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  Prologue

  1314 AD, The Scottish Highlands Near Strathy Point

  The MacGregor dismounted from his horse, his clothes and body smeared with the caked dirt that seemed to go hand-in-hand with long trips and dismal weather. He glanced down at his commander-at-arms and flashed him a rare half smile.

  The battle was over and the English vermin had been driven back to their dens of iniquity, forced to recognize the Bruce as the one true ruler of the Scots. No more would the king of all Scotland be forced to bow low to the whims of the English monarchy. Scotland had been purged of its pariah and the MacGregor was proud and honored to have been a part of making that eventuality come to pass.

  The laird and his men were finally home. Back to loyal clansmen and lusty wenches. Back to good ale and hearty food. Back to the Highlands. Home.

  “Och, but ‘tis good tae see ye again Thomas,” a voice boomed out from the direction of the keep.

  The MacGregor turned around to greet one of the elders from his clan. He nodded respectfully to him then patted him heartily on the back. “’Tis good tae be home, John. Come inside and take the evening meal with my men and me. I should like a full report from ye on everything that has happened in my leave.”

  John nodded and smiled. “’Tis an honor, my lord.”

  Thomas, the MacGregor, tossed the reins of his mount to a waiting stable lad and walked toward the doors of his keep. He didn’t bother to wait for John, or for Sir Dugald, his commander-at-arms, for he knew both men were right at his heels. Thomas flicked the heavy wooden doors open with a faint motion of his wrist and strode into the great hall to wait for his meal.

  The laird sighed in satisfaction as he took a look around him. The array of food spread out before him, the sounds of serving wenches scurrying about to do his bidding, the laughter of his men echoing throughout the keep—‘twas truly good to be home. ‘Twas the memory of his hall and his lands that had warmed him all those dreary, long nights at Bannockburn, and then again at the ever jaded court.

  Sir Dugald watched Thomas’s reactions keenly, understanding all too well how he felt. He smiled and raised a tankard in salute to him, never expecting the MacGregor to smile back. ‘Twas something he simply did not do. So, the commander-at-arms was not surprised when Thomas raised his tankard to him and nodded in return, no smile to be found.

  Sir Dugald took a long swig from his tankard then set it down and attacked his much anticipated meal. He chewed thoughtfully on a piece of pheasant, watching the keep’s activity bustle about him while he ate. He grinned and rolled his eyes when he noticed the worried expressions writ across the faces of the serving wenches who were all but tripping over one another in a race to placate the MacGregor.

  Nay, worried wasn’t the right word. Terrified was more to the point. ‘Twas as if they feared that making the slightest mistake in his presence would incur his wrath.

  Sir Dugald realized that the laird was a harsh looking man. Aside from being tall and thickly muscled, the MacGregor’s countenance was as black as his hair and eyes. He never laughed, rarely smiled, and thought nothing of bellowing orders to women with the same ferociousness that he bellowed commands at his men.

  In keeping with his dark looks and brooding countenance, the MacGregor’s reputation was just as fierce. ‘Twas said he could kill a man with his bare hands without so much as breaking into a sweat. ‘Twas also said no clan would dare attack MacGregor land for fear of the laird’s retribution.

  Aye, ‘twas all true, but he still couldn’t fathom why women cowered before the laird so. He had never brought harm to any female after all.

  Even during raids when the MacGregors stole womenfolk from competing clans, the laird had never allowed the wenches to be ill-used. He would force them to choose a husband from amongst clansmen who were willing to take them to wife, but he had never forced them to submit to relations with any and all MacGregors that wanted between their thighs.

  Sir Dugald grinned as he continued to watch the activity about him. The wenches in the keep had to be aware of the fact that the MacGregor would bring them no harm, yet they still ran around like skittish colts bolting from an impending threat. He shook his head bemusedly.

  Thomas had been gone a long time, without the benefit of a wench in his bed, and ‘twas a certainty the laird didn’t intend to spend his first night back at the keep wooing anybody. ‘Twas no wonder the MacGregor had no use for wenches outside of the bedchamber. He couldn’t respect cowardice in anyone, be they a man or a woman.

