She smiled widely, which revealed another empty space in her mouth. I had seen four spaces so far, giving more credence to the witchy character that I had envisioned her as being.
Teetering on my feet, I grabbed the maypole that was set up off to the side of one of the vast open fields where the games were held. All the young pretty girls/maidens I had seen earlier were now long gone having been picked off one by one by a slew of young handsome admirers. I wasn’t allowed to participate. The gypsy said I picked the colors for the ‘13’ and in doing so sealed my own fate. Whatever that was supposed to mean—so as a conciliatory prize I got myself another cup of mead. Tavner told me the drink was made from fermented honey. What he didn’t tell me was how good it would taste. So, one cup had turned to two, then two, turned to three, and the rest of the evening had become a blur and now, somehow, I ended up here, with this wicked witch, err, gypsy.
“Come on, lass, the light is waning.”
The gypsy grabbed my hand none too gently and led me, which was more of a dragging, across the flat of the hill over uneven clumps of grass to the base of a rather imposing mountain.
“Do ye see the steps there, lass?” She pointed her gnarled finger to the stone steps cut into the face of the mountain leading up into a bank of clouds at the top.
I felt like Jack, from ‘Jack and the beanstalk’ as he made way to climb the great beanstalk to steal the golden egg from the Giant living in the castle in the sky.
“Uh…” I hiccupped and my vision blurred.
“Lass, can ye manage it or no?”
She sounded mad, or was that fright I heard in her crackling voice as she leveled her rheumy blue-green gaze on me.
Apparently irritated with my slow response, the gypsy grabbed my arm and shook it, making my head rattle on my shoulders. “Yes, yes, I can manage it.” I really wasn’t too sure but I would have said anything to get away from the woman.
I wobbled forward.
“Och, lass,” she screeched. “Don’t go leaving the basket behind.”
“What?”
“Take it, lass.”
She shoved a rather hefty basket into my hands. Once she let go the weight nearly made me fall on my face. I staggered back and pulled the heavy basket up.
“Take the basket of offerings, lass, to the top of the mountain, cross over the screaming bridge to the other side and the Highlander ye seek will come fer ye.”
“Screaming bridge?”
“Och lass, never ye mind. Jes do as I say and all will work out for ye.”
I struggled to keep hold of the basket. What in the heck was in this thing, rocks?
“Now get on with ye.”
She shoved my bottom hard, propelling me forward.
“Best of luck ta ye, lass,” she cackled and then I could swear I heard her say, “Yer going ta need it.”
One by one, I took the stairs up the steep face of the mountain with my basket of bounty firmly grasped in my hands. Breathing heavily, I finally made it to the top of the mountain. The heavy wool from the plaid skirt was weighing me down considerably as was the basket.
Why on Earth I had to carry the basket up here was beyond me. But then again, that was the least weird thing I was doing. Climbing a mountain dressed in full Scottish clothing and carrying a basket so a Highlander would come for me out of the mist was pretty out there. But I was so drunk. Well, I was, and at the time, it seemed like a perfectly sensible thing to do. Now however, as I looked around into nothing but sky, I wasn’t so sure.
There was a bridge in front of me spanning a chasm of eighty or so feet and it was screaming. At least that is what it sounded like as the swinging cabled bridge shuddered in the howling wind. Gripping my basket, I stepped tentatively on the moving monstrosity, second- guessing my decision the entire time.
Taking a deep breath, I sprinted across it.
Once I was safely on the other side, I set the basket down. The wind whipped against me as I walked over to the edge of the flat rock and glanced down.
Approximately, 300 feet below me were the tops of several trees. There was nothing between me and the trees and the sky above, except for the rock under my feet that didn’t seem nearly as large as it had moments before.
Feeling woozy, I backed up quite a bit and sat down near one of the only trees remaining on top of this desolate mountain. It wasn’t much taller than I was sitting down. The limbs were all twisted at awkward angles, like it was confused as to which way to grow.
The temperature was much cooler up here. I pulled my plaid more firmly around my shoulders to buffer the frigid wind.
Huddled closely to the tree, I tucked my feet under my gown, rested my elbow on my leg, and propped my chin up with my hand. Twilight was waning and the moon was drifting higher in the sky. I needed to rest a moment and then would make the long trek back down the mountain before it got too dark.
That was the plan, but the thin air from the altitude combined with my over indulgence of mead, not to mention my arduous climb up several hundred stairs, and the horror from crossing that damn bridge, made me drowsy. I decided a quick rest to revive myself wasn’t such a bad idea and closed my eyes.
♦
A shuddering underneath my bottom woke me. Disoriented, I looked around. A full moon bore down upon the mountaintop, illuminating the area in its ethereal glow as thousands of stars twinkled like diamonds just out of my reach. Again, I felt the shuddering that woke me. I stumbled upward to standing as the slight shuddering turned quickly to thundering.
Gripping hold of the bedraggled tree, I held on for dear life as the entire mountain shook with such force I thought for sure the damn thing was collapsing underneath me.
