Border Lord
Border Lord
Julia Templeton
A Novella from the collection,
Parlor Games
To my sister Jana,
who shares my love
of romance novels and Scotland.
Love you much!
Contents
1
The priory with its amazing Gothic architecture and stained-glass windows…
2
Brochan Douglas opened the door, his eyes adjusting to the…
3
Brochan walked past the sobbing nuns, pulling Annabelle with him.
4
What the hell are ye doing?
5
Castle Kildare looked as ominous as its name.
6
She was completely shit-faced.
7
The kitchen was hotter than Hades. Between the boiling pots…
8
“Brochan, Laird MacLellan and his men were spotted not more…
9
Terri woke to a pounding headache, not much different than…
Julia Templeton
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
The Priory of Grace, Scottish Borderlands
Present-day
The priory with its amazing Gothic architecture and stained-glass windows caught Terri’s eye, and on a whim she stopped.
She needed the time to rest anyway and think about her future…now that she knew the truth about her fiancé.
No wonder Elliott had seemed so distant of late. After a restless weekend he had woken at the crack of dawn, saying he needed to get to their London office early.
Certain his worries had to do with the new Egyptian artifact exhibit coming that day, Terri took a shower and arrived to work two hours early to help.
Instead of finding Elliott knee-deep in paperwork, she found him fucking her twenty-year-old assistant, right there on his prized Edwardian desk. The very desk Terri had given him for his fortieth birthday. Stunned, she watched in silent horror as the girl she’d hired some three weeks before reached a staggering climax.
Terri walked out of the museum as fast as her feet would carry her. Feeling as though her heart had been ripped from her chest, she stepped into her Mini Cooper and started driving.
That was two days ago. Now she was in Scotland, confused, angry, and in of all places, an old priory, much like the one in which she had planned to marry Elliott next summer.
There would be no wedding now.
Adjusting the rearview mirror, Terri winced at her reflection. Her red-rimmed eyes were puffy and swollen from crying, and her cheeks deathly pale.
Pulling her blond hair up into a ponytail and adding a spot of blush to her pale cheeks, she joined a tour in progress.
“Please, everyone, no crowding.”
Terri glanced at the flushed, middle-aged tour guide, a jovial Scottish woman, who tried with little success to keep the small group in line.
“What’s that door there?” an old man with thick glasses asked, pointing toward a solid mahogany door with a heavy board across it.
The tour guide smiled widely. “Ah, good question. That is the door Laird Brochan Douglas broke down to steal away Annabelle MacLellan, Laird MacLellan’s only daughter. Legend says that Annabelle’s father, knowing Douglas would seek revenge over the murder of his brother, spirited his daughter away from Castle Blackcurn, here to the Priory of Grace. The old laird felt that the only safe haven for his daughter would be here with the nuns.”
“Did he succeed?” Terri asked, her interest piqued by the vision of a medieval warrior busting down the chamber door.
“Aye, he did, lass. Though the nuns tried to hide Annabelle’s appearance by dressing her in thick habits, her beauty was such that Brochan knew her on sight. It is said he ripped the robes from her body, and left her standing naked in front of the nuns and all his men.”
An elderly woman gasped. “What a horrible man!”
The tour guide shrugged. “I’m not so sure he was horrible. He felt he was right doing what he did. After all, MacLellan had killed his brother. And being the great warrior that he was, Brochan sought to hurt Angus MacLellan the best way he could.”
“By taking his daughter,” Terri finished for her, thinking how she herself would love to get revenge on Elliott.
The tour guide nodded. “Indeed. He knew MacLellan loved his daughter more than life itself. The girl was the laird’s one weakness, and so Douglas snatched her from the priory, never to be seen or heard from again.”
“Did he kill her?” the old man asked, glancing at the door again.
The tour guide shook her head. “Nay, not that day.”
“Why is the door locked then?”
“Because when Laird MacLellan learned of his daughter’s fate, he stormed into the priory.” The tour guide’s voice rose with each second. “So furious was he with the nun who was to protect his daughter, he strangled the poor woman in that very room. From that day forth, strange noises started coming from the room—a terrible moaning, one that sounded much like the murdered nun. Horrified that one of their own might be walking the earth in ghostly form, the sisters closed the door, barred it, and have not entered it since, over seven hundred years ago.”
