Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
PORTIA
Iwoke with Tavish’s arm heavy across my waist and Albie’s breath hot on my neck.
For one perfect moment, I existed in a drowsy state of bliss, my body warm in the sunlight spilling through the cave’s entrance.
Wait.
Cave?
Reality crashed in like an anvil. I was instantly awake, memories of the previous night assailing me.
I’d let Tavish and Albie touch me. Let them make me come. I’d watched them together and wanted more.
No, I’d wanted everything, not the “just enough” they delivered.
Gods, I still wanted it.
My dragon stretched lazily beneath my skin, oblivious to my mental spiral. She didn’t care about timelines or consequences. She only knew her mates were close.
They’re not our mates, I told her.
She ignored me.
Moving gingerly, I extracted myself from between the men and eased off the bed of moss. My corset was loose, my chemise askew. Sprigs of evergreen stuck to my skirts. I looked like I’d been dragged through the forest.
Or fingered to a mind-blowing orgasm before getting a front-row view of the two hottest men I’d ever met grinding their cocks together for my pleasure.
Albie stirred, one hand reaching for the spot I’d occupied. He opened his eyes, and worry reigned in them for a second before he spotted me. The worry cleared, and his irises warmed to chocolate behind his glasses.
“Morning,” he said softly, and if I ever got back to my proper timeline, I was going to figure out a way to put the sound of him saying it on a loop so I could sell it and become a billionaire.
“Morning.” I turned away and went to the fire, then stood over the winking embers like I needed the heat.
Nope. Definitely hot enough.
Tavish sat up with a grunt. He slanted a look at Albie, then fixed a knowing, maddening smile on me. “Sleep well, Princess?”
“Fine,” I said, brushing moss from my skirts.
I had to get home. I’d made a terrible, spectacular, horrible mistake that absolutely could not happen again.
Tavish stood and stretched, his kilt riding low on his hips. He’d pulled his shirt off before we slept, and sunlight gleamed on his bare chest. He caught my eye, then deepened his stretch, easing his hips forward. A corner of his mouth lifted, and he twitched one of his pecs.
Hard.
I turned away and began picking moss from my hair.
Albie rose more slowly, adjusting his spectacles and shoving a hand through his blond waves.
“We should try the spell,” I said.
Albie nodded. “Aye. But this time, we need to be deliberate. Think of your own time, lass. Hold an image of it in your mind like a painting.”
“I’ll try.”
Moments later, we stepped out of the cave. The rain had stopped overnight, and the forest sparkled like something out of a fairy tale. Dewdrops shivered on the leaves. Birds trilled to each other from tree branches.
Albie pulled the velvet bag from his jacket and handed it to me.
The bag filled my palm, the plum-colored fabric a solid weight in my hand. It was like holding a bag of putty…or maybe sand. I didn’t dare risk squeezing it to find out.
The men flanked me. Tavish slid an arm around my waist. Albie found my free hand and laced his fingers through mine.
“Ready?” he asked.
I thought of home—of Castle Beithir and my mother’s face.
Of my fathers standing with their arms slung across each other’s shoulders, boyish grins on their faces and garish scarves around their necks as they watched Scotland beat England in rugby.
I pictured Malcolm at his computer. I imagined my mother’s laugh.
Heard her shriek when my father swung her into his arms and carried her toward the castle’s swimming pool.
“Niall Balfour, I swear to the gods, if you throw me in…”
Please work, I thought. Please, please, take me home.
I opened the bag.
The world twisted.
Cold slammed into me like a fist.
I fell to my knees, my head spinning as the world righted itself. Tavish and Albie crouched on either side of me.
Purple twilight reigned, and a winter sky speckled with stars stretched overhead. Snow piled around us. Our breath fogged the air. Mountains soared everywhere, their peaks shadows in the dark. A curvy road cut through the landscape.
“Fuck,” Tavish muttered, getting to his feet. He pulled me up and drew me against him as he stared at our surroundings. “Where are we now?”
Albie eyed the mountains. “Not Scotland.”
Snow swirled around us, flakes quickly sticking to my hair and eyelashes. Icy fingers of wind went down the front of my jacket and up my skirts, and I hunched against the cold. We’d been dressed for spring in the Highlands, not…wherever this was.
A sound rumbled in the distance.
Albie grabbed my arm and hurried me behind a drift shielded by rocks and snow-covered foliage. Tavish cursed under his breath as he joined us.
