Fate of a Highlander

by Baker, Katy

  The fight went out of her and she sagged in his grip. Her eyes were wide, her nostrils flaring, and from her gasping breaths he guessed she’d been running for her life.

  “I’m going to release ye now,” he said in a soothing voice, the same one he’d used when trying to calm frightened colts back in Dun Ringill. “All right?”

  She nodded and he released her. She scrambled away, spinning to face him. Only then did he realize that the woman was dressed strangely. She wore a long coat with tight trews that clung to her calves and boots that reached her ankles. Thick red hair fell in waves past her shoulders and she fixed him with hazel eyes that glinted with defiance despite her obvious fear.

  He held up a hand, palm outwards. “It’s all right,” he said soothingly. “Ye are in no danger.”

  “No danger?” she rasped. “Are you kidding me? Listen! They’re coming!” She looked around wildly, as if seeking a place to hide.

  The sounds of pursuit were getting closer. He could hear twigs snapping and the pounding of hooves.

  “Get behind me,” he commanded.

  He moved to stand in front of her just as four riders burst into the clearing, yanking their horses up short when they saw Finlay standing in their path.

  Their leader shouldered his way to the front of the group. “Finlay!” he snapped, glaring down from his saddle. “What are ye doing here?”

  Finlay met the man’s glare with one of his own. He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I might ask ye the same thing,” he replied. “Ye are a long way from the border, Angus. And ye will address me as ‘sir’. Last time I looked, I outranked ye. Or has that changed?”

  Angus’s face turned red behind his beard. He glared down at Finlay with the same scorn with which all of Stewart’s men viewed him but the man wasn’t brave enough to argue.

  “Aye, sir,” he replied tightly. “We were patrolling the border when we were ambushed by MacAuley scouts. Then this lass turned up. We were taking her to Lord Stewart but she escaped. She’s given us the right run-around, I can tell ye.”

  Finlay glanced over his shoulder at the woman. She was staring at the four riders with wide eyes.

  “Aye, she looks mighty dangerous,” he said, his voice low and laced with anger. “I wonder what crime she’s committed to warrant being chased through the woods like a beast?”

  Angus’s face turned even redder. “She’s a MacAuley spy and we were taking her in for questioning.”

  “A spy is she?” Finlay said softly. “In that case, I will take her into custody. Ye may return to yer patrol now.”

  “Like hell we will!” shouted one of the other men.

  Finlay’s eyes narrowed as he recognized Balloch Stewart, the spoiled nephew of Lord Stewart. The man was a thug and, if rumors were to be believed, a rapist. It was all Finlay could do to keep the snarl off his face as the man dismounted and took a few steps towards him.

  “I owe the bitch,” Balloch said, pointing a finger at the woman. “She whacked me when she ran off and no wench gets away with that.”

  “Balloch,” Angus said behind him, in a low, warning voice. “Ye’ve been given an order. Get back on yer horse.”

  “Are ye serious?” Balloch cried. “Ye’ll take orders from him? From the Hound?” He sneered at Finlay. “Out of my way, dog!”

  Finlay didn’t move. “Ye would do well to listen to Angus, Balloch.”

  Balloch’s face darkened. “And ye would do well to remember yer place, Hound. Now, move.”

  Finlay said nothing. He just waited.

  With a snarl, Balloch drew a knife and swung it. Finlay had known the blow was coming even before Balloch moved so he swayed neatly out of the way but not before the blade scored a line of red fire across his bicep. The touch of iron sent agony flaring along Finlay’s nerves and for a second his vision turned white. But he recovered in a heartbeat. As Balloch staggered past, Finlay grabbed the man’s shoulder and used his own momentum to send him crashing to his knees in the dirt.

  Balloch climbed to his feet. With a howl of rage he ran at Finlay. In a quick movement earned through years of practice under his father’s watchful tutelage, Finlay drew his bronze dagger and threw. The blade flashed through the air, neatly scoring the back of Balloch’s hand.

  The big man howled, the dagger falling from suddenly nerveless fingers. “I’ll kill ye, ye bastard!” Balloch howled. “My uncle will hear of this!”

