“My…cousin? You mean Rae, don’t you?”
Dorcas set her cane aside, reaching up on her tiptoes, and attempted to unhook the front tent flap of a vendor tent.
“Dorcas, let me do that.” With a gentle shove, she took over the task. The snaps proved formidable. Unhooked, the tent flap fell open. The scent of grass, rough-sawn wood, and damp wool rushed at her.
“Thank ye, lass. ‘Tis a struggle. I miss Cameron and Isobel.”
“I imagine Izzy misses you, too. I never met Cameron, but I hear he’s a handsome warrior. He worked for you, then fell in love with a local woman.”
“Aye. Iona lives life as it should be, with her golden-haired husband and their girl child, little Lara. Love someone, and time will stand still.”
Dorcas was always spouting words of wisdom at Jenny, but that didn’t mean she had to follow them. Dorcas had brought her home safely, as she’d requested. The least she could do was help the old woman get her tent set up.
Then she would have to round up Rae, get him settled somewhere, and see if her job was still waiting for her.
***
Rae strode to the fence of the beastie’s corral and laid his hands on the odd metal structure. Instead of wooden poles, the fencing bore a resemblance to a fishing net with small metal holes.
A large horned Highland steer glared at him. Its orange coat, shaggy and thick, kept it dry and warm. The morning mist was as thick as fog, rolling in from the North Sea, but he could tell he was far from there.
A hornless cow munched on a small pile of loose hay, ignoring him. “I am glad to see a familiar face, as well.”
The cow glanced at him. “We have not met, stranger. Are you daft?”
The beast’s thoughts flowed through him, startling him. How had he forgotten his ability to talk to animals? Had he thought it was gone, now that he was no longer in his own time, in Scotland?
“I beg yer pardon, lass.” He chuckled, and turned away. A nearby corral held six recently shorn all-white sheep, their sides bare, a different breed than the black-faced lambs he helped raise on Izzy’s farm.
Alarm emanated from these sheep. They feared the nearby Border Collies, but the dogs thought only of how to beg for food from their masters. He chuckled. The dogs would not hurt them. The alpha ewe, stepping forward, explained. “Several dogs are less than polite when herding us.”
“I have a feeling the dogs are competing to see who can herd ye best. Choose the dog that treats ye good, and help him win.”
“I doono’ think that giving the sheep tips is the way to win a bet.” A gray-bearded fellow, dressed in what Rae assumed was a modern kilt, appeared at his elbow. The plaid rode over his hips, held up by the wide leather belt he had slipped through loops. Dozens of small pleats in the wool fabric swirled, as he turned back to the steer in the adjacent pen. A hat made from woven straw kept the non-existent sun off his face. When the sun finally appeared, it would act as a shield. His shirt was a faded green, much lighter than the wool of his plaid.
“Bet?”
“Wager money.”
Rae glanced back at the sheep. The lead ewe cocked her head and wiggled her ears, as if laughing.
“Nay, I doono’ have the money to wager. I gave the beastie free advice.” Rae nodded at the stranger, then sidled off toward the last place that Dorcas and Jenny had headed. He should not explore alone, at least not until he got his bearings, and should work on keeping his ability under control. He enjoyed talking to the animals, but if others overheard him…
As he strode along, more people filtered into the area where various large tents stood. Larger than those back home. Huge metal-sided carts towered among them. One or two had slats pushed open and the aroma of roasting meat wafted toward him.
His stomach growled.
“You sound hungry. Try my Scotch eggs?” A woman leaned through the open window of one of the large carts. Her cart rode upon thick black wheels, unlike the wooden wheels that turned beneath Dorcas’ cart. The lass’ white shirt hugged her curves and reached only a few inches down her lovely arms. The low, curved neckline offered a glimpse of tanned skin above her barely concealed rounded breasts.
Rae’s blood raced. He forced his gaze upward, and landed on the long plait that settled over her right shoulder, in a waterfall of dark ginger hair. A streak of white hair, about an inch wide, ran from the middle where she had parted her hair, to behind her ear. Smoky gray eyes flashed beneath reddish-brown lashes. For a brief few seconds he wished he could see what she wore below her waist, but quickly returned his thoughts to her question.
