by Olivia Norem
Kat shrugged off the backpack. She bent down and fumbled through it until her fingers closed over a bottle of water. Standing, Kat gulped at it greedily, calling Ian and Simeon every curse word she could think of in her mind. When those weren’t enough, she invented a few new ones.
How much time had she wasted chasing through this blasted tunnel, dressed like a vendor from a renaissance fair? She’d have to run back and, hopefully, pick up some clues of the trail they’d left. Wherever they were, it couldn’t be far, because sunrise would be coming in a few short hours. First things first, she wasn’t going to beat any distance records running in this stupid dress.
Kat opened the side flap and palmed the Swiss Army knife. She flicked open the longest blade and bent down to cut off the heavy hem of her skirt. Just as she poked a hole in the fabric above her knees, intent on slicing it away, the ground rumbled.
Kat stood up abruptly. The ground shook, and bits of rock and pebbles started falling from the ceiling. Shit! The whole damn thing was going to cave in. Picking up her skirt with both hands, she ran. The shaking stopped. Suddenly the sightless black cavern started to glow with a ghostlike light.
Kat stopped and did a full turn, her mouth gaping open. Thousands of markings all over the stones were glowing pale blue, luminescent, and growing brighter by the second. The markings were just like those that had glowed on the mirror. Kat marveled at them. The blue lights grew stronger, shooting beams in every direction until Kat was bathed in the blue light.
She held her arms out to her sides and turned again, gazing at her arms awash in the color. It was beautiful and bizarre. The light grew stronger, brighter, and more intense. The smell of lilacs seemed to permeate the air. Kat lifted her arms to shield her eyes; the blue light was too bright. Then her own arm seemed to dissolve in front of her. Her skin shimmered in every color imaginable. Her hands, her fingers, her dress were bursting into thousands of prisms of light. Dancing, sparkling prisms, bright and brilliant slowly faded against the blue beams that traversed the cavern.
“Oh God! No! What’s happening?” Kat moaned, no longer able to move. Then she dissolved away, and everything turned black. It was black and quiet. The ground beneath her feet was firm. Rocky, but firm, and Kat nudged a perimeter with her toe.
A few rocks, but nothing else. Where was she? She took a cautious step to the right with her arms in front of her. Another step. One more step in total blackness. Kat swallowed hard, hoping to hell she wasn’t standing on the edge of an abyss about to plunge hundreds of feet to her death, in the dark. Another step and her hands touched stone.
Moving her fingers along the rock, she felt crevices. More stones. More crevices. Her fingers slid over a slimy surface, and she pulled away quickly. Eww! She reached out again. The pads of her fingers ran over more stone, and then traced an indentation. A definite pattern.
Damn! She cursed loudly and patted her pocket. She still had the solar-powered penlight. Murmuring a silent prayer that it had enough power left, she slid the switch. A weak beam shone from the light and Kat heaved a sigh of relief, her shoulders dropping. She was in the cavern. Turning around, the way behind her was just as narrow and blocked as it was earlier. Kat flicked off the beam to save the precious battery for a dire emergency. There were no hidden drop-offs in the cavern, just an uneven floor. She could keep one hand to the wall and make her way back to the cavern’s secret entrance at Kilchurn.
Kat flicked on the light once more and looked behind her. Where the hell had her backpack gone? Shutting off the light, Kat knew she didn’t have time to look for the damn thing. Maybe it had been swallowed up in the weird phenomenon of lights that had just passed over. Keeping her right hand on the wall and hefting her damn skirt with the other, Kat fumbled her way along the cavern wall in the dark. She’d cut the damn thing short as soon as she made it outside.
Kat peeked her head out through the hidden gate. The dark sky was blanketed with so many stars, she looked up at them in wonder. She’d never seen so many stars before. The second thing that struck her was the smells. Different, definitely different. The night air was brisk and dry, without a hint of the afternoon’s rain. The distant smoke of wood fires pinched her nostrils. Glancing left and right, she quickly scanned the path in front of her for any signs of tracks, but it was simply too dark to see.
She crossed to the opposite wall and moved forward, keeping a stealthy press against the wall. Kat heard the far-off din of voices and laughter. Holding her breath, she listened carefully as she crept closer to the main castle. There were male shouts and female giggles, and then the music started. Instruments strummed and… were those bagpipes?
