by Ann Gimpel
Sean held up a hand. “Where are ye aiming for?”
“Where else? Our old stronghold on the banks of Moray Firth.”
“Good choice.” Morgan’s dark eyes flashed silver. “Naught has changed. The Church holds no fondness for us, and we can be killed in any time, not just the current one.”
“I have no intention of falling prey to the hangman’s noose,” Arlen informed her and swept them through a portal that resonated cleanly with his magic. Unlike his last trip through time at the hands of witch power, this journey felt pure, free of taint.
He had one goal. Find Kat and bring her back.
How hard could it be?
He concentrated on his casting. One thing at a time. First, they had to get there. Then, they had to find her. He’d deal with whatever cropped up in between. She was his mate, the woman he’d waited centuries to find…
He ripped the thought out at its roots. She might not view things the same way. In truth, he was certain she wouldn’t. One trip through time was a fluke. After her current displacement, she’d catch the first plane back to the U.S. It’s what he would do in her place. Besides, why would she relinquish a prestigious academic post to move to Scotland?
He winced. He was getting so far ahead of the game, it was pathetic. He’d be proper and professional. No more stolen kisses. Nothing to bend her to his will.
Except for magic. She’d learn basic defensive maneuvers whether she wished it or not.
The black of his travel spell shaded to gray, and he readied himself to face a much earlier iteration of Inverness. It he’d done this right, they’d come out underground. If he’d screwed things up, they could face anyone from the laird’s guard to a group of furious clerics.
Chapter 9
Katerina lay on her side in a filthy alcove. Mice squeaked from somewhere close by, but it was too cold for roaches to do much more than waggle their antennae her way. The man who’d nabbed her had dragged her at least a mile to a falling down stone building. It didn’t look anything like a church, so her assumption about him being a monk might not be accurate. From his inflection and the guard’s “all’s well” call, she was spot on about landing in the earlier portion of the 1700s.
Fear carved deep, but now wasn’t the time to give in to it. She had to find a way out of her predicament, and she didn’t have a whole hell of a lot to work with.
She tried for a more comfortable position, but the maybe-not-a-monk and two others like him had wrapped her in rusty lengths of chain before tossing her into a corner. If she hadn’t been the victim, it would have been laughable since none of them wanted to touch her, which was weird since she was clean and they were filthy. At least they hadn’t rooted through her bag. It sat in the corner where they’d tossed it. Something about her unnerved them. It wasn’t much of an advantage, but it was all she had so far.
They spoke a fractured Latin but were easy enough to understand. She’d held a blank look with downcast eyes to encourage free discourse. Women from this era were almost never educated, so the men assumed she couldn’t understand them.
Her deception had worked in her favor; they were chattering like a flock of magpies—as if she weren’t even there. At least they hadn’t decided to rape her. Not yet, anyway. If that happened, she was pretty sure they’d kill her to conceal their fall from grace. Monks had sex. Lots of it, but they were supposed to be chaste. Even if this group weren’t part of one of the “official” religious sects, they dressed as holy men.
“Where’d you find the slut?” one of the men asked. Like the other two, his head was shaven, and he wore a ratty black robe held together with a length of leather.
“Wandering by the river.” Her captor lowered his voice. “The wench speaks English.”
The other two made hissing noises as if they’d just heard she was the devil incarnate. “What do you suppose she was doing there?” the third man asked. This one’s teeth were broken and black.
“No idea.”
They crossed the room and circled her, moving close enough she stifled a gag. Damn. People really did stink when they didn’t wash frequently. “She’s well enough garbed, even if she’s dressed up like a man,” the one with rotting teeth muttered.
“Mayhap we might ransom her.” The other man’s dark eyes gleamed hopefully.
“You never were quick on the uptake,” the one who’d taken her said. “Who in God’s name do you think will own she’s theirs?”
“Good enough point,” the man agreed. “English, you say?” At the first man’s nod, he went on, “Must be a spy.”
