Somewhere in the Highlands (Somewhere in Time Book 4)

by Beth Trissel

  “All right, then.” Beezus had no objections to someone other than weird Wrenie taking care of Uncle Ru. But Fergus’s reaction was unexpected.

  Lifting his head, he angled a searching glance at his mother. “She wouldn’t by any chance be the long lost niece of the late Mrs. Dannon, the one Neil mistook Mora for?”

  “She would. And not so lost. We’ve been in touch.”

  “Telepathically, or do you exchange emails?”

  “Matilda phoned, although I anticipated her call and visit. Just not the exact hour. And she is precisely as Neil had anticipated she would be.”

  “The total opposite of Mora, I’ll bet.”

  “Right. A solidly middle aged, sensible, companionable woman, and an able nurse.”

  A gleam lit Fergus’s blue eyes. “She wouldn’t also happen to be carrying a letter from him, handed down through the family, and intended for me?”

  That secretive smile flitted across their seer’s rosy face. “She well might.”

  “So that’s where the message I searched for is coming from. Not hidden in the attic, as I’d supposed, but with this woman acting as a sort of long distance carrier pigeon. Holy cripes. What will it say?”

  What, indeed? Beezus had no idea.

  “Something important, but you must wait to learn. For now, focus on the task at hand,” Mrs. Fergus advised, “and then, for heaven’s sake, get some rest. Matilda arrives mid-morning. I want the three of you out of here by early afternoon.”

  “Launch time, 1 PM. 1300 hours in military time,” Fergus tolled.

  Beezus cringed a little. “That has an unlucky ring to it.”

  “Let’s make it 1400 hours then.”

  “As if that will make any difference.”

  “Take hope,” Mrs. Fergus encouraged. “I shall do all I can to aid you.”

  “Spells and incantations?”

  She fixed a stern gaze on Beezus. “Prayer, child. I’m focusing on the true source of power and suggest you do the same.”

  Beezus wasn’t certain which took her more unprepared, their seer’s admonition, Hal humming Ave Maria or Fergus breaking into the hallmark strain from The Hallelujah Chorus.

  He broke off. “We could do it as a round.”

  “Beats sacrificing a goat,” Wrenie remarked, and made her way toward the kitchen.

  “Wrenie, when did I ever suggest anyone slaughter a goat?” Mrs. Fergus threw her hands up and hastened after her niece. “The only sacrifice I want is Morley MacDonald speared through the heart!”

  Hal looked up from his laptop, bemusement in his face. “Which one of us is doing that?”

  “Haven’t you heard? I am,” Beezus said. “Apparently in between bouts of prayer.”

  “An odd blend, prayer and human sacrifice,” he mused. “Maybe Neil has a contingency plan in that letter.”

  Fergus gave a nod. “I’m counting on it.”

  Beezus found herself doing the same. Maybe this legendary MacKenzie she’d heard so much about had a clue, because as far as she was concerned, Mrs. Fergus was losing it, and Fergus could cease to exist in a few days. And then what?

  God help them all.

  Chapter Eleven

  Running his fingers through hair still damp from a final shower before ‘take off,’ as he termed it, Fergus sat at the kitchen table in his Victorian home and smoothed the yellowed parchment penned in Neil, now Niall’s, hand. In the living room up the hall, he overheard his mother and the newly arrived Matilda MacKenzie visiting over tea while he studied the letter dated November 4th, in the year of Our Lord 1604. Niall could have written this yesterday as his time ran concurrently with Fergus’s in present day Staunton, and today was November 5th, but technically over four centuries had passed since he’d put pen to paper, then stored the document in a lined pouch addressed to Fergus. His name plus the time and place of delivery were legibly burned into the leather, so the instructions wouldn’t fade over time.

  Hardly able to believe he finally had his coveted message, Fergus gazed at the bold script covering the page. Here and there, ink blotches indicated the haste with which Niall had jotted this down. Fergus envisioned him seated at the wooden desk in his and Mora’s bedchamber, wearing the green and blue MacKenzie plaid draped over brawny shoulders. He’d been buff before and had probably filled out even more by now. Likely, Niall scorned the bare legs adopted by some Highlanders and wore full length green trews that served as fitted pants. He’d prefer riding boots over shoes and his dark hair was probably long.

