Lost in the Highlands, Volume Two

by Lorraine Beaumont

  The first days with Gavin in this time had been such fun, especially watching him marvel at the modern conveniences with unfettered enthusiasm.

  After that night in the past with the monster and his men being killed, he would not let me call him Laird any longer. And if I did, unthinkingly, call him that, he would grow silent and his mood would turn dark. I couldn’t blame him, really.

  What I saw that day still turned my own stomach and made my heart hurt. But there was nothing to be done about it now…at least I didn’t think there was. But that didn’t stop me from wondering what Gavin was thinking about, or how he was dealing with their deaths.

  Gavin turned from the window. His lass had her head on the pillow on her lap, hugging it closely to her body with the now familiar worry etched on her face as she looked at him. “I am fine,” he told her.

  “You don’t seem fine.” His face was pale and there was a residual wet sheen on his skin from his sweat, clinging to his bare chest and shoulders.

  “Och, woman,” he growled. “I told ye it was only a dream. There is no need to look at me thusly.”

  “Tell that to the mirror.”

  “I already told ye, I do no like that looking glass of yers capturing my likeness.”

  “It doesn’t capture your likeness.”

  “Tell that ta the mirror.” He turned his back and resumed his vigil by the window.

  I sighed. Gavin still had issues with the mirrors in my house. He didn’t like them. I tended to agree. I didn’t like the mirrors in my house either. Every time I looked in them, I could swear I had gained more weight—and of course, that couldn’t have happened. Right.

  Since I had been back from the past, it didn’t take long for my svelte muscular body from working and cooking all the time to turn mushy and soft again.

  “What time is it?”

  I glanced over at the red numbers on the clock radio. “It’s almost five.”

  “That late?” he asked, sounding distant.

  I stifled a yawn. “It’s early.”

  “Aye, but I like to train before it gets too warm.” He turned towards the bed again.

  “But you have no one to train with,” I reminded him without thinking.

  Gavin tensed. “I can train by myself.”

  I cringed from his tone. I felt horrible. I didn’t mean to say that. It was a sore subject but I was too tired to think clearly. Glancing out the window, I could see the faint pinkish hues of early morning light spread across the sky and sighed. Once Gavin made up his mind about something, I couldn’t change it. “Do you remember where to go?”

  “Aye.” He pushed his hand through his shoulder length hair. “I go out the back door, down to the lower garden to the strip of land before the stream.”

  “Do you want me to make you some coffee?”

  “Nay.” He shook his head. “It makes my skin feel crawly.”

  “That’s the caffeine. It does it to me too, if I drink too much.”

  His eyes widened. “Then why do ye drink that foul brew?”

  “Because I love coffee.”

  He made a horrified face.

  I laughed. “It’s not that bad. If you like, I can make you some decaf or tea?”

  “Mayhap, I will try one of those later,” he said, looking squeamish.

  “All right.”

  He walked over to the bed. “Go back ta sleep.” Leaning down he gave her a chaste kiss on top of her head. “I will be back in a few hours.” He stood up once more.

  “You sure you don’t want me to go with you?” I turned on my side to look up at him.

  “I am sure.”

  He reached over and turned off the bedside lamp. “Sweat dreams, lass.”

  I smiled and hugged my pillow tighter. “Have fun.”

  His brows creased. “I will endeavor to try.” And with that, he turned and left the creature comforts of the cottage to exorcise the demons roaming inside his mind once again in the early morning light.

  CHAPTER THREE

  BLOWING ROCK, NORTH CAROLINA

  The Cottage Property- Present Day

  Gavin stepped out the back door. A warm breeze blew in from the south, lifting his long hair as he walked down the cobbled stones to the lower garden. A few bees were buzzing around, pulling nectar from the buds of freshly opened flowers before they moved on to the next one. The cottage was away from the prying eyes of the people he had seen in town. He didn’t much care for them. They were loud and always in a hurry. Not to mention the strange looks he kept getting from the women folk. He could swear they looked hungry but for what, he couldn’t fathom since food in this time always seemed plentiful.

