Highland Rogue

by Mallory, Tess

  He had the sudden mental picture of riding a horse beside the horseless carriages, calling out for them to pull over so that he could rob them. Being a highwayman was obviously not a choice in the twenty-first century.

  “Yes?” said a staid-looking librarian behind the desk. The flirtatious woman who had given him her number the last time wasn’t there, and Quinn felt vastly relieved.

  He hesitated, and then took the plunge.

  “May I use yer telly-phone?” he asked.

  “For a local call?” she asked.

  Quinn gave her a confident smile, though he felt anythingbut. “Yes,” he said, having no idea what she meant or to what he was agreeing.

  She handed him the part of the phone Maggie had called the “receiver.” “I’ll dial it for you,” she said in a preciseaccent that was only faintly Scottish.

  Quinn hurriedly dug the wallet Maggie had given him out of the back pocket of his jeans. He gave the woman the piece of paper that had the number of the cottage written on it and watched in fascination as she pressed the numericalbuttons. It seemed simple enough, but how in the world did it work? He held the receiver to his ear and was rewardedby the sound of a distant ringing. The ring sounded three times and then there was a click, and Maggie’s voice.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Maggie mine,” he said, his voice hoarse with affection and pride. “It’s me, Quinn.”

  “Quinn?” she asked, her voice filled with shock.

  “Aye,” he said. “I thought I would”—what was it they called using this thing? A call? Yes, that was it—“I’d give ye a call.” He rocked back on his heels in satisfaction.

  Her soft laughter came to him over the earpiece. “You never cease to amaze me,” she said. “Where are you?”

  “At the library. Could ye come now and join me for an early supper?” That she’ll have to pay for, he reminded himselfsilently. Surely if he came back to her time, he could find some kind of employment. He was a hard worker. He would find his place.

  “Sure,” she agreed. “And this is perfect, because it just so happens, I have a big surprise for you waiting back in town.”

  “’Tis quite a coincidence,” he said, “because I have one for ye, too. I’ll meet ye outside the library.”

  “Great! I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  There was another click, and Quinn realized the call had ended. He handed the receiver back to the woman behind the counter and, feeling strangely smug, headed outside.

  True to her word, Maggie picked him up in fifteen minutes. He was getting used to riding in the horseless carriage, and in fact, was starting to enjoy it. He might even learn to drive one someday. If he was able to return.

  “I saw that friend of yours, Alex, when I was walking in town, and we had an interesting discussion,” he told her as they drove down the main street of Drymen.

  “What did he have to say?” Maggie asked.

  He told her how Alex planned to shut down the cairn for a few days to go to Edinburgh and pick up a scientist friend. “He says the cairn is emitting a curious ‘energy.’ ”

  Maggie laughed. “No kidding.”

  “We are invited to meet his friend, when he returns to the cairn next week.”

  “Just like a real couple,” Maggie said wistfully. “You know, you are adapting amazingly well.”

  Quinn cleared his throat. “Ye know, lass, this would be my opportunity to go back, while Alex is not in the way.”

  “I know,” she said, the words a sigh, and then fell silent.

  “I have something to show ye,” he said after a few moments,“when ye stop this contraption.”

  Maggie glanced over at him, and there was a twinkle in her eyes. “Is it what you showed me last night, because if it is, I’ll pull over right now.”

  He smiled. “Nay, ’tis something new. A surprise.”

  “Hmm, sounds mysterious.” She pulled the carriage up in front of a row of tiny shops.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Your surprise. We’ll have to walk down to the right shop. It’s at the end.” She shifted in her seat. “But first, show me my surprise.”

  “Aye, let’s get out where we have more room.”

  “Oh, a big surprise,” she said, her voice teasing. “I thought you said it wasn’t what you showed me last night.”

  Quinn chuckled as he opened his door. “I swear, lass, ye get more wanton by the minute.”

  “Thank you. It’s all your fault.”

  Circling quickly around the carriage, he opened her door before she could, and offered his hand for support.

  “Thank you, my good fellow,” she said, in a snotty, aristocraticvoice, “now throw yourself down over yon water puddle and let me walk across your back.”

