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

by Bess McBride

  “Aye,” John finally spoke. “Mistress Glick is known to make the best cakes.” He took one and bit into it heartily. I picked one up and nibbled myself. Nutty tasting with a hint of salt, they were indeed delicious. I thought I might have to get the recipe from Mistress Glick before I left.

  I looked at John. Before I left.

  No! I was leaving just as soon as I got the dirk from John. I had a life, a degree to finish, student loans, a budding career. I was leaving as soon as possible. Whatever odd phenomena transpired to toss me back in time was just a quirk of fate, and no romantic or mystical meaning should be attached to it. I was privileged to experience a bit of sixteenth-century Scotland, but I didn’t belong here. I wasn’t hardy enough. I wasn’t brave enough. I wasn’t strong enough...and the weather in the Outer Hebrides was far, far cooler than that of Virginia in the twenty-first century. No!

  I looked up to see John watching me, a frown between his eyebrows. I loved the way his dark-blond eyebrows and facial hair glowed gold in the light of the fire, the way the sun had lightened his long hair into sandy streaks, the dark tan that suggested that although clouds covered the island much of the time, sunshine was also abundantly available.

  I didn’t love the frown on his face though, and I had the distinct impression he could read my mind.

  “These are delicious,” I said. “I’ll have to get the recipe from you.”

  “Recipe?” Mistress Glick asked, looking from me to John.

  “No doubt a French word,” he murmured, turning to me.

  “Oh, yes, probably. How you make the oatcakes, the ingredients, how to cook them.”

  “Och, aye, it is simple. Oatmeal, water, a wee bit of salt, and drop them in the frying pan.”

  “That is simple. I’ll bet even I can do that.”

  “Ye dinna cook then?” the older woman asked.

  My cheeks flamed for some reason. I avoided looking at John.

  “I’m afraid not. Not very well.”

  “But how do ye eat then, lass? Or perhaps ye have servants. Of course, ye have servants in England, no?”

  John looked at me with interest.

  I shook my head.

  “No, no servants. I just make do with what I have.”

  “We all do, dearie, but some foods must be cooked.”

  How could I change this subject, no easier than the one regarding my imaginary sister? I couldn’t very well explain microwaves and restaurants. Or could I?

  “I eat at the pub often.”

  Mistress Glick nodded.

  “Ah! Aye, of course, the public house. We have such in Ness, though I have no been for many years. It is now in Macleod hands. I dinna like to leave the stronghold.”

  “Aye, a situation I hope to remedy someday when we take back our lands,” John said. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I dinna think Mistress Glick has been to the mainland in three years.”

  “Since yer uncle whisked the Macleod’s lady away.” She lifted a dry eyebrow, and John hung his head in mock shame. When he raised his head, I thought I saw a twinkle in his eye. It could have been a spark from the fire though.

  “And him happily ensconced in Glasgow,” John said.

  “Aye, the scoundrel. Doomed us to years of feuding. Why does no Angus simply go to Glasgow and do away with the irritating man?”

  John’s lips lifted in a curve, and he turned to me.

  “I should explain that Mistress Glick is my uncle’s aunt.”

  “Oh!” Perhaps that explained why she suggested a man kill her nephew.

  “Dinna take my words amiss, lass. I love the boy, but he has worsened our relations with the Macleods, and only because he sought a dalliance with a married woman.”

  “How old is your uncle?” I asked John. I had assumed he was older, but the word “boy” threw me off.

  “Oh, about forty, I should say. Quite auld.”

  I smiled. I supposed forty was old in the sixteenth century. I wondered how old Mistress Glick was but dared not ask. She looked to be about eighty or so, but that advanced age seemed unlikely.

  The door opened suddenly, unannounced, and Mary stepped in. She stopped short at the sight of us and turned to go.

  “Stay, Mary,” John called out. “Mistress Borodell and I were just about to go. Mistress Glick has kindly given us refreshment.”

  Mary turned and hesitated, wiping her hands in the ubiquitous off-white apron so many of the women wore over their skirts.

