Lachlan (Immortal Highlander Book 1): A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Hazel Hunter

  A hammering knock startled them apart, and the door to the chamber swung open as a very large, broad man came in.

  “My lord, Mistress Tally asks if she should…” The brawny man stopped in his tracks to stare at Kinley. “You’re Pritani?”

  She knew he was looking at the tattoo on her thigh, which the shirt didn’t quite cover. “No, sorry, Protestant. Who are you?”

  “Tormod Liefson, our land scout and map maker,” Lachlan said as he covered her bare legs with the blanket and climbed off the bed. “Tormod, meet Kinley Chandler, of San Diego.”

  The scout grunted and inclined his head as he stepped closer. “You fight well for a candle-making wench from Hispania.”

  “Thanks,” Kinley said but felt as if she’d dropped down a second rabbit hole. Tormod had white-blonde hair, icy blue eyes, and tattoos of his own. Scars slashed across his skin as if someone had tried to hack him to pieces with a hatchet. “I bet you fight well, too.”

  Chapter Nine

  JUST OUTSIDE THE sleepy mortal village Quintus reined in his horse, dismounted and hobbled his mount in a grassy field. Once he had donned a long, hooded cloak to conceal his pale skin and field armor, he approached the cluster of cottages. When he had first come to this barbaric land the tribes used slaves to work their farms and fields. Over the centuries the mortals had formed clans. Now powerful lairds ruled most of the country, and commanded the service of kin related by blood or marriage. Quintus often wondered if the cotters ever realized that they were still slaves, bound by a name instead of shackles.

  And what am I, if not bound by my oath?

  Bitterly he looked toward the east, where the sun he could never see again would rise in a few hours. Beyond the stand of pine and alder lay the sea he would have to cross, and so too Belgica and Germania, before he could reach his homeland. Even if Quintus found some manner in which he could travel solely by night, he had no reason to make the journey. The Rome he had known had long ago been overrun and conquered. The Emperor he had served, the Imperial Legate, his wife and children, and every other soul he had known had been dead for over a thousand years.

  All Quintus had left to live for was the Ninth Legion.

  He made his way through the shadows to the back of the cottage where he was to meet the legion’s spy. He could hear two voices speaking from within, however, and positioned himself by the open window to listen in.

  “The laird is a fool,” Evander muttered as he watched Fiona Marphee refill his goblet with dark wine. “He hasnae a thought for what I must do to keep the clan safe.”

  Fiona sat on the planked floor by his feet, and rested her chin on his knee as she gazed up at him, her heart-shaped face wistful. “You are the strongest man I ken, Master Talorc.” She curled her hand around his calf. “I ken you will manage this strange outsider wench who plagues you. I only wish I might give you some ease from your burdens tonight.”

  “That you will, my lass,” Evander said.

  He absently stroked her hair as he admired the bountiful curves swelling from her loosely-laced bodice.

  A talented weaver, Fiona spent most of her day indoors at her loom, which kept her skin milk-white. Her paleness made her amber-green eyes and russet curls striking. Yet her gentle, quiet nature pleased Evander just as much as her womanly curves.

  The first time he had seen Fiona buying fleeces at a crossroads market he’d been riveted by her beauty. He’d followed her back to her village to see her enter a modest, well-kept cottage surrounded by flowers and berry bushes. He’d watched for a husband or father for hours, convinced that such a lovely woman could not be unattached, but no one else came to the cottage. Each time he came to the village after that, he saw her in the street, or in the little yard outside her cottage, or delivering her wovens to the other villagers.

  Finding out who she was proved simple. Evander questioned a pair of plowmen drinking after their long day in the fields, and they’d explained much about the wench in their thick country brogues.

  “Tha’ cottage belong to Dougal Marphee, a weaver come from tha’ lowlands ten year back. No sons, poor devil, for tha’ wife died bearing their one bairn, Fiona. Dougal taught tha’ lassie all he knew before plague took him. You’d never ken it for looking at her.” The peasant cupped his hands against his chest to suggest Fiona’s large breasts. “But she’s a finer hand than her Da.”

