Gawen's Claim: Highlander Fate, Lairds of the Isles Book One Read online

  But the hallucination spoke. His deep, Scottish brogue caused a fiery heat to encircle her entire body, lighting every single one of her senses aflame.

  "I take it ye're the stiuireadh from the future," he said, his sexy voice filled with a trace of amusement. "I'm Laird Gawen MacRaild."

  Chapter 4

  The lass had appeared out of nowhere.

  He'd been waiting in the forest grove for only a brief time when she’d materialized, on the verge of collapsing into a heap on the ground. Instinct had driven him forward, and he’d caught her in his arms.

  His gaze roamed over her lovely features, arousal spiraling in his belly. This was not the matronly lass he’d expected. Her hair was a deep umber, now flowing loose about her shoulders, having come loose from her braids. Startlingly blue eyes peered up at him from a heart-shaped face with a wide, kissable mouth, delicately arched brows, and rose-stained cheeks.

  “I take it ye’re the stiuireadh from the future,” he said. “I’m Laird Gawen MacRaild.”

  He shifted her light weight in his arms, trying not to let his gaze linger on those desirable curves of hers.

  “Can ye stand, lass?” he grunted, attempting to stymie the desire that coursed through his body.

  Her lovely flush deepened, as if she’d just realized he was holding her in his arms. She gave him a hasty nod and he released her.

  She adjusted her bodice, which had slipped to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of her breast, and a surge of heat went straight to his groin. He averted his gaze, taking a step back.

  “Thank you,” she said, “for—ah—catching me.”

  Her accent was odd, shaped by strange consonants and syllables; he’d never heard such an accent. Did everyone from her time sound this way? No, he decided. Her accent may be common where—when—she was from, but he suspected that the loveliness of her voice, with its soft silken tones that wrapped around him like a summer’s breeze, was all her own.

  "I'm Lila," she continued. She gave him a rueful smile, the smile making her already lovely features even more so.

  Lila. He'd never heard such a name before; it was a fitting name for someone like her: a mystical witch from the future. A desirable witch. He forced away the thought and turned away from her, giving her a curt nod.

  She did something odd then; she extended her hand. He studied it, uncertain as to what he was supposed to do. He took her hand, recalling something he’d heard one of his nobles tell him he’d seen at the courts in France. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

  Her skin was soft and smelled of something foreign and sweet; his arousal spiked, and he had to clench his jaw against the force of it. Christ, what was happening to him? Had she issued some enchantment to make him feel like a besotted fool when he’d only just met her?

  “My horse is through that clearing,” he muttered, abruptly dropping her hand. “Let’s get ye tae the castle.”

  He didn’t look at her as she made her way to his side and trailed him, her sweet, honeyed scent filling his nostrils. Annoyance flared within him. Was everything about this witch enticing?

  “How did you know where I’d be?” Lila asked.

  “I received a letter from yer coven leader informing me ye’d arrive in this grove," he said, gesturing to the surrounding trees. "Druids used tae worship here long ago; 'tis where the stiuireadh arrive whenever they come tae this time. I didnae ken the exact spot ye'd arrive, I just happened tae see ye as ye—as ye appeared.”

  It was odd to talk about witches and magic as if this were commonplace, even though he’d known about the existence of such things since he was a lad.

  She seemed satisfied by his answer, falling silent as they made their way to his horse. He thought about what more he could say to her before they arrived at the castle. When he usually greeted a traveler, he would ask how their travels had been: if they’d encountered bandits, bad weather, or had suffered ill health. What did you ask someone who’d just traveled through time?

  “My castle isnae far from here,” he said finally, turning to gesture her forward once he reached his horse.

  He swallowed hard at the thought of riding back to the castle with her, those lush curves of hers pressed against his body. When he’d assumed the stiuireadh who’d arrive here would be a matronly, older woman, he’d thought nothing of riding back to the castle with her. It would be difficult to concentrate with Lila’s body so close to his.

