Border Lord (2 page)

Though she sounded certain, Terri could still see the wariness in the nun’s eyes. She feared Brochan Douglas. His legend had been ominous enough, even with her secure in a different century, but knowing she might face him had her more than a little nervous. The man must be terrifying in the flesh.

“I think I will rest, Sister Helena. Thank you for checking in on me.”

The nun’s features softened, and she pulled the rough blanket over Terri. “Aye, you are just tired, dear, that is all. Now close your eyes and sleep. I shall return later with a tray. Something soothing for your stomach.” With a warm smile, Sister Helena walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Terri stared at the door for a long time, her mind racing. For what ever reason she had been thrust back in time, the room she entered was a portal to the past.

No wonder it had been boarded up in her time. Maybe someone else had been sent through time as well?

She ran a trembling hand through her hair. If she was in the portal now, then how in the hell did she get home? She scoured the walls, wondering if there was a hidden opening.

“And how in the hell do I get back home before Brochan Douglas comes?”

Brochan Douglas opened the door, his eyes adjusting to the dark room. The inn sat in the shadow of Castle Blackcurn, the keep of Laird Angus MacLellan.

How Brochan hated the man. He would take pleasure in hurting the one thing Angus loved more than life.

His precious little daughter…Annabelle.

For two days Brochan had been awaiting word from the castle on the hill. Finally word had come—in the way of a woman, who turned from the window as Brochan shut the door behind him.

About five and twenty in age, the lass was comely, and as she slid the velvet cloak from her body Brochan’s cock stirred. Aye, Frederica was indeed beautiful with her long hair and shapely curves. No wonder Angus MacLellan had locked his wife in the solar, while he took this luscious young woman to bed each night.

At the thought of his nemesis, Brochan clenched his fists.
The murderous bastard! He would make Angus MacLellan pay dearly for killing Brochan’s brother.

Frederica took a step toward him, smoothing her skirts. Her breasts were not large, but she was slender, and had womanly hips. The green kirtle was made of fine fustian, and complemented her fair skin that turned a flattering pink under his gaze. “Do ye come alone?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“How do I know this is not an ambush?”

“I come alone. I swear it.” The woman licked her lips, her gaze moving over Brochan in a familiar fashion. He knew that look. She desired him. In fact, he would have her on her back in a moment’s time…but first they had business to attend to.

“What news do ye have for me?” he asked, taking a step closer.

“Annabelle has been taken to the priory, a half day’s ride from here.”

“There are many priories in the Borderlands, lass. Of which do ye speak?”

She folded her trembling hands together. He wondered if fear made her tremble. After all, if Angus knew where she was and with whom, she’d have some explaining to do.

“The Priory of Grace, on the border near Langholm.”

“Do ye lie, lass?”

Her gaze slid from his, over his chest and stomach, slowly to the bulge of his sex. He had made sure not to wear his kilt or clan colors in this rival territory, and instead dressed in snug leather braies.

Frederica swallowed hard, her throat convulsing. “Never.”

“Is the priory well guarded?”

“Nay, just two of Angus’s men. He did not want to garner suspicion.”

“Why do ye help me?”

She shrugged, a tiny smile teasing her lips as she once again made eye contact. There was no denying the lust there. “Annabelle is a spoiled little girl, and I am weary of her requests.”

“Certainly MacLellan does not favor his daughter over his lover?” Brochan asked, though he already knew the truth. Angus MacLellan spoiled his daughter to the point of obscene. No doubt his lover resented the relationship.

Frederica laughed, flashing white but slightly crooked teeth. “Aye, ’tis one fault I find with Angus. He does not know when to tell his daughter nay. I fear he would go to any lengths to please the brat.”

“And ye are jealous that he gives her so much?”

He hit a barb, for Frederica flinched, her smile now forced. “Nay, I am jealous of no one.”

“And what of the girl’s mother?”

Two bright spots appeared on Frederica’s cheeks, and she looked away, toward the closed door. “She lives in the solar.”

“Her preference, or her husband’s?”

Frederica lifted a brow. “Angus’s wife is not well. She has not been well for years.”

No doubt because her husband was fucking an attractive young woman half her age. Brochan’s gaze slid over her slowly, taking in the emerald earrings sparkling in her earlobes that matched the large stone which lay snug between her breasts. Mayhap a trinket from her lover. She watched him watch her, her nervous ness obvious as she shifted from foot to foot.

