A Scot to Remember

by Angeline Fortin

  Tris rolled his eyes and squatted low. Shaking Henry by the shoulder, he pointed to a stand of thick-trunked oaks nearby. “Get Hazy behind the tree. Go! Brontë, go!”

  Gritting her teeth, she snatched up her skirts and sprinted to the tree while Henry crouched over Hazel and half-dragged, half-ran with her. A shot nicked the trunk of a neighboring tree and her fear turned to anger. This guy was really pissing her off. How dare he?

  “Don’t think you can run from me,” came a shout through the trees. “There’s nowhere to go.”

  “What is going on?” Henry asked in confusion. “Who is that?”

  Tris crowded next to them and she sneered with a snarl of rage. “It’s that mother fucking Wyndom.” They all stared at her as if she were more horrifying than the bullets whizzing by. “Oh, fuck it. That’s seven. Ready to run?”

  Tris lifted his chin with a grim jerk.

  “Come out, Lord Burnham,” Wyndom called.

  “Mr. Wyndom is behind this? Why? What does he want with Henry?” Tears rolled down Hazel’s cheeks, but she seemed to have collected herself.

  “I don’t know.” What little she’d learned from Donell’s vague inference on the matter made about as much sense to her as anyone’s theories about why a random guy in Henry’s life would chose him to go on a murderous rampage would make sense to any of the others.

  “Come out and I’ll let your friends live.”

  Henry stiffened at the offer and shifted. Brontë grabbed him at the same time as Tris. “If I dinnae get to play hero, neither do ye, old chum.”

  “No one’s sacrificing themselves to this bastard,” Brontë told them. “It’s not like he’s going to leave witnesses behind anyway. He’s got one more shot at most, right?”

  “Unless he’s already reloaded, aye,” Tris confirmed.

  “Or has a second weapon,” Henry added.

  Great.

  “I say we go at him from all directions,” she suggested. “There’s enough trees between us that he’ll be hard put to aim at multiple moving targets without hitting something else as well.”

  “Nay. Ye stay here with Hazy,” Tris said. “Henry and I will go.”

  “This isn’t a women and children first occasion,” she said. “We need as much resistance as possible.”

  “I’m not going to wait, Lord Burnham,” Wyndom said, much closer than before. “I’d hate for your pretty wife to get hurt.”

  A split second too late, she saw it. The potent rage suffusing Henry’s face. He tore away and ran toward Wyndom’s voice with a heinous yell that would have put those ancient sword-wielding warriors he’d once joked about to shame.

  God, she wouldn’t have thought he had it in him.

  With a low curse, Tris bolted as well. Like Henry, he dodged from tree to tree in an irregular crisscross path. “They used to play like this when they were boys.” Hazel looked up at her. “Hiding in the woods.”

  Sure, but they were broader than most of the trees now.

  Brontë spotted Wyndom, no more than thirty yards away. His pistol raised and swinging from side to side as they attacked from different directions. A shot split the air and she heard a distinctive male grunt, followed by Hazel’s soft whimper. As if she felt the bullet that hit her husband. Henry clapped a hand to his shoulder and kept running. “That’s eight!”

  Tris took a straight path as the last shot rang out. Wyndom twisted to the side, back to a tree as he rifled through his pockets. “He’s reloading!” Brontë yelled and ran after them, before skidding to a halt.

  Her purse. Where was it?

  Running back to the blanket, she tore through the items there, upending the picnic basket. A shout echoed through the trees, then a thud. Snatching up the velvet bag, she dashed back toward the fight. Tris had tackled Wyndom to the ground. A shot fired before the pistol flew from his hand and fell into the grass. Both men scrambled after it. As soon as the evil bastard tried to climb to his feet, Henry caught him from the other side. They tumbled to the ground, Henry with a pained moan. His beige jacket turning dark brown at the shoulder and spreading outward.

  He was bleeding bad.

  Tris turned and charged Wyndom. The cowardly bastard turned and ran at Brontë. He pulled a knife from his belt and yanked off the leather sheath. The murderous intent blazing in his eyes and in the snarl on his lips drew her up short. She took a step back. Tris gave chase and launched himself forward, bringing Wyndom to his knees. He flipped him over and landed a hard punch to the jaw.

