The Highlander's Stronghold (Searching for a Highlander Book 1)

by Bess McBride

  I careened to a halt at the sight of the heavily armed Highlanders. I heard John shout something unintelligible, and they lowered their swords but kept them at the ready. They exchanged glances before directing narrow-eyed stares at me.

  I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. Over the guards’ shoulders, beyond the gate, I saw no bridge, no way to get across. What had I been thinking? The tide was in, and raucous waves washed through the ravine to crash against the rocky cliffs between the two landmasses.

  With resignation, I turned and faced John. My knees shook with fear and anxiety. He strode to my side, wrapped the blanket around me again, albeit gently, and spoke to the two men in a language I didn’t understand—I assumed Gaelic. The guards appeared to be younger men, though their bearded faces made it difficult to guess their ages. Like John, they wore their hair loosely about their shoulders. They responded to John in Gaelic, their demeanor deferential and respectful.

  John folded a firm arm around my shoulders and propelled me back toward the keep. People had begun to emerge from the complex of dwellings I had seen earlier—women, men and children, all staring at the stranger being dragged back toward the tower. The women wore ankle-length skirts in the same faded-red pattern I saw repeated in the men’s kilts. Dark bodices over what I suspected were white shifts were standard. A few of the women wore a length of the material draped as outer garments in variations of caped shawls, somewhat like the men wore their great kilts.

  One in particular, a young tall woman wearing a white cap, with two long blonde braids draped over her shoulders, caught my eye. Startlingly beautiful, her height, slender build and alabaster skin outshone all the matronly women surrounding her. She stared at us with a frown, resting her hands protectively on the blond heads of two miniature versions of herself, a small boy and a girl.

  John maneuvered me back to the tower house and into the room, instantly dropping his hands as we entered. His gesture indicated he meant me no harm. I wasn’t exactly free, but he didn’t seem particularly angry or bent on punishing me for my little escape. I took a deep breath and asked the question uppermost in my mind, pretending a lightheartedness I didn’t feel.

  “So how do you guys get across to the mainland?” I turned to face him.

  “We cross the ravine on foot at low tide or take the boat at high tide if we wish to travel farther.”

  “Boat?”

  He quirked a dark-blond eyebrow, and a corner of his mouth lifted. Before answering, he lowered himself to a wooden chair, one of two flanking a small wooden table positioned against the wall near the door. Centered on the table were a brown glass bottle and a pewter cup, as well as a brass lantern.

  “Dinna think of trying to take the boat, lass, in yer next attempt at escape. It is no a wee skiff.”

  My heart thumped loudly at the playful charm of John’s smile.

  “Escape? Am I your prisoner?”

  “No.” He paused, tilted his head and eyed me. “Well, perhaps ye are. If ye have traveled in time, then ye must have had a reason to do so. Are ye a spy? For the Macleods perhaps? The Macaulays?”

  “The Macleods? Macaulays? So you think I traveled in time to spy? You did hear that I come from the twenty-first century, right? About five hundred years into the future? No one cares what the Macleods or Macaulays are doing now. The clan warfare that you enjoy at the moment really doesn’t exist anymore. I mean, there might be some rivalries, but there are no wars between the clans, no land grabs, no cattle rustling.”

  To watch the kaleidoscope of emotions cross John’s face was spectacular. Confusion, disbelief, anger, more disbelief, even more confusion all ended in a narrowing of his eyes.

  “We dinna ‘enjoy’ clan warfare, mistress. The clans dinna fight for the pleasure of doing so, but to protect their land, their women, their kinfolk.”

  My face reddened, and I regretted my flippant tone. For an archaeologist, a student of history, I should have known to treat his culture with more sensitivity. I chalked my glibness up to my continuing apprehension.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, holding my hands up in capitulation. “I’m sorry about the wording. But you do get my point, right? I’m hardly a spy. The Macleods and Macaulays in the twenty-first century—and I must say that I don’t actually know any—probably do not care about the Morrisons in the sixteenth century.”

  “If ye dinna ken any Macleods or Macaulays, how can ye say for certain?”

