Match Made in the Highlands

by Pam Binder

  The faint clip-clop gait of hooves over cobblestones echoed over the courtyard, and the outline of a horse-drawn wagon came into view. A man with a wide-brimmed hat that looked like it had been soaked in mud snapped the reins on the rump of the sway-backed animal and shouted something unintelligible.

  Logan moved in closer beside her. “Can you hear what he’s saying?”

  Irene shrugged. “Not a clue. His Scottish accent is too thick.”

  A mangy dog sped out from behind the castle to nip at the horse’s hooves. The man with the hat reined in his horse and shouted at the dog to get out of the way. He flipped aside the tarp, exposing an assortment of shields, swords, long bows, and lances. Three men came from behind the wagon. They patted each other on the back as they each reached in and selected a weapon.

  Irene sucked in her breath.

  “What is it?” Logan said.

  “I can’t see Sam, but the other three are the men he freed from the dungeon.”

  “Get back from the window!” Bridget shouted. She stood poised on the steps, out of breath. Her face was flushed and her eyes wild with fear. Instead of waiting for Irene and Logan to respond, she pulled them away from the window. Her hand trembled as she readjusted her veil. “I’m glad I found you.” Her voice was thin and threaded with anxiety. “You’ll miss the Christmas carols. Come along, now.”

  Irene knew a deflective tactic when she heard one. She’d had that strategy used on her more than once. Bridget was hiding something. She exchanged a glance with Logan. His expression seemed to mirror her own confusion. Something was going on, and it was clear that, whatever it was, Bridget was concerned.

  Irene stood her ground. “Did you know there are men with bows and arrows aimed at the castle? I’m sure I recognized the men Logan confronted in the café earlier. The same men who were locked in a dungeon cell.”

  Bridget turned as white as the snowstorm outside the walls. Her mouth compressed in a thin line. “They escaped? It’s worse than I thought. I told my sisters something like this might happen. You can’t break the rules. That’s the first rule.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Irene failed to coax answers from Bridget. Each question was met with either silence or a change in topic. The one good thing was that Bridget seemed to know exactly where she was going.

  A shudder shook the staircase, and Irene braced her hands against the wall. Shards of stone and mortar rained over Irene’s head in the cramped space. Somehow Irene managed to keep her balance as she glanced toward Logan. He was a few steps below her and was looking out one of the narrow windows.

  “I didn’t know they had earthquakes in Scotland.”

  Bridget shouldered past Irene and pulled Logan from the window. “We should keep going.”

  As though the matter were settled, Bridget sidestepped past Irene to resume the lead.

  Logan reached for Irene to hold her back. “Did your mother mention earthquakes in her diary?”

  “Not a word.”

  Bridget turned around. “Come along, now.”

  Another vibration let loose another stone shower. A trail of spider-web cracks spread along one of the windows.

  “Follow me,” Bridget shouted.

  When they reached a wide area in the staircase, Bridget motioned for them to stop.

  “Why are we stopping?”

  “Shortcut.” Bridget pressed on a raised wooden oval in the center of the door. It had the image of a Scottish thistle painted over the surface. The door clicked open onto a passageway.

  “In the case of earthquakes,” Irene said, “what’s the protocol? Are you supposed to huddle under the strongest place in a dwelling, or is that for hurricanes and tornados? I’m from Seattle, and we don’t have either of those. We have earthquakes, but so far the damage has been minimal. The worst one I’ve ever experienced was a four-point-five magnitude when I was visiting my sister. Pavement moved like ocean waves, which was a little freaky, but the buildings didn’t topple over.”

  Irene knew she was rattling on and on. She also knew it was a defense mechanism her sister often used when she was nervous. It seemed to calm Louise, so maybe it would work for her.

  Logan nodded toward Bridget. “That wasn’t an earthquake, was it?”

  Bridget opened her mouth to say something but then seemed to change her mind. “We should keep going.”

