Yet friendship sincere, and loyalty true,
And for courage so bold that no foe can subdue,
Unmatch'd is our country, unrivall'd our swains,
And lovely and true are the nymphs of our plains,
Where rises the thistle, the thistle so green.
“The Thistle of Scotland,” Jacobite Reliques
Iain stepped around the men playing dice in the great hall and rubbed his belly. He’d detoured to the kitchen, for they were leaving for Invergarry before the hour was out, and procured two flagons of deoch-maidne. The afternoon was late, but as the distance was not great, they should reach their destination before dusk.
A strange energy suffused him, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint its source. All he knew was that he was eager to begin their journey. Perhaps it was the prospect of Traci being forced into closer proximity, but he felt it was more than that. Perhaps it was only a sense of accomplishment—he’d managed to allay his uncle’s suspicions after all. No small feat, that.
A little niggle crept inside that it had been a little too easy, given his uncle’s suspicions.
As he approached the double doors which led outside, a shadow darted from the side, and a hand closed around his arm, halting him. He looked down into the dark eyes of his chieftain.
“Don’t botch this up, lad.”
Iain stiffened at his uncle’s words, as well as the tone. However, he forced one of his trademark smiles onto his face, though the darkness enclosing the large space probably made it difficult to discern. “How can I? Seems a straightforward business to me. One that even a donnart such as myself would be hard-pressed to botch.” He added a self-deprecating laugh.
His uncle narrowed his eyes. “You are leading this party. Please take it seriously. I only pray you’re right about these women. Retrieve the sister and bring her here. ’Tis better to have them together in case you’re wrong. Here is the letter for Glengarry with my thoughts on the matter so your way will be clear.”
In that moment, Iain pinpointed the source of his unusual energy—’twas the prospect of leading this party. Which was a puzzle. Iain had never taken himself for a leader of men. Hell, he’d been glad when his uncle had stepped in as chieftain after Iain’s brother died while fighting Campbells. Better to have no one dependent on him, he’d reasoned—less chance of him messing up anyone else’s life.
This time it was harder to hide his annoyance, his tone hard-edged. Especially in light of the gossip he’d overheard from the kitchen maids—more evidence that his uncle was stingy. Good chieftains looked after all under their care and did not hoard the clan’s wealth. “I believe I shall manage, uncle.”
“I pray that you do. It was fortunate for our clan that you had no taste for leadership. Some have the taste, but not the skill. And their clans suffer for it.”
Iain’s lips thinned, and he gave a stiff nod. “I shall see you anon.” He’d been eighteen when his brother died, and there had been a coalition who would have supported him, if he’d had a mind to put himself forward. But his uncle had been someone he’d looked up to all his life. Even Iain would rather have him as their leader. Unlike the English, succession wasn’t by primogeniture. If Iain had somehow convinced the leading men to back him over his more experienced kinsman and botched it—a most likely outcome—his people would have given their allegiance elsewhere.
He pushed past his uncle, threw open one of the doors, and quick-stepped down the stairs, breathing in the early afternoon air and trying to recapture his enthusiasm. He’d wished to succeed in this mission for his wife’s sake. Now he also wanted to succeed for his own.
What had been a clear day had turned to a drizzle as Traci stepped off the ferry and headed for the stables. She shivered and pulled the wool plaid tighter around her shoulders. Her hand wandered to the pouch secured to her belt, assuring herself it was there. She’d hastily sewn her phone and her time-traveling case into it. She’d be damned if she took the chance of having it separated from her. The rest of her belongings were in a sack she’d attach to her saddle.
Having Iain a member of the party had her insides all messed up. On the one hand, it was comforting, because he was someone she trusted, however much she could trust her own instincts there. Which wasn’t much.
But on the other hand, he threw off her equilibrium. Especially after today. Up until now, it had been easy to dismiss him as a big flirt like her gaming friend Johnny who’d showed her the ropes in the art of the hookup senior year of college. She’d established some kind of mutual banter agreement with Iain—each knowing the other’s flirtation was just that. And flirtation was easy when it meant nothing and kept him, and others like him, at an emotional distance.
