by Lynn Kurland
But before she could really bring the impressive powers of her formidable imagination to bear on the current task, the damned horse Mrs. Pruitt had given her whinnied in fear and reared up, wrenching the reins from Victoria’s fingers.
“Hey!” she exclaimed.
The next thing she knew, the horse was off like a shot, carrying with it most of her gear and all hope of non-perambulating travel.
“Can you believe that?” she said to Connor.
Only Connor wasn’t there.
Neither was that little grove of trees she had hidden behind with Connor when they’d been spying on Thomas and Jamie. Thomas was gone, as well.
“Oh,” she wheezed. “Not in Kansas anymore, I guess.”
“Witch! Fairy! Sorceress!”
She whirled around to see two very filthy, very terrified children hiding in another species of trees and pointing at her while they called her names.
Dangerous names.
Names Thomas and Jamie had insisted she learn in Gaelic so she would be prepared for the worst. Victoria thought it might be best to run before she met up with any parents with pitchforks. She didn’t have fifteen minutes to determine where west was, so she checked the handy compass she’d bought two days earlier and tucked in her sock, then made tracks north.
She ran until she couldn’t run anymore and she thought she might have left the name-callers behind. She hunched over with her hands on her thighs and sucked in air—fortunately not as desperately as she might have six weeks ago. Time at Jamie’s in that respect had not been wasted. Ian had seemed to take an inordinate pleasure in being her personal trainer. She had thought at the time that he just had a sadistic streak, but now she suspected he did it so she would actually manage to make it through medieval Scotland alive. Then she would have a tale to entertain his family with in front of his shiny red Aga stove.
She was grateful that she at least had on her backpack and that Connor had insisted she keep her sword strapped to her person and not her horse. She would thank him for that advice the next time she saw him.
“Och, but yer a fetchin’ wench.”
Victoria spun around, drawing her rapier at the same time. A bedraggled, though surprisingly bright-eyed man stood there, leering at her. He flicked away the point of her sword.
“I’m not afeared of your puny wench’s blade,” he said scornfully.
“Perhaps you should be,” she said. She moved to one side.
He blocked her.
She resheathed her sword and folded her arms over her chest. “Get out of my way.”
“Och, but where’s the sport in that?” he asked, grinning as he reached out for her.
“Oh, well, maybe you’re right.” She smiled encouragingly. And then once he had his hands on her arms, she kneed him sharply in the groin. While he was dealing with that, she took her steel-toed army boot and smashed it down on the top of his foot, just where Jenner had once taught her was the premier disabling spot for a guy wearing rags on his feet.
While the man was hopping and shrieking, apparently unable even to curse her properly, she gave him a good push and dashed away.
Damn. Ten minutes into medieval-looking Scotland and already she’d had trouble. Well, at least there was no crashing of underbrush behind her and the shrieks faded eventually in an authentic way, so Victoria counted that one hurdle overcome. She continued her all-out sprint for Connor’s hall.
She did have to slow to a jog at times, but she didn’t stop. It was a gloomy day, perfect weather for trying to blend into the countryside. She held onto her compass with one hand and a borrowed dagger from Jamie with the other as she made her way north. Connor had said the fairy ring was a couple of miles south of his home. With any luck, it would take her twenty minutes to get to Connor’s hall.
She was surprised by the forest, but knew she shouldn’t have been. All the Highlands had been forested at one time. She couldn’t remember when the English had cleared them, but apparently that hadn’t happened yet in Connor’s day. They were beautiful, those trees, but gave her no clue as to how much progress she had made. It felt as if she had been running forever. Her lungs burned. Her legs were rubber. Her hands were shaking.
She dropped her compass and hunched over again, gasping until she thought she could straighten and take a normal breath. She picked up the compass and managed to heave herself upright. And then she lost her breath all over again.
Apparently the forest did have an end.
She stood there and gaped at the castle in the clearing in front of her. It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen castles before, but she hadn’t seen a medieval one operating in its proper time period. At least she hoped it was the proper time period.
And the proper castle.
She stood there for several minutes, wondering at the lack of activity outside and debating her next move. Her plan had been to show up, talk to Connor, and then see what happened. She was hoping to charm him, or at least unsettle him enough that he would take the time to listen to her. She sincerely hoped she wouldn’t be invited to take up residence in his dungeon.
Maybe this wasn’t the right castle. Worse yet, maybe she hadn’t come back to the right time. What would she do if Connor came out that front door, but he was still toddling around in diapers—
Bagpipe music started up suddenly.
She listened, open-mouthed, to renditions of the songs Connor had sung too many times to count. She had a momentary flash of hope, but that was quickly extinguished. Jamie had known some of the same songs, so she supposed it was possible that she was in the wrong part of Scotland. The piper faltered and the music faded.
Victoria held her breath.
The piper took another stab at things. Another song soon floated to her on the wind. It was Connor’s favorite battle dirge, the one he considered to be quite rousing.