The noise grew, the unmistakable sound of an engine filling the air. My heart soared. Maybe I’d landed in the right time, after all. The men froze.
“It’s some kind of beast,” Albie breathed, peering over the drift.
“No,” I said, touching his arm. “It’s just a car.” When he looked confused, I tried for a better phrase. “Horseless carriage,” I corrected.
A vehicle rounded a bend in the road. Glossy black, its wheels looked like they belonged on a bicycle. The windows were fogged, and the round headlamps struggled to penetrate the snow.
My heart sank. I was hardly an expert, but I’d seen enough old movies to place the vehicle somewhere in the 1920s. The contraption puttered along, its thin wheels coated in snow.
“Where are the horses?” Tavish asked, wonder in his voice. “Magic is pulling it.”
“It’s not magic,” I said, misery building as I groped for an explanation that would make sense to him. This was Malcolm’s territory. Undoubtedly, my brother knew exactly how old motorcar engines worked. But he wasn’t here, and who knew if I’d ever see him again?
Albie cut me a sharp look, intelligence burning in his eyes. “We went forward, not back.”
The car hit a rut, and a loud crack split the air. The vehicle lurched, and the engine sputtered. Springs squeaked, and the engine died, the motorcar stopped in the middle of the road.
My breath puffed in the air. The twilight deepened by the second, night swiftly descending.
The driver’s side door opened, and a man climbed out. He was bald, but he wore no hat, and his thin coat appeared to offer little protection against the cold. He hurried to the broken wheel and ran an ungloved hand over it. His movements were jerky, obvious panic in his demeanor.
My breath puffed in front of my face. The man raced to the rear of the motorcar and unbuckled a metal box from a shelf.
He returned to the wheel, stumbling and slipping through the snow.
Flipping open the box, he withdrew several tools.
His hands were already red from the cold, and he shook as he began repairing the damage.
A tool slipped from his hand and hit the snow.
I looked at Tavish, then Albie. They both shook their heads.
“We can’t intervene,” Albie murmured.
“I know.” But worry nipped at me as I returned my gaze to the man. He was going to freeze to death. If the motorcar’s engine was dead, it couldn’t offer any heat. His clothes were woefully inadequate for the temperature.
He bent his head as he rummaged through the toolbox. The position exposed his nape, where something thick and silver circled his throat.
A collar.
The rear door opened, and a woman stepped out. A thick fur coat draped over a black beaded dress that fell to her knees. A white fur hat showed the edges of a bob haircut. Diamonds winked at her ears and throat. More jewels circled her fingers. Her lips were painted dark red.
And a pair of fangs peeked between them. Her eyes glowed more brightly than the headlamps, the yellow the color of an animal’s in the night.
Vampire.
The man threw down his tool and pressed his forehead to the snow.
The woman stopped with her boots inches from his body, and her fangs showed as she spoke in a rapid-fire language like Russian but not quite.
No, this was its own dialect, formed and molded by the Blooded Princes of the vampire plane, which was tucked in the darkest regions of the Ural Mountains.
The man cringed, snow quickly obscuring his rounded back. The thrall’s collar around his neck reflected the light from the motorcar’s headlamps.
My heart pounded. Halina of Krovnosta, mate to Fergus Devlin and my Uncle Bram, had outlawed the practice of keeping human thralls when she rose to power. But we weren’t in her time.
The vampire sneered. She turned, stalked back to the car, and emerged with a whip.
No.
Everything slowed. Eyes glittering, the vampire drew back the whip and let it fly.
CRACK!
The lash struck the man’s back, and he jerked violently, screaming as he collapsed in the snow.
“No!” The protest tore from my throat before I could stop it.
The vampire snapped her head toward the drift. She bared her fangs, her hiss like the rattle of a snake.
Albie exploded into smoke and streaked toward her with blinding speed. Tavish shoved me to the ground with a big hand on my shoulder.
“Stay put,” he snarled, fury in his eyes.
And it was aimed at me—and for good reason. I’d just messed with the past. Again.
He took shadow form and sped toward Albie. Guilt and fear swamping me, I raised up as much as I dared. Albie had revealed himself to protect me, and now Tavish had plunged into peril to protect Albie.
Both men shifted to two legs, their kilts swinging around their thighs.
The vampire stumbled back with wide eyes. She recovered quickly, her fingers tight on the whip’s handle. “What are you doing in my husband’s territory?” she demanded in accented English. “State your business.”
Tavish looked like he’d tasted something bitter. “Our business is our business, woman.”