OkayOkayOkay. She’d just make nice with the hallucination of the hot Scot from earlier because she’d wake up soon. “Sure. Fine.” She shivered in the darkening twilight.
Connall searched her face again, and the weight of his concern sent her pulse fluttering for another reason. He nodded once then vaulted to his feet, and she immediately missed his nearness.
He gathered twigs and small branches and then arranged them into a neat pyramid off the side of the large expanse of rock she was perched on. He produced flint from the pouch at his waist and struck it, his cheeks hollowing as he breathed into the smoke and coaxed a flame to life, the sizzle and crackle of fresh tinder catching fire filling the evening air.
Impressive. But then again, this was her dream casting him as a warrior of old who’d know how to make fire from nothing but a piece of flint.
Even though it was a dream, she still hated being cold, so she stepped off the rock and inched closer to the now-blazing glow.
He removed her pin from his kilt, looking at it with a frown and then a small smile. He tucked it into his pouch and tugged his great kilt off, leaving him in some kind of shirt that covered him to mid-thigh, which should have looked silly but didn’t. He spread the voluminous fabric near the fire and lay down, bringing half of it over him. He looked up at her and held up a corner, his eyes unreadable in the growing darkness. “Lay here. You’ll be warmer, for it will only be growing cooler tonight.”
It was a dream, right? She’d at least snuggle up to this muscular Highlander with black to-die-for hair and penetrating green eyes. Thank you, dream mind!
She knelt beside the fabric, barely discernible in the dying light.
“I’ll not touch ye, if that’s your concern.”
Not really. It was a fantasy, so she might as well get some action. She crawled inside the warm cocoon he’d made and snuggled her back to his muscled side. He covered her with the remaining fabric, tucking her close. Soon her chills faded, because the man was a friggin’ furnace.
As her lids grew heavy, she assured herself she’d be waking up soon. But couldn’t her brain at least have given her a nice make-out session?
…
Ach, the nicely rounded rump of a fetching lass was pushed up against his hip. He flexed his fingers to prevent them from taking on a mind of their own and circle around her wee waist and pull her tighter against him. And possibly more.
But when they’d traveled through the druid’s disorienting magic from her land to his, she’d been as skittish as a colt, and who could blame her? Even his own innards had squirmed, and that had been his second trip. Thank the gods he didn’t have to go through that torture again.
His misfortune that they’d arrived too late for him to take her home. Mo Chreach! My wife should be in a proper shelter.
Perhaps this was the gods’ way of punishing him for his earlier cowardice, by forcing him to sleep where he’d lost his older brother to a slave raid.
Fractured images crowded his mind, fuzzy from the passage of time but sharp enough to wound just the same—of him insisting to play with the older lads in their war games, of the shouts of the raiders, and, worst of all, the dank hole in which he’d cowered.
Aye, his brother had told him to run, but he shouldn’t have listened. Connall shivered now as if he were still hiding in that hole until he’d heard no more sound. Hiding until it was dark. Only then did he crawl out like the worm he’d been, shaking and stinking of fear, to discover he was the only one left.
He’d failed them. He’d failed his oldest brother as well as his childhood playmate. But he would not fail his tribe again.
As always, the reminder of his shortcomings left him antsy. Unable to walk it out as usual, he touched his nose to Ashley’s soft hair, seeking solace. Her sweet scent stole over him and some of his tension eased. And instead of the nightmares he’d expected for having dredged up the past, he fell into a deep, restful sleep.
…
Ashley slowly rose to consciousness. Her side ached, and her neck had a crick. Ugh, she must have fallen asleep while watching TV on the sofa. She blinked heavy lids and stretched.
What time was it? What day of the week? The heavy, slept-too-long achiness infused her limbs.
Oh shit. Work! She jackknifed up and then swayed, slapping a steadying hand down onto the ground. The cold ground.
What the eff?
