The Parchment Scroll (6 page)

What if he was married?

“He…kissed me.” Elation dissipated and Jules screamed at herself. “I wouldn’t care if he was married.” And besides, no seventeenth century woman would talk to her husband like that. Definitely not a husband like Hugh.

His mom?

No.

He’d called her
Auntie
before they’d come up come stairs. Jules hadn’t gotten a good look at her though, not with all the shifting against Hugh’s chest and her hair in her face when she’d been upside down over his shoulder.

She ignored the memories of his big hands on her ass and thighs. His touch was hot, burning her though he still hadn’t hurt her.

Jules shivered and chided herself. She planted her hands on her thighs and leaned forward, trying to make out the screaming conversation in the corridor. Listening to the big strong barbarian backpedalling was kinda funny.

Conversation
was no longer the right term. Hugh raised his voice when his aunt did.

“Shouting match.” Jules grinned and shook her head.

Both had thick brogues, so she couldn’t make out every word, anyway.

She looked around the room as their voices faded in and out. Hugh had planted her on the bed. He’d barked, “Doona’ move,” as he’d gone, rushing back out of the room and slamming the thick door.

Two windows were open, heavy drapes tacked back. Light streamed into the sizable room, and the fire was lit in the big fireplace, warm and inviting. Peat moss tickled her nose, but the scent was earthy and inviting as it wafted through the air.

There wasn’t much inside; stone walls empty save for a painting on the far wall she was too far from to inspect. It was a fair-haired woman, but that was all Jules could see.

The whole place had Hugh written all over it—sparsely decorated. Masculine. What little furniture was oversized dark wood, including the huge bed she was seated on.

I’m in his bed.

Jules looked at the four carved posters and large headboard. It was made for a king, complete with fluffy-looking pillows and plaid blanket under her ass.

She pictured Hugh, naked and spread out all over this bed, sheets mussed. If his bare chest was any indication, the rest of him would look fantastic, too.

Gawd, knock it off.

Why are you playing Stockholm-Syndrome-Girl?

Jules rubbed her arms when tremors chased each other down her spine. Just because he looked good, didn’t mean he was. So far, her acquaintance with him proved that, if nothing else.

Hugh MacDonald was
all
barbarian, no matter what the packaging looked like.

The door swung open, hitting the stone wall hard.

She winced and jumped.

“Lass, are ye hurt?” A little old lady shuffled forward, leaning heavily on a wood cane and walking fast enough to make her pant. Her awkward gait didn’t seem to impede her step as she closed the distance to the bed.

Jules shot to her feet, worried the elderly lady would trip and fall. She tugged Hugh’s shirt down as far as she could, but didn’t take her eyes off his aunt.

“Ye can wipe tha’ look off yer face.” The woman straightened and drummed her fingers on the top of the cane. “I am well. ‘Tis ye I’m concerned wit’.”

“I’m okay.” She stumbled over the words, feeling heat scorch the back of her neck as the woman’s eyes trailed her frame.

“Talk funny, ye do.”

Hugh came into the room, his arms crossed over that broad—and still bare—chest. The look on his face was as dark as his eyes. “Auntie—”

“Ye and I are finished speakin’, Hugh MacDonald.”

Jules arched an eyebrow.

The old woman’s tone was hard as nails, to match the glare she threw at him. But her expression softened when she looked back at Jules.

Hugh hovered like a socially inept teenager. Practically in the corner.

She didn’t know whether to look at her suddenly humbled barbarian or the woman who was appraising her.

“Pay no heed ta the lad. I’ll call for Catriona and ge’ ye some clothin’.”

The lad?

Hugh had to be at least thirty.

Jules tried not to snort when he shifted from one boot to the other at the end of his bed.

He said nothing, but he wore his brooding like a shroud.

“Lass, are ye hungry? I’ll have a bath drawn as well.”

“No. I’m fine. Don’t go to trouble over me, please. I’ll take the clothing, though.”

The woman smiled, taking years from her wrinkled face. “Yer no’ trouble.” She pointed to Hugh with her cane. “This one, on t’other hand, is nothin’ but.”

“Amen, sister,” Jules muttered.

Hugh threw her a black look, though there was no way he’d know what her phrase meant.

“I’m Mab, this one’s aunt. I raised ‘im up, I did.”

