Chapter One
Geoff’s knees complained about the hardness of the floor as he knelt over the length of wool. Slowly and carefully, he folded the clean length of the subdued blue plaid the way he’d been taught.
He slid the thick brown leather belt underneath the fabric and then lay down, positioning his waist where the belt was situated and making sure the cotton shirttails of his off-white Jacobite shirt were smooth beneath his arse and over his thighs.
Geoff folded the sides of the wool over his body, then fastened the belt. The snap crackle of his joints sounded loud in the room when he stood, and he shook his head. He was getting too old for this. But battle re-enactments were one thing he’d always wanted to try. He’d saved and planned for this holiday for three years. He was going to enjoy it or die trying.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror and inspected his reflection. He’d left the laces at the neck of the shirt loose, and a cluster of charcoal-colored chest hairs peeked from the vee. The kilt brushed his kneecaps in the front and draped a little lower in the back. Thick cream-colored knit socks peeked over the tops of brown leather high boots. While he’d purchased a kilt outfit for the battle re-enactments, he hadn’t seen the point in investing in ghillies. Attending tonight’s event had been a last-minute decision.
The big question, though...pants or no pants?
The hell with it. No pants. Tonight’s performance was more for tourists than battle reenactors. There would be no mock battles with the accompanying worries about protecting the family jewels. The reenactment organization had stressed the fact that going regimental or, in contemporary terms, commando, wasn’t a thing, now or in the past. He’d never gone commando, ever, but a sense of adventure had come over him this trip, so he stripped off his boxer briefs and tossed them at his carryall. What could trying it once hurt? He pulled cash and some identification from his wallet and tucked them into his sporran and clasped it around his waist.
An hour later, after a quick meal in the hotel dining room, Geoff rode the event bus to the standing stones. He answered a couple of emails from the Yard via his mobile before powering it off and stuffing it, too, into his sporran. The ten-minute walk from the road to the performance site allowed him to stretch his legs and get his blood pumping.
The jiggle of his cock and bollocks felt odd. Good but odd. The thick kilt fabric and the pressure of his sporran ensured there was no way for anyone to know he was sans pants, but a sense of titillation, along with the tiniest bit of self-consciousness, underlined his anticipation. That and the soft scratch of the wool against his flesh.
God, he could just find an out-of-the way spot and wank if he wanted to. His cock twitched and his stomach did a little jig at the thought. He swallowed the nervous laugh that bubbled in his throat.
He was a detective inspector with New Scotland Yard, for Pete’s sake. If he got caught doing anything of the sort, he’d be busted down to special constable. As alluring as the prospect of a semi-public wank might sound, he’d best steer clear of any temptations.
The air was cool, and the sun sank by the minute. Lush green grass covered the rolling hills that undulated to the horizon, and the bright lights of Dumfries shone to the south. Small groups of people, some in contemporary street clothes and some in historical costume, sat here and there on the grass. Torches disguised like old fashioned lanterns dotted the area. They offered enough light to see by as the sun disappeared, creating a romantic atmosphere.
An image of Peter flitted through his mind, but Geoff shook his head and dislodged it. They’d broken up, and it was for the best. He swallowed past the sudden tightness in his throat and sighed.
Why could he never find someone who understood the demands of his job? He liked being a police officer, and he was damned good at his job. A job he was on holiday from at the moment.
Right. On holiday.
Geoff was here to have a good time, and if he met an interesting and interested party, he’d consider a fling. Of course he would. If he didn’t, no worries. Love of Scottish history had brought him here, and being kilted up and part of something outside of his everyday existence was a welcome and exciting treat.
“Oh—” he murmured as a cool breeze swirled around his legs and upwards, reminding him unnecessarily that he wore nothing beneath his kilt. He glanced around and found a suitable spot to sit. He crossed his ankles and dropped to sit cross-legged with the folds of wool beneath his arse and covering his bits.
Some ethereal-sounding music drifted through the air. Flutes, maybe? He recognized a hint of some low-toned drums as well. Movement drew his gaze to the standing stones.
Women of all shapes and sizes and wearing gauzy gowns in pastel colors appeared. Loose flowing skirts swung and flowed as the women moved. Small green lights flittered around the dancers and wafted out into the audience.
However they’d accomplished that, amazement brought a smile to his face.
Geoff’s pulse thrummed with the underlying rhythm of the music.
The women twirled and jumped in and around one another in a circling pattern amongst the stones.
Chanting filled the air, and his scalp prickled at the haunting tones. On and on it went for he didn’t know how long. The singing, the whirling, faster, then slower, mesmerized him. Everything but the scene in front of him faded from cognizance.
