The Highlander's Folly (The Novels of Loch Moigh Book 3)

by Barbara Longley

  She surveyed the ground as she went, looking for any sign of the missing knight, his squire and page. Drawn to the place where the faerie’s tent had been, she held herself rigid, expecting some residual effect from the portal through time. Bruises and aches from her journey still throbbed. Weary to the bone, only adrenaline kept her going. She slowed her mount and walked him toward the spot where Hunter had kidnapped her.

  How was it possible for the faerie’s tent to be in two centuries at once? She’d seen Hunter fall through the rear tent flap. The way he’d landed, it looked as if he’d been hurled with a lot of force behind him.

  She caught a glimpse of metal near one of the pines and moved closer to investigate. A cry escaped her at the sight of her very own sword on the ground. She slid off the horse and hurried to the place where it lay. Wonder of wonders, her leather scabbard rested on the dirt a short distance away—just as she’d placed it before starting the exhibition. Only then, she’d been on different ground, on a different continent and in the twenty-first century.

  Her knees buckled, and she sank to the pine needles on the ground. Her hand shook as she reached for the sword her parents had given her. She wrapped her palm around the tang. The feel of the leather-wrapped steel crossguard and the leather-wrapped grip against her skin set off a wave of misery.

  She wanted her mom, dad and grandparents. She wanted her brothers and the safety of home and the comforts of her proper century. Wrenched from everyone who mattered, being separated by time and distance just didn’t compute. Her head spun with the effort to wrap her mind around what had happened. Tears filled her eyes again, and desperation welled. The sound of thundering hooves approaching barely registered.

  “What is it, lass? What have you found?” Hunter came up behind her.

  Forcing herself up off the ground, she brandished her sword in the air for him to see. Then she moved to retrieve the scabbard, sliding the blade inside the silver-tipped leather sheath. Keeping her back to the man responsible for this mess, she wiped her face with the linen sleeve of her shirt. “My sword,” she muttered. “I found my weapon here on the ground along with the scabbard—as if I’d left them here and not . . .” Her voice broke, and she took a few deep breaths to gain control. “And not a world and centuries away.”

  “I am sorry, lass. You canna imagine how very sorry I am.”

  “You were used, and I can’t fault you for trying to do the right thing. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

  “Beat myself up? I dinna take your meaning.” He huffed out a breath. “Never mind. I can find no sign of Nevan or his lads. Let us depart. I dinna like the feel of this place.”

  “Sure. Let’s do that.” Grief turned to anger, and nothing steadied her nerves like rage. “We’ve been set up. You get that, right?”

  “Aye. I do indeed get that.”

  “I realize this is not entirely your fault, but I’m pissed, and I don’t want to talk to you . . . or even look at you right now.” She sniffed and brushed at her tear-streaked cheeks. “I need my space.”

  “I would like nothing more than to give you your space, but ’twould no’ be wise under the circumstances. Ride a short distance behind me, and I will endeavor to keep to myself.”

  “Why me?” she cried as she fumbled to get her scabbard buckled across her chest.

  “I dinna ken.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Madame Giselle said I was to restore balance and right a wrong of old.”

  “Restore balance?” She frowned. Had the faerie been referring to her father’s displacement? If that were the case, shouldn’t she have been sent to thirteenth-century Ireland instead of fifteenth-century Scotland? At least in Ireland she had family, and she looked enough like her father that her ancestors might believe her when she told them she was Connor’s daughter.

  “Aye. I canna begin to divine her purpose in having me take you as I did. My foster mother was sent here from the future to save my life, as Erin was brought here to save hers. Mayhap you are meant to do the same for some poor soul. Who can say?” He pointed to her feet. “Remove those spurs from your boots, lass.”

  “What?” She glared. “Why should I?”

  “Because only a knight may wear spurs, and ’tis unlikely our young King James has bestowed that honor upon you. We are about to ride into a group of true knights of the Scottish realm, and I doubt they will take it well to see a lass in spurs. ’Tis bad enough you’re dressed as a man.” He held out his hand. “I will return the spurs to you once we reach Moigh Hall. I swear upon my honor.”