“I’m Jules.” She didn’t mind giving her name to the woman who could put her barbarian in check.

Mab paused, cocking her head to one side.

“It’s short for Juliette.” She smiled at Hugh’s aunt.

“Bonnie name, bonnie lass.” Mab circled her body, looking her up and down.

Jules squirmed, chiding herself to stand still. “Thank you,” she managed.

“No’ from ‘round here, are ye?”

“No.” Jules sought Hugh’s gaze for some reason.

Her barbarian gave a slight nod.

“I’m from the future.”

He straightened those broad shoulders and dropped his arms as Jules voiced what she hadn’t said aloud even during their
civil
conversation on his horse’s back.

“The future?” Mab asked.

Both MacDonalds listened intently as she explained meeting Bree and coming back in time. They didn’t even look at her like she was crazy when she told them Claire had come back before her.

Jules didn’t admit she’d come to grab her sister and get home, but she’d already confirmed to Hugh Claire had married Duncan MacLeod.

He wasn’t stupid. Could probably put two and two together. His shrewd gaze watched her as she spoke.

Mab kept nodding and cocked her head to one side as she listened. “The Fae are nothin’ but trouble,” she declared finally.

“But you believe me?” Jules asked.

“Aye.”

Hugh was quiet as he regarded her.

No matter how Jules tried to avoid his dark eyes, she couldn’t. Their gazes collided over and over.

Mab looked at her nephew. “On the morrow, ye’ll take the lass ta Dunvegan.”

“Nay. Juliette is my prisoner,” Hugh growled.

She glared and struggled to her feet. Mab faced her nephew, cane poised like a weapon. “Nay. Doona’ be daft, lad. I will no’ let ye start another war wit’ Clan MacLeod. We’ve peace. We’re goin’ ta keep it tha’ way.”

He glowered from his seat next to the fireplace. “There’s no harm in a little ransom. I willna defile or wed Juliette as was done in years past.”

Jules snorted. “Damn straight you won’t.” But she had to swallow a gulp. He’d been completely serious.

She’d read that rape and forced marriages were common—and accepted by society when a woman was stolen for ransom. Clan law was paramount. Consequences for non-payment were high—and final. Not even the kings had really bossed Highlanders around.

Neither MacDonald even spared her a glance. Their eyes—and glares—were deadlocked on each other.

“I am yer laird.”

“And I wiped yer arse.”

Jules laughed, she couldn’t help it. “Sorry,” she muttered when Hugh turned his scowl in her direction. However, she’d inadvertently broken the tension.

Mab turned in her direction and smiled. “I like this lass.” She patted her shoulder.

She flashed a smile for the old lady. “Thanks, you’re not so bad yourself.”

Hugh’s aunt’s face crinkled as she returned Jules’ grin.

He harrumphed and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his broad chest. Shame he’d found a new shirt. Barbarian or not, he was nice to look at.

“Did ye think ta ask tha lass wha’ she wants?” Mab asked.

“’Tis no’ my concern. She’s a captive.”

Jules rolled her eyes. “What if I run away?”

“Ye’ll no’ last a day ou’ there on yer own, let alone find yer way ta the MacLeods.” He pitched his big body forward, dark eyes daring her.

“Try me.” She glared.

Hugh chuckled and shook his head. “I’m keepin’ her.”

“Ye. Are. No’.” Mab punctuated each word of her shout with ramming her cane to the stone floor with a
thud.

“Doona’ try me, old woman. I am yer laird.” His tone was hard, and Hugh narrowed his eyes at his aunt.

Jules fidgeted and sat straighter on the huge bed. Mab had wrapped her in a MacDonald tartan with the promise of clothing when they were done speaking.

Her heart skipped and she sucked in a breath. For some reason, she was nervous, but not really afraid.

“I am yer blood kin. Doona’ be daft. Think on it, Hugh. Peace with the MacLeods has been long awaited. Yer da did tha’ righ’, if nothin’ else. Doona’ risk yer clan. Yer life. For one lass.”

Should I be insulted?

Mab shot her a glance, as if she’d read her mind. “I mean no insult, lass. My nephew is stubborn, but he’s a good laird. He’ll do the righ’ thing. Ye arena’ captive. Worry no’.”

