I met a man in tartan trews,
I speer'd at him what was the news…
“The Haughs of Cromdale,” Jacobite Reliques
Iain gently tweaked his wife’s perky nipple again and bit back a grin as she tensed.
Gavin continued to drone on, and Iain tried to pay attention, he really did, but with the bit of distraction he had in his lap, could anyone blame him?
As they’d ridden toward their destination, having her bundled and snugged up so tightly to him played havoc on his self-control. To have her in his lap, her lovely bottom pressed so enticingly against him, would drive any man insane. He’d laugh at the first man who’d deny it.
Each mile they traversed, he felt his resolve to resist her drain that much further away. When he’d grabbed a quick bite at the castle before setting out, he’d tried to absorb all that she’d told him and its implications. God, he still wanted her, but learning where she truly came from had made it clear that this was not her world. If he’d been daft enough not to figure that out on his own, she’d cinched it with her stated resolve to find her sister and return to their time.
By the time they’d descended again into another hollow, and the fog covered their bodies, he wasn’t at all surprised to find his hand starting to wander.
His body had decided for him. As always.
When Gavin had started with his chatter, his attention was stretched to its max.
Another pinch, her breath hitched, and triumph surged through him.
He was answering a question of Gavin’s when he nearly bit his tongue—she had managed to slip underneath her skirt and brush his cods with her knuckles.
His whole body stiffened, and he stopped mid-sentence.
Gavin shot him an odd look. “What about Glengarry?” he asked, frowning.
Iain cleared his throat, and Traci gave a low, throaty giggle, which shot a jolt of lust straight to his groin. He pinched her breast again in retaliation. “Remember ’tis only our chieftain we’ve convinced of my wife’s innocence.” Again unease settled in his gut at how easy it had been.
“Do you expect trouble?”
“We should always expect trouble, I think.”
A strange look crossed Gavin’s face. He nodded and allowed his horse to fall behind. Iain brought his hand, reluctant to leave such a luscious handful, to rest on his thigh. But they’d soon be ascending.
He chuckled when their ascent finally dawned on his wife. She scrambled to straighten her skirts.
Dusk came early as the last rays of the sun fractured over the mountain tops behind them. As they trotted along the northern edge of the foothills of Ben Tee, an imposing five-story stone castle rose from a jagged rock. Castle Invergarry. The calm waters of Loch Oich sparkled in the background.
This was a site Traci had visited with her sister, so seeing it whole instead of a crumbling ruin was incredible. There were far fewer trees, and a wide swath of green pasture led up to the entrance of the castle’s curtain wall. A scattering of oblong stone cottages dotted the land to the right, and the Highlanders’ particular breed of cows—black and hairy as heck—dotted the area to the left.
Iain’s arms tightened around her waist as their pony ambled down the hill to the glen leading up to the castle’s entrance. She was grateful for the reassurance. Any time she interacted with anyone from this time, she ran a risk of exposure. But her sister was in there. Soon she’d have her safe at her side, and they could zap back to their own time.
“He’s expecting us, right?”
“Aye, he is at that. But be aware, he shares the same suspicions my uncle had. We will need to allay those.”
“What if he doesn’t believe me? We were lucky with your uncle.”
“Och, ’twas not hard for me to convince him that such a one as you, with your bonnie face and manners, was not a wicked spy.” He rubbed her hip, but while his voice was light, she detected a thread of unease. “Besides, all we require is the chance to get you with your sister. I think I can at least get you alone with her. And then you can…”
She only noticed the hesitation because she was pressed against him and she felt his swallow.
“You can ignite your magic and return to your time.”
She pulled in a deep breath. “If we don’t get a chance to talk alone before then, I want to thank you for all of your help. I couldn’t have found her without you. I’d have been lost. And Lord knows what would have happened to Fiona.”
“The MacDonells are a good clan. No harm would have come to her. Our clan is bonded to theirs by manrent.”
“Manrent?”
“We are pledged to serve them in exchange for protection. She’s in good hands.”
“And she does love Scotland.” Traci laughed. “In fact, I wonder if she even wants to go back. I guess we’ll see.”
By then, they’d reached the glen, and the others in their party had bunched around them, so she didn’t talk further. The gate opened ahead, and out rode a dozen men on Highland ponies.
Iain pulled up on his reins, and the others halted. Right next to a tannery. Ugh.
Wood-lined streams snaked and intersected a patch of ground on the bank of the River Garry, and hides in various states of being skinned and tanned lay stretched over wooden poles. Traci gagged. The smell was absolutely vile. Worse than any porta potty at a summer music festival. Her eyes watered from the ammonia. The workers at the tannery, indeed all the villagers she could see on both sides of the road, wore less colorful plaids. Most were a natural, off-white color, the variegated stripes barely visible. She’d noticed the same thing at Dungarbh—it seemed the poorer classes in both places sported less colorful tartans. Perhaps they couldn’t afford the dye?
The welcoming party—God, she hoped that’s what they were—pulled up in a flurry of hooves, their ponies nickering and prancing in place before them. She stretched up, surveying the party for a peek of her sister. No such luck. But that was okay. She was close. If all went well here, they’d soon see her. Had it only been four days ago that all this mess had started?
The leader, a huge Highlander with a broadsword hanging from his belt, wore tartan pants and had three eagle feathers pinned to his blue bonnet, while the others were dressed in great kilts. A string of Gaelic followed, Iain answering back. Seeing this party of nobles in their bright tartan patterns next to the drabber versions of the villagers lent credence to her theory of a class distinction.
The exchange between Iain and the welcoming party seemed friendly. Couldn’t they hurry up with all the posturing so she could get to her sister and this whole escapade could be over?
It was friendly enough until all the muscles in Iain’s body stiffened. “Mo Chreach!” he said, in an explosion of breath.
She’d gathered enough Gaelic to know that was an oath. Chill bumps pricked her skin. “What’s going on?” she whispered.
“Your sister is gone.”