by Beth Trissel
“A bit? About a foot. Nor would it fit underneath. The cut of the cloth is too tight.”
She shrugged. “A dirk at yer side? And do not neglect the targe.”
“Right, Neil. Don’t forget your shield. A little cumbersome over dinner perhaps, what with the sword at your back and a dagger at your hip, but if it makes you feel more secure—”
“Enough Fergus,” his mother broke in. “Neil has every reason to be wary.”
“Go all out then, dude. Neo packed a lot of firepower under that coat in Matrix.”
What in God’s name was Fergus referring to now?
Mrs. Fergus shook her head at him.
A smile hovered at his lips. “I still think you should have given Neil the dark glasses Neo wore. Kewl touch.”
“Enough,” his mother chided, and then in softer tones, “Eat a good meal, everyone. You’ll need your strength. And Fergus, you are staying the night at Neil’s to help keep an eye out.”
These tidings sobered him up faster than a man robbed of ale. “What, exactly, are we watching for?”
“Not what. Who.”
With a sage look at Fergus, his mother picked up her pouch and reached inside. The beautiful floral fabric in rich colors reminded Mora of a tapestry, such as she might sew, if she could bide long enough to complete such a creation.
Mrs. Fergus withdrew something from the recesses of the lovely pouch. Covering her find with a square of white linen, she secreted it to Neil. “Tuck this in your spare pocket.”
He lowered the concealed object to his lap, and then looked up, brows arched. “Where’d you get this?”
She didn’t alter her careful expression. “From an expert craftsman. It’s well made, I assure you. Don’t let on. Others will take notice.”
“OK.” Feigning disinterest, Neil opened the top buttons on his coat.
Mora glimpsed the handle of a blade in a leather sheath as he slipped it inside his coat and out of sight. It wasn’t a long knife. From what she saw, she’d guess the dagger, sheath and all, to be no longer than the length of his hand. But it was enough and likely razor sharp. She wouldn’t object to having a dagger of her own.
Fergus regarded his mother with reproach. “Have you nothing for your dear son?”
“To add to that collection of gadgets in your pockets? I should think you’re prepared for every possibility.”
“Not everything. Forgot my nunchucks.”
“I suggest you stay behind Neil,” she advised. “On second thought, this might prove useful.” Back into the pouch went her plump hand and she produced a small object.
Fergus frowned. “Pepper spray? That’s for girls.”
“If you’re speaking of the young lady seated beside Neil, she has less need of it than you.”
Neil smiled faintly.
The din around them grew louder. “Must be in some sort of play, or maybe they’re making another movie at the old train station,” Mora heard a man at a nearby table say.
“Wouldn’t surprise me none,” his companion replied.
Baffled, she looked at Neil.
He rested his head in his hands. “What the he—heck, let them think we’re actors.”
“Makes sense for Civil War films,” a woman said to her friend, “but why make a Scottish movie in Staunton? That fellow out at the bar certainly looks the part for Braveheart.”
Neil jerked up his head. “Wait a minute. I don’t look Scots and neither does Mora at the moment.”
She followed his sharp gaze across the room, but couldn’t quite see out the door into the entryway.
“Gie me a draught of yer stoutest ale, laddie!” The booming voice was undeniable.
She sucked in her breath. “The MacDonald.”
Chapter Fifteen
Neil couldn’t see out the door of the dining room into the entryway of the restaurant, but he didn’t doubt the truth of Mora’s horrified suspicion. Dropping his voice to a gruff whisper, he said, “How in hell did that fiend find us?”
She swiveled back to stare at his face. “Is there some other way out?”
Neil nodded at a red Exit sign offering a glimmer of hope. “The back.”
Mrs. Fergus lifted a cautioning hand. “Patrons don’t use it. We’ll draw attention to ourselves if we duck out that way and sound an alarm.”
Fergus eyed her as though she’d missed the obvious. “We’ll draw a sight more when that maniac strides in here with a sword.”
“Staggers,” his mother reasoned, “if he keeps drinking. Already sounds a little tipsy.”