The pulse in her neck increased as his gaze dropped slowly, inch by inch. The bodice of her gown was tight and low, displaying her small breasts to full advantage. The expensive golden kirtle fit snugly about her hips, emphasizing her woman’s mound.

Rumor told that Frederica had been the daughter of a servant in Angus’s house hold. The girl had caught Angus’s eye when she was but a child, and became Angus MacLellan’s lover when she came of age. He kept her at close quarters, afraid someone else, younger and more robust than the graying laird, would take her as their leman. In truth, Brochan wondered how she had managed to slip away from the castle unnoticed. His men outside would alert him of any activity, he knew that, but it was best to complete their business.

Brochan took the pouch of coins from his pocket and tossed them at her. “For your trouble, my lady.” He started for the door.

“You leave so soon?” Her voice, as sweet as honey, hinted at disappointment.

“Do ye wish me to stay?” He did not turn, uncertain if he should stay or go, particularly since his men awaited him downstairs. Then he smiled to himself. He could not resist the chance to humiliate Angus MacLellan further.

“Aye, I would.”

He faced her. “Then I shall…for a while.”

She looked relieved.

He wanted her to make the first move, and he did not have to wait long. Frederica sat down on the bed and lifted her skirts slowly. Fine silk garters encased her long, shapely legs, and she rolled one stocking down, then the other.

Brochan’s cock twitched.

She patted the space beside her. “Come, Brochan.”

He didn’t move an inch, but instead untied his braies, unleashing his rigid shaft.

She stared boldly, shifting on the bed, her excitement obvious.

His fingers wrapped around his erection, and slowly moved up the thick length, then down again.

Her eyes widened as he continued to stroke himself. He sensed her excitement, could smell the musky scent of her sex as she again shifted on the bed, her legs falling apart. She moved her hand from the bed, to her thigh, then through the thick red curls of her woman’s mound. Her fingers danced over her clit slowly, then quicker as she found a rhythm she liked. “Come closer, Brochan.” Wetting her lips, her mouth opened and she released a groan as she reached climax.

Brochan’s cock grew harder with each stroke of his hand. Frederica’s fingers glistened with her woman’s dew, her scent growing strong as she continued to pleasure herself. Her free hand cupped a breast, her fingers playing at her nipple, teasing it into a hardened peak.

His balls lifted and his hand fell away. He crossed the room, pushed Frederica onto her back and entered her in one fluid motion.

She cried out, biting into his shoulder. Her creamy walls tightened around him with each thrust. His fingers gripped her hair, wrapping it around his fist. She loved his rough play, her fingernails raking the skin of his back, and she groaned loudly, her climax strong, pulsing.

He kept his climax at bay, pulling his cock out, just to where the head lay against her opening. Her hips arched off the bed, and she whimpered. “Please,” she moaned, clearly frustrated.

Prolonging her agony, he pulled away each time she arched against him.

“Fuck me, Brochan. Fuck me,” she said on a moan, and he entered her, pumping within her in small, fluid strokes. Moments later she screamed, heedless of the thin walls around them. Her channel clamped around him a second time. He thrust three more times, and pulled out, groaning as a steady stream of seed poured onto the linens beneath them.

When his breathing returned to normal, he stood up, wiped his cock with the hem of her skirts, and without a backward glance, turned and walked out the door.

Terri sat on the wooden bench next to Sister Helena, whose high-pitched voice rose into the chapel’s high ceiling.

It had been three days since she’d arrived in the year 1294, and still she had trouble wrapping her brain around what was her new life.

This time-travel experience might have been a bit more exciting if she wasn’t held captive by a cloister of nuns who thought her one brick shy of a load.

True, the nuns of the Priory of Grace were incredibly kind and understanding, but her every waking moment was spent sewing, writing, reading, or in prayer.

Boredom had become her constant companion.

She had never been any good at being idle, except for weekends when she preferred to stay home and drink a glass of wine while she watched a DVD, rather than socialize with London’s elite. Given that she worked twelve-hour days, five days a week, down time always meant a lot to her, and she savored it.

But now she had cabin fever, plain and simple. She learned quickly to make good use of her prayer time, staying in her little room while she searched for a way back to her own time.

She had bruises from where she had ran into the wall, hoping to find a hidden door within the small room.

But there had been no hidden door or window, or latch or trigger, that would take her back to present-day London. She tried not to think of the possibility that she might be stuck here for all eternity.

