My Lady
Highlander
Book #1
in the
Kilted Athletes
Through Time
Series
By Nancy Lee Badger
Copyright © 2014
By Nancy Lee Badger
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web without permission in writing from the publisher.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover illustration copyright © 2014
By Nancy Lee Badger
DEDICATION
To all the people who believed
in my dream, and said “Do it!”
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
EPILOGUE
REVIEWS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CONTACT NANCY
PROLOGUE
Wick, North Sea
Scotland 1603
When the dust settled, Bryce Buchanan wiped blood from his broken nose, and shoved dirty, damp hair out of his eyes. As he staggered toward the open barn doors, and away from the Highland warrior who had attacked him, he barely smelled the scent of stabled horses. Sweat poured down his back, and his bruised ribs ached. His ears rang from the blows, yet the squawk of a disturbed chicken drew his attention. His hackles rose.
Wary that his assailant might have brought help to finish him off, Bryce blinked to clear his vision. When he recognized Skye Jamison, his friend’s new wife, his racing heart slowed. As she padded closer, he smiled, regretting it immediately, as pain shot across his face.
“Why the grimace, friend?”
“I think he broke my nose.” He regretted the words the moment they spilled from his lips. Skye, though petite and quite pretty, scared the life out of him. He’d seen her power, and he had the sudden fear he was about to experience it firsthand.
“I worried about ye when I heard the MacGregor heir had lured ye into the barn. Stand still and I’ll ease yer pain,” she said.
When she pointed her finger at him, he froze. Before he could move, or even inhale another breath, she flicked her wrist.
“Ouch!” At the pain that radiated across the bridge of his nose, he stilled. She had fixed the break.
Proof positive that Jake married a witch born in 16th century Scotland.
“Did I hurt ye?”
“Not bad. Thanks Skye,” he said, wiggling his nose.
“I pray the man who has caused yer injuries, has received the worst of the confrontation.”
He smirked, and pain radiated outward from his magically repaired nose. Turning toward the barn’s shadows, he glared at the lump huddled against the base of the back wall. Ian MacGregor, a well-built brute about his age, had fallen on his face into a pile of muck. As soon as Bryce made sure the man still breathed, he planned to head back to the castle.
Life has a way of making other plans, Grammie always said.
When a large shadow loomed over Bryce, he turned to face Skye’s brother, the Laird of the Gunn clan, followed by his lovely wife, Haven MacKay.
Another witch. Great.
“If I knew my meeting with that piece of crap would draw this much attention, I’d have sold tickets.”
“I see why yer called Bull, but I am glad ye did not fight with swords. The MacGregor swine is the best swordsman in the Highlands,” Kirk Gunn said. He held back a laugh, then squeezed his wife against him.
“I didn’t plan to fight at all, but he sent me a note. He said to meet him here, to talk about how I kicked his ass at the festival.” He relaxed his fists, loosening his aching fingers. “I rarely lose my temper, but MacGregor threw the first punch.”
The bastard had caught him by surprise, which hurt more than his busted nose or bruised ribs.
“This was the last straw. Ever since I arrived in ancient Scotland, flesh-eating creatures, angry men, and burning buildings have tried to kill me.”
“Be reasonable. Ye got here by accident, more or less, but we have tried to keep ye safe,” Skye said, settling her small hand on his dirty forearm.
He lifted her hand off, and stepped away. “My life is back in modern day New England. It might seem tame in comparison to the Highlands, but at least, back there, I’ll live to see my next birthday!”
Kirk, Haven, and Skye muttered to each other, but he wasn’t sticking around to hear more.
“I’m out of here.” Bull headed away from the barn, figuring the castle might prove safer. His ears had stopped ringing, and the far off clangs of metal against metal reminded him again, that he was far and away from quiet, safe New England. Sunshine beat down on his head and chest, drying his sweat-dampened skin. Inhaling a lungful of fresh air, he continued his march toward the castle doors. He sensed that the group followed him, and their mutterings suggested they weren’t happy that he had ignored them.
“This world is too different. I like living history and all, but death, sorcerers, and dragons? No thanks.” Only the wind could hear, and it didn’t answer.
Jake trotted down the castle steps toward him, with wide-open eyes under his arched brow. His long black hair was tied back in its leather queue, and his plaid hung low on his hips. When he reached him, Jake tugged his arm.
“Attempting to slow me down is a lost cause. I’m bigger than you, and I want to get far away from all of this.”
“Does this mean you’re heading home?” Jake asked.
Bull turned toward him so fast, Jake slammed into his chest. Bull stumbled back a few steps, then grabbed Jake’s shoulders. “Are you telling me there is a way to get back?”
Jake glared, released him, and set his hand on Bull’s shoulder. “I know you’ve had a tough time here.”
