by E. B. Brown
Safety, love, and peace – they were all things that drove her to find an escape, yet with each passing day, another sliver of hope dissolved. Looking at his face, seeing his tight mouth set against his jaw and his almond shaped blue eyes squinting against the sun, she wished they could just keep walking and somehow their peace could continue. If they kept walking, she could forget that she was betrothed to Laird McMillan – or that Dagr was Malcolm’s loyal servant.
“I think I would like your mother and sister.”
“I know they would like you,” he replied.
She smiled.
“And I think you would find my cousins amusing,” he continued. She could see his face relax and his smile turned genuine as he described his extended family to her. He snorted when she told him she did not believe his great-uncle was Chief of All Powhatan People, and he laughed when she questioned if he really knew how to fish with his hands. His tales of his time intrigued her, however, and she listened intently as he described such wondrous things as frame houses and oil-lamps lining the cobblestone streets.
“Did the Powhatans make all those things?” she asked.
“Some. Many things come from the English. I suppose my family is different, even in my time. We are the only Norsemen with Powhatan blood that live with the English that I have ever heard of.”
She giggled, but when she saw how his smile faded and his eyes dimmed, she suddenly realized how much he missed his kin. He reached out with a fist and grabbed her rein, stopping her mount beside his.
“Do you miss them?” she asked softly.
“I should miss them. I do miss them. I know I must return to them,” he replied. She touched his cheek gently with her fingertips, turning him to face her when it seemed he would not.
“I can see that you miss them.”
“Yet if I can stay here, beside you, then that is what I will do. I will think of them and miss them,” he said, placing his hand over hers, “but when I think of where I want to be, I know it is here at your side. I can imagine no other future.”
They came upon a pool of water enclosed by flat rocks. It was a secluded area she heard the men speak of, a place where they could swim away from the castle. Although she was not dressed for the occasion and there was still a nip of breeze in the air, the ledge jutting out over the water was inviting. She had not been in the loch since she was a child, instead taking her baths as every other lady did inside the castle in a tub. It was a chance she might never have again. With a rush of ill-advised spirit, she unlaced her overdress, letting it fall into a heap on the ground as Dagr stared at her.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
She bit back a giggle. Since she was still wearing a considerable amount of clothes she did not feel shy in front of him, but when his eyes met hers it caused a warmth to flush over her skin. She swallowed back the swell of nervousness and kneeled on the flat rock. If she jumped from the spot, surely, it would make a large splash.
“Come on. Let’s jump,” she called out.
“Skye, I don’t think –”
She ignored his objection and darted off the ledge, holding her arms over her knees as she hit the water with a shriek. She sank quickly to the bottom, thrusting her feet beneath her to propel herself back to the surface. The shock of cold water left her skin numb and she squealed as she felt two strong hands close over her shoulders and haul her upward.
“By the Gods, Skye! It’s too cold for these games!” he snapped. He pulled her into his arms where he held her close, and although he appeared angry, she suspected he was somewhat amused.
“I’ll never have another chance!” she shot back. Her teeth chattered through her smile. Surely he would understand. He knew better than anyone else how much she did not wish to marry Malcolm, yet with each passing day it seemed more inevitable. He shook his head as if to chastise her, and suddenly she was aware of the slickness of his damp skin against hers. Despite the cold, his body was warm where they were joined. Her thin cotton chemise clung to her flesh, her cheeks burning when she followed his heated gaze. His soft blue eyes drifted down between them where her breasts were pressed up against his chest. He had not enough time to shed all his clothes, his breeches still a barrier between them in the water, which in hindsight, she considered was a good idea.
“You will,” he said quietly.
“My life will be over. I’ll be his wife soon,” she whispered. His eyes met hers, and she was struck by the sadness in his face. His gaze caused an ache in her belly, her pulse throbbing madly despite the gravity of the situation.
“You will not be his wife,” he murmured.
“I see no other choice,” she shot back.
