by Amy Jarecki
“I beg your pardon? Are ye speaking in riddles?”
He threw his hands out to his sides and rolled his eyes. “Maybe I should go along with the reenactment thing. So, ah, you said you needed help finding your son?”
“Aye.” Had she finally explained the direness of the situation well enough? This crazed warrior didn’t seem dumb—though his Scots Inglisch needed work. Perhaps he was from the continent. “I’ve waited longer than any mother should. ’Tis time to take things into my own hands and now I’m free to do so.”
“Do you know where they took him?”
She held up a finger. “That, we must find out.” The ride to Roxburgh was a good four hours and doing it alone could invite a world of trouble. Her man-at-arms was nowhere to be seen and she needed a champion like never before—regardless if this warrior was a wee bit touched in the head, he could fight like Goliath. She held out her hand. “My name is Lady Christina de Moray.”
The corner of the man’s mouth turned up. “Wife of Andrew de Moray—Guardian of Scotland, the same hero who rode with William Wallace?”
“Och, I’m his widow. And how did ye ken all that when ye had no idea Bruce’s army is fighting off the English this day?”
“Just a hunch. Forgive me for ignoring my manners.” The big man bowed over her hand and gave the back of it a light peck. “I am Lachlan Wallace at your service, m’lady.”
Christina’s heart nearly stopped when the warrior’s dark blue gaze met her own. All she could manage was a gasp.
Chapter Three
After he kissed the back of her hand, the woman blanched. In sharp contrast with her black dress, the whites of her eyes were wide like she’d seen a ghost. Her little gasp made Lachlan’s stomach backflip. Had she recognized him? Squinting, he leaned in for a closer look. Oh no, he’d never seen the lady before. He would have remembered a doll face like hers with mahogany curls framing her features from beneath that ridiculously frumpy veil. He would have remembered those wide-set eyebrows arched above incredibly expressive silver-blue eyes. Though the rosy heart-shaped face now regraded him with confusion.
Regardless, stomach squeeze or not, with an ugly divorce in the wings, Lachlan was in no shape to take notice of a zealous reenactment lass gone overboard. And the bit about her son was priceless. Did she even have a son?
Lady Christina hadn’t even acknowledged his question about a car and her horse was a scrawny mule that looked like it needed to be on a feeding regimen at an animal sanctuary. Worse, he’d lost his mind. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep on Uncle Walter’s spare bed. When he opened his eyes, a barbaric monster was attacking the petite little woman. By God, Lachlan couldn’t abide anyone who struck a woman and Lady Christina—if that was her real name—was, by far, too small and frail to fend off an ugly mail-clad beast.
Lachlan scratched his head for about the millionth time. “Where did you say we are?”
She beckoned him toward the horse. “We’re on the borders.” She pointed over her shoulder. “The English came from Kielder Forest to the south. ’Tisn’t safe to tarry. Ye can bank on the reivers swarming in soon. They always scavenge the dead, the heathens.”
“Right.” Strike that up for another quirky detail about this loony female. “So, where do we go from here? I’m not familiar with Kielder Forest. Is it near the motorway?”
She flashed him a look as if to accuse him as being the lunatic. “We must haste to Roxburgh Castle. Bruce’s army is stationed there and that’s where we agreed to rendezvous should something go awry.”
He glanced back to the battlefield. None of the dead reenactors showed any sign of movement. A sickly twinge snaked up the back of his neck. He couldn’t fool himself anymore—he’d seen his share of death when flying Black Hawks with the SAS in Afghanistan and those poor souls lying in the grass weren’t faking it. Damn. They were good and dead.
Christina grasped the reins and placed a hand on the saddle. “Will ye give me a leg up?”
Lachlan had ridden a horse a time or two—thought it would be fun last year when he went on holiday with Angela. “Sure thing.” Stooping, he locked his hands together and let her do the rest. Light as a typical sixth grader in one of his classes, she eased into her sidesaddle like sliding into her favorite chair.
Lachlan stepped back and regarded the horse’s hindquarters. Down on the battlefield, he hadn’t given much thought to launching himself behind the lady’s saddle and hightailing it out of there. He’d needed to move fast and there were no other options available. “Do you think this little guy can hold me?”