  If all went as planned, Fergus would know soon enough how his best friend and half-brother looked. After he finished reading this, he’d share the pertinent contents with the others, but was intent on savoring each word in private first.

  My Dearest Friend,

  How sorely have I missed you, Fergus. We truly must discover some speedier means to communicate. To think, only two years ago I would have sent this to you as an email…now the means of ages past must suffice. I pray you receive this missive in time. Pardon my urgency, but much has transpired of late. Not to neglect inquiring after your health, and that of your dear mother and Wrenie. Know you are often in my thoughts and Mora prays for you daily. She asks that I send you her love and tell you we have a wee daughter, our precious Maggie.

  Fergus almost choked up at this revelation. In an odd way, he was an uncle, and envisioned a toddler with Mora’s flaming red hair. Did the child also have her mother’s temper? Scant time to wonder, and he read on.

  When you dashed through the portal leaving us behind in the crypt, your concern was all for our safety. Never did it occur to you that Mora and I might fear for how you were faring. Mayhap because, as I remarked to her then, you my friend, land on your feet. I fervently hope you have done so once more.

  Alarming word has reached us at Donhowel Castle of a fiery outlander setting himself up as chieftain of the Glengarry MacDonalds. Only last evening, we received tidings of the Red MacDonald’s death at the hand of Morley MacDonald. Any relief we might have felt at the demise of our enemy soon turned to apprehension when we learned of the terror Mad Morley, as he’s called, strikes in the hearts of his kinsmen. None dare oppose him. When I heard Morley appeared through the doorway above the crypt wearing foreign clothes and an unearthly stole, my anxiety for you deepened. I know he must have breached the door to nowhere, and had to get past or go through you. Aunt Margaret senses you are well, and I can but trust so.

  Rumor has also reached our ears of a bonnie lass in outlandish attire who penetrated the crypt and bore away a highly valued relic. Her description led me to deduce she is also from the future. We are told she fled through the chapel door pursued by the Red MacDonald and his henchmen who came under fierce attack by a brave young warrior who wielded a sizzling green blade like no other in this world. What on earth have you done to your lightsaber?

  Fergus paused to smile. Leave it to Niall to make that connection. He wished he could share the full account and hoped they’d have the chance to talk. He wondered what Niall would think of Beezus. Probably be skeptical. Fergus still was, but dang, he was besotted with the girl. Hal thought she’d redeem herself. Fergus could but hope and returned to the letter.

  I applaud your courage and conclude movement is taking place between our two realities via the portal. The pathway must again be open. We are all in grave danger. Battle with the MacDonalds and their allies led by Mad Morley seems imminent and we are outnumbered. Therefore, I request you return at your earliest opportunity. Bring medicines and surgical supplies. I fear they shall be needed. Calum thinks only to fight.

  Fergus could well imagine and grimly scanned the final paragraph.

  I heartily wish it were otherwise, but you must travel through the crypt, as the wormhole seems lodged there, and pass among the MacDonalds at Domhnall. Not all are within the castle. I’m told Morley is away gathering troops, but enough men remain that I caution you to take care and leave it to your keen wit to determine how best to accomplish
this feat. Bring those persons with you whom you deem worthy to aid you. Meanwhile, I shall gather what men may be spared from protecting our walls and assemble in the copse of trees you will remember that lie beyond the tunnel outside of Domhnall. Raise a cry of alarm once you are within the castle and we shall come to your defense at once, or if you are able, make your way through the tunnel and meet us in the trees where we will journey back to Donhowel and make our plans.

  Godspeed, Fergus. May the force be with you.

  Your friend always,

  Niall

  Fergus swiped at the moisture blurring his eyes. Neil was the same man he’d known, just an expanded version melded with the Highland chieftain, Niall MacKenzie. But there was no Highlander Fergus could meld with. He didn’t have a reincarnated version of himself dwelling in the past. He had to survive as he was, or not at all. It was the not at all part that troubled him.

  Still, he was in training to be a Jedi, after all. And they were rare in any age. Niall hadn’t doubted he would undertake the quest. Time to gather more supplies and strap on his lightsaber.

