“’Tisn’t far now.” His voice cracked.
She noticed how he hadn’t really answered her question. But she gave him a break and changed the subject. “Why am I an ambassador? And why at your mother’s request?”
He was silent for a beat, but then said in a deep voice, “Ye are Indian, eh? Coilltich, right?”
“Coilltich, that means forest people, doesn’t it?”
Ian and his incessant smartphone had been the one who had informed her of that word, of what the Highlanders had thought of Native Americans when they first encountered them. Although Britain had colonized America around fifty years ago, in 1608, all of Europe, even the Scottish Highlands, were abuzz about the land and the people therein. Ian had talked about a colleague who researched Native Americans and Highlanders—their differences and similarities. But before Fleur had learned much, they’d been interrupted by one of Rachel’s interns.
“Well, it means more than that,” Duncan said. “At least now it means much more. But, aye, I suppose that’s a definition.”
“What’s another definition? Savage?” Her anger had gotten the better of her, and she couldn’t believe she’d said as much, spoken in a harsh tone. She’d gotten teased and bullied and called much worse than a forest person, and she’d never uttered a word in her defense back then. She’d swallowed the pain instead and tried to forget it. So why did she have so much moxie now? With him?
He stopped the horse, turning to look up at her. “I don’t ken what clan yer from, but my brothers are somewhere in the Virginia colony, and their saviors are people like ye. I ken it’s rude to associate ye with all Indian tribes, as it would be to associate me, a MacKay and proud of it, with a Sutherland, my sworn enemy.”
Hmm, he was a MacKay like that Rory guy, like the laird of the land. Interesting.
But then again, Ian had informed her, smartphone in hand, that there were hundreds of MacKays in Tongue. Maybe it was the same in Durness during the seventeenth century too.
“I—I just don’t ken fast enough to lie, I suppose,” Duncan continued. “And all I thought about was my own circumstances—my brothers in Virginia, and my ma seeking more letters from them, more information. She keeps askin’ me what’s Virginia like, as if I would ken. I have no answers. And so, out popped the bald lie.
“And lastly, no, I think ye no savage. Er, actually, I’m a Highlander, my lady. I’m called a savage all the time. Besides, just lookin’ at the two of us, and anyone would point to me as the brute. What with yer delicate...lovely—shite.” He winced, perhaps from complimenting her, or maybe from swearing. Fleur thought it was the latter.
He was adorable when he was flustered like that.
“There are many tribes from Virginia, but my people are not from there,” she said calmly. “I’m from the plains of America. However, I’ve been to Virginia. It’s a very beautiful state, er, colony. I wouldn’t mind telling your mother that, for my role as an ambassador and all.”
A lopsided grin sneaked on his face again. He took a sip of a breath. “Is it? Do ye ken my brothers are safe?”
Although not at all an historian herself, she vaguely knew many of the tribe’s history of the South, mainly for her own continuing DNA research of original American people. She knew that from the instant the Europeans, especially indentured servants, met Native Americans, many tribes had taken them in as their own. Granted, several settlers would tell horror stories of tribes terrorizing the colonizers, but the truth was never as clear as fiction, was it? Then she remembered Ian telling her something about some of the Southern tribes having a special fondness for Highlanders. The two peoples assimilated, but neither one giving up their culture. They learned to speak Scottish Gaelic and Algonquin, wore plaids and doe-skinned leggings, embracing the long sword in battle as well as the traditional flint arrows.
She nodded. “I do. I think your brothers are safe.”
His broad shoulders released a few inches down, as if she had unburdened him from an immense load.
“Why are your brothers in Virginia?”
His shoulders hunched all over again. His face soured for an instant, then he turned from her, clicking his tongue and the horse began walking. She didn’t think he would answer, but finally he said roughly, “Long story.”
“Maybe you’ll tell me about it...later?”
He shrugged.
“You never told me what you said to that Rory guy.”
There was no mistaking that every time she called Rory, that Rory guy, Duncan softly chortled. She really liked that, making Duncan laugh.
“I told him about yer missing things,” he said. “That more than likely some mosstroopers stole from ye, and I’m wantin’ my ma to see ye to make sure ye weren’t hurt.”
