Beyond the Highland Mist

by Karen Marie Moning

  “And just what does my being without a husband have to do with you?”

  Tavis cocked his head and gave her the patient, tender smile that sometimes swam up to linger in her mind just before she drifted off to sleep at night.

  “Just that I’ll always be here for you, Lydia. You can always count on Tavis of the tannery, and I’ll say that a thousand times more.” His eyes were level and deep with something she was unable to face. She had already lost two husbands to two wars and the sweet saints knew there was always another war coming.

  But Tavis MacTarvitt, he always came back. Scarred and bloody, he always came back.

  Back to stand in the kitchens with her while she dried her herbs and spices. Back to lend a helping hand now and again as she dug in her rich black soil and pruned her roses.

  There were times when they both knelt in the dirt, their heads close together, that she’d feel a fluttery sensation in her belly. And times when she sat by the hearth in the kitchen and asked his help brushing out her long dark hair. He’d take the pins out first, then unsmooth her plaits one by one.

  “Nothing’s happening Lydia.” Tavis’s voice shattered her pensive reverie and forced her mind back to the present.

  She shook herself sharply, dragging her thoughts back to the task at hand. Coffee. She wanted coffee for her daughter-in-law.

  “Maybe it’s like the black beans or dried peas and has to soak overnight,” she worried as she rubbed the back of her neck. Nothing was going right this morning.

  Lydia had woken early, thinking about the lovely lass who had so bedazzled her son. Thinking about how the situation must seem from her point of view. Calamity after calamity had struck since her arrival.

  Which is why she’d gone to the buttery to retrieve quite a store of the shining black beans her daughter-in-law so coveted. The least she could do was find Adrienne a cup of coffee this morning before she told her that the Hawk had left for Uster at dawn. Or worse, the news Tavis had discovered a scant hour ago: that Esmerelda had been trying to kill Adrienne but was now dead herself.

  So it had come to this … peering into a pan full of glistening black beans that were doing not much of anything in the steaming water.

  “Maybe we should smash the beans, Lydia,” Tavis said, leaning closer. So close that his lips were scant inches from hers when he said, “What think you?”

  Lydia beamed. “Tavis, I think you just might have it. Get that mortar and pestle and let’s get at it. This morning I’d really like to be able to start her day off with coffee.” She’s going to need it.

  “It’s getting out of hand, fool. A mortal lies dead,” King Finnbheara snapped.

  “Of her own race’s hand. Not mine,” Adam clarified.

  “But if you hadn’t been here, it would not have come to be. You are perilously close to destroying everything. If the Compact is ever broken, it will be by my Queen’s choosing, not through your act of idiocy.”

  “You had a hand in this plan too, my liege.” Adam reminded. “Furthermore, I have harmed no mortal. I merely pointed out to the Rom that I was displeased. It was they who took action.”

  “You split hairs quite neatly, but you’re too close to rupturing the peace we’ve kept for two millennia. This was not part of the game. The woman must go back to her time.” King Finnbheara waved a dismissive hand.

  Adrienne was walking in the garden, thinking about the advantages of the sixteenth century and the serene bliss of unspoiled nature, when it happened. She suffered a horrid falling sensation, as if a great vortex had opened and a relentless whirlpool tugged her down. When she realized that she recognized the feeling, Adrienne opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She’d felt this way just before she’d found herself on the Comyn’s lap; as if her body were being stretched thin and yanked at an impossible speed through a yawning blackness.

  Agonizing pressure built in her head, she clutched it with both hands and prayed fervently, Oh, dear God, not again, please not again!

  The stretching sensation intensified, the throb in her temples swelled to a crescendo of pain, and just when she was convinced she would be ripped in two, it stopped.

  For a moment she couldn’t focus her eyes; dim shapes of furniture wavered and rippled in shades of gray. Then the world swam into focus and she gasped.

  Adrienne stared in shock at the fluttering curtains of her own bedroom.

  She shook her head to clear it and groaned at the waves of pain such a small movement caused.

