Super Summer Set of Historical Shorts

by Laurel O'Donnell

  With a slight twist of his reins, he steered his horse inland. Through the trees a ruined castle loomed over an outcropping.

  Is that where you’re hiding, beauty?

  Giving another tap of his heels, horse and rider ascended the hill. At the summit, he hopped down and ran up a set of unsteady barbican steps, taking two at a time. Nearly toppling to his death as old mortar crumbled beneath his feet, he caught himself on a merlon. A stone dropped from the side of the wall, thundering as it tumbled down the sheer slope overlooking the Firth of Clyde. Without a flinch, Quinn scanned the grounds and turned full circle.

  “Ballocks!”

  “Lost her, did ye?” shouted Eachan, who hadn’t yet dismounted.

  MacGregor joined Quinn atop the unstable masonry—the henchman was rather nimble for a beast. “Must have been a selkie, sent from the waters to drive you mad.”

  At six-feet, Quinn was formidable in any man’s eyes though he had to crane his neck to meet Glenn’s gaze. “She wasn’t a bloody creature. I ken what I saw.”

  His friend gave a shrug. “I’m only disappointed it wasn’t a rabbit. I’m weary of dried mutton and oatcakes.”

  “Stop your bellyaching,” Quinn said as he continued to watch for movement. “We’ve only been riding for a day.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” MacGregor slapped his belly. “I’d welcome a rabbit or three cooked over an open fire.”

  “Aye? Mayhap you’ll find one whilst we make camp.”

  “Here?” asked Eachan, still sitting his mount.

  “Why not?” After taking one last scan of the forest, Quinn climbed back down to what must have been the courtyard of a medieval fortress.

  “These are the ruins of Toward Castle, that’s why,” said his brother, ever the wary one.

  MacGregor grunted behind. “Lamont lands.”

  “Campbell lands now,” said Quinn. “The Lamonts are long gone, and the crumbling keep beneath our feet is owned by our father.”

  Eachan peered over his shoulder as if he expected to be set upon at any moment. “Do not say that too loudly.”

  “Why? The selkies will hear us?” Quinn thrust his finger up the barbican wall. “I was just up there with a view that rivals Stirling Castle’s wall-walk and there’s nary a soul for miles.”

  “Aside from the beauty you thought you sighted,” said MacGregor.

  “Wheesht.” Quinn gave his friend’s arm a thwack. “I ken what I saw.”

  Eachan finally dismounted. “Are you certain it was a woman? Last time you chased after a lass she ended up having a beard.”

  “Aye, and you’re full of vinegar.” Perhaps he’d imagined the woman—God knew he hadn’t enjoyed company of the feminine variety in ages, something he hoped to rectify come the fête at Rothesay Castle. Regardless, the lovely was long gone and he’d never see her again.

  Blast.

  Quinn set to removing his mount’s saddle and hobbling the horse’s front legs. “MacGregor, since you have a taste for rabbits, why not go fetch us a few? Eachan and I will tend to making camp for the night.”

  “I am at your command, Your Lordship.” God’s blood, the man liked to poke fun.

  Just because Quinn was the firstborn son of an earl, didn’t mean he was one to shirk common duties. Being a laggard nobleman might work in England, but idleness had no place in the Highlands. “Would you rather I hunt?”

  “Nay.” Heading for his horse, MacGregor pulled his musket from its scabbard. “With all these trees about, it will be easy enough to find a warren—or a deer. I’ll return in the hour.”

  “Good,” said Eachan. “All this talk about food is making my stomach growl.”

  “When isn’t it?” Quinn set to work, tossing boulders aside to clear a place to sleep. “Go on and start a fire. Mayhap it will keep your selkies at bay whilst we sleep.”

  “They’re not my bloody selkies. You’re the one who’s seeing things.”

  Quinn straightened and thumped his chest. “Women, mind you. I can spot a bonny lass from miles away.”

  “And you’re full of shite.”

  “Possibly, but if so, you’ll be eating it for the rest of your days.”

  “Brothers. Why God saw to make me the second son, I’ll never understand,” Eachan mumbled as he wandered toward the trees. He stooped and picked up a stick of wood. “You ken this place is haunted.”