  “You keep saying that. So are you going to tell us what is happening, or do we get to guess? I was on a construction site recently where they used a wrecking ball to smash down the walls. That’s what this feels like. Any chance they’re tearing down the castle with us in it?”

  “My sister, Lady Roselyn, will know what to do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Irene and Logan followed Bridget toward the matchmaker quarters near the Great Hall. Bridget had been quiet during the rest of the time it took to get there. Irene had tried to engage her in conversation, but she’d simply shaken her head and repeated that her sister had to be the one to answer any questions. Bridget kept muttering under her breath and pausing to look out the windows they passed along the way. Irene wasn’t a party planner, but she’d attended enough weddings, baby showers, and going-away celebrations to suspect that this event had taken a sharp detour. As crazy as it had sounded at the time, Logan’s wrecking ball theory sounded more plausible than an earthquake.

  And Bridget, instead of denying the theory, had refused to respond.

  When they neared their destination, Logan held back. He glanced in the direction of a bank of narrow windows that overlooked a wide expanse of meadowland and a copse of trees. “There are more lights than there were a few hours ago,” he said, more to himself than to Irene.

  “It’s nighttime and Christmas Eve,” Irene said with hope, thinking about the armed men she’d seen in the courtyard. “People turn on their lights when it gets darker.”

  Despite her explanation, she moved to where he was standing. She’d learned from entries in her mother’s diary that the narrow windows were referred to as arrow slits. Archers could attack the enemy below but still have a degree of protection from the surrounding walls. But how much protection would there be if the castle was under attack? She shook her head against the question. She was being paranoid and irrational. Despite Julia’s claims to the contrary, this was the twenty-first century, not the thirteenth.

  Logan held out his arm, preventing her from getting any closer. Keeping his gaze locked on the windows, he shouted, “Those aren’t lights. They’re flaming arrows, and they’re headed straight toward us. Everyone get down!” He pulled Irene behind him as arrows arched toward the castle.

  They were under attack. Most of the arrows struck the outside walls and bounced off.

  However, more and more managed to sail through the windows, as though the archer’s aim improved with each volley. One lodged in a man’s leg, and one in the hem of a woman’s skirt. People rushed to help them. Logan covered Irene with his body as flaming arrows shot past them.

  Everything happened at once. Screams tore through the air. Shouts to close the shutters and a call to arms vibrated around her. More flaming arrows made it through and set a tapestry on fire. Irene jumped to her feet and helped Julia with the tapestry while Logan helped with the shutters. Other women rushed to help, and Irene recognized them as some of those who had served their dinner earlier.

  Together they tore the tapestry from the wall and stomped out the flames before they spread. Fiona appeared out of nowhere with a drawn sword, accompanied by a tall man dressed in chainmail and armed with not only a sword but also a shield. Irene almost didn’t recognize her, she seemed so different from the young woman in the ponytail who’d sold her a ticket for this tour.

  The castle shook. The vibration was stronger than the ones they’d experienced on the stairwell. Another volley of arrows shot through the windows still unshuttered, and one grazed Logan’s shoulder. His shirt caught on fire. Irene ripped one of the green-and-red banners from the
wall, rushed to his side, and smothered the flames.

  “Stand back,” Bridget yelled as she raced over and threw a bucket of water over Logan. She bent down to examine the wound. “Minor burn. Nothing serious. The arrow grazed the skin, and the fire cauterized the wound.” She patted him on the arm. “You’ll be fine.”

  Irene ground her teeth together as she tore his shirt away from the wound. Bridget was right, the bleeding had stopped, but none of this should be happening. She was surrounded by a confusing mix of sights and sounds, each image more vivid than the last. The initial shock in those around her had worn off and had been replaced by a response to the call to arms as though the attack were as normal as rush hour traffic.

  Shouts rose outside from the men attacking the castle.

  “Surround the castle!”

  “Those inside, prepare to die!”

  Logan rolled to a sitting position, grimaced, and pushed to his feet, pulling Irene along with him. “I’ve attended my share of reenactment festivals in my time, and this is not that.”