“Forgive me, lass, but I doono’ have the means to pay ye.”
“That’s okay. I think I overcooked these. Try them? They’re on the house.”
Rae glanced to the roof of her cart. Her light-hearted laughter washed over him, lifting the shadow that circled his closed heart. All thoughts of finding a way to entice Jenny to his bed faded as fast as the mountain mist. This woman’s cheerful smile and Sassenach accent called to him on a primal level.
Beams of early morning sunlight hit his forehead, reminding him that life went on, and finding pleasure in a stranger’s arms was not actually forbidden. Jake had given him suggestions on how to live in this time, and how to treat women. No bedding tavern wenches, here.
He accepted the food that she had placed in a bowl as white as her shirt, and as light as air. Over the top of the two brown balls, she spread a layer of rich, cream-colored gravy.
“It’s sausage gravy. Enjoy!” She broke eye contact, in order to serve another person.
Jealousy, or anger, stirred in his gut at the thought of her talking to another man, until he came to his senses. He met the comely wench mere minutes earlier, and she had not given him her name. She was a lowly servant, yet he would give anything to have her in his bed.
He slammed a fist against his thigh. “Where did that thought come from?”
“Keep yer thoughts pure around that one, lad.”
At his side stood Dorcas Swann. She leaned on her cane, while the straggly ends of her gray hair floated on an invisible current. She wiggled her crooked nose at him, but her thin lips did not smile. The lack of humor worried him. He had not known her long, but the old woman usually smiled or laughed when not puffing on her pipe.
“I dinno’ plan to do anything. She showed me kindness.” He lowered the bowl for her to see. Dorcas sniffed, and nodded.
“Aye, she is a thoughtful lass, but ye best keep yer distance. I doono’ think she and ye will suit.”
“I dinno’ come to this time and place to bed a woman.”
“Why did ye come?” she asked, though he sensed she was aware of everything, and everyone.
“I wish…to heal.”
Dorcas smiled, then laughed. “Then I wish ye good fortune in that quest. Come. Help Jenny and myself.”
“What help do ye require?” he asked, shoveling food into his mouth. Flavor burst onto his tongue, and his stomach rumbled.
“My tent needs filling with my wares. Then, you and Jenny may explore the Highland festival around ye. Ye may learn a thing or two, then she shall take ye home.”
“Home?”
“Aye, to Jake’s home, I assume. The man will no’ be returning. This I have foreseen.”
“Where is Jake’s domicile? His home? ‘Tis far?” Rae was more concerned about having to live far from the only people he knew, here.
“I live in the back of my vendor tent, but ye shall live in the same house as Jenny.”
His smile made Dorcas laugh, but he could not help the relief flowing through him. He would be near a familiar face. Maybe he would make friends with many more, this day?
“Aye, ‘tis only the second day of the festival. Finish yer meal, and then we shall complete our chores. Hmmm.”
“What?” As he followed her toward a large tent, Rae spooned another mouthful of scotch eggs, and finished the tasty meal. The wench cooked well! The rich flavor and crisp coating of sausag
e drenched in peppery gravy satisfied his hunger.
“Once we complete our preparations for our patrons, ye can purchase more suitable attire.”
He glanced down. “ ‘Tis something wrong with my shirt and leggings?”
“Ye need to blend in. I shall need help later, but ye may explore ‘til then. Are ye any good at turning the caber?”
Her odd change of subject made him pause. “Nay. Must I try?”
“There are several other events that occur this day, for demonstrating strength or endurance. ‘Tis a way to earn funds.”
Rae remembered the food the comely lass offered him. Without a sporran filled with coin, he would not last long in this culture. “Cousin Izzy told me a little about what goes on at these festivals. And, about money. There are one or two events I can try my hand at.”
“That will do. Here.” Dorcas threw a small leather pouch into the air.
He bobbled the bowl, and barely snatched it. “What ‘tis--”
“Enough modern coins and paper funds to purchase a kilt, shirt, and athletic footwear.”
