Somewhere in the Highlands (Somewhere in Time Book 4)

by Beth Trissel

  With a furtive glance around the hall, Mora whispered, “’Twas here when the Red MacDonald chased me to the future. No one must open the door to the passage beneath the keep or they may find themselves in Niall’s former home.”

  Margaret leaned in closer. “All servants have been told to avoid that part of the castle. The poor souls are already as skittish as untamed foals wie their dread of Morley and will obey without question.”

  “Good. Thank ye fer informing us,” Mora said, which indicated she must share Beezus’s frustration with seers. At least, in part.

  “Aye. Glad to oblige ye both.” The guarded expression in Margaret’s hooded eyes told her the woman generally preferred to keep her own counsel. Psychics must weary of the expectations placed on them, but these were grave times.

  “Above all, the portal must be kept a secret,” Beezus emphasized.

  Her companions nodded somberly at the magnitude of this undertaking.

  “Niall posted a guard,” the elderly sage confided. “The fellow knows not why he bars the way. Yet he will do as Niall bids him. None will pass through.”

  Pride warmed Mora’s gaze. “Niall commands the men’s respect. We shall speak further at breakfast, Aunt Margaret.” Taking Beezus’s arm, Mora escorted her, skirts swishing, from the Great Hall into the flagstone passage. “I have given directions for water to be heated fer ye to bathe. And if ye like, ye are most welcome to wear any garment from m’ wardrobe.”

  “How kind. I would love to change clothes, but Mrs. Fergus was quite particular about this outfit.”

  “Oh, I well recall how the dear lady is.” Mora surveyed her. “Ye can retain the cloak and any necessities she gave ye, and I can supply fresh garments of a similar fashion.”

  “I should be grateful. I think she would agree, as long as I blend in with other Highland women.”

  Mora smiled. “Wie yer beauty, ye will stand out, no matter what attire ye choose.”

  “High praise, indeed, coming from you.”

  For a moment they stood basking in their newly formed friendship. Then a breathless servant girl hailed Mora. “Mistress MacKenzie! Tidings!”

  The maid flew up to them and skidded to a stop on the stone floor. “A messenger arrived as the cock crowed wie a request from the new MacDonald chieftain.”

  A chill hand coiled around Beezus’s gut.

  Mora tensed beside her. “What is the word?”

  The girl fluttered trembling fingers at Beezus. “He wishes most particularly to meet wie this lady and gives assurance no harm will befall her.”

  Scorn narrowed Mora’s gaze. “What does m’ husband say?”

  “Only that the messenger awaits a reply.”

  Beezus spoke, “Tell him the meeting will occur at the hour, place, and manner of our choosing. We must consult amongst ourselves. He will have our decision soon.”

  “Seat him in the kitchen and offer him food and drink while he cools his heels,” Mora instructed.

  “That I will, Miss.” Turning like a gull in the wind, the maid sailed back down the passage, petticoats unfurled.

  Mora exhaled slowly. “If ye must parley wie Morley MacDonald, I advise a rendezvous beneath the great oak in the sacred circle. ’Tis an ancient and holy site. Ye will be protected beneath the spreading branches.”

  “A holy tree would certainly meet with Mrs. Fergus’s approval.”

  “Aye. And ‘tis not too great a ride from here.” Mora circled a sympathetic arm around her shoulder. “My heart pities ye. I have stood before the Red MacDonald, quaking with fear, and Niall tells me this Morley is an even greater divil. Have courage, Beezus. Ye will not be alone. The men will be near.”

  “But I must face him one on one before any of them can strike.”

  Steel glinted in Mora’s steady gaze. “Have ye a blade?”

  “Yes. And more. I know Morley’s weakness.”

  *****

  The energy buzzing at the breakfast table in the Great Hall invigorated Beezus, especially after a refreshing bath. And such tantalizing aromas. If it weren’t for the grave mission hanging over her like a hangman’s noose, she could easily lose herself in the camaraderie. As it was, she tried to put it from her mind for the moment.

  Anna MacKenzie welcomed her with a soft smile. “Ye honor us wie yer coming.”

  The gracious woman seated at the far end of the table had the same dark coloring and gray eyes as Niall’s, and could be none other than his mother. How much this gentle lady been advised of events, Beezus didn’t know, and was loathe to spoil the occasion for her.

