The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance by Trisha Telep Read Free Book Online Page A

contemplate a reason for the water roiling, a thrashing lad popped to the surface gasping for air.
    “St Columba’s God and the fairies!”
    Would wonders never cease?
    He grabbed the tow-headed lad by the scruff and tossed him on to the grass like a landed fish.
    Staring down at the dripping, gasping pup of a man he asked, “And who the hell might ye be?”
    “What? I don’t understand.”
    English!
    Before he could ask how this could be, the water roiled again and another head and pair of thrashing arms shot out. Hamish grabbed the second lad by his bright yellow cloak and tossed him next to the first. Before he was through snatching and tossing there were five gasping lads dressed in yellow at his feet.
    Hands on his hips, he glared at the youths. In the language he’d learned at his grandmother’s knee but hadn’t used in more than a decade, Hamish growled, “Dinna just sit there gaping like besot asses gleaming yer first teats, laddies. Answer me. Who be ye?”
    The tallest lad, all joints and long bones, scrambled backwards like a crab. “Who the hell are you?”
    Affronted the whelp should use such language when addressing an elder, Hamish reached out, but before he could snatch him, the black-headed lad jumped up shouting, “The spaniel ! Where’s the spaniel?”
    They all rose, shouting at once in obvious panic. The fair-haired lad pointed at the pool. “ Look! Oh crap, oh crap …”
    Having no idea what a spaniel might be, Hamish looked. The pool was roiling again and at its centre floated yet another lad, this one the largest yet, face down and lifeless. Cursing, Hamish jumped into the pool. Careful not to step off the hidden shelf at the edge of the pool because he couldn’t swim, he snagged the drowned lad’s legs and hauled him into his arms.
    The yellow-clad lads drew close as Hamish strode from the water and dropped to his knees, draped their hapless companion head down over his lap and pressed hard on the lifeless lad’s back. On the second push water gushed from the lad’s mouth. Hamish pushed down again. More water rushed out, the boy gagged then finally gasped.
    Greatly relieved, Hamish rolled the hapless lad face up and placed a hand over his heart. To his shock his palm rested not on bony rib as he’d fully expected but on something round and soft. A breast. Aye, he’d not been alone so long or grown so auld that he’d forget that particular feel.
    He scowled at the lads now kneeling around him. “’Tis a woman!”
    The tall blond brushed a water-matted tress from the woman’s face. “No shit, Sherlock.”
    The woman in his arms coughed, then sputtered, “Watch … your –” she coughed again “– language, Mr Elgin.”
    The lads issued a rousing cheer as the woman Spaniel stared up at him from bonnie brown eyes rimmed by thick spiked lashes. Liking the soft feel of her, the smooth contours of her oval face, the way her full lips were parted in surprise, he smiled. “Good day to ye, mistress.”
    “Uhmm … Hello.” Her gaze then swung to the lads and her eyes grew larger still. She bolted upright, her arms reaching out to the lads. “Oh, God! Are you all OK?”
    They clustered about her like hungry pups around their bitch, babbling excitedly in English but not in a manner Hamish had heard before.
    Teeth chattering, Spaniel staggered to her feet and gave each lad a hug before looking about. Marvelling at the way her strange clothing clung to her lithe form, Hamish grinned. How could he have possibly thought her a lad? Ten summers were apparently far too long for a man to go without a woman.
    He rose and she, clutching the closest lads to her sides, took several hasty steps back. “Who are you and where are we?”
    He bowed. “Hamish MacDuff at ye service, and ye be in MacDuff glen.”
    “And where is that exactly?”
    He scowled, not understanding what more she needed to ken.
    One of the lads whispered, “He looks like an escapee from Braveheart.”
    Spaniel signalled