“You know I willna let ye marry him,” he said. She could feel her heart thudding through the wet cloth of her shift, her skin warm against his where his flesh pressed into hers.
“Then tell me again, for I am afraid,” she whispered. One of his hands twisted up into her hair, and he tipped her head back as he gazed into her eyes. Her lips parted with a tiny gasp as his mouth covered hers, seeking a response that burned deep in her core. Slow and sweet at first, then with budding demand, she arched up closer to him and felt him shudder.
“I will find a way,” he murmured.
One of his hands slid downward and settled on her lower back, pulling her closer. She abruptly realized what would happen if they continued. From his own admission, he was experienced in such matters, yet she was painfully aware she was not. This was no untried man who held her, nor was his body that of a youth as Malcolm was. Dagr was firm and broad, his muscles tensed, his fingers pressing firmly into her skin. A surge of ache surfaced deep in her belly at the connection, her heart pounding at the thought of what he could do to her.
With a few tender kisses their embrace turned heated, his mouth crashing down on hers with increased fervor. It was as if he moved inside her soul, and then suddenly he clutched her close and buried his face in her hair.
“Dagr?” she whispered. He shook as he held her, but he would not let her draw away. His voice finally emerged, grated and hoarse against her ear.
“We need to leave,” he said. “Go. Get dressed. I’ll fetch the horses.”
“I’m not ready to leave yet,” she replied. Her body ached to finish what they had started.
He took her face into his hands, swallowing hard before he spoke.
“Aye, nor am I. But if we don’t go now, I’ll forget my honor.”
She moved away from him and climbed out of the water as she tried to control her pounding heart. Her clothes were next to the horses, who sat grazing peacefully without giving the humans any notice.
The call of the hunters echoed through the woods, traveling down into the cove where they dressed. Dagr gave her a knee up, and they rode in silence together back towards Castle Dunloch.
Chapter 5
Dagr
IN THE DIM LIGHT of the great hall, Skye threw her head back, exposing the pale skin of her throat as she laughed. Her golden-brown hair streamed down her back, her cheeks flushed like perfect round cherries while she spoke with Kanor. Sitting next to Malcolm, Dagr’s hands tightened into fists and he clamped his jaw tight. He hated seeing her smile at the Norseman or any other man, for that matter, but he especially despised the way Kanor stared back at her, as if he meant to devour her in one gulp.
If he did not act soon, he would lose what was left of his good sense to the grip of jealousy. Dagr had always been the one to keep his head in stressful situations, calm and collected no matter what the obstacle. Yet with Skye, everything was different. In her presence, he lost every bit of self-control he possessed. The urge to hold her, to keep her safe by his side – it smoldered inside his chest, surging up to consume his every rational thought. Clenching his fists until he knew his hands bled, he tore his gaze away from her. If only they could return to that time when she belonged only to him, when they walked together in the glen and the reality of the present time seemed a distant me
mory.
It was time. Damn Malcolm and his threats – Dagr must tell him the truth.
“I need a word with you,” Dagr said.
He sat forward in his chair, listening to the murmur of celebration as the McMillan Clan enjoyed the spoils of the hunt. His thoughts were distracted by Skye’s presence, and after spending the afternoon with her, he did not feel much inclined to focus on his duties to Malcolm. Although Malcolm seemed blissfully unaware of anything but his own desires, Dagr feared his youngest brother might never see reason. The young Laird was stubborn in his resolve to be a leader above all else, even if it meant sacrificing the happiness of two people he purported to love.
When Malcolm wished to return to their time, he would. Until that day, there was nothing Dagr could do to change his mind. Life in the castle did not change, and there were still many people who depended on Malcolm to govern them. There were families who needed protection, a castle to keep, and a betrothal that Malcolm eagerly awaited.
“Oh? What is it?” Malcolm replied absently.
Dagr cleared his throat.
“You need to consider returning home. Enough of this place. You have enemies here that you do not even see.”
“Oh, do I? And are ye my enemy, or do you stand by my side?”
“You are my brother,” Dagr replied, aware that he appeared annoyed.