  Finlay strode over, pressed the end of his bow under Balloch’s chin, forcing the man to look up at him.

  “Oh, I hope so,” Finlay said in a quiet voice. “Do ye know what the penalty is for drawing a weapon on a superior officer? Hanging.”

  Balloch paled. He licked his lips. “Now, wait, I didnae mean—”

  “Angus!” Finlay shouted, cutting him off. “Get this sack of meat mounted up and out of my sight. Oh, and I suggest ye take him straight to the infirmary when ye get back. It would be a shame if he lost his hand.”

  Balloch glared at Finlay with eyes full of hatred but said not a word. He strode to his horse and climbed into the saddle, shrugging off Angus’s help with an annoyed snarl. Gripping his reins one-handed, he kicked his horse into motion and rode off without waiting for the others.

  Angus looked at Finlay for a moment as though he wanted to say something but seemed to think better of it. Without another word the three men whirled their mounts and went speeding off after Balloch.

  Finlay watched until the riders had disappeared before turning to the woman. She was standing a few paces away, her eyes following the retreating riders.

  “Ye are safe now,” he said. “They willnae come back.”

  Her eyes snapped to his. They were the color of early autumn leaves. “I...um...I...” she stammered. She blew out a shaky breath and ran her hands over her face. “Okay. Thanks for your help. I need to call the police. Do you a have a cell phone I could borrow? I seem to have lost mine.”

  Finlay stared at her. She had an odd, rolling accent and that, coupled with the strange words she used, meant Finlay had difficulty keeping up with her speech.

  “I didnae understand half of what ye just said, lass. Police? Cell phone? What are these words?”

  The woman blinked. “You aren’t serious, surely? You’ve never heard of the police? Or a cell phone?”

  “Nay, lass.” He looked her up and down, taking in the odd clothing and her unbound hair. “Ye are an outlander? Where do ye come from, lass? Spain? Italy?”

  She shook her head. “Neither. America.”

  “America?”

  “Yeah, you know. The US. That great big country across the sea?”

  He’d never heard of the place but he let that pass. “Are yer kin nearby? It isnae safe for ye here. I will escort ye back to them—”

  “I’m on my own,” she blurted. Almost under her breath she added, “What the hell is going on? None of this makes any damned sense.”

  Finlay frowned. What woman would wander alone out here with all the strife that was brewing? It was obvious she was no spy, regardless of what Angus and his band of fools might claim, yet there was clearly more to her than met the eye.

  He reached out and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “What’s yer name, lass?”

  ELEANOR STARTLED AT the sudden contact. A shot of fear hurtled through her and she gathered herself to run. But as she looked up, she found herself staring into clear green eyes the same shade as the fresh spring grass and, inexplicably, some of the tension eased out of her.

  “Eleanor,” she heard herself answer. “My name is Eleanor Stevenson.”

  Her rescuer inclined his head. “I’m Finlay.”

  She gave him a weak smile. “Finn for short?”

  An odd look crossed his face. “Finn?” he said softly. “My brothers used to call me that.”

  The man was maybe a handful of years older than herself. He was tall enough that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him and had the strong, toned build of an a
thlete. Dark hair, shiny like a raven’s wing, framed a face with sharp cheekbones and full lips. A light dusting of stubble covered his chin. With a jolt she realized he was strikingly handsome.

  But he wore the same traditional Scottish dress as the men who’d abducted her and they’d deferred to him, despite his altercation with Balloch.

  She stepped back, suddenly wary. “How come you knew those men? Who are you? Who were they?”

  “I’ve told ye who I am,” he replied with a frown. “The men who were chasing ye are Lord Alasdair Stewart’s soldiers. They took ye for a MacAuley spy.” His eyes narrowed. “Were they right, lass?”

  “No they were not!” she snapped. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about! I’m no spy! Why would you even think such a thing? Has everyone around here gone crazy?”

  “Why else would a lass be wandering the woods alone, claiming she has no kin?”

