“Humph. Ye best buy that, lass.”
After she placed the unbroken trinkets in the man’s outstretched hands, she forked over five dollars for the cracked thimble. The damaged porcelain prickled inside her palm and she shoved it into her pocket. She exhaled and beat a hasty retreat.
She leaned against a tent pole and sucked in a deep breath. The old woman’s crazy words, spoken only to her, gave her the creeps. Fragrant mountain air, mixed with the aromas of fried onions, wet wool, and sweat, settled over her as she inhaled. She headed toward the food vendors, again, already digging into her hand-sewn, drawstring purse for some more folded bills.
Maybe I should hit the ATM?
She slid them across the counter with eager anticipation. She licked her lips while the vendor filled a bag with chocolate-chip shortbread. A few extra calories couldn’t hurt. She nibbled on the buttery confection while she walked past tables laden with swords, spears, and daggers of every shape and size. When she spied two little boys parrying with wooden swords, a small laugh escaped
“Blood lust prevails.”
“Who said that?” When Haven twirled around to locate who spoke, she tripped over a tent stake. She caught herself by catching the sleeve of a middle-aged gentleman dressed in a high-waist, Prince Charlie jacket. She mumbled an apology.
“I’ve always been a klutz. Now I’m hearing things,” she muttered.
“The storm brewin’ comes to ye, lass. Use yer strengths. Use yer power. Blessed be.” Definitely female, the voice floated from the direction of a dingy tent parked in an alley between the ski lodge and a chair lift. Parting the ragged tent’s flap, she entered. Her eyes slowly grew accustomed to the dim light, but a smoky haze made her hesitate.
“Is someone there?” She padded toward the center pole where fat, stubby candles burned inside hanging lanterns of rusty iron. Dozens of glass apothecary jars lined shelves along both sides of the dark tent. Packets of powders filled display tables. Handmade labels looked written with old world flair.
Odd aromas wafted up from burning incense. Crushed herbs lingered inside a huge wooden mortar and pestle, their pungent aroma hovering about the enclosed space. Tiny potion bottles, filled with an array of colored liquid, stood like silent soldiers on a high shelf near the back.
“Want to change yer life?” A woman sat in a corner among the shadows.
“Oh! I didn’t see you there.” Haven strolled around the tent. Her gaze flickered over the wares with a practiced eye.
“I do not mean to hide, but ‘tis cool in the shade. Aye?”
“I agree. It is pretty warm today. September is usually cold and rainy hereabouts.”
“Ye did not answer me question.” Her words floated over Haven’s cheeks, their caress a tangle of restrained power and ancient witchcraft.
“I have changed my life. Things are good.” Why did Dorcas Swann care about her life?
“Every witch seeks the best. ‘Tis why I offer only the finest potions, powders, and herbs.
“I’m no witch.”
“A healer, perhaps. With a good heart, albeit a lonely one.” The crone smiled then grabbed for the crutch that leaned against her stool. Unfolding her demure form, she stood. With a stilted gait, she approached. She had removed her hooded cloak and her faded blue sundress twinkled with a silver swirl of crescent moons and pentagram-shaped stars. Wrinkles crept down the woman’s neck and plunged inside the low-cut bodice of her dress. Between her tiny breasts lay an ornate gold chain and a teardrop-shaped medallion Haven had noticed earlier.
The crude yellow stone in its center looked like a glob of amber. The medallion’s attractiveness made Haven’s fingers reach out to stroke the jewel’s surface. Caught off-guard by the slight electric charge emanating from the ornament, she backed away.
“Like what ye see? ‘Tis centuries old. Ye might say ‘tis a family heirloom.”
Inside the enclosed space, the crone’s laugh grated on Haven’s nerves. When she realized she stared at the vendor, Haven bit her lower lip. Embarrassment heated her cheeks, but she couldn’t draw her gaze away. The woman leaned heavily on her intricately carved crutch. Faeries and otherworldly creatures covered its crooked length as if burned into the wood.