“So no one knows what happened to Laird MacLellan’s daughter?” Terri asked, more than a little intrigued by the tale.
“No one knows,” the guide said with a shrug. “Some say she was held captive in Brochan’s castle, while others say she escaped, back into the arms of her father. To this day her fate remains a mystery.”
The tour guide glanced at her watch. “I’m afraid that is all we have time for. We must return to the bus before your driver leaves you all behind. Come, let’s hurry.”
As the rest of the crowd followed the tour guide, Terri stayed behind, staring at the old, scarred door. How she itched to know what lay beyond. It was a shame the door was closed to visitors, and all because of a ghost.
Terri had always believed in the paranormal after a strange occurrence in the old Virginia farm house she had been raised in. At first the hollow footsteps and doors that opened and closed on their own frightened her, but after a while she came to accept the fact that whoever it was would not harm her.
She wondered if the ghost within that chamber would be the same. Just some poor soul who didn’t realize she was dead.
Glancing over her shoulder, she looked at the empty hallway behind her. The tour guide’s voice faded as a door opened, sunlight filtered in, and long moments later closed.
Silence. Terri chewed her bottom lip. Do I dare? Adrenaline rushing through her veins, she took a step toward the door, and paused. Seven hundred years was a long time for a door to be closed. And what if the ghost of the nun was actually in the room when that door opened? Had anyone ever been killed by an apparition?
Stealing a last fleeting look down the long, secluded hallway, Terri lifted the plank and set it aside. Rubbing the soot from her hands onto her jeans, she pressed against the door, and an ominous creak vibrated down the hall.
Just one little peek. That was it, then she would get back on the road and face her future.
Taking a steadying breath, she stepped into the room but could see nothing because of the darkness. Cool air brushed across her skin, making the hair on her arms stand on end. In the corner she could barely make out what appeared to be a cot, and then a chair…and something, or rather someone else.
Terri’s head hurt like hell.
A horrible pain that throbbed, and sounded like someone pounding. The noise was so loud, she covered her ears with her hands.
“Hurry, or you shall be late,” a voice said from the other side of the door.
“Annabelle, wake up.”
“Annabelle?” Terri repeated, recalling the name from the tour of the priory. When had that been…yesterday?
And was this the chamber she had walked into after the tour? The room at the Priory of Grace in Scotland, where Laird MacLellan killed the nun?
Uneasiness rippled along her spine as she tried to piece together what had happened. Shivering, she ran her hands up her arms and looked down to find she wore a thin chemise, made of rough linen, and nothing else.
She frowned. Where the hell were her clothes?
After a quick search under the cot and about the room, she came up empty-handed. Her jeans, sweater, shoes, socks, and underwear were all missing, and the shapeless black garment flung over the chair must be what little she had in the way of clothing.
Ripping the blanket off the cot, she wrapped it around her and stepped to the window. A secluded courtyard with beautiful roses of varying colors lined a pathway of smooth pebbles. Several ornamental stone benches sat about every twenty feet.
Terri frowned, certain it had looked different during the tour. The courtyard did not have rosebushes, and she could remember little foliage, other than the large tree in the center of the garden, a few benches and chairs.
The knocking at the door persisted. “Annabelle, hurry. Sister Hazel will be furious.”
Sister Hazel?
She ran a hand down her face. What the hell had happened to her?
Terri walked to the door, her stomach churning, afraid of what she would find on the other side. “Wake up, Terri. This is just a dream,” she said under her breath, and opened the door.
A woman about forty years old, wearing a nun’s black habit, stared back at her, a look of exasperation on her face. “You have overslept again. Sister Hazel will be most upset.”
“Who are you?”
The woman frowned, her wide brown eyes narrowing. “I am Sister Helena, as well you know, Annabelle. I realize you are not accustomed to our schedule here at the Priory of Grace, but you must conform like everyone else.”
“How long have I been here?” Terri asked, glancing down the long hallway where she saw several nuns walking in a small group. They looked at her and all smiled.
Sister Helena rested her hand on Terri’s shoulder. “For a fortnight, my dear, as I am sure you are aware. What is amiss, child? Do you miss your father still?”
Terri’s father had been dead for twelve years. “My father?”
