A man entered the room behind Brochan, a long sword in hand…and he looked ready to use it. Dirt covered bits of his face, and his red hair could have used a good brushing. Standing nearly as tall as Brochan, but slighter of build, he smiled on seeing Terri. “Ah, I see ye found the lass.” His gaze moved over Terri in a way that made her more than a little uncomfortable.
“Aye,” Brochan grunted, coming toward Terri.
She straightened her spine at his approach, noting that he didn’t stop until he was just inches away, forcing her to bend her head back to look at him.
“Are you going to kill me?” she asked again, her gaze shifting from his full lips to the dimple in his chin. He had a nice five o’clock shadow. Ironically, she felt the insane urge to run her fingers over that strong jaw, but refrained.
His eyes were really quite astounding, and his lashes so thick and long, they would make more sense on a woman than a man.
“Nay, I am taking ye home.”
“To my home?”
The side of his mouth lifted. “Nay, lass. To
my
home, Castle Kildare.”
His gaze shifted from hers, down to the habit that covered her from neck to feet. “Where are yer clothes, lass?”
“I don’t know.”
He cocked his head, green eyes locking with hers once more. “Ye speak strangely.”
Her heart fluttered. Damn, the man was sexy. “Do I?”
He nodded. “Aye.”
“Brochan, since we have the wench, should we no’ leave?” the redhead prompted, looking uneasy as he kept a nun at arm’s length.
As though reminded of his purpose, Brochan straightened his shoulders. “Fergus, fetch my cloak for the girl. We dinna want her catching cold now, do we?”
Fergus laughed under his breath. “Nay, we would not.”
When Fergus left, Brochan reached out and touched the habit. “My cloak should prove more comfortable than the wool ye wear now.” His long fingers brushed against her neck.
Her stomach tightened at the simple touch.
“Take it off.”
“Excuse me?”
He lifted a dark brow. “Take it off, or I shall remove it myself.” He had the sexiest accent, but even more, the way he looked as he said the words made her nearly scramble to get out of the scratchy, unflattering dress.
Grateful she at least wore a chemise beneath, she pulled the habit up, and over her head, tossing it aside.
His green eyes shifted from hers, to her breasts. The chemise’s material was transparent, and she knew he could see her nipples clearly. Though she had always believed men from his time would be too gentlemanly to look at a woman unclothed, he proved her wrong since he made no move to look away or hide his interest.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re staring, Douglas.”
The side of his mouth lifted the slightest bit. “Aye, lass, I am. And I will do more than look if I so choose.”
The look in his eye proved he meant what he said…and she might just let him too.
“Do ye know why I am here?” he asked, his voice low and menacing.
She shook her head.
“Your father killed my brother.”
She wanted to tell him she knew what it was like to lose someone you loved, but she couldn’t. He’d have her locked up and she already had enough problems. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He thought her someone else, and she’d best play the part, or she might be dead before she found a way back to the future, a place where men like Brochan Douglas no longer existed.
Back to men like Elliott, who could never be faithful…not as long as someone younger and prettier came along.
The thought of her ex brought back bitter memories, and she dropped her gaze to her feet, or rather
their
feet. His large feet were encased in soft leather boots, while hers were bare.
Thankfully, Fergus walked back in. To Terri’s surprise, Brochan took the cloak from the man and motioned him away with a wave of his hand.
Fergus frowned, but went back to standing guard at the door.
Brochan placed the cloak around her. She almost sighed as the fur-lined black velvet cloak made contact with her skin. It was a welcome relief from the scratchy habit she’d become accustomed to these past three days. “The hem will drag on the ground,” she said, tying it at her neck.
He shocked her by pushing her hands out of the way, and finishing the job himself, tying it tight. “’Tis brisk outside.”
Sister Helena stepped into the chamber, and Fergus grabbed her by the wrist. The ashen-faced nun tried to pull away, to no avail. “Laird Douglas, I pray that you not take Annabelle. She has done you no harm. Do not take your revenge out on an innocent.”
Brochan did not break eye contact with Terri. “Her father killed my brother. I
will
take my revenge.”
The nun flinched. “In what way?”
Brochan stepped toward the nun, and to the woman’s credit, she did not look away. “In what ever way I so choose, sister.”