  “I got lost, that’s all!” Oh hell! How had her day ended up like this? “I went walking from Achfarn and lost my bearings. I approached those men because I thought they might help me. More fool me, eh?”

  The man—Finn—stared at her. He seemed to be weighing up her words, deciding if she was telling the truth.

  Finally, he nodded. “I believe ye, lass. I will escort ye back to Achfarn although I dinna know the place. Where does it lie?”

  Eleanor almost sagged with relief. Finally, somebody was going to help her! Drawing in a shaky breath, she swiped her forehead with the back of her hand and then looked around, trying to figure out where she was. She recognized nothing, of course. In her mad flight from Angus and his men, she’d lost all sense of direction.

  “I...I...think it’s north,” she said at last. “We travelled for at least an hour – and we were riding.”

  Finn frowned. “Then it will take much longer to return afoot. Is there aught else ye can tell me about the place?”

  “It’s a small village,” she said, desperately trying to think of landmarks. “There’s a pub and a post office and a village shop. That’s all.” Then she remembered the hollow oak tree she’d stepped through. “But there’s a stream that runs nearby that goes through a grove of oak trees. They’re all gnarled and hoary, like they’re really old. There are about ten of them on the side of the hill and one has a hollow trunk.”

  Finn suddenly paled. “Ye mean Brigid’s Hollow?” he said sharply. “That’s a place of the Fae. What would possess ye to go there, lass? Have ye lost yer senses?”

  Eleanor blinked, a little rattled by his reaction. What did he mean ‘Fae’? And why was he so freaked out by a grove of oak trees? Actually, no. She didn’t want to know. All she wanted was to get back to the village, give a statement to the police, and then climb into bed.

  She pulled in a deep breath. “Look, it doesn’t matter. If you can’t get me to Achfarn, just point me in the direction of a phone-booth and I’ll take it from there.”

  There he went again, looking at her as though she was speaking some alien language, his eyebrows pulling into a frown and puzzlement reflecting in his clear green eyes. Then he shook his head.

  “Nay, lass. I will see ye safely back to yer home, I give ye my word. And I know the way to Brigid’s Hollow.”

  Was she imagining it or did a shadow of unease pass across his face as he said that name? It was so fleeting she couldn’t be sure.

  Finn checked the dagger at his belt and adjusted the bow slung over his shoulder. “This way.”

  With one last look around the clearing, Eleanor followed him. He led her onto a woodland trail that was wide enough for them to walk side by side. Silence descended, punctuated only by the call of birds.

  Finn, she noticed, moved through the undergrowth effortlessly, leaving not a footprint in the damp earth and not disturbing a single twig. Eleanor, in contrast, found herself blundering along beside him like an awkward child, pushing branches out of her way and tugging on her clothing when it snagged on brambles.

  Who was this guy? And what the hell was going on up here in the Highlands?

  She looked at him sidelong. His expression was stern, his eyes scanning the woods continually as if alert for danger.

  "Can I ask you a question?"

  His green eyes flicked to hers. "Aye, lass. Although I canna guarantee I'll be able to answer it."

  "Why do you wear traditional dress?"

  "Traditional dress? What do ye mean?"

  "You know, the tartan and all that. You and those men are the first people I've seen wearing it since I arrived in Scotland. I didn't think anyone bothered with it anymore."

  "I dinna follow ye, lass," he replied. "Why would I not wear my clan's colors? To my knowledge even King James still wears his clan plaid."

  Eleanor blinked and came to a halt. King James?

  She paused, thinking. Neither Finn nor the men who'd abducted her seemed to have heard of half the things she mentioned. They had no idea what she meant by police or cell phone. They looked askance at her clothing as though she was dressed scandalously. They all wore traditional dress and carried weapons.

  A terrifying possibility reared in her mind. What if she hadn't hit her head as she'd told herself? What if she wasn’t suffering from amnesia or hallucinations? What if it was something else entirely? What if—?

  No, she thought savagely. Don't be ridiculous. There's a rational explanation for all of this. Everything will make sense as soon as you get back to Brigid's Hollow and from there to Achfarn.

