“You and I must remember what my dear mother always told me. ‘When you find the man of your dreams, you have to grab him and hold on tight.’ What do you think, Jake?”
“Words to live by, Iona. Sometimes, fate intervenes.”
Heat swept across Haven’s cheeks. She would never let fate decide her life.
CHAPTER 5
The clang of metal and the grunts of men woke Haven from a sensuous dream. The earsplitting noise propelled her to her feet. A wooden bowl filled with her knitting supplies tumbled from her lap, landing on her toes. She’d fallen asleep propped against a small tree where she’d rested on an uncomfortable, wooden, three-legged stool.
Haven grimaced as pain shot through her toes. She glared at the mess at her feet. Her needles and yarn sat unceremoniously on the wet ground, splattered with mud.
“Devil’s own luck!” She bent to collect her sodden belongings then searched for the perpetrators of the noise that had cruelly wrenched her from a wonderful dream about a mounted warrior. In the midst of a treacherous battle, he was about to save the day, and her. Her dream man wielded a huge sword while he spouted words of true love.
“True love? Ha!”
She’d dreamt about the handsome man from her vision because his kisses and heated caresses had been the most romantic of her life. Drawn by his brute strength and manly aroma, she had wished—for a moment—that he’d arrived to carry her away.
When they last parted, his eyes had seared her with such heat she worried he wanted to kill her. She gulped a few deep breaths and clenched a fist, failing to slow her heart’s rapid-fire beat.
Haven wrenched her gaze away from the athletes, and carried her soiled knitting to the tiny hovel the games organizers called her tent. She slammed her shin against the metal edge of the army cot she used as her bed. Haven hopped on one foot until the pain subsided. Her fingers clutched the center pole as a different ache bloomed beneath her bodice. A stray thought unfolded. Mr. Mackenzie’s suggestion.
One way to improve my accommodations would be to add a man.
Pleasure swept across her chest, and a tingle raced down her spine to cause a throbbing between her thighs. Outside her tent, she glanced at the darkening sky. Clouds up high hid any early evening stars. To the north, an eerie blanket of low clouds settled over the higher peaks that ringed the valley. A breeze tossed her hair, but failed to dissipate the ghostly mist. The haze reminded her that her last two attempts to summon her so-called true love had ended with disastrous results.
A few steamy kisses, excluded.
Haven pulled her hands from the pocket hidden in the folds of her gown where she’d placed a selection of bagged herbs, the broken thimble, and gemstones. She had reworked the amounts and had added several stones known for their special properties before she took up her knitting.
Opal and rose quartz were for attraction, amber for luck, strength, and love. How coincidental that the medallion worn by the old crone who sold her the herbs had also held a large chunk of amber. All were easy to come by. When added to the herbs, they should boost their strength. The gold enamel on the thimble was a powerful mineral, but she needed something more.
Water?
The brat who tipped over the barrel proved water worked as a catalyst. She’d grab a bottle of water and get ready to retry her experiment tomorrow. Haven wanted to find a man so bad, she’d poured over the ancient texts. The mountain forest seemed like a great place to set her wares to work. If only Cal hadn’t turned out to be a lying bastard, then Haven wouldn’t be here, alone, attempting an ancient love spell.
She closed her eyes, desperate to tamp down her anger at his treachery ever since she had discovered he’d neglected to tell her about his wife and child. And when he wanted to continue their relationship as if nothing had changed, she told him, “You’re married. End of story.”
He had laughed.
“I mean to have you and I always get what I want,” Cal threatened, “because ‘once a Mackenzie makes a plan, he holds fast’. It’s an old family saying, passed down through numerous generations. I abide by it and I suggest you do, as well.”
How could I have fallen for his charms? And how come his mention of the Mackenzies didn’t register?
Several months had passed, but the hurt remained. Haven stretched then sat back down on the wooden stool. Even with her good vision, she couldn’t knit by the light of a small candle.
Where had the day gone?
