Highlander's Heart: A Scottish Historical Time Travel Romance (Called by a Highlander Book 3)

by Mariah Stone

  No. He couldn’t face his father’s people, look them in the eye and have them swear an oath of allegiance to him.

  Not when he didn’t have any intention of fighting anymore. Not when all he wanted was to be left alone.

  But whether he wanted to or not, he’d need to face the people of his lands.

  Because there was still one thing he owed his father’s memory.

  He shoved the last piece of the pie into his mouth and was about to stand up and find Kate when he heard footsteps from the hallway.

  “Kate?” he called.

  The steps halted, then she walked in, and he swore the dim room became brighter.

  “Yes?” she said.

  She wasn’t smiling. In fact, her face was tense, her eyes distant. He hated that it was probably because of how he’d stopped and withdrawn from their kiss.

  “Come, sit.” He gestured at the chair next to him. “Please.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then sat by his side.

  “Everything all right?” she asked.

  “Aye, aye. The pie is…” He made an awkward gesture to describe how delicious it was, but the words stuck in his throat.

  Instead, he gave a nod, already hating himself for such awkwardness.

  “I will need to throw a wake and a burial for my father,” he said. “To honor his memory, I’m going to invite all the tenants, clansmen, and friends from his lands. They would want to say goodbye.”

  Kate nodded. “All right.”

  “Can ye cook, please, Kate?”

  She seemed to straighten her back a little as he said that. “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank ye.”

  “What should I cook?”

  Ian scratched his head. He’d never had to entertain guests, and he didn’t remember what was usually served at wakes. “Please ask Manning, and once ye’ve decided, tell me what I should buy in the village or hunt for.”

  “Okay. And how many people?”

  “I dinna ken how many will come. I think about fifty.”

  Her eyes widened. “Fifty? But it’s just the three of us: Manning, Cadha, and me…”

  “Aye.” Ian massaged his forehead. “Ye’re right, I’m putting too much on ye.”

  “No,” she said and straightened her back even more. “No. Don’t worry. We’ll manage. I’ll think of something.”

  He felt her eyes on him, but he didn’t look back at her.

  “Don’t worry,” she repeated. “Just concentrate on your dad’s funeral. I—we’ll take care of the food. You won’t even notice a hiccup, I promise. I won’t let you down.”

  He glanced at her sharply. The soft golden light of the candles Cadha had set on the table for him played on her pretty face. The mixture of resolve and uneasiness in her features choked him, scraped at old wounds. She would clearly be making a big effort, mayhap bigger than she could manage after what she’d been through.

  And he didn’t deserve her.

  “Nae,” he said. “Dinna do more than ye can, Katie.”

  Her features smoothed in surprise. “I can. I can.” She stood up. “Everything will be ready. Everything will be great. You have enough stuff going on, Ian.”

  She didn’t let him contradict her but walked out of the hall, leaving him alone in the deafening, dark loneliness of the empty walls.

  He’d been wrong. This wasn’t home. This didn’t feel like home. Not without Father.

  Torn between the memories of the monstrous deeds he’d done and the emptiness of what he’d thought would bring him relief, he needed to forget. To numb the desperation that tore at the ragged wound that used to be his heart.

  And he knew only one way to do that.

  He went into the storage room and filled his waterskin with uisge from the barrel.

  That night, the numbness took him even before he went into the bedchamber that used to belong to his father and was now his. It still smelled like his father—steel and leather, the tang of wool grease, and alcohol. Before Ian fell into oblivion, he dreamed of his father scolding him.

  Chapter 11

  Two days later…

  “What are ye doing?” Manning yelled.

  Kate studied the dead chicken hanging upside down in her hand.

  “What am I doing?” she said. “Trying to pluck it.”

  Manning scoffed and threw the dough he’d been kneading onto the table.

  “Tryin’? Have ye never done this before?”

  Kate raised her eyebrows. “I have no clue.”

  Although this was technically true, she had a feeling she hadn’t. Her hands didn’t know what to do with the chicken, unlike when she’d made the pie for Ian.