  For a moment Evander thought of her small, pretty hands working on something other than a shuttle and loom. “Why does she live alone?”

  “No man wants tha’ cow,” the other plowmen said, and spat on the ground. “Too facking proud, tha’ one.”

  “Och, you’re a’ways flapping about Fiona since she wouldnae have you,” his companion said, and rolled his eyes at Evander. “Plenty of lads would wed her, but she willnae have them. Some reckon she fears birthing, the way it ended her ma.”

  Meeting Fiona was even simpler, as the McDonnels raised their own wool but sent it out to be woven. He had his shearers dye and send their finest fleeces to Fiona to have her weave tartans for the clan. When she sent word they were ready, Evander went in person to collect them. That went on for several weeks as he came to know her, and felt sure his other offer would not be rejected.

  “’Tis too much, Master Talorc,” she’d said when he’d come after sunset, and paid her twice her price. “I cannae accept.”

  “Half for the weaving,” he told her, “and the rest for a night in your bed.”

  Instead of slapping him or having hysterics Fiona had blushed and said, “I am no hoor, sir. In truth I’ve no’ yet lain with a man.”

  Evander silently cursed himself. Of course she’d be a virgin. At least she’d proven to be as modest as her manner. “Then keep it for your dowry.”

  Her russet curls danced as she shook her head. “I cannae marry. The midwife told me that bearing a bairn would kill me, as it did my Mam.” She handed him back half the coin, and looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “But if I could be with a man, Master, I would choose you.”

  He could have walked away from her, and left her to live her lonely, chaste, little life. But he wanted her more than breathing, and he knew himself to be the perfect lover for her.

  “I am no’ like other men, Fiona. The magic folk changed me.” He reached out and took her hands in his. “They gave me many gifts, but took from me in turn. I cannae ever again sire a bairn.”

  Her eyes went wide, and then the loveliest smile he’d ever seen lit up her sweet face. “Keep your coin, Master.” She brought his hands up to her face, and kissed each one. “Stay the night, and make me yours.”

  Evander had intended to spend only one night with her, to rid himself of his inconvenient lust. But Fiona had been fashioned for a man’s pleasure, and her shy responses fueled his desire for more. He stayed away from her for three weeks, and when he could bear no more he went to her in the middle of the night. He woke her, expecting tears or sulks, but Fiona had simply pulled off her nightdress and opened her arms. Evander taught her how to please him with every part of her body, and Fiona took to bed play as if she’d been born to be a courtesan. For the next year he stole away as often as he could to be with his mortal mistress, who surrendered herself to his desires completely, and yet asked nothing in return.

  Now as he looked down at Fiona, Evander felt the last of his ire evaporate. “Come here, lass. Your laces want untangling.”

  Her cheeks pinked adorably as she rose and perched herself on his strong thighs. As he slowly drew open her bodice, her large, ruddy nipples swelled around the hard nub, where she was especially sensitive. Evander watched her face as he fondled her, squeezing and stroking her ripe mounds until she uttered a helpless moan.

  “Oh, Master, oh, please.”

  She wriggled on his lap, agitated and eager, and squeaked when he lifted her in his strong arms and carried her over to her standing loom. Pushing her over the narrow, high bench where she sat to work, Evander lifted her skirts up over her broad, cur
vy buttocks, which were bare. He caressed her flank.

  “Where are your drawers, you wanton?”

  “I left them off today, Master,” she said as he reached between her thighs. “’Twas too hot.”

  “Or you were,” Evander said and worked his fingers against her soft, slick folds, circling her small, throbbing pearl. “Did you touch yourself today, wench? Is that why you’re so tender and wet?”

  “’Tis you, sir,” Fiona said, and moaned as he penetrated her with one long finger. “I’ve but to see you and I drench myself.”

  “You wicked little wench.”

  Evander took his hand from her to tear open his breeches and guide his thick, stiff penis to press against her. The first touch of her nether honey on his cockhead sent a surge of heat down his shaft, and he notched himself in her before he gripped her hips.