  Sir Dugald caught the laird frowning intently at the women hustling around him and laughed. He acceded to the fact that the MacGregor must have been thinking along the same lines that he was. “Worrying that the wenches willna fall intae bed with ye, Thomas?”

  The MacGregor scowled at his commander-at-arms, causing the elder John to bellow a laugh before he gulped more ale from his tankard. “No’ tae fear laird. The lassies might be scared tae get intae yer bed but they willna tell ye nay.”

  Thomas rolled his eyes. He wouldn’t take an unwilling woman. Aye, he would be ridden tonight, but the wench would want it. As frightened of him as the majority of womenfolk were, there were still those that would fall willingly into his bed for the promise of pleasure alone. At six feet and five and as thick with muscle as the trunk of a tree, he was monstrously huge for sure, but luckily that attribute carried over into every of his physical realms.

  The laird turned his attention from his lusty thoughts and focused them on the elder. “So tell me John, has all been well here?”

  John nodded emphatically, assuring him that he had seen to the needs of the clan well in his stead. “Aye my lord, naught but goodness has happened in yer absence. The number of cattle were increased by a third and the crops were bountiful this harvest. We will see through this winter with no trouble a’tall in feedin’ our own.”

  The MacGregor nodded, satisfied. “Any trouble with the MacAllisters?” he inquired without much emotion in his rumble of a voice.

  “Nay,” John denied, “they brought us no trouble a’tall.” The elder unsheathed his dagger and tore into the platter of meats that had been placed into the hollowed out piece of bread before him. He drew a plump helping of fish to his mouth, then stopped before biting into it. “How was the fightin’, my lord? By the saints, how I miss being young enough tae battle!”

  Sir Dugald laughed. “Dinna ye ha’ any amusements in the keep whilst we were gone?”

  John rolled his eyes heavenward. “Amusements? If ye call settlin’ petty arguments a’tween a bunch of squawkin’ lassies amusin’, then aye, I was amused tae kingdom come.”

  Sir Dugald bellowed even louder. The MacGregor didn’t smile, but a twinkle could be seen in his eyes—the usual indication that he was well humored.

  John’s comment brought Thomas’s thoughts back to his empty bedchamber. He darted his eyes around the hall and noticed the various glances some of the bolder women were favoring him with. As always, there were more than a few wenches willing to be ridden hard for a few hours.

  The MacGregor caught the eye of Matilde, a widow he had never tried before. He didn’t know much of the serving wench, only that she was originally from France but had married into the MacGregor clan several years ago. Her husband Gideon had been killed by a wild boar a few months before Thomas had left with his men for Ban
nockburn, thus now she worked inside of the keep with the other widowed women.

  Just as Thomas was about to settle his intentions on Matilde, he noticed the angry scowl writ across the wench Judith’s face. Judith had the honor of being his favored before he left the keep, so she probably wouldn’t take well to him using Matilde afore herself. Thomas sighed. Wenches. They knew jealousies that a man never felt, at least not this man.

  Ever the gentleman, the MacGregor forsook his intentions of tumbling Matilde and favored Judith with a telling wink and a directive nod toward his bedchamber door. Judith blushed and ran up the stairs to wait for him to come to her.

  John cleared his throat, aware of the fact that the laird wouldn’t be hanging around the hall for much longer. He would be heading for his bedchamber any moment now and the saints only knew how long it would be before he emerged again. The MacGregor had been known for his lusty appetite even afore he had left for war. Without benefit of a woman’s pleasures for the while he had been gone, ‘twas likely that Judith wouldn’t be able to walk in the morn. “Laird, there are a couple of things I should mention tae ye and Dugald afore ye retire fer the eve.”

  Thomas turned his gaze to the elder and nodded. John took that as a signal to continue. “There ha’ been strange weather occurrences in the hills as of late.”