  Manning’s face grew red, his mustache moving. “How can ye nae ken? If ye’re a cook, ye must have plucked chickens.”

  “I—” Kate opened and closed her mouth. The thought of removing the bird’s feathers made nausea rise in her gut. And Manning’s growling made her hands shake.

  “Ye’re useless!” he yelled. “I need twelve chickens plucked and then roasted. The wake is tomorrow. Do ye think ye could do anything useful? Or are ye going to stand around opening yer mouth like a fish?”

  Kate glared at him. She hated that he was right. And his words hit too close to home, in a spot that radiated a familiar pain.

  “There, there ye auld fool,” Cadha said as she wobbled into the kitchen. “I could hear ye yelling from the cowshed. What is the matter?”

  “The matter is, the lord has hired a worthless impostor. What kinda cook doesna ken how to pluck chickens?”

  Cadha propped her hands on her hips and marched up to him. She flicked him on the forehead. “The lass doesna remember who she is, ye bullhead. How would she remember how to pluck a chicken?”

  Manning’s eyes bulged, and his face reddened even more. Kate suppressed a smile. Cadha had her back, and that made something melt in Kate like butter on a hot croissant.

  “Here.” Cadha took the chicken from Kate’s hands and walked to the cauldron of boiling water. “This will loosen the feathers. But dinna hold it there for too long or ye damage the skin and the meat. Aye? About the time that takes ye to drink a mug of ale.”

  “No idea how long that is. Thirty seconds?”

  Cadha threw a confused glance at her. “Whatever a second is, lass. Dinna fash yerself. Ye’ll ken how long. ’Tis called scalding.”

  She put the bird in the boiling water and held it. After a short time, what felt like half a minute to Kate, Cadha removed the steaming bird and put it in a big bowl.

  Manning was back to kneading the dough. “Ye’re wasting yer time, Cadha.”

  “Ah, dinna growl, Manning,” she said.

  “Do ye even ken, how to roast a chicken, lass?” Manning asked. “Or make a normal pie? Nae yer strange one with too much butter.”

  Kate’s shoulders sank, her arms as weak as noodles. He was right. She didn’t know if she could roast a chicken. And just because Ian liked her pie, it didn’t mean that others would. What if her pie was completely strange for them?

  “I—”

  “I dinna have time to busy myself with teachin’ ye. We have fifty guests comin’. Cadha shouldna take trouble, either. She has the whole house to clean and her back is painin’ her.”

  He glared at Kate and stabbed a finger at her. “Ye’re a liability. Ye’re a burden.”

  Cadha gasped and burst into an angry tirade, but Kate didn’t listen anymore.

  The word “burden” echoed in her mind in another voice that said the same thing.

  A female voice.

  Her mother’s voice.

  An image flashed in Kate’s mind, unraveling into a movie.

  She was older now, and she didn’t feel good. Her throat felt as though it were being cut with razor blades, her head aching. They were in that kitchen again—yellow walls, green cabinets. It smelled like cooked beans and sausages. Her mother hid her face in her palms and shook her head. In front of Kate was a plate with steaming green be
ans and sausages. Mandy, Kate’s sister, sat to her right. She must be five or six years old, and Kate—ten.

  “Can you not cut the ends off the beans, Kate?” Mom said without looking at her. “How hard can it be?”

  “I didn’t know…” Kate mumbled.

  “Just buy the canned beans next time.” Mom looked at her, her lips pale and dark circles under her eyes. “I don’t have time to teach you these things. I have to get to my shift at Lou’s in ten minutes.”

  “Sorry, Mom.” Kate shivered, her skin aching. “I don’t feel so good…”

  Mom shook her head and chewed the beans. “Kate, I need you to be a big girl and take care of your sister tonight, okay? Do you think I never feel sick? Every day, honey. But I stand up and go to work to put a roof over your head and those damn beans on your plate.”

  “But I need to do my math homework today. If I fail, I’ll have to repeat the year.”

  Mom sighed and threw her fork on her plate, where it clattered loudly. She hid her face in her hands again. “Kate, Mommy is so sorry, but she’s so tired already. I have to go before I pass out.”