  As they walked Eleanor strained her eyes and her ears for any sign of civilization. Over the brow of the next hill they would see a village glittering in the distance. Round the next bend in the trail they would find a road and hear cars. But they didn’t. As they walked and the afternoon began to wear away they saw not another soul. They could have been the only people in the world.

  Finn halted abruptly. He squinted at the sun which was beginning to touch the horizon. He seemed troubled.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He glanced at her. "We canna reach Brigid’s Hollow tonight. There's still a mighty long way to go."

  "But...but..." Eleanor replied, panic clenching her stomach again. "We haven’t passed a bed and breakfast or a hotel or anything. Shouldn’t we keep on walking?"

  He shook his head. "Nay, lass. This is dangerous country. I willnae risk blundering into an enemy patrol in the dark.” His frown deepened. Almost to himself he added, “Ye never know who might be abroad in the darkness. We’ll camp here and set out again at first light.”

  Eleanor looked around at the broad meadow they were walking through. The grass was ankle high with yellow wildflowers scattered throughout. "Here?" she said dubiously.

  "Aye," he replied. "We'll move into the trees so we have a bit of cover from the wind. I can hear a stream in that direction so at least we'll have fresh water." He fixed her with a penetrating gaze. “Dinna worry, lass. I willnae harm ye nor let harm come to ye. Ye can trust me. I give ye my word.”

  Eleanor stared at him. Finn stared back, unblinking, and Eleanor felt something shift inside her. Her breath caught momentarily and a tingle walked all the way down her spine. She’d never met this man before today but for a reason she couldn’t explain, she felt as if she knew him, like she’d known him her whole life.

  She suddenly remembered the images Irene MacAskill had shown her through the archway. Three men standing in a circle of standing stones. One of them turning towards her, a man with night-black hair and eyes the color of spring grass...

  She gasped and shook her head to push away such foolish notions. “Fine,” she muttered, suddenly unsettled. “Whatever.”

  She followed Finn into the trees to a relatively sheltered spot beneath the spreading boughs of a huge silver-skinned beech tree. Here the ground was open, littered with dried leaves from last year’s fall.

  Finn dropped his pack to the ground and began collecting up firewood. From nearby Eleanor heard the gurgle of a stream.

  "I'll go get some wa
ter."

  Finn nodded and Eleanor grabbed the leather water bottle and made her way to the stream. It was wide and shallow with a gravel bottom and Eleanor could see tiny fish darting around beneath the surface. She knelt on the turf-covered bank and dunked the water bottle, allowing it to fill. She caught sight of her reflection and paused.

  "What are you doing here?" she said to herself. "You should never have listened to Irene MacAskill. Maybe then you'd be back in your city apartment right now instead of being shunted back in time and into this crazy place."

  As the words left her lips, she froze. Her heart began to thump in her chest. Back in time. Why had she said that? What a ridiculous thought!

  Is it? a little voice said in the back of her head. All the clues are there, you've just been refusing to acknowledge them. Finn wearing traditional dress and carrying antique weapons. Finn not understanding half the words you say and looking at you askance when you said you were from America. He mentioned King James. Scotland hasn't had a King James for hundreds of years!

  The realization hit her with the force of a gunshot. She was in the wrong time! It was the only explanation. The arch must be a portal of some sort and it had sent her back in time! Eleanor had never believed in such things. She was a scientist; she dealt in cold, hard facts. But her scientific training also led her to look at the evidence in front of her eyes and that evidence only led to one conclusion.

  Oh god, she thought as panic twisted her stomach. Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.

  Breathe, she thought, forcing herself to take deep, steadying breaths. Think it through. The archway brought you here. The archway can take you home. Finn is taking you to that archway so you'll be home tomorrow. There's no need for panic.

  Okay, she thought, pushing away the fear that battered at the corners of her mind. You can do this. You've got it.

  She finished filling the water skin then had a quick wash from the stream. The water was icy cold and it helped to clear her head a little. Splashing her hands and face, she rose and walked unsteadily back to the campsite.