Chapter Four

"Janet, wake up. Please lovie, please…wake up."

Janet could hear Morag calling to her from somewhere in the back of her mind. But everything was so hazy, so obscured. Her best friend's voice seemed miles away. Her eyelids felt heavy, the muscles of her body were on fire, her knees felt as though someone had raked them across a serrated blade.

"Janet please…please wake up."

Black eyes. A man. Morag's screams.

The night's activities slowly began to unravel in the fogginess clouding her brain…

But she'd gotten away! She'd fled into the mist for help. For—Morag. Oh God…Morag!

But no. The man had stopped her. The battle-scarred…warrior? A warrior?

"Janet, for the love of Mary would you open your eyes." This in urgent tones from Morag.

Morag? Morag was here? She'd gotten away? Oh…Morag!

Ice cold water pelted Janet in the face, waking her up instantly. She bolted upright, sucking in huge gasps of air, the frigid liquid shocking her into alert mode.

She blinked a few times in rapid succession as her eyes took in the strange surroundings. Animal rawhides enclosed her on three sides, the bark of a large tree on another. The tiny space she was sitting in consisted of earth and animal furs.

A tent. She was sitting in some sort of primitive tent. Her gaze clashed with Morag's. "Where are we?" she whispered.

"Oh lovie," Morag said as she ran a hand through Janet's mane of unruly tawny curls. "I didn't think you'd ever wake up."

"I'm fine." Janet sat up straighter and forcibly shook the remaining cobwebs from her brain. "I'm awake. Morag, what's going on? Who are those men? Where have they taken us?"

"I don't know." Morag worried her bottom lip as she threw a long red tress over her shoulder. "I can no' understand a bloody word of what they are saying to me, Janet. These men…" She lowered her voice and leaned in closer to her best friend. "These men are dangerous. We must run away!" she said urgently. "Preferably before they come back to interrogate us again!"

"Interrogate?" Janet's eyes widened. "They've interrogated you?"

"They've tried." Morag sighed. "Janet, they can no' understand what I am saying to them anymore than I can comprehend what they are saying to me."

"How can that be?" Janet shook her head slightly, more confused than she was frightened which was saying a lot. Her eyes darted back toward Morag's. "That makes no sense."

"I know." Morag was quiet for a pregnant moment as she studied her friend's features.

"What Morag? What is it?"

"It's just…it's…"

"Yes?"

She sighed. "Janet, something verra strange is happening here. Something…something isn't right."

Janet was surprised she was able to find a chuckle amidst the chaos, but she did. "No kidding," she said wryly.

Morag didn't return her mirth. "I'm serious Janet. I do no' just mean the fact that we were kidnapped in the heart of Nairn by a bunch of over-large, non-English speaking men. It's…it's…more than that." She took a deep breath and glanced away.

Janet clasped her hand and squeezed it. She had felt those same odd premonitions since she'd first laid eyes on the fog when they'd trekked out of the pub. "Tell me," she said under her breath. "Tell me what you think is going on."

Morag nodded, deciding to waste no more time. "Bear in mind before you dismiss my musings as nonsense that I have been awake since this entire sordid mess began. I have seen things you have no' seen, or things you have no' seen yet anyway."

Janet's heartbeat picked up. Her skin began to tingle as it had back in the mist. She didn't have any idea what Morag was about to say, but whatever it was she knew she wasn't going to like it. "Go on."

"These men…" Morag's eyes widened as her voice dropped. "These men are no' like any men of our acquaintance, Janet. Their bodies are covered in battle scars, they ride upon horses instead of in cars." She waved a hand through the air. "They carry swords and wear almost no clothing save scratchy blackish plaids for the love of Mary!"

Janet drew her knees up against her belly and wrapped her arms around them.

"We traveled on horseback for hour upon hour last evening and no' once, no' even once, did I see a home of normal appearance." Morag began to shiver. She rubbed her arms briskly, warding off the chill. "Every last home I saw with my verra own eyes—every last one, Janet!—was made of thatched twigs and clay."

"Like something out of a history book?" Janet murmured. She closed her eyes briefly, remembering only too well the row of thatched huts she'd run into before the gigantic dark-eyed man had captured her.

"Yes," Morag sobbed quietly, "just like something you'd see in a history text, or on a tour of preserved relics. Only people live in these relics."

Janet sucked in a deep tug of air. Her lungs burned, felt heavy. "So what you are saying," she rasped out, "is that…"

No! Things like that don't happen!

