PENETRATE (The Portals of Time Book 1) (27 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Her room was probably the most elegant one in the castle.

Ainslee was reclining on her chaise lounge, looking about the chamber with a touch of awe. The maids had lit five sets of candelabra throughout the room. One had been situated on the headboard behind her. Candlelight flickered all about the chamber, highlighting the richness of the room. She was dressed in a gossamer pink nightgown made from a fabric so fragile it pulled slightly with the weight of the little white lace that had been affixed to it. That lace had been tatted by a master. It was interwoven with silvery strands that sparkled in multi-hued flashes when she moved. Ainslee had blushed, her skin reaching the same color of the gown as Mira and Beth had helped her into it. The accompanying robe was fashioned of finely woven wool and much more modest. Made of the same pink shade, it also had the same lace decorating it. Her maids had laced more silvery lace through little braids that pulled her hair back, but for the most part, it was left loose.

She was nervous. Expectant. Excited. The walls of her room seemed to breathe in accompaniment with her. And then something occurred to her.

She’d called the duchess’s suite –
hers
.

And not just once, either!

Ainslee gasped as she realized it. And then the connecting door opened. Neal walked in. If she hadn’t just inhaled a gasp, she’d have done so. The same thing happened every time she caught sight of him. Her heart ticked up. Her pulse raced. Her throat closed off. It wasn’t just because he was so manly. Muscled and fit. Nor was it his handsomeness, although that was already eye-catching. The slight shadow of a beard on his jaw only heightened his appeal. He wore a long plaid robe with a white and black fur trim that did nothing to disguise how broad his shoulders were. Nor how narrow his waist and hips.

There was just something about him. Something that spoke just for her.

Ainslee’s breath came out with a soft sigh. She couldn’t tell his expression. He’d swiveled as soon as he entered and dropped the bolt down, barring the door. He walked past her without appearing to pay her much attention, reached the door leading to the hallway, and did the same thing to secure it. And then he turned. Lowered his chin. Regarded her for a long moment while her heart did antics within her chest.

“You hungry?” he asked.

Ainslee stood. Unfastened the front hoops holding her robe closed. Slowly slid the garment off her shoulders. And then she answered, using several pauses between her words, like he did.

“Oh, yes. But not. For. Food.”

She didn’t know who moved first. The robe dropped off, and the next second she was in his arms. Lifted above the floor. Her lips smashed to his. A groan erupted from his throat, but it was matched by her moans. She couldn’t get enough!

Ainslee lapped at his lips. She was parched and he was liquid; cold while he was heat; famished, and he was sustenance. She darted her tongue through his lips in tandem with his motion. Her heart seized up as their tongues connected. Her belly sent all kinds of signals shooting through her and Neal’s arms tightened about her. The combination of sound emanating from their throats swelled and grew. Enlarging. Encompassing.

He broke the kiss and moved. Ainslee clung. They reached the bed. The beautiful scarlet and gold coverlet was pushed aside by one of his arms. He set her atop the sheets with the other. And then he joined her with a lunge that sent more than one pillow flying. His side matched against hers, sending heat. Electrical stimuli. All kinds of tingling. And then he lowered his mouth to hers again. Their breaths entwined. Their tongues tangled. His hand slid up her side. Cupped a breast. His fingers flicked a nipple, sending absolute magic. Ainslee arched upward, subconsciously begging for more.

Without thinking, her hand grabbed for the ermine trim of his robe and pushed it from his shoulder. Down his arm. To his elbow. Moved her caress to his flesh. Neal released his hold on her breast in order to shrug out of the sleeve. She held to his arm as he moved, feeling his muscles ripple beneath her fingers.

Their kiss deepened.

Ainslee’s moans intensified. She skimmed her touch to his shoulder. Moved from there to his chest, working her way across hardness that quivered and flexed beneath her fingers. Everything about Neal was hard. Masculine. There wasn’t anything about Neal that wasn’t taut. His belly was a collection of rope-like cords, bunching and moving as she quested across them.

“Oh, baby. Oh, love.”

Neal rolled onto his back, taking her with him. And she immediately opened her legs to straddle his hips. Heavy inhalations for air filled the chamber. Exhalations matched, making a symphony of sound. She barely heard the sound of her nightgown as it ripped somewhere.

“I think...we are going to need. To remove this. So I won’t need to apologize. To your seamstress. Yet again.”

Ainslee gripped the neckline and pulled it open. The tissue-thin material gave easily as she separated it. She yanked her shoulders from it. Pushed it off her arms. Down to his belly.

