His chest ached at the memory of his dead friend. His actions had contributed to the man’s slaughter, and his punishment was the price he had paid.
Shaking away bad memories, he filled his belly with meat stew and a sweet cake Jake called an Oreo. The lad had brought him a trencher of food and seemed sincere in his feelings for Iona after she had bumped her head. How much did he care for her? Did the lad lust after the flame-haired beauty?
‘Tis a feeling I understand.
Drowsy slumber beckoned after an afternoon of lust and rage. Deep, dark soothing comfort pulled him into the shadow world, until the memories lashed out. They consumed him, until he felt he was back in the year 1598.
Cameron recalled how he had stood alone in the center of the room. A dozen pair of eyes glared at his nearly naked body each time he pulled at his bindings. His faded kilt hung low on his hips. The twisted rush bindings burned his skin like a rat nibbling at his flesh. Laird Kirkwall Gunn led the proceedings; proceedings meant to decide the rest of his life.
“Cameron Robeson.”
His cousin’s voice bristled with authority as it echoed through the hall. All mutterings ceased. Cameron forced his knees to lock so he stood straight and tall. He met his laird’s call with open eyes and what he hoped was a cocky smile.
“Cameron, ye are charged with several atrocities against yer clan. The theft of part of the treasure, which had been given into yer care, means ye have stolen from yer own people.” Kirk swept one beefy arm out across the throng which circled him in the hall.
“The treasure ye speak of, which ye planned to give away to our enemy, was carried off by other men; the men who attacked our group. I held them off the best—”
“Enough. Ye are also charged with coercion. Ye plotted with a gang of mercenaries bent on keeping us from an important task.”
Cameron kept silent. Denial would be a lie.
“In addition, ye are charged with aiding in the kidnapping and injuring of my future wife, Lady Haven MacKay.” Kirk’s fist thumped his thigh as he spit out the words.
Cameron had never before felt such anger from Kirk resonate in his direction.
He had made a momentous mistake. The gold and heirloom jewelry, secured in the trunks destined for Castle Ruadh, had been the impetus. He aided the mercenaries more to embarrass Kirk than to gain wealth.
Let Kirk think what he wanted to think. Let him believe he had longed for a change in situation. As Kirk’s cousin, but not his heir, Cameron led a life filled with mindless tasks and lust-filled affairs with the score of women who vied for his favors.
Except Lady Haven.
She barely acknowledged him. Why had she caught his attention? She had fallen into their camp disheveled and ragged, but her flowing black tresses and pale, creamy skin drew him in. She cursed and sputtered at their laird, but all Cameron could do was stare at the freckles that dotted her nose.
Her eyes had blazed as she yelled at Kirk, but days later—when she bathed in all her naked glory—her meadow-green eyes had captured his heart. When she had fallen, and he had wrapped her in his arms protectively, he smelled wildflowers and rain.
The woman had captivated him. A strange beauty who stirred his lust and gave him something else with which to bargain.
“She was no man’s woman at the time, my laird. I saw no reason not to take the opportunity to get to know her better. Besides, it was not I who kidnapped her.”
“Silence. Ye are also accused in aiding in the death of the warrior, Balfour.”
“His death ‘twas not my fault!”
Cameron woke with a start. Gone were the bindings ripping into his flesh. The eyes filled with hatred that had stared at him as he stood among his people had vanished.
He was free.
He was safe.
Cameron blinked and glanced at his surroundings. He stood in the historic village during the Highland Games on the continent called North America. Gone were the smells of blood and unwashed bodies. He inhaled a deep breath and slapped a hand over his rapidly beating heart. He was back in the future, and surrounded by thousands enjoying the New England Highland Games.
He never felt more alone.
CHAPTER 5
The next day proved as clear and cool as the day before, so unlike the storm into which her friend had vanished. Iona recalled the swirling clouds and the bite of the wind when she had hugged Haven outside the ceilidh tent. Haven insisted on avoiding some man in a black cloak, then trotted up the hill toward her tent at the historic village. All indications pointed to the distressing fact she’d never made it.
