Highlander's Love: A Scottish Historical Time Travel Romance (Called by a Highlander Book 4)

by Mariah Stone

  “Jerold Baker,” she replied without thinking.

  She realized the cover had slid down and her back was exposed. She picked up the cloak and wrapped it around herself.

  He came closer to the bars and into the light, revealing his face. The expression of menace there made Amber gulp.

  “On whose orders? de Bourgh’s?”

  “Who else’s?”

  His face went stony. She should be more careful. She had no idea who this man was or what he wanted. What if he was some sort of overlord or something? Or what if he worked for de Bourgh? Now he’d seen someone was healing her wounds…

  Had she just put Muireach, herself, and Owen in more danger?

  The door at the end of the hallway clanked and steps of several people sounded against the floor. The man looked into the darkness of the hallway.

  Owen appeared flanked by two guards. He was walking, thank God!

  “Come to gloat, Hamish?” Owen asked.

  The man gave him such a heavy glare that Amber was glad she wasn’t on the receiving end of it. The guards opened the door, pushed Owen into the cell, then locked it and left. Without saying another word, the man walked past the guards and into the darkness.

  Owen’s tall frame lingered by the entrance. “He didna do anything to ye, did he?”

  Amber shook her head once. “No. But he saw my scars… He saw everything.”

  Owen stood with his back to her, and she couldn’t see his face. He hit the cell bars with his hand. “That snake. He’ll tell de Bourgh, he’ll ken ’tis Muireach helping us. And if he kens ’tis Muireach…”

  Their escape was doomed. A cold, dark feeling of desperation coiled in the pit of her stomach. What if they never escaped? What if she’d gotten a life sentence after all—one in the Middle Ages?

  Amber’s eyes burned, but she wouldn’t cry. “Are you all right?”

  He turned, and the light of the torch fell on him. Amber gasped. His nose was bleeding, and one eye was swollen and closed completely. Something was wrong with his neck. It looked too red and yellow.

  “I’m all right, lass. Dinna fash about me.” He approached her. “Ye should lie down.”

  Amber’s blood chilled when she saw him up close. “I’m fine. Come here, let me see.” She patted the bench next to her. “What happened?”

  Owen sat by her side, and Amber turned him so that more light from the torch could fall on him. Her heart clenched. She hated seeing him like this. This strong, kind, caring Highlander.

  Warmth spread through her chest as she thought about how he’d tended to her these last few days. He’d relentlessly re-dressed her wounds and given her Muireach’s potion. He’d talked to her to distract her when she’d moaned and cried out in pain. He’d even made her smile.

  And the fact that he knew about the time travel… That was such a relief. She was grateful he was here with her. If not for him, she’d be dead by now.

  Without wanting to, she’d started to care about him. And even trust him. That was dangerous. He’d already blamed her for complete nonsense. A man like him, an irresponsible joker, a playboy, would blame her for his problems.

  It would’ve been easier if he thought her crazy and distanced himself from her. But instead of condemning her as a witch or thinking she were crazy, he’d accepted she was a time traveler. Right now, they had a common goal—to escape. But what about later, once they were out of here? Would he betray her then? Abandon her once they were free?

  Amber thought about Bryan. She’d trusted him. She’d loved him the whole year they’d been together. He was a good guy, kind and caring. But he had issues. He’d wanted to control her.

  He couldn’t get over their separation. From time to time, when he’d get drunk, he’d come on to her. Like that last time, two weeks ago.

  Amber remembered the hot air of the desert and the smell of old beer in the makeshift US Army bar. The half-broken, flickering neon signs, and the chatter of drunken soldiers trying to talk over rock music.

  She’d gone with a fellow soldier to have a beer after a long recon mission. Bryan had approached her, and she’d quickly realized he’d had too much to drink, even though he looked calm and collected and wore his kind smile. He reached out and brushed his knuckles against her cheek. “Have a drink with me. For old times’ sake.”

  Translation, he wanted to have sex with her again. And maybe get back together.

