Lachlan (Immortal Highlander Book 1): A Scottish Time Travel Romance
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“We dinnae ken, Mistress Tally,” Lachlan said as he passed the old woman. “Heat some wash water, and brew a calming blend with some honey. She’s had a shock.”
“Ye’re keeping her, milord? Here?” the cook called after him.
“See to your work, Meg,” Raen told her before he followed the laird into the main hall.
Lachlan had no intention of handing off the drenched, half-naked lass who had saved his life to anyone else. As he crossed the hall his clansmen parted to make way, but as he reached the steps to his tower chamber he could feel their eyes and hear their mutters.
The short, stocky form of Neacal Uthar stepped into his path, his usual cheerful grin not quite reaching his eyes. “Stay and drink with us, Laird. Meg and the maids can tend to the wee lass before she’s sent back to her kin.”
The clan’s armorer and sword master, Neacal also served as the chieftain of the Uthar tribe, who numbered one in every five among the clansmen. As such Neacal answered to no one but Lachlan, and held great sway over the clan. Keeping on his good side was one of Lachlan’s perpetual aims, so he made no reproof for the unsubtle warning.
“Aye, but I owe her my life, and I’ll thank her for it when she awakes.”
“As you’ll have it, then,” Neacal said and nodded. He rubbed a hand across his bald head, and turned to toss a gauntlet onto the huge table where the men sat eating. Both arms sported huge tattoos of hammers that flexed with his muscles. “Break out the whiskey, lads. We’ve a victory to toast.”
At the top of the tower stairs Raen reached the door to Lachlan’s chamber before him, and opened it. “Neac’s right, my lord. ’Tis no’ your work.”
“And ’twas it hers to save my hide?”
He carefully lowered her on his bed. His savior’s long, slender form and gilded golden hair looked exotic against the plain weave of the linens, as if she deserved instead to be wrapped in silks. Her pretty lips looked a little swollen, which had been his doing. He’d meant to give her a kiss of gratitude, but tasting the lush sweetness of her mouth had made him go daft with woman hunger.
Raen came to stand beside him, his shadow stretching long and wide across the still, sodden form on the bed. “She’s no’ awakened, then?”
Lachlan shook his head and bent over her. She hadn’t stirred once since they’d left the battlefield, but when he touched her neck the steady thrum of her heart danced under his fingertips. He breathed in her scent, which even after being doused in rain and mud smelled of strange flowers.
“Talorc shouldnae have coshed her so,” he muttered. The feel of the soft, thin skin over her delicate bones made his jaw set. “She’s all but a wisp.”
“Doubtless his spleen prodded him. Evander has but two names for females: hoor, or hoor.” Raen gave the woman a perplexed look. “What is this she wears now?”
Lachlan straightened and inspected what there was of her only garment. From her collarbones to her thighs it clung to her, pale and thin as noble linen, but it had not been dyed or worked with colored thread. The tiny, flowerish marks on it seemed to be stained into the very stuff of the cloth.
“I cannae say,” he said and plucked at the strings knotted at the back of her neck. “I’ve naught seen the like. Appears to be tied on her.”
“Seems finely made,” his bodyguard said as he touched the blade-straight hem. He turned it up to reveal dense needlework of perfectly uniform stitches that appeared to have no beginning or end. “A bodice, donned in haste, mayhap? Or some new manner of mantle?”
“Aye,” Lachlan said, “but would she scamper about without kirtle or drawers?” He gently rolled her to her side to expose the three ties on the back. As he did he saw the odd white and blue strip encircling her left wrist. “Look at this cuff.”
They discovered they could not unlatch the strange, tight bracelet, which had tiny English letters and numbers stained on it like the flower pattern of the woman’s garment. It felt like painted parchment, so Lachlan cut it off with his dagger. Once he flattened it he was able to read the words.
“‘Chandler, Kinley, CPT.’ Kinley would be her given name, I think, and Chandler her surname. Or she might be a slave, owned by a candle-maker.” He turned the flimsy strap and tried to sound out the last four letters. “You-saff?”