  “I’m coming, Niall,” he whispered. “And may the force, indeed, be with us.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Her mouth dry, stomach churning, Beezus stood with Fergus and Hal before the door to nowhere, and most definitely somewhere. The magnetic energy field detector clicking away in Hal’s pocket indicated the portal was wide open this afternoon. The dark skies beyond the windows in the hallway made the dreary autumn day seem more like night, which suited her mood given the gravity of their mission.

  Everything was at stake. The panes of stained glass set in the archway above the fateful door gave it the appearance of a chapel entryway, which it was. But not a cheery chapel. Oh no, they were venturing down into a musty crypt reeking of death and old men’s bones. This timeless place of entombment never saw the light of day, not since the stone chamber had been built in the Middle Ages. The ever-present chill, like bony fingers reaching from the grave, had made her shudder on her last venture there. How she’d dared to breach this vile pit before she didn’t know and could scarcely bear to enter it again.

  But she must. They all must. Back at the townhouse, Matilda MacKenzie and Wrenie waited with Uncle Ru. Beezus had bid him a tearful goodbye, not knowing if he’d still be alive upon her return, or if she’d make it back. She felt terribly unprepared, as if she were about to play the lead in a performance she’d never even rehearsed. The bow and quiver of arrows hung over her shoulder, but firing in a tight space like the crypt would be a challenge, to say the least. And Mrs. Fergus didn’t want them actually killing anyone if at all possible, that whole time continuum thing.

  The prophetic woman hovered nearby, tucking extras into their pockets. She’d even prayed over them in Latin, apparently deeming it a more effective language for Divine communion, unless she was a closet Catholic and a stickler for traditional Mass. Beezus just hoped it wasn’t the last rites.

  She pulled out a twig wrapped in red thread from a pocket in her cloak. “Why am I carrying this?”

  Mrs. Fergus bent toward her. “For protection. It’s a charm made from rowan wood, especially sacred to the Scots.” The visionary tucked it back in place along with a fragrant, leafy bundle. “Lavender, sage, angelica, and agrimony. Among the most sacred of herbs.”

  Beezus fingered the hard kernels stuffed in a drawstring pouch in an inner recess. “And the peppercorns?”

  “For good luck and a welcome gift to people of that age. Spices were rare and pepper particularly valued. The MacKenzie’s will thank you for them. Each of you has a pouch full.”

  “An unusual house or castle warming gift, but whatever you deem appropriate.”

  As Beezus felt like one about to tumble off a precipice, it didn’t much matter what she carried, or that Mrs. Fergus was now anointing her forehead with aromatic oil. All their foreheads, and making the sign of the cross. The potent liquid smelled of basil, anise, and she wasn’t sure what else; possibly rosemary. And she was praying again softly in Latin. Or had she switched to ancient Gaelic? The extraordinary woman was an odd meld of religious fervor, witchcraft, and whackadoodle.

  “Enough Mom,” Fergus insisted. “You’ve pulled out all the stops. We’re as blessed as we can be. They’d smell us coming if we were aiming for a sneak attack.”

  He shifted his gaze from Beezus, positioned in the center of the two men, back to Hal. “You look like a cat burglar.”

  Dressed all in black, the latest addition to their team wore a waist-length leather coat with a turtleneck sweater showing above it, leather pants, and ankle-high boots. A knitted cap of the same hue covered his head. The entire ensemble fitted snugly; Beezus assumed it was to allow for easier movement, plus he wore a dusky backpack and held a crowbar.

  Hal shrugged. “I’ll blend in better this way.”

  “With creatures of the night.”

  “You’re not exactly a fit with early 17th century Highlanders, either,” Beezus remarked to Fergus, “though I’ll look just like one of the peasants.”

  Mrs. Fergus smoothed herb scented fingers over Beezus’s wool hood, worn atop a long plaited braid—the hair style also that woman’s idea. “Peasants can’t afford clothes of your quality, and you’re far cleaner than those poor souls. Smell sweet, too. Don’t worry about Fergus. The Scots will assume it’s a strange English fashion. More important for you to look the part, dear, than the men.”

  Beezus couldn’t imagine why.

