Outlaw Highlander: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander's Time Book 3)
Page 2
“Just stay near the shore. It’s shallow enough to walk back in if you capsize.”
“But my tea, it’ll get cold.”
“Och, dinnae worry. I’ll make a fresh batch. You never ken how long the sun might stay out up here. Make the most of it while you can. You get out on the water. Your ma always loved rowing out there. I know you’ll love it tae.”
Lindsey wanted to refuse but couldn’t bear hurting the old woman’s feelings. Mrs. Campbell led her out of the guesthouse and down to the boat.
Lindsey glanced along the shore. A man was standing about twenty feet away, looking out at the loch, mist swirling around his ankles. He had a red tartan baldric across his bare chest and looked every inch the medieval Highlander in black trousers that clung to him, spear in his hand pointed toward the water.
“Who’s that?” Lindsey asked. “He looks like he’s just walked off the set of Outlaw King.”
“I cannae see anyone,” Mrs. Campbell replied, looking over the top of her glasses. “Though I’ve been meaning to get another eye test.”
Lindsey looked again but there was no one there. Just the mist growing thicker despite the sun high in the sky. “I could have sworn I saw-”
Mrs. Campbell thrust the book into her hands, distracting her. “Here. Take it with ye. Best place to read about the Highlands is in the middle of Loch Tay.”
“I thought you said to stay near the shore.”
“You enjoy yourself out there.”
With a push from Mrs. Campbell, the rowing boat began to ease out onto the water, rocking slightly on the gentle waves. Lindsey waved back at her host as she was swallowed up by the mist.
Silence fell. Taking hold of the oars, she began to row. A breeze blew the mist away and then she was able to see the rolling green hillsides around the loch. The water grew still as a millpond.
There was no risk of her falling out. She wondered why she’d been so worried. A deep sense of contentment came to her as she lay back with the book on her chest and began to read.
She soon lost herself in the detailed description of the murder of Princess Margaret who had only gone to visit Tavish in his chamber in the north tower of the castle. She was there to reject his proposal of marriage, tell him she was betrothed to Edward Caernarvon.
He grabbed her in a rage, snatching the locket from around her neck before hurling her from the window. She could picture it, the princess falling screaming to her death. Tavish thinking he’d assured himself of the crown by getting rid of the only heir.
The only problem was none of it made sense. How would killing her help him get the throne? He wasn’t from a noble background. He had no army to back him. He wasn’t even a laird. Why would anyone accept him saying he should be king?
She read the chapter again, hoping to spot something she might have missed. A breeze picked up but she didn’t notice, she was too engrossed in the book. The breeze pushed the boat slowly away from the shore as the mist began to swirl around it again, blocking her view of the land.
By the time Lindsey realized what was happening, she was in the middle of the loch. The mist parted once more and she saw the shore far away but didn’t recognize the view. The trees were gone, the hillside bare. Where was the Bed and Breakfast?
“Keep calm,” she told herself as the breeze stiffened into a strong wind that rocked the boat from side to side. “Just get back to the shore and then you can work out where you are.”
She started to row but it was hard. Whichever way she went the wind seemed to be against her, pushing her back toward the middle of the loch. Her arms ached from the effort as she shoved the oars down into the water again and again.
Out of nowhere there came a scraping sound somewhere under the boat. She fell back with a thump. Then something smacked into the hull.
Leaning over, she caught a glimpse of a jagged rock wedged into the side near the oar. As she tried to dislodge it a sudden gust blew, catching her off-guard. Before she could right herself, she tipped forward and fell headfirst into the water.
It was freezing, the icy cold making her gasp as she plunged down into the dark. She swallowed a lungful of water and that sent her into a blind panic. Thrashing her limbs, she managed to surface for long enough to see a figure on the shore.
She tried to wave for help, but she sank almost at once. Bobbing back up, there was no time to take another breath before she went under again, lungs burning, body screaming for air.
Kicking her legs, she prayed she could get onto the rock that was sticking out of the water, but it seemed to have vanished. She could feel nothing, see only darkness. She tried to push for the surface, but it got further away and then she slowly began to sink down toward the bottom of the loch.
This is it, she thought in the midst of her panic. This is how I’m going to die.
2
Tavish dragged the woman’s body out of the water and lay it down on the heather. He knelt beside her and placed a hand on her chest. Was she dead?
All of a sudden, her eyes opened. She coughed up a fountain of water, slapping his hand away from her a moment later. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Ye need tae take those clothes off, lass,” he said. He was surprised by the sound of his own voice. It had been many years since he’d spoken to anyone.
“Keep away from me,” she snapped, still scuttling away.
He sighed, shaking his head. “Keep going, English. You’ll be passed out in under a minute and I’ll just wait ’til then tae get them things off you, shall I?”
“Where am I?” Her teeth were chattering and the last of the color was draining from her face. She’d be gone soon.
“On the side o’ Loch Tay and aboot to die o’ the cauld.”
“Stay away from me. What am I doing here?” Her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she fell heavily on her back, moving no more.