True, it had sucked being the jilted lover of a man who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. But she could recover from Elliott’s betrayal and hopefully fall in love again one day.

Anything was better than her current circumstance.

The nuns abruptly stopped singing, and Terri sat up straight.

A few seconds later, Sister Anna, a usually somber woman, ran into the chapel, her eyes wide in terror. “’Tis the Douglas! Sisters, you know what to do.”

Sister Helena grabbed Terri’s hand. “Come, child, we have not a moment to lose.”

Terri’s heart pounded in her ears as they rushed from the chapel and down the long hallway toward her chamber. Douglas? Did she mean
the
Brochan Douglas?

She recalled the tour guide’s ominous words about Brochan Douglas knocking down the door of Annabelle’s chamber and ripping the clothes from the girl’s body.

That would not happen to her. Not if she had anything to say about it.

Sister Helena pushed Terri into her chamber. “Make not a sound!” she warned, before shutting the door and locking it.

The echo of horses’ hooves came closer, then eventually stopped. Men’s voices rang out, sending the birds in the courtyard’s trees flying.

Holy shit! History was repeating itself, and soon she would find herself face-to-face with the ominous border lord.

Pushing her cot against the door, she started pacing the small room. Terri’s stomach clenched as the heavy iron knocker hit the priory’s front door. This could be it for her. She could be killed by this border lord if she didn’t play things the right way. She chewed her bottom lip, her mind racing. Certainly he wouldn’t kill her if she was willing to go with him?

She pressed her back against the wall, sinking down until
she huddled in the corner. Folding her arms around her knees, she waited, her heart pumping madly against her thighs. “This can’t be real.”

Terri listened intently and could hear voices raised in anger, Sister Helena’s rising above the rest. Then a low, deep voice sounded, full of deadly calm. “Sister, ye will open the door or I shall break it in.”

A shiver rushed through Terri. Even his voice sounded powerful.

She was so screwed.

“There is no one here,” Sister Helena said, her voice losing its shrill quality. “We harbor no girl.”

“Ye lie, sister. I have it on good authority that Annabelle is in your care, and I will not leave until I have checked every chamber in this priory.”

“Leave here now, Douglas!”

Terri closed her eyes, willing her heart to slow down and her limbs to stop shaking. She had never been so terrified in her life.

“You lift your sword to a woman of God?” Sister Helena asked, her voice cracking. The poor woman.

Terri envisioned Brochan Douglas as a dirty warrior-type with stringy long hair, too-full beard, and yellow rotting teeth.

“Stand away, or ye may be killed!”

Terri jumped when a moment later a loud crash sounded.

“Every chamber is to be searched. Look in every corner, every crevice, until she is found,” the male voice ordered.

Terri trembled, waiting as she heard nearby doors open and close.

“’Tis Sister Ellen’s chamber you are upon now,” Sister Helena blurted. “I ask you to leave her be. She has not been well.”

This was it. Her very life depended on how she handled herself in the next few minutes.

Thank God she was a people person.

“Step aside, sister.”

“Nay.”

“Step aside, or God’s breath, I
will
kill you.”

A multitude of gasps followed the threat.

A moment later the door flew open.

Terri held her breath as a large man stepped into the room. Broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, he wore a black shirt and snug leather braies that covered strong, long legs.

His gaze immediately locked with hers.

Her brow lifted of its own accord. She had seen beautiful men in her life, but none that mirrored this man’s stature. At least six foot three, he had dark hair that was plaited in thin braids on either side of his face, the rest hanging in silky waves past his immense shoulders. Forest green, thickly lashed eyes held her pinned to the spot.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat as her gaze shifted to the axe in his hand. “Are you going to kill me, then?”

Surprise flashed across his face before he hid it with a scowl. “Annabelle MacLellan?”

No, I’m Terri Campbell from Virginia,
she wanted to say, but knowing it would only piss him off, she instead nodded. “That’s what they tell me.”

He smiled then, but it wasn’t a friendly, welcoming smile, but rather wolfish. A smile that didn’t begin to put her at ease. But his lips were nice, full, and he had straight, white teeth. Not at all like the guy she’d envisioned. Not even close.

As he took a step toward her, her heart gave a surprisingly hard jolt.

“Let me guess, you are Brochan Douglas?”

His dark brows furrowed as though she should have known this already. “Aye, I am.”

His biceps bulged as he lifted the axe over his shoulder. Every inch of his body looked formed from stone. Hard muscle covered by luscious olive skin.