  She enveloped him with her heat and his balls tightened as the urge to thrust became unbearable. Crouching over her, he worked his cock deeper and reached for her soft, full breasts.

  “A man cannae resist such temptation. ’Tis time you learned that, wench.” He plowed deep, and Fiona pressed her mouth against the bench to muffle a cry. “And I shall teach you.”

  Evander grunted as he buried himself to his root in her, and then drew out to pump into her again. She tightened around him, and the bewitching clasp of her cunt drove him to madness. Beneath him her body shook with his powerful thrusts, and little whimpers escaped her lips as he tugged and gripped her bouncing tits. He could smell her sweetness now as she saturated his cock with her honey, and he played her nipples until she stiffened and cried out.

  The feel of Fiona’s fluttering pleasure on his cock nearly made Evander jet, but he tightened his jaw and held back, allowing her to know her full bliss before he drew out of her.

  “Attend me,” he said and held his glistening shaft as he watched her turn and drop down on her knees. “Open that pretty mouth for me, sweet wanton.”

  Fiona pushed back her hair, her bare breasts heaving as she looked up at him, her face flushed and her eyes drowsy with delight. Slowly she parted her lips, showing him the tip of her pink tongue.

  Evander moved so that his engorged cockhead shadowed her face. “I’ll have your mouth on me now, wench.” He adored the way her eyelashes shyly fluttered as she pressed her lips to the flaring ridge. “Open wider. Wider.” When she obeyed him he skewered her with his glistening dome, pressing in to slide against her tongue and into the satiny heat of her mouth. “’Tis good, aye. Suck my cock, and make me forget that facking Kinley Chandler.”

  Fiona closed her lips around him as he gripped a handful of her hair, and sucked lightly as he thrust deeper. He watched every flicker of emotion that crossed her face, and knew it excited her as much as him. She loved to be made helpless by him, and it brought out his dark desire to master her entirely. He knew she could taste herself on his cock as it stroked in and out, and seeing her suck him turned his need to come into a battle he always lost. Soon he was guiding her head, pushing her onto him as he went deeper and harder into her mouth, compelling her to take every inch.

  Evander felt the pressure building in his balls, but this time could not hold back the explosion of ecstasy. His body went rigid and jerked as the hard, fast spurts of his seed jetted past Fiona’s lips, filling her mouth. She swallowed and purred, sucking at him until he had no more to give her, and then caressed him with her tongue as she let him slide from her lips.

  When he felt sure of his legs, he scooped her up from the floor and kissed her lips, savoring the taste of his cream on her until he tasted salt and drew back to see the gleaming trails on her cheeks.

  “Why do you weep?”

  “’Tis so good to be yours, Master,” she said, and quickly swiped at her tears. “But I am selfish, and what hours we have seem so meager.” She rested her cheek against his shoulder and closed her eyes, her voice slurring. “If only every day and night I could be with you, in your bed, and slumber in your arms.”

  Bitterly he thought of Lachlan forbidding the clan to bring women outside the ranks of their trusted retainers to Dun Aran. Yet the laird had brought Kinley in without hesitation.

  “What we can have is only this,” he said quietly, “and only here.”

  Evander carried her into her bed, and lay holding her until she fell asleep. Leaving her tore at him, but he had already stayed too long. When he glanced back at his sleeping mistress, he felt the coldness in his heart return. He had accepted that he could never again take Fiona, or any woman, as wife. For the McDonnel women were a fleeting, temporary pleasure.

  The laird needed to be reminded of that.

  Quintus looked up as someone came out of the back of the cottage, and stepped away from the window and into the moonlight. “You’ve kept me waiting for an hour. Although I suppose watching you fucking was amusing.”

  “I’m glad you were entertained,” the legion’s spy said. “Now, shall we speak of Kinley Chandler?”

  Chapter Ten

  IT TOOK A week at Dun Aran for Kinley to give up waiting to wake up back in the hospital. She’d thought up and discarded a hundred other theories about why she had landed in fourteenth century Scotland. She’d even entertained the idea that she’d actually traveled back in time, but if she had, how could falling out of her wheelchair send her back eight centuries to another country? Shouldn’t there have been some kind of time machine involved?