  “Thank you kindly. I am delighted to be here.”

  An incline of her noble head, and Anna said, “I trust ye will consider this yer home.”

  “I will.” Beezus settled onto the bench in the place Mora indicated beside her, next to Fergus. Hal was on his other side, so they formed a small group.

  Fergus flicked her a wink that made her heart double its beat. “Glad you made it. Thought I might have to beam you to the table.”

  Hal inhaled appreciatively. “One of us no longer smells of rotten eggs.”

  “One of us smells delicious,” Fergus said. “That would not be you, Halbert.”

  And now Beezus knew his whole name.

  Fergus and Hal fit right into the lively assembly, as if time really didn’t matter and they easily passed back and forth between centuries. She badly wanted to belong here. She’d never been part of a large family before, and always longed to. Maybe they would survive the day. Maybe they could return here and stay, at least for a while.

  Mora laughingly held Maggie on her lap and fed the tot tidbits from her plate. Beezus already regarded her as the sister she’d never had. Now and then, Niall’s adoring gaze sought his wife and daughter.

  After that frosty spell, Beezus reveled in the tender light filling Fergus’s eyes whenever he looked at her. Devotion and passion permeated these glances, unlike his earlier, partly concealed, admiration. Her time with him in the night seemed a wondrous dream. Pray God that more and deeper romance lay ahead of them.

  To her relief, Calum strode into the room.

  “Good of ye to join us, brother.” Niall was a little frosty, though relief also showed in his eyes. He swept his hand at the gathering. “We have guests, Calum. One ye remember well.”

  “Oh, aye.” Calum nodded cordially at Fergus. “’Tis glad I am to see ye, Angus Fergus.”

  Fergus extended his hand and they shook. “And I you, Calum MacKenzie.”

  Beezus thought the brief but courteous reply showed great restraint on Fergus’s part, when he could have said far, far more.

  “Calum, ye had us fretting fer yer welfare,” Anna MacKenzie scolded. “And ye must meet the fair Beezus Mac and clever Hal Dubois.”

  Calum offered each new arrival a short bow. “I bid ye welcome.”

  Even if his name hadn’t escaped many in greeting or chiding, Beezus would’ve guessed at once the identity of this impressive Highlander. Loose reddish hair fell around his broad shoulders, thick, but not unkempt. The blue and green plaid draped around him and pinned together in the front with a brooch, hung over a gold jacket. Dark green trews covered his stout legs. He’d slung a broadsword at his back from the leather back scabbard fitted across his chest and over one shoulder. But the most striking feature were his blistering blue eyes.

  Plainly, this man was born to lead; taking second place to his older brother would fall hard on such able shoulders. But she sensed an impulsiveness in what must be a volatile temperament that could lead him, and consequently them all, into disaster. Niall’s was the cooler head; Fergus’s quick mind thought through everything practically before it even occurred. Hal was the same. Not that Calum lacked intelligence—perception shone in his gaze—but from all accounts, he’d not yet learned to meld reason with his fiery temperament.

  After acknowledging the newcomers, Calum walked purposefully to the head of the table. He bent nearer to Niall, but spoke so all might he
ar. “Morley MacDonald demands a parley this afternoon.” His gaze targeted Beezus. “Wie her. She has something in her possession he desires.”

  A solemnity fell over the gathering, and Calum continued. “If she fails to appear, Morley threatens to pound Donhowel to rubble.”

  And destroy the location of the portal, she realized. Not to mention this wonderful castle, and all her dreams.

  “Kin he do this?” Calum asked his prophetic aunt.

  Sadness shadowed her aged eyes. “Aye. The stole lends him powers beyond our ken. And his own men are mightily a feared of him. They will do as he commands.”

  Beezus steeled herself against the inevitable. “I will meet with Morley at the place Mora chose. The sacred oak.”

  Calum looked searchingly at Beezus, and then at his brother. “Do ye trust this woman?”

  Niall took her measure, and exchanged glances with Fergus and Hal. “Aye, I do. Fergus says she has knowledge of Morley and a plan to undo him. ’Tis more than the rest of us have.”

