She stared at the shield. It looked very old, with its rough edges and deep cuts in the silver metal of its surface. She wondered how many times it was used in battle. It seemed a shame to use a beautiful piece in such a violent way when someone obviously took great care in creating the knots on the cross and etching the symbols into each quadrant of the armament. What did the symbols mean to its creator? It seemed like an odd mix – an infinity symbol, two triangles joined at the point, a fish, and a weird caldron with two sets of legs protruding from it. That last one was incredibly creepy. Was it a warning against witchcraft or something?
Sighing, she dispelled all thoughts about the object as she stared at the amber liquid in her glass. She was so tired. And yet, the sheer luxury of sipping whisky by a fire made her feel pampered and safe in a way that she had not felt in months. I could get used to a wee dram every night, she thought.
She placed her glass on a table beside the chair. With the warmth of the liquid filling her belly and the heat from the fire spreading across her limps, Tilly felt herself melting into the chair. Her eyes grew heavy until she stopped fighting it and eased to sleep.
A low, pain-filled moan drifted across the pasture. Was it real or a little fragment from a dream forming in her mind? She heard it again. She slid her feet into fleece slippers and rose from the chair. She walked over to the doors leading into the garden. Squinting, she tried to find the source through the swirling mist but could see nothing.
She listened carefully. Surely, she did not imagine it. There it was again. This time, it sounded as if the moan came from the forest. Was she awake? Was this all a dream? Tilly was so tired she could not tell the difference, yet she knew she had to find the source of that sound.
She pulled her robe close to her body and folded her arms across her chest. Cautiously, she stepped outside. She moved carefully across the pasture, afraid she might plant a foot in a steaming pile of sheep dung. As she drew closer to the forest, the sound became even more heart-wrenching. She hoped a poor sheep was not in distress.
She noticed a flickering light a few feet ahead. It looked like a camp fire. She slowly walked closer to the edge of the forest and hid behind an oak tree. She saw a man sitting by the fire, his back to her. He rocked back and forth, crying softly. Every now and then, the low moan she had heard before would burst from his lips.
As quietly as she could, she moved within a few feet of him. She did not want to disturb him, but, at the same time, she felt drawn to him. Why was he crying?
She jumped when he stood abruptly and faced her. He dropped the dirk he retrieved from God knows where. He took a step towards her, then stopped. He seemed wary of her.
She stared into his green eyes, which were rimmed red from crying. She did not know why she did it. She closed the distance between them and lifted her hand to brush a tear from his cheek.
She did not resist when he grabbed her, roughly pulling her against his chest. He bent low and kissed her. At first, it was a slow, soft kiss, each tentatively exploring the other and enjoying the deliciousness of it.
The heat quickly rose between them, and the kiss became urgent. Tilly pressed herself close against him as his hands explored the curves of her body. She felt his tongue probing the depths of her mouth. I should stop drinking, she thought. Vivid dreams brought on by excessive alcohol consumption must be a bad sign.
She wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him. He was so warm, so solid. She did not realize how much she craved physical contact until she found herself in his arms. She longed to feel loved again, even if it was only in a dream. She choked back a sob.
She broke free from his kiss and tugged at his shirt. She looked for buttons but found none, so she lifted it over his head. Her breath caught in her throat. She marveled at the beauty of him. She stretched her hands across the coppery hair of his muscular chest and ran them down his rock hard stomach. If you are going to have a wild dream, at least the guy is ripped in it, she thought wryly. She must remember to thank Mrs. Douglas for that whisky.
She did not resist when he slipped the fleece robe down her arms and knelt before her, lifting the hem of her nightgown. His warm, calloused hands cupped her buttocks. His lips burned a trail up her legs. She worried he might see the scar from the C-section or the stretch marks and cellulite, all battle scars from having twins. Then, his lips found her, and all thoughts left her brain. Her knees buckled with every swirl of his tongue, her body rocked with desire.
