Along one wall stood a massive hutch fashioned by expert craftsmen. Here and there, Neil saw engraved Tudor period chests and high-backed settles for extra storage and seating. Granted the room was large, but the furnishings so plentiful it didn’t appear as large as it might have. To a child, however, it had been enormous, a vast playground.
This room, the castle, had the feel of a bastion that had withstood the storms of time and foul weather, impervious to destruction, as if it had been and always would be here. And deeply familiar to him, though still no more so than a vivid dream he’d often had. And yet, here he was in this Great Hall with Mora fair.
Dearest Mora, if the man he was now faded away and the man he used to be restored in his place, would that Neil adore her as utterly as he did? Was Niall heart and soul in love with her? It seemed to Neil that his former self had been smitten by her, but not as fully as he was now. Would that man cherish her as fully as she deserved?
Oddly, it grieved him to the core to think of leaving her to the care of another, even if that man was his past self. There must be a way to unite both Niall and Neil into one man.
He could only do as Betty Fergus instructed, take the vial secured in his pocket back to the chapel where it had been stolen, and pray the key in Mora’s crucifix gained them admittance to the chamber hidden below in the crypt. His family, he, had paid dearly for the theft of this sacred relic.
Revulsion ran through Neil as he envisioned himself held prisoner, and tortured in that dark hole. Thankfully, not a memory fully returned in all its horrors, but he caught the dank scent of moldering stone and human misery, and saw himself bound in the depths.
More wrenching still, the realization, that if, despite his best efforts, there was nothing he could do other than to preserve the old Niall, then he was resolved to do so in order that Mora not be left desolate. She mustn’t be deprived of them both. Perhaps the tear vial could be traded for Niall’s life.
Like thread sliding in and out of cloth and disappearing into the pattern, Neil sensed each cherished moment left with Mora slipping away. Two days, Betty Fergus had said, until the Neil he was ceased to be. And this day was fast waning. He had but one left. With ice in his veins from more than the weather, he stepped toward the beckoning warmth of the hearth. He mustn’t let dread overtake him, a disempowering emotion, but draw on the determination welling in his very soul.
The others gathered with him in front of the blaze and pocketed their gloves, except Margaret MacKenzie who had none, and held out their hands to the flames. The orange glow and homey crackle added much needed cheer to the dim, drafty hall.
Aunt Margaret gestured at several high-backed chairs comfortably positioned before the hearth, the backs inlaid with contrasting wood in a leaf and pear motif, the shaped arms semi scrolled, and the seats upholstered in crimson. That design in the chairs had intrigued him, hadn’t it? Did he recall tracing the fruit and leaves with childish fingers?
“Sit ye down and rest yer weary bones,” Aunt Margaret said. “I’ll go through to the kitchen and see about some refreshment.”
Neil gave a nod and the three of them sat where she indicated. Fergus took off his fedora and laid it in his lap. Perched on the edge of his seat, he ran his fingers over the brim, one foot tapping the floor.
No one said anything. Mora’s wide eyes spoke for her. No one removed their coats and none of them were in a relaxed mode—for good reason. Scarcely had the gracious woman padded from the chamber, when a whoop sounded in the passage outside the hall.
“Mora’s returned? The blessed saints be praised!”
Neil swiveled his head at the masculine outcry. His first impression was that his late father rushed through the doorway, though in the form of a far younger man. Loose reddish hair fell around his broad shoulders, thick, but not unkempt as The MacDonald’s had been. This fellow must run a brush over his glossy mane, even wash it upon occasion.
Part of Neil admired him, while the other part thought, Damn. Here we go.
“Holy sh—” Fergus broke off.
The newcomer rushed at Mora. “How did ye come? Where have ye been? I’ve searched hie and low fer ye, lass!” he boomed, pounding into the room. “Did The MacDonald carry ye away, the black hearted swine?”
She sprang to her feet and they all stood. Neil had the urge to spirit her away as she replied. “Nae. He chased me off and struck a blow to m’ head.”
“Did he now? He’ll answer for that attack on m’ betrothed!”
Neil tensed at the intimate term applied to Mora and felt her stiffen beside him.