Tavish looked up at the sky. “Ah was happy enough on ma own.” God had a dark sense of humour at times, it seemed. “Why’d you send me her?”
He walked over to her as she jerked awake again. She pointed a wild finger at him. “You stay away from me or I’ll scream.”
“Go ahead, there’s none but me and the coneys tae hear ye.”
“Mrs. Campbell will hear me. I recognize this bit of shore. She’s just around the corner. Probably calling the police already.”
“Good. Maybe your Mrs. Campbell can talk some sense into ye before you drop deed o’ the cauld.”
“What are you talking about?”
He sighed. Could she be that ignorant of the danger? “You need to get them off ye before the chill kills ye.”
She glanced out at the loch. “Where’s my boat?”
“About thirty feet down by noo. It fell apart when you hit yon rock.”
“The rock?” She paused. “I remember. I hit a rock and I fell out. I was drowning. Then-”
“Then ah dragged you out. Ah wouldnae have bothered if I’d known you’d be like this.”
“You…you saved me?”
He nodded.
“But why?”
“Are we going to blether all day or dae ye want tae stay alive? Get them wet things off noo.”
She was shivering uncontrollably as she stood there, her arms wrapped around her chest. “I’m not undressing in front of you.”
He wiped the water from his face with his palm, trying to keep calm. “This way.” He picked up his fishing rod and headed home. He didn’t bother to look behind him. She’d follow if she wanted to live.
“Where are we going?” Her voice a few feet back.
She was following him then. He was glad. He had enough deaths on his conscience. There was no need to add another one.
“To ma house,” he said, climbing up a steep slope and then down the other side. His self-made hut sat buried amongst gnarled old trees, barely visible unless you knew where to look.
He stopped in front of it. “Ah’ve got some things you can change intae for noo.”
“Inside and get changed noo or ah’ll tear them things off you ma self.”
She scrambled away from him, fear flaring in her eyes. In her rush to get inside she banged her head on the top of the doorframe, staggering back. He caught her before she could fall, helping her upright.
She looked at his hand on her shoulder, the other one on her waist, a dazed look across her face. He let go at once. No doubt she’d heard the stories about him and was terrified of what he might do. Was it worth correcting her? Probably not. No one ever believed the truth. Why should she be any different?
“The fire’s lit,” he said as she vanished inside. “Top it up with some of the peat while you’re in there.”
He shoved the door closed before leaving her to it, walking over to sit on the worn oak stump. He dug the knife out from his pocket. Soaked by the loch, it was already so rusty the water could do no more damage. Picking up the end of the fishing rod, he began to carve. One day he would carve a decent hook. How long had it been since he’d been able to get hold of proper metal?
He looked across at the line of stones in the grass in front of him. The nearest ones were almost swallowed by weeds. The more recent was scored with upright lines, a tally of weeks. He tried to add them up but he soon lost count. There was at least eight years worth, maybe ten. A long time to spend in exile.
The first year, he’d almost gone mad. All he could think about was the injustice of it all, being accused and convicted of a crime he didn’t commit, the entire clan despising him. Told to be thankful for banishment instead of execution.
He thought about that and managed a bitter smile. The laird knew exactly what he was doing. Banishment meant living with knowing his father was in the dungeon. Execution meant release from the pain of the injustice. He’d have taken execution any day given the choice. But he wasn’t given the choice.
He’d come to terms with it over time. He thought about suicide often in the first days and weeks but something always stopped him. A whispering voice that said one day something would come along that he could use to free his father.
He learned to survive while he waited. There was just him and his hidden corner of the world. In the last couple of years, he’d almost begun to enjoy it.
So why had he decided to help her? He retraced his steps. He’d been sitting by the shore looking out at the water, waiting for a bite. It had been three days since he’d caught a fish, the last of his knives too blunt to carve decent hooks anymore.
He was hungry and worn out, having not slept yet again.
Then she just appeared out of the mist in the middle of the loch. He must have been more tired than he thought. He hadn’t seen her row out there but all of a sudden there she was, falling into the water, her boat splitting apart around her.
He was diving in before he even knew he was doing it.
The time in exile had honed his waistline which helped with the rescue. He’d gone from fairly strong as laird in waiting to nothing but muscle, not a trace of fat on him.
His arms had swelled beyond all recognition, the result of years of chopping and carrying wood to keep warm at night. His limbs pushed effortlessly through the water and he reached the spot where she’d gone under in less than a minute.
Taking a deep breath, he dived down, not knowing if he was too late. The light above the surface penetrated no more than a couple of feet. She was nowhere to be seen. He came up, took another breath, and then went under again, groping in the murk.
Just when he was sure he was too late, his fingertips caught something. He grabbed hold and didn’t let go. It was her hand. He hauled her up to the surface, dragging her with him as he kicked back for the shore, one arm hooked under her armpit, holding her tight as he lay on his back, his other arm sweeping through the waves.
