My Hunted Highlander

by Badger, Nancy Lee

  His eyes sparkled with amusement…or desire, as if she had said ‘Take me’, which was proven true the moment his arms encircled her waist, and they plummeted in a heap on the cot.

  It collapsed to the floor.

  “Ouch!” Blair rolled off his chest, and into the tent wall. The canvas shook, but softened her stop, leaving her gasping, between the tent’s inner wall, and the broken cot.

  “Are ye well, lass?” Niall scooped her up, setting her on her feet. Her gown tangled around their legs, and her arms windmilled to keep from falling. In doing so, she accidently slapped his chest.

  He cringed. “Take care, love. I have bruises on bruises, remember.”

  “That’s what you get for attacking me like a horny teenager.”

  “Horny?” He rubbed a hand over his head. “We had best fix our disguises and head toward the longbow competition.”

  “I have had it with this stupid gown! Excuse me.”

  Niall bowed, grabbed his longbow and quiver, then stepped through the curtain.

  Blair dug through the baskets of clothing and found the perfect disguise; a pair of brown leather trews, soft as the hide of a newborn fawn; half-calf boots of darker leather laced up the sides; a vest of deep green suede; a white blouse with loose pirate-like sleeves, tied at the neck with cord. Tossing aside her clumsy gown and useless slippers, she clothed herself in her new garb.

  “That’s more like it.” She felt free, with a total freedom of movement, and more like the tomboy inside her. She picked up the hooded cloak she’d tossed on a rocking chair in the corner. As she snatched it up, she growled at Niall, who stood by the opening in the wall of blankets.

  “You peeked.”

  “I was concerned. I dinno’ have a clue ye dinno’ like yer feminine costume. I must say, this suits ye better.”

  “I didn’t dress this way for you!”

  “Fine. We must be off, but first I have a few questions. Will ye tell me why ye wish to remain in this time?”

  Blair paused, before answering. Her family had a heritage of building boats, but she never talked of her home with anyone. “After the deaths of my parents, my brother joined the army, leaving the future of the business in my hands.”

  She had planned to sell the company, and was in the process of listing it with a commercial realtor when the pirate came skulking around the docks, one stormy night.

  “I’d been foolish, staying late, all alone. Once Carlton MacIan dragged me through a stinking fog, and onto The Black Thistle, he told me that he’d watched me for several days until he was sure I had what he needed.”

  “Which was what? I assumed he chose ye for a reason. Seems odd to travel through time, to steal a woman.” He stepped closer, brushing a knuckle down her cheek. “No’ that I would blame him. Ye be the most beautiful creature I have e’er beheld.”

  Her shiver at his intimate caress made her body yearn for more. Praying that his hand traveled lower, she struggled to ignore his compliment, and answered his question. “He wanted the biggest, fastest, most well-rigged sailing ship, and wanted me to build it for him.”

  “A sensible plan.”

  “What a fool I was! Yes, I married Carlton MacIan, the pirate, but as I told you, I was forced into it.” Her stomach turned at the memory of how he’d tied her to his bunk on The Black Thistle and raped her, only hours after a half-drunk preacher had married them. “I wanted to escape, and my prayers were answered, the day he died. I wish I had killed him myself.”

  Niall said not a word, but his brow furrowed, and his hands fisted. When his shoulders tightened, Blair assumed she’d shocked him with her admission.

  “Lass, I am sorry ye were hurt by the cur. If he was no’ already in his grave, I would skin him alive.”

  “How romantic.” Blair patted his cheek, slipped on the cloak, and headed to the tent’s exit. “Coming?”

  “I would love to…come…with you,” Niall whispered, winking.

  Blair swallowed. His eyes roved over her body, all but hidden beneath the plain gray cloak. He knew what lay underneath. Niall shook his head, as he closed and buckled the tent flap behind them. They walked up the trail, rounded the ski lodge, and headed toward the archery competition. “Tell me about yer marriage.”

  When a brisk breeze tossed her hair, Blair hugged the hood around her head. “I made the best of a horrible situation. I watched and learned, and many of the men felt sorry for me. Others listened to my suggestions. We updated some of the rigging, and I restyled the tiller, what you call a rudder.”