Calum, as it seemed this was, tore at them in a blur of color—blazing, bursting with vitality, and Scots to the core. A red plaid, not fashioned like a kilt but draped around him and pinned together in the front with a brooch, hung over a plush gold jacket. Dark green trews covered his stout legs. He’d slung a broadsword, or claymore, at his back from the dark leather back scabbard fitted across his chest and over one shoulder. Instead of drawing a sword from his side, he must reach over his shoulder to unsheathe the long blade. But that wasn’t his immediate intent.
Like a hunter sighting a trophy elk, Calum’s blue eyes homed in on Mora. His auburn brows arched in a high V. “What in the name of Saint Peter are ye wearing?”
“A faux fur coat.”
“What?”
“A fine gift from a kind lady.”
“Oh, aye?” The fixation of Calum’s gaze on Mora accounted for the split second it took his oncoming figure to halt in mid rush. He directed his openmouthed attention at Neil then swept his stare over Fergus. “God’s blood. Who in the—”
Mora took a step toward him. As though anticipating trouble, she extended an entreating hand. “’Tis Niall.”
Skeptical eyes bored into him. “The divil, ye say. Niall’s dead. God rest his soul.”
“Nae,” Mora countered. “He’s raring with life and stands before ye.”
“Wie his hair shorn like a great bloody ram’s? And what is the man wearing? Me lost brother has no twin to m’ certain knowledge.”
Neil stepped beside Mora. “Yet I am a twin, of sorts.”
“Indeed?” Calum narrowed glacial eyes at him. “Since when do the MacKenzies call an Englisher brother?
Neil fisted his hands, surprised at just how much that insult stung him. “I am not English,” he growled with a ferocity that sprang from a long seated resentment he didn’t even know he’d had.
Calum wrinkled his nose. “Sassenach.” He waved at Fergus. “Him too, I vow. Or worse.”
What could be worse than that slander? Neil gestured at Fergus, bristling like an offended dog. “My faithful friend, Angus Fergus.”
Calum glowered at him. “What manner of man be he?”
“A good one.” Mora removed her scarf and shook out her hair. “’Tis thankful ye should be, Calum MacKenzie. These gentlemen saved me from the wrath of the Red MacDonald and bore me back to Donhowel.”
He gave a slight, abundantly grudging, nod. “If ye say so. Aye, we are most grateful to have the return of the woman who is to wed me.”
A tremor in her voice, she said, “Calum, I cannot. I am to be the wife of Niall now that he’s come again.”
Calum’s face reddened to the shade of his mane. “This man is no Niall MacKenzie. A most distant, errant cousin, mayhap.”
“Look at him,” she entreated. “Do ye not see yer ain brother?”
Cold eyes regarded Neil with all the brotherly love of a venomous snake. “He appears in the guise of Niall. That is all.”
Mora flung up her hands. “’Tis no wee matter!”
Ignoring her, Calum addressed Neil. “I thank ye fer the good service ye rendered us. That is all I am obliged to gie ye. Dine wie us and rest yerself, then be on yer way. Mora Campbell is no belonging to ye.”
Neil fought the impulse to hurl himself at Calum and pummel him. Instead, he strove to think how to gain what they badly needed. Attacking this infuriating relative would not
further that end.
Mora drew herself up. “Ye will not tell me whom to wed, Calum MacKenzie.”
Neil laid a cautioning hand on her arm. “Fergus and I will do as our host has requested and dine, then be on our journey first thing tomorrow. If the laird will kindly provide us with fresh mounts and provisions,” he said pointedly.
The deep crevice between Calum’s eyes eased, and he seemed somewhat mollified. “Fer yer service in the safe return of this woman, I shall honor yer request, though there’s no accounting for her temper. Must be the blow to her head.”
A familiar charge against her. “Perhaps,” Neil agreed in a conciliatory manner, slanting his eyes at Mora in warning. He sensed her bursting to announce her intent to accompany them, but that must be done in secret.
A cleft between his narrow gaze, Calum added, “We were to be wed on the morrow.”
