Once Upon a Winter Solstice (A Scottish Time Travel Novella) Read online

  An image flashed before her; she was opening the iron gate to a winter garden; holly and ivy leaves glistened in the snow. Then the bite of winter stung straight to her bones, causing a shiver. The image felt dreamlike, yet as real as if she’d been there before.

  Ivy opened her eyes, blinking away the fog. Wide-eyed, she was in shock and froze when a wall of hard, masculine muscle came into view. Slowly she glanced up, careful not to awake whoever was next to her, until she could see the man’s face. Long, black lashes lay soft against his cheeks and his lips were partly open, snoring. What the hell is going on? She had a vague memory of another strange, uncomfortable occurrence, but she could not make it come into focus. All she knew was that everything was wrong.

  Trying not to panic, Ivy lifted the furs and peeked underneath, then slowly scooted away from the man. They were both naked. How did this happen? Had someone drugged her?

  Ivy froze when a tree branch of an arm swung around and landed across her waist. She closed her eyes and held her breath; she was pinned between two men with nowhere to go. What was she going to do? She had no idea where she was, and by judging the size of these two men, she had no chance of escaping.

  At that moment the man behind her rolled over on his side and pulled her close. Ivy tamped down a scream that climbed her throat as she felt his cock brush against her backside. That was it. It was either fight or die trying.

  In one fluid motion Ivy shoved her feet forward, connecting with the man’s stomach in front of her while at the same time throwing her head back and slamming it straight into the man’s nose behind her. In an instant both men awoke shouting in pain, rolling off the bed. Quickly Ivy looked around the room for a weapon. Grabbing the walking cane, she scooted to the head of the bed and gathered the furs around her. “Who are you and where am I?”

  Doubled over, holding his stomach, Kellen howled in pain. “Bloody Hell, woman!”

  “Are ye daft?” Donnelly held his nose as blood trickled down his lip. “This is the gratitude I get for helping save yer life? Kellen, the wench is yer problem now.” Donnelly grabbed his trews and strode out of the bedchamber.

  Tucking the fur around her, Ivy stood on the bed holding the cane like a Samurai warrior. “I said who are you?”

  “I would like to know the same aboot ye.” With haste, Kellen pulled up his trews and tied them.

  “What do you mean? You brought me here.”

  “Nay, lass, my son found ye in me barn, unconscious and aboot to meet yer death. I want to know why ye are here.”

  That was exactly what she wanted to know. Taken aback, Ivy remembered the garden as it slowly came into focus, but she had no recollection of a barn.

  “Are ye a spy?”

  Ivy cocked her head to the side. “Spy?”

  “Aye. I have no’ seen ye before on me land.” Kellen took a step forward and Ivy shoved the cane toward him, warning him to stay away.

  “I am no spy.”

  “Then who are ye?”

  Ivy observed the man as he pulled a tunic over his head and adjusted it. She looked the room over in hopes of finding some kind of familiarity. The fireplace that took up half a wall roared with flames, heating and lighting the space. Furs covered the bed and colorful tapestries hung on the walls. Ivy’s heart raced when she saw the stone walls. Had she been kidnapped and held in a dungeon? Oh, God, what kind of trouble was she in? Where am I? And how did I get here? It seems impossible. It makes no sense!

  “Where am I?” Ivy asked, hoping her voice hadn’t given away how scared she was.

  “Castle MacLachan of the Black Hills,” he replied.

  “And who are you?”

  “Me name is Laird Kellen MacLachan of Clan MacLachan and this is me home.”

  Ivy listened intently to the man’s voice. His accent was thick and at times hard to understand, but she’d learned enough from her father to know it was most definitely Scottish or Irish. His clothing was very old-fashioned, and if she had to guess—again, based on what she had learned from her father—dated back to medieval times. His hair was dark and hung past his broad shoulders. She noticed a limp as the man came closer to the bed, and she followed him with her eyes.

  “I mean ye no harm, lass. I just need to know who ye are and why ye are here. I’m sure someone is out looking for ye.”

