by Janet Leigh
Chapter 4
Was I dreaming? Could my best friend really be my one and only true love? Was he my happily ever after and forevermore? I floated around my backyard like I was walking on air. Before I realized what I had done, I was in the outhouse, sitting sideways, hugging my knees up to my chest, humming the melody to “Crazy for You.” I felt warm and happy all over, like after eating a slice of homemade chocolate cake. I reached up and touched my necklace. The outhouse door was hanging open. Had I opened it? I couldn’t remember. My eyes looked up at the full moon and noticed the perfect circle of moonlight that had given Jake his halo was illuminating the wall of the outhouse. There were several markings carved into the wall. I didn’t recall seeing those before, but then again I hadn’t spent any time inside the outhouse. My legs unfolded, and I scooted in for a closer look. A few cobwebs had found their way inside, along with a light coat of dust. I brushed the dust back, revealing what appeared to be some kind of word. I could just barely make out the primitive carving.
“Hanhepi,” I read off the wall. All of a sudden, my necklace began to glow. I looked down at the round stone. “What is this?” I asked out loud. “What’s happening? Why am I glowing like a Care Bear?” Then it happened. The outhouse door slammed shut. I jumped to my feet. My heart was pounding with fear.
“What now?” The ground began to shake. I felt the outhouse start to move. Wind swam around me like a tornado and sucker-punched me in the gut. I couldn’t breathe. I saw a bright light, and then I think I heard myself scream.
There was a loud crack of thunder, and I was launched out of that damn outhouse onto the ground. The first thing I realized was the ground was not the soft, green grass of my garden; it was gravel. I felt like I had been in a car wreck; my body ached all over.
“Am I dead?” I asked myself. “Is it my heart? I try to eat healthy. I only put mayonnaise on my French fries sometimes.”
I looked down. Gone were my beautiful blue gown from Neiman’s and my Jimmy Choo shoes, and in their place, well, it looked like my aunt Agnes’s tablecloth. Aunt Agnes was my mother’s sister and indulged joyfully in her Scottish heritage. She had all kinds of things made from plaid: curtains, pillows, place mats, and even little outfits for her Scottie dog. I struggled to stand up. I had on some kind of pleated plaid skirt and a high-necked, ruffled white shirt with little plaid buttons down the front. White wool stockings scratched at my legs, and—gross!—loafers. Not a cute Sperry-style shoe but an ugly, brown, square thing had replaced my Choos. My feet had never been in loafers before. There was a wool scarf choking me around the neck. I could feel the warmth of the necklace hidden under the frilly white top.
“Is this hell?” I asked myself out loud. What did I do to deserve to be here? Was kissing Jake the reason? I reached up, and on top of my head was a wool hat pulled down over my Shania Twain hairdo. Damn, that’s going to be a mess to comb out.
“God,” I called as I struggled to walk down the gravel road. There were no houses in sight, but the enormous full moon hung on the horizon like a beacon of hope. The moonlight glistened off the gravel road, making each pebble sparkle like a bed of pearls. The glow lit the entire area, allowing me to get my footing and scope out the surroundings. I slowly made my way down the rock-strewn road. With each step a crunching sound echoed loudly in the quiet, dark countryside. The gravel road turned into a small dirt trail, and the comforting crunch of stones under my feet dissolved into a ghostly quiet. I could see I was in some sort of field. There was a line of ash and pine trees to my left, and in front of me was a large hill. The shadowy profile of the hill resembled an old man’s face with a big scary nose and pointed chin.
“Where am I?” I yelled out into the creepy calm. Just as I was about to sit down and cry, I heard horses running in the distance.
“Hello!” I shouted and moved closer to the trees. A hand clamped over my mouth, and someone grabbed hold of me from behind. I tried to scream and kicked hard, fighting my captor.
“Quiet, lassie!” a voice commanded in my ear, “or they will hear you.” The voice didn’t sound like a rapist or the devil. But since I had never personally encountered either one, what did I know? There was a slight lilt in his accent, but his words were smooth and his tone was firm, yet soothing. It was a sexy voice, deep with a kind of arrogance that comes from being confident. I struggled, jabbing my elbow into his ribs.
