Highlander's Portrait

by C. A. Szarek

  She whipped the shirt down and in front, and glared. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  That sapphire gaze locked onto her breasts.

  Ashlyn cursed and fought the urge to close her eyes when her cheeks combusted. She shoved her arm into what she thought was a sleeve, and succeeded in getting tangled, with one arm straight up in the air, trapped inside the shirt, with it over her head.

  Dammit, it smelled just like him, too.

  Sandalwood and sage. As appealing as he was.

  Double dammit.

  He chuckled, and it washed over her better than his brogue. Heat hugged her form but she wanted to kill him just the same. She tried to dance away from him—and only ended up slamming into his chest. Embarrassment made her body burn—all over.

  She prayed for the ground to open up and swallow her, right now, even as warm hands stilled her banshee-like movements.

  “Lass, allow me ta help ye.”

  Ashlyn groaned.

  He must’ve taken that as an assent, because he righted the material and bent her arm like a two-year-old, tenderly, and put it through the correct hole. He did the same with the other when she made no move to fight him. “Ah, my leine looks good on ye.” No-So-Dream-Eoin tied the ties at the neck too, but it didn’t help it the thing stay up—much.

  She couldn’t look at him even after the shirt settled over her. It stopped mid-thigh and concealed what it needed to, was comfy, too, if huge. The tunic slipped off her shoulder, but he righted it and patted the flesh he’d just covered.

  That was when the waterworks started.

  Ashlyn scorned every sniffle, and scorned No-So-Dream-Eoin when he hooked a finger under her chin and tugged up. Made her look at him.

  “Lass? Why’re ye cryin’?” His dark brow was drawn tight, and those incredible eyes were clouded with concern.

  “I don’t know!” she wailed, and let him gather her to that hard—very bare—chest. Why she was letting a stranger comfort her should’ve demanded more attention in her brain, but then again, she’d let him kiss her, too.

  Twice.

  With the first stroke of his hand down her back, she was gone to him anyway. Plastered to his body, pressing as close as she could get. Ashlyn could feel the heat of his thighs burning hers even through the wool of his kilt. She shivered, but she wasn’t cold.

  He rubbed over the fabric of his shirt. It was rough against her skin…like it was old school hand-woven material, but it didn’t hurt. He murmured something she didn’t understand, she suspected Gaelic. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in English, into her hair.

  Ashlyn sucked back a half-sob and pulled back to look up at him. “Why?”

  “I…took ye.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I…had ta have ye.”

  Again, there were no blaring sirens, and there should be. No internal order to get away from him. She wanted to…burrow closer. She blinked. “What?” was all she could muster.

  Did he mean he’d kidnapped her?

  She really should examine that. And demand more from him. Immediately.

  Gently, he released her and moved away, bending to pick something off the cave’s sandy floor. Gold paint glinted in the light from the crystal-thingies.

  “Wait. Is that my painting?”

  He wore a smirk when their gazes met. “Well, truth be told, ’tis my paintin’ but I havena sat for it yet.”

  Ashlyn frowned. “What?” That doesn’t make sense. She made a go for the frame, but he held it out of her reach. She gasped when he flipped it over and started pulling at the back. “Stop! What’re doing?”

  The Scottish hottie ignored her, and kept moving his fingers until she heard a sickening crack.

  She winced. “Don’t break it!” This was half-plea, half-order and he spared her a look. She darted forward, wanted to grab his wrist, but was afraid to touch him. “Stop.”

  “Doona worry, lass. Ye’ll have my visage returned ta ye shortly, if ye wish it. I need tha Flag.”

  “What’re talking about? Don’t break my picture!”

  He ignored her and in about two seconds had the frame removed from the small painting. The laird-lookalike flashed a triumphant grin that had her insides wobbly. He held up a battered, silky-looking ivory scrap of material. “I have it!”

  “What the heck is that? And why was it with my painting?”

  Chapter Eight

  “Where the hell do you think you’re taking me?” She kicked against him, but Eoin held her fast. “Put me down! I can walk, dammit. You can’t just pick me up as an answer and carry me off! What’re you, some kinda damn barbarian?” She oomphed over his shoulder and smacked his back.