  Mom stood up, her arms bony where they showed below the sleeves of her blouse.

  Kate felt so guilty. She didn’t want to add more to her mom’s troubles. Mom was doing so much for them. If it weren’t for Kate and Mandy, Mom wouldn’t need to work three jobs. Kate would just try to cut the beans correctly. How did one do that?

  She took the green bean and the knife, but shivers ran through her in painful spasms. Her hands slipped and the knife sliced her palm between her index finger and her thumb. Kate cried out in pain. Blood flowed onto the beans. Mandy cried.

  Kate ran after Mom, and opened the front door, holding the wound with her other hand. “Mom!” she called, her voice shaking. “Mom!”

  Mom turned without a word and stood, looking at Kate as though she expected another task to be put on her shoulders.

  That was the moment Kate realized she was nothing but a liability for her mom. A vampire feeding on her blood.

  A burden.

  No. She needed to put her needs aside and be strong.

  “What?” Mom asked.

  “Nothing,” she answered, clenching her hand tight so that Mom wouldn’t see the blood. “Have a good evening. I’ll cut the beans properly next time, promise.”

  “Thank you.” Mom turned and walked to the car.

  Kate returned to the present moment, the medieval kitchen. Her head spun and buzzed from the memory. Manning and Cadha still yelled at each other. She looked at her right hand, and there it was, between her index finger and her thumb—a thin silver scar. She ran a thumb along it.

  The line was harder than the rest of her skin.

  Shock covered her from head to toe in an icy wave.

  What was that? The vision seemed to be a memory—but there were so many things wrong with that. The car. The electric lights. The telephone. The sausages from a plastic wrapping. The beans in a can…

  None of that existed today. Chickens needed to be slaughtered and plucked. Pies were handmade and baked in a fire oven.

  And yet, the scar existed. Physical proof that said her vision was a memory.

  Or she was going insane, and her mind had created that scene to explain the scar and drive her completely over the edge.

  The differences in technology made no sense. But her mother did. Her sister did. The scars deep inside her that she couldn’t see or touch did. The scars that tortured and crippled her soul from somewhere she couldn’t reach.

  “Ye are indeed a Crazy Mary, ye auld fool,” Cadha cried, waving her hands.

  “Ye keep talking like that, ye wilna taste a piece of that lamb come spring.”

  And before Kate could take a breath, another memory flew into her mind, unwrapping…

  “My grandmother taught me this,” Mom said. “And I got a bonus, so I thought I’d splurge on lamb. You won’t believe this. It’s called Crazy Mary.”

  Kate was older now, fifteen probably, and already chubby. She’d developed the habit of hoarding, food mostly, because she never knew when or what she’d eat next.

  The kitchen was rich with the scent of braised onions, garlic, and spices. Ten-year-old Mandy, her dirty hair freshly brushed, a new secondhand dress on, sat at the kitchen table decorating gingerbread men.

  A tiny artificial Christmas tree stood on the table. It was the only one they had in the house.

  “Crazy Mary?” Kate giggled, giddy with excitement to have Mom all to herself for today. No work. No hurrying. Just a family day. “Hear that, Mandy? Crazy Mary!”

  Mandy giggled in response, too. “It doesn’t sound too yummy.”

  “Ah, it will be.” Mom scratched her chin and looked dubiously at the meat. “If I manage to remember the recipe. Kate, write it down so that you don’t have the same problem in the future. I think we prepare the oatmeal-and-spice stuffing first. Then the honey-mustard glaze. We need to tenderize the chops with this.” She raised a mallet. “Do you want to do it, Kate?”

  “Sure!” Kate took the mallet and it sank in her hand. She was eager to show she had been everything Mom wanted her to be—not a burden. Capable of feeding them, washing the dishes, cleaning the house, doing homework with Mandy, and not getting sick. The only thing she never managed to do was her own homework, but somehow, she was getting by. She was never going to be a rocket scientist anyway.

  Mandy giggled again. “Is that why it’s called Crazy Mary? Because you have to beat the meat?”