  “Now do not tell me you’re afraid of a wee ghost.” Quinn chuckled. He switched tack and began stacking the boulders in a circular fire pit. The stones had fallen from the castle walls—a fortress he was well aware had been razed by his grandfather, the Earl of Argyll, a bloodthirsty zealot. It was oft difficult to admit he had descended from that man’s loins. Grandad had nearly ruined the Campbell legacy, so much so, the tyrant had been beheaded as a traitor in Edinburgh’s Grassmarket Square—a humiliation the family desperately wanted to forget.

  ***

  Alice pushed through the door of the thatched-roof cottage, “Gran!”

  When she didn’t find her grandmother sitting in the rocking chair by the hearth, she yelled again, “Gran!”

  The only parent Alice had ever known came hobbling out of the bedchamber carrying her cane rather than using it. “What is it, lass? You’re shouting so loudly, they’ll be able to hear you clear across the Clyde.”

  She’d run nearly two miles and was in sore need of a drink of water. “F-forgive me, but you’ll never believe who I saw.”

  “After five and seventy years, you’d be surprised what I’d believe.” Gran made an exaggerated show at looking from one of Alice’s hands to the other. “Where is your basket?”

  “Who cares about the basket?” Patting her chest, Alice dashed for the ewer sitting on the table and poured herself a drink.

  “You’re panting.” Limping nearer, Gran shook her cane. “Have you been running?”

  “Aye, near two miles.” Alice guzzled the contents of the wooden cup. “But you must listen to—”

  “Heaven’s child. Sit down and catch your breath.”

  Ready to jump out of her skin, the last thing Alice wanted to do was sit. But after meeting her grandmother’s indignant stare, she inhaled deeply, made herself calm down and sat on the bench. “I was searching for yarrow in the wood when the ground rumbled with the pounding of horse hooves.”

  “Do not tell me King William has sent an army.”

  “It sounded like an army, but it was three knights—three Campbell men.”

  “Campbells?” Gran’s expression grew dark before she turned to the hob and used a ladle to stir the pottage. “What made you think they are knights?”

  “They were armed like knights—swords, muskets, dirks and targes. And they were carrying the Earl of Argyll’s pennant.”

  Gran spat, whipping back around. “Argyll?” She clutched the ladle over her heart and squeezed, her face turning white as bed linens. “God forbid that name be uttered in this house.”

  “Forgive me—I ken they’re evil. Worse, they’re making camp at Toward Castle.”

  The old woman’s face grew so dark, it was as if a raincloud had come into the cottage, threatening to drench them both.

  And Alice knew why. Moreover, she wanted to do whatever she could to face these men and make them pay for the heinous crimes committed four and twenty years ago—the year of her birth. “I can take a vial of poison and spill it into the burn—no one will ken it was me.”

  “Poison?” Gran exchanged the ladle for her cane. “Alice, do you ken what they’d do to you if you were discovered?”

  “You ken I will not be. I’m as stealthy as a ghost—learned from the best of ghosts.” She grinned, flapping her eyelashes at the woman who’d been her tutor.

  “Nay, ’tis too much of a risk. Besides, what if you ended up killing an innocent?” Gran paced for a moment, looking as if she were about to strike something with her blasted cane. The woman had cause to hate the Campbells. Not only did the late Earl of Argyll lay siege to Toward
Castle with cannon, he’d decimated an entire clan—Alice’s clan. During the siege, Sir James Lamont had ordered his wife to take their only grandchild and spirit her out the secret passageway to the hidden cellars—the same route Alice had used that very day. Praying for a miracle, Gran took the newly born bairn and hid.

  That fateful day all had been lost. When Gran’s husband, the great knight and Lamont chieftain, negotiated the terms of surrender, he’d given up his castle and livestock to preserve the lives of his clan. But no, not even evicting his enemy from his land had been enough to satisfy the earl. Argyll’s bloodlust was too great. After Grandfather surrendered, Argyll marched the Lamonts to the churchyard in Dunoon. There the earl brutally executed every man, woman and child and then commanded his men to put all Lamont lands to fire and sword while Gran remained tucked away deep in the caverns below Toward Castle where she remained with Alice for an entire year. Only when it was safe did she take her granddaughter to the cottage in the wood.

