The Highlander's Home (Searching for a Highlander Book 3)

by Bess McBride

  “Dylan! Debra!” a voice called from above. “Hurry! Come up here! The tide is coming in!”

  Dylan, drenched, rose and pulled me to my feet.

  “We’ll sort this out later. Let’s get off the beach and get dry. I’m freezing!”

  I looked at him. His lips were blue. I felt the same. While the sun had shone warmly on the rocks, the month was May, and the water ice cold.

  Dylan kept hold of my hand as we trudged across the beach, dragging our sodden selves to climb the path. When he would have kept hold of me as we reached the tabletop, I pulled away self-consciously, which was just as well because Cynthia and Ann moved toward him. As I had expected, both women wore sixteenth-century clothing—white shifts, bodices and the muted red tartan skirts I had seen Cynthia wear when she’d traveled back to the future.

  “Dylan!” Cynthia exclaimed, embracing him with one arm while she carried a redheaded baby in the other. Two Nordic-looking blond children clung to her legs, staring at us with rounded azure-blue eyes. I noted white specks in their eyes similar to Dylan’s.

  “Cynthia!” Dylan murmured, laughing.

  I wrapped my arms around my body, freezing as sea breezes blew across the tabletop of Dun Eistean.

  “Dylan!” Ann said. “I don’t have any spare arms to hug you, but...”

  Dylan laughed again, clearly happy.

  “Ann! It is so good to see you!” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Her babies, twins from the looks of them, and sporting wisps of blond hair, appeared older than Cynthia’s infant.

  Between staring at the women and their traditional clothing to staring at Dun Eistean in what must have been its heyday, I didn’t know which way to turn. I blocked out the chatter as I scanned the stronghold that I’d only ever seen abandoned—largely covered by mounded dirt and turf.

  The nearby boathouses were indeed made of stacked stone with turfed roofs, as we had documented. A small village of stone crofts with similarly turfed roofs lay across the tabletop to the right, the towering keep, approximately fourteen feet tall, to the left. Beyond, I saw a stone wall encircling about two-thirds of the island. I knew that to be the perimeter guard wall.

  Two tall, well-armed kilted men moved toward us from the direction of the boathouses. Muted red great kilts hugged their sturdy frames. I guessed them to be in their twenties, one with shoulder-length brown hair and beard, the other a strawberry-blond with matching beard.

  I looked over my shoulder, wondering if I was going to have to run down the path again...to what?

  “Debra!” Ann said, moving toward me to kiss my cheek. “I certainly never expected to see you here. Look at you!”

  One of the babies grabbed my wet ponytail, and Ann laughed as I tried to extricate myself from his grasp.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” she said. “How did you guys get here? And what happened on the beach? One minute you were there, and the next you two ran into the surf!”

  “Debra!” Cynthia said. “You must have found the dagger!” She looked at Ann. “So now we know where Andrew buried it!”

  I didn’t know which comment to address first, and the sight of the two grim-faced Scots heading toward us kept me from focusing on the questions. I heard Dylan explaining that we had found the dagger, clearly traveled through time, and that a wave had dragged it offshore.

  “Oh, that’s right!” Ann exclaimed. “John said there’s quite a drop-off in one spot.”

  “Who are they?” I asked, nodding toward the men.

  Ann looked over her shoulder.

  “Oh! That’s Euan and Kenny. And I see Rob is coming over from the crofts.”

  Another kilted man walked over from the village area.

  “Don’t be afraid, Debra. I recognize that look,” Cynthia said. “I had it myself.”

  I took a deep breath and looked at Cynthia. “So, a baby.”

  “A bonny bairn!” Dylan said, smiling down at the redhead. “And you too, Ann! Are these my—”

  “Shhhh,” Ann said, looking down at the two children clinging to Cynthia’s skirts. “Just follow my lead.” She turned to the three men, who had arrived at the same time.

  “Euan, Kenny, Rob, please meet my...cousin, Dylan Morrison,” Ann said. “And his...sister, Debra. Also my cousin.”

  I quirked an eyebrow.