  “Bedroom?” she mumbled dumbly. Adrienne looked around in complete confusion. There was Moonshadow perched delicately upon the overstuffed bed in her customary way, little paws folded demurely over the wood foot-rail, staring back at her with an equally shocked expression on her feline face. Her lime golden eyes were rounded in surprise.

  “Princess!”

  Adrienne reached.

  Adam quickly made a retrieving gesture with his hand and glared at his king. “She stays.”

  King Finnbheara snapped his fingers just as quickly. “And I said she goes!”

  Adrienne blinked and shook her head, hard. Was she back in Dalkeith’s gardens? No, she was in her bedroom again.

  This time, determined to get her hands on Moonie, Adrienne lunged for her, startling the already confused cat. Moonie’s back arched like a horseshoe, her tiny whiskers bristled with indignation, and she leapt off the bed and fled the room on tiny winged paws.

  Adrienne followed, hard on her heels. If by some quirk of fate she was to be given a second chance, she wanted one thing. To bring Moonshadow back to the sixteenth century with her.

  Adam snapped his fingers as well. “Do not think to change your mind midcourse. You agreed to this, my King. It wasn’t just my idea.”

  Adrienne groaned. She was in the gardens again.

  It happened three more times in quick succession and each time she tried desperately to capture Moonie. A part of her mind protested that this simply couldn’t be happening, but another part acknowledged that if it was, she was damn well going to get her precious cat.

  On the last toss, she almost had the bewildered little kitten cornered in the kitchen, when Marie, her erstwhile housekeeper, selected that precise moment to enter the room.

  “Eees that you, Mees de Simone?” Marie gasped, clutching the doorjamb.

  Startled, Adrienne turned toward her voice.

  The women gaped at each other. A thousand questions and concerns tumbled through Adrienne’s mind; how much time had passed? Was her housekeeper Marie living in the house now? Had she taken Moonie for her shots? But she didn’t ask because she didn’t know how much longer she had.

  Sensing a reprieve, Moonshadow bolted for the door. Adrienne lunged after her, and abruptly found herself once again in the garden, shaking from head to toe.

  Adrienne moaned aloud.

  She’d almost had her! Just one more time, she whispered. Send me back one more time.

  Nothing.

  Adrienne sank to a stone bench to spare her shaky legs and took several deep breaths.

  Of all the nasty things to have to endure first thing in the morning. This was worse than a bad hair day. This was insult to injury on a no-coffee day.

  She sat motionless and waited again, hopefully.

  Nothing. Still in the gardens.

  She shivered. It had been terrible, being tossed about like that, but at least now she knew Moonie was okay and that Marie obviously hadn’t waited too long before moving to the big house from her room over the garage. And although Adrienne’s head still ached from being tossed back and forth, there was comfort in her knowledge that her Moonshadow was not a little skeleton cat traipsing through a lonely house.

  “I am your King. You will obey me, fool.”

  “I found the woman, therefore one might say I started this game, my liege. Allow me to finish it.”

  King Finnbheara hesitated, and Adam pounced on his indecision.

  “My King, she rejects over and over
again the man who pleased our Queen. She humiliates him.”

  The King pondered this a moment. He claims a woman’s soul, his Queen had said dreamily. He had never seen such a look on Aoibheal’s face in all their centuries together, unless he himself had put it there.

  Fury simmered in the King’s veins. He didn’t want to withdraw from this game any more than Adam did—he’d watched and savored every moment of the Hawk’s misery.

  Finnbheara studied the fool intently. “Do you swear to honor the Compact?”

  “Of course, my liege,” Adam lied easily.

  A mortal pleased my Queen, the King brooded. “She stays,” he said decisively, and vanished.

  CHAPTER 22

  “WELCOME, MILORD.” RUSHKA’S GREETING SOUNDED PLEASANT enough, but Hawk felt a strange lack of warmth in it. Smudges of black marked the olive skin beneath the old man’s tired eyes and they were pink-rimmed, either from sitting too close to a smoky fire or from weeping. And Hawk knew Rushka didn’t weep.