  Though his words took a bite out of her pride, she couldn’t fault his reasoning. When in Rome and all that. She unfastened the silver spurs with their Celtic markings and handed them to him. “For your information, I earned these spurs the same way you did. Don’t lose them.”

  He made a disdainful grunting noise deep in his throat and put her spurs in the sporran he wore on his belt. He moved to the gelding’s side and once again cupped his hands to help her mount. “Come. Let us depart. My men await.”

  Heaving her own sigh of resignation, she climbed up on the horse and waited for Hunter to mount Doireann. “Lead the way. No more talking. I have a lot to process,” she grumbled. Nodding, he shot her a warm smile, his eyes filled with sympathy. The sight left her breathless and sent her heart racing. Damn those dimples!

  “As you wish, my lady.” He led the way toward the hills, and the ponies soon fell into step behind them, just as Hunter said they would.

  True to his word, he kept to himself. She chewed on her bottom lip and tried to pull herself together. For the time being, she was safe. That counted for something. She knew Robley and Erin—another reason to be thankful. Plus, after Erin had been sent to the past, she’d managed to return to the twenty-first century, which meant going home was possible.

  When Erin had made the decision to leave the present to return to Robley in the past, she’d shared with Meghan’s family what had happened with Haldor, the faerie warrior who enforced the fae laws. If Madame Giselle wouldn’t return Meghan to her time, maybe Haldor would. Surely he’d be willing to take care of another of Madame Giselle’s transgressions. The fae enforcer must be aware that Madame Giselle was at it again. She had options, and that gave her hope.

  She stopped gnawing on her bottom lip and threw her shoulders back, just as they rode over the top of the hill and into a group of men and adolescent boys. They gaped at her, mouths and eyes open wide. Meghan lifted her chin. She was descended from Irish nobility, Milesians, in fact, and she wasn’t about to show weakness or fear to a bunch of ill-equipped fifteenth-century knights. They weren’t even wearing chain mail. Where were their spurs? They couldn’t be all that successful as knights if they were so poorly outfitted, right?

  A tall, well-built, good-looking man with ebony hair and stunning deep-blue eyes detached himself from the group and approached Hunter. “Where are Nevan, Bertrand and Geoffrey?” He had his hand on the hilt of the dagger at his waist. He shot her a curious look. “Who is this lass, and why is she dressed as a squire and carrying a sword?”

  “Tieren,” Hunter said as he gestured toward her, “this is Lady Meghan of clan McGladrey. My lady, this is Tieren of clan MacKintosh.” He pointed to the others. “There you have Sir Gregory, Sir Murray and Sir Cecil. Good knights all, and trustworthy. You are safe with us.” He glanced her way and gestured to a boy who stood staring at her with open curiosity. “My page, Allain, is the lad by the wagon. Next to him are Tieren’s squire, George, his page, Tristan, and Murray’s squire, John.”

  He went on to introduce the other pages and squires, whose names went in one ear and right out the other. She couldn’t take in any more information. She nodded toward the younger boys. The men moved closer, and her mouth went dry. “I’m pleased to meet all of you, though it’s going to take me a while to learn your names.”

  “Why is she riding Nevan’s hor
se?” the knight called Gregory asked, eyeing her with suspicion.

  “The fair is gone,” Hunter said, his tone once again filled with resignation. “Along with Nevan and the lads. We found their horses grazing in the field, and I reckoned Nevan would no’ mind if she rode his gelding.”

  Tieren’s eyes widened. “What do you mean gone?”

  “’Tis as if it had never been.” The muscle in Hunter’s clamped jaw twitched again. “No sign remains of the wagons, tables, the Romany or their tents. The ground is bare of any evidence that there was ever aught there. We searched. Nevan and the lads were nowhere to be found.”

  Gregory made the sign of the cross, and all eyes swung to her. Heat rushed to her face. She knew how superstitious people were during this era. She also knew what they did to people whom they suspected of witchcraft or anything else out of the norm.