Concern marred the nun’s brow. “Aye, I know you hate to be parted, but ’tis necessary for now, child. We will keep you safe, Annabelle. We have given your father our word. One day soon you shall return to Castle Blackcurn and to your sire…but not until it is safe to do so. When he feels the time is right, he will send for you. Until then, you must abide by the rules of the order. You are a guest, that is true, but you still must work for your care. ’Tis best that way.”
Oh, my God! She had stepped into the twilight zone. “Who exactly is my father?”
The nun reached out and touched Terri’s forehead with gentle fingers. “You do not feel overly warm.” She dropped her hand back to her side and released a heavy sigh. “Laird MacLellan is your father. Certainly you know that.”
Terri’s stomach tightened with each second that passed. True, she believed in the paranormal, but that didn’t mean she believed in time travel. The idea had always held appeal, particularly for someone like herself who loved history, but she also realized that traveling to another place and year was impossible. Wasn’t it?
And how could she be this Annabelle MacLellan? She was Terri Campbell from Richmond, Virginia.
“Helena, what year is this?”
The nun straightened her shoulders. “You are to call me Sister Helena, and I fear that given your strange questions, mayhap you should sleep this morning instead of attending mass. I shall tell Sister Hazel you have taken ill.”
The nun took Terri by the hand and led her back inside the room, easing her down onto the cot. “Just as we promised your father, I will promise you that we will not let any harm come to you, my dear. We shall protect you as best we can.”
Protect her from what?
“What year is it, Sister Helena?”
The nun frowned. “’Tis the year of our Lord, one thousand two hundred and ninety-four.”
“Holy shit!”
The nun put a hand to her chest, her mouth agape. “What say you?”
Terri’s heart accelerated as panic took hold. What if she was stuck in this time forever? A life without all the amenities she was used to. Granted, she could never be accused of being high maintenance, but still she loved modern conveniences. Though she had no family left after her father’s death, she did have friends who would be worried about her. Then again, many of those friends were Elliott’s as well. No doubt the bastard would act the concerned fiancé, while continuing to shag the bimbo. She ran a hand down her face. “This can’t be.”
“I assure you, it is as I say. Child, what is wrong? You are not acting at all like yourself, even your language is strange.”
“I must be dreaming.”
“Nay, you are just overwhelmed. Lie down, and I shall call for Sister Hazel.” The nun put a gentle hand to Terri’s jaw. “Know this, Annabelle, he will do you no harm.”
“He?”
“Aye, Brochan Douglas, border lord and chieftain of the infamous Douglas clan. I know you fear for your safety, for he is the devil himself,” she said with a shudder. “But we will not let him take you, Annabelle. We will protect you with our lives, I swear it.”
The hair on the back of Terri’s neck stood on end. She could not shake the change in the courtyard, or the sudden appearance of the nuns. And they were calling her Annabelle…and referred to Brochan Douglas in the present.
If she wasn’t dreaming, and this was real, then the woman standing before her could very well be the nun who had been killed at the hands of Laird MacLellan over seven hundred years before. The ghostly nun of legend.
The nun who had been in the chamber when she had entered the forbidden room.
A terrifying thought, if ever there was one.
Yes, the nun had been there, standing there, as though waiting for her. And Terri hadn’t been afraid, but instead felt as light as a feather before blacking out.
“How did you bring me here?”
The nun looked startled. “I do not know what you mean, my dear. Your father brought you.”
“No, I mean from my own time.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Your own time?”
“Yes, my own time. In the year two thousand and five I had visited the priory, where this very chamber had been boarded up.”
“Child, perhaps some fresh air will do you good.”
“I mean it. You were there in the room.”
For the first time the nun looked exasperated. “And what did I say to you?”
“You didn’t say a word. You just smiled.”
Just like she did now, a soothing, comforting smile. Clearly she thought Terri insane.
Realizing she wasn’t going to get anywhere with the current line of questioning, Terri asked, “What if Brochan does come?”
Fear flashed in the nun’s eyes before she hid it with a smile. “Nay, he will not, lass. No one but your own kin knows of your whereabouts. Your father assured us of such, and he is a man of his word. The Douglas would have no reason to assume you are here.”
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.
&nbs
p; “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?”
2
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?”