The first two items he understood. The third…
“There are several tents near the athletic fields.” Dorcas pointed toward the fenced-in meadow, where a stacked pile of cabers lay. Several men wearing matching forest green shirts, with NEHG embellishing their chests, mingled under a small open-sided tent.
“Talk to those athletes. They will help ye prepare.”
Inhaling deeply, he nodded. “Then by all means, let us get to work.”
Following her inside the musty tent, he found Jenny unpacking baskets, as well as wool-wrapped products that had traveled forward in time with them. She hummed a Highland tune, while she worked. She had tied a strip of cloth around her forehead, to keep her hair out of her eyes. When she lifted her head and noticed him, the soft light from hanging lanterns sparkled in her eyes.
“I wondered where you’d gone. Did you have a nice visit with the cows?”
He smiled, biting his bottom lip. Did she know?
Before he could respond, Dorcas’ laughter echoed inside the tent, then the old woman grew quiet. An eerie foreboding made him pause. Something evil lurked close by.
“Aye, warrior, I feel it as well.”
“I am no warrior.”
Dorcas smiled at him, then returned to her wares.
***
Jaden-Tog peeked from beneath the pile of baskets and tarps waiting for Dorcas and her helpers to unload. Finding the area empty, he slipped to the ground, then hid beneath the cart. The garron--Balfour--whinnied but did not move.
“Almost done, old boy,” a familiar voice said to the animal.
The farmer, Jaden-Tog thought. Following the group to the future had been easy. His ability to travel through time was rusty, possibly due to the shock of meeting his daughter for the first time. She claimed the lineage, and he had no reason to refute it. The woman she called mother, dead these last ten years, was a comely wench he had tupped one dark night.
Cinnie looked somewhat like him, as well. She was fearless and dark-eyed. She worked as a servant in the great hall of Castle Ruadh. She claimed to have once worked at Tulac Castle, when it was under the control of Angus Sinclair.
The elder Sinclair was hiding out, and probably attempting to regroup. He had fled with part of his fortune, so the rumor went. He would hire mercenaries and regain his command.
“Will he hire me again?”
Jaden-Tog was not sure he wished to work for the displaced laird any more. “Had he not nearly killed me?”
“Who’s there?”
Shite, I forgot I am not alone. Balfour lowered his head, and whinnied.
“Really? There is someone under the cart?” Rae’s familiar voice was close.
How did he know? It sounded as if the damned beast talked to the farmer. When Rae moved to the back of the cart, Jaden-Tog escaped through the front, from between Balfour’s legs, and raced behind a nearby tent. Breathing hard, he dare not peek to see if the farmer followed. He slipped beneath another larger cart, and waited. After several quiet moments passed, he peeked.
“Why are you under there?” a voice asked.
Jaden-Tog nearly jumped out of his skin.
“I no’ be hiding, lass. I have lost my way. I think I hit my head,” he lied. Climbing out from under the cart, he stood. Stretching to his full height, he was not much taller than her waist. “Who be ye, lass?”
“Lass? That’s rich. My name is Wynda Sinkler and you hid under my trailer. Please leave.” Over a white top that clung to her like a second skin, her crossed arms caused her breasts to rise.
As if she offers them to me.
When her left foot in its odd white covering, tapped the ground, her glaring gray eyes communicated something else. She was furious! The lass stood taller than he, which was not unusual. She was not a brownie. The thin shock of white hair, mingling with the ginger crown atop her head, stirred his loins.
She is marked by witchery.
If not of magical birth, her round face, petite nose, and dazzling gray eyes made her interesting. A Sinkler? Her surname was a sept, or family branch of the Sinclair clan.
Verra’ interesting.
“I am sorry if I have overstepped my bounds, Lass…I mean, Lady Wynda. Let me make it up to ye. Can I help ye in some way?”
“Drop the lady crap. How are you at frying foods and washing dishes?”
He rarely cooked over a camp stove, but he knew how to rinse a tankard. “I will watch how ye wish these tasks completed. I be a verra’ quick study.” He followed her inside the odd carriage.
“Right. I can only pay you with food and a place to sleep.” She pointed to a cot in the rear.
Jaden-Tog thought on this. Had he any need for modern currency? He glanced at the sign on the side of her carriage. The hand-painted list of food and drink was short, but he could survive on it.
