Sometimes he forgot where his bedroom was and slept in the yard. He was getting forgetful and Violet worried he’d go out and then the eye would pass and he’d get seriously hurt.
The sound seemed to come from the backyard. If he was disoriented he could fall into the water. During storms, alligators hunkered down in the mud at the bottom of the waterway to ride out the storm.
While the usually shy alligators wanted nothing to do with people, now and then one would attack a person who went swimming in their domain. There hadn’t been an attack around here in over twenty years, but at a park over in Venice a tourist went swimming in a neighborhood lake and was attacked.
Violet pulled on a rain jacket, grabbed a flashlight and crossed the yard, shining the beam across the grass, just in case. Occasionally during the summer, a gator would snooze on the bank at night and you did not want to step on an alligator.
No sign of Mr. Carmichael in the yard, so Violet knocked on his door. There was no answer. She checked the front yard, but it was empty. His car wasn’t in the garage which meant he’d gone to stay with his kids in Kansas. Now that she thought about it, he’d said he was going early this year. Thank goodness he was safe.
With a hand on the screen door to the lanai, she heard the noise again. It sounded like someone was hurt. Violet turned and listened. The moan was louder, coming from the waterway.
She glanced up at the sky, trying to judge how much time she had before the eye passed. It was a slow-moving storm, so she guessed she’d have a couple of hours.
The flashlight cut across the lawn as she made her way down to the water. The grass squished beneath her feet; the water covering her flip-flops.
“Hello?”
It was quiet. Violet carefully swept the beam of light across from left to right. On the third pass, the light hit something shiny.
“Mr. Carmichael? Is that you?” Maybe he hadn’t left. Her other neighbor, Mrs. Vincent, was away on a cruise and the neighbors across the street wouldn’t be near the water during a hurricane.
But it wasn’t Mr. Carmichael. It was a guy wrapped in a plaid blanket. There weren’t many homeless people around, not like in other towns and cities, but occasionally Violet saw someone around one of the parks or grocery stores.
“Are you okay? The eye will pass soon, you need to get out of the storm.” She shone the light on the man’s face. All she could see was long black hair.
“Stay back, witch.” Violet jumped. That definitely wasn’t Mr. Carmichael.
The soft burr was straight out of Scotland. She’d watched enough movies to recognize the sound. Maybe a drunk exchange student from the local community college?
Cautious, Violet took another step closer. The guy was on his side on the rip-rap, the stone that protected the bank.
The wind picked up, and the scent of copper filled the air. Violet went cold. His feet were in the water and she smelled blood.
Fear crashed through her. Storm or not, he was asking for trouble.
“Can you stand? Get out of the water. You don’t want to end up as an alligator’s breakfast.”
The guy rolled over and grunted at the light coming from her flashlight. His hair, the color of midnight, was slicked back, showing off a face that would make male models weep with envy.
Now that she got a better look, it wasn’t a blanket. He was wearing a kilt in soft colors of cranberry, blue, and black, though it was mud spattered and torn.
As she moved the light over him, Violet gasped. He had a wicked-looking blade in each hand and she could see his shoulder and knee were bleeding. A faint trail of red on the white rocks led straight into the dark water.
“Are ye a faerie to command light in the dark?” He coughed.
“Have ye come to take me to hell on the back of the great black beast?”
Then he barked out what might have been a laugh.
“All this time I thought Death was a man, but nay, ’tis naught but a lass. The better to lead men to the underworld, I suppose.”
Maybe he was a drunk acting student? Ended up in a bar fight and wound up here? Maybe he was related to one of the neighbors?
The light hit his face again, and he glared at her through dark blue eyes. Even with pain etched across his face, he had to be the best-looking guy she’d seen in a long time. A hysterical laugh escaped as the song It’s Raining Men played over and over in her head.
“Mayhap ye are a kelpie come to take me to a watery death.”
Okay. He was taking the acting thing a bit far. Maybe he hit his head and thought he was a character in whatever play he’d been in?