She laid the yarn and needles aside. From her vantage point, she gazed across the entire make-believe historical village. Shaded by tall pines, the area was nearly deserted. Tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, she’d make time to watch the athletic events. Her fingers ached from today’s knitting demonstrations. Iona promised that evenings were for the volunteers’ pleasure.
As Haven thought of several pleasures, brought on by her fruitless experiments, her stomach growled. Should she get something to eat down the mountain? A little Scottish food would tide her over, unless the vendors had already closed. Then she remembered she’d promised to cook dinner in the village.
“Devil’s own luck.” Rushing over to the supply tent, she scurried to the cooking fire. After dumping a meat, potato, and vegetable concoction into a large pot, she stirred with a heavy, long-handled spoon.
The bagpipes fell silent. She pictured crews hustling the crowds off the mountain so the workers could prepare the grounds for tonight’s dance. Slipping inside her dark tent, she lit a lantern, pulled off her costume, then rummaged inside her cooler for a bottle of water. With a small linen towel, she washed then slipped into a clean chemise.
Haven had agreed to meet Iona at the dance where hundreds of people would dress in their finest Scottish attire. Iona had loaned her a beautiful brocade dress, the color of deep red wine, so she could dress the part of a highborn Scottish lady.
She slipped the heavy crimson fabric over her head. The dress skimmed her thighs on its way to her ankles. Haven looked down at the tops of her breasts. The dress exposed more flesh than her villager outfit and weighed twice as much.
Haven chuckled as she swept both palms down the front of her gown. She wrapped a gold sash around her middle. Tied beneath her breasts, it snuggled her like a bra and pushed her bosom upward. After securing her unruly hair in a loose bun with some of Jake’s black iron spikes, she stepped into a pair of beaded, red silk slippers.
A suspicious rustling behind her tent reminded her to hang her backpack from the center pole. Her powders and potions, made from berries and other natural ingredients, might smell appetizing to a raccoon. Plus, Dorcas Swann predicted rain. Anything on the ground would get soaked. She emptied the pockets of her day dress onto the cot then settled some items inside the backpack.
Haven hid other herbs, delicate bottles, stones, and the thimble into the pockets of her new gown. She shivered at the memory of the old woman’s strange words and piercing gaze. As she dug out her compact flashlight, her hand clasped a bottle of pale green liquid.
What should I do with you?
Fingertips tingled and her palm grew hot. She chewed on her bottom lip while she deliberated the merits of using a love potion near a dance hall full of kilted hunks. Iona would kill her. Haven dropped the bottle in a pocket and promised only to investigate the potion later. Otherwise, she’d be late.
She slipped from her tent. Darkness blanketed the valley. Chirps and hoots echoed from nearby trees and a fire blazed in the camp’s main fire pit. Shadowy forms were hard to decipher, but she assumed Jake lurked around somewhere since he’d volunteered to keep the cooking fire going all weekend.
“Is that you, Haven?” Jake said, crouched next to the heavenly smelling stew.
“It is I, my lord.” She treated him to a deep curtsey. Firelight flickered across his youthful face. His whistle of approval made her smile, and she sashayed closer.
“That’s some dress, Haven. Going dancing?” He rose to his feet then bent in a deep bow.
&
nbsp; “I promised Iona I’d at least show up. I love pretending to be a woman of the past. Long skirts and peasant blouses are more comfy than my regular clothes. Warmer, too.”
He grabbed two hammered tin plates and filled them with stew. He handed her one then pointed to a log. “Grab a seat.”
“No thanks.” She accepted the offered plate and spoon but continued to stand. “That log is muddy from last night’s rain and will get drenched, again. when the storm comes back.”
“What storm? I didn’t hear anything on my radio.”
“Jake, you know you’re not supposed to have twenty-first-century stuff up here. Especially when you don’t share.”
“Don’t turn me in.”
“What have you to bargain with, my lord?”
“Oreos?” He immediately looked sheepish. Forcing his plate into her hand, he disappeared into the dark, then returned to her side with a small canvas bag and blanket. After he tossed the blanket on the dirty log, she sat. He collapsed into a cross-legged position at her feet. “I guess it makes sense to share.”
