Highlander's Heart: A Scottish Historical Time Travel Romance (Called by a Highlander Book 3)

by Mariah Stone

  Friend…

  The sounds of the thundering rocks and screams, the images of torn flesh, of blood saturating dry dirt, of Abaeze’s dying eyes… Abaeze was the last person who’d called him friend. Abaeze, who had saved Ian’s life and then died in his arms.

  “I’m nae yer friend, lass,” he murmured, his voice a rasping whisper.

  He looked straight ahead, at the black horse, at the reins in his hands, at the rocky, rubbly road. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw her tense and stiffen.

  He didn’t care. He shouldn’t care if he hurt her feelings. He couldn’t have another friend. Abaeze had known what it was like—he’d also killed to live.

  Here, no one would understand. If Kate found out what he had done to survive… He couldn’t stand the look of revulsion on her face, especially after she’d just called him friend.

  And if others ever learned the truth, he’d be condemned as a monster—rightfully so. And he’d be fooling himself if he thought he’d have a normal life here. He’d see his clan for the yearly gatherings. He’d help them if they needed him. But other than that…

  His way forward was the way of loneliness.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to overstep… I don’t want to be a burden, though. I’ll work very hard in your kitchen.”

  He nodded without turning his head to her. Her voice rang with hurt, but it was better to keep his distance from her and not give her any hopes. He felt for her, and he’d do everything he could to help her find out who she was and where she belonged. But that was it.

  The rest of the day passed in silence. They slept in the woods and resumed their journey the next day.

  As the set out, the road was a little rainy but otherwise easy.

  Ian was glad they would arrive at the village of Rossely by the evening. The lass was still weak, and it would do her good to sleep in a warm bed at an inn, and not outside on the cold ground.

  It was in the afternoon that he sensed something was wrong. Mayhap it was his warrior’s instinct, or mayhap he’d caught the slightest movement—either way, he’d learned to heed the sensation during years of fighting.

  He stopped the horse and listened. Wind rustled the leaves. Birds chirped.

  And then there was a movement farther down the road and a man stood there, waiting. Ian eyed him warily. His sword was in the back of the cart with his father.

  But he wouldn’t kill another, anyway, he reminded himself.

  He needed this to go peacefully.

  “Say nae word,” he said to Kate.

  He shook the reins and the horse resumed marching towards the man. He was tall and dressed like a knight, in heavy armor, a sword, and a shield.

  “Identify yourself,” the man said in Anglo-Saxon.

  English.

  “Ian Cambel, with my wife.”

  Kate looked at him sharply.

  “Taking my father’s body home.”

  The knight smirked. “Home? Everything from here to North Argyll belongs to King Edward of England.”

  Ian gritted his teeth.

  Aye, war. People who wanted to kill were everywhere.

  “I dinna want trouble, lord,” Ian said, addressing the man more politely than he deserved. Ian hated himself for cajolery. But if he wanted this to go peacefully, he needed the man to let them through.

  “Home is Dundail, on Loch Awe. I return there to bury my father.” He looked behind himself at the cart.

  “Your home for now,” the knight said.

  He walked around the cart and looked into it. There lay Duncan’s body, wrapped in cloth, the sword underneath his father’s side. Ian’s hands clenched into fists, his breath accelerated, and something began buzzing in his ears.

  Just touch him with one finger…

  But the man nodded and returned to stand by the horse. Thank God he had a decency to respect the dead and not look under the body.

  He gave Ian a long look. “Come through, you bloody Scot. But know this. Your true king, Edward—not the spawn who calls himself King of Scots—will come and claim what’s his. Your home. And if you dare to take up arms against him, your father won’t be the only corpse your pretty wife has to bury.”

  The man leered at Kate. A low growl was born in Ian’s gut, and he had to physically stop himself from letting it out. Something must have shown in his expression because fear flashed through the man’s face, and his hand shot to the sword at his belt. Black and red filled Ian’s vision, the urge to act gnawing at his bones.

  A soft, warm hand covered his and squeezed it.