  Beezus lifted her face to Calum. “This meeting will begin with me, but not end there. I will do my all to disarm him and give you less of a monster to battle.”

  Calum thrust out his jaw. “But battle him we must.”

  So much for any hopes he would sit this one out.

  Pushing back his chair, Niall rose. “Ye must excuse us. Come brother. We will advise the messenger as to when and where the lass will meet with Morley. And repeat the need fer assurances of her safety.”

  Calum snorted. “I should as soon look to the fey for assurances.”

  So would Beezus. Fairies, elves, sprites…all seemed more reliable than Morley.

  Fergus contemplated her with the utmost reluctance in his eyes. “You be careful. Men in masks cannot be trusted,” he said softly, adapting a quote from The Princess Bride.

  She nodded. Morley didn’t wear one, but in a way, he did. And she saw behind the mask.

  Fergus entwined his fingers with hers. “And remember, ‘Death cannot stop true love.’”

  “‘Only delay it for a little while,’ she finished for him. “But you are not dying.”

  “Neither are you.”

  “Good, then we’re in agreement.” If only it were that simple.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sacred mystery lay within this misty circle of trees, imbued with an earthy forest scent…soothing to the spirit. Ahead of Beezus rose the massive oak, swirled in hazy tendrils, so ancient it might reach back to the birth of Christ. The furrowed trunk appeared wide enough to conceal a croft. Brown acorns dappled the yellow leaves drifting over the ground. Bracken pushed tawny fronds through this woodsy blanket. Given the raw chill, dark rain would soon drum the damp carpet, or falling snow envelop everything in muted whiteness.

  A twig snapped, and a roe deer bounded away on slender legs. Grey squirrels disrupted in nut gathering scampered up the oak or darted into pockets hidden among the gnarled roots green with moss. Children could shelter among those great roots, let alone small animals. It was here, before this tree, she would enact the scene she found herself a key player in; here all would be decided. But the mighty oak was reassuring. Everything about it bespoke strength. If a tree possessed honor, this one surely did. Far-reaching branches, bare of their autumn hue, spread above her in a protective arch. Beyond these enormous limbs jutted the mountains, their form lost in the clouds.

  A guttural call echoed overhead. She glanced up to see a black raven wheeling in the updraft from a crag, appearing and disappearing in the fog. Called corbie in old Scottish, the bird was thought by some to be an ill-omen, a harbinger of death, to others, a guardian. What would the raven mean for her and those dearest to her heart today?

  Beezus lowered her gaze to the rowan and silver birch trees circling the oak like pillars in this forest cathedral. Mora was right; she had entered holy ground, a woodland chapel created by God, its spires arching to heaven. On a sunny day, rays of light would burnish the trees. Now, vapor shrouded all. Her cloak and skirts trailing over the leaf strewn floor, she stepped into the sacred circle. Fergus was positioned behind one of the trunks; Niall and Calum, another. Beezus trusted Fergus would never take his eyes off her and work his way nearer. Farther back, armed MacKenzies kept close watch. But she stood in the center of the ring. Alone.

  Agonizing moments ticked by. Would Morley come, or ambush them elsewhere? He’d agreed to meet on this site. Still, Morley was Morley.

  A crunch on the leaves. Another deer or—

  Sacrilege. Like the devil desecrating an altar, he strode from behind the oak. Dry mouthed, heart in her throat, Beezus studied him. The slightest movement, change in expression, could mean anything. He hadn’t changed, apart from the stitched cut on his cheek courtesy of Blimey. How the owl had dug in its claws when strong men failed to penetrate his forcefield, she didn’t know. Maybe they should incite more birds of prey against him, or maybe the stole hadn’t fully empowered him when Blimey struck.

  Given the maniacal force charging Morley now, she’d expected his features to be contorted, but his lightly freckled face was the same, handsome even, if demons appealed to you. He still wore his red hair caught back in a ponytail, suitable for this era. Over his black leather jacket he’d pinned the Red MacDonald’s scarlet and green plaid, and paired this bizarre plunder with his black leather pants and boots. An odd blend of the 17th and 21st century. The hilt of a claymore protruded over one broad shoulder from its back scabbard. As expected, the infamous stole shone at his neck where he’d tied it; the ends ruffled slightly in the breeze. She needed them to flap more so Fergus could snag the ungodly cloth with his whip. This was her quest, and one Morley must not suspect. But the weather wasn’t cooperating.