  Alice poured herself another cup of water. “They’re going to the fête at Rothesay Castle, I’m certain of it.”

  “How do you ken?”

  “I heard them talking.”

  “Good heavens, child. You could have been smote where you stood.”

  “I hid in the cellars. Heard every word.”

  “You are careless.”

  “I wasn’t. You hid in the cellars with me.”

  “That was long ago, afore the keep completely fell into ruin.” Gran slid onto the bench beside Alice. “Tell me what they said.”

  “They were talking about me, mostly. One of them saw me in the clearing and then made chase.”

  Clapping a hand over her heart, Gran feigned a swoon. “My word, it grows worse.”

  “Nay, the others decided the heir had seen a selkie.”

  “Heir?”

  “Aye, one man called the leader ‘your lordship’ and the other referred to himself as the second son—and then they decided to set up camp for the night. And the Campbell heir started ordering the others about.” Alice decided against telling Gran the man in charge had been ever so braw and strikingly handsome with his thick chestnut hair clubbed back. Such an admittance would reveal exactly how close she’d been to the scoundrels. And their looks mattered not. All three were knaves of the worst sort.

  Gran leaned on her cane, her lips twisted as if deep in thought. “Two of Argyll’s offspring will be sleeping in Toward Castle this very night?”

  “Aye. What can we do?” Alice sprang to her feet and pounded her fist on the table. “This is our chance for vengeance—our chance to repay the crimes against Grandad, my father, and our clan.”

  “If he is the heir to the earldom, then it is Quinn Campbell who is sleeping in the remains of a once great and powerful clan—the grandson of Archibald the black-hearted beast.”

  “Quinn, aye?” Alice wasn’t overly anxious to know the man’s name. He might be pleasing to the eye, but he was the spawn of the devil and she doubted he’d be alive come dawn. “Nightshade might do the trick.”

  “Nay.” Gran pulled Alice out to the garden. Oddly, she didn’t stop by the plot with medicinal herbs—the plot with a clump of nightshade and a wee clump of hemlock. Hobbling along, she kept going until she reached the stone fence. There she gestured to a spindly bush of thorns with but a half-dozen leaves.

  “After two and twenty years, my demask rose has finally produced a bud,” Gran said, her voice soft, as if she’d nurtured a plant from a seed to a glorious masterpiece.

  “Rose?” Alice asked, bending over and carefully pulling aside the neighboring clump of gorse. “Ah, there it is.”

  “Aye, it’s been hiding from me, the elusive bloom. I discovered it only yesterday.” Gran cradled the bud as if it were as precious as a ruby. “I purchased this bush from a passing tinker and planted it on your second birthday.”

  “And it hasn’t yielded a single flower until now? Looking as pallid as it does, I’m surprised the thing lived so long.”

  “Hmm. Sometimes it takes a lifetime to nurture a living soul until it yields its fruit.”

  “You speak as if the rosebush is human.”

  “It could be our salvation.”

  “Goodness, Gran. You make no sense at all.”

  “Perhaps not, but you will take this rosebud and leave it beside Quinn Campbell as he sleeps this night.”

  Clutching her midriff, Alice scooted away. “Me? What if he wakes?”

  “You must be certain all are fast asleep afore ye near him. Step softly and do not make a sound.”

  “Might I take a dirk? I’d rather run a blade across his throat than give him a thorny rose.” As she spoke, Alice’s stomach turned over. Somehow the idea of having the man’s blood on her hands didn’t sit well. It was one thing to lace the burn with a wee bit of poison on the off chance it might make the men a tad ill, but to commit murder with her hands? She couldn’t do it, even if the man was a Campbell.

  “You will not touch him,” Gran continued. “Whilst he slumbers, whisper that the rose is a gift from the selkies they were so anxious to find—from the queen of the selkies.”

  “But what if I wake him, Gran? Shall I tell him I’m a selkie…strike fear in his heart? Say if he touches me he’ll not live to see the sunrise?”

  “I hope he doesn’t wake.” Gran tapped her fingers together as if she were scheming. “In fact, I’ll wager he will not.”

  “But what if he does?”

  “The rose is your protection.”

  “A thorny bud that looks as if it will wilt afore it blooms?”