  “Let’s go, Ian,” Kate said firmly.

  Almost startled, he glanced at her. Her face looked calm, but in her eyes, he saw worry and even fear. That steadied him, made him take a deep breath that cleaned the fury away and brought him back.

  “Aye,” he said without taking his eyes off her.

  Then, when he felt sober enough, he turned to the Englishman.

  “Yer king will never be my king.”

  Then he lashed the reins, and the horse walked.

  “What does it all mean?” Kate said when they were some distance away.

  “It means, everything from here till pretty much home is infested with the enemy.”

  The enemy in a war he didn’t want to fight.

  “The English are the enemy?” Kate said.

  “Aye.”

  “But why?”

  “Because King Edward doesna want to acknowledge our rightful king, King Robert the Bruce. I didna ken all of that until I traveled through England. The English Crown pushed John Comyn as the next claimant to the Scottish throne. I was told Bruce opposed it and proclaimed himself king. Many clans supported him, although some, including the MacDougalls, still oppose him. The English king became furious. He sent an army to stop Bruce and succeeded. Bruce had to run with the few supporters that he had, including my uncle Neil. My clan has always been loyal to him and always will be. My uncle organized a galley to take Bruce to hide in the Western Isles. The Bruce came back last year, slowly winning his way through the Highlands and gaining more supporters. Now the course of the war has changed in his favor.”

  They were arriving at the village of Rossely now. Low stone houses with thatched roofs stood close to one another. The streets were wet with mud after the rain. Chickens and geese walked around, goats bleated, people carried buckets of water from the well or baskets with food and firewood. Somewhere, a blacksmith hammered at the anvil, tong, tong, tong. The air smelled of woodsmoke and freshly baked bread. Ian promised himself he’d never take the sights, sounds, and smells of home for granted again.

  Among the villagers, there were knights in expensive armor bearing the red standard with yellow lions. The English.

  Their speech hurt Ian’s ears. He glanced around—everywhere were people who might come for his home.

  “I dinna think we should stay here tonight,” he said. “I’m sorry, lass, but we’ll have to sleep outside again.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Are ye strong enough?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” She pressed out a smile.

  “All right.”

  As they drove through without stopping, Ian felt heavy gazes on him like hot coals. His hand twitched to reach out for his sword. He felt vulnerable and naked without a weapon.

  He’d promised himself he wouldn’t kill again.

  But how could he keep that promise when the enemy was at his doorstep, he didn’t know.

  Chapter 7

  Two days later…

  Kate’s heart squeezed almost to the point of pain when she saw Dundail.

  It lay on the coast of the loch in a green valley, secluded and backed by the mountains from the east. The almost still surface of the water reflected the square three-story tower of the mansion with an adjacent stone building. On the shore, a couple of small boats had been pulled up next to the path that led to the main entrance. Gentle grassy hills dotted wi
th white sheep surrounded the grand manor. Smoke rose from the chimney.

  It looked like a home. Not hers. But someone’s.

  Ian’s.

  She glanced at him, sitting by her side, driving the cart. His profile was stern, his eyes fixed on the house in front of them. There was something behind this mask. He looked as though he’d been tortured and was trying to hide the pain.

  “’Tis nae where I grew up,” he said. “I was raised in Innis Chonnel before the MacDougalls seized it after they killed my grandfather, Sir Colin.”

  “So you haven’t been here often?”

  He shook his head, still looking at the house.

  “Nae. Nae often. Mayhap once per year to see my father.”

  “Do you think of it as your home, then?” she asked.

  He looked at her as though she’d said a foul word.

  “Sorry, I just mean…I’m trying to understand, and maybe to learn what a home is for someone. Since I have no idea what mine is.”

  His gaze warmed. He looked like a handsome, tired, lost warrior. “I dinna ken if ’tis my home. I suppose I’ll try to make it mine.”

  She smiled. “This looks like a wonderful place, Ian.”

