The Highlander's Vow (Loch Moigh #4)

by Barbara Longley

  Her hopes soared. “Have you heard tell of an old crone known as Madame Giselle? She’s oft found at fairs like this in your era, and—”

  “My era? How would you know the name of a fortune-teller frequenting Renaissance fairs in my era?”

  Her knight’s tone held an edge, and Sky focused her energy, trying to interpret what that edge might mean. His shock and confusion came through clearly, but he also now held a wariness toward her. Nay, ’twas distrust tinged with resentment. Why would he resent her? She’d done naught to him. “We have much to discuss, sir.”

  “Indeed.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Struan stood in the middle of their campsite in his T-shirt, a pair of medieval-style hose and leather boots. His gut churned. He had no idea what to make of the young woman he’d held on his lap a scant few moments ago.

  When he’d seen the lights shimmering in the middle of the arena, memories of the day he’d been taken from his dying father’s side tore at his heart. For a second, he’d been overwhelmed by an urge to jump from Brutus’s back and run into the portal himself. Good thing he’d come to his senses just as quickly. Where would the shimmering portal have sent him? And to when?

  He’d read the history books and knew the outcome of the horrific battle he’d fought so many centuries ago. If the portal took him back to 1333, to the very day he’d dragged himself into the shimmering lights, he could not have altered the outcome. Worse, he would have died—as had his father, the fourth earl of Sutherland. Nope. He had no reason to go back.

  Realization slammed into him. Today was the anniversary of his fall through time, July 19. Was it mere coincidence that this woman appeared as he had on this very date, and in the midst of a modern-day Renaissance festival?

  Whatever the reason, he knew what it was like to be yanked from one’s place in time. He understood firsthand the confusion, fear and panic, and he couldn’t resist lending her his aid. Where would he be today if the Gordon family hadn’t done the same for him? Pay it forward, right?

  “Your camper or mine, Gene?” he asked his foster father. Struan glanced at their guest, only to find her checking him out. When their eyes met, her face flushed and she averted her gaze. Heat of an entirely different nature curled through him.

  “Mine,” Gene answered. “Marjorie will have lunch ready.”

  “If you please,” Sky said as she took off her cloak, draped it over the small table set under a large oak and busied herself with flicking at the drying bits of manure clinging to her gown, “I have told you who I am, but I’ve yet to learn who the two of you might be.”

  “My apologies, my lady.” Gene bowed. “I am Eugene Gordon, and this is our foster son, Struan Sutherland. The other jouster who was on the field with Struan is my son, Michael. You’ll meet my wife, Marjorie, in a minute. We also have an older son and two daughters, but they’re at home looking after things for us while we’re on the road.”

  Her eyes widened. “I am well acquainted with both clans. Our clan oft engaged in commerce with the Gordons, and I claim kinship with yours, Sir Struan. Indeed, my aunts are both wed to Sutherlands, one to the earl himself, and the other to his younger brother.” She studied him. “Who are your kin within the Sutherland clan? I only ask because you bear such a strong likeness to the earl and his brothers.”

  Great. What the hell is going on here? She’d fallen through time on the anniversary of his own journey to this century, practically at his feet, and she had ties to the Sutherlands, his family by blood. Far too close to home to be coincidence.

  He said nothing. He had no desire to discuss his origins with her. She was of noble birth, while he was the bastard son of an earl, reviled and spurned by those whose lineage was pure and unsullied. Indeed, his father’s legitimate offspring, along with the countess of Sutherland, had certainly made Struan’s life a living hell. If it hadn’t been for his da, Struan wouldn’t have survived his youth, of that he was certain.

  The intensity of her scrutiny had him gritting his teeth—it was as if she looked beneath the surface for something deeper than words. Gene’s RV door opened, and the woman who’d taken him in, fed, housed and loved him like a son, stepped out. She wore her shoulder-length silver hair in a French braid today, and the laugh lines around her blue eyes creased in welcome.

  “Do you plan to stand out here in this heat all day? I’ve made lunch. Come in and bring your friend with you.”

