Some Like it Plaid

by Angela Quarles

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more Amara titles… Awk-Weird

  The Aussie Next Door

  The Honeymoon Trap

  The Wedding Deal

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Angela Quarles. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  rights@entangledpublishing.com

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Liz Pelletier and Lydia Sharp

  Cover design by Bree Archer

  Cover photography by loco75 and Anastasiia Vasylyk/Getty Images

  zayatsandzayats/Deposit Photos

  Period Images

  ISBN 978-1-64063-804-4

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition November 2019

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

  xoxo

  Liz Pelletier, Publisher

  To Joshua Abraham Norton (1818 – 1880), the real Emperor Norton

  Chapter One

  “We need wives if we’re to survive as a tribe.” Connall son of Eacharn’s aggravation powered his words, but they blended in with the other shouts and exclamations in the keep’s great hall. Frustration making his movements jerky, he stood, the sound of chair legs scraping against stone adding to the mayhem.

  “Hold your tongues, the lot of you.” This time, his voice rang out in the close confines. The council members, who’d been bickering for too long, hushed one by one, and all gazes turned to him. And one by one, each intent stare added to the burden of responsibility weighing on his heart. Even his father, the chief, raised a brow and leaned forward in his seat.

  As the leader’s oldest surviving son, Connall’s word carried authority despite his mere twenty-one winters. He rounded on their spellcaster, Mungan, who was barely visible in the murky corner, and strode toward him. “This cannot continue. Find a solution. I need a wife. As do my brothers and the other men.”

  “Well, I want my own back, damn you,” shouted a warrior, whose face had the stiff mien of barely restrained sorrow.

  “I sympathize with your grief, my friend, but we are at an impasse.”

  Mungan’s lanky frame unfolded from the darkened corner. He strode into the sun’s rays streaming from one of the keep’s windows, the light highlighting the gold-tooled patterns on his leather jerkin, crackling energy surrounding him. Even the dust motes seemed to dance in a pattern around his youthful face.

  “Aye, there is a way.” Mungan’s rich tenor filled the room with portent.

  Cries of relief sounded, and Connall stepped forward. “Then—”

  “But there is a cost.” Mungan gripped his yew staff and tamped it once on the stone floor. Unlike the other men in the tribe, he kept his dark brown hair cut close to his head. “Magic, especially magic of this potency”—his gaze swung to Connall’s and held—“always has a cost.”

  Chills raced along his skin, but he crossed his arms, pushing aside any unease the spellcaster’s words caused. Mungan was the most powerful druid to emerge in their tribe in several generations. Connall trusted him with his life. “I’ll pay it.”

  He’d pay anything. Their current situation was untenable. His responsibility to his people lay heavy on his heart, leaving him antsy, frustrated.

  Mungan nodded once, his eyes never leaving Connall’s. “Then we must depart for Achnabreck at once to take advantage of the sun’s last emanations. The winter solstice conveys the strongest magic. Make haste and pack for an extended journey.” With that, he pivoted and marched from the keep, his wool mantle swirling behind him.

  An indescribable pull tugged, as if he’d handed over his fate to the powerful, enigmatic man.

  Connall dragged in a deep breath to center himself.

  No turning back now.

  The early setting sun stretched fingers of light over the nearby mountain peaks, a clear reminder of their need for haste. Connall relished the lash of the wind through his hair and the steady movement of his horse beneath him as he galloped along the wooden road to Achnabreck, one of their most sacred sites. His brothers, his father, Mungan, and several warriors rode with him. As they neared their destination, they slowed their pace to allow their horses to cool down.

  Connall stared into the distance, that pull of fate stronger the closer they came to Achnabreck and the druid’s energy merged with its stronger one. Slate-gray clouds, tinged deep pink, streaked the horizon, foretelling of rain.

  Mungan drew alongside, matching his mount’s trot to that of Connall’s. Yew staff secured to his back, Mungan leaned forward in his saddle to direct a concerned look his way, the mantle of responsibility he always wore still evident but overshadowed with the warmth of familiarity and friendship they’d shared since they were lads. “Remember, hearth brother. I cannot guarantee where you’ll end up.”

  He squared his shoulders. “As long as there are women to wed, I’ll be fine.”

  “Well, you’ll be equipped with the tools you require. The magic will see to that. Only…”

  Mungan never hesitated to speak his mind before. As their leading druid, his opinion held equal weight to that of the chief.

  “Tell me,” Connall urged. He’d been given a lesson on what to expect and how the magic would work. Most of it didn’t make sense, though he pretended to grasp it.

  A rare smile stretched across Mungan’s face. “You love adventure. Well, an adventure is what you’ll get. No need to be afraid.” He slapped Connall on the back then trotted to the path leading up to the site’s edge. Connall would swear the spellcaster tossed a final word over his shoulder. “Much.”

