Kilty Pack One

by Amy Vansant

  He turned to find a familiar lout staring down at him, mug in his hand. Ludo Wilson was a local bully. Broch assumed him to be drunk. He’d never had the nerve to try his luck when sober.

  “Whit dae ye want?” asked Broch.

  Ludo sneered and turned away.

  Broch returned his attention to Gavin. “Eejit,” he muttered.

  Gavin nodded in agreement before returning his concerns to his ale.

  The two young men exchanged stories of their day until Broch heard a woman’s voice rise over the din of the pub, demanding to be left alone.

  He peered over the people sitting beside them, spotting the girl whose eye he’d caught earlier in the evening. Her gentleman companion had disappeared.

  In his place, sat Ludo.

  Broch rose.

  “Dinnae get into it with Ludo,” said Gavin, leaning back his head. “Ah dinnae feel lik’ helpin’.”

  “Ah won’t need yer help,” said Broch. He could see Ludo had his hand around the girl’s wrist, effectively pinning her to the table as he leaned in, his face close to hers.

  “Watch my sword,” he said to Gavin, before pushing through the crowd.

  The girl’s eyes found his, her expression strained as she struggled to free her hand from Ludo’s grasp. Her panic seemed to grow, and Broch realized that as far as she knew, he was her aggressor’s partner. He sped his advance to ease her concern.

  “Let her go,” he said, arriving table-side.

  Ludo looked up at him, his expression darkening. “Piss off.”

  Broch grabbed the man by the back of his shirt and jerked him to his feet. Ludo yelped, closed his eyes and raised his hands, expecting to be struck. When nothing happened, he unscrewed his eyes to stare up at Broch, who remained still, glaring at him. Ludo wobbled, uneven on his feet, and swiveled to scan the room, which had grown quiet.

  Broch watched Ludo’s gaze sweep the inn and spoke. “Yer friends aren’t here tae help ye. Ah’ve seen them. T’wouldn’t matter if they were.”

  “Who dae ye think ye are?” mumbled Ludo with half-hearted bravado.

  “Get on with ye, before ah break your thick heid on this table.”

  Ludo took a step away, turned to leave, and then looked over his shoulder. “Ye’ll pay for this.”

  “Ah doubt it.” Brochan pushed him toward the door and he stumbled forward, knocking into several patrons who offered shoves of their own.

  After a smattering of laughter, the roar of conversation resumed in the inn.

  Broch turned his attention to the young woman, only to find the older gentleman had reappeared and reclaimed his seat. He was tall and wiry, his eyes so light blue they could pass for white. The man’s sunken countenance suggested to Broch that he might break down a sheep’s carcass using only the man’s cheekbones for knives.

  “Can I help you?” asked the man. His accent sounded strange, until he remembered Gavin mentioning that he was an American.

  Broch glanced at the young woman and she looked down. The man’s icy glare never wavered.

  Broch shook his head. “Na.”

  He returned to his table to find Gavin sitting with a dirty-blonde girl, his face buried in her neck. The girl giggled as he approached and his friend glanced up from his sloppy business.

  “Och, Brochan, have ye met Machara?”

  Brochan nodded his greeting. He’d heard the name Machara before and knew that it translated to plain. The girl herself had tried to argue against that life sentence. Her face glowed with the blush of artificial enhancements, her dress and hair woven with ribbons and baubles meant to catch the eye. He could tell from the depth of her makeup she’d suffered smallpox scars, though she’d fared the disease better than most.

  All these things told him he’d lost Gavin’s attention for the evening.

  “Are ye stayin’?” asked Gavin. His tone implied the answer he hoped to hear.

  Machara offered him a saucy smirk and patted the bench beside her. “Aye, have a seat and stay a spell.”

  Broch shook his head. “Na. Ah’ve got somethin’ to dae.”

  Gavin scowled. “Somethin’ to dae?”

  “Aye. I embarrassed Ludo. By noo he’s gathered his friends ootdoors tae lie in wait for me. Ah need tae give them their chance.”

  “Ye want help?”

