My Seductive Highlander (2 page)

“On wi' ye, man.” Gray nodded once toward the winding stone steps at the end of the hall. “Ye brought this on yerself. The both of ye did.” He paused and turned back to look at those still gathered in the main meeting room. “I gladly adopted ye into this clan but I'll no' continue allowin' ye to anger my allies at every border. I have many to protect. I'll no' risk them for the randiness of one.”

“I curse the day I took ye as friend,” Angus said in a low hissing growl. He stomped on ahead, his stocky form swaying from side to side with his rolling short-legged gait.

Graham sucked in a long deep breath and blew it out. “And I curse the day I was born,” he muttered aloud, while silently praying the gods would somehow reach down and pluck him out of this damn mess.

“Sit.” Mother Sinclair pointed to a short bench snugged up against the wall beside the stone hearth. “The both of you.”

Graham strode across the room, taking his stance in front of the cold fireplace. “I'll stand, thank ye.” 'Twas true he respected the women and looked upon them with no small amount of leeriness, but he'd be damned if he would sit on a bench like a lad due a scolding. They'd already named his sentence. Time to get on wi' the details of his fate.

Angus huffed out a disgusted
harrumph
then obediently stomped over to the bench and plopped down. As soon as he sat, a golden-eyed black cat hopped up beside him and sat glaring at him with an unblinking stare. Angus edged to the end of the bench farthest from the cat, crossing his legs and turning away as though shielding his man parts from the creature's piercing gaze.

Mother Sinclair chuckled. “Very good, Kismet. Keep an eye on Angus and make certain he pays attention.”

The tip of Kismet's long sleek tail flipped a bit faster.

A warm heavy weight leaned hard against Graham's leg. Without looking down, he leaned to one side and scratched behind the massive dog's ears.
I thank ye, lad.
At least he had one ally in the room. Lady Trulie's hulking black beast of a dog, Karma, had taken up with him since the first moment he'd arrived at MacKenna Keep. Of course, 'twas probably because the MacKenna's five-year-old daughter, Chloe, had named him her favorite uncle. The dog worshiped the wee lass and considered her word law. “Stay wi' me, lad. I appreciate yer strength,” he whispered down to the dog.

Karma thumped his heavy tail against the floor.

Mother Sinclair and Lady Trulie settled in the cushioned chairs pulled close to the hearth. The band around Graham's chest loosened the barest bit as the MacKenna strode over to the waist-high cabinet filled with bottles, pitchers, and assorted cups and glasses. He wouldna mind a wee nip if the MacKenna was so inclined.

Gray promptly filled two pewter goblets with the deep ruby contents of one of the pitchers. He carried the glasses to the women then returned to the bar, filled three tankards from an amber bottle, and waved the men forward. “Come. I've whisky for the both of ye and I've a feelin' ye'll be a-needin' it.”

Angus beat Graham to the bar, snatched up one of the mugs, and then, with a fearful glance at Mother Sinclair, obediently returned to the bench.

Coward.
Graham shook his head at Angus then purposely sauntered across the room as though he had nary a care in the world. He'd do as they bid him but he'd damn sure no' sacrifice his backbone in the doin' of it. He looped his hand through the handle of the tankard then strode back to his position at the hearth.

“Sláinte.”
Gray lifted his glass and nodded to each of the men.

“Sláinte,”
Graham repeated as he lifted his glass first to Gray then to the ladies before taking a deep draw. He welcomed the burn of the fiery liquid. It reminded him a great deal of when he'd been a dragon and housed burning coals in his gullet. A bitter laugh snorted free as he stared down at his reflection in the bit of whisky left in his cup. At least he could say his life had ne'er been dull.

“I think you and Lilia are a wonderful match,” Lady Trulie said while turning to slide her goblet to the small arm table snugged between her and Mother Sinclair's chairs. “She's strong-willed just like you. I bet there'll be sparks.”

Sparks? Hell's fire. Tha's all I need. Sinclair sparks t'singe me arse.
Graham finished his drink in one quick gulp, silently wishing there was more. He politely nodded. “And ye ken the lady will be agreeable to this match ye desire?”

“Probably not,” Mother Sinclair observed. Her soft chuckling echoed in her cup as she took a long slow drink. Merriment glistened in her eyes as she placed her glass beside Trulie's. “Lilia's quite the hellcat. Stubborn. Opinionated. And if she thinks it, you can damn well bet she's going to say it.”