“Tough time? Until five minutes ago, I assumed I had to remain in early seventeenth-century Scotland, when all I wanted was to return home to my safe job. I’m not you. I can’t give up everything for love. After being pummeled and getting my nose broken, that’s what I want.”
“ ‘Tis all ye want, warrior?” The voice, carried on the breeze, was deep, though distinctively feminine. Dorcas Swann hobbled toward him, leaning on her cane. The breeze cooling his sweat-dampened body, made her gray cape twist around her thin ankles. She stood slightly hunched over, and her long, silver-gray hair blew behind her in disarray.
As usual, she puffed on a pipe. The aroma reminded him of campfires, and the smoke swirled around her head like a tiny tornado. Her grin was deceptively sweet, but he grew wary. She stopped in front of him, leaned back, and glared squarely into his eyes. Without removing the pipe, she smiled. “I be leavin’ momentarily, ye big brute. Shall we travel toget
her?”
“Exactly where are you going?” No way was he heading anywhere but to the future.
She cackled. “Where ye began this journey.”
New England? Home? “What will it cost me?”
The old woman seemed to think about his words, then removed the pipe from her mouth. “Since yer a strong-looking brute, ye can help me pack up my belongings. The New England Highland Games is the last festival of the season, and I’ll be bringing my goods back to Keldurunach, what men of yer time call Kildonan.”
“You need my help packing up? That’s it?”
“He is rather strong,” Jake said.
“Aye, and ever since Cameron Robeson returned here and wed Iona Mackenzie, I have need of a brawny Highlander, such as yerself.
“What will happen to Izzy?” Jake asked.
“Izzy?” Skye’s left eyebrow raised, and she settled her hands on her hips, looking jealous.
Jake had better choose his words carefully, Bull thought, biting back a grin.
“Isobel MacHamish has cared for my tent these last five years. She is a lass from this world, from the Gunn clan, but I fear she has secrets. She said she would rather stay in the future, but I doona’ believe her heart is happy there.”
Bull scoffed at the turn in the conversation. “Back up. One, I am not a Highlander. I don’t swing a sword, and I prefer a sturdy pair of blue jeans, to a kilt. Two, I would be happy to help if it means getting home. I should check in at Falconscroft and see if I still have a teaching position.”
“We’ll miss you,” Jake said.
“Aye,” his wife said, “so have a great trip, but remember, Bull…yer always welcome to come back and live here. With us.”
Bull stared at the ground. If he looked at his best friend with an arm around the beautiful witch, he might change his mind. And stay.
Nope. No way.
He would not remain in 1603 Scotland. After a sorcerer’s threats cast him back in time, he’d been threatened by Highland warriors armed with huge swords, was nearly eaten by something living beneath the surface of a lake, and almost died when the horse barn caught fire and collapsed on him.
And I have the scars to prove it.
Bull planted his fists on his hips, inhaling a deep breath. The air, filled with the fragrance of heather and roasting meat, was familiar. Too familiar. If he stayed any longer, he might change his mind about going home.
“I don’t belong here.” He had nearly died too many times. “Jake, if you want to stay, good for you. I ought to wish you well, kiss your new bride, and say adios. Maybe this Izzy and I will hit it off.”
“Why can’t you stay? We have plenty of room at the castle.” Jake rubbed Bull’s left shoulder.
Bull glanced at his friend. He’d miss him, but he had not signed-up to risk his life. A prestigious teaching position was waiting for him in the future. Why would he turn his back on his weekends as an award-winning athlete? He enjoyed wearing a kilt, and turning the caber while people applauded. And the women who fawned all over him, every time he earned another medal? They were the icing on the shortbread.
“I can’t stay.”
“Then, God speed, Bull. We shall miss ye.” Skye stretched up to kiss him on the cheek. Bull leaned lower, out of respect. Strands of her black hair had come loose, and he gently tucked them behind the tiny woman’s ear. Tiny, but powerful. Before they’d met, he hadn’t believed in witchcraft, yet here he stood, letting a witch kiss him.
Dorcas Swann, on the other hand, was sneakier. She and her tent had popped up at Scottish Highland Games here and there, over the years, but he had no idea what she did with all the potions and herbs inside her tent, which he visited once on the arm of a pretty woman who had jumped him after an athletic event.
Dorcas sold smelly stuff in little packages, as well as odd-looking cooking tools. She was hard to miss at the games. Not with the sparkling amulet hanging on a gold chain between her saggy breasts, and the pipe clenched between her teeth.
“ ‘Tis an awful shame, young warrior. If I be yer age, I would meet ye for a roll in the hay.”
Bull’s throat closed, and he winced. Was she talking to him?
“Alas,” Dorcas said, “I be older than dirt.”
CHAPTER 1
Present day New England
A roar boomed from the direction of the athletic field, followed by the thunder of clapping hands and high-pitched whistles. Envy sped through Izzy MacHamish. Her toes curled inside her doeskin slippers, with the urge to drop everything and join them. Based on what her last customer said, her favorite athletic event had started.