The odd little woman chomped on the tip of a corncob pipe and waited. Stepping out of the jewel’s powerful sphere, Haven studied the assortment of powdered or crushed medicinal herbs, roots, and grasses. Crude pots overflowed with stalks of lush, fresh herbs and flowering plants.
Haven recognized a few widely used as medicinal aids; mistletoe infusion, blackberry bramble, and water mint. She made use of them herself. Other oddities mingled among the more familiar items and grabbed her attention. Squinting, she read the plant names scratched on planted ice cream sticks.
“What is milk thistle and why is it used?” She might as well expand her knowledge before she filled her supplies then headed back to camp.
“’Tis the basis for a potion to fortify and cleanse the liver.” The old crone pointed the tip of her cane at a small bottle of a greenish fluid. “Are ye familiar with the use of mint and apple buds?”
“Not besides sweetening drinks.”
“When mixed with yarrow root?”
“Yarrow staunches blood flow. Why would you mix them?” The idea of drinking such a combination soured her stomach.
“The three are powerful magic when used to create a love potion.”
A nervous laugh escaped Haven’s lips. A love potion? The woman had no idea Haven had spent the last few days mixing up love potions.
Without success since I am out of my element.
“I suppose one so bonny needs no such aids.” The woman caressed the tiny glass bottle between her gnarled fingers.
“I prefer to find love the old fashioned way,” Haven lied through her teeth. After her disastrous affair with Cal, she wanted all the help she could get, especially since her first two tries ended in a whimper of smoke, fog, and hot kisses. If she only knew what went wrong.
“Not a bad idea to ask for help, child.”
“I’m interested in healing herbs. To help soothe minor burns, small injuries and the like.”
“Clumsy, are ye?”
“Not me. My friends.”
Slow and deliberate, the woman’s all-knowing nod made Haven frown.
“It’s true.” Well, partially true. Neighbors and friends turned to her when they encountered small medical problems. Wishing for a man suddenly seemed silly. Or, sad.
Desperate, even.
“Ye seem a trifle sad, lass. Ye talk of making potions for yer friends yet ye never mention family. Are ye alone in this world as am I?” The old crone tapped her medallion with a mesmerizing tempo.
The concern in her voice brought Haven back to her senses. The woman meant no harm. A sense of peace emanated from her, inciting Haven to rethink her ridiculous plans to force a man to love her.
Haven met the woman’s caring gaze and said, “I’ve lived on my own so long I can’t recall my parents’ faces. But, my aunt is still around.”
“Ye need a man.”
Haven coughed then wiped away a wayward tear. “Easy for you to say.”
“Romance brings joy to the entire world. A tussle among the sheets will bring color back to yer bonny face. And yer figure could use some rounding. Perhaps a bairn or two?”
“A baby? Are you crazy?” At the same time she thought the woman’s comments out of line, a hollow tug, deep inside, reminded her of the family she craved. Her womb ached for a child. Without a decent prospect for the father, how did the woman expect her to pull-off happy ever after? As if hearing her sad thoughts, a bagpiper tuned his instrument outside the tent. Its mournful sounds drifted around her. Haven squeezed her eyes shut.
“I’ll take these,” she said, regaining her composure. She placed several small sacks of herbs on the rough-sawn, wooden counter. After a pause, she slid one bottle of the pale green love potion amid her acquisitions.
The old
woman held the bottle aloft. A wink and a nod later she said, “Remember. Use the storm. It be the missing part to send ye on yer way” She shoved Haven’s purchases inside a cloth sack smelling of onions.
With the odd little woman’s cryptic words echoing in her head, Haven mumbled her thanks, paid, and placed her small roll of bills back inside her purse. “Well, my break is almost over. Good-bye.”
Moisture beaded between her breasts the moment she moved from the shade of the tent into the afternoon sun. Her gown might be a lovely rendition of Highland female attire, but proved uncomfortable in this unseasonable heat. She snaked through the massive crowd and headed back up the mountain.
She quickened her steps when she felt someone’s eyes bore into her back. Glancing toward the woods beside the trail, she saw a man in a flowing black robe turn and disappear into the trees. Haven shrugged. The games were swarming with oddities.