  “Na. Ah could use the practice. I’ll see ye in th’morra.”

  Gavin nodded once and buried his face in the bosom of his companion. She shrieked with glee.

  Brochan gathered his sword and walked to the bar.

  “Hold my sword a moment, will ya, Andy?” he said, thrusting the wrapped weapon at the bartender.

  Andy put a hand on the weapon and then nodded at the door. “Ludo’s waitin’ fer ye ootside. Ye micht wantae keep it.”

  Broch smiled. “That’s why ah’m givin’ it tae ye. Ah micht kill him as it is. With that, there’d be na doubt ah’d spend mah life in jail.”

  Andy nodded and slipped the sword behind the bar.

  Broch turned to the exit and took a deep breath.

  Eejits.

  He wasn’t one to look for a fight, but Ludo and his band of thugs had been growing bolder in recent months, their childish mischief developing a sinister undertone. Between the crowd and the presence of her companion, chances were slim that the lassie in the inn was in any real danger. But what about the next fair creature? One Ludo cornered alone?

  No, Ludo needed a reminder that not everyone was willing to turn a blind eye.

  Flinging open the door Brochan stepped outside and immediately squatted to his heels.

  There was a crash as wood splintered down on him like rain.

  Brochan glanced up. A carrot-topped boy had swung a heavy branch at his head. The rotten limb had shattered against the door frame.

  He’d anticipated the attack.

  Ludo’s friends weren’t the most creative brutes.

  Brochan reached out, grabbed the boy’s boot and launched himself upward, dragging the foot with him.

  With a yelp, the redhead flipped onto his back. Brochan raised his right arm in time to block a punch directed at his nose, catching it neatly in his palm. He locked eyes with Ludo.

  “Ludo, dae we hae tae dae this? Can’t ye just behave lik’ a man?”

  Ludo sneered. “Ye think ye'r sae much smarter than the rest o’ us fur ye hae yer fancy friend.”

  Brochan snorted a laugh. “Ah dinnae think ah’m smarter than ye, fur o' Gavin. Ah think ah’m smarter than ye, fur ye hae the brains of a goat.”

  Another man with a flop of sandy-colored hair appeared from the darkness and struck Brochan on the jaw. Releasing Ludo’s fist, Brochan fell back against the door frame.

  A patron on his way out opened the inn door, peered at him, and quickly shut the door again.

  Brochan rubbed the back of his hand across his lips and found blood. He grinned.

  “A' richt then. Let's play.”

  He recognized the sandy-haired man as Ludo’s toady, Shaw, a short but powerful boy. Shaw raised his fist to swing again as the carrot-top grabbed Brochan’s leg. Broch used his opposite leg to kick the ankle-biter, sending him sprawling on his back once more. The twist of his body caused Shaw’s second strike to glance his shoulder.

  Ludo took the opportunity to jump on Brochan’s back. Feeling the weight, Broch whipped his left shoulder, tossing his foe into Shaw, who stumbled back several steps.

  Ludo hit the ground.

  “Dinnae stand there, hit him!” screamed Ludo, scrambling to stand.

  Shaw glanced toward where Brochan had last seen the redhead laid out like a table cloth. He followed that gaze expecting to see the carrot-top rising.

  The boy had disappeared.

  Ludo found his feet and lunged one step toward Brochan before he realized Shaw had abandoned the fight. Both he and Broch watched Shaw stride away at a brisk clip.

  “Coward!” Ludo screamed. Shaw made no movement to imply he heard or cared what Ludo thought of
him.

  “There’s nae point tae this,” said Broch to his remaining foe.

  Ludo pointed to the inn. “Ye mocked me in there.”

  “Ye weren’t being a gentleman. If yer goin’ tae be a bore, ye’ll be treated as such.”

  Ludo grimaced, his jaw clenched tight as he poked a finger in Broch’s direction.

  “Ye’ll git yers,” he spat, before storming off.

  Broch sighed. A sliver of light fell on him and he glanced at the inn entrance to find the raven-haired girl had stepped outside. Her ghostly companion was nowhere to be seen.