  “ ‘Tis why we made the trip from Wick to New Lincoln at such a fast clip?”

  “Partly. I shared several more tips for refits, but the English attacked. I had a few plans of my own, that had nothing to do with improving The Black Thistle. I wanted to find my own witch, so I could go home. Now that I’m here…”

  Silence overshadowed their walk to the far meadow. Signing in as a competitor required nothing more than his name, age, and home. When he wrote his real name and age, Blair gasped.

  “Thirty? You look much older.”

  “I feel older. I have bruises on top of bruises, but I feel comfortable with a bow over me shoulder.”

  “I bet you can’t wait to go back to the life you lived, before your father turned so ruthless.”

  “I dinno’ have a choice, than to steal away into the night. Thirty men followed me, which I can only assume, irritated my father’s pride. Gavin swore that Angus had recently murdered our step-mother.”

  “Holy Moses!”

  “I liked the woman, who had raised us, upon the death of our mother. When Gavin told me he had learned that Angus had also murdered our real mother, many years earlier, I lashed out at Gavin, me own brother.” Niall kicked a stray twig off the trail, and glanced up at her.

  “I’m sure your brother knows you didn’t mean it.”

  “Aye, screaming obscenities at the messenger was wrong. Moments after I rode away, my father’s mercenaries attacked us. It all happened so fast.”

  Blair stepped closer and patted his forearm, then retied the loose lace. “What happened next?”

  “Two men attacked me, with swords drawn. I held my own, but slipped on the crumbling edge of the cliff, and fell into the sea.”

  “And that’s where we found you?”

  “Ye saved me, love. I can ne’er repay ye.”

  “Why do you sound nostalgic? You were drowning, and I liked what I saw, once we plucked you from the deep.” How could she forget the wet nakedness of their nearly-drowned prisoner?

  “Do ye still like what ye see?”

  Tapping her cheek with a finger, Blair teased, “I like your eye patch. Your head sash, billowing shirt, and boots make you look like a daring pirate, but I prefer you…naked.”

  Straightening up, he smiled at her. Stepping closer, his warm breath feathered across her forehead. “The cloak covers too much of ye, love. I wish to unwrap ye like a gift, but I must be assured ye stay safe, while I compete. If anything happens to me, run back to Wynda’s cart. Promise me.”

  Blair nodded, and placed her hands on his chest.

  “Here’s your number. Pin it to your belt,” the man in charge of the archery competition said.

  Niall and Blair broke apart like surprised teenagers. She helped him pin the number below his belt, smoothing a palm over his stiffening cock. Hidden beneath his leather sporran, his arousal beckoned, but she only kissed his cheek. “Good luck.”

  “Are ye hoping I will win the competition, or draw my sire into the open?”

  “Holy Moses! I forgot he could be watching us. Be careful!”

  “As ye wish, love.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Pulling Blair’s hood forward, Niall made sure the cloak cast her face in shadows. He bowed, then strode across the field to join several other archers. He missed the quick, gentle press of her hand on his chest, while his arousal thickened beneath his sporran. Taking several calming breaths, he stood with a group of men i
n all manner of dress, from kilts to skins.

  They conversed in low tones, while more and more archers arrived. Most men wore what Blair called the modern kilt, but several arrived wearing the wrapped plaid, similar to his. The variety of colors and patterns was overwhelming. A few men were shirtless, and several women wore short plaids or trews. Several people walked around barefoot. All carried longbows similar to his borrowed bow.

  Five round targets were set up farther afield, with their backs to the forest. Someone had painted circles on their whitewashed facades. Each center contained a blood red circle. “A bad omen.”

  “Omens? You don’t believe in them, do you?” said a young lad to his left. The boy was at least ten years his junior. Will they separate the group by ages? Why else had the paper he signed asked his age?

  A man with a board that held parchment under a clip, motioned for everyone to quiet down. “The rules. The competitors understand, but for all you visitors, let me explain that all entrants must wear historical clothing.”