“Or not.”

Neal said it as he helped. The sensation of silk along her limbs was slick and cool. That impression was immediately followed by his hands. Heated and electrifying. It created all kinds of sensations. And then ignited them. The nightgown puddled into her lap, creating a mass of pink-toned mist, interspersed with the darker strands of her hair. It separated them. But it didn’t obscure.

Neal was erect. Large. Shadowed. Pulsing. And making the fabric wave slightly as she watched!

Ainslee admired him through heavy lashes. She flashed her gaze back to his face. All kinds of muscles throughout his arms and chest flexed and moved as he pushed the mound of material out of the way. Ainslee dared a glance down. Back to his face. Looked again. The garment hadn’t torn completely. There was a thin strip of lace across his waist. Glints from it speckled her vision. She’d seen stallions all her life...but never observed them mating. She’d never seen anything like Neal. Hard. Large. Dark-toned. Ainslee subconsciously tensed.

“It won’t hurt, babe,” Neal spoke. His voice was gruff. Whispered. “I promise.”

“’Tis...na’ that. I—”

Her words stopped. She didn’t have an explanation for how awed she felt. How ready. How excited.

He reached for, and gripped her waist. Used it to lift her and bring her toward him, the move sliding her along his length. Ainslee’s gasps were audible. They carried her surprise as sparks shot through her belly. Her back. Her thighs.

Her loins.

They sent stimulation. Restlessness. All kinds of incendiary reactions. He moved her back down. And then slid her up his length again. Over and over. Ainslee grew hot. Wet. Agitated. Her thighs shuddered in anticipation. His fingers tightened. His chest and belly grew even more defined as he continued.

“Neal. I—”

The words were moaned. Neal glanced from his ministrations to her face and back to what he was doing. Yet, still he moved, glossing his shaft with her moisture. Teasing.

Toying.

“I think it’s time you learned how to ride, baby.”

He stopped. Held her in position for a scant moment. His tip barely sheathed. Her entire being quivered. Silently pleaded. And then he slammed her down onto him. Ainslee screamed as a bubble of absolute pleasure ruptured, showering everything with ecstasy. She didn’t need any instruction. She grabbed his shoulders in her hands, her lower legs latched onto his hips, and she rode him. Up. Back down. Using strong, massive lunges forward before slamming back down. His hands assisted, and every movement sent more and more pleasure. The wave of sensation grew. Then it overwhelmed. Lifting her to heaven and allowing her to stay there for the briefest time. It crested and was waning as another one began. And then built. Her breathing grew labored. Her pulse erratic. Everything went taut as she strove toward pleasure.

And this one carried her screams.

Throes of bliss pulsed through her again. She was still experiencing waves of wonder as Neal grabbed her to him, rolled, pushed up, and started pumping. His lips caught hers. His kiss adding immeasurably to the experience. Hot. Heavy. Thrilling. The mattress jumped along with his thrusts, sending thumping sounds into the room. They got faster. Harder. He lifted his head.

“Oh, baby. Oh, Ainslee. Oh, love. Oh, baby.”

He gave her the same snarl she’d seen from their wedding night when he’d jumped on this bed. His movements got wilder. More intense.

“Oh, baby! Oh...Ain...
slee
!”

The last part of her name was a deep-toned yell, accompanied by a solid shove into her. Ainslee wrapped her arms about him, holding tightly as he shuddered in place. He’d ceased thrusting, but his loins pulsed with erratic movements within her legs. Everything else about him was immobile. Hard. For the longest time. And still he yelled. He sounded enraged. His eyes were crunched shut. He was turning red. Thick cords stuck out in his neck. Everything about him looked taut. Angered.

Completely dominant.

Ainslee stared, enthralled. Her skin rippled over and over with something that had her completely spellbound. Mesmerized. Almost shocked. She was still watching as his cry ended on a sobbed note. He sucked in another breath. Lowered his head. Caught her gaze.

“I love you,” she told him.

He blinked rapidly. A sheen of moisture filmed his eyes. She’d thought they resembled molten silver. Right now they were glossy. Illuminated from within. He smiled and then chuckled, sending a puff of breath onto her skin. And then he whispered something she had a hard time catching.

“Oh, darling. I love you, too. You have no idea. I penetrated the portals of time to find you.”

“The portals...of time?”

“Oh. Crap. Don’t worry, love. I’ll explain everything. But we have time. We have all the time in the world. Well...after tomorrow, we will anyway.”

“After...tomorrow?”

