CHAPTER EIGHT
Struan strode through the woods, kicking at anything in his path. He’d been tromping for at least an hour, ever since his abrupt departure from his kitchen, leaving the McGladreys, Sky and his brother behind. Yet, he still hadn’t regained control over himself. His life had been perfect, dammit. He’d been happy, content. And then she had to fall into his path, churning up the past and unsettling his equilibrium.
Oh, he’d known. Two minutes after his tirade, he’d known his tantrum had nothing to do with his brother’s ridiculous declaration about going to the fifteenth century. Nope. His parents would never allow Michael to go anywhere. His fit had been entirely “Sky centered,” and that just made no sense at all. In fact, his reaction made him all the angrier.
For God’s sake, he’d chased her down on horseback today—like some medieval hunter in hot pursuit of his next meal. Worse, he’d snatched her from her horse and kissed her like some hormone-driven madman, his raging hard-on poking into her sweet rounded derrière.
He groaned and scrubbed his face with both hands, hoping to wipe out the images behind his eyes. What must she think of him? What the hell had he been thinking?
Who was he kidding? There hadn’t been any thinking at all, and that was the problem. His hands fisted, Struan dropped them to his sides. He didn’t need this entanglement. He didn’t want to want her. He should be leaping for joy that the McGladreys were going to take her off his hands. So . . . why wasn’t he leaping for joy? Why did he feel as if something deep inside was being ripped asunder?
His stomach grumbled with hunger. Also her fault. If it weren’t for Sky Elizabeth, the eldest daughter of the earl of Fife, he’d be sitting at his ma’s table right now, enjoying a hearty meal with his family, instead of tromping through the woods by himself.
He stopped walking and stared at the pine needles cushioning the path beneath his feet. Hadn’t it been just this morning that he’d convinced himself Sky would be better off staying in Gordon Hollow, making him and the Gordons her kin and clan? Now he couldn’t be rid of her fast enough. He should probably sort through his feelings.
One thing was certain: he did not like this roiling ache in his gut or the all-consuming need to hold Sky in his arms. He didn’t like the way she wreaked havoc on his peace of mind and threatened his perfect life with her tale of treachery and woe. If she was stupid enough to go back to that dung heap of trouble awaiting her in the fifteenth century, so be it. Not. His. Problem.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” he shouted, throwing his head back to glare at the canopy of pine boughs overhead. Then he shook himself, turned around and started back down the path toward home. He’d make a sandwich, open a bag of chips, some salsa and have a few beers while sitting in front of his TV.
If Connor and his wife showed up for the camper, he’d get them all hooked up, show them where the guest bathroom was located, and once they were settled, he’d hide out in his basement rec room with his food and his bad mood.
By the time his place came into view, the McGladreys were walking up his drive toward their car. A part of him wanted to hide until they were gone. Another part, the more mature portion, suffered a twinge of embarrassment at his childish outburst. Striding out of the forest, he waved and called out to them to wait as he jogged toward them.
“Are you leaving?” he asked. Dumb question. Obviously they were leaving, since the two of them were about to climb into the sedan.
“We are.” Connor rested his forearms on the top of the open door. “Marjorie was able to find a room for us at a B&B near town.”
Struan gestured toward his camper. “You don’t have to leave. My camper is—”
“Listen, boyo, I understand why you reacted the way you did, but we didn’t come here to upset you. We came to help Sky, and because her presence here means there’s a slim possibility we might see our daughter again.” Connor fixed him with a hard stare. “Rest assured, we will not be takin’ young Michael with us.”
“I know.” Could he feel any smaller? “I apologize for making you feel unwelcome. I . . . all this has stirred up a lot of—”
“The Gordons told us a little about your history during dinner.” Connor and Katherine shared another one of those annoying we’re sharing something you don’t know looks. “I carry unpleasant memories as well, as does Sky. You’re not the first or the only to suffer being ripped from your life and time, and this isn’t about you.”
Ouch. Is that what they thought? Did they believe he suffered grief for having come through time to a life that was a hundred and fifty percent better than the one he’d left behind?
