Falling for the Chieftain: A Time Travel Romance (Enchanted Falls Trilogy, Book 3) Read online

  Allison Sutton isn’t the sort to take risks. She’s a nurse, so she’s seen exactly where risk-taking can lead. But she leaves her comfort zone to visit Scotland with her sisters, and then takes a further leap of faith when one of them insists they jump from a waterfall that’s supposedly enchanted. To her amazement, the jump brings her back in time, to the fourteenth century, and she comes face to face with a strapping Highlander who looks as if he’s stepped out of her fantasies.

  After his brother betrayed him, Brann MacKay has gone out of his way to display his prowess. Which makes it all the more embarrassing when he saves a slip of a lass from a crowd of men, only to earn a kick to the bollocks for his efforts. Even so, Brann is taken with the brash beauty. Allison is like no lass he’s ever met, and he quickly realizes why. She emerged from the enchanted pool on his land. She wishes to return to her own world, but her knowledge of healing makes her indispensable to his people—and he quickly realizes she is indispensable to him.

  Being with Brann makes Allison reconsider her stance on risks, but can a modern woman be happy with a medieval man?

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Other books by Keira Montclair

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  The Highlands of Scotland

  Allison Sutton’s feet hit water as she plunged into the murky liquid at the base of the cascading falls. Holding back a scream, she fought her way to the top of the pool, kicking her feet as hard as she could and doing the breaststroke to speed her ascension. The pool was surprisingly warm, almost bubbling with an energy all its own. She should have known this would be special.

  When she finally made it to the surface, she broke into a huge grin. Caroline may have been the one to insist the Sutton sisters end their trip to the Highlands by jumping from the Highland waterfall, but she was proud of herself—of all of them—for actually going through with it.

  “Hannah, that was the best!”

  She didn’t see either of her sisters, so she spun in a circle as she treaded water, waiting for them to rise to the top. “Caroline? I’m so glad we did this. Where the hell are you?”

  Silence.

  She twirled around in another circle, looking for any sign of her sisters.

  Nothing.

  She fought a sudden surge of panic. She’d always been the weakest swimmer—if she’d made it to the top, her sisters must have, too. Maybe they were playing a trick on her…

  She swam to the edge, surprised to find a huge rock she’d not noticed before. In fact, the whole pool was surrounded by rocks. She crept out, an eerie feeling shooting from her toes up to her head. Something was different. This was not the area she’d stared down at before jumping.

  Peering up at the top of the waterfall, she gaped in disbelief. It wasn’t there. There was no cascading water, no sound of water hitting the pool beneath it. Instead, an eerie, unnerving quiet hung in the air.

  She whirled around, shaking water off her body to ease the chill, and squeezed her sopping wet hair. Not knowing what else to do, she walked around the area, tugging her ponytail out of habit.

  The more she moved, the more her panic escalated.

  The waterfall was gone. Simply gone. And so were her sisters.

  How the hell had this happened?

  Maybe this was a dream—the faulty logic of the jump felt like dream logic—but her wet clothes clung to her skin and she could reach down and touch the rocks surrounding the pool. Everything felt real. Either way, sitting here shivering wouldn’t do her any good. If it was a dream, she’d awaken soon, and if it wasn’t? She needed to find someone with a cell phone so she could call her sisters. Maybe she’d hit her head and lost a few hours.

  She was a registered nurse—she’d seen stranger things happen.

  Trying to shake off the panicky feeling, she walked away from the pond. Surely, she’d find someone soon.

  Except she didn’t. There was no sign of civilization anywhere. The farther Allie walked, the denser the vegetation around her. About half an hour later, she managed to locate a path, so she took a deep breath and chose a direction.

  She’d have to meet someone eventually.

  ***

  Breannainn MacKay picked the bastard up, hefted him over his shoulder, and tossed him over the roped area with a roar.

  “Yay, Brann!” his wee brother Lachie yelled. “Ye did it! Ye beat another.”

  Brann couldn’t help but smile as he leaned over to catch his breath, watching his subdued opponent toss a bag of coin to the man who’d taken the wagers. He then limped away, cursing all the while.

  Brann knew few of the men in the audience had wagered against him. They knew better.

  The onlookers cheered as he moved over to his wee brother, who held out a skin of water. He took several swigs, then poured the rest over the top of his head, swinging his long dark hair back and forth to cool himself down.

  And perhaps to instigate the crowd with a bit of show.

  “Black Brann! Black Brann! Black Brann!” they roared.

  He finally turned to look at the crowd of over a hundred men who’d come to watch him wrestle. He did his best to build his reputation as the fiercest warrior in the Highlands. Some days he fought with his sword, some days with his fists. His smile broadened as he stared at the crowd going berserk over his prowess.

  Becoming champion of all the Highlands was his new goal in life.

  But then his gaze found the one person he hadn’t wanted to see. His middle brother, Taran, stood at the back of the crowd. He didn’t chant or applaud but watched the proceedings with a sadness in his gaze.

