Take a little dram of passion,
In a lusty bowl of wine.
“The Man of Fashion,” Jacobite Reliques
Ten hours earlier
Traci clasped a hand over Fiona’s open mouth and pushed her down onto the brochure-strewn bed, snickering. “No. No more singing. The guest in Number 3 says so.”
Fiona squirmed away, grabbed the bottle of Glenfiddich on the nightstand, and topped them off. “To Scotland then.”
Traci clinked glasses, humoring her sister. “To Scotland.”
While all the clan-this-clan-that sightseeing had been driving her bonkers, it was achieving her main goal—getting to know her sister better.
They’d arrived yesterday in this remote corner of the Highlands with two purposes—for Traci to climb the local peaks and add to her tally (bagging a Munro as climbers called it) and to island hop, ending on the Isle of Skye for the Highland Games. Exhibit A for how much she wanted to bond with her sister—she’d sworn off attending the Games when she’d left home for college.
Fiona lifted the bottle and squinted at the bottom, leaning a bit to the side. She put a hand down to steady herself. “We’re all out. Maybe there’s some we can buy from the bar downstairs.”
“We’ve probably had enough. That was a full bottle, you know.”
Fiona burped and did an oops-face.
Ha. Ha. Nothing like alcohol to grease that bond-forming. “I can see you learned to drink like a pro in college.” Not. This trip was actually Fiona’s graduation present from their Scot-obsessed parents. And because Traci had moved to London shortly after her own graduation three years ago, she really hadn’t seen Fiona since their mid-teens.
“Well then, to hot Scottish men in kilts.” Fiona raised her glass again.
“Yeah, we haven’t seen any.” She sipped the Scotch and threw an arm around her baby sister. The affection came easier now that their relationship’s rough, tentative edges had smoothed from bouncing around and partying in their room.
Fiona hopped away and leaned back against the pillow on the headboard. “There was that one in Perth, but he wasn’t hot. If we’d been born back in the day, we would’ve seen plenty.”
Traci snorted. “That’s a myth.” Scot-obsessed and unshakeable in the belief that all men in kilts were hunky and hot back in the day—that was her sister.
“How can you know?” Fiona sat forward.
“I don’t. But there couldn’t be more hot men then than there are now. You need to let go of your unrealistic fantasies about men.”
“Why?”
“It’s unhealthy. I should take you back and show you.” The sooner Fiona had her eyes open, the sooner she could face life—and men—on her own terms. Because fantasies could only lead to heartache.
Luckily, she had Big Sis to hold those eyes open.
Fiona regarded the silver calling card case perched on the nightstand, and her eyes shone with a determined, alcohol-fueled glint. “Yes, you should show me!”
Before Traci could react, Fiona grabbed the case.
Shit. “We can’t go back!”
Why the hell had she told her sister about the case? Oh, yeah, the bonding thing—it was a hungry beast for sharing. So she’d blabbed. About how it had taken her friend Katy back to medieval Wales. And taken another woman back—Isabelle, a friend of Katy’s—to pre-Victorian London.
Fiona got that look she remembered from childhood. This wasn’t going to end well. “Why not? I bet you a hundred bucks there were more hot men in kilts in earlier days.”
The energy-panic of being swept up in her sister’s bets constricted her chest. “We don’t have supplies! Plus, it’s not safe.” And boy had Katy drilled it into her to not use the case without being properly prepared.
Fiona leaped off the bed and yanked open the armoire. “We have our outfits for the Highland Games next week. Our late-seventeenth-century personas. We can wear these and pop to that time just long enough”—she spun around and tossed over Traci’s dress—“for me to win that bet!”
“Shh. Shhhh,” Traci spluttered. Yep, she might be a teensy bit tipsy. She stumbled up the rocky, dirt path to the inn’s entrance. Shit, it was dark. The moon, a pale sliver, joined the two torches sputtering in the ground near the door to provide the only illumination.
“Holy crap. I can’t believe that worked,” Fiona whispered. “We’re actually back in time?” She clutched her stomach.
A few minutes ago, they’d rubbed the case and made their wish. The weird tug-squeeze-swirl had been a little unnerving. Looming before them in the murky dark, with a blanket of stars capping the valley between the mountains, stood the same inn, but in 1689.
“Yes. Told you I could.”
Wow. Look at those stars…
Traci drifted to a stop, gazing up, but when her sister didn’t respond, she cast a glance downward.
All the color in Fiona’s face dropped right out. “I didn’t really believe you. I think I was just drunk enough to pretend.” Torch light flickered across her face as she lifted her chin and straightened. “We’re doing this. I can’t believe it. Let’s go in.”
Why, why, why had she let her sister rope her into this? But when Fiona had uttered the three-letter word bet, the outcome had been inevitable.
Good God.