Connor continued to glare. “Sky wants to do right by her kin, and we mean to help her in any way we’re able.”
“I want to help her too.”
“Good.” Connor grinned, a wicked glint lighting his eyes. “I’ll meet you in the lists tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn. If I’m to go back to the fifteenth century, it’s best I keep my combat skills in peak form.”
Me and my big mouth. Struan nodded. “Did you bring equipment, or do I need to loan you some of mine?”
“I’ll need a broadsword and a buckler shield.” He climbed into the car. “We’ll talk more tomorrow morning. Sky is going to need some practical help on your end. My wife and I need to prepare for our time away from home. That will take us a week or so. Until tomorrow.” Connor shut the door and started the car.
Struan swallowed against the hollow ache rising up in a choke hold around his throat. He was being propelled in a direction he didn’t want to go, and the only way he could rebel was by digging in his heels deeper into the here and now. The McGladreys’ car wended its way along the road out of Gordon Hollow, and Struan stood still until he couldn’t see them anymore. Finally, he turned to head into his empty house, his appetite gone.
Struan reached out and hit the button on his buzzing alarm clock. Only 5:00 a.m., too early to be up. Yawning, he got up, reached for the sweatpants at the end of his bed and pulled them on. He stretched, walked to his dresser and chose a T-shirt from a drawer. The coffeemaker in his kitchen gurgled away, filling the glass carafe on the burner. As he tugged on the T-shirt, he inhaled the smell of fresh coffee.
Athletic shoes or leather boots? He stared into his closet while trying to decide which would be best for his bout with Connor. Even with blunted blades, accidents happened. He stuffed his sock-covered feet into a pair of leather boots that reached his knees. Yawning again, he made his way to the kitchen for a much-needed mug of coffee. He took a few fortifying sips before heading downstairs to gather the gear they would need.
His armory was located in a windowless storage room behind his laundry facilities. He shivered, no doubt his body’s reaction to getting up way too early after a mostly sleepless night. He hadn’t done this early morning routine since the days he’d trained with his father and his half brothers. When he trained with Andrew or Michael, they usually did so in the afternoon after the forge had been shut down for the day.
Struan opened the door to the walk-in closet and flipped the switch for the overhead lights. He surveyed his inventory: poleax, war club, a few swords and shields in various sizes. Why did he stock an armory, anyway? Was it a holdover from his life in the fourteenth century, or had he been preparing for some unforeseen primitive twenty-first-century enemy? Did he think the Society for Creative Anachronism would one day rise up and take over the world? They had already demarcated their realms and chosen their kings and queens, after all.
Funny. Everything he’d stored in the room had to do with medieval warfare, yet he had no desire to return to the past. Connor had volunteered to go with Sky to her century. He would protect her. Right. One old man protecting two females against an entire Erskine garrison. That would turn out well. Guns. Cannons and matchlock rifles were in existence back then. McGladrey should forget about fighting fair, upsetting the time continuum and all that, and just bring a couple of modern-day handguns and a shitload of ammo. D
one.
He huffed out a guilt-laden breath and selected his very best leather brigandine, rather than a heavier chain mail haubergeon. He wanted to protect his back and chest—just in case Connor became a little too enthusiastic in his efforts to slice and dice his sorry hide. Next he chose two broadswords with leather-wrapped grips, nicely rounded pommels and broad cross guards—fashioned by his own hand, of course. The blades on the swords were as yet unsharpened, and if he had his way, they’d never need a cutting edge. Finally he picked out two buckler shields.
With his gear in his arms, he returned to his kitchen and dumped the load on the table with a clatter. He hadn’t eaten since lunchtime yesterday, and he couldn’t train on an empty stomach. He fixed himself a big bowl of oatmeal in the microwave, adding brown sugar, mashed banana and milk. While he ate his meal, he mentally went over the art of swordsmanship.