The unseen crowd grew louder, and hands were clapping. It sounded like the celebration was in full swing, and these Scots knew how to party. It was a perfect cover. She’d meander through the crowd, and lightly question a few of the more drunk revelers to determine if they’d seen two guys matching Simeon’s and Ian’s descriptions. Surely, someone had seen them pass this way.
Kat crept along the wall and turned into the first opening she could find. Another quick glance over her shoulder, and she ran smack dab into the biggest man she’d ever seen.
“Holy shit!” Kat exclaimed. If she thought Simeon was oversized, this man was gargantuan. Her head barely cleared his sternum. He was dressed in a formidable kilt that was heavy with pleats and the length draped over one shoulder. He had a thick leather belt with various knives tucked in it.
Kat ran her eyes from top to bottom and swallowed. She had met a professional wrestler once. The man had been about six foot nine, with shoulders that could block out the sun. This towering Scot was even bigger than the wrestler had been. He wore thick wool socks with strange leather thongs crisscrossing his calves. His shirt was roughly nubbed, and Kat was certain it was custom made for his size, but overall, his clothes seemed rather worn… and dirty.
This guy must do a whole circuit of fairs and festivals. He probably lived out of an eighteen-wheeler to accommodate his size, but considering his scraggly beard and riot of unkempt red hair, most likely he lived in a van. A cramped, dirty van.
Giant slashes of burly eyebrows drew together in almost a straight line, as he frowned down at her. Hands the size of dinner plates closed around her upper arms, steadying her after they’d bumped into each other. Unfortunately, they stayed. A tendril of fear curled in her gut. Kat usually relied on stealth instead of direct confrontation, but the sheer size of this guy was intimidating.
Kat craned her head to look up at him and uttered a nervous laugh. “Oh, thank God. Are you with the festival? I think I’ve lost my bag.”
“Festival? Who are ye?” His fingers tightened. His brogue was so thick it took a moment for his words to register. The invisible vapors of stale whiskey wafting from him as he spoke were enough to make her eyes water.
“That doesn’t matter. Can you help me or not?” Kat coughed out, turning her head as she wrenched from his grip. The giant Scot deepened his frown. His shoulder rocked forward as another voice behind him growled.
“Get a move, Tav. I gots tae take a piss.” Another male voice, his brogue barely discernible as well.
“Haud yer wheest!” He growled over his shoulder and grabbed her again with a little shake. “Who are ye?”
Kat’s arms slammed down, breaking his hold; his eyes widened in surprise. “Geez! You don’t have to be so rude! Just because you’re wearing a really great costume (by the way), doesn’t give you the right to manhandle me. Do you always treat your tourists like this?”
“Eh?” the giant’s brows drew together again, and his face scrunched up in confusion.
“Come on, Tav!” the man grumbled impatiently behind him. He shouldered past the giant and halted. His eyes went wide in astonishment when he saw Kat. He was dressed much the same as the giant, sans the knives, but his hair was dark and not nearly as unruly. He reminded her a little of Simeon, but his build was much leaner. While he was handsome in his own right, he wa
sn’t nearly as striking. But then again, no one was.
“Who are ye, lass? A bloody MacGregor?” He roared in an even thicker brogue. When he said the name, both men turned their heads and spat on the ground.
“Wow. Are you guys in character, or what? You can drop the act for a few minutes. It’s just us. Besides, I won’t rat you out.” Kat said and winked.
The men looked at each other and then back at her. Seeming to have little regard for her, or the MacGregors, the dark-haired one turned his back to her, lifted his kilt and began to relieve himself.
Kat took a few steps back in horror before she whirled away. “Oh my God! Are you really doing that right now?”
Ignoring her, the dark-haired man groaned in pleasure. The giant’s hand clapped down hard on her shoulder. “Yer no’ gaun nowhere, lassie. The Laird dinnae take kindly tae MacGregor spies.”
Kat spun around and slapped his hand away. Fidgeting in her pocket, her hands closed over the pocketknife, and she flicked the blade open. This guy obviously wasn’t getting it. Kat glared up at him. “Keep your hands off me, shithead. Look, I just got separated from my… my husband. I’m sure he’s in there somewhere.” Kat bounced on her toes, craning her neck as she pointed to the sounds of the party growing louder.