  “I stopped only for some cakes for the bairns,” she said. “They will no eat mine.”

  “Och, those wee ones!” Mistress Glick laughed, a cackle really. She rose and walked over to her cupboard, wrapping some cakes in linen, which she handed to Mary.

  “I share their love of Mistress Glick’s cooking,” John said with a smile. Mary did not return his smile, and she refused to look at me. I could see she was definitely one to hold a grudge.

  John rose. “Come. Let me introduce ye to my niece and nephew! I have seen little enough of them this day.”

  “Oh, no, John,” I murmured, suspecting Mary definitely wouldn’t want me around her children. I was right

  “Thank ye, Mistress Glick,” she said. She turned to John, ignoring me. “A few minutes, no more. I dinna wish them overly excited with new visitors afore bed.”

  I looked out of the open doorway. Indeed, the sun was low in the sky. I really didn’t want to go to Mary’s croft.

  John blithely ignored the tension and turned to the older woman.

  “Thank ye, Mistress Glick, for the cakes and ale.” John gave the old woman a slight bow.

  “Thank you,” I echoed.

  “My pleasure,” she said. “If ye come back tomorrow, I will show ye how to make the cakes. I have taught Mary more than once, but somehow her bairns still prefer my cooking.” Again, she laughed in a raspy voice.

  Mary smiled, lending her face an unusually affable expression.

  “I take no offense at yer comments, for they are verra true.”

  She turned to leave, and when I hesitated, preferring to cozy up with Mistress Glick rather than Mary, John guided me out of the door. We followed Mary to her croft and entered. An exact replica of Mistress Glick’s house, she too sported tartan carpeting. Two beds anchored separate corners of the room. I assumed the children, now seating themselves at a table along one wall, slept in one bed.

  “Here is yer uncle John, Archibald and Sarah!” Mary said, immediately busying herself over a pot in the fireplace. I supposed that small children learned to stay away from open fires in the sixteenth century.

  The children’s faces barely cleared the tabletop. I assumed the boy was about four, the girl five, but with little experience with children, I could only guess.

  John bent to kiss the top of each blond child’s head before he settled me into a spare chair. I really didn’t want to sit. There were only four chairs and five people. Mary would have to sit to eat her meal, and I didn’t want to get in the way. She still hadn’t looked at me directly, and I didn’t blame her.

  “Uncle John!” Sarah sang out, her voice louder than necessary. “Are ye no eating with us this eve? Who is the lady?”

  John, who remained standing, ruffled Sarah’s hair with obvious affection.

  “This is Mistress Borodell, Sarah. She has come to stay with us for a time.”

  “Awww, just for a time?” Sarah said in a petulant voice, before her face brightened. “Can she live with us?”

  “Sarah!” Mary turned around with a snap. “Mind yer manners. No! Mistress Borodell is only here for a visit, no to live.”

  Little Sarah’s face drooped.

  I melted into my chair, wishing myself far away. John, standing behind Sarah, fixed his sister with a stare.

  “Aye, Sister. Manners.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mary hunch a shoulder and turn away from him. John shook his head and popped another kiss on Sarah’s head.

  “We must away, bairns. Say farewell to
Mistress Borodell now.”

  I jumped up and echoed the children’s good-byes.

  “Where will ye take yer supper then, John?” Mary asked quietly, still keeping her back to us.

  “I ken Mistress Borodell and I will find something to eat,” he said. He guided me out the door and away from the houses. His step slowed as he neared the water pond.

  “I take it Mary feeds you every day?”

  He stared down into the water and rubbed his beard with a rueful half smile.

  “Aye,” he said. “I am no married, and since Mary returned, she took up the task of feeding me. I have no servants here on the island. Some were captured when Angus took my home.”

  “So, where do you plan to find food?” I hated being the source of the animosity I now sensed between John and his sister.

  “I dinna ken to tell ye the truth.” His smile widened, showing strong even white teeth. “Mistress Glick would be more than happy to feed us, but I dinna like to take her food. She is no a wealthy woman and has little enough as it is.”