"What I'm saying," Morag continued for her, "is that…" She looked away, couldn't go on.

Janet closed her eyes. "That we've traveled through time."

The words hung there between them, feeling more than a bit strange on the tongue and yet, perversely, feeling more than a bit right as well. Morag was the first to speak. "Well," she murmured, "as fantastical as it sounds, I for one do no' think we are in our own time any longer."

Janet's eyes flew open. She blew out a breath. "You sound quite calm about such a terrifying possibility."

Morag shrugged helplessly. "I've had more hours awake to deal with all of this than you."

"True," Janet murmured. She searched Morag's eyes as she considered for the first time since she'd awakened just what else her best friend might have seen, might have been made to endure. "Morag…" Her throat felt dry, parched.

"Yes?"

"The man who took you. Did he…I mean…" She stumbled over her words, unable to find the right ones. "Did he…"

"No." She shook her head. "He fondled me a wee bit, but he did no' rape me thank the lord."

Janet released a shaky breath. "Thank God for that at least."

"But he will," Morag said quietly. "They mean to do with us what they will, Janet. Make no mistake." She shivered. "The way the fairer-headed man looks at me, the way I saw that brutal-looking black-haired man staring at you…" She let her words trail off portentously, not finishing her sentence.

"Shit." Janet drew her knees in closer to her body. "What do we do?"

"We escape."

"But how?"

Morag found her first chuckle. "I have no' got that far in my plans."

Janet snorted at that. "And if our time travel theory is correct and we are indeed existing in some prehistoric, barbaric era…" She shook her head slightly as her gaze found Morag's. "Then what good is escaping? Where will we go?"

Morag nodded definitively. "Back toward Nairn."

Janet raised a brow as she considered that. "Good idea. Maybe that weird fog will still be there and we can get back home."

"Exactly."

"Or maybe this is just a dream."

"Maybe."

Janet sighed. "But you don't think so."

"No," Morag shook her head. "I do no' think so."

The women stared at each other until Janet broke the silence. "Well then, the only thing left to figure out is how we get out of this…" She flung a hand toward one animal pelt wall. "Thing."

Morag chuckled softly. "Unfortunately, that will be the most difficult part to figure out." She patted Janet reassuringly on the knee, causing her to wince. "But we—oh dear, what's wrong? Is it your knee, lovie?"

"Yesss," she hissed as she sucked in air between her teeth.

"Let me see." Morag undid the buttons on Janet's cloak, carefully tugged it open, and quickly ascertained how bad the situation looked. Since Janet was wearing a sundress that only came to mid-thigh while standing, it rode up even further while sitting, making it easy to see that her knees were badly skinned up. "Ouch." Morag winced sympathetically. "I take it you got scraped up whilst running?"

"Yes. I—"

One of the animal pelt walls flapped open and the figure of a brooding, dark-haired man emerged. Janet's heart rate picked up, pounding inside of her chest. The women huddled closer together, a natural reflex given the situation.

The giant's gaze sought out Janet's, but was snagged a moment later by the sight of her naked leg. She swallowed roughly in reaction as she watched the barbarian study the thigh most adjacent to him. His eyes trailed from the knee upward, slow and lingering, his possessive gaze burning into her so harshly that she hysterically wondered if a cattle brand would magically appear on her leg. Why not. Everything else about this situation was insane.

He wanted her. She'd be a fool not to see it. His burning eyes said so. His meandering gaze said so. The thick erection poking against the kilt-like blackish covering he wore said so. She averted her gaze and quickly looked away.

The heavily muscled giant stood there for another moment before making his way further into the tent. His movement caused Janet's head to snap up and her body to huddle impossibly closer to Morag's. The warrior noticed her reaction and, oddly enough, slowed his movements down, approaching her in a manner that was surprisingly non-threatening for one so large and obviously lacking in gentlemanly finesse.

Everything about the battle-scarred man spoke of command and authority. He was a warrior accustomed to taking what he would when he would. And yet he approached Janet cautiously, the way an adult would when trying to lessen the fright of a skittish child.

His large, callused hands placed softly on her knees caused their gazes to clash. Janet's eyes widened nervously. She glanced toward Morag who was shaking like a leaf, then back to the warrior squatting before her.

One hand slid slowly down her right thigh, the leg opposite the side Morag was sitting near, so her friend didn't know what the stern-looking giant was about. His grim black eyes were glazed over with desire as he trailed his hand gently over the expanse of her warm, soft flesh. He touched her as though he couldn't seem to help himself, as though there was nothing in the world he wanted or needed more.

