The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  Only minutes down the road she caught the pungent scent of fire on the wind. Alarmed, she looked back at her home, then at her immediate neighbours, then towards the village. A hundred yards ahead she saw ghostly columns rising from beneath the bridge that spanned a burn.

  “Please dear God, no.”

  Heart hammering, she broke into a run.

  Racing on to the bridge, the stench of petrol made her stomach heave. She leaned over the railing and peered into the darkness below. Oh dear God, is that a car? The wind shifted, brushing the smoke aside. In the rubble below lay a listing undercarriage and four wheels.

  “A.J.!”

  The annoying beeps and thumps drew Alex out of his turbulent dreams only a moment before cool fingers pried open his right eye. Piercing light, as hot as steel in a smithy’s forge, stabbed his brain.

  Good God almighty!

  He swung an arm to bat the offender away.

  “Ah, he’s finally waking up,” said a man on his left.

  A feminine voice – her voice, said, “A.J., can you hear me? Sweetheart, open your eyes.”

  Not on your life, woman. Not after what just happened. Head aching unmercifully, still in a haze, Alex tried to roll away from his tormentors only to come to a groaning stop.

  Saint Columba, have mercy! Every damn bone in his body ached as if he’d been hurled from a catapult and into a curtain wall. Worse, something hard and dry clotted his throat. Fearing he’d choke to death, he reached up to pull the obstruction out and the man grasped his wrist.

  “Leave it alone.”

  Like hell, he would. Alex wrenched free of the man’s grip and before anyone could naysay him, jerked the obstruction free and gasped. Searing pain tore at his throat. Behind him, an ear-shattering whistle sounded.

  The man cursed and the wailing ceased. Alex, his throat on fire, cautiously peered through his lashes.

  Who were these people leaning over him? The woman, dark circles under beautiful green eyes, he must know – the sight of her summoned feelings of warmth and protection – but not so the grey-haired man dressed in the odd blue garments holding his wrists.

  Alex wrenched his arms free. “Leave me … be!”

  Good God, his throat hurt. Hell, everything hurt.

  The woman – Maggie, aye, that was her name – stroked his cheek. “Shhh, it’s alright, A.J. You had an accident and you’re in hospital.”

  Hospital? He was neither poor nor infirm so why …?

  And why did she keep addressing him as A-jay?

  He looked about the strange green room. Not liking or understanding any of it, his heart hammered and the beeping became a frantic rhythm.

  Humph! The what and why of all this insanity mattered not. He would eventually sort it all out … after he made good his escape.

  He bolted upright only to feel wires and snaking tubes pull at his bruised and torn flesh. Head swimming, he jerked against his restraints and swung his legs over the bedside.

  Maggie held up her hands as if to stop him, just as the man shouted, “Mr MacKinnon, stop! You need to lie down.”

  Grasping Maggie’s shoulder for balance, Alex ripped the wires from his chest and jerked out the tube embedded in his arm, sending blood and water flying. Over a new screeching, he croaked, “Leaving.”

  Head hanging and seeing a yellow tube dangling betwixt his legs, he jerked on it and nearly passed out. Holy Saint Columba!

  The sheep buggers had even invaded his manhood!

  Maggie grasped his chin as he fought for breath. “Listen to me. Doctor MacDonald will take it out if you’ll just lie down.”

  Behind him, the doctor said, “Listen to your wife, Mr MacKinnon. I’ll take the catheter out if you’ll just lie back down.”

  Panting, Alex shook his head. Wife? Nay, Maggie was not his wife but the drunkard’s. Aye, that much he did know, although how he knew he could not recall. “Ye’ll take the bloody thing out whilst I sit.” If he dared lie back down the bastards would, in all likelihood, tie him to the bed.

  The doctor huffed. A moment later a disembodied female voice said, “May I help you?”

  At his back, the doctor said, “I need a ten cc syringe in 114.”

  The voice responded, “I’ll be right there.”

  Augh! Another heathen was coming.

