by Alisa Adams
Next to her walked the Laird. He was as tall as his son and even stronger in build. He sported a thick red beard with streaks of gray, matching the unruly tuft of curly hair on his head that appeared to be as large as a lion’s. A plaid about seven or eight yards long, which covered from the neck to the knees except for the right arm, mostly enclosed his body. Beneath the plaid, he wore a waistcoat and a shirt to the same length as the drape of the plaid. His long stockings were made of the same stuff as the plaid and his shoes were called ‘brocks’. Like the other men, a large claymore hung from his waist. The Laird peered down at them with his piercing blue eyes. There was no smile on his face. No betrayal of emotion that he was happy to see his son alive, just complete regal candor, as if he were a king.
“Welcome back, my son.”
“It is good to be home, Faither. I have something for ye.” Alastair stepped forward and handed him the bag with the gold.
The Laird chuckled, showing emotion for the first time. “It appears yer travels have been fruitful.”
“Aye, that they were. We ransomed some English laird and his daughter…”
“Not both of them I see.” The Laird’s steely gaze bored into Mary. “Now, who might that be?”
Mary stepped forward. “I am…” Murtagh pulled her back, silencing her on the spot.
The Laird arched his eyebrows. “It appears ye haven’t thrashed any manners into the wench, son.”
Mary winced.
Next to her, Alastair’s ears reddened. “She is one to speak before spoken to, Faither. I have tried to discipline her.”
The Laird lifted his hand to silence his son. “We will talk no more of the woman here.” His icy gaze flitted around the hall. “Aila!”
“My Laird.” A woman in her early twenties stepped forward. She was not beautiful, but she was attractive in a womanly way. A strong frame and wide hips betrayed her good stock and childbearing capabilities.
“Take the Sassenach and make sure she is cleaned up for the feast. And provide her with some proper clothing. Go now.”
The woman called Aila hurried forward and before Mary could do anything, she guided her to the side of the hall and up some steps.
Alastair’s father turned back to his son after Mary had entered into one of the rooms on the upper floor. “We will discuss that in the privacy of my personal chambers.” He turned with his wife and left the hall. Behind him, Alastair exchanged a few nervous glances with Murtagh and Mungo. “Yer two companions will be joining ye,” added the Laird as he disappeared.
Mungo hissed out, “I told ye that it was a stupid idea to bring the Sassenach with us. We’re in the shite now.”
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Marooned
Shona loved the loch, especially in its wilder moods. It was in a particularly foul mood tonight, whipping crests onto the waves as they raced inshore. The white ridges looked like the manes of galloping horses, and that was what they called them – white horses.
Instead of bowing her head against the furious gale, she tilted it back so that her dark hair streamed back from her pretty, heart-shaped face with its huge green eyes, which she closed against the wind. She was freezing, but she didn't care. She had lived by Loch Ness all her life, but she never tired of it, even though she had never seen the monster! She loved everything about this place – its mystery, the gray water where the monster was rumored to lurk, even the dark, threatening clouds over the hills. It took hardy people to live here, and she was one of them, with her work-roughened hands and tanned skin.
She took a deep breath and looked further along the loch till she saw in the distance the dark bulk of Castle Urquhart. Then she remembered that it was time to go back and help Ma and Da with the dinner. Sunday was the night they had meat, usually mutton stew, and her mouth watered at the thought. It would soon be harvest season – when Da went to Inverness to the market and brought back some strawberries, which she carefully rationed so that she could make hers last longer. Once he had brought home honey, and she had never eaten anything so delicious. She thought that if she ever went to heaven when she died, it would be full of strawberries and honey, and she would eat them for all eternity.
She laughed – she was almost twenty, and she hoped that she would live at least another hundred years. She had no intention of dying just yet – there were too many cows to milk, sheep to shear, and eggs to collect, and far too many dreams to dream. She was realistic – she would probably live on a croft and be a farmer's daughter for the rest of her life, but in her dreams, she was a lady with fine gowns, jewels, and honey to eat every day. And, of course, her husband would be the most handsome man in the Highlands and fabulously rich! And the best thing about dreams was that nobody could ever take them away, and they could be as fabulous as she liked.
She turned around regretfully to go home, then her eyes fell on something further along the shore. There was a dark, ragged shape there, and as she drew nearer, she could see that it was the body of a man.
"Oh, God, no!" she shouted as she ran towards him.
His hands were spread out on the stony shingle, his head turned sideways so that he was looking away from her. He was wearing rich clothes: a thick woolen tunic embroidered in gold thread, and fine wool hose. His hair was long and chestnut brown.
As she went around him to his other side, she saw firm, regular features and a dark shade of stubble along the jawline, but he was as pale as milk. She felt for a pulse under his throat, and to her astonishment, she felt a faint throb.
With a huge effort, she sat him up and saw his eyelids flutter, then he coughed up what seemed like pints and pints of water.
"Are you all right?" she asked, and he nodded, putting a hand on the back of his head and grimacing painfully. She touched it gently and felt a huge bump there. He was as cold as ice, and she took off her cloak to drape it over his shoulders.