The words cut into Neil like a knife twisting in his gut. Impossible. That he absolutely would not allow, even if it meant fighting this brother who refused to acknowledge him and anyone else who stood in his way. They would escape from Donhowel in a clatter of stolen horses, without provisions, or a guide—the angry clan on their tail.
Mora crossed both arms over her chest and glared up at their incensed host. “I’ll not be wedding ye on the morrow.”
She’d as good as thrown the gauntlet in Calum’s face, so much for any hope of beneficent aid to speed them on their way. The two stood scowling at each other, the irate Scotsman and infuriated young woman. Seemingly immovable.
Then again, maybe Neil could make the journey to MacDonald land unescorted as his memory further returned. And who needed provisions? He’d been a mighty hunter four hundred years ago. That skill might also return. Surely, he could fare as well as Kiln out in these hills, though the dog’s skills were likely superior. Not to forget Fergus, who invariably carried a reserve of chocolate covered coffee beans in one of his many pockets and other snacks.
Calum backed down first in the standoff. Curling his mouth as if in extreme distaste, he bit out, “Given yer addled wits, lass, mayhap we should put the wedding off a bit. Gie ye time to recover yer good sense.”
Neil seized the offering. “That might be best.”
Mora was not to be placated. “Niver, Calum.”
The fury that was Mora threatened to erupt. Once she flew at Calum, Neil would have to back her up. All hell would break loose.
He heard Fergus rummage in his pockets. If it was for that screwdriver set, they’d need a superior weapon. Calum had a sword and several more displayed on the wall. Nor had Neil any desire to pull a Cain and Able and kill his brother. Not that this was the likely outcome of a clash between them.
“Niall!” A woman’s tremulous cry intruded into his scheming. “Have ye come back to us from the dead?”
Neil looked around to discover his mother poised, staring, in the doorway. His heart lurched.
Dear Lord, she was still alive. Then he remembered it was 1602 and she hadn’t yet died. Would she take his side, or angrily conclude as Calum had done that he was an imposter?
To have his own brother deny him was bad enough, but his mother…that would cut deep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Her white face revealed in the wavering light of an iron sconce, Anna MacKenzie stood transfixed in the timbered doorway. Widened eyes, circled with dark smudges, riveted on Neil as if he were a ghost, and so she might well regard him. Clutching her red, green, and blue plaid arisaid to herself, she shook as if racked with cold.
So stunned she looked, vulnerable, even frail. She needed rest, consolation, and nourishment, not further distressing. Should he step toward her and offer such reassurance as he could muster under the bizarre circumstances, or remain where he was and allow her a moment to collect her wits?
“Hello Mother,” he said softly.
She blanched whiter and clapped one trembling hand to her mouth then slowly eased her palm from her lips. “’Tis a voice my ears know, yet the accent is sae strange.” She fluttered her fingers at him. “And yer face is as known to me as m’ ain reflection, but the hair and clothes are peculiar. Niall, me darling lad, is it you in truth?”
He nodded. “In the flesh.”
Calum snorted. “Nae, ’tis but a traveler who appears as Niall,” he scorned, as though this were a common occurrence.
She eyed Calum in bewilderment. “How can this be? The likes of our Niall is nae sae common.”
“Cannot the divil himself walk among us disguised as an angel of light?” Calum answered, lest any doubt remain regarding his opinion of Neil.
A rosy flush stained Mora’s cheeks. Up went her chin. “He’s no divil. Come and see, Anna.”
His mother started to move forward, but Calum waved her back. “’Tis naught to do with ye, Mothyre. Return to yer chamber. I will attend to our guests and see them off MacKenzie land.”
She sagged in the doorway, shifting her head from one son to the other. Brow drawn, eyes searching, she seemed fearful to oppose her youngest offspring and not at all certain of her eldest. Poor lady.
Had Calum become something of a tyrant? Hotheaded, yes, but he’d never been a bully. Before now.
Mora fired daggers at him with her eyes. “Can she not enter her own hall without yer leave? What would yer father say to this?”
Calum glowered at her. “Do I not have me mothyre’s keeping now he’s gone? ’Tis for me to say.”