“He’ll manage.” She patted the gelding’s neck. “I suggest ye climb aboard. ’Tis at least a four-hour ride. We’ll be lucky to arrive afore dark as it is.”
Lachlan shoved his foot into the stirrup and swung his leg over the poor beastie. “You said Roxburgh Castle?” His mind rifled through the volumes of information his mother had imparted through the years. An author of historical non-fiction, specializing in Medieval Scotland, Mum had won a Pulitzer, her books had become films, and she’d restored Torwood Castle to such an accurate level of detail, people came from all corners of the earth to visit the historic site.
“Aye,” Lady Christina replied to his question about Roxburgh.
Lachlan vaguely recalled something about the fortress on the River Tweed—but the once-great Bruce stronghold wasn’t even a relic. About all that stood was a bit of the curtain wall and a gate arch. “Near Kelso Abbey?” He shouldn’t have needed to tack on “abbey” to the name of the town, but this woman was playing the medieval role so well, he figured she’d act like she understood him better if he added it. He’d been to Kelso before and the abbey was in ruins, not much more than a single tower looming in the midst of an enormous graveyard.
“Ye’ve been there?” she asked.
“Not sure.” He wasn’t about to admit to anything just yet.
As he adjusted his seat, the horse started to amble its way down the hill. Lachlan slid a palm to Christina’s waist for stability. That’s what he was supposed to do, right? He chewed the inside of his cheek, looking for something else to grab on to. He’d put his hand there before and she hadn’t said anything, so he figured it was probably okay…as long as he didn’t let it slip too low or too high...or apply too much pressure. He didn’t want to give her any ideas—no, not with the mess his life was in at the moment. But dear God, his hand nearly spanned her soft little abdomen.
Down boy, he chastised the appendage that hadn’t seen much action of late—in months, truth be told.
Dammit, he was hitching a ride and that was it. This woman is a nutcase. I do not need someone like Christina de Moray in the fiery mix. A woman like this little spitfire just might kill me.
At least now they were riding north and he could keep an eye out for the power lines or rows of wind turbines that peppered the landscape. He’d be certain to see something modern soon, then he’d figure a way back to Walter’s flat. Unless he was in the midst of the most realistic dream he’d ever had.
Hell, he had no wallet, no shoes—nothing but his jockeys, his karate pants and sweatshirt. And for some insane reason he was sharing a pony with a crazed medieval zealot. Talk about being stranded. Dammit, if Angela had waited a couple more weeks to leave him, he could have called her for help—if he had a phone. Mum was in London with Da—his stepfather, but still the man he admired and respected as his father. He could call Jason, his partner at the dojo. Yeah, that was probably the best idea. Someone ought to let him borrow their cell once they arrived in Kelso.
“Are ye comfortable back there?” Christina asked over her shoulder.
“I’m fine.” His stomach growled. “Do you have anything to eat?”
“Unfortunately, we were separated from the pack mule, which is another reason why we need to return to Roxburgh. We wouldn’t travel far without supplies.”
Jeez, she sounded so convincing. Lachlan looked to the horizon—not a damned power line i
n sight—no contrails either. He’d keep an eye out for those as well—a plane’s contrail could be seen for miles.
Odd, though, Lachlan had never been any place in the borderlands that had so many trees. And Christina drove the horse along a path pummeled with hoof and human prints. “It looks like a lot of people hike this trail.”
“Indeed. Especially the armies—’tis a major trade route between Scotland and England.”
“Right.” Lachlan just rolled his eyes, then leaned closer to her veil and inhaled. Dammit, the peter pinged again. What the hell was messing with his mind? Sure, he had to admit the lass was darned cute. And he couldn’t help leaning in to catch another oddly appealing whiff. Her heady perfume had to be infused with a triple issue of feminine hormones. Christ, her floral scent was like a homing device for any male—of any species. He couldn’t put his finger on the exact fragrance, but it was decidedly female and distracting.
