“What would you like on yours?” Iona shoved a bridie and three meat pies toward his side of the tray. He grunted, then reached for a plastic dispenser bottle. The thick steak sauce’s sweet, tangy aroma made her mouth water, almost as much as the scent of pine, leather, and whatever it was that made Cameron Cameron.
She grabbed two plastic forks and a handful of paper napkins then followed him toward several crowded tables. Beneath an oak tree’s shady canopy, she forced the heat of jealousy aside and formed the words she knew might send him packing.
They ate in peace until his voice—low and hushed—broke the silence.
“Shall we talk?”
“Isn’t that why I bought you lunch? Let’s walk. What I want to say is for your ears only.” Iona tossed the remains of their hurried meal into a trash bin, licked her lips, and pushed a stray lock behind her left ear. A few strands caught in the silver Celtic knot earring. Two calloused fingers gently parted the jewelry from her hair before she thought to respond.
“Thanks.” She fought to ignore the warmth of his touch and the tingles running down her spine. The subject would be tough enough to explain, and she had to keep her head clear to figure out the best way to ask for help.
“Ye claim friendship with Lady Haven. ‘Tis the truth?”
Iona nodded. His words tumbled through her mind. His Scottish brogue spoke of another time or place. Maybe both. His old-fashioned ways were interesting. If she didn’t know any better she’d think—
“She made quite the impression the moment she wandered into our camp.” Cameron turned away as if the mountains in the distance held all the answers.
Iona clutched the sleeve of his dusty linen shirt, and whirled him around until he faced her. “When was this?”
CHAPTER 6
He’s ignoring me.
“Haven tells me everything. If she met a man like you or the guy she describes in her letter, I would have been the first to congratulate her. So, when did you two meet?”
Stubbing one leather-shoed toe into the dirt beside the paved walkway, his cheeks turned ruddy beneath his golden skin. His fisted hands rested on his hips. Nice, trim hips decorated by the kilt that hung low. His wide chest and broad shoulders rose and fell as she waited.
“Time has lost all meaning to me, my lady. She and I met far from here. Other people forced me to leave my home, my people, and everything I once held dear. I shall not discuss it any longer.” He turned and continued up the path toward the coffee vendor.
The rear-view of Cameron was as sexy as the rest of him. The pleats of his kilt swung back and forth, and the September sun glinted off his golden hair. A knife hilt peeked from the top of his knee-high kilt hose. A long, sheathed dirk hung from his wide leather belt hanging low around his trim waist. She clamped an unsteady hand over her chest, and inhaled a deep, calming breath.
Leather, spice, and manly musk.
Oh, my!
Forced to bring her attention back to their earlier conversation, she sped ahead to catch up, and tripped. When his warm hand cupped her elbow, she awarded his concerned gaze with an embarrassed smile.
What did he mean about losing everything? She assumed he was a visitor from Scotland who worked for Dorcas Swann. Did he have a life elsewhere? Did he have a life that included other women? He couldn’t have traveled through time with the old witch.
Could he?
When they reached the coffee vendor’s tent, they stood in silence among several other customers. The tantalizing smells of hazelnut and maple-flavored brews filled the air. Iona swallowed against the dryness in her mouth, and followed.
After a server passed her a cup of coffee, Iona sipped the hot brew and let it sooth the dust from her throat.
“Haven disappeared days ago. I know for a fact she didn’t have a boyfriend at the time. She recently broke up with a horrid man. Cal Murchie broke her heart and I prayed she would find someone. Someone nice.”
He wouldn’t meet her gaze, which spoke volumes. “Tell me. When, exactly, did you meet her?”
When he kept silent, she yanked on his belt to get his attention. In doing so, she sliced her finger on his dirk’s rough, black plastic handle. Her cup fell to the ground.
At her sharp intake of breath, horror widened his eyes. He stepped close, gently drew her hand to his lips, and sucked her finger into his mouth.
Damp heat flooded her body, and her breasts tightened. The sensation of his moist lips wrapped around her bloody finger sent tingles shooting up her arm. The burn of the injury disappeared and euphoria swept across her chest like wildfire. Her toes curled, and she fought her normal reaction to pull away.