Kelpies and faeries? Somebody had grown up with too many fairy tales and stories of faraway lands, and it certainly wasn’t her. Violet’s parents didn’t believe in fairy tales, happy endings, or any kind of make believe.
“Ach, weel. Ye must not be a faerie as ye asked if I was one of the fae folk. Like recognize like.”
His breath rasped out, his voice like gravel. “So ye must be Death.”
Violet had heard of fish, frogs, and luggage falling from the sky. But a Scottish highlander with an accent to die for?
She rubbed her eyes. Nope, still there. Her foot tapped out the song blaring in her head as she looked up at the night sky as if looking for any other men falling from the sky into her backyard.
5
“The eye will only last a couple of hours, we have to get inside.”
Violet held out a hand to him while shining the flashlight across the water with the other, looking for the telltale glow of red eyes.
“You’re bleeding, the blood is going in the water. There are alligators in there. It isn’t safe.”
The man swayed back and forth; the blades shaking in his hands, telling her he was hanging on by a thread. If he fell in the water…
“Please. Come inside. I’ll call someone to come get you. We can’t stay here.”
She pointed to his shoulder. “That looks terrible. If you faint and fall in the water, I’m leaving you to the gators.”
The man looked over his shoulder at the water, then with a curse in what she thought might be Gaelic, went down on his knees, swearing again when he hit the rocks.
Violet reached down to help him, but before she could touch him, somehow the injured guy leapt into some kind of fighting crouch, the sharp knives pointed at her face.
“Hey, take it down a notch, big guy.”
Violet took one small step back, out of reach. She held her hands out in front of her. Maybe this was a bad idea. The guy might suffer from mental illness. She didn’t want some violent guy anywhere near her home, especially one this big. He was over six feet tall and looked like someone had carved him from stone.
Her home was her sanctuary. It was hard enough asking him to come inside but she couldn’t leave him out here to fend for himself.
“I won’t hurt you.”
The guy looked down at his hands, then back at her, shaking his head.
“Where is the snow? The wood?” He blinked, then held up a blade to shield his face.
“Sorry.” She pointed the beam from the flashlight at the water behind him. At least he was no longer in the water.
Snow? Woods? This was getting worse by the minute. As if to agree, the wind picked up, bringing the scent of rain to her nose.
“Come with me. Once the eye passes, it will be dangerous out here.” She held out a hand to help him off the rip-rap.
The flashlight turned the blood dripping from his shoulder and down his arm onto the white stone, bright red in the darkness.
He flinched and stepped back, finding his footing on the stones.
“Nay, lass, do not touch me. I have the sickness.” He looked around as if he could see through the darkness of the night.
“Am I dead? Is this purgatory?”
Violet took another step back from him. “No, you’re not dead, but you are in my backyard in the middle of a hurricane.”
He shook his head as if he had
n’t heard her and mumbled to himself. “If I am not dead, I will be soon. Most do not survive.”
“You’re sick? What’s wrong?” Violet didn’t want to get sick. There was too much to do. Why couldn’t she have ignored the noise and stayed inside, safe and sound? But no, here she was out in the dark of night with a man spit out by a hurricane.
A hysterical laugh escaped as she remembered the old movie with a cow mooing in the middle of a tornado. Well, at least it wasn’t a giant shark that had landed in her backyard.
“Mistress? Are ye Death come to take me?” He put the knives away. “The plague. It swept through England and now Scotland. Many have died. I am dying.”
“Death? What?” Violet huffed, totally over this ridiculousness.
“We need to go inside. It isn’t safe to be out here.” She stiffened.
“Did you say plague? As in the Black Death?” He sounded Scottish. Had there been an outbreak?
“Were you in Russia? I heard they had a recent case.”
He shook his head. “Nay, lass. Scotland.”
“Hold up a minute. Are you talking about the medieval Black Plague? That isn’t funny. You scared me.”
“I do not jest. I would not have ye afeared of me.”