She grabbed the nightgown and tossed it to the ground. The night air chilled her skin, but his fiery touch quickly drove away the cold. He continued his slow ascent up her body, stopping at her breasts. He gently caressed one breast with his hand and delicately stroked the other with his tongue. She ran her fingers through his wavy, auburn hair. His lips and tongue travelled up her neck, sending the most extraordinary sensations down her spine.
Finally, his lips met hers. She pressed her breasts against his chest and sank into his embrace. He pulled her down to a plaid blanket already spread onto the ground. His hand travelled from her thigh to her warm center. His fingers swirled and teased her, leaving her gasping. He seemed intent upon giving her as much as pleasure as her body could endure. She guessed she would be driven insane by the urgent want of him. Just when she believed she could take no more, she felt an exquisite explosion deep inside her. She convulsed involuntarily, wracked by wave after wave of bliss. “Please,” she pleaded. “Please….”
He knew exactly what she wanted. She was astonished at how quickly he removed his boots and shed the beige breeches he wore. His well-sculpted body glowed in the orange firelight. She opened her arms, and he returned to her side. He gently stroked her cheek, asking, “Are ye real, lass?”
Before she could answer, he pressed his lips to hers and plunged deep inside her. They both trembled with each thrust and clung to each other. She desperately wanted to be connected to him. She needed to feel every inch of his body. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him deeper inside her. She could not get enough of him.
By the sound of his ragged breath, he could not get enough of her either. Again, he murmured, “Are ye real, lass?”
“I hope so,” she exclaimed, her world exploding into a million shimmering stars. She arched her body against him, wanting the moment to last as long as possible. She screamed in ecstasy. She held onto him as if he was her only lifeline in the raging tempest of her desire.
His body responded in kind to her urgent need. His pace quickened as his primal urges took over. His eyes closed, he tilted back his head and moaned with pleasure after each thrust. It was obvious he could not have stopped even if she begged him. He was lost in the passion of the moment. At last, when his body could endure no more, she felt him surrender to the sweet abandon of release.
To her surprise, he began to cry. He wrapped his arms around her and rocked her gently. She stroked his hair and whispered words of comfort. She did not know what loss he suffered but guessed it was deep. Soon, her tears mixed with his. She knew that pain all too well. This stolen moment of heaven hurt so much more because of the profound loss that preceded it. What an odd way to end a dream, Tilly thought.
They held each other tightly for some time before he raised his head and looked deeply into her eyes, “Please do not leave me, lass,” he begged. “Please stay with me ‘til the morn.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
He folded his arms around her and tugged the plaid blanket over them. She settled close against his chest. She had not felt so warm and content in a long time. She closed her eyes, and her world turned to black.
Six
Tilly felt cold and stiff. Somehow, the covers had slipped off her body, and the bed was so uncomfortable. And, she was naked. How did that happen? She did not recall drinking that much whisky.
As she slowly emerged from the fuzzy world of sleep, she remembered she was not at home but staying at a B&B in Scotland. She tugged at the comforter, trying to cover herse
lf. She did not remember the covers being so scratchy and thin. Why did the mattress seem to be rising and falling as if it was breathing?
It was breathing, she realized in horror. She shot bolt upright and discovered a nude man lying beside her.
At her sudden movement, her companion leapt to his feet and looked around the campsite, clearly addled. She watched him come to his senses and notice his state of undress. To her relief, he hastily donned his discarded clothes.
She pulled at the plaid blanket to cover her bare flesh. She looked away, trying not to stare at him. She mumbled, “You aren’t a dream. You are real….”
“I might say the same thing about you, lass,” he said gruffly. He walked to the remnants of the previous night’s fire. He tossed wood onto the pile of warm coals and angrily poked the embers until the fire reignited.
While he tended the fire, Tilly grabbed her nightgown and slipped it over her head. Unable to find her robe and slippers, she tightly wrapped the blanket around her body and stumbled barefoot toward the fire. She continued to mumble, “You are real….”