Then all mirth faded from her as she reached for Trulie's hand. “But our strong, stubborn Lilia thinks allowing anyone to help her is a sign of weakness…of failure. Only a year ago, this isolation and selfish guarding of her insecurities nearly caused her to end her life.”

Lady Trulie patted Mother Sinclair's hand then rose from her chair and stepped closer to Graham. “We're sending you to the future not only to woo Lilia but to save her from herself. She needs to be loved whether she wishes it or not. She can't survive in this world alone—no matter what century. She's an empath and isn't always able to shield herself from the cruelties around her.” Trulie cleared her throat and turned away, but not before Graham noticed the moisture of unshed tears shining in her eyes.
An empath? What the hell is an empath? Be she crippled?

Trulie sniffed and pressed the back of one hand against her mouth. Recovering quickly, she lifted her head and smoothed both hands down the folds of her skirt. She returned to her chair and sank into it, slowly blowing out a deep breath through pursed lips. “And even with the prophetic visions the Fates send her, Lilia doesn't realize she's in danger.”

“What is this danger she faces?” Graham placed his empty tankard on the shelf above the hearth. He couldna stomach the thought of a helpless woman facing danger alone. Perhaps
empath
meant the poor lass was under some sort of curse or being hunted down by demons. He understood the feelings of utter helplessness well. Curses did that to a soul. The verra idea grated against his hide. Women were to be protected and cherished from such unpleasantness. “What danger?” he repeated.

“The danger of depression—of a dark hopelessness.” Mother Sinclair shook her head. “Lilia's blessing from the Fates is also a curse. She's able to see future events—usually dire events. Sometimes she can save those she sees in the visions. Sometimes not. And when we say Lilia is an empath, we mean she feels the pain and suffering of the world more than most. She can stand inside a crowded room and experience what every individual in that room feels—be it sorrow or joy or anything in between—and she's not always able to shield herself from others' emotions. Soon she'll be alone. The guardian I sent to watch over her is dying. Lilia must not be left alone. Alone, the darkness of despair could very well overpower her and pull her down to her end.”

Mother Sinclair rose from her chair, crossed the room, and thumped Graham on the chest. “But if she is properly wooed and married—the greatest energy of all would help keep her from that darkness.”

Graham clasped his hands to the small of his back, fighting the urge to fidget beneath Mother Sinclair's intent gaze. “What energy do ye speak of? I've no magic, nor powers to keep the woman safe. I can only protect her with m'sword—and would consider it an honor t'do so.”

He'd gladly do that if that's what they wished. He sorely regretted endangering the clan with his behavior. They'd welcomed him in and named him as one of their own when he'd declined to return to Draegonmare Keep with his beloved friend, Ronan, and Ronan's new wife, Mairi—another of the Lady Trulie's sisters.

The thought of returning to Loch Ness, the land he'd been anchored to for so verra long, had rankled his soul. So the MacKennas had adopted him and bid him stay as long as he liked. Graham's gaze lowered to the floor, his heart sinking to his gut. He was keenly aware of all that the MacKennas had done for him. And look how he'd gone and repaid that kindness.

Mother Sinclair moved forward and rested her bony fingers atop his arm, her touch gentler this time. She leaned in close and smiled. “You can protect her with the greatest energy of all. You can protect her with your love and understanding.”

Graham sucked in a deep breath, uncertainty threatening to squeeze the air right back out.
Love? Surely the woman jests
.
I'm no' capable of love.
He'd hardened his heart against that fickle emotion whilst he was cursed. After all, 'twas the foolishness of enchanted love that had drawn him to the beauty of the vile witch that had damned him to the form of the dragon. “I will give her my honor and protection. I can guarantee no more than that.”

Mother Sinclair wrinkled her nose, resettling her wire-rimmed spectacles a bit higher. Her sparse gray brows knitted together in a disapproving frown. “You will have one full month.” She held up a slightly bent finger, knotted and twisted with age. “Just one full cycle of the moon to win Lilia's heart and convince her to be your wife. The Fates aren't the patient sort—especially since we're blatantly tinkering with their web by attempting to permanently relocate you to the future. They will not permit you an extended stay in a time other than your own without a proper anchor to keep your heart and soul grounded. If, at the end of that month, you and Lilia aren't as one, your happy ass will be yanked right back here to the past—and to the Buchanans.”