  “I had nothing to do with it. Hunter believed he was rescuing me from an attack. He nabbed me, and we rode toward this hill. Once I convinced him I hadn’t been in any danger, we rode back together. That’s when we found everything gone.” She met their wary glances. “I swear. I had nothing to do with any of this. All I want is to go home.”

  The blond knight with slightly bowed legs frowned. Cecil. That’s what Hunter had called him. “The lady’s speech sounds foreign,” he remarked, also placing his hand on the hilt of the dagger at his waist. “Where might she be from?”

  Hunter’s brow creased. “Och—”

  “Gone, ye say? The fair is no more?” Murray pulled at his wiry beard. “How can that be so?”

  “’Tis my belief that the fair was naught but an apparition wrought by a faerie,” Hunter told them with a sharp look.

  “I dinna believe it.” Cecil’s expression hardened. “’Tis no’ possible. We saw the wagons, horses and the folk. We beheld the tents and booths with our own eyes and smelled the roasting meat.”

  “Have I ever told you a falsehood in all the time we’ve traveled and fought side by side?” Hunter snapped. “Go. See for yourself, Cecil, and if you can manage to find Nevan where I could no’, I’d be most grateful. I dinna look forward to telling his kin he’s been taken by the fae.”

  Cecil turned to the others. “Who will come with me?”

  Gregory crossed himself again and kept his mouth shut.

  “I’ll guard yer back, Cecil.” Murray snatched up his horse’s reins. “I’ve kent Hunter since we were pages together. He’s honest tae a fault. If proof is what ye seek, proof is what ye shall have.” He swung up on his destrier’s back. “I ken ye’ve all heard the tales at your parents’ knees of the fae and their doings. Hunter warned us something was amiss, and Nevan chose no’ tae pay him heed.” He looked in the direction she and Hunter had just traveled. “Come, Cecil, let us seek proof that Hunter spoke the truth.”

  Cecil mounted his horse and kicked the mare into a gallop. The two rode away in a reverberation of hoofbeats. Meghan sucked in a fortifying gulp of air and faced those remaining. Her heart thundered in her chest. All that equilibrium she’d talked herself into a while ago fizzled, to be replaced with gnawing fear. “I’m not a faerie, and I had nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Of course no’, my lady.” Gregory bowed to her before turning to Hunter. “What will we do with the lass?”

  Hunter dismounted. “’Tis no’ proper for her to travel unattended by a maid or another lady.” His expression turned thoughtful, and he stared her way. “I find myself in need of a squire. I suggest you hide your hair in that cap as you had it when I found you, Meghan. Whilst we are in Aberdeenshire, we’ll pass you off as one of the lads. You’ll attend me as my squire.”

  “Attend you?” She blinked.

  “Aye, as my squire.” He studied the chain mail and the coat of arms embroidered upon her tunic. “Your insignia and chain mail will no’ suit. Do any of you lads have a plain tunic and an old cloak she might borrow?”

  “I do.” Allain’s face turned bright red as all eyes turned his way. “She’s welcome to them, and I do believe my tunic will fit her well enough.” The boy went to the wagon and lifted the tarp.

  “Why do I have to change?” She surveyed the others, taking note of their plain clothing.

  “Your tunic marks you as a lad of noble birth. We dinna wish to draw unwanted attention.” Hunter came to her side. “All of us have sent our armor, spurs and gear on ahead of us. Our weapons are hidden under the tarp on yon wagon. We transport a fair amount of gold and silver, so we travel as common folk. These roads are overwrought with brigands and thieves, and we dinna wish to draw their interest.”

  “Oh.” That explained how ill-equipped they appeared. She removed her scabbard and drew her chain mail off over her head. “Makes sense, but I’m keeping my sword.”

  Hunter snorted, and she shot him a scowl. “If you’re pretending to be common folk, why would any of you have squires and pages? Wouldn’t that give you away? Besides, since I’m the one who has been wronged here, shouldn’t you be serving me? After all, it was you who—”

  “Because we are no’ commoners, we are knights. That is why we have squires and pages.” Hunter’s eyes held a determined glint. “I will see that you are fed, sheltered and protected. Is that no’ service enough? In exchange, you will pretend to be my squire for the duration of our journey.”