  Thomas shrugged, looking at Sir Dugald. The commander-at-arms took a swallow of ale before responding to John’s benign comment. “So?”

  The elder sighed, shrugging as he spoke to Sir Dugald. “I doubt ‘tis anything tae worry aboot, but a few of the elders of the council thought it best that I should inform the laird of it. They are fearing it an omen, and are much afraid that it will cause the herds distress.”

  Sir Dugald nodded and turned to Thomas. The laird seemed unimpressed by the council elders’ worries. “What kind of weather occurrences?” Thomas finally asked.

  “In the fields atop the cliffs the herders ha’ been complaining of some strange happenin’s. ‘Twas said more than once that a portion of the sky up and turned black as the night in the blink of an eye. Hard rains, wind, and lightnin’ were enclosed within. They claim tae ha’ seen bands of color throughout the black mass and then, as quickly as it appeared, ‘twas gone.”

  Thomas looked thoughtful as he pondered what the elder had told him. “The herders dinna think them regular storms?”

  “Nay,” John denied, shaking his head. “They say ‘tis odd, but only one portion of the sky turns black and storms, whilst the rest of the skies are as blue as the grass is green.”

  Sir Dugald knit his brows together and looked to the laird. “Mayhap we should ride tae the hills on the morrow, my lord.”

  Thomas agreed, then stood to take his leave. “On the morrow, then. Fer now I bid ye both good eve.”

  John and Sir Dugald watched Thomas stride from the hall to the staircase. “My lord!” John called out, “I almost forgot.”

  Thomas cocked his head. “Aye?”

  “’Tis aboot the Hamiltons,” John continued. “Three of their men ha’ offered fer the widows Mary, Judith, and Matilde. They are willin’ tae give up cattle and crops tae take them off our hands. Are ye agreeable?”

  Thomas nodded without hesitation. “Aye, I know that they lost many womenfolk in their battle with the Hays. Ye can send Mary and Judith tae the Hamilton on the morrow.”

  John smiled, satisfied. “And Matilde, my lord?”

  Thomas pondered the question for less than a moment then curled his mouth humorlessly. “Aye, ye can send her tae, but no’ fer a few days. I should like tae try her afore she takes her leave.”

  John and Dugald laughed at that. “In a few days then, my lord,” John agreed.

  The laird nodded, then turned and took the steps two at a time. Matilde was for the morrow’s pleasures, but tonight there was Judith.

  The moment he reached the heavy wooden doors to his bedchamber, Thomas threw them open and strode inside. Judith was waiting, sitting demurely on the bed, a blush settled across her cherub’s cheeks. He sighed. As many times as he had bedded the lass, was it too much to ask that he not have to woo her every time they took a tumble together? He wasn’t up to cajoling her into riding him and assuring her that it was her duty to see to her laird’s needs, that she needn’t feel guilty for the pleasure of it.

  Still, the MacGregor was no savage. If he needed to woo Judith to get his tumble, then woo her he would. Thomas looked at the serving wench and curled one side of his lip upward in an awkward smile, aware of the fact that a lass seemed to desire that small token of caring before they bedded their master. “Stand up, Judith,” he bellowed as he removed his sword and let his plaid drop to the floor.

  His thickly erect shaft sprang free as he motioned for the lass to rise. Judith obeyed him immediately, moving to stand in front of her laird, her eyes downcast toward his feet.

  Thomas nodded, satisfied that his generous attempt at a semi-smile had made the wooing complete. “Remove yer clothes, wench.”

  Chapter 1

  2001 AD, Tampa, Florida

  It looked like a ghost town.

  It was barely the middle of the day yet not a single car could be found idling down the street. The neon signs weren’t flashing. The tourists weren’t blocking traffic, weren’t annoying the hell out of the natives as they endeavored to study their maps and drive at the same time. There were no prostitutes roaming the streets scouting for potential johns. Hell, there wasn’t even a solitary cop hanging around the local donut shop. All in all, the scene was pretty damn spooky. It was as if the city’s inhabitants had gotten up and collectively walked away.