“Wait, you think I’m hurt?”
He pivoted his head again. “Ye said ye don’t ken where ye are. I’m assuming someone hit ye over yer head. Once we get that sorted, then we can find out why ye’re really here.”
She squeezed her legs and pulled on the horse’s mane, effectively making him stop, even if she didn’t have the reins. Duncan halted and looked up, a frown of irritation sent at the mount.
“I didn’t get hit on the head.”
“Mayhap they hit ye without yer awares. It can happen.”
“I didn’t get hit on the head. Feel for yourself.”
He swallowed.
She pulled her ponytail holder out, letting her hair go wild and wrap around his face as she leaned down toward him again. “Feel my head. I don’t have a bump, not even a bruise. I’d have a headache if I’d been hit, and I don’t. I feel fine. I feel...great in fact.”
His shoulders hiked a little more, and his eyes stayed fixed on her hair waving around from the sea breeze.
She leaned as close as she dared, holding tight with her inner thighs to the horse. Duncan’s face was only a couple inches from hers.
He cleared his throat. “Then—then why is it ye don’t ken where ye are?”
“I know where I am. I just didn’t know when.”
He started to shake his head slowly.
She didn’t know why, but she had to have him believe her. Although it was utterly insane. If he believed her, then maybe she wouldn’t feel so alone.
His gaze drifted from her eyes down to her lips where it stayed for a few seconds. A zip of desire shot straight through her. He glanced up into her eyes again, but his own had turned a dark green. No longer hazel, but were now a forest of color.
“That can’t be,” he said softly.
“I know. I don’t believe it either, but here I am.”
“That can’t be.” He repeated.
“I ken.” She emphasized his Scottish word usage.
Briefly, he smiled, but it was lost once he said, “The fae are playing a trick on me.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think fairies had a part in this. And besides, it was me they threw back in time.”
He sucked in a breath. “Ye’re from the future?”
The way he’d said it, with such incredulity, it made her laugh and think of all the Back to the Future movies. When she was a girl, she’d watched them over and over again at the community center in her hometown of Porcupine, South Dakota. She remembered them with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia that made her heart hurt. Still, she nodded. “I guess. Unless, none of this is real. Unless, I’m dreaming you.”
He shook his head and returned to walking the horse. “No one would dream of me.”
At first, she didn’t think she’d heard him right, because the words had been said on the quietest of a whisper, and probably only for his ears. But the wind had taken his words and given them to her. It cracked her heart to hear the big man say such a thing. He was stoic, yet...captivating with his voice gone so soft, with his ever-changing-colored eyes, with that huge scar down his cheek and through his red eyebrow. Fleur thought when she’d been down on his level she’d have liked to kissed his scar, because she thought that injury was ju
st one of thousands the man wore. Inside and out.
He walked toward a large stone house, one that looked surprisingly modern without a sod roof, but some kind of tile. It was a long home with arched windows, and Fleur couldn’t guess where to get the glass for such a thing during this time. Lovely was the only word Fleur could think of for the house, looking more from a fairy tale than anything of reality with high stone walls and bright green ivy sprigging cheerfully up the dwelling. A huge colorful garden mixed with vegetables, flowers, and herbs, just like what her Na would have had, welcomed her. Duncan tied the horse to a rail of the fence that surrounded the estate. With a swift move he had Fleur by the waist and eased her down.
Right against him.
Chapter 5
Duncan’s eyes widened slightly, perhaps was a bit shocked, maybe even confused. But he stayed still. Fleur was wedged between the horse and him and didn’t mind in the least. Looking up, she smiled as he tightened his hold of her. Her breasts pressed against his iron chest and part of her stomach against his. That’s when she realized she was almost on her toes, not quite touching the ground. Because if she did, she wasn’t sure their bodies would link like this. He was so tall. A foot taller than her, maybe more. But what impressed her the most was his build, so broad and powerful. Her breasts felt achingly heavy, and her nipples contracted.
His breath became shaky, and his face was so close, his lips only a few inches from hers.
“Duncan? That ye lad?”
At that, he released her and almost jumped back. He looked over the horse in the direction of the female voice calling.