Neil strove to think. “But not plastered. Besides, we have no idea how long he’ll tarry at the bar before seeking us out.”
Mora shifted her eyes between them. “Mayhap he knows not where we are. This tavern has more than one room.”
“Meanwhile, he seems content to quench his thirst,” Mrs. Fergus said. “Sometimes the best course of action is the last thing anyone expects you to do.”
Neil grunted. “Staying right here would be it.” It was all he could do not to grab Mora then and there and bolt out the back.
She gripped his hand. “What do ye say we should do? Challenge him with naught but a wee blade.”
Mrs. Fergus shook her head. “It’s not yet time to challenge him. Besides, the police will be summoned and may not take our part.”
Fergus blew out his cheeks. “Probably lock us all us.”
“Sassenach soldiers,” Mora hissed.
Neil entwined her fingers in his, though whether he was consoling his bride to be or distant ancestor he didn’t know. “We must have a plan. We can’t just saunter out the front door in hopes that madman doesn’t look around. It’s taking too great a chance.”
Mrs. Fergus didn’t bat an eye. “Remain as you are for now. You’re both in a dark corner, your backs to the door. He can’t see your faces and doesn’t know ours.”
Neil considered. “You want us to sit here and eat while he drinks?”
“Exactly. You three slip out while I pay the bill. I’ll distract him. Hurry to your house and bar the doors. I’ll get a cab.”
“What about going back to Fergus’s?”
Mystery shrouded her eyes. “Not tonight.” Her voice dropped so that he strained to hear above the surrounding chatter. “Remember, Neil, it’s vital that you get through that door before him.”
“Why?”
“To remain a step ahead. You must reach the MacDonald chapel first at Domhnall castle. You cannot run the risk of him taking that tear bottle from you. Once he has that in his possession, it’s all over.”
A chill darted down Neil’s spine. She spoke as if this were really happening. He tried to shake off the near immobilizing sense of unreality and focus on the daunting task that lay before them.
Mrs. Fergus drew the black scarf from around her neck and handed it to Mora. “Cover that red hair. It shines like a beacon.” She brightened and glanced around. “Where’s the waitress? We need to order our food.”
Mora loosed her fingers from Neil’s and draped the fine wool over her head. “I have no appetite.”
“You must keep up your strength,” Mrs. Fergus insisted. “Much lies ahead.”
Neil could only trust they had a future.
A bright-eyed waitress materialized at their booth, blond hair worn in a ponytail. “I apologize for the delay, we’re rushed off our feet. My name’s Dawn and I’ll be taking care of you this evening.”
Neil strongly doubted this young co-ed was up to the challenge.
She studied him with interest. “Can I start you off with an appetizer?”
A sleeping pill in The MacDonald’s beer would be expedient, Neil considered. “Whatever you can serve up the fastest. We have an event to get to. You understand?”
“Certainly. I’m just sorry we’re behind. How about our grilled chicken sandwiches?”
“Fine,” he said, with nods all around the table.
Mora stared at the girl as if she were a disembodied s
pirit.
“Are you actors at Blackfriars?” the waitress asked, referring to the Shakespeare Center in town.
His life resembled a surreal play. “Can’t fool you, can we?”
Mrs. Fergus gave them a knowing look. “Don’t you love their costumes?”
Their server smiled, showing dimples. “Awesome. That Matrix coat is a great twist. They have such unusual costumes and props for Shakespeare nowadays. That Scottish guy out front sure looks the part. Everyone thinks so. Are you with him?”
“No. Separate party.” Neil fervently prayed they remained that way.
“I’d like to act at Blackfriars,” the waitress confided with an expectant gleam. “Had lots of parts in high school. Always thought I was born for the stage. Live audience and all that.”
“We’ll put in a good word for you, after you bring those sandwiches,” he prompted.
“Right,” she laughed. “And what to drink?”
“Coffee, iced tea, water,” he tossed out, looking beyond her at the door. “And if you’d not mention our presence to the Scottish dude. He’s piss—bummed I got the lead.”