Shaking his head, he cleared his addled mind. He wanted none of it. He wasn’t even divorced yet. Becoming tangled up with a history lunatic wasn’t a remote possibility. Besides, his mother had immersed him in enough history to last a lifetime.
On and on the horse ambled. The going was tediously slow and Lachlan opted to trot alongside them for about ten miles—which was a help because the pony could move faster without him. He could have run longer, but not without a camel pack of water or a pair of shoes. His feet were raw with about a gazillion nicks and cuts. They’d stopped a couple of times to drink from burns—he figured they were safe enough since the water ran swift and clear.
When the wind brought a pall that stank of sewage and God knew what else, Lachlan snorted. “What’s that stench?”
“Humanity.” She pointed. “Ye can tell we’re nearly there—’tis fortunate there’s still some daylight remaining. Your running made the journey pass more quickly for certain.”
To the northeast, a black cloud hung low in the sky. They rode into an open lea—a field that looked like it had recently been harvested—in fact, haystacks dotted the landscape. Not bales, but old-fashioned stacks like those depicted in his childhood picture books.
“Is that medieval pollution?” he asked, again looking for power lines, a paved road or a tractor. Anything?
“Ye have the most unusual speech. What is this, pollution?”
“Smog—particles that make the air hazy and hard to breathe.”
“Like smoke?”
“Yeah. Like smoke.” He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. Surely she’d let up.
Through the next copse of trees, an enormous grey fortress sat at the confluence of two rivers. Surrounded by thirty-foot, stone curtain walls, innumerous columns of smoke billowed, funneled to the sky by thick chimneys. As they rode along the southern bailey, Lachlan eyed the guards standing atop the wall-walk dressed in mail and helms with bows and quivers of arrows slung over their shoulders. Behind them, two square towers flanked the wall to the west. Barely visible was another gabled square roof to the north and as they turned the bend and headed up the hill to the giant gatehouse, a circular tower loomed above looking dark and gothic.
Guards were posted everywhere and most of them had their eyes on Lachlan and Christina as they neared.
He gulped. He might be able to fight off a half-dozen men, but they were in the open and totally exposed. If one of the wackos above decided to do some target practice, he and the lady would be dead. “I hope they consider us friends.”
“They wouldna expect a woman and one man to ride up and lay siege to a castle as impenetrable as Roxburgh.” She chuckled. “Besides, I imagine there might be one or two people within who are anxious for my return.”
Why did it not surprise him when the portcullis rose as they rode across the ditch and up the motte? Lachlan stared at the gate’s iron teeth pointing downward as they rode beneath. Piss off the guard who mans the crank and you’d be dead on impact.
Though most medieval castles in Scotland were in ruins, Lachlan had been to the intact Edinburgh and Stirling Castles and they weren’t as functional looking as this. Why hadn’t he heard of Roxburgh’s restoration before? “Where’s the abbey from here?” he asked.
She pointed east. “That way, though ye can get a better view of it from atop the wall-walk.”
He glanced over his shoulder as the gate creaked downward behind them. Sure enough, a square tower loomed in the distance with a cloud of smoke hanging above it. But there was no sign of the Kelso he’d driven through a time or two.
“M’lady.” A man wearing mail with a sword strapped to his belt rushed forward and grasped the horse’s bridle. “We feared ye were captured.”
“I nearly was.” She let the man help her dismount while another lad took charge of the horse. “If it hadn’t been for this warrior, I would have met my end for certain.”
Lachlan slid to his feet and the lad led the horse away. “If someone could give us a lend of their cell, I’ll call for a ride home.”
A crowd had gathered. By God, not only Christina, but everyone stared at him as though he had two heads.
“And where are ye from, stranger?” The burly man craned his neck. He had a grey beard and a deep scar across his cheek—a man who enjoyed fighting with blades for certain.
Lachlan tugged down the hem of his sweatshirt and squared his shoulders. “Linlithgow.”
Scarface crossed his arms and stepped forward like he wanted to pick a fight. “Ye dunna sound like any Scot I ken.”
“Hamish.” Christina grabbed the man’s shoulder and pulled him aside. “This champion fought off a half-dozen English soldiers to rescue me from…” She hid her face in her palms. “I cannot say it.”
