Some Like it Plaid

by Angela Quarles

  Connall flexed his fingers.

  Ugh. Clasping that damn hand back at the podshare had landed her here. While a part of her loved the idea of touching him, another part worried—could every touch and interaction tie her closer to this time?

  No, she was being silly. She placed her palm in his and the roughness of his warrior’s skin sent a bolt of heat from her chest. She looked up into his face, and his eyes darkened. He wrapped his strong fingers around her smaller hand, and she stepped into the boat. As soon as she was onboard, she snatched her hand away, but the sudden movement rocked the boat.

  “Whoa,” she whispered, and stuck her arms out for balance.

  Steps thunked behind her, and Connall’s strong hands gripped her waist, steadying her body but unsettling her insides.

  He was so close. So close, his heat buffeted her. So close, his enticing scent sparkled through her senses. So close, the moment his breathing hitched—slight, soft—twanged the air between them.

  To distract herself from the rush of unwelcome awareness of him, she asked, “Will we—” She cleared her throat. “Will we be traveling by boat the whole way?”

  “Most of it, aye.” So close, his breath tickled her ear. She shivered.

  He came around and blocked the wind, and she chastised herself for the irrational need to stomp her foot in frustration for him moving away from her.

  “In my great-grandfather’s day, I’m told we were perched between two great waters, but every year the water recedes, little by little. Now all that remains is this shallow loch, and we’ll need to thread through a river before it spills out into Loch Gilp and Loch Fyne.” He smiled. “I imagine by your time, this loch will be gone.”

  He was probably right, but it was hard to picture—to her, this was how Dunadd looked. How it should look. A dark, terraced butte rising out of crystalline waters.

  “Will we be going out into the open sea?” She eyed the still-too-tiny craft, and a flutter of unease grew in her stomach.

  He shook his head. “We’ll be staying close to land.”

  Okay, she could do this. She gripped her leather satchel tight to her side and settled on a bench. This boat was much larger, the sides stretching up higher, leaving a deep space inside. Seven rows of benches lined either side of the main mast, though the sail was wrapped up tight. Around her, warriors boarded, taking positions along the sides to man the oars. Connall, thank God, sat beside her to row.

  The men shouted directions to each other, and soon the boat slipped away, cutting into the still waters of the loch. And then a chant began in time with the rhythm of their oars. Before long, they were flying across the water, the wind whipping against her skin.

  Connall’s biceps bunched and flexed, his motions matching the other men as he sang the chanting song, his voice a clear bass. Even though it was one of several deep tones, his would have been easy to pick out even if he hadn’t been beside her—strength, competence, and pride laced the rolling words, weaving their spell deeper into her, causing her breath to quicken and her stomach to do a slow, but inevitable, flip.

  The other boat slipped away from the dock and followed in their wake. Fourteen men manned that boat as well as this one. “Will there be enough men to guard Dunadd?”

  He stopped singing at her question, though he didn’t lose the rhythm. “There are. We’d grown lax in the peace we’d known for the past decade, and most of the men were with the hunting party when the raid occurred. We have twice this number of able-bodied warriors, as well as some crotchety old-timers to guard while we’re away.”

  As Connall resumed his chant, she stared toward the distant horizon. What awaited her there?

  Chapter Six

  Later that day, Ashley was about to jump up and down just to do something. This was the longest she’d ever gone without having an activity to occupy her—reading, watching TV, playing a game, running errands. She’d even wash dishes, for Pete’s sake, just to alleviate her boredom.

  Connall was busy either rowing or sailing their ship. At least back at the keep, the overburdened women kept her busy with chores.

  The number of ribs making up the hull had been counted—eighteen—and every visible knot in the wood—forty-two. Landscape features had been named—there was now a Misty Mountain, a Mystic River, and a Walden’s Pond, though lately they were getting names like Fraggle Rock and Honeycomb Hideout.

  As they floated downstream, the clouds made rippling shadows along the sides of the snow-capped mountains, entrancing her. She’d spent enough time in Scotland now to know that this particular beauty was not a static thing. Depending on the weather, or the time of day, this same spot would cast a different spell, providing those who regularly saw it with an ever-changing parade of gorgeousness.

  She’d lifted a hand, as if she could touch it. She was in that photo of Scotland hanging over her bed at the podshare.

  Around midday, they’d emerged from the twisting river and into a loch where they’d pulled ashore, scarfed down a meal, and the warriors took up the loose boards in the middle aisle of the boat and made a deck, completely hiding all but a few benches in the middle. They ran up the sail and, once everyone was onboard, set out into the more open waters of Loch Fyne. It sure felt as if they were on the open sea, with the shore receding and the other only just kissing the horizon.

  Lately, though, everyone was casting worried glances toward the dark clouds crowding low on the western horizon. Connall cinched a sail line tighter and secured it, his eyes constantly darting to the ominous sky. He stepped over and squatted, looking down at her. “Can ye do a foretelling? You said the magic allowed you to predict weather. I’m not liking the looks of that mass of clouds.”

  She’d guessed it would, since the weather in her own time was something she had access to via Google. Since it was something she’d normally know, she hoped the transference magic replaced weather satellites here and could tell her the weather.

