Highland Games Through Time

by Nancy Lee Badger

  “Conveyance? I must go to Scotland and really concentrate on dialects.” After she hurried inside, she knew she’d missed out on a private conversation. Cameron nodded to Dorcas, then bowed his head. Dorcas slipped her necklace over his head.

  “Wait a minute. You just told us he stole that.” She pointed at the glowing amber stone that hung around Cameron’s neck.

  “This be the rightful one. I let the sorcerer steal a false stone.”

  Okay, so the old witch was tricky. She’d let the guy in the black hooded robe steal a fake. Iona couldn’t understand why Dorcas gave it to him. She also didn’t understand why she gave the real one to Cameron.

  He stood, then stepped toward her. She felt the real amulet’s power. The necklace should be safely around the neck of a witch like her—not a sword-carrying Viking look-a-like.

  Dorcas called him back to her side. Cameron leaned down and she asked him something Iona couldn’t quite make out. He whispered a response, then turned and glared at Iona before heading to the far side of the tent.

  Ignoring him, and the shivers his gaze caused, she poured Dorcas a drink, then moistened the piece of white silk she pulled from her pocket. When Iona pressed it to her wrinkled forehead, the old woman’s eyes widened. She smiled up at her.

  “I recognize this bit of silk, dearie. Did ye steal it?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Aye, ‘tis true, then. Ye be the one for my Cammie.”

  Iona felt her eyes widen, but no words escaped her. The woman was smart, a witch, and spoke the truth. She wasn’t ready to admit her feelings for Cameron to anyone, though.

  Speak of the Devil.

  Cameron appeared beside them and covered the old woman with a heavy wool blanket.

  Dorcas was asleep in seconds. Now what were they to do? Cameron motioned for her to follow him to the other side of the tent.

  “Dorcas has given us the means to return to my time.”

  Iona stared at his eyes, wishing he told the truth. “And Haven?”

  “Aye, we shall find your friend.”

  Iona contemplated his words, then gazed at the amulet resting just beneath his Adam’s apple. It ringed the tan expanse of his muscular neck. The leather lanyard was tight around him, as opposed to hanging loose as it had around Dorcas Swann.

  Candlelight sparkled over the mystical stone’s surface. Mesmerized by its earthy beauty, and drawn to its power, she stepped closer to Cameron. Before she reached out to touch the stone, she caught herself.

  “I don’t understand. How? With this?”

  When her skin prickled, she glanced down at the fingers clasped around her forearm. Like an electrical current, something passed from his fingertips to her skin. Her blood heated in her veins and settled between her legs.

  The tumultuous ripple of pleasure disappeared the moment he released her arm. Dizziness made her grasp the center tent pole. Her mouth went dry as dust and incense-tainted smoke turned her stomach.

  “I need air.” Pushing aside the tent flap, Iona gathered her skirt and sprinted out into the sunlit alley. Bagpipes squealed and drums thundered somewhere in the distance. The roar of the crowd added to the thumping inside her head.

  After inhaling several deep breaths, her rapid heartbeat slowed to a normal rhythm. She sensed him come up behind her, and she turned to face him. The exact color of the magical stone that hung from his neck stared back. Cameron’s hair fluttered in the breeze, but he ignored the stray strands that covered one amber eye. He crossed his arms over his massive chest and waited.

  “Umm—”

  “Will ye help me?”

  “Of course I want to help you, but I need to hear more. I’ll do anything to save Haven.”

  “I shall be holding ye to those words, lass,” he whispered.

  In that one magical moment, Iona wished he’d gather her in his arms, pull her into his chest, and kiss her senseless.

  Oh, my!

  CHAPTER 7

  “This be the power,” Cameron told her as he rubbed the amber stone, “With yer witchery and—”

  “My what?” He’d accused her of witchcraft before. How did he know?

  Cameron stared back in wonder or anger, his face too hard to read. Iona’s head pounded. She jumped back a few steps when a local high school’s marching band tuned up nearby, surprising her. Cameron never flinched.

  “Dorcas said ye be a witch. Did she not speak the truth?”

