Uncle John veered straight for the radio in his office.
To turn down the stereo's volume. He always preferred a low melody. I smiled at Murdo.
Mr. Perfect stood stoic, unmoved by my display of silly swordsmanship. Or the smile. That was one heck of a stern jawline on him. Do I detect a killjoy? Or a round of relentless teasing?
Murdo winked.
Lord. He could make my heart race.
The stereo's volume decreased, lowering the Highland Revival version of Loch Lomond to a hum. Uncle John emerged from the doorway beyond Murdo's elbow. The smiling salt-and- peppered man joined Murdo who waited, statue-still.
"Haven't I told you time and time again, Katie, to wear long sleeves?" John walked over to stand eye-to-eye with Murdo.
Here we go. "I just removed the shirt to try out this rapier. It's magnificent."
Uncle John waved Murdo toward his sword replica collection and a few antiques hanging on the wall. Murdo complied, turning his attention to the various blades. And both men strode beneath the claymores, rapiers, and trendy swords of the last century.
Here I am. Supposedly beautiful according to Uncle John. Ignored. For a bunch of replicas of old swords. Men. I returned the rapier to Uncle John's worktable, yanked on the shirt, and checked on the sword at the hot furnace.
"Katie, Lass, take care," John scolded.
Has he no faith in me? Ever. I reached for the hilt, thinking twice, stopped, and grabbed the heavy steel tongs.
God, if I burned myself in front of him after he complained about my attire…There would be no end to the patronizing stories.
"This is my great-great grandfather's sword. Old but tried and true..." Uncle John's voice faded.
Not the sad tale. I hated when Uncle John got caught up in the nostalgia of the moment in recollecting the loss of life associated with that particular claymore. What could a girl do though? Scanning the anvil for something to use to distract John, I found nothing but the hammer and tongs.
Perfect. As long as the heavy tool bounce off the steel toe…I quickly grabbed the hammer's handle, aimed at my steel-toed boot, and released the slippery handle.
Chapter 15
The hammer thudded louder on Katie's toe than anything she'd ever heard before. Would there be pain? My body expected pain because it sucked in what had to be the deepest buffering inhalation.Thanks for the round of trust, self. I clamped my eyes tight then hopped on one foot, holding the other potentially wounded one with both hands.
For realism. As if that could help when the stiff toe of the boot kept my comforting hand form touching my toes.
"Katie," John yelled.
Although I'd done this countless times to shift John's interest from his ancestor's predicament, any resultant pain of the sacrifice could burn a while. If at all. Hopefully, today would be one of those days I had to fake pain.
John's hands fell upon my shoulders. "Are you hurt?" he begged.
"Of course." I hopped and lied.
Really. Not a lick of pain. But it never really hurt that much if even at all.
"Here." He lifted me off the floor and placed me on the warm hardness of the anvil. "I'll get some ice. Take her boot off, Murdo."
Someone fumbled with my foot.
Good. My antics had worked. Time to forget playing injured girl. I opened my eyes.
Murdo tugged at my bootlaces and glanced at me.
Concern wrinkling his brow. Worry is nice. "Don't worry," I whispered. "The toe's reinforced with steel."
"What?" He frowned.
I leaned closer to whisper again. "The hammer hit the toe."
"What?" he scowled.
"It doesn't hurt much. It's just to get Uncle John's mind on something other than his ancestors dying at Culloden."
"Katie Innis," Murdo snarled low. "I should take you out back and thrash you good for doing something that foolish." He yanked off the boot.
Pain shot through my foot. "Now that hurt." I sat up and rubbed at the pain.
His chiding gaze was relentless. "What if you'd broken something?"
I'd never considered breakage. Not with steel toes.
Ice chinked in a bucket.
Torture time. I'd pay one way or the other.
Uncle John appeared at my side and thrust the bucket over to Murdo.
The ice cure. I hated sitting with something being iced--Uncle John's preferred remedy. There's no arguing. Just gnaw your tongue and cheeks and prepare for chattering teeth.
Uncle John knelt, wearing his standard indecipherable straight-lipped grimace.