Mother Sinclair spoke as though that were a bad thing. Surely after a month in the future, the Buchanan clan's ire wouldha cooled enough for him to safely return to his life in the thirteenth century. Graham felt more settled, calmer with the certainty of it.
Aye. I'll be back here in no time a'tall. All will be well.

“Nay. I ken what yer thinkin'.” Gray stepped forward, shaking his head. “If ye return to this time, I'll be forced to turn ye over to the Buchanan to avoid clan war. His ire toward ye willna be set aside so easily. Ye ken, at the verra least, the man wishes to see ye drawn and quartered. Ye cuckolded the man within his own keep, and 'tis said his women keep his hatred fanned and well fueled by singin' of yer ‘talents' to any and all who'll lend an ear.” Gray watched Graham over the rim of his glass while drawing in another long sip. He lowered the mug and slid it to the cabinet beside him. “The Buchanan has accepted the offer that yer to be banished from Scotland—forever. 'Twas the only option other than yer head on a pike that came remotely close to coolin' the man's rage. Ye can wager his people will be watchin' and willna fail to report if ye return—no matter how long ye've stayed away from yer beloved Highlands of this time. Clan MacKenna can no longer be yer sanctuary.”

Well, damn me arse straight t'hell and back. But surely the chieftain errs in his thinkin'. Surely I can return after a bit of time.
Graham stood taller. A Sinclair woman. To wife. May the gods have mercy on his soul. Surely 'twould no' be that bad—no' as bad as torture, or even worse—the dungeons. And eventually…perhaps he could someday return and reunite his new wife with her kin. Aye. Surely that would be his future.

“I'll make certain the woman agrees to be m'wife.” A growing sense of uncertainty stirred uncomfortably in his gut like a poorly digested meal.
God a'mighty. What the hell am I to do with a wife?

“See that you do.” Mother Sinclair returned to her chair and scooped up her goblet in a pale knobby hand. She put the glass to her mouth then paused and instead lifted it to Graham in a toast. “Know this—if you cause my granddaughter any pain, the Buchanan will be the least of your worries.”

Graham tightened his belt and checked his sword for the third time since they'd gathered in the garden beside the reflecting pool. He flexed his calves, finding some small comfort in the leather straps biting into his muscles.
Aye
,
good.
Both daggers, especially the most cherished one that ne'er left his possession, felt securely sheathed against his legs. Shield and bow rested on the ground beside him. He'd take them up as soon as Mother Sinclair bade him 'twas time to do so.

The old woman and Lady Trulie had spent the past week preparing—nay, no' preparing—'twas more like the two women had waged a full-blown attack on him and Angus, training them both for this wretched trip into the unknown. Even little Chloe had solemnly shown him her precious picture book the family kept hidden—the strange book with parchment pages that were oddly slick and smooth and the images colored so brightly they couldna be of this world.

Graham glanced around at the tense faces, shadowed and yet glowing in the flickering torchlight of the night-shrouded garden. Every face clearly reflected the same uncertainty eating at his gut.
Damnation. I'm such a swivin' fool.
He was about to forsake all he'd ever known because of one woman easily lured from her husband's bed.
Lore a'mighty—I'll ne'er touch another man's woman again.
He swallowed hard, suddenly remembering the real purpose of this trip.
God's beard, what the hell will I do with a wife of me own?

Graham rolled his shoulders, muscles tensed and aching. Part of him thrilled at the prospect of this journey but a bigger part of him cowered at the great unknown leap he was about to make. He snorted out a huffing laugh.
Aye…I suppose 'tis well and good t'do this after all. I've spent the last three centuries yearning for freedom and excitement.

Angus fidgeted at his side, taking up his pack and slinging it across his shoulder then dropping it back to the ground before taking it up again. He shuffled and circled around in the dust like Mother Sinclair's cat searching for a place to shit.

Graham clapped a hand to Angus's shoulder and squeezed. “Be still, man. Yer frettin' worse than a wormy hound.”

“Be still?” Angus glared at him with a dark, incredulous smirk. “Be still he says when we're about to jump into the verra jaws of hell itself and we've no way of knowin' if we'll come out alive on the other end of it or no'.”

“Of course you'll come out alive on the other end.” Mother Sinclair thumped her staff against Angus's shoulder and pointed for him to back up a few steps. “Stand over there so Trulie and I can go over the final details.”