Izzy was too busy to leave her vendor tent. Exhaling a calming breath, she continued to crush and package herbs. If the applause was any indication, the lucky spectators at the field must have witnessed a participant successfully turn the caber. To take a tree more than three times your height, carry it pressed against one shoulder, then toss it end over end, was madness.
Such a feat was deserving of the appreciative din, and she had missed it. In Scotland, she had once watched a Highlander accomplish the feat when local clans gathered to celebrate Beltane, what people here call May Day.
Izzy missed the festivals and the people back home, but she could do nothing about it. She had left her home, and everyone she had ever known, in order to travel to this place and time.
‘Twas the only way to save everything I value.
She would rather be home in her own bed, in the cottage on her family farm, but accepted her choice and fate. Little did her present day customers know that she was born in Keldurunach in 1580, in the Highlands of Scotland.
Why would they?
Inhaling air scented with the soothing fragrance of lavender and heather, her gaze rounded on the tables of natural wares. The last few days had proved profitable. She had sold hundreds of bottled potions, bags of ground herbs, and dozens of hand-carved cooking tools to the visitors that marched in and out of the tent. Some of the baskets displayed on tables were nearly empty.
“That will no’ do. I should spend an hour filling them up, but I am famished.” The dim interior of her tent at the New England Highland Games was also empty for the second time this afternoon, and she was due a break. Her stomach growled, forcing a smile to her dry lips. “A bottle of Scottish ale would taste wonderful, right about now.”
Izzy stretched her arms up, until her fingernails tapped the crossbar above her head, several feet below the canvas tent’s ceiling. She bent over and touched her toes, exhaling as she stretched further, and stroked the grassy floor. Sighing, she swatted at the tumble of errant curls that fell over her shoulders. Cocooned in a tunnel of long unruly, blonde hair, she enjoyed a moment of peaceful aloneness.
Rising, Izzy ran her hands along the tight leggings people of this era called jeans. Her pale yellow blouse and dark green, laced vest made her look the part of an old-time Scottish shopkeeper, but her full-length skirt that she had worn until a half an hour earlier, proved uncomfortable in the close quarters of the tent. During an earlier moment alone, she had pulled on the leggings, slipped out of the muslin skirt, then draped it over some boxes near the back wall.
Having landed far from the Highlands of a Scotland she doubted she would ever see again, she had survived in this new world. She had not wanted to leave Scotland, but sad memories and a persistent young man made the decision easier.
She had befriended the powerful healer, Dorcas Swann. The old woman had come to town too late to save Izzy’s parents from a virulent fever. Dorcas’ guilt might have played a part in offering Izzy the chance to change her life.
“I wanted out, and she showed me the way.” Her voice caught at the tender memory of laying her parents to rest beneath a Rowan tree, on the edge of their farm.
Sweeping dust from a bottle of apple buds mixed with boiled yarrow root, a memory arose of Dorcas walking out the door of her parent’s cottage.
My cottage, now.
Her gray woolen cape flapped in
her wake, and the old woman’s long silvery hair blew loose and free. Stooped over a gnarled cane, she shuffled her feet as she left, leaving hope in Izzy’s heart. When she woke from a fitful sleep where she dreamed of another life, she had sought out the old woman. Dorcas explained the time and place to which she could take her.
When Izzy agreed, and left her holdings in the care of a cousin, she traveled to the modern world. After acclimating herself to the odd customs, unusual food, and the technology she was learning to love, Dorcas left her to care for the potions tent. Responsibility was nothing new, and she enjoyed the chance to help the old woman.
Yanking her thoughts back to the present, Izzy peeked through the partly opened tent flap. The crowds had grown quiet, and the afternoon sunlight had diminished, as the end of the day drew near. If she waited a bit longer, she could close up her tent for the night, then find some food. A warm meat pie or a basket of fish and chips would ease her growling innards.
Brushing her hair off her face, she reached back and tied it with a strip of Gunn plaid. It would tame her disorderly curls into a loose tail while she gathered her belongings, then made her way to the food merchant. She stroked her dragon pendant, and breathed a sigh of relief. The Highland games were almost over, and she wanted nothing more than to hurry home and soak in her large tub. A relaxing soak amid the magical bubbles was better than sex.
She sighed, and prayed she would someday find a man who would treasure her. A man who would not lie and use pretty words to control her into giving up everything in the name of love.
Men are liars, each and every one.
She sniffed. What was the odor that slowly filled the tent? Was a food vendor burning the meat pie that had made her mouth water? Was one of the other tents nearby grilling their supper? The smoke continued to fill the small tent, joined by the faint crackle of…
“Fire!”
She raced around the display table closest to the back and stared at the flames clawing their way up the rear wall like voracious bugs. She needed water! With a quick glance around the darkening tent, all she came up with was a pitcher that she had drained of water, earlier.
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