  A moment later a thin lass of about twenty years, her garments much like the doctors, came in. The doctor pulled the tip from a clear tube she’d handed him, exposing a long needle. When the doctor reached betwixt his legs, Alex clamped a hand over the man’s arm, growling, “And what do ye think yer doing?”

  “I have to take the fluid out of the ball that’s holding the tube inside you. It won’t hurt.”

  “Upon my honour should it, you’re a dead man.” Glaring, Alex reluctantly released the doctor’s arm.

  To his great relief the man was as good as his word. The nasty tube only smarted as it came clear of his body.

  With Maggie’s help, Alex – alarmed more by the softness of his body than by any of its many injuries – dressed then found himself staring at a mountain of documents he could make neither head nor tail of.

  “Just sign here and here,” the woman in blue said, marking the pages with an “x” then handing him her odd writing implement.

  After scribing “A.J. MacFhionghuin” where she’d indicated and noting the date, which came as a shock, he shoved the pages towards her. “Am I now free to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Humph!” He stood and held out his arm expecting Maggie to place her hand on his wrist. Instead, she threaded her arm through his and he caught her scent, of strawberries and lavender, which summoned a strange mix of lust and great yearning – then one of blind fury. He shook his head to clear it, took two steps and found himself before a mirror.

  The reflected countenance was not the one he well remembered. Close, but definitely not the same. Thinking it a trick, he stuck out his tongue.

  Dear God above, ’tis no illusion.

  He leaned towards the glass. He truly was alive. Once again flesh and blood! In A.J. MacKinnon’s body.

  His legs, no sturdier than sea kelp, began to buckle. By sheer force of will, he locked his knees and took another step towards the door and freedom.

  Outside, he cleared his lungs of the building’s stench and allowed Maggie to guide him to a waiting conveyance, whereupon she opened a door and bid he sit inside. He did. Having no idea what was happening, where he was or where they were going, he still knew any place had to be better than the one he’d just escaped.

  Getting in beside him, she asked, “Are you alright?”

  “Aye.” A lie if ever there was one, but then he’d yet to fathom what had befallen him.

  Brow furrowed, her full lips compressed into a hard line, she put the conveyance in motion. “You scared the shit out of me, A.J. If I hadn’t found you when I did you would have died at the bottom of that ravine.”

  He nodded, recalling the roar of steel fracturing on rock, of falling, the stench of fire … and pain. Aye, he remembered A.J.’s pain and then gasping in agony as A.J.’s pain became his. “I did not intend such.”

  “No? Then what the hell did you expect driving blind drunk?” She heaved a sigh. “The car’s a total loss.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  When she shot him a scathing glance, he decided the less he said at this juncture the better and turned his attention to his surroundings.

  The Cuillin Mountains straddling Skye were just as he’d left them. As were the small isles nestled betwixt the mainland and his home. Aye, he knew precisely where he was but …

  He looked at Maggie. “Who does this …” the word escaped him, “belong to, if not ye?”

  She frowned. “You don’t remember?”

  He shook his head as he pointed to the road. “Ye’d best pay heed, m’lady.”

  Their conveyance jerked and the oncoming vehicle issued a strident bleep as it whizzed past. “The car belongs to Mickey.�
� She then muttered, “I knew I shouldn’t have let you sign yourself out.” After a minute she asked. “Do you know where you are?”

  “On the eastern shore of Skye.” So much looked familiar – particularly she – but then too much was foreign. His very self included.

  “As soon as we get home, you’re going to bed.”

  Nay, he most certainly was not going to bed. He’d had quite enough of bed and so apparently had A.J., if this soft body was any indication.

  The road twisted, Portree and its harbour disappeared behind them, and he turned his attention to A.J.’s pretty wife as she, frowning, kept her focus on the carriage road. Studying the glorious chestnut hair curling about her heart-shaped face and the lovely manner in which her neck arched, the memory of her smiling up at him bloomed. Hearing her whisper, “I love you,” his heart tripped and he found himself smiling. But then another memory took shape, of Maggie cowering, and the rush of unbridled fury swelled deep within his chest.