If I didn't get them talking, I'd freeze to death. "Just where did you buy that sword, Murdo?"
Both squatting men looked at me with little more than admonishment.
"Your sword?" I repeated. "Murdo, I couldn't seem to get it hot enough to work the metal."
Murdo blinked blankly. "I don't know. 'Twas a gift."
How am I to repair the freaking thing if he doesn't know what metal the blade is fashioned from?
"You don't know the metal then?" Uncle John chimed.
Forget the challenge now that Uncle John's curiosity is engaged. I'd become the lowly apprentice. The less-learned. The bothersome boil in the way of a great artisan at work. Slag.
"Don't fuss, Katie dear." John patted my shoulder. "I'm certain you've researched all aspects of the issue."
"I have." I shot both men a stoic look.
"Well then?" John's brow arched.
Good. He isn't going to bully his way into taking over. "The only maker's mark is a pentacle set inside a circle on the end of the hilt. There is nothing noting the metal's identity. I checked the alloy chart for similar surficial coloring of metals. Nothing but brass and bronze match."
John turned to Murdo. "Reparations will be risky."
Murdo nodded.
"I'll do what I can." John slid his gaze to mine and winked. "To assist Katie."
****
Murdo watched the master sword smith scrutinize the Ring Master's sword. Like the big Scot had seen one before. Highly unlikely.
The blade cooled quickly with Katie's foot.
But her disgust was as hot as the forge. Livid upon her face. She deserved to be annoyed after the stunt she pulled. Mirrors had impressive power. Like revealing her stupidity. I saw her purposely drop the bloody hammer on her boot.
"'Tis a fine sword," Big John crowed, turning the blade between his thick fingers. "Heavier than bronze and brass."
Big John probably feared he'd say something offensive. The quality of the weapons hanging upon the wall was legendary. One of the very same swords hung in Ring Master Keep. An unusual necessity. But important nonetheless. Composed of iron, the Order's collection of iron weaponry is better than legend. Especially since the armor protected the Ring Master's dining hall from bothersome fairies, barring the fey's electro-magnetic radiation from the building.
"Naught a scratch or dent in the edge. Only the bend." Big John's gaze slid up to watch Katie rub her arms with her hands.
She fidgeted on the wooden bench with her foot in the bucket.
"You should keep your eyes on the road, lassie," Big John warned.
Katie's gaze raced off to the distant tree line beyond the doors.
Why the road? Or is it part of her punishment for her stupidity? Surely Big John knows what she'd done. And she'd brought her discomfort upon herself. But I'd have to save her from her uncle's scrutiny given she attempted to keep him from recalling his painful memory. One any Highlander would choke up remembering. I tried to veer Big John's gaze away from her fidgeting form. "What can be done?"
"Let's see then." Big John nodded toward his office. "We'll check a thing or two."
Another room meant Katie could suffer in private. I winked at her and crossed the threshold into a breath of fresh air. A good breeze wafted through the windows, curling a piece of paper on a messy desk.
"In you go." Big John plowed through the doorway at my heels.
I st
opped in front of the desk, beside a chair stacked with books and papers.
The door thumped.
"Clear off that chair there and have a seat, lad. Katie's got a long wait ahead of her."
Was John up to something?
The man eased around his desk, sat in his chair behind the stacks of papers, placed the sword on his desk, and leaned back into his chair, grinning. "She's always dropping something, pretending to injure herself when I reminisce about days long since passed."
So that explained the ice. "You're punishing her then?" I gathered the papers and books in the chair in front of the desk, placing the documents on my knees and sat.
"Not really." Big John waved a dismissive palm. "I just let her stew a wee longer in the bucket each time." He turned to the archaic computer. "What do you say we do a search and see what the gods bestow upon us?"
The Gods? John's profile didn't let on he joked. He couldn't be a Ring Master. Could he? After Black Liam's revelation, however, anything was possible.
Big John's fingers danced across the archaic keyboard. "We'll see if there's any note of this type of sword in New Zealand. Something so unusual would be advertised."
