Raising Hell in the Highlands: A Time Travel Romance (A Timeless Love Book 2) Read online

  She could feel the grass beneath her and see the fuzzy outline of trees through her blurred vision, but it felt different somehow. It was no longer dark, she realized; maybe that’s what was throwing her off. Exactly how long had she been out?

  Her hands automatically went toward her weapons as she patted around her body. All present and accounted for, she thought, sighing with relief. Even her pack was still loosely slung over one shoulder.

  She pushed herself up to sitting, closing her eyes while the world spun wildly around her and screwed with her senses.

  It wasn’t just the daylight that seemed incongruous. Aislinn didn’t feel the biting cold as she should, either. Snow had already begun to fall in earnest during her last foray along the path, promising a white Christmas for the first time in years. But rather than finding herself face down on frozen ground, she was laying on what appeared to be soft – albeit uncut – grass. And it was warm.

  The scents were all wrong, too. Snow had its own smell – anyone who spent any time up North knew that. But there was no hint of it now. Nor was there any discernable whiff of trash, dead leaves, or the ever-present aromas of stale beer and urine usually so prevalent in the park. She expanded her lungs, pleased when they didn’t protest too much, and drew in the scents of grass, clean air, and oddly enough, something that smelled like dried herbs. Lavender, maybe, or heather.

  Her senses were returning to her slowly but surely. As her hearing came back online and the annoying buzz faded, her brain struggled to identify the sounds. One was easy enough – men. Loud, bellowing men, grunting and spewing forth colorful vulgarities in a thick brogue.

  And ... horses? Not that she was particularly familiar with the beasts, but even she could recognize a few snorts and whinnies.

  There was something else, too – a repeated, rhythmic clanging that resounded in her skull painfully and immediately roused her self-preservation instinct.

  She rubbed at her eyes until the last of the little black dots faded away. And then shut them again quickly in disbelief. Clearly the blow to her head had caused significant damage, because there was no way what she had seen could be real. She decided she must be suffering from some kind of displaced psychosis resulting from a head injury and repeated viewings of The Highlander during late night bouts of insomnia.

  She pinched herself – hard – then opened her eyes again, but the surreal scene hadn’t faded. She tried again and caught her breath. Yep. Still there.

  The more she watched – she had quite a vivid subconscious imagination, it seemed – the more entranced she became. Especially by the super-sized guy sporting the black and green plaid. A warrior, for sure, with his long, flowing auburn hair braided at the temples and a symphony of rippling muscles. With the face of an archangel – hard and masculine yet otherworldly beautiful, sinfully defined arms and legs, he moved with lethal grace and skill.

  Despite his size and obvious proficiency in combat, he seemed to be a bit overwhelmed at that moment. Aislinn counted no less than six men attacking the warrior all at once. They, too, were large men sporting kilts, but they didn’t have the same skill with a sword – and holy shit, was that an axe? - as the really big one, and the colors of their plaids were different.

  The big guy was holding his own, she noted with no little amount of respect. But then a movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention. As Aislinn watched in growing horror, three more men emerged from the trees behind the warrior. With all of his focus on those in front of him and along his sides, he didn’t see the threat as she did.

  It’s just a dream, she told herself, most likely the result of blunt-force head trauma. But before she could fully process that thought, she was on her feet, shoving her personal discomfort aside and stealthily moving toward the action as her training kicked in. It might be just a dream, but it was her dream, and she’d be damned if she’d allow such a fine warrior to go down by a sword to the back in any dream of hers.

  Aislinn launched herself into the fray, pulling her blades from her boots as she did so. In a series of lightning fast kicks and spins, she took out the three men attacking her warrior from behind before they even knew what hit them. As the Mel Gibson look-alike turned around to see the commotion, she caught the flash of a sword sailing through the air – right at her warrior’s head.