“Aye, I am real,” he stated flatly. He was so irritable. Definitely not a morning person, she thought.
She surveyed her surroundings. The mist had lifted. She looked toward the pasture and saw…nothing. The inn was gone. She spun in place. Where the hell was it? she wondered. She only walked a few feet into the forest. The inn should be right there!
He watched her spin in circles and shook his head. She knew she must look insane to him. She was thankful he did not share the thoughts that were so clearly written on his face. Instead, he said, “You must be cold. Come, warm yourself.”
She sat on a rock opposite him. She warily eyed the handsome stranger and did not know what to say. Memories of the previous night flooded her mind, making her very uncomfortable. She believed it was all a dream. Was she wrong?
She noticed his Scottish accent was not as thick as it was last night. She spotted other little details that she missed. His thick, auburn hair fell in soft waves to his shoulders. Women would kill for that hair, she thought.
His green eyes were a lovely shade, resembling the moss that grew on the granite boulders around them. Staring at him, she realized he looked vaguely familiar. Hadn’t she seen that handsome face somewhere recently? She stretched her hands toward the fire to warm them. Was he a patron at the pub they visited in Deoch? She had an uneasy feeling.
The man rose and walked toward a nearby rock on which rested saddles and saddle bags. He plucked apples from one of the bags and strode toward two horses that were tied to a tree. He murmured something she could not hear as the horses eagerly grabbed the apples from his hands. Smiling, he walked back to the bags and retrieved a bundle.
Returning to her, he carefully unfolded a blue cloth and held it in front of her. He offered a crusty pastry to Tilly. She accepted with a smile. She nibbled the treat and tried not to stare at the man.
She glanced at the horses. Her anxiety grew. Who rode horses in this day and age? She attempted to quell her growing concern. As remote as the area was, it was probably more practical to ride a horse than take an all-terrain vehicle or truck in the dense forests and rocky mountains.
“Thank you,” she said belatedly. “I was starving.”
He absently nodded while he ate the pastry. He stared at the ground, seemingly lost in thought.
She was deeply offended. After their passionate encounter, he could at least do her the courtesy of being civil. She could have smacked him. She was not one to have sex with strange men. Of course, she firmly believed she was dreaming last night, and everyone knows you can do whatever you want in a dream. No consequences, just fun. Now, in the cold light of day, she was downright mortified and feared there would definitely be a price to pay for her wanton behavior.
“Sir, I appear to have gotten lost in the woods last night,” she said. “I am staying with Mrs. Douglas at her inn. I do not believe I walked very far.” She pointed toward the pasture and added, “The cottage was right there.”
“Madam, no cottage has ever stood in that pasture,” he said. He stared at her in confusion. “The nearest inn is in town, certainly not in the woods. You must be mistaken.”
It was her turn to be confused. “No,” she argued. “I walked from the inn to the woods, to you. It was only a few yards.”
Something was very, very wrong. She studied his clothes. His untucked, white linen shirt had billowy sleeves and looked like something a pirate would wear. His khaki-colored pants were tucked into brown, worn boots that reached to his knees. Instead of a zipper, she saw a flap in the front of the pants, with little buttons down each side. Tilly felt an icy chill sweep down her spine.
She glanced around the campsite. The horses enjoyed a breakfast of fresh, green grass. No car. Save the small campfire, there were no other smells of hearth fires burning. And, oddly, the cottage that stood in the pasture was gone.
“Sir, if I could borrow your cell phone, I can call my friend Beth. I am sure someone at the inn can guide her here.”
He did not seem to comprehend what she was saying. “Madam, what is a cell phone?” he asked. He shook his head and poked the fire with a gnarled stick.
Geez, leave it to me to meet the most primitive person in Scotland, she thought. “Well, I have heard you Brits call it a mo-bile. You know, a mobile phone?”
