Cottage in the Mist

by Dee Davis

  The gorge below was narrow, carved by an ancient river perhaps. The path, such that it was, veered upward sharply toward the fortress, a series of switchbacks climbing up the mountain, carefully designed so that travel would be truly safe only with the cover of night. It was barely wide enough for a single horse to pass.

  An odd way to think of it, but even before she could complete the thought she saw them. Riders. A dozen or more. Unease turned to fear. Somehow she knew, even without being told, that these were not friends, their intent anything but benign.

  Her mind flashed back to Bram. He'd said that his enemies would come after him. And somehow in her heart she was certain that these were those men. Some still sane part of her mind knew that she was dreaming. That this was simply an extension of her fantasy. But somewhere deep in her soul she was equally certain that the danger was real. She had to get to Bram to warn him.

  She looked beyond the gorge, out across the valley, a ribbon of silver marking the path of the river. But there was no light where the cottage should be. Nothing to indicate that he was there. Perhaps he had gone to Duncreag. Her gaze moved back to the tower. In this light it looked invincible.

  But no one knew there was danger.

  She tried to take a step, realizing only then that she was nothing more than a spirit. A wisp of nothing. She was here and yet she wasn't. Her heart cried out. She needed to find him. To warn him. Real or fantasy, she needed him to live. To survive. If only so they could find each other in their dreams.

  The men below continued on, winding their way higher, their movements cloaked by the darkness and the sound of the wind as it whistled through the gorge. Above her, the tower was dark, stark against the sky. It was late, the inhabitants most likely sleeping in their beds. Which meant that Bram would be caught unaware.

  She screamed, but if she had a voice, the wind whipped it away. Was this a punishment then? Another death to carry in her heart? How had he come to mean so much to her in so little time?

  Clearly she was insane. The smack on her head must have caused real damage because here she was standing on an imaginary cliff, in some imaginary time, frightened for a man that had probably never even existed.

  Below her a horse whinnied, and something clicked shut.

  The sound was incongruous with the scene below her. And the gorge began to fade…

  Lily jerked awake, her heart pounding. A tiny stream of moonlight shone from a thin opening between the drapes covering the mullioned window. Duncreag. She was safe. In her room. Relief warred with disappointment.

  There were no invaders. It had been only a dream.

  All of it, the little voice in her mind insisted.

  She ran a finger across her bottom lip, remembering his touch, and shivered, suddenly cold. Then she heard a footstep and turned toward the dark part of the room. The shadows were deep. But she was certain she was not alone. Something had awoken her.

  She blinked, trying to focus, but suddenly everything shimmered, as if a mist had descended, the room growing hazy. Then as quickly as it had come, it was gone and her vision cleared. She frowned into the darkness. The room was the same, and yet it wasn't. The window was deeper. Arched. And the bed was larger. More primitive.

  And then he stepped into the sliver of moonlight.

  Bram.

  "Lily?" he asked, his eyes widening with surprise. "How did you get in here?"

  She shook her head, unable to find words. But she held out her hands, and he was across the room in two strides, pulling her into his arms as he sank down onto the bed. "I thought I'd never see you again. When I came back this morning, you were gone. I was half out of my mind. I feared my enemies had found you."

  He pushed her hair back from her face, his gaze locking with hers.

  "I woke up and you weren't there," she whispered. "So I got dressed and came to find you. But before I could, the cottage disappeared." Her eyes pricked with tears and the memory. "It was gone, Bram. Nothing left but a pile of stones. I thought I'd gone crazy."

  "Nay, you're no' daft, we're just part of something beyond our ability to ken. Somehow your world and mine have intersected."

  "I don't understand…"

  "Neither do I, mo ghràidh." He kissed her then, the fear in her stomach changing to something more primitive. Imaginary or no, she wanted this man. And if that meant a life lived in half worlds, then so be it.