“Exactly why no one would claim knowledge of her presence here. No upright, God-fearing woman is out and about after dark, either.” Her captor nodded sagely, and the men moved back toward the other side of the hovel where a smoky peat fire did almost nothing to warm the place.
She tried to remember what she knew about politics and splinter religious groups from this era. The Church of Scotland had come to blows with the Calvinists over dogma, the dissention growing more and more bitter and lasting for years. In the 1730s, a series of secessionists formed splinter sects, but she’d be damned if she could recall much about any of them.
Other than they were numerous and not sanctioned by either the Calvinists or the Church of Scotland. Over time the secessionists moved more and more toward evangelism, but it hadn’t happened yet.
Crap! One of the men had snatched her bag. It dangled from a grime-crusted fist. The man who’d nabbed her said, “Return that. I found her. Whatever’s in there is mine.”
The man with the bag didn’t make any move to let go of it. “I’d say possession surpasses your claim.”
“You would, would you?” Her captor launched himself at the other man and drove him across the room until his back was against the stone wall.
Amid grunting and scrabbling, they traded blows. The third man turned away, ignoring them, and hurried to where she lay. Kat put two and two together about the time he squatted next to her and grabbed a breast. He shoved his other hand between her legs, seemingly flummoxed by her trousers.
She kicked, but he evaded her easily, bound as she was. The hand kneading her breast joined his other one as he hunted for a way into her pants. The other two men were shouting insults in Gaelic as they hit one another. At least her bag had fallen to the floor, no doubt because the man holding it wanted full use of both his fists.
The opportunist who’d thought to rape her while his buddies were otherwise occupied, jumped back as if she’d knifed him in the guts. Kat rolled out of his way, but the wall halted further progress.
What had stymied him? It took a moment before she remembered her zipper. They’d been invented around 1890.
She flipped back around and stared right at him. The time for maidenly modesty was past. She’d scared him, and she’d capitalize on it before he raised the alarm with the other two still duking it out over first dibs on her bag. The pervert loomed over her, dark eyes rimmed with white, but the front of his robes stuck out, so fear hadn’t deflated his erection.
Pasting a come-hither look on her face, she took a chance and smiled fetchingly. “Come on back, here,” she invited in Gaelic. “No one will notice.”
He took a step away from her and made the hooked finger sign against evil. “Ye’re a witch,” he snarled.
Kat shrugged. “So? Everyone is something.”
The white rims around his pupils grew larger. “Abomination. My seed will turn me to your bidding.”
Kat lowered her voice. “But ye knew that when ye came over here. Untie me. Ye willna be sorry. I can show ye things that will spoil ye for any other woman.”
He cupped a hand over his erection. He was frightened of her, but she fascinated him too. Would lust win out?
The man who’d snagged her staggered to them. “What the fuck is going on over here, eh? Riley? Answer me.” He slugged the one who’d been freaked out by her zipper in the kidneys.
Riley grunted, but didn’t fall
forward. Good thing. He’d have fallen right on top of her. She adopted her diffident expression, gaze averted, and held her breath. Would Riley admit what he’d been about and start jabbering about her zipper? He wouldn’t have a name for it, but that didn’t matter.
After a sullen glance at the other man, Riley remained silent.
It made sense. Sex wasn’t a prime discussion topic among those who donned religious robes. The banter about wenches with pox she’d overhead outside Inverlochy Castle would never have happened inside a monastery.
Her captor doubled up his fist again. Before he could slam it into Riley a second time, the man sidestepped him. “Naught. There’s naught happening here.” Ducking, he slipped through what was left of the half fallen-in stone archway that served as a door.
Kat felt her captor’s gaze staring down at her, sharp with speculation. He’d likely overheard some of her conversation with Riley. In a lightning-fast move, he bent and slapped her. Her head snapped back, and her cheek stung.
“I bound ye with iron. It should mute your magic, witch.”