  Ignoring his lustful thoughts, he took her soft hand in his as he helped her up onto his horse, trying not to let his hands linger on the alluring swell of her hips.

  He mounted the horse behind Lila, reaching around her to grip the reins. He again had to grit his teeth as his arms brushed against the swell of her breasts, and he kicked the sides of his horse—a little too roughly—and they raced out of the grove.

  The ride to the castle was mercifully brief; the feel of her soft body against his was tantalizing torture. As they approached the familiar structure of Carraig Castle, he heard her soft intake of breath as she took it in with awe, and pride stirred within him. Carraig Castle had started out as a fort to ward off invaders from the north, built on a craggy hillside that jutted out into the ocean. Now it loomed ahead like a proud behemoth, its stone, turreted towers arching toward the heavens.

  They entered the courtyard where the stable boys, who eyed her appreciatively, rushed forward. His glower made the young men avert their gazes as they dismounted, and he led her inside.

  He saw the curious glances of the castle workers as he led her through the halls of the castle to her guest chamber. Only a handful of the clan nobles knew of the stiuireadh and the Pact. For everyone else, the cover story for Lila’s presence was that she was an old friend of his family’s visiting from England staying at the castle for a time as his honored guest.

  Lila kept her head low, her cheeks going rosy at the attention leveled upon her. This baffled Gawen. As lovely as she was, wasn’t she used to people gazing at her in her own time? Unless she’s wed tae a protective husband, he thought, a sudden discomfort settling over him at the notion.

  Once inside her spacious guest chamber, she took it in with wide eyes.

  “This is all for me?” she breathed.

  He couldn’t stop the amused smile that curved his lips. Her awe and enthusiasm were genuine, and infectious.

  “Aye,” he said, and gestured to a table where he’d had a servant leave a meal of bread and stew.

  “For ye,” he said. “If ye’re hungry. After yer—travels.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Your castle is lovely, Laird MacRaild.”

  “’Tis been in my family for many generations,” he said, a pang piercing him as he thought of how his parents had taken such pride in the castle.

  “In my time, castles are relics. They’re filled with so much life here,” she said, moving over to the window where she peered out at the bustling grounds, her lovely eyes filled with delight.

  He watched her for a long moment, enjoying the sight of her infectious awe. He had to make himself turn away from her, moving toward the grimoire he’d placed on a side table earlier that day. She was here for a specific task, and he was honor-bound to help her fulfill it, nothing more. He had to look past how bonnie she was.

  Lila turned, approaching him as he handed it to her. She looked down at the grimoire with wide eyes, running her hands over the binding with reverence.

  “This is an Arsa grimoire,” she murmured, her tone infused with awe. “It’s only located in the past—and it’s a bit of a legend among witches in my time. It can’t be transported through time; there are only a few of these that exist."

  He gave her a jerky nod, barely hearing her words; the incandescence of her smile was distracting.

  “One of the stiuireadh who sealed the Pact gave it to my great grandfather. ’Tis been in my family for generations, for use tae any stiuireadh who may need it. While ye’re in this time, ’tis yers.”

  Lila continued t
o gaze down at the grimoire with the same reverence he’d seen the devout gaze upon prayer books. She finally tore her eyes away from it, focusing on him.

  “Siobhan informed me in her letter that there may be an aingidh in this time—and on my lands,” he said, shifting his gaze away from those stunning blue eyes of hers. “If this is so, I suspect she may be behind two murders that have recently taken place on my lands. I've had some of my men look intae the murders of the two men, Clinnen and Daimh. They believe they're the result of a cattle or land dispute. But I donnae think 'tis so. Clan MacRaild is a peaceful clan with little infighting, and we’ve nae feuded with another clan for some time. After ye’ve had time tae rest, I’ll take ye tae the sight of these murders on the morrow.”

  Lila bit her lip as the joy in her eyes faded. A torrent of emotions played across her face: uncertainty, fear, and then determination.