  She nodded and then laid her divining leather and sack of dirt on the deck. Several warriors crouched beside Connall, their faces set in worried lines. One was his brother Domnall, a quiet man who had the same good looks and a silver torque on his neck. None of the others had these torques, so it must be an indication of their rank.

  She rubbed sweaty palms down her skirts and grabbed a fistful of dirt. Pulling in a deep breath, she cast it across the leather and waited.

  The answer came, chilling her.

  She glanced up at the men’s eager eyes and sought Connall’s. “It’s going to be bad. Gale force winds. It’ll be here within the hour.” Wicked-cool—so the magic could mimic Google.

  “An hour?”

  She pointed to the sun. “The time it’d take for the sun to go from here”—she moved her finger slightly—“to here.”

  Connall’s eyes flashed with determination, and he leaped to his feet. The others followed, and all were shouting and running around the deck as they redirected the sail and steered their boat to the distant shore. She ran to the side and scanned the coast.

  “There’s a large bay around the southern tip of this isle. We’re heading there,” Connall shouted to her.

  Being on land alone wasn’t going to help. They needed shelter. Plus, they were running out of time—the storm was approaching too fast.

  They skimmed along the southern tip, which she’d divined earlier was the Isle of Bute.

  “There!” She pointed to an inlet they’d just passed. It cut back into the land in such a way it was like a narrow hall between two cliffs, which could shelter them from the brunt of the wind.

  That wind, though, was carrying them to the open waters of the Firth of Clyde.

  Connall glanced over his shoulder to where she’d pointed and then shouted, “Tie up the sail. No time to uncover all the oars, so we’ll need to double up on these two and work together.”

  The men rush
ed to obey, and Connall strode to the stern. He cupped his hands and shouted to the boat following just behind, “Follow us and row hard!” He rounded on her. “Stay out of the way.”

  Ashley didn’t take offense at his brisk tone—he was in command mode. It was going to take strength and luck to go against the wind to that inlet, but—God—watching and not being able to help? She twisted her fingers into her skirt and bit her lip as the need itched along her skin. But vital seconds could be lost if she pitched in and messed up, or they stopped to chastise her.

  The darkening clouds loomed closer and the wind picked up, whipping and snapping her skirt against her calves.

  C’mon. C’mon. C’mon.

  She gripped the rail and concentrated on watching the cliff grow incrementally larger. The men’s muscles strained as they heaved the oars as a unit, their chants now low and urgent.

  “Screw it.”

  When their arms stretched forward again, she slipped into the space between Connall and one of the men.

  “I told you to stay out of the way,” he growled low so only she could hear.

  “I can help,” she whispered. As the oar approached her, she wrapped her fingers tight around the well-worn wood, careful not to tug or try to direct. She let her hands ride the oar and only when she felt them pull back toward them did she also pull with all of her weight, her butt scooting forward. When the others eased off, she slackened her grip and braced her feet on the bench in front. Soon she fell into their rhythm, anticipating the pulls with the timing of their singing chant, an urgent and dire-sounding one this time.

  Soon the rocky cliffs of the inlet skimmed past on both sides. Connall deftly slipped under the oar and leaped onto the decking, and with shouts and hand signals, directed them to a short stretch of rocky shore. A scraping noise soon followed as the wooden bottom hit the ground. She slumped forward at the sudden loss of momentum, but then scrambled out as the men hauled it farther inland.

  “Connall, the other boat!” Domnall shouted. “It’s struggling to make it.”

  Connall looked up from where he was tying the boat to a stout, wind-distorted tree. He pointed to two men. “With me.”

  Before she could ask what he planned to do, all three dashed along the narrow stretch between the western cliff face and the water. And then, whoa, they stripped off their kilts and shirts, tossing the fabric onto the ground. Even though she was shivering from the cold and the first drops of rain, as well as worry for the men in the boat, a tiny, tiny part of her couldn’t help but admire the flex of Connall’s ass cheeks as he ran, his powerful legs leaving the other two men behind.

  When he reached the inlet’s opening, he dove into the water and swam for the struggling boat.

  They churned through the water, and icy fear crawled up her spine. She was scared. Scared for him. It had nothing to do with the fact she might be stuck in this godforsaken place.

  I need you to live.

  They reached the prow and hauled themselves onto the boat, water sluicing off their muscular bodies as their powerful arms hiked them upward. Though it was hard to see through the now-blinding rain, she could make out that they were removing boards to expose another set of oars.

  Her heart beat in time with the rain hitting the rocks as Connall and the others steered the boat into the inlet. “Come on. You can do it,” she whispered.

  When the boat was finally safe, she dashed down the rocky stretch toward their discarded kilts, ignoring the startled shouts behind her. She avoided the rocks she knew would be slippery now from the rain and kept to the gray-black sand, though occasionally she had to slap her hand to the cliffside to catch her balance.

  Breath sawing in and out more than it should for the short run, she rounded up all three kilts—along with their belts and shirts—and worked her way back. Ahead, the second boat scraped up onto the black beachhead, and the men onshore crowded around its sides, hauling it in. The men in the boat were slumped over the oars, their backs heaving as they caught their breath.