Mora appeared on the brink of going for Calum’s throat. And it occurred to Neil that in addition to his vehement objection to a union between them, these two were poorly suited. Both their temperaments were forged in the flames, while his took form from the more solid earth. Though even the ground could shake given enough pressure.
She pointed a finger at Calum. “For shame.” Snatching up her skirts, she rushed toward the distraught woman.
Calum didn’t try to bar Mora’s way. Wise choice, for if he had, she’d have flown at him like a falcon with its talons extended. Not only that, but Neil was prepared to tackle Calum if he came between them. This frightened mother was his only remaining parent from either lifetime.
Fergus glared at Calum from behind black rimmed glasses in the assurance of swift retribution. “Just try it.” He’d spoken under his breath, though what he’d do to this armed man, Neil had no idea. Still, he admired his friend’s ongoing courage.
“Do not be fooled by this ruse, Mothyre,” Calum said gruffly.
She seemed to come to a decision and straightened her slight shoulders. “Thair is but one foolish action, to turn away from m’ son if this be him.”
“I say it is no Niall who stands before ye.”
Hell couldn’t burn hotter than the look Mora fired at Calum. “And I say, come and see.”
Taking his mother’s arm, Mora drew her into the Great Hall. The two women most dear to Neil in the world, past, present, or future, stopped before him and Fergus. Anna MacKenzie regarded Fergus with momentary shock, like one who’d spotted a space alien, then lifted blue gray eyes to Neil’s.
The dark circles spoke of sleepless nights and tears glistened in her penetrating gaze. The kerchief covering her head framed a still beautiful face, mature but not yet lined with age. The gray streaking her hair at the temples reminded him of the wings of a soft dove. Her slender figure seemed weighted. Grief at his father’s passing and his disappearance must have nearly broken her spirit. But not fully, or she’d have retreated to her bedchamber as Calum had ordered.
She gazed up at Neil, the corners of her moist eyes creased in baffled absorption. “They told me ye were dead.”
“He is,” Calum insisted.
“Was,” Neil corrected. “But I have returned.”
Calum threw his hands up puffing with indignation. “Ye declare yerself risen like our Lord?”
“No.” How could Neil explain that he was from the past and the future, meeting at this pivotal point in time and space?
Anna firmed her quivering ja
w and waved a silencing hand at Calum. “Does a mother not know her ain son? I will determine the truth.”
Only the wind whistling down the chimney and the crackle of the fire made any sound in the room dancing with shadows. No one stirred. Even Calum waited in seething silence.
The centuries fell away. Neil remembered her face, her touch, her scent. She was a gentle soul, but as strong as a warm south breeze, and he’d loved her with a special bond between them. What might he recall that only Niall could know?
Reaching deep inside, he curled his thoughts around a cherished memory. “Do you still have the carving of the wee dog I made for you?” He’d labored hours to fashion the clumsy image of her beloved pet, a small spaniel whose loss she’d grieved.
A smile touched her pale lips and warmed her brimming eyes. She lifted one hand to his cheek. “The holy Virgin be praised. ’Tis my ain Niall. How came ye to be here and in this guise?”
He covered her smaller hand with his. “How stretches all boundaries of the imagination, as would any explanation regarding my appearance or manner of speech. But I am Niall MacKenzie, your eldest son, though much remains to be done before I am fully restored to you.”
****
The tenderness between Neil and his mother moved Mora beyond imagining. But she doubted Calum shared her sentiments or was persuaded his lost brother had been found. Nor was she certain what would convince him, except the return of the old Niall in irrefutable glory. The two Nialls grew closer together the longer Neil was in the Hielans, but he had not yet completely embraced that self.
As she feared, from the corners of eyes swimming with tears, she saw Calum take hold of the claymore slung in the back scabbard at his shoulder. He drew the wicked blade. Face hard, he brandished it aloft.
“If this be Niall, let him prove himself with more than honeyed words. Do we not all ken his skill with a blade?”
Mora flinched. Everyone knew of Niall’s skill. There was only one swordsman whom Calum had ever been second to, Niall. The old Niall.
10 Timeless Heroes; A Time Travel Romance Boxed Set Page 45