  Maya Jones took in the sight around her through narrowed, speculative eyes as she plowed down Kennedy Avenue doing 65 in a 45 zone. Something just wasn’t right. Perhaps she had been an archeologist for too long, but the more she pondered the sheer emptiness of one of the busiest streets in her hometown, the more fitting the creepy comparison between Tampa and a lost civilization seemed.

  Roanoake.

  Yes, that’s what the vacant environment brought to mind. This was just like the colony of Roanoke, Virginia that had been established in 1585, then later found abandoned by English explorers, with no hint as to where the pilgrims might have wandered off to…or been taken to. The only message that had been left behind was the single word “CROATOAN” which had been carved into the trunk of a tree. Whether the message had been written by a pilgrim or by a murderer, well, archeologists still haven’t figured that one out.

  “Would ya slow down, Maya, before we get pulled over?”

  Maya snapped her scattered attention back from 1585, channeled it into the year 2001, and leveled it into the gaze of her driving companion and best friend, Dr. Sara Chance. “Huh?”

  Sara smiled, bemused by Maya’s distraction. If she knew Maya, and she most definitely did know Maya, then there was no doubt that her oldest and dearest friend was pondering the significance of Tampa’s empty streets. Maya had never been one to accept anything at face value. She would probe and dig and inquire until she was satisfied that she knew the ins and outs of any riddle that was put to her.

  Of course, that’s also what made Maya a great archeologist. When she excavated a site, she excavated the hell out of it. No stone was left unturned, no theory left unexplored. Dr. Maya Jones was the best. Every bit as good as herself, Sara mused.

  “I highly doubt we’re going to get pulled over, Sara. There isn’t a cop in sight. Hell, there isn’t anybody in sight.” Maya glanced in Sara’s direction as she brought the canteen of coffee nestled between her thighs up to her lips for a sip. She gulped down a hearty swallow and sighed in satisfaction.

  Sara grinned, holding out her hand for a sip of the hot Colombian brew. Once she felt sated, she turned her attention back to her best friend. “Okay Maya, what are you thinking?”

  Maya suppressed a dramatic sigh. She should have known that her thoughts wouldn’t go undetected from Madame Sleuth. The woman knew her too well.
That’s what comes from being friends with someone since childhood. “Exactly what you think I’m thinking—that this city looks a bit weird right now.”

  Sara nodded, her expression taking on a playful quality to it. “Maya darling, I hate to be the one that rains on your parade of intellectual discovery, but most people have already evacuated and headed inland due to the hurricane that’s on its way. The eye is supposed to come right up the coast after all.”

  Maya whipped her head around. “Hurricane? What hurricane?”

  Sara laughed then patted Maya on the knee. “Watch the road, not me,” she chastised as she brought the canteen up to her mouth for another swallow. “If you ever bothered to pick up a newspaper or switch on a TV you’d realize that there is much more to life than old bones and ruins.”

  “I hate the paper, too depressing,” Maya interjected, “and TV—well I just don’t find it as exciting as a good book.”

  “As it happens,” Sara continued, without responding to Maya’s appraisal of the modern day entertainments, “we’re expecting the biggest storm Tampa has ever encountered. We are, no doubt, two of only a mere handful of fools still hanging around to watch the drama unfold.”

  A hurricane. Ha! She should have known. Her thirst for explanations quenched, Maya regarded Sara thoughtfully. “So, do you want to stay put or do you want to go inland?”

  Sara chuckled. “What do you think?”

  Maya turned her attention fully to the road with a grin on her face. “I think that, like me, you want to watch the storm.”

  Sara nodded and quickly added, “plus I heard that Pete and the gang are throwing a hurricane party.” She rolled her eyes. “You know how they get off on sitting on the beach and getting loaded while they watch the storm ride in.”

  Maya’s grin widened as she thought about Pete’s last hurricane party. Only native Floridians and a few brave souls that had relocated from the north had been there. The majority of their friends had fled at first promise of a storm, heading off to cities like Orlando to ride the ominous weather out.