Iona feared something was terribly wrong. Haven may have traveled back in time, but her friend would never willingly stay there.
“If it worked one way, it must work the other way.”
“Talking to yerself, dearie?”
Iona froze, then slowly turned to face the woman whose voice had surprised her during her thoughts about Haven. Why had she taken this path? She’d been on her way to the Chieftain’s tent to talk with her father. How she ended up amid these vendor tents—and beside this old crone’s tent in particular—made her headache return twice as painful.
“Me thinks ye have come to talk to old Dorcas. Yer last visit was too short. Come inside for some tea and tell me yer troubles.”
“Excuse me?”
“Are ye daft? I said come inside. I willna’ bite ye.” The woman—Dorcas—trudged under a low-hanging tent flap as if she expected Iona to follow.
Iona bit her bottom lip as she weighed her next step. The old woman was obviously a witch. The amulet, her words, her knowledge of Iona’s troubles, and her profession as a seller of herbs and potions made sense. Iona wanted help. Who better to believe her story about Haven?
The low-ceiling tent sat in a dark corner at the end of an alley between the ski lodge and the chair lift. Shaking her head in disbelief at her own actions, Iona ducked inside.
The New England Highland Games needed wide-open spaces in order to host the largest gathering on the northern east coast. What better place to hold an outdoor festival? The ski area boasted two large lodges, a hotel, several out buildings, gentle slopes and tree-laden hills.
Iona followed Dorcas to the far side of the tent’s interior, then paused. She squinted as she grew accustomed to the dimness. As before, the inside looked out-of-place. No simple tables covered with white cloth. No plastic tubs filled with bagged product. Dorcas displayed an assortment of apothecary jars on rustic wood shelves above baskets filled with packets of powders.
“Drink this,” the old woman said. She sprinkled powder in a metal tankard of what Iona assumed was water.
“And this is?”
“Powdered willow bark and water. ‘Tis good for aches of the head, aye?”
Iona was acquainted with the remedy, the basis for modern-day aspirin. She sipped the beverage, then drank it all in several quick gulps.
She set the used tankard on the wood table, then inhaled the scent of tobacco and something sweeter. Crushed herbs lay spread about on a square of wax paper beside a marble mortar and pestle. A stray sunbeam peeked under the flap, shone across delicate potion bottles, and sprayed a prism of rainbow colors on the tent wall.
Iona peered through a smoky haze and sniffed the familiar odor of the fat, stubby candles that burned inside hanging lanterns, and the incense inside others. The old woman padded toward a rickety rocking chair, laid her crutch against the tent wall, and smiled.
“Want to change yer life?” Dorcas asked, dropping into the rocker. She chomped on some sort of pipe. The woman’s sly smile was unnerving.
Iona’s gaze flickered over the old woman’s wares with the calculating eye of a witch who had practiced her craft off and on for half a decade. Iona simply never felt the need to put her knowledge to good use until now. If Haven needed help, she’d find a way to save her. Unfortunately, she might have to convince Jake, Cameron, and Dorcas to get involved.
“I could lie and say I’m j
ust looking, but I have a feeling you know better. Am I right?” Iona watched Dorcas stare back at her before the woman glanced around the tent.
“Every witch seeks the best before buying. Ye seek another witch’s knowledge, not her potions. May I be of service to ye?”
Iona had no time to ask how the old crone knew she was a witch. She glanced at her long, gray hair. It shimmered down her shoulders like silver tinsel on last year’s Christmas tree. Her crooked nose did not soften her features, but complemented her heavy eyebrows.
When she rose to her feet, aided by her crooked cane, her washed-out blue gown twinkled. Were those moons and stars winking back?
Iona brought her gaze back to the old woman’s face, and ignored the wrinkles creeping down her throat. With an unfortunate will of their own, her eyes dropped to the woman’s bodice where the low-cut gown displayed a wrinkled, concave chest on which lay an impressive amulet. The medallion hung from a dark leather lanyard. 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.”
“It’s lovely.”