  “How about this instead?” He picked her up, one arm under her legs, the other around her waist, and spun her in a circle. She squealed and laughed until he put her down on the strange stone surface that was not stone, called a “side-walk.”

  “Now that was fun.” Maggie whirled around, her dress billowing out like a flower’s petals.

  Her garment was white, with tiny red dots scattered across it, made from a linenish material. The full skirt of the dress hit her just above the knees. It would be consideredquite scandalous in his time, but after what Quinn had seen in the village that day, he realized she was dressed very modestly. She looked beautiful. What if he couldn’t return? He swallowed hard and dismissed the thought. He would return.

  “Okay,” she said, coming to a stop. “Give me my surprise.”

  “First a word of explanation.”

  Maggie raised both brows. “All right.”

  “I had been reading a book about the ancient Celts,” he told her, as he took off his new jacket and laid it over his right arm, “and learned many had inscribed themselves with symbols of significance. When I saw the name tattoo on that young woman’s wrist yesterday, it gave me an idea.”

  She frowned. “Quinn, please tell me that you didn’t—”

  With a wide grin, he pushed up the left sleeve of his new T-shirt. There, in all of its reddened glory, adorning his bicep, was his new tattoo.

  The triskele.

  Maggies’s mouth dropped open. “Quinn . . .” she said faintly. “When—? What—?”

  His smile widened. He’d really surprised her!

  One corner of her mouth quirked up just a little, then looking a little dazed, she dropped her gaze to his arm and gingerly ran one finger around the skin outside the reddenedtattoo.

  “It—It’s amazing,” she said. “But why the spirals?”

  Quinn slipped his arms around her waist and without hesitation she slid her hands up his chest and around his neck, as he gazed down into her blue, blue eyes.

  “This is what brought ye to me, and this is what will bring me back to ye. When I get back to me own time, I will see this symbol every day, and every day I will be reminded that ye are here, waiting for me to return.”

  The quirk disappeared, and tears glistened in Maggie’s eyes. “Oh, Quinn,” she whispered, and pulled his head down to hers, kissing him in a way that made him know she understood completely. When they separated, he leaned his head against hers. “Has anyone ever told you,” she said, “that you are an amazing man?”

  “Just forty or fifty women,” he said.

  She laughed, moving away, keeping his hand. “I love the tatoo, especially if it helps bring you back to me. Now it’s your turn.” She pulled him forward.

  He drew back in feigned horror. “Ye dinna get a tattoo, too, did ye?”

  “Not yet, but give me time.”

  Quinn frowned as he thought about it. “I dinna think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “I dinna like the idea of yer sweet skin being ravaged like that.” He winced. “Ye know, it stings to have this done. I dinna want anything to ever hurt ye, lass.”

  Maggie’s gaze softened. “I love you,” she said.

&nbs
p; “And I love ye, Maggie mine.”

  Wearing a satisfied smile, she led him down the sidewalka short distance until she stopped in front of one of the tiny houses and opened its red door. Quinn walked in first, and stopped short, staring around at the small shop. Every bit of space on the walls and countertops in the square room was covered with bagpipes of every size and description. There were Northumbrian smallpipes, border pipes, Uilleann pipes, and—

  He reached out and lightly touched the velvet bag coveringof a large set of pipes. When he spoke, his voice was hushed, reverent. “Piob-mhor,” he whispered.

  “What?” Maggie asked.

  “The Grrrrr-eat Pipe,” said a short man from behind the counter, in a brogue so thick, Quinn wondered for a momentif it was real. The man’s face was wizened and wrinkled,and to Quinn, he looked like a gnome in one of the books he and Maggie had checked out of the library. " ’Tis tha’ most traditional set of pipes,” the man added. “And tha’ one is quite auld. From the late 1800s. The drones is made from bog oak. Ye don’t see that much no more.”

  Quite old. And yet Quinn was older by at least a hundredyears. He felt Maggie’s hand on his arm and took heart. He glanced down at her and smiled, and then turned his attention back to the pipes.

