Super Summer Set of Historical Shorts

by Laurel O'Donnell

  He needed to talk to the lass, ask her name. Look into her eyes. He must find out more about the beauty. Where was she from? Why was she alone? Did she need assistance, sustenance?

  Damnation!

  Why was he so drawn to her? He’d seen only long, silken tresses, a blue gown, and indescribable radiance. He’d stolen only a glimpse, but she was the bonniest creature to walk the Highlands. He was sure of it right down to his toes.

  Something flickered in the distance. Blonde hair?

  Was it she?

  Quinn raced down the steps, stooping to pick up his sword and belt as he dashed past his pallet. He sprinted toward the flicker he’d seen. Branches slapped his face. The thorns of gorse scraped his legs while he leapt over logs and boulders.

  Never slowing, he searched the shadows, his eyes wide, missing nothing.

  Where are you?

  His lungs burned, but Quinn refused to slow his pace until he reached a sandy beach, the Firth of Clyde stretching before him. Gasping for air, he stopped with his hands on his knees, the surf sliding over his leather boots gently as it had done for thousands of years.

  But the blood rushing through his veins was anything but gentle. It pounded through his heart and in his head and continued to thrum while he walked the length of the shore. “I do not believe in selkies!” he bellowed, his words swallowed by the breaking waves. “I do not believe in fairies, either!”

  Quinn kicked the sand with a roar. He picked up a rock and threw it out to sea. “Arrggh!”

  Another thorn pricked his finger. Again, he studied the bud in the moonlight. As if by magic, he saw the woman in his mind’s eye. Yes, her hair had attracted him at first, but her face was ethereal like an angel. Her skin had a pearlescent luminescence oddly without blemish. Her lips were pink and her eyes dark like Highland blaeberries. And beneath her blue kirtle, her body was lean, but not too thin. Aye—a small waist supported by rounded hips.

  With his next inhale, he vowed to find her.

  He would see the woman again. He felt it in his bones. There was a reason she’d come to him. What had she said? Something about honor, kin and blood spilled. Of her soft-spoken words, there was one passage that struck a chord—something about harnessing the power of the rose—not through force, but through wisdom. And something about a curse.

  What curse?

  Quinn rubbed the back of his neck and stared out to sea. Next time he’d not allow the fair maiden to slip through his grasp so easily.

  Chapter Three

  After crossing the Clyde, a laborer on the pier caught the ferry’s rope as the sailors furled the sails. The flat-bottomed boat rocked wildly and Quinn gripped his horse’s bridle while rubbing his neck to keep the beast calm. “Easy laddie. We’ll be ashore in no time.”

  MacGregor’s old nag seemed unperturbed as she stood with her head lowered. Glenn hadn’t even bothered to hold the mare’s reins. “I can smell the roasting pork from here.”

  “All I can smell is seaweed and dead fish,” said Eachan.

  Though Quinn didn’t like naysayers, this time he had to agree with his brother. By the stench and number of fishing vessels they’d seen on the crossing, the herring trade was thriving on the Isle of Bute as it should be on the peninsula of Dunoon. With much of Scotland still suffering from the aftermath of Cromwell’s war, it was good to see the bustling seaside village of Rothesay and the moated castle posing a picturesque backdrop.

  “Have a look, lads.” Quinn pointed. “The Campbell pennant is flying from the tower.”

  “Will you be competing in the games this year, m’lord?” asked the ship’s master.

  “Bloody oath. I’ve a title to defend.”

  Grinning, MacGregor ran his fingers through his horse’s mane. “A title to lose.”

  Though Glenn was a commendable adversary, Quinn couldn’t let his friend’s comment slip by without a rebuttal. “Always nipping at my heels, are you not?”

  “Someone needs to keep your ego from growing too large.”

  “Oh aye, so you’ve appointed yourself my conscience, have you?”

  “After last year, someone needed to.”

  “You’re full of shite.”

  “And you’re full of…” MacGregor slapped his hand through the air. “Och, never ye mind. Whatever the source of that foul stench, you’re full of it.”

