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

by Mariah Stone

  Ian didn’t stand a chance of being the kind of lord his father had once been.

  “Neacal!” he called, stepping to the ground. “Murdina?”

  The door to the workshop opened and a man in his forties in a blacksmith’s apron came out. Neacal. He’d aged, but looked strong and healthy. A tall, strong but lean lad of eighteen followed him. Ian narrowed his eyes. Could it be Frangean? Ian remembered him as a boy who could barely hold a pitchfork to help his father on the farm.

  “Aye?” Neacal said.

  The door to the farmhouse opened as well, and a woman came out—with her, the scent of fresh bread and stew.

  “What is it, Neacal?” Murdina said.

  Ian’s chest tightened from both sadness and joy.

  “Ye probably dinna recognize me,” he said. “But ’tis Ian Cambel. Yer lord’s son.”

  Neacal’s face went blank in surprise. “Ian? Our lord’s son is dead.”

  “Nae. I was sold into slavery in Baghdad. But I made my way back.”

  Murdina came closer to him. “Aye, I recognize ye, lad. ’Tis Ian! Look at his red hair and his mother’s eyes.”

  Neacal and Frangean came closer, too.

  “Lord.” Neacal clapped him on the shoulder. “’Tis good to see ye alive and well. Welcome back.”

  “Thank ye.” Ian nodded. “But I come with sad news. My father died a few days ago.”

  Murdina gasped and shook her head mournfully. Neacal and Frangean lowered their heads.

  “I am sorry to hear that, lord,” Neacal said.

  “Thank ye. I was with him when he passed. I brought his body home to bury him. Ye’re invited to the wake and the funeral tomorrow. Please, come to Dundail.”

  “Of course we’ll come, lord,” Murdina said and squeezed his arm. “Do ye need anything?”

  “Yes, I was hoping to buy yer fine uisge for the wake.”

  “Oh, aye,” Neacal said. “This year it turned out especially well. How much do ye need?”

  “Two, three casks if ye have that many.”

  “Frangean, come with me,” Murdina said. “We’ll look, lord.”

  “Thank ye.”

  Murdina and Frangean went back into the house and Neacal patted the horse’s neck.

  “’Tis verra good we have ye, lord—a young, strong warrior. We need ye in these times of trouble. Have ye heard of the Sassenach troops lurking around?”

  Ian’s back chilled, and his shoulders tensed.

  “Aye. I met some on my way here.”

  “Ye must bury yer father, of course. But forgive me for asking, will ye protect us from them? Do ye have a plan? Because whatever ye need from the MacFilibs, we can give ye.”

  Ian’s mouth dried. How was he going to tell him he didn’t have a plan of defense, nor did he intend to raise a sword again in his life?

  Frangean appeared with a cask in his hands and carried it to the cart.

  “Aye, here’s good. I thank ye, lad,” Ian said.

  “Ma found two,” he said.

  “Aye, I’ll take them.”

  Frangean nodded, a gleam of adoration in his eyes, then turned and walked back into the house.

  “What do ye say, lord?” Neacal insisted.

  Ian stepped back and threw a glance at the horse. “I canna think of it yet, Neacal.”

  The man raised his hands, palms to Ian. “Aye, I understand, lord. Forgive me. ’Tis just, we’re all worried, hearing what the Sassenachs do around here. Kill and rape and plunder. Burn farms. Slaughter livestock.”

  Ian’s stomach tightened. Had he been whole, he wouldn’t have hesitated. If his people needed him, he’d be there.

  But he couldn’t. No man would die on his sword again. He’d promised himself.

  Frangean appeared with the second cask and carried it to the cart.

  “How much do I owe ye, Neacal.”

  The man waved his hand. “Nothing, lord. We regret yer father’s demise.”

  “Nae. Please. I insist. He’d want that.”

  Neacal hesitated. “Aye. Thank ye. Four shillings will be enough.”

  Ian laid the coins in Neacal’s hand and quickly climbed onto the cart, hurrying to avoid more questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

  “Thank ye,” Ian said. “And I’ll see ye tomorrow.”