But this morning…this morning she’d glimpsed a little more under his shell. And she was simultaneously pulled by that possibility of more and scared of exploring it. Opening herself up hadn’t gone too well in the past.
She could not get close to anyone here. And God, wouldn’t she end up looking like an idiot if she dropped their pretense, looking for more from him, and he didn’t drop his. Or worse, decided her feelings were just on the smidge side of too much and pushed her away as no more fun to “play” with.
She’d lose her only ally. Like she had with Johnny.
She swallowed a lump in her throat and took a shaky breath. And then laughed. What the hell was she even doing whining about this? She needed to get to her sister and get them the hell out of Dodge. No bypassing for smooching or—God—sex.
She couldn’t wait to get her sister and zap back to her old life. Her old life where she could bury herself in her work and not analyze, or even fucking care, about what some guy thought about her. Work was the only place where she had any control in her life. At work, she was successful, her instincts were true, and she was respected. And if she overworked, she blew off steam by losing herself in testing their latest RPG.
Ha. Well, first she’d have to talk them into letting her cut her vacation short. They’d insisted she take these three weeks, worried that she’d burn out.
Yes. She couldn’t wait to get back to where she felt the most herself.
She stamped her feet as she strode toward the stables, trying to jiggle a little warmth and sense into her veins. She joined the rest of the party, who were busy saddling up the ponies or securing their supplies.
Iain lumbered up then, his stride loose and self-assured. And sexy as hell. Her breath caught in her throat. His features seemed transformed in the diffused, afternoon light. He was more animated than she’d ever seen him, a new confidence affecting the air around him. Almost a defiance. And it changed his features. Before, his features seemed tailor-made for laughing, a smile ever ready, lighting up his face and making him approachable. Now, those same features delineated a sharp, angular jaw that looked as if it’d take no prisoners. No bullshit. He’d been adorable before. Now he was a dark, fierce, handsome Highland warrior.
Chills pockmarked her skin.
He caught sight of her, winked, and the illusion broke. He handed her a cup and downed the contents of the other he held.
She sniffed it. “What is it?”
“We call it Old Man’s Milk. ’Tis milk mixed with a raw egg and a dram of whisky.”
“Oh God, no.” She handed it back.
He laughed and drank hers, then clapped his hands together, facing the others. “Listen up, lads. We leave as soon as you’re finished dithering.”
“It wasn’t one of us who strolled up just now,” joked a red-haired, thickly built man to her left.
“I’m here now, aren’t I, Gavin?” He grinned and crossed his arms.
It struck her then what was different about Iain—he was excited about leading this party. And from the curious stares he drew from the others, him leading wasn’t normal. They were coming around though, as his natural humor won them over. Though Gavin and Lochloinn didn’t seem surprised.
“Unless anyone objects overmuch,” Iain continued, “let’s away.”
Everyone nodded and swung up onto their mounts. A stable boy nudged her, and he held out the reins for Glenfiddich.
“Thank you.” She searched for a place to step on to mount when warm hands clasped her waist.
“I have ye,” rumbled Iain’s melodic voice near her ear. His heat warmed her back. With no difficulty whatsoever, he hoisted her up, and she arranged her leg around the side-saddle.
On her arrival, much had been made over her odd saddle, so different from their side-saddles, but she’d told them it was a new style in Cornwall, and they’d accepted it without question.
“What about Duncan? Isn’t he coming?” she asked, low enough for only Iain to hear.
“Nay. He did not wish to accompany us, which is strange considering he believes we’re…”
“…We’re retrieving my sister…” She frowned and glanced back at the keep. “Yes. That is strange.”
“Strange indeed.” Iain cupped her thigh and squeezed. “We’re to follow Gavin east. I’ll deliver you safely to your sister. After that, I’ll do my best to get you alone so you may depart.”
She nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He nodded back, gave her thigh another squeeze, and swung up onto his saddle with an ease that said he’d practiced that move. Probably to impress the ladies, and, yeah, she had to admit, it was pretty manly.
As if sensing her thoughts, he looked back over his shoulder and winked, the imp. He clucked softly to his mount, and they trotted through the open gate and across the causeway, their ponies snorting into the air, their heads bobbing up and down, eager to be given their heads.
The clatter of the ponies’ hooves grew muted as the last of the party cleared the causeway and stepped onto the path around the lake. She glanced over, taking in the lake and the rolling vastness on its far side. She craned her neck up the green ridge they’d descended on their arrival the other day. And over that ridge lay another swath of wild, tempestuous, wide-open Highlands. She shivered.
At least her sister was safe.
Soon the drizzle stopped, and their party traveled along the rocky shore of Loch Garry and across the glen bordering the river of the same name. Occasionally, the ground dipped into small pockets, blanketed in fog, and Traci shuddered because she couldn’t see a damn thing below her knees.
After several miles, her stomach rumbled with hunger, but she kept silent, unwilling to waste time. They would be at Invergarry castle in another hour at most, if she judged the sun right.
They dipped into yet another of these foggy hollows, and Glenfiddich stumbled. She pitched forward, and Traci lost her seat, tumbling into the fog.
She landed with a soft “umph” on her right hip. “Shit.” She rolled to a sitting position and placed her hands out so that the pony wouldn’t bump into her. If she’d been astride, that would not have happened. A murky soup of fog surrounded her.
Oh, crap. Her case. She patted her hip and found her bag. Still there and still closed. She gripped the cloth to feel the comforting shape of the case.
“Traci?” Iain’s strong, melodic voice rang out.
“Over here.” She flipped onto her hands and knees and slowly rose, testing her weight on her ankles. Whew, nothing felt sprained or broken. She glanced up—her head and shoulders now above the fog. She twirled around until Glenfiddich came into view, a few feet away. Iain bore down on her, his pony stepping carefully.
“What happened?” he asked. The other members of the party crowded around her too.
“I’m not sure. Fiddich tripped on something, and I fell.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
Iain swung off his pony. He cooed to her mount and bent over near the front side, lifting one of her pony’s legs. He repeated the action on the other side.
“Mo Chreach! She’s thrown a shoe, and we’re not like to find it in this cursed fog.”
He patted Fiddich’s neck and straightened. “There’s nothing for it. You’ll need to ride with me. Glengarry’s blacksmith can repair it when we reach the castle.”
He took her reins and attached them to his own pony. That accomplished, he approached her, a grin splitting his face. “You up for a ride? With me?”
“That depends. What kind of ride will it be?”
“One you won’t forget, I can assure you.”
His innuendos were a keen reminder that he was nothing more than a flirt, handfasting or no, their conversation this morning notwithstanding. And she’d do well to remember that. It certainly made it easier to resist him.
“You promise, my husband?”
The men chuckled, and her face flamed. Oops, forgot about the audience. Her face heated further, because dammit, she wasn’t a blusher. Flirting was her forté, and no one would make her feel ashamed of that. She’d give as good as she got.
“Aye, ’tis a promise. Come, let me assist you onto our delightful, and shared, conveyance. You know you cannae resist.”
Normally, she’d assume he spoke from arrogance, but she could tell it was all just a fun exchange of words. Like her, perhaps, he used flirtation to keep others at bay?
She stepped close and placed her hand in his, which he held above the line of fog. She ignored the jolt she received when her skin met his. He reached behind her with his other hand. Since it was beneath the fog—and so out of sight of the others—he gave her ass a quick squeeze.
She glared at him, and he winked. “Up ye go.”
He grasped her waist and lifted her onto his pony, sitting sideways.
“Ready for me, lass?” He winked and swung up behind her, standing straight in the stirrups. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. This willna do.” He raised her up, sat himself, and settled her back down, her hip snug against his stomach on one side and the high pommel of his saddle on the other. It put her at an angle that tipped her toward him and of a height with his face. She had no choice but to settle her head against his shoulder so he could see. Their saddle didn’t leave a lot of room for any other position.