  Quinn laughed. The three of them might poke fun, but the bond between the men was as solid as granite. He’d known MacGregor since they were both in swaddling. Glenn was as much a brother to him as Eachan—possibly more so.

  A sailor slid the gangway across to the pier and Quinn thanked the crew, giving each a coin before he and his companions led their horses to dry land. Once ashore, they followed the more pleasant scent of rich food up High Street until they found the merchant tents displaying their market-day wares.

  “Saddles made to order here,” beckoned a vendor. “I have everything a horseman needs, stirrup leathers, blankets, and bridles.”

  Quinn gave the man a nod and kept going, his friends at his flank. Though he hadn’t told them about his brush with the woman last eve, his gaze never stopped scanning the grounds for the lass. It wasn’t likely she’d made the crossing for the fête, but not impossible. Nonetheless, once the games were over, he intended to spend some time around Toward looking for the woman.

  “I’m heading for the food tent,” Eachan said, riding ahead. “Whatever they’re cooking is making my mouth water.”

  MacGregor stepped up the pace as well. “Agreed. I’ve been starved since we left Inveraray.”

  “You’re always hungry.” Intending to follow, Quinn slapped his reins. But when an elderly woman using a cane hobbled into his path, he quickly pulled his horse to a stop. “Hold up.”

  For an instant, she looked startled, but her eyes quickly shifted to the rosebud he’d pinned at his shoulder with his clan brooch. “The flower has begun to open,” she said as if she had given him the bud herself.

  Quinn immediately dismounted. “You know of this rose?”

  “I do. ’Tis a damask rose. One that only blooms when it has mind to do so.”

  Reins in hand, he looked in the direction of the food tent. “You make no sense at all. Flowers don’t bloom whenever they feel the need.”

  “I think I make a great deal of sense, m’lord. In fact, all flowers only bloom for a reason. Though the damask rose is the rarest and most elusive.”

  “And the woman who brought it last eve. Where might I find her?”

  Thumping her cane on the ground, the woman snorted. “Ah, a young man chasing a bonny lass. Some things never change.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Perhaps. Come with me, m’lord.” She hobbled toward an open tent, bearing a sign that read, “Asketh thy Seer”.

  The woman seemed far shrewder than by first glance. It hadn’t escaped Quinn’s notice when she’d used his courtesy title. She knew who he was, which he hadn’t expected. Certainly, he was the heir to the Argyll title, but he hadn’t been to Rothesay since he was a lad. True, he had come to the games to uphold the title he’d earned last year, but those events had been in Dalmally on Loch Awe.

  “Who are you?” he asked, following the woman into the tent. “Can you see the future?”

  “This is a fête and what would a gathering be without an old woman foretelling things that may come?” She sat in a rickety old chair and gestured to a half-barrel. “Sit. Do not make me crane my neck.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.” Quinn sat on the barrel, so low, his knees came up to his chin. “Do you ken who gave me the bud?”

  “I have an idea.”

  He shifted in an attempt to make himself taller. “Do not be cryptic with me.”

  The woman rapped his knee with her blasted cane. “And do not be domineering with me, young whelp or that rose tucked in your brooch will never bloom.”

  “Why should I give a rat’s arse if it blooms or nay?”

  “I
beg your pardon, Lord Quinn, but I am no wench who enjoys coarse language.”

  “Forgive me.” He gestured to the flower. “Please enlighten me as to why I should concern myself with the welfare of this thorny rose.”

  “Have the thorns pierced your skin?”

  “More than once.”

  “Good.”

  “I think not—they gave me welts.” Quinn rubbed his sore fingers together. “Why is this bloom so important?”

  “Your father is arrogant and self-serving. In my experience the acorn never falls far from the tree.”

  “My father?” He shook his head and stared at the shrew. “Madam, your banter is making me dizzy. If you think so ill of the earl, then why are we having this discussion?”

  “Because you are not beyond saving. Yet.”

  “I’ve had enough.” Quinn pushed to his feet. “You speak in bloody riddles and by the sign on the tent, I think ye are a witch.”

  “Spoken like a Campbell.”

  “Bloody oath, woman. You have the most maddening way of raising my ire.”