  “You’ve had enough, Bryan,” Amber said. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

  She turned to walk away, but Bryan caught her by the elbow. “Just one freaking drink, babe. Please.”

  There was no use trying to reason with him when he was like this. She already saw violence starting to rise in the depths of his eyes. Amber yanked her elbow from his grasp.

  “I said no.”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders. She pushed him, sending him flying into the crowd. Some people caught him, and the whole bar stood still and looked at her. Most of them were men, and what most of them saw was an altercation. That a woman had attacked a man. They hadn’t seen that he’d started it, that it was self-defense. They also hadn’t been in the bedroom with him, where his touch left bruises on her breasts and her shoulders, where his bites left traces.

  That push showed him she’d never let him be rough with her again.

  But all they saw was that she was violent against him.

  And a couple of hours later, she’d pay for it.

  Would she eventually pay for being open and vulnerable with Owen, too? She had to be careful. She had to remind herself that trusting someone—especially a man or a system run by men—was stupid. She could only rely on herself. She’d learned that the hard way.

  She was tired of being a doormat for men. For once in her life, she wanted a man to value her, to appreciate her.

  As she looked into Owen’s green eyes, she prayed she wasn’t being foolish now. That she could trust him like she trusted herself.

  A careful voice at the back of her mind warned her she hadn’t known him for long, and that he hadn’t had anything else to do other than care for her. What they’d been though together might not mean anything. But mesmerized by his proximity, by the orange fire playing in his one eye that wasn’t shut, she brushed that voice away.

  “What happened?” she repeated the question, coming back to her senses.

  “As ye see, lass, the English and I talked.”

  She couldn’t resist it. She reached out and cupped his jaw, willing to make the bruise on his cheekbone go away. His eye widened for a split second in surprise, then he held his breath and leaned into her palm. His skin was warm, and the bristle on his jaw rough. How would it feel to have him brush against her inner thigh with it?

  “Your turn for some salve now,” she said, clutching the cloak around her shoulders with one hand. “I’ll put it on your neck.”

  He chuckled, but a grimace of pain distorted his face. “I can do it myself. Although I would prefer for ye to do it.”

  “Then let me.”

  Amber asked him to look away and quickly put on the undertunic. When she was decent, she sank to her knees in front of him, itching to put her hands on his thighs and feel the steel of his warm muscles. She took out the clay box with the salve and opened it. The aromatic herbal cream melted against her fingers. She put a good heap on Owen’s burn and gently spread it around. He hissed under his breath, his fingers clenching around the bench until his knuckles whitened. Amber took out a fresh cloth and tied it around his neck.

  “Is it okay like this?” she asked. “Not too tight?”

  “’Tis all right.”

  “Let me put some on your face.”

  She scooped more of the salve and spread it against the swollen bruise on his cheekbone. His intense gaze left pleasant tingles on her skin.

  “Yer touch makes the pain go away,” he said.

  Amber’s hand lingered on his hot skin. The world stood still and time froze. She was lost in the green depths o
f his eye, in the golden glow of his skin, in his masculine, musky scent.

  “I highly doubt that,” she said, her voice coarse.

  “Aye, ye have a magic touch, lass. Is yer kiss magical, too?”

  A kiss. Amber’s breath caught in her throat, and her stomach did cartwheels. She imagined his lips on her. Would he be demanding or gentle? Would he taste as masculine as he smelled?

  Her whole body melted like that salve on her fingers.

  No. What was she doing? Kissing would only complicate things. She’d decided not to trust him, not to get involved. She should follow through with her decision.

  Amber withdrew her hand and closed the clay box. The air felt hot around her, and her skin broke out in a sweat. She didn’t look at Owen, but she sensed his confusion, his disappointment. She put the box away along with the other pieces of clean cloth.

  “You should rest,” she said.

  Right, pretend like he didn’t say anything about a kiss. Pretend like I didn’t just melt.

  “Lass—”

  “No. Please. Let’s not.”

  The dungeon door clunked open, and Muireach’s shuffling steps approached. Then he stood before them on the other side of the bars.