He didn’t answer. He simply dropped a kiss to the tip of her nose, and collapsed onto the bed beside her. The mattress gave a final lurch before it settled. He shuffled about on the far side of her for a bit, bumping his chest into her shoulder. She didn’t realize he was gathering the bed covers until he settled the ivory shaded sheet atop them. He gathered her against him with one arm. Rolled onto his back. And then, he started breathing heavily. As if he slept.

“Neal?”

“Hmm?”

“What happens tomorrow?”

“I love you, Ainslee. And I might be young again, but I still need to recuperate a little. Okay?”

His words were mystifying. And something else. They sent a shiver of something like fear through her belly. It sounded in her voice despite how she tried to sound nonchalant. “What do you mean...young again?”

“Wow. Making love to you is an amazing experience. One, I can’t even fathom. It even loosens my tongue. So now...I really have to beg for mercy, darling.”

“Mercy?”

“From your questions.”

“But—?”

“Do you love me?”  He turned his head and tipped an eye open to watch her answer.

“Aye.”

“Trust me?”

“Aye.”

“Then trust me to explain everything. You may not believe me, but I will still tell you. But not...until tomorrow night. You have my word. Tonight I need to hold you. Make love to you again. Hold you some more. Revel in the sheer good fortune that I have found you. The world can intrude tomorrow. Please?”

Ainslee didn’t answer for a long moment. He grew tense beside her while he waited although his expression didn’t change. He’d given her everything she asked. Fulfilled her every dream. She loved him with every fiber of her being. Even if he told her he’d committed murder or some other heinous act, it wouldn’t change her feelings. Love was too strong. Too vital. Too all-powerful. The breadth of it stunned. The scope amazed.

Ainslee smiled tremulously. Then, nodded. Snuggled against his warmth, wrapped within his arms.

And slept.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Even before daybreak, the day was problematic. The sky was heavy with cloud cover, although it wasn’t raining yet. Wind gusts ruffled the air. The temperature was brisk. Mist hovered near the ground, obscuring details. Each breath contained a hint of moisture. It wasn’t an auspicious day for a grouse hunt.

But it looked perfect for murder.

Neal had watched his visage in the mirror with interest. He’d seen paintings in museums of sporting gentlemen from past eras. A few had even been depictions of Scottish gentry. All Neal needed was a couple of dogs at his feet and a blunderbuss cradled in his arm. He’d look perfect.

Mason had been anxious as he assisted Neal into a cuff-less, off-white linen shirt, beneath a brown leather vest with lots of pockets, followed by a thickly woven plaid that wrapped about his hips before Mason stepped up onto a stool in order to drape a length of it over one of Neal’s shoulders. The end was tucked under his belt at the back. Fringe from the plaid skimmed the backs of his knees. His sporran was plain brown leather, the match to his vest. A handkerchief was folded and pocketed in the sporran, beside a flask that contained a dram of whiskey. A tam of brown tweed covered his head. He carried the usual assortment of weaponry. Multiple daggers lined his belt in the front, while two
skean dhu
were stuffed into his tasseled, woolen socks. Brown leather boots completed his attire.

The valet had wanted to cancel. Neal disagreed. The timing was too good. For once, time was on his side. He reassured the man while dressing. They had a good idea of the plot. Players were assembling. They had the best type of witnesses, in the form of the British solicitors.

All Neal had to do was avoid getting shot.

The plan was to stay within two feet of Garrick. The man couldn’t shoot him from that distance without backing away, perhaps portraying a stumble. Neal would just have to move faster and trust in Cedric. The gamekeeper would be at Neal’s other side, watching Garrick for any sudden move. But, Neal felt using Garrick was too chancy. Too many variables were involved. Aunt Margaret would want a surer thing.

That meant there would be an accomplice. Maybe more than one. The Honor Guard would be responsible. That’s why they all carried rifles. Besides, as he told Mason, delay wouldn’t end the threat. It would simply change the game plan. Diminish the timeline. And desperate foes usually did desperate things.

He didn’t need Mason to tell him what the optimum time for a hunting accident would be. It was obvious. Early morning. With mist filling the meadow. Horses getting hobbled. Dogs running about. Men checking firearms. That’s when Neal would need to be the most diligent. And Mason begged him to do so as he stepped back and pronounced Neal ready.

Two Honor Guardsmen in Straithcairn regalia met Neal at the base of the chieftain steps and accompanied him to the stables. They watched in silence as his cousin joined him. Men and horses milled about the stable yard, lit with torches. The air was fraught with storm-filled intensity. Shivers rippled along Neal’s arm as he requested Dragonbreath. Garrick was waiting. He wore a light gray leather vest atop his kilt and a matching tam. The combination made him easy to spot in the dimness. Neal guessed the reason. He and his cousin were like in stature. His accomplice might need a way of making certain he hit the right man.