Nothing about the situation was normal. When he wrapped his tongue tightly around her fingertip and sucked, the secret bud between her legs throbbed. His lips and tongue felt better than a day at her favorite spa; moist, warm, and satisfying.
Tasting him again would be as pleasurable as their earlier encounter. Why deny herself? Really, why? As if the man could read her mind, his mouth opened and he released her tender, swollen finger. She sighed as he cupped her chin. His eyes blazed, and his chest heaved like he’d barely finished running the kilted mile.
He obviously wanted to kiss her. Or, did he only want her to respond; to prove he could get a reaction from her with a simple touch?
Without waiting for him, she cupped his chin and drew his lips to hers. His mouth opened in surprise, and she plunged her tongue inside. He moaned and pulled her into his chest.
She went willingly.
Her fingers tangled in his golden hair; hair as silky as the fur trim on the sporran pressed against her abdomen. Giddy with sensation, she smiled against his mouth.
The guilt came next.
Kissing and touching a man in public was as decadent as her recent purchase of a budget-busting vintage Valentino gown, so she broke contact. Enclosed within his arms, she glanced up at his face. He was tall. She was no slouch at five-foot-ten, but he stood a head taller.
His eyelids flickered until his gaze caught hers. Sexual awareness and desire for the man in front of her scared her. Could he read it in her eyes?
He groaned, released her injured hand, and lowered his own to his sporran. Did the leather pouch quiver? Iona shook her head, clearing all thoughts of lips, tongue, and heat from her mind.
“We’re here to talk,” she whispered, then glanced around. Dozens of people smiled at her over their coffee cups.
Cameron cupped her elbow and led her away from curious eyes. “I cannot in good conscience talk about what occurred between yer friend and myself, so speak of other things.”
“Wait just a darn minute, mister.” Iona tugged her arm free, then grabbed at his sleeve, keeping clear of his dirk. He stopped, but stared down the walkway. “Please, Cameron. I’m worried about Haven. I fear she’s unhappy. I want to bring her home.”
“Aye, She needs saving.”
“I believe she’s being held against her will. In her letter she mentioned a marriage and a child, yet I find all of this hard to believe. She’d never do something so irrational. Please. Help me?”
“I would if I could. ‘Tis beyond my power to return to her. If only…”
Iona’s breath caught in her throat. What wouldn’t he tell her? When he turned and pulled her toward a private glade a few yards from the main trail, she nearly tripped on roots and loose pinecones. He gathered her in his arms, and chuckled.
Cameron’s voice lowered as he whispered something in her ear. Several moments passed before her mind dissociated itself from the warmth of his breath and the heat pulsing from his grasp and recognized what he’d said.
“Dorcas is the key?”
She pushed his bulk away. The little hairs on the nape of her neck stood at attention from both the surprise of his statement, and the eerie feeling of being watched. Cameron’s hand went to his dirk and he glanced about, as well. Had he also sensed an intruder?
* * *
Andreas Borthwick adjusted t
he black cowl over his head to hide his features. He rested a shoulder against an oak tree as he stared at the cozy couple standing within dagger-flying distance.
He chuckled.
Andreas was a descendent of the progenitor of the clan, a powerful sorcerer dating back to the time of Caesar’s legions. The first wizard of their family line had specialized in the use of time travel to aid Caesar in wreaking havoc in the world. Andreas would use his lineage to exact revenge. As the 10th in a long line of powerful, well-trained sorcerers, he could kill the couple nearby in an instant. He would not.
Not at this moment, anyway.
A fly buzzed beside him and landed on the tree. Plunging the dagger between its wings, he silently pinned it to the bark.
I could smite them as easily.
Well out of earshot, he had mumbled a spell to increase his hearing prowess, but their hushed words had made little sense. Following Cameron Robeson and the old witch to this time to snatch the amulet had made sense. Only when the powerful gem rested around his neck once more would Dorcas quit her meddling. Then—and only then—might he find the power to right the wrong that blackened his heart.