Lady Trulie slowly meandered back and forth in front of them, studying them closely as though sizing them up as prey. She arched a brow, cleared her throat, then leaned in close to Mother Sinclair and spoke in a hushed tone. “You're positive they'll
both
make it through okay? You know it doesn't always work very well with males.”

“Oh holy hell.” Angus flung a hand to one side then raked his fingers through his already wildly unkempt hair. He whirled about and jabbed a stubby finger in the center of Graham's chest. “This is yer fault, ye randy bastard. I told ye she was no' a whore.” He jabbed his finger hard against Graham's breastbone again. “I canna believe I'm gonna die just because ye couldna resist a bit a skirt.”

Graham grabbed Angus's hand before he could jab him again and squeezed. Hard. Without releasing Angus's fist, he turned to Mother Sinclair. “Send me alone. Leave this coward behind. He shouldna be punished for my poor choices.”

Mother Sinclair shook her head. “No. The vision clearly showed Angus in the future with you. He must go too—and his ability to stay, if he so chooses, also depends on your connection with Lilia.”

“What vision?” Graham's blood ran cold. Not once had they mentioned any visions. He'd heard about the Sinclair women and their gifts of prophecy. This couldna bode well at all.

Mother Sinclair scowled down at the ground, slowly marking strange glyphs in the dust at their feet with the tip of her staff. “Eliza MacTavish, your blood kin, has cried out across time and space with the last bit of her energy. She's watched over you for centuries, suffering whilst the curse held you prisoner and tied her hands against helping you. But now that you're free, her most heartfelt wish for you is the greatest gift of all. She wishes you to find love and contentment, Graham, and she feels you can find it with my Lilia.”

Graham swiped his sweating palms against the wool of his plaid, opening and closing his fists. The seriousness of this task grew greater by the minute—so many damn people depending on him. He jerked his chin up a notch, bracing himself against the uncertainty and fear churning in his gut. “Tha's no' a vision. Tha's more a request.”

Mother Sinclair clucked like a nesting hen, shaking her head as she turned away. “When Eliza made her energy and wishes known to me—that's when I received the vision. You and Lilia are meant to be. The strength and surety of your match came easily to me across the ages. Rarely do the Fates ever allow me any insight into the lives of those I love, but this time, they were overly generous so I might save my sweet Lilia's life.”

“She truly is in danger then?” Graham rested his hand atop the pommel of his sword.

“The greatest danger to Lilia is Lilia herself. Remember all that we've taught you about the future.” Mother Sinclair turned to Angus, still fidgeting in the dust. “And I have no idea why the Fates have chosen you but you're going with him, so man up and stop your whining.”

Lady Trulie stepped forward and looped a leather cord with a softly glowing blue crystal around each of the men's necks. She patted the crystal against Graham's chest and smiled. “A little extra protection while you're both in the time tunnel. Hold tight to these crystals and remember to keep your eyes closed.” She turned and took her place beside Granny, her arms loosely folded across her chest. “It'll be nighttime in Edinburgh too. Hopefully, no one will see you drop from the time cloud. Don't forget to lay low until you get your bearings and figure out where you are. Remember the description of the town and its layout. The high points are on the map we gave you. You should be able to find Lilia easily.”

“Lay low,” Graham repeated with a hesitant glance over at Angus.

“Aye.” Angus glared back at him with an angry toss of his head. “That means keep yer ugly arse hidden until ye figure out what the hell yer supposed to do instead of wadin' into a place and expectin' everyone to fawn at yer feet. Yer no' a dragon anymore. Yer nothin' more than a man.”

“Yer a surly bastard, I gi' ye that.” Graham shouldered his pack higher up on his back then turned and nodded at the two women. “Let's be on with it, then.”

Lady Trulie and Mother Sinclair each took a torch out of the metal sconces built into the stone wall surrounding the garden and carefully lit the ring of dried tinder piled knee high around the reflecting pool. The flames spread quickly, eating through the wood and sending showers of sparks up into the night sky.

“When we say the words, the flames will freeze, the water will turn to a mirror, and the portal will open. When you see us lower our torches, you must jump into the center of the ring of frozen fire. Timing is of the utmost importance since neither of you have a drop of time-runner blood in your ancestry.” Mother Sinclair paced back and forth in front of the two men then softly touched the blue crystal of her staff to the crystals each man wore about his neck.

