by Allie Mackay
Margo would almost swear the ship looked impatient, straining and eager to shoot forward, cleaving the waves.
Her stomach tightened at the thought. Dread skittered along her nerve endings and her heart was beginning to beat much too fast. Even her palms were growing damp and her mouth had gone bone-dry.
This was so not like her fantasy of time travel.
This was, in two words, the pits.
“We’ll no’ journey far this day. A wee inlet, Badachro Bay, just off Loch Gairloch, is where we’re headed.” Magnus was looking down at her, his voice deep, calm, and reassuring.
He knew exactly why she’d stopped so close to the water’s edge.
He’d sensed her fear and wanted to take it from her.
Margo shivered a little, his hero image beginning to return.
“My business is a bit south of Badachro, at a place called Redpoint.” He reached to draw the bearskin closer together and then used a huge Celtic pin he took from his own plaid to fasten the cloak more securely. “Some of my men must travel there overland to lay preparation. We’ll spend this night in Badachro.
We’ll moor the Sea-Raven at Sgeir Ghlas—”
“Where?” Margo blinked. She was glad to be distracted from the sensation of his strong, warm fingers brushing against her skin as he eased the brooch pin through the thick skin of the cloak.
“Sgeir Ghlas means ‘gray rock.’” He stood back, the pin now in place. “It’s the smallest of several islands in the bay and is a secure sheltering place for Sea-Raven. My men will sleep aboard ship.”
“And us?” The intimacy of those two words speared straight to Margo’s center, the tingling anticipation almost making her forget her fear of the tossing longship.
He meant to pass the night with her somewhere, and alone.
She looked at him, waiting.
“We’ll stay the night onshore in a wee cothouse.” He looked down at her then, regarding her as if he expected her to argue. But—she couldn’t help it—the thought filled her with giddy expectation.
“A cothouse is a small cottage, right?” Margo’s pulse quickened as sensual awareness beat through her, making her almost light-headed.
She knew what a cothouse was.
Magnus was watching her closely, a slight smile playing across his lips. His dark eyes were branding her, setting her on fire. “Aye, it’s little more than a reed-thatched hut.” His deep voice stirred her, and she ached to touch him. “But there’ll be a store of driftwood we can burn and I’ll bring enough plaids to make you a comfortable pallet to sleep on.” Plaids to sleep on.
Margo nearly gasped with pleasure.
She bit her lip, almost afraid to breathe. She could feel hot, sensual want sizzling between them. It was like an unrestrained electrical current, charging the air as it leapt around them, fanning her desire.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Was that her voice, so breathy and excited?
It was, but she didn’t care.
This was her dream coming true. Her luck was changing, transformed with the mention of tartan.
Magnus would be on that plaid with her, she knew.
They’d be naked, hotly entwined, and kissing all through the night. She might even ask him about the kettle-steam episode.
Life was looking good.
Magnus glanced out to sea, then back at her.
“There’s also a woman at Badachro, Orla Finney, who will surely have an extra gown and whate’er other female goods you might need.”
Margo’s elation faded. “A woman?”
“Aye, she is a joy woman, if you ken the term?” His dark eyes twinkled, showing her a very appealing side of him.
If he weren’t speaking of a medieval prostitute.
Margo frowned. “I know what joy woman means.” He grinned then, dimples flashing. “Orla is a friend, no more. She’d a good-hearted woman who serves the fishermen and others who visit these shores. As she doesn’t bar her door to Northmen, she also she doesn’t bar her door to Northmen, she also provides me with much appreciated news of their whereabouts and doings.”
“Oh.” Margo felt a wave of relief wash through her.
Until the morning sun shone through a cloud and the sudden light reflected brightly off the mailed shirts and swords of the men crowding the Sea-Raven. They were stony-faced, regarding her with sullen, down-drawn brows.
“They will no’ hurt you.” Magnus stepped close, smoothed her hair back from her face. “They answer to me and know I’d slit them from their bellies to their gullets if they so much as look cross-eyed at you.” Margo didn’t remind him that they were doing that now.