“Sure,” she said, with a conspiratorial grin. “I’ll just bet he is. You’d totally get the part over him. He’d make a fabulous villain, maybe Richard III. You’re perfect for Hamlet or Romeo.”
Why did she have to suggest tragedies?
“I’m Mercutio,” Fergus offered, naming the flamboyant wit in Romeo and Juliet.
“Uh huh.” The waitress skimmed her gaze over Fergus and paused at Mora. She cocked her head to one side, a quizzical expression in her eyes. “And you’re Juliet, I bet. Or Ophelia.”
Neil hoped this wasn’t a foreshadowing of their fate. Come to think of it, Mercutio didn’t come to a good end either.
Chapter Sixteen
From just inside the dining room door, Mora peered around one side of Neil and Fergus his other while Mrs. Fergus strolled into the entryway. At the bar sat the Red MacDonald, his back turned to them. Hair the color of fiery hot coals fell over his shoulders, tangled like the mane of a horse left out too long in the wet. Over his leine, she’d heard Neil call a shirt, he wore a golden brown jacket and red and green plaid. And across one broad shoulder down over his back hung a great sword, slung in the leather back scabbard. The hilt of the claymore protruded above his shoulder blade.
Legs as thick as sturdy saplings extended over the side of the stool encased in full-length green trews. Brown shoes shod his big feet. He was a giant man, not so much taller than Neil, but brawnier and wicked.
Red MacDonald could kill man or woman and never flinch. She suspected Neil would mind a great deal, but also trusted he would do as he must to protect her and his future.
What of himself, though?
She cringed to think of Neil locked in battle with this mighty laird. He was fleet of foot, to be sure, but not yet hardened, and she doubted he knew much of swordplay. That might well be his undoing.
The Red MacDonald turned at Mrs. Fergus’s coming, blue eyes glittering from malevolence and drink. Glass in hand, he scrutinized her.
None of the other patrons took heed, but Mrs. Fergus met his keen regard, the pinch-mouthed Scotsman pitted against this woman of hidden talents.
The cunning chieftain seemed to sense something unusual about this most unlikely adversary. Stroking his beard, he took her measure, and not because he found her beautiful. There was an air of canniness about his regard.
But how did one weigh the threat of a seer and what would Mrs. Fergus do? Mora wished she’d cast an enchantment on The MacDonald, but that might result in her burning for a witch. Mora would never wish any evil on this dear soul.
Neil clenched one hand at his side and poised the other at the opening in his coat. He whispered over his shoulder, “I don’t like the way he’s eyeing her. If he makes a move in her direction, I’m going for my knife.”
She shuddered to think of that bloody great claymore slicing at Neil.
“He’s getting a snoot full of pepper spray,” Fergus threatened in a growl, totally unlike his usual good nature.
If it came to blows, Mora would throw herself into the fray, and God help them all. They had one dagger between them.
Hardly daring to breathe, she watched to see what Mrs. Fergus would do. They all did.
Instead of summoning her hidden powers, the pleasant matron made a show of opening her coin purse. “For a glass of wine,” she murmured, and then accidentally emptied its contents on the floor. “Oh my. So clumsy of me.”
Copper and silver rolled across the boards and sent more than one patron to their knees, especially as she waved off any efforts to return the booty. “Keep them. I’ll use my card.” Whatever that meant.
Lured by this trove, The MacDonald scrambled to join in the search, the greedy divil. The leather sporran at his belt held coins, but he always wanted more.
This was their chance.
“Ready?” Neil prompted in a whisper.
“Aye.” Nerves taut, Mora followed him across the entryway and through the front door. Fergus needed no bidding to follow at their heels.
As soon as they stepped onto the walkway, Neil grabbed Mora’s arm. He swept her across the snowy planks, down the steps, and over the whitened cobbles. Fergus might be slight, but by heaven he kept pace.
The falling snow feathered the chill air.
Was it her imagination or had a bellow, like an outraged bull, sounded behind them?
****
“Git yerself back here, MacKenzie! Have ye no balls? Fight like a man, ye coward!”