Suddenly, the world around him went quiet, and the women disappeared into the copse of trees on the other side of the standing stones.
He sat, astounded, trying to catch his breath.
Applause filled the void and he blinked, coming back into awareness of his surroundings.
Geoff lay back on the cool grass, stretching his legs and allowing the blood to flow back toward his feet. Overhead, the sheer number of stars took his breath away. It’d been ages since he’d been anyplace he could see anything other than the brightest stars. The sky was a dark velvet blue, and he could almost feel the softness on his fingertips. The air smelled clean and felt crisp in his airways and lungs.
He wanted to check out the stones before the bus headed back to town, so he rolled to his feet and headed in their direction.
Nine stones stood in an irregular ten-meter circle. They ranged from three to five meters in height. Most were no larger in diameter than a person, some fat, some skinny. The surfaces were smooth from centuries of winds and rains.
He ran his fingers along the rock and jerked his hand back in surprise before flattening his palms against one. It reminded him of the bricks of a fireplace with a banked fire keeping them warm.
His gaze flicked to each of the stones in turn. Were the rest warm as well?
Geoff moved from stone to stone, running his hands along the sides.
A high-pitched keening noise assaulted his ears as he approached the largest stone, and he covered his ears with his hands. A rush of wind swirled around the stone, ruffling his kilt, pushing him close. His stomach swooped, and he tried to catch his breath.
What the hell was happening?
He tried to step back, step away, but the force was too strong. He threw his hands out as he was propelled forward. The sound deepened to mimic a freight train barreling down on him. His vision narrowed, and the world grew darker and darker.
Oh God oh God oh God.
Pressure surrounded him and cut off the scream clawing at his throat. Air whirled around him from every direction and launched him into a swirling vortex of wind and warmth and moisture. He could see nothing but dark shadows rushing past him for long moments.
Then everything went quiet and black and blank as he passed out.
Chapter Two
Laird Mycroft Holmes looked out over his holdings from the window of his private study on the third floor of his castle. Fields were green or golden as far as his eye could see. The fall harvests looked to be abundant. The castle was in good repair. His tenants all seemed in good health and good spirits.
Good, life was all...good.
The sun was almost gone, and dark clouds billowed across the distant peaks in the western sky. Lightning flashed brightly in the roiling mass of blackness.
Mycroft turned from the window. “Hugh,” he called.
Hugh, tall and broad and with the naturally pale complexion of a Scotsman, appeared from the small antechamber that served as his office. “My laird?”
“There’s a violent storm headed this direction. Send riders to alert the villages and get everything under cover.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Papa, Papa!”
Mycroft couldn’t help the smile as Owen and Rory tore into his office. His twin five-year-old whirling dervishes had as much energy as the incoming storm, but they were two of the lights of his life.
Ginger-headed Rory leaped and Mycroft caught him easily. With a quick arm maneuver, he flipped Rory over his shoulder and around his waist before settling the boy back to his feet.
“One of these days, you’re going to drop him on his head,” Elspeth said as she followed at a more sedate pace.
Eight-month-old Kenna bounced on her mother’s left arm and attempted to stand on her mother’s hip.
Owen, who sported the dark hair and eyes of his mother, clutched the folds of Mycroft’s trousers. He wasn’t quite the thrill-seeker his brother was.
Mycroft picked him up for a hug and a kiss and took a seat in the chair next to the window.
The children’s nurse, Mistress Bruis, waited at the door.
Mycroft looked at the boys, now standing before him, both fidgeting. Rory locked and unlocked his knees in an alternating rhythm, while both of Owen’s hands plucked at the legs of his trews.
“Did you boys behave today?”
“Aye,” Rory said.
“I was good, but Ree spilt his milk,” Owen said.
“I see,” Mycroft said. “And was the milk spilt on purpose or was it accidental?”
“It was a accident, Papa. I was trying to get the cup, but I knocked it over instead.” Rory wore a worried expression and could barely meet Mycroft’s gaze.
“Did you help Mistress Phennel clean it up?”
Rory nodded.
Mycroft looked to Elspeth, who confirmed their son’s response. “Accidents are just that, so I don’t think we can hold it against Rory, do you, Owen?”
“No, sir.”
“As for you...”
Owen heaved a heavy sigh.
“What have I told you about trying to get your brother into trouble?”
A sheen of moisture rose up in Owen’s brown eyes and his lower lip trembled. “A man has got to be able to count on his brother, sir.”
Mycroft nodded. “That’s right. What do you think a fitting consequence ought to be, Rory?”
Rory regarded his brother and then turned large blue eyes back to Mycroft. “An apology, sir.”