Such a response from a man might have been an aphrodisiac under normal circumstances, but under the current ones it was gut-wrenchingly frightening. Janet began to swallow convulsively.

Her reaction didn't go by undetected. Again, at odds from the warrior's harsh exterior, he showed her the kindness of dropping his hand from her thigh and settling it back upon her skinned knee. His eyes sharpened almost instantly, as if he had momentarily forgotten himself but was now back in control.

And then he was preparing to leave. Just like that. He dropped his hands from her knees and stood up from his squatting position.

Janet couldn't help but to notice how heavily muscled his legs were when they flexed into standing mode. Indeed, the warrior's entire body looked almost god-like it was so formidably carved.

Janet watched him exit the tent, watched as the animal skin flapped shut behind him, then cocked her head to gawk at Morag whose own jaw had dropped open. "What was that about?" she whispered.

"I don't know." Morag swallowed a bit roughly. She squeezed Janet's hand. "I-I thought he meant t-to…"

Janet breathed in deeply. "So did I. I—"

The tent flapped open again and her gaze clashed with the warrior's. His mask was back on, that stony impenetrable fa?ade that she would have thought he always wore had she not witnessed that blazing look in his eyes a minute prior herself.

Her green eyes widened noticeably as he lowered his powerful thighs before her and squatted between her legs once again. Her breathing became shallow and choppy as she prepared for the worst.

Would he rape her right here in front of her best friend? Would Morag be made to watch so she'd know what was in store for her as well? The mere thought of such humiliation caused tears to form in her eyes.

Large, callused hands thrust her legs open a bit wider. Janet looked away and bit down hard on her lip. She could feel Morag's breathing growing labored as they both prepared for Janet's assault. Morag cried out softly as the warlord settled himself intimately between Janet's thighs.

No! Janet thought hysterically. This couldn't be happening! Please God…

Janet closed her eyes and bit down harder on her lip. The metallic taste of blood trickled onto her tongue. Her heart was beating so rapidly she could hear nothing but the pulse of it. She squeezed Morag's hand as she felt his breath come closer.

And then she felt it—the hardness of his erection brushing up against her leg from beneath his coarse wool covering. Panting almost hysterically, Janet clamped down on Morag's hand as the warrior placed…a wet rag on her knee.

A wet rag on her knee?

Confused, Janet's eyes flew open and darted toward the giant. Her breathing slowed so rapidly it halted completely for a lingering moment. The warrior was…good lord he was tending to her wounded knees.

Eyes rounded, she looked quizzically at the giant who didn't seem to notice her. He was busy patting icy cold rags on her knees, tenderly wiping away the dirt that had mingled with the blood on her exposed, raw flesh.

Flicking her eyes toward Morag, Janet couldn't help but to notice the bemused expression on her best friend's face. It was that of a deer caught in headlights. Clearly, she had assumed the battle-honed giant had meant to harm her as well. Playing nursemaid was the last thing either had expected of this formidable man.

Janet's gaze slowly raked over the giant's austere features. He wasn't a bad looking man, she admitted to herself. In fact, if she'd met him under any circumstances other than the one she currently found herself in she would have found him superior in appearance.

His features were grim, but handsome. Black as midnight hair flowed a bit past the shoulders and was swept out of his eyes by a Celtic braid plaited at either temple. His eyes were dark, so brown they almost looked black. She noticed for the first time that the iciness of his gaze was lessened somewhat by sweeping, inky black eyelashes that formed an impressive crescent when his eyes were shuddered as they were now while he studied her knees.

She shouldn't be noticing these things, she told herself stiffly. The warrior might be showing her a kindness by tending to her wounds, but they were wounds his pursuit of her had caused in the first place. She was, Janet reminded herself, no more than a prisoner to him. She asked herself not for the first time, however, just why she and Morag had been captured to begin with.

Her inward musings were brought to a halt when the warrior finished his task and began to speak. His voice was a deep bass, the richest rumble she'd ever heard. She definitely didn't understand a word of what he was saying though.

"Madainn mhath. Ciamar a tha thu?" His black gaze swept over her breasts, settled on her face.

Janet pretended not to notice his perusal of her anatomy. She shrugged and answered his question with a perplexed look.

He tried again. "Dè ‘n t-ainm a th'ort, te bheag?"

