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

by Amy Jarecki

  Her mouth and eyes gaped in disbelief. “Ye’re jesting.”

  “Nope. A lot of progress happens in seven hundred years. You’d be blown away.”

  “I’d be what?”

  “Amazed.” He pressed his hand in the small of her back. “Let us wet our whistles quickly so we can ride out of here. The hairs on the back of my neck have been standing on end since we left Ormond Castle.”

  “I hope ’tis not a sign from the medallion.”

  “Me as well.”

  “Come along, Andrew,” she called over her shoulder.

  Lachlan kept his hand in the small of Christina’s back while they walked through the oak door. Like most sturdy buildings he’d seen, the alehouse’s stone walls were at least two-feet thick. Inside, oil lamps hung from the rafters. And it stank like a locker room with too many male bodies packed together. As a matter of fact, Lachlan only saw two other women. Buxom and nearly spilling out of their low-necked kirtles, he was certain they did more for the establishment than serve beer.

  It also seemed that every traveler in northern Scotland picked this alehouse and this time to call in for a bowl of pottage and a tankard. “It’s too crowded,” Lachlan grumbled as he led Christina to a table near the rear.

  “I’m going to sit up at the bar with Douglas,” said Andrew, already heading for the rowdy mob up by the barmaids.

  “Be ready to ride at any moment,” said Lachlan, holding a seat for Christina.

  She slid down and patted his hand. “Ye must calm yourself. There’ll be enough time for caution after we cross into the mountains. But near everyone kens the de Morays in Inverness. We’re still amongst kin.”

  Planting his ass in a seat with its back to the wall, Lachlan nodded and held up two fingers to a barmaid and made a spooning motion to indicate they wanted pottage as well. He’d been around long enough to know what to expect in a place like this; ale, a bowl of stew that had been hanging above the hearth’s fire for a week, and a crust of bread if they were lucky.

  “What supplies is Hamish buying? Didn’t we pack enough food?”

  “We need a spare wheel for the wagon and Malcolm didna have time to make one.” Her shoulder ticked up. “Besides, we always buy hazelnuts and a half-barrel of whisky for the journey. It keeps the clansmen happy.”

  “I’d be a lot happier if the men stuck to weak ale. The last thing we need is a retinue of soldiers pissed out of their minds.”

  “That word is horrible.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Lachlan apologized. “Perhaps I should have said in their cups.”

  “Och.” Christina accepted her ale and a bowl from the barmaid. “Ye still surprise me with your utterances.”

  Lachlan picked up his tankard and took a long swig. If nothing else, the bubbly beer served to quench his thirst. Over the rim of the cup, he watched as a big knight dressed in heavy mail and armed to the teeth pushed through the door, flanked by two burly guards.

  “Holy hell,” Lachlan mumbled.

  Christina looked back. Clapping her hand over her mouth, she sucked in a gasp. “My God,” she blurted. “That’s Robert de Vere, the Earl of Oxford.”

  “What the hell is—”

  “Andrew de Moray,” the knight bellowed in a deep bass.

  From his place at the bar, Andrew turned, his face blanching.

  “Nay!” Christina sprang to her feet.

  Lachlan lunged for her, but she slipped beyond his reach.

  In a flash, she stood before de Vere with her dainty fists on her hips. “Ye willna take my son. Ye will not!”

  “And I’ll not stand for a woman’s tongue lashing.” The brute raised his palm and gnashed his teeth.

  Anticipating de Vere’s downward strike, Lachlan caught the bastard by the wrist and twisted his arm up his spine. “Move away,” he hollered, to keep Christina from being hit.

  De Vere drew his sword with his free hand and hacked it in a backward arc. “I only want the boy.”

  Lachlan ducked. His grip firmly twisting the knight’s arm, he reached up with one lightning-fast countermove and forced the blade from de Vere’s grip. The weapon clattered to the floorboards. Gritting his teeth and lunging to the side, he took the earl down.

  The sound of swords hissing through their scabbards shot through his ears. An uproar of bellows filled the alehouse as an all-out brawl erupted.

  Pouncing on top of his quarry, Lachlan slammed his fist across de Vere’s jaw. “Andrew will take his place beside King Robert.”