  “Ye willnae touch her, ye manky bastard.”

  He punched Wyndom again, so hard the man’s head bounced off the ground. Defending her, channeling the savage Scots of old. He drew back and walloped him again and Wyndom spit up blood. He also lashed out, the blade of the knife flashing in the sun.

  “Tris!”

  Tris threw up an arm, deflecting the blade. A thin red line blossomed up his cheek close to his ear. He leapt back, his stance low and wary as Wyndom held the knife at the ready. The villain jumped to his feet. They circled one another, looking for an opening.

  Recalling her intention, Brontë dug into her purse. “Keep him busy.”

  Jumping back as Wyndom arced the knife through the space between them, Tris gave a terse nod. “Aye, right, lass. Nae problem.”

  She didn’t have control over time at the moment, but she hadn’t come unarmed. She pulled out the taser she’d brought back with her to triumph in the mugging. Scotland in her time was a land of firearms bans. Getting a gun was impossible. The taser she’d had since college, because a college girl in New York City had to have something. Problem was, it was a contact taser. Meaning she’d have to be close enough to him to touch him.

  “Can ye hurry along wi’ whatever ye’re about, lass?” Tris called out as Wyndom dove at him, knife slashing. He sidestepped and ducked, casting a look her direction. “I’d like to avoid dying horribly if I could.”

  He didn’t look like he was afraid of dying horribly. If she had to guess, he looked like he was having a bloody good time.

  Brontë crept forward as Wyndom swung wide again. This time, Tris caught him by the wrist and twisted his arm up behind him. Higher until Wyndom cried out in pain. Still he didn’t drop the knife. Tris shoved him back and cracked his clenched hand against a tree trunk. Once. Twice.

  The knife flew away and landed with a soft thunk. Wyndom tried to lunge for it, but Tris was on top of him before he could take a step. This time Tris had no mercy. He pummeled the man with his fists, landing blows to the head, face and gut that sent Wyndom staggering from side to side. One final upper cut sent the man spinning and he fell face down. With a pained groan, he pushed to his hands and knees.

  Tris stepped forward.

  “Uh, may I?” Brontë asked, waggling the taser in the air.

  Wyndom twisted his neck to look at her. Even bruised and bleeding, she could see the vicious scowl. He spat on the ground between them. “I knew it. Mental anguish? Work place equality? Who says that? I’ll tell you who.” He lurched forward a half step and fell on one knee. Tris stopped dead in his tracks as he went on, “This is all your fault. Without you, this would have been over. You think I like it here? You think I like living this life? Wearing these clothes? Living like a savage? I haven’t even been able to fuck that juicy blonde. Being an asshole is my only joy. I don’t get to go home until my mission is done. And it never will be as long as you’re around, will it? Who are you? One of Donell’s pet projects?”

  “Brontë, what is he talking about?”

  She stood frozen as Wyndom spewed his vitriol upon her, but the moment Tris spoke, she sprang forward and slammed the taser against Wyndom’s neck. He stiffened with an anguished shout. His body shuddering in spasmatic jolts until he fell face down. This time he didn’t move.

  “What the bloody hell?” Tris gawked down at him and then her. “What was that?”

  “It holds an electrical charge.” She bent to retrieve the purse she’d dropped and put t
he weapon in it before he thought to ask to see it. Out of sight, out of mind. Hopefully. That done, she returned to his side. “Are you all right?”

  “’Tis nae more than a scratch.” He swiped at his cheek and nudged Wyndom with his toe. “Is he dead?”

  “Don’t we wish.”

  “How —”

  Sliding her hand into his, she hugged his arm. “I will tell you everything. I promise. First, let’s call the authorities and take care of Henry.”

  With a curt nod, Tris turned and went to his friend, who lay with his head cradled in Hazel’s lap. He was conscious, grimacing in pain. The circle of blood on his coat front blossomed inches wide.

  “Let’s get his jacket off,” Brontë suggested.