He passed her the opened package of dark chocolate cookies. ”This stew is pretty good, too,” he said finishing the last spoonful. Together, they munched prohibited cookies several yards from the campfire.
“I, too, bent the rules. I brought a can opener. I’m not a cook.”
“Iona tells me different.”
“Well, I’ll amend my statement. I’m not a good cook on an open fire. Try me at home, and—”
“Is that an invitation?”
She didn’t answer.
After two heartbeats of silence, he whispered, “I’m very happy you’re here to cook this year. Iona held the job last year.”
“Want to clarify that statement?”
“Let’s just say she’s best at decorating our camp. This stew was quite good.”
“I wish I had a glass of fresh, cold milk to make this moment complete.” Haven grabbed three cookies and thought about how happy she felt.
Dessert and a guy’s attention? Can’t get much better than this.
“Better go milk one of those sheep.” Jake’s eyes crinkled as he laughed, and the moment died.
Her costume fit well, the stew and cookies tasted delicious, and she vowed to get in the spirit of the weekend by attending the dance. It didn’t hurt she looked rather nice. Iona had also lent her a lovely gray wool cloak after she’d admitted the weather—especially at night—got nippy.
“Oh, goody,” she’d thought at the time, but bad weather didn’t matter. She’d promised to help, and she never broke a promise. As their laughter filled the night, and with her belly full, the tension in her shoulders subsided. Her crushed toes and bruised shin still hurt. When she bent and settled her empty plate on the ground, something pricked her thigh. Haven pulled out the small leather sheath Iona had given her.
“What have you got there?”
“It’s a dagger. Iona wants me to feel safe.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, though after spotting some creep in a long robe staring at me, I’d feel better with a broadsword strapped to my back.”
“A guy in a robe? Did you tell security?”
“No. He was probably lost. I plan to sneak away early from the dance, and will come straight back here.”
“Maybe he’s an admirer.”
“I’m not looking for a relationship right now. Sex might be fun for some, but I never enjoyed it. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”
“What?” Shock flashed across Jake’s face.
Realizing what she’d said, Haven’s cheeks burned.
“I’m real sorry you haven’t been handled well. It’s a guy’s responsibility to see to your pleasure.” He tossed a broken cookie to the shadows.
Maybe Cal’s lovemaking ability had been less than competent. She’d felt nothing except the thrill of falling in love. Jumping to her feet, she slipped the sheathed dagger down her bodice. “I should get going. Oh, I’m cooking breakfast in the morning.”
“I’ll have the fire going by six.”
Haven nodded, rinsed her hands, then headed to the dance tent. A stroll down the mountain proved uncomfortable with a swollen foot and bruised shin. The gown she wore was much bulkier than Iona’s creation of gold satin, but if Iona hadn’t leant Haven such a beautiful gown, she’d have stayed in her tent all night.
Alone.
The sense that someone watched her lasted until she slipped inside the huge tent. The musicians at the ceilidh filled the valley with music and happy voices. Costumed couples swirled under the great tent. Kilted wait staff dispensed beer and wine while flasks of whisky made the rounds. The sweat of overheated bodies and the odor of damp wool mingled under the canvas ceiling.
Haven enjoyed her evening when she didn’t think of Cal. When a familiar tingle ran up and down her spine, she glanced around knowing she was looking for the stranger with the sensuous mouth. To her horror, she spied the figure in the dark robe. Long, black hair and a boney chin were the only parts visible beneath the robe’s hood, and she knew the moment he spied her. When he pushed his way through the dancers, coming closer, she turned to Iona.
“I’m out of here,” she yelled over the music. She’d watched her flame-haired friend twirl and dip with a different partner every song.
“But, the night is young. How are you going to find—”
“I’ll find him when I find him. Right now, I need some air.”
Iona excused herself from her latest partner. The man actually pouted yet Iona didn’t notice. The woman needed an intervention, but not tonight. Exiting the tent, Haven swallowed gulps of fresh air.
“What I wouldn’t do for another kiss…” Haven’s voice trailed off. She’d thought of the stranger with the tasty mouth, while she should be separating herself from the creep in the robe.