  “I fear I am no’ fit to enter your . . .” Sky’s expression clouded with confusion as she viewed the fifth-wheel camper. “I’m covered in filth.”

  “Oh my. Hold on. We’ll clean you up a bit first.” Marjorie disappeared.

  “This”—Struan pointed to the trailer—“is technically a camper trailer, a fifth wheel. We live in them while we’re on the road. We call them campers or RVs for short, although—”

  “Like the Romany?” she asked, turning her big, gorgeous eyes up to him.

  What color were they? Kind of an earthy bluish-green with flecks of brown. Her lashes were dark and thick, and so was her lustrous chestnut hair. She was a pretty little thing, no doubt about it. And she certainly had made a luscious armful as he held her on his lap. He couldn’t help but notice her curves, the fullness of her breasts. Distracting.

  “You and your kin are wanderers?” she persisted, her brow raised in question.

  Or was it annoyance? Her persistence brought him out of the stupor ogling her had put him in. “Something like that.” He walked away from her to take care of Brutus. What was her story? Struan removed his gelding’s bridle, replacing it with a halter and lead, attaching the line to the front of the horse trailer. Brutus had enough slack to graze and to reach the buckets of water Struan had placed there earlier.

  Marjorie reappeared with a scrub brush and a bowl of water in her hands. She also had a towel draped over her arm. “Thank heavens for OxiClean,” she said. “This will take out the stain and eliminate the odor.” Marjorie set the bowl on the small picnic table where they sometimes took their breaks. “Is someone going to introduce us?” Marjorie looked at her husband, and then at him.

  “Sky, this is Marjorie. Marjorie, this is Lady Sky Elizabeth, the earl of Fife’s eldest daughter,” Struan said, repeating what she’d told them. “She . . . appeared the same way I did a decade ago. Only she did so in the middle of my jousting match with Michael—in front of an audience. Practically under Brutus’s hooves.”

  Marjorie’s expression turned to shock. The towel slid off her arm. “Oh my.”

  “’Tis a pleasure to meet you.” Sky’s posture straightened, and her chin lifted a regal notch. “I am most grateful to you for your hospitality.”

  “Oh my,” Marjorie repeated.

  Sky’s hands trembled. Though she presented herself as composed, regal, she had to be terrified. Out of her element, no way to prove who she was, no means of support and not knowing a soul, how could she not be? At least language wasn’t a barrier.

  He picked up the towel Marjorie had dropped and placed it on the table next to the bowl and scrub brush. His heart went out to Sky Elizabeth, along with a bit of admiration and respect as well. As frightened as she was, she still managed to comport herself like a proper lady at court.

  “Here comes Michael.” Struan gestured toward his foster brother cantering his horse toward their campsite.

  “Come here, you poor thing.” Marjorie clucked like a mother hen and set to work cleaning the stained gown. “See? Good as new, just a little damp.”

  “My thanks,” Sky murmured. “How shall I address you, missus?”

  “Call all of us by our given names. We’re informal in this time.” Marjorie gave Sky’s gown a final pat with the towel. “What would you like to be called?”

  “You may call me by my given name as well.” She smiled shyly.

  Struan’s pulse quickened at the sight of her sweet smile. Clenching his jaw, he turned to Michael, whose attention was fixed on their guest. “Michael, this is Sky Elizab
eth.”

  “Can’t believe it.” Michael dismounted and led his horse to the trailer where Brutus was tied. “Are we some kind of magnets for time-travelers or something?” He glanced over his shoulder at Sky.

  “Best have this conversation inside,” Gene said. He gestured toward his RV. “Let’s have lunch, and we’ll talk.”

  Michael had only been seven years old when Struan had fallen into the Gordons’ midst, wounded in battle and heartsick from the loss of his father. It had been Michael who had helped Struan get over his fear of the unknown. The lad had a compassionate heart and a gentle, good-natured humor. “I think it’s you, Michael,” he teased. “That big heart of yours acts as a beacon through the centuries.”

  “I hope not.” Michael’s grin belied his objection. “Or we’re going to have to start up a nonprofit organization to shelter displaced time-travelers.”