Malcolm stood up when Skye walked into the Great Hall. When she took a spot alone by the wall, his first reflex was to leave his chair next to Malcolm and go to her. Yet with a glance around the hall he could see the men were watching him; they trusted Dagr no more than they trusted Malcolm. He only wondered how long before the situation came to a head.
“Speak, then,” Malcolm said, his eyes fastened on Skye.
“I ask you to go home with me,” Dagr said.
Malcolm stood up abruptly from his chair, his dark brows narrowed over his eyes.
“You ask what I am not willing to give. I am quite comfortable here in this life, brother. It wounds me that you do not wish to stay, but if you insist on leaving, I shall allow you to go.”
Dagr briefly wondered what Malcolm had been plotting behind his back. He recognized that self-assured smile, the confident grin. Malcolm thought he was ahead of the game, yet it was difficult to watch his brother carry on when Dagr could clearly see how the game would end. From the canny glances Angus Cameron shot his uncle Ian, to the way they whispered amongst themselves in the corridors, Dagr knew the young Laird McMillan had powerful enemies.
“I canna leave without her,” Dagr said. He left the statement as it was. Malcolm could not be so dense as to misinterpret it, no matter how blindly he thought he was infatuated with Skye. Dagr gave him a moment to consider it before he continued. Enough was enough.
“Without Skye, you mean?” Malcolm slowly replied.
“Yes. I will not leave without Skye. Release her from this sham of a betrothal. Do the right thing,” Dagr said.
Malcolm responded with a slight dip of his head toward him, the edge of his mouth tight in what might have been a grin.
“Gareth,” Malcolm called out. The young Highlander approached the dais, darting a glance at Dagr.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Talk to Angus Cameron. I see he has removed his camp from our lands and it appears he will withdraw tonight. Tell him I would see him in my study – after I speak with my betrothed, of course.” Malcolm drained his cup and left it sitting on his chair, watching as Gareth left to carry out his orders. “Excuse me, brother. I have duties to attend to.”
The conversation was over. Dagr ran a hand through his hair, the frustration smoldering in his chest.
What else could he do? Dagr had stayed by Malcolm’s side and tried to support him in the life he choose. There was nothing he could do to make Malcolm return home, but must that mean that Dagr was trapped in the past as well? Even worse, must he stay in a place where his brother reigned as Laird and watch in silence as Malcolm married the woman Dagr loved? Surely, even as one who would someday be Chief Protector, it was too much to ask a man to endure.
Dagr reminded himself that he was not yet Chief Protector. That was a title bestowed upon a first-born son on the death of his father, one title per bloodline. Although Dagr knew what his duty would someday be and he welcomed the honor, Winn still lived and Dagr was not bound yet by those vows.
All he had was his honor as a man and as a brother. It was because of Skye that he refused to believe it was out of his hands. The stubborn side of him felt anger at Malcolm for altering her timeline, yet the rationale side reminded him if Malcolm had not done so, Dagr would never have met Skye. He was through being his brother’s lackey, but he still had hope Malcolm would see reason; no Time Walker had the right to change the past. Time Travel was not a weapon to be wielded by weak men. It was a gift, an honor, and the power must be protected at all cost.
Yes, Malcolm had broken the rules. Dagr should punish him, drag him back to their true time, do all the things that a Chief Protector would do. Yet in his despair Dagr was loathed to admit he could not truly hate his brother, because truth be told – even if Dagr could change it, he would not.
Chapter 6
Skye
THE SCENT OF CHARRED boar filled the hall, thick and salty in the smoke of the fire. It was a good hunt and the people anticipated enjoying the spoils, celebrating in the hall as they awaited the spoils. Although Skye had not eaten all day, she had no appetite. The only thing she could focus on was getting her hands on Kanor’s dagger. It had been about ten minutes since she slipped the tincture in his cup of ale. She idly sipped her drink, watching from her seat in a cubby along the wall. In her hand she twirled her quill, letting it fall away from the drawing of a raven she had been working on.
