Duchess of Mine (3 page)

Time for a soak. A just reward for the crazy,
much too long dash he’d endured. He stumbled toward the cold water,
wondering how on God’s green earth Rory thought killing off the
troops with all this scampering about made for a good military.
Wasn’t the point to
win
the battle, not to run from it? But
what did Duncan know? He was merely a man who’d been in war or
fighting for the last decade and a half of his life.

The icy seawater splashed over his body as he
charged into it. Finally up to his chest, he let out a huge breath,
mayhap releasing a little bitter resentment too. Nay, why let go of
anger and his grudges when they served him so well? He dunked his
head under the water and felt the immediate dichotomy of intense
panic to surface yet the equally strong sense of peace in the quiet
solitude. Eventually, he rose and trudged back to the beach, paying
heed only to the water rippling off him. Caught by a breeze, a
loose strand of his red hair glimmered in the sun, holding his
attention for a moment. Best he cut it. Then the sand was back
under his leather boots. His hose squished under his toes, angering
him, for he’d been too hasty wanting to cool off with the dip to
take off his boots.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw the crowd
of recruits still far off.

Laird MacKay had asked for Duncan by name to
help train the new troops, since the laird’s brother, Rory, was new
to the captaincy. New to military life in general. Duncan had been
the obvious choice because he’d been a soldier then a soldier of
fortune, for a decade and a-half. And now was the time when Himself
needed soldiers. Ah, hell, was there ever a time when soldiers
wouldn’t be needed? After Cromwell had burnt through Scotland, the
chiefs and lairds kept speaking of revenge. Reciprocity, they’d
said. What the hell did they know if they hadn’t lost one of their
own, say, a younger brother with sparkling mischievous green
eyes?

Jesus Christ, what was wrong with him for
thinking such things again?

He shook his head, startled upon seeing
orange flames from the corner of his eye. After a second look, he
realized he was standing less than ten feet from a small fire right
at the entrance of the cave, wondering how he couldn’t have seen it
when he first arrived. But it was the sight beyond the sparks that
entranced him, sitting so still he thought mayhap she was a statue.
But eventually one side of her full pink lips curled up in
a...Jesus, what a smile.

“Hi,” she said. Her voice was melodious and
fluid, as if she’d just woken.

It seemed to take him an eternity, but
finally he said, “Hello.”

“It’s probably illegal to have this fire,
huh?”

Fire? What fire? All he could do was stare at
her. He’d never seen a woman so beautiful in all his life. She was
dressed in black, yet nothing like he’d ever seen before. But
she—her—Lord Almighty, from her blackest black hair to her tiny
nose and those full pink lips, she was wildly exotic. Her eyes
shone back at him, sparkling like onyx. As much as she wore black,
even her dark coloring, she glowed as if she were made from
heaven’s own light.

Mayhap she was an angel.

“Am I in big trouble for the fire?”

He had to shake himself to gain access to
some part of his mind that could function and speak.

“Nay.” Brilliant. He sounded just this side
of idiotic.

God, then she did it again. She smiled. It
widened and brightened, and Duncan felt his solar plexus explode
with something he’d thought long dead.

“You seem...cold. Want to join me?”

Before he could even think, he walked toward
her. He sat right beside her too, not even a thought about
circumstances or consequences, just staring. Couldn’t be helped.
Couldn’t stop himself if he’d wanted to. And, oh, how he didn’t
want to.

She kept her eyes on him, her smile shifting
to warm and welcoming. For a long moment she searched his face,
then glanced about his linen shirt. He’d forgotten he was drenched.
With a quick glance, he noticed his goose bumps and nipples peaking
out from his nearly translucent white shirt. He may as well have
been naked from the waist up. Thank the Lord, his brown, heavy
plaid was thick and didn’t reveal as much. That was when he
realized he sat cross-legged, as she did. Oh, her legs. Yet again
he couldn’t stop from staring at her long limbs, clad in black
shiny trews that left precious little to the imagination.

“I’m Fleur. Fleur Anpoa.”

Pretty name. He almost let the words trip out
of his mouth, as though he was a bumbling lad. “Duncan,” was all he
could stammer. Aye, that was much better.