  “That was quite a thing. I could see it all from the window,” she said.

  He shrugged. “He’s started somethin’ with me every couple of months since we were wee laddies. T’was time fer a reminding.”

  She smiled and he felt himself blush. Tasting metal, he licked the corner of his mouth and wiped at it. Finding blood on his hand, he dragged it against his kilt, attention locked on the pattern of his tartan to avoid staring directly into her eyes.

  “Are ye new here then?” he asked as the silence grew deafening.

  “I am.”

  “That man ye were sitting with. He’s yer husband?” He sniffed and looked away, horrified that he’d asked such a forward question.

  She giggled. “My father, silly.”

  “Ah.”

  He ran his hand through his hair and rocked on his heels. “Where’d ye travel fae?”

  “London.”

  “But yer an American?”

  “Yes. Is it that obvious?”

  “Aye. Ye hae a confident way aboot ye. And, the way ye talk, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “And...ye’ll be staying ‘ere for a spell?”

  “As far as I know.”

  He nodded. “Hm.”

  “Did you grow up here?” she asked.

  “Aye. Mostly. The man ah call my father took me in when ah was young. He’s the blacksmith.”

  “So you know the area well?”

  “Ah do.”

  Her eyes lit. “Maybe you could show us around some time? My father could use a guide—”

  Her father burst from the pub looking harried. Upon seeing his daughter conversing with Brochan, he came up short and scowled, his thin lips drawing tighter.

  “Come, Fiona!” he snapped before turning and striding down the road.

  She flashed Broch an uneasy smile. “I have to go.”

  “Good nicht, Fiona,” he blurted, as she turned to run after her father.

  She stopped and turned. He could see the flush in her cheeks by the inn’s lamplight.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” she said, her voice more quiet than it had been.

  “Brochan.”

  She smiled. “Good night, Brochan.”

  Broch watched her run after her father until a banging noise snapped him from his trance. He looked at the door to the inn. It shook as if someone pounded on the opposite side.

  “Hello?”

  The door rattled as the drumming resumed.

  He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the iron handle—

  With a gasp, Broch sat up in bed.

  It was a dream.

  Another dream about Fiona.

  He closed his eyes and tried to picture her, managing only the spill of her dark hair and the flash of blue eyes. Her face remained more of an impression of beauty...an unfinished painting.

  He felt ill.

  My heart aches.

  It was if his heart had swollen and now pushed against his ribs, demanding to be set free. His breath came in shallow sips, such was the pressure on his lungs.

  The idea that he had spent time in eighteen-thirty-three made sense. Up until now, his only solid memories had been from the mid-seventeen hundreds—but he’d been a boy.

  In this new dream, he’d been a man and an orphan.

  He closed his eyes and recalled the memory he’d wanted to forget. The memory of finding the three women who served as his mothers, slaughtered. The man on horseback returning to kill him, swinging—

  He opened his eyes.

  Mibbie mah trip through time tae California wasn’t mah first.

  As a boy, he’d been wounded by the man who slaughtered his family. Of that much he was sure. He might have then jumped to eighteen thirty-three, where he’d been found by the blacksmith.

  It fit so neatly. His time with Fiona could be a memory.

  Not a dream.

  He looked at his arms. They were large. He could have been a blacksmith. He rubbed his fingers, feeling the callouses there.

  Ah could hae been a blacksmith.

  If all that was true...

  Fiona.

  A banging echoed through the apartment. Knocking. The sound that must have awoken him.

  Someone was at his door.

  He scowled and ripped his sheets to the side.

  “Och, ah’m coming.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Broch opened the door, appearing agitated.

  “Were you asleep?” asked Catriona.

  He rubbed at his hair. “Aye. Well, na, ah’d just woken.”

  As his arm dropped he reached out to pinch the fabric of her blue pajama set, rubbing it between his fingers.

  “They’re silk,” she said, taking a step forward. Once inside his apartment, she realized she’d taken his interest in her clothing as tacit permission to enter. He hadn’t asked her to come in, and his expression appeared...pensive. Maybe even annoyed.