  When he asked his lass about the cottage, she told him she inherited it from her grandmother.

  The cottage itself was a cozy place situated between a pair of towering oak trees that covered the building in constant shade. In a way, it reminded him of the cottage he had stayed in for a time in the past.

  And even though he could appreciate the simplicity of the structure, it was nothing like Greystone castle with the exception of the rocks used to adorn the outside walls.

  The inside of the cottage had carpet underfoot, smelled fresh, was furnished nicely and had a slew of what his lass, called, modern conveniences. He wasn’t too sure about some of them especially the loud boxes with moving pictures inside. It wasn’t a natural sight, and he said as much to his lass. She told him he could turn off the television but when he did, he couldn’t help but wonder what happened ta all the colorful moving pictures inside.

  However, he did like some of the modern conveniences. The running water was nice, as were the soft furnishings and so was the electricity. He was becoming restless though. He missed his men, riding his horse, and the simple freedoms ta do as he pleased that he had taken for granted in the past.

  Regardless of how he felt, he did notice that Paige, his lass, seemed content. When she wasn’t creating art in some form or other, she tended to her garden or picked an array of flowers to fill the brightly colored vases that dotted the tables inside her house. She still didn’t cook well but luckily, with her telephone, she could dial a number and had food delivered ta the house from the different establishments in town. The cars, or rather automobiles, were still a mystery ta him. Wheels instead of hooves seemed a strange way ta get from one place ta another, even though it was faster.

  On more than one occasion, he had ta shut his eyes or he would feel a sickening swooshing in his belly from the fast speeds in which they traveled.

  Stopping by the edge of the stream, he removed his sword, dagger, kilt, and boots; then waded into the cool water. It wasn’t very deep, only up to his waist, but he liked the feel of the fresh water on his body. It reminded him of home.

  Dipping his head under, he wet his hair and flipped over, floating on his back. The early morning sun broke through the clouds overhead and dappled down through the overhanging branches onto his face. Closing his eyes, his let his mind drift back to the past…

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LOCH MORAR, SCOTLAND

  Sometime during the reign of King James

  “Will ye do the task I have set for ye and yer men?” the old crone asked.

  Gavin swallowed past his trepidation. He would make a pact with the devil himself if it would mean gaining freedom for his men. “Aye, I will.”

  “Do ye swear on yer life and those of yer men?”

  “I swear,” he lied baldly, thinking to stave off the inevitable for just a bit longer.

  Her rheumy eyes widened. “Are ye sure ye are a true descendant of the clan from Loch Morar?”

  “Aye. That I am.”

  “Good. Good.” She rubbed her gnarled hands together. “And are ye sure ye can gain entrance to the cave below the dark waters of Loch Morar guarded by the serpent?”

  “Aye. I am sure.”

  She frowned. “Will ye make the ultimate sacrifice ta the serpent ta get the treasure for yer king?”

  “Aye,�
�� Gavin agreed assuming the ultimate sacrifice would be his life and he would readily give that for his men.

  “Then it is settled.” She thumped her cane on the boards.

  “How many men do ye ken ye need to perform such a task?” He could see she was overly excited; her breath came out in rushed hitches.

  Gavin, feeling the glimmerings of hope unfurl in his belly, turned away from the witch and the powdered wig Magistrate, then cast his gaze on the row of men behind the Headsman. He quickly counted off their numbers. Swallowing hard, he turned back to face the crone. “Thirteen, including myself,” he said.

  “Thirteen ye say?” Her wrinkled brow lifted.

  “Aye. Thirteen,” he repeated.

  The crone gave him an assessing look and then with her cane gripped firmly in her gnarled hand, she hobbled across the wooden planks to the powdered wig Magistrate. Leaning in close, she whispered something in his ear.