Traci tugged her sister’s arm and pulled her up short. “Remember. We’re only peeking inside to settle the bet, and then we’re leaving.”
“Yeah, yeah. But do you know what this means?” Her eyes begged for understanding. “What events we can see? Wait till Mom and Dad hear about this.”
“We will not be telling them.” She yanked on the iron-banded wooden door, which opened with a low creak. Couldn’t she share something with her sister that didn’t also involve their parents?
They slipped through the opening, and a wall of heat, spiced with soured whisky and yeast and stale sweat, rolled over them. Scots in multi-colored kilts and blue bonnets clogged the common room of the inn, drinking their whisky and shouting and singing.
Aaand…that was more than enough taste of Ye Olde Scotland, thank you very much. But one salient detail overshadowed all: no hunky men in kilts. Not. A. One.
Hello, hundred bucks!
Dark wooden beams criss-crossed a low ceiling, the walls yellow-stained plaster. A peat fire burned in the rough-stone fireplace. “Oh, Fiona, this would be a perfect setting.”
“For romance?”
“No. My design team needs one for a side-quest location in the new game.”
“You are such a hopeless geek.”
Her sister pushed past, then morphed into wall art. “But where are the hot guys?”
“There aren’t any. And now you”—she nudged her sister—“owe me a hundred bucks.”
Fiona slumped her shoulders. Oh, that face. Traci stifled a snort.
Fiona pushed away from the wall and flicked her blonde braid over her shoulder. “Not yet, I don’t. This village is probably an anomaly. I bet the women in this time call it Nastyville or something.” Her eyes flashed with a hint of defiance. “But the night’s still young!”
“Nuh-uh. We’re going back. I won.”
“No way. I’m staying.” She rubbed her upper arms. “There’s more here for me. I can feel it.”
Uneasiness swirled through Traci’s gut. The words I’m staying, had been laced with weight, as if she meant permanently.
“Oh, all right.” She was so going to regret this. “Let’s just sit at that table near the shadows. We can people watch for a few more minutes.” Traci edged farther into the room. Silence descended. Chairs scraped back, and several men stood. But all of them stared.
Er…
Fiona shrugged, so Traci took another step and Fiona interlaced their arms.
The closest Highlander rumbled in Gaelic, his face bunched into a scowl. Fiona opened and closed her mouth, cleared her throat, and replied in stilted Gaelic. Unlike her sister, Traci had never bothered to learn.
Traci leaned down and whispered, “What’s going on?”
“They’re wondering why we’re unescorted.”
What the hell? She took in the wary gazes. “Why does that matter?”
“Women—respectable women—apparently don’t do this.”
“Will they let us stay?” Even the scruffy dog by the fireplace gave them the side-eye.
“I don’t know.” Fiona crossed her arms, her gaze skittish. “I told them we were looking for our cattle-herding brother.”
“Well, that settles it. Let’s go back.” Traci stepped back. “And then you’ll fork over that hundred bucks, because I’m telling you…” Traci leaned closer. “Hunky men in kilts are a myth.”
Traci backed up and—oomph—bumped against a solid, warm wall. She startled, stepped on her hem, and lurched sideways. Strong hands gripped her waist and pulled her upright. Strong hands doing as simple a thing as holding her waist, but God, the grip felt dangerously possessive. The stranger’s body heat warmed her back with awareness.
“Whoa, there, lass. I have ye.”
The voice—deep, accented, and laden with the right serving of sinful fun—made the hairs on Traci’s arms stand up and go, “Hey there, handsome.” No. She didn’t have time for this.
Fiona’s mouth hung open a smidge, and Traci mouthed, “Hot?”
“Oh, yes,” her sister whispered.
Great. Just great. Heat flashed up her spine from where his hands still clasped her waist. And were they moving slightly, as if taking the measure of her curves?
Curves she’d rather not have someone know their extensiveness. Big-boned, her mother had called her, which Traci knew was polite speak for “hefty for a tall girl.”
She smoothed a shaky hand down her suddenly too-tight bodice, fluffed out the skirts of her earasaid, and turned, breaking the man’s firm grip. And stepped back. And looked up. And up. And that said loads because she topped five-eleven in flats.
The definitely manly specimen before her crossed his arms, which—dammit—did some interesting things with his obviously powerful biceps under his funny short jacket, crossed by a leather strap over one shoulder and a plaid draped saucily over the other. Could a plaid be draped saucily? Well, for sure this guy’s was. A white handkerchief encircled his neck with two jaunty knots, and a blue, flattish hat sat slightly askew on his dark-brown hair. A strange combo of power and playfulness radiated from him. Which was the real him?
He caught Traci’s gaze and held it, his light-blue eyes the most arresting shade she’d ever seen. Power. It was power.
