Fate of a Highlander

by Baker, Katy

  As she approached, she saw that Finn had started a fire and was seated on a log he'd dragged over. Eleanor paused by a tree and watched. Finn had his back to her and wasn't aware of her watching. He'd taken off his shirt and sat naked to the waist. A large, swirling black tattoo covered one half of his muscled back. The pattern was one of interlocking coils and the sight of it made her vaguely uneasy.

  Finn gasped suddenly and Eleanor saw he was dabbing at a long cut in his upper arm with a bloody cloth.

  Eleanor blinked. He was hurt and she hadn’t even noticed. Some doctor you are, she scolded herself. Finn had walked all day with that wound and hadn't said a word. Damn him! Did he want it to get infected?

  She cleared her throat and stepped out into the open. Finn's head whipped round, his hand going to his dagger, but he relaxed when he saw it was her. Without a word, he returned to cleaning his cut.

  She set down the water bottle. "Let me take a look."

  "It's naught," he replied. "I’ll be done in a moment."

  The firelight cast a ripple of shadow across his torso. His chest was tightly muscled and he had a six-pack that any gym-addict would have been proud of. But this wasn't what had caught Eleanor's attention. His body was covered in scars. They showed white against the golden tones of his skin. Some were cuts and stab wounds obviously made by blades but others were puckered like burns. Holy shit. What had been done to him?

  Putting on her best doctor's voice she said, "Let me look. I can help."

  Before he could protest she laid her hand on the meat of his arm. He looked up and their eyes met. For an instant all the thoughts flew right out of Eleanor's head.

  "Here,” she said, gathering herself. “Move this way so I can see better."

  "There isnae need to fash, lass," he replied. “It’s only a scratch. I've had far worse on the battlefield."

  "Only a scratch?" Eleanor said, scowling. "Are you serious? It's sliced into the muscle and it looks like there's some dirt in there. Do you want to get gangrene and septicaemia? No? Thought not. So let me see what I can do."

  He relented, allowing her to probe the wound. "Ye know something of healing, lass?"

  She hesitated. How much did she dare reveal? "Yes," she admitted. "I'm a doctor."

  "A doctor? Ye mean ye've studied at one of the Italian universities? How is that possible? Ye are a woman."

  "Yes, well, attitudes are a little different where I come from," she muttered. "Now hold still."

  Surprisingly, he did as she instructed. She pressed her fingers to the wound carefully. She could feel Finn watching her. Jeez, did he have to do that? His nearness and the feel of his skin under her fingers was making it difficult to concentrate.

  "I need to clean it," she said. "Do you have any alcohol?"

  "Aye, in the bag."

  Eleanor inspected the bag's contents and came out with a small bottle of whisky. She uncorked it with her teeth.

  "This might sting a bit."

  She tipped the whisky over the cut, flushing out the dirt and the crusted blood. Finn gritted his teeth but didn't make a sound. When it was clean she doused the cloth in the alcohol and used it as a bandage. It was far from ideal but under the circumstances it was the best she could do.

  "Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?" she asked as she wound the bandage tightly around his arm.

  "There wasnae any need," he replied. "It will quickly heal."

  "You still should have told me. After all, you took the wound for my sake."

  He raised an eyebrow, a faint smile on his face. "I stand corrected, my lady. I will do so in the future although it’s a damned waste of good whisky if ye ask me."

  Eleanor wasn't sure if he was mocking her. She finished tying the bandage. "There. That should do for now. I'll check it in the morning."

  She stepped back but Finn caught her hand.

  "My thanks," he said softly.

  Her hand felt tiny in his huge one and his skin was warm and rough with callouses.

  Eleanor swallowed thickly. "You're welcome.”

  Flustered, she snatched her hand back and turned away, busying herself by grabbing the water bottle and taking a long drink. Finn pulled on his shirt and tied his plaid over his shoulder. When he was dressed he moved over to the fire and lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged on his cloak. After a moment's hesitation Eleanor seated herself on the bedroll on the other side.

  "I dinna have much in the way of food," Finn said, pulling over his pack. He rummaged around inside and came up with some strips of dried meat. "My apologies," he said with a shrug. "I didnae expect to have company." He tossed a strip to Eleanor who caught it deftly.

