Ruadri (Immortal Highlander, Clan Skaraven Book 3): A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Hazel Hunter

  A thud brought his attention back to his acolyte, who had slumped over onto the table. Quickly he rose and went around to her, brushing back her hair to see the peaceful set of her face. The journey had tired her so much that she’d fallen asleep like a bairn, where she sat.

  “Never worry, Oriana,” he murmured to her. “When Fingal returns he shall carry you to bed, where you shall have naught but happy dreams.”

  Chapter Eight

  EMELINE PULLED THE hood of the cloak down to shadow her face as Ruadri scanned the surrounding forest outside the stronghold. Although the darkness concealed them, the shaman had warned her that they still had to avoid the night patrols. Part of her didn’t care, the part she now knew the mad druids and their giants had poisoned. To think that they’d contaminated her with their insane emotions still made her want to throw up. She’d never harmed another person in her life, but if this didn’t work she’d become a murderous monster. Ruadri would have to put her back in the eagalsloc, where she’d spend what was left of her worthless life drowning in mindless hatred.

  “I’m not worthless,” Emeline muttered under her breath. “I’m a nurse. A healer. A good person.”

  A big hand folded over hers. “Stay with me, my lady.”

  “I will.” She looked into the shaman’s gray eyes as she drew on the steady warmth of his feelings. Just as when he had kissed her in the pit, his touch and emotions forced back some of the seething darkness. “Just don’t let go of me.”

  As they made their way along an old trail Emeline expected to feel a twinge of pain from her ankle. That Ruadri’s battle spirit had healed it seemed just as impossible as becoming infected with madly lethal emotions. Since being forced back through time Emeline had witnessed too many inexplicable things to doubt his claim. She also knew that Althea and Lily had been similarly marked after becoming close to their Skaraven lovers.

  He's not my lover. He’s a healer, and I’m his patient. That’s why his battle spirit fixed my ankle. It’s his job.

  Ruadri stopped and drew her against his chest. “Dinnae make a sound or move,” he told her as he lifted her off her feet with one arm and wrapped his tartan over her with the other.

  Emeline rested her cheek against the broad expanse of his chest and closed her eyes. A faint sound of snow crunching came from the left of them, and then stopped.

  “Shaman?”

  “Aye, Manath, ’tis me,” Ruadri answered, and splayed his hand over Emeline’s spine, pressing her closer. “I’m for a walk to clear my head.”

  “So much beauty must muddle it,” the sentry replied. “Does she fare better, your McAra?”

  “In time she shall.” Beneath the tartan his hand stroked from the center of her shoulder blades to the small of her back. “Fair night, Brother.”

  “And you, Shaman.” More snow crunched as the clansman continued on his path.

  Emeline let out the breath she’d been holding into Ruadri’s tunic. Instead of releasing her, however Ruadri lowered her to the ground and kept rubbing her back with that slow, gentle sweep of his hand.

  “I think he’s gone,” she whispered. “We should go now.”

  “Aye.” Slowly he pulled away the folds of his tartan and took her hand in his. “But first I must assure no one follows.”

  He took out his dagger and cut a small branch from a nearby bush. With a touch as deft as a painter’s, he smoothed out their tracks while leaving Manath’s.

  Ruadri glanced at the sky as snow began to drift down. “’Twill help cover our footprints.”

  As the shaman led her through the woods and down to the river, he lifted her off her feet again. Before Emeline could make a peep, he’d crossed the icy currents and put her down again on the opposite side. Once more he held onto her longer than was necessary, and she felt again his amber flood of desire, thicker and hotter now. He wanted to kiss her again, and if he did she would go crazy in a different way.

  “Stop thinking about that,” she said as she wriggled free. “Healing first. The rest we’ll sort out when we return.”

  His emotions abruptly retreated. “Forgive me. ’Twas a memorable kiss.”

  “I’ll never forget it.” She tried to smile, but the dark anger roiled inside her. “We’d better hurry now.”

  Ruadri guided her through the brush until they reached the hidden portal. He boosted her up onto the rocks that formed a makeshift wall around it, and then lowered her down to the narrow ledge surrounding it.