Violet cast her gaze upward to the night sky.
“Great. Just great. I must be crazy.”
She turned and called out over her shoulder. “I won’t touch you since you’re dying and all that, but we’re going inside now. Then we can figure out what’s up with you.”
She spun around and pointed a finger at him. “If you steal from me or go crazy inside, I’ll taser you without a second of remorse.”
Violet swore she heard the man chuckle.
“Aye, lass, I’ll come wi’ ye. I know not ‘taser’ but fear not, ye will not have to use violence against my person.”
“Whatever. Come on. I won’t be able to call for an ambulance, not until Martha passes and the first responders deem it safe to go out.”
“Martha? Ambulance?” He sounded perplexed, but frankly, Violet didn’t care. She was tired and cranky and on edge from the hurricane. The last thing she needed was some crazy guy staying in her home.
Maybe he’d gotten drunk and lost, somehow ended up here? There was a play at the Little Theater, but it wasn’t about Scotland. Maybe something about Wall Street? If he’d been in a fight and hit his head, it would explain why he was acting so strangely.
Violet heard a thud and a muffled curse. When she turned, he’d fallen face down on the wet grass.
Careful not to startle him again, she whispered as she kneeled in the grass.
“Let me help you.” She took hold of his arm. “Can you get up?”
He grunted and got to his knees. Swayed, then let her help him up. Gracious, he weighed a ton.
Violet put his arm over her shoulders and wrapped her arm around his middle.
“I’ve got you.” Her voice shook, her body tensed, not knowing what he might do.
“Don’t fall. You’re way too heavy to carry.”
The smell of wet wool and blood filled her nose. If she could smell it so clearly, so could the gators. And there was one in her waterway who was big. Almost thirteen feet. Soon someone would come and take him out of the waterway, relocate him to the everglades.
The man looked around. “It was snowing. Where am I? I was in a field. They will kill me if I fall.”
“There’s no one here. Who’s trying to kill you?”
She cast the beam of the flashlight into the darkness, looking for the men he talked about, but she didn’t hear or see anyone.
Okay. So he was in character. One of those actors who refused to break character. Maybe he was working at a theater in Venice or Tampa? Though what was he doing in her backyard?
It didn’t matter. She could work with this. A gust of wind made her sway, and he pitched forward, going down on one knee.
The man shook his head. His black hair almost to his shoulders. “Kill me here, I care not.”
She pulled on him, getting him to his feet, waiting as he swayed. When he didn’t fall over, she heaved a sigh of relief.
“I’m not going to kill you and I’m not looking at your injuries out here in the dark with a hurricane above our heads.”
She scowled at him, then muttered under her breath, “stupid, pigheaded man.”
What might have been a choked laugh escaped from the man.
“Aye, so I’ve been told.”
“Move. If you fall over, I can’t drag you, you’re heavy as a cow.”
She caught a scent of cinnamon when he leaned on her.
“Are ye calling me fat, lass?”
“Shut up and walk.”
6
What was this guy made of? Solid steel? Violet’s legs shook as she helped him from the water to the house. It was slow going; he was easily over six feet tall and huge. Whoever had cast him in their theater production had wanted a big muscled man.
By the time she made it to the screen door, Violet was sweating, out of breath, and she couldn’t feel her arms or legs.
The door from the porch opened into the kitchen where she dumped him into a chair at the table. The antique chair creaked, and she stifled the urge to laugh hysterically, knowing exactly how the chair felt.
His eyes were a deep dark blue, the color of the ocean at twilight. He let out a deep breath, his eyes closed as he slumped over the table. Violet took the opportunity to study him. The guy’s face was pale as the moon, lines of pain etched across a face that looked like someone had carved it from some ancient marble statue.
“I canna reach to pull the blade free. Can ye do it, lass?”
Violet jumped when he spoke.
“Blade? I don’t see any knife.” Saliva pooled in her mouth as she gagged, thinking of pulling a sword out of a man’s flesh.