“It used to reside in a gilt setting and hung on a beautiful gold chain.” Dorcas whispered.
Iona yearned to ask what happened to the setting and chain, but a more important topic was on her mind.
“ ‘Tis a powerful hunk of amber and I owe my fortune to its power.”
Iona glanced from the woman’s threadbare dress to her bare feet then up to the ceiling of her stained, ragged tent. Fortune? Where?
“Haven MacKay’s face twisted in the same way when I offered to ferry her home again using its power. Am I so untrustworthy in appearance?” Dorcas looked down and wiggled her toes in the grass floor of the tent.
Iona sucked in a startled breath. “Haven? You’ve seen her?”
“Aye, several times.” She chuckled.
“The letter. You gave me Haven’s letter. How did you get it?”
“The lass put it in me hand. How else?” Dorcas laughed then puffed on her pipe. Billows of blue smoke rose toward the ceiling.
“Explain.”
“Haven asked me to see it safely to ye before I left her on the cliffs of the North Sea, beside Castle Ruadh of Wick. She and her Highlander were visiting from their home, the tower of Clan Gunn. ‘Tis in the town of Keldurunach.”
“I don’t believe I know that town.”
“ ‘Tis called Kildonan today.” Dorcas chuckled and leaned her cane against a makeshift table. Her emaciated arms strained as her slender hands returned to crushing herbs in the marble bowl.
“Dorcas, tell me. Are you confirming Haven’s claim she is now living in—”
“1598? Aye.”
Iona crossed her arms over her chest to ward against a sudden chill. While she rubbed her hands up and down, her nose tickled due to the pungent odor of herbs. Whatever she thought after reading Haven’s letter, had she actually believed her friend told the truth? The shock of the woman’s words was enough to rekindle her headache. At this point, Dorcas was the only link to Haven’s disappearance and actual location.
“I want to help bring Haven home. If she wants to come back.”
Dorcas grabbed the cane and leaned on it quietly, as if thinking of a response. The carved fairies, dragons, and otherworldly shapes along its length seemed alive. Iona shuddered.
“Did you have anything to do with my friend’s sudden disappearance?”
“I sold her herbs, powders, and a love potion. How she chose to use these was beyond my control.” Dorcas sighed apologetically before pausing in her chore. She puffed on her pipe once more, and filled the air with the sharp scent of burnt peat.
“You could have brought her home, you said. Why didn’t you?” Iona’s voice grew louder, and her body shook. Anger made her bite the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming at the woman’s treachery.
“Nay, lass. Lady MacKay refused my offer. She shall rule beside a great man, though I worry for her safety. I worry about her babe.”
“She can’t be expecting a baby already!” Iona clapped a hand across her mouth, worried a passerby might hear their conversation. “She only disappeared two days ago and I know for a fact she hasn’t been with a guy for months.”
Dorcas nodded, as if trying to find the words to explain.
“Time is fleeting. What is true on one plane of existence is different elsewhere. Months have passed since she transported to the past. Her heart now lies in the Highlands of Scotland.”
“Nay! Haven is in Hell.” A gravelly voice boomed behind them. Iona gasped and Dorcas dropped her pipe.
“Cameron, ye know better than to sneak up on an old woman.” Dorcas whispered her thanks as Iona stooped to collect the dropped pipe.
Iona turned toward the open tent flap, and lost her voice. Cameron Robeson stood in the entrance with sunlight shining across his crown of wind-swept hair. Gold highlights twinkled, urging her forward. Then she remembered herself.
“We were having a private conversation,” Iona spit out once she found her breath.
* * *
“Yer bellowing ‘twas loud enough to raise the dead, lass.” Cameron had almost dropped his parcels when Iona had bent over to retrieve his employer’s pipe. Her fancy dress clung to the full curves of her arse as if asking to be touched. All thought left his brain when she spun around and chastised him for intruding.