He looked up at her then, and she could see that his eyes were blue-gray, but they had a dazed look about them.
"Can ye walk?" she asked, standing up. He tried, very slowly, to get onto his feet but could only put his weight on one leg. "Lean on me," she instructed.
Shona was strong from lifting bales of hay, wrestling sheep and digging the land, but he was a big man. Slowly and painfully they inched their way along the shore till they came to the path that led up to her croft. It was steep but had wooden stairs set into it at intervals to make it easier to tackle.
He stepped on the first one, groaning and breathing heavily, his breath coming in ragged gasps. There were beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead despite the sub-zero temperatures, and he looked as if he was going to faint at any moment.
"A' right?" she asked again.
They were only a few yards away from the house when he fell on his injured leg. He screamed, swayed for a moment, then fell down.
Shona ran into the house without pausing as she slammed through the door. "Da!" she cried, her voice a piercing yell as she skidded to a stop beside the kitchen table. "Come quick – there's a man oot here, and he's hurt!"
Shona's father, Campbell, was only of medium height but packed with muscle from the strenuous work he did every day. He was sitting by the fire, warming his hands, as Shona's mother stirred a pot over the fire. They both looked around, startled at their daughter’s sudden and dramatic entrance, and her brother, Angus, who had been outside in the privy, came rushing in.
"Where is he, lass?" her father asked, jumping up from his seat.
They ran outside, but the stranger had already managed to get up and was crawling on two arms and one knee towards the house. He was dragging his other leg behind him.
Shona's father and Angus half-lifted, half-dragged him into the cottage. Just then Shona's two older brother
s, Brody and Cameron, came in carrying eggs and goat's milk. They were twins, also compact but powerful men.
"Whit's goin' on?" Brody asked, then he stood aside as Angus and Campbell brought their sodden and freezing burden into the room. They pulled a straw-filled mattress in front of the fire and lifted the man onto it. While the male members of the family stripped him off and rubbed him dry, the women went to find warm blankets and a sheepskin to put over him. He was only semi-conscious and mumbling incoherently.
They stood back after a while.
"Whit else can we dae? Shall we leave him to wake up?" Shonna asked.
Campbell shook his head. "He's broken yon ankle." He nodded towards the man's leg. "'Twill hae to be strapped up." He looked at his wife. "Catriona, can ye get yon auld bed sheet? We'll need to make a bandage."
Catriona came back with the sheet and methodically began to tear it into strips. She was a small, gray-haired, practical woman whose lips were always ready to twitch into a smile. When asked one day by a neighbor why she was always so happy she laughed and said: "Whit reason dae I hae to be unhappy? Hae I no' got enough to eat, a roof over my head, an' a fine family who loves me? Whit mair dae I need?"
Now she brought some hot water to bathe the stranger's injured leg, touching it as tenderly as she could. Fortunately, the skin was not broken, so there was little chance of infection.
Campbell checked to see that the bones were in alignment then methodically began to wrap the bandage around the ankle. The stranger groaned once or twice but otherwise was silent, only semi-conscious at best.
Angus brought in two flat strips of wood from outside, and Campbell lashed them onto the injured leg with strips of cloth, then sat back on his haunches.
"We'll jist have tae wait," he said. "An' pray."
Awakening
Lachlan tried to sit up but found that whichever part of his body he moved was afire with pain. He tried to open his eyes but the light hurt them, and he had to close them again. He could smell peat smoke in the air and feel the comforting warmth of a fire beside him, and that, coupled with the blankets over him, kept him reasonably warm.
He heard the sound of voices, but he could not make out what they were saying. They sounded like women's voices, but they seemed to be coming from very far away because there was a rushing echo in his ears, as though a waterfall was tumbling right past his head.
Presently he heard the sound of footsteps approaching and felt someone adjusting the blanket more snugly around him. He stretched out his hand and grabbed their hand, then heard a soothing voice murmur, "Sshhh. Ye're safe now." Then his head was lifted and placed gently on what felt like the soft pillow of a woman's lap.
He tried to open his eyes again and found that he could manage to see a fuzzy image of a woman's face with a frame of dark hair around it. He felt a cup being pressed to his lips and drank greedily of the cool fresh water in it, then the woman wiped his lips.
"How are ye feelin'?" she asked. She had a light young voice with the typical Highland lilt, and it sounded kind, the kindest voice he had ever heard.
"Fine," he croaked out and heard a musical laugh from above him.
"I dinna' think so, my Laird!" she said mischievously. "Ye hae a broken ankle an' a bump on your head the size o' a goose egg!" She lifted his head to put it back on the mattress, and he winced, drawing in a pained breath through his teeth.
"Stay," he begged. "Let me lie on your lap a bit longer, please."
"If ye wish," she acquiesced and began to hum a little tune that sounded a bit like a lullaby while stroking his hair. The combination of the light, lilting voice and the soft touch of her fingers like a breeze on his scalp was totally blissful, and he smiled without realizing.
"That's better." Her voice became amused. "Ye look much mair handsome when ye smile. Whit's yer name?"
