Highlander Cursed: A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Preston, Rebecca

  What if he really did want to kill her? She'd all but handed him the opportunity on a silver platter. But his blade was still sheathed — it would be pretty hard to kill her with a blunt object like that. And for all the anger and resentment in his eyes, he seemed to be obeying the rules of the duel, more or less.

  He lunged now, surprisingly fast for a man his size, but she was warm and awake from the drills and she danced away effortlessly, working as hard as she could to observe him. Knowledge was power. That was what her old sword fighting teacher had told her. To know your opponent would make any battle effortless. She tried to mark his speed as he moved, how high he carried his weight, searching his gait for any sign of hesitation or stiffness... but he was a fairly uniform fighter. He moved with practice and discipline, which wasn't surprising given his profession, and he handled his sword effortlessly. No weak points that she could see from here — but that didn't mean there weren't any weak points, just that she was going to have to work for them. And fair enough, too. Why would she want an easy fight?

  Something else her teacher had always told her. You don’t learn anything from an easy fight. You want to get knocked on your ass in the dust as frequently as possible. It’s the only way to improve, the only way to get better… but at the moment, she was more interested in winning than in learning. Or at least putting up a good enough fight to wipe that smug, condescending look off his face. Important to control your emotions, too, she scolded herself gently. Any decent fighter would know how to take advantage of a frustrated or angry opponent, and she wasn’t giving him any advantages that he didn’t already have.

  He lunged again and this time she feinted away to the side, drew a very gratifying grunt of surprise from him as she moved faster than he'd thought she was able, dancing around to his back. In turn, he surprised her with a rapid pivot that sent dust scurrying across the floor of the clearing, his sword flying up to block a blow that had been aimed at his side ribs — but only just. A new suspicion burning in his eyes, Gavin pressed her back, his guard raised. She feinted, double-feinted, and — driving the tip of her blade in as though she were fencing — she struck the first blow.

  He narrowed his eyes in vexation, but said nothing — simply bowed, and returned to their starting position. She followed, feeling the blood singing in her veins, resisting the urge to smile. One strike down, two to go. God, it would be good if she could beat him. Let him sneer at a woman fighting then.

  This round was different — he kept her at a distance, wary of the way she'd dodged in under his guard, and this time there was a new kind of pressure as he kept trying to get her flattened up against a tree. This guy was good, she had to admit — he knew how to use the space around him to his advantage. Delilah supposed there was no choice when you'd fought in real battles. She found herself confronting the solemn knowledge that anyone who didn’t fight well probably didn’t make it to Gavin’s age.

  Has he ever besieged a castle? she wondered. Climbed up the walls in the dead of night to take down the guards and seize the building? He'd certainly drawn more blood than she ever had. The thought was sobering, and kept her wits sharp where she was tempted to let herself forget the importance of this battle. She wasn't just fighting for herself — she was fighting to remind him to respect women, all women. Who knew what a difference she could make here? Maybe if she did a good enough job the impact would resonate all the way down through history and make the present — or was it the future now? — A better place to live.

  Delilah searched his face as they circled each other in the middle of the clearing. The one thing she'd learned — and learned well — was to look at the eyes of your opponent. That was where all the clues would be. A decent fighter would know not to signal their next move with a physical gesture of readiness, but almost everyone on Earth would demonstrate some flicker of what was coming in their eyes — it was a byproduct of the thought of striking.

  And sure enough, she saw the skin under his eyes tighten, just a little, and knew he was about to lunge, hard. So before he moved, she dodged backwards — and managed to confuse him just enough that he carried through with his strike, overreaching and throwing himself just slightly off balance. That gave her the window of opportunity she needed to dart forward and slash at his ribs with her sword. It connected with a pleasant and undeniable thump.

  “Two-one,” she panted, trying not to look too smug.

  The expression in his eyes was mutinous.