  Bridget tossed Irene a clean shirt for Logan, spun around, and ran toward Fiona and the tall man, who someone had said was Liam. Lady Roselyn had arrived, as well, and looked as though she was going to burst into tears or faint or both. She kept pointing toward the side of the castle under attack. Fiona had sheathed her sword and rested one hand on the hilt of her blade. She was the picture of a warrior woman. The tall man at her side motioned to Angus and about a dozen men to follow him outside.

  “You’ll be fine,” Logan said under his breath, repeating Bridget’s words. He rolled his shoulder and grimaced again. “I’ve had a lot of injuries playing rugby. I can honestly say that a flaming arrow is a first. My guess is that the sisters were as surprised as we were.”

  “I agree.” Irene’s thoughts raced as fast as her beating heart as she helped him tear away what remained of the charred shirt. The attack felt too real. Was Julia right? Had they traveled back to the thirteenth century? She helped Logan put on the shirt Bridget had provided. “You keep saving me.”

  His grin was boyish as he kissed the tip of her nose. “It’s an excuse to hold you in my arms.” He retrieved the arrow from the ground and examined the feathers and shaft. A muscle flexed along his jaw. “Handmade. Not machine. They sure take their reenactments seriously around here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Then, as though someone had flipped a switch, the attack ended as quickly as it had begun. The aftermath was all that remained. Chairs and tables had been overturned in people’s haste to escape the flaming arrows. Food littered the floors, and now that the chaos had ended, the wolfhounds were busy taking advantage of their good fortune. But the air was still charged like the moments after a lightning strike, as though everyone were counting down the seconds until they heard the roar of thunder.

  Irene helped Julia, Caitlin, and Ann search out and care for the wounded, while Logan, his father, and Grant made sure all the doors and windows were secure.

  Julia’s words about traveling back to the thirteenth century rushed back again, this time with such force that Irene felt as though the wind had been knocked out of her. Was that even possible? It wasn’t as though she hadn’t heard of the concept. The theory was as common in pop culture as whipped cream was on hot chocolate. The modern day genius, Dr. Stephen Hawkins, who’d made black holes his life’s work, once theorized that the laws of physics supported the possibility, no matter how unlikely.

  A trumpet’s blare brought the Great Hall to silence. Breathing deeply, Irene turned toward the sound.

  Lady Roselyn, flanked by Bridget and Fiona, climbed the three steps to the raised platform. The Great Hall settled into an unnatural quiet. The eldest sister wore a pasted-on smile. “Wasn’t that exciting?” Lady Roselyn announced. Her normal quiet, calm voice shook noticeably. “That is a taste of what those in the thirteenth century might have experienced on a day-to-day basis. Your enemy never takes a break, even during the Christmas season.” She forced a laugh. “We should give our actors a round of applause.” She waited for the crowd to comply with her suggestion. Only a few clapped, the effect half-hearted. “They put on a grand show,” she continued raising her voice. “Have no fear; there won’t be a repeat performance. One per tour, that’s our motto. Good news. We are right on schedule. Preparations are already underway for our big feast at midnight.”

  Lady Roselyn, despite her positive spin, still looked shaken as she descended from the dais. Bridget followed closely, while Fiona stayed behind to talk with Caitlin. There was an awkward silence, and then activity resumed as people returned to the task of straightening up the Great Hall. Their haunted expressions spoke volumes.

  Logan nodded to his father before heading toward Irene. He looked as worried as she felt. “Did you believe her?”

  “Not a word. I think it’s time we learned the truth.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Irene motioned for Logan to follow her, and together they ran after the sisters. Instinct told her that of the three, Fiona, although a romantic at heart, held the tightest grip on her secrets and was the least likely to share what was going on. Lady Roselyn was a peacemaker and a strict observer of rules and schedules, and Bridget’s first impulse was to try and help, even if it meant putting herself at risk. If Irene was to learn what was really going on, Bridget was her best bet.