“Sounds Moorish,” Raen said. He frowned and nudged up one of the gown’s tiny sleeves. “My lord, she’s marked. Could she be one of ours?”
The inked design on Kinley Chandler’s arm had been fashioned with colors more vivid than any Lachlan had ever seen, and were far more intricate than any known to his kind. The red, blue and black art showed a stylized bird clutching a banner. Beneath the starred and striped design had been written two more odd words.
“Aff-sock. You-saff again,” Lachlan said. “And such skinwork, there never was.” He met Raen’s troubled gaze. “Ken you any mortal clans by such names?” When his bodyguard shook his head, he tried to think of why the lass might have been inked. “Have the mortals given up branding yet?”
Raen shrugged. “She’s no’ a slave. Her hands are too soft.”
When his servants delivered a steaming ewer of tea and a mug of Meg’s brew, Lachlan told Raen to bring one of his semats as he stripped off Kinley’s wet gown to reveal her fetching, willowy body. As he gently washed the mud and gore from her flawless skin he felt desire pour hot and heavy through his veins. She had the loveliest breasts he had ever seen, high and ripe with dark pink nipples. All of her had been fashioned with long lines and sweet curves, from her delicate shoulders to the lyre of her hips. A neatly-trimmed thatch of gilded curls over her womanhood made his fingers itch to touch her there. His gaze reluctantly shifted from her sex to her right hip and thigh, which bore more tattoos.
Written along Kinley’s thigh the words “These things we do, that others may live” stretched in bonny, flowing script beneath a scattering of stars. Reading it on her skin made something twist in his heart. Above it on her flank a shield with a red-hilted sword sprouting golden wings had been inked, along with the words “Air Combat Command.” The final mark beneath the emblem seemed to be only more numbers.
“Fack me.” He felt completely bewildered now. Air combat? Surely the lass had appeared out of thin air, but how could she lead or fight in it?
Raen returned from his dressing room with the semat, and helped Lachlan ease Kinley into the old, soft shirt before they swaddled her with a warm woolen. The raucous sounds of the men celebrating in the hall below drifted into the room until the bodyguard went and shut the door.
“Mayhap I need this more than the lass,” Lachlan said and drank some tea.
Though he wanted to hover by the bed, he forced himself away. Instead he sat down in his great chair by the hearth to stare into the flames as he recalled everything that had happened from the moment he’d first seen Kinley Chandler. Raen offered to bring him food, which he refused, and then the bodyguard tended to the fire.
“She’s fashed me but good,” Lachlan said finally. “I cannae even tell if she’s Scots, Britanni or, Gods save us, a Norsewoman.” A thought occurred to him. “I spied her first by the stones. Do you ken the direction from whence she came?”
“I didnae see her until she ran at the undead, my lord.” His bodyguard hesitated before he added, “The fire she used to burn them, to me it looked as if…but I’m addled, surely. She must have thrown torches.”
“No, lad. The flames came from her hands. I saw it myself.” During his long life he had witnessed many outlandish things, but never the like of this woman. “She has skin like a newborn. Did you see? No’ a mark on her, anywhere.”
“’Tisn’t natural,” Raen said, sounding as grim as Lachlan felt. “We should watch her teeth.”
“If the legion turned her, she would never have attacked them, or saved me.” He rubbed his brow. “Tomorrow we’ll send word to the druids. Mayhap they can make some sense of her.”
His bodyguard glanced past him and tensed. “My lord.”
“Easy, lass.” Slowly he stood and held up one hand. “You’ve naught to fear. You’re safe now.”
Her lips thinned and her fists curled at her sides as she studied him from boots to brow. That she didn’t believe him showed plainly in her narrowed, thunderstruck eyes.
“I am Lachlan McDonnel, Laird of the McDonnel,” he said, keeping his voice as low and soft as he would with a spooked mare. “Tonight, on the battlefield, you saved my life. Do you remember it? I was cut off, and surrounded.”
Kinley’s gaze shifted to Raen.
“My bodyguard, Tharaen Aber.” He took a step toward her. “We dinnae mean you harm, Kinley Chandler.”