Be the first to strike, lad, and whilst you’re about it, hit fast and hard. Attack where your opponent’s weapon just moved away from. Remember, where your head goes, the rest of you will follow. His father’s litany echoed through his skull, until Connor pulled into his driveway. Struan shoveled the last spoonful of his breakfast into his mouth and shot up. He put his bowl in the sink, grabbed the gear and headed out the front door.
“Good morning,” Connor called out as he stretched out his hamstrings. “Are you ready to be bested by a master?”
“Humph.” Struan walked down the front steps. He handed a sword and shield to Connor. “Drive, or walk to the field?”
“We’ll be jogging.” Connor wore cutoff sweats, a T-shirt and athletic shoes, of course.
“Do you want to borrow a hauberk, or—”
“No need. You’ll not be getting close enough to touch me.”
Struan rolled his eyes. The guy had to be in his fifties, while he was in his twenties. Who did Connor think he was kidding? Struan slid the heavy steel-enforced leather brigandine over his T-shirt and fastened the laces. “Let’s go, old man. I have work to do today.”
Connor barked out a laugh and jogged down the driveway with the borrowed sword gripped in his right hand and the shield in his left. Struan followed. He was in decent shape, though he trained sporadically, but he didn’t jog on a regular basis.
He glanced at Connor. The old guy seemed unaffected, while Struan already huffed and puffed. Great. Good thing the field behind the Gordons’ place wasn’t too far away. A mile at best, unless they crossed through a field. Might be a good idea to do something to improve his stamina.
By the time they reached the training field, Struan was gasping for breath and sweat dripped down his face. Leaning over with his palms on his knees, he glanced at Connor, who still breathed easily and had hardly broken a sweat. Struan straightened. Of course, he wore a heavy piece of protective equipment, while Connor wore only a T-shirt. That had to make a difference. Right?
Connor assumed a battle-ready pose. “I’ll be needin’ a shield like this one when I go. I haven’t bothered with such for years, since swordplay in this time is for show and not to kill.” He hefted the small shield. “They are effective at disabling an enemy’s sword arm, after all. Come hither, boyo. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
His father’s lessons echoed through Struan’s mind: space and time, stance, hold the shield so it faces your opponent, cut and thrust. Connor beat him to the offensive, shortening the distance between them. He brought his sword down fast and hard, and Struan barely managed to block him. Connor then let loose a flurry of strikes and thrusts, driving Struan back. He defended himself as best he could, but turning the tide so he could take the offensive wasn’t happening. They’d just begun, and already he was exhausted.
The one-sided battle raged on and on until his muscles burned and begged for mercy. Sweat poured down his face and into his eyes, causing a stinging blur, and he was forced to readjust his opinion about Connor’s abilities.
Finally, Connor ended the match. Circling Struan, he clucked his tongue and shook his head. The guy hardly seemed winded. Embarrassed, Struan struggled to bring air into his lungs. “This wasn’t my idea,” he rasped out. “I’m rusty is all. I haven’t really needed to—”
“You said you wanted to help Sky.”
“From here, not . . . not . . .” He swallowed convulsively. “I’ve . . . the Gordons have given her shelter, fed her. I bought her clothes.” He’d also been rude to her, blaming her for things that had nothing to do with her. Besides, she’d repaid him for the clothing, giving up one of her precious gold coins. She had no idea the thing was worth a fortune today. Plus, he’d sworn he’d keep her safe. Lord, he was tired of the load of guilt piling up on his shoulders. “I’ll help her get to Scotland, but—”
“Come. Your family is expecting us. We’ll discuss how you can help from here once Sky is present for the discussion. My wife is at the Gordons’ already. I imagine we’ve had an audience.”
Struan’s gaze shot to the glass patio doors facing their training area. Heat crept up his neck to scorch his face, and it had nothing to do with physical exertion. Very likely Sky had witnessed his ignominious defeat. Connor put his hand on Struan’s shoulder, turned him toward the house and forcefully started him moving toward the back door. He was really beginning to dislike the guy.