It was the one tune Jamie hadn’t known.
“Well,” she said out loud, “that’s a good sign.” She put her compass back in her sock, resheathed Jamie’s dagger, and started toward the castle. She made it almost all the way to the front door before a clansman of some sort came rushing outside. He came to an abrupt halt, looked at her in surprise, then drew his sword and pointed it at her. “Who are you?” he demanded.
He looked so much like Connor, she smiled. “French nobility,” she said promptly. “I’m hear to see the laird, Connor.”
He looked about her in puzzlement. “Alone? Where are your men?”
Well, at least he wasn’t telling her she was asking for the wrong guy. Things were looking brighter by the heartbeat.
“My men were slain,” she said. “By Campbells.”
“Damn the wretches,” the man said perfunctorily. He put up his sword and nodded toward the hall. “Well, come inside then. You don’t look all that fierce, so I don’t feel the need to disarm you.”
“Thanks so much,” she said politely.
He shrugged and grinned. “Anything for a fetching wench.” He paused. “What’s yer name, fetching wench?”
“Victoria McKinnon,” she said.
His eyes widened briefly. “Indeed.”
“I’m sure I’m not related to the McKinnons you don’t like.”
“The laird dislikes all McKinnons,” he said, “so I’d keep my clan name to myself.”
“Thanks for the advice. What was your name again?”
“Cormac MacDougal.” He smiled. “I’m the laird’s cousin.”
“How fortunate for you. Let’s go see him, shall we?”
Cormac nodded and led her into the hall. Victoria found that she was having a little trouble making her legs move. Her feet seemed to have an overwhelming desire just to plant themselves somewhere until her brain began working again. Not that the floor was anything to want to stay still in. She looked down.
“Eeuww,” she said involuntarily.
“I know,” Cormac said. “Damned lazy servants. When the rushes are this fresh, I’ve no liking for them, either. Give me a flo
or that’s seen a good bit of hard living and I’m content.”
Victoria found herself quite content to be wearing boots that kept her delicate toes off that fresh floor. She had no idea what was squirming around under the hay, nor did she want to find out. She could only imagine what the dungeon looked like.
She didn’t want to know for sure.
She followed Cormac across the hall and did her best to keep her boots out of the worst of the goo as she did so. It was no easy task and she found that it took all her powers of concentration just to put one foot in front of the other and keep going.
And then her forward motion was stopped abruptly.
It was as if she had run into a wall.
She realized, as she looked up, that she had run into a Connor MacDougal instead.
“Oh,” she breathed, looking up into his stormy gray eyes and feeling her eyes burn suddenly. “Oh, my.”
He grasped her by the arms, presumably to keep her up on her feet. All she knew was that he was touching her.
“What do you want?” he demanded. “And be quick about it. I’ve business to see to.”
He was touching her. It was more than she could take in. She stammered and stuttered and, in the end, failed miserably to articulate anything useful. She was standing a hand’s breadth from the man she loved and he was alive. Nothing Thomas or Iolanthe had said had come close to preparing her for it. In her own mind, she had suspected it would be earth-shattering.
She hadn’t expected it to be heartbreaking.
“Oh,” she said again, breathlessly. “Well.”
He rolled his eyes impatiently. “Daft wench,” he muttered.
In much the same way he’d been saying it to her all summer.
He released her abruptly and turned away in disgust.
Well, at least he hadn’t thrown her into his pit. “Laird MacDougal,” she said, taking a step toward him, “I have things I need to tell you.”
He turned back around and frowned at her. “Who are you and whence do you hail? Your Gaelic is terrible.”
Victoria had been preparing for just those sorts of questions, and practicing her answers, for weeks. Connor had even given her several ideas of what to say and how to phrase it so he wouldn’t immediately label her a witch.
“My name is Victoria.” When he didn’t immediately reach for his sword, she pressed on. “I have come from a great distance to warn you about events to come.”
The storm clouds began to gather.
“I’m not a witch,” she said quickly. “Do not put me in your dungeon.”
“By the saints, woman, I think that is the place for you.”
She found that a crowd was gathering so she leaned in closer. “Is there a place where we could talk in private?”
“Aye, my dungeon.”
She expected that. She expected that he wouldn’t want to talk and that he would impatiently or with incredulity brush aside what she wanted to say. She hadn’t expected that standing so close to him would turn her brain to mush.
“Ah,” she attempted, “I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
He folded his arms over his chest and frowned down at her. “ ’Tis only because you are a damned fetching wench that I take the time to listen. And I like your red hair, though you look a fair sight too much like those damned McKinnons. Are you a McKinnon?”
“Would I be here in your hall if I were?” she hedged. She shot Cormac a look, but he only watched with his arms folded over his chest, a thoughtful frown on his face, and his sword safely tucked in its scabbard. So far, so good.