It took no more than a couple of minutes to get her to dry land. He dragged her unconscious body over the silty shoreline to the heather, laying her down and moving quickly to get her wet things off. He was certain he was too late, that she was dead or dying, that it was all a pointless endeavor.
Then she was fighting him off even while he tried to save her. He smiled as he thought of it. He was trying to save her life and she was so stubborn she tried to stop him. She had some spirit, he had to give her that.
As he waited for her to change, he found himself thinking about her clothes. They were like nothing he’d ever seen on a woman before. She wore blue hose of the coarsest fabric that clung to her skin in the most scandalous manner. Her boots were of several colors, all held together by loops of thick white string.
Her top half was almost naked, her arms uncovered, her neck on show, the only clothing a single chemise of floral cloth. The whole ensemble was utterly bizarre but also intriguing. She had to be a jongleur. It was the only possible explanation.
She’d had long enough. He walked over to the hut in time to hear a thud.
“Help, I can’t get the door open,”
Her accent intrigued him as much as her clothes. What was an English lass doing so far north of the border?
“Haud on,” he said, grabbing the door and yanking it open, the wood groaning in protest. Setting it down, he walked inside.
“Don’t mind me,” she said.
“Wait outside,” he said, pulling his hose from his legs. Did she think she was the only one to get wet from their swim?
He glanced behind him, but she was nowhere to be seen. Good. Hopefully, she’d gone back to wherever she came from.
A thought occurred to him a second later. What if she told someone where he was? His peace would be shattered by those who had bayed for his blood during the trial, coming and forcing him to fight, to kill. He was done with killing.
He frantically pulled on the only dry pair of hose he had left. With that done he ran outside, ready to hunt her down and stop her from blabbing.
What he saw startled him. She hadn’t run off. She was sitting on the stump of wood, the sunlight shining on her slowly drying hair. She looked like an angel. An angel who was using his spare knife to carve a hook into the end of his fishing spear.
He stood in the doorway and looked at her for a while. She hadn’t noticed him. He took in the view. The hose she had borrowed, the length of tartan cloth she’d wrapped around her chest in lieu of a dress.
Her hair was dark, cascading over her shoulders. He had never seen a woman with hair uncovered like that. Even the peasants wore basic coifs. She didn’t seem the least bit concerned that she’d lost her hat in the water. She was humming to herself as she worked.
She glanced up at him and he looked away, not wanting to be caught spying on her. “That should work better now,” she said, holding out the spear.
He doubted it. Then he examined the hook. “How did ye do that?”
“How did I do what?”
“Tis sharp as steel and done wi’ a blunt knife. How?”
She shrugged. “It’s not tricky if you know what you’re doing.”
For a moment Tavish didn’t know what to say. He examined the fishing rod again. “I must try it out. Wait there.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He headed back to the loch. Standing on the shore, he peeled off the hose from his legs before edging slowly out into the water. He kept going until he reached the deep pool where the fish were most often found. He stood perfectly still when he got there, the only sound that of the curlews in the distance. There was not a breath of wind in the air.
This was his favorite time. When there was nothing but him and the Highlands. He felt part of the land and the loch. It was at moments like that he forgot about his past. He needed no one. Just the Highlands.
He didn’t move, waiting patiently, ignoring the growling of his stomach after so long without food. To his surprise trout began to circle around his ankles within minutes. He held the
rod ready, taking a steady breath before thrusting down at lightning speed, spearing a fish and bringing it upward into the air.
It fought briefly to free itself from the hook before succumbing. He smiled to himself. The spear had worked perfectly. He’d have to get her to show him how she’d done it with such a blunt knife.
He dressed quickly. Then, with the fish in one hand and the rod in the other, he headed back, finding her gone from the stump. How could he have been so stupid? She just wanted him out of the way so she could make a run for it. Tell them all where he was hiding out.
He was kicking himself for his stupidity when he heard her humming inside the hut. He stuck his head in the door and marveled at what she’d done while he’d been away.
There had originally been a window when he’d first put the place together but he’d wedged a log in the sill during the last winter and never bothered removing it. She’d taken out the log to use as a second stool by the fireside.
She was sitting on the log with her feet outstretched toward the fire, light streaming in through the window. There was even a posy of flowers by the hearth, the scent of the flowers making the whole place smell like a meadow.
“You managed to catch a fish,” she said with a smile, nodding toward his hand.
“Aye, and you managed to go rummaging while I was away. If you’re looking for Princess Margaret’s locket you’ll nay find it in there.”
“I wasn’t looking for anything. I just wanted something to sit on while I get warm. Where do you sit?”
“The floor.” He gutted the fish before grabbing a spike from the hearth, skewering the trout. He set the spike over the flames and left the carcass to spit down into the burning peat, the smell of cooking fish soon overpowering the scent of the flowers.
“Are ye warm enough?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” she said, getting to her feet.
“Why did ye no swim?”
“Huh? Oh, in the loch? I can’t swim?”
“Ye cannae swim and yet ye went oot in the middle of a loch? Jings, ye must be daft in the heed.”