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

by Bess McBride

  I desperately wanted to shout out for John, to tell him where I was, but I realized that by doing so, I only endangered him, possibly giving away his location, most likely calling attention to myself. Angus might come for me before John could reach me...or Dugald. I pressed my lips together tightly and listened at the door.

  The hallway was silent. Maybe John had gone to Mary first. And rightly so! The children needed to be taken home. Family first! He would come for me when he could, if he could. I knew he would.

  “John,” I whispered, pressing my forehead against the thick oak. “John, please come get me.”

  “Ann?” a deep, hushed voice spoke through the keyhole.

  John!

  “John?” I whispered back. “Is that you?” I bent down to look through the keyhole. One dazzling blue eye regarded me. He backed up, and I saw the entirety of his handsome beloved face.

  “Are ye injured, lass? Where is the key?” he asked.

  “I’m fine! Mrs. Mackay has the key. I don’t know where she is.”

  “Why would Mrs. Mackay lock ye in a room?” he asked.

  “For my protection at this point, more than anything.”

  “Yer protection?” he growled. “Did Angus harm ye?”

  “No! Have you found Mary? How are you? Are you in pain? You must be in pain.”

  “Torq will free Mary. I assume she is in her auld rooms. I will mend, lass. Dinna fash yerself on my account.” He looked troubled.

  “I have to leave ye to get the keys from Mrs. Mackay. I will return.”

  “John!” I wanted to grab him, to beg him not to leave me.

  “Aye, lass?”

  “Please come back. Don’t get hurt. Please don’t get hurt.”

  John chuckled.

  “I will return, my love.”

  “John!” I whispered urgently, but he had already disappeared.

  My love.

  He loved me! John had called me his love.

  I ran back to the window and looked down onto the melee. A sense of surrealism overcame me as if I were deep inside some sort of historical adventure film. Was I really looking down from a castle keep onto a medieval skirmish complete with broadswords, long-handled pistols, torches and kilts?

  For a brief mad moment, I longed to hear sirens and see the flashing red and blue lights signifying the authorities had arrived. The riot was over! But that wasn’t going to happen.

  Mesmerized, I watched the action until I heard a rattling of keys at my door. I whirled around. Angus stumbled into the room.

  “There ye are, lass! I thought young Morrison had stolen ye from me.”

  “No!” I shouted as Angus, apparently still drunk from his slurred words, advanced on me, the ring of keys dangling from his hand.

  “How did you get those?” I asked foolishly.

  “The good housekeeper relinquished them rather unwillingly,” he said with a repulsive sloppy grin.

  I backed away from the window, frantically searching for an escape route. Unable to work out a plan, I launched myself toward Angus, hoping I could tip him over and get to the door. Drunk or sober, I hit a brick wall, and he dropped the keys and folded me into a foul-smelling embrace.

  I screamed then, but the sound was muffled by his mouth upon mine. Disgusted and frightened, I twisted my head away, but he grabbed my chin and forced it to his.

  “Come, lass! Once ye are mine, Morrison will no want ye. I will have my revenge!”

  “Unhand her!” a voice bellowed behind us. A muted thud sounded, and Angus reared back, his eyes wide, before he slumped to the ground. He almost dragged me down with him, but I slithered out of his arms.

  John flipped his pistol around and thrust it into his belt. Given the absence of a gunshot, I wondered if he had hit Angus over the head.

  My body shook as adrenaline receded, and I chattered when I spoke.

  “Is he dead?” I looked down at the prone figure.

  “Nay,” John said, slipping an arm around my waist as my shaky legs gave way. “I could wish that he were, but no, I merely struck him with the butt of my pistol.”

  “Oh, sorry! My legs aren’t working,” I mumbled, keeping a wary eye on the unconscious Angus to make sure he didn’t jump up again.

  “Dinna fash, my love. I have ye.” John dragged me from the room just as Mrs. Mackay emerged from the stairway, panting and perspiring.

  “Och, lass! There ye are!” She looked to John. “Where is Angus?”

  “On the floor sleeping off the knocking I gave him,” John said. “Come. We must go. We are severely outnumbered, and the lads can no distract the Macleods for much longer. We are no prepared to retake the castle just now.”