  “Ah’ve seen silk,” he said.

  “Oh. Well, actually, they’re not real silk. I don’t think I paid enough for them. They’re fake silk.”

  He closed the door behind her. “There are a lot of fake things aroond ‘ere.”

  She chuckled and sat on the sofa. “We’re in Los Angeles. You have no idea.”

  He sat down in a standalone chair facing her.

  Way over there.

  She glanced at the perfectly good seat beside her on the sofa.

  Was it conceited to be offended he hadn’t taken the opportunity to be closer?

  Everything felt a little off. She’d sensed it earlier in the car and blown it off, but now—

  “Did ye come ‘ere tae sit on mah furniture at midnight?”

  She looked up and realized she’d been staring at the coffee table like an idiot.

  “Sorry. No. I came to ask you what you thought about the stuff Sean told us.”

  “Lik’ whit?”

  “Like how we like helping people and trouble tends to find us?”

  He scoffed. “Ah already ken that.”

  “Did you? I mean did you really, or are you joking?”

  He hooked his mouth to the side. “A wee bit of both.”

  “Have you remembered anything else about before you came here?”

  He looked away and shook his head. “Na.”

  There it is. He’s lying. She could see his deceit as if his pants were literally on fire. Not that he was wearing pants. He had his sheet wrapped around his waist, tied artfully at the side. How does he do that? She could never get towels or sarongs to stay tied.

  Oh for crying out loud what does that matter?

  Stay focused.

  The question on the table was why is he lying? He usually reveled in sharing with her what little of his past he could remember.

  Or had he always remembered more than he shared?

  “Catriona, ‘tis late.”

  “Huh? Oh. I’m sorry. Hey, are you okay?”

  He cocked his head to the side. “That means good, richt? Ye say it often.”

  “What?”

  “Oh-kay.”

  “Oh, yes. It means all right. Good.”

  “Then aye, ah’m okay.”

  “You seem a little off.”

  He shook his head and stood. “Ah’m tired.”

  She jumped to her feet. “My bad. It was way too late to swing by. I thought maybe you were awake and I wanted
to talk about what Sean said—I guess I said that already. Okay. I’m going to go.”

  He stared at her as if he had something to say. She wanted to push him to share, but felt equally sure that in his current mood, he’d find such encouragement an intrusion. Unnerved, she felt her expression bunch into a squinty smile she knew made her look like a crazy person. She headed for the door.

  “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow,” she said.

  “Aye.”

  He followed and, with a final nod, closed the door behind her.

  Sad.

  It struck her the moment she heard the door click. That was his expression. He looked sad.

  She stood in the hallway staring at his door, before realizing his door had a peephole. She jumped away and pressed her back against the wall that stretched the distance between their apartments.

  Smooth.

  He’d probably spied her standing there, staring at his door like a puppy thrown outside after piddling on the rug, and then watched as she freaked out and disappeared.

  She took a deep breath and wondered why Broch made her act like a school girl. Sure, he was smoking hot, but it was more than that. Something made him feel important to her.

  She took a deep cleansing breath.

  Or, maybe I’m just an idiot.

  Catriona peeled herself from the wall and entered her own apartment, trying not to think about how strange the exchange with Broch had been. She tried extra hard to close her door without a sound.

  Inside, she leaned against her wall and told herself not to over-think things. There were plenty of reasons Broch might seem out of sorts.

  I woke him up.

  He wasn’t really all there.

  He needed sleep or coffee.

  She chuckled, remembering his attempt to make coffee at the hotel in Tennessee.

  Glancing at the clock, she noted that it was a little after midnight. Not time for coffee.

  Why am I so awake?

  She clapped her hands together and looked around the apartment.

  What to do, what to do...

  She recalled Sean referencing her memory earlier in the evening.

  If her memory was enhanced by an ability to bend time, wasn’t it her duty to see if she could use it more proactively?

  She moved into the kitchen and pulled a pad of paper from the drawer. Scribbling the alphabet on a sheet, she found scissors and proceeded to snip out each letter.