  The bag was of red, green, and blue plaid velvet, with three long drones made from a dark, smooth wood protrudingfrom the back, along with the blowpipe. He touched it gingerly, the same thrill he’d once felt as he played the pipes rushing over him as the wood slid beneath his finger-tips.Silver ferrules with knot work engraved upon them adored the different sections of the drones, and tassels studded with beads looped between them. It was beautiful.

  “I’ve ne’er played the Great Pipes,” Quinn said softly. “Mine are—were—smallpipes.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Maggie murmured, shooting him a wicked smile.

  “Weel noo, take ’em doon and try them oot,” the small man encouraged him.

  Quinn reached for the pipes and then stopped and loweredhis hand. “Another time perhaps,” he said.

  Maggie laughed. “No, not another time, you stubborn Scot. This is my surprise! I bought them for you!”

  Quinn drew in a sharp breath and stared down at her, then shook his head. “Thank ye, but—” Abruptly, he turned and walked out of the shop. Maggie caught up with him halfway down the street.

  “Quinn. Quinn, wait!”

  He stopped, unable to look at her. She pulled him around to face her, and he felt the hot flush of shame stain his cheeks, along with a solitary tear.

  “Quinn,” she whispered, her hand going to his face, her fingers sliding over the moisture and wiping it away. “I’m sorry, love. I thought—”

  He captured her hand and kissed her palm, his sorrow under control once more. “I know, Maggie mine. ’Twas so kind of ye. Forgive me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was stupid to think—I thought if you—” She looked up at him, biting her lower lip, her blue eyes filled with tears. “I thought it would make you feel more at home,” she explained as the tears spilled over. “I didn’t know the difference in them, but it was the biggest and the finest and the oldest that he had.”

  “Maggie,” he whispered, “’twas a beautiful thing for ye to do, but—”

  “I bought it today, while you were at the library. Maxed out my Visa.” She laughed hesitantly. “But I wanted you to see the other pipes, to make sure it was the right one. The look on your face told me that I’d made the right choice, but then—” She broke off and dropped her gaze to the ground. “I’m sorry.”

  Quinn lifted her chin gently with two fingers, tilting her face up to his. “Lass, do ye know why I was so upset?”

  She shook her head again, her eyes downcast.

  “Well, I thought of Ian of course, still languishing in his cell, and then of our days together at the MacCrimmons School, and suddenly all these feelings and memories rushed through my mind. But that is not why I shed the first tear of my adult life.”

  Maggie glanced up at him. “Why, then?”

  He gazed into her blue eyes that so matched the sky today. “Because for a brief moment, I had an image of ye and I, sitting by the hearth of our own sweet cottage on a summer’s evening, our children playing before us, me playingthe pipes. And I—” He broke off and shook his head.

  “And you’re afraid you won’t be able to come back, aren’t you?” Maggie said, her voice trembling.

  He nodded. “There is always that chance.”

  Maggie’s head drooped, and she stared at the sidewalk with downcast eyes. “You’ll come back,” she whispered. “It’s our destiny to be together.” Her head came up and she smiled through shimmering tears. “I mean, you do have the tattoo and all.” She linked her arm in his. "C’mon,” she said playfully, “let’s go get your pipes and tonight you can play them for me. Okay?”

  Quinn reached out and pulled her close, resting his chin on the top of her soft red hair as she clung to him. He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “Oh-kay, lass,” he said softly. “I would be honored.”

  They spent the evening in front of the cottage’s fireplace, Quinn perched upon the stone hearth in front of the fire-place,and Maggie sitting at his feet as he played the pipes for her. She leaned against his leg and closed her eyes. He closed his, too, losing himself in his own faraway past, when he was just a lad with big dreams. He played his favoritesfor her, “Bonnie Dundee,” “The Desperate Battle,” “Black Donald’s March,” "MacLean’s Warning,” and "MacIntosh’s Lament,” then slipped into a piobroch of his own composition.

  When the last lingering sound had faded, he opened his eyes and looked down to see Maggie’s face streaked with tears. “Beautiful,” she whispered.

  “Aye,” he said, “but even these tunes, these pipes, canna compare with the beauty of yer face.”

  Maggie got to her knees and smiled up at him. “Have I ever told you what a charmer you are?”