  * * *

  Lachlan could not believe his eyes. An avenging angel had appeared out of nowhere! She was yelling something to him, but he couldn’t make out what it was. Then she was launching herself into the air, twisting her body as she did so. Her feet slammed hard against his chest, her momentum and the unexpected blow pushing him backwards, knocking him to the ground. He felt, rather than saw, the blade pass inches from his head on the way down only moments before he felt the soft weight of her body press down upon him, her feet near his shoulders and her head somewhere around his knees.

  Though he distinctly heard the rush of breath from her lungs upon impact, the wee sprite did not hesitate for even a moment. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed for his sword, muttering foreign words when she found it too heavy to wield effectively.

  As he attempted to gather his wits, she relinquished her hold upon the pommel and extracted her own small, sharp-looking weapons from her deep pockets as she straddled him protectively, flinging small shiny pointed disks with unerring precision at those creeping forward, hoping to attack him while he was down.

  Lachlan looked up at the surreal creature atop him. Wild hair in streaks of darkest brown to near gold. Garbed in strange black cloth that hugged her so snugly that every feminine curve and dip was revealed.

  “Well, dream warrior?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at him, grinning as if she was thoroughly enjoying herself. “Are you going to get up and help me or do I have to kick their asses all by my lonesome?”

  Released from his reverie, he encircled her tiny waist with two large hands and lifted. A breath later, he sprung up beside her. He would attempt to puzzle out the strange visions afflicting him later; at that moment he had more immediate business to attend to.

  “Behind me!” he commanded, shoving her and attempting to shield her with his much larger body.

  “Screw that!” she answered, spinning to place her back to him. They fought back to back, circling as if they had trained together forever. In a series of mere minutes, all but two of the attackers lay still and unmoving, the others having fled for their lives.

  With the threat nullified, Lachlan was able to turn his full attention to the mysterious creature that had appeared out of nowhere to render aid.

  “Yer bleeding,” Lachlan said, reaching out to touch the sprite.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” she murmured, leaping out of his reach gracefully.

  “Doona fash, lass.” Lachlan tried to soften his naturally deep, rumbling voice. “I just want te ken how badly ye are hurt.”

  “I’ll live,” she said, blowing a few strands of that magnificent mane out of her face as she surveyed the damage. “Friends of yours?”

  For as fierce as she had been in battle, she was obviously skittish when not. He would not push – for now - but he found himself burning with questions and the need to touch her again, if only to make sure she was real. As long as she made no attempt to flee before he had a chance to do either, he could be patient.

  “Nay,” he said, punctuating the statement by using his foot to push one or two of the fallen onto their backs and peer down into their faces. “McCrae clan, by their colors.”

  As he tried to identify the rogues, he felt a sudden draft of air around his privates. He turned around quickly and caught the sprite lifting the back of his kilt with wide eyes and a wicked grin on her face. Shocked, Lachlan stepped away quickly. “What do ye think yer doing, lass?”

  “I always wondered what a Scotsman wore under his kilt,” she said unrepentantly in response to his glare.

  “Impudent wench.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Wench?” Then she laughed. It was
a beautiful, clear sound, sending the strangest sensations into his chest. “I’ve been called worse, I suppose.”

  What kind of lass openly peeked beneath a man’s kilt? Or wore trews? Or looked like an angel and fought like a Furie? Or – and this one gave him the most unease – made his body feel like it was filled with light whenever she flashed him a smile and looked at him with those exquisitely clear green and amber eyes? Mayhap she was one of the legendary Valkyries they told stories of in the highest hills – women who appeared on the battlefield to determine which mortally wounded soldiers would live and which would die.

  “What are ye?” he whispered roughly before he could stop himself.

  Rather than be offended, as he feared she might, she appeared to consider his query.

  “Hmmm. Good question. At the moment, I would say... delusional pretty much covers it. You know, concussion, possible cranial swelling, that sort of thing. Those Highlander romances must have really gotten to me,” she murmured. “Gorgeous brawny Celts that can make a woman swoon just by...” She shook her head, wincing. “Nevermind. Why were those men trying to kill you?”