  “Pleased to meet ye,” Rob, the oldest man at about thirty-five, said. Tall like the other two Scots, his curious smile was at odds with their suspicious expressions. He wore his long brown hair combed back into a ponytail at his neck. A dark beard covered his face. Over his shoulder, I saw more people emerging from the village and approaching—mostly women and children.

  “Morrison, ye say, yer ladyship?” Rob said with a nod. “I thought ye were named Borodell.”

  “Oh, yes, I meant John’s cousins...you know,” she amended hastily.

  Dylan, on the act of thrusting out his hand, withdrew it. I agreed with that move. I didn’t know if sixteenth-century men actually shook hands or not. We would have to allow the Scots to take the lead.

  Euan and Kenny gave a short bow but did not offer their hands, instead keeping one hand near their pistols, the other over the hilt of their swords.

  “Pleased to meet ye,” the two young men murmured, their eyes straying toward my legs.

  Rob did extend his hand after all, and Dylan took it. He didn’t offer his hand to me though. I noted he averted his eyes from me after a quick glance at my legs. I understood that my blue jeans were presenting a problem.

  As the villagers gathered around, a rosy-cheeked plump blonde woman appeared at his side.

  “What have we here, Rob?” she asked.

  “This is my wife, Catherine,” Rob said. “Cousins of ours, it seems. Dylan Morrison and his sister, Debra.”

  “Well, look at the pair of ye, wet and freezing! I do not know how that came about, but come and get dry.”

  “Oh yes! I’m so sorry,” Cynthia murmured.

  Rob’s wife, her accent more English than Scottish, grabbed me by the arm and propelled me toward the crofts.

  “Welcome! Those three—” she began in an exasperated voice as she looked over her shoulder toward the men, veering off toward the boathouses, while Ann, Cynthia and Dylan trailed with the children. The rest of the villagers followed, obviously curious about us.

  “Well, how did this happen to ye? Did ye fall out of a boat? Were ye caught by the tide?”

  “Yes, the tide,” I murmured. “Crossing over.”

  I hoped those were enough words to suggest we had somehow crossed over from the mainland, without explaining how we had gotten to the other side of the island.

  “It’s treacherous, and I saw that the tide was coming in.”

  “Yes.” I continued to study the stronghold, marveling at the structures now uncovered from centuries of blowing dirt and abandonment.

  “And ye are a Morrison? Ye know Ann and Cynthia?”

  I nodded. I wasn’t a Morrison in truth, but apparently I was going to be for however long I was in the sixteenth century. I glanced over my shoulder. Ann’s babies appeared to be a little over a year, and Cynthia’s baby was newborn. Dylan had told me that Ann had traveled to 1590 and Cynthia 1591. I assumed the year was 1592. I wasn’t about to ask though.

  “Are you English?” I asked as Catherine guided me toward a specific croft.

  “Aye, I married my Scot, and here I am. Now, I speak like a Scot.”

  I nodded.

  She pulled us into an open doorway. The croft looked much as I had imagined—domed and timbered, insulation provided by thatching and clay, stone walls supporting the roof. A small fire, ringed by stones, burned in the center with a tripod holding a pot braced across the middle. Furniture was minimal, weathered, aged, and consisted of a bed against a wall, a table and chairs and a sideboard. The dirt floor was covered with various lengths of thick tartan.

  I presumed that most of what the Morrisons had at Dun Eistean, they had brought from their home either at
or near Ardmore Castle, the ancestral home of the Morrison Clan.

  “Come in. Come in!” Catherine said, shepherding Dylan in as well. She turned to Ann and Cynthia, hovering just outside the door.

  “Ann, Cynthia, do ye have some spare clothing for the lass? Rob has another kilt I can loan the lad, but no spare shirt.”

  “I’ll go get some things,” Ann said. “I’m going to drop the kids off with Mistress Glick, and I’ll be right back.”

  Just then, Cynthia’s baby awakened, and she grimaced.

  “I have to take care of the baby. I’ll be back in a jiff!”

  The women left, and Dylan and I looked at each other.

  “Take yer wet clothes off then, and let’s hang those by the fire. Here are two blankets. Since ye’re brother and sister, ye can change behind the curtain.”

  She guided us to the area that had been set off as a bedroom and pulled a curtain of the ubiquitous red tartan and thrust the blankets at us.