The thundering grew louder.
White mist swirled out towards me from the screaming bridge.
Not able to move, I watched.
One by one, horses rolled out from the mist and surrounded me. By my count, there were thirteen horses, and as my gaze lifted higher, thirteen massive Highlanders came into focus mounted on top of each one.
When the darkness came for me, I went willingly.
DEAR READER…
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CHAPTER ONE
LOCH MORAR, SCOTLAND
Sometime during the reign of King James
Thirteen somber faced men wearing kilts had me surrounded and not one of them was wearing underwear.
Blinking against the bright morning light, I swallowed hard, wondering if I was dreaming. It seemed like it should be a dream since I had never seen so many fine men gathered in one place before that wasn’t a gay bar and I was lying on my back staring stupidly up at them…. except, I wasn’t in my bed.
A man to my left grunted and nudged my leg with the toe of his boot.
♦
“Do ye ken if I killed it?” asked Callum, stroking his chin. He barely began growing hair on his face and tended to massage the area in hopes it would grow faster.
“You mean the lass ye dumped in the bog?” asked Muir, who stood a full head taller than Callum and had no such desires to have a beard since it would cover his handsome visage, or so he said often.
“I told ye it was an accident,” Callum grumbled. “And besides, how do you ken if it’s a lass?”
Muir shrugged. “Aren’t they all?”
Callum shook his head adamantly back and forth. “Nay, the last one was a man or was it the one before last?” He pondered that for a moment watching the person in the mud. “Look it’s moving.” He pointed. “It must be a lass, see, she has long hair.”
Muir snorted. “Are ye sure about that, Callum? Yer hair is down yer back and I wouldn’t mistake ye for a lass, even if the night was pitched in Dragoon’s blood and yer kilt was up exposing only yer hairless buttocks.”
“Ye keep talking like that Muir and I may think ye want ta see me hairless
buttocks more often.” He lifted his aforementioned kilt and bared his backside.
“Why ye….”
♦
This exchange should have been the first clue I was somewhere I should not be. But as with most days, before I had my morning cup of lead my brain was not firing on all cylinders.
♦
Gavin de Grey, the current laird of Greystone Castle, located on the northwest shore of Loch Morar, stepped forward. The wind whipped his dark brown hair away from his rugged profile. His blue-green gaze drifted to the bog of mud that surrounded the person his men were having a debate over. He wasn’t sure if it was a lass, either. They took people from the mist and sometimes, most times, it was a lass, but every once in a while they were stuck with a man. He wasn’t keen on the men. But some could cook and the others were good at mucking the stalls. Some however, ran off in the middle of the night and he had yet to find them, but then again, he wasn’t looking very hard either.
Lifting his hand, he pinched the bridge of his nose, to ward off the pressure gathering between his brows.
♦
“Do ye think she is daft?” Callum spoke from under the hand he was using to cover his mouth and nose from the smell.
“Does she look daft to ye?” Muir said, doing the same.
“She hasn’t tried ta move from the bog,” Callum noted. “Do ye ken if daft people like mud?”
“Och, how am I supposed to know?” Muir took a step back when the wind shifted.
“I can’t say I’ve met a lass that was daft before,” Callum mused.
“What about the old toothless crone ye were begging to suck yer wee bit last night?” Muir laughed.
“Och, ye promised ye wouldn’t say anything about that.” Callum launched himself at Muir and tackled him to the ground.
♦
The sound of flesh hitting flesh resounded in the air. I guessed they were having a fistfight but I could not see past the shadow of men that still stood around me.
Two other men stepped up to take their place and started a commentary of their own. They were hard to understand and spoke in a mishmash of modern day language, along with the unmistakable brogue of a Scotsman and something else that I couldn’t figure out. I could only get bits and pieces of the conversation.
♦
“Och, it stinks.” Alec pinched his nose.
“Aye, it does,” Graham, agreed taking a step back. His dark blonde hair stood on end. He grabbed hold of the length and tethered it with a piece of leather.
“We should toss her in the Loch and see if she comes clean,” Alec suggested. He was only three and twenty but he was already six feet tall.
“How ye going to get her there?” asked Muir, coming back from his fistfight with Callum, straightening his kilt.
“Ye can carry her,” Graham said, as he adjusted the hilt of his sword. “I won’t be the one lifting her up smelling the way she does.”
Muir looked indignant at such an idea. “Why can’t ye two do it?”
“We are older,” Alec said, as though this explained everything but then added, “Ye are the one that dropped the lass in the bog of mud.”
“I did no such a thing. That was Callum’s doing, no mine,” Muir defended.
“Makes no never mind ta me. Ye are still helping.”
“What was my doing?” asked Callum, stepping into the circle once more.
“Ye will take the lass to the Loch with Muir’s help and see if she comes clean,” Alec said.
“Och, why do I have ta do it?”
“Ye are the one that dropped her in the mud, that’s why,” Muir snapped.