“You live around here, Duncan?” Her accent
was lovely—definitely not Scottish, from the Highlands or the Low,
but not quite English either.

“Aye.” Damn it all, say something more.
Helpless, he gazed at her, while she looked deeply into his
eyes.

“It turned into a beautiful, albeit a bit too
hot, day, huh? I wonder what happened with that storm? All the dark
clouds that were trying to hide the sun?”

There’d been a storm approaching? He hadn’t
noticed. Then again, in Tongue, when Rory had begun this idiotic
training, Duncan hadn’t paid heed to much other than his legs and
the air he’d breathed.

She smiled widely and arched a perfect black
brow. “Not a man of many words, hmm?”

Well, if she were in his head, and already he
knew a part of her was, then she would know his mind was amuck with
too many words, too many...feelings. No, that wasn’t quite right.
Of his sentiments he felt only two—curiosity, and an animalistic
sense he knew only during battle. But this—this was different. This
wasn’t mere desire, for he knew what that felt like. This other
feeling was magnetic and too powerful for him to make much sense
of. All he knew was he wanted to sit with her for the next eon or
so. While sitting with her, he didn’t think of his
responsibilities, of how he’d failed so many people, of how he was
always too late to do any good. All of it was gone. With her, he
thought only of this deep sense that he knew her. Nay, that wasn’t
it either. He
had
to know her.

Speaking would be a good way to get to know
the woman.

Of course, his lips were glued shut then.

She chuckled, a noise as powerful as her
appearance. “So I have to do all the talking? You might not want
that, because once I get going, sometimes there’s no stopping
me.”

“I’d love to hear ye talk.” That had come out
of his blasted mouth wholly uncensored. Damnation. But it was the
truth. Ach, the lovely lilting way she spoke—so different from
anything he’d ever heard before—made him eager for the next word
she’d say, then the next, and the next . . .

He tried to piece together from whence she
must have come with her different clothing...India? The black garb
she wore did appear to be a silk mayhap. Was she from the Ottoman
Empire? But that accent made him think—and she wore bright-colored
leather slippers so similar to what he’d heard the Indians from
America wore. His heart slammed against his ribs wondering if he
could be correct.

Her arched brow stayed where it was. “Be
careful what you wish for.” Then her smile vanished, as if she had
a sudden petrifying thought. She shook her head and glanced around
the cave. “Oh, no.” She scrambled to a large gray limestone rock.
On her knees she felt the ground, searching for something.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, God. Oh, no.” She kept looking around
the sand and wall of the cave. “It’s gone.” She looked down at her
left wrist. “It’s all gone.” That’s when her gaze shot out of the
cave, and she sprinted out on the beach, the sun drenching her,
illuminating her with golden sparks off her dark hair.

Duncan followed, wondering what she’d lost,
when he spied her turning in a circle, taking in the road and all
around the cave. Her eyes were huge, and she kept swallowing.

He didn’t think, yet again. But reached out
for her, taking one of her hands in his. “What can I do?”

She looked down at his scarred hand. Her own
was delicate with extra long, thin fingers. Her hand was so elegant
he thought to release it, scared it would be similar to porcelain,
and he would be the bull that would break it. But then she clutched
at him.

“The houses...the houses have sod roofs.
What’s that smell?”

“Peat moss smoke,” Duncan said, aware that
many strangers, and she was obviously not from here, weren’t used
to the sweet smoky odor, but liked it nonetheless.

“Why didn’t I smell it earlier?” She inhaled
sharply, her dark gaze running in every direction. “Oh, God. Where
am I?” Her black eyes glistened with panic.

He tilted his head toward the cavern. “Cave
Smoo.”

Her other hand fluttered to her chest,
hovering over her heart as if protecting her. She nodded, but kept
spanning the horizon. Now he really started to worry. Didn’t she
know where she was?

She took a shaky breath. “This doesn’t look
like what I know. It doesn’t look like what I just saw. This
looks...looks like it must have in the past. A long time ago.
Like—like a painting of what Durness might have looked like
hundreds of years...What—what year is this?”