If the big man tested my duty to the Order, he'd suggest using a brine solution to quench the hot nidium. Salt water was the last resort. A nidium claymore would disintegrate within an hour in seawater. Be lost to Time.
"Brass. Brass. Bronze. Brass..." John chattered as the brilliant screen rolled by. "I'm beginning to doubt we'll learn of this sword's origin."
The expected reaction. "Perhaps the sword isn't a metal you've encountered." The implication should reveal if the large man has a Time-Guardian affiliation. "What else can you try?"
Inhaling deeply, Big John scratched his shaggy silver eyebrow. "We can slowly heat the sword and watch for signs of melting."
So much for divulging an association with futuristic Freemasons and pondering Post-Modern alchemy with the learned.
Big John exhaled loud and fast. "I don't like that plan." His stymied gaze prowled the wall of books in the room. "It's getting late. Let's give it another go and then take the wee one's foot out of the bucket. We want her warmed up in time for the feast." John grinned.
She wouldn't be welcoming any other way. At least, we avoided a discussion of an alternative reality through a perception of reality totally grounded in scientific bias. That's one chat best left to unbiased mystics when marooned in a scientific world.
****
My foot burned in the icy water. Talk about Hellfire. I clenched my hands together to counter their trembling.
If only my teeth rattled to the catchy bagpipe skirl, I could enjoy the forge's music. Three steps away, Uncle John and Murdo stared at the orange blade lying on the anvil.
John hefted the massive hammer over his shoulder. With one fluid swing, the black square head crashed against the bowed blade. A loud clang echoed around the room until escaping through the open doors. But the sword remained bent where both men gaped down at the metal.
"I've never," John gasped, scratching his head. He turned to Murdo. "Are you certain this sword was purchased in New Zealand?"
"Aye. As far as I know."
John shook his head at the blade.
Enough. I'd go insane. My teeth tapped along with a fast-playing fiddle. "Uncle John, please. I'm going to freeze to death if you don't let me take my foot out of this bucket."
"All right, then." John waved some fingers my direction while placing the hammer on the anvil. "We'll leave the sword till tomorrow. You both have to attend the feast."
Hallelujah. I extracted my foot from the ice water.
Hot foundry air wrapped around my foot.
Not good enough. If only the needles jabbing my toes would go away.
"Now." John turned with the rapier in hand. "This is Duke Ronat's rapier. You're to place it in his hand." He extended the sword to me.
Fine. Fine. I hobbled on my frozen foot.
Murdo intervened, accepting the blade. "I'll see the duke receives his weapon."
Whatever. I hobbled to the car.
"That's it," John goaded as I limped along. "Into the car. Let Murdo drive."
The sun would set in an hour. I don't have time to argue. I need to shower and get to the feast. Get to Murdo. Uncle John pulled the car door wide, allowed me to sink into the cloth-covered seat, then slammed the door at my side.
****
Praise all that's holy. I'm going to drive the terrestrial torpedo. What more could a man hope for marooned in time. I reached for the door handle, pulled, and settled into the gray creaking pilot's seat.
Katie extended a shiny key.
Gods' teeth. What fortune! "Thank you." I plucked the warm metal from her fingers. Now, if I could only remember what she had done earlier to start the engine. Quickly, I inserted the slip of metal into the keyhole.
Naught happened.
Fine. I turned the key.
Silence prevailed.
"You have to step on the clutch," she piped.
Her feet. Aye. Her fancy footwork. I stepped on a pedal while turning the key.
Still naught.
"Have you driven a stick before?" she inquired. "Planes must be different."
Turning to her curious gaze, I lied. "Aye. 'Twas a long time ago."
"Do you remember how to shift?"
I pondered my lessons from training. We had toyed with archaic machines when I was fourteen. But that was a long time ago.
She pointed at the stick jutting up between us. "Okay. That stick, it's the gear shift."
Gods' jest, I'd forgotten her pushing and pulling the lever. I thrust the stick upward, pushed the pedal, and twisted the key.
The engine rumbled to life.
Now we're rolling. I shot her a grin.
"I'm still worried." She blinked slowly.
"Never fear with me around, Katie dear." I tested another pedal.