Lachlan opened his mouth to say it and found that he couldn't because it just wasn't there. He couldn't remember it! He frowned in concentration, then shook his head. He tried to think back to the events that had landed him on the shore of Loch Ness, but he couldn't. He had no recollection of blacking out – he had no memory at all – as if it hadn't ever happened. Where there should have been memories and emotions, there was nothingness – everything he'd felt, thought and experienced, was gone, and it was truly terrifying.
"I – I cannot remember." He heard his own voice as if it were someone else's. His fear was paralyzing him, and his mind could not decide what to do next.
He was able to open his eyes at last, and looked into hers, as green as gooseberries. Somehow the sight of another human being reassured him, and he kept looking at her as if he were memorizing her face, fixing it in his mind as a reference point in his sea of confusion.
He realized with a sudden jolt of shock, that hit him in the chest like a fist, that he had nothing. Everyone built the future on the past – but he had no past, only a few hours he remembered since Shona found him on the shore of the loch. He would have to start his life again from this moment. He would have to be born again at the age of – he had a stab of pain as he realized he did not even know how old he was.
This can't be happening, he thought desperately. It's a nightmare, and I will wake up in a few hours and remember everything.
"I can't remember anything but the last few hours," he admitted, feeling helpless and lost in this strange limbo with no references at all. There was no past, no present, apart from the one in this room, because his life was out there somewhere, but he would never be able to find it. He looked up at her helplessly. She looked helpless too for a moment, then she gently put his head back on the mattress.
"I live on the Loch where strange things are meant to happen," she said slowly, "and I hae heard that efter a shock people sometimes take a while tae remember things. Mayhap 'tis a fleeting thing."
He grasped onto the words like a lifeline.
"Will you take a wee bit of broth?" she suggested. "Ye must eat."
He sighed. "Not yet," he replied wearily. Food was the last thing he wanted.
"Then rest, my Laird." Her voice was very soothing as she began to stand up, but he grasped her arm. She frowned.
"Why do you call me that?" he asked curiously. "Did I say I was a lord?"
"No." She laughed. "But you were wearin' sich fine clothes! Ma is washin' them. Dinna worry. Jist rest an' get better."
Shona crossed the room to sit down on a wooden chair that had seen much better days and took up a spindle to spin some of the farm's own raw wool into yarn. He watched her nimble, practiced fingers for a while, trying to still his racing thoughts. It had not escaped his notice that she was very, very pretty, but at the moment, all his bodily functions – the ones that made up his very maleness – were frozen, and he could not even react to the nearness of a very desirable woman. He felt like thumping his fists against his head to see if he could dislodge something that would make a difference.
Shona watched him out of the corner of her eye. She could only guess at how he felt since she herself had never experienced anything like it, but she could see that he was suffering, and wished with all her heart that she could do something to ease his pain. He was an attractive man, she thought, and he looked strong, but he was far too aristocratic for the likes of Shona Donaldson! Even the way he spoke was cultured and smooth, unlike her own dialect and singsong lilt.
She had no idea she was being watched till she raised her head from what she was doing and looked over at him. Their gazes locked for a moment, and Shona's eyes widened. She felt confused and blushed fiercely.
"Ye must eat now," she said, standing up.
"I don't want to eat," he said stubbornly. He frowned at her as she brought over the bowl of mutton stew, then placed a chair behind him to lean on.
"Jist the broth," she said calmly.
For a moment he did nothing, then he opened his mouth, and she spooned in a helping of rich meat gravy. He realized he was starving. She twitched a smile at him, and he thought that
he could have landed in much worse places than this.
"What's your name?" he asked, curiously.
"Shona," she replied, giving him another spoonful. Her tongue was sticking out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrated, and she looked dainty and childlike. Under different circumstances, she would have been adorable, but now all Lachlan could think of was how he was going to build a future from a past that didn't exist. She gave him a few more spoonfuls, then he pushed the spoon away.
"No more," he said gruffly, "but thank you." She started to stand up, but he caught her arm. "Thank you – thank you for my life."
"Anyone wid hae done the same," she pointed out, then stood up and fetched a cup of milk. He drank it greedily, emptying the cup, suddenly remembering that he loved milk. It was a start.
"I just remembered something," he said triumphantly.
"Whit?" she asked eagerly.
"I have always loved milk!" His voice was triumphant, and she felt sorry for a man who had to take such joy from such a little thing.
"Mayhap 'tis a beginning." She smiled. "And yer name? Still canna' remember it?"
He shook his head miserably.
"Whit hae ye always wanted tae be called?"
More Memories
It was a mistake. He thumped both his hands against his head then pulled at his hair as if he would tear it out in handfuls. She was afraid and tried to grab his hands, but even in his weakened state he was much stronger than she, and he pushed her back so that she toppled onto the floor, bruising her hip painfully.
"I can't remember!" he shrieked. "Don't you understand? I CAN'T REMEMBER!" His face was transformed into that of a wild animal's, like one of the big farm dogs when it snarled at strangers. He was sitting up now, staring at her, breathing heavily and frowning, his brows drawn down like a thundercloud over the sun. Then gradually his face cleared and he seemed to come to his senses.