“She
is
a captive.” Despite his words, Hugh’s voice lost some steam and his big shoulders loosened.

Jules could see he realized his aunt was right, even if he wouldn’t say it out loud. She was torn between chiding him and admiring his resolve. He certainly hadn’t let go of the tough guy routine.

Mab scoffed and shook her head. She met Jules’ eyes. “Come, lass, we’ll get ye somethin’ ta wear and food in yer belly.”

“She stays here wit’ me,” Hugh barked.

Jules rolled her eyes.

He’s totally pouting now.

His aunt opened her mouth to speak, but Jules beat the old lady to it.

“Fine, my laird. As long as you promise to take me to Claire in the morning. I’ll even promise not to run away.” Maybe if she threw in his title and made him think she respected him, he’d agree.

“Ye wouldna get far.” That dark gaze raked her face and Jules’ stomach flipped.

She chided herself not to wiggle on the bed or squeeze her thighs tight as she was inclined. There wasn’t anything remotely sexual about the way he was looking at her, yet her body tingled. All over. Jules wanted to roll her eyes at herself.

Knock it off. He’s still your kidnapper.

Hugh relaxed in the chair and grunted.

Mab clapped her gnarled hands. “’Tis settled then. Juliette is our guest.”

He said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes. Hugh disagreed with his aunt’s take on things.

Jules fought the urge to gulp.

What does
that
mean for me?

The door was thrown open, and Hugh didn’t pause to catch it before it slammed into the wall. He said nothing as he shoved it shut moments later.

The
thud
made Jules jump.

He prowled toward her, those big shoulders swaying as he went. He moved with grace for a guy his size, and his appeal was undeniable.

She had to swallow hard, then screamed at herself for it. Jules shifted her weight from foot to foot, unable to dart away as she should.

Her barbarian stopped a few feet from her, still silent as he appraised her. His long dark locks were wet and his clothing fresh. No sword was belted to his waist, either.

Sandalwood and peat tickled her nose. Hugh must have bathed.

Awareness crackled in the air between them and Jules felt naked, despite the yards of fabric that made up the chemise Mab had given her. It was thick and off-white, with a high neckline and long puffy sleeves all the way to her wrists. It fell to her feet, too, so there was no way he could see any of her body. She had nothing beneath it, since underwear was pretty scarce in the seventeenth century. Hugh would know that.

The gown was heavy and hot; she was already starting to sweat, despite the bath she’d had.

Hugh closed the distance been them, still saying nothing. He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled Jules close.

“What are you doing?” The words were supposed to be a demand, but left her lips as a breathless whisper that made her curse herself to hell and back.

Those dark eyes bored into hers, and her mouth went dry. She couldn’t tug out of his arms. Could feel his heart beating steadily against hers.

His mouth crashed down on hers, and she moved into him instead of away. When Hugh slanted for a deeper kiss, she met his tongue with hers. Warmth spread across her chest, slid down her belly and settled between her legs. Her sex bloomed, yet he hadn’t touched her anywhere near there.

Big hands slipped down her back, cupping her bottom. He pinned her to his chest when her thighs quivered, and it was a damn good thing, because Jules was melting. She’d be a puddle at his feet in moments.

All she could do was cling to him and kiss him back. He plundered her mouth, his tongue shoving against hers, pushing, and rubbing. Battling as if they were dueling.

Hugh kissed her until tingles darted all over her body, and Jules was a shivering mess of desire. Every place with a nerve ending throbbed for more. He was on the same page, if the hardness pressing into her stomach was any indication.

She rested her palms against his hard pecs, her head spinning as their mouths moved together. Since when was she turned on by
a
kiss? Was this a dream?

Wait.

This is no dream.

Sense started to descend, pushing the foolishness out of her brain. Hazy passion faded as she fought for coherent thought.

Hugh MacDonald is kissing me.

Jules gasped and yanked away from him.

Barbarian.

Kidnapper.

She panted, bending at the waist and grabbing her knees so she wouldn’t tumble to her ass. “Don’t—”she had to clear her throat, “do that again.”

His smile was slow and sexy—
damn
him. “Ye werena complainin’ a few minutes ago.” His lips were swollen and flushed red from hers and she couldn’t look away.

Jules straightened and growled. “Don’t touch me again. You won’t like what happens.”