She rubbed her eyes—yep, she was on a kilt stretched across a slope facing downhill to one of the most stunning, snow-capped landscapes she’d ever seen. The ground dropped off, and beyond the winter-wilted but leafy shrubs—rhododendron?—a valley lay far below, the sparkling whites and dark browns fading gradually into the slate-blue haze of distant mountains and water.
It was as if she sat in some giant’s amphitheater, staged to watch the antics of mortals in the valley below.
Where the friggin’ hell was she?
Her mind raced, piecing memories together. At the podshare with Connall—him taking her hand—appearing here as the sun set.
But that had been a dream. Right?
Maybe it still is. She squeezed her eyes shut. Wake up, wake up, wake UP. Nothing happened.
To her right was a flat rock incised with geometric swirls and circles.
She rubbed her arms and hunched forward, unease slithering across her skin. Am I alone?
A twig snapped, and Connall appeared from behind, leading two horses. Her jaw dropped as relief swished through her veins so fast she swayed.
It’s him.
But why relief? Okay—she wasn’t alone up here. That was why. But shouldn’t she be pissed at him? Heat climbed up her neck at the memory of her snuggled against him last night and her hopes for a dream-tryst.
It can still be a dream.
“You’re awake. ’Tis best we head out.” He marched over to the remains of a fire and kicked dirt into it, scattering the ashes. He handed her a dark piece of bread. “And if you’re wishing to take care of personal needs, you best be doing so now.”
“Head out? Where are we?” That trickle of unease bloomed in her heart, her breath catching. Because his words were different. Somehow, he was speaking in a lilting but foreign language, and she’d not only understood every single word, but had answered in the same language.
To distract herself and, well, because her stomach chose that moment to growl, as if it knew she’d just been handed food and was all, Gimme, woman, she took a bite of bread.
The yeasty flavor burst on her tongue, along with the taste and crunch of oodles of grains. No dream she’d ever had was this vivid. The details were sharp, down to her being cold. And to the odd taste and texture of the bread. And her hunger.
The taste, though—a fuzzy memory poked. She took another bite, trying to chase it. Whatever it was, it had been buried so far in her past she couldn’t form it. Except for a fleeting, wonderful feeling of being cherished.
“Aye, we need to break camp and head to my tribe’s stronghold. And we’re in a land called Scotland.”
That last word was not in the same language—instead it was in her own—and he said it as if it were a strange word to him.
“What happened? How did we get here?” She’d asked this last night, but maybe he’d change his answer.
He strode toward her and knelt. She appreciated he would no doubt repeat himself but took the time to listen to her and patiently explain. “Mungan, our spellcaster, weaved strong magic. Brought me to your land, and then brought us both back here.” He held up a round stone incised with two parallel deep grooves around its center. As if that explained everything.
The hell it does. Some dude, even in a dream, was just whisking her about?
He waved to the two horses. “They left us mounts to ease our journey.”
She swallowed, trying to work moisture into her parched throat. “How long
will it take to get to your…stronghold?”
“Only part of the morning.”
“How many hours?”
“Hours?”
“Yeah, how long? How many hours?” Was her Star Trek Universal Translator on the fritz already? The word “hours” had come out in English.
He shook his head and frowned. Then he pointed to the sun just barely visible as a pale glow behind morning clouds. “As long as it takes the sun to travel from there”—he slid his finger just a few inches away—“to there.”
She pulled in a deep breath. Oookay.
He marched over to a shaggy brown horse, grabbed the saddle, and swung himself up into it with one swift motion, like she’d seen in old cowboy movies.
Wow, that was hot.
She’d ridden her share of horses growing up in Nebraska but had never perfected that technique. She stepped up to her horse and stroked its mane, pulling in the musky scent of the beast, letting him smell her, adjust to her. The animal’s fur was thick and curly, its coarse hairs springing through her stroking fingers.
Is this real?
She stared at the imposing but gentle Highlander, and then at the horse she was supposed to ride. If she did as he asked, she’d no longer be “playing along” with her dream. She’d have to face what she hadn’t wanted to admit yet—hopping onto this horse would be accepting this wasn’t a dream. This step, this moment, felt real. Tangible.
