by Brenda Joyce
Those warriors had been strange and different.
Claire shuddered. She didn’t want to think anymore, but she couldn’t stop herself.
Sometimes, while walking down the city streets, more frequently at night than during the day, Claire would pass by someone and feel thoroughly chilled. The first time it had happened, she had been so surprised that she had turned to look at the passerby. She had looked into hollow eyes.
It had somehow been terrifying, horrifying. She had been fifteen years old at the time, but it had been before Aunt Bet’s stunning revelation about her mother’s death. She had never looked at any such person again. Instead, she would duck her head, avoid all eye contact and keep on going.
She pretended it was a New York thing to do. Everyone knew New Yorkers were cold and strange, they weren’t friendly and they didn’t make eye contact. That was how one managed in the big city amongst millions of people.
The night her mother had been murdered, it had been so cold in the house although it had been an Indian-summer evening. It was the one fact she recalled with vivid, tactile clarity.
Claire stiffened and her mount danced in protest. One of the Highlanders reached out to seize her reins and Malcolm whirled to see what was happening. Claire didn’t want to think about the past. Dealing with the present was bad enough.
But Claire breathed hard, the horse snorting now. Damn it. A terrible draft had chilled the glade just before the warriors had invaded, the same kind of cold that had filled the apartment.
Claire had spent her entire life avoiding overthinking the dark side of the city. She’d worked her ass off to make a small, secure and successful world for herself. When bad things happened to friends, neighbors and coworkers, she began supporting challenging political candidates. Crime was out of control and society was breaking down, so she worked harder. Work was a refuge. She wished she was working now.
But that world felt as if it had just gone up in smoke. And damn it, life seemed equally dark and chaotic in medieval Scotland. She didn’t know what to think, and she certainly didn’t know what to do.
Ye be my Innocent now.
She shivered. What did that mean?
Malcolm’s tone had been filled with possession back in her apartment when he had first made that statement, and it had been as possessive when he had told Royce that he didn’t share. She felt her cheeks warm. He had pointedly told Royce that he’d “taken” her. That was the point. He had taken and used her body, just like that, in one stunning instant, when she had been recovering from the torture of time travel. There hadn’t been warm words, promises, declarations of affection. Love had not been involved. It had been pure, raw, carnal sex.
She was never going to believe that she had welcomed his attentions the way that she had. She still couldn’t believe she’d actually wanted—desperately—his invasion. Traveling back in time must have altered her senses or her sensibilities, or both. Maybe it had changed her physically, too. She’d always been hard to please and finding a release had usually been a chore, but it had been shockingly easy with Malcolm.
She was old-fashioned and proud of it. She was not going to deny how attractive he was, but so what? She met attractive men in New York all the time, and even if they weren’t as macho as Malcolm, there were some real power players out there. Power had always turned her on more than dumb good looks, but she had easily dismissed the men who had briefly tried to pursue her. Most of the men she met were highly dysfunctional. She had been celibate for three years because she insisted on affection, if not love, before intimacy. Power players weren’t into affection or love, they were into conquests.
It sounded awfully familiar.
Claire did not want to continue to think about that brief, combustible act of penetration and climax. If she did, her dry mouth would get drier and her speeding heart would race even more wildly. However, she had better think about it and prepare herself for his advances. He still wanted her. It was more than obvious. She felt it every time he looked at her. His sexuality and desire emanated from him in hot, tangible waves. And he was possessive. He had been warning Royce away. She wasn’t going to compromise her morals or her standards—or her dreams—just because she was lost in medieval times with the hunk of all ages. She had never had casual or meaningless sex. Ever. She’d had two relationships. She had been in love as a sophomore at Barnard, but her other affair had been more tepid. She’d wanted it to be love, but it had been hard to pretend, and in the end, she had given up.
And maybe that was half of the problem. He’d noticed right away that she’d been starving her body sexually. Crude and rude as he was, he’d commented openly. What had he said? He’d called her “hungry.” Apparently, he’d hit the nail on the head.