  As he started away, she caught his wrist with the hook of her cane. “He who dares grasp the thorn will become the instrument of peace, but he who shuns it will only serve to increase the hatred between clans.”

  “You’re a bloody Lamont,” he growled.

  “Och aye, and do you ken what happened in May four and twenty years past?”

  Christ, everyone knew of the Dunoon Massacre. It had posed a black mark on the Campbell name for two generations. Quinn’s grandfather massacred nearly the entire Lamont clan, including the chieftain. Only a few had escaped and those who did were thought to have fled to the Lowlands.

  The way the woman stared at him with ice in her eyes did not seem of this world. He narrowed his gaze as he backed to the tent’s flap. “Are you a spirit come to haunt me?”

  “I am an old woman who has lived a life of sorrow.” She flicked her cane toward Quinn’s horse. “I have shown you to the path of your salvation. Whether or not you choose to take it is up to you. Are you a merciful man, or are you a tyrant?”

  “I am a Campbell,” he growled, pushing outside and reaching for his mount’s reins.

  The woman’s words needled like a swarm of bees attacking every inch of his flesh.

  ***

  Nearly time for the opening ceremony, Alice hastened through the maze of tents, clutching tight her basket of herbs. Never in her life had she seen so many people gathered in one place. It was like an ant hill with humanity everywhere. Though this was an annual gathering, it was the first time she and Gran had attended—primarily because it was sponsored by the Earl of Argyll. Oddly, Alice’s grandmother had insisted they come because this year it was but a short ferry ride across the Clyde. All Highland clans were welcome—or so said the posting on the church door.

  Truth be told, Gran had decided it was time for Alice to be introduced to society, as it were. A handful of families lived in Toward, but no lads her age. Gran had insisted that at four and twenty, Alice was on the verge of spinsterhood which was not acceptable for the Lamont heir and it was high time for Alice to marry.

  Marriage.

  Good heavens, the thought of finding a spouse made perspiration spring across her skin. Who would want to marry Alice anyway? She might be the sole heir to the chieftainship, but she had naught but a plaid and brooch to show for it.

  As she rounded the corner and started into the tent, she stopped dead in her tracks, the basket in her arms nearly tumbling to the ground. Merciful fairies, Lord Quinn was sitting beside Gran having a friendly yarn.

  Backing as fast as she could, Alice bumped into a Highlander, some the contents of her basket spilling.

  “Watch yourself,” growled the man.

  She hardly acknowledged him as she skittered around to the side of the tent, her ears pricked, listening to Gran’s banter, suddenly not certain if their conversation was friendly or not.

  “…Are you a merciful man or are you a tyrant?” Gran’s parting words sounded more like a challenge before His Lordship briskly marched out of the tent.

  Still crouching, Alice held up the basket to hide her face. Yes, she knew Lord Quinn would be at the fête, but the last place she expected to see him was in her tent talking to Gran. It was a wonder the old woman hadn’t tried to give him a tincture laced with nightshade as Alice had suggested. Clearly, her grandmother seemed to have something up her sleeve—and it didn’t seem to encompass the end of Lord Quinn’s life. Further, Gran had spoken to the heir to the earldom of Argyll speaking with the same cryptic nonsense she’d used with Alice. Och aye, the woman was scheming for certain. The quandary? What in heaven’s name was she about? And why was the thorny rose at the center of it?

  Aye, they’d put up a sign on the tent to tell fortunes and make a bit of coin. But Gran was no witch—a bit odd at times, and she knew more about herbs and remedies than most anyone but that was the extent of it.

  Alice lowered her basket and, after checking to ensure Lord Quinn was long gone, she slipped into the tent and set the herbs she’d purchased beside the bedrolls. “I saw Quinn Campbell leave a moment ago.”

  Gran arched an eyebrow. “Did you now?”

  “Aye.” Alice stood with her hands on her hips giving her grandmother a hard stare. “Now tell me true, what is it you are planning for his demise? Is there something in that rose that will slowly take away his breath? Will he fail at the games? Will his death be agonizingly painful?”