“Oof,” he responded but didn’t release his firm hold on me. He pulled me back in the shadows of the tree line, and I saw a clearing through the branches. An old-fashioned well sat in the middle of the space. The riders came into the moonlight about thirty yards in front of us. There were four of them, two women and two men. They stopped and dismounted. I could see the women were dressed in long gowns. The first woman turned away from me to assist the other woman. A dark braid descended out from her white bonnet and continued halfway down her back. Her simple blue dress had a white pinafore covering the front, tied at the waist and neck. The other woman was dressed in a beautiful deep-burgundy satin gown with exquisite gold trim and beads that sparkled in the moonlight as she moved. She took off her hat and shook her head of reddish-blond curls as if they had been suffocated by the cap for far too long.
The two men were dressed in old-fashioned riding clothes. All four of them looked like they had just stepped out of the pages of my English literature book. I couldn’t wrap my head around why these people were wearing costumes. They must have come from a costume party, I speculated loosely. I wasn’t sure what to make of the horses, but rich people in Dallas often went out of their way to be authentic. In fact, last year I read in the Dallas Observer that one of the Maverick basketball players showed up at Mark Cuban’s Halloween bash dressed as Prince Charming in a horse-drawn carriage identical to Cinderella’s and proceeded to escort his high-priced call girl, dressed as slutty Cinderella, into the Cubans’ mansion. The reason it made the paper was slutty Cinderella tried to steal a set of sterling-silver candlesticks that belonged to Mark’s grandmother. She was promptly thrown out, glass stilettos and all.
I struggled to get free. Maybe these people could help me find the way home.
“Not yet,” my captor purred in my ear with a firm grasp over my mouth. His body was pushed up against mine, pinning me to the sappy bark of an aging pine tree. His other hand was securely gripping my arm.
“You will ruin everything,” he whispered.
The woman in blue drew water from a nearby well; I heard the crank pull the bucket to the top. They must be in some kind of trouble with the law. Why else would they drink well water? It’s polluted.
One of the male riders said, “Excuse us, Your Highness, we seek privy in the woods.”
The woman in burgundy nodded her head, and the two of them turned their backs as the men headed in my direction. I could tell this was a dilemma for my captor, because he froze solid as a stone statue. I was about to make a noise and reveal our hiding place when one of the men stood directly opposite me and dropped his drawers, exposing me and my captor to his rather large penis. He grabbed it in his small hand and proceeded to pee on the tree trunk. The other man waited with his back to me, keeping his eye on the two women.
“Do you think they will catch us?” the exposed man asked.
“No, I think naught. We have gained serious ground on them today. But I am worried for our queen. France has shunned her, and I fear her cousin will not be kind.”
“Do ye think they will execute us if we are caught?” he asked, shaking his member and securing the beast back in his pants.
They changed positions, and the other man watered the tree. Thankfully, his penis was blocked from view by a large bush.
“A dinnieken, we would certainly be worthy of a trial first and imprisonment for sure. No worries, lad, we are not in the Dark Ages. It is the year of our Lord 1568.”
The year 1568. My head began to swim, and I felt as if I might faint. My captor must have sensed my weakness, because he purred into my ear, “Shhhh.”
The men returned to the well. After they had each taken a drink from the water, one of the male riders said, “We must go, Your Highness.”
“But I am so tired. Can’t we rest here?” asked the woman in the beautiful gown.
“No, My Queen,” said the male. “We must get to the other side of the loch before dawn.”
He called her queen, and their accents were so strange. Where on earth did that dumb outhouse bring me? I was contemplating a time continuum like in Land of the Lost and was secretly relieved I wouldn’t be chased by giant dinosaurs but concerned that maybe I was being held by Jack the Ripper. I thought my clothes had changed to blend in; maybe I should copy the accent until I figured out where I was and if my captor was friend or foe. I had taken four years of drama. It was a blow-off class, but I loved the acting. If I could just channel a little Mrs. Doubtfire, maybe I could buy some time with this creep.
The voice in my ear said, “Just a few minutes more, and I will release you, aye.” He secured his grasp on my mouth, pulling me closer into him. His deep masculine scent engulfed me—a combination of the forest, the fresh smell of pine, and a hint of cinnamon. Although I was being held against my will, as I stood there, I felt like I was witnessing something magical.
The woman gathered her skirts and was assisted onto her horse by the other male. They rode off into the night.
I should have made more noise—that was probably my only way home—but once again a sexy male voice played with my sanity.