  This time, his onslaught was furious. It was all she could do to parry or block half of his blows — the rest of the time she was just dodging, or running backwards. It was all she could do to keep her feet under her hips, knees bent, taking deep, steady breaths despite her rising panic. Essential to keep your wits about you when pressed. He wanted her to panic — that was what the goal of all this was. But he was a bigger man than her, and he was in hot, heavy armor. She could tell by the flush of his face and the heavy way he was breathing that he didn't have much of this kind of movement left in him. All she had to do was outlast, outlast, outlast...

  And then she saw her opportunity. A hesitation from him — was it the fatigue catching up with him, or the heat? Either way, he slowed, just slightly. Delilah left — then panicked as she felt the skirts catch around her legs. She stumbled just a little bit, keeping her balance, but finding her feet caught up in her skirts, and his sharp green eyes caught it, saw his opportunity, moved in to strike. Unacceptable. She wouldn't let him get a strike on her — no way. She was two points ahead — she could afford a reckless move. So she continued with the strike she'd been attempting before she'd stumbled, letting herself half-fall as she drove the sword toward him, struck him hard on the shoulder and used the force of the impact to right herself, catch herself from falling.

  Then suddenly, impossibly fast, his sword was beneath hers, as though to block it — but with a grunt, he slid his blade hard along hers, and before she could tighten her grip she felt his scabbard strike against the crossguard of the wooden sword and send it flying.

  “Disarmed,” he panted. “The fight's mine.”

  “Bullshit!” she exclaimed, remembering a fraction of a second too late that she was meant to be playing the part of a demure, polite young woman. Swearing like a sailor was probably ill advised. But his eyes were glowing — was that a smile, almost? No, the rest of his face was still stock still. Maybe she'd imagined it.

  “You're not much like Morag.”

  “Who?”

  Why was he looking at her so closely, still? Irritated by his regard, she broke off the eye contact, stalking across the clearing to retrieve her sword from where it had fallen. Her fingers were smarting from when his sword had made that final, shuddering impact, and she had a suspicion she'd be sore in the morning. She hadn't had a fight that bracing in a long time. As one of the best fighters in her branch of the SCA, Delilah had gotten a little complacent about sparring — there weren't many partners who could put her through her paces the way Gavin just had. Complacency was the enemy of improvement, too. She’d been vaguely looking into finding a more specialized sword fighting academy to attend. It seemed fate had sorted that out for her. But what had been that name he’d said? Something was telling her this was important, and she turned back to him with the wooden blade in her hand, her breathing beginning to settle.

  “Morag. You bear a striking resemblance to a woman I knew a long time ago. But she didn't fight. Not with swords, at any rate. Where'd you learn that?”

  “Back home.”

  “Not bad.”

  It felt like a fairly significant concession on his part, so she decided against pressing for more praise, though she privately felt that she'd done a lot better than 'not bad' for a woman who'd learned to fight in the twenty-first century as a hobby. God, if only she could tell her friends from the SCA that she'd fought an honest-to-God medieval guardsman and won! Well, nearly won. She'd struck a winning blow a few microseconds before being soundly disarmed... but at any rate,
it was the skirts that were to blame. If it was completely up to her she’d be in trousers, and victorious. The part of the fight she’d lost she could blame squarely on the stupid requirements placed on medieval women. No wonder sword fighting had such an irritatingly entrenched reputation as being a man’s sport. Let them try to fight in skirts. And kilts weren’t the same — she’d seen first-hand how easy those were to maneuver in.

  “Not bad for a woman?” she challenged him, eyes narrowed.

  He wasn’t going to get away with any sexism, medieval era or not. She was here, and she was going to be the change she wanted to see if it killed her. It could kill her, it occurred to her, quite literally. Well, she’d choose her battles.

  “Not bad,” he repeated. “When we spar again you'd best wear something other than those skirts, though. Foolish.”

  “What, Scotsmen don't fight in kilts?”

  “That's different,” he said with stubborn dignity. It was exasperating — so much so that she managed to miss the invitation to spar with him again.