  Once they arrived about half an hour later, Ian stopped Thor in front of the main building. Near it was a collection of smaller buildings: stables, a chicken coop, a cowshed, and probably a workshop and a storage house.

  Ian jumped off the cart and helped Kate get down. He’d done it several times during their journey, and every time he touched her, every time his hands grasped her waist, she became a hot, melting ball of sweet tingling. He lifted her as though she weighed nothing, then put her gently on the ground. He smelled of sun and forest and something earthy and magical.

  Then he’d walk away, and she’d whisper, “Thank you,” standing there like a statue and watching him retreat. Somehow, the simple gestures of care and help along their journey had touched her so deeply she’d wanted to cry. But she had no idea why.

  She wanted to crack her skull open and dig for those memories she couldn’t find.

  While Ian went inside, Kate looked around. On closer inspection, the house and the buildings looked distressed. Parts of the walls were crumbled, and the roof had holes—as did all the buildings on the property. The chickens wandered around looking almost wild. The shutters on the windows hung crooked. One of the planks of the small porch was missing.

  Inside there was a great hall, similar to the one in Inverlochy but with fewer tables and benches. Everything looked as if it was decaying, and there was a faint smell of mold and mice.

  How did she know what mice smelled like? A sudden flash of a kitchen with dirty yellow walls, a metal stove with gas burners, and chipped green cabinets invaded her mind. In that image, everything looked big to her. She put a chair by the stove, climbed it, switched on the gas burner and put a pan on it. She poured some oil.

  She was about to make two grilled cheese sandwiches. Her mom wouldn’t be home until very late, and Kate and her sister would already be asleep. She’d make another grilled cheese later for Mom and leave it for her on the table.

  Kate climbed down and opened a kitchen cabinet to take out some bread. The scent of food gone bad hit her in the face. Mice feasted on the bread. She shooed them, and they scattered but left feces, urine, and dirt together with the bread crumbs.

  The great hall smelled like that.

  Kate held her head in her hands, although it didn’t ache. The vision was so real and so normal, and yet so completely and totally foreign, she couldn’t think for a moment. Her mind went blank trying to cope with it, trying to make sense of what she’d seen. Sadness and loneliness opened a hole in her chest.

  And what of all the strange objects and materials in that vision? That big metal thing was a gas stove, she knew. A fridge kept food cool and worked with electricity, which also lit the light on the ceiling.

  In the cabinet, there was also stuff to make the Crazy Mary, she remembered. The dish her mom had made once or twice, claiming it was a family heirloom recipe. The spices for it stood to the right, the oatmeal for the filling right next to the bread.

  Kate sat down on a nearby bench, the wood cold even through her dress. Her chest tensed, her heart convulsing. She couldn’t breathe.

  What was that? A vision? It felt like a memory, like it had really happened to her, but it made absolutely no sense. What she’d seen in it looked nothing like what was around her. Where had the electricity come from? The gas in the stove? The plastic and paper wrappings of the supplies? They looked similar to the things she’d found in her purse.

  That was the only calming thing, the fact that she might not actually be insane. That there was some explanation for the madness in her head. But it would be best not to tell anyone about her visions, she realized, because the people around her would only think her more insane. She still needed to talk to Crazy Mary, and she had big hopes for that talk.

  She should find the kitchen. The word sent a shiver through her. With her feet still weak, she stood. She had no idea where the kitchen was, but it must be somewhere on the first floor.

  She found it relatively easily—it was right at the back of the tower. The room was the direct opposite of the kitchen in her vision: dark, with a big fireplace, and only a few small windows near the ceiling to let in the daylight. Torches on the rock walls illuminated the space as well. Around the lit fireplace, a starburst of black soot spread on the wall.

  A massive wooden table took up the middle of the room. It was messy with peels and greens, the cutting boards dirty. Next to it, a large cauldron hung over the fire, radiating the smell of cooking vegetables and meat. A huge oven was built into the wall to the left. Pots, ladles, large spoons, and other utensils hung on the wall to the right. A large barrel of water stood next to the table.