  “Go!” Mrs. Mackay said. “I will see to Angus.”

  “You mean you have to leave your home behind in the Macleod’s hands?” I gasped. I turned to the older woman. “You’re not staying, are you, Mrs. Mackay?”

  “Aye, I will remain here until the Morrisons come home.”

  Though still supporting me, John grabbed the older woman around the waist and planted a kiss on her cheek.

  “I love ye, Mrs. Mackay. We will return soon, that I promise ye.”

  “Gie away with ye, lad!” she said with a tear rolling down her face. “Of course ye will. This is yer home.”

  John grinned, let go of her and half carried me down the steep stairwell. We emerged into the chaos of the courtyard to see Torq with Mary and the children in tow, running for the gate. John followed in their wake, dragging me with him. Before we passed through the wall, he turned and whistled, a shrill sound that turned heads.

  The fighting seemed to stop, and men in muted-red kilts ran toward the gates, while the Macleods stared after them, seemingly stunned at the sudden cessation of battle and disappearance of their opponents.

  A full moon shone down to light our way, and ahead of me, I saw Torq pick up one of the children, while James, one of the guards at Dun Eistean, picked up the other child, and they ran down the path that led to the beach. Andrew seemed to come out of nowhere and ran beside us.

  “Andrew!” I said breathlessly.

  “Mistress,” he panted, keeping pace. “I trust ye are well?

  “No time for pleasantries, ye two,” John said.

  “You came by boat?” I asked.

  “Nay, Angus stole our boat. But we are leaving by boat, and taking one with us!”

  We had reached the beach now and ran through the sand toward the birlinn at the water’s edge. There was no doubt the Macleods would follow us once they snapped out of their confusion.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw several of the Morrison men head for the moored Macleod boat. They pushed it offshore before hopping into it.

  John and I ran up to the birlinn to see Torq and James, knee deep in water, lifting the children over the edge of the hull while several men already on board received them. Mary watched anxiously, turning only slightly on our arrival.

  “John!” she said in a husky voice before returning her attention to her children, who seemed to handle the chaos stoically and without tears.

  “Sister,” John said. He leaned in to kiss her cheek as Torq returned to shore to pick Mary up in his arms. He carried her out to the boat to toss her in.

  To my surprise, I felt myself swept up into John arms.

  “Put me down!” I said urgently. “You’re going to hurt yourself!”

  “Nay, lass. I keep telling ye that ye are but a wee thing, light as a feather.” He moved forward.

  “Och, laird!” Andrew fussed to no avail. “Uncle!” he called out.

  Torq, seeing John carrying me, splashed back to shore.

  “Laird, let me take her,” he barked.

  “Nay, I can manage,” John said. He stepped into the water and immediately fell back with a groan, though he maintained his balance. Simultaneously, I felt something warm, wet and sticky under my hand as it rested lightly on his shoulder. The smell of copper told me it was blood.

  Torq
grabbed me from John’s arms and lifted me over the edge of the hull. Mary pulled me into the boat and settled me onto a bench, while Torq yelled out something in Gaelic. Andrew, James and several other men turned to help with John, who sagged against the hull, as if he fainted.

  “Careful, he’s bleeding,” I called out, rising to watch them roll John into the boat. Mary and I fell to our knees to John’s side while Torq, Andrew and the other men pushed the boat out into the surf and jumped in. The children huddled on a bench just behind Mary.

  Shouts came from the hill above the beach, and I looked up to see men running toward us. I hoped they were Macleods and not any Morrisons left behind. One tall man standing still at the water’s edge caught my eye. Dugald.

  I returned my attention to John, who was definitely unconscious. That his wound had opened was apparent, but I couldn’t really see much under the moonlight. I tore off the bottom edge of my shift, bundled it and stuffed it under his shirt to staunch the flow.

  “How long until we get back?” I asked Mary, trying to tamp down my panic.

  “It will be some time,” she said. “Perhaps dawn. I pray he does no exsanguinate afore then.”