“OK,” the voice said, “I’m going to let you go, but dinnae scream, aye?” His hand remained over my mouth like he was contemplating my release. “Because if you do, you will alert the scoundrels.” He paused a moment. “You promise?”
I nodded my head yes and said, “I promise” into the hand. But I had my fingers crossed just in case. He released his grip, and as I turned around, the most handsome face appeared in my line of vision. As he pulled back from me, I realized he was tall—about six foot three. He looked slightly older than me, maybe around Melody’s age. It was dark, but I could still make out his rugged features and the square angle of his jaw, which sported a day’s stubble. He had dark hair that hung down to his collar in glorious waves. I couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but they were dark, glistening pools reflecting the moonlight. Unfortunately there were little frown lines between his eyebrows. His lips were pressed together, forming a mad scowl.
“What in the bloody hell are you doing out here at this wee hour?” he asked with anger on the edge of his voice.
“If I knew where the bloody hell here was, I would tell you,” I stammered back, mocking his accent.
“So, ye are lost?” he asked, raising one of his dark eyebrows in suspicion.
“Aye,” I said, “I was walking and lost my way.”
He looked at me curiously. “Where were you walking from?”
Panic overcame me. I couldn’t think of a single town in Scotland, and who knows how far off I would be if I could think of one. So I did the only thing I could think of. I fainted. He cursed, then picked me up and placed me gently down by the tree. My ugly hat had fallen off, and my hair was blowing gently in the small breeze. I kept my eyes tightly shut, hoping he would go away. He reached up and brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across my face, securing it behind my ear. Wait, he wasn’t acting like Jack the Ripper. I fluttered my eyes open, trying to look dazed.
“Easy now. Are you OK, lassie?”
I took a deep breath and tried to figure out if I should tell this totally handsome stranger how I arrived in the year of our Lord 1568.
“Look, we don’t have much time. I have a job to do, and then I will help you find your way home. But you need to stay here in the shadows and keep very still and very quiet. Do ye understand?”
I nodded. He squatted beside me and decided I was going to live. I heard the sound of another horse approaching. He put his finger to his lips, reminding me to be quiet. He pulled his hat onto his head and eased around the tree line, leaving me alone.
The wind had picked up, and I drew my scarf close around me. I located my ugly hat and pulled it back down over my head. Small drops of rain were starting to fall. I heard the horse whinny, and I stood up, wondering where Mr. Sexy had gone. I peered around the tree and through the bushes. I could see a man dressed in—I couldn’t believe it, but he also had on Aunt Agnes’s tablecloth and an official-looking jacket with a badge embroidered over the right breast. He went to the well and inspected it. He knelt down and looked at the ground as if he could tell which way the previous riders were headed. The man must have been some kind of policeman. He could help me. I was about to step forward out of the shadows when—wham—Mr. Sexy hit the policeman over the head with a big rock. He went down like a sack of potatoes. I raced out of the bushes.
“What did you do that for?” I questioned abruptly. Mr. Sexy looked up at me with a shocked expression on his face, almost as if he had forgotten I was there.
I heard horses in the distance. “Help me get ‘em, lassie,” he commanded as he started to pull him toward the trees.
“I most certainly will not help you commit a crime!” I said, stomping my foot.
Mr. Sexy grabbed him by the arms. The man was shorter than Mr. Sexy, but he was stocky and probably outweighed him by thirty pounds. Mr. Sexy struggled to pull him into the tree line. He propped the man up against the tree’s trunk, giving him shelter against the rain.
He returned to the well and took the rope off the basket used to gather the water. He tied the man’s hands together behind his back and secured his legs.
“Give me your scarf,” he demanded.
“No!” I said. The rain was coming down harder, and the sound of horses was growing closer. He walked over to me and yanked my scarf from around my neck. He put it over the man’s mouth, making a gag.
“Let’s go,” he said, then he proceeded to climb up on the man’s horse.
The rain was coming in buckets, and I was freezing. “I’m not g-g-getting up on that thing, and I’m not s-s-stealing a horse.” My teeth chattered.
“C’mon, lassie, don’t be like that—I cannae leave you oot here; they will jail you for crimes against the queen.”