  Arse.

  His own horse stepped off the wooden road and threaded up the clearing of the squat hillside. What had he agreed to?

  When the others dismounted at the expanse of flat rock stretching over the ground, he swept his gaze over the incised circles and indentations only those of Mungan’s order comprehended. The wind blew stronger on this knoll, bringing with it the aroma of alder, peat, and the warm, sharp scent of deep, deep magic. A smell which triggered memories, ones he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on since he was a lad.
His older brother and his playmates used to sport here, and he always tagged along, his heart full of yearning to join them.

  Guilt knifed him now, nearly bowing him forward in the saddle.

  He gritted his teeth. On the barrows of his ancestors’ graves, he’d do what was right for the tribe’s welfare. He’d failed them before, depriving them of his older brother. He wouldn’t do so again.

  Mungan murmured into his horse’s ear and stepped away. Its head bobbed once, as if in acknowledgement, sending a crawling sensation down Connall’s spine. The spellcaster removed his saddle bag and stepped onto the incised rock, setting his burden down near the edge.

  Connall shivered in the pre-dusk winter air. The young druid poured liquid into some of the “cups” carved in the stone. In others, he pinched precise measurements of various herbs and plants, mixing them within. In another, he struck a flint and burned a bundle of twigs. A pungent, earthy smell wafted to the side of the clearing, making his nose twitch. With each inhale of its rich, heady scent, the magic strengthened and swelled.

  In other cups, Mungan placed yew staffs which, when complete, formed a circle. No one knew who’d carved into these rocks, but the druids claimed to know the intended purpose and how to harness its magic. He’d heard tales of “journeying” through the rock’s magic, but it was a rare occurrence, one neither he nor his father’s peers had ever witnessed.

  “Stand here.” Mungan indicated a staff in direct line with the setting rays of the sun.

  Heart pounding so hard it reverberated up his throat, Connall dismounted, grabbed his leather satchel, and did as instructed. His father, his brothers, and the rest of the attending warriors gathered around the edge and watched in silence, their faces ranging from grim to desolate. He would not let them down.

  He stood with the staff circles at his back, as straight as he was able, and lowered his chin, ready for whatever magic the druid planned. If it found Connall a wife, he’d pay the price. The weak winter sun bathed his skin, mixing with the power in the air.

  Mungan stepped back and held his yew staff to the side, his gaze checking Connall’s position and stance and then roving once over the magical setup.

  The spellcaster nodded decisively. “Walk sunwise around the circle of staffs. And whatever you do”—he pointed his finger at him—“do not stop until the magic is complete. You have the charmed stone that will return you, aye?”

  Connall fingered the small incised object in the pouch belted to his side, the smooth surface cooling the pads of his fingers. Even this wee object seemed to pulse with magic. “I do.”

  Mungan pointed to Connall’s left. “Then walk.”

  He paced across the slanted expanse of magic stone, and Mungan chanted words that were mostly lost in the wind, but snatches caught his ear, ringing eerily clear. “…two souls lost…separated in the breadth of eternity…united by…”

  Heavier and heavier his steps became as the spellcaster’s words slipped through the thickening air to reach his ears. Panic clutched his heart, but he gritted his teeth and sought his battle-ready calm—of a certainty, this venture would be as fraught with danger as one with swords and blood and might. As he made the next pass around the circle, the solstice sun’s rays brightened to a painful degree, and he squinted. His body…by all the gods and goddesses…it was as if his bones had turned to stone.

  He dragged a leg forward, and it landed with a thud. Next leg forward. Thud. He concentrated on moving each muscle in his body, the druid’s words admonishing him to not stop still animating him forward despite the struggle. Thud. Thud. Sound grew muffled and distorted till it all but disappeared. And his heart punched against his ribs with each weighted step.

  Ach, he could neither see nor hear. But then the druid’s voice pierced through the thickening, blinding veil shrouding him: “Remember, you hail from a land called Scotland.”

  Scotland? ’Twas a strange word. And a strange name it was for their land, but he’d not question it—the druid might be young, but he was wise. Connall stumbled forward and boom, a pressure smacked his torso and legs, and sound rushed into his ears. The blinding light morphed to black as night, and true fear grabbed his soul as he opened his eyes wide. Light and sound swirled and resolved, and his knees buckled under him, making him stumble down…an unfamiliar green knoll.

  Where—?

  Using the downward momentum, Connall regained his footing by running. At the bottom of the steep hill, he sat, his breath sawing in and out as if he’d fought an army of warriors single-handedly. The dread he’d experienced earlier at the druid’s evasiveness now settled into his belly like a weighted stone, for the sight before him was…was… He pulled in a shaky breath, his pulse beating a frantic rhythm. Well, it was unlike anything he’d ever seen.