She narrowed her eyes and stared back at him, wishing she had the power he assumed she held.
“What did ye do to Riley?” He prodded her in the side with a boot, avoiding her direct gaze.
The other man crawled to them before rising creakily to his feet, the earlier altercation apparently forgotten. Such events were commonplace in this era, barely worth notice. He hooked a hand around her kidnaper’s upper arm. “Don’t engage her in conversation,” he instructed in Latin.
“Probably wise,” her captor replied in kind and turned away.
Breath rattled from Kat. How had she ever thought she’d outsmart these bastards? Not that they were mental giants, but she was trapped. Vulnerable to their whims. Her bag mocked her from where it had fallen onto the uneven dirt floor. Once they got they paws into it, Riley’s horror at her zipper would fade to nothing compared with the men’s reaction to her phone and tablet. Assuming they could figure out which buttons turned them on.
Or her wallet and passport complete with credit cards and likenesses of her. Cameras were at least a hundred years away. No way to explain the nice, neat photographs on her driver’s license or passport.
Kat cringed.
Of course, there was a way. Witchcraft. She could almost see them building a pyre out behind the building and tossing her onto it just before they lit the tinder.
“Come on.” The man who’d lost the fight angled his chin at the door and walked through it after Riley.
After one long, penetrating glance her way, the man who’d ruined her plans—and maybe her life—followed the other one, leaving her alone. She snorted. Not much of a risk. They assumed iron would keep her magic contained. They had no idea of the truth.
If they did, they’d have murdered her on the spot. Time travel was impossible, which made her presence in this crumbling shepherd’s hovel equally impossible. Men like the ones milling about somewhere outside were scarcely philosophers. Anything that flew in the face of their beliefs had to be snuffed out.
She wriggled, trying to find a way out of her bonds. The men had been sloppy, but even slop didn’t leave much space for escaping metal rings. She didn’t care for her thoughts. They were defeatist, and she had to boot them out of her head.
Defeat had never been part of her vocabulary, and she’d be goddamned if she’d add it now.
She thought about Arlen and hoped to hell he wouldn’t gallop after her like an avenging angel. If anything happened to him because of her stupidity, she’d have a hell of a hard time coming to terms with it.
He’d been convinced she had magic.
Okay.
Time to accept it. Granted, she was untrained, but everyone had to start somewhere. She shut her eyes and imagined one of the iron rings snapping. She visualized it, concepted it, pushed for it. The links actually rattled against each other, but nothing else happened.
“I made them clatter,” she muttered. “Got to try harder.”
Folklore from the time said iron would bind witches, but her research suggested true binding elements came from the natural world. From earth and stone and wood. None of them were in play. She squeezed her eyes tight and focused on a single link. A particularly rusty one in the chain around her ankles.
It rocked and twisted.
Kat dug deeper, giving it everything she had. She was breathing hard now; sweat slicked her sides and forehead, despite how cold it was. If the men returned, she was screwed. They’d add more lengths of chain to those already circling her. At least a display of power might keep their dicks beneath their robes, but it wouldn’t keep them from immolating her.
She glommed onto the display of power thought, forcing herself to believe she could do this. Faith in outcomes was the key to everything else, so it probably worked for magic as well. Her temples throbbed, and she gasped air through the narrow place her throat had become. The link heated, burning her skin, but she pushed harder.
With a small, discreet clink—no fanfare at all—it broke.
Unbelieving, Kat stared at it. Still glowing red, it lay in the dirt. Hurrying, she unwound the chain from her ankles. The only length remaining spanned her back and looped around her wrists. Angling her head, she listened carefully but didn’t hear the hum of conversation.
Either the men weren’t talking, or they’d gone a distance from the building. She hoped for the latter and focused her attention on another weak, rusty link. Maybe because she’d already done it once, this time her efforts paid off much faster and the chain slithered away from her body, creating a pile on the floor.
Free. I’m free.
