
“Oh yeah?” In one move, Lachlan rolled the boy to his back and pressed the full weight of his body atop him. “I’ve known you for all of two days and I already want to wring your neck.”
The boy squirmed like a true fighter. “Let me go and I’ll be out of your hair forever.”
“Right. If I let you go, do you honestly think you’d make it to the border alive?” He chuckled. “Not in this century.”
Andrew stopped and glared. “I can take care of myself.”
“Right again. And who has the upper hand now?”
“But ye are a champion—I can handle myself with an average man.” Andrew thrashed his legs. “Remove yourself. I cannot breathe.”
“Not a chance.” Lachlan took a fraction of his weight onto his elbows. “I’ll tell you what. I can teach you to fight like me—take down a man my size.”
The squirming stopped. “Ye would do that?”
“Maybe.”
Andrew smirked. “But ye want something in return.”
“More than one thing.” Lachlan nodded his head toward the camp and the sound of approaching horses. “First of all, your mother has done nothing but worry about you for the last thirteen years.”
“But she allowed the English to take me—then never came after me until after the war.”
“Do you think she could help that? Until the Battle of Bannockburn was won, the English imprisoned her in her own castle. Once the Bruce took back the north, she did everything in her power to negotiate your return.”
“But—”
“Look, Hamish and the others will be here any second, so I’m going to make this fast. First, I want you to give your mother a chance. Go to Avoch and see where you were born—see your legacy—discover what kind of man your father was.”
“Will ye let me go back to de Vere after?”
“The Bruce said a year. Christmas next. That’s the deal.” Lachlan didn’t have any grounds on which to make a deal, but if he could earn a commitment from Andrew, the child might not be in such a hurry to run.
Andrew pursed his lips. “And secondly?”
“You teach me how to ride a horse.”
“Truly? A knight such as ye would learn from the likes of me?”
“Why not? From your display today, I’d wager you’re the best horseman in your mother’s retinue.”
“Honestly?”
Lachlan waggled his eyebrows and grinned. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”
Hamish and the other guards rode in and surrounded them. But Lachlan didn’t budge, keeping his gaze locked with Andrew’s. “Do we have a deal—a bargain?”
“A year. And I learn to fight as well as ye, sir?”
“That’s my promise.”
“But that will take forever.” The lad huffed. Whether that was for show or he truly was an idiot, Lachlan wasn’t quite certain. Yet.
He tried one more angle before he released his weight. “Are you afraid to face the truth?”
Chapter Seventeen
The trip up Scotland’s eastern shore sailing a genuine, handmade Gaelic birlinn would have been perfect except for the brooding teenager who sat scowling with his arms crossed at the stern. Lachlan wanted to tell Andrew how lucky he was to have escaped the English and to now be on an adventure to discover his roots, but his experience with his students—especially the difficult ones—had taught him that telling the lad anything would only earn his scorn and Andrew would be all the more difficult to reach.
Regardless, Lachlan decided to enjoy the heck out of the voyage. He wasn’t much help with the sailing part, but he paid attention and did whatever he was told. Christina watched him from beneath her cloak’s hood. She, too, sat astern near her son. They didn’t talk much, but though Andrew scowled like a grumblebum, Christina was equally pinched in her expression. Lachlan’s heart squeezed for her, knowing how much she wanted to make a bond and how futile her attempts had been. Hell, it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d been a queen, Andrew would have rejected her all the same. Until the lad figured out who the good guys were, she didn’t have a chance, and that was going to take some time, if it happened at all.
Merry bloody Christmas.
During the voyage, Lachlan’s thoughts shifted to the medallion and his own plight. Somehow, there had to be more to the forces behind the medallion. It didn’t just dump him there forever, did it? He would go home eventually. Right? If his mother had been transported to be Wallace’s companion and healer, then there had to be something more for Lachlan to do.
Obviously.
And tackling Andrew when he tried
to escape hadn’t been an accident, either. Oh, no. He’d been sent to ensure that Andrew de Moray, named for his father, was going to accept that he was a Scot.
Lachlan stared across the North Sea; dark blue, icy water stretched to the horizon. He’d had his share of difficult students, but never a child deprived of affection. It didn’t take a psychologist to determine that after the lad had been captured, he hadn’t received much nurturing, if any. Fortunately, he’d been in his mother’s arms for his first two years, which gave Lachlan a thread of hope. Though that didn’t allay the fact Andrew was going to be a tough kid to win over. The boy thought he hated Scotland. What was so bloody great about England? Andrew was promised a knighthood by an earl? And then he’d turned around and scoffed at the promise of lands and riches by a king? Was it the idealism and stubbornness of youth or something deeper?
Lachlan intended to find out. He doubted a portal to home would open until Andrew’s about-face was finished. The birlinn tacked west and entered a firth.
“Where are we now,” asked Lachlan.
Hamish stood at the bow and pointed. “Entering Moray Firth. We’ll be mooring within the hour.”
Being an inexperienced sailor, Lachlan did what he was told and stood out of the way near Hamish while the de Moray men set to their mooring. The first thing he saw was the grey curtain walls looming on a hilltop. At each of the four corners was a turret and rising above it all stood a square donjon, or keep. It reminded him a little of Torwood Castle that his mother had renovated. This one was a motte and bailey fortress, built to defend the northern waters. Lachlan looked west. “Where is Inverness from here?”
Hamish pointed to a hazy cloud in the distance—smoke from many hearths no doubt. “It’s twelve miles if ye ride around the firth. Which I recommend for the likes of ye.” The old man-at-arms quirked his eyebrow. “Ye’d set to sail and sink me birlinn afore ye hit deep water.”
“’Tis my ship, Hamish, and I think Lachlan has contributed splendidly considering he’s had no seafaring experience.” Lady Christina stood and regarded her son. “Ye can see Ormond Castle on the shore. Would ye not like to set eyes on your home?”