  Tris levered his friend forward while Hazel helped tug off the coat. Henry hissed in pain. The vest beneath was no better. Without prompting, Hazel unbuttoned the waistcoat and spread it wide. His white shirt was stained to the waist. This wasn’t good.

  “Did it go through?”

  “Yes.” Hazel nodded. “His back is worse than the front.”

  That was good. According to extensive medical knowledge she’d gained from those action movies and many seasons of Grey’s Anatomy. “We need to stop the bleeding. Take off his shirt.” Pale and pained, Henry somehow managed a flush. “Good grief, we’ve all seen a bare chest before.”

  Holding him forward, Tris and Hazel worked the clothes off of him. Brontë considered their options for bandages. In all the old timey movies, they tore pieces off woman’s petticoats. Neither she or Hazel had those. Taking Henry’s shirt, she wadded it into a ball and knelt to press it against his back as hard as she could. A low moan escaped him.

  “There’s so much blood,” Hazel whispered, her lips colorless. “Will he...? Is he going to...?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Brontë assured her with as much as an upbeat tone as she could manage. “Can you get those napkins from the basket? We could use them.”

  With a shaky nod, Hazel stood and ran toward the picnic they’d left behind.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?” Henry murmured.

  “’Tis but a scratch,” Tris said lightly. “Dinnae be such a bairn.”

  Brontë took Tris’s hand and put it over the balled up shirt, then grabbed up the vest and scrunched it up against Henry’s chest. She caught Tris’s other hand and indicated where he should place it. They needed the best muscle they had for this. “Hard pressure on both sides. Hard as you can.”

  Tris grit his teeth and pushed until Henry groaned aloud. “Sorry, auld chum.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get yours.”

  “Aye,” Tris nodded with a grin. “I suspect ye’ll see to —”

  “No!”

  They all swung around at Hazel’s alarmed cry. She fell forward onto the cloth napkins she carried, tripped when Wyndom caught her ankle as she ran by. Scrambling to her hands and knees, she pitched forward, but he caught her by the waist and yanked her back. Both men flinched and started to stand only to hold when the madman staggered to his knees and pulled her against him. The knife he’d retrieved pricked her neck.

  Eyes wide, Hazel stared at her husband alone, quaking from head to toe. “Henry.”

  “Let him bleed out.” Wyndom waved the knife at them before returning it to a more threatening position. “Let it go and she lives. No need for both of them to die.”

  With a low, defiant growl, Tris resumed the pressure on the wounds. Henry stayed his hand. “Do as he said. Leave it.”

  “Henry,” Tris protested. Hazel eyes rounded to owlish proportions and she shook her head. “No. Henry, no.”

  A world of emotion and unspoken words passed between them. Brontë saw it, felt it all with dread sinking in her heart. Hopelessness clenched her with its icy claws. In that moment, she wished she were truly clairvoyant. She had no idea how this would end. Yes, if the worst were to happen, she could go back and change it. Nonetheless, the trauma of watching people she loved getting killed again and again, was something she’d rather not repeat.

  Where was the gun? Her eyes darted around them, searching. He’d reloaded it. There’d been another shot before he dropped it. Did Tris get it? No, then...

  “Do it!” Wyndom demanded and Tris lowered the compresses. Triumphant, the killer dragged Hazel to her feet.

  Then something Brontë would never forget happened. God help them, if little Hyacinth and Carrie...even the future baby Phineas ever provoked such a look of chilling rage as the one that fell over their mother’s face, they’d better know how to run hard and long.

  Eyes narrowed, jaw clenched and set, Hazel stiffened from head to toe. “You will not hurt him,” she ground out.

  Wyndom kissed her cheek and grinned down at her with malicious glee, twisting the knife just so. “It could be you instead, if you prefer. Either way, there’ll be no more offspring from you.”

  He didn’t know that she already carried another baby, or he would’ve finished her right there. Hazel did, however. If possible, her countenance grew more arctic.

  “Don’t you dare!” Henry shouted, pushing Tris off. “Hazy.”

  Hazel brought her heel down on Wyndom’s instep and spun around, shooting the heel of her hand up into his nose. Blood spurted out. Wyndom covered it with one hand and swiped at her with the other. She stumbled back, hands buried in her skirts...