  She’d answered him, but he had no idea what she’d actually said. She acted like he should understand, though, and he was hesitant to admit otherwise, lest it be seen as ignorance or weakness on his part. So he nodded and focused on her question instead.

  “The same reason they all do,” Lachlan said with a shrug. “They want my keep.”

  “Keep.” She repeated the word as if it was unfamiliar to her, then her eyes opened wide. “You mean as in ... a castle?”

  “A modest one, aye,” he answered warily, seeing the sudden gleam in her eye.

  “So, are you like a lord or something?” she asked. Lachlan watched as she pulled her blades from the first couple of men, carefully wiping off the blood on their tartans before stowing the weapons away in hidden sheaths up and down the length of her wee form. She seemed totally unaffected, as if burying her blades in the hearts of men was an everyday occurrence. He told himself it would be good to remember that.

  Of course, she didn’t seem to be openly hostile to him. With her skill and speed, she could have buried one of those wee blades in him when he’d been foolish enough to turn his back on her a couple of minutes earlier. Instead she’d just peeked up his kilt. And, judging by her expression when he caught her, had liked what she’d seen. Blood rushed southward into his nether regions, filling a cock that had already begun to harden at the sight of her in all that form-fitting black.

  But wait – she had asked him a question, hadn’t she?

  “Aye, a laird.”

  “Too cool.”

  Lachlan’s brows drew together. The afternoon felt pleasantly warm to him.

  The sound of horses reached their ears, along with shouts. “Oy! Lachlan! Ye alright?”

  “Aye,” Lachlan called back, watching with fascination as the female assumed a battle-ready stance. She looked gloriously fierce. Her legs were set slightly wider apart than her womanly hips and offset for optimal balance, a small blade in one hand and some kind of flat, semi-circular object with spikes in the other.

  She poised, unnaturally still, her eyes the only things moving as she followed the sounds and pinpointed their locations. Suddenly she spun and her hand flew out. Lachlan only just managed to stop her before she buried the blade in his brother’s heart.

  “’Tis my kinsmon. Doona harm him.”

  She looked at the big hand encircling her wrist, then up at him with wide, shocked eyes. He barely managed to catch her before she went limp.

  Chapter 3

  Word of the minor skirmish spread quickly throughout the keep, but the real news was the unconscious woman the laird held to his chest as he rode through the gates. By the time Lachlan carried her to the guest chambers, his six younger brothers were already gathered around him.

  After assuring them that the blood on his shirt was not his, they turned their attention to the strangely-clad female laid out atop the covers.

  “Who is she, then?” Malcolm asked, studying her warily as if she might suddenly leap from the bed and attack. “From whence has she come? What business has she at Dubhain?”

  “I doona ken,” Lachlan said, brushing the hair back from her face so he could press a cool cloth against her forehead. He cleaned and dressed the open gash on the back of her head. The bleeding had all but stopped, but head wounds could be tricky. For now, all they could do was wait and see.

  A cursory examination had shown no indication of any other injury that would justify the removal of her garments. He had managed to get the leather cloak off of her, but her form-fitting garb revealed more than Lachlan thought was proper in a room of seven men, so he draped her still form with a bedsheet, ensuring that the most provocative of areas were covered.

  “That tricky little McCrae bastard led me straight inte a trap a beardless lad would have seen. ‘Twas an ambush. The lass appeared out of nowhere, taking out three men at my back with her wee blades afore I even kenned they were there.”

  Their shock was evident, but not one of them even considered that their brother was lying or even exaggerating. Lachlan Brodie did neither.

  “Beautiful and deadly?” mused Conall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “I think I am in love. Is she Fae, do ye think?”

  “No’ likely,” piped up Simon from where he sat at the foot of the bed. He seemed particularly fascinated with Aislinn’s heeled boots, running the pads of his fingers along the silver rivets. “Fae wouldnae bleed so, would they?”

  “Ye would think no’,” Bowen murmured in agreement.