  “Yes, but I don’t advertise the fact. And I don’t practice, much. I’ve been working on discovering what potions and spells Haven used to disappear.”

  “ ‘Tis yer power and this gem that shall propel us back through time,” he said, pointing to the gem.

  Iona opened her mouth, then shut it. Haven said she’d landed in 1598. Dorcas might know more than she had shared with her, since she spoke about sending the man that struck her back to Scotland. Cameron talked and dressed odd. His manners were antiquated, and his muscles were… She gulped.

  “Back through time?” she whispered. Cameron nodded then pulled her back inside the tent. She followed. Why not? At worst, she’d spend the rest of the day in a dark tent with a fabulous Scottish Highlander. At best, she’d save Haven from an unwanted marriage. “I’m game.”

  * * *

  Cameron released her arm when they reached the semi-privacy of his employer’s tent. Dorcas’ snoring rumbled through the tent’s back bedroom. He smiled.

  Dorcas had snatched him from his humiliation at the hand of his cousin and clan. She’d given him clean clothes, food, ale, and a job. Too bad she’d pulled him into a world as unfamiliar as if he’d fallen over the border into England. Foreign smells, sounds, food, and customs irritated more than fascinated.

  Dragon’s teeth, especially this modern idea for a kilt.

  His search for leather leggings had been delayed, but he would ask the blacksmith when he retrieved his swords. The man wore leg coverings. Cameron had no right to wear any clan’s colors. He would use stealth once he returned to his time, and clothing other than his current multi-colored kilt would aid him in his plans.

  Iona would also have to change into something less colorful. Her tartan plaid screamed Mackenzie, and to see her in his enemy’s colors made his gut clench.

  He recalled snatches of a memory, during the disgrace of his trial back in 1598, especially the accusations that thundered inside the keep, that day. His vision wavered.

  The crowd’s reaction to something he said made the walls tremble. They had erupted in cries of traitor and killer. Several men in well-worn plaids and glaring eyes surged forward. Kirk’s warriors stepped in to protect him, a bound prisoner.

  “He died helping me save Lady Haven.” Cameron had denied killing Balfour.

  “So ye say. She has made claim to such, but did she know ye helped the Mackenzie capture her in the first place?”

  He snapped his mouth shut. The truth hit him in the stomach like a fist. He had helped Lord Mackenzie in return for gold—and Lady Haven.

  “Ye have heard the charges. Ye have been found guilty.” Though he knew this was coming, his laird’s words sent ice flowing through his veins.

  Murmurings reverberated in his ears as the crowd surged forward, eager for swift justice. Sweaty bodies mingled with the dung of sheep. The air thickened with apprehension and lust for blood.

  His blood.

  Cameron pulled at his bindings.

  “This court will now pass sentence on yer person. Though of my blood, and once a valuable member of my inner circle, ye are hereby banished.”

  Banished? The word echoed through the great hall and froze his feet to their spot. Surely death would be more palatable; a quick, painless, death. A beheading or arrow to his heart would suit him very well.

  But, to never see his homeland again?

  “No one shall miss me,” he mumbled. This sudden realization hurt the most. He had wasted thirty summers fighting for his clan, loving their women, never considering his future.
Not until Haven MacKay walked into camp.

  “Cameron Robeson!”

  He blinked. Cameron sucked in a mouthful of peat smoke as he looked around. Shadows covered him where he stood in the middle of his employer’s tent. Iona stood beside him, and she lit a stubby candle, flooding the small tent with orange light.

  “Where were you. Did you even hear what I said?”

  What should he tell her? That if they succeeded and returned to their time, his clansmen might kill him? That if discovered using her witchery, she might also be put to death?

  * * *

  Iona crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the huge man who had zoned out inside the tent. She’d been worried he’d try something, yet he stood as still as a marble statue, with skin as ghostly pale. He backed up, slammed his hip into a display table, and made several potion bottles roll toward the edge.

  “Catch them,” she cried. Both lunged and stopped them before they struck the ground. His hand brushed against her breast when he grabbed for several potion bottles.

  Iona shivered and gazed into his eyes. When nothing registered, she figured he hadn’t noticed.

