(unedited version)

Chapter 1

Central Scotland, Ronat Castle

Gods, how did he get caught up in saving an old woman in this 2084 rehash of Noah’s Flood? Cowboy doubted he would ever actually see his way to saving the Druidess in the torrential gale. He knelt in the storm’s darkness, squinted at the rain sheeting across the outside of his blister armor’s bluish surface, and grated his teeth.

Being dry and invisible was good. And bulldozing right through the drenched compound looked like the best route to locating the Sister. But where was she?

Getting inside the compound had been easy cloaked with the
Sea God’s fairy armor. There was nothing like being cast as the invisible cowboy. But finding the Druidess would be harder than riding a cactus bareback. And alone? Shit. Without the rest of the Death Squad for backup and a decent understanding of time-travel mechanics, he was screwed. Royally.

And the Order promised him a payoff.

He laughed outright. "Stupid, stupid boy. Must have been from the years you grew up under the baking Texas sun. Colorado boys aren’t quite so naïve." Or were they more John Denver-like than Texans? Hell, his being both obviously clouded his judgement. And made him talk too much. Thrusting his fingers through his short stiff hair, he doubted any reward awaited his return after he swept out the entire sixty-room Ring Master castle.

What else could a cadet expect? From his stint in the French Foreign Legion, he knew a man couldn’t trust anyone during entry-level training. Including chivalrous time-traveling mentors.

But he did know his way around Ronat Castle. At least, the layout in 2001. Unfortunately, it was 2084. "Damn the bastards."

What else could go wrong? His target was definitely old. Some Brother’s widow. Certain to prattle endlessly like an ancient hag. Or make him talk endlessly. He gulped.

He wouldn’t go back to that yammering phase of his life. How could he with a woman in tow? Aron MacKintosh. Purty Aron had a talker’s name alright. She had to be a crone by now. Probably had a big hairy wart on her nose. The Ring Masters undoubtedly lied about Druidic beauty like their big show of how he was being sent to save the timeline. With what? Grenades? Oh yeah. Don’t make a scene was the last thing he heard as the lights flicked out inside the stone circle. And now he was off to save some lost wrinkled widowed Druid who didn’t have a chance in time-travel Hell of returning to her time of origin without her spouse’s time-travel key.

The rain slowed to a soft patter. A few lit windows took form through the precipitation.

Aron was beyond those shimmering panes of glass. Somewhere right before he turned left, stepped through a closed doorway, and got back to wrestling his buddies.

"Get to it," he commanded, flinched at his superfluous babbling, rose, and strode through puddles inside his dry blister void as if he walked in another world, which wasn’t so far off the mark. The God’s armor pulled its user into a pocket between worlds. Between the Otherworld and Here. What he’d give to be dead in the Otherworld surrounded by babes. No crones. Those toothless lovelies had to reside in Hell. Not the Celtic Happy Otherworld. What a joke it would be to find the woman a walking corpse.

The dark outline of a door took form through the rain.

No need for doors. He painlessly passed through the exterior whitewashed wall, stepping into a large library illuminated with solar lighting.

Books under the lights. "Lotsa books." Good to see the kidnappers worried about the environment since they weren’t into maintaining the timeline’s integrity. Who needed to heed environmental issues when pushing the paradoxical nature of snatching a Druidess from her duties to alter history?

The empty library rung with silence.

He stepped past a brown leather couch toward the closed door, reached for the doorknob out of habit, waved off the action, and passed through the dark wood into a shadowy hallway. The passageway hadn’t changed since his time of departure.

A light brightened the end. He hurried toward the lit hall.

The end of the passageway mushroomed, revealing an ascending staircase. A chain dropping down from the ceiling halfway up the stairs attached to a-

"Shit," he blurted.

A nude woman struggled with her cuffed wrists at the end of the chain. His footsteps froze.

She was no crone with her lingerie model’s body. He had the perfect frontal view the way she faced him, her arms stretched over her head as she studied the shackles at her wrists.

Man, he had erred. The Brothers sent him to a heaven where sweet curvaceous angels hung about ready for plucking.

The woman seemed to teeter, glancing back and forth between her feet and hands. Something bothered her more than the simple fact she was manacled. More than her nudity.

Her loose copper hair hung down to her knees.

Gods, the crinkled mass swung seductively. Touched her in a way a man should. He needed to get her off the damned can she stood upon. Hack the chain in two with his nidium Bowie knife. But opening his cloaking armor would reveal his presence.