  “You’ll see,” Mrs. Fergus continued, in that maddening, mindreading way she had. At least she approved of Beezus’s hygiene.

  Her tone deadly earnest, Mrs. Fergus continued. “It’s dark where you’re going apart from the torches. Hal doesn’t rely on sight like the pair of you, so he can aid you in negotiating obscure paths and fall back into shadows if need be.”

  “If he can find them,” Fergus said. “And only when we’re in hiding. I have my flashlight.”

  “The multicolored LED one?” Beezus asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Not what I’d term subtle. Speaking of which, wouldn’t a less conspicuous approach be better?” She wasn’t certain about the crazy scheme he and Hal had hatched up.

  “Subtle won’t do any good,” Mrs. Fergus explained. “Morley has guards posted in the crypt to watch for your arrival, or as near to a description of your arrival as he could supply them. They won’t be expecting what these two have prepared.”

  “No one could expect that. Assuming it works as planned.” Beezus envisioned pitfalls.

  Fergus wore his determined look. “It’ll alarm our assailants while gaining Niall’s attention. He’ll be in a nearby woods awaiting our signal. We can hardly charge in firing a cannon.”

  “Left mine in Seattle,” Hal quipped. “So we’re going with confusion and mayhem. An equally workable strategy.”

  “I hope so,” Beezus said. “Our lives are on the line, hanging in the balance—”

  “And whatever idiom comes to mind,” Fergus broke in, giving her chilled fingers an encouraging squeeze. “Keep together. The instant we break through their ranks, head for the center of the crypt. I’ll aim the blue laser at the stone slab on the floor near the raised dais. We’ve got to shift that slab to climb down into the tunnel. Hal can see the laser, though not the dais. And he’s not gonna hear his ultrasonic mobility device with all the noise. The more bedlam to throw the Highlanders off their guard, the better. Do what you must to get to that tunnel. Preferably without fatalities, though maiming isn’t out of the question.”

  His mother gave him a look. “Or at any point during your stay. I don’t want to wake up and discover the McChesney house next door has disappeared.”

  “Right. Don’t kill any of the McChesney clan.”

  “Or Beezus’s ancestor,” their seer said pointedly.

  Fergus flashed his eyes at Beezus. “Holy cow. You never said! Which one is he?”

  “Malcolm somebody.”
/>   “That’s not terribly enlightening.”

  “I was more absorbed in trying to save you.”

  “Noble, but I don’t want to lose you in the process.” A frown creasing his face, he asked his mother, “Can you say whether or not her direct ancestor is in the line of fire?”

  “I could say more if Morley weren’t blocking me, but I don’t think this Malcolm McDonald is in the crypt.”

  Fergus smacked his hand on his scented forehead beneath the wide brimmed fedora. “Great. You don’t think.”

  Beezus cast her mind back and snagged a memory. “Uncle Ru said he was a skilled wood carver.”

  Appreciation warmed Mrs. Fergus’s eyes. “An artisan. Far less likely to be warlike.”

  “With any luck the dude’s holed up somewhere whittling,” Fergus muttered. “Maybe you’ll have more insights, Mom, after we rid Morley of that unholy stole.”

  “I will send you messages as I’m able.”

  Beezus assumed she meant psychic vibes, unless Fergus and Hal had contrived some other means to communicate through time. Not that she’d put it past them. Maybe they’d beam Mrs. Fergus to Donhowel, or supply her with a transmitter that bridged the past and present.

  With solemn fondness, the wise woman lifted her dimpled hand to Fergus’s cheek in a farewell caress. Her gaze traveled the tiny band and she touched each face in turn, like a priest offering a benediction. Beezus last. “Remember, use your wits. They’re your best defense.”

  Hal raised his crowbar overhead like a sword. “This’ll also come in handy for shifting that slab. Or whatever.”

  “Roger that.” Fergus picked up the remote control monster truck he and Hal had affixed speakers and an MP3 player to; a number of sparklers protruded from the top. “Time is critical. Five minutes and this baby will self-destruct in a minor explosion.”

  “How minor?” Beezus asked.

  “Enough of a bang for shock value without burying anyone under rubble.”

  “Always a plus,” Hal said.