Garrick was amused by Neal’s choice of mount, smiling widely as the huge stallion was saddled and prepared. Neal had a moment of worry that he’d make an easy target before they even arrived. Dragonbreath was the largest horse in the entourage.

But Garrick wouldn’t have known which mount Neal would select. The odds of his cousin placing an accomplice anywhere before their arrival at Huntsman’s Dale was remote. These rifles weren’t that accurate. Even in the hands of a marksman. It was too chancy.

Besides, Dragonbreath had proven his docility. And that’s what mattered to Neal.

The field of play looked just as bad as Mason had anticipated. Daylight wasn’t putting much of a dent in the elements. A light, misty kind of rain was falling. Waist-high meadow grass was wafting with wind gusts. Neal dismounted, with the usual amount of thigh and ass showing, although nobody seemed to notice. The two barristers were standing off to one side, stomping their feet and grumbling – probably about the weather – although they shouldn’t complain. They were both attired in long trousers beneath coats. The old Neal would have envied them.

Garrick appeared to be frowning as he looked over the assemblage of gamekeepers. Some held to dogs leashes, some cradled blunderbusses in their arms, some had the smaller version of a blunderbuss called
dragon
carried beneath their belts. And all of them had a flintlock rifle strapped to the back of one shoulder.

“Ready to flush some grouse, men?”

One of the men called out. There was a chorus of ‘ayes’.

“I say...Niall?”

Garrick turned toward Neal. His gun negligibly swung with him. Cedric caught the barrel and lifted before it reached Neal.

“Careful, lad,” the man cautioned, as if it was incidental.

“Yes?”

Neal replied in an off-hand fashion as if absorbed with his own gun. He shuffled it, and tried to act uncomfortable with the piece. Clicked his tongue and sighed as if dispirited and looked toward his cousin. Garrick had a gamekeeper behind him. The man wasn’t familiar and his cap was too low on his forehead to make out his expression. Neal hadn’t counted on him. He watched as one of his Honor Guard dressed in nondescript leather and kilt stepped toward the man, obviously intent on shadowing him.

Knowing he was protected with such vigilance gave Neal such a warm sensation, he looked quickly back to his gun before it showed somewhere. It was too dim to make out expressions this morning. Body language was going to tell the story. Garrick’s was saying all kinds of things. The man was really pleased about something.

But what?

“The gamekeepers all...carry flintlocks this morn.”

“Oh. Yeah. I heard we have a herd of red deer in the area.”

“Red deer, you say?”

“I’m not amiss to fresh venison on the table. Do the rifles...bother you?”

“Oh, no. No. ’Tis nothing like that.” 

And the man snickered.

That was his clue. Garrick no longer had to worry over what might be said should a lead slug hit Neal rather than a load of pellets.

...because his accomplice had a rifle.

Damn it.

That extended the potential murder field from a maximum range of forty-two feet, to about fifty yards. Neal did a summary glance about the area. A strand of trees was situated within range. There was an arrangement of standing stones a bit to the right – sticking above the grass haphazardly, looking like a rough-hewn, miniature Stonehenge. A hill on either side delineated the valley. Both were too far for sniper distance. Not with a flintlock rifle. But every other inch of the area seemed to be covered in meadow grass. Thistle-strewn. Waving in the wind. Thigh-high on Neal, it provided a perfect camouflage. Everywhere he looked was a potential sniper spot.

But, wait
.

A sense of déjà vu smacked into Neal. It took a moment to realize why.

This was where he’d had his ‘accident’! Been spit out of a time portal. Jettisoned into a new life. And met the love of his. He probably glowed at the recollection. He kept his gaze on the ground while he tempered his heartbeats back to normal.

“We ready?”  Garrick asked at his side.

“Oh. Sure. Why not?”  Neal cleared his throat to speak loudly. “Gentlemen?”

“I say, Barristers Kingston? Bon? We ready?” 

Garrick called out to the Englishmen. Dogs were set loose, baying almost the instant they started running through the grass, leaving a myriad of trails. Dark spots flew up from the grass before them. Perhaps twenty feet in distance. They rose ten feet. Fifteen. Twenty feet. Neal swung his blunderbuss upward. Fired. Beside him Garrick did the same. Several birds dropped.

Neal held out the spent rifle without looking. Cedric took it and handed him a loaded weapon. On his left side, Neal felt Garrick and his man doing the same.