  “She is a wee thing, though,” observed Aengus, his eyes running the length of her. To demonstrate his point, he lifted up her limp hand and held it against his own. When he curled his fingers, they completely enveloped hers.

  Lachlan did not care for the way his brothers were eyeing the lass, the way they were touching her, even less. “Wee, but fierce and quick enough te have almost buried her blade in yer chest.”

  Aengus heard the subtle warning and released Aislinn’s hand, taking half a step back.

  “Did she speak te ye, Lachlan?” asked Gavin.

  “Aye, but I can no’ make heads nor tails of most of it. She addressed me as someone called Sherlock. Do ye ken any such mon? Mayhap a traveler or visiting laird?”

  They all thought for a moment and shook their heads. “What else did she say?”

  “Weel, ‘twas hard te make out, as I said. She does no’ have the brogue, speaking more in the manner of an English, and she used some words I dinnae ken. At one point, though, I believe she was babbling on about delusions and romance and braw Scotsmen,” he said, feeling the color rise to his cheeks when he recalled how she had lifted his kilt. There was no need to share that with them just yet, if at all.

  Aislinn moaned softly, shifting slightly. Lachlan’s weight on the side of the bed made her body pitch toward his.

  “I think she might be coming ‘round...”

  With the exception of Lachlan, they all moved back.

  * * *

  The rumble of deep male voices intruded on the lovely dream she was having. She was in the Highlands, fighting kilted warriors and kicking major ass. She smiled as she remembered the big one, the one with the amazing green eyes and biceps the size of her waist. In her fantasy, she had lifted his kilt and discovered one extremely well-hung Scot.

  When she dreamed, she dreamed big.

  She was just getting to the good part – the ripped Scot had just reached out and snatched her around the wrist, no doubt intending to ravish her in the fallowed grass as the adrenalin had them both pretty jacked-up – when the dream cut out. Talk about bad timing. Why couldn’t whatever had woken her have just waited a few more minutes?

  Aislinn cracked open her eyes and instantly realized she was not alone. In the sudden and full-scale fight-or-flight mode that came from serving nearly six consecutive twelve-month terms in the United States Army,
the last four of which had her stationed with an elite Ranger unit, Aislinn scrambled back on the bed as far as she could. She reached for her blades, but they were gone.

  “What did you do to me?” she asked, the menace in her voice interlaced with a fear she could not completely hide. “Where are my weapons?”

  “Relax, lass,” one guy said, and – holy shit! – it was the guy from her dream!

  He spoke in what was surely meant to be a soothing voice, holding out his arms to show he had no weapons, but there was absolutely nothing soothing about him. He was pure, unadulterated alpha-male. In a kilt.

  “We will no’ harm ye, I give ye my word on that.”

  The sharp pain at the back of her skull sure felt real enough. “What does your word mean to me?” she demanded hotly. “You could be a pathological liar or a psychopath for all I know.”

  His expression turned instantly stormy. “Doona insult my honor in my own home,” he warned in his booming voice.

  “Fine. Give me my stuff and I’ll get right the fuck out.”

  “Ye will no’ be going anywhere,” Lachlan said, standing firmly. “Not until ye tell us who ye are and how ye came te be on Brodie land.”

  “Who’s going to stop me?” she smirked, all traces of fear now gone. That’s what usually tended to happen when people tried to start telling her what she could and couldn’t do, or worse, thought to intimidate her. They soon discovered that Aislinn was not a woman easily cowed, especially not by oversized alpha-male types. They fell the hardest of all.

  “You?” Her eyes twinkled in challenge. His narrowed, piercing her with their intensity.

  “Aye. An’ if yer thinking te get past me, ye might want te take a good look around ye, lass.”

  The kilted warrior stepped his big frame aside, and several others came into view. Six, to be exact. All bearing similar features to her dream guy and wearing the same colors, but varying slightly in eye color, hair color, age, and size. Six gorgeous men, muscled arms crossed over broad chests, wearing the same green and black plaid. And they were all staring at her as if she was some rare kind of bug.