The Highlander's Folly (The Novels of Loch Moigh Book 3) (3 page)

“Ha!” She shook with mirth. “Trust your instincts, Hunter, and leave the rest to me.”

“I dinna wish to leave my time, madam. Do I have your assurance that this
favor
involves the present, and no’ some distant future or past?”

“Grandson, you must learn to give up your false sense of control. Your fate, no matter how you will it otherwise, is already written in the stars by another’s hand.” She rose from her place and pointed toward the rear flap of her tent. “Go now, and have faith. You are my kin. You will always hold my deepest affection.”

May the saints preserve me!
He didn’t want her
affection
. Hadn’t he learned long ago the trouble such affection had caused his kin—both MacKintosh and MacConnell? He clung to the notion, no matter how false Giselle deemed it, that he did indeed control the course his life would take. Hadn’t he proved it these five years past? He rose, and a sickening dizziness overtook him. The world around him flattened, and pressure assaulted him from all sides, pulling and pushing all at the same time. “Nay! Dinna send me—”

“This way.”

Giselle shoved him through the rear door of her tent into a rending vortex so powerful he feared he would not survive. For certes he would be torn to bits. God’s blood, the pain was enough to make him weep, and the fleeting images and flashing lights racing by made him ill. Trapped in the center of the force hurtling him forward, all he could do was grit his teeth and pray.

Just when he thought he could not bear another second, whatever held him in its grip spat him out, and he landed with a thud. Prostrate on the ground with the tent still at his back, Hunter shook his head to dislodge the disorienting dizziness and fatigue overwhelming him.

The sound of steel against steel fell upon his ears where he lay.
Damnation!
He’d landed in the midst of a battle. He raised his head. Shock and the need to survive restored his wits in a rush. Spectators ringed the combatants, booing and cheering them on. Some were dressed like he was, and others wore garments not unlike those Lady True wore when hunting. As he regained his feet, Hunter glanced toward the combatants. His vision went red with rage.

A large knight attacked a younger knight half his size and less than half his weight. Still, the lad acquitted himself well against the brute. He must have just earned his spurs, because he could be no more than ten and seven or eight winters. Hunter straightened just as the youth tripped over an exposed tree root and fell flat on his back. The larger knight gave a shout of glee and moved in for the kill.

“Nay,” Hunter shouted as instinct took over. With a battle cry, he drew his claymore and lunged forward, blocking the blow meant for the lad. Straddling the youth where he lay on the ground, Hunter engaged the blackguard. “Coward! Knave!” In a flurry of strikes, he beat the man back. “If you wish for a fight, let
me
accommodate you.”

“Who are you?” The knight parried his blows easily enough. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Upholding my vow to protect those weaker than myself. As you ought.” The familiar sense of anticipation flowed from the knight to him, and he blocked the blows coming at him.

“Wait!” The youth clambered back and leaped to his feet. “Stop!”

But it was too late. He was in the throes of battle lust, and he had no cause to cease that he could see. Hunter attacked, slicing through the knight’s chain mail. He drew first blood, leaving a gash across the man’s shoulder. His opponent hissed in pain and faltered. Hunter took advantage, sending the man’s sword flying out of reach.

Screams erupted from the crowd. Men bearing arms surged forward. Hunter gripped the lad’s wrist and dashed toward Giselle’s tent. He tossed his charge through the entrance first and dove in after him.

Giselle stood by the tent’s opposite exit. “Hurry. Through here.” She held the flap aside.

The young knight struggled to get past him toward the rear exit. Once again Hunter gripped his wrist. “That way is no’ safe, ye wee fool.”

He struggled to free himself from Hunter’s grip. “You don’t understand. Let me go!”

“Be off,” Giselle commanded. “Go before they come through after you.”

Hunter’s gaze went between the panicked face of the lad and Giselle’s imploring look. Indecision seized him. “Call nine-one-one!” The roaring shouts grew closer. “Stop him! Get him!”