  Hawk stood in silence while the man ran a callused hand through his black hair. It was liberally streaked with gray and white, his craggy face handsome, yet equally marked by time. Absentmindedly, the man began to plait his long hair, staring into the dying embers as full morning broke across the valley.

  Brahir Mount towered above this vale, its outline smoky blue and purple against the pale sky. Hawk dropped to a seat atop one of the large stones near the circle-fire and sat in silence, a trait that had endeared him to this tribe of Gypsies.

  A woman appeared and deposited two steaming cups before leaving the two men to sit in companionable silence.

  The old Gypsy sipped at his brew thoughtfully, and only when it was gone did he meet the Hawk’s gaze again.

  “You don’t like our coffee?” he asked, noticing the Hawk had left his drink untouched.

  Hawk blinked. “Coffee?” He peered into his cup. The liquid was rich, black and steaming. It smelled bitter but inviting. He took a sip. “It’s good,” he declared thoughtfully. With a hint of cinnamon, topped with clotted cream, the drink would be delicious. No wonder she liked it.

  “A lass, is it?” The old man smiled faintly.

  “You always did see right through me, Rushka, my friend.”

  “I hear you’ve taken a wife.”

  The Hawk looked piercingly at his old friend. “Why didn’t you come, Rushka? When she was ill, I sent for you.”

  “We were told ’twas Callabron. We have no cure for such a poison,” the old man said. Rushka shifted his attention away from the Hawk’s steady gaze.

  “I would have thought you’d have come, if only to tell me that, Rushka.”

  The old man waved a hand dismissively. “Would have been a wasted trip. Besides, I was sure you had more pressing things to contend with. All aside, she was healed, and all’s well that ends well, eh?”

  The Hawk blinked. He’d never seen his friend behave so oddly. Usually Rushka was courteous and cheerful. But today there was a heaviness in the air so tangible that even breathing seemed a labor.

  And Rushka wasn’t talking. That in itself was an oddity.

  Hawk sipped the coffee, his eyes lingering on a procession of people at the far end of the vale. If he wanted answers, he’d simply have to ask around his questions. “Why did you move out here, Rushka? You’ve camped in my north field by the rowans for years.”

  Rushka’s gaze followed the Hawk’s and a bitterness shadowed his brown eyes. “Did you come for Zeldie?” Rushka asked abruptly.

  I can’t handfast Zeldie, Hawk had told this man a decade ago when he’d been bound in service to his king. The Rom had desired a match and offered their most beautiful young woman. He’d explained that it simply wasn’t possible for him to take a wife, and while Rushka had understood, Esmerelda hadn’t. Zeldie, as they called her, had been so infuriated by his refusal that she’d quickly lain with man after man, shocking even her own liberal people. The Gypsies did not prize virginity—life was too short for abstinence of any sort, which was one of the reasons the people had seemed so intriguing to him as a young lad. He’d been ten when he’d secretly watched a dusky Gypsy girl with budding breasts and rosy nipples make love with a man. Two summers later she had come to him saying it was his turn. Ah, the things he’d learned from these people.

  “Esmerelda and I have parted ways.”

  The old man nodded. “She said as much.” Rushka spat into the dust at his feet. “Then she took up with him.”

  “Who?” Hawk asked, knowing what the answer would be.

  “We do not speak the name. He is employed on your land with the working of metals.”

  “Who is he?” Hawk pressed.

  “You know the man I mean.”

  “Yes, but who is he, really?”

  Rushka rubbed his forehead with a weary hand.

  Yes, Hawk realized with amazement, Rushka had definitely been weeping.

  “There are situations in which even the Rom will not do commerce, no matter how much gold is promised for services. Esmerelda was not always so wise. My people apologize, milord,” Rushka said softly.

  Had the entire world gone mad? Hawk wondered as he drained the last of his coffee. Rushka was making no sense at all. Suddenly, his old friend rose and whirled about to watch the the stream of gypsies trailing down to the valley.