Hearing her name made her stumble backward until her shoulders hit the door. She spun about, fumbling with the latch pull before she wrenched it open and fled.
With a curse, Lachlan ran with Raen after her.
Chapter Four
DOWN IN THE great hall the celebration had reached a noisy pitch, which fell into utter silence as Lachlan came from the tower. Kinley stood by the great hearth and gaped at his clansmen, who looked just as confounded.
“Quiet, and dinnae touch her,” Lachlan warned. To her he said, “You’ve nowhere to run, lass. Come away with me now, and we’ll talk.”
She skittered away from him and whipped her head around as she sought a new direction.
“Kinley, look at me,” Lachlan said and felt a small sense of relief when she gave him her attention. “You’re among friends, I swear it.”
“Aye, sweetheart,” Neac said as he made a quick gesture, and a dozen men silently moved into positions around the hall’s exits. “We’re none of us blood-suckling bastarts.” When she eyed him he bared his teeth and fingered the blunt edges. “You see? No fangs.” He lifted his tankard. “We’re Scotsmen. We drink whiskey. Why, we’ve a ‘stillery on the island that makes such a malt, ’twould curl your hair and your toes.”
As Neac kept talking to her, Raen and Lachlan approached Kinley from behind, and exchanged a look before the bodyguard made a grab for her. Raen caught only air as she dropped to the ground and rolled over like a dormouse between them. Beyond them she came out of the ball, planted her feet and stood, all in one smooth motion. But as she dodged around the clansman guarding the north hall Lachlan lunged and finally caught her from behind. He clamped her back against him, then picked her up, writhing and screeching.
Tormod Liefson frowned at the laird. “Odin’s beard, but she’s a noisy one. Shall we fetch a more willing lover for you from among the house wenches, my lord?” He ducked as Kinley tried to kick him in the face. “Or there’s always good, strong rope.”
Neac slapped the brawny Norseman on the back of the head. “We’re no’ thieving, raping, murderous raiders, Tormod. Didnae you hear me before? We’re Scotsmen.”
Lachlan swore as Kinley latched onto his forearm with her teeth. “Raen. Some help.”
“Scotsmen? I’m a Viking.” Tormod’s expression grew baffled. “And you were painted savages who slaughtered my people, set fire to our settlement, and enslaved me.”
“’Twas our facking island first, you sun-bleached bawbag,” Neac countered.
Raen gripped Kinley’s jaw and squeezed it until she released the laird’s bleeding forearm, and then grabbed her flailing legs and held them by the ankles.
“Bloodthirsty little wench might as well be undead,” Tormod said, sounding almost admiring now. “As for you and yours, Uthar, when you weren’t out hunting and eating Scotsmen, you were stealing their women and their herds.”
“The lasses came willingly,” the chieftain said, shaking a thick finger at him. “And we only ever ate their cattle.”
“Upstairs,” Lachlan told his bodyguard as he backed toward the tower entry. “Easy now, lass.”
“I am not a lass, you son of a bitch,” Kinley said, her oddly-accented voice echoing through the hall, and silencing the men again. “I’m a captain in the United States Air Force.”
As the clan stared at her, Neac screwed up his face. “The United…where the fack is that now?”
“You let me go,” she demanded, “or so help me god I will find a way to escape, bring back a bomber wing, and blow this place to kingdom come.”
No one understood exactly what she meant, but the clan knew a heartfelt threat when they heard one. The men lifted their tankards and roared their approval.
By the time they carried her back into Lachlan’s chambers Kinley had threatened to do all manner of mysterious things. Once they put her on the bed Lachlan was obliged to pin her with his body weight while sending Raen to find some smooth cording that wouldn’t tear her flesh.
Kinley turned her face as far away from his as she could and still keep it attached to her neck. “Get off me or I’ll–”
“Castrate me with a blunt blade, and shove my bits down my men’s throats.” That much he’d understood. What Lachlan found fascinating was that Kinley had yet to use her flame-throwing power on him or any of his men. “If I am your enemy, faodail, then why would you save me in the grove?”