  It was then that Niall noticed that dozens of people had lined the competition field. He searched in vain for Blair, but the man in charge made a rude noise.

  “Kilts are preferred, but Colonials and Vikings are welcome.”

  Niall laughed. “I hope to Hell there be no Vikings here!” A few visitors laughed.

  “Only longbows are allowed, no recurves.”

  Niall was unsure what a recurve was. The bow in his hand was sleek and smooth, and reached from his boots to his chin, and was of finer wood than the one he once owned.

  The man continued. “No sights on the bow or string, and all arrows must be wood with feathers only.”

  “What else would an arrow be made of?” he said with a slight smile.

  “Haven’t you seen the ones with carbon shafts? Sweet!” the half-naked lad said. He had twisted a bit of plaid around his hips. It hung below his knees, leaving him barefoot and bare-chested.

  “Almost finished, so settle down,” the man organizing the archers said, pointing his chin at Niall and the lad. “We have five targets. Make five lines, and stay in your line. Before you shoot, show your number to the volunteer in charge of your group. When I give the ‘clear’ signal, shoot three arrows.”

  Niall was in the lead group, the first in his line. He hoped they allowed each competitor more than three arrows. Using a borrowed bow, it would take at least three shots to perfect his aim. Several more archers arrived, and he glanced at the faces of each.

  A prickling sensation teased his spine. His father was near, hunting him. He could feel it in his bones. The man had a competitive streak a mile long. He would join this event, or maybe the next one.

  The man in charge called for quiet. When he ordered everyone to take aim, the archers at the front of each line readied their weapons, and fired. After everyone was finished shooting three arrows, and told to lay down their bows, Niall complied. He suddenly felt powerless without his bow, as he walked with the other huntsmen to the targets. Another man made notations on parchment, as they collected their arrows. A few arrows had missed their targets altogether, and sailed toward the forest.

  “I’ll get those!” a man wearing a hooded jerkin said. The hood lay crumpled on his shoulders as he ran. Niall had spoken with him earlier, so he watched him sprint toward the forest for the miscreant arrows.

  While Niall pulled his arrows out of where they had hit several inches from the center of his target, he surreptitiously glanced at the other men.

  When the man returned, Niall stilled. The hood now covered his head. Carrying several arrows, he walked stiffly toward the front line of the competitors, but said not a word. Earlier, he had come across as a chatty fellow, but now he hid beneath his hood, and silently bent over to place the arrows in the cut grass.

  Watching him, Niall was convinced he was a different man.

  When the man in charge of the competition barked more orders, Niall forced his attention toward the competition. If they were to survive in this land, he and Blair needed money. The man in charge ordered archers to their stations. The man acting oddly complied. Following the other man would have to wait, especially since he was lining up an arrow at the target, five rows to his right. Since Niall was at the back of his line, all he could do was follow the arrow’s flight.

  The imposter’s arrow hit the center of the target with a thud.

  “That guy’s really good,” said the man ahead of Niall.

  Niall nodded, and rubbed his bristled chin. The way the man stood was eerily familiar; his knees slightly bent, a protruding stomach hanging over his belt, and fingers fanning the air above his head in triumph.

  I know that arrogant display of bravado!

  Niall knew his dastardly sire had taken the other man’s place. Silently praying that the other archer was not dead, Niall waited his turn in line.

  This is what I wanted, aye?

  Here was a chance to capture his sire, and return him to their time to face his punishment. However, what was Angus’ plan? Why was he shooting at burlap-covered targets?

  Decision made, Niall watched the hooded man return to the end of the farthest line of archers. After several more turns, Niall approached the line. Raising his bow, he drew back the bowstring, and released the arrow. Before it hit its mark, he ran toward Angus Sinclair. In the moment it took him to take his turn at the target, and run toward the last place he saw his sire, Angus Sinclair had vanished.

  “Blair!” She didn’t answer. Concerned for her safety, he raced toward Wynda’s cart. Shouts from the other archery competitors made him wonder if his last shot had won the match. Once he captured his sire, he would have no need for coin. Unfortunately, if Blair truly meant to stay in this world, she might have use for it, but he saw no reason for her to remain. Could he persuade her to return to Scotland with him? If she did, what could he offer her?