  He tsked and tried not to smile. “Tha’ mouth on ye, lass. Ye’d better watch wha’ ye say when we get ta Dunvegan. Nessie willna like it, and will likely wash yer mouth.”

  Ashlyn stilled in his grip and he resisted the urge to feel her bare bottom under his leine.

  He had slung her over his shoulder, and keeping his hands at her knees to hold her steady was a challenge. Eoin wanted to run his fingertips over every inch of her creamy thighs before delving deeper, into the silky folds of her sex.

  Unmanly quivers wracked him and he straightened, shifting her higher. Tried to ignore the jolt that went through his cock. Soon, no amount of readjusting his plaid was going to hide arousal. He needed to get his control back.

  “Wait. What?” She pounded his bare back with a small fist. “Dunvegan? What’re you talking about? You still haven’t said a damn thing to me, then you manhandle me? Put. Me. Down.”

  Eoin sighed. He’d ignored all her queries and demands. He didn’t know what to tell her. The truth would shoot her ire higher. “Will ye promise no’ ta run away?”

  Ashlyn harrumphed. “Where exactly am I supposed to go, half-naked?”

  Instead of answering, he allowed her to slide down to the ground, hyperaware of her breasts shifting against his chest, rubbing through the material he wanted to rip off of her. He swallowed and shifted in his deerskin boots.

  Her brown eyes burned him, but her face was adorably pink, and she yanked his leine down. “Tell me everything.”

  He nodded. “As I’ve tol’ ye, my name’s Eoin MacLeod. I’m called tha Guardian of tha Faery Flag. When it changes hands, I must go whenever tha’ may be ta get it.”

  Confusion darted across her face. “When? Don’t you mean where?”

  “Nay. When.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Besides, the Faery Flag is locked up with the rest of the MacLeod treasures. I was supposed to have a tour of Dunvegan today. I wanted to take a picture of it.”

  “Ye know of my home? My clan?”

  She nodded as if distracted and looked around the beach.

  The water lapped against the shore behind them. It had a calming effect on him, as it’d always had.

  Ashlyn took a few steps away from him, exploring, but Eoin didn’t stop her. It was probably foolish to trust her, but he did.

  “We’re on Skye?”

  “Aye. I’ve brought ye back in time. Ta my time.”

  She whirled on him, eyes wide. “What?”

  “I’m sorry ta tell ye this way, but ’tis the year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and fifty-five.”

  “What?” his Ashlyn shouted, and jumped back when he approached.

  “Let’s venture ta Dunvegan, and I shall explain everythin’.”

  “No! Tell me now!”

  He shook his head and his hair tickled his neck. “Nay, I want ye ta meet someone, he’ll help.” Eoin’s grandfather could put things into prospective with her more than he could.

  Ashlyn fought his urgings, so he again swung her over his shoulder, amongst shouts, kicks and hits. She got a few good ones in, and he winced. His thighs and back would bruise for sure, but he’d get them both back to his home in one piece.

  The trek took twice what it should’ve because of the wiggly lass in hi
s arms, but he didn’t want to harm her, or have her get away.

  Ashlyn loose in his time could be a real danger. It could get her dead at the hands of bandits. Or raped, due to her attire.

  “We’ve arrived. I’m goin’ ta put ye down. Doona struggle, lass.” Eoin pulled her into his arms and held her for a moment. He couldn’t help the chuckle that breeched his lips at the adorable fury on her face, but Ashlyn didn’t find it funny. If anything, her expression tightened even more. “Behold, Dunvegan.” He put her to her feet facing the castle gates, but held her shoulders, and pulled her back into his chest. Wouldn’t risk her slipping away.

  “What the…what are these gates? Where’re the power lines? And the flag on top? I saw it in pictures!” When she looked up at him, her face drained of color. Her freckles stood out, but not with the charming crimson he’d liked so much before.

  “Lass—”

  “You weren’t lying…” Ashlyn repeated the phrase over and over, her shoulders caved in, even though her back was still against his chest.

  “Ashlyn.”

  She jolted when he said her name. “I’m not dreaming?” Her tone so hopeful it made his gut clench.