  She reached Bridget before she ducked into a chamber behind the Great Hall. “We’d like answers.”

  Bridget didn’t look surprised; she looked tired, and there were dark smudges under her eyes. “My sister explained everything.”

  “I found my mother’s portrait.”

  Bridget pulled on a loose thread on her sleeve. “I thought we… Can we talk about this later?”

  A blanket of silence descended, but Irene stood firm. She’d come here for answers. “Who’s Connor?”

  A muscle by Bridget’s eye twitched as she let out a breath. “Come with me.”

  Bridget ushered Irene and Logan into the massive chamber. A fire in the hearth sputtered and spit as it tried to blaze. Cubbyholes stuffed with scrolls of parchment lined the walls, reminding Irene of the library. But this wasn’t a cozy library in the heart of a mansion or castle. Despite the style of furnishing, the room reminded Irene of the corporate offices and boardrooms of a Fortune Five Hundred company.

  Below a candlelit chandelier, Lady Roselyn sat writing with a quill pen, looking like a queen doling out judgments. Her expression was pinched, as though she blamed herself for the attack.

  Logan took Irene’s hand. His presence made her feel less alone but did nothing to soothe her jangled nerves. Bridget’s reaction to Irene finding her mother’s portrait and the mention of Connor’s name hadn’t helped. It was as though she’d walked into a play in progress without knowing the plot, setting, or characters. If somehow Julia was correct and they’d traveled back in time, that possibility opened up more questions and concerns. Had her mother time traveled, as well? Her mother had been fascinated with Scotland in the thirteenth century. If what Julia said was true, that would explain a lot. But where did Connor fit in?

  Bridget settled Irene and Logan on chairs, then approached Lady Roselyn. “What are we going to do?”

  Lady Roselyn snatched off her glasses and pointed them toward Irene and Logan. “The real question is why did you bring them here?”

  “Irene found her mother’s portrait.”

  The eyeglasses Lady Roselyn held in her hand quivered. She lowered her voice. “I thought we took it down.”

  “I thought so too.”

  Lady Roselyn closed her eyes, rubbing the ridge of her nose. She breathed in and out, then lifted her chin and turned toward Irene. “From your reaction, it’s obvious that you didn’t know your mother also took one of our tours. We usually do a better job keeping track of our guests and protecting their secrets. I apologize. We should have taken down her portrait before you arrived.” Lady Roselyn’s voice sounded unnaturally
calm, as though trying to coax someone off a ledge. Irene had the feeling the tone was not so much for Irene’s benefit but that of Lady Roselyn and her sister.

  “Your portrait will be ready before you leave,” Lady Roselyn said. “Did you notice our painter when you arrived? Although he prefers to paint puppies and kittens—he says they’re more appreciative—we also commission him to paint portraits of all our guests.”

  Lady Roselyn seemed to think that answered Irene’s question and turned to whisper to Bridget, but her voice carried as Irene allowed what the matchmaker had said to sink in. Lady Roselyn had confirmed that Irene’s mother had been here, despite her stepfather’s claim that she had never traveled to Europe.

  “Where is Fiona?” Lady Roselyn said in a hushed tone, intruding into Irene’s thoughts. “We need everyone here.”

  Bridget rolled her shoulders, rubbing her neck. “I’m not sure. All I know is that the wedding between Caitlin and Angus has been called off…indefinitely. I told you that if Fiona didn’t think the couple was ready…”

  Lady Roselyn stood, slammed her palms on the table, and leaned forward. “And you’re just telling me this now? You are aware that if we don’t have a wedding, no one can leave.”

  “We were under attack,” Bridget said evenly. “A bride who’d changed her mind seemed the least of our worries.”

  Lady Roselyn tightened her grip on her glasses. She seemed to notice Irene and Logan again and cleared her throat. “You should not have to listen to the details of running a business. Smooth as glass one day and rocky seas the next. Bridget, will you please see our guests to the kitchens and offer them sweet cakes and tea? We shouldn’t bother them with our minor setbacks.”