  “Nay.” The man threw a brutal fist with gauntleted fingers. Lachlan pulled back, but the iron cut through the flesh on his jaw like he’d been hit with a set of brass knuckles.

  Lachlan threw another punch and pinned the man to the floor while bodies careened around him. “You’ve fucked with that lad’s head long enough. You’ll take him over my dead body.”

  “That can be arranged.” De Vere bucked.

  Lachlan flicked his wrist, letting a dagger slip into his palm. He pressed the razor-sharp blade right on the man’s jugular. “Call off your men. Andrew’s staying with us.”

  The man bucked and squirmed.

  Lachlan pushed the knife hard enough to draw blood. “I’m a hair’s breadth away from sending you to hell. Call the bastards off.”

  The man stopped struggling while his black eyes squinted. “Will ye grant me quarter?”

  “Aye.”

  “Enough,” de Vere bellowed loud enough to be heard by the entire burgh.

  “Halt,” Lachlan ordered, his tone every bit as commanding. If only he could look for Christina, but doing so would seal their fates. He twisted the knife a bit more. “Why are you here?”

  De Vere snarled. “’Tis time for the lad to present before the Bruce.”

  “Ye kent that?” Christina’s voice rang out as her slippers pattered the floorboards. Thank God, she was all right.

  “Word came Christmas last,” said the English knight.

  “Spies,” she uttered. “But why come for him now?”

  “The lad is my squire. I am a goddamned earl, for Christ’s sake. It makes sense.” He tried to jerk free, but Lachlan kept him pinned. “Think on it, my lady. Andrew could marry my daughter—it would strengthen the bond between England and Scotland.”

  Christina shot a wary look toward Lachlan. “It would give ye access to northern lands.”

  “I’ve heard enough.” Lachlan pushed the knife like he might make good on his threat. “Andrew de Moray is my squire now. You have no claim over the lad. You kept him alone in a chamber for six years and then forced him into indentured servitude—a lad who is a baron in his own right.”

  The earl snorted. “I was only teaching the boy respect, seeing if he’d turn out any good.”

  Liar.

  Christina gasped, slipping a hand over her mouth. “What would ye have done if he were sickly?”

  De Vere’s eyes grew darker. “Unhand me. Ye vowed ye would show quarter.”

  Lachlan pressed down hard, making sure the man knew not to try anything. “Walk out of here and do not look back. You have no claim on Andrew de Moray, nor do you have any claim to his lands.” Easing to his feet, he stared at de Vere, though he could see everything through the periphery of his vision.

  De Vere made a show of wiping his neck and looking at the blood smeared across his fingertips before he stood and beckoned his men. As he strode out the door, he stopped and turned. “Ye have not seen the last of me.”

  The door slammed shut.

  Christina grasped Lachlan’s arm. “Why in God’s name did ye allow that blackguard to live?”

  “I gave him my word.” He looked to Andrew and met the lad’s gaze. Right now, being true to his honor and his word was more important than killing a bully. True, de Vere was a powerful man, but he hadn’t had the benefit of learning to fight in the twenty-first century. Lachlan had overcome the knight because of technique and because he wore a leather couton rather than an eighty-pound hauberk. He might
not be able to convince any medieval man of his reasoning, but he’d just saved lives and, moreover, kept Andrew from being captured, yet again.

  “From now on I’m in charge of this retinue and we stop when I say stop.” He thrust his finger toward Andrew. “And you will keep your horse in formation. Am I understood?”

  “Aye, sir.” Andrew rubbed his palms on his chausses. “Did ye ken de Vere’s daughter is only eleven?”

  “Jesus Christ.” Lachlan threw up his hands.

  “But what he said makes sense in a way. Would it help to bring peace on the border if I…if I?”

  “No.” Lachlan sliced his hand through the air.

  “Absolutely not,” Christina agreed. “There are many Scottish noblewomen for ye to wed and ye shouldna be thinking about marrying anyone until ye are a grown man of five and twenty at the youngest.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  When Christina opened her eyes, it was still dark. As usual when she traveled with her retinue, she slept beneath the wagon covered by a tarpaulin. So many things warred through her mind, sleep had been slow to come. She’d heard the guard change a few times and slept some, but still, she worried.