“Aye.” He stepped around the mount and with a wave, gestured for Fleur to walk ahead.
As she did so, he spoke over her head. “Ma, ye have a visitor.”
Circling around the horse, Fleur saw a woman on the porch of the house and stopped dead in her tracks. Duncan stepped into her, held her by her hips, but even his magical touch didn’t stir her from staring at the woman. Holding a shawl tight around her thin shoulders, she looked so much like Rachel, Fleur could hardly believe it. She huffed with recognition, but the woman had far more gray in her hair than Rachel had. Further, it was tied neatly in a chignon at the nape of her neck, and Rachel would never hold her wavy dark hair back like that. Still, the hair was very similar—wavy dark brown tresses mixed with distinguished gray silver. This woman was much paler than Rachel and held just a few more wrinkles. But her eyes danced just like Rachel’s as Fleur returned to walking and drew closer.
The woman smiled. “My, aren’t ye the bonniest sight I’ve ever seen.”
That was almost identical to what Rachel had said when they’d met the first time at a Cornell faculty mixer. “My, aren’t you the prettiest nerd I’ve ever seen.” Booze and over educated people were never a good mix, Fleur had thought, but then she’d met Rachel, and all she wanted to do was hug her and stay. And now in this time, an overwhelming need to cling to the woman before her urged Fleur on.
She embraced Duncan’s mother and whispered, “No, you are.”
The woman laughed, again, almost identical to Rachel’s chuckle. But she knew this woman was not her friend. Fleur could feel the difference, this woman was a bit tougher, a bit harder around the edges, but every bit as maternal and nurturing.
Fleur released Duncan’s mother, but they still clung to each other’s arms. The woman searched Fleur’s eyes, then her face, smiling with moisture beginning to pool in her eyes.
“Ma, this is Lady Fleur Anpao. Lady Anpao this is my mother, Helen Cameron.”
Fleur wondered why Duncan had a different last name, but couldn’t think of a way to ask such a personal question.
Helen released her hold of Fleur and placed tiny fingertips against her lips for a moment. “A lady.”
Fleur tried to shake her head, but Duncan whispered in her ear, “Don’t. She’s always wanted to meet a fine lady like ye.”
The compliment was enough to humble Fleur down to her bones. She peeked over her shoulder as Duncan straightened, his face devoid of any emotion, save one. He looked just a bit surprised. At the way she’d reacted when meeting his mother? She was shocked by it too, but she felt such a connection to Helen, almost as instantaneous and strong as when she’d met Rachel.
She extended a hand and Helen reached for it. While holding hands, they both curtsied and giggled.
“What brings the lady to my humble home?”
Although Helen had used the third person, Fleur understood that she was asking her, not Duncan. As Helen released her, Fleur said, “I—I wanted to talk to you about Virginia.”
“Where my younger boys are.”
Fleur looked up at Duncan again who gave a short nod. She nodded too then.
“Ye’re an American lady, eh? Oh, how grand is this, Duncan, my lad?”
“Aye, Ma. ‘Tis grand. May we visit inside?”
“Oh, my manners.” Helen curtsied again, while Fleur reflected on Helen’s beautiful accent and how it had sounded as though Helen had said, “Och, me mannors.”
Duncan opened the big black door and placed his warm fingertips against the small of Fleur’s back, giving her enough pressure to indicate she was to step through the door while he held it. But she almost couldn’t walk. Her thighs felt wave after wave of heat, luscious and carnal, crash through her at that slight, probably innocent touch. She recovered fast and smiled at him as she passed. But from her periphery, she saw his eyes turn a tad glassy. Maybe it wasn’t such an innocent touch?
The house was floor to ceiling whitewashed wood and thoroughly clean, smelling slightly of herbs, which Fleur saw there were bunches hanging from the white beams at the top of the house. A small, pale blue, lumpy couch sat in front of a huge fireplace to the right of the abode and rocking chairs of varying sizes were placed around the couch. To the other side of the residence stood a long wooden table, also whitewashed with many chairs alongside it. Seven in all, and they sat so still, so vacant that Fleur palpably felt the impact of Duncan’s missing brothers, as if a piece of her heart had been slivered off.
