Must Love Kilts

by Angela Quarles

  The battle started several hours from now at sundown. Her plan—zap back well before the battle so they could safely sneak into Urrard House, one portion of which was original. According to the map, Iain’s men would be with the MacDonells of Glengarry, who were right next to the center line. The house was in the center, so that was where they’d hide and watch, be ready to act.

  Traci backed out onto the road, and they found the lane. They traveled as far as they could until it became a private drive. They had no time to get permission from its owners. “This is it. We’ll have to zap back here.” She exited the car and strapped her reproduction doglock musket to her back. It was the most accurate she could find and the lightest, weighing nine pounds. She’d bought it yesterday from a dealer in Manchester. Next, she retrieved her own cloth sack and slipped the strap over her head so it lay crosswise across her body.

  Fiona did the same.

  She took a deep breath and met Fiona’s eyes. “You ready?” A last gasp of self-protection bubbled up within her, telling her to grab that damn steering wheel, turn right back around, and leave. But she was tired of hiding from herself. Hiding from love’s potential. And there was that pull—not only to return to Iain, but to return there today.

  “Yes.” Her sister’s gaze held steady, her voice full of conviction. Conviction that Traci felt now at a bone-deep level.

  “Let’s do this.”

  Together they gazed across the stretch of ground that would bring them to the center line of the Jacobites. And to their men. Maybe.

  Christ, but Iain was exhausted. They’d been marching since dawn, but as Iain studied the ground below and the placement of Mackay’s forces, he had to admit: Dundee’s brilliance was indeed evident.

  Earlier, Dundee had dispatched a small force of Camerons to act as a decoy, while Iain and the rest of their army had crossed the River Tilt and turned left to march sunwise around the back of the hills, thus keeping their movements invisible to Mackay’s men in the valley below. When they’d emerged, the government forces were lined up below, facing the castle. Facing the wrong way. The decoy had worked. Mackay had to execute a turn of his entire line to face them.

  Their strategic position couldn’t be more favorable. Mackay’s men had the River Garry to their backs—their only line of retreat the tortuous narrow pass—while the Jacobites had the high ground. Their downhill charge would give them momentum and speed, and the series of ledges would render them intermittently invisible to the enemy below.

  A lesser commander would have been satisfied with such a strategic position, but Dundee was not such a one. With their inferior numbers, he took no chances and wrung out every advantage. He’d next ordered a continuous march around the hill to give the appearance that their numbers were greater than the reality. And, since the enemy could not advance up the hill, they could only defend. Which meant they had to wait.

  So Dundee made them wait. And sweat. For several hours. There was a power in being able to name the timing of a battle. Iain could well imagine that the government soldiers were jumpy now from spent adrenaline, wondering when the Highlanders would execute their infamous charge. They were probably fair quaking in their boots.

  They waited for nightfall, for the setting sun was in the Highlanders’ eyes and a Highlander could fight at night as well as the day. Iain poured powder down the barrel of his musket, following it with a ball and wadding. He extracted the rammer and shoved it down the barrel. The others nearby did the same. Since he and the leading men of his clan were better-armed, they comprised the front line—the farther back in the formation, the more humble their weapons until reaching those armed with naught but perhaps a dirk or hay fork.

  Duncan and Gavin and his uncle were arrayed on his left, while Alasdair MacDonell was on his right. The canny bastard had found an old tattered coat while encamped at Blair Castle, and he wore it now so that the enemy could not distinguish him as the chief from a distance. He did, however, sport three eagle feathers in his bonnet to signal his status. Iain’s uncle wore two as a minor chieftain, and Iain and Duncan only the one.

  Iain fingered his feather and touched the patch of heath he’d pinned to his bonnet earlier this morn. The memory of telling Traci about their plant badge rekindled his anger and frustration.

  Dundee strode the length of the line, his stirring speech working everyone up to a pitch, but Iain barely listened. He only awaited the word to charge. The sooner that happened, the sooner he could lose himself in the violence of battle.

  When Dundee finished, the men howled, their voices echoing to great effect off the hills. Goose bumps broke out across Iain’s skin, and his blood stirred with anticipation.