  He frowned thoughtfully. “I dinna think so.”

  She laughed. “Well, then I’m ashamed. You are not just a charmer, but you are charming. Why is it you never married?”

  He stroked her hair back from her face as he gazed down at her. “Because I was waiting for ye to come barrelinginto my life.”

  She made a face at him. “I do not barrel. I glide gracefully like a gazelle.” Quinn snorted, and she stuck her tongue out at him. “Did you ever meet someone . . . special?”

  He thought about it for a moment. There had been lasses in his life, but never anyone special. Certainly no one like Maggie. He ducked his head to hide a smile. “Oh, aye,” he said in answer.

  Maggie’s face fell. “Who?”

  “A redheaded vixen who crossed time and space to find me.” He tugged on a long lock of her hair. " ’Oh-kay’ ?”

  Her lashes fluttered down and her cheeks flushed prettily.“Okay,” she said.

  “Now, how about something with a little more joy in it?”

  Maggie leaned back on her heels and grinned at him. “That would be lovely.”

  For the next hour he played her every reel and jig he knew, and then ended with a slow-moving strathspey that had Maggie on her feet and dancing in a less-than-graceful glide around the room. When the music ended, she held out her hand to him.

  “Come on, laddie, dance with me.”

  He stood and shook his head. “Come upstairs and I will dance with ye,” he said softly.

  She backed away from him and put her hand on her hip, her gaze steady. “You know, that’s just about all we do, and though it is amazing, I really think it’s time to take this relationshipto the next level.”

  Quinn blinked. “Which is?”

  She held out her hand again. “Dancing.”

  He laughed and shook his head again in weak protest. "I am no dancer, lass.”

  Maggie tilted her head, her long hair waving over one shoulder. She was so lovely. How could he leave her?

  “There’s a first time f
or everything, right?” she said.

  With a sigh he put the pipes down carefully and stood, holding out his arms. “Indeed there is. But dinna blame me if I break yer feet.”

  She put a Rolling Stones CD on the boom box Ellie couldn’t live without and turned the volume up high. “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” blared into the room, and Quinn’s eyes almost popped out of his head.

  “What in the name of all that is music is that?” Quinn demanded.

  “That is rock and roll,” she told him, and began to dance her own particular gyrations.

  “Maggie, darlin’, ye are havin’ some kind of fit!” he cried, moving to try and calm her, as another realization struck him. “And where is the music coming from?”

  “The CD player,” she said, doing a version of the frug.

  “What in the name of heaven is a CD player?” he asked frantically.

  “Remember my little Nessie gizmo?” she said. “It’s like that, except less furry.”

  Quinn shook his head. “What is a gizmo? What is—”

  The front door to the cottage opened, and Maggie turned, flushed and happy, to see her sisters and Rachel staring at the two of them.

  “What’s going on?” Allie asked.

  “I’m teaching Quinn how to dance!” Maggie said.

  The three women exchanged glances and grinned.

  “Well, then, c’mon, baby,” Rachel said, grabbing Quinn by the hand, “I’m gonna teach you how to get down!”

  “Get down where?” Quinn asked, terrified by the sheer exuberance in the woman’s face. He wasn’t used to twenty-first century women!

  “Good grief, Aunt Rachel, next thing you know you’ll be teaching him to jitterbug,” Ellie scolded. “You need to start with the basics.” She moved to the CD player and deftly switched the music to classical.

  Quinn’s face changed from bewilderment to rapture. “Ah,” he said, “now, this is music!”

  Maggie laughed, and with the help of Allie, Ellie, and Rachel, Quinn spent the next hour learning to dance the waltz, stumbling from one side of the room to the other before finally getting the flow of it. That was followed by learning dances called the tango, the fox-trot, and some crazy gyration he refused to do, called the watusi. When they tired of dancing, Ellie gave him instructions on how to “microwave” a frozen dinner, which he thought tasted rather flat, but which was amazing. Practical Allie taught him what to do if the cottage caught on fire, and laughed hysterically when she cried out, “Stop! Drop! Roll!” over and over and he obeyed. And Rachel gave him a computer lesson that had him shaking his head in wonder.