  “No, my lady,” he said as she reached down to place her hand on the ground. “’Twill pull you in too quickly. Kneel beside me and brace your hands on either side of you.”

  Emeline didn’t remember the mad druids having them do any of that to open the portal in her time. As she recalled, they’d simply thrown them on top of the ground, which then instantly vanished beneath them.

  “You’re certain about this?”

  “The druids trained me in some of their ways.” He watched her as she followed his instructions, and then propped one of his hands beside hers. “Clear your thoughts now, my lady.”

  She nodded, and saw the ground disappear as a twisting tunnel lined with oak branches opened only inches from her knees. “How do I tell the portal to take us to the forest farm?”

  Ruadri leaned over and kissed her brow. “You dinnae need to.”

  Emeline saw him grab onto the rock behind him, and then he pushed her into the portal. Rage exploded inside her as she realized he was sending her through alone, and she flung her arm back, hooking it through his.

  “Emeline, no.”

  The spinning vortex sucked them both inside. In her fury she jerked him closer, slamming their bodies together as they fell. She pummeled Ruadri with her fists, knowing she couldn’t hurt him but determined to try. He’d been trying to hurt her, or kill her, she was sure of it. All human kind ever did was inflict pain and suffering on each other and every living thing. They deserved to be torn apart, as they had done to the Wood Dream.

  When she purged the world of them…when she…

  The rage inside her heart slowly evaporated, replaced by the opaque white light that radiated from the portal’s walls to envelop them both. It was like every wonderful thing Emeline had ever touched, from the silky fine fur of a kitten to the thin, delicate cheek of a newborn bairn. She gasped as tendrils of yellow-streaked green smoke poured out of her eyes and mouth, vanishing as the light intensified.

  All of the darkness inside her had gone, leaving only a hollow sensation.

  The shaman cradled her face between his hands, and his regret washed over her like dusky lavender rain. His lips moved as he spoke, but she heard what he said only in her mind.

  I but wished to save you from all harm, my lady.

  Emeline no longer felt anything but Ruadri, and then they emerged into glaring daylight. He rolled with her so that he fell on his back, and she landed atop him. The sweet scent of wildflowers filled her lungs, and when she lifted her head she saw green everywhere around them. Fat bees buzzed from one bloom to the next. Different stones that appeared newly-carved surrounded them in a small, grassy clearing. The rocky slopes and ridges beyond the trees looked higher and much more rugged than the round-topped mountains around Dun Mor.

  “Where are we?” she asked and glanced down at Ruadri, who was staring at the ring of stones.

  “I cannae tell you.” He sat up, which put her in the position of straddling his lap, though he seemed not to notice. “What did you think as we fell through the portal?”

  “I knew what you’d done,” she said, “and I wanted to hurt you.” Gingerly she climbed off him and stood. The warm breeze on her cheek made her touch her face, which no longer felt bruised or swollen. Even the rat’s nest of her hair now fell smooth and shiny over her shoulders. “Mostly the darkness wanted me to kill you, but that’s gone now.”

  He rose and scanned the horizon. “I meant to protect you by sending you to your time.”

  “What if the portal hadn�
��t healed me? I would have landed in my time as a crazy murderess.” When he didn’t reply she knelt down to reopen the portal. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now that I’m all right. We need to go back before we’re missed.”

  He stiffened and turned his head. With one hand he pulled her up and pushed her behind him as he faced the woods.

  “Show yourselves,” he demanded, in a tone so fierce she flinched.

  Emeline peeked around his arm. “There’s no one–”

  She broke off with a gasp as she saw dozens of eyes blink open on the trees. The bark separated from the oaks, forming into a group of lean, rather short men who had painted their flesh to look like bark. Even their trousers had been dyed and embroidered to look like wood.

  “Be you dru-wid?” the man at the very front demanded.

  “You ken what we be, Pritani,” Ruadri said in the same dialect, his voice rumbling like thunder from a sky-filling storm. “You watched us arrive.”