  Partially concealed behind their new chieftain, out of earshot, were an untold number of MacDonalds. Each side had come to this parley prepared for battle. MacKenzies were at her rear, and McDonalds straight ahead. She sensed the palpable tension from both adversaries waiting among the trees. When would they rush at each other, and who’d win the day? If not for Morley, would the MacDonalds wage this particular battle? Granted, they’d been gearing up to fight before with Red MacDonald at the helm.

  They were unnerved by his demise and successor, though. And much depended on Beezus this go round. She barely suppressed a shudder, but refused to show weakness. The occasion required self-assurance and all the deception she could muster.

  Uncertain when or how Morley’s perceptive powers kicked in, she focused her thoughts on the oak as he walked to where she stood, pausing only yards away. Their agreement had been ten paces. He’d cut it to five, and could be on her before she knew it. His eyes already were, the cunning in that blue gaze as keen as the cold. Little would get past him.

  His expression hovering between a grimace and a grin, he tapped the tartan at his broad shoulders. “Thank ye for the return of me plaid.”

  He’d really gotten back into the Scottish brogue. “No trouble. Glad to thump Red MacDonald down the chapel stairs, once you’d disposed of him.”

  “Only, ’twasn’t you that did the deed, was it?”

  Morley must’ve glimpsed the image in her mind of Mrs. Fergus and Wrenie unloading the body. Beezus must have more care. “No, I missed out on the fun. But would’ve been happy to lend a hand. I’d gladly shove you down them too.”

  His voice low, he coaxed, “Now, Beezus. Why sech loathing for me? We’re blood kin, ye know.”

  “True. But when you snatched that stole away from Uncle Ru, destroying any hope he had for healing, you voided that family tie.”

  “So that’s what’s got ye all worked up, is it?”

  “And other things,” which she left unmentioned. “Mostly him. Like a father to me, he is.” Forcing herself to think only of her beloved uncle, Beezus pictured the frail man sunk in his armchair, the sulfur-eyed owl perched above him. She dwelt on his gaunt face, hollow cheeks, pinched bluish lips…the oxygen tube in his nose. Remorse at his pitiful plight
enabled her to block all else. Here lay her opportunity to conceal her ultimate scheme from Morley.

  With Uncle Ru’s image anchored in her mind, she reached into one of the many pockets in her cloak and pulled out the map. “This is of no use to me now. I only ever wanted the treasure for him. Everything was for him.” She waved the sought-after parchment at Morley. “You want it, give me back the stole.”

  The flint in his gaze sharpened. “Be reasonable, lass. It’s too late for Ruen, anyway.”

  Eyeing him with all the chill of the autumn air, she countered, “If that’s so, it’s your fault. He’s all I had, you double-crossing backstabber.”

  “You’ve new friends now,” Morley coaxed in that infuriating wheedle.

  “Not the same as my dear uncle.” Like a fixed point on the horizon, she kept his haggard face in her mind’s eye to prevent her thoughts from straying. Aware of listening ears, she spoke in barely detectable tones. “The map for the stole, Morley. It might still do Ruen good,” she bartered, banishing the lie from her mind. Mrs. Fergus had said it would work only once, nor did Beezus wish to access the demonic thing.

  “Forgive me, Beezus. I’m truly sorry, but cannot oblige ye.”

  “You have no true regrets. Yet. I’ll see to it that you do,” she assured him, and turned as if to stride away. “We have nothing left to discuss.”

  He dropped his voice even more. “Ah, but we do. Our partnership. You and me.”

  “Like the one you promised Uncle Ru?” she flung over her shoulder.

  “Niver would have worked. He’s a sickly old man. Yer young, strong. Bonnie.”

  She circled back around. “Didn’t think you’d noticed my looks.”

  “I’m not blind, Beezus.”

  “Near enough, as I recall.” She allowed herself to appear slightly mollified. “Well, what do you propose?”

  “Simple. Give me the map and we’ll share the treasure.”

  “What of the stole?”

  “I keep that.”

  “Can’t I touch it, even for a moment?”

  “No can do.”

  “I’m the one who found it,” she argued.