  If he managed to capture his sire, and their surviving clan members deemed Angus Sinclair unfit to rule, could Niall accept his place as clan chieftain? Would his brother, Gavin, relinquish his current position as laird? In the Scottish Highlands, rules were not hewn in stone. The best man to rule, would rule.

  When they had traveled forward in time, winter was nearly upon them. Heavy snows were not far behind. Many would starve, if Gavin had not had the forethought to prepare their people.

  Battle-weary, Niall notched an arrow as he searched for his sire, aware that the older man was similarly armed.

  The whisper of an approaching arrow made him duck behind the corner of a small out-building. “Too close.”

  He moved stealthily around the opposite side of the building, ducking behind a small pen holding several sheep. They bleated softly, and moved to the opposite side of the small enclosure. In the next corral, a pair of Highland cows were more curious, than fearful.

  As Niall crouched, crawling along the fencing, the smaller cow headed in his direction. When it settled its chin on the top rail of the odd fence, Niall glanced up at its great span of horns. He slowly stood, and patted the tuft of shaggy red hair on its forehead, until the bull approached. As the beast swung its horns toward him, Niall fell to his knees. At the same moment, another arrow flew past his head, and imbedded in a tree that provided shade to the penned animals. Upper branches trembled at the contact, and showered him and the beasties with dead leaves.

  “Bloody Hell!” His own sire was hell-bent on killing him. Niall needed to keep his wits, if he was to live long enough to capture the cur. If the man discovered either Blair or Keegan, he feared that he would kill them for spite, with nary a thought.

  The odor of manure and pinesap calmed his racing heart, just as another arrow flew past his ear. How many arrows had Angus Sinclair gathered? Niall had only two, and very little cover. Returning to the small out-building, he spied a ladder in the dried grass at the base. Above him was a fairly flat roofline, with a small peak toward the center. If he launched an aerial attack, he might bring the man down.

 
; Sweeping aside his misgivings, he grabbed the ladder. Shocked by the lightweight gleaming metal, he leaned it against the side of the small building, and tested the first rung. He was familiar with wood ladders, but he put his trust in the modern equipment and climbed. He slid off the ladder and onto the roof. The roof tiles were hot and smelled of lamp oil, but he moved higher.

  Near its peak, he was rewarded with an unobstructed view of the grounds. Hundreds of Highland games participants and visitors walked, or cheered. Wispy smoke rose from the food vendor carts, filling Niall with unease.

  He had followed his sire’s trail, and the man was heading toward where he and Blair had left Keegan.

  Where was Blair? She had lingered with the other people watching the archery competition, and he hoped she was somewhere behind him, waiting for his return. He was sure that his sire was close. He kept his head down, since there was no sense turning his new scouting spot into a danger zone.

  A cool breeze ruffled through his shirtsleeves, but the sash held his hair out of his face. Tearing off the eye patch he wore to cover his good eye and scarred cheek, he squinted. His vision was clear enough to see Angus Sinclair marching down the trail that would take him past either Dorcas Swann’s potion tent, or Wynda Sinkler’s food trailer.

  Keegan was with Wynda at one of those locations, waiting for him to return with Blair. Neither would expect Angus Sinclair to show his ugly face.

  Realizing that his sire would soon walk out of sight, Niall let a silent prayer pass over his lips, and he took a deep breath. He slowly released it, set an arrow to the bowstring, and pulled it back. Knowing what he needed to do, he raised his bow and fired.

  ***

  Angus Sinclair fell to the hard ground, and rolled until his head slammed against a tree. The arrow’s shaft cracked, leaving the point embedded in his left shoulder blade. Instead of screaming in pain, he uttered ancient words, and reached into his sporran with his uninjured arm. Pulling out several bottles, he slammed them to the ground. As they broke, lightning flashed and thunder boomed.

  When the air cleared, and the blinding light faded, he lay on his side, whimpering. Snow showered down from the upper branches, blinding and choking him. He sputtered, and wiped his eyes with the arm that worked. Warm blood trickled down the other arm.