“I did no drop her. Ye did.”
“Cease all of ye,” Gavin said, his voice deep with a heavy brogue combined with a hint of an English accent. “Pick her up and dump her in the Loch. If she comes clean and is toothsome, we will keep her. If not, leave her there.”
“It is cold,” Callum argued. “She may catch her death.”
“What do I care? I have no use for another ugly crone slowing us down. Now get on with it.”
Gavin stepped forward and leaned down to look at the person in the mud.
♦
Blinking, I stared up into the loveliest pair of eyes for a man that I had ever seen. They were a cross between green and blue. And even though the color was strange, yet beautiful, I had the distinct feeling I had seen that very same color somewhere before, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember where. They mesmerized me until he frowned and wrinkled his nose in displeasure before covering his face.
Some part of me finally came back to my senses. Out of sheer determination, I tried to sit up but only managed to move a little before I was sucked back into my prison of filth.
♦
“Ye take her arms; I’ll grab her feet.” Callum walked over to the edge of the pit.
Hands grabbed at my body none too carefully and yanked me from the vat of filth that had me trapped.
Moving quickly, the two men held my arms and legs while running up a rocky incline, picking up speed as they descended the other side.
I felt like I was going to be ripped in two.
“On the count of three…” one of them yelled over the howling wind.
“Three.”
My body swung outward and released.
I was airborne for a split second and then submerged completely into frigid water.
The skirts I wore weighed me down. I kicked my feet, struggling to rise back to the surface. With a final kick, I broke out from the barrier of water.
A heavy fog was on the top.
Gasping for air and out of sheer determination, I swam back toward the shore.
Dripping wet and shivering, I found purchase on the rocks below and climbed from the water.
The two men/boys that had thrown me into the water stood there with widened eyes.
“Bastards!” I sputtered, swiping my wet hair from my face.
“What did she say?” Callum asked.
“I believe she called ye a bastard,” Muir responded.
“How do ye know she was speaking ta me and not ye?”
“Ye are a bastard,” Muir reminded him and crossed his arms. “I am not.”
“Ye will be when I get through with ye,” Callum warned, balling his fists.
“Not likely.”
“What is the matter with you?” I chattered, so mad, I was seeing red.
“Aye she is a feisty one, full of spit and vinegar,” Muir stated.
“We did just throw her in the Loch. It would seem she may have good reason for calling us such,” Callum noted.
“Aye, I can see why she may be mad. Think ye she is toothsome enough for the Laird?” asked Muir.
“Aye,” said Callum.
I watched the one speaking. He had the pretty face of a boy not fully matured. Following his eyes, I looked down at my gown. It was clinging to my body like saran wrap.
“The lass looks mighty fine ta me.” Callum let out a low appreciative whistle.
“Good birthing hips on that one.” Muir nodded his agreement.
Both men examined me as I stood shivering by the shore, having a heated conversation that I understood very little.
A large white bird flew overhead, squawking loudly, then dove into the water and came back out with a fish writhing in its long beak.
Their attention momentarily diverted on the bird, I grabbed up my sopping wet skirts and tried to run. Unfortunately, I was so cold I could barely get my legs to work.
“Where do ye think she is going?” asked Callum, watching her departing form as she tried to run over the rock-laden embankment.
“I don’t know but ye better get her before she falls and hurts herself on the rocks,” Muir suggested.
“Would our laird want her looking the way that she does?” Callum asked, reassessing her as she ran forward. Her calves were shapely but a little smaller than he would have imagined due to the size of her bosom.
“Aye, I beli
eve he would.” Muir watched the aforementioned bosom bouncing up and down as she ran. “Well, what are ye waiting for? Go and get her.”
“I am not doing it myself,” Callum argued. “She is mad.”
Stopping, I gave up trying to run away, turned back around, and stomped back to the men who were more boys. I had no idea where I was, so running away was not going to help me in the least. “You heathens give me something to wear.” I was shivering uncontrollably.
The sound of my voice brought their eyes back to me as they stood there looking confused.
“What is she saying?” Callum asked out of the side of his mouth.
“I don’t know,” Muir said.
Rubbing my arms, I stood there shivering waiting for them to do something. When neither came to my aide, I walked up to the smallest one. “I am borrowing this.” I tugged the plaid.
“I think she wants yer extra plaid, Callum,” Muir said.
“Aye, I think she does.” Callum released his extra plaid to the girl and then stood back.
Wrapping the plaid around my body, I tried to get warm but it did little since my clothing was so wet.
“Take yer clothes off, lass,” Muir said.
Somehow, I understood that. “I will do no such thing.”
“That is the only way ye will get warm, lass.” He shrugged his broad shoulders.
With the numbness settling in my limbs, my legs gave out. My head hit the rocks before my body and I promptly blacked out.
CHAPTER TWO
LOCH MORAR, SCOTLAND
Sometime during the reign of King James
Lost in the Highlands, Volume One Page 2