  “Can you pay her?”

  “She would no like that. No. The clan gives her what she needs.”

  “Oh!” I looked around. No restaurants, no grocery stores. Once again, I felt the desolation and starkness of life in the sixteenth century Western Isles of Scotland, especially on a small tidal stack.

  “Come! Let me return ye to the keep, and I will search out supper.”

  “Oh! Am I sleeping there?”

  “Aye,” he said. “Unless ye would rather sleep on Mary’s floor?”

  I gave him a dry smile.

  “But isn’t the keep where you sleep?”

  “Aye, but I shall make do elsewhere.”

  “Where?” I scanned the tabletop again. Was there spare housing? A spare bed somewhere?

  “Dinna fash about such matters, lass. It is my concern, no yers.”

  I gave up inquiries and accompanied him back to the keep. He dropped me off at the ground-floor room and left without locking the door. I tried it just in case, and it opened. But I really had nowhere to go, and I didn’t want to worry him anymore. The sweet pleading in his voice as he begged me to stop running earlier that day had become my jail. I was a willing prisoner.

  I made use of the chamber pot once again, still no expert at the art of lifting my skirts, squatting and doing the deed. A cramp in my upper thighs made me almost fall over, and I jumped up, cursed the thing and pushed it under the bed, promising myself once again that I would find a way to empty it.

  Now desperately longing for some water with which to wash my hands, I wiped them on my skirt and whirled around just as a tap sounded on the door. Before I could say “enter,” John pushed open the door and ushered in an adolescent boy carrying a large wooden tray.

  I watched as the boy, a tall, skinny, freckle-faced thing with a thatch of long, scraggily red hair, bearing all the hallmarks of Viking descent, set the tray on the table. Like others in what some might call a commune, he wore a white shirt with the faded-scarlet tartan kilt wrapped around his waist and a sash thrown over his shoulder.

  “Thank ye, Andrew,” John said.

  A boy of few words, Andrew eyed me wildly, ducked his head and turned for the door, hurrying out.

  “Do you have anything to wash with?” I asked John. “My hands.” I held them up in front of me as if he could see how dirty they were.

  “Aye, of course,” John said. He ducked his head back out the door that Andrew had left open.

  “Andrew!”

  Andrew appeared at the doorway.

  “Aye, yer lairdship?”

  “Some clean water for the mistress. Be quick about it!”

  “Aye!”

  Andrew rushed off, and John turned and pulled out a chair for me. I hesitated.

  “I’ll wait till I wash my hands.”

  “Surely ye can have some ale while ye wait?”

  Indeed, the tray held a new jug of ale, several cups, and several plates laden with food.

  “Yes, okay, that would be nice.”

  I had to admit that I would rather drink the water that Andrew might bring, but I supposed ale would be better for my delicate twenty-first century constitution.

  I took the seat that John offered and drank some of the ale he poured for me. Andrew returned in a jiff and gave John a bucket. John shooed him, then poured water into the basin and then stepped back.

  “Do ye wish me to leave?” he asked.

  “Oh, no! I’m fine. I’ll just wash my hands and face.” I dived into the cold water and splashed it on my face before washing my hands with the soap. Self-consciously aware that John waited for me, I hurried, ignoring my desire to pour the water through my hair and down my body. I really wanted a bath.

  I dried my face and hands and hurried back to the table.

  “I feel better, thanks!”

  “Do ye?” he asked with a curious lift of his eyebrows.

  “Oh, yes, refreshed.” I studied his hands, which looked clean enough. He reached for an oatcake.

  “How often do you bathe around here?”

  His hand stilled, and he coughed. In the act of spooning in some stew, I looked up.

  “I mean...water, washing, is that a big thing in your time? Somehow, I don’t think so, right?”

  Nothing in my archaeological studies had prepared me for interviewing a live sixteenth-century man about his hygiene habits, and I was doing a horrible job of it.

  John’s eyes widened, then narrowed. His jaw tightened...literally.

  “What I mean is...I’m not trying to insinuate that you all are dirty, but with no running water, I presume you don’t bathe very often?”