  “If ye want to escape, tonight is yer best chance,” Muireach said. “MacDougall and de Bourgh just left.”

  Chapter 12

  Amber gathered the edges of her shirt in her hands to pull it up and over her head so she could get dressed in the clothes Muireach had brought her.

  “Turn away,” she said.

  Owen did as she asked, his mouth suddenly dry. The images of Amber’s naked back and the sides of her breasts burned in his mind. Her back wasn’t injured in his imagination. Instead, her dark skin was smooth and glowing and soft as silk. Blood flowed to his cock. What was wrong with him? She was still injured. And she’d very clearly indicated she didn’t want anything between them.

  How could he be so aroused just because she was taking off her shirt? Muireach had brought them clothes the guards wore. Two red tunics with three golden lions embroidered on them lay on the bench.

  Owen let out a long breath and made himself think of something else. Of the escape.

  This was their only chance. If they failed now and got caught, de Bourgh would figure out that Muireach had helped them. And then the poor man wouldn’t come out alive.

  Owen undressed and put on the English tunic. Muireach had managed to steal them from a heap of fresh laundry, so they smelled crisp.

  “Okay, decent,” Amber said, and he turned around, his mouth still dry.

  Even in men’s clothing, she looked like a woman with her long, unruly hair, her graceful movements, and her delicate frame.

  “Ye need a cap,” Owen said. “Ye still look like a lass. Ye’ll draw some attention. There aren’t many people here who look like ye. I admire that, but it’ll betray us to the English.”

  She crossed her arms on her chest. “What do you suggest?”

  “A cap. Or a helm. A hood, mayhap. Something to put yer face in the shadows.”

  “He’s right, lass,” Muireach said from the hallway where he’d waited to give Amber privacy. “The men that guard the dungeon have helms.”

  “Then we’ll need to make sure we get some.”

  “Are ye both ready?” Muireach asked.

  Owen locked his eyes with Amber. She nodded. “Aye,” he said. “We are.”

  Muireach unlocked the cell and opened the door. “God, help us,” he muttered as Owen and Amber marched out of their prison. Owen’s heart pounded heavily in his chest. They passed by the cell with the half-mad Englishman. He watched them leave but didn’t make a sound.

  They stopped before the heavy wooden door of the dungeon, but Owen laid his hand on Muireach’s before the man could open it. He looked at Amber. “Ye promise to nae fight, lass? Ye might open yer stitches and bleed.”

  Her jaw muscles played, showing she clearly disagreed with him, but she gave a short nod. “I’ll do my best. But honestly, freedom is more important to me than a little bleeding.”

  “Lass,” Owen said as a warning, “if ye do fight, I promise I’ll put ye over my knee when this is over.”

  Her face went blank at that, and even though it was hard to tell in the darkness, he thought he saw her blush.

  “All right, all right,” Muireach grumbled. “Ye can settle yer marital issues after ye disappear in the air like a child’s fart. Wait for my signal.”

  He walked out, leaving the door open a slit. Owen watched him through it and saw him stop and greet the guards. They glanced briefly at Muireach and then continued talking. One of them was older and sat on a small stool, the other one leaned against the wall leisurely.

  Muireach made a sign behind his back with his hand, and Owen opened the door. He stepped on the stone floor without a sound, although he was afraid his thundering heartbeat might alarm the guards. Muireach walked on slowly so the guards would concentrate on him.

  Owen reached the man who was standing, grabbed the sword propped against the wall next to him and stabbed the guard in the back. He grunted and sank to the floor. The second guard watched in astonishment as his comrade fell. He opened his mouth to cry out an alarm, but Muireach rushed and pierced his throat with a dagger.

  “Aye, ye Sassenach bastart,” Muireach growled. “Wanted to do this since the day ye took the castle.”

  Owen looked back at Amber, who watched everything with a pale face.

  “Lass?” he said, worried they were taking too long.

  “I’m fine. Let’s not waste any time.”

  But before they could move to take the stairs, the door to the other wing of the dungeon opened. Hamish and five English warriors entered the space.