He’d heard the tales, and there were many, of
a lost woman who hurtled through time and ended, well, usually it
was the Isle of Skye or another island. Not in a cave. Besides,
those were stories grandmothers told their grandchildren to charm
active bairns to sleep.

She couldn’t be from another time.

But why was she so confused? Why didn’t she
know the year? Then again, she might be touched in the head.

“The year is 1653, my lady. As it’s been for
the last nine months.” He didn’t know why he tacked on the title,
but it seemed somehow fitting. He also didn’t know why he’d added
the patronizing last bit about it being nine months within the
year. He knew he could be a bastard, but he didn’t want
her
to know.

She made an odd strangled noise and glanced
at the lads running toward them. Suddenly, she stepped into him,
letting his larger body protect her from view. That’s when he
smelled her. Divine. Sweet. Floral. And the perfume went straight
through his chest, stomach, then dropped to his groin.

She glanced up, her eyes so round and wide.
“I—I know this is going to sound crazy, but I don’t know where I
am. I mean, I do. I know this is Cave Smoo, and over there is
Durness. And I was staying in Tongue, but—but nothing looks
familiar. Check my face, make sure that both sides of my lips are
even. If not, I’m having a stroke. I don’t know what’s wrong with
me. I—what year did you say it was? That can’t be. It just can’t
be.”

He placed both his hands around her arms
calmly. He wanted to pull her to him in a firm embrace, but he
didn’t think that would assuage her fear. Looking in her eyes, he
said, “I’ll help. I believe you. We’ll sort this out.”

She swallowed, her eyes softening yet
focusing more on his.

“Your face is even and so beautiful.” He
grimaced.

She blinked.

He decided to trudge on. “I’ll help. I
promise.”

The noise of the coming men distracted her.
She gazed around him, but then nudged her way closer. Glancing down
at her again, he saw her eyes too wide once more.

“Can we keep it a secret that I don’t know
where I am? Please?”

He thought of his mother and how she could
help what with being a healer. Would she call it that though? Or
would Fleur call his mother a nurse, like the English would? Mayhap
he could find a way for Fleur to trust him first, then he’d tell
his ma of the woman’s bizarre condition—not knowing the date.

He didn’t believe in fairy tales, women being
flung through time. He didn’t believe in much any more. But
something was wrong with the woman in his grasp, and he knew the
men approaching wouldn’t be of much help other than
sensationalizing her and her problem. They’d ask questions. Which
meant he’d have to circumnavigate their natural curiosity. More
than likely lying would be for the best, to assuage the young
troops’ interest. However, he was an atrocious liar.

But her pleading eyes gave him the
wherewithal to give fabricating a try.

He nodded reluctantly. She shocked him with a
wide smile aimed right at him. Nay, he wasn’t surprised by her
grin. It was the way her smile made him feel, as though completely
dazed. Wonderfully bemused in an off-kilter kind of way. Lord.

Chapter 3

R
ory MacKay couldn’t believe his
eyes. His men, little more than bairns, were slower than ol’ man
Duncan. Although Duncan was only seven years his senior, the man
had a quiet way of introspection that reminded him of grandfathers.
Rory hated to admit it, but he admired Duncan for his wise
ways.

Riding one of his latest imports from Spain,
a legendary golden steed, along the worn Lairg road, Rory
occasionally called out to his recruits, encouraging them to catch
up with Duncan. The massive man was only a few hundred yards off
now. That’s when he saw Duncan’s large, powerful body shielding
something, something he held onto. A woman.

Pushing his heels into his horse’s side,
Rory’s steed began to trot, helping him gain a better view of the
young miss. At first, all he could make out was black. Then he
realized it was dark hair waving from the sea wind, blowing outside
Duncan’s wet frame. The huge man’s usually bright red hair was
darkened and dripping. Why was the man soaking wet? It didn’t
matter, for the woman’s tresses distracted Rory. Hair such a deep
shade that for a moment it seemed to reflect all colors, especially
red. Finally, Rory could see beyond the burly Duncan to what he
held. The woman was exquisite. At least a foot shorter than Duncan,
she looked up at him with huge dark eyes, almost appearing to plead
for something. Knowing he felt intimidated by the mercenary, Rory
wondered if the poor lady was begging for her life.