Graham did his best not to flinch against the strange warming vibration of the stone against his chest. The last time he'd witnessed the powerful Sinclair magic, the accursed witch and the darkness she commanded had nearly drowned him. Goodwill or no', he was none too anxious to see the Sinclair powers at work again.

A low humming filled the air as the fire crackled and popped ever higher. The wind picked up, swirling around the reflecting pool with increasing force. Graham strained to see through the debris filling the air, struggling to watch the women and hear their words.

May the gods help me and protect me,
he silently prayed. The mystical haze filling the clearing shielded the women. All he could make out were their shadowy silhouettes and their musical singsong chanting as they passed back and forth on the other side of the burning ring.

The reflections of their torches and the crackling circle of fire danced and flickered across the water. The din filling the air grew louder. The bone-shaking hum finally exploded and the flames solidified into tall frozen curving spikes straining upward. The water of the reflecting pool popped then hardened, its surface turning black as ebony.

Graham tensed. It had to be time. With a glance to Angus, Graham nodded and crouched with arms outspread. He watched the torches raised high over the women's forms, the hollow rush of his own blood pounding in his ears. The torches fell. A bloodcurdling battle cry burned free of his throat as Graham launched forward. A higher-pitched roar sounded behind him as Angus followed.

Spiraling through the darkness, Graham clutched both hands around the amulet at his chest. He locked into a tight tuck and roll around his shield and bow, squeezing his eyes tightly shut against the wind howling in his ears.

A constant stream of high-pitched Gaelic cursing placed Angus slightly behind him and to the left. Graham hugged his weapons tighter against his chest and clenched his teeth harder together. He'd save his cursing for whene'er they escaped this strange roaring hell.

An ear-splitting pop shook through him. He flinched and rolled forward even faster. The ground rushed up at a nauseating speed, then he hit with a bone-shaking thud.

“Arse-swivin' sons a bitches!” Angus crashed down beside him, rolling out of control across the grassy hillside.

Graham finally stopped tumbling, then slowly teetered to one side and cracked open an eyelid. A gentle breeze wafted through the tall clumps of grass and brushed a calming touch across his skin.

The stars are no' as bright here.
'Twas the first difference he noted. The night was no' as dark. A strange orange glow settled across the horizon before fading up into the deep blues and eventually the blacks of the star-spattered sky. What strange magic could it be that made the city at the base of the hill flicker wi' such an eerie light?

Graham sat up, propping his shield under one arm as he scanned the city below.
Lights.
Lady Trulie had said the candles with no flame that lit the night were called lights in this time.

“Think we be in the proper time?” Angus scurried over to him on all fours, pausing every few feet to stretch up and glance about the hillside. “This time…” He paused, nostrils flaring as he looked around. “This time has an odd stench to it.”

“Aye.” Graham agreed. This place no' smelled of the sweet heather from whence he'd come. “What think ye the stench might be? 'Tis worse than the garderobe cesspit.”

Angus shook his head, still kneeling as he peered across the waving grasses covering the hillside. “I dinna ken. I see no carnage nor scrap piles. Mayhap this time just smells like shit.”

Graham reached inside his tunic and withdrew the hand-sized leather flask tucked into the fold of his shirt. He uncorked the skin with his teeth and took a long fortifying swig. He welcomed the burning down his gullet.
Thank the gods
. At least that had no' changed in this time. “Here.
Uisge beatha.
'Twill gi' ye strength.”

“Aye to that, m'friend.” Angus snatched the leather flask out of his hand and upended it over his mouth. The golden stream of whisky poured down until Angus uprighted the skin and recorked it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and rolled back on his heels. “There's barely enough in this to properly wet a man's gullet. Methinks we best be findin' that pub the old woman told us about.”

Graham slowly stood and studied the glaring chaos of lights and noise at the base of the hill. 'Twas a damn sight more confusing than the simple map Lady Trulie and Mother Sinclair had sketched out on the bit of parchment snugged safely inside his belted tunic. “Aye,” he said, snorting at the uncertainty he heard in his own voice.

He attempted to wet his lips even though his mouth had gone suddenly dry at the prospect of diving headlong into the melee below. He shook free of the indecision and foreboding like a dog shaking free of the rain.
Enough of this.
He waved Angus forward. “On to the pub.”