  If they didn’t bathe often, and I was sure they didn’t—they certainly didn’t in Colonial America—then why did he look so insulted?

  “John, I’m just asking a question.”

  “And a verra rude one it is, lass. It is no polite to question me on my cleanliness.”

  “Well, I’m an archaeologist! Of course I want to know as much about your time as I can. I’m sorry if my questions are insensitive.”

  “Insensitive. There is a bonny word. Insensitive.”

  “I don’t mean to be. I guess I could have worded my question differently...though how, I actually don’t know.”

  “I dinna ken either. Perhaps dinna ask?” John swigged back an entire cup of ale.

  “Okay. Sure, I guess I could miss the opportunity of a lifetime. To interview someone who really lives in the sixteenth century. To document things I learn. Sure, I could squander that chance while I’m here!” I felt ashamed but somehow righteous at the same time—an odd combination. My anger was rapidly matching John’s.

  “If ye didna plan to run away again so soon, to return to yer own time as quickly as possible, ye could simply learn these things without asking such ill-mannered questions!”

  “I’m not running away. I just want to go home! More than anything, I want to know that I can go home.”

  “Well, ye canna, and that is the end of it! I am no ready to let ye go!”

  Chapter Seven

  I gasped. Something in the way John spoke those words seemed intimate, possessive. He had said them before, but his tone had taken on more of a quixotic note.

  “Enough,” John said, raising a hand as if in truce. “I apologize for barking at ye. Yes, we bathe when necessary. Less often here at the dun than at Ardmore Castle, given our limited supply of fresh water.”

  My anger melted, and I eyed John curiously.

  “Tell me about Ardmore Castle.”

  “Aye, my estate, home, as ye say. I ken yer longing for home.”

  “How is it that Angus Macleod is still in possession of your estate? Are there no laws to help you get it back?”

  “Angus’s thirst for vengeance and power is great. He and the chieftain of the Macaulays petitioned the king for a Letter of Fire and Sword to destroy the Morrisons. I have no been able to travel to London to explain our pos
ition.”

  “I heard of the Letters of Fire and Sword.”

  “Did ye?” John asked. He resumed eating. “Does the king still issue such commissions? A sorry business.”

  “The United Kingdom has a queen now, not a king. She is a titular ruler with very little real power. The United Kingdom is actually governed by Parliament. And I doubt anyone in the UK commissions letters authorizing clans to kill each other anymore.”

  “Indeed?” John said with a sardonic lift of one eyebrow. “Tell me of this Parliament.”

  I told him what little I knew of Parliament, and much of that was historical in the context of my studies of Colonial America. When I wrapped up my meager knowledge regarding the current British political system two minutes later, he urged me to speak further.

  “Tell me of yer studies of Colonial America.”

  We talked while we ate, somehow putting aside the issue of my leaving...once again. I noted that John still carried the dagger on his belt and that he continued to position it at his back.

  At some point, I noted the light from the window fading as the sun went down, and I leaned closer to my plate to see the food. John rose and crossed over to the sideboard, retrieving something that looked like a small brass tinderbox. I watched in fascination as he struck flint to steel, blew on the tinder and transferred a small flame to the candle within the lantern. I couldn’t help but thrill to see a historical figure use a tinderbox in real time. I supposed that John would find himself just as thrilled if I whipped out a box of matches and lit one—better yet, a disposable lighter, but I had neither.

  “Thank you!”

  “Are yer eyes weak then?” he asked.

  “What?” As far as I knew, I had perfect vision...so far. “No, I think it’s fine.”

  “I saw ye squinting at yer food. Did something displease ye?”

  “Oh no! I thought you realized that it has gotten pretty dark. The sun has gone down.”

  He looked up.

  “Aye, so it has. But it is no yet dark.”

  I gave up. I was clearly talking to a sixteenth-century man who didn’t flick on lights at the first sign of twilight, not like I did. I imagined his shock, not only at the concept of electricity but that we used light all the time, even during daylight hours.