  Well, Taran had chosen his path. Let him reap the consequences.

  Brann had been betrothed to Shona MacDonnell, but she’d fallen in love with Taran. They’d married less than a year ago, making Brann MacKay the laughingstock of the Highlands.

  He’d vowed to beat every last fool who dared to ridicule him, and he was pleased that he’d nearly met his goal. No one had insulted him to his face for many moons, though occasionally an overconfident lad would still face him. The matches were held on the corners—a stretch of land between Brann’s land and three neighboring properties: Murray, Sinclair, and MacDonnell. They all benefited from having a place for clan members to sell their wares, and they split a portion of the wagers made on the matches or contests held there.

  Proving his prowess in these matches might improve his mood, but he held a grudge against his brother. As far as he was concerned, Taran was dead to him. Unfortunately, they were still linked by the only family member they had left—Lachie. Their wee brother had no mother or father to guide him, so it was Brann’s job to raise him. He had promised his mother to watch over the youngest of th
e three brothers when she’d passed on from fever six years ago. Lachie was now only eight summers, and Brann knew better than to ask one who was so young to choose between his brothers. He wished to teach the lad to think for himself, so he allowed him to make his own choices and did not hold those choices against him. Lachie’s choice was to love them both.

  “Brann, Taran is here. See? He’s in the back. Shall we go speak with him? For certes, he’ll congratulate ye.” Lachie’s eyes shone with the same gleam of hope that had been there for a year now. The lad’s persistence hadn’t wavered one bit. Brann couldn’t fault him for it.

  “Nay, Lachie. I’ll nae speak with him, and ye know it.”

  Lachie came up to him and whispered as the crowd dispersed, “Ye know ye dinnae love her. Why can ye nae be friendly? Please, Brann? I love Taran and Shona. She’s carrying. They could have a niece or nephew for ye to love.”

  True, he hadn’t loved Shona, but they’d been betrothed for two years. His sire had made the arrangement, wanting to ensure his line bore heirs, before passing away from a bad wound.

  Shona MacDonnell was everything a wife should be: beautiful, kind, compassionate. She’d not stirred Brann at all, but even so…Taran had paid him, and their father, the ultimate insult by breaking the betrothal, and such a thing could not easily be forgotten or forgiven.

  Brann took a strip of his plaid and wiped the sweat from his face. “Nay, Lachie. If ye wish to speak with him, then go on with ye. I’ll no’ care.”

  “But why, Brann?” The laddie gazed up at him with such admiration and innocence that he hated to disappoint him.

  “Because ‘tis my heir Shona should be carrying. Go on with ye, now.” He took another swig of water and waved his brother off.

  A loud shriek rent the air, so he turned to seek out the source. There was some kind of melee at the far end of the clearing, though too many onlookers had gathered about for him to see anything.

  Another scream echoed through the open space, too high-pitched to be from a man. His brow furrowed. Women were allowed only for the fairs and festivals. The men knew better than to bring their womenfolk to tourneys and battles. There should not be a lass here at all.

  He strode toward the melee, which was becoming louder by the minute, and watched as more of the crowd did the same.

  When he reached the edge of the group, he peered over the heads of the gathered men, surprised to see a head of golden hair in the middle. The lass kicked any man who came too near, sending some of them flying. Her shining hair was pulled back and bounced in the air with every one of her moves.

  None of the men appeared to be harming her, but the sight of a lone lass standing in the middle of over fifty men did not settle well. His father’s words rang out to him. A lass does no’ have the muscle of a lad. By your honor as a Highlander, never raise your hand to someone who cannae fight back.

  His sire had also pledged to haunt him if he ever allowed one of his brothers—or indeed, any of his clanmates—to hit a woman. As laird of his keep, it was his job to protect the innocent, even if they were not of his clan.

  Brann’s bellow stopped the men short as he forced his way into the crowd, pushing and shoving at four different plaids, until he reached the center and stood face to face with the lass.

  She froze as the crowd parted, panting as if she’d been battling for hours. He’d expected to see a lass in tears, but instead her face held a fury he hadn’t seen in many of his opponents.

  She shouted something at him in a strange tongue or twist of an accent, but her stance told him exactly what she wanted. Stay away.

  Rather than comply with her wishes, Black Brann advanced toward her. There was only one reason he moved forward—the woman was gorgeous—and her golden hair and blue eyes beckoned him. He knew it was foolish, especially since he’d seen her kick as high as a man’s head with those long, lithe legs, but he was powerless to stop himself. It was as if he was drawn to her by some mysterious source.

  She shouted again at him, and when he didn’t stop, she bent over at the waist, leaning away from him, and kicked him square in his bollocks.

  He’d been quick enough to catch her oddly covered foot before she connected with all her strength. Her force and aim had been greatly diminished by his arm, but she’d connected with her target enough for him to nearly drop to his knees.

  A hush covered the crowd in an instant.

  Black Brann, champion of the Highlands, had just been bested by a lass.