  Most of the men seemed more interested in her, Emeline noticed as she withstood their stares. The lead man muttered something, and he and the others removed the bark hoods covering their heads and stepped out into the sunlight. Each man wore his blue-black hair in thick queues loosely bound by thin braids woven with leafy vines. Their eyes turned crystalline blue in the sun, and their unpainted brows looked almost snowy white. All of them tossed fiery volleys of bright orange curiosity at her, a few tinged with small explosions of hot pink astonishment.

  “They look just like me,” she whispered to Ruadri. “Are they the McAra?”

  “I think no’ yet, lass.” He glanced at the ground before he bowed and said to the lead man, “Ruadri mag Galan, shaman to the Skaraven tribe. Mishap brought me and my bhean, Emeline, here on our journey. We meant no trespass.”

  Why was he calling himself that odd name and referring to her as something even odder? Emeline knew better than to ask in front of the men, but it made her feel even more uneasy.

  “The gods deliver you aside one who bears our image. ’Tis enough for welcome.” The man returned his bow and extended his arm. “Drest mag Ara. My ears dinnae ken the Skaraven. Be you a highland tribe?”

  “Aye,” Ruadri answered.

  Emeline breathed a sigh of relief as she watched the men clasp each other’s forearms. She also noted that Ruadri matched the painted man’s odd speech pattern. But at least it seemed there would be no violence, and the tribesman might be able to help them find their way back to Dun Mor.

  “My sire awaits beyond the wood,” Drest told them. “We’ve heard of how the Roman invaders plague your tribes of late. He shallnae give me peace if I dinnae offer dru-wid travelers a night of rest and food.”

  “The gods ever reward the generous.” Ruadri bowed again. “Our thanks, Drest mag Ara.”

  Most of the men donned their camouflage and returned to their positions by the trees, but Drest and two others escorted Emeline and Ruadri from the glen. She wanted to ask a thousand questions, but feared she might say something to offend or even anger them. Ruadri held her hand loosely, but through the contact she could feel his determination to keep her safe, threaded with a glittering stream of sheer power. It rolled through her, ironing out her own worry and making her feel supremely safe, even in this situation.

  Drest’s village lay only a half-mile from the portal, and Emeline took care to memorize every landmark they passed. If they had to make a run for it, the portal offered their best chance to escape.

  But why did it bring us here?

  When they came out of the trees she saw a scattering of large round stone structures with high, cone-shaped thatched roofs. The big houses looked almost new, but their unsophisticated design reminded her of the old brochs around Scotland that dated back thousands of years. As the Pritani people came out of them, she also noticed how they wore very primitive garments made more of fur and hide than cloth. They didn’t resemble the few natives she’d seen since arriving in the fourteenth century. The tribe looked as if they belonged more in the stone age.

  An uneasy realization dawned, and Emeline tensed. But as she recalled the strange cadence of Drest’s speech, something that had been in the back of her mind finally registered. When it had taken every ounce of will for her and the other women to survive the mad druids, no one had questioned the language.

  How am I understanding their words? How have I understood anything?

  She squeezed Ruadri’s hand. “You said that they’re not the McAra yet. What did you mean? And why did you call me a van?”

  “’Twill keep, lass,” he murmured back.

  A lean, heavily-tattooed man with white feathers woven into his braids emerged from the largest broch. Two warriors armed with spears came to flank him as he walked toward Drest. The painted warrior bowed deeply before he turned to Ruadri and Emeline.

  “Sire, these two tree-knowers sprang from the sacred circle on our watch,” Drest said. “Shaman Ruadri mag Galan of the Skaraven tribe, and his bhean, Emeline.” To them he said, “Our headman and my sire, Chieftain Ara Alba.”

  “’Tis an honor to greet you, Chieftain.” Ruadri bowed over so far, he almost folded himself in half.

  Ara nodded. “Dru-wid kind be ever welcome among us, ever now as the invaders march from the south. My máthair came from the Snow Fallen tribe.” His gaze shifted to Emeline. “’Tis plain you share her bloodline, Dru-widess.”

  Emeline didn’t know how to respond, and her cheeks heated as she bobbed in what she hoped was an appropriately deep, respectful curtsey.

  Ara watched her for another long moment before he said, “Traveling be weary work. Drest, take the shaman and his bhean to the visitors’ broch. Tonight, we shall share food and speak again.”