Judging from the look on his face, he had no idea what wireless phones were. Tilly had no desire to explain them. “Well, there must be a house nearby that has an old-fashioned landline telephone,” she said in exasperation. “I can call the inn from there.”
“Madam, have you recently suffered a blow to the head?” he asked. He walked around the fire and knelt in front of her, a look of concern on his face. “You are incomprehensible.”
“There are no homes near this site,” he said. He swept his arm wide, encompassing the area around them. “The closest home is my own, and it is a good ride from here.”
“Do you have a telephone at your house then?” she asked. Hopefully, the matter could be cleared up with a quick phone call. The situation grew worse by the minute. Tilly just wanted to get back to the inn and pretend the whole evening never happened.
He gently placed a hand upon hers. “Madam, have you suffered some injury to your person?” he asked. He looked at her as if she had sprouted a second head.
Tilly guessed he was one of those people who preferred to live “off the grid.” Telephones must be one of the many modern conveniences he eschewed. The conversation was getting nowhere. “I assure you I am fine,” she replied. She patted his hand. “I just want to return to the inn as soon as possible. I remember seeing a telephone at the White Rose, the little pub in Deoch. Do you know it? Perhaps you could take me there?”
He stood abruptly and towered over her, his arms firmly crossed over his broad chest. “Madam, there is no such establishment in Deoch,” he said testily. “What kind of game are you playing?”
“Fine,” she said. She rose from her seat and glowered at him. “Show me where the road is. I will find my own way to the village.”
“An old trail to Deoch winds through the forest, and I fear you would be lost within minutes,” he said. He shook his head at what he seemed to think was an unreasonable request. “Or, you could take the alternate route to Castle Fion. From there, you can find a road that leads to town.”
An old trail? What happened to the road? Tilly distinctly remembered a road from the village to the inn. It must be near here.
She took a step away from the stranger. She was positive she did not walk far from the cottage. Could the man have carried her to another campsite after she fell asleep, to confuse her? No, she quickly dismissed that idea. She was a light sleeper. She spent too many nights listening for the faint call for Mommy. She would have awakened if he moved her.
She looked across the pasture and thought she saw the hill where Beth and she picnicked. She wanted a closer look. Was there a monument locat
ed at the top of the hill? If she was in the right area, the hill should overlook the inn. The inn that was not there….
“If you will tell me your name, we could find your family and return you to your home,” he interrupted her thoughts. Bowing slightly, he said, “I apologize for my lapse in manners. My name is Benjamin Campbell.”
Her worry deepened. The Campbell clan was the largest in Scotland. It must be a coincidence.
“My name is Matilda Munro,” she whispered. Clearing her throat, she said louder, “Everyone calls me Tilly.”
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Munro,” he said, with a cocked eyebrow. A devilish smile teased the corners of his mouth.
She stared back at the man, deciding to ignore his sly comment. He said the nearest home was his own, and she knew Castle Fion was near the cottage. And what should she think of his name? Perhaps Benjamin was a popular name, especially if the original owner from the 19th century was so well regarded. He did bear a striking resemblance to the man in the painting, though. Despite her best judgment, she felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Oh, this is silly, she thought. Just ask him.
“Are you the Benjamin Campbell who lives in Castle Fion?” Please say no.
“Aye, I am.”
Tilly thought she might vomit. This was not real. Her head was simply filled with stories of the dashing man yesterday, and she was still dreaming. Beth would shake her awake any moment now, telling her they were late for breakfast.
But, she never dreamt anything like this. The sights and feelings were all so vivid. She eyed the stranger. He did not seem to be a figment of her imagination. Carefully, she extended her hand and placed it on his taut chest. He certainly felt as real this morning as he did last night.
She closed her eyes. Maybe the current Campbell family who lived at Castle Fion had a Benjamin Campbell in their fold. Yes, that must be it, she frantically thought. The alternative was beyond all comprehension.
Through the Mist: Restoration Page 5