The next time they spoke, she had to set some boundaries and make some rules. She was very alone and this was his world. If he was chieftain of his clan, he was used to doing what he wanted, when he wanted, all of the time. Claire knew enough about the structure and culture of the Highland clans to know that a laird was God and king, judge and jury, policeman and warlord. His word was law and it was final.
Her heart had picked up an alarmed beat. She didn’t have to be rational to recall striking him and cursing him. She no longer knew herself, but she did know this. He might have deserved it, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t know him, never mind that he wanted to protect her. He was lord here, absolutely, and she had better appease him if she could. Otherwise, and maybe anyway, she was in deep shit.
Suddenly, Malcolm appeared at her side. Claire was so immersed in her thoughts that his appearance was as startling as that of a ghost. She flinched, her horse prancing. But he smiled, reaching out for her reins, steadying the charger. “I didna mean t’ scare ye. Ye be all right, lass?”
Claire tried to ignore his powerful presence, his masculinity and what might happen later if she didn’t find a way to keep him at bay. “We need to talk.” That was the understatement of her life, she thought.
“Aye.” He gestured ahead. “Carrick.”
Claire followed his gaze and her eyes widened. The pale castle was perched high above them on equally pale cliffs. Her heart beat wildly, but not with fear.
The last time she had been in Scotland, she had almost taken the turn at the sign pointing to Carrick Castle. Her guidebook had said the scenery was breathtaking, and a tour of the grounds and castle was not to be missed. But in the end she had driven by, intent upon arriving at Iona by nightfall.
Maybe being thrust back in the past wasn’t all that bad, Claire thought, excitement sweeping over her as she stared up at the imposing pale stone walls, the towers and the keep. If Malcolm kept his distance and she avoided any more battles, if she kept her head on straight and her courage up, this might just be an incredible and amazing, once-in-a-lifetime educational experience. She could probably even write about it, not that anyone would believe her. She was about to enter a fifteenth-century stronghold. She was about to see things that no historian had ever reported. And while she remained afraid, she wanted to go inside that castle.
If she could get back home in one piece, sooner rather than later, she might be able to manage this amazing twist of fate. She turned to look at him. “How long will it take to get there?”
“Less than an hour,” he said. “And we’ll discuss yer matters when we arrive.”
THEY RODE UP the steep hill in double file, but had to go one at a time through the very narrow entrance of the walled barbican. Carrick was set on the top of a hill, overlooking steep cliffs on all sides, and the site had clearly been chosen because the hill was divided from the road by a steep, impassable ravine. Without the drawbridge, ladders or siege engines, no one was entering or leaving.
Claire shivered as she rode across the drawbridge, Malcolm still beside her. An outer bailey filled with huts and livestock was behind them, and she glanced down into the ravine. Hundreds of feet below, it was filled with sharp, jagged rocks. Attackers who were thwarted on the
drawbridge or trying to scale the curtain walls would fall to their deaths on the ground below.
As if reading her mind, Malcolm said, “No one has besieged Carrick.”
Claire managed a sickly smile. A castle built solely to withstand assault and attack was, in a way, as unnerving as the battle they’d just survived. The sun was rising above the towers and the ramparts, and the sky was a pale gray, stained with fingers of crimson and pink. The sight would have been breathtaking, just as her brochure had promised, if she didn’t know that each and every jagged rock had been put in that ravine by human hands, meant to inflict pain and death.
They now rode single file through the narrow, dark passageway of the gatehouse and its four towers. Claire looked up. There were “murder holes” above her from which attackers would be doused with hot oil and arrows if they ever got this far. She looked down. Her horse was crossing a wooden plank set in the stone floor. She knew it was a trapdoor.
Claire looked grimly at Malcolm. “What’s beneath us?” Whatever was there, she knew that anyone unfortunate to be riding or walking over the trapdoor when it opened would not survive.