  The kiss deepened as he demanded more, and she opened her mouth, surrendering herself to him, knowing that at any moment the dream—if indeed that's what this was—might end.

  His hands skimmed across the soft cotton of her nightgown, and she pressed herself closer, reveling in the feel of his lips as they moved against hers. He pushed her back onto the bed, straddling her, the hunger in his eyes stoking the passion raging within her.

  "God's blood, I've never wanted a woman the way that I want you. 'Tis as if I've known you forever and still I canna get enough. Have you bewitched me, then?"

  She smiled, her lips trembling with emotion. "Whatever is happening, it's happening to us both," she said, reaching for him.

  The wind whipped against the window, the howling reminding her of her dream—if this could be counted as reality. Suddenly she was frightened again, and Bram must have seen it in her eyes. He moved to pull her into his lap, concern overriding his hunger.

  "What is it, lass? What troubles you?"

  She swallowed a bubble of hysteria. That was the sixty-four thousand dollar question. But she knew the most pressing thing was to warn him of what she'd seen. Even if she couldn't explain how she'd actually been able to see it.

  She sucked in a deep breath. In for the penny, in for the pound. "There are men in the gorge. Here. Below Duncreag."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I saw them from the top of the ridge. They were on horseback. At least a dozen. They were using the darkness as cover. Oh, God, Bram, I think they're coming for you."

  "But how could you possibly have seen them?"

  "I don't know. One minute I was dreaming that you and I were…" She stopped, ducking her head, hot color staining her face, but then she shook her head, pressing on. "…together, then you just faded away and I was standing on the cliff. Only I wasn't really there. It was like I was floating or something. I could see, but I couldn't do anything."

  "And that's when you saw the men?" He was listening now, his mind clearly moving to the threat at hand.

  "Yes. They were going slowly. And silently. They were dressed oddly, too. In kilts with blankets or something." For a moment she stopped, taking in his attire. A roughly woven linen shirt and a kilt that wrapped around his waist and twisted up over his shoulder. "They were dressed like you."

  "The same colors?" he asked, his gaze probing.

  "I couldn't see. They were too deep in the shadows. But the pattern was different from yours. Bigger maybe. If that makes sense."

  "Aye. I'm afraid it does. Can you tell me exactly where you were?"

  "I can't say for positive. I haven't really seen much of Duncreag yet. But the gorge was to the left of the tower. I could see it high on the opposite ridge to my right. There was a large outcropping of rock. Almost like a ledge. Do you know it?"

  "Aye, that I do. 'Tis the entrance to the tower. Iain has men at the gate, but they'll no' be expecting intruders at this hour."

  The fear she'd felt while standing on the ridge rose again. "They're on their way now. I can feel it. You have to go. You need to warn Iain."

  "But I canna leave you."

  She could see the flash of worry cross his face. "I'll be fine."

  "What if I lose you again?" Pain crested in his eyes. How in the world had they come to this place so quickly?

  "You can't lose me," she whispered, reaching up to caress his face. "I'll always be right here." She touched his chest and he covered her hand with his. "Now go."

  He sat for a moment, still holding her hand as it lay against his chest, indecision warring. And then as if som
ething else had taken control, the room started to shimmer again.

  "Lily." Bram reached for her, but she could barely feel his touch.

  "Go," she urged again. "Please. Protect yourself."

  "I willna let you go," he whispered fiercely, even as he started to fade from her sight. "I promise you that."

  As if in defiance of the words, the room flickered once and he was gone.

  Lily closed her eyes and slowly opened them again. The moonlight still cut a swath across the floor and she recognized her suitcase in the corner. There was no longer a sense of danger, but she still felt a chill work its way up her spine.

  Whatever door between worlds had opened, it had closed tightly again.

  And be it real or fantasy, she was certain that her heart lay on the other side.

  CHAPTER 8

  "YOU'RE SURE THAT LILLY was right?" Iain asked as they held their horses at the top of the gorge.