  They froze. Hamish’s expression changed from astonishment to shock to furious determination. His sword glistened in the light of the torches as he drew it from its scabbard. Five more swords appeared.

  “You Scottish animals,” growled one of the men.

  Owen stood protectively between them and Amber, his fingers tightening around the grip of his weapon. Muireach assumed a defensive position, dagger in hand. The air crackled with tension, as though lightning had struck nearby. No one moved.

  Hamish glared at Owen with something unreadable in his eyes. Then his eyes darted at Amber, and he nodded to his right. It was such a small twitch, he almost didn’t notice it.

  Hamish whirled and stabbed the English man to his left in the chest. The rest of the soldiers stared in pure astonishment, so did Owen. The only one who didn’t lose his wits was Muireach. Using their surprise to his advantage, Muireach stabbed the soldier closest to him and let out what sounded like a battle cry as he jumped forward with surprising agility for a man his age. The soldier raised his sword and deflected the blow.

  One of the other men launched at Owen, and he finally came out of his stupor and raised his sword. He brought his blade down and it bit into the man’s ribs. The guard yelled but managed to strike out at Owen. The weapon only missed Owen by the length of a fingernail.

  Owen swung his sword again, but he was too slow. The guard blocked it and thrust his own blade towards Owen’s neck. Owen didn’t have time to deflect, but before the blade met his flesh, a shadow passed behind the man. There was a loud thud, and the guard stumbled and fell to the floor. Amber stood with a wooden plank in her hands.

  Hamish dealt a deadly blow to the last guard standing, and Owen looked around. Every single English enemy lay dead, blood spreading around them like small, dark lochs. Hamish wiped his blade against a cloth, and Muireach was already walking towards Amber with his bloody dagger still in his hand.

  Amber leaned down and removed the helm from one of the guards. She put it on, and it hid her face somewhat, but her long, curly hair stuck out in all directions from under it. She quickly shoved the mass under the helm. Owen hoped it would stay under there and that the dark night outside would conceal everything else.

  He took another on
e of the helms and put it on. He undid a guard’s belt and cinched the scabbard and sword around his own waist. Muireach helped Amber do the same with another sword and sheath.

  “Go,” Hamish said. “Quickly.”

  Owen laid his hand on Amber’s shoulder, but before he stepped on the stairs, he turned to Hamish. “Why did ye help us?”

  Hamish sighed and looked at Amber. “I couldna let him hurt her like that anymore.” He glanced up towards the stairs. “Now go. I still have a mission to complete in Stirling. But I hope I wilna meet ye on the battleground.” Owen turned to follow Amber and Muireach, but Hamish said, “Owen, I am sorry about Lachlan.”

  Owen drew in a quick, angry breath. This was not the place nor the time to talk about this; though, it did make him feel a little better that Hamish regretted what had happened with Lachlan. He nodded, and then they fled up the stairs to the ground floor of the tower, through a larger door, and farther out into the cool, summer night.

  Owen had forgotten how sweet fresh air was outside, how soothing the chirping of night crickets and the hooting of an owl was. It was liberating to look out into the vast open space and not see the confining thick, granite walls.

  The yard was empty, and no smoke rose from the kitchen’s chimney. The stables and cowshed were quiet. The great hall, too. Down the hill, torches illuminated the wooden palisade and the unforgiving outer curtain walls of the Stirling fortress.

  “There are nae guards that I can see by the palisade,” Owen said. “But there will be at the gatehouse. We must convince them to let us out.”

  “Aye,” Muireach said. “Let us get the horses.”

  They went into the stables, and Muireach and Owen worked as quickly as they could to saddle the horses. He’d rather ride double with Amber since she was still recovering and weak, but that would raise suspicions, and they’d be faster on separate mounts.

  Two horses were saddled, and Owen began saddling a third.

  Muireach frowned. “Three horses?”

  “Aye. Ye’re coming with us.”

  “Nae.”

  Amber touched Muireach’s shoulder. “You must. De Bourgh will know you helped us escape. He’ll kill you. Come back to the Highlands. Don’t die here with no purpose.”