“Nothing else?” Mycroft asked. “You’re the wronged party.”
“No, sir.”
“Very good then.” He looked at Owen and raised his eyebrow.
Owen turned to Rory and took his brother’s hands. “I’m sorry I tried to get you into trouble, Ree.”
“Thank you, Wen. I forgive you.”
Owen threw his arms around his brother’s neck and hugged him, leaving Rory to cling to Owen’s shirt.
“Rory, go with Nurse and prepare for bed.”
Rory disengaged himself from Owen’s embrace and looked at his father. “What abou—”
Mycroft raised his eyebrow again.
“Yes, sir.” Rory walked toward the nurse, glancing back every few steps.
Once Mistress Bruis and Rory were out of sight and out of earshot, Mycroft said, “Owen, you will do Rory’s chores as well as your own tomorrow.”
Owen hung his head, dark curls much like his Uncle Sherlock’s hiding his face. “Yes, sir.”
“Quite. Now catch up with Nurse and Rory.”
Mycroft’s younger son took off, and he and Elspeth followed his progress by the sound of boots on the stone flooring.
She pressed a kiss to his forehead and settled Kenna onto his lap. “You’re a good father, Mycroft Holmes.”
He looked into the smiling round face of his infant daughter. She had Elspeth’s brown eyes, but the wisps of her thin hair glowed orangish in the light cast by the roaring fire in the huge hearth. Funny that each of the twins was a duplicate of one of their parents while Kenna was a combination.
Tiny fingers grasped the coarse hairs on his face and saliva dribbled from the corners of her laughing little mouth. “Pop, Pop,” she burbled.
Mycroft smiled. “I do try.” His own father had been stern and rigid. His father’s manner had alienated both him and Sherlock. Sadly, as the first born, Mycroft couldn’t run away as Sherlock had done so many times.
He’d sworn to himself that if he ever had children, he wouldn’t go down that same path. He and Elspeth were unconventional in their parenting methods, but Mycroft just couldn’t bear for his own children to be raised with the same harsh hand. Life could be cruel enough.
Rory didn’t have the same gentle sensibilities that Mycroft, Sherlock, and Owen shared and could have borne a stricter hand, but Mycroft couldn’t abide unnecessary violence at any level.
Kenna seemed a happy baby and hadn’t quite shown the way of her personality. Time would tell.
The nurse re-appeared in the doorway. “The boys are a-bed, my lord. Shall I whisk your wee lassie off as well?”
“Thank you, Mistress Bruis.”
The stout woman bustled forward and curtsied when Mycroft handed his daughter over.
He rose and took his wife’s hand, kissing the soft back of it. She was lovely with dark brown eyes, soft shiny brown curls, and a figure that many admiring looks assured him was enticing to men. Most men. But not to him.
Betrothed upon Elspeth’s birth, they’d become allies and close companions as she reached marriageable age. That aspect of their relationship had served them well over the years. He loved her, he truly did. She was his chatelaine, the mother of his children, his best friend and his most trusted confidant.
But Mycroft wished for more in a marriage. He wished a certain other facet of their relationship was more than just duty—a duty he gladly undertook, but a duty nonetheless.
“I have some clan accounts to discuss with Hugh,” he said with a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll be but an hour.”
* * * * *
Mycroft climbed the narrow stairwell to the fifth and top floor of Bassendean. His modest castle caused those who wished him ill will to underestimate his resources and resulting ability to persevere.
A small fire crackled and flickered on the hearth of his bedchamber, throwing long shadows across the walls. There was just enough light for him to see that Elspeth had decided to share his bed this night. He was glad for it.
The impending storm had him on edge. The trees were already thrashing about in the howling winds, and the younger trees were bent almost to the ground with the force of them.
Eerie whistles shrieked through the halls of the castle and under the doors, making him shiver in disquiet, even though the fullness of the storm hadn’t yet reached them.
Slipping into the small room between his and Elspeth’s sleeping chambers, he stripped down to his braies and returned to the cavernous laird’s chamber and climbed into bed. He stretched out in the cool bedding, but the warmth of Elspeth’s form drew him toward her. His movements caused her to stir.
“Mycroft,” she murmured in a rough, sleepy voice.
“I’m here, my heart, go back to sleep.”
She snuggled into his side and released a deep breath. The feel of her, the scent of her, it was almost enough to rouse his libido. Almost.
They hadn’t had relations since Kenna’s conception, and self-pleasure only went so far.
He missed the intimate touch of another human being. She drifted back to sleep and he closed his eyes, swallowing against the melancholy that lodged like a stone in his throat and threatened to choke him.
* * * * *
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