“Laird MacLellan will be angry when he learns the truth of this grievous trespass.”
“Think ye I fear the murderous bastard?” His jaw clenched tight, a nervous tic appearing there. “I am counting on his anger,” Brochan said, taking Terri by the hand, his large fingers sliding over hers. They were rough hands, callused and as tough as leather. Manly hands. “Tell Laird MacLellan that his daughter is no longer yer concern…or
his
concern for that matter. She belongs to me now.”
Brochan walked past the sobbing nuns, pulling Annabelle with him. Strangely enough, MacLellan’s daughter made no fight to stay. Rather, she seemed almost relieved to be leaving the priory, even easing the nuns’ concerns by telling them she would be well and write soon.
Quite confident for someone taken hostage by a rival clan.
Little did she know her days were numbered. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Nay, Laird MacLellan would never see his precious daughter again.
He had heard the girl had spirit, and would oftentimes do things to irritate her father on purpose, but she seemed to be accepting her fate easily enough.
It unsettled him. Was this a ruse? Did her father wait in ambush? MacLellan had a reputation throughout the borderlands for outwitting his enemy.
His men must be on the lookout for any such event.
Wind rustled the trees, and he welcomed the cool rush of air
against his heated skin. He had not expected things to go so well, especially after the nuns had fought so vehemently. Luckily the hostage had been more willing than her protectors.
Helping Annabelle mount the horse, he climbed on behind, settling in for the long ride ahead.
Annabelle immediately leaned back into him, her muscles relaxing, not at all stiff and unmoving.
What madness was this that his captive would act so docile and willing? Even more unsettling than her acceptance of her fate was the blood that rushed to his groin as he inhaled her fresh scent. Like heather.
She glanced back at him, her wide blue eyes showing no fear. Her small nose, with a sprinkling of freckles, tipped up at the end. Full, rose-colored lips looked ripe for kissing.
As though reading his thoughts, her small white teeth bit into her bottom lip as he continued to stare.
Rumored to be just six and ten, she seemed much older, looked older, the slight hint of lines at her eyes speaking of someone a few years out of their youth.
Strange, indeed.
Even at this moment, when most girls her age would not be able to hold his gaze, she stared boldly. She seemed as interested in him as he was in her.
Did this mean she was an imposter? Someone older than the actual Annabelle, who resembled the chieftain’s daughter. Someone who accepted her fate?
“You don’t mind if I lean against you, do you?”
Aye, would Annabelle ask such a thing from her father’s hated enemy?
“Ye sound English, yet different,” he said, his voice gruff.
Indeed, her speech was unlike any he’d heard before, yet when he concentrated, he understood the meaning.
“Do I?”
“Aye, ye do, lass.”
She tilted her head a little. “Do you not like it?”
“I do not know.”
She smiled then, a soft curving of the lips. To his shock, his heart raced like a lad’s.
Be wary, Brochan
. He could almost hear his brother’s voice.
He must be wary of this woman who rested against him, her slender back pressed full against his front, the heat from her body emanating into him, making him sweat. He tried not to think of the body he had seen just a flash of earlier when she’d taken off the horrible habit, but it proved more difficult with each minute.
The chemise had hid nothing from him, and he had seen the full swell of her breasts against the pale material, her nipples pebbling from the cool air.
She had seemed only slightly embarrassed by his stare, but did nothing to hide herself from view, save for crossing her arms over her chest. Her behavior made him wonder if she were chaste. Aye, at least she had made some attempt at modesty.
After all, it was told she had been engaged to a cousin at birth, and upon her next birthday would become his bride.
Mayhap they were already lovers?
The very thought rankled. Brochan had met the girl’s cousin in Edinburgh last summer. The young man had been slight of frame, and too caring of his own appearance to be likable, something that disturbed him greatly. A man should not be concerned with such things, to Brochan’s mind. Nay, he should take care of his home and his people, for what good were material possessions, other than for flaunting one’s wealth?
Vanity was a trait his mother had always frowned upon. Mayhap Annabelle liked her vain betrothed?
Frustrated by such thoughts, he reached for the reins, his arms resting on her thighs.
He did not look at any of his men as he rode past, to the front of the line. They had a long ride ahead of them, which would seem even longer now that Annabelle MacLellan’s sweet body rocked against his own.
