Page 2 of Highland Warrior

Ian walked up the steep stairs to his chamber and splashed water on his face. Tucking the brooch into the small chest on the mantle over the fireplace where Donell had kept it safe, he prayed his brother had made it to Lainie.

Finished rehearsing in his mind the things he would say to the clan, he prayed they would accept, no questions asked.

After the evening meal, Ian left most of his clan in the great hall. He chewed on a cinnamon stick to take away the overwhelming flavor of ale, and thought about their reaction to his news. They had readily accepted his story and, in fact had planned an informal celebration.

Having drunk more than his share of ale, Ian stumbled into his bedchamber. He collapsed onto the bed as the room began to spin. His head fell to the side, his gaze coming to rest on the chest over the fire.

The brooch…

Hoisting himself up, he took a deep breath to steady his legs and concentrated on moving one leg at a time. Right, then left, then right, then right…no left. Chuckling at his inebriated state, he somehow made it to the fireplace. He grappled for the chest, dropping it to the floor more than once. Finally, he clasped the open wooden box in his hand, and the brooch, warm and inviting, slipped into his palm.

Making his way back to bed, he again toppled to its softness. There was something so alluring about the brooch. His thumb rubbed over the intricately designed Celtic knots, twisting and winding together. Who had made it? It had been in the family for centuries…

SWISH!

Oh, no! There was that familiar sound, the one he’d heard when Donell disappeared. Ian blinked rapidly and looked about. He was still in his chamber. Sighing deeply, his hand rested on his erratically beating heart. Perhaps it was just the wind. At least he still had⁠—

The brooch! It was no longer in his hand. He sat up and frantically searched the bed, only to have his hand knock into something soft, velvety smooth, and warm.

The mist thickened along the edge of the room, curling low over the rushes like smoke from a dying fire. Ian sat up straighter, the hairs on his neck rising. There was power in the air, not just born of storm or steel, but ancient. The wind carried the faintest hum through the open window, almost like a woman’s voice, though no one stood on the shore. Then, without warning, light fractured across the chamber. Lightning? Nay, something stranger…when it cleared, she was there.

The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen lay sleeping peacefully in his bed. When had she gotten there? He rubbed his eyes and then looked again. Aye, she was still there.

Hell, he would never drink that much ale again. Now he was seeing things. And smelling things, too.

Her scent wafted around him. Lilacs, and the indiscernible aroma of a woman’s satiny flesh. He groaned. Perhaps he had already fallen asleep, and this was a heavenly dream. Flashes of memory assailed him. Donell had believed he was having a dream, too.

His gaze fell on her again. The vixen had the most golden blonde hair. Cut oddly, her hair was short, like a man’s. The silky tendrils lay haphazardly over her chin. Without thinking, Ian brushed a strand away, and the woman sighed and rolled onto her back. The sheet slid down, allowing him to see she wore nothing.

Desire sparked through him, his pulse quickening as every muscle tightened with want. Since his room had not changed other than the lady lying beside him, was it possible she had come from another time?

Ian leaned down and brushed his lips on her full, rosy mouth. Lust coursed through him, assaulting him in the most pleasurable of ways.

Leaning again, he nibbled on her bottom lip, receiving a moan from his treasure. He grinned and slipped his hands under the blankets to stroke her warm skin.

2

Natalie stirred, the scent of woodsmoke and something musky—earth and pine and man—filling her senses. For a disoriented moment she thought she was in a cabin, maybe a dream pulled from one of the Highland novels she’d devoured. But when she blinked awake, she realized she was inside a room built for another century.

The walls were stone, massive gray blocks fitted so tightly together that not even light slipped through the seams. A fireplace, big enough to stand in, blazed at the far end, its flames painting amber light across fur pelts scattered on the floor. The hearth smoke curled lazily toward a blackened chimney, filling the air with the scent of peat.

A wooden bed frame, carved with curling Celtic knots, dominated the space. It was impossibly large, built of oak darkened by age and use. Wool blankets of deep green and russet were thrown haphazardly across linen sheets rougher than anything she’d ever slept on. The pillows smelled faintly of soap and smoke, the fibers uneven and dense beneath her cheek.

Above her, a canopy of woven tartan hung from the beams, its edges frayed, its colors muted by time. The room was both austere and comforting. From the way it was laid out, there was no question it was a laird’s chamber.

A chest of drawers stood near the hearth, its surface cluttered with a few personal items, neatly placed in a row. A pewter cup, a whetstone for sharpening a weapon, and a silver brooch gleaming faintly in the firelight. A sword leaned against the wall within arm’s reach of the bed in case an enemy stormed through the door. Across the chamber, narrow arrow-slit windows let in a sliver of gray morning light, cold and almost blue against the warm glow of the fire.

She could hear the wind howling faintly beyond the walls, and somewhere outside, a rooster crowed—the sound too precise, too immediate. An impossibly realistic dream? Or had she been abducted and placed inside some strange medieval time warp? The textures, the smells, the weight of the blanket on her skin—it was all too vivid, too solid.

And then she turned her head.

The man lying beside her was as solid as the stone walls—bare-chested, his skin bronzed by years of sun, his dark hair tousled from sleep. One arm was thrown casually across the pillow, the other bent against his chest, fingers grazing a medallion she didn’t recognize.

The firelight caught on the fine sheen of his hair and the rough stubble shadowing his jaw. For a moment, she simply watched the rise and fall of his chest, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.

She didn’t know how she’d come to be here. But wherever here was—it was the most alive she had ever felt.

And then he opened his eyes.