  "Good," she said, giving him a wavering smile. "Thank you."

  “I’ll leave ye tae get settled. Ye have a personal maid who will tend tae ye while ye’re here. Ye will join the feast tonight in the great hall; ’tis best if ye show yer face tae lessen the curiosity about ye. Yer maid will bathe ye and provide ye with gowns. If ye need anything, ye only need ask.”

  He started to head for the door, needing to be out of her distracting presence, but she called after him.

  “Thank you, Laird MacRaild,” she said. “For helping me. For helping—us.”

  Us. The stiuireadh. The witches who had refused to help him when he was at his most desperate. Resentment flared to life within him, and his jaw tightened.

  “I honor the Pact only for my father,” he said shortly, and left her chamber.

  Once he was back in his chamber, he ordered a servant to bring him a strong cup of ale. It frustrated him beyond end how lovely Lila was, how her very presence disarmed him. He’d have to continually remind himself what she was, and that she was here to carry out a specific task before she was back in the time where she belonged.

  Chapter 5

  Lila slammed the Arsa grimoire shut, leaning back in her chair to rub her temples. It seemed like she'd been studying it for hours, but she still had difficulty with the various spells: all written in Latin, Gaelic, and other Celtic languages that she had difficulty deciphering, given her rusty grasp of such languages.

  If Avery was here, she thought bitterly, she wouldn't be struggling with these spells. And Avery certainly wouldn't have let herself get distracted by the sexy Scottish laird who'd caught her in his arms as soon as she arrived.

  Her face warmed at the memory of her instant arousal as her eyes locked with his—her accelerated heart rate, the dryness of her mouth, the moisture that crept between her thighs—all of which she knew had nothing to do with traveling through time and everything to do with Gawen. The last time she'd traveled to this time, she and Avery had stayed with an elderly man with a white beard who'd reminded her of Santa Claus. He was worlds apart from Gawen, who was the most handsome man she'd ever seen—in any time. How was she supposed to get a handle on her magic with his distracting, sexy presence?

  You have to, she reminded herself. You're here for a specific purpose, not to swoon over the hunky laird.

  She recalled Gawen's words about the murders on his lands. If the aingidh in this time had done that using her magic Lila should be able to detect it using a spell. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before murmuring the words of a Locator spell.

  "Taispeain an medicine dorcha seo dom."

  She sat still and waited for the familiar sensation of her magic flowing through her, that telltale hum of electricity that rippled beneath her skin, but there was . . . nothing. No pull at her senses, no heightened sense of awareness.

  Lila gritted her teeth in frustration. She’d only just arrived; maybe she just needed time to settle in before using her magic.

  She stood, moving to the window to look back out at the bustling courtyard. Carraig Castle was in ruins in the present day, a destination for tourists who had to use their imaginations to envision what an imposing and glorious fortress it must have been.

  No matter how many times she traveled, it never ceased to amaze her that she was in another time, living and breathing among its inhabitants. As frustrated as she was with the limits of her powers, she’d never feel ungrateful for the gift of being able to see and experience different times, something that most people could never dream of.

  “My lady?”

  She turned to find a young, petite, dark-haired chambermaid standing there, holding a cumbersome wooden wash bin in one hand and several gowns in the other. Lila immediately hurried over to her, helping her lower the bucket to the floor. The girl’s eyes widened in surprise as she stammered out a thank you.

  “I’m tae serve as yer personal maid while ye’re a guest of the laird. I need tae wash and prepare ye for tonight’s feast,” the young woman said.

  Lila gave her a reluctant nod. It would be odd having someone bathe and dress her, but Madeline had drilled the rules of this time into her. She was under strict orders to not stand out too much to those who didn’t know she was a stiuireadh—and that included allowing herself to be prodded and pampered the way highborn ladies of this time were.

  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t be friendly.

