Authors: Red L. Jameson
Tags: #romance, #love, #Suspense, #Mystery, #Time Travel, #america, #highlander, #duchess, #1895
Duchess of Mine
By
Highlander of Mine
By
Red L. Jameson
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2014 Lanita Beth Joramo
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A note about
Highlander of Mine
A note about the Glimpse Time-Travel
Series
Prologue
T
he muse sisters, Erato and Clio, sat
beside the deserted Scottish road, A838. The perpetual slate sky
set against the steely North Sea made the picture monochromatic, to
say the least. But the strip of color, a luscious green grass
beside the road, seemed home only to the Highlands. The sisters
sipped margaritas under a huge golden beach umbrella. Lounging in
wicker chairs, their feet were propped on small wicker ottomans.
Clad in gold jogging suits with gold sports caps, their unruly,
auburn, wavy hair stuck out at classic Greek angles. They wore
gigantic, Jackie O sunglasses, proving that neither of them was
there for running, especially since they were giggling nonstop and
waving their lime-green drinks toward the road.
“Oh, oh, oh, there’s our girl,” Erato, the
muse of romantic writing, nodded toward the direction of an
approaching runner.
Clio, the muse of historical writing,
narrowed her eyes to make out the feminine form in a dark jogging
suit with a bouncing black ponytail. “She’s prettier than I
thought.”
Erato shoved her sister’s hand with her own.
“What? You think only historian geeks can be pretty? My girl, even
if she is a nerdy genealogist, is very pretty.”
Clio arched a dark red brow, but rolled her
lips inward to keep from smiling. Finally, she said, “We seem to
have a thing for geeks, have you noticed that?”
Erato shrugged, intently watching the jogger
run closer. “We’ll choose a non-academic next time. Oh! She’s
almost here!”
Clio studied the human woman. High cheekbones
with pink spread throughout—obviously the girl had been running
hard. The woman’s dark eyes were intense, determined. Angry. Yikes.
But even through the anger, Clio noticed the soft, delicate planes
of her face, the plump pink lips, the way the anger seemed to be
turned inward rather than out. The girl needed a break, but she
wasn’t giving herself one.
Barely paying heed to the muses or perhaps
trying hard to ignore the scene the muses created, the jogger ran
by on a wildflower-scented breeze, like the Clarkia
Pulchella—pinkfairies. It was a sweet, delicate smelling blossom,
native to Montana and the Dakotas. It was also a hades of a lot
stronger than it looked. Clio wondered if the girl was the
same.
“Did you see her ass? She has such a great
ass.”
Clio turned to her sister, frowning, one
eyebrow seriously arched now.
Erato shrugged. “What? Like you didn’t
notice?”
Clio dragged her gaze back to the runner’s
behind. Narrow hips boasted a tight little fanny. All right, the
girl, even if she weren’t an historian, was a hottie.
Clio inhaled deeply and patted her sister’s
knee. “Time to get to work.”
Erato giggled. “I can’t wait for this
glimpse
.”
“The hell you will,” said a very male, very
annoyed voice behind them.
As one, Clio and Erato turned to face the
tall dark god, attired in leather leggings and a breechclout. He
was muscular, his six-pack abs proving it, but it was his broad
shoulders and the power through his chest that had most women
swooning. It didn’t hurt that the man had a mane that hung almost
to his waist and looked more like a curtain of onyx-blue silk than
real hair. The sisters both bit their bottom lips, trying to curb
in their lascivious grins.
“Coyote, how nice to see you here,” Clio
cooed.
“In Scotland too. This is such a pleasant
surprise.” Erato’s voice was wispy and beyond flirty. More in the
realm of sex.
Clio glared at her sister as they fought
their way to stand.
Coyote was a trickster, and the muses admired
his mischievous ways. He held a hand up to the both of them. “She’s
mine, and you know it. Leave her alone.”
Both the muse sisters glanced in the
direction of the runner.
“But she’s—”
“Actually, the laws don’t—”
Coyote raised his hand again to the sisters,
halting their protests immediately.
He sighed and shook his head. “If you’re
going to whirl her back in time, give her this
glimpse
, it’s
on my terms, understand?”
At that, both Clio and Erato rushed to him,
embracing the large god. He held each sister around their waists,
pulling them tighter with a sly grin, as if he’d known all along
his protest would actually merit their undivided attention, which
was more than alluring.
“You won’t be sorry. This will be a wonderful
experience for her,” Clio gushed.
“Been working out? My, what big pecs you
have.” Erato’s hands spilled down Coyote’s chest to the ridges of
his stomach.
Clio again glared at her sister.
Coyote laughed and soaked up the petting and
sibling rivalry until it was time to go to work.
Chapter 1
H
itting the wall. Hitting the wall.
Damn, the wall hurt.
Fleur Anpao’s body was giving out on mile
twenty-eight of her self-imposed twenty-eight
point
five-mile run. The jog had been beautiful with one side of road
A838 so green she wondered if emeralds got their hue from the
grass. The other side of the motorway, though, showed nimbostratus
metal-colored clouds rolling toward her from the grim North Sea. Or
what did they call the bay? Not a firth, she’d been scolded by the
chatty bed and breakfast innkeeper about that. Firths were what
others
might call it—the word “others” had been whispered
the same way cancer had been murmured in a previous conversation.
Here, in the Highlands, it was a
geodha
. And Fleur wasn’t
too sure how to pronounce it, even after hearing it.
She’d needed something to do on her one day
off, so why not run an impromptu marathon by herself? Her body
groaned, asking like a petulant teenager, Why not? Why not? I’ll
give you why the hell not! It also kept repeating the mantra:
Hitting the wall. Yep, her body had multiple voices, and all of
them were screaming at her to stop.
Of course, she wouldn’t.
Pursing her lips, Fleur pushed beyond the
point of pain. Her breath came in spastically as though she was
taking in acid. That same toxin poured through her blood now,
making the pumping of her legs burn.
Pound, pound, pound,
pound
. Pound, pound, pound,
pound.
The fourth step in her jog was always more
pronounced like the drums at a powwow; although, she hadn’t
attended one in years. Similar to a heart’s beat, that triumphant
staccato end beat always amped her juices, gave her a little more
energy to finish. She saw Cave Smoo, her destination, maybe only a
couple hundred yards away. God, let it be over already.