  Whatever had happened to her, it seemed she would be stuck here for a while.

  Most nights when she slept—assuming she was actually sleeping—she dreamed of standing surrounded by the ancient stones in the oak grove. She’d watch the carvings on them glow with light, and wake up feeling vaguely frustrated, as if she was supposed to know or remember something, and couldn’t.

  Walking around whole and healed, on the other hand, felt amazing. She didn’t want that to end, and if that made her selfish and delusional, fine.

  The heavily-fortified castle appeared to be authentic, and from what she could see through the narrow windows, had been built in some sort of crater beside an enormous lake. In keeping with the era there was no electricity or running water, and what passed for lavatories made field latrines seem luxurious. Yet something warmed the hard stone floors, and took the chill out of the air even in the great hall. When the maid brought up washing water for her every evening, it was steaming hot.

  “How do they heat the water?” Kinley finally asked Raen.

  His smile bent the jagged lines of the gray lightning tattoos that covered half his face. He pointed down.

  “Beneath are hot springs that warm the castle. The maids draw buckets from the cellar wells we dug, where the water is close to boiling.”

  Meals were basic, yet well-prepared and, strangely, pretty healthy. For their mid-morning breakfast the cook served huge platters of oatcakes, vats of porridge and a thick, delicious soup called pottage. The second, bigger meal came in the afternoon, and included fresh fish, smoked or salted meats, vegetables, cheese and whole-grain breads, all skillfully flavored with herbs and sometimes garlic. The clan seemed to drink only whiskey, cider, or a very sweet beer they called mead, and had no idea what coffee or real tea was. Kinley stuck with the herbal brews the maids brought her, which seemed innocuous enough, or milk, which was so rich and heavy with cream that shaking it a few times would probably turn it into butter.

  The laird kept her in his tower chamber for several days, always guarded by Raen or Tormod, and casually questioned her several times about herself, her life, and how she came to Scotland. Since he wouldn’t believe her answers, Kinley remained vague or claimed she couldn’t remember. She could tell by the way he looked at her that he felt alternately frustrated and suspicious, but there was nothing she could do about that. He had to make up his mind whether to trust her or not.

  Although Kinley was tempted, she didn’t try to escape again. Through casual conversations with Raen and Tormod about the island, she learned that there
were only a few villages on Skye, and all of them were loyal to Lachlan. Transportation was scarce, and evidently only fisherman ferried people to and from the mainland. She also had to assume the entire world was also in the fourteenth century, with nice things like rampant disease, famine and political revolts. If she were to steal a boat, she was fairly sure she wouldn’t know how to sail it. Even on the chance that she could figure it out, once she reached the mainland, where would she go? A woman alone without money or contacts wouldn’t get very far.

  Making the best of the situation seemed her only recourse. She did ask Raen if he would take her for a walk outside, but he told her she had to dress for that.

  Clothing turned out to be her biggest problem.

  All Kinley had brought with her was her hospital gown, under which she’d been naked. Lachlan had been giving her some of his shirts to wear, which were so large they reached down to her knees. When she asked for some clothes of her own, both the laird and his bodyguard had gone off to consult with the castle’s chatelaine, Meg Talley, who sent back a pile.

  Kinley sorted through two floor-length dresses with wide, flowing sleeves, a knee-length shirt, a primitive corset, a wide belt and several undergarments so bizarre-looking that she wasn’t sure where they went or how to keep them there. There was also a long drape that went with a circular band for her head, and a huge, heavy tartan to be belted on top of everything.

  “Sorry, but none of this works for me,” Kinley told Lachlan as she handed back the huge pile of garments. “Women in my, ah, homeland have been liberated.” At his blank look she added, “We don’t dress like nuns anymore.”

  Raen looked slightly appalled. “They made you dress like nuns?”

  “It’s a figure of speech.” She patted Lachlan’s shoulder. “Find me a shirt and some pants. Socks and boots would be nice, too. My feet are freezing.”