  Thankful finally to be home, Maggie turned into the drive fronting the small cottage she’d inherited from her parents, the home her husband took so little pride in.

  A. J., normally talkative when trying to placate her, hadn’t said a word since apologising for the wreck. But more troubling than even his uncharacteristic silence was his stilted speech on those few times when he had spoken.

  The doctors had assured her they had no reason to believe he’d suffered any permanent brain damage, but what if they were wrong? He’d been in a coma for twenty-four hours.

  Her unease grew when they went inside and A.J. looked about their parlour as if trying to orient himself. He then strode into the kitchen and looked out the window. Shaking his head, he told her, “Yer garden needs tending.”

  “I’ll get right to it after I finish cooking, cleaning and slinging fish and chips all day then doing the MacMillan’s mending.”

  He looked at her, his face an expressionless mask. “’Twas simply an observation.”

  “If you say so.” Too tired to argue, she tossed her sweater over the back of the nearest chair and opened the refrigerator. “There’s only leftovers for lunch.” And they were lucky to have that.

  “Whatever ye lust.”

  There it was again. That accent.

  She barely touched her food while A. J. dived in with both hands. After wolfing down a sandwich and sopping up the last of his potato soup with half a loaf of bread, he leaned back in his chair and patted his middle. “’Twas very good. Thank ye.”

  She blinked. A.J. hadn’t said thank you, much less complimented her cooking, in … she couldn’t remember how long. “You suffered one hell of a concussion, didn’t you?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she stood and cleared the table. “I need to find a present for Mickey and Bridget’s wedding this weekend, change my shifts at the restaurant – since I’m now going to have to ride a bus to work – then return Mickey’s car.”

  She’d had her eye on a lovely pair of silver challises for her cousin’s wedding, but now couldn’t afford them. She’d need every penny she could scrape together for a down payment on a new car. Worse, she’d be earning a lot less working days instead of evenings at the King’s Arms.

  She snatched up the keys. “You rest. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Cursing the day she ever set eyes on A. J. MacKinnon, she walked out the door.

  “Maggie.”

  She turned to find A.J. had followed her out. He came around the car and pulled her gently to his chest, then hooked a finger under her chin. “Look at me, lass.”

  She did. A mistake. His vivid blue gaze bore into hers as it had in their earlier and better days, causing warmth and longing to spread through her chest.

  Knowing that particular look could turn her legs to jelly, she tried to turn away, but his left hand slipped beneath her hair and before she could react he captured her mouth with his. His kiss, initially tentative, grew slowly more possessive. God! He hadn’t kissed her like this …

  Too soon he raised his head and smiled at her. “Take care, lass.”

  Watching Maggie take her leave, Alex shook his head. “I do believe she hates me … or wants to.”

  Knowing there was little he could do about it until he cleared his head and got his new limbs moving as they ought, he walked through the croft and out the back door, his goal the red granite ridges that he’d prowled seven centuries past. Mayhap his beloved mountains could bring some understanding of how his soul had changed places with that of A.J. MacKinnon’s.

  A good hour later, huffing and heart all but flailing through his ribs, Alex collapsed on an outcrop overlooking the sea and hung his head. Good God almighty, how on earth had the man functioned like this?

  Had an enemy come up behind him, he’d be dead. He hadn’t the strength to wield a wee sgian duhb, much less his broad sword.

  “This will not do.”

  He wiped the sweat from his eyes and looked at the broad acreage that had once been the collection point for thousands of MacKinnon cattle destined for the fairs at Crieth, then at the place Maggie and A.J. called home. The croft was a shambles. Shutters were listing, the roof missing slate … and the kale yard! The plot was naught but bramble and tumbling stone. Alex shook his head, not understanding how a man could allow such to happen.

  And what had Maggie meant by changing shifts? Did she labour because her sorry sot of a husband wouldn’t?