She didn’t have the breath.
The ray of sunlight also fell across the dragon ship, picking out the fearsome details of the red-and-black-painted raven heads carved on the high stem and prow. The birds appeared to be screeching, their wide-opened beaks seeming eager to chomp into enemies.
Or her, she was sure.
“It isn’t your men. ...” Not so much, anyway. “It’s just that”—she looked up at him, the concern shadowing his eyes touching her so deeply that it made her chest hurt—“I’ve never been much for boats.” There, she’d said it.
Magnus’s expression cleared, a smile spreading across his face. “You will love the Sea-Raven, ne’er you fear. There are few greater joys than feeling life surge into a fine ship as she dances across the waves, spume gilding her sides and the wind in your face. The glory of it can make a man feel like a god.”
“I’m a woman.”
“Aye, you are.” Magnus’s voice warmed, his gaze sliding over her from her windblown hair to her bare feet, now lapped by icy cold surf. “And”—he took her face in his hands, looking deep into her eyes—“you mind me that there are much greater pleasures than standing at the steering oar and feeling my ship’s heartbeat thrum beneath my feet.”
“O-o-oh . . .” Margo’s breath caught, his words slipping through her like honeyed seduction, making her own heart beat hard and slow.
For a moment, her fantasy image of him flashed across her mind. As in her dreams, she saw him as a tall, powerfully built Highlander with his long raven hair tied at his nape and a plaid slung boldly over one shoulder. Gleaming mail winked from beneath his plaid and he wore a huge, wicked-looking sword strapped low at his hip. Gold and silver rings glittered on his powerful arms, and his handsome face was hard, almost as if carved of stone.
Now she saw him for real.
Vivid and alive, in full 3-D color in his own time and place. His rich Scottish burr seduced her senses and the heated look in his dark eyes tempted everything female inside her.
The wonder of such a miracle was almost too much to bear.
He wore his hair loose now, the sleek, blue-black mane spilling nearly to his waist. Sunlight fell across the glossy strands, emphasizing their silky sheen, and before she could stop herself, she reached to run her fingers lightly down the flowing raven tresses.
“Have a care, lass.” He seized her wrist, locking his fingers firmly around her arm as he moved her hand away from his hair. “My men are watching and they may think you’re laying a spell on me.” Margo could hardly breathe. “And if I was?”
“You already have.” The smoldering heat in his eyes proved it. “As I think you know?”
Margo felt herself blush all over. “I know”—she moistened her lips—“nothing.”
She did know.
At least, she guessed. Hoped.
Something had shifted since he began believing her, and that altering perception unleashed a powerful connection between them. Margo had never felt so drawn to a man, nor so desperate to be crushed in his powerful embrace. Need heated the air around them, sizzling like living desire, and making her ache to be held tight against him. She craved the feel of his big, strong hands sweeping over her bared skin, questing and exploring, even as she ran her own fingers along the tight, muscle-hewn lines of his warrior’s body.
She craved him with a l
onging she wouldn’t have dreamed possible.
The hunger in his eyes said he wanted her as badly.
But she needed to hear the words. She couldn’t guess how much time she might have in his world, so she wanted to see the burn of desire darkening his eyes, hear his liquid-seduction voice deepen and turn rough like skeins of smooth, raw silk rolling all over her.
“Now you are speaking untruths.” His tone was low and gruff now. “You know fine what you do to me.” He held her gaze, circling his thumb over the sensitive skin of her wrist before he released her. “This night, if you will let me, I’ll prove it to you.” Margo nearly swooned.
A swirl of emotions rose inside her, elation, giddy excitement, and a tiny sliver of fear. If he meant what she thought and they made love, and she then lost him, she’d never get over the pain.
For now, her blood rushed and tingles danced across her nerves. The very idea of actually sleeping with him—and on a plaid!—had her knees knocking and her heart hammering like a drum. Then one of the men on his ship shouted and waved at him. He turned away from her toward the Sea-Raven—once again all medieval warlord.