  She glared at him. “I don’t need your protection.”

  “Ah, but you do, lass,” Hunter quipped, and the others nodded in agreement.

  Meghan opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind, but thought better of it. He was right. Social mores and the culture she’d fallen into here were far different from those in her own time. She fought against the sting burning at the back of her eyes, not to mention the sting to her pride.

  “Where did you say you hail from again, my lady?” Tieren asked, looking from her to Hunter and back again.

  “She didn’t say, nor will she until Cecil and Murray have returned. Cecil is far more likely to accept the truth once he’s proven to himself that I did no’ tell him false.”

  She fumed at his domineering ways. “I can speak for myself.”

  “Aye, I ken as much, but you will no’ do so.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because I command it, and I ken best how to protect you whilst you are on Scottish soil.” He sent her a pointed look.

  “Arrogant much?” she snapped. Snorts and choked laughter erupted around her. Mortification heated her blood, and she comforted herself with the memory of how she’d laid the conceited fifteenth-century knight out on his back and held his own dagger against his throat. Turning away, she studied her surroundings. The sooner they found a faerie willing to send her back home the better.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Make ready. We will depart the moment Cecil and Murray return,” Hunter barked. “I wish to put some distance between us and this place before we camp for the night.” His head ached, and he could scarce keep his wits about him—surely the results of his brief sojourn through time. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, opening one but a slit to keep Meghan in his sights.

  Why could he not sense any of the lass’s emotions, and what scheme had Madame Giselle combined upon them both? His heart wrenched at the piteous lost look the lass couldn’t hide. Her shoulders slumped, and her mouth drew down at the corners. For truth, she looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment.

  He hated when women wept. Their tears drew forth a helplessness and frustration within him that he could not abide. Moving to her side, he fought against the impulse to draw her into his arms. Instead, he widened his stance and crossed his arms in front of him. “No harm shall come to you, my lady. I swear it.”

  “OK.”

  Her small nod and grief-stricken expression nearly felled him where he stood. “I meant no offense by suggesting you act as my squire during our journey
. ’Tis but an acceptable means to keep you close. Er . . . safe.” Heat crept up his neck, and he nearly rolled his eyes. ’Twas her fault he was so tongue-tied. Not knowing what she might be feeling had him off-kilter.

  Allain approached and handed her a bundle of wool. She accepted it. “Thank you, Allain. I appreciate your willingness to loan these to me.” She smiled at the lad.

  “’Tis my pleasure to aid you in any way I can, my lady.” His page’s face went scarlet again. “I saw,” he whispered, glancing from him to Meghan.

  “Saw what?” Meghan asked, her brow creased. “What do you mean?”

  “’Twas my turn to keep watch over the hill, ye ken? I saw you defeat Sir Hunter.” A wide grin split his face. “Well met, my lady. Would you teach me that move? The one you used to land Sir Hunter on his ar . . . er . . . backside?”

  “Oh. Sure.” Meghan straightened. “I’d love to teach you that move, and I know others. Lots, in fact. I’m a certified mixed martial arts instructor,” she said, her voice tinged with pride.

  Confusion clouded Allain’s expression for a second before he turned to Hunter. “I said naught to the others. You being my master, it seemed disloyal to point out your defeat at the lady’s hand.”

  “My thanks,” he replied dryly. “You do realize ’twould have been unchivalrous indeed to have used brute force against the fairer sex.”

  “For certes.” Allain’s head bobbed as he hurried away.

  “Right. Unchivalrous.” Meghan’s eyes glinted with challenge. “Care for a rematch?”

  “Nay.” He took the garments from her. “One demonstration of your considerable skill shall suffice.” He shook Allain’s tunic and cloak vigorously to free them of any vermin that might have taken refuge in the woolen folds. “Be quick about changing, and stow your good tunic and chain mail on the wagon with the rest of our things.”