The red-haired beauty in Cameron’s arms had to die, which was a sin. Such lush beauty should never go to waste, but her plaid matched colorful signs hanging beside several tents.
“A Mackenzie,” he hissed. Mackenzies were descendents of the pagan god Cerunnos. He had pledged to rid the earth of such vermin in exchange for the power to fold time.
Cameron Robeson did not deserve to continue to live. He might prove helpful in enacting his revenge against the entire Gunn clan, but he must go back to his own time for his plan to succeed.
Dorcas was the key. The urge to squeeze her scrawny neck and pluck the amulet from her dead body caused his fist to clench his walking stick. It snapped in two.
“Drat.” Andreas tossed it to the ground then conjured another stick with a flick of his wrist. A puff of smoke filtered up through branches filled with golden autumn leaves. Nature’s beauty was wasted on him. He wanted this day to end so he could get back to the past…his past. Cameron Robeson needed to go back as well, and soon.
Other members of the ancient Gunn clan awaited their fate, especially the laird called Kirkwall. He needed to disrupt Kirk’s plan to marry a witch from the MacKay clan. If they timed it correctly, they would arrive before the marriage took place. He would use Cameron to drive a wedge between them. The time was now, or he would never find the power to bring back the dead.
“I must get Dorcas to take Robeson back to his own time, but her power is formidable. I could do it if I could cleave the amulet from her while she still breathes, but—”
“Talking to yerself is a sign of dementia in this time period.”
Andreas withdrew the dirk he had imbedded in the tree and threw it toward the voice. Dorcas Swann smiled as it fluttered to the ground and lay at her feet.
“They would call this a force-field today,” she said as she waved her bony arm at the sparkling air between them.
How had she gotten so close? Mumbling a protection incantation, he stood straight and pushed the cowl from his head. His long hair, buffeted by a gust of chilled wind, blinded him. Suddenly closer, Dorcas cackled with a knowing smile.
“Leave them children be, ye old fool. I have what ye want.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“You shall never succeed. Leave the dead in peace.”
“Never. Helen will be mine. I’ve waited too long—“
“Near four-hundred years, I reckon. Time to move on. Though I would hate to see some other poor lassie shackled to a cruel, ruthless, would-be sorcerer as yerself.”
“Would-be!” Andreas growled his displeasure and took a step forward.
“Why ye want to repeat the past is no concern of mine, but when ye act to bring back the dead, I must interfere.”
“Helen should not have died. The Gunns and Keiths are to blame.”
“Helen killed herself.”
“She had no choice. I would have protected her; loved her.”
“She refused ye, if I recall.”
He remembered that night. He had professed his love after he had followed her to the glade. Helen’s eyes had widened in horror. She could never love him. She loved no man.
Dorcas stepped back, and he bent and grabbed his fallen dirk. Muttering an ancient spell, he set his stance and said, “Lachlan Gunn of Braemore, her father, forced her to choose the Keith heir, Dugald.
“Aye, I know the rest. She refused, Dugald kidnapped her, and she chose death. ‘Tis sad, but a done deed.”
When she glanced beyond the tree to where Cameron and his whore stood, he lunged. When he hit the invisible shield, the dirk penetrated until Dorcas flew onto her back. At the same moment, Dorcas rubbed the brilliant yellow stone hanging between her breasts. He lunged for the stone.
Pain, sparks of yellow light, and a boom sent him sprawling. When he gathered his wits, he recognized the cliffs beside the tower of Castle Ruadh. He glared at the red sandstone walls of the Keith clan’s keep. He was back on the cliffs of Wick. In Scotland. By the look of the castle at his back, he had returned to the 16th century.
An ocean breeze teased his loose hair, and the smell of the sea crashing on the beach far below did nothing to cool his rage.
“She sent me back.”
He spit out the words as he gathered his cloak around his body. He threw the cowl of his black cloak up over his head as if a gale threatened to pound the coast of Scotland. Thwarted by a powerful witch, he vowed to kill her.