“I would be delighted to help. Be forewarned…I can eat my weight in meat pies, and then some.”
She chuckled. “Okay, then. I’ll have to get you a box to stand on. Sorry, but my fryer and sink are…a little high.”
“I will stand on whatever helps me perform my tasks, Lady…I mean, Wynda.” The aroma of roasting meat, spices, and baking pastries filled his nose, and caused his empty stomach to growl. “Oh, my.”
“You can taste everything, but pace yourself. I sell these for money. There’s the pricelist,” she said, pointing again to the list posted on the wall, “but I run the register.”
He could not understand several of her words, but if she was a good teacher, he would have a full belly, a place to lay his head, and time to watch.
And wait.
If he returned Rae Wilson back to 1603 Scotland, he might find a way to regain the riches the laird once promised him. Angus Sinclair would return to power as soon as he found more mercenaries. Niall was lost, and Gavin had never been prepared to lead anyone. Rumors claimed he was making a go of it, but with winter approaching, the likelihood of starvation would turn the people against him, and Angus would move in to save them.
Rae Wilson was special. Jaden-Tog was not exactly privy to the man’s secrets, but the way he seemed to react to Balfour’s whinny, gave him pause.
It was almost as if… An absurd notion, but Sinclair’s mercenaries had captured the farmer for some purpose.
He turned his attention to his new employer. Wynda rummaged in a drawer and tossed him a red, white, and blue striped cloth.
“Tie this around your head. Rules state no loose hair around food. This other is an apron.”
He did as she ordered, then climbed atop a box of something called French fried potatoes.
We be Hell and away from France, and any potato fields, but I shall listen and learn, until the moment to strike arrives.
He followed her instructions concerning cooking food in the vat of bubbling oil, and watched as she poured liquid soap into a basin, and rinsed a pot. She had already baked dozens of
meat pies ahead of time, and his job was to keep them warm beneath strange orange lights. When she called for Scotch eggs, he tossed several of the premade eggs, wrapped in sausage into a breading, then let them bubble in hot oil for a set number of minutes.
He was not familiar with minutes as a measure of time, so he guessed. They always looked fine. He made the mistake of tossing one into his mouth, before allowing it to cool. Luckily, she also sold clear squishy bottles, filled with fresh water.
He nibbled when he had a chance, and was amazed how swiftly she served her patrons. “Ye seem quite good at this. Have ye been a servant long?”
“A servant? I own this business, and I’m the boss.” She laughed, then turned and made change for the next patron.
When a familiar voice ordered several items, Jaden-Tog bent as low as he safely could. He dare not let Jenny Morgan recognize him. When her transaction was complete, and her footsteps faded, he rose up.
“Hiding again?” Wynda asked.
“Nay.” His gaze flicked to the fryer. “I dropped a French fry.”
The hours passed. He fried boxes of potatoes, ladled sausage gravy over bowls of Scotch eggs, and tossed the occasional fish filet, coated in a tasty beer batter, into a small basket piled high with French fries. He popped frozen meat pies in the oven, and kept the bridies flaky and hot under the unusual heat lamps.
When Wynda straightened the small table outside the carriage, she occasionally passed odd colored bottles through the window. He filled them with oddities called mustard and ketchup. As he worked, a few tidbits found their way into his mouth. Grinning, he kept the food coming, then washed several metal utensils in a metal sink. Hot and cold water flowed at the turn of a spigot, and the aroma of food that he made on his own, had him humming like a contented fool.
Wynda finished with a customer, as she called them, and turned to face him.
“You are quite a good worker. Why don’t you take a break?”
“A…break?” Wiping his hands on a nearby cloth, he waited with raised eyebrows for an explanation.
“You know. A rest. Go take a ten minute walk, okay?”
Nodding, Jaden-Tog jumped down from his box and untied his headgear. Draping his apron over a stack of boxes, he walked out the small back door. Other smells tickled his nose, and he wished that he had demanded payment. He was a powerful, magical brownie, and pretty fast. He could easily swipe something before anyone…
My Dark Highlander Page 5