  The stench…oily and smoky.

  The noise…discordant and piercing.

  And the sight?

  Mother of all his ancestors, alien it was. More people than he’d ever witnessed at even the largest tribal gathering pushed past one another on a smooth road of rock. Chariots, colorful and shiny, zoomed nearby, faster than any horse, and pulled along as if by magic.

  And the people. Och, they were dressed even more strangely—colorful fabric cut in unusual patterns and sewn with great skill, their skin and hair colored vibrantly. In the distance stretched a dull red line, arcing through the air and flanked by two ladder-like structures. He frowned—the scale was odd. What was it?

  Then he gasped—it was a bridge unlike any stone causeway or ford he’d trodden, stretching across a vast loch. How skilled were these people?

  Connall dug his fingers into the grassy soil and swallowed, throat dry, then jumped to his feet, slapping his hand at his side. Instead of meeting the hilt of his greatsword, he encountered cloth.

  He stared down at his person, and goose bumps broke out along his skin. Gone were his great kilt and sandals, and in their place was a tartan wrapped around his hips and the heaviest shoes upon his feet, crisscrossed with string. He held out his arms and smoothed a palm down his forearm, marveling at the soft cloth covering his upper body. A leather satchel hung at his side, held by a strap from his opposite shoulder.

  What have ye done, Mungan?

  A couple strolled by in their peculiar attire, chattering away in a strange language, for the cadence was unfamiliar. But as they drew near, despite not knowing the shape of the words, he understood their meaning perfectly and marveled at the strength of the young druid’s magic.

  Connall turned in a circle, taking in the cacophony of sight and sound and the multitude of people.

  “You were right to send me here, Mungan,” he whispered into the still, winter air, his breath clouding it white. For women were everywhere.

  And then his heart chilled to match the frigid air, because the words which had emerged from his mouth were not their customary shape.

  Mo Chreach. The sooner he found his wife, the sooner he could leave this strange and smelly place with its peculiar word-shapes. Besides, the druid warned him he had to accomplish his task before two full moons passed, or the tether would weaken and he’d no longer remember home. All stated with a matter-of-factness that had further unnerved him.

  Connall strode to the edge of the tightly shorn, uniform grass where it bordered the arrow-straight stone path across which everyone strode. A nice-enough looking lass strolled by, staring at an object in her hand.

  “Will ye be my wife? I’ll treat ye well, never fear,” he said in the strange words.

  He thought it best to reassure them on that fact. And then he stared—she’d passed him without ever looking up from her hand. Was his voice not working in the druid’s magic? It was disconcerting to think word-shapes in one way, and have them come out differently, and still understand them. Despite their unfamiliarity.

  He placed his hands on his hips and used the voice that made his wa
rriors stand straighter. “Harken on to me!”

  Startled faces glanced his way. Aye, his voice was in fine working order. But instead of stopping and paying heed as they should, each and every one continued past and either looked at their hands, as they all seemed inclined to do, or talked to themselves, a hand at their ear.

  He tried again, infusing his voice with more authority. “I’m searching for a wife for my hearth.”

  Most continued on as before, as if he were invisible, but one man slowed, his brow furrowed in concern. “You’re looking for your wife?”

  Connall approached, his steps eager. “Aye.”

  “Where’d you last see her? Is she not answering your call?”

  “I haven’t yet met her, and I’m calling for one now, aren’t I?” Connall waved his hand toward the seething mass of humanity.

  The man stepped back, eyes round, and scuttled past, shaking his head.

  What was so difficult to understand? He’d been assured by the lasses in his life that he was pleasant-enough looking, and he was surely strong enough to take care of one, unlike most of these sticks scurrying past.

  With that thought to hand, he approached the next lass who appeared to be of child-bearing age, though ’twas hard to look at her for her lips, cheeks, and eyes had a sharpness of color he’d never seen before. As if she had the hues of a butterfly’s wing on her face. “Will ye consent to be my wife and return with me to my land?” Remembering the druid’s words, he added, “It’s called Scotland.”

  The woman only stared and said, “Freak.”

  Each time he approached a likely lass, he was met with the same, or with laughter or weird looks. Truly, it was enough to wound his pride.

  A man approached him, all in black with tools strapped around his waist. “I’m going to need to ask you to leave the park, mister. I’m getting complaints of harassment.” He carried himself with the authority of a chief, though he was a bit soft around the waist to be a warrior for these people.

  “Harassment?”

  “You can’t stand here asking random women to marry you.” He crossed his arms and glanced around. “Is this for some reality show or a YouTube stunt? You need a permit for this kind of thing.”