She started to get up, but daylight was leaching through cracks between the stones. Her chances of escape were almost nil. All the trees in the Highlands had been chopped down for buildings or fuel long since. Nothing provided much in the way of cover.
Her bag still lay where the men had dropped it. She crawled to it and dragged it next to her. Daylight or not, she had to make a run for it. Waiting for the men to return was tantamount to a death sentence. Who knew what they were hatching up? For all she knew, they planned to sell her to a local sorcerer. Women were chattel, not to be bothered with.
She’d turned into more trouble than they bargained for, and them plotting to rid themselves of her for profit made sense.
Arlen marched across her mind. If she ever found her way back, she’d take him up on his offer to shepherd her power into something usable. Something she understood. The memory of his mouth on hers made her smile. He was such a gorgeous man, but he’d never want her. She was forthright, pushy, and outspoken, nothing like the well-mannered women he probably valued.
He’d been furious when he’d shown up in 1700s Inverlochy. Livid at her for not paying attention to his instructions. For giving him the slip when all he’d been trying to do was help her. He’d known something was up with her and sensed how unnerved she was that night in the lecture hall. His offer of lunch and a tour of Inverness took on a whole new dimension, and she kicked herself for misinterpreting his intentions.
She owed him a major apology, something far more believable than the paltry pretense she’d paid lip service to.
Thomas as well. He’d tried to hold her back from making a huge mistake and gotten shit for his troubles.
Crap. All I seem to be doing is leaving a string of things I’m sorry for. I need to start thinking before I leap.
No time like the present to leave the dank, smoky pit of a shack. It had no windows, so she had to reveal her freedom to take a peek out the door. Not that she couldn’t have shuffled over there, shackles and all, but they’d have made it impossible for her to run.
Dawn was breaking. In northern Scotland in the dead of winter, it meant the black of night was yielding to gray, and it was like as not around ten thirty. She listened intently but didn’t hear anything beyond the cries of raptors on the hunt for rodents that were late returning to their dens.
&
nbsp; The men were nowhere in sight.
She slipped her bag over one shoulder. If it didn’t contain such damning evidence, she’d just leave the thing behind. Should she return the way she’d come? Or head south into open country? If she traveled south, she could circle back to Inverness. Maybe if she returned to the castle, she could reverse the enchantment that had dragged her backward in time.
It was worth a shot. She’d summoned enough power to break the iron links. If she could do that, maybe she could make it back to where she’d started. Arlen had mentioned Rhea had an affinity for the time period she’d been born into. If it worked for her great-great grannie, maybe the same would hold true for her.
Feeling naked and exposed, Kat set out. After she’d put a hundred yards between herself and the hut, she felt better. The land was littered with boulders, some large enough to hide behind.
Eventually, the men would return. Would they track her? She stared at her boot prints, clearly visible in the perpetually wet dirt. Nothing like leaving a trail screaming, “Kat went this way.” Should she make an attempt to obliterate evidence of her passage?
No. It would take too long, and she’d be damned if she’d backtrack. Speed was her friend, so she kept moving. Rain first threatened and then fell in huge, heavy drops from the cloudy, gray sky. She pulled her hood over her head and yanked the zipper to her chin. Lightning crackled, followed by the ominous boom of thunder.
What the fuck? Electrical storms weren’t common in the early morning. The air thickened around her, developing the same feel the crypt behind Inverlochy’s ruins had held.
Kat halted, staring into the gloom. Goddammit! She’d wondered where Rhea was when she first ended up here. Yeah, and I told myself she’d show up at the worst possible time, and voila, here she is.
“For fuck’s sake, show yourself,” Kat growled, not in the mood for an arcane game of cat and mouse.
A flickering gateway formed. Rhea stepped through accompanied by a woman with dark hair. Presumably another of her dead kinswomen. “Ye’ve led me on a merry chase,” Rhea said without preamble. “Why canna ye stay put?”