Nothing happened. Then the third.
The car rolled forward.
Not good if I plowed through the foundry. I stomped on the brake.
"There are four gears and reverse. You're top left now. Reverse is bottom right." She smiled.
Brilliantly. With a bit of quick handiwork, I counted the movements and found reverse.
Some gas sent the vehicle rolling backward. Steering proved equally entertaining. Although flying shuttles is more interesting, especially in space, this was a moment to remember.
"I don't know what traffic signs are like in New Zealand," Katie squealed. "But that's a stop sign. You better stop."
Screaming maidens! I slammed on the brake.
The car jolted to a stop. The wheels screeched. My maiden's gaze seared holes through my cheek.
Not good.
She licked her lips.
Thoughtfully. She smacked those wee luscious lips twice.
"You know, Murdo, I know Alby Mangles rode camels across Australia. But, certainly, New Zealanders have more than camels on their island."
Who is Alby Mangles? An old love interest? Not anymore. Whoever the man is, the drive home proved amazing when Katie wasn't screaming.
****
Murdo doesn't know how to drive a car. Pilot or not. We might die. But oh what luck. A needy kilt could really get a girl going. Yet, when the car rolled to a stop in front of the Tudor planks and whitewashed stucco of the Innis house, I sighed with relief. Fun was fun, but too much can frazzle one's nerves. Like when plowing through stop signs. "Okay. I'm going to get in and out of the shower." I reached for the rapier.
Murdo eyed me with interest.
More than interest with those sparkling blue eyes. "What?"
"I think you enjoyed harassing me on the drive."
"No." Gaping, I feigned shock.
"You did, Katie Innis, and I'll remember for a very long time." He leaned toward me, grabbing my head, drawing me toward his square jaw line, and covered my lips with his amazing soft mouth.
A cloud of cinnamon
swirled around me.
Electricity jolted from my lips to my toes.
He thrust his strong warm wet tongue between my lips.
Getting down to business. An excellent idea. I reached, winding my fingers into his slick hair, hanging on to ensure he couldn't get away. But his hungry hands slipped down my back, pulling me into his iron chest.
Perfect. He isn't going anywhere.
"Katie?" Auntie Iona called.
A ten-thousand-fold shock of electricity jolted me with fear.
We're in trouble. I jumped out of Murdo's strong arms.
Auntie Iona stood in her yellow apron at the front door with a hand shielding her eyes from the rays of the setting sun.
Damn.
Murdo wore a wily smile.
Fearlessly. Guess I'd have to be the one to inform him my aunt and uncle were old school. "Sorry. Auntie Iona won't understand her niece making a scene in the front yard." I heaved the heavy car door wide and stepped into soft gravel.
The rapier.
Leaning back into the car, Murdo still sat, watching me with a sinister twist on his lips.
Anything but upset. Adorable. I grabbed his scratchy jaw, a bit stubbled with a dark three o'clock shadow. "Know something?" I asked, rubbing a thumb across his cheek.
He shook his head slightly.
As if he didn't know. Well, I'd tell him. "You're perfect."
His curious mask slackened with surprise.
There's nothing like stunning your man. Time to grab onto the rest of my life. The deed required a shower. I grabbed the cold sharp edge of the sword and headed inside to shower.
Later, after donning the periwinkle blue crushed silk gown, I stood looking in the full-length mirror hanging on the closet door.
Do I look ridiculous? Of course. How many of my adult friends wore medieval dresses to parties? None. Maybe bikinis. Not girlie dresses. But this is simply a business party that required special attire. "Well, tonight you're an economic conduit," I informed my disgustingly girlie reflection.
All is necessary to maintain the Innis's economic connections. Who else would order swords? I tugged at the bodice.
The girdle isn't too tight. I'd begged the seamstress to give me a little room to breathe. Okay, a lot. And with Mr. Perfect kissing me whenever he had the mind to, I'd need all the room to breathe I could get with all that gasping and sighing. Oh, and he could glide those big strong hands down the bodice too…
10 Timeless Heroes; A Time Travel Romance Boxed Set Page 96