  Neacal waved. “God bless, lord.”

  Ian visited other tenants after that to invite them to the wake. Back in Dundail, the large manor still didn’t feel like home. He’d picked up some of the household chores, painfully aware of how much older Cadha and Manning had become. He didn’t mind cleaning and washing his own clothes, repairing the tools, and doing some work in the smithy. Actually, simple labor brought him relief. Physical work made him feel like he was getting in touch with his land, and his house, and his people.

  The day of the wake, the great hall was clean. Pastries, pies, bread, and cheese stood on the tables, roasted chickens already sliced, and cooked vegetables. The room didn’t smell like desolation anymore.

  His father’s tenants and tacksmen, the rent collectors, began coming in. The men talked and drank somberly. The wives scolded running children and chatted with one another. Most people, he didn’t remember.

  There were claps on the shoulder and mournful faces and murmurs of condolence. People visited the body and said their goodbyes. Then they settled at the tables with their food and drinks. The hall was no longer silent and empty. It was filled with the quiet sound of voices.

  A big, stout man with a bushy beard and long black hair came up to him. “I canna express how sorry I am, lord,” he said. “I am Alan Ciar, yer tacksman in Benlochy.”

  Ian nodded. “I thank ye.”

  “Yer father was a good man. He’ll be sorely missed. By everyone.”

  “Aye.”

  They stood in silence for a while. Ian had an uneasy sense that the man hadn’t yet said what he’d come to say.

  “’Tis a sad day to say goodbye to him,” Alan said. “But a joyous day to see ye alive. We all thought ye were killed by the MacDougalls. I am certain ye will be as good a lord as he was.”

  Ian’s jaws tightened.

  “Gladly will I swear my oath to ye,” Alan said.

  Ian’s shoulders stiffened as hard as rocks. No one should swear anything to him. If they knew…

  “I canna think yet of that,” he said. “But I thank ye for yer loyalty.”

  “Aye. Glad to. And I want ye to ken. I havna been stealing from yer father like the other tacksmen.”

  Ian frowned and looked around the room. “Stealing?”

  “Aye. I suppose ye wouldna have kent. But why do ye think yer father didna do so well in the recent years? Why do ye think yer house is in this condition? ’Tis because after yer death… I mean, disappearance, yer father became a different man. He mourned ye so much he didna pay attention to what was goin’ on around him nae more. So some of his tacksmen used him and kept part of the collected rent to themselves.”

  He straightened his back and corrected the belt on his big stomach. “Never I. I have always been loyal and honest and always gave all the rent and taxes collected.”

  “Hm,” Ian said.

  The man’s dark eyes glistened. Ian studied him. Alan didn’t look away or blink. He resembled a bull about to attack.

  “Ye should ask around, lord,” Alan pressed. “Ye should check. And they should face consequences.”

  Ian nodded. “I thank ye, Alan.”

  He gestured at the tables inviting the man to join the others.

  “One more thing, lord,” Alan said. “The English have been seen around. Knights and warriors. ’Tis good we have our lord back, a warrior who will protect us.” He paused and frowned. “Ye will, aye?”

  The weight of a mountain landed on Ian.

  The enemy was knocking at their door, but Ian could not raise a sword again. He couldn’t imagine what he would do once the English came.

  Ian looked at his feet. “Alan, please honor my father’s me
mory by eating some of the food.”

  As the burly tacksman nodded slowly and walked away to the table, Ian couldn’t shake the feeling of betraying his people.

  A movement in the corner of his eye made him turn. Kate came in with plates full of small, steaming pies. Her face flushed, no doubt from the heat in the kitchen, she smiled and greeted people. She put the plates down and asked groups of guests at every table something, and they nodded in approval.

  How could they not like her cooking? Of course they approved.

  She quickly glanced up and met Ian’s eyes. She flashed him a quick smile, and he nodded, his gut filling with lightness just from seeing her. She nodded back, turned, and walk away.

  What a bonnie, hardworking, skillful woman. She had just had some bad luck. If he could, he would help her find her way back home to make her happy. Or put the world at her feet.