At the historical village, which swarmed with visitors, Iona caught her attention. Her silent plea for help made Haven take a deep breath, then wave. “Give me a minute.”
Haven slipped inside her tent and hid her purchases under her cot. She brushed her tangled hair then rushed to Iona’s side where her friend was demonstrating the art of spinning amid baskets filled with skeins of wool. Minutes later, when she concluded her presentation to the visitors, Haven suggested other displays. Finally alone, Iona turned to her friend with eyebrows raised.
“How was your walk-about?” Iona asked.
“I’ve been enlightened in so many ways.”
“Meet any yummy men?”
“Does your father count?”
“No! Come on, Haven, you walked by hundreds of men in sexy kilts. Certainly one or two caught your eye.”
“Do you want the truth?” Haven whispered. A few visitors to the village shuffled by on their way toward the blacksmith.
“Of course. What happened?”
“Your dad asked about Cal. Seems he’s a Mackenzie.”
“You’re joking. Yuck.”
“I felt like it was my fault Cal isn’t here enjoying the games with your clan.”
Iona’s face paled as well. She dropped the yarn she’d been spinning. “Why did my father bring him up? I told him you two split.”
“He’s concerned for my love life, or lack of one.”
“That’s my job.”
“Very funny. I suppose he thought a Mackenzie would do me good.”
“You’re better off without him. Since you two parted, you’ve blossomed.”
“I can never forgive his demeaning attitude concerning my column at the paper. He laughed and called it fluff.”
“What an idiot. Herbs and ancient potions have healed the sick and injured long before he was born. Forget him.”
Haven hugged her friend then helped her dust off her wool so she could continue her demonstration.
“You’re a talented healer.”
“And you’re a wonderful friend,” Haven replied, “and I’m trying to understand why you’re not married. I know why I’m not, but you’re so—”
“Selective? Finicky? Both. I haven’t met a man worth the trouble. Don’t worry. We both have plenty of time.” They strolled toward Jake and his forge.
“You and I must remember what my dear mother always told me. ‘When you find the man of your dreams, you have to grab him and hold on tight.’ What do you think, Jake?”
“Words to live by, Iona. Sometimes, fate intervenes.”
Heat swept across Haven’s cheeks. She would never let fate decide her life.
CHAPTER 5
The clang of metal and the grunts of men woke Haven from a sensuous dream. The earsplitting noise propelled her to her feet. A wooden bowl filled with her knitting supplies tumbled from her lap, landing on her toes. She’d fallen asleep propped against a small tree where she’d rested on an uncomfortable, wooden, three-legged stool.
Haven grimaced as pain shot through her toes. She glared at the mess at her feet. Her needles and yarn sat unceremoniously on the wet ground, splattered with mud.
“Devil’s own luck!” She bent to collect her sodden belongings then searched for the perpetrators of the noise that had cruelly wrenched her from a wonderful dream about a mounted warrior. In the midst of a treacherous battle, he was about to save the day, and her. Her dream man wielded a huge sword while he spouted words of true love.
“True love? Ha!”
She’d dreamt about the handsome man from her vision because his kisses and heated caresses had been the most romantic of her life. Drawn by his brute strength and manly aroma, she had wished—for a moment—that he’d arrived to carry her away.
When they last parted, his eyes had seared her with such heat she worried he wanted to kill her. She gulped a few deep breaths and clenched a fist, failing to slow her heart’s rapid-fire beat.
Haven wrenched her gaze away from the athletes, and carried her soiled knitting to the tiny hovel the games organizers called her tent. She slammed her shin against the metal edge of the army cot she used as her bed. Haven hopped on one foot until the pain subsided. Her fingers clutched the center pole as a different ache bloomed beneath her bodice. A stray thought unfolded. Mr. Mackenzie’s suggestion.
One way to improve my accommodations would be to add a man.