The sounds of pursuit spurred him into action. Hunter dashed through the tent’s front opening, dragging the lad behind him. Once again the debilitating force took hold, hurling them both through a bone-crushing tunnel that tore at his limbs as it propelled them forward. The ground rushed up to meet them, and the lad let out a cry as they came to a sudden and painful halt.

“We must be away,” Hunter shouted, pushing himself to his feet. He helped the youth up and tossed him atop his mount. Hunter snatched Doireann’s reins from the tree and swung up behind him. Spurring his destrier into a full gallop, he wended his way through the wagons, booths and tables, heading toward the hills as if chased by the devil himself.

He topped the first rise and urged his horse onward to the bridge across the Esk. They raced over the cobbles, Doireann’s steel-shod hooves raising a thunderous clatter. Finally they were upon the slope where his men awaited him on the other side.

“You moron!” The lad wriggled as if he meant to leap from the horse’s back in mid-gallop.

“Moron?” He encircled the fool’s waist, lest he injure himself trying to get free. “I just saved your life.”

“No you didn’t.” He tried to pry free of Hunter’s hold. “I didn’t need saving.”

About the same time the swell of breasts atop his forearm registered, along with the slender curve of a feminine waist where it met the slight flare of hips, the cap upon his captive’s head blew off in the wind. A wealth of silken auburn tresses cascaded down across his chest and arms, and a sweet floral scent filled his nose.

He was a she.

“Bloody hell!” That made the attack against her even more foul. He checked over his shoulder for any signs of pursuit and saw none. Hunter reined his horse to a stop.

She turned to glare daggers at him. “Take me back.”

Now that he got a closer look at
her
, he wondered how he could have mistaken those comely features for that of a lad. She had wide-set dark-brown eyes, framed in thick lashes. A sprinkle of freckles covered the bridge of her finely wrought nose and high cheekbones. Her mouth—wide with full, ripe lips—drew into a straight line of displeasure at his perusal.

He stared, disconcerted. “I saved your life. You wish to be returned to the cur who attacked you?” He scowled, taking his arm from around her waist. “Why are you dressed as a knight? You’ve no business wearing chain mail and spurs. None. What manner of lass are you to wield a broadsword thus?” He dismounted, reaching up to help her down.

She batted his hands away, swung her leg over his mount’s back and slid free to land lightly upon her feet. “How is anything about me your business?” She widened her stance and crossed her arms in front of her. “Take me back where you found me right now, or you
will
regret it.”

He already regretted it. “Think you to threaten me?” He grunted and pointed at his chest. “I am a blooded knight and undefeated upon the field. What harm can a wee lass such as yourself do to me? You’ve no right to carry that weapon, much less to wield it. No. Right. Do you no’ ken ’tis a crime to impersonate a knight of the realm? You should be—”

She let out a growl of frustration and whipped around so fast he had no time to react. Her booted foot connected with the center of his chest, sending him reeling back. Before he could regain his balance, she crouched low and swung her leg behind his heels to trip him. He went sprawling.

Bloody hell!
Somehow she’d managed to wrest the dirk from his belt in the process. With her boot once again planted firmly upon his chest, she pressed the point of
his
dagger against his throat. He seethed. Humiliation and anger fought for dominance within him.

“No
mere
woman can defeat a big, strong knight such as yourself, eh?” Her brown eyes flashed. “Well, score one for the wee lassie.”

“I did no’ anticipate . . .” Confusion clouded his brain, and he forced himself to focus upon her. She was magnificent. Like the woman warrior Boudicca in the tales of old, the strange lass stood victorious above him with her fiery tresses blowing about her shoulders and her eyes raining angry sparks down upon him. He blinked.

He could read naught from her. He hadn’t been able to sense her intent to attack, nor could he feel her emotions—though they were plain enough to read upon her face. “But . . . I saved your life,” he muttered.