Had he noticed the cut of her bodice yesterday? Today she wore a long, bleached muslin dress with an overskirt of rich wool made up of dark green and blue, crisscrossed with thin white and red stripes; the Mackenzie plaid. A swath of the same plaid rose up and over her left shoulder, pinned by a jeweled brooch. The style established her position as a chieftain’s daughter, but he recognized her status in the way she held herself.
It was not the brooch that spoke of wealth or the knowledge she was high above his station that caught his attention at the moment. Her gown dipped between her breasts and the light-green wool vest pushed her breasts skyward.
Damnation! I can see the edges of her pink—
“Mr. Robeson. Did you hear me?”
“Aye, ‘tis why I know yer talkin’ about Lady Haven.”
Iona grabbed his arm. “We need to talk.”
He placed his parcels on the table, winked at Dorcas, and followed the flame-haired beauty outside. The morning sun neared its apex. His stomach growled.
Iona laughed.
“ ‘Tis unfriendly to take pleasure in a man’s pain.”
“I’ll make it up to you. I’ll feed you while you explain what you know about Haven.”
“Lead on, my lady.”
He followed as she strode up the lane, then stood in a line with a dozen others in front of a food vendor’s shop. Silently, he glanced at the men, women, and children clothed in various attire. Street clothes mixed with multi-pleated modern kilts of other visitors.
Cameron tugged at his own, wishing he still had his ancient plaid. Even his leather sporran seemed unfamiliar, but he’d accepted his master’s choice of finery. Too bad he couldn’t keep any of it clean.
As Cameron swept leaves and dirt from his tunic two slender arms reached from behind, and crossed in front of his chest. A giggle rose up, followed by a throaty moan. When a delicate body pressed against his arse, heat flamed across Cameron’s jaw. Feminine arms held him tight. He dare not move a muscle, and did not breathe, until one hand slid to his groin.
Surprised, Cameron shot forward and accidently propelled Iona into the back of a leather-clad fellow with spiked hair and three chains looped around his wide neck.
“Hey! Watch it.” The man glared at Iona who in turn glanced back at Cameron and the strange arms wrapped around his middle.
Her eyes widened, then blazed like green-tinged wildfire. She mumbled an apology to the bloke she had pushed as she tugged at the front of her gown. When the leather-kilted brute stared at her breasts, Cameron pull
ed Iona into his embrace while peeling himself away from his captor.
“Cameron, don’t be cruel. Didn’t you promise to take me to lunch?” the voice whined.
Horror made Cameron’s empty stomach lurch as Iona stared at the young lass who had slipped between them. The woman’s hair was the color of straw and cut just below her chin. It covered half her face, but Cameron recognized lust streaming from her pale blue orbs. He had met her when he had collected supplies earlier for Dorcas. Had he mumbled something about lunch?
“My apologies. I forgot I had made other plans, ye see.” He nodded toward Iona whose left foot, wrapped inside a doeskin slipper, tapped the ground in a furious tempo.
The girl swept a quick glance in Iona’s direction, then pouted like a beached fish. “Catch you later?” Without waiting for his response, she slithered under his left arm while her left hand trailed along his waist.
Though tempted to grab his dirk, to ensure the lass did not stab him in the back, he held his position.
Iona looked less than pleased. “I ruined your plans, I see.”
“Nay. She heard wrong. We had no previous engagement.” She did not appear to believe one word of his less than true statement, but he dare not give her reason to leave before they had their talk. For some reason he felt she might be the key to returning to his own time. She could be the vessel through which he would enact his revenge against the people who had forced him from their world.
* * *
What should I make of that? Iona thought as she turned her attention back to the food stand vendor.
“Two bridies and four meat pies, please.” She pulled her coin pouch from a hidden pocket in her gown to pay the man. Headstrong to a fault, she wouldn’t allow Cameron Robeson to pay. Men got so uppity about chivalry, yet she couldn’t remember the last time a man opened a door for her. Had he planned to treat the young woman to more than a free lunch?
And, why do I care?
She grabbed the tray of food and moved to the condiment table. Assured he followed her, she waited for his shadow to come to a full stop behind her left shoulder.
Highland Games Through Time Page 33