She grunted, wriggling, focusing on the chain, yanking at the golden links with desperate fingers.

A man had two choices. Continue with his duty. Or cut down the maiden. What the heck. Duty was duty. And Ring Masters promoted chivalry. Weren’t Cowboys twentieth-century knights-in-shining-armor too? Boy, his twelfth-grade English teacher would love to know he recalled that scholarly tidbit.

Her body flinched awkwardly. She gaped at her feet. "Oh-h?" Her whine curdled.

What was she doing?

Her body jerked. Metal clanked at her feet. She choked back a scream, closing her eyes as she jolted at the end of the chain. A coffee can tumbled to the base of the stairs and rolled to a stop at the wooden baseboard.

Criminey. He took the stairs three at a time toward the dangling woman.

She kicked at a wooden step, toed a hold, then lost the grip.

The woman fell so quickly he expected her arms to rip from their sockets. He was there before she cried out. "Open," he commanded.

The blister armor rifted from the wooden steps upward, allowing the artificial lighting to whiten the view. Her blue gaze met his.

An eerie unnatural blue gaze. Druid eyes. He gulped, swung his Bowie knife at the gold chain, and reached for her.

"No," she snarled, falling backward. Her body thumped against the burgundy wall. She managed to catch herself with her feet and glared at him.

"You’re a Druid," he stated, thrusting his knife back in its sheath at his hip.

"Touch me and die," she spat through grated pearly whites.

Footfalls drummed in the distance.

Someone was coming. He had to hide her. He focused on her squared red eyebrows. He doubted she meant her warning. But the comment suited the situation. "Honey, I wasn’t sent to give you a massage."

Her eyes flared copper with rage. "Bastard."

"Most folks would agree with you. But for now, I’m going to save you." He reached for her raw cuffed wrists.

She grabbed his arm and sank her perfect white teeth into his tanned skin.

"Shit." He jerked his arm away from her and rubbed the stinging beads of blood.

The footsteps stomped into the hall below.

"Stop," yelled a muscular man dressed in black leather.

Something shoved his arm. The woman toppled past him.

This was no time for cat and mouse games. He leapt after his fleeing charge and fell onto her slim stiff frame.

She grunted.

He grabbed her falling body nonetheless. But his momentum set them tumbling further in a mass of flailing limbs.

A small contingent of black-dressed men stomped toward them.

Someone had to do something fast. With a flick of his wrist, he settled the blister armor around their rolling bodies. "Close."

The armor sealed tight, closing out the bright lighting with its blue mottled transparent surface.

They rolled another full circle until clearing the bottommost step and stopped in a jumble of arms and legs. The babe felt too soft. Too amazing. He gazed down into her blue eyes.

"Let go of me, you bastard." She punched at his shoulder.

Why did he want to hold on? She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. That’s why. Mean as a pit bull too. But exquisite with perfectly chiseled features. And those eyes were so big and helpless. Until she squinted with malice.

She socked his cheek. "Curse you to bloody Hell. Let me go."

Maybe not helpless by the fire burning the side of his face. Inside the safety of the blister void, they could never be found though. He released the sexy pit bull and shoved onto his knees.

She scrabbled away from him, scanning the mottled bluish boundaries of the fairy armor, and clutched her arms over her breasts.

So much for duty. The lost view had made his venture worthwhile. "You’re safe now, Sister." He’d rather call her Beautiful.

All his blood raced to his loin.

Beautiful pulled her knees to her chest too. "What do you mean? Who, by all that is sacred, are you?"

The Gods would see humor in sending him after an annoying redhead. Saucy redheads always made him rock hard. He shifted to crouch on his ankles and thrust his hand through his short spiked hair. "I’m Cowboy. I’ve been sent to retrieve Aron MacKintosh."

"So that’s all they told you for orders?"

He almost rolled his eyes. "No. You don’t need to know the rest." A lie never hurt when a man’s pride was at stake. Besides she was awfully rude seeing he just saved her fine bare ass.

"How am I supposed to believe you’re not one of them?" She thrust her chin at the milling dupes.

He slid his gaze to the geniuses who kept charging through the void as if he wasn’t there. They’d never see him. Or her.

"Do I look as stupid as them?" he asked.

The babe went slant-eyed. "If you’re not with them, you’ll give me your shirt."

What? He stared into her insistent gaze. Beautiful could play a mean hand of poker with those squared eyebrows. It couldn’t hurt to soothe her anger. "My shirt will make things better?"