  No, digging in her pockets, Brontë realized an instant before the gunshot rang out. Wyndom staggered back, his bloody hands now clasped against his diaphragm. He stared down at them in astonishment, then up at Hazel who continued to hold the gun in both hands at the ready.

  She fired it again when he took a step toward her. This time sending a bullet straight into his head. His head snapped back, and he teetered like a punching bag before falling. Such a kindness she’d done him. That stomach wound would have had him lingering in agony for days. A more fitting punishment than a merciful death.

  Brontë ran to Hazel as she fell to her knees, trembling. Taking the gun from her lest it be accidently fired again, she hugged her ancestor hard. “Are you okay? I’m so proud of you”

  “I couldn’t let him...” her quivering words trailed off.

  Brontë squeezed her again. “I know. Your son’s going to need his father.”

  Chapter 33

  “HE’S LOST A LOT OF blood, but he will be fine in time.”

  Brontë unclenched her fist from around the time travel device and let it fall to the depths of her pocket. Had Sung-Li delivered a different prognosis, she’d been prepared to rewind time for a do-over. She wouldn’t if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Donell’s warning sang an ominous refrain in the back of her mind. A second try wouldn’t necessarily guarantee better results. Besides, she sensed Henry and Hazel’s relationship would be stronger for the trials they suffered.

  They’d both proven their willingness to sacrifice for one another.

  As Tris had demonstrated the same for her in becoming her human shield. Surely pure chivalry didn’t extend that far?

  Wyndom’s actions had shocked them all, although she was the only one privy to his true motivations. Still, his venomous denunciation of her interference had left her with many questions of her own. He’d been left here without a way out to complete his mission by killing Henry. How long had he been here? Who had sent him? And what role did Donell truly play in all this?

  Hopefully, she’d get those answers one day.

  For now, she had a few of her own to provide. Answers she’d promised to deliver.

  Slipping her hand into Tris’s, she rested her cheek against his shoulder. He clasped her hand while his gaze remained on Henry. In bed this time, with Hazel by his side.

  “Will you come with me? I want to take you somewhere.”

  “I want to be here when Henry awakens.”

  Understandable. He’d nearly lost a brother today. Not one of blood, but one of the heart. Maybe the single person in the world who truly understood who he was. At least b
efore Hazel’s recent enlightenment on the matter.

  And herself.

  “I think I can safely promise that I’ll have you back before anyone realizes we’re gone.” She gave him a gentle tug. “Please?”

  With a nod, he whispered a few words to Hazel and let Brontë lead him to the door. Hand in hand, they made their way, first to her room where she grabbed a small bag, then outside and down the front drive.

  “I’m proud of Hazy,” he said softly. “Sung-Li taught her well. I’ll worry less for all my cousins and nieces after this.”

  “She kept her head when it mattered,” she agreed.

  Silence fell again until the long shadows of the front gates were cast at their feet.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just a bit farther.”

  Once they were beyond the gatehouse, she led him to a spot she’d marked earlier that morning when Donell had dropped her off. And kindly left his car for her.

  Stopping next to a stand of three birch trees, she looked up at Tris. His hair was mussed from the fight and that thin line of dried blood ran from his jaw to the top of his left ear, even so he was handsome enough to take her breath away. She stroked his cheek, noticing how his lips softened and the moody gloom fled from his eyes leaving them a light, bright olive green. Catching her hand, he pressed a kiss to her palm.

  “What is this all about?”

  “You said the ot — ...er, last night that you don’t trust me,” she said quietly. “I want you to. To be able to trust me, that is.”

  While he didn’t say it aloud, she could see the question in his eyes. Why?

  So maybe you’ll be able to love me. Her eyes burned at the thought, tears threatening to spill from the ache of trepidation radiating in her heart. She couldn’t go there yet. While she might hope to extend their affair as long as possible, he may not be of the same mind. She covered his mouth before he could speak. “I want to take you somewhere. It will shock you, and you may never want to see me again.”

  The gleam in his eyes dimmed with each word. “Ye’re talking in riddles, lass. What are ye getting at?”