  Ivy relaxed a bit, knowing she hadn’t been brought here with ill intensions, yet she still didn’t trust him or this place. Her head throbbed and her thoughts spun out of control as she dropped to her knees. He wrapped his strong arms wrapped around her, catching her before she fell off the bed.

  “Please,” she said weakly, “don’t hurt me.”

  “Lass, ye’re under me protection. No harm will come to ye. I swear me life on it.”

  The man lifted her legs and tucked her back in bed. “Ye’re still verra weak from the cold. I’ll have some hot broth brought up to ye. Rest and we’ll talk later.”

  The last thing she remembered before she fell asleep was his soft comforting touch, brushing her hair away from her face.

  Ivy woke to a rustling sound. Startled, she sat up to find a young woman in the room searching for something in the dark wardrobe.

  “What are you doing?”

  Startled, the young woman turned around. “Pardon me, mistress. The laird has asked me to see to yer every need. There’s broth on the table and I’ll have a dress for ye soon.” She smiled and turned back to the wardrobe.

  On guard, Ivy wrapped a fur around her body and got out of bed, eyeing the vaulted ceiling stained by soot, the walls made of rough-hewn stone, the faded rug on the floor, the carved table on which a steaming bowl sat with some flat bread. Her stomach growled as she sat down and blew on a spoonful of broth. The aroma was pleasant, although the presentation of the food was less appealing. She ate it anyway. “What’s your name?” she asked, wiping the corner of her mouth.

  “Me name is Moina.” The girl went to straighten the covers on the bed.

  Ivy sat and watched her. She looked young, perhaps eighteen. Her black hair was braided high on her head.

  “Do you work here for…the laird?”

  “Aye, I be a wet nurse for his daughter.”

  “A wet nurse?” Ivy thought that odd; wet nurses didn’t exist in the twenty-first century.

  “Aye, me daughter and wee Breann are the same age. The laird has been verra good to me.” Nervously, Moina laid a green gown on the bed, then stood with her hands folded in front of her, waiting for Ivy as she finished her broth.

  Ivy eyed the girl, wondering why she hadn’t left the room. “You don’t have to stay and keep me company. I’ll be fine.”

  “Mistress, I‘m to stay here and assist ye with yer dress. The laird is waiting for ye in his solar. Ye can no’ go to him wearing nothin’ but yer skin.”

  A chill snaked up her spine and she pulled the fur tight around her shoulders as several impressions came together. The laird in his solar. The ancient feel of this room, the clothing the two strange men had worn. Everything was odd here. Wrong. Out of place. The scenery was different, the accents and language were different, the whole vibe since she’d awakened was different. She furrowed her brow and thought back to the stories her father had told her about ancient times—about the Celts and the way they’d lived. It struck her then with the force of a devastating blow. She was no longer in the twenty-first century; she was in medieval Scotland. Her vision blurred and she found she could not breathe.

  Kellen sat behind his large desk signing the two charters that had been awaiting his attention for at least a fortnight. Today he had changed his routine, surprising even his brother. A few hours ago at the morning meal, he’d exchanged the ale he usually consumed with extra blood pudding, then hurried to his solar where business was stacked deep. He couldn’t quite explain what compelled him to want to start the day sober, but that urge drove him to try to be the laird his father would have been proud of. The laird he had once been.

  “Brother, d
o ye think the lass could be a spy?” Donnelly asked.

  “I do no’ know. ’Tis me hope that she will tell us everything we need to understand her situation.” Kellen signed a parchment, then set it aside.

  “And if she refuses?”

  Kellen rubbed the back of his neck. “She’ll stay here until she talks or until someone claims her.”

  “Do ye think that’s a good idea? There hasn’t been a female allowed within these walls in over a year.”

  “Moina is still here.”

  Donnelly paused. “That’s different. She’s needed.”

  “Breann is auld enough now for Patrick to take care of. Mayhap ’tis time for Moina to go back home.”

  “This is Moina’s home,” Donnelly bit back. “Besides yer boys are heathens. Mayhap ’tis time ye buried the ghost and found a wife.”

  Kellen fell silent and pinned his brother with a harsh glare. His jaw ticked at Donnelly’s verbal kick in the ballocks.

  A tap on the door grabbed his attention. “Enter,” Kellen called out.