Her green eyes merely grew larger. She glanced toward Morag, then back to the grim-faced warrior. She shook her head slightly, again shrugging her shoulders in a helpless gesture. "I don't understand your words," she said quietly.

Comprehension dawned in the giant's eyes. They widened almost imperceptibly before he schooled them, his stony fa?ade back in place. He seemed to turn things over in his mind for a moment or two, then pointed to himself and rumbled out a word. "Yu-an."

Janet shook her head, not understanding.

He pointed toward himself again, thumping a callused hand in the vicinity of his chest. "Yu-an."

She was about to shake her head again when the significance of the giant's actions at last dawned on her. Euan. He was telling her that his name was Euan. Glancing first toward Morag whose rounded eyes indicated she still hadn't caught on, she looked back at the warrior and pointed toward herself. "Ja-net."

"Joo-nat." His deep voice repeated her pronunciation—sort of.

She didn't know why, but she felt the need to correct him. "Jaa-net," she said louder, more distinctly. She pointed at him. "Yu-an." She pointed back toward herself. "Ja-net."

He smiled, giving him a softer appearance. A dimple popped out on his left cheek, which Janet found oddly fascinating. "Jah-net."

She nodded, then smiled in spite of herself, weirdly elated by the fact that they'd managed that small communication, no matter how insignificant, and no matter that she was still his prisoner.

* * * * *

Euan walked from the tent feeling more than a wee bit daft. The purpose of yestereve's reivin' had been to steal Hay women. The comely wench was clearly not Hay, mayhap not even Scottish. So why did he think to keep her regardless? He shook his head and sighed as he strutted toward the campfire where his brothers and men awaited him. Wenches did strange things to men. Especially wenches who sported creamy thighs and fleshy bosoms.

He came to a halt in front of his siblings, then nodded toward Stuart. 'Twas Stuart who had caught the red-headed wench and had a wish to keep her. "'Tis as ye suspected, brother. The wenches do no' speak our tongue."

Graeme chuckled, earning him a punch in the side of his jaw from Stuart. That didn't hold back his mirth, though. "At least my fair Elizabeth kens what I say tae her."

Stuart rolled his eyes and looked back to Euan. "Ye are certain?"

The Donald nodded briskly. He thought back to the conversation that had just taken place in the makeshift tent.

"Madainn mhath. Ciamar a tha thu?" Good morning. How are you?

Nothing.

"Dè ‘n t-ainm a th'ort, te bheag?" What is your name, little one?

Again, nothing.

"Aye," he confirmed, grinning a bit at the memory of he and Janet pointing towards themselves and pronouncing their names as slowly as lackwits. He quelled the small smile, his features quickly shifting back in place. "I dinna ken from where they come, but 'tis sorely apparent they do no' comprehend a word of what I'm speaking tae them."

Stuart grunted. "I dinna care, brother. I want tae keep the fiery-haired wench." He waggled his eyebrows and grinned. "I'll teach mah wee bride Gaelic betwixts thrusts in the bedsheets."

Now it was young Graeme rolling his eyes. He decided to ignore Stuart. "What of ye, brother? Will ye keep the other one?" He nodded toward Euan as he considered her appearance. "She is comely for a certainty."

Euan grunted as he shook his head wryly. "Aye. And one hell of a good runner."

A few of the soldiers surrounding them laughed at that.

Stuart grinned. "'Twill no' be easy tae chase your wench down long enough tae thrust, brother. 'Twill mayhap be a while before that bride learns Gaelic."

The laughter evolved into guffaws. Euan acceded to it good-naturedly, uncharacteristic though it might be.

The Lord of the Isles needed an heir and therefore a wife. Janet was the comeliest lass he'd ever laid eyes upon. Big, sparkling green eyes. A lush bosom. The sort of fleshy body he could lose himself in, pumping away into oblivion. His mind was made up. Why bother looking elsewhere when perfection was already awaiting him in yon tent?

"Aye," Euan rumbled. "I will keep her."

"Then ye best get busy." This from Graeme.

Euan lifted one dark brow.

Graeme grinned, then bowed mockingly toward his elder siblings. "Your comely wenches?"

"Aye?" they asked in unison.

Graeme jerked his head toward the tent where even as he spoke two women were emerging, making efficient beelines toward the thick of the forest, dashing off into it at top speed. "I dinna think they ken the honor ye give tae them, making them Donald brides." He chuckled. "In fact, looks tae me as though they are getting away."