“I dinna ken,” he said. “Mayhap sharpened staves or beds of knives.” His gaze was interested. “Ye ken the way of our warfare.”
Claire was dry mouthed. “I’ve studied it a bit.”
They rode past a pair of thick, studded, open doors and into the inner bailey.
She breathed. Although it was early, men and women were hurrying about the bailey, clearly intent on their morning tasks. Smoke was rising from two buildings that were directly ahead, built against the northern walls. She smelled baking bread and saw so many serving women going to and fro that she was certain that the smaller building contained the kitchens.
Beside it was the imposing, four-storied great hall. Black Royce was dismounting there, a small boy having materialized to take his horse. He patted the boy’s head and headed up a wooden staircase, vanishing beyond a heavy wooden door.
She glanced around again, trying to absorb everything. A man in priestly robes stood in front of what had to be the chapel, a two-story stone hall built against the eastern walls. The rest of Black Royce’s men were dismounting by the building she assumed to be their hall, which was above the stables. Women and children had appeared to greet them, the women wearing long leines, the children short ones. Some of the soldier’s wives wore brats. Laughter and conversation ran rampant, as did hugs and kisses.
Claire breathed hard, overcome by the sights and sounds, the hustle and the bustle, and the emotion, of these fifteenth-century people. So far, all was as she had imagined, but she wasn’t imagining anything now. She was at Carrick Castle, and it was 1427. Chills swept her. This was truly an amazing opportunity. Then she realized Malcolm was staring.
Unthinkingly, she smiled at him.
He started, and slowly he smiled back. “Ye be pleased.”
She inhaled, because she was thrilled. “I am in a fifteenth-century fortress. I am very fond of history.” She wasn’t going to explain her degree to him. “I’ve read about what life is like in these times, but I am seeing it myself firsthand.”
He was wry. “’Tis nay special.” He slid from the horse, handed off his reins to a waiting boy and held up his hand for her.
Claire came to her senses. She was making the best of a bad situation, but taking his hand was not a good idea. She pretended not to notice and slid from the horse.
Malcolm thanked the boy, touched her back and indicated she would precede him up the stairs. Claire didn’t understand. She felt certain that men in his time did not allow women to go first, never mind that chivalry was a huge part of medieval culture.
He gestured impatiently. She gave him a grudging nod and then hurried up the stairs. She stepped through an oversize, paneled-wood door and into the great hall and blinked, surprised.
She had been expecting the very sparse furnishings of the period. She had been wrong. The walls and floors were stone, of course, and wood rafters supported the high ceiling. But there were several fine rugs on the floor, obviously from France, Italy or Belgium, instead of rushes. While there was a crude trestle table with two benches before a huge hearth in which a fire roared, there were also several arrangements of upholstered chairs, each finely and intricately carved by the best medieval craftsmen. A magnificent sword collection was displayed over the hearth. Several beautifully carved trunks served as tables. Oil paintings were on the walls, the portraits highly stylized as was standard for the period, and a stunning tapestry was on one wall. Claire had expected far more primitive conditions. She had expected dogs, mice, vermin and rushes on the floors. Black Royce’s home was very well furnished for the fifteenth-century Highlands and as livable as a modern manor home. Still, something was missing—a personal touch. Claire would bet he was not married.
Royce had been helped out of his armor and was sitting in the room’s largest chair, the upholstery burgundy velvet. A young woman handed him a mug of what Claire assumed to be ale. She now noticed that another young woman had taken his brat and mail and was carrying it away. Both females looked to be no more than twenty, if that, and they were blond and pretty. As Claire came to the realization that she was not the only young and attractive woman in the Highlands, a third woman appeared. She offered Malcolm a mug, smiling and blushing as she did so.
“Tapadh leat,” he said, smiling back at her.
She was very pretty, with strawberry-blond hair, half Claire’s size and nowhere close to twenty-one. Claire had always liked being tall, but suddenly she felt gawky and more like a giant than a woman. The blonde murmured, “De tha sibh ag larraidh?”