Helen removed a long, half-finished knitted blanket, still with long wooden needles on one end, from the couch and waved toward the seat. “Can I offer ye a beverage, my lady?”
Fleur was about to sit, but said, “Water? May I have water? But I don’t want to be a burden. I can get it myself.”
“I’ll get the water,” Duncan said. He turned to his mother. “Would ye care for tea instead?”
“Nay, I’ll have water too, like the lady.”
Duncan nodded and strode away, then Fleur and Helen sat on opposite sides of the couch, staring at each other. However, Fleur noticed that Helen seemed exhausted as she sat.
“I really don’t want to be a burden. Perhaps we should visit at a time of your choosing?”
Helen shook her head vehemently. “Nay, this is a perfect time. I was just knitting. I don’t ken why. Mayhap this will keep Duncan warm.” She looked at the knitting in a vacant rocking chair.
Fleur couldn’t help but appreciate the design and thickness of the soon-to-be blanket, then nodded with an enthusiastic smile.
“Is the lady from the Virginian colony?”
“Fleur, please call me Fleur, if that’s all right?”
Helen’s blanched face bloomed with a slight pink hue as she smiled. “Fleur? Are ye French as well?”
Fleur thought about telling the story of how her father, a French Canadian man, had fallen in love with her beautiful mother, but their love was not meant to be. However, that was a lot of information, so she just smiled for an answer.
“I would be honored to call ye Fleur, ifnye call me Helen?”
Fleur nodded again with a wide grin. Then she recalled the question. “And, no, I’m sorry. I’m not from Virginia, but I’ve been there. It is a beautiful colony—lush with green, green trees. And the flowers that grow there are phenomenal. They’re so big and beautiful.”
Helen sighed and nodded. “I’m so glad
to hear it. Did—did Duncan tell ye how my boys were taken from me?”
Fleur shook her head. “No, ma’am.”
Then Helen looked down, her shoulders caving in, making her thin frame seem so much smaller. That was when Fleur smelled Helen. At first, all she could scent was herbs, but it was when Helen shrunk from the pain of losing her boys that Fleur got a whiff of something that smelled slightly sour. Something amiss. And instantly Fleur thought she recognized the odor but couldn’t place it.
“They—they—being from the American colonies, did ye hear much about our revolution? Do ye ken of Cromwell?”
Fleur’s mind raced back to her undergraduate classes and the few history courses she had taken. Odd tidbits that shaped Western culture during the seventeenth century flew through her mind. The Thirty Years’ War, Cromwell and a parliamentary revolution that hadn’t lasted—Oh! Shit, Fleur thought. She was in the middle of Scotland during the British revolution. Cromwell was still in power. The king had been executed or would be. Oh my God, what a crazy time to be in Britain. And, Jesus, she was smack dab in the middle of the rebels. The Scots—well, not all of them, but many—did not take kindly to Parliamentary rule.
“You know, I’ve heard a little of what’s going on, but I’m not exactly current.”
Helen nodded and kept looking down at the pastel couch. “My sons fought against Cromwell. Well, Duncan didn’t. He was still in Sweden, weren’t ye, lad?”
Fleur hadn’t realized that Duncan had returned, but he held two thick pottery-style cups and gradually walked closer. His pace was sluggish, yet simultaneously jerky, as if he wanted to be anywhere but here.
“Aye,” he said eventually, then softly, “I’m sorry, Ma.”
Helen shook her head, never looking up. “’Tisn’t yer fault. Cromwell,” she said the name as if it were a curse, “took ‘em, took my sons. Cromwell’s New Model Army killed my Douglas, the second to the youngest. He was just nine and ten.”
Fleur scooted across the couch and held onto Helen’s hands. “I’m so sorry.” Fleur had known loss, but the loss of one’s own child...that had to be the hardest death to deal with. Not remembering her mother, because she’d died hours after Fleur had been born, she’d been raised by Na. And dealing with her grandmother’s death had been difficult—not only had Fleur lost her grandma but the only mother figure in her life too. Yet to lose a child...God, that must have hurt. And Helen had lost her others to the war. Were they prisoners?
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