  "Jerky?" she said with a smile. "My favorite. How did you know?" She took a bite and chewed mechanically. It was as tough as old leather and incredibly salty but it tasted good.

  Silence settled between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire. “Can I ask you something?” she said.

  He glanced at her over the flames. “Aye?”

  She gathered her courage. “What year is this?”

  His eyebrows shot up. “What year? How could ye not know such a thing?”

  Eleanor floundered, searching for an excuse that wouldn’t give her away. “I...um...we use the Gregorian calendar in my homeland,” she blurted. “I was wondering if you used the same dating system here.”

  “It’s 1543. Does that answer yer query?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly. “It does.”

  Her mind whirled. 1543? She’d gone back in time by hundreds of years! She looked around, suddenly wary of the shadows beyond the firelight. What dangers might they hide in this time?

  "Dinna worry," Finn said, as if reading her thoughts. "The fire will keep woodland creatures away and there havenae been wolves or bears in these parts for many years."

  "I was thinking more of the human type of predator," she replied.

  "I willnae let harm come to ye."

  He said it with such easy confidence that Eleanor didn’t doubt him. She remembered the ease with which he'd defeated Balloch and the way he'd faced down four mounted warriors. Who was he? Why did he have that tattoo on his back and why was he covered in scars? There was more to Finlay than met the eye, she was sure of it.

  She regarded him as she chewed on her dried meat. "What's your story?" she asked at last. "Do you live around here?"

  He glanced at her. He was silent for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. Finally he said, "My base was Dun Marig. In the foothills of the mountains to the north."

  Eleanor noticed that he said 'base' rather than 'home'. "Was?" she asked. "It's not anymore?"

  "Nay," he said, shaking his head. "The MacAuleys captured it. Lord Stewart has made his headquarters in a manor house to the east—" He stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing. "Why do ye want to know?"

  "I was just making conversation," she replied, holding up her hands in surrender. "Sorry. I'll keep my mouth shut."

  Finn sighed. "Ah, my apologies, lass. I have nay right to snap at ye. It seems that suspicion has become a way of life these days."

  She waved away his apology. "Don't worry about it. I guess I'd be a little grumpy too if I was having to escort a complete stranger miles out of my way."

  He looked at her, meeting her gaze across the fire. "Grumpy?" He smiled faintly. "I assume ye mean bad-tempered? Well, it isnae escorting ye that is making me 'grumpy', I can assure ye."

  He looked around, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the firelight. His bow was leaning against a tree trunk within easy reach and he'd taken out his dagger and driven it into the log he sat on. It was made of a strange metal that looked like bronze or copper. Finn might claim they were far from any trouble but if the nearness of his weapons was anything to go by, he was still alert for danger.

  "What's going on around here?" she asked. "It looks like I've stumbled into some sort of conflict. Who are the MacAuleys? And why was it assumed I was one of their spies?"

  "The M
acAuleys are a large and powerful clan," he replied, his voice strangely dispassionate. "They hold land to the west of the mountains all the way to the sea. They’ve allied with the MacConnells and sent a force against Lord Alasdair Stewart who holds land along their borders. There have been a few skirmishes already and it willnae be long before battle is joined. Aye, lass, ye have stumbled into the middle of a whole heap of trouble."

  Fabulous. Not only had she been sent back in time, she'd been sent back right into a war!

  "And Lord Stewart?" she asked. "Who is he? The man you work for?"

  Finn’s expression tightened. "Aye," he muttered.

  "Right. Great. Why did I ever listen to Irene MacAskill?" Eleanor breathed to herself.

  To her surprise, Finn's head came up suddenly. "What did ye say?"

  She looked at him, a little startled. "I said I wish I'd never listened to Irene MacAskill."

  His eyes flashed. "Ye know a woman called Irene MacAskill?"

  “Yes,” she replied. “Although I doubt you know her. She’s from...well, from a long way from here, just some old woman I met.”

  “Just some old woman? Hardly. How do you know her?”