He snaked his arm around her middle and secured her against him.
“Here, let’s get you more comfortable, my wife,” he whispered in her ear, his warm tones sending a shiver of delight down her back. His wicked hands clasped her waist. Under the guise of “adjusting” her, he wiggled her around a little more in his lap.
He was incorrigible. If it were anyone else, she’d turn around and pop him right where it’d hurt the most. It was as if he knew she wouldn’t object and took full advantage. Or was testing his boundaries with her.
“Aye. There we go,” he rumbled. He said, a little louder, “You comfortable yet, my wife? You sure are finding it difficult to settle down.”
She dug her elbow into his ribs and was satisfied to hear a soft grunt and another chuckle.
He clucked to his pony, and his thighs tensed under hers as he directed his mount up out of the hollow. The voices of the others fell in behind. She peeked around his broad frame and saw Fiddich following docilely behind.
Soon they reached another fog-drenched hollow.
She asked what she’d worried about earlier. “How do you know it’s not just a drop-off into a ravine?”
“Och, dinnae fash. We know these lands. And so do our mounts.” He hugged her a little tighter to his body. “See that slightly worn area in front of us? That’s a wee path with which we’re familiar. It’ll take us safely through this patch and up to the other side.”
They approached the edge and descended. This time, the fog inched higher and higher up her body. Would it swallow up over their heads? At the height of her shoulders, however, it leveled out. The chalky white tendrils swirled and eddied around them, taking on a different pattern as they sliced through it, their life-sized witch’s cauldron.
The whole time she’d been sitting in his lap, Traci had been achingly aware of Iain’s solid strength below and beside her. Every time he adjusted the direction of his pony, his thighs tensed and shifted below hers. The heat radiating from him was enough to keep her warm too, as they pushed through the chilly fog.
Again, he tensed below her, and she thought he was adjusting the direction of the pony. But his hand brushed across her waist, and now she tensed. He pressed her against him, his erection nudging against her hip, until she was snug against his chest.
What was he doing?
Nothing, apparently. Just getting a little more comfortable, the imp.
Every nerve ending was strung taut, awareness zinging up and down her at his nearness. It was strange wading through the fog with only their heads and shoulders above it, and, yeah, she’d not begrudge him huddling her closer against him. Not that she needed the extra security. Nope. But she’d not turn away his warmth.
His hand inched, oh so slowly, up her stomach. She pulled in a shallow breath. He was just adjusting his hold on her, that was all. But it edged up. Up again, almost so incremental she could have been imagining the glacial progress. Except this was Iain.
Gavin pulled up beside them. “Scouts ahead report the way is clear to Invergarry. If we keep to this pace, we’ll reach their keep ’ere night falls.”
She smiled her thanks to him for speaking in English.
Iain lifted his chin, and again his muscles shifted below her as he angled toward Gavin. “Very good. I know my wife is eager to see her sister.”
They talked logistics as they plodded along, their cadences, his warmth and closeness lulling her until she jerked in surprise—Iain’s hand had continued its glacial slide up her body and now he cupped the underside of a breast. She darted a glance over to Gavin, shocked by Iain’s boldness. But Gavin didn’t appear to notice.
She glanced down. Ha. That was why—everything Iain did was beneath the fog. An illicit thrill spiked through her, and she clenched her thighs together.
He wouldn’t dare.
But yep, as he continued talking, his strong, warm hand eased up another fraction until he cupped her entire breast.
And pinched her nipple.
Holy shit, she should totally slap his hand away.
But she didn’t.
Not because she was afraid to make a scene. She couldn’t care less about that.
No. She didn’t slap him away because the whole damn thing was such a thrill—her legs atop his strong thighs, the proximity of the others, and the way he slyly used the cover of the fog to toy with her breast.
Well, two could play that game.
Er. Maybe.
She frowned, trying to figure out which of his body parts she could reach.