“Hmmm,” he said doubtfully. “I’ll have that answer in time, I daresay, and throw you in my pit if you answer amiss. But get on with your business and let me be about mine.”
She chose her words carefully. “A question first, if you don’t mind. Do you have a French minstrel in your hall?”
His expression darkened considerably. “Why do you ask?” he asked in that low, dangerous voice she’d heard a time or two before. Only seven hundred years in the future, he hadn’t had that enormous, imminently real broadsword strapped to his back.
“I ask,” she said, lowering her voice as well, “because there is a fairy ring through the forest, over the hill, and down into the glade. It is a gate to the Future. I came through it to tell you that I know what will happen when the Frenchman leaves with your wife and children and you go to search for them.”
Connor had warned her that such a statement would not sit well with his medieval self.
A pity he hadn’t warned her just what kind of reaction it would provoke.
The Connor presently standing in front of her roared. He roared again for good measure, then drew his sword and swung. Blessing Ian MacLeod for his brutal training regimen, Victoria managed to duck just in time.
“Wait,” she said from her crouched position at his feet.
“Begone, you vile wench!”
“But I have more to tell you—”
“Get out of my hall or leap into my pit!” he thundered. “I’ll hear no more of this mad speech!”
“His wife left a se’nnight ago,” Cormac offered helpfully.
“Damn ye to hell,” Connor snarled at him. “Must you tell the entire bloody keep?”
“But, Connor,” Cormac said reasonably, “everyone knows already.”
Connor turned to vent his frustrations on his cousin. Cormac must have been accustomed to it because he merely drew his sword in an instant and was fighting fire with fire, as it were. Victoria stood and watched, hoping she hadn’t caused a fracas where she shouldn’t have. Then again, Connor was going after his cousin and not her. That had to be a good thing.
Now, if she could just get him to listen to her while he was otherwise engaged.
“The Frenchman will send for you,” she shouted over Connor and Cormac’s cursing. “His messenger will promise to tell you where to find your children.”
“Be silent!” Connor thundered.
She waited until he’d taken a bit more of his irritation out on his cousin before she attempted anything else.
“Beware the Frenchman,” she said. “He will murder you in the clearing near the stream—”
Connor growled and pointed his sword at her. “If you say one more word, I will pull out your entrails and strangle you with them.”
She blinked. “You will?”
“Well,” he conceded reluctantly, “likely not, you being a woman and all.”
“Could we sit and visit, then?” she asked.
He swore in disgust. “Nay, we may not! Woman, I’ve business to see to that does not include listening to some strange, daft wench who would be better served by being silenced permanently!”
“But—”
“Begone, ye silly wench!”
“We can’t chat over a cup of ale?”
Connor swore viciously and took her by the arm. He dragged her to the front door.
“Wait,” she said, digging her heels into his floor. This wasn’t going at all how she’d planned. It wasn’t even going according to her worst-case scenario. She had to at least blurt out a warning or two. Maybe then something would click with him and he would stop long enough to listen to everything she had to say. She suspected that convincing him he wanted to have dinner with her might be asking too much.
She took a deep breath. “The arrow will come at you. Your horse will crush you beneath it and then the Frenchman will come and finish you,” she said quickly.
He growled.
“He will tell you as you die that your bairns and your wife died of the ague because he dragged them through the wet for days on end—”
She found, quite suddenly, that she was flying down the front steps. Fortunately, there were only four of them. Even more providential was the fact that one of Ian’s first lessons had been the tuck and roll. She stumbled down the stairs, tucked, and rolled. She came back up onto her feet and turned to look back at the hall.
Connor stood the
re, his chest heaving, and glared at her a final time.
Then he slammed the door and didn’t open it again.
Victoria brushed herself off and took a good long look at Connor’s medieval home. It was gray, unforgiving, built to withstand assaults of all kinds. Sort of like Connor himself.
Well, things had certainly not gone as planned.
She stood there for several minutes and simply stared at the keep. She could go back and try again. Maybe if she tackled Connor to the ground and sat on him, she might be able to keep him immobile enough to make him listen to her.
Somehow, though, she doubted it.
It was with great reluctance that she realized the most unfortunate truth of all.
Her trip to the past had been a bust.
She thought about Connor, his beautiful, mortal self, and realized that perhaps she had leaped where she should have looked. Never mind that he had told her unequivocally not to try to rescue him, that he was not reasonable as a mortal, that he would not listen to her, that it was very likely that he would do her harm.
Had she listened?
No, she had not.
Suddenly, unpleasant and uncomfortable realizations washed over her. There might be, she conceded, parts of herself that were not very likeable. One of those parts might possibly have been her need to control everything and everyone around her. Looking at her life from her current perspective in the past, she could see that she had spent almost the whole of her adult life micromanaging the lives of the actors who worked for her, demanding commitments far and beyond what other directors demanded. She realized with an equal and sudden clarity that she did so because she desperately feared that if she let people act the way they wanted to, they might do something she didn’t like.