The Time Traveler's Christmas - Amy Jarecki Page 0,7
sauntered toward her. “So let me get this straight…The English have your son and you want to break into a maximum security prison to help him escape?”
She scoffed. “Ye make it sound as if Andrew’s a felon.”
“He’s not?”
“Nay, he was abducted from my home and taken from me when he was but a bairn. Finally, after we won at Bannockburn, King Robert negotiated for Andrew’s freedom in exchange for an English prisoner.”
The man’s eyes nearly crossed as he shook his head and waved his hands. “Wait. Let’s back up a moment.” He scratched his head, looking completely lost. “You said the Battle of Bannockburn?”
“Aye.”
“If my memory serves me correctly, Bannockburn was fought in the year thirteen hundred and fourteen.”
“At least ye havena been under a rock for so long ye dunna ken the year.”
He snorted with a laugh. “So, you’re trying to tell me the battle down there is real—that King Robert is Robert the Bruce?”
“Aye.”
“Shut up.”
“I beg your pardon? I merely answered your question.”
“No. It’s just I am either dreaming or you’re feeding me a line of tripe.”
“Anyone can plainly see ye are awake.” She moved around the horse and regarded the warrior over the galloway’s back. “But I’m thinking ye’re addled in the head.”
“I’m beginning to think I agree with you.” He raked his fingers through his thick, shoulder-length locks—his hair was awfully well-groomed for a man. “I have no idea how I ended up here. I can’t even remember having a night on the sauce. Do you have a car nearby?”
“I beg your pardon? Are ye speaking in riddles?”
He threw his hands out to his sides and rolled his eyes. “Maybe I should go along with the reenactment thing. So, ah, you said you needed help finding your son?”
“Aye.” Had she finally explained the direness of the situation well enough? This crazed warrior didn’t seem dumb—though his Scots Inglisch needed work. Perhaps he was from the continent. “I’ve waited longer than any mother should. ’Tis time to take things into my own hands and now I’m free to do so.”
“Do you know where they took him?”
She held up a finger. “That, we must find out.” The ride to Roxburgh was a good four hours and doing it alone could invite a world of trouble. Her man-at-arms was nowhere to be seen and she needed a champion like never before—regardless if this warrior was a wee bit touched in the head, he could fight like Goliath. She held out her hand. “My name is Lady Christina de Moray.”
The corner of the man’s mouth turned up. “Wife of Andrew de Moray—Guardian of Scotland, the same hero who rode with William Wallace?”
“Och, I’m his widow. And how did ye ken all that when ye had no idea Bruce’s army is fighting off the English this day?”
“Just a hunch. Forgive me for ignoring my manners.” The big man bowed over her hand and gave the back of it a light peck. “I am Lachlan Wallace at your service, m’lady.”
Christina’s heart nearly stopped when the warrior’s dark blue gaze met her own. All she could manage was a gasp.
Chapter Three
After he kissed the back of her hand, the woman blanched. In sharp contrast with her black dress, the whites of her eyes were wide like she’d seen a ghost. Her little gasp made Lachlan’s stomach backflip. Had she recognized him? Squinting, he leaned in for a closer look. Oh no, he’d never seen the lady before. He would have remembered a doll face like hers with mahogany curls framing her features from beneath that ridiculously frumpy veil. He would have remembered those wide-set eyebrows arched above incredibly expressive silver-blue eyes. Though the rosy heart-shaped face now regraded him with confusion.
Regardless, stomach squeeze or not, with an ugly divorce in the wings, Lachlan was in no shape to take notice of a zealous reenactment lass gone overboard. And the bit about her son was priceless. Did she even have a son?
Lady Christina hadn’t even acknowledged his question about a car and her horse was a scrawny mule that looked like it needed to be on a feeding regimen at an animal sanctuary. Worse, he’d lost his mind. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep on Uncle Walter’s spare bed. When he opened his eyes, a barbaric monster was attacking the petite little woman. By God, Lachlan couldn’t abide anyone who struck a woman and Lady Christina—if that was her real name—was, by far, too small and frail to fend off an ugly