  “Is that why you ran away, yesterday?” she asked instead. “Because I look like Morag?”

  “Aye,” he said, but she got the feeling he wasn't telling her the whole story from the way his eyes flickered away from her. He made a show of buckling his sword to his belt again, dusting his armor off as he did so.

  “Why'd you follow me?”

  “I didn't follow you.”

  “I know the path I took,” she pursued him, eyes narrow. “It was winding and zig-zaggy. No way anyone followed me by accident.”

  He looked at her for a long moment — then wordlessly took her wooden sword from her unprotesting hand, turned on his heel and started trudging away through the forest, back toward the castle. She watched him go, full of confusion — and more than a little annoyance. Seriously? That was it? He was just going to turn around and walk off whenever he got a question he didn't want to answer? How deeply frustrating men could be. No wonder she hadn't ever dated much. (Strange, to be thinking of her own life in the past tense.)

  Lost in thought, she wandered the way he'd gone, deliberately setting a pace slower than his so that she wouldn’t catch up with him. Soon enough, she came out on the road a little way from the castle — she recognized it from that morning's ride with Marianne. Should she go back into the castle? It was such a beautiful day... and she hadn't seen the village yet. Maybe a walk would clear her head, help her settle in a little better. Maybe against all odds she'd get down there and realize that it was still the twenty-first century after all, and she'd been taken prisoner by a bunch of delusional weirdos...

  A cart rolled past her on her way down, as though sent specifically to debunk that tragic hope. An old horse, pulling a rickety old cart that jumped and juddered on the rough dirt road. The kind of prop that would take months of work to build and render functional, if it was the twenty-first century… or, a sight as common as anything in the medieval era. The man hardly looked at her as he urged his horse on. Was there any way this could have been set up for her benefit? She watched the cart roll on down the road toward the village, and her shoulders slumped. No way. No way could they have timed it that perfectly. Ah, well, it had been worth a shot, at least. Delilah continued on her walk, still feeling lost and bewildered... but she had to admit, the sparring match with Gavin had been nice. He was a good partner — a good height for her, good reach. Kept her on her toes. And he wasn't too far above her skill level. She knew she'd beat him next time. Maybe she'd ask Fiona for a pair of the pants she'd been wearing… or just make some for herself.

  After all, if she was going to be a medieval woman, she’d have to get into the habit of sewing her own clothing. Despite the absolute absurdity and strangeness of the situation, there was something nice about that idea that set her smiling as she set off toward the village.

  Chapter 8

  It was as pleasant a walk down the hill to the village as she remembered from the twenty-first century. Less traffic, certainly, and a certain clean smell to the air that must have something to do with the lack of pollution... but still, there was something very comforting about the knowledge that the landscape didn't change much in the grand scheme of things. The rolling hills, the dips and curves in the road... none of that was going to be swept away by time any time soon. And if the land could stay this pleasant and steady, then so could she.

  But her confidence faltered a little bit when she set foot in the outskirts of the village. The roads changed from dirt — but not to concrete or bitumen as she subconsciously still expected, but to cobblestones. There were suddenly multiple horses within view — either tethered to posts or being ridden sedately around — and far more people than she'd expected to see. Delilah tried her best not to stare, but the village was fascinating to simply stand in and people-watch... women moving back and forth with attitudes of great importance, gaggles of children running around, groups of men heading toward the local tavern... she stared up at that building, amazed.

  It stood on the site of the bed and breakfast she'd been staying in before whatever had transported her back here, but it was remarkable to see how close a spiritual successor the modern building had been to this one. It was almost like if she went in, she'd be able to climb the stairs to her very own room, her desk, her computer, and the whole nightmare would be over...

  But was it a nightmare, really? Delilah was walking toward the tavern without even realizing it. Wasn't this, rather, a spectacular dream? She was a professional folklorist — and here she was in medieval Scotland, the origin of so many of her favourite stories, ready to experience them all firsthand. She was standing in the tavern before she realized it.