Holy crap, that sounded bad. What were my choices? Get up on the big horse with the extremely attractive guy, or wait to see if I would be put in jail? I held my hand out, and he pulled me up behind him onto the horse. I wrapped my arms around his waist. He was pleasantly warm, and I pulled myself in tight against his back.
“I haven’t committed any c-c-crime,” were my last words as we rode away into the soggy night.
I didn’t speak during the ride. The rain had settled into a slow drizzle, making conversation difficult without yelling. I wasn’t exactly sure how to explain where I came from, so silence seemed like the best choice. After what felt like an hour, the rain had stopped and the trail we were riding on narrowed and forced us to ride through a small wooded area. The vast amount of trees and brush blocked the moonlight, enveloping us in the pitch-black night.
“Is this safe?” I asked. “I mean, riding in the dark like this?”
“Aye, the horse knows the way. They see better in the darkness than we do. Don’t tell me ye have never ridden a horse before?”
“Oh, um, sure, lots of times,” I lied. “I just never rode in the dark.”
“Where are ye from then, lassie?”
Here came the moment when I would have to try to explain myself. As I chewed over the best way to describe the twenty-first century to this common Scottish thief, or whatever he was, the trees closed in on us, causing the brush to scrape against my legs. The horse kept moving, and I heard a buzzing noise close to my ear. I swatted at the pesky insect, and a small light appeared in front of my eyes.
“A firefly,” I said.
He made an “mm-hmm” sound of noninterest, but when we rounded a bend in the trail, the trees widened, emptying us into a space filled with the glowing creature
s. Small bursts of light fluttered around us; it was like we were riding through a shower of lights.
“It’s so beautiful,” I said, laughing at a firefly that had settled on the man’s shoulder.
“Yeah, see the ones on the leaves of the bushes? They are the females, and they are brighter than the males.”
“Why are they brighter?” I asked.
“To attract the males. The females cannae fly, so they attract the males’ attention with their lights.”
“Are you a biologist?”
“Noo, I’m a male.” We both started to laugh, and the tension seemed to melt away.
As we came out of the woods, the rain began again, starting in a light drizzle and gradually increasing to a steady downpour. The trail began to widen and eventually turned into a country road. A small farm came into view over the crest of a hill. Mr. Sexy clicked his tongue, and the horse trotted up to a tree. I went to step off, except there wasn’t a step, and I slipped off and landed with a hard thud right on my ass.
“Are ye all right then?” he asked.
I nodded, feeling a slight flush crawl up my face.
“Next time you should wait for me to help ye.” He looked down at me; a slow, sexy smile spread across his face in amusement as the rain dripped off his hat.
I crab-walked backward out of the horse’s way. Getting to my feet, I brushed the grass from my wet clothes. He dismounted and secured the horse to the tree. We crept up closer to the house to get a better look. Apparently the occupants were fast asleep, because the house was completely dark.
“This way, love,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me behind him.
There was a barn behind the house, and we slowly pulled the door open and went inside.
“This is a barn,” I said.
“Aye, but you’re out of the rain now.”
He was right. I was dripping wet, my nose was running, and my teeth were still chattering, but I was out of the rain. The full moon was forcing its way through the dark sky and illuminated the barn from an opening above the hayloft. I could make out the animals’ stalls, a pitchfork, and other equipment stacked neatly in the corner of the barn. He walked over and picked up a horse blanket and laid it down in the hay. He wrapped another one around me.
“This should keep you warm, but you should take off your wet clothes and let them dry.” He removed his long riding jacket, revealing a black silk shirt that buttoned up to his neck. The shirt clung to his muscular body, and I could feel my tongue practically roll out of my mouth. He had on black riding pants and boots. He looked dry and warm.
“You need to turn around,” I demanded.
“Are ye shy?” he asked, the corners of his mouth turning up in a wicked grin.
“No, but I don’t know you,” I said.
“Here, let me introduce myself,” he said as he came close. I noticed a small scar that cut through the end of his right upper lip. He pulled me into his arms and brought his lips to meet mine. His mouth was warm, and he tasted like cinnamon as he stroked my tongue with his own. His eyes were heavy, and my insides lit up on fire. The cold was no longer noticeable. I melted in his arms.