  “Nay, lass. I know ‘tis a fright ta ye. I had ta bring ye home wit’ me.”

  “My laird, all is well?” One of his many cousins, Alpin, rounded the gate with his hand on his claymore’s hilt.

  Seeing the big weapon made Eoin grieve his own. He’d have to go get it soon. None other in the armory would do. “Nay, nay.” He gestured for emphasis.

  “You have guards?” Ashlyn asked. “My laird?”

  He gathered her into his arms, lifted her against his chest, and for once she didn’t protest. “Ye will call me Eoin.”

  She muttered something that sounded like, “Not-So-Dream-Eoin,” under her breath, but he couldn’t understand fully, other than his muffled name, and the word, dream.

  Eoin was swarmed by Nessie, Peg and the Irish lass they’d taken in as a child, Maegan, when he made it into the great hall.

  “Who’s the lass?”

  “Is she weel?”

  “How can we help, my laird?”

  “Wha’ happened ta her?”

  “Where’s her clothin’?”

  “Why, she’s nearly bare, my laird!”

  “Lasses!” He raised his voice. “The lass needs bathed and clothed. Draw a bath in my room, in my tub.”

  Nessie, the woman who ran Dunvegan since he’d not yet married, furrowed her graying brow, but he didn’t have time to worry about decorum. He needed Ashlyn warm and dry.

  “Do it,” he ordered. “I’m goin’ ta see Grandfa.” He set Ashlyn to her feet and cupped her shoulders, wishing he could caress her bare skin. Somewhere. Anywhere. But he was very aware of the three sets of eyes watching them. “Lass, I’ll be back wit’ ye shortly. Bathe. Warm yerself. Nessie will get ye somethin’ to wear.”

  “Proper,” the older woman whispered.

  Ashlyn wavered on her feet, but she nodded. She appeared dazed. She was still to pallid for his liking.

  Not that Eoin blamed her. The shock was his fault. He should take her back to her time, but…he couldn’t. Not just yet anyway. He tilted her chin up. “Look a’ me, lass,” he whispered.

  She did so, but it was seconds before she focused on him. “Eoin…”

  If the household lasses were surprised she’d addressed him so casually, they hid it well.

  “Aye, lass. ‘Tis me. Eoin. I’ll be back soon. I’ve need ta speak wit’ my grandfa, then I’ll take ye ta him. Go wit’ the lasses. They’ll take care a’ ye.”

  Ashlyn grabbed his hand when he started to whirl away. “Eoin. Don’t…be gone long. Please.”

  His heart jumped and he had to swallow. Her desperation was a live thing that wrapped around him. He was the one in the wrong. He’d taken her from where she belonged in time because of selfishness.

  It wasn’t right that she’d cling to him, even though he was all she knew here, and he liked how it made him feel.

  “No’ long a’ all, Ashlyn.” He looked at Nessie. “Put her in Fiona’s green dress.”

  “Aye, my laird.”

  He left the women, even though his body begged him to stay at Ashlyn’s side, protect her. From what? Three lasses of his clan? One of which, who’d helped raise him? He shook his head and made his fist knock on the door to his grandfather’s rooms.

  “Eoin-lad, ’tis ye?”

  “Aye, Grandfa, I’m home.” Eoin pushed into the room, the scent of peat and sage almost equal parts welcoming and overwhelming washed over him. Familiar. Very much his grandfather’s abode.

  “Ah, lad. Good ta see ye braw! Did ye find tha Flag?”

  “Aye, I’ve brough’ it home.”

  Angus MacLeod chuckled and shook his head, stroking his white beard. “Ye know tha’ willna work, my lad.” He stood to his full height from his seat near the lit hearth and stretched his shoulders, his back. He groaned with the movements. “‘Twill call ye forward again.”

  He frowned. “Is all well, Grandfa?”

  His grandfather was old, two and ninety on his last birthday, but his Fae blood kept him agile most of the time, much more so than a normal man his very advanced age. They didn’t know what his lifespan would be, since he was a halfling, the son of a full-blooded Fae. Usually, he had no problems moving around.

  “Aye, lad, doona worra yer head over me.” He crossed the room and closed the distance between them, grasping Eoin’s forearm. “Is all weel wit’ ye, my laird? Ye doona look as if ’tis.”