  Chapter Two

  Allie gulped as she hit her target. Of all the men she’d squared off with, why had she chosen to hit the tallest and most muscular one in the balls? It would probably only piss him off.

  She’d been crazy to stroll into a clearing full of men, especially men dressed so oddly, and think she’d find one who’d help her. They had the biggest swords she’d ever seen strapped to their bodies, and their clothing appeared to be from ancient times.

  A phone. All she needed was a phone. Yes, she was in a foreign country, but surely Scots carried phones. Even ones who dressed like they were attending a medieval festival and acted like cavemen.

  What kind of group was this, anyway? Was she about to be sacrificed to a cult god, or were they just fools who didn’t bathe?

  A queasiness deep in her belly insisted something deeply strange was going on here—stranger even than being circled by a group of big, burly, badly dressed men—but she didn’t have time to dwell on it. The fury on the face of the man in front of her called her back to her present circumstance. She knew how painful it was for a man to take a blow to his testicles. She’d even suffered a ruptured cyst on her ovaries, and one of her textbooks had said the pain was comparable. Both organs were well protected because of their reproductive purpose for the species. Her nurse’s training never left her, but something told her the man in front of her, struggling to speak from her kick, wouldn’t care for an anatomy lesson.

  “I warned you. I warned all of them.” She swept her arm around in a semicircle. Her words rang out in the clearing, the hush that her blow had caused louder than any shouting she’d ever heard before. “Yet you continued to move. None of you have the right to touch me, so keep your distance.”

  The tic in the man’s jaw told her he still struggled, but his gaze never left hers as he forced himself to a standing position. Every male face in the area stared at them, no doubt waiting to see how he would retaliate.

  The whispers began in an odd dialect she couldn’t quite understand. Some of it was close to the Scottish brogue she’d heard since she and her sisters had arrived in Scotland, but others were totally unintelligible. The ones she could make out were not the kind of words she’d hoped to hear.

  She was about to die.

  “Black Brann is going to kill the wench.”

  “Who would dare hit Black Brann?”

  “She’s a dead woman.”

  “Her words are odd. I thought her English, but nay. Those arenae English words.”

  “If she be English, he’ll kill her for certes.”

  “She’s nae English. Look at the wench, would ye?”

  “How do ye think he’ll kill her, slowly or so fast she’ll no’ see it coming?”

  “I wager slow!”

  She heard the group place their wagers on her possible murder, but she stood her ground. Allison Sutton, all five foot six of her, stood there in her wet skinny jeans, her peasant top clinging to her average-sized breasts, and stared down the huge Highlander standing in front of her. Maybe she should explain that she’d learned to kick that way thanks to her countless ballet classes.

  Again, he didn’t look like he would care.

  In fact, he looked as though he’d strolled off the pages of one of Jennae Vale’s Thistle and Hive Series novels. Her characters had traveled across a bridge and ended up in a different century.

  That twist in her gut became painful. The heroines of those books had time traveled to ancient Scotland. These brutes looked like t
hey were ancient Scots, and they probably sounded like them, too. Besides, wouldn’t a backwoods cult this big have been found by the authorities before now?

  Of course, time travel was impossible.

  But wasn’t it also impossible that she’d jumped from a waterfall and ended up in a pond?

  There was no chance to think the crazy thought through. The brute moved closer, with a fury in his eyes she didn’t like. Hoping to calm him as she did many of her disagreeable patients, she used her best nurse tone and said, “I’m sorry, but you gave me no choice. You refused to stop.” She lifted her chin another inch, doing her best to appear strong and bold.

  Grasping her by the shoulders, Black Brann lifted her into the air with a huge roar. The men around her joined in, making a ruckus unlike anything she’d ever heard. She was about to kick the big guy in his teeth, but to her surprise, he set her back down in front of him.

  Black Brann had scared the shit out of her, but he hadn’t harmed a hair on her head. Who was this man?

  He moved closer, his eyes boring into hers. “What accent is that ye have? If I’d understood yer strange words, I may have stopped a bit quicker, but I’ve nae heard that exact talk before.”

  Something about his green eyes grabbed her, and not in the way she’d expected. They were the strangest shade of green she’d ever seen, like the color of a fresh lime. His admittedly dirty hair was thick and dark brown, and he had a chiseled jaw and a dimple on one cheek. The closer he came, the warmer she became, a strange heat coursing through her as though she were attracted to him.

  Dammit, she was—his masculinity, his strength, and his brawn overheated her.

  No way, Allie. He’s a brute.

  She was flushed from exertion. That was all it was.

  Two men next to her began to ramble in a foreign tongue, a guttural twist that was unfamiliar to her, as if they’d sooner spit the words out than speak them.

  He nodded to them. “‘Tis Gaelic they speak, and I speak Scots, which is a bit newer to all, but I dinnae know what ye speak. ‘Tis no’ like the English I hate.” His gaze traveled down her length, lingering on her clothing. “And what ye wear is a wee bit tight, ‘tis nae? Or do ye wish to give yer wares away?”