  "Aye. She was certain. And afraid for us. If nothing else convinces me, that would."

  "Then we advance." Iain waved his men on, and Bram marveled at how much faith Iain had in his word. It had only been hours before when he'd woken his cousin to tell him of Lily's warning. And all credit to Iain, he'd not questioned the demand, instead acting immediately, without doubt.

  The night was dark save for the waning moon and the twinkle of stars in the sky. The wind moved restlessly through the canyon and Bram sat his mount, waiting.

  Below, the valley was quiet. But silence was deceptive, and as they waited, beyond the dark, they heard the whinny of a horse. Lily had been right.

  Bram looked to Iain, waiting his command. Behind him, he felt the restless energy of Iain's men.

  "Wait for it," Ranald whispered, and somehow the night came to life.

  "Now," Iain cried, and the horses leapt forward.

  Bram had been in battle before but not in such close quarters and never when the stakes were so high. The screams, both horses and men, echoed off the walls of the gorge.

  He brought his claymore down against the weapon of an enemy, the contact ringing through his arm, pain singing through his brain. The man fell, but another threatened just beyond, and again Bram swung his weapon—two-handed, the blade cutting deep into the man's gut.

  With a surge of superhuman strength, he pulled the claymore free and pivoted to take on the next man, ducking to avoid the blow. Beyond the shadows he could see Iain and Ranald fighting, their blades flashing in the moonlight. These men were fighting for him. And whatever happened this night, the consequences fell on him.

  The moon slipped beneath a cloud.

  Ranald let loose a bloodthirsty cry and Iain's men surged forward, having the advantage of knowing the gorge, even in the dark. Bram allowed himself to be led forward, still using his claymore to fend off attack.

  Ahead, the canyon narrowed even more, gnarled branches arching overhead, intertwining like bony fingers. Behind him, Bram heard something clatter and he turned in anticipation, but his horse shied with the movement, rearing up and braying in fright.

  He clung to the reins, fighting for control, and for a moment, he thought he'd managed to maintain his seat. But then he was flying, landing hard against the rocky floor of the gorge. His horse reared again, the hooves coming perilously close to his head. How ironic it would be to die here under the feet of his own steed.

  Still dizzy from the fall, Bram gathered his wits and rolled from beneath the horse, pushing to his feet, scrambling to maintain hold on his sword. From out of the shadows, a man's face loomed as he leaned low over his horse's shoulder. His feral gaze cut into Bram's as he raised his claymore, ready for the kill.

  But Bram was faster, swinging his blade in an arc over his head.

  Their swords met once and Bram swung again. Around him, he could hear the sounds of others battling, but he forced his focus onto the man in front of him. His enemy's claymore sliced through the air again. But Bram pivoted, the blow glancing off of his sword. And then a second man surged out of the dark, this one on foot, dirk in one hand, claymore in the other. Bram backed away as he tried to figure out which man to attack first. The one on the horse or the one on foot.

  They both looked equally lethal. And though he had no doubt he could take one, he was not as certain of taking them both.

  The man on foot charged, and the decision was taken from his hands. Bram swung the claymore, satisfied when it made contact, but the blow was only a glancing one.

  His assailant swung his sword, plunging the knife forward at the same time. Bram countered with his own weapon, the impact sending both of them backwards. Seeing that his friend had failed, the horseman lunged forward. But Bram managed to catch his arm with the tip of his blade. Blood spurted through the horseman's shirt, and he cried out in rage.

  Bram twisted to avoid the man's claymore and thrust his sword upward, satisfied as he felt contact. The man fell from his horse, sightless eyes looking up into the night sky. But before Bram had the chance to feel relief, the second man rushed forward again, leading with his claymore.

  He swung hard, and though Bram deflected the blow, the impact sent his claymore flying. Seeing that, for the moment at least, he had the upper hand, the man raised his dirk, closing in for the kill. Bram scrambled for his sword as the man swung the knife, but then Ranald was there, and his blade sank deep.