They entered the kitchen through the patio, and Struan stifled the groan rising in his throat. Sky, his ma and da, Katherine and Michael were sitting at the table, and judging by the way Sky avoided eye contact, she had indeed witnessed his utter humiliation at Connor’s hand.
Struan busied himself with unlacing his brigandine and drawing it off. His T-shirt, soaked with sweat, clung to him. “Can I borrow a towel and a dry shirt, Gene?” he asked. He strode over to the kitchen sink and splashed cold water over his face and neck. A towel hit him in the chest when he turned back.
Michael smirked. “Dad went to get a shirt.”
Struan nodded before drying himself, still avoiding looking Sky’s way.
“Coffee?” Marjorie asked, her voice cheery.
“Sure,” Struan said, pulling off his soaked T-shirt.
“Connor?” she offered.
“No. Never learned to like the stuff. I’ve had my morning tea, thank you.”
Gene returned with a clean shirt. Struan slipped it on and took a seat at the table where his ma had set his coffee. Katherine had a folder in front of her, piquing his curiosity. “What do you have there?”
“We brought a few things for Sky just in case.” She pushed the folder across the table toward Sky. “Connor and I believe it’s best if we keep things as simple and above suspicion as possible, so Sky can travel with us to Scotland without difficulty. Inside, you’ll find our daughter’s official birth certificate, her social security card and a passport application,” she said, her voice hitching. “We suggest you use Meghan’s identity to get an ID card here in Virginia.”
“Oh.” Sky studied the folder. “I am most grateful to you both. I know this must be difficult for you.”
“Since Connor and our sons witnessed what happened the day Meghan disappeared, we never reported Meghan missing. You shouldn’t encounter any difficulty assuming her identity.” Katherine’s voice broke again. “I’ve also taken the liberty of filling out the passport application for you, since you wouldn’t know our personal information—or Meghan’s, for that matter. All you have to do is sign the document. Once you have the picture ID and a passport photo, you can send it in to be processed.”
Connor covered his wife’s hand with his. “We thought about having you come home with us, Sky, and getting an ID in Minnesota. But we fear if we did so, Meghan’s driver’s license would pop up in the system, and someone might suspect your request was fraudulent. We didn’t want to take the risk. It’s best you stay here. That’s where you come in, Struan.”
Connor leaned forward. “She’ll need a local address to get the state ID, and you’ll have to take her in and vouch for her. We’re heading home later this morning. We’ll b
e back in a week or so.”
The McGladreys rose from the table, and once again Connor’s intimidating gaze fixed upon Struan. “I suggest you start training a bit more seriously, because I’ll expect a better showing when I return. We figure two weeks for the ID and another six for the passport. During the wait, I’m counting on you to train with me.”
“Why?” Struan frowned. “Surely there’s someone you can work with in Minnesota. Why not just stay at home until her passport arrives?”
Michael sat up straighter. “I’d like to train with you, Mr. McGladrey.”
“You are welcome to join us, Michael. As to why here and not at home, it’s because none of my present-day sparring partners understand the mentality of a medieval warrior. Though you’ve let yourself go soft, you lived with the mindset. You know what it means to face peril on a daily basis. I prefer to hone my skills with someone who understands the ‘kill or be killed’ environment in which we both managed to survive. And quite frankly, you need to get in shape, boyo.” He arched an eyebrow, his expression mocking. “It’s a sad day indeed when a young man in his prime is so easily driven into the dirt by an old man like myself.” He huffed out a laugh. “Did I mention I’m a grandfather?”
Ire rose like bile up his throat, and his jaw clenched down on the hot retort he wanted to make.
“Thank you so much for your kind hospitality, Marjorie, Gene.” Katherine smiled warmly. “It was lovely meeting all of you, and Gordon Hollow is absolutely idyllic.”
“You’re very welcome.” Marjorie returned her smile.
“Plan to stay with us when you return,” Gene said, shaking Connor’s hand. “We have the room, and I’d very much like to hear more about the fourteenth century.”
The Highlander's Vow (Loch Moigh #4) Page 12