  “Whew. That was close.” He made no comment, so she freed the bottles from his fingers to place them back on the old workbench. An electrical charge skittered between them. He stepped back, and shook out his hands.

  He most certainly noticed that.

  “What say ye, lass?”

  Ignoring the sensations that continued up her arms then down her chest, Iona pushed away from the table’s edge. His skin took on the ruddy sheen of a red potato, and perspiration dotted his forehead. Had he been daydreaming while she badgered him for an explanation of Dorcas’ claim? Timing was everything, she suspected.

  Iona sighed. “Listen. You need me. I need you. All according to Dorcas, who is snoring as if she hasn’t a care in the world. I was thinking about our next step. What’s first?”

  He stared at her head, then pointed at her ear. “Remove those fancy bits.”

  Iona unclipped her silver Celtic Knot earrings and placed them in a box on Dorcas’ shelf. “Done. I’ll do whatever you tell me in order to find Haven and get her out of whatever mess Cal Murchie or Kirkwall Gunn or any other stupid man forced her into. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. I expect you to lead the way.”

  Cameron nodded, then slipped behind the home-made curtain. He knelt beside Dorcas and brushed a silver strand from her pale face. He whispered something in her ear. Dorcas whispered back.

  Iona’s heart jumped. Thank goodness Dorcas was conscious. With plans to travel through time with Cameron, Iona had worried about leaving her here, all alone.

  When Cameron kissed the woman on her forehead, a spark of jealousy washed over Iona. Stunned, desire flooded her lower half as his thighs bunched. When he stood, he sighed. He clasped the amulet, then joined her by the center pole.

  “Dorcas bids me explain what needs doing to reach our destination. Dress in the old way. Completely. No rings, money, weapons—not even present day under things.” Cameron’s gaze drifted to her bodice.

  “Okay. I work hard to dress authentically. Should I look less formal?”

  He nodded. “No clan colors or insignia.”

  She unbelted her full-length skirt of Mackenzie plaid. It fluttered to the ground, revealing her plain, bleached muslin underskirt. She unbuckled the Mackenzie medallion and tossed the piece of tartan from her shoulder.

  Iona tightened the laces of her light-green wool vest, and fluffed her chemise’s fairy sleeves. She stood before him in her simple, peasant attire. No money? That might prove a hardship, but she understood. “What about weapons?”

  “I have two swords and the bone-handled dirk in Jake’s care. The lad lent me this bit of fakery. He has agreed to work to age them further.” He slid the dirk from the sheath hanging from his wide leather belt. A look of disgust marred his face as he stared at the weapon’s black plastic handle. He growled a curse she couldn’t quite decipher then slammed the knife into the top of the scared wood table.

  The violent reaction made a tremor pass through her. She swallowed and waited until he looked calmer, returned the borrowed dirk to its sheath, then met her eyes.

  “Cameron, I understand why you want these changes, but are we really going back in time? To 1598 Scotland?”

  “Aye. I also need a change of clothing. We must visit Jake now.” Cameron took a startled Iona’s hand in his and strode through the alleys and walkways, as they headed toward the historical village. Was she surprised he wanted to talk to Jake, or because he held her hand?

  He did not want to let go, though they would soon be home. His home. Where Haven now dwelled.

  Iona would never forgive him once his reasons for returning to Scotland became clear. He would kill his cousin, take his bride, and leave Iona to fend for herself. She probably would not survive long. Maybe the clan’s new laird would take pity on her.

  Maybe they would burn her at the stake for witchery.

  They bypassed the athletic fields where kilted men with muscles on muscles nearly put him to shame with their prowess. He paused to watch one tall brute turn the caber. Iona’s breath hitched when applause roared up around them. The lad must have thrown a perfect twelve, but he had not waited to watch.

  Cameron tugged Iona farther up the trail. Jake was busy hammering metal. Sparks flew left and right, and the clang echoed off the trees.

  “Hail, blacksmith!”

  Jake turned, then tossed the red-hot metal spike into a barrel of water. It sloshed over the sides as he walked toward them. His eyebrows rose. He had noticed their clasped hands.

  Cameron smiled, but Iona pulled her hand free.