  “What’s going on, Rushka?” Hawk asked, eying the odd procession. It looked like some kind of Rom ritual, but if it was, it was one Hawk had never seen.

  “Esmerelda is dead. She goes to the sea.”

  Hawk surged to his feet. “The sea! That’s the death for a bruhdskar. For one who has betrayed her own!”

  “And so she did.”

  “But she was your daughter, Rushka. How?”

  The old man’s shoulders rocked forward, and Hawk could see his pain in every line of his body. “She tried three times to kill your lady,” he said finally.

  Hawk was stunned. “Esmerelda?”

  “Thrice. By dart and by crossbow. The bandage you wear on your hand is our doing. If you ban us from your lands, we will never again darken your fields. We have betrayed your hospitality and made a mockery of your good will.”

  Esmerelda. It fit. Yet he could not hold the levelheaded, compassionate, and wise Rushka responsible for her actions. Nay, not him nor any of the Rom. “I would never seek to bar you from my lands; you may always come freely to Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea. Her shame is not yours, Rushka.”

  “Ah, but it is. She thought with your new bride gone you would be free to wed her. She was a strange one, though she was my daughter. There were times when even I wondered at the dark thing in her heart. But he brought her to us last night, and by the moon she confessed. We had no choice but to act with the honor we owed to all … parties … involved.”

  And now the procession to the sea, with every man, woman, and child carrying white rowan crosses, carved and bound and brilliantly emblazoned with blue runes. “What manner of crosses are those, Rushka?” Hawk asked. In all his time with these people he’d never seen the like before.

  Rushka stiffened. “One of our rituals in this kind of death.”

  “Rushka—”

  “I care for you like my own, Hawk,” Rushka said sharply.

  Hawk was stunned into silence. Rushka rarely spoke of his feelings.

  “For years you have opened your home to my people. You have given with generosity, treated us with dignity and withheld censure, even though our ways are different from yours. You have celebrated with us and allowed us to be who we are.” Rushka paused and smiled faintly. “You are a rare man, Hawk. For these reasons I must say this much, and the risk to my race be damned. Beware. The veil is thin and the time and place are too near here. Beware, for it would seem you are at the very core of it somehow. Take great care with those you love and no matter what you do, do not leave them alone for long. There is safety in numbers when this is upon us—”

  “When what is upon us, Rushka? Be specific! How can I f
ight something I don’t understand?”

  “I can say no more, my friend. Just this: Until the feast of the Blessed Dead, keep close and closer those you love. And far and farther those for whom you can’t account. Nay.” Rushka raised a hand to stop the Hawk even as he opened his mouth to demand more complete answers. “If you care for my people, you will not visit us again until we celebrate the sacred Samhain. Oh,” Rushka added as an afterthought, “the old woman said to tell you the black queen is not what she seems. Does this mean something to you?”

  The only black queen that came to mind was now scattered ashes in the forge. Hawk shook his head. The old woman was their seer, and with her far-reaching vision she had inspired awe in Hawk as a young lad. “Nay. Did she say more?”

  “Only that you’d be needing this.” Rushka offered a packet bound with leather cord. “The camomile poultice you came for.” He turned back to the procession. “I must go. I am to head the walk to the sea. Beware, and guard thee well, friend. I hope to see you and all your loved ones at the Samhain.”

  Hawk watched in silence as Rushka joined the funeral walk for his daughter.

  When one of the Rom betrayed the rules by which they lived, he or she was disciplined by their own. It was a tight-knit community. Wild they could be, and liberal-minded about many things. But there were rules by which they lived, and those rules were never to be mocked.

  Esmerelda had disregarded one of great importance—those who gave shelter to the Rom were not to be harmed in any manner. By trying to kill the Hawk’s wife, she had attempted to harm the Laird of Dalkeith himself. But there was something else, the Hawk could sense it. Something Rushka wasn’t telling him. Something else Esmerelda had done that had brought strife upon her people.

  As Hawk watched the procession wind toward the sea, he whispered a Rom benediction for the daughter of his friend.