As her queasy belly rearranged her breakfast by grain size, she stretched a hand toward the reins, then stopped and made a fist.
Magic brought her here? Or did she have a psychotic break, the workload and stress of paying off her ex’s debts finally becoming too much for her?
Then she put her hand on the saddle and…stared. No stirrups! While the saddle was about shoulder-height, it would still be a pain to mount. There had to be a rock somewhere to step—
Hands gripped her arms and scenery shooshed by.
Holy hell, the Highlander had just picked her up by her arms!
She frantically scrambled onto the horse’s back and settled in, the folds of her skirt bunching up around her legs.
“Um, thanks,” she said, out of breath. Jeez, the strength that took. And he acted as if he’d just picked up a twig instead of a full-grown and rounded woman.
He nodded ahead and tapped the sides of his mount. She followed close behind, the horse adjusting to her seat, though it was odd not having any place to stick her feet.
He led the way down a switchback until they reached level ground and then…stepped onto a wooden road. What? Her horse followed, as if completely at ease, and she swayed with the movement, her leather saddle creaking softly.
The road wound through the scrub and marshy area, like a long boardwalk through sandy beach dunes. Though wide enough for two horses to walk side by side, she opted to stay behind Connall.
It was like the yellow brick road in Oz, winding away to the horizon, but wooden. Connall had mentioned magic. Did the wizard await her at the end? That thought made her snort, followed by a hiccup as she tried to swallow a burst of laughter. After all this, nothing would surprise her now.
With no phone, Ashley had no idea how long they’d been traveling. She guessed maybe a half hour when the road petered out, morphing into a dock. Beyond stretched a lake, its waters slate gray like the sky and as smooth as a mirror. Connall dismounted and looped his horse’s reins around a skinny stone about waist-high. As she drew near, she could make out rune-like carvings running up the side.
Words formed in her mind, Friends, a hundred thousand welcomes to Dunadd.
Her heart gave one slow thump. Holy shit. I can read that.
Dazed, she slid off her horse, her thighs turning to jelly. He stepped into her space, his gaze intent on hers, and lightly clasped her fingers, pulling the reins away. And damn, just that small touch—paired with his scrutiny—sent a tingle all over her skin. He looped the leather around the stone, his movements quick and efficient.
Storm clouds gathered to her left, a dark smudge bleeding into the lighter gray cloud cover overhead. As if punctuating her observation, moisture-laden wind swirled over her, loosening hairs from her braid. A herringbone pattern of ripples pocked the lake’s otherwise-smooth surface. Halfway across, a jutting bluff rose from the water, its dark slope taking up most of the horizon. This was so friggin’ surreal.
“Come.” Connall held his arm toward the boat, silently asking her to step down that dock and go toward the only obvious destination—the stronghold perched ahead.
She took a step forward. And another. Whatever this place was, it was still away from San Francisco and her troubles.
I’ll figure it out later. At least I’m safe.
Five more steps—the leather soles of her shoes barely making a sound—and her toes skirted the edge of the wooden dock, the small wooden…vessel slightly below. To call it a boat seemed ambitious. Vaguely oblong in shape, it was more a cowhide-covered wicker bowl with two wooden benches cutting across the middle.
Connall stepped past her and hopped in.
He held out his hand, but she hesitated.
No turning back after this. Well, not easily by the looks of it.
Over her shoulder loomed snow-tipped mountains and darkening clouds. She bit her lip. As far as she could tell, they were the only two people in this barren but ruggedly gorgeous landscape.
The only other option was to be alone out here. She slid her hand into his.
Again, warmth from the contact suffused her. Warmth from his rough skin but also warmth that was part of him—part of his personality.
She stepped into the boat, carefully keeping her feet on the thick wicker crosspieces, unsure the hide would take her weight. She braced her feet as the bowl swayed and switched her focus to the Highlander standing in its center, still holding her hand and seeming completely confident of its seaworthiness. She pulled her fingers from his and carefully settled onto a bench.