Pleasure swept across her chest, and a tingle raced down her spine to cause a throbbing between her thighs. Outside her tent, she glanced at the darkening sky. Clouds up high hid any early evening stars. To the north, an eerie blanket of low clouds settled over the higher peaks that ringed the valley. A breeze tossed her hair, but failed to dissipate the ghostly mist. The haze reminded her that her last two attempts to summon her so-called true love had ended with disastrous results.
A few steamy kisses, excluded.
Haven pulled her hands from the pocket hidden in the folds of her gown where she’d placed a selection of bagged herbs, the broken thimble, and gemstones. She had reworked the amounts and had added several stones known for their special properties before she took up her knitting.
Opal and rose quartz were for attraction, amber for luck, strength, and love. How coincidental that the medallion worn by the old crone who sold her the herbs had also held a large chunk of amber. All were easy to come by. When added to the herbs, they should boost their strength. The gold enamel on the thimble was a powerful mineral, but she needed something more.
Water?
The brat who tipped over the barrel proved water worked as a catalyst. She’d grab a bottle of water and get ready to retry her experiment tomorrow. Haven wanted to find a man so bad, she’d poured over the ancient texts. The mountain forest seemed like a great place to set her wares to work. If only Cal hadn’t turned out to be a lying bastard, then Haven wouldn’t be here, alone, attempting an ancient love spell.
She closed her eyes, desperate to tamp down her anger at his treachery ever since she had discovered he’d neglected to tell her about his wife and child. And when he wanted to continue their relationship as if nothing had changed, she told him, “You’re married. End of story.”
He had laughed.
“I mean to have you and I always get what I want,” Cal threatened, “because ‘once a Mackenzie makes a plan, he holds fast’. It’s an old family saying, passed down through numerous generations. I abide by it and I suggest you do, as well.”
How could I have fallen for his charms? And how come his mention of the Mackenzies didn’t register?
Several months had passed, but the hurt remained. Haven stretched then sat back down on the wooden stool. Even with her good vision, she couldn’t knit by the light of a small candle.
Where had the day gone?
She laid the yarn and needles aside. From her vantage point, she gazed across the entire make-believe historical village. Shaded by tall pines, the area was nearly deserted. Tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, she’d make time to watch the athletic events. Her fingers ached from today’s knitting demonstrations. Iona p
romised that evenings were for the volunteers’ pleasure.
As Haven thought of several pleasures, brought on by her fruitless experiments, her stomach growled. Should she get something to eat down the mountain? A little Scottish food would tide her over, unless the vendors had already closed. Then she remembered she’d promised to cook dinner in the village.
“Devil’s own luck.” Rushing over to the supply tent, she scurried to the cooking fire. After dumping a meat, potato, and vegetable concoction into a large pot, she stirred with a heavy, long-handled spoon.
The bagpipes fell silent. She pictured crews hustling the crowds off the mountain so the workers could prepare the grounds for tonight’s dance. Slipping inside her dark tent, she lit a lantern, pulled off her costume, then rummaged inside her cooler for a bottle of water. With a small linen towel, she washed then slipped into a clean chemise.
Haven had agreed to meet Iona at the dance where hundreds of people would dress in their finest Scottish attire. Iona had loaned her a beautiful brocade dress, the color of deep red wine, so she could dress the part of a highborn Scottish lady.
She slipped the heavy crimson fabric over her head. The dress skimmed her thighs on its way to her ankles. Haven looked down at the tops of her breasts. The dress exposed more flesh than her villager outfit and weighed twice as much.
Haven chuckled as she swept both palms down the front of her gown. She wrapped a gold sash around her middle. Tied beneath her breasts, it snuggled her like a bra and pushed her bosom upward. After securing her unruly hair in a loose bun with some of Jake’s black iron spikes, she stepped into a pair of beaded, red silk slippers.
A suspicious rustling behind her tent reminded her to hang her backpack from the center pole. Her powders and potions, made from berries and other natural ingredients, might smell appetizing to a raccoon. Plus, Dorcas Swann predicted rain. Anything on the ground would get soaked. She emptied the pockets of her day dress onto the cot then settled some items inside the backpack.
Highland Games Through Time Page 5