  I felt the pulse in John’s neck. Strong and steady, he seemed to be in good shape for now. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t lose so much blood by dawn that he wouldn’t die. I tried to remember some of my first-aid classes. Where was the pressure point to stop bleeding near his neck? Somewhere near his collarbone, and very near the site of the top portion of his injury.

  Gently, I applied pressure to the top of his clavicle.

  “What are ye doing, Ann? Do ye seek to further harm my brother?” Mary squawked.

  “No!” I said testily. “I’m trying to stop the bleeding.”

  “Och! And how do ye expect to do that without benefit of hot metal?”

  “Well, I don’t know, Mary! Do you happen to have some fire? Or a hot sword?”

  Mary sank back on her knees. The boat rocked now as the surf carried us out to sea. The few men we had pulled at oars, and we paralleled the coastline. Andrew, smaller than the others, joined James and did his best with the heavy oars.

  “Nay, I am without either, and we can no take the boat in to build a fire. How is it ye ken how to stop bleeding with yer fingers?”

  “Something I learned long ago,” I said. I lifted the edge of John’s compress. Indeed, I had managed to slow the bleeding. But how long could I apply pressure? Hours? Until dawn? Hopefully, his reopened wound would begin to clot before too long, and I could allow blood to flow again.

  Torq approached us and spoke to Mary in Gaelic. She responded in English.

  “She is pressing against his wound to stop the bleeding.”

  Torq nodded, ever the silent man, and he sat down next to the children as if he was prepared to watch.

  Mary said something to him in Gaelic and offered him her shawl. To my surprise, he laid it around my shoulders.

  “Ye are no dressed, Ann,” she said with a half smile.

  I looked down at my baggy calf-length shift and nodded. No, I guessed to them I was only half clothed.

  “I will see to my bairns now. Call if ye need anything.”

  I nodded as Mary returned to her seat and cradled her exhausted children. I watched as they fell instantly asleep. If anything, they should have had the shawl wrapped around them, but there was little I could do.

  The swaying of the boat and the rhythmic slapping of the oars in the water lulled me, and I almost fell asleep too, but I shook myself awake. I checked John’s wound again, knowing I shouldn’t disturb the compress yet unable to tell if his bleeding had stopped without doing so.

  Unable to see, I could only press my very unsanitary hands upon his wound to feel that, indeed, clotting was forming and his bleeding had stopped. I released my grip on his collarbone and looked up to see Mary and Torq give me inquiring glances. Andrew looked over his shoulder, also clearly curious.

  I nodded to everyone with a broad smile, and they responded in kind. Mary closed her eyes and laid her head on Torq’s shoulder. Torq put an arm around her and rested his head against hers. Poor Andrew kept on rowing.

  I laid my head back against the hull of the ship and slept fitfully until the gray light of dawn awakened me. I opened my eyes to see a familiar tidal stack appear in the near distance. The other boat, that belonging to the Macleods, had already arrived.

  Torq was up and moving, though Mary still slept with her children in her arms. I looked down at John, still unconscious...or sleeping. The boat picked up momentum as the oarsmen stroked through the wild surf to reach the cove at the bottom of Dun Eistean. As if we were on a roller coaster, the boat lifted and dropped, and I leaned over John to hold him in place.

  Several men jumped out and pulled the boat up onto the rocky beach. Andrew and James followed. Torq helped Mary and the children down and turned to me. I rose and looked at John.

  “Be careful with him,” I begged as Torq helped me climb over the side while Andrew and James waited to steady me on the slippery pebbles. I waited anxiously as Torq and another man struggled to ease a very heavy John over the side.

  Andrew, James and several other men grasped John, and I hurried to slip a supporting arm around John’s back. In doing so, I accidentally grabbed a metal object—the hilt of John’s dagger. Heat spread throughout my hand, and flashing lights blinded me. I cried out.

  “No! Oh no! John!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I opened bleary eyes and looked up at gray skies. Seagulls flew overhead, screeching at each other. The thunder of waves crashing against rocks close by caught my attention.

  With a start, I lifted my head and pushed myself to a sitting position. My fingers scraped against wet rounded pebbles. The beach!