  Below, the enemy responded, but their war cries were feeble and pathetic in comparison. Iain grinned. Upper ground they had, and now they’d won the intimidation game. Despite their inferior numbers, confidence suffused Iain. Aye, fear was also present. It was inescapable before a battle, but Iain relished the fear. Any emotion was better than the hurt he felt at losing Traci.

  Shortly after sunset, the order rolled down the line. With an ear-splitting howl, he and his fellow Highlanders yanked off their plaids and shoes and charged down the hill in tight formation, wearing only their weapons and their shirts. He bent low, with his targe strapped to his forearm out in front, and careened down the hill. The scene before him jounced and skittered. He screamed so fiercely, his throat grew hoarse.

  And then the enemy was only yards ahead. Without stopping, as one, he and the others with him raised their muskets and fired into the thin, enemy ranks. Iain’s bullet flew true, striking his target in the chest. Iain threw his musket to the ground and drew his broadsword from his baldric, as well as his dirk. The enemy was now close. Close enough for him to witness the panic in their eyes as they frantically tried to fix their bayonets in time to meet the Highlanders’ charge. But they weren’t fast enough. With another howl, Iain swung his broadsword at the closest man.

  Iain whipped around and surveyed the battlefield. The light from the three-quarter moon mixing with the white gunpowder smoke cast the scene in an otherworldly glow. He’d been among the first down the hill, and while it had felt like forever, only moments had passed since he first brought his sword to bear against the enemy.

  Already, many of the Williamites had turned tail and fled. Cowards. The battle still raged along the central and left flank, though. The Jacobites’ work was not done.

  Iain dragged his forearm across his face and wiped off the sweat with the sleeve of his shirt. Dundee charged by on his horse at the head of a column of cavalry and straight into the thickest and heaviest fighting in the center, the Earl of Dunfermline close on his heels.

  Sir William Wallace’s cavalry protected Dundee’s left flank, but as they reached the flat ground, to Iain’s horror, the cavalry veered off, leaving Dundee dangerously exposed.

  Iain charged forward. “To Dundee!”

  “Forget Dundee!” His uncle waved and pointed down the next hill with his broadsword. “The Sasannaich left their baggage train. Ripe for picking!” Without waiting to see how his words were received, his uncle bounded down the hill.

  His fellow clansmen hesitated and looked to Iain, who shouted, “What does their frippery mean compared to such as Dundee? He needs our help. Any Lowlander can rob an undefended baggage train. Follow me!”

  He hastened to the left, where last he’d seen Dundee, and was gratified when Duncan, Gavin, and the others followed. However, the remnants of Leven’s forces spilled forth and blocked their way. Despite sweat and blood stinging his eyes, Iain spotted Dundee still upright and swinging his broadsword with an economy of movements. His momentum carried him toward a stone house encircled by a stand of yew trees.

  Leven’s men stood between them.

  Then Iain heard the strangest sound.

  He whipped around—he’d swear to God in Heaven a woman screamed his name—and turned in time to see a sword bearing down on him. Sweet Mother Mary. Ha
d the scream been one of the magical sìthiche, sent to warn him? He blocked the vicious strike with his targe and pushed.

  The smoke and tangle of bodies briefly parted, revealing a woman leaning out of an upper window in the house, musket in hand. His heart clenched. Traci? The fickle moon surely deceived him. He sidestepped a thrust and brought his sword around in a full-body pivot. Traci’s musket was aimed at his attacker, and he saw it buck.

  Dear God, those weren’t accurate at that distance. His assailant ducked Iain’s swing, which left the man vulnerable enough but saved him from Traci’s bullet. Iain finished him off, only to see a look of horror cross Traci’s face. He spun around. Dundee was no longer on his horse. And he’d been in the line of her fire.

  Nay.

  Duncan shouted and bolted toward the abandoned horse but whipped unnaturally to the side as if struck. Another female screamed, and the fear Iain had channeled so successfully up till now surfaced. Adrenaline pumped through him, and he shoved through the rest of Leven’s men, who were fleeing—the battle, for them, lost.