  Holy saints, they were so much safer behind Ormond Castle’s walls. As soon as she’d left the fortress, something awful had happened. De Vere knew she and Andrew would be traveling to Stirling. He even knew that King Robert had given her a year to turn the boy into a Highlander. That meant there must be spies at even the highest levels of the kingdom. Did she have a spy in Avoch? If so, who could it be?

  Nothing bad had happened since she’d gone home. Lachlan had even taken Andrew into the mountains without attack. Had anyone at that time been aware that Andrew was not behind Ormond Castle’s bailey, they would have attacked, God forbid. Indeed, with only the two of them, the pilgrimage would have been an ideal time to kidnap the lad. Something must have changed over the course of the summer. Did Boyd’s visit tip the earl off? Though she trusted Sir Boyd, his movements around Scotland would be news everywhere he went. How long had de Vere been in Inverness and how determined was the earl to place his hands on her son and her land?

  The man would risk his life. King Edward must be offering an enticing reward for certain. Why did Lachlan not run his blade across the blackguard’s throat when he had the chance? I do love that man, but he is far too generous. His benevolence borders on heedlessness.

  Christina rolled to her back and pressed her hands over her eyes. Though she didn’t understand Lachlan all the time, for the most part she’d been overjoyed with his compassionate generosity. The first time she’d seen him, he saved her from ruination without a weapon. He used his fists and she doubted he had killed a single one of those English varlets.

  But I do not agree with his leniency toward the Earl of Oxford.

  She did, however, agree with his decision to take command. She had underestimated the danger they were in and Lachlan had sensed it all along.

  When something rustled beyond the wagon, she sat up and parted the canvas. Dawn cast dark blue shadows over the clearing and her gaze immediately shifted to where Andrew had bedded down for the night. Her heart flew to her throat as she burst through the shroud. “Andrew!”

  Before she reached the empty bedroll, the entire camp stirred to life. Lachlan dashed ahead of her, dropped to his knees and flung back the plaid. “The bed is cold.” His gaze shot around the clearing. “Everyone had a turn at guard, who saw him?”

  The men stood around as if dazed, scratching their heads.

  “Come on. I do not have time to interrogate you one by one. I took the first watch and he was sleeping like a bairn when I was relieved.” Lachlan pointed. “Grant, you followed me. What happened on your watch?”

  “The same, sir. Andrew was there when I unrolled my blanket.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” said Alexander, barely older than Andrew. “He passed me during my watch. Said he needed to take a piss.”

  Christina covered her mouth with her palm, her entire body numb. “Did he return?”

  “I dunna recall. The next thing I remember, Hamish shook my shoulder and said it was his turn.”

  “Fuck!” Lachlan swore, batting at a tree branch. “Hamish—check for tracks. Now. Alexander, how long ago was your watch?”

  “Must have been after the witching hour, but with the clouds, I couldna see the moon.”

  “Jesus Christ, where’s a goddamn clock when a man needs one?” Lachlan threw up his hands. “Break camp. We ride before we eat.”

  “His horse is gone,” said Hamish returning from the wood. “And the tracks are too thick to make hide nor hair of them. The only thing I can read for certain is he wasna alone.”

  Christina wrung her hands. “No, Hamish. Ye’re one of the best trackers in the Highlands—ye must make out something.”

  “Nay, we’re camped in the drovers’ pass.” The man-at-arms shook his head. “A herd must have gone through yesterday, ’cause the tracks are thick and muddy. Even a seer couldna read them.”

  Lachlan threw his tied bedroll over his shoulder. “Can you tell anything? Where are they heading?”

  “The same direction we are at the moment.”

  “That’s it.” Lachlan pointed to Alexander and another of the younger men. “You two take this godforsaken wagon back to Avoch. We’re riding and we’re riding hard. Every man tie a parcel of food to his saddle. Hamish—how many miles to Stirling?”

  “Over a hundred, give or take.”

  “What are ye thinking?” asked Christina after she fetched an enormous leather-wrapped roll stuffed full of God knew what.

  Lachlan looked her in the eye. “De Vere aims to grow richer. I’m convinced his plan all along was to use Andrew to get his hands on your lands.”

