by Tarah Scott
“A Ross who saved her,” Cailean said.
“My mother will not be so generous with strangers after someone just tried to attack her.”
“So Rosses aren’t welcome at Raghnall, after all.”
“Not tonight.” Lennox turned and headed in the direction the warriors had taken the man.
Cailean hurried to catch up with Lady Ravenstone. She stepped up onto the platform, sat down in her chair, and nodded toward a bench in front of her. Cailean lowered himself onto the bench. She nodded to a passing serving girl, who stopped and refilled her goblet.
“Would you like some wine, Cailean?” she asked.
“No thank you, my lady.”
“Do you know the man who tried to attack me?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“Never fear, Lennox will discover his identity.” She looked at the spot where the man had tried to tackle her. “Who was the other man my attacker fought?” Her dark eyes scanned the crowd. “Lennox must find him.” Her gaze returned to Cailean. She frowned. “Were you harmed in the fight?”
“What?”
She nodded at his left hand and he looked down to find he’d been rubbing the area around the cuts Val had inflicted upon him.
“Nae, my lady. It is just small cuts that ache a bit.”
“Cuts?”
“Dagger cuts,” he replied.
Her brows rose. “You allowed your opponent to get close enough to use a dagger?”
He laughed. “He did. But to be fair, the dagger was at least twelve inches long.”
“The dagger or just the blade?”
“Just the blade.”
She nodded. “A formidable weapon. You are lucky they are mere flesh wounds.”
“He didn’t truly intend to harm me,” Cailean said. “We were…sparring.”
Her eyes shifted to the bandage on his left arm. “A sparring scratch that requires a bandage?”
He started to say the bandaged arm wasn’t a dagger cut, then thought better of it. Julianna and Lennox hadn’t told Lady Ravenstone he was their guest at Haven Cottage, which had to mean they hadn’t told her about the altercation in Heatheredge last night. Wait, he was acting as if this situation was real. It wasn’t.
“I have never seen you at Raghnall before,” she said.
“This is my first time here. Raghnall is all I heard it is.”
Her gaze sharpened, but he noted a hint of amusement in her eyes.
“What did you hear?”
“It is well-known that you keep the castle spotless, and you are a gracious hostess.”
The amusement deepened, but this time he noted satisfaction, as well.
“I must do my husband credit.”
Cailean repressed a laugh. He liked this Lady Ravenstone; proud, competent. If her husband looked good, then she looked good.
“Indeed, you do, my lady.”
She sipped her wine, then set it back onto the table beside her. “Are you skilled with a sword, Cailean?”
“I am.”
“Perhaps you will accompany Lennox to Heatheredge tomorrow to fetch the sword I had made for my nephew.”
Well, well, Lady Ravenstone clearly didn’t know that Lennox had given orders that he wasn’t to leave the great hall. He wouldn’t be pleased that his mother was sending him to Heatheredge…or would he? Cailean laughed mentally. A play, this was all a play, and everyone here were actors. Except whoever else Val had dropped here…
*
Returning to Heatheredge to pick up the sword Lady Ravenstone had commissioned for Micheil excited Cailean. Despite his anticipation, he still felt off balance. Since leaving Raghnall’s gates, he’d been unable to spot anything modern and he found nothing familiar in the landscape. The run-rigs near the castle could’ve been staged for effect, but here, farther away? He glanced round, aware of the faint pounding in his head that threatened a headache. Where were paved roads? And what about signs? Northern Scotland wasn’t all that populated and roads were few and far between, but still…there should be something more than this narrow, muddied track they followed. He couldn’t call it a road—but obviously it was, and that was frightening.
Equally unsettling was the emptiness of the sky. Only birds flew overhead. Yet, in the Scotland he knew, passing airplanes were a common sight, even in remote places.
His heart leapt when he spotted a few cows in a field. If a farmhouse also came into view, he’d have his answer. But such a place was nowhere to be seen, though its womenfolk were just ahead, scattered along the edge of the road. Servants, he imagined by the looks of them, and because the three women knelt on the low bank of the Alltbuie River and—how could it be? They were washing clothes and linens in the fast-flowing water. Some, God help them, were actually in the icy shallows, beating the laundry on flat-topped river rocks.