  Moina entered the room along with Ivy.

  His breath hitched in his lungs. The woman was stunning. Even though he had liked her long blonde hair hanging freely, now, with the stands woven in a thick braid, he could see her full beauty. Her face was flawless; her jawline was strong, yet feminine, and her neck was made for kisses.

  With respect, Moina curtsied and elbowed Ivy in the ribs when she didn’t follow suit. Quickly, Ivy curtsied.

  Kellen stood and walked around to the front of his desk, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. “How do ye fare, lass?” he asked the woman.

  “I’m well.”

  “Good, I’m hoping ye’re ready to tell me who ye are and why ye were in my barn, naked.”

  Ivy lifted her chin. “I’m not telling you anything until you tell me why I was in bed with two naked strangers.”

  “Woman, watch yer tongue. Ye be speaking to Laird MacLachan son of O’Neil and great-grandson of the Irish prince, Prince Anrothan. Ye’d be wise to address the laird properly,” Donnelly demanded.

  “Well, please pardon my informality,” she said sarcastically.

  Kellen stood back, intrigued by the woman’s boldness. She wasn’t like Moina, meek and obedient. In fact, the woman was enticing as she stood pouting. Aye, there was something pleasantly alluring about her.

  “As I said, my son found ye in me barn, cold and unconscious. My brother and I brought ye into our home to make sure ye stayed warm and survived through the night. We meant ye no harm. We were gentlemen, I can assure ye.”

  “Thank you. I wish I could remember how I got here.”

  Kellen's brows furrowed. “Lass, ye remember nothin’? No’ even yer name?”

  “No, my name is Ivy Davenport.”

  “Where are ye from, Ivy Davenport? I’m sure ye have a husband oot searching for ye.”

  “No, I’m not married and I’m sure your wife would not be pleased to know you were in bed naked with another woman.

  “Me wife has been dead for a year now.” For the first time since she had passed, he’d said those words out loud. Before, emotions had run too deep for him to accept that she was gone. Furthermore, he’d spent the last year in a drunken mind-numbing state. Drinking ale quieted his demons.

  Ivy’s mood softened a bit. “I’m so sorry.”

  Aye, the lass was hiding something. She was skirting around his question. The way she talked and her demeanor were like nothing he’d seen before. Kellen paused as he thought about choosing his next words properly. Donnelly was right; his children were running amok and he hadn’t been much help in disciplining them. Mayhap his brother was right, it was time to give up the ghost.

  “Och, lass, it has been brought to me attention that I could use a woman around here,” Kellen shot Donnelly a stern glare. “And since ye will no’ tell me where ye’ve come from, ye’ll stay here until we solve this mystery.”

  “No. you can’t keep me here against my will. Someone is out looking for me. So, I thank you for your hospitality, but I must be leaving.” Ivy said the only words she could think of, because she knew no one was searching for her. She didn’t understand what had brought her to this medieval castle and these strangers she had never imagined. All she knew was that she wanted to go home. Turning around, she headed toward the door.

  Donnelly stood, blocking it, with his arms folded across his chest. Ivy paused then faced Kellen. “You told me you weren’t going to harm me.”

  “Och, lass, I’m a man of me word. Ye’re under me protection."

  “Then why can’t I leave? I want to go home.”

  Kellen walked toward Ivy; their gazes locked. “Ye haven’t told me where home is. I would be breaking my oath to protect ye if I let ye go, no’ knowing where ye’re going.”

  Ivy swallowed hard and began to heat under his smoldering stare.

  “Besides,” he bent his head so his lips brushed her ear, “I’m no’ ready to let ye go.”

  Kellen walked past her, making his way to the door. He stopped short and addressed his brother. “See to it that Moina shows our guest what is expected of her.”

  5

  The day had been long and brutally rough for Ivy. Before she could finish one task, Moina was barking out orders to start another. The stone floors in the great hall had been swept, the bedchambers had been tidied, and there Ivy had the pleasure of experiencing firsthand the cleaning of chamber pots. She’d even swept the hearths of ash and stacked a supply of wood in each room so that every bedchamber would have plenty to keep a warm fire through the night. She had never expected to find herself in a castle, but she was learning all about this one in the worst way possible.