  Ruadri took Emeline’s arm and draped it over his in an odd fashion, and walked with her as they followed the painted warrior to the other side of the village. The tribespeople didn’t look directly at their faces as they passed, but she could feel their stares boring into her back. With every step she was more self-conscious, especially when she saw how some of the women pointed at her face and body. Two adolescent boys carrying deep bowls of steaming water and rough woven cloths met them at the entrance, and Drest directed them to place everything inside.

  “We gather at sundown. I shall come for you,” Ara’s son told them, and then strode off in the direction of his father’s house.

  Ruadri ushered Emeline into the broch, and then pulled down a hide that had been pegged over the inside of the doorway. “Keep your voice low, lass,” he advised her as he inspected the interior.

  If Ara’s tribe looked like they had just emerged from prehistory, the simple furnishings in the broch seemed to belong to cavemen. Everything from the crude table and shelf seating to stuffed furs mounded atop a bed platform fashioned of stacked stones made her feel uneasy. The stuffy, hot interior made sweat bead along her hairline until Ruadri took down the pieces of wood wedged in the narrow window openings, and a little breeze filtered in.

  She went over to peer at a very skinny candle sticking out of a greasy rock. “This isn’t a candle.”

  “’Tis a rush light,” Ruadri said and came to join her. “They gather the old, great ones from the marsh, and peel away the husk. Once they soak the pith in fat and dry it, it burns well. Since rushes grow everywhere, the tribe neednae store them until winter comes.”

  “You talk as if you’ve done it.” She watched him nod slowly, but she still couldn’t quite believe it. “We’re not in the fourteenth century anymore, are we?”

  “No, lass.” He gazed around them. “I spent my boyhood in a broch very much the same. They’ve no’ been built in this fashion for a long time.”

  Her eyes burned with unshed ears, and she had to swallow several times before she could ask the only question she had left. “How long?”

  “The portal brought us back to the beginning of your tribe, my lady. Ara Alba founded the McAra Clan.” His jaw tightened as the rush light began to sputter out. “We’ve
returned to the time of my mortal life: the first century.”

  Chapter Nine

  SINCE COMING BACK to the old Wood Dream settlement, sleep for Murdina Stroud had become a nightly ordeal. Closing her eyes reminded her too much of being trapped in the darkness of the Storr. No crickets chirped, no owls screeched. Even the night wind seemed soundless. The terrible fire at the mill had left her so nervous that the crackle of the flames in the new hearth made her heart pound. Hendry sometimes made her a special brew that permitted her to rest without being tormented, but it no longer kept her asleep. The potion he secretly added to it had likely lost its potency, but she loved him for trying to help her rest.

  He wishes only for me to feel at peace again. How can I tell him ’twill never happen?

  Rolling onto her side, she watched firelight dance over her lover’s face. By the Gods, but he looked so handsome. Since awakening as an immortal Hendry slept lightly, and if she touched him he would wake and pull her into his arms. Such a prospect tempted her. These new body wards that made them appear so young again had also stoked their passions to a constant, frantic blaze. The illusion of vitality made them behave like the eager paramours they had been long ago, when the crickets had chirped, and the wind whispered of their love.

  Like the sleeping brew, Murdina knew the effect would not last.

  Soon Hendry would shed the glory of renewed love and return to wallowing in his endless hatred of druid and mortal kind. She would fare no better. Her sanity teetered on a thin ledge of late. One more blow would likely send her to the very bottom of the abyss, into that darkness that she would never again escape. She would lose her grip on the last shreds of her reason.

  Hendry would have to kill her, and to do such a thing would surely end him.

  The roil of Murdina’s thoughts made her inch out of their bed, taking care not to disturb her beloved. She pulled on his robe, needing the scent of him on her flesh, and padded out of the cottage. In the frost-edged night she saw that the rim of the horizon had turned a dark violet, and the stars had begun to wink out. Most of their caraidean had positioned themselves around the settlement in their old places, where they had once stood as giant totems. Weakened by darkness, they waited for the dawn to bring the sunlight that would revitalize them. She envied them that ability. Nothing could vanquish the paralyzing, silent blackness that had swallowed her alive in Bhaltair Flen’s stone prison.