  Instead of running to his cousin or to Dundee’s aid, Iain’s feet carried him to the house and Traci. He halted, and disbelief paralyzed his muscles at the sight. Traci and wee Fiona, framed by the window, looking like the fiercest warriors, but by God, they were shaking. Traci’s eyes were huge, her gaze locked with his, while Fiona, her eyes equally large, stared where Duncan had fallen. They disappeared from the window.

  Iain darted around the corner, and the lasses shot out the back door. Iain stumbled across the last few feet, grasped Traci’s precious face in his hands, and gave her the fiercest, most frustrated kiss of his sorry life.

  “Are you daft, woman?” he shouted as soon as he lifted his face.

  The field was clear of the enemy, and Fiona sprinted across the rocky terrain.

  On a curse, he grabbed Traci’s hand, and they raced after Fiona.

  Chapter Thirty

  Lang hae we parted been, Lassie, my dearie;

  Now we are met again, Lassie, lie near me.

  “Lassie, Lie Near Me,” Jacobite Reliques

  Iain and Traci chased Fiona, who chased after Duncan, who now stumbled to Dundee’s side, and all Iain could think while he held Traci’s hand in his tight grip was, “Dear God, what is happening?” Would events ever slow enough for him to figure it out?

  They converged on Dundee, where another Highlander was helping him to stand.

  Duncan clutched his shoulder, his face gravely pale. “My lord!”

  Dundee rasped, “How did the day go?”

  The one helping him replied, “Well for the king. What happened to you? Are you wounded?”

  “Only my pride. A bullet spooked my horse.”

  Iain could only whisper, “Thank you, Mary Mother.”

  Duncan swayed, and one knee buckled. Fiona leaped forward and gentled his fall to the ground.

  Iain glanced at Traci, who had an odd expression on her face and rubbed the crown of her head. She caught his gaze, and her face flooded with color. “I think that was my fault. I was trying to save you.”

  Later that night

  With the Highland army scattered and chasing the enemy, Iain managed to carry Duncan to safety back up the hill they’d charged down, Traci and Fiona tight on either side. On the way, they grabbed a few abandoned plaids and settled into a hollow.

  Duncan was alive, thank Christ. But his wound wasn’t superficial.

  The bullet had lodged against a bone in his shoulder. With the lasses holding him down, Iain dug out the slug with his sgian-dubh. They gathered around the fire he kindled, Duncan stretched before it, and Fiona cleaned his wound with items Iain had never seen.

  Duncan’s eyes fluttered open, and Fiona pulled back on a gasp. His eyes were too fogged with pain for him to register much of his surroundings, Iain could see. But he managed to catch Iain’s gaze. “I hope…” He cleared his raspy throat. “I hope you’re ready to be chieftain, my cousin.”

  Iain’s chest tightened, and he surveyed the hill, as if it held the interpretation to Duncan’s words. “Uncle is chieftain.”

  Duncan barely moved his head. “Nay. I saw him fall. ’Twas a mortal wound.” With that, he closed his eyes and pulled in another shaky breath.

  A mottled stew of emotions bubbled forth—fear, grief, frustration—and Iain reared back.

  His uncle. Dead.

  His throat tightened, and he rubbed his hands briskly up and down his face, tightening his jaw.

  Please, Lord, let that be our clan’s only loss.

  He glanced over and caught Traci turning her gaze away from him. The flickering firelight limned her lovely features, and an intense rush of emotions swept through him, pushing out all thoughts of loss and grief and worry.

  She was here.

  She’d chosen him. Ach, aye, he knew he could be fanciful, but that had to be the reason the lass was here. He was almost afraid to ask, for how could such a one as he have enough to hold onto?

  But as he beheld the two women who’d risked much to be here, as well as Duncan’s prostrate form with his life in question—for infection still loomed—everything crystallized. He’d been living life with a lot of noise, and now all was quiet. Quiet enough for him to realize one truth.

  All his life, he’d played the frivolous role, using it as a shield.

  All his life, he’d lived a lie so as not to make his father a liar.