  “Thank you,” Lila said, giving the maid a smile as she helped Lila out of her clothes. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m called Mysie, my lady,” Mysie replied, her voice so low it was barely above a whisper.

  “How long have you been working at the castle?" Lila asked, as Mysie doused a cloth into the wash bin and began to rub it along her bare skin.

  "Since I was a wee lass, my lady," Mysie said. "My mother brought me here when she found work as a kitchen maid; I never kent who my father was. She died of the same illness that killed the laird's family."

  Lila stiffened at her words, surprise filling her. Gawen's entire family had died of illness? Siobhan hadn't mentioned this, but she hadn't told her much about Gawen, other than he was bound to honor the Pact.

  Sympathy rose within her. Even though she often felt like an outsider for being the weakest witch in her family, she loved her parents and her sister; it would shatter her if she lost them.

  "I'm sorry about your mother," Lila said. Mysie momentarily stilled, sadness flickering across her face.

  "The laird was kind tae me, allowing me tae stay on after she passed. Most other lairds would have dismissed me, but not Laird MacRaild. He even allowed me time tae grieve before I resumed my duties."

  Mysie dried Lila off with another cloth, her gaze trailing over her skin as she helped her into a fresh underdress and an emerald-green gown.

  “Forgive me, my lady, but I've never seen skin as smooth as yers. Have ye never taken ill?"

  "I've been fortunate to never fall ill," Lila said, aware that skin like hers was a rarity in a time before modern medicine.

  To her relief, Mysie didn’t press, braiding Lila’s hair into the double bun style of the time, entwining each braid with white ribbons. When Mysie had finished, Lila eyed herself in the mirror. She looked like a proper fourteenth-century, Scottish noble woman and nothing like a time-traveling witch.

  She thanked Mysie, who left her with a polite bow. Shortly after she left, there was a knock on the door. Assuming it was another servant here to escort her down to the great hall, she swung open the door to find Gawen standing there.

  He’d changed into a different white tunic and belted plaid kilt, his hair shining a coppery hue beneath the candlelight of the corridor. He looked even more handsome than before, and a prickling awareness danced along her skin. Gawen’s eyes swept briefly over her, something unreadable flaring in their depths before it was gone, replaced by a polite formality.

  “I’m here tae escort ye tae the great hall,” Gawen said after a brief pause. “Ye look . . . well.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If anyone asks—” Gawen said, extending his
arm.

  “I’m a friend of your family’s—your mother's side—from England, here visiting the castle for a short time as your guest,” Lila said, reciting the cover story Madeline had given her from memory.

  Gawen nodded and led her down the corridor and winding staircase to the first floor. They entered the great hall, a cavernous room filled to the brim with long, narrow tables and dozens of guests, a large fireplace at the far end of the hall providing both light and warmth, the fragrance of roasted meats and vegetables wafting through the air. As Lila took it in with quiet awe, she realized that practically every eye in the hall fell on her.

  Gawen led her to the head table, where she took the seat at his side. As she sat, she noticed a blonde woman who sat across the hall shooting daggers at Lila with her eyes. Lila quickly shifted her gaze away, wondering, with a twist of her stomach, if this woman was Gawen’s mistress.

  She tried to ignore the various eyes on her as she looked around. Though she’d been to this time before, she’d never attended a feast at a castle, and the grandness of it surprised her. There had to be at least two to three dozen guests in attendance, and there were at least half as many servants moving about the hall, refilling pitchers of ale and taking and replacing platters of food. The plate before her contained smoked herring and freshly baked bread paired with a sweet-smelling wine. Her stomach grumbled in appreciation at the sight of it.

  “I take it feasting is done differently in yer time?” Gawen asked, his voice low and for her ears only.

  She looked up; there was an amused twinkle in his eyes.

  “Yes,” she said, thinking of the solitary meals she had in her studio apartment back in North Carolina, or the quiet meals she shared with Avery and her parents. “We only have large feasts like these for special occasions—holidays, weddings.”