  “I have some soup cooking that will warm yer bones.”

  She pulled the curtain closed behind us. Dylan and I looked at each other, less than a foot of space between the bed and the curtains.

  I shook my head and motioned for him to turn around as I turned my back. He narrowed his eyebrows and gave me an inquiring look, and I did my best to tell him silently that we weren’t a couple anymore, and I had no intention of undressing in front of him.

  He must have understood because he turned his back and shrugged out of his windbreaker. I turned my back, wriggled out of my own jacket and peeled off my wet T-shirt and jeans. I was unwilling to discard my underwear but did step out of my socks and hiking boots. I buried myself in the blanket, surprisingly thick and warm. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that Dylan had wrapped himself in his blanket as well.

  I turned toward him and rolled my eyes with a half smile. He returned with a lift of his eyebrows and grin of his own. We emerged from the curtain just in time to see Ann enter with a handful of clothing. Catherine had set several chipped porcelain bowls on the small square wooden table.

  “Come. Have some warm soup. Yer lips are blue, the pair of ye. I will hang yer clothing to dry.”

  We shuffled awkwardly out to the center of the room while Ann moved over to the bed and laid the clothing down. She returned to stand by the table but declined anything to eat.

  “I can’t stay. The kids are getting to be too much for Mistress Glick. I brought some clothes. Do you think you’ll need help dressing?”

  Ann directed her question to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Catherine holding up my jeans, as if studying them. She quirked an eyebrow and hung the jeans, along with the rest of our clothes, over the back of a chair, moving it near the fire.

  I opened my mouth to answer Ann, but Catherine jumped in.

  “And why should she?” she said. “If anything, it is the lad who will need help with his kilt, for I’ll wager he wears only trews. Are ye from the city, Dylan?”

  “Aye!” Dylan answered. “Glasgow.”

  Ann gave me a pointed look.

  “You may be right about that. It’s a great kilt, Dylan, not quite like the ones you wear in Glasgow.”

  “I ken how to wear such,” Dylan murmured, slipping into a thicker Scottish brogue.

  “Ah! A son of Scotland!” Catherine said. “If ye had been English, ye would be lost in all the cloth.”

  Dylan nodded, reaching for a plate of round, crispy-looking biscuits, which I suspected were oatcakes, soon verified by Catherine as she pushed the plate to me.

  “Have an oatcake, Debra. Mistress Glick makes them.”

  “That she does,” Ann murmured. “Maybe you can both come see me when you have finished.” She threw a glance at Catherine.

  “Aye, of course they will. They are yer family, after all. I only brought them here to warm up.”

  “Yes, of course, and I am so grateful, Catherine!” Ann nodded, threw us another pointed look, probably expressing caution, and left.

  “Now, why do ye not speak with a Scots accent, Debra?” Catherine asked. “Did you and Dylan not grow up in the same home?”

  Chapter Four

  A short while later, Dylan stared at me in a combination of amusement and awe as I explained away the difference in our accents. I had told Catherine that although we were siblings, I had been taken away by my mother to live in Constantinople while she taught English to the Sultan’s concubines. Having spent so many years there, I had lost my Scottish accent. I couldn’t risk saying that I had moved to Spain or France in case Catherine was more well traveled than I assumed.

  “Concubines! Oh my!” Catherine had murmured.

  “Yes, very cloistered lives, but very eager to learn.”

  “And how long did you live in...” She shook her head.

  “The Ottoman Empire.” I looked at Dylan with a straight face. “Oh, I don’t know. Dylan, how long would you say? About ten years?”

  “Ten years?” Catherine breathed. “Such a long time to be away from your father!”

  “Yes, it was,” I said gravely.

  Dylan munched on an oatcake and stared at me with abnormally red cheeks given that his complexion was Nordic pale.

  “And yet ye sound much like Ann and Cynthia—ye have the same way of speaking.”

  “Oh really?” I hadn’t thought that through at all. As opposed as I was to lying, I had hypocritically run away with a wild story that didn’t pass the sniff test, even with a woman living in the remotest parts of sixteenth-century Scotland. I bit into an oatcake and stared at Catherine innocently. She apparently decided not to pursue that line of questioning.

