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.
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