The last woman he had bedded had been Eva, his lover who lived in the village just beyond Castle Kildare. How different the girl in his arms was from the woman who had warmed his bed for the past few months.
As the minutes ticked away, Annabelle’s head fell back on his shoulder, and soon her breathing grew even. Had the wench fallen asleep? Her golden hair tickled his cheek. He brushed it away, his fingers entangling for a moment.
She shifted, and pressed her cheek against his chest.
His cock remained hard for the entire ride, the rocking of the horse not helping in the least. Her soft body molded against his, and his fingers, which held the reins, rested on her thighs, so close to the place where he yearned to bury his cock.
He clenched his teeth, the ache in his cock becoming almost unbearable. How tempted he was to ride toward the trees, to take her against the trunk of one of those mighty oaks. For a moment he imagined her eyes, half closed in passion, her soft sigh as he buried his rod into her heated core.
An image of his brother came to him unexpectedly, taking with it the desire he felt for the woman before him.
At least for the moment. Tristan’s death had devastated their clan and family. His brother could make everyone laugh with his quick wit and easy smile. And he could play the pipes like no other.
They rode for hours until they came to a glen, where his men made camp. They would sleep until dawn, and then continue their journey until they reached Castle Kildare.
Certainly the nuns would alert MacLellan to Annabelle’s kidnapping. Brochan smiled, imagining the laird’s fury upon learning his daughter’s fate.
Angus would certainly come with an army.
And Brochan could not wait for that confrontation.
“Annabelle,” he whispered, shaking her a little harder than intended.
Her lashes fluttered and blue eyes locked with his. At first she frowned as though trying to place him. Then recognition came slowly, and her lips curved.
His stomach tightened. God’s breath, she seemed genuinely happy to see him.
Strange. Unless this was part of her plan. To make him believe she accepted her fate—only to escape once they arrived at his castle.
“I fell asleep,” she said, stifling a yawn. “I have to admit, that’s the most rest I’ve had since I arrived in this time.”
He frowned, confused. “This time?”
Her smile disappeared. “I meant since I arrived at the priory.”
“Ye did not sleep at the priory?”
“The cot was too uncomfortable…but you on the other hand, make a most comfortable mattress, Brochan.”
Did she jest? Her tone certainly made it sound like she was not at all serious.
He cleared his throat. “I am glad.”
Dismounting, he held his arms out to help her down. She placed a hand on either one of his shoulders. Small yet firm arms slipped around his neck, and her body slid against his, every soft curve rubbing against his front. He clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to crush her against him.
“Thank you,” she said, her hands moving from his shoulder to his chest.
Jesus! Did the woman have any idea what she was doing to him? He was finding it hard to remember who she was, and why she was here. Her father had killed his brother in cold blood. True, his brother had stolen the man’s chattel on a dare, but chattel was not worth his brother’s life.
His fingers curled about her wrists and brought her hands down to her sides.
“Come,” he said, stepping away from her, toward the camp where his men scurried about. The more distance he could put between himself and the woman, the better off they would both be. By tomorrow night they would be at Castle Kildare and he would keep her locked in the solar, far away from him and his men.
And then MacLellan would come to him.
His men had asked him what he planned to do with MacLellan’s daughter, and in truth, he had not known, but he was no murderer.
Nay, mayhap he would bury his seed within her and return her to her father.
His stomach grumbled loudly, reminding him he had not eaten since the day before.
“Are ye hungry?” he asked, and she shook her head.
“No, I am tired though.”
He nodded toward the tent that his men had set up. His was closest to the trees. “I shall be there shortly. Fergus will keep watch.”
She started toward the tent.
“And Annabelle?”
She turned, her brows furrowed. “Yes?”
“Do not try to escape. I have told my men to kill you if you attempt to leave.”
To his shock, she smiled. “I have no intention of leaving you, Brochan.”
Terri could tell she had shocked him yet again. He had not expected such a willing captive. He didn’t know what to make of her—that much was obvious. Even now, confusion etched his handsome face.