  It was after lunch, and a number of people seemed to have set up for the afternoon at the bar, tankards of ale clutched in their hands — mostly men, but one or two women were among them. Their wives, perhaps? Delilah realized she wasn't sure what day it was. Could this be Sunday afternoon? The habit of resting on the Sabbath had spread through Scotland with the rise of the Christian faith — perhaps that's what these people were doing. It wasn’t as though she could ask, though. Didn’t want to give herself away too early — and not knowing what day it was, was pretty suspicious.

  Well, perhaps she could sit for a little while. It would be fascinating to hear a story or two — not that she was going to pry, of course, but perhaps if she overheard a few things, she could write them down and... oh. Wait. She had nothing to write with. The only thing that had come back with her through time was that decrepit old phone that belonged to Fiona. No notebooks, definitely no laptop, and no pens. And paper would be a hard thing to get hold of ... not impossible, of course, but difficult.

  A project for another time. For now she'd just rely on her memory. That was almost a better way of listening to stories, truly — it kept you alive to the nuances of them, the way they ebbed and flowed. She took a seat at a table, within earshot of the bar — only to be confronted immediately by a bored-looking woman in an apron with bright, curly red hair dragged irritably off her face and fastened behind her head.

  “Ale, then?” The woman tilted her head with a glimmer of curiosity. “You from out of town? Haven’t seen your face around.”

  “Yes,” Delilah said, realizing in a rush that she hadn't come up with any kind of cover story for what she was doing there. You're not invisible, Delilah, she scolded herself, apprehension prickling at her stomach — what if these people figured out there was something strange about her, threw her out of the tavern, or worse, imprisoned her on suspicion of witchcraft? Settle down, girl, she cautioned herself — you're wearing the right clothes, you just need to not be too weird and you'll get away with it. Just order a drink and settle in. Think like a local and they'll leave you alone. “Yes, I'm staying with the MacClarans.”

  “Oh, aye?” The woman slouched off toward the bar, clearly not especially interested in what Delilah had to say. She felt herself relax a little. Thank God. That hadn't been so hard, now had it?
She hadn't even had to try to put on a Scottish accent — if her odd American vowels had confused the bartender, she certainly hadn't let it show. That being said, Delilah suspected the sky could fall and that woman would be unbothered.

  But then the woman returned with a mug of ale, which she slammed down on the table before extending a hand for payment — and Delilah's gut twisted. Money. Of course. Of course, money. She didn't have any goddamn money. What had she been thinking? That she'd just whip her credit card out in fifteenth century Scotland? What was she going to do? Would the bartender let her wash dishes to pay off her drink?

  Just when she was about to explode with embarrassment, a voice sounded — an unfamiliar voice, low and rasping, and different from the voices she'd been hearing all day in a way she couldn't put her finger on at first.

  “I'll get the lady's,” the voice said — and she looked up to see that it belonged to a man who'd taken the other seat at her table. Her savior loomed over the table — a thickset man with heavy features and short brown hair. He'd have been intimidating as hell if it wasn't for the slightly lopsided smile on his face. It didn't quite look like it belonged, but it was genuine nevertheless — and there was a tinge of something like recognition in his eyes.

  Not more of this, she thought with dismay. Had this guy known Morag as well, whoever she was? Was she going to have to have another awkward conversation about who she was and who she wasn’t? Perhaps she could come up with some story about being Morag’s twin sister, she thought. That wasn’t completely out of the question, right? People tended to be suspicious of identical twins, it was a superstitious thing, but there’d probably be even more suspicion if she explained that their resemblance was familial and not supernatural.

  She was distracted by the man's clothing. He was wearing a cloak that fell over his shoulders, half-obscuring the padded clothing he was wearing — she recognized it instantly as the kind of material that went under plate armor. It was well-fitted to his considerable frame, and she could see that the joints of his body — his underarms in particular — were protected by chain mail.