  Ivy had a strange feeling that Moina was taking a bit of jealousy out on her, working her extra hard so she would fail. Ivy tried to make small-talk, to learn more about the laird and his family, but it was like talking to the wall. A nod was the best response she had received.

  She couldn’t blame the girl for being jealous, even though she was angry at him for not letting her leave, there was no escaping the fact that Kellen MacLachan was handsome, and once pinned with that smoldering gaze of his, any woman would go up in flames—even a woman from the twenty-first century.

  Furthermore, from what Moina had told her she’d been a huge influence in raising his daughter. It was obvious Moina was in love with Laird MacLachan, and with no other women in the castle that she’d noticed, Ivy realized she was a threat.

  Ivy left the last bedchamber and made her way downstairs to the next chore—the kitchen. As she did, she took in more of the castle. Her father would have been in heaven here. The architecture alone would have fascinated him. She envisioned her dad studying the stone walls, feeling their rough textures and wondering how they completed such a massive structure without modern technology. And here she was experiencing actual medieval life. How could that be?

  Of course Moina gave her vague directions to the kitchen; Ivy expected no less. She paused in a large open room filled with long plank tables and a large hearth, which took up much of the space on one wall. Remembering a picture of the inside of a castle that her father had taken on one of his research excursions to Scotland, she believed she was in the great hall, which meant the kitchen shouldn’t be too far away.

  She walked across the hall and rounded the corner to find the kitchen. Moina was bustling around, making up for lost time. “Ivy, where have ye been? We have to prepare for tonight’s feast.”

  “A feast?”

  “Aye, a feast,” Moina said irately. “Every Winter Solstice we celebrate light and rebirth. A new beginning.”

  Ivy paused, trying to put the pieces together about this place. From what she recalled, it was believed Druid Pagans celebrated the Winter Solstice as their way of honoring light in a time where the days grew darker. It was a time of rebirth, a time in which the festivities never stopped. This led her to believe Christmas was not a tradition here as a way
to celebrate Christ’s birth.

  At that moment Donnelly and Kellen entered the kitchen. Donnelly with a huge, dead boar wrapped around his shoulders.

  “I see the hunt went well, me laird,” Moina said, turning her once sour attitude to nice and sweet.

  “Aye,” Kellen replied as Donnelly slammed the young boar on the table in front of Ivy.

  “We were lucky to catch the bastard. It gave a good chase,” Donnelly added.

  “We shall have a big feast tonight,” Kellen said, then stabbed the wooden table with a knife.

  In shock, Ivy looked at the dead animal, then at Kellen. “And what do you expect me to do with it?” She nodded to the boar.

  Kellen reached over the table and wiped a smear of black soot from Ivy’s cheek. “We kill it, ye cook it.” He smirked.

  Telling herself not to look into his smoldering dark depths, she took a step back. “You are telling me that I have to skin this animal?”

  “Aye,” Kellen said confidently as he grabbed a handful of hazelnuts and popped one in his mouth.

  “What’s wrong, lass, dinnae ye eat where ye come from?” Donnelly asked.

  “Of course I do. I just don’t prepare it the way you do.”

  “Do the best ye can, lass. Ye’re in good hands.” Kellen smiled at Moina then quit the kitchen with Donnelly.

  As the men left, in rushed Thaddeus and Wylie with a shield in one hand and a wooden sword in the other, pretending to fight to the death. Wood clashed together and echoed through the kitchen.

  “Surrender, turd, and I’ll show ye mercy,” the youngest boy, Wylie shouted out.

  “Ha-ha, never,” Thaddeus boasted as he slammed his sword down and cracked Wylie’s shield. “Ye fight like a girl.”

  They fought back and forth and ran around Ivy and the table where the boar lay. “The wench must die!” Thaddeus commanded.

  Ivy’s head was spinning from the noise and her stomach lurched as she grimaced at the boar. She was tired and was still feeling the effects of the cold. Moina did nothing to stop the boys or at least shoo them away from the kitchen. It was the last straw that broke her when Thaddeus poked her behind with his sword and declared, “Victory is mine!”