  Pursing her lips, Gran’s face wrinkled like a prune. “He’s not going to die. At least not by my hand.”

  “I beg your pardon? Of all the people at this ceilidh, you have more cause to hate him than anyone.”

  “Is that what you think? That hate is the answer? That the Lamonts should feud with the Campbells ad infinitum?”

  “Of course—” Alice pursed her lips and set to fishing in her valise for her hairbrush. Bless it, at times Gran was infuriating. Could there ever be a truce between the Campbells and the Lamonts? After they mercilessly massacred her clan? She’d lived her life in a shabby cottage. Aye it was cozy, but thanks to the Campbells, Alice had been deprived of growing up in fine style. She’d been deprived of lavish gowns and a marriage arranged to strengthen bonds between clans. Her mother had died in childbirth, but her very own father had lost his life in battle with the Campbells—Lord Quinn’s kin.

  Could Alice ever put the past behind her? She’d been an infant when Archibald Campbell had mercilessly struck in the dead of night with no warning.

  Could she ever forgive? Or was the tonic too bitter?

  Four and twenty years had passed since that fateful day, but it may as well have been a fortnight.

  Chapter Four

  “Merciful fairies,” Alice whispered behind clenched fists. She knew Lord Quinn to be a powerful man, but she never would have guessed he possessed the strength to nearly double any other man’s mark in the stone put. God might strike her dead for admiring the man—either God or Gran, but how could anyone help but do so? Besides, it was good to develop healthy respect for the strengths of one’s adversary.

  And dear Gran was sitting beside Alice, watching every bit as intently.

  They’d chosen a place atop the hill away from the crowds. Behind them loomed the partially ruined Rothesay Castle. The medieval fortress was no longer occupied, though her walls were in far better condition than Toward Castle. And tonight the men would build a bonfire in the courtyard. Alice was looking forward to the music and dancing, and especially the pork which the lads had been turning on the spit all day.

  “That Highlander is quite braw,” Gran mumbled.

  Alice gaped, feigning ignorance. “To whom are you referring?”

  The old woman met her stare with a wizened one. “You cannot fool me, lass.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He’s the most handsome man at the fête.” She pointed to a gathering of lassies all giggling and waving their kerchiefs at
Lord Quinn as he held up his arms in victory. “Look at those girls making fools of themselves.”

  Simply looking at those shameless lassies made her skin hot. “They can have him.”

  “Mm hmm.”

  Feigning indifference, Alice adjusted her arisaid about her shoulders. And she didn’t care much for the smug expression on Gran’s face, either. “He came in second in the footrace.”

  “And first in archery.”

  “Pardon me, but if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were trying to make me like him.”

  “Oh aye?” Gran bit into an oatcake. “I thought we were having a conversation about how well the Campbell heir was faring. As a matter of fact, I reckon he’ll be the victor again this year.”

  It was likely he’d win the caber toss, and that would seal it…unless something drastic happened like his mount coming up lame in the horse race. With all the jumps planned, such a thing could happen.

  “I don’t suppose it matters overmuch to us who wins, as long as the Campbells go back to Inveraray and leave us be.” Alice snatched the last oatcake and shook it. “And I’m not about to deliver any more roses in the middle of the night. That rose didn’t do a thing to him, except mayhap make him stronger.”

  “I assure you, he is unchanged.”

  “Then why did you send me?”

  “Because I thought there might be hope.”

  Nibbling her oatcake, Alice studied her grandmother. “Hope for what?”

  “Never you mind.” Uprighting her cane, Gran started to rise. “Come, lass, ’tis time to dress for the ceilidh.”

  “Dress?” Alice hopped to her feet and helped her grandmother stand. “The gathering isn’t a ball.”

  “Thank the good Lord for small mercies.”

  ***

  Tankard in hand, Eachan led the way through the maze of people. “I reckon we ought to find something else with which to occupy your time next year and give the rest of us bleating sops a chance.”

  “A bit jealous, are you?” asked Quinn as he passed his brother and headed for the long row of tables reserved for attending chieftains and gentry.

  A lass rose from a plaid she was sharing with her family and curtsied. “Good evening, m’lord.”