  Ian was talking to a bald man in his fifties with a bushy mustache and a dirty apron. His eyebrows snapped together, his eyes bulging, his mouth an angry curve, he held a kitchen knife in his hand like a weapon.

  “Do ye think I want this?” Ian asked. “I would have kept him alive if I could. But now ye have me, yer new master. If ye dinna want me, I dinna wish to keep ye, Manning, where ye dinna want to be.”

  He glanced at Kate.

  “Aye, in fact, I do already have a new cook.” He gestured at her.

  Manning turned to her with the same expression of wild fury, the knife pointed at her. He marched towards her, and Kate felt the urge to step back from him but resisted. He wouldn’t stab her. And Ian wouldn’t let him. She lifted her chin.

  Manning came to stand right in front of her, reeking of sweat, onion, and meat on the verge of being spoiled.

  “Who’s the lass?” He studied her.

  “My name is Kate,” she said. “Ian hired me to cook.”

  “Did he now?” Manning said. “Did ye plan to get rid of me while ye were in Inverlochy?”

  “Nae, Manning,” Owen said. “I didna plan anything like that. The lass hit her head and lost her memory, but she remembered ye. Or rather, yer lamb roast.”

  Manning cocked his busy eyebrow and studied her from tip to toe.

  “I didn’t remember him, Ian. I remembered Crazy Mary.”

  “I am Crazy Mary,” Manning said.

  “Isn’t Mary a woman?”

  “’Tis,” Ian said. “Long story. Fact is, ’tis who ye came here for, lass. Crazy Mary.”

  “But…” She frowned, studying him, hoping for more flashes of visions or memories. But the bushy mustache and the bald head said nothing. She was seeing the man for the first time.

  “I cooked your recipe, the roasted lamb. That’s what it’s called—Crazy Mary. I don’t remember where I come from or who I am, but I remember that recipe. So I assume it’s very important.”

  Manning narrowed his eyes. “Ye talk strangely, lass. Doesna she, lad?”

  Ian raised one eyebrow. “Aye, she speaks differently. But she isna the first person I met who d
oesna speak like you or me. Doesna mean she should be abandoned or left without help when she needs some.”

  Warmth spread in Kate’s stomach as he said that. Oh, Ian… That he had her back meant so much to her.

  “Nae,” Manning said slowly. “It doesna. But it means something. Something odd about her…”

  He spun around and marched to the table.

  “Ye want to work as a cook, lass?” he said and stabbed the cutting board with the knife. “Cook somethin’.”

  Kate’s bravado disappeared into thin air. Cook something? What could she cook?

  “The wee bread I ate from yer purse,” Ian said, as though reading her thoughts.

  She had no idea who had made the sandwich and what it was made of…

  Wait.

  Sandwich. The word came to her mind easily, yet it wasn’t one they seemed to use here. Maybe now that her memories—or some version of them—had come back, she would remember more.

  “Okay,” she said, and Manning looked confused. He probably didn’t know the word “okay,” either. She should stop using it. Why did she know so many words others didn’t?

  She came to stand next to the table. “I don’t remember making that, but maybe I’ll remember something else.”

  She ran her finger along the surface and shook her head. “But not until the kitchen is clean. I cannot cook in all these germs.”

  “Germs?” Ian said.

  Hm. Another word they had no idea about. “Yes, you know. Bacteria. Viruses. Salmonella. Listeriosis. Food poisoning.”

  They watched her with blank faces, but as she said poisoning, both became alert and wary. “Mayhap she’s a witch and nae a cook,” Manning said. “Were ye casting a spell to poison the food?”

  “Oh my God!” she cried. “I don’t remember much, but I can definitely tell you I’m not a witch. All I’m talking about is cleaning the kitchen. You’re not seriously working in this filth, are you, Manning?”

  His face darkened and became dangerous. “’Tis a working kitchen, and I dinna have enough boys to clean it.”

  Kate sighed. “All right. Well, you have me. Let’s clean first, and then I’ll see if I can make something.”