“The next time we meet shall be her last moment on earth,” Andreas said. He chuckled as he tightened his fist around the pendant he had stolen from the old witch.
* * *
Iona grabbed up the skirt of her gown and crossed to where the old woman lay. “Dorcas! What happened?”
Dorcas Swann lay on her back wedged between a massive oak tree and a picnic table. Cameron sped ahead and shoved aside the table. When his muscles bunched and a bronzed thigh peeked from beneath his kilt, Iona prayed for strength to wipe the desire from her face.
Dorcas just smiled knowingly, then moaned when they helped her to her feet. When her legs gave out, Cameron picked her up as if she weighed next to nothing.
“I tangled with a man I hope never to see again. I fear he has returned to Wick. In time he shall make his way to Keldurunach. Kirkwall and Lady Haven’s lives are at risk.”
“We must talk in private. Allow me, Mistress.” Cameron carried her back to the old woman’s tent.
Iona followed at his heels. No way was she leaving, not after what the old witch had said. Iona glanced around, but all she saw were visitors going about their business. When she turned back toward Cameron, his long-legged stride had propelled him far ahead.
“Cameron, wait for me. I’m part of this.”
Cameron grumbled, but didn’t respond. Reaching the tent in record time, he pushed open the flap and entered the tent. Dorcas had posted a closed sign on the entrance. Iona pulled the tent flaps closed so they had complete privacy, which threw the interior into shadow-filled darkness.
Iona followed Cameron to the back of the structure where she saw two small cots. She had never noticed the bundle of clothing and candle-topped side-table hidden from the main sales area by a hanging wool blanket. Cameron laid Dorcas on one of the cots. The other must belong to him.
Dorcas groaned. “I be fine in a moment. Explain our time traveling dilemma to yer young lady.”
“She talks in riddles. Pay her no mind,” Cameron whispered. He pulled Iona away from Dorcas, and to the far side of the tent.
“She mentioned Haven. Kirkwall is the name of the man she supposedly married. I need more information if I am to save my friend.”
“Later. I must tend to my employer.” He poured the last of the water pitcher’s contents into a metal tankard, and strode back to the little bed. Iona followed as he knelt.
Do
rcas accepted the drink. Her hand shook, and Cameron clasped his over hers to steady it as she sipped. “Thank you, Cammie.”
Iona turned away, a smile tugging at her mouth at the old witch’s endearment.
“What happened, love?” Cameron asked Dorcas.
Jealousy flashed through Iona. Too bad he had never directed those words her way. No man ever had, probably because she never let any get close. She’d tied up her life in a pretty bow; her Dad for company, her work at their antique shop for income, her volunteer duties at the New England Highland Games for fun.
“An old lover paid me a visit,” Dorcas whispered.
Cameron looked at Iona. Both eyebrows rose. She bit her lower lip to keep from laughing.
“Why did we find you on the ground? Did he hit you?” Iona asked.
“Aye, with his magic. He be a powerful sorcerer. I thought I had conjured adequate protection.” She groaned and rubbed her left hip.
“Are ye in danger, love?”
“Nay. Not anymore. I ache all over. I let him get a wee bit too close, but ‘twas necessary.”
“Why? He could have killed ye.”
“I let him take the amulet I was wearing.”
When Cameron’s eyes widened, Iona didn’t know what to make of the conversation. Sorcerer? Powers? Amulet? Iona remembered the pretty hunk of stone that hung around the witch’s neck. It was gone.
Dorcas had been hurt—a fact. The amulet was missing—also a fact. Iona wished she’d seen whoever had dared to strike a woman. “If I had my way, I’d have kicked the bastard in the—”
“Iona!”
“Sorry. What did you ask me?” It was time to get back in the program.
“I asked ye to fetch me supplies. Find a clean cloth and more water.”
“You emptied the pitcher.”
“There be a water conveyance out back.” He nodded toward the opposite end of the tent.
Iona grabbed the worn, metal pitcher and slipped outside. The tent stood within six feet of the side of the ski lodge. A pipe rose from the ground, and she held the pitcher beneath the spigot.
Highland Games Through Time Page 34