  Only, no matter how much he might do, she deserved better than a broken man like him.

  And so did his people.

  Chapter 12

  The next day…

  Kate wiped the table with a cloth to remove bread crumbs and the remnants of parsnip peels under the unhappy growling of Manning. She liked the kitchen clean and tidy, but even after several days she’d spent in Dundail, Manning still complained.

  “She wants to wipe everything,” he mumbled as he kneaded the dough for bread. “How many times must one go to fetch water? And how much vinegar did she waste?”

  Kate tried to block out his complaints, but they started to affect her anyway. Her heart beat faster, and her jaws tightened in an attempt to stop her retort.

  Don’t say something you might regret. You can never take it back. And they will never forget it.

  The words rang in her head, loud and hot, in her mother’s voice. The voice from her visions.

  Kate stopped wiping and leaned on the table, her heart thumping in her chest. Well, she’d finally succeeded in having Manning shut his mouth. He stared at her with a frown.

  “Are ye well, lass?” he asked. “Ye look like ye’re in pain.”

  Kate straightened. “No, I’m all right.”

  He shook his head and resumed peeling. “Then dinna pretend to be. Get back to work.”

  “I thought you didn’t want me to clean.”

  “I dinna want ye to make new rules in my kitchen. Ye come with all yer new recipes for pies, yer suggestions for food, yer…yer…telling me how to hold a knife. I have been a cook longer than ye’ve lived.”

  Kate sighed. “I only want to help.”

  “Ye want to help?” He stopped and looked at her, pure menace in his eyes. “Ye get out. Ye leave. I dinna need another cook. Ian kens me. He kens my cooking, and he likes it. Ye… Who kens who ye really are? Yer strange way of talking, how ye cook. Ye dinna ken how to light the oven! What cook doesna ken how to light the oven? And why do ye use so much salt, huh, when ye ken ’tis as valuable as gold?”

  His scolding was getting to her again. She couldn’t have felt more like an outsider, like an imposing fly, than she did at this moment.

  “Look, if you want me gone, you’ll have to talk to Ian,” she said, fighting tears. “He’s the one who hired me.”

  “Aye, dinna fash yerself, lass. I will talk to Ian. Ye will be gone from my kitchen. Ian has a big heart, and he felt sorry for ye. But everybody kens here, ye’re not needed!”

  He couldn’t have pressed on a more painful spot. Right where she already hurt. And if he was saying the very thing she’d been afraid of, it must be true.

  Ian felt sorry for her but, in truth, didn’t need or want her here. And the last thing she wanted was to be a problem. Eating his food. Occupying his house. Taking his money—which, it didn’t look like he had a lot of anyways.

  She really should go. If only she knew where…

  But for now, she couldn’t stand being in a room with someone who didn’t want her there. “You know what, Manning, I don’t know why I remembered your recipe, but it certainly wasn’t because you’re a nice person. You want me out of your kitchen? Drown in filth for all I care.”

  She threw the cloth on the table, turned, and hit a hot, hard wall of man.

  She recognized his scent immediately—that mysterious mixture of something exotic, and the midnight forest, and his own male musk.

  Ian.

  He took her shoulders in his hands and steadied her. The touch sent a current of excitement through her, and melted her bones at the same time.

  “Ye all right, lass?” Ian asked.

  “Yes,” she breathed out, all anger and disappointment gone, replaced by a sensation of playful bubbles in her stomach.

  His brown eyes on her, Ian nodded and released her, then stepped back a little.

  He glanced at Manning, then at her. “I wanted to thank ye both for what ye did for the wake yesterday. I couldna have wished a better feast to honor my father.”

  Manning glanced at Kate with a cold look, as if to say that she shouldn’t even dare to take any of the gratitude on herself. “Aye, lad,” he said. “Anything for yer father.”

  Kate wished she could have gone to the burial yesterday, too, to give Ian moral support. As she’d found out, women didn’t go to the burials. He’d been pale and sad all day—understandably. But he was also withdrawing from the people and the world around him. He was respected by his tenants. She saw that in the way they talked to him. But he wasn’t responding. It was as though he’d wanted it to be over as quickly as possible.