  “And what happened to ye?” she asked. “How came ye here to Dun Eistean?”

  Dylan started to speak, but I thought I had better intercede since I had earlier offered information during my walk with Catherine that he would not know.

  “Well, you know, as I told you, we were attempting to cross onto Dun Eistean when the tide came in, sweeping us around the island toward the beach...”

  Dylan’s eyes widened.

  “Aye, I am surprised ye did not drown. There are some who have. The seas here are not kind.”

  “No.”

  “And what brings ye to Dun Eistean? Do ye simply come to visit yer cousins? Do ye return to Glasgow?”

  “Yes, we are here to visit our Morrison cousins,” I said with a firm nod. “Yes, indeed!” I hadn’t really worked that one out yet, having mentally traveled to Constantinople.

  “How did ye travel? By horse?”

  “Aye,” Dylan finally managed to get in. “By boat to the Western Isles and then by wagon until we reached Dun Eistean.”

  “Auch, a wagon! No a tinker, by chance? Is he gone now?” Catherine looked up as if she could see the tinker through the stone walls of her croft.

  “Aye, long gone,” Dylan answered with a blank look at me.

  I nodded, pulled my blanket tighter and worked on my soup. My hands and feet were still cold, and my southern Virginia blood couldn’t warm up.

  “Constantinople,” Catherine repeated, looking at me as if fascinated.

  I smiled and kept spooning hot liquid into my mouth. The soup, a lovely broth with various unidentified vegetables, tasted delicious. Mistress Glick’s oatcakes, whoever she was, were wonderful. I ate more than my fair share.

  “I think I should dress now,” I said, rising. A glance at my clothing revealed it would be a long time before the garments dried. I had no choice really. I would have to wear the clothes Ann had brought.

  “Of course, dear,” Catherine said.

  Dylan continued to eat, and I stepped behind the curtain. No stranger to the trappings of sixteenth-century Scottish clothing, I dressed quickly and without difficulty in a white linen shift, red skirts and dark-blue bodice. Ann had dropped off a pair of stockings and slippers, and I donned those as well. I left my ponytail as it was, hanging down to my shoulders, given my unconventional upbringing in Constantinople and all. />
  I eyed the white linen shirt and great kilt she had brought for Dylan. He would need the wide belt Ann had laid out to hold the voluminous material in place.

  “Knock knock,” Dylan said on the other side of the curtain. I pulled it open, and he blinked and ran his eyes over me. I looked beyond him to see that Catherine was picking up dishes. Dipping into a mock curtsey, I scrunched my face with a grin.

  “So?” I whispered.

  “Ye look verra bonny, lass!” Dylan said.

  I shook my head, then wiped the smile from my face and relinquished the “dressing room” to Dylan. I returned to the center of the room, running my hands over my clothing drying by the fire and wondering how to keep track of it.

  The notion that I would have to retrieve the dagger was ever present in the periphery of my thoughts, but there was nothing I could do about it at the moment. I had no idea how tides worked and hadn’t really focused on the incoming and outgoing tides at Dun Eistean during my seasons there. I had never even gone down to the beach before that morning.

  “Thank you so much for the soup,” I said. “It was delicious, and so warm!”

  “Ye’re welcome, Debra,” Catherine said, washing the bowls and spoons in a wooden bucket of water on the table. “We do not have much here at Dun Eistean, but we make do.” She glanced around the croft for a moment, then shrugged.

  “Where are you from in England?”

  “Carlisle in the northeast.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Aye, I do, though my home has been with my husband, Rob, for ten years now.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “Did I not say? My father was a tinker. I traveled with him. I met Rob in Carlisle. He had come to trade.”

  Dylan emerged, and with the exception of his ear-length hair, looked the part of a sixteenth-century Scot, albeit more slender than the sturdy warriors I had seen so far.

  I hadn’t noticed the vest that Ann must have left, a gray padded affair that Dylan sported over the white shirt with blousy sleeves. The great kilt was a thing of beauty, an exact replica of the kilts that Rob, Euan and Kenny had worn. Whoever had woven the muted red tartan had woven enough to clothe, curtain, blanket and carpet the entire village.