  “Your swords and dirk are ready. Follow me.” He gestured to a nearby volunteer to watch his furnace.

  The three walked to Jake’s tent, and followed him inside. Weaponry of various styles covered two tables. Leather clothing and accessories hung from tent poles. “I need leather leggings and a vest.”

  “Okay. Try these.” Jake tossed him a pair of black leather coverings and a sturdy deerskin vest a bit lighter than the color of the Oreos he had come to love.

  “And boots. I want to throw these shoes to the devil.”

  Jake laughed and said, “I hear you.” Jake bent down and pulled a clear blue container from under the table, then rummaged through a pile of boots. The odd box shined and looked lightweight, similar to the plastic hilt of his borrowed dirk.

  Jake threw the boots at Cameron, and shoved the container back under the table. He let the linen table cover drop, hiding the unusual box.

  “I will change,” Cameron said. He disappeared out the back of the tent. He heard Jake talking to Iona and listened as he stripped.

  “What’s going on, Iona? You two together now?”

  “No, we’re…he’s helping me locate Haven.”

  Cameron tied the laces snuggly up his groin as he waited to see how much she would share with the lad.

  “Really. I read the letter, remember. She’s in the past.”

  He read the letter? Jake believes their predicament?

  Iona didn’t speak for several moments, then looked relieved when he reentered the tent. Relieved and interested, but time was wasting. He tossed his discarded clothing in the corner, and came face-to-face with his image.

  “Dragon's teeth! What be this witchery?”

  “It's called a mirror. Did it scare you?”

  “Nay, surprised me ‘tis all.” He had seen a mirror once before at an inn near the English border, but the small square only reflected his rugged face. This freestanding mirror tilted back a bit, and reflected his head-to-toe image. While he glanced at the likeness dressed in black leather, he finished tying his vest closed. He buckled a leather belt low on his hips along with the dirk and its sheath. He pulled on the leather boots, slipped a sgian dubh inside, then picked up a rolled bundle of wool.

  “You’re bringing a blanket?” Iona’s attempt at a jest belied
her breathless reaction to his tight-fitting leather leggings.

  “We might arrive in winter. Time travel is not an exact science, or so Dorcas has told me.

  Time and time, again.

  “You expect me to believe you are going back in time?” Jake crossed his arms over his chest and smiled.

  “Aye. Will ye help?”

  Jake’s gaze flicked from his to Iona’s. She nodded, then he nodded. “Tell me what I can do.”

  Cameron discussed a few things, mostly about what they planned, and they both warned him about the cloaked man that had attacked Dorcas. He asked if it was the same man Haven mentioned in her letter.

  “We must assume so. Also, we need ye to assist my employer, Dorcas Swann, with her belongings in case…”

  “Yes, I’ll check on Dorcas, but you two better come back. Promise?” Jake asked, then gathered Iona in a bear hug.

  Cameron cursed under his breath, shifted his bundle, and headed toward the tent flap. He held it open and waited.

  Iona leaned in and kissed Jake on the mouth. Cameron blinked. A roar thundered through the tent’s small space, and the bundle hit the ground. His vision wavered as his feet moved toward the couple. He shoved Iona away, then grabbed Jake.

  Iona screamed.

  Jake coughed, and gasped for air.

  Cameron stared at fingers circling the blacksmith’s neck. The man’s eye’s bulged, while the odor of sweat and leather scented the air. Cameron sensed someone at his elbow, and when small hands gripped his, and pulled, he growled.

  “Let go,” she whispered.

  Iona’s flowery fragrance suddenly filled his nostrils, stamping out the earthy, manly scents. Her voice snapped him out of his trance. He glared at her and then at her fingers that tugged at his circling Jake’s throat.

  Cameron let go. Jake collapsed into Iona’s arms, and he turned away from her concerned expression for the lad. Cameron stomped from the tent.

  “Cameron! Wait!”

  He stopped against his will, his legs aching to continue, and waited for her to catch up. When she stood beside him, with the swell of her breasts rising and falling with her every breath, he thought stunning. The urge to do more than simply look was overpowering. Instead, he bit the inside of his mouth, grabbed her by the wrist, and started down the hill.