  Once he and Gene helped Michael out of his armor, they headed for the camper. Struan grabbed Sky’s cloak from the table and followed her up the narrow metal steps and inside. “Are you hungry, lass?” He’d worked hard to eliminate his Scottish burr and to become American in every way, but her presence brought out the Scottish Highlander in him.

  She nodded and looked around in wonder. “Why, ’tis so much cooler within than without, and we are no’ even underground.” She held up her hand and wiggled her fingers. “I feel a breeze. How is this possible?” She turned to him for an explanation.

  “It’s called air-conditioning, and it’s one of the many technological wonders of this age.” Struan hung up her cloak in the closet before helping himself to a beer from the fridge. “Would you like something to drink, Sky?”

  “Aye, I find I’m most parched.” She stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room space.

  “Sit.” Marjorie patted the seat of the booth-like dining area. “Would you like a soda, a beer or a cup of coffee?”

  Sky sat down and scooted over. “Oh. My cousin’s wife oft speaks of coffee. I would very much like to try some.”

  “Wait.” Struan frowned. “When are you from?”

  Sky clasped her hands together in her lap. “Early spring in the year of our Lord 1443.”

  “How would your cousin’s wife know about coffee?” The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “And how do you know about a fortune-teller who frequents Renaissance festivals in the twenty-first century?”

  “’Tis a very long and strange tale, sir, but my family has . . . we—”

  “Wait. Save it until after we’ve eaten.” Struan snorted. Already overwhelmed with everything that had happened, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what she had to say just yet. “Better doctor the coffee up for her, Ma. Remember my first cup?”

  “I do. In fact, I believe there might still be a few spatter stains from when you spit it out all over the wall.” She chuckled.

  “Mmm. I smell chili and I’m starving.” Gene drew his wife in for a quick kiss, smacking her bottom before letting her go. “I’ll fix Sky’s coffee, while you get lunch on the table.”

  Sky’s face turned a dusky rose at the obvious display of affection between his parents. Her blush was an enticing sight, to be sure.

  Gene handed Sky a mug of coffee with lots of cream and sugar. “Try this.”

  Struan leaned against the kitchen counter, took a swallow of his beer and watched. In fact, his entire family watched.

  Sky’s gaze went from him to the others, her cheeks coloring again. “Am I to have spectators?” she asked, eying the contents of her mug. “I trow ’tis harmless enough, or my cousin would no’ miss it so.” She took a tentative sip, and her lips pursed. “’Tis so very sweet . . . and bitter at the same time.” She set the mug down.

  Struan laughed. “Just wait till you taste the chili.”

  “Is chili sweet as well?” Sky asked.

  “Salty. You’ll find the food in this time takes some getting used to. It’s either far too salty, far too sweet or too spicy.”

  Marjorie handed him a bowl of chili with grated cheddar cheese and sour cream on top, just the way he liked it. There wasn’t enough room at the table for all of them to sit, so Struan stayed where he was, using the counter as his table. Michael slid in next to Sky. His ma and Gene finished serving, and then they all settled into their meal of chili and cornbread.

  Poor lass. Sky tried so hard to mask her expression of distaste as she took that first spoonful of the spicy, salty chili. She covered her mouth and coughed. Struan went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. He unscrewed the top and placed it on the table in front of her.

  “Has this been boiled?” she rasped out, eyeing the bottle. “My mother is from this era, and she taught us about germs and such causing illness.”

  “It’s pure,” Struan assured her. He’d buy her a turkey leg and an ear of roasted corn from the fair before his next jousting match. “Your mother is from—”

  “Aye.” Sky took a long drink of water. “Och, ’tis good, like the water from a Scottish spring.”

  “She really likes to drop the bombs, doesn’t she?” Michael laughed.

  “Bombs?” Sky frowned. “I dinna ken your meaning, sir.”

  “Michael. Call me Michael.”

  Sky pushed the bowl of chili away. “I’m sorry. It’s no’ that I don’t appreciate the meal, but . . .”

  “Don’t you worry about it.” Marjorie split a piece of cornbread, buttered both sides and poured honey over the pieces. “Try this. Can’t have you starving to death your very first day here.”