“You aim appears to be much improved, cousin,” Garrick remarked.

“Yeah. Go figure,” Neal relied.

“Go...figure?”

“It’s an expression. It means—”

Something glinted on the flattened trail of grass before him. Neal’s glance dropped. He focused. It looked like...gold. He knelt to check it out, heard the sound of a rifle blast, followed instantly by a close thud. Then Garrick cried out, but his voice was lost amidst the noise of every gun in the area responding. There was a series of loud bursts that sounded like a Revolutionary War battlefield reenactment. Neal spun and brought his blunderbuss to bear on Garrick. It wouldn’t have mattered. The man was reeling backward, his mouth wide while his hands clasped to his chest, attempting to stop a dark spot that just kept growing in the center of his vest. It was akin to watching a movie in slow motion. Garrick staggered another step. Fell. First to his knees. And then onto his face.

Cedric was on his knees beside Garrick, rolling him over. Neal could hear each gurgled breath the man took. He moved to crawl toward him, but the bit of gold he’d glimpsed bit into his knee. Neal lifted his leg, scraped mud and grass off the spot, and pulled his signet ring from the mess.

His spiral signet ring. The one he’d been wearing in the Cessna Citation X when this had all started. He stared at it uncomprehendingly. The ring shouldn’t even exist in this dimension. But it did. And that bit of gold had just saved his life. He tucked it into a vest pocket and lunged toward Garrick.

“Chest shot,” Cedric said.

“Yeah. Sounds like lung.”  Neal replied.

“Do na’ so much as twitch.”

The man sounded deadly serious. Neal stood. Looked about. A haze of smoke now added to the general melee. It was difficult to see anything with clarity. Men loomed out of the dimness as they approached. The Honor Guardsman who’d been watching Garrick’s gamekeeper was the speaker. He had his dragon out and held within an inch or two of Garrick’s man. The fellow dropped the pistol he’d been holding. Neal didn’t need to ask where it had been aimed. He could guess. A man reached them. Another. Dogs were still baying in the distance. The sound of flapping feathers as grouse took wing could be heard if he chose to listen for them.   

He didn’t.

Neal turned his attention to Garrick, and the man’s fight for air. More men arrived. Cedric stood and started shouting orders that Neal probably should have given. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Everything felt surreal, as if someone else was standing here. Neal was just observing. His every breath was loud in his ears. He had the same issue with each heartbeat. It was difficult to hear over them.

“Somebody send to the castle for a litter! You, there! Take a horse and ride! And you! Go get the dogs!” 

“What the devil just happened?”

The barristers arrived. One went to a knee beside Garrick. The other one looked from Neal to his cousin and back. Neal didn’t know which one had spoken or who to address. Cedric answered.

“’Tis clear. We have a hunting accident on our hands.”

“A hunting accident?”

“Aye. Garrick Straith’s been shot.”

“By who? You?”

One of the barristers pointed at Neal. Cedric answered again.

“Na’ him. His weapon has na’ been fired. Here. Check it yourself.” 

Neal probably should be embarrassed. With the exception of the barristers, his was probably the only weapon that hadn’t been fired. Cedric gestured for the blunderbuss. Neal gave it to him. Cedric handed it to Barrister Kingston. The man sniffed the barrel. Handed it back to Cedric.

“Then who is the shooter?”

More men arrived, adding hulking masses to the scene. All kinds of shuffling noises. Low-toned words. Garrick was struggling for each breath now. His body arched upward with each effort.

“He’s suffering shock. We need a blanket.”

Neal’s voice worked although it sounded like he was chewing gravel. Someone handed him a plaid. Neal bent to place it carefully about Garrick. The fellow looked almost as ashen as his vest. There wasn’t anything anyone could do. Even if this was the twenty-first century, and Garrick had access to the most advanced trauma care, his injury would have been fatal. Neal stood back up.

“’Tis Lachlan!”

Someone shouted it from the tree stand, across the field.

“Lachlan!”  Someone else reiterated it.

“What?” 

A chorus of deep voices asked it. Neal’s head felt pressurized. His ears filled with his own respiration. Heartbeat. And his voice as he added it to the mix.

“The bastard shot his own brother?”

“What?”  The blend of voices asked again.

“’Tis a foul morn!”

“Nae! ’Tis murder! Of the most wicked! Brother against brother!”

“Murder!”

“No!”

Neal yelled it, using his largest voice. Everyone quieted almost instantly. He didn’t have to raise his voice to be heard. He raised it anyway.