Cailean stared at them, feeling sick at heart. He blinked, hoping they’d be gone when he looked again, one looked up and smiled, waving as they passed. He glanced at Lady Julianna, somehow not surprised to see that she apparently saw nothing odd about the women using the river for a washing machine. Far from it, she raised her arm to return the washerwoman’s greeting.
“I noticed you drinking cider last night, Cailean,” she called to him above the jingle of harnesses and clop of horses’ hooves.
Cailean detected muffled laughter from one of the guards who rode in the rear. Or maybe it had been Gregory who laughed? Cailean looked past Lennox, who rode between him and Julianna. “Aye, my lady. But I had guidance last night.”
She snorted. “So I noticed.” She said no more, but Cailean caught the amusement that twitched the corner of her mouth. She was a beautiful woman, but even more so when she smiled.
Cailean’s attention caught on the tower of St. Bride’s kirk above the treetops. The live wire that resided in his belly amped up.
Minutes later, they rounded a bend and Heatheredge lay spread out before him. Cailean couldn’t quite process what he saw. The church resembled St. Bride’s closely enough that he knew he was supposed to believe they were in Heatheredge. But the bustling streets looked more like the medieval villages he’d seen on the big screen than did the Heatheredge of last week.
He found none of the Heatheredge he remembered. No paved High Street. No shops. None of the pedestrian traffic typically crowding the sidewalks—or sidewalks, for that matter. Not a power line or road sign. What he did see sent a shock wave through him: A rough-walled town gate manned by equally rough-looking guards was flanked by a shuttered tavern on one side and a cluster of food stalls on the other, their main offerings smelling like fresh-baked bread and looking like a great round of cheese.
The road beyond thronged with what he supposed medieval residents would call the ‘common folk.’ Some of those commoners were bent almost double under creels of peat carried on their backs, others herded goats or chickens along a muddied ‘road’ that seemed to follow the same path as modern Heatheredge’s High Street.
The small thatched huts, dark and squat, that huddled on either side of the road were much more authentic than those on the set of Braveheart, though Braveheart wasn’t as authentic as most thought. Peat smoke rose from the hovels and was carried away on the wind, the smell unfamiliar. The usual earthy-sweet scent of burning turf was tainted by odors he didn’t want to attempt to distinguish. If Val had wanted to create an authentic image of medieval Heatheredge, this was it. Right down to the great bulk of Heatheredge Tower, looming dark and forbidding atop the highest hill just outside the town limits.
The modern version of medieval Heatheredge looked nothing like this town.
Cailean couldn’t decide if he wanted to spur his horse and gallop forward to see more or if he should jerk his steed around and hightail it back to… God help him…he didn’t know where the hell he’d go. Then another thought emerged. The neighborhood he’d found himself in two nights ago hadn’t been inside these walls. Where, then, had he met Julianna and Lennox?
Lennox
and the others veered away from Heatheredge’s shabby gates and rode off across the fields toward a large, rambling cluster of thick-walled, tile-roofed structures that looked a good deal more prosperous than anything he’d glimpsed inside the gates. The piercing ring of pounded steel and the red glow of fires told him they’d arrived at the swordsmith’s shop.
“Ho, men!” Lennox called as they halted, and he dismounted. His men and Julianna stayed mounted, but Cailean swung his leg around his horse’s rump and stepped to the ground.
Lennox looked at him. “Stay here, Cailean.”
Cailean shook his head. “I have never seen a sword forged.” Not to mention, he wanted a closer look at this swordsmith and his shop.
Lennox’s mouth thinned, but he turned and headed into an open-sided, low-slung building filled with smoke haze and the red glow of hot-burning fires. The ear-splitting clang of metal seemed to be a living thing. Sweating, red-faced lads tended the flames, their arms tirelessly working the billows, and Cailean was astounded to see three apprentices pounding steel at anvils. The fine steel of the blades they crafted caught the light of the fires and Cailean had never seen anything more thrilling than the ‘birth of these swords.’ He could find no other way to describe it.