  Having no answers, he rose and made his way towards the jagged ruins that had once been his home at the tip of the peninsular. As he drew ever closer, an invisible band tightened about his chest and tears burned at the back of his throat. When had this happened? How?

  Standing before what had once been a formidable curtain wall he picked a stone from the rubble, dusted it off and carefully placed it where it belonged. Directly above and to the right had once been the chamber in which his wife had given her life to see Ian born.

  His son, his bonnie son, was gone now along with everyone else he’d known and loved – followed by generations of clansmen. All had gone to their final reward but not him … thanks to his brother’s villainy.

  Why couldn’t the bastard have accepted his lot, of being the second son and destined for religious life? But nay, Angus had to covet what had been Alex’s by right of birth.

  Through blurring tears, Alex studied the signet ring he’d worn then – and now again wore. His uncle Collin had taken it from Alex’s hand before burial against Angus’s furious protests.

  “’Tis now rightfully the lad’s,” his uncle had snarled. He’d then secured the ring around his own neck, saying that when Ian came of age, he would wear it. The next day his uncle had clasped Alex’s infant to his chest and escaped with him to the protection of Mull.

  When his son came of age his uncle kept his pledge. Ian, seeped in the legend, put on the ring and then went to war but to no avail. The king and political expediency were against him. And still he fought on.

  Upon Ian’s death, the ring and the tale passed to his son. And so it went for centuries.

  With his essence tied to the ring, Alex often experienced the emotions of the wearer – some better men than others, but all of them his bloodline. Time passed. Kings came and went, as did heirs and fortunes. And then it passed to A.J.

  It saddened him that his glimpses into A.J.’s life more often involved the ring than they did the beautiful Maggie.

  “Hmmm.” Aye, that made perfect sense. He’d become flesh and blood again because A.J. had died without an heir.

  Just the thought of Maggie’s bonny green eyes, pert breasts and curls did send his blood racing. But he’d not be bedding her any time soon. Leastwise not in her current frame of mind.

  “Humph! So, now that I’ve solved the mystery, what can I do about it?”

  Watching the courting oystercatchers and lapwings whirl over the surf, he laughed, recalling a heady exhilaration as A.J. courted and won fair Maggie. But the man had never taken to hearth and home, the deplorabl
e condition of the croft being certain proof.

  Mayhap …

  He stood and, grinning, headed home.

  Two

  A horn blasted. Maggie jerked awake and, blinking, looked out the bus window. Oh good, she was almost home.

  Elsa, more than willing to trade shifts with her, had taken a week to arrange after-school care for her wee ones, leaving Maggie with no choice but to work her shift and part of Elsa’s. She did appreciate the extra pay but hadn’t seen the sun all week. Thank God the long shifts were over and she’d been able to leave the restaurant on time today.

  She yawned, wondering what, if anything, A.J. was doing. Nothing, most likely.

  The bus came to a stop and she stumbled out. Lifting her face to the glorious sun, she closed her eyes and, smiling, waited for the bus to pull away and the oncoming lorries to pass. When they did, she opened her eyes and stared at the charming house before her. Unlike her home, this croft gleamed with a new coat of whitewash, its shutters were straight and glossy black and the window boxes, sporting bright yellow flowers, were painted red.

  “Damn it!” She’d got off at the wrong place.

  Praying the bus driver would look in his rearview mirror, she started waving and shouting, running after the bus, only to watch it disappeared around the bend.

  “Great. Just great.”

  On the verge of tears, feet aching, she looked about, trying to orient herself – praying she hadn’t in her exhaustion taken the wrong bus altogether.

  “Uhmm …” There’s the bridge and, beyond it, she could see what she was sure was the Boar Head’s slate roof. She looked over her shoulder at the rocky shoreline. This was the right place. She looked at the croft. What wasn’t right was the sight before her.

  Was she dreaming?

  Halfway up the front path she came to a halt as the front door opened and Daisy MacDonald came out.

  “Oh! Hello, Maggie. I was just leaving.”