  “Calm yourself and cease your worry.” Gran grasped Alice’s shoulders. “Before you leave him, you must repeat these words whether he wakes or not: It is a wise man who can harness the power of the rose. Brawn and bravery may come and go but only wisdom can reverse the curse.”

  “Curse?” Alice looked closer at the bud. It wasn’t red. Closed, it looked almost blue—violet, perhaps, like no rosebud she’d ever seen. “Are you casting a charm? One that will send a blight over the heir and his kin?”

  “Not exactly.” Gran snipped the bud’s stem, her lips pursed as if she’d already divulged more about the cryptic rose than she cared to. “I’m testing the waters is all.”

  “Are you not feeling well?” Alice asked, quite certain Gran might be growing senile. “I think you might need a tonic.”

  Ignoring her remark, the dear woman examined the stem. “Good, there are plenty of thorns.”

  “If you ask me there’s nothing but thorns to that rosebush. We’d be better off planting some avens in its place or at least something useful.”

  “Oh, no. Not after all these years. I will see justice. I swear it.”

  Chapter Two

  Alice waited in the old cellars at least an hour after the men’s quiet banter faded and surrendered to nighttime sounds of crickets and frogs. Of leaves whispering in the breeze, and the rhythmic cadence of the surf in the distance. To add to the concert, the chilly air resounded with light, masculine snores. She moved up the stairs only far enough to part the vines and peer across to the men, wrapped in their plaids. A crackling fire illuminated their forms, two on their sides sleeping with their backs to the flame. But one of the three was only paces away, asleep on his back as if the fire had made him overwarm. He was a large man, but not as rotund as the largest sleeping on his side.

  Of course, she instantly recognized the man on his back as Quinn Campbell. He had a full head of chestnut hair with blue moonlight dancing through the thick waves. An imposing Highlander, his plaid did nothing to hide the brawn beneath. Sword and musket at his side, doubtless he had a dirk hidden in close reach. Perhaps the blade was secure in his hand beneath the woolen folds?

  To keep the rosebud alive, Alice had wrapped the stem in linen soaked in a tincture of willow bark, secured it with a bit of oiled leather and tied the lot with a thong.

  Not daring to stand to her full height, she crept to the man’s
side and kneeled. His eyes were closed, his lips half parted and in slumber he looked as gentle as a lamb. But she knew better. The rose trembled in her fingers. “I’m nay supposed to wake ye, but I’ll have you ken you’re trespassing on Lamont lands. No matter who holds the deed, this very ground will always be stained with the blood spilled by your grandfather—the blood of my kin.”

  Emboldened by her words, Alice set the rose atop Quinn Campbell’s chest and repeated the words Gran had insisted she say: “It is a wise man who can harness the power of the rose. Brawn and bravery may come and go but only wisdom can reverse the curse.”

  “Who are you?” His Lordship asked, his voice but a whisper no louder than the breeze.

  Alice’s heart flew to her throat as she crouched lower, her gaze darting to his face. He hadn’t opened his eyes. “I’m a selkie, come to tell ye to leave this place and never return.”

  “But these are my lands,” he said as clear as day, though he made not a twitch.

  Alice slunk toward the shadows. “Lands stolen by disgrace and tyranny will never be yours.”

  As the young lord’s eyes blinked open, Alice slipped away as quietly as she’d come.

  ***

  Quinn jolted upright.

  What the blazes?

  He shoved the hair away from his face, trying to recall the damned dream. At least he’d thought he’d had the most vivid dream of his life until he noticed a flower had dropped to his lap as he’d sat up. He grasped the stem and a vicious thorn stabbed his finger.

  “Ow.”

  Quinn wiped the blood on his plaid, then gingerly pinched the part of the stem wrapped in leather and held it toward the moonlight. Unbelievable. He’d expected a bloom of unearthly magnificence, but he held nothing but a sickly-looking rosebud.

  But she’d brought it. He knew it in his bones. She’d come to him. The same woman he’d seen in the forest had spoken to him in hushed, sultry tones.

  In a blink, he realized she’d fled yet again.

  No!

  Casting aside his blanket, Quinn raced up the wall-walk. Where was she? Why had she come? And just when he’d began to stir, she’d run. Why?