“The wee lassie is no’ makin’ ony sense, Donnell,” the giant said to the dark-haired man.
“And when did a MacGregor hae sense?” Donnell shrugged. Both men spat again at the mention of MacGregor. Kat jumped on the information.
“Listen up, Tavish? Donnell? Those are your names, right?” Kat glanced between them. “While I appreciate you guys playing your parts, you can give it a rest. You can escort me nicely into your little party, or you can both get the hell out of my way before I call security.”
“Eno o’ yer rot! Whot say ye, Tav? Take her to the Laird?” Donnell queried the giant.
“Nae, dinnae disturb him tonight with this fals harlot. Besides, ‘tis more than a dozen lassies waitin’ our attention,” Tavish said.
“Aye,” Donnell smiled widely. He grabbed Kat around the waist and pinned her up against him.
“Let me go you bastard!” Kat kicked and squirmed. Despite his lean build, the man was impossibly strong. Kat went limp and felt him relax his hold. She wrestled one arm free and managed to rake her nails along his neck. He unwisely grabbed her arm, and Kat pressed her thumb into his eye socket.
“Och! Ye hellion!” Donnell was about to release Kat when she head butted him. It hurt like hell, but his arms released her, and she stumbled backward. As the long hem of her skirt tripped her flight, Tavish’s huge arm plucked her easily before she hit the ground. In one swift movement, Kat was pinned to him, gasping for air as he squeezed. He jerked her violently; Kat plunged her pocketknife into his arm so hard it stuck.
It didn’t even phase the massive brute. He pulled her against him, and Kat felt the sharp edge of a very long knife pressed to her throat. She immediately went still.
“Ye cannae trust a MacGregor bitch, Donnell. Ye must be drunk.” His chest rumbled against her back as he chided Donnell.
“Nae more than ye, Tav,” Donnell glared at her and rubbed his eye. “Whot the bloody hell did she stick ye with?” Donnell plucked the army knife from Tavish’s arm, and blood gushed from the wound. The knife was covered in blood as well. Donnell held it up to inspect it.
After a tense, quiet moment, both men broke into sputtering laughter.
“When ye come tae Kilchurn lass, ye’d best bring somethin’ a might bigger than this wee blade,” Donnell laughed and palmed her knife.
“Ye’ll see the Laird when he’s ready, lass. If yer lucky, he’ll ransom ye back tae yer clan. If I’m lucky, I’ll be the one slicing yer wee throat.”
Kat shivered. This was maddening and not happening, yet Tavish certainly seemed to be serious about his threat. What the hell kind of reenactment was she in, anyway? He pressed the blade tighter against her as he spoke. Kat’s feet skimmed the ground as he half-carried, half-dragged her toward the castle. His arm tightened again and Kat’s struggled, despite the knife at her throat. If he didn’t let up, she was going to pass out. When he turned the corner again, the scene before her was beyond anything she could have imagined.
Big bonfires were blazing through a courtyard filled with a riot of people. The music was louder and the people, hundreds and hundreds of them, dressed in kilts and long dresses, were laughing, feasting, and dancing. The smells were overwhelming. Manure, whiskey and beer, body odors and sweat, and roasted meat all combined so strongly, she could taste it in the back of her throat. Kat did a double take at all the renaissance-era bacchanalia.
Two things struck her about the raucous scene before her. First, most of the tartans looked exactly like the one Simeon was wearing when he’d burst from her SUV. And second, the towering castle looming up behind them was no longer in ruins. Torches flickered a deceptively welcoming path toward the massive entrance, but that was not where Tavish was headed.
“Oh my God! You’re Campbells,” Kat whispered. It worked. She’d traveled back without the help of the stones. The ghoulish light, the prismatic colors rushing over her in the cavern — it worked!
“Take me to Simeon! At once! The Laird or whatever! Simeon! Oh my God, take me to Simeon,” Kat kicked and pleaded, trying to break free of the giant’s iron grip. He was carrying her along the wall in the perimeter of the shadows.
“Och, lass, we will,” Tavish said. He felt the lass relax in his arms.