But then he winked and bowed his head, his hair cascading forward. Jeez, his hair was saucy too. And he smiled so broadly and so sincerely, it lit up his eyes, creasing the skin around them as well as his cheeks, transforming his entire face as if everything in the world delighted him, and he mirrored the delight back in his all-encompassing grin.
Her breath left her in an undignified puff. Oh yeah. Her sister had the right of it. Hot. In a kilt. And he knew it. Her untrustworthy heart gave an extra thud in case she hadn’t gotten the memo that he had the goddamn key to turn her crank. She thumbed the ring on her right hand, twisting it round and round.
Yep, time to skedaddle.
He raked his eyes down her body and back up, and the heat of his gaze swept across her skin. “My profound apologies for interrupting what sounds like an interesting discussion. What are ye believing is a myth then? If it’s the wee fox that patrols the nearby glen and turns into a buxom lass on foggy nights, I saw her with me own eyes.”
Aye, this is the one.
Never mind he said that about every lass he met. The night was young, the lass was lovely, and he was of a mind to have a bit of fun. Iain had long since learned his heart was a stupid bastard, always falling hopelessly in love.
He’d fall in love with this one too. Pour his heart out. And be left, as always, empty-handed.
Aye, but it was fun while it lasted, was it not? This latest his heart had decided to martyr itself upon was uncommonly tall, drawing his eye as he’d entered the public rooms at the inn. That and the sumptuous curves outlined by the odd dress she sported. He let his gaze roam, from the heart-shaped face framed by dark red hair to her long and graceful neck, shapely bosom, and the lovely hips he’d lately had excuse to clasp. And, by God and all the holy saints, he’d taken that excuse, even though she hadn’t truly needed his support.
He flexed his hands, which already missed the warmth of her curves.
Anticipation sluiced through him, and heat flared in his lower back, tightening his cods.
Her use of English instead of Gàidhlig only increased her mystery. Said lass regarded him, aye, but not with lust. Nay. Apparently, judging by her expression, he’d grown three heads since he’d been admiring her pleasing form.
Hmm. Not how it usually went.
Her cheeks turned an endearing shade of pink, like the underside of a poppy he’d seen drawn in a botany book at university.
“The myth…er, the myth about…” Her accent was oddly flat, unlike any he’d heard, even from the English who’d managed to penetrate this far into the Highlands.
The accent might be flat, but the tone was enticing, like a promise. Of course. Because why wouldn’t it be? He sighed. Here we go, heart.
The lass eyed her companion, who remained silent, then returned her gaze to Iain’s, her cinnamon-brown eyes alight now with a new determination.
“The Loch Ness monster. That myth.”
“Aye, well, that one’s real enough too.” He waved over his cousin Duncan, who’d reacted to his suggestion of a drink as if he’d been tasked to watch sheep being sheared. The others in his patrol of the MacDonell’s territory would follow shortly, but they could fend for themselves. This would be exactly the spirit-lifting his cousin needed.
He spoke in Gàidhlig to the nearest men. “These ladies are indeed with escorts, but I thank you for your concern.”
In a lower voice, he said to the ladies in English, “May we interest you two lasses in a wee dram, in the promise of tales to enliven this drab evening, and compare notes on what’s real and what’s myth?”
“I don’t think that—”
“Yes! Thank you,” blurted the other lass, whose eyes immediately rounded. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth. Oddly, her fingernails were painted purple.
His heart’s fancy shook her head and tugged on her friend’s sleeve. “We were just leaving,” she murmured and avoided his gaze.
Nay. Not so soon.
The friend pulled back, her expression mulish. “Oh no, we’re not. I’ve won our bet now, and we’re staying.” To him and Duncan, she flashed a triumphant smile, her gaze lingering appreciatively on his cousin, who blushed clear up to St. Peter’s gates. Interesting.
That’s the spirit, lass. “Here, listen to your companion.” Iain swung around the nearest empty table and seated himself on the bench. He motioned to wee Maggie, who wasn’t so wee anymore. “Over here, would ye please?”
She bustled over after setting down a tray of drinks several tables over. “And what will ye be having, Iain?”
“Four whiskies to warm our hearts and our cheeks, I thank you.”
To his extreme gratification, the ladies settled opposite, with Duncan beside him. A warm hardness nudged his leg, and his heart kicked up a notch. Had the lass come around?
A groan floated up from under the table, and a heavy weight plopped onto his feet. Och, nay. Just flea-bitten Fearghus, the mutt Maggie kept for protection.
He peeked under the table, scratched the fur ball’s ear, and was rewarded with two thumps of his tail on the wooden floorboards. Iain unearthed a bannock from his sporran and tossed it to the bugger. Thankfully, the other men at the inn turned back to their own companions, and cheerful banter soon filled the room. Nearby revelers began singing, “Bithidh an Deoch-sa an Làimh mo Rùin, This Drink will be in the Hand of my Love.” Well, wasn’t that a hopeful sign.