“For the third time, no you didn’t.” She stepped back, flipped his dagger in the air and caught it by the tip. She handed it back to him hilt first. “You interrupted an exhibition, a show at a fair. The man I sparred with is my father. He would never harm me.” Her eyes grew bright with tears. “You
wounded
him. You hurt my dad! Who asked you to intervene, anyway?”

“Shite.” Who indeed? Giselle had asked him to intervene, and he should have kent better. Hunter picked himself up off the ground and sheathed his dirk. Brushing the dirt from his hose and tunic, he avoided direct eye contact with the angry female. He was the cause of her tears.

She ran her fingers through her tresses and stared toward the way they’d come. “On second thought, I don’t need you to take me anywhere. We haven’t come that far.” She gave him her back and started walking.

“Nay!” he bellowed, and for the life of him, he had no idea why he didn’t just let her go. She had it aright. They hadn’t come all that far, and the way was safe enough—for her anyway. “I will accompany you.” He strode over to his destrier and grabbed the reins. “Indeed”—he lengthened his strides to catch up to her—“I must find one of my men at the fair, his page and squire as well. My apologies for misconstruing what I saw, lass. ’Tis my fault, and I will set things aright by returning you into your father’s keeping and offering him my most sincere apology.”

She shrugged, her indifference toward him clear, and continued on. “Do whatever you want.”

Leading Doireann, Hunter took his place beside her, concentrating fully upon gleaning anything he could from her. Naught came to him. Why was she closed to him? He’d never encountered another soul he could not sense. No matter. He had more pressing worries, like how he would deal with Madame Giselle once they were back at her tent. Surely this was all a mistake. Plucking this woman from a mock battle couldn’t be the wrong he was meant to set right. “By what name are you called, my lady?”

Sighing, she stopped and peered up at him. “My name is Meghan McGladrey, though I hardly see how it matters to you.”

“Hunter of clan MacKintosh,” he said, bowing low. “I am at your service, my lady.”

Her eyes grew wide. “MacKintosh?”

“Aye. Does the name hold some meaning for you?”

“Where are we right now?” Once again her expression turned to panic.

“Halfway between Edinburgh and Aberdeenshire, at the north branch of the river Esk.”

“Oh no. Oh God. All that pressure . . .” She swallowed a few times and turned in a circle, staring at her surroundings. “This is . . . Tell me I’m not . . . This is Scotland? I’m in Scotland?”

“Why do you say it thus?” He frowned. “I took you from the fairgrounds right behind Madame Giselle’s tent.”

She wrung her hands in a wholly feminine gesture, and her face filled with anguish. “What year is this?” she whispered.

“
’Tis the year of our Lord 1441.” Realization dawned, but he held his tongue. The foul force he’d endured whilst passing through Giselle’s tent could only mean one thing: he’d traveled through time. Hadn’t he heard the tales from his kin? He should have recognized the odd garb some of the spectators wore as that from the future, but everything had happened so fast.

For certes he’d become muddled in his thinking when he found Giselle’s tent and his destrier exactly where they’d been before the journey. At least he’d returned to his own time just as quickly—a little worse for wear, but intact. And soon Meghan McGladrey would be Madame Giselle’s problem. Not his.

She made a growling noise deep in her throat and circled her arms about herself. “We need to hurry. Can we ride?”

“If it pleases you, my lady.” He cupped his hands beside Doireann. Without hesitation, she
accepted the proffered help and lifted herself easily onto his destrier’s broad back. He handed her the reins before swinging up behind her. Once he’d mounted, he reached to take the reins back. Before he could do so, she leaned forward and touched her spurs to his mount’s sides, keeping a good seat and the reins deftly in her grasp as the destrier took off at a canter.

Meghan McGladrey wielded a sword like a knight, rode his powerful warhorse with the skill of any man, yet felt and smelled entirely feminine. His senses reeled. She’d had the audacity to lay him out flat, even threatening him with his own dirk, when all he’d done was try to save her from certain death. How was he to reckon the knave was her father? And now she thought to take control of
his
stallion?

Nay, I will not allow it.