  “Um...I don’t exactly," Eleanor said, puzzled by his reaction. "I met her a couple of times. First in my homeland and again at the oak glade in—what did you call it? Brigid's Hollow?"

  Finn surged to his feet. "Tell me everything!" he demanded. "Every word she said to ye!"

  His skin had gone pale. There was a look on his face that Eleanor couldn't quite decipher. Fear?

  “I...um...” Eleanor stammered, startled by his sudden intensity." She prattled on about destiny and fate but didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Why are you so interested?"

  Finn’s jade eyes fixed on hers, his nostrils flared, and his hand strayed to the hilt of his dagger. He suddenly looked like a man who was either ready to flee for his life or fight for it. The hairs rose on the back of Eleanor’s neck.

  "What is it?" she asked, scrambling to her feet and backing away a step. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Do you know the woman?"

  But that was impossible. He couldn’t know her. Irene was from the twenty-first century. Wasn’t she?

  "Woman?" Finlay said in a voice so soft Eleanor could barely hear it. "She is no woman."

  "What are you talking about?" Eleanor replied with a nervous laugh. "Of course she is! What else would she be?"

  His eyes found hers. "Fae.”

  The word dropped between them like a stone. The prickling on the back of Eleanor’s neck intensified. Fae. Something about that word sent a cold shiver right through her. How the hell could Finn know Irene MacAskill? Unless...

  Unless she travels through time too, she thought. Unless she is one of these ‘Fae’ Finn seems so frightened of.

  She shook her head. "Look, I only met her a couple of times. First she turned up in my doctor’s office back in the US and then she was standing by the oak grove when I went walking. I barely even spoke to her and I'm sure it's coincidence that she turned up right before I got lost."

  "There are no coincidences where the Fae are concerned," Finn replied. Almost under his breath, he added, "I should know. Damn the lot of them. What are they up to now?"

  Eleanor crossed her arms. "Are you going to tell me what this is all about? You look like you’re going to faint."

  Finlay passed a hand across his face and when he removed it he looked a little calmer. He blew out a breath and took his hand away from his dagger hilt.

  "Tales of the Fae are woven into our history as surely as the blood that runs in our veins. They are fairy creatures, immortal and ancient beyond our ken. It is said they founded Alba countless millennia ago and they reside here still, out of sight of mortals—except for those few who choose to meddle in mortal affairs." He fixed Eleanor with that piercing gaze. "Those like Irene MacAskill."

  Eleanor gave a shaky laugh. "Irene, a fairy? Are you serious? Why would you even think that?"

  "Because I met her too," he said quietly. "Only a few hours before I met ye. Like I said, there are no coincidences where the Fae are concerned."

  Eleanor stared at him. She tried to recall everything Irene had said but her thoughts scattered like leaves in the breeze. She hugged her arms around herself, suddenly cold, despite the campfire. None of this made any sense. Surely it was all just some big mistake?

  "I have no idea about Fae. All I want to do is go home." She hated how shaky her voice sounded.

  Finlay regarded her for a long moment. Then he nodded. “Aye. Mayhap ye are right and it is merely chance that she crossed yer path.” He gestured to the bed roll. "Get some sleep, lass. We’ll leave at first light. If the weather holds we should reach Brigid’s Hollow by midday tomorrow."

  Eleanor nodded dumbly. She was suddenly exhausted and slumped down onto the bed roll. Finlay seated himself by the roots of a tall beech tree and leaned back against the trunk.

  "What about you?" Eleanor asked. "You need rest too."

  He shook his head. "I’ll keep watch for a while. Dinna worry, lass. Sleep."

  Using her arm as a pillow, Eleanor lay down and closed her eyes. The last thing she saw as sleep reached up and pulled her under was the firelight dancing in Finlay's green, green eyes.

  Chapter 5

  In only moments the lass’s breathing evened out as she fell into sleep. Finlay wasn’t surprised. She must be exhausted. The ordeal she'd been through today would have taken its toll on even the most seasoned of warriors and the lass was an outlander, lost and alone in a country far from her own.

  He glanced at her. Her fiery colored hair spread out around her head like a halo and the firelight made it glint like burnished copper. Her creamy skin was smooth and her full lips were open slightly as she breathed deeply in sleep.