Iona laughed. “Have patience. Keep your eyes open.”
“You are absolutely correct.” Haven had to keep Iona from knowing who she really thought about. “I have until Sunday’s closing ceremonies to find the man of my dreams. Until then, I say who, I say where, I say when.”
“Words to live by.”
They both laughed. Haven glanced at her friend. “A storm is coming. I want a chance to walk in the woods before it rains. Good night.”
Iona stood with hands on hips. Her fine satin gown swirled about her long legs. Wisps of flame-red hair had escaped her upswept bun while emerald-green eyes bore into Haven. A thunder boom rattled across the western sky, reminding Haven of the old crone’s prediction. Iona walked back toward the dance tent.
“If you see lightning, keep away from the trees. Stay safe.”
Slipping her tiny flashlight from her pocket, Haven started up the trail and wondered how Iona expected her to keep away from trees while surrounded by a mountain forest. Halfway up, footsteps on gravel thudded behind her. Haven flicked off her light and hid behind a huge pine tree. She pulled out the tiny dagger and slipped it from its sheath. A twig snapped, and she jumped.
“Ouch.” Blood oozed from the fleshy tip of her thumb.
I am such a klutz.
She put the dagger in her pocket. A sticky wetness, other than blood, clung to her fingers. She sniffed. Mint and fresh apples.
Devil’s own luck!
The bottle of love potion had broken open. Pulling a few shards from the pocket, she also found the remnants of the tiny thimble. Haven shook her head.
Iona will go ballistic if I ruin this dress.
She needed a break from stupid potions and scary crones; from men who couldn’t take no for an answer; from a life without love. She wanted no part of men unworthy of her heart or her trust. Haven looked up through crooked tree limbs at a black sky. She hoped the coast was clear.
A gentle rain started to fall as she stepped back onto the shadowy path and resumed her lonely trek up toward the historical encampment. Keeping her head down, she flicked on her light and picked up the pace. Her beaded slippers sl
id on wet pine needles, slowing her progress. The storm seemed bent on drenching her before she could get to her tent.
“Think about your warm, dry bed. There’ll be time enough to dream.”
“And what would a bitch like you dream about?”
Haven raised her head, then froze. A dark shape loomed straight ahead. She pointed her flashlight’s beam at the face high above her own. Long black hair and a pale, boney chin beneath red eyes stared back. Red eyes? His voice, raspy and low, vibrated with rage. Or lust.
“Excuse me. I meant to say witch.”
“Watch who you’re calling names. Are you following me?”
“Your talent for observation amazes me. Can you tell what I’m thinking?”
“Your arrogance amazes even me. I don’t know you so I don’t care. Move aside.” Her bravado came out through shaky lips.
“You MacKays are evil.”
“What? You’re nuts.”
“I will not allow you to help the Highlander. The entire Gunn clan must perish. Cease to exist. To the last. I am here to take matters into my own hands.” He lunged.
Haven came to life. She swung around and plunged into the forest. Dipping and swerving, she followed the tiny beam of her flashlight while trying to avoid low branches and prickly bushes. Several snagged her cloak, but she ignored the rips and tears as she picked up speed. She tossed away her cloak, gathered up her hem, and listened.
His footsteps echoed in the dark amid breaking twigs and violent curses. Lightning flashed high above the treetops, illuminating her way better than her flashlight’s pathetic beam.
She cut left, beyond a massive black tree, but tripped over one of its gnarled roots. As she tumbled forward, he grabbed her around the waist. She hit the ground and all the air whooshed from her lungs. The robed figure lay spread-eagled on top of her. Without air, or the ability to drag in any, she lay perfectly rigid. Haven felt something, also rigid; it dug into her backside through layers of fabric.
“Get off me.” With a groan, the man released her and slid off. She rolled to her right side. Lightning flickered in his eyes like flames. He pushed slowly to his feet then brushed dirt and leaves from his robe. His hood fell back and his hair lay damp and stringy over broad shoulders. The gentle rain streamed down his sharp nose.
10 Timeless Heroes; A Time Travel Romance Boxed Set Page 134