  In turn, the Magistrate looked at Gavin, his ruddy face twitching strangely, as he lifted his stubby finger to count off the men in line awaiting their execution. Once he finished, he dropped his hand back to the table and turned his head towards the witch. He shook his head back and forth.

  The crone/witch pressed the palms of her gnarled hands on the table, leaning forward until her face was level with the Magistrates.

  Reflexively, the Magistrate leaned back, his face showing his revulsion.

  More heated words were exchanged between the two, while the men shifted uneasily in their places as the Headsman sharpened his blade.

  Gavin hoped he didn’t make a mistake. He knew he should have only requested his men for the task and not the rest, but he didn’t have the stomach not ta at least try ta gain their freedom as well.

  The Headsman lowered the sharpening stone to his blade again, making Gavin and the rest of the men flinch from the awful sound.

  The sun disappeared under a black cloud, alleviating the blistering heat while casting each of the men, as well as Gavin, in an unnatural crimson shade.

  Gavin’s weak body tensed. There was a strange reddish haze surrounding the area. Under different circumstances, Gavin may have wondered why a witch who was pretending to be an old beggared crone was having a heated discussion about the fate of his person and his men with one of King James’ Magistrates.

  But there were many such oddities to compare at the moment and their survival took precedence. There was, however, no doubt in his mind about one thing—something unnatural was afoot. He lifted his face to the sky. Gray fat bellied clouds roiled above, growing in size with each passing minute. He said a silent prayer for the men and himself. He wasn’t normally a religious man, but he had little else ta lose at the moment. And deep down, he knew he would need nothing short of a miracle ta escape whatever fate the capricious witch and the bloodthirsty Magistrate had in mind.

  The arguing grew louder and Gavin could hear what they were saying now. He brought his gaze over to the dais, listening intently.

  “I will not spare them all,” the Magistrate argued.

  “Ye better or ye will have ta explain ta the King why his treasure can no be retrieved.”

  A roll of thunder broke loose, shaking the mud laden Earth beneath the scaffolding and dais.

  The Magistrate jumped up. “What kind of witchery is this?” he yelled above the din.

  “I told ye there would be hell ta pay if ye said nay.” As soon as that warning crossed the witches’ lips, a fork of lightning pierced the ground in front of the dais.

  The Magistrate lifted his swollen belly in his hands and ran towards the stairs.

  Gavin didn’t move and neither did any of the men.

  “What of the men?” A soldier asked, blocking the Magistrates retreat.

  The Magistrate looked warily over his shoulder back to the witch as another roll of thunder shook the Earth. “Let them go,” he yelled out. Pushing past the soldier, he stumbled awkwardly down the steps.

  The witch picked back up her cane. In disjointed intervals, she hobbled forward, leg-dragging, cane thumping. She tossed a coin to the Headsman. “Go,” she ordered.

  The Headsman pocketed the coin, grabbed up his ax from the block, and followed the same path as the Magistrate down the stairs to the ground below.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BLOWING ROCK, NORTH CAROLINA

  The Cottage Property- Present Day

  After Gavin left, I couldn’t fall back asleep. There were too many things bumping around in my mind. Giving up on sleep, I climbed from the bed and took a quick shower.

  After my body was reddened and pruned, I got dressed in a simple pair of cut off jean shorts and a gauzy eyelet tank top. Grabbing a clip off my dresser, I threw my wet hair up into a messy bun and headed downstairs to make some coffee.

  While the coffee brewed, I grabbed a breakfast bar out of the jar on the counter and nibbled on it while I went out onto the screened porch to check on the clay pieces I was drying. Depending on what clay is used, the time will vary. And although there are several different variations of clay, Porcelain, Earthen-ware, and Stoneware, the three main ones —I preferred using Porcelain for my pieces.