“Come, lass, we must be off.” He took her hand, leading her into the surf. “Orosius will have ordered the men to stretch an extra sailcloth over the stern.
You’ll be sheltered there, with plenty of plaids and furs to keep you warm. I’ll be close by, on the steering platform.”
Margo froze, the icy water foaming about her knees.
“I’m not worried about keeping warm.” All thoughts of lovemaking had fled her mind. “It’s the possibility of drowning that scares me.”
“Bah! Sea-Raven surrenders no one to the briny depths.” Magnus reached for her, scooping her into his arms and holding her tight against him as he plunged into the surf. He strode through the tossing waves, heading away from the shore and right up to his beast-headed dragon ship.
“No ill will come to you, I promise.” He leaned down to kiss the top of her head.
“There’s always a first time.” The wind caught her words, snatching them away before he could hear.
“Aye, there is.” He flashed a grin at her, proving that he had heard. “And I’ll make this one so good you’ll beg me to sail on Sea-Raven, knowing the bliss that awaits you at the journey’s end.”
His vow sent delicious shivers racing through her, making her feel hot and tingly even as cold, choppy water swirled around them, drenching them to the waist.
But then the Sea-Raven’s high-prowed sides loomed before them and Magnus was holding her above his head, shouting for someone named Ewan to help her board. A strapping young lad with a broad, freckled face appeared at once, leaning down and plucking her over the ship’s side as if she weighed no more than a sack of goose down.
“My lady.” He grinned and set her gently on her feet near an empty rowing bench. “Ewan, at your service,” he offered, helping her onto the oar bank. Leaning close to her ear, he lowered his voice. “Thon buffoons aren’t as grim as they look. They’ll come around.
Ne’er you worry.”
Then he was gone, hurrying away to join Orosius near the big steering oar.
And now that he’d left and she had a clear view down the center aisle of the ship, she immediately saw why he’d given her a warning.
The men lining the oar banks were turning their gazes aside, avoiding her eyes. One shuddered and several others made signs against evil. A small, wiry man who looked hard and strong despite his size, even appeared to be muttering a silent prayer.
Margo blinked.
I don’t bite, she started to say, until the genuine fear on their faces made her hold her tongue. In their world, she knew, they had good cause to think she was a witch. Even so, such a reception wasn’t a very propitious beginning.
But before their rejection could sting too badly, Magnus swung over the rail, landing lightly beside her.
“Come, you’ll have more comfort at the stern.” Taking her hand, he pulled her to her feet, sliding his arm around her waist to steady her as he led her down the narrow aisle to the makeshift shelter he’d arranged for her.
When she was settled, he reached to adjust the bearskin cloak about her shoulders. That done, he threw open a kist and withdrew a fresh plaid, slinging it expertly across his own shoulders. Then he shut the chest and straightened, bracing his hands on his hips as he peered down at her.
It was a look that made her breath catch in her throat. Could he be any more handsome with his plaid highlighting his broad shoulders and the wind molding highlighting his broad shoulders and the wind molding his kilt to his powerful thighs? Was there anything sexier than watching his long raven hair streaming in the blowing sea air?
Margo didn’t think so.
Unless it was pure male hunger blazing in his eyes as he kept his dark gaze locked with hers.
“Dinnae make me regret believing you.” He leaned close, bracing one hand on the side of the stern platform, caging her, as his gaze slid into her, intimate and deep. “I ne’er give my trust lightly.”
“You can trust me.” Margo hoped fervently he could.
As the least techy, scientific person in the world—she so wasn’t a physicist—she couldn’t be sure she might not evaporate any minute, disappearing in front of his eyes as Donata had vanished before her.
It was a possibility she didn’t want to consider.
She especially didn’t care to think about it when just breathing in the same air was making her weak-kneed with wanting him.