  “Are you all right, Ian?” she asked.

  He glanced sharply at her, his face tensing. “Aye, I’m all right.”

  “You look—”

  “I said I’m all right, lass. ’Tisna yer concern. If everyone just stopped fussing about me…”

  Kate stood still for a moment, unable to move. Something about that interaction rang a familiar tune. The slam of a door…the abrupt rejection of care…

  “Looks like I’m nae the only one annoyed by ye, lass,” Manning said slowly. Then he shook his head and returned to peeling parsnips.

  “I’m nae annoyed, especially nae with Katie,” Ian said. “But I must speak with ye, Manning.”

  “I can go…” Kate said.

  “Nae, ye have much work to do,” Ian said. “Manning. Please come with me.”

  They exited the kitchen, and Kate felt a small pang of regret that Ian had left.

  She finished cleaning the table and picked up the bucket to fetch more clean water. But when she reached the door, Ian’s and Manning’s voices came from the hallway.

  “Lord, ye must understand, she doesna belong here. ’Tis clear as day.”

  Ian sighed. “I ken that she doesna.”

  Kate’s chest chilled.

  “She will be gone when her memory comes back. She’s already started remembering something.”

  So he wanted her to be gone. He didn’t want her to stay, did he?

  “Aye. Good. The lass has these strange ways of doin’ things. I dinna like her meddling in my kitchen.”

  “It won’t be for long. Be patient with her. She’s been through a lot.”

  Yes, Ian only pitied her. All that care, all that kindness, it wasn’t because he liked her. It was because he had a good heart.

  “Aye, lord. ’Tis hard, though, with her around.”

  The bucket trembled in Kate’s hands.

  “Manning, ye’ll manage. ’Tisna easy for her.”

  Steps approached the kitchen and Kate put the bucket on the floor and returned to the table. She found the cloth and wiped the table without really knowing what she was doing. Her heart was like a raging wound. The pressure in her stomach increased.

  Manning came into the kitchen, and without another word, proceeded into his attached room.

  Kate exhaled. She didn’t think she could deal with him right now, knowing how much her presence was disturbing him. Ian came in, and something lightened in her heart.

  “I—” he said.

  She picke
d up the bucket again and went to the door. “I need to fetch water,” she said.

  “Allow me.”

  Ian moved to take the bucket from her hands. Their fingers touched briefly, sending a jolt of electricity through Kate. She jerked her hand back.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll manage,” she said. “I’m perfectly capable.”

  Ian glanced at her, puzzled. “Aye,” he said. “I am certain, ye are.”

  She marched out of the house. Steps followed her, surprisingly.

  She put the bucket on the stone wall of the well and turned to him.

  “Listen, Ian, I really don’t want to inconvenience anyone, least of all you. You’ve been kind to me, and I don’t want to take any more of your patience. Just, please, tell me if you want me to go.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “I don’t want to be a burden.”

  His jaw tightened.

  “Ye are nae a burden,” he said, his voice hard.

  He definitely looked annoyed.

  “Right,” she said and put the bucket onto the hook. “Manning doesn’t agree with you.”

  He sighed. “Dinna fash yerself about Manning.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  Ian rubbed his temples and closed his eyes.

  “Look, lass, stop thinking about this over and over. I ken ye’re struggling, but I told ye I’m nae yer friend, and I canna always be making peace between ye and Manning.”

  Kate lowered the bucket. It flopped into the water and she waited until it filled. She pulled it up. Everything he was saying—or rather, how he was saying it—confirmed her fears. He didn’t really want her here. He just pitied her. And now he was annoyed that she’d raised the subject over and over.

  Lesson learned.

  She wouldn’t raise it again.

  In fact, she should leave as soon as possible and relieve them all of her company.

  “Won’t happen again,” she said. “I promise.”

  She pulled the bucket out and walked back to the kitchen. She didn’t yet know when or how she would leave, but she’d rather poke herself in the eye with a sharp stick than have him look at or talk to her with that tone again.

  She cared about him too much to burden him even more with her problems.