He reached around her and took the reins from her hands. Then he spurred the beast—
his beast—
into a full gallop. His actions caused her to fall against him. Her curves pressed against him from chest to groin, and his stallion’s rhythmic gait had her derrière rocking against his manhood in a most provocative manner. His blood heated, and lust surged through his veins in a powerful, all-consuming rush.

Bloody hell! Impersonating a knight, no less. How dare she?

He pulled on the bit, slowing Doireann to a jarring trot. The sooner he returned the irksome female to her father the better.

C
HAPTER TWO

I
t
’
l
l be OK. It will.
Her insides quaking,
Meghan repeated the mantra to herself over and over. They would return to the fortune-teller’s tent and demand that she be sent back to her own time. Her stomach lurched, and her eyes stung. She’d seen her father bleeding—not an experience she ever wanted to repeat. Was he OK? He had to be.

The scene replayed itself in her mind, and all the horror returned. Her hands trembled, and shock seized her lungs. She and her dad had been sparring as they did every day, only in front of an audience. From the corner of her eye, she’d seen the knight appear out of thin air. Startled, she’d lost her balance, tripping over an exposed root. Everything after that had happened so fast, she’d had no time to react.

What if the faerie refused to send her back? What would she do then?
Don’t think like that. It’ll be OK.
Her dad and her brothers must be frantic right now. They’d seen her disappear.
Why me?

Sure, years ago her father had been taken by one of the
Tuatha Dé Danann
from thirteenth-century Ireland to twentieth-century America, ending up on her grandparents’ farm. But that didn’t explain why or how she’d somehow landed in fifteenth-century Scotland. Had her father’s involvement with time traveling somehow made her more vulnerable to the whims of the fae, or
had she just been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Turning her mind away from her painful thoughts, she studied the unfamiliar landscape surrounding her—rolling, rocky hills as far as she could see, with sparse grass just beginning to show hints of green. She could smell the salt tang on the easterly breeze. The coast must be nearby.

She tightened her knees against the trotting horse’s withers. Oh, how she wished for stirrups. With stirrups she could put a little distance between herself and Hunter of clan MacKintosh.
Disturbing
. That was the only way she could describe her reaction to the man who’d hurt her father and yanked her from her time.

Against her will, acute awareness of the way he sheltered her between his beefy arms and thighs thrummed through her. Her heart pounded away in her chest, and heat rose to her face. There was no hiding the effect their bodies rubbing together had on the well-meaning knight. She couldn’t fault him. He was a male in his prime, after all, and subject to the laws of physiology. That’s all there was to it. She would
not
take his erection personally. Still, what she couldn’t account for was the way she responded.

Sure, her would-be rescuer was a gorgeous hunk, with his thick golden-brown hair, serious gray eyes and chiseled, über-masculine features, but she didn’t know him from Adam. She sure didn’t intend to stick around to get to know him any better either.

“My cap,” she cried, spying the bit of dark-green velvet on the ground. “Stop. I want it.” Her mother had made it for her, along with the gorgeous suede tunic she wore with the McGladrey crest embroidered across the front. Her eyes filled at the thought of her mother, father and brothers. She’d be devastated if she didn’t get home right away. Her chest tightened, and she clamped her lips together to keep from sobbing. Brushing at her tears, she focused on her hat.

Hunter didn’t slow his horse’s gait. The rasp of his claymore leaving its scabbard filled her ears. He kicked the beast into a smooth canter and veered toward the scrap of velvet on the ground. Leaning over, he lifted her cap by the tip of his sword and presented it to her.

“Thanks.” She snatched it from the end of his claymore. Tucking t
he hat into her belt, she kept her eyes on the trail ahead. The fair that Hunter had taken her from lay just over the next hill. Soon she’d be at the fortune-teller’s tent, and the faerie would send her home.

They reached the top of the hill and came to a sudden halt. She gasped. Nothing remained of the fair. No tents, tables, wagons or booths. Where were the people, oxen and horses? How was it possible that the bare field edging the river showed no signs of wear? Shock seized her, and she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs.