Her jaw tightened as she glared up at him. “Six on one isn’t fair, especially when the six are…whatever they were.”
“Undead,” he told her. “Creatures of the night that feed on the blood of mortals.”
“Jesus,” Kinley said and made a disgusted sound. “When do the Nazis and the Spartans show up?”
“If you dinnae believe what you saw,” Lachlan said, “then you burned them for naught.”
“They were going to kill you.” The hard line of her mouth eased a little. “You pushed too far ahead on your own. You should have stayed with your men.”
“Aye, but they can be slow, and me impatient.” He eased his grip on her wrists. “I thank you for my life, Kinley Chandler.”
Suspicion soured her expression. “How do you know my name?”
“’Twas written on the cuff you wore.” Lachlan had never heard anyone who had her exotic accent, and the strange words she used made him wonder if English was her natal language. Asking her about her origins, however, might only rile her into another frenzy. “Do you ken this place?”
“No, but I imagine my subconscious is decorating this coma.” Her gaze shifted to his chest briefly. “Or I could be having one of those all-night dreams that make you think you’re awake. Or it’s a very interesting afterlife.” She regarded him. “But I’m guessing none of the above.”
“This is Dun Aran, our castle on Skye.” When he didn’t see any change in her expression he added, “Skye is an isle off the coast of Scotland.”
“I know. My great-grandparents came from there.” She looked all around his chamber again. “I’m from San Diego.”
He had no idea where or what that place was. “What brought you here?”
She moved her shoulders. “Maybe I fell down a rabbit hole.” She turned her head as Raen came back, and saw the strips of silk in his fist. She glared at Lachlan. “You’re tying me up? Is that what you do to all your friends to whom you mean no harm?”
He didn’t care to have her bound. No, he wanted to send his bodyguard away, and strip the semat from Kinley’s lovely young body, and caress and kiss her until she begged him to have her. Between them his shaft swelled and stiffened, begging her to have him. From the way her eyes darkened she felt it, too.
“I cannae do as I wish,” Lachlan murmured to her. “But, oh, lass, if I could.”
“This is crazy,” she whispered. “I’ve known you like five minutes—and you kidnapped me.”
“Aye.” Lachlan curled his fingers around her wrist, and stretched o
ut her arm so that Raen could bind it to the bed frame’s tester. “I cannae have you dashing about the stronghold.” As soon as his bodyguard tied her other wrist he forced himself up and off, and covered her with the blanket. “We’ll talk more on the morrow. Try to sleep.”
Lachlan gestured for Raen to follow him into the hall. “Stay with her, but keep her bound, and tell her nothing.”
His bodyguard glanced back at Kinley. “Will you send for the druids, then, my lord?”
He knew he should, and he couldn’t think of a reason not to. Only the conclave could fathom something as enormous as Kinley’s fiery power, or what her appearance on the battlefield meant. At the same time he felt very protective of his bonny little savior.
“No’ yet, lad,” Lachlan said finally. “First we’ll see if we can tame her.”
Chapter Five
IN A REMOTE valley in the north of Scotland a different stronghold lay hidden beneath the earth. Built inside a series of immense limestone caves, the fortress housed the army that had quarried its stone walls, and excavated the miles of tunnels leading to and from it. Animals avoided its cleverly-camouflaged entries, as if they sensed that any living thing dragged into them would never emerge alive. The ruins around it perpetuated legends of entire settlements found deserted for twenty miles in every direction. Elders spun yarns about a merciless legion of invading Romans who had slaughtered the native tribes. But the Romans had been cursed by the ancient druids for their cruelty.
Such were the stories, and stories they remained. For those who met the pale demons by moonlight never returned to tell their tales.
The sound of boots crushing bones made Prefect Quintus Seneca look up from the old manuscript he studied. The ghastly noise came from one of the lower entry tunnels. Long ago it would have signified some new victory for Emperor Hadrian and Rome. Now, a thousand years later, it meant that some of the men of the Ninth Legion had returned. They had been sent to hunt the McDonnel clan but had to return before the killing rays of the sun found them.