  Kate laughed. “You’re a Crazy Mandy.”

  Mom echoed the laughter. “No one’s crazy, girls. I have no idea why it’s called that. Grandma never said. But she did say the recipe was passed down from generation to generation. I’d love to know how it started.”

  Back in the medieval kitchen, with the creator of the lamb roast, Kate’s chest squeezed in a sweet ache of loss. That must have been the only happy memory from her childhood.

  Wait… Mom had said the recipe was passed down from generation to generation. Did that mean all of her memories happened in the future? When Manning, Cadha, and Ian were long gone?

  And if Manning had created the recipe, was Kate related to him after all?

  Kate’s head spun and the floor shifted. No, no, no. That head injury must have been worse than she’d thought. She needed a breath of fresh air. The smells of scalded chicken, pies, and meat suffocated her.

  “Excuse me.” She wiped her hands on her apron and left the kitchen.

  “See what ye did…” Cadha’s words trailed off as Kate walked out of the house and then out of the yard.

  Kate didn’t know where she was going. Tears filled her eyes and blurred her vision. Her chest hurt and her throat clenched in a painful spasm. Eventually, she found herself on the coast of the loch, the rocky soil mixed with reeds and grass.

  Someone was there. She looked up. Ian.

  Shirtless, his bare back glistening with sweat in the sun, he bent over the water. His biceps bulged as he washed a piece of clothing, the muscles on his side working.

  Looking at him, Kate forgot how to cry. She even forgot how to breathe.

  He wrung out the tunic, his muscles playing under the soft, ginger-colored hairs on his arm, and put it next to him in the small pile of wet laundry.

  Then he looked at her and frowned.

  Kate wiped her eyes.

  He stood and walked to her, concern on his face.

  “Are ye all right, lass?”

  Oh, how could she be all right when he was about to stand right in front of her, with his glorious pecs and his six-pack covered in soft red hair? A sweet ache pierced her lower belly.

  “I—”

  “Why are ye crying?” He gently lifted her chin up and looked into her eyes.

  The concern in his gaze warmed her. In fact, he was all warm, with cute freckles on his shoulders. The sweet ache pierced Kate’s heart now.

  “I just remembered something about my family.”<
br />
  “Oh, aye? That’s good. What?”

  “Actually, not that good. I’m not even sure it’s a real memory. Maybe just a vision or something. It’s from my childhood. If it is a memory, I didn’t have a very happy one, for the most part.”

  He chuckled bitterly. “I didna have a happy one, either.”

  Kate nodded and looked at the loch because the more she looked at him, the more her legs turned into goo.

  “Do ye ken where ye come from?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t. I still need to bother you a bit longer.”

  He scoffed. “Bother me? Ye’re nae bother, Katie. Stop sayin’ that.”

  Burden… Ye’re a burden. Ye’re a burden.

  Her eyes prickled again from tears, and this time even Ian’s shirtless torso couldn’t stop them.

  “Okay, well, I better get back to the kitchen,” she said and hurried away from him.

  He called after her, but she walked faster. She wasn’t just a burden. She was a crazy burden with strange visions and no idea where she came from…and the growing feeling that she was more of a stranger here than she could ever imagine.

  The day passed in continuing preparations for the wake: sending messengers to different villages and farms, buying more food, talking to the village priest.

  In the afternoon, Ian went to the MacFilib farm to buy some of the uisge they were famous for.

  The farm lay in a small valley surrounded by forest. Ian stopped the cart near the farmhouse. Several buildings were scattered around the property, among fields of oats that surged like a golden sea in the wind. Like all healthy farms, it smelled of warm earth, manure, and growing things. Ian couldn’t imagine any better smell, except mayhap the scent of Katie’s golden hair. In the distance, where the fields of oats ended, sheep grazed on the steep hills. Ian heard their weak baas, along with the nearer sound of someone hammering at an anvil in one of the workshops.

  Ian remembered that as a lad, he’d been out collecting rent with his father and had visited this farm among others. He recalled how much he’d admired his father then, how Duncan had dealt with the tenants—friendly but showing no doubt who was lord.