  While they worked to secure both boats, Ashley wrung out their clothing as best she could. Something sharp bit into her palm. Wha—?

  She looked down. The metal of her kilt pin glinted in the weakening sun, still attached to one of the kilts. She put that kilt in one hand and the rest in her other.

  Then Connall rose from the bench in all his naked glory, his black hair plastered to his skull, the long strands curling against his neck and shoulders. Steam rose from his heated skin as rain peppered him, leaving his muscles glistening. He was a god, newly forged and rising from the mist.

  Don’t look.

  But she did.

  Oh. My.

  Heat bloomed in her chest.

  Because holy fucking shit.

  Clearly defined pecs with a sprinkling of black hair led down to abs any gym rat in America would give their left nut for, she was sure. The sprinkling of hair arrowed down, highlighting that perfect V that made her want to lick. Or bite.

  Her core clenched. The man was hung. Thick and long. When his cock stirred, she wrenched her focus upward to find his eyes latched onto hers, his gaze hooded.

  Oh shit.

  She swallowed, her throat dry, and ran up to him. She thrust his kilt in the general direction of that chest, but he clasped her wrist instead of the cloth. Heart thunking, she glanced up.

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice gravelly that, frankly, was like tossing more logs onto the fire. Still looking into her eyes and holding her wrist, his strong fingers right over her pulse point, he reached out with his free hand and slowly tugged a shirt from her other hand. Every bit of cloth swished across her skin as it left her grasp.

  As soon as the fabric pulled free, he released her and stepped back. He donned the shirt. Then he slowly drew the kilt from her hand, still stupidly poised in the air as if she’d been turned into a statue, and deftly wrapped it around his waist.

  Then he gave her The Look as she was starting to think of it—those smoky-green eyes radiating promise and passion and a quick flare of heat—his fingers securing the folds at his shoulder with the kilt pin she’d made for him.

  She cleared her throat.

  Do not get caught up in his snackalicious orbit.

  Connall brushed by her. The remaining naked men worked alongside the others, hauling tarps from the two boats as if being bare-assed around one another was completely normal, but their urgent movements pulled her out of her daze, and she scanned the shore, looking for shelter.

  The cliff receded at this portion, creating a hook-shaped beach that ended abruptly partway around another cliff. A thick grove of trees crowded the rest of the inlet’s shore, marching up a steep hill. She hiked up the slight incline and found a stretch of cliff where erosion from water had undercut the rock. Not enough to make a cave, but enough to provide some protection from the rain. She shoved the other kilts and shirts in the dry space it provided and sprinted back down to the activity. Some men were lashing the boats tighter, but she studiously ignored their naked bodies and helped them retrieve supplies.

  As she passed Connall, she nodded up ahead. “There’s a small shelter along the edge.”

  Connall followed her line of sight. The wind blew stronger, whipping his wet hair behind him. He turned to the others. “Shelter there,” he shouted against the growing storm as she ran with one of her loads to the spot.

  “Take shelter,” he said to her when she returned. “We’ll bring up the remainder.”

  But she gathered another load. No way would she squat under the rock while they did all the work.

  Soon they had the supplies on top of one tarp under the overhang, and they draped the loose end back over the top, securing the ends into the ground.

  They made two more tarp enclosures under the overhang. Connall never pushed her to take shelter again, too busy with securing their safety, though
he darted disapproving glances her way.

  Fourteen warriors crawled into one, their weight securing the ends that overlapped.

  Connall grasped her upper arm and indicated the remaining tarp. “You crawl in first but stop halfway, aye?”

  She crawled inside, shivering. Once she reached the middle, she sat cross-legged. Connall entered on his hands and knees, his broad shoulders taking up the whole width. On the other side, his brother Domnall burst in, shaking his body like a dog.

  She squeaked. “Domnall!”

  He threw her a sheepish grin. “Apologies.”

  As the rest followed and the last entered on either end, they pulled the edge down and anchored it with their butts, shutting all fourteen of them tight inside.

  She snorted. It was a burrito of Highlanders.

  Hot sauce, please?

  She snort-laughed, as the stress and fear found an outlet. She doubled over with teary-eyed laughter.

  A heavy arm curled around her shoulder, and she succumbed and leaned against Connall’s side as she pulled in deep breaths, trying to calm herself.

  “Are ye all right?” His low rumble sounded by her ear, sending fresh chills across her skin, but not from the cold.

  She gulped in another breath and wiped her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “I think it was all the stress.”

  She angled back, but he moved so she leaned against his rain-soaked but warm chest instead of the wall. But still she shivered, her shakes becoming almost violent.

  “Lean forward,” he whispered in her ear. “If you’d obeyed me and taken shelter, you’d not have taken a chill. In the future, you need to obey my directives as your husband.”

  Too tired to protest, she did as he said. His large hand cupped her head and pushed it down slightly. Then his fingers scraped her hair off her nape and brought it over her head to hang in front. His hands came around her and into view, twisting the ends between his fists until no drops emerged, his strong fingers flexing and squeezing inches from her face.