  I passed a frustrated hand over my clammy forehead.

  “Well, I can’t for sure, but since the original subject was me, my time traveling and whether I was a spy, I can assure you that I am not a spy—for the Macleods, Macaulays or otherwise.”

  My legs wobbled again, and I lowered myself to the bed. The conversation seemed so surreal, so improbable.

  John watched me for a moment before turning toward the table and pouring some of the liquid from the bottle into the cup. He handed it to me, and I sniffed it. Liquor of some kind. Wine, I thought. That was all I needed. Really!

  Rather than making a point to refuse the drink, I held the cup loosely in my hand. I was thirsty though, and I wondered about the water situation.

  “I can no imagine a world such as ye describe, a world in which all of Scotland’s clans live with each other in peace, but I am willing to consider yer claim that ye are no spy. It remains to be seen, though, why ye have come to Dun Eistean. Drink yer wine. It will do ye good.”

  I eyed the contents of my cup again.

  “Do you have any fresh water or anything?” I remembered the fresh-water catchment area from the archaeological dig. In my race to escape, I hadn’t looked to see if the pond existed in the sixteenth century.

  “Fresh water? I dinna ken yer meaning.”

  I sighed. Of course he did not “ken” my meaning. They had no water-filtering system, no treatment plants, no indoor plumbing. Their immune systems were probably much hardier than mine and could tolerate parasites better than I could. I lifted the cup to my lips and sipped the wine, which was surprising sweet.

  I looked up at John again.

  “Well, now what?”

  “Now what indeed?” he repeated. “I dinna ken what to do with ye.”

  “Let me borrow your dagger, and I’ll leave. It’s just that simple.”

  It was the way he looked at me—his expression of curious fascination—that told me I was wasting my time.

  He reached a hand around to his back, and I stiffened in anticipation, but it seemed he only reassured himself regarding the location of the dagger. He dropped his hand to his side and shook his head.

  “And see ye disappear forever? I can no do that just yet, lass. There is much I would learn of yer time.”

  My head jerked up.

  “What? So you expect me to stay here and teach you about the twenty-first century? For how long?”

  “As long as is necessary?” He formed the answer into a question, and his half smile charmed me again despite my unease.

  No, not just unease. Fear. I was afraid. Terrified, in fact. What if I couldn’t get back? What if I couldn’t get hold of the dagger? What was going through John’s mind? What were his intentions toward me? And why was he so unwilling to let me go?

  “Well, I can do that in an hour,” I offered blithely. “Then will you let me go?”

  “Nay, lass, I dinna think ye can teach me five hundred years of history in the space of an hour. I am no such a quick student. I think it will take some time. Days. Perhaps some weeks.”

  “Weeks?” I jumped up, and John rose in a casual manner and moved over to the closed door, his large frame blocking any exit.

  “Days then,” he amended, leaning against the door with crossed arms.

  “I don’t know if I can do days.” My life flashed before my eyes. “No, what am I saying? Of course I can do days. What a great opportunity this is! Any archaeologist would kill to travel back in time. Even if it’s Scotland in the sixteenth century.”

  “Even?” He raise
d his eyebrow again, a charismatic expression. “Is there another century ye would wish to visit? I dinna ken this word ‘archaeologist.’”

  “I study archaic things, human history through the artifacts left behind. My concentration is Colonial America, seventeenth- and eighteenth-century America. This is a bit before my time and a whole lot farther east than the colonies.”

  “The colonies?”

  “Okay, so I guess we could begin there! You might as well sit down again. I know you’re blocking the door so I don’t run away again.”

  A sharp rap on the door startled me. John opened the door, and the blonde-haired woman I had seen earlier entered the room. She looked from me to John and spoke to him in Gaelic.

  John’s face hardened at the woman’s imperious tone. Clearly, she wasn’t afraid of him. When he responded, it was in English.

  “This is Mistress Ann Borodell, Mary. Mistress Borodell, may I present my sister, Mary Macleod?”