Claire’s heart lurched with dread. Was this woman his love? And why did she care?
Malcolm shook his head, speaking softly in reply. His smile was terribly seductive.
The girl’s color increased. She glanced at Claire and hurried from the hall.
Claire realized she was hugging herself. If he wanted to bed someone that young, it wasn’t her affair. And of course he would. He was macho and oversexed. He was a medieval lord. He thought it his right and the dumb blonde probably thought it an honor to jump into his bed.
Claire was jealous. And that was even worse.
He took her arm but spoke to Royce. “I will show Claire t’ her chamber.”
Royce had stretched out his long, boot-clad legs and seemed to be utterly indifferent. He sent them both a lazy, knowing smile.
Claire flushed. If he thought she was Malcolm’s lover, he was wrong. Claire carefully shrugged away from Malcolm’s grasp. She followed him up a narrow staircase, trying to keep her distance from him while also trying not to stare at the back of his bare legs.
He pushed open a wood door and stood aside. “Ye can sleep here. We’ll go to Dunroch t’morrow.”
Claire wondered grimly if that would allow him a more leisurely romp in the hay with the strawberry blonde. She stepped past him into her chamber.
The room was very small, but there was a good-size fireplace on one wall and the bed had four carved posters and a fur coverlet. There was a single window, a slit without glass, the shutters open. As no fire had been started, it was icy in the room.
She knew she would never sleep. Her mind would race in circles.
The strawberry blonde appeared, sending Malcolm a smile before kneeling to start a fire.
Claire bristled. “Get a room.” She smiled sweetly at him, belying her caustic tone.
He grinned. “Yer jealous o’ the maid?”
Claire could not believe she had been so transparent. “Hardly. Oh, by the way, thank you for the loan.” She fumbled with the brooch to give him back his plaid. She didn’t want it. It reeked of his masculinity.
He reached out and grasped her hand, stilling it.
Claire stiffened, certain he was preparing to make a pass. That certainty increased when the blonde glanced at them and silently left the room, closing the door behind her.
Claire
knew she should move away. Instead, the man’s sex and heat pulled at her, encouraging her to step closer.
“’Tis cool and ye have nay clothes.” He released her hand, moving to the single table in the room. There was one roughly carved wood chair there, along with a pitcher, a flask and two mugs. He poured liquid from the flask into a mug and handed it to her. Claire smelled the red wine and was immediately diverted. She was, she realized, thirsty and ravenous.
“’Tis a fine claret, from France,” he said softly.
Claire saw the glitter in his gaze, and felt her own pulse escalate. She took a drink, wondering if he hoped to loosen her up, and then another. “It is good. Thank you.”
He smiled, clearly having no intention of leaving the room. “Why do ye care if I bed the wench?”
His tone was casual but Claire almost leaped out of her skin. “I do not!”
“I dinna want the wench, lass,” he murmured.
His meaning was beyond clear. He had the ability to speak in such a suggestive tone that all she could do was think of sex. She had to do something before he put his hands on her.
He turned away, stunning her. She saw him pour another mug, his hand rock steady. When he faced her, he leaned one hip against the table.
“We ha’ matters to discuss,” he said bluntly, clearly aware of her discomfiture.
Claire inhaled. This was safer territory, indeed. But before she could ask a single question, his expression hardened. “I dinna ken the way o’ yer world, Claire, but in my world, no one—not man, not woman, not child, not wild beast or dog, no one—disobeys me.”
She stood at attention now. “I am sorry.”
“Ye nay be sorry. Ye plot yer own causes!” he exclaimed.
She had been caught. “Sometimes I feel you can read my mind!” she said furiously.
“I can sense yer strongest thoughts as if ye speak them aloud,” he shot back, standing. He set the mug down hard, hard enough that the table jumped. “In battle, I will protect ye. But that means ye hide if I say hide and run if I say run and ye dinna think, ever.” His eyes flashed.