  Finlay felt something stir inside. Lord, she was a beauty. She had a fiery temper to match her complexion and a bravery he’d rarely seen in a lass.

  Who was she? And why had she burst into his life so suddenly?

  Irene MacAskill. It all came back to that strange old woman. Why had the Fae—for Fae he was certain the old woman was—decided to meddle in his life once again? Hadn't they taken enough from him? Why would they not leave him be?

  He realized he’d grabbed his dagger and was holding the hilt so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. He forced himself to relax. Curse Irene MacAskill and her damned meddling! And curse him for getting involved with the Fae in the first place!

  Ye entered yer bargain willingly, a voice said in the back of his head, knowing the price. Would ye do things differently given the choice?

  He knew he would not. He and his brothers had made their choice, the only choice they could to save their clan. Finlay would sacrifice his life a thousand times over to save his people.

  Ironic then isn't it? whispered that ever-present little voice. That ye now serve the man who wants to destroy them?

  That old, familiar guilt opened inside like a rotten flower. For a moment it was so strong that he gasped from the pain of it and squeezed his eyes shut as he pushed back the bleakness that threatened to swallow him. That way lay madness.

  Aye, he’d traded away his life and for what? To become a traitor?

  I had no choice! he thought bitterly.

  He breathed deeply through his nostrils as pain flared down the length of his spine. His tattoo was beginning to burn. He’d been too long away from his master already, too long in obeying his orders. Hound, the men called him. It was an apt nickname.

  Gritting his teeth, he growled, "Nay, ye willnae have me this time. I will see the lass safely home regardless of what ye do to me. I will keep at least one oath in my miserable life."

  He leaned against the tree trunk, teeth bared against the searing pain. Above him an owl alighted silently on a branch and gazed down at him with huge round eyes before gliding silently off into the woods. Something rustled in the undergrowth and the striped head of a badger poked through the branche
s of a bush, saw Finn sitting there, then turned and disappeared back the way it had come.

  In his youth Finlay had loved nights like this. He’d often gone out alone, normally avoiding some chore, and instead spent hours walking the land around Dun Ringill. As the youngest of the three MacAuley brothers he’d been free of the burdens of leadership imposed on Logan, his eldest brother, and the strictures of captaining the garrison like his middle brother Camdan, and as a result Finn had valued his freedom above all else.

  Yet he’d agreed to a bargain that made him a slave.

  His tattoo burned, turning his back into a sheet of fiery pain. Finn pushed it to the back of his mind, refusing to let it consume him. Instead, he did the thing he always did when his curse threatened to devour him, the only thing that brought him any relief.

  He began to sing.

  ELEANOR’S SLEEP WAS troubled by bad dreams. From the moment her head hit the mat, exhaustion swept up and swallowed her. But it was not rest. She found herself plunged into nightmare, the same nightmare she'd experienced over and over since that fateful day.

  "Mom!" Eleanor cried, pointing. "Look!"

  Without waiting for her mom's reply, Eleanor pelted over to the shop window, staring longingly at the dress displayed inside. It was perfect.

  Eleanor turned when she realized her mom hadn't followed her. Annie Stevenson was leaning on the wall a few paces away, looking decidedly pale, one hand pressed against her chest.

  "Mom, are you okay?" Eleanor asked.

  Annie smiled. "Sure I am, honey. Just having one of my funny turns, you know how it is? I'll be fine in a second."

  Eleanor hesitated. Then the lure of the dress became too much. “You have to see this dress! It's amazing!"

  She turned back to the shop window and waited for her mom to catch up with her. But her mom never came and Eleanor heard a sudden thud from behind her.

  That ever present guilt welled up inside. No. Not again. I’m sorry! Eleanor shouted into the void. I didn’t know what to do! But the guilt wasn’t interested in her excuses. It grabbed her, began pulling her down into darkness...

  Then a sound intruded on the darkness. It was a voice, singing softly. Eleanor couldn't make out the words but the voice chased away the terror until the nightmare fragmented and blew away like sparks from a bonfire.