  I was on the beach, but no Viking-style ships anchored nearby, and none maneuvered the surf just offshore. No men scurried about, carrying John off the boat. No one. I was alone, save for the seagulls.

  Stunned, I looked down at my empty hands. The dagger was gone. I scrambled to my feet to search the rocky shore for the dagger. With a sickening feeling, I knew the worst had happened.

  “No, no,” I sobbed. “No, please no. I’ll do anything. Just please let me find the dagger. John! Please let me find the dagger. Where is it? Where is it?”

  But for all my tears, for all my entreaties, the dagger did not materialize.

  I had traveled through time. I didn’t know to what year, but John was gone. Or I was gone. And without the dagger, I had no way back to him.

  I turned away from the sea toward the cliff. Only a few days ago, I had seen Mistress Glick up there, watching Angus take me away.

  Grief constricted my throat. My lungs felt tight, and I couldn’t breathe.

  I heard someone shout, and I looked up. A tall man stood on top of the cliff, his hands cupped, calling down to me. Shoulder-length blond hair blew in the wind.

  John!

  “John?” I called out with a racing heart. “John!”

  “Ann! Ann! Wait there! We’re coming for you.”

  I recognized Dylan’s gray sweatshirt and blue jeans, and my legs crumpled. I sank to my knees and buried my face in my hands.

  “John,” I whispered. “John! How do I get back to you? How do I get back?”

  But John didn’t answer. I couldn’t hear his voice. I looked up again to see Dylan and several other people working their way down the crevice to the beach. Hurriedly, I called out to John again.

  “John, can you hear me? John?”

  Nothing. No flashing lights, no dizziness. Aching tears poured down my cheeks as I whispered his name over and over again. Was he unconscious? If he was conscious, could he hear me? Would he call for me? How could I get back to him?

  “Ann!” Dylan’s voice penetrated my grief. “Ann! Where have you been? Are you all right?”

  Through blurry eyes, I saw Dylan’s hiking boots by my knees. I think his arms went around me. Multiple voices penetra
ted the mantra I kept silently whispering.

  John! John! Can you hear me?

  “Is it Ann? Where has she been? Ann! Are you all right? Where did she come from? Ann!”

  I couldn’t answer. I didn’t think I would ever be able to answer. Wet and cold, I started to shiver, and someone, perhaps Dylan, dropped a warm, dry jacket over my shoulders.

  Hands pulled me to my feet, and I found myself resisting as someone tried to pull me forward. I kept my eyes on the wet pebbles, unwilling to raise them to see anything but John. I didn’t want to be taken from the beach. I wanted only to stay right where I was, in case time reversed itself somehow and sent me back. Or John was able to call me back.

  “Come on, Ann. Come with us,” a male voice said. “She seems dazed and confused. I can’t think what’s happened to her. She has no shoes.”

  “We called the authorities when you disappeared, Ann,” someone said. “They’ll want to talk to you, to know that you’re okay.”

  I shook my head at that but said nothing. Against my will, I was dragged, albeit gently, toward the cliff. I kept shaking my head, but I already had forgotten about the police. I didn’t want them to carry me away, but I couldn’t fight them.

  The group hauled me up the path. It seemed as if every archaeologist and student had joined the mass propelling me forward. I heard their questions, their comments, their concerns, but I answered none of them.

  At one point, I turned and looked over my shoulder, beyond the group of contemporary faces. The agate sea churned with whitecaps. Waves crashed against boulders and pounded the beach. Seabirds screeched against our intrusion. But the view was still void of boats.

  The archaeological team half carried me onto the tabletop, and I balked and cried out when I saw the remains of the keep.

  “Oh, no! Oh, please, nooooo...” I mourned. Only grassy mounds now covered the hump that was once the tower house, the boathouses and the crofts. Everything was the same as it had been before I traveled back in time, but what had once seemed to be an exciting archaeological dig now looked desolate, abandoned and achingly sad.

  “What’s wrong, Ann? Ann?” Dylan supported me across the tidal stack and toward the modern bridge that connected the island to the mainland. I resisted again when we reached the bridge, unwilling to leave the island, unwilling to break the spell that had thrown me back in time.