  All his life, he’d used this to protect himself from further guilt, excusing it as part of his nature.

  Good God.

  “Traci,” he whispered, not wishing to disturb Duncan’s troubled sleep.

  Her head whipped up, and she bit her lip.

  In that instant, another truth hit him—she was just as unsure.

  He patted the ground next to him, too exhausted to move much more than that, and not trusting his voice at the moment. But one truth he’d seen earlier: having her near made him comfortable in his own skin, allowed him to be…himself.

  She settled beside him. And everything within him relaxed.

  She picked up a small pebble in front of her and rolled it around in her hand.

  “So…” he said.

  “So…” she whispered, her face turned to his. God, she looked so vulnerable.

  “So.” He nudged her arm. “You couldn’t resist me after all.”

  She stiffened and moved to stand. He clasped her arm, preventing her from leaving his side. He screwed his eyes shut. Aye, he now knew himself, but abandoning his shield, his easy role, had left him like a harpist with all thumbs. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, his emotions roughening his words, “I jest.”

  “Iain. I don’t want to joke anymore.”

  “Ever?”

  She huffed. “Iain.”

  He couldn’t wait. If she could risk coming back, he could risk assuming it was for him. He gently lifted her and settled her across his lap, cradling her so that her face was inches from his. Her eyes were wary.

  “Where’s your plaid?”

  He shrugged. “Somewhere. ’Twas too hot and cumbersome to wear.” He touched his forehead to hers, closed his eyes, and swallowed. “Stay.”

  “In your lap?”

  “Now who’s teasing, wench?” he whispered, chuckling. And dear God in heaven, had that been tears thickening his chuckle? Her soft, sweet breath skated across his cheeks, but anything more they wished to say was forestalled by Duncan’s moan. Iain met her eyes and saw that she understood now—with dead and dying men scattered below, with Duncan wounded beside them, and Fiona fussing over him—that now was not the time for their heart talk. “Later, I promise. We’ll talk later.”

  Dawn the next day

  Traci crouched down at the stream to dip strips of cloth into the water. Her wild shot at Iain’s attacker had spooked Dundee’s horse and thrown him, but it looked like he’d suffered only a bruised shoulder.

  Duncan was another matter, and worry weighted her limbs. She wrung out t
he cloths, hoping the temperature would help keep him cool. She stood and then stepped back at the sight of a man lounging against a nearby tree in a burgundy swallow-tail coat, buff-colored pants, and a top hat.

  “Mr. Podbury. I, uh…” Damn, was he going to take the case back? Was he going to make her go back?

  “Hello, Miss Campbell. I don’t have much time, so I must be quick. Tell me. When you were at Urrard House, did you feel anything…unusual right before Dundee fell from his horse?”

  She cocked her head. “Unusual?”

  He pushed away from the tree and picked his way toward her. “Yes. The symptoms are different for each person when they’re near a paradox event. The problem is, I am no longer sensitive to the nuances—neither are my cohorts. We’re numb to it now, so we couldn’t verify. Therefore, I’d like to know if you felt any kind of…sensation. My employers have worked hard to close off this world into a stable loop, and we need to know if we were successful.”

  She stood with her mouth open.

  “I don’t have time to explain more. Your Mr. MacCowan will be here soon. I came back to verify that events are happening as they should in this loop. In this timeline that Isabelle created, Dundee lives. I needed to make sure we’d been successful in closing the loop, and we were. You saved him. Duncan took his bullet. In the other timeline, Dundee dies. If the loop continues to be stable, we will not require the case’s return. But for my studies, I’d love to record your symptoms.”

  She still just stood there. She’d saved Dundee? He wasn’t supposed to have lived? She rubbed the top of her head. “I did feel a tingling in the top of my head.”

  His eyes lit up, and he pulled out his notebook. “Tingling. Fascinating. Simply fascinating. Thank you.”

  A chiming sound emerged from his vest pocket. He pulled out an overlarge pocket watch, fitted with dials and an antenna. “Time to go.” He flicked a switch on the contraption, pushed a button, and whomp, he was gone.