The swordsmith flicked a glance at him, then nodded at the young man standing to his right. The lad accepted the hammer and tongs from him and began pounding the steel as the swordsmith stepped away from the anvil. He crossed to a table on the wall and picked up a carved leather wrapped sheath from which an ornate hilt protruded. He nodded toward the door and began walking. Lennox fell in alongside, Cailean beside him. They stepped into the dim sunlight and the clang of metal lowered, no longer a threat to a man’s eardrums.
The swordsmith handed the sword to Lennox. Lennox pulled the blade from the sheath and turned it to one side, then the other.
Lennox nodded. “A fine blade, Martin. My mother will be well pleased.”
He started to push the blade back into the sheath, but Cailean said, “May I see it?”
Lennox hesitated, then drove the blade into the ground and stepped back. Cailean pulled the sword free of the peaty earth and hefted its weight first in his right, then left hand. When he clasped the hilt with both hands, he stepped away from Lennox as he swung the sword in a wide arc. The feel of the weapon rivalled Triumph. He jabbed and lunged, spun, dipped, and cut the air with a great, arcing figure eight. Smiling, he lowered his arm and examined the hilt with its finely-worked crossbar. This swordsmith was no everyday reenactor. He was a true artisan. Why hadn’t he heard of the man?
Cailean stopped and turned toward the two men, his gaze lingering on the sword. “This is one of the finest swords I’ve ever held.” He drove the point into the ground as Lennox had.
Lennox pulled up the sword and sheathed it. “Martin is the finest swordsmith in all of the northwestern Highlands.”
“He’s as good as the swordsmith who made my blade,” Cailean said.
Lennox’s brow rose. “Ye think your sword is superior to this one?”
“Maybe not superior, but equal, at least.”
Lennox exchanged a look with Martin, then said to Cailean, “Are ye willing to put her to the test?”
“What did you have in mind?”
Minutes later, they stood in the field behind the swordsmith’s shop, Cailean holding Triumph, Lennox with the new sword, while Gregory looked on.
“I warn ye one last time, Cailean,” Julianna called. “If you open that wound on your arm, I will let it fester and will laugh as your arm drops away from your shoulder.”
Cailean grinned. “You would let me die, my lady?”
She crossed her arms over her modest breasts. “With pleasure.”
“I suppose I must depend upon your healer to save me, then.” He grinned. “But I bet she isn’t nearly as pretty as you.”
Her eyes blazed and she turned her attention to her brother. “Lennox, I will be at the stables. Word is there’s a new foal I would like to see. When you men finish your foolishness, you may fetch me.” She whirled and strode away across the swordsmith’s yard, making for the stables.
Lennox nodded to the two guards who accompanied them. “Go with her.”
They turned and hurried after her.
Lennox faced Cailean. “Are ye ready?”
Cailean nodded. He rolled his sleeves up to his forearms, then sliced Triumph through the air and faced Lennox. Both men cut their blades through the chill, misty air. They stood yards apart, but they bowed then, almost in unison, raised their swords to their lips and kissed the hilts.
That courtesy done, they extended their swords. Lennox swung first. Cailean blocked the blow and nearly lost his grip on Triumph. Bloody hell, he was strong. Lennox wielded his sword with a strength Cailean had encountered only twice. Once, with champion Bruce MacLeod, and second with Val Ross. Cailean blocked a jab, then pivoted when Lennox lunged. Cailean intended to whack him across the arse when he stumbled past, but Lennox whirled and brought his sword down in a bone-jarring swing that caused the steel to sing so loudly Cailean’s ears rang. The man was damned fast—almost as fast as Cailean. Cailean saw a small opening and sliced a hole in Lennox’s plaid at his waist, then leapt back out of sword reach.
Lennox yanked his gaze down onto his plaid and poked a finger through the hole. He lifted a brow and looked at Cailean. “This is my favorite plaid.”
Cailean grinned and Lennox whipped his sword through the air. Cailean parried left, then right, forcing Lennox back. Satisfaction shot through him. He had the man on the run. Lennox’s sword jabbed and Cailean deflected the sword, but heard the rip of fabric. Lennox stepped back and Cailean looked down to see a long rip in his plaid over his left thigh.