  The man fell next to his friend and Bram grabbed his claymore, turning first to the right and then to the left, searching for another threat as Ranald wheeled his horse around, doing the same. But the fight was over, the Mackintosh men winning the day.

  "You saved my life," Bram said to Ranald as he gathered his horse's reins and pulled himself back into the saddle again.

  "Aye, that I did. But you'd have done the same for me." Ranald grinned, pumping a fist in the air. "Looks like we've sent the bastards straight to hell."

  After the whooping of success settled, Iain pulled his mount close to Bram's. "We're blessed that your woman warned us." He reined in his horse. "I have no doubt that we would have prevailed, but with her warning we suffered no loss of life. And you're still in one piece."

  "Which is of little importance to anyone but me, at the end of the day." Bram grimaced, gingerly rolling his injured shoulder.

  "And mayhap your Lily," Iain said, his smile guarded.

  "I canna complain that we have routed our enemy," Ranald said, reining in his horse, "but we've also managed to kill them all. Which means we canna question them to find out who the traitor might be. Did you recognize any of the riders?"

  "Nay." Bram shook his head. "But they wear the Comyn colors."

  "That they do," Iain said, "but none have the look of a Comyn. They're known for their wild black hair."

  "But not all of them share that trait," Bram protested. "And the plaids dinna lie."

  "We canna know for certain," Iain said. "'Tis possible they're Comyns but we've had firsthand experience with men wearing colors that were no' their own."

  "I canna disagree, cousin," Ranald said, "but despite the fact that they dinna have the look of the Comyns, we canna dismiss this." He opened his hand, a silver brooch glimmering in the pale light.

  "God's blood." The words came out before Bram could stop them. "My father's crest."

  Silence stretched across the gorge.

  "In truth, I suppose some part of me wanted to believe that this wasna happening. That the events at Dunbrae were somehow limited to a location, a moment in time. That no one was truly after me."

  "I'm afraid you've no' the luxury of allowing yourself that fantasy," Ranald said. "Whatever happened at Dunbrae, the ramifications have spread. If for no other reason than because you live."

  "Then I have brought danger to your door," Bram said, his stomach churning.

  "We're cousins, are we not?" Ranald asked, his tone carrying his disbelief. "Nay, more like brothers. So, unless I'm no' understanding, your enemy is mine."

  "Aye, 'tis true," Iain agreed, and Bram felt a weakne
ss he was loathe to admit. These were his brothers as truly as they had been born to him. He did them disservice to have doubted.

  "So what happens now?" Bram asked, not sure what the next step should be, but knowing that if he were going to survive, he needed to take a stand.

  *****

  Lily shivered as she stared out at the dark mountains surrounding Duncreag. Unable to sleep after her encounter with Bram, she'd followed the staircases up until she'd emerged onto the rooftop of the tower. Surrounded by crenelated edges and holes cut through the stone that must have been for dropping God knows what on an attacking enemy, the floor was made of hewn stone. Despite the precipitous drop below, the view was quite stunning.

  Stars twinkled in the sky. And a few lights winked in the distant fields and mountains. Signs that she was not alone. At least not in a literal sense. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd lost something more precious than even her parents. Although just entertaining the thought seemed sacrilegious. She was choosing a fantasy over the people she claimed to have loved most.

  Her fingers closed on the cool silver of the wedding ring. Her parents would have wanted her to be happy. Of that she was certain. They wouldn't have wanted her to drown in her grief. Or to let it drive her crazy.

  She smiled at the thought, knowing somewhere deep in her heart that there was an explanation. Maybe not a logical one. But at least something real. She glanced down at the ragged cliff edges below, her mind trailing back to the vision, or whatever the hell it had been, of men climbing the narrow fissure, primed for attack.

  There were no sounds carrying on the breeze, save for the whispering trees. No horses, no battle cries. No stronghold gate. Bram had mentioned that Iain kept men on guard.