Since Annabelle’s fate hadn’t been common knowledge, perhaps she had a chance at this. If she was kind to Brochan and his men, then it would be harder for him to kill her. Plus, she liked the sexy border lord, and she had an inkling that he might like her a little bit. Even more, she was sure he was the key to returning to her own time. Perhaps history was supposed to be played out before the portal could be opened?
What ever the case, she wasn’t about to leave his side.
She was on her way to his castle, and her fate was now in his hands.
What ever happened, she would survive this. She had to.
Trying hard not to think about what awaited her, she instead wondered what was taking place in present-day London as she made her way to the tent. Hopefully Elliott was going out of his mind with worry.
The asshole deserved to worry, and more.
To think she’d wasted five long years on the bastard.
When she got back to her own time, she would move her stuff out of his apartment and find a job at another museum. Perhaps she’d find a position in Scotland, and forget that Elliott ever existed.
Fergus stood at the tent, and stepped aside as she approached. The man seemed unsure of her as well, his eyes narrowing as she passed. No doubt they had expected they would have to bring her there kicking and screaming. Furs tossed onto the hard ground would be her bed tonight. Wondering if Brochan would sleep beside her, she lay down,
snuggling into the warmth, trying her best to keep focused.
She was in thirteenth-century Scotland, with no idea how to return home. Did she really want to go home, back to an unfaithful boyfriend and credit card debt? There were some good points to living in the past, but wasn’t the life expectancy of medieval people something like thirty or forty years?
Suddenly images of her fiancé and her assistant, as she’d last seen them, flashed through her mind. Her fingers dug into her palms. She wondered what old Elliott would think if the tables were turned and he’d seen her and Brochan together.
Elliott and Brochan were complete opposites. Though both of them were tall, and Elliott also had dark hair, that’s where the similarities ended. Elliott’s hands were as soft as hers, since he wore gloves while handling precious artifacts. Brochan’s hands were rough and callused from wielding sword and shield. Elliott’s body was athletic, but he could never be called muscular, while Brochan’s body rippled with thick muscle and sinew. A true warrior.
The blood in her veins heated as she remembered the feel of his hard body against her back. His chest and abdomen had felt like a solid brick wall. So strong. Honestly, she looked forward to the ride ahead of them, to being cradled against him once more. Now Brochan was a man who made her feel protected. A man who would stop at nothing to keep her from harm.
Warmth filled her stomach, moving down to her groin, her sensitive flesh tingling.
Yes, Brochan was the kind of man that made women think about sex. Even the way he walked was sexy. There was a primal sensuality, an animal magnetism that made her heart rate increase every time she looked at him.
She tried to remind herself that the man had one purpose
where she was concerned. He wanted revenge, and though she felt grateful he hadn’t killed her, she had to wonder what would happen to her once they returned to his castle. She was anxious to see the keep.
Castle Kildare. Very ominimous sounding. In all the years she’d been in the U.K., she had never journeyed farther than York.
Little had she known three days ago that she’d be living in medieval Scotland, maybe for the rest of her life.
And Lord knew how long that life might be.
A cold wind rushed through the tent and she shivered, listening as Brochan shouted orders to his men. He had told her not to escape and she had no such inclination. She had no desire to return to the priory and the kindly sisters. No, she would wait this out, be kind, and hope that Brochan wasn’t going to kill her anytime soon. Her breath caught in her throat when she heard Fergus just outside her tent. A second later he belched loudly and then broke wind. Maybe men of this time were not so different after all….
Terri smiled to herself. Too bad the tour guide hadn’t given more insight into Annabelle’s fate.
At least Brochan Douglas wasn’t a big, ugly brute of a man.
She closed her eyes and imagined what the Scot looked like without clothing. Ripped, corded muscle, and he definitely had some junk in the front. He would be impressive…she knew that. True, men throughout history had done a bit of stuffing when it came to emphasizing certain parts of their anatomy, but if Terri had to hazard a guess, she’d bet that every bit of bulge she’d felt against her back belonged to Brochan Douglas.
Liquid heat flooded her groin and she shifted beneath the furs. She hadn’t had sex for three weeks now. Elliott had always come up with one excuse or another. But he had not
made excuses the night they had gone out to dinner and drank two bottles of wine. She had made the move on Elliott, straddling him on their couch. After offering a number of excuses, he had given in with a defeated sigh. How could she have been so blind?