"And your pants."

Beautiful had to be kidding. But the gamble just might pay off. He could be trapped in a blister void with a woman determined to escape or give her his pants. Gods, after the first view he got of her nude body, he would be better off with those curves covered.

Aron couldn’t believe what was happening. The blond man tossed his ammo belts over his head, tugged his black tank top from where it was tucked into the narrow waistband of his gray-black-and-white camouflage pants, yanked the stretchy fabric over his head, and handed the shirt to her.

No way. He wasn’t going to give in to her demands. Could the God-dess-Spirit have sent a Brother to her aid? She gulped and took the soft cotton.

The warm fabric felt wonderful against her breasts. But with the nidium shackles on, she couldn’t stick her arms through the holes. She could only tuck it under her armpits for coverage. Yet, his weapon appeared to be fashioned from the God’s metal. Only Brothers had fairy-forged nidium blades. And fey-forged edges cut fey-forged shackles.

"Is that a nidium dirk?" If he said yes, he was a Brother.

He nodded, unsheathed the huge glinting weapon, and cocked one of his blond eyebrows. "Shall I release you from those manacles?"

"Don’t touch me," she warned.

Goddess, knows how The Master’s men poked and fondled her as she hung on the stairs for three bloody days. Could this man be trusted to keep his hands to himself? For some reason, that didn’t seem likely. She had to escape. That meant losing the handcuffs. Not to mention his attentive gaze. He stared at her like she was hunk of meat. The cretin.

Without the fetters, she could escape. With or without his assistance. She thrust the bloody cuffs beyond her knees and nodded.

The man carefully wriggled the tip of his blade beneath one bit of metal and pressed. The back of the knife pushed fire into her raw skin. She winced, closing her eyes.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

The restraint popped open.

"Praise the God-dess-Spirit," she whispered.

The dirk wormed beneath the other choking nidium hobble. Fiery pain stung her other wrist. She bit her lip. The cuff popped free.

If only to breathe freely again. She shook the accursed metal from her arms, grabbed the tank top, and jerked the shirt over her head. It gaped way below her breasts where the armholes dipped beneath her arms, but she wouldn’t remove the top with him watching. Too many males got a fine show of her recently. She wouldn’t indulge this man’s interest. "Your pants," she insisted.

He scowled.

An amazing grimace. The man was tanned, muscled, and had a friendly look to him. Like he smiled all the time. But he wasn’t smiling now. "Your pants," she demanded.

He rose, unfolding above her. Muscles bulged along his arms, traced out his ribs, and twitched on his square jaw.

Goddess, was he going to give her his pants? What a chivalrous deed. No. No, she had demanded the gesture. There was no valor in his straight-lipped scowl. More like pure resentment.

He unbuttoned the fly, wriggled his hips, and shoved the pants to his black combat boots. His white boxer shorts bulged straight out at her.

He certainly could have his way with her. Pin her down. Take what The Master wanted. But she’d held out, saved the timeline and her maidenhead. And the Gods had sent her this man in exchange for her being dutiful. At least, she hoped he was her savior. Anything could happen after her capture. Time would reveal if he were her guardian or be in cahoots with The Master. She would have to wait and see.

He sat, untied his boots, and tugged the pants off. "You want them, Honey, you’ve got them." He tossed the camouflage pants at her knees and a socked foot back into his boot.

If the twinkle in his blue eyes were anything but feigned amusement, she would have flayed him with his pants. But there was no time for tirades. He’d handed over. A lass would be a dolt for wasting an opportunity to clothe herself and escape. She thrust her legs into the warm pant legs and drew the soft fabric up to her hips.

His interested gaze watched her every move.

The pig. "Turn around," she growled.

He rose, planted his hands on his hips, turned his broad back to her, and sighed, loudly.

She shot to her feet, fingers fumbling for the buttons to secure the baggy pants around her waist. The muscled man looked quite silly in knee-high sweat socks, combat boots, and white boxers.

"Have you finished, Honey?" he droned.

Not with his attitude. "Give me your under shorts."

He whirled, eyes half shuttered, and took a step toward her. The air grew tight, pressing against her throat. His blue gaze dropped down to within two inches of hers. She could count the three freckles on his nose.

Three was a lucky number. Luck born out of serious conditions.

"You get the shorts, Honey, and you get everything else. Comprendes?"

So much for three.



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