“Now, lasses, I’m Iain, and this here’s Duncan. What brought ye to our fine establishment?”
His new love examined him most unenamoredly, indecision clear on her features. She exchanged a weighted look with her friend.
The friend, bless her, extended a hand across the table, straight toward Duncan, her grin wide. “I’m Fiona.” Duncan flushed a deep red. “And this is…” She stumbled when Duncan awkwardly took her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. Her eyes rounded again. She swallowed. “And this is my sister, Traci. We’re just here for a little bit of adventure,” she finished on a whisper.
Adventure. Iain liked the sound of that. Acutely aware of Traci watching him while he kept his gaze on the sister, he said, “Well, then you’ve come to the right place.”
Traci took another sip of Scotch. Boy, was this stuff stronger than she was used to. But her whole body—heck, the whole room—was humming with happiness. She’d been reluctant to stay, but alcohol had already colored her judgment, and Fiona had been a freaking bulldozer on a mission. Now here they were, sitting at a table drinking whisky with two seventeenth-century Highlanders.
One of whom—Iain—was a delicious presence beside her. He pressed closer, his heat and scrumptious scent enveloping her—leather, clean wool, and a musky-something that was already driving her nuts. And he was waiting, with eyebrow raised and one lock of dark hair caressing his forehead, for a response to…
She laughed, and even she could feel how free it made her feel. “I have no clue what you just said.” Seriously, his English was a lilting, rolling puzzle at times. Oh, and what cute ears—they were almost pointed, like an elf’s. Maybe his head would move again, and she could get another glimpse.
She kept watch.
Aaand leaned over too much and bumped her cheek into his shoulder. They both laughed as he gripped her shoulders and set her upright. Damn, this whisky was strong. She rubbed her cheek. Somehow, she was now on the same side of the table.
He spoke slower. “I said, the stars have always enthralled me.”
Oh yeah, she’d remarked on the brightness of the stars outside. It was becoming harder to focus.
Iain set down his whisky. “The philosophy club I attended while at university in Edinburgh discussed an Italian named Galileo Galilei who believed stars are a great distance away and that perhaps the sun shares much of the same properties.”
“Galileo, the father of modern science!”
Iain chuckled, the sound coming from deep within. “That’s quite an accolade, being the father of knowledge, but aye, he was an enlightened man.”
Traci opened her mouth and snapped it shut. She was forgetting when she was, she’d been having such a fun time.
“Some of the regents at university didna wish to discuss his views, of course, but there were some scholars who had read his papers and held forth at the clubs.” He propped an elbow on the table and rested his head against it, listing forward. “But I’m not understanding this stardust notion.”
“Well, if the sun is a star, and stars have life—birth and death—then there are pieces of stardust that make up our world.” She plunked her elbow onto the table as well and rested her head. God, that had sounded much clearer in her thoughts. Plus, having to monitor what scientific ideas she mentioned made her head spin. Or was that the alcohol? “So…” She trailed off, because how the hell could she talk about the conservation of mass, which probably wasn’t proved yet?
“So if the Greeks were right, ‘nothing comes from nothing,’ then…” He clasped her hand and brushed his thumb over her palm in light, enticing circles. She shivered. “Then your wee hand could be made from stardust.”
He understood! Three years ago in her senior level astronomy class, her mind had been all shit-this-is-so-cool, like only a college kid can get.
Warmth bloomed across her skin as he still held her hand. Seriously, handholding was getting her all hot and bothered? But she was. The space between them had less air. Not in a can’t-catch-her-breath way, but in how there was less of a wall between them. As if he easily fit in her space. For sure, the smile she sported was a dopey grin.
He smiled, his head tilting, and his hooded gaze dropped to her lips. Oh! There was his ear making an appearance. Such an adorable ear.
And was that her hand skimming a finger along his ear? Whoa, the room tilted a little too much there—
—She laughed at Fiona’s quip. All four of them huddled around the table, another round of drinks in the space between.
Iain tossed another lump of some kind of hard bread to the dog—Fearghus—under the table. “Aye, but ye don’t know the full of it. I’d never seen my uncle so flummoxed.”
Joy danced through her like champagne bubbles, and she wanted to keep sipping forever. Being here with Iain felt so natural, somehow—
—She was standing, her hand clasped in Iain’s while everyone around them was singing or shouting in Gaelic, egging them on. Her dopey grin was out again. The door banged open, and two rough Highlanders strode in and scowled at the enthusiastic crowd, which quieted a notch.
“Dinnae mind ol’ Ross there. His scowl is worse than his tongue.” Iain leaned down and winked.
All the same, she was glad she had Iain and Duncan as protectors—
—“Oops.” She giggled and grasped Iain’s arm as they stumbled up the steps—
—Oh, yes—