  Lifting up the plastic, I checked one of the fairies I made. It had been under plastic for two days but sometimes it could take up to three days or more to dry completely, especially, if it was humid or wet. Living in the mountains, it was rarely humid and when it rained it usually came and went within a few hours so I normally didn’t have to wait more than three days to fire the pieces I made. Most of my pieces were covered with plastic to prevent them from drying too fast. Sometimes I even used newspaper and then plastic, so if there was condensation it would collect on the outside of the plastic. If I didn’t take these precautions then I would have to worry about the pieces cracking or exploding when I put them into the kiln which was simply a glorified oven used for cooking clay. Once the pieces were finished firing, the clay became a hardened porous bisque, ready for glazing. The glazing process I used was to not only decorate the clay pieces but also seal the pieces.

  After I moved some tiles that I made over to a wire rack to dry (so the air could circulate on all sides of each piece), I decided to take a walk and pick some flowers to replace the old ones in my house. I also wanted to head down to the stream to see what Gavin was up to since I had some time to kill—the clay I mixed the day before needed to age—(aging increased the plasticity of the clay), making it easier to work with.

  Sometimes, I found it hard to believe that I had even been in the past at all.

  The only definitive part of my otherworldly experience was the very real reminder I had living with me now, Gavin, my highlander.

  It was a bit surreal, our situation, and I couldn’t help worrying from time to time if one day I would wake to find him gone. But I usually squashed down my trepidation by busying myself with inane tasks until we were once again, together, lying in each other’s arms in bed.

  The coffee maker spurted out the last of the dark brew down into the pot bringing me back from my thoughts. Pushing off the counter, I reached up and grabbed down my favorite cup from the open shelf. Big surprise, it had a bear on it and Grandfather Mountain, scrawled under-neath. I bought it the day we came back to the present together, a reminder of sorts of where I had been. Adding Sugar in the Raw and some half-and-half from the fridge, I used the spoon on the counter and stirred it until the top was nice and frothy.

  Setting the spoon on the rest, I lifted the cup, took a sip as I walked over to the back door to slide on a pair of flip-flops.

  On the way out, I grabbed a basket, and clippers. Shutting the door, I headed out to pick some flowers on my way to the stream. When my grandmother was alive, she planted several different types of flowers as well as herbs in the garden and along the cobbled footpath that led to the lower garden, which wasn’t really a garden at all, but rather, a strip of grassy land.

  I had a hard time keeping up with the yard work myself so I hired Mr. Tomkins, who was a n
ice retired man in his seventies. He cut the lawn and tended to the garden and flowers. He did an incredible job and usually he came and went without me even seeing him. As I walked down the steps, I noticed a bucket filled with vegetables and herbs.

  “That’s strange,” I said, wondering why Mr. Tomkins didn’t put the vegetables inside of the screened in porch like he always did. “Oh well, maybe he forgot.”

  As I walked down the cobbled footpath, sipping my coffee, I inhaled the sweet smell of freshly cut grass. Stopping every so often, I clipped the stem of a flower and then put the bloom in my basket. Later, when I got back to the cottage, I would remove all the old flowers from the vases and make new arrangements for the coming week. Nothing smelled better than fresh cut flowers, well, besides coffee. I loved the smell of freshly brewed coffee.

  By the time I made my way down to the stream, I was sweating even though I wasn’t wearing much clothing. As quietly as I could, I set down my basket of flowers and mug, on one of the large boulders. There was a small copse of trees ahead, and on the other side was the stream. Thinking to sneak up on Gavin, get a little spying in, like I used to do when he trained in the past with his men—I tiptoed through the tress as silently as possible.

  A gentle breeze shook the leaves above, covering the sound of my footsteps. Using a large tree as a shield, I leaned around and looked in the lower garden.

  He wasn’t training. He wasn’t even in the lower garden. He was floating on the water, and even though his body was submerged, I could tell he wasn’t wearing any clothes. As usual, when I saw him in any state of undress, my heart started pounding faster and tingly warmth spread through my body from the sight.