Connall took the bench opposite, closed his large hands around the oars, and shoved the boat away with the tip of an oar against the dock’s sides. He dipped them in and pulled back, water sloshing against the sides, the workings of his strong muscles visible under his shirt as he set a steady rhythm.
She brought her knees up against her chest and clutched them. The boat rocked slightly with her movement. “I…have some questions.” The chances of this being a dream were pretty much zero now. Time didn’t pass like this in a dream, and it was all too real. Whatever was happening, though, she needed some answers.
His eyes held hers, and she shivered at the raw power and sensuality emanating from their depths. Directed at her. “I figured ye might.” His voice was gentle, patient.
She jacked a thumb over her shoulder. “That stone post back there. I could read the runes.”
He nodded, and a corner of his mouth tipped up. “That’s lovely.” Was she mistaken or was that…pride…in those same eyes? He dipped the oars in again for another powerful stroke.
“You don’t understand. I shouldn’t be able to. I don’t even know what language that is.” Her voice pitched higher as she neared the end.
“Well, it’s the druid’s magic, isn’t it? That’s Ogham. Could ye read back in your land?”
“Yes.”
He arched a brow and brought the oars forward. “Well, there ye have it.”
She growled in frustration. “But I couldn’t read that.”
“It’s as I said, ’tis the druid’s magic at work. Anything you had—knowledge, possessions, abilities—is transferred into a similar equivalent here in this land.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, as if magic was just a given. And could do that kind of stuff. As he sat there and rowed a weird wicker boat across a lake as if this were all quite normal.
This was too freaky.
That�
�s it. If this is real life, then I’m having a psychotic break.
At least my wild imagination gave me a hot Scotsman to hang with.
His brawny arms shot them across the shallow lake to the rocky slope looming over them like some kind of brooding lair of a fantasy-movie wizard.
The boat scraped up onto a pebbled shore, bypassing a nearby dock lined with larger wicker boats. He leaped up and jerked their boat farther up the shore, and she gripped the sides to keep balanced, still too flummoxed to do anything productive.
Connall grasped her hand, the roughness of his skin oddly gentle across her palm. He tugged, and she clambered out onto the pebbled shore, slippery from the nearby water. Reeds fringed the shoreline, gently dipping in the soft but growing breeze, shadowed by the twisty branches of a stunted rowan tree. Up ahead, a steep incline cut into a terraced hillside.
She followed him up the slope, and her thigh muscles and calves quivered with the strain.
Damn. Had I known I’d be traipsing through Scotland like this, I would have worked out. Ha, when exactly?
She breathed through her nose to not give away how out of shape she was. Up ahead lay level ground. God, just make it to there, okay?
At the level area, though, Connall continued to eat up the ground with his powerful strides. About a dozen thatched-roof, round, stone houses filled the clearing, though some were missing their roofs. How remote was she in Scotland?
He kept going. Up another slope of the big-ass rock of a hill.
They kept going. And going. And she fell behind. Finally, he stopped, seemingly realizing that she was no longer near. “Are ye all right? Need me to carry ye?”
She scowled at him and tugged off her fur-lined mantle, the march uphill having warmed her up a good bit. “No. Just not used to this much exercise.”
He frowned but waited until she drew close, and then resumed his relentless pace up the hill, his leg muscles having no trouble climbing up this slope. God damn. He certainly was in shape.
Finally, they reached a larger terrace filled with stone huts, and at these she found other people. A blacksmith banged around in a forge, or whatever they were called, and everyone was dressed like Connall, toiling out in the open spaces. Hair stiffened on the back of her neck. Every single one greeted her guide as if he’d been absent for a while, and he returned their greetings cheerfully. Smiles broke out when they spotted her trailing behind. They dropped their tools and began lining the path. Needing to escape their scrutiny, she turned away and placed her hands on her knees.
Some Like it Plaid Page 4