  His sister! An odd sense of relief came over me. I had thought she might be his wife. I didn’t even want to think about why I felt relief at that information. No, I did not.

  My first instinct was to stick out my hand in greeting, but I subdued it. And although she carried herself with a certain air that almost demanded a curtsey, I squashed that idea as well.

  “Hello,” I said simply.

  Mary inclined her head. On closer inspection, I saw that her eyes held the same shade of azure blue as John’s. She wore a gray bodice over what appeared to be a white shift. Her skirts were made of the same material as John’s kilt. I suspected that the white cap meant she was married, and that the children she had held were hers.

  “Welcome, Mistress Borodell,” Mary said, switching to English as well. “Do ye no speak Gaelic? How did ye come to Dun Eistean?” She looked from me to John. “The tide is in. Did she arrive by sea?”

  “Mistress Borodell crossed over the ravine when the tide was out. I am just now questioning her. She claims to be no spy of the Macleods or Macaulays, but I have my suspicions.” I saw an imperceptible flicker of John’s right eye, as if he winked at me.

  I blinked and returned my attention to Mary, who studied me for a moment.

  “A woman?” she asked, lifting a skeptical eyebrow and directing a frown toward her brother. “Surely no,” she said. “If Angus Macleod wished to send a spy, he would no send a woman, Brother. Perhaps the Macaulays might do, but no Angus. He has little enough regard for women, as ye ken.”

  John’s expression sobered.

  “It is no impossible, Mary. Ye ken he wants his grandchildren back, and ye to mother them.” John threw me a quick glance. “I dinna like to speak of such matters afore a stranger, but we must remain vigilant.”

  Mary’s jaw tightened, and she shook her head.

  “Nay, John. He will no come. He would no dare. The man paid the bairns little attention while we were there.”

  Something was going on that I couldn’t quite understand. Mary was a Macleod, and an Angus Macleod was grandfather to her children? And they mistrusted him?

  John quirked that eyebrow of his, as if to lighten the moment.

  “We must hope no, Sister. Still, it would be a very clever idea to send a lass like Mistress Borodell, no? Who would suspect such a wee thing?”

  Mary, tall at about five feet ten inches, turned to study my “wee” self.

  “I can no believe such, John. Mistress Borodell, do ye come to Dun Eistean to spy for the Macleods?”

  I threw John a quick look before meeting Mary’s gaze with a feeble shake of my head.

  “Then why are ye here? And may I ask again, why do ye no speak Gaelic?”

  My eyes flew to John again. What did he want me to say? Did he want me to tell his sister the truth? Our eyes locked, and he gave a slight imperceptible shake of his head.

  “As ye see, Sister, Mistress Borodell remains silent on the matter. If she does no wish to share the truth wi us, I can do little to compel her, but I think several days locked in the keep wi only bread and ale to sustain her will loosen her tongue.”

  I gasped. “What?”

  Again, a tiny wink from John reassured me that I would at least eat more than a bit of bread and ale, and I calmed down. Mary, however, did not.

  “Nonsense, John. Ye shall do no such thing. Ye canna starve the lass.”

  Apparently, sibling rivalry was alive and well in the sixteenth century, because John’s face tightened.

  “Ah, but I am laird here, Mary. I love ye dearly, but ye are interfering in matters that are no concern of yers. I will thank ye to leave now.”

  Mary, seemingly as stubborn as her brother, didn’t budge.

  “I will no leave the lass locked up in the keep with naethin but ale and bread. I insist that ye at least promise to feed her properly during her stay, John. I really must insist. And no harm must come to her person! I dinna think ye shall lay a hand upon her, but it is yer duty to see that she remains safe.” She fixed him with a determined blue stare.

  “Aye, Mary, ye have my assurance. I shall watch over her myself. Now, ye must excuse us. I have much to ask Mistress Borodell.” John reached for his sister’s arm to guide her from the room, but she shook him off and moved toward the door on her own volition. Before leaving the room, she turned.

  “I shall send some food to ye directly, Mistress Borodell.”