What kind of magic did you have to possess to make an entire fair and all its inhabitants disappear into thin air?

Her entire body trembled, and she forced herself to take in a gulp of air. She didn’t want to pass out and fall off the horse. The field wasn’t entirely empty. Three bridled horses with reins dangling grazed contentedly where the center of the fair had been a short while ago. “What have you done?” she cried. “What the hell is going on here?” She jabbed her elbow into Hunter’s ribs.

“Oof.” His breath came out in a huff, and he dropped the reins into her lap. “Against my better judgment, I entered the spider’s lair. That is what I have done. Now we are both truly caught up in her sticky web.” He slid off the back of his horse. “Come, or stay here with
my
horse,” he commanded. “I must see if Nevan and his lads are still about.”

Meghan swung her leg over the stallion’s back and dismounted. “I’m coming with you.” She took the reins and led the horse along behind Hunter. The large dapple-gray destrier nudged her shoulder, and she reached up to give him a scratch behind the ears. The feel of his warmth, his snuffling breaths as he nosed her and the familiar smell of horse reassured her. “He’s a gorgeous animal. Does he have a name?”

“Doireann.”

“What does it mean?” She gave the horse’s sleek neck a pat, and then she ran her hand down his forehead to pet his velvety nose. “He’s such a good boy,” she crooned, gratified to see the horse’s ears move forward and his large head dip at the sound of her praise.

Hunter glared at her over his shoulder. “Doireann means ‘storm,’ and he’s no’ a
good boy
,” he imitated her croon, his tone derisive.
“He is a well-trained warhorse. Dinna coddle him as if he were a pet, lass. Make no mistake; my destrier is a weapon as surely as the claymore on my back and the dirk at my waist.”

“Well,
excuse
me,” she snapped. His arrogance stung. “This is a stupid conversation, and I don’t even know why I’m talking to you. This is all your fault. How am I going to get home?
You
brought me here against my will, so how are
you
going to fix this?”

“Where is home?” He stopped mid-stride and turned to face her. “I dread the words you might speak.”

“You have good reason to dread.” She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “You took me from the twenty-first century. I live in Minneapolis, Minnesota, in the good old United States of America, and I was performing at a Renaissance festival in Shakopee—also in Minnesota.”

He let out a shout and swiped his hands over his face. Turning away from her, he kicked a stone hard enough to send it careening down the hill. “Accursed fae! I kent Madame Giselle meant to divert me from my purpose, and yet I did naught to prevent her meddling.” He aimed a baleful scowl her way.
“
’Tis true, I am to blame, and therefore duty-bound to see you safely returned to your home. Once we are at Moigh Hall, I shall send word to Inverness. Madame Giselle keeps a cottage there for her amusement. She has . . .”

He clamped his mouth shut and bowed his head for a second. The muscles along his jaw twitched. He stared out over the valley where the fair had been and blew out a breath that sounded to her very much like resignation.

“She has ties to our clan. You and I are no’ the first to fall prey to her wiles. I will enlist the help of my kin to persuade Madame Giselle to return you to your rightful place and time.”

“I’ve heard that name, but I didn’t know Madame Giselle was at our fair,” she muttered. “Are you by any chance familiar with Robley MacKintosh?” She gestured for him to start walking again. He did.

“Aye.” His tone held no surprise. “He is kin to me.”

“And Erin?” Her pulse raced, and goose bumps did the wave over her skin.

“Aye, and Erin, his lady wife, as well. She and my foster mother both came to us from the future. Minnesota is a familiar name to me.”

Her heart bounced around in her chest. “I know Erin and Robley. I was sixteen when they came into our lives. That was seven years ago. I know all about Robley’s deal with Madame Giselle, and I also know about the faerie warrior who sent Erin back to the twenty-first century,” she babbled on, her nerves revved up to full throttle. “After she’d accidentally traveled back to your century, that is.”

“Aye?”