“What the devil is the commotion about?” A self-assured looking knight with a solid build pushed through the crowd. When he caught sight of Lachlan, the man’s face turned white as a ghost. “Jesu.” He crossed himself, but his stare did not waver.
Christina stepped beside the bold looking gentleman, dressed in mail and armed to the teeth. “He does have a striking resemblance to William, does he not?” Christina looked to Lachlan and gestured toward the impressive-looking knight. “May I introduce Sir Robert Dominus Boyd—he squired for William Wallace afore his…ah…death.”
The medallion warmed against Lachlan’s chest. He’d forgotten about the piece until now. And how in God’s name did a hunk of bronze suddenly turn up the heat? Was it to blame for this weird state of affairs? What did Walter’s note say? Lachlan’s mind blanked.
Again, everyone looked at Lachlan expectantly as if he were supposed to do something. He bowed deeply as required when greeting the queen. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Sir Lachlan Wallace.” He never used the sir, but had been knighted by the queen after winning the gold in the Olympics for judo.
“A knight?” Boyd eyed him as if he’d lied. “Why is it I ken nothing of ye?”
Lachlan had no answer. For some odd reason, the engraving on the medallion came to mind. Truth is like a beacon, but few choose to follow. He opted to tell the goddamned truth. “I just returned from Brussels where I competed in a tournament…” Something in the back of his mind warned him to stop there.
“Ye’ve been on the tourney circuit have ye? And who were ye champion for?”
Lachlan knew what Sir Boyd meant—and the wrong answer was definitely Great Britain. If these zealots were diehard medievalists, they would know Great Britain hadn’t come into existence yet. “Scotland, of course.” His answer wasn’t a lie.
“Fought for the highest bidder did ye?”
“As long as I agreed with their politics.”
“Hmm.” Sir Boyd ran his fingers down his beard, a perplexed expression on his face. Then he turned to Christina. “I havena seen a man of his girth since William.”
She looked Lachlan from head to toe, her tongue slipping to the corner of her mouth. “I thought the same.”
“There’s an uncanny resemblance. Made a shiver run up my spine when I
first spied him.”
“He looks like a pauper,” growled Hamish from behind. “And who would wear a picture of a hunchback becoming cured? What is that suspicious mural emblazoned on his chest? My oath, I reckon he’s a follower of Satan.”
Lachlan glanced down at the picture of evolution on his favorite sweatshirt. There was no use even trying to explain.
“He’s a heretic for certain,” said another.
“Nay!” Lady Christina stamped her foot. “Satan doesna rescue women from their enemies.”
“Excuse me?” Lachlan spread his hands to his sides. “I’m standing right here.”
“Aye, ye are.” Sir Boyd walked in a circle around him, eyeing him like a piece of meat. “What happened to your weapons? Where is your coat of arms and where are your boots?” He pinched Lachlan’s sweatshirt and rubbed it between his fingers. “What is this garb ye wear?”
“Aye, if he speaks true and has returned from the tournaments, he ought to be laden with coin,” Hamish added.
“All lost to a woman,” Lachlan said. Hell, Angela had taken his townhouse and God knew what else. He hadn’t seen what she’d put into storage. For all he knew she’d robbed him blind. Bloody hell, he hadn’t even had a chance to check the balance in the bank accounts yet.
Hamish snorted with an exasperated shake of his head. “Ye let a woman take your weapons and your boots?”
Dropping his hands and clenching his fists, Lachlan bit back his urge to land a punch to the old guard’s snout. “I haven’t had a chance to fetch them as of yet.” Christ, the more they talked, the deeper he dug his hole. How the hell had he ended up on a battlefield with nothing? But one thing was for certain, he had to take charge now or else he’d end up with a crowd of fifty zealots lining up to take a swing at him. His gaze shifted to Lady Christina, who wrung her hands with worry furrowing her brow. “What are we going to do to find the lady’s son?” Lachlan asked, deflecting the conversation from himself. “The lad was there. She saw him—and then the English attacked.”