  Sky took a taste and smiled, her eyes half closing with pleasure. “Mmm. ’Tis most pleasing.”

  Struan sucked in a long breath and concentrated on his meal. Sky Elizabeth was far too beautiful for his peace of mind.

  “If you wish, I’ll speak of what happened this day.” Her voice hitched. “And tell you how I came to be here.”

  “Please do,” Michael said. “We can’t wait to hear what you have to say.”

  “All right.” She began her tale, sharing with them her betrothed’s plan to murder her for her dowry, and ending with her ride through the woods in search of her father and brother. Struan’s family was enraptured. “I came to a clearing and saw the shimmering lights. My mare threw me, and I was powerless to escape the force gripping me. Then I landed in the dirt in the middle of your jousting field.”

  “Incredible.” Michael stared at her.

  “I assure you, sir, I speak naught but the truth.”

  Marjorie began gathering dirty dishes. “Oh, we believe you. Struan came to us the same way. We were working at a fair in Kentucky. That one is themed on the days of Robert the Bruce, which might be why Struan ended up there since it’s closer to his time. We were enjoying a nice campfire after the fair closed, when the air right next to us shimmered and wavered. Then Struan fell to the ground out of thin air.”

  Gene nodded. “The boy was filthy. He was also wounded and feverish. We cleaned him up, changed his clothes and used our older son’s insurance card to get him treated at a hospital. We told the doctor he’d accidentally been wounded during one of our performances, and that he didn’t tell us about his wound until an infection had set in.” He turned to glance fondly Struan’s way. “They patched him up, kept him overnight and gave us a prescription for antibiotics. We brought him home, and Struan told us his story. He’s been with us ever since. As far as we’re concerned, he’s our son.”

  Sky turned to him, her eyes filled with empathy. “From whence do you come, sir?”

  Struan’s chest tightened under her perusal. What was it about her that made him feel so exposed? “The year of our Lord 1333. My father and I were fighting the English at Halidon Hill,” he said, reverting to speech patterns and the burr he’d worked so hard to eliminate. “We were in a bog whilst the English held the high ground. My da had already fallen with a mortal wound, and I was injured as well. I saw the wavering lights—soft greens and pinks.”

  A choked sound escaped f
rom deep in his throat. “Young fool that I was, I believed ’twas the doorway to heaven. I thought I’d already died, so I dragged myself through, expecting paradise, or at the very least, purgatory.”

  “How old were you, Struan?” Sky asked, her tone filled with compassion.

  “Ten and four.”

  “Nay!” She gasped. “’Tis far too young. You would still have been but a squire. Were you forced to fight alongside your father in that ill-fated battle?”

  He shook his head. “I wanted to fight.” A bastard aspiring to knighthood, trying to prove himself worthy of the father he adored. How impossible that dream had been for him. Still, his da had trained him alongside his half brothers, and his brothers’ hatred toward him had become an advantage. He’d had to train harder, become better skilled in order to survive. “Naïve as I was, I believed I could protect my da.”

  “Who was he?” Her expression sharpened. “Who was your father to the Sutherland clan?”

  “No one of import.” He had no intentions of exposing himself once again to the kind of ridicule he’d suffered as a youth. He turned away, but not before he glimpsed the look of disappointment she couldn’t hide. What exactly had disappointed her? Was it that he claimed no rank and refused to admit his link to the earl of Sutherland from her time, or was it because he hadn’t really answered her question?

  “I think it only fair to tell you of my kin, odd though they may be.” She bit her lip. “And to reveal things about myself I’d rather no’. Once you hear my tale, you may wish to send me away.” Sky shrugged. “If that be the case, I’ll understand.”

  What could possibly be so bad that they would turn her loose in a world she knew nothing about? “Wait. I need to get a folding chair. I have a feeling I’m going to need to sit.”

  “Aye, ’twould be best.” Her gaze met his.

  The disappointment he’d caught a minute ago still lingered in her expression, and the thought that he’d somehow let her down caused a slight wrench to his heart. He strode to the storage area, grabbed a folding chair from the closet and set it beside the table. “Anyone want anything before I sit?”