“Did you enjoy the hunt, Lady Skye?”
She resisted the urge to pull her arm away when Malcolm placed his hand on her elbow and sat down beside her. Clearing her throat, she nodded.
“Of course, my lord. It was most entertaining,” she replied.
Malcolm smiled, his skin flushed on his neck and cheeks. Skye tilted her head curiously at him, stealing a glance. He was certainly different from the boy she once knew. This adult Malcolm was an enigma, a man she could not decipher no matter how much she tried. Although he led the McMillans with what many said was a spoiled stubbornness, there were times when Malcolm displayed a gentle, almost boyish disposition. If the situation had been different, she might not have objected to their marriage. Despite her attempts to flee, Malcolm did not treat her harshly, and she wanted to believe that he meant her no ill will. Most men in his position would have taken her actions as an insult, and she would have suffered dearly for it.
Yet the man beside her ducked his chin when he noticed her gaze, a crooked grin twisting the edge of his mouth.
“I see your uncle and cousin have broken camp. Did you know the Cameron men were leaving?”
“No,” she replied. It was an honest answer. She avoided speaking with her kinsmen at all costs. Angus was spiteful, and he would take any excuse to throttle her if she gave him any more cause.
“Hmm,” Malcolm muttered. The young Laird glanced away, searching the room. “And Kanor Bystrom? I saw ye speaking with him in the courtyard yesterday. What matters does he bother ye with?”
Malcolm’s voice was tinged with a level of annoyance. It unsettled her since he was always careful to mind his temper with her. Even when she had tried to flee and break their betrothal he had remained calm with her, trying to mend the mistrust between them before they were wed. She wondered if it was a glimpse of the man he truly was.
“It was nothing, my lord. Only idle conversation,” she explained. Malcolm uttered a coarse grunt.
“I think ‘tis time ye use my name. Soon you will be my wife. There is no need for such formality, my dear.”
Skye bit her lower lip, nodding. He closed his hand over hers, his eyes shifting to the parchment in her lap.
“A bird? S
hould I hunt for game with wings next time to please you?” he commented. Malcolm picked up her drawing, studying it with a raised brow before he handed it back to her.
“’Tis a raven,” she murmured. “And the boar is quite fine, I assure ye.”
“A raven? Ah, I see.”
“It’s only a silly drawing,” she replied, moving to take it from him. He handed it back, closing his hand over hers. The roar of celebration in the hallway seemed muted as he stared at her, his soft eyes searching for something she could never give him. She knew what Malcolm wanted from her. She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it firm.
“It’s beautiful,” he said quietly. “It reminds me of my mother. She carried a raven figurine with her when she met my father, and she kept it for all her days.”
Skye stopped trying to pull away. Unease trickled like ice through her veins.
“Your mother?” she asked. She did not want to hear the answer, not really, but suddenly everything rushed into place. The questions in her mind fused together, pieces of a riddle she thought would never make sense. Why was Dagr so loyal to Malcolm?
“Yes. I miss her sometimes, I suppose,” he replied. He suddenly sat up straight, as if he caught himself, and started to rise. “’Tis no matter. Should I fetch ye some ale, or a trencher, my dear?”
She swallowed hard. “Would ye talk to me for a few moments? I would like to know ye better before … before we are wed.”
When Skye grabbed his hand, he looked down briefly and smiled. He immediately sat back down, closer than before.
“Of course. Anything you ask. I – I wish to know you better, as well,” he said.
She realized she was gripping his hand too tightly when her fingers felt numb. The truth of the betrayal pounded in her head, taunting her. No, she thought, the two men did not look alike. Dagr was the picture of what he described his father to be – dark complexioned, tall and muscular, with straight black hair in a braid down his back. Malcolm must take after their mother, who she knew to be fair skinned and red-haired. Perhaps she was from the McMillan line, which Skye guessed accounted for Malcolm’s eerie resemblance to Duncan McMillan’s long-lost son.