“I know a maid who will repair that for ye—for a price,” Lennox said.
“I think you should pay for it,” Cailean said.
“Then you plan to pay for the tear in my plaid?”
“Loser pays,” Cailean said.
A cool smile played across Lennox’s face. “Linda has a voracious appetite and her favorite dish is cock.”
Cailean burst out laughing. Then he attacked. Lennox countered his blows, forcing Cailean to grip his sword with two hands. They lunged and dipped until the clang and screech of their striking blades filled the clearing. A small crowd gathered to watch. Cailean quickly realized they were too well matched. Lennox seemed to read his every move and Cailean almost felt one with Lennox’s moves.
Sweat trickled into Cailean’s eyes. He glimpsed a rise on the ground behind Lennox. A buried rock, perhaps. He drove Lennox backwards and just as Lennox reached the rock, jabbed so that he was forced to leap back. The heel of his boot caught on the rock and he fell on his arse. Cailean lunged, caught Lennox’s sword at the hilt and wrenched it from his grasp. The sword hit the ground with a thud and Cailean dropped onto his arse beside Lennox.
The crowd cheered as he flopped onto his back, breathing hard. Cailean closed his eyes and wanted nothing more than to sleep for a week. The roar of the crowd subsided, as did the ache in his arm.
“Get up, Cailean,” Lennox said. “Or did I tire you out?”
Cailean cracked an eye. “I believe I won.”
“Ye got lucky. I tripped.”
Lennox was right. He extended a hand to Cailean. Cailean clasped his arm and pushed to his feet, noting that Lennox had recovered his sword. Half a dozen men slapped them on the backs and congratulated them on a good fight. The crowd dispersed and they remained alone with Gregory. Lennox headed toward Heatheredge with Cailean alongside and Gregory fell in with them.
“That’s a damned fine sword,” Cailean said.
Lennox gave him a sidelong glance.
Cailean laughed. “You’re one of the best swordsmen I’ve ever fought.”
“I suppose that is a compliment,” Lennox said.
“It is.”
“I suppose I should be glad you were no’ fighting on Crowe’s side the night you saved
Julianna,” Lennox said.
Crowe. Cailean recalled Julianna’s mention of Crowe the morning he’d awoken in Haven Cottage. “Who is this Crowe?”
“He is Clan Mackay’s Ceann-Cath.”
“Ah.” Cailean gave a slow nod. “Clan War Commander. You said he wants to marry Julianna.” They’d also said he was doing something wrong.
Lennox swung his gaze hard onto him.
It took Cailean three heartbeats to realize his mistake. “Lady Julianna,” he amended.
Lennox stared for another heartbeat, then turned his attention forward.
“I take it you don’t like this Crowe,” Cailean said.
“He has convinced Alexander that my father withholds portions of tax monies collected from our tenants. Crowe has the laird’s ear and is slippery as an eel. Now Alexander suspects my sire is lining his own purse with coins skimmed off the payments. Worse, he’s suggested that we have no’ just enriched our coffers with such coin, but also that we have taken cattle and crops that should have gone to our laird.” Lennox spat on the ground. “Alexander hasnae yet said he believed the craven, but he looks on us with a much chillier eye than e’er before. ‘Tis only a matter of time before he sends his men to seek retribution—and for crimes we have no’ committed.”
“Serious accusations,” Cailean said, though he suspected Lennox’s dislike of the man had as much to do with his desire to marry Julianna as it did politics. Cailean laughed inwardly. Bloody hell, he’d started thinking of Lennox and Julianna as real people, instead of the actors they were. “And why might I have been fighting on Crowe’s side the night I saved Lady Julianna?”
Lennox looked sharply at him. “You would not have been.”
“Probably not. But you just said—”
“Never mind what I just said,” Lennox broke in. “It doesnae matter.”
Cailean felt sure it did. But he was suddenly more concerned that the hovels lining the road were too real. The swordsmith’s shop. The lack of anything modern. As eerie as Raghnall had been, the chill that burrowed soul-deep now almost made him sick. They passed through the dark, almost squalid town gate with little more than a glance from the guards.