  He tried not to sigh. Whether it magic or paternal intuition, the man always knew when something was bothering him. Was damn irritating most of the time. “Nay. Tha Flag is here. Safe.” For the sake of distraction, Eoin held up the item of discussion, caressing the silky folds before handing it over to his father’s father.

  “Ah, feels good ta have magic in my hands again,” Angus said softly.

  This man had raised him from age thirteen, when his father Gregor, had been killed in a riding accident. His mother had never gotten over it, and died of a fever some months later, after giving birth to Fiona. His young sister hadn’t known either of their parents.

  Eoin had been fostering with the MacKinnon Clan, nearby on the isle, but he’d come home to bury his father and start training to be a laird—as well as honing his magic, something he couldn’t get anywhere but at Dunvegan.

  His grandfather was watching him, his blue eyes keen, despite the creases in his bearded face. The man stroked his long white whiskers, narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to one side, making his wild white hair dance. “Wha’ else are ye no’ telling me, my lad? Doona make me pull it ou’ of ye.”

  He dragged his hand through his long hair and the confession tumbled out. “I’ve brough’ someone back wit’ me.”

  A smile cracked his grandfather’s wrinkled face. “A lass?”

  Chapter Nine

  The women talked so fast it was hard to make out that they were speaking English. Their accents seemed thicker than Eoin’s, but one was different, more like a combination of Irish and Scottish, which made the brogue even harder to make out. Then the Gaelic.

  When they reverted to their native language, Ashlyn could only stare. The melodious words were almost like singing as they shot sentences back and forth. Even if she’d spoken Gaelic, she doubted she would’ve been able to keep up.

  Confusion swirled around in her head. Fascination and horror kept advancing and retreating along with it. More what the hell collided with the fact Eoin hadn’t lied. He’d brought her back in time.

  Really. It isn’t a dream.

  She was too overwhelmed to protest.

  They shuffled her up some stairs and into a large room. A warm fire was already glowing from the hearth and the earthy scent of peat tickled her nose. Ashlyn tried to look around but the dark oversized furniture was a blur as three sets of hands pushed her forward, and the youngest girl—a curvy brunette—tugged on
her hand, a gentle smile on her mouth.

  Again, she should be fighting this—them—but she didn’t know if she wanted to curl into a ball and sob, or run.

  Then a few teen boys came in with a large wooden tub and set it near the fire. They came and went a few times with buckets of steaming water until the bathtub was full. Inviting, too, with the steam wafting above the rim.

  The older woman with salt and pepper hair in a bun at the back of her neck barked orders, and the boys didn’t hesitate to obey. She tested the water and wiped her hands on her off-white apron. Her clothing was dark, and looked rough. No doubt all three women wore wool, heavy, but warm enough for the climate. Durable, too. They probably didn’t have many replacement outfits.

  She should pay attention—being since she was surrounded by things she’d written about many times.

  And isn’t that just surreal?

  Soon the door was shut, the boys were gone, and Ashlyn was alone with the three women.

  The girl who’d taken her hand started pulling on Eoin’s shirt. “Come now, lass,” she whispered. She was the one with the weird combo accent, but her smile was still in place, and genuine. Her rounded cheeks made her green eyes all that more appealing, and she was pretty. Open, friendly.

  Ashlyn didn’t mean to resist, but then again, she didn’t have much choice. Plus, she really did want to take a bath. She lifted her arms when bid by the other younger woman, and in about two seconds she was naked by the tub.

  The eldest woman urged her to step into the water. “S’all righ’, lass.” She smiled, too, then addressed the third girl, who had reddish-brown hair, and wore a dress almost the same color. “Go fetch tha gown tha laird wanted tha lass in. She looks ta be of a size wit’ Lady Fiona, so gather underclothes as well. Our lady willna mind.”

  The girl nodded and was off, closing the door a lot quieter than the last boy had.

  She shivered, despite the warm fire not ten feet from her and the hot water she was about to get into. Her surroundings hadn’t really sunk in—the century she was in—was like a prairie dog on alert. She faded from this is reality to no way, in a circle. “Lady Fiona?”