She glanced at him and shut up. He wasn’t listening and probably didn’t care about what she knew. Why would he? Exhausted and still in shock, her brain couldn’t take any more. She’d passed the point of overload the minute she’d watched Hunter fight her father for real. Tumbling through the crushing portal through time had been the final blow. Her gaze drifted to the cluster of pine trees where the faerie’s tent had stood. “How do you plan to find your guys?”

“My guise?” He shot her a puzzled look. “Why would I need a guise to search yon field?”

“Fellows. Lads. Nevan, I think you called him.”

“Och, I dinna ken. Mayhap she put Nevan and his lads to sleep in the field somewhere. I’ve heard the fae do such when they wish. At any rate, let us fetch his gelding. If you take one side of the glen, I’ll take the other. We can make fast work of our search.”

“OK,” she said, and one side of Hunter’s mouth quirked up. A dimple appeared. Her heart did an annoying little
oh-boy-I-am-so-attracted-to-you
Snoopy dance in her chest.
Inappropriate
. She’d just been ripped from her life. How could she possibly be attracted to the man responsible for her current dilemma?

“I’ve no’ heard ‘OK’ since leaving Moigh Hall. My foster mother oft uses the expression, as does Lady Erin.” His expression softened at the mention of the two women.
“
’Twill be good to be home once again. I’ve missed my kin, odd though they be.”

“Have you been gone long?” If she didn’t get back to her own time, she’d miss her family too. A wrenching ache tore a swath through her heart.

“Aye. Five long years.” They’d reached the three horses. The destrier stood obediently as Hunter reached for the reins. The two smaller horses moved out of reach. Hunter made no move to go after them. “I dinna think Nevan would mind overmuch if you borrowed his steed. I trow the two palfreys will follow along readily enough.” He knotted the reins and put them over the bay’s head. Cupping his hands, he motioned for her to mount.

“I’ll take the side where the faerie’s tent stood,” she said, settling herself on the horse.

“As you wish.” He peered up at her, his expression contrite. “My sincerest apologies for the disruption I have caused you, my lady. My greatest wish is to set things aright.”

Lord help her, he was incredibly appealing when he wasn’t being incredibly arrogant. Too many emotions swirled through her. Fear and grief, not to mention the shock the day’s events caused to her system. Her unfortunate attraction to Hunter only added confusion to the mix. Being attracted to the man who had taken her from her life and family made no sense at all. She had to get home.

What would her dad do without her there to help him run their fencing club? Who would take over the mixed martial arts and fencing groups she instructed? Her throat tightened. Her chair would be empty at dinnertime. Who would help her mom and grandmother with Sunday dinners? Her sister-in-law didn’t enjoy cooking like she did. Besides, she was busy chasing after her niece. Her heart wrenched at the thought of little Allie. Who would play with her as only an aunt could? Plus, she was the one who made sure her grandparents got to the grocery store and to doctor appointments. She nodded, not trusting her voice.

Turning the gelding’s head in the direction of the pines, she gave his sides a kick. The destrier went easily from standing into a smooth canter, and despite everything that had happened, she loved having such a well-trained horse at her command.

Her dad had seen to it that all three of his children learned to ride at an early age. They kept horses on her grandparents’ farm, and her family had spent as much time as possible there when she and her two brothers were youngsters. Her brothers had learned to joust and perform mock battles on horseback. She’d trained alongside them, but she preferred to ride solely for pleasure. Charging a quintain with a lance or knocking her brothers off their mounts held no thrill for her—being knocked from hers even less.

She surveyed the ground as she went, looking for any sign of the missing knight, his squire and page. Drawn to the place where the faerie’s tent had been, she held herself rigid, expecting some residual effect from the portal through time. Bruises and aches from her journey still throbbed. Weary to the bone, only adrenaline kept her going. She slowed her mount and walked him toward the spot where Hunter had kidnapped her.

How was it possible for the faerie’s tent to be in two centuries at once? She’d seen Hunter fall through the rear tent flap. The way he’d landed, it looked as if he’d been hurled with a lot of force behind him.