He lowered me to the hay and reached under me to pull away my stockings. I couldn’t speak. My mind was saying no, but my body was full of want and wonder. His mouth was closing around mine, and I was feeling light-headed. He drew away my skirt, and even though it was dark, I could feel his taut, muscular body pressing up against mine. I decided I must be having one of those dreams that feel real and then you wake up and say, “I can’t believe that wasn’t real.” If that was the case, then what the hell—it was my dream.
I responded to his kisses, allowing his tongue to caress mine and moving my hands around his back, pulling the silk shirt free from the back of his trousers. I tried to unbutton his shirt, but he pulled my hands away and pinned them down to my sides as he worked his way down to my inner thighs. The heat really began to kick up. It soared up my arms and wrapped me in a cocoon of warmth. Pulling my shirt up from the bottom, he worked his way upward until he found my mouth. He was kissing me hard, and his hands were roaming over my breasts. My heart was beating in time with his as he stroked me, which increased my desire for him. I felt like we were climbing higher and higher. As the bomb went off inside my body, he slid inside me. I felt a sharp pain, and then my whole body exploded in a frenzy of sexual need. I ran my hands through his thick hair, wrapped my arms around his neck, and matched his desire.
I woke the next morning feeling incredible. I looked around, and reality hit. My escapade from the night before wasn’t a dream; it was real. I was lying on a bed of hay covered with a horse blanket. Where was Mr. Sexy? My skirt and stockings hung over the horse stall. I was still wearing my blouse buttoned up to my neck; however, a few of the bottom buttons were missing, lost in passion and hay. How embarrassing—my first real love affair, and I wasn’t even wearing my Victoria’s Secret panties, but some kind of grandma underwear. I located the atrocious underwear, haphazardly thrown over a nearby hay bale. My legs were saddle sore, and it took all my energy to pull on my stockings and skirt. My hair was a disheveled mess, so I pulled the ugly toboggan down over the damage and waddled outside to figure out what had happened.
The horse was gone. Mr. Sexy was gone. I, however, was stuck. How was I going to get home? The rain had stopped, and the sun was peeking up between the green hills. The surroundings were breathtaking. If I weren’t in such a predicament, I might have enjoyed the lush grass glistening with morning dew or the pasture across the road filled with furry black sheep grazing lazily in the sunshine. I heard a rumbling sound in the distance and saw a wagon approaching, captained by a weathered old man. A big gray donkey was leading the wagon filled with straw. They were passing my way. I waved a hand for them to stop and described the big hill from the previous night to the farmer.
He scratched his head and then said, “Oh, ye mean Bernardi Hill? I’m headin’ in the direction. I could drop ye if ye like.”
There was only one seat up front, so I climbed in the back of his wagon, and after about an hour of bumping along, my ass hurt and my legs were itching from the hay poking through my stockings, but we were back at the big hill.
I thanked him and gingerly hopped out of the wagon. The man looked around and then looked back at me. His eyes were questioning my choice of destination.
“Don’t worry, I am going to meet someone,” I explained.
“Good day to ye, lass.” He tipped the brim of his straw hat and gave the donkey a giddyup with the reins and lumbered off down the path.
I slowly made my way down the gravel road looking for the poor man Mr. Sexy had confined in the night. No man was tied up in the trees; only the remnants of the rope remained. No Mr. Sexy was lurking about either.
“I can’t believe I don’t even know his name,” I said in exasperation. “I am a careless little slut!” I reprimanded myself out loud. I have wonderful Jake at home wanting to be my first real boyfriend, and what do I do? Roll in the hay with some arrogant asshole who leaves me stranded in the year of our Lord 1568.
“Where is that Scottish bastard? Where is that damn outhouse?” As soon as I said the words, it appeared out of nowhere in the same spot it had abandoned me in the first place.
“Great!” I said. “You disappear and then you reappear. What kind of crappy magic toilet are you, anyway?” I got in, sat down, and held on for dear life.
“I just want to go home.” I repeated the magic word, “Hanhepi.” My necklace started to do its Care Bear thing, and off we went. The second trip wasn’t so bad. I didn’t get the wind knocked out of me, and when we landed, so to speak, I didn’t get thrown out the door.
I expected my parents to be frantic with worry, cops to be out in search of me. Poor Jake, he would be the clueless suspect, last seen with the missing person. But when I opened the outhouse door, it was dark outside; I was in my blue dress, not a single hair out of place. I looked down and almost cried—th
ere on my feet were my Jimmy Choo stilettos. Life was good once again.