Great. Just great. It wasn’t like she could call for help. Not in the middle of a hurricane.
The gravelly voice came again. “’Twas a poorly made blade.” He grunted. “It cut well enough, but the hilt broke, leaving the steel inside.”
With a grunt, he rolled his shoulder, trying to reach a spot on his back as sweat ran down a face now tinted green.
“Do not throw up on my floor. If you barf, I will.” She turned and glared at him over her shoulder. “Don’t move.”
He laid his head on the old farm table. The guy was dripping water and blood all over her tile floor. Violet ran to the garage and rifled through a bin on the shelf.
“There you are.” She pulled out a roll of plastic. It was a tarp used to protect the floors and furniture during painting. She wanted to repaint the bathroom and living room but hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
Violet grabbed a roll of paper towels, dish soap, and a couple of old ratty towels from the hall closet.
“I think I’m ready.”
He didn’t answer, didn’t move.
“Please don’t be dead.”
There was a low chuckle that ended with a cough. “So eager for Death to take me, are ye?”
Her face went hot. “No. I just don’t want to have to drag your heavy corpse out into the street during a hurricane.”
“I would hate to inconvenience ye, lass.” He pushed himself up on his elbows and winked at her.
“If you are done mooning over me, could ye pull the blade from my shoulder? ’Tis verra uncomfortable.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Violet made a face at him.
“Though before I pull a broken knife blade from your shoulder, don’t you think you should tell me your name?” She finished cleaning up the water and blood, gagged, and then smoothed the plastic out on the floor.
“Can you move to this chair? I’ll help you up.”
“As ye wish, lass.”
Between the two of them, she dumped him into the other chair she’d covered and surrounded with plastic. Easy cleanup.
He leaned back in the chair and looked her over. “Duncan. Duncan
McTavish at your service.”
The soft burr made her want to curl up with a book and escape, but that would have to wait.
“Violet Wallingford.”
She swallowed and reached out to touch the rough linen of his shirt. The plaid had come undone and was now around his waist. With a grimace, she picked up her scissors.
“I’m going to cut your shirt off unless you can pull it over your head?”
He raised his arm partway, his face turning a sickly shade of puce. “Nay, I canna.”
“It’s fine. I’ll be careful.” The kitchen smelled of wet wool, water, and man with a hint of horse as she leaned close to him to cut the shirt. If she could open it at the seam, it would be easy enough to sew it back together.
“Don’t worry, I can sew—” Violet peered at the stitches at the seam. It was hand sewn. Talk about authenticity.
“Who’s the costume designer at the theater? I’d like to talk to them. They do great detail work, but they could save a lot of money if they sewed these on the machine. I’d imagine they take a beating during the productions.”
Duncan blinked at her. “Costume designer? What is that?”
She waved the scissors around. “Don’t worry about it. Sorry, the fabric distracted me.”
Violet folded the blood-soaked fabric and set it aside to soak and remove the bloodstains later.
“Ready?” His skin was warm to the touch, the smell of blood filled the air. Ugh. She tried to breathe through her nose.
“Aye, get on wi’ it, lass. I’ll be an old man afore you finish.” He winked at her. Then seeing something in her face, he touched her hand, the calluses on his palm rough against her arm.
“You willna hurt me. Have ye never sewn up an injury before?”
“We need something to drink.” The room swayed as she moved from the table to the refrigerator. Duncan had his back to her. By the set of his shoulders she could tell he was in pain, though he hadn’t complained a bit.
If it was her, she’d be screaming for painkillers if she didn’t faint first. Painkillers.
“I’ll be right back,” she called out.
As quick as she could, Violet rifled through the bathroom cabinets. While she knew you shouldn’t keep old medicine, she’d forgotten about the muscle relaxers and painkillers she had from when she’d been in a car accident almost a year ago.
Falling Through Time: A Lighthearted Time Travel Romance (Knights Through Time Romance Book 13) Page 3