  “And some proper skirts,” John said, his cheekbones reddening. “It appears Mistress Borodell dressed in men’s trews to traverse the ravine, though I can no imagine why.”

  “Nor I,” Mary said, pausing to study me. I pulled the blanket tightly around me but couldn’t cover the lower half of my jeans. “I have crossed the ravine many times in skirts. But perhaps her people, whoever they may be, allow for such peculiarities.”

  “Perhaps,” John said.

  “Very well then. I shall return shortly.” Mary left the room, and I gave John a piece of my mind.

  “Listen, you! Thanks for selling me out to your sister! And this clothing is perfectly normal for my time. Perfectly normal. I didn’t get a chance to tell you that, but there you are. Now you know! Women wear pants, trews, jeans. Yes, we do! I know that’s a shock to you, my sixteenth-century friend, but we do.” I leaned over and dragged the plaid material around the lower half of my legs.

  A chuckle made me look up. I had meant to ask John about Mary and Angus Macleod, but his comments about my clothing had distracted me. Foolishly so, because I knew full well that my clothing was inappropriate for the period.

  “I am no shocked that ye wear trews, lass. As much as the women fuss about the inconvenience of their skirts, I kent it was only a matter of time afore they rid themselves of such cumbersome garments. How many years will pass till women do such?”

  “Stop wearing skirts?”

  “Aye.” He nodded, the smile still playing on the corner of his lips. My heart thumped.

  “Well, they still wear them when they want, and there is no specific date when women started wearing trousers. It depended on where women lived and what they did. If they lived on ranches, probably in the eighteen hundreds, but most women still wore skirts to their ankles through the early nineteen hundreds. Hemlines rose pretty rapidly throughout the twentieth century, especially as women went out to work.”

  While I talked, I had lowered myself to the bed, and John sat down on his chair again.

  “And did the men no complain?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I believe they did. Some still do. And in some countries, women are still not allowed to show limbs.”

  John blinked, and I wondered if it was at my use of the word “limbs.” I suspected so. He cleared his throat.

  “When ye say women went out to work, do ye mean into the fields?”

  “Some work in fields, some work in offices, some fly planes, some fly into space.” As if I had a death wish, I threw it all out there, knowing I would have to spend many, many hours explaining offices, planes and outer space.

 
Somewhere in the middle of rambling on about the structure of office buildings and what little I knew of information technology, Mary returned with a tray of food, a jug of ale and two cups. I saw her children peep curiously around the corner of the doorway at me before she shooed them out.

  “Leave the garments there, bairns,” she said. “Go back to the croft now. I will come soon.”

  John grinned broadly at the children, who disappeared. He rose to take the tray from Mary and set it down on the table while she returned to the doorway to retrieve what looked like a folded pile of clothing similar to hers. She laid the clothing on the end of the mattress.

  “I have brought food enough for both of ye,” she said. “And the bairns helped to carry some auld skirts of mine. I fear they will drag the ground, but I brought no finery with me when I left the Macleod’s house.”

  Left the Macleod’s house? There it was again. I looked at John, hoping for an explanation, but dared not ask Mary.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She had turned to leave but paused on my words and pivoted slowly to look at me. My eyes widened. What now?

  “Not only do ye no appear to speak the language of the Isles, but yer English is unusual. Where do ye come from, Mistress Borodell?”

  Once again, John jumped into the breach.

  “Though Mistress Borodell has divulged verra little...as yet...she told me that she comes from England.”

  “England!” Mary said, her tone sharp. She directed a hard stare at me. “England,” she repeated again with a shake of her head.

  I nodded wordlessly. England it was, I guessed. I looked to John, but he gave me no hints of what to say or do as he stood by the door, waiting for his sister to leave, with an unreadable expression. A muscle ticked in his jaw, suggesting he gritted his teeth.

  “I dinna ken whether to bid ye welcome to our wee bit of Scotland or no, Mistress Borodell, but if ye fear spying, Brother, ye might look to the English, no to Angus Macleod.”

  She turned with a swish of her skirts and passed through the doorway. John snapped the door shut behind her.