  “Ye dunna think Andrew…” her voice trailed off. Surely Andrew hadn’t willfully gone with them. She cast her mind back to the alehouse. He’d sat at the bar with Douglas. But the place was packed full. Did a de Vere man slip a message to her son?

  Lachlan’s face turned ashen. “He said marrying de Vere’s daughter made sense.”

  Christina’s stomach sank to her toes. “I dunna believe it. By the saints, I will never believe it.”

  ***

  For four days they rode hard through the drovers’ glens. Lachlan had never been so frustrated in his life. The highway, as everyone called it, was nothing more than rutted tracks pummeled by hooves and wagon wheels. Thank God he’d made the decision not to bring the wagon. With winter coming on, the cart could have slowed them down by days. They’d even weathered a snowstorm. True, he’d spent a few miserable months when fighting in Afghanistan, but that was nothing compared to the hardship of crossing the Cairngorms in December.

  A muscle in his neck needled him with such an annoying knot, it felt someone had stabbed it with a sharp rock. He hadn’t had a chance to inspect his toes for frostbite, but medieval shoes had nothing on a pair of mountain climbing boots. They were thin and handmade. Every one of them could have frostbite. Bloody hell, the soles of his ankle boots were made from nothing but woven hemp. He needed a hot shower and a soft bed. So did Christina, dammit. All the while, she’d ridden along without a word of complaint, aside from her concern for her son.

  How much more could she be expected to take? And honestly, Lachlan couldn’t be sure if the boy had willfully joined de Vere or if he’d been kidnapped. If he went with his gut, he’d say Andrew hadn’t jumped ship, but there had been no cries for help, no signs of struggle.

  It was late afternoon when Hamish approached in the distance. During their march, the old guard had been scouting ahead for signs of horses with larger prints than the Highland garron ponies. He’d found many along the way, which meant de Vere was heading toward Stirling. What they all feared was he’d veer off course and head for the eastern seaboard—according to Hamish, the only place they could manage to do that in the middle of the mountains was after they’d crossed through the glens.

  This time, the man-
at-arms cantered his horse with a bit more urgency than usual. Lachlan and Christina spurred their horses and met him ahead of the retinue. “Finally, they’ve veered off the path.”

  Tugging on her reins, Christina slowed her horse to a walk. “Just as ye expected.”

  “Not quite.” Hamish rounded his mount between them. “I thought they’d turn and head toward Montrose, but they’re taking the shortcut to Stirling.”

  “Shortcut?” Lachlan asked.

  “Aye, ’tis steep with hairpin turns, but it cuts a half-day off the drovers’ path.”

  Christina ran her reins through her fingers. “Why would he be heading to Stirling? He has what he wanted.”

  Lachlan looked up the mountain. “Not everything. Boyd said a truce was declared upon the exchange of prisoners for Queen Elizabeth. I reckon de Vere is going in for the kill.”

  “My God. Do ye think he’ll try to assassinate the king?”

  “No—sorry, that was a figure of speech. The earl said himself he’s after the de Moray lands. My guess is he has a plan he thinks is foolproof.” Lachlan glanced to Hamish. “Can you take Lady Christina and the guard into Stirling?”

  “Of course I can.”

  “I dunna think I like the sound of that,” said the lady. “What are ye planning?”

  “I aim to make sure they don’t arrive at the castle before you.”

  “And Andrew?”

  “He’s my number one concern.” Lachlan motioned to Grant to ride in beside him. “Look, I reckon they have someone doubling back to keep an eye on our progress. If you continue on to Stirling as planned, they’ll think we missed their diversion. I want you to ride by Lady Christina in my place. Anything happens to her and you’ll answer for it. Understood?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  He steered his horse near enough to grasp Christina’s hand and ply it with a kiss. “Stay the course. I’ll see you in Stirling.” Then he tipped his chin toward Hamish. “Come, show me this trail and draw me a wee map.”

  ***

  The days were too bloody short this time of year and it was almost dark when Lachlan gazed down on de Vere’s camp. The earl had a relatively small retinue. Lachlan counted sixteen, but that didn’t surprise him. He hobbled his horse before slipping down the hill on foot, careful to step lightly and avoid snapping twigs.