“Raise!” A male voice Margo recognized as Ewan’s roared the sudden command, and even before she could blink, twenty-four oars shot upward, sparkling water flying from the poised wooden blades.
“Dear God! ” She jumped, terror sweeping her.
“What are they doing?”
“Naught they shouldn’t be. We’re leaving.” Leaning in again, he reached one hand around her neck, forcing her to look at him and not the rowers. “You’ve no reason to be afraid, mo ghaoil.” The Gaelic sounded rich and beautiful on his tongue, making her forget her fear.
He’d used the Gaelic term for “my dear.” Margo knew the word from her failed attempt to learn the language.
But before she could consider the implications of Magnus calling her his dear, Ewan shouted again.
“Lower and strike!”
The oar blades whipped downward, biting into the sea as the Sea-Raven surged forward in a burst of spray and cheers from the men. They were flying, shooting across the waves at incredible speed. Cold, white water shrieked along the hull and seabirds screamed above them as the oars flashed, bringing the Sea-Raven to life.
“Holy moly!” Margo was going to die.
“Hush, you.” Magnus’s warm breath touched her cheek. His fingers slipped from her nape into her hair, twining there, caressing. Delicious chills rippled down her spine and all through her, soothing and tantalizing her.
“O-o-oh . . .” His touch was magic.
“Shhh, I said.” He was massaging the back of her head now, letting her hair spill over his hand.
And then he kissed her, soft and sweet. A slow, barely there brushing of his lips back and forth over hers, and so scintillatingly intimate that she forgot all about the men on the rowing benches and what they were doing with the oars.
She didn’t even care that she was on a boat.
A medieval warship to boot.
Magnus was kissing her and nothing else mattered.
Nothing at all.
Something that would’ve mattered to her if she’d known was the icy chill pouring off a petite, raven-haired woman who sat on a stool in a tiny, dank cell many heather miles from Loch Gairloch and the Sea-Raven. St. Eithne’s by name, the nunnery could easily have been called hell. Good, holy women did live quietly there, praying, stitching, and offering viands to any beggars who called at their gates. But the nuns of St. Eithne took their piety seriously, shunning all comforts and graces for themselves and any females unfortunate enou
gh to find themselves in the sisters’ care.
Donata Greer was one such unwilling guest.
And if another timid, uncooperative servant brought her a wooden bowl of gruel instead of the cold, sliced capon breast and roasted meats she demanded, she’d rake the miserable creature’s face with her poison-tipped nails, ensuring she wouldn’t be bothered again.
She’d sooner eat dust off the floor and drink raindrops from the window ledge than suffer the unpleasantness of slime-coated oats and soured ale.
The good sisters of St. Eithne’s clearly weren’t aware of her importance. She should have been afforded some status as the sister of the late Godred Greer, the mightiest chieftain to walk the land until Magnus MacBride had slain him. She was also the lover of Bjorn Bone-Grinder, a powerful Viking raider, whose amassed riches and growing number of followers would soon make him a formidable warlord, feared the length and breadth of Scotland’s west coast and far beyond.
Above all, she was a highly skilled witch.
A sorceress who planned to take her dark magic to never-before-reached heights.
If she could extract herself from St. Eithne’s infernal clutches.
Seething, Donata rose and kicked the rusty brazier that held an ashy lump of peat no larger than a newt’s eyeball. She’d do better to strip herself naked and burn her clothes, maybe even her fine silver and jet jewelry.
Bone-Grinder would shower treasures on her when she escaped this miserable pit.
But she didn’t want to annoy the good sisters overmuch.
Shocking them with her unclothed beauty might inspire them to whip her loveliness from her. Such punishments weren’t unknown and she’d seen the birch switches in a corner of the abbess’s quarters.
She also didn’t want them to deny her the gruel, much as she detested the pap.
She needed her strength.
Finding the perfect woman to crush Magnus MacBride had cost her much. She’d spent weeks bent over her runes, casting and studying them, always seeking. Until—at last—the very curtain of time had rolled back for her, revealing the female she’d sought so diligently.