Donnell pushed open a heavy wooden door, and they moved through a narrow stone hallway. They walked down a series of twisting stone steps, illuminated in a small circle of light from Donnell’s torch. The air was stale and dank from the lack of circulation. It smelled old. Another door, this one was rougher and lighter weight, was pushed open, revealing more steps.
“Simeon can’t possibly be in here. What is this place?” Kat struggled again. They ignored her and half-dragged her down the dark hallway. Donnell grabbed a ring of iron keys from the wall. “The Laird’s secret place, lass. He’ll be receivin’ ye here,” Donnell said with a snort. He unlocked the thick wood door and opened it.
“Course he’s a bit busy tonight with the lassies a’fore his bride arrives from France,” Tavish chortled.
“Nae more than a sennight or two, knowing the Laird,” Donnell laughed and slapped his thigh.
Tavish heaved her forward without ceremony. Kat was so stunned by the man’s words she couldn’t brace herself from the violent shove. A loud groan escaped her as she landed painfully on her side. She knocked her shoulder into the corner of a wood rack on the back wall and winced. Kat clutched her side, breathing through the pain. Shaking her head to clear her vision, she looked around in the weak light from the torch. She was in a cell. A dark, tiny stone cell.
Kat scrambled to her knees, holding her side. She found her footing and stumbled toward the door just as Tavish slammed the impenetrable portal closed.
“Wait! You can’t lock me in here! You can’t do this to me!” Kat screamed and pounded uselessly on the door with her fist.
But they had.
Chapter 19
“I didn’t think he was going to give her up that easily,” Ian said as he plopped down on the ground near the fire.
“Och! Me uncle Alastair blows hard for show, but he’s nae unreasonable,” Simeon smiled. He looked at the sword’s intricate hilt winking in the light from their campfire. He passed a skin of whiskey to Ian who took a hearty draught and coughed.
“Christ, that’s strong,” Ian choked out in a raspy whisper and handed it back to Simeon. Simeon laughed and took a deep pull.
When they had come through the stones, they lingered no more than handful of hours in the revelry of the Samhain celebration with Simeon’s clan. Ian was introduced as the brother of Katherine, the woman Simeon had handfasted in France, after he’d escaped there from the Battle of Dunbar. While Ian doubted Simeon’s story would hold up well to scrutiny —
given the distance and the fact Simeon had only been gone about the equivalent of two months — the clansmen and women accepted the news readily.
They had also accepted the excuse about his bride joining them soon — some sort of impediment to traveling from France. By the time the news of their Laird’s nuptials had circulated around the drunken crowd, the rumors and speculation had taken a life of their own. Everything from ‘His lass is too far gone with a bairn to travel. They say it was a hasty ceremony. Nae doubt gi’en whot a braw mon is the Laird,’ to ‘Nae, she’s a rare beauty she is. Did ye no’ just pass her in the hall? Aye, fair blinded me was by her bonny face.’
Only Maeve, a tiny bristling Scot with curly gray hair and bright blue eyes, was given to disdain. Maeve kept all the inner workings of the Kilchurn running, and considering her years with Simeon, didn’t hesitate to express her displeasure.
The woman huffed with indignation. Standing in front of the hearth, hands on her broad hips, she attempted to dress him down. “’Tis hardly a way to beget bairns, leavin’ yer wee bride behind.”
“Leave it be, Maeve,” Simeon sighed, and then flashed a dazzling smile at her, “Are ye nae happy tae see me, then?”
The old woman sniffed. “The only thing that’ll make me happy is when I see ye’ve nae forgotten how tae wipe yer boots.” Simeon threw his head back and laughed. Then he bent and spread his arm out to her. “Come and kiss me like I ken ye want tae.”
Maeve slapped his hand away, “Och, ye rogue. ‘Tis nae wonder yer wee lass dinnae join ye.” She added something else in so low a whisper, neither Simeon nor Ian heard her. Without taking time to tease the woman further, Simeon was eager to be off and retrieve the sword from his uncle Alastair.
Leaving Ian little more time than to sample some food and quench his thirst, the pair had ridden off to Alastair’s castle in the North. And now they were here, neatly tucked into the mouth of a cave, shielded from the evening’s frosty winds, sipping the strongest whisky Ian had ever sampled.