Anger ran hot in Neil’s veins but he ignored the insults hurled at him. He’d not be goaded into a fight he was in no way prepared to tackle. Besides, Mrs. Fergus had said to make all possible haste.
Heeding her directive, he rushed Mora to the vintage sedan the mature woman drove, opened the door, and hurried her into the passenger seat. “Sit tight.”
His back to the car, Neil turned around. Fergus panted at his side, squinting through his glasses. “Has he got Mom?”
Neil scanned the solitary figure on the walkway obscured by the curtain of flakes. “No.”
Mora thrust her head out of the cracked door. “If Mrs. Fergus be harmed, I’ll scratch his eyes out—”
“Doubtless she’s taken cover.” Confident his assailant would neither seek out nor find the wise woman, Neil pushed Mora back inside. “Stay put.” Then he barked at Fergus, “Get in the damn car!”
Neil flung himself behind the wheel and Fergus dove in the back. “Keep your heads down, you two. That lunatic may follow us.”
Neil wasn’t sure how the belligerent Scotsman tracked them to the restaurant in the first place. But he had an uncanny and unwanted way of turning up. If he was also some kind of psychic, Neil hoped he wasn’t as foresighted as Mrs. Fergus.
Maybe the Scotsman had quickly adapted to his new environment and learned how to take cabs, or thumb rides. Who in their right mind would pick this guy up?
Fellow actors, maybe. They’d probably think him some harmless eccentric and be only too happy to give him a lift, entertained, no doubt, by his colorful attire and speech.
A horse seemed a far more apt means of transport for the Highlander. And it seemed to Neil that he used to ride…a very long time ago. A chestnut horse, the feel of its velvety nose, its dark mane tossing in the wind, the rustic scent of the stables…teased at the edges of his mind. Only he’d never had a horse. Not in this lifetime, anyway.
No time for these thoughts now.
Driving on bad roads was a skill at which he excelled. He put the car in gear and peeled out of the lot. Dimly lit storefronts rushed by in a white blur. Blessedly, the snowy road was almost empty of traffic. No motorists to collide with. He even drove through a red light.
No cops in sight either. Thank God.
Being chased by a mad Scotsman wasn’t a situation Neil cared to explain on top of the recent murder in his house. He tore up the steep rise of t
he hilly town, praying no policeman spotted them and his luck held.
Chapter Seventeen
Neil paused on the porch and glanced back at the street. Icy pellets mixed with the fine snow stung his face. His breath puffed white in the frigid air, as did his two companions. Streetlights revealed only the sheen of falling powder and tracks left on the road from the borrowed sedan.
He should probably park the car around back. But time was running out to reposition the large vehicle. At least, for now, the coast was clear.
“No one in sight,” he muttered.
Fergus glanced over his shoulder. “Yet.”
The word reverberated in Neil’s racing mind. “We’d better hurry.” He turned and inserted the key in the locked door.
“Where’d this blizzard come from? It wasn’t in the fricking forecast,” Fergus added.
“Explains these coats your mom dispensed. Let’s hope the snow slows The MacDonald.”
Hands in her pockets, Mora peered back at the veiled street. “A wee bit of weather will not hinder one accustomed to tramping about the Hielans in the snow like a red roe deer.”
Fergus grunted in agreement. “She’s right. Mom seems certain he’s coming.”
Neil opened the front door. “Anything else she mentioned I should be aware of?”
“She’ll try to keep the portal open for three more days.”
“Is it in danger of closing?”
“At any hour.”
“Good Lord.” Neil entered the dark foyer and stomped his feet on the carpet. “But I already checked that upstairs door twice and it didn’t budge, let alone lead anywhere but outside.”
Fergus stomped in beside him. “Wormholes through time fluctuate.”
“Of course. Everyone knows that,” he said, tension making him snarky. “Since when are you an expert on wormholes?”
“I’ve been researching them.”
Mora brushed the white stuff from her fur with black gloves. “I’m here, am I not, and the Red MacDonald? What more proof of its existence do ye need?”
