10 Timeless Heroes; A Time Travel Romance Boxed Set

by P. L. Parker, Beth Trissel, L. L. Muir, Skhye Moncrief, Sky Purington, Nancy Lee Badger, Caroline Clemmons, Bess McBride, Donna Michaels

  “I could go and seek help,” she suggested.

  “With dusk descending, you’d soon become lost. Might even fall in a bog.”

  “Neil! Where on earth have you and Mora gotten to?”

  Hope surged in her.

  “I don’t believe it,” Neil said in that heartier tone he’d adopted, more like the old Neil. “Fergus!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Neil had never been so happy to hear Fergus in his life. And he’d thought they were without supplies. Why Fergus was a veritable pack mule and boasted on being prepared for every contingency. Like a gadget mad Boy Scout. Truly, miracles came in the most unlikely forms.

  “Are you wearing your survival straps bracelet?” The one Neil had made fun of that secreted a 14 foot length of paracord.

  “Told you we’d need it one day!” came his friend’s smug reply, his voice nearing. “I just never figured it would be in the Scottish Highlands.”

  Neil never supposed they’d need it at all, or any of a number of Fergus’s gizmos. But now, thank God for his eccentricities.

  Mora turned from the edge of the chasm and beckoned. “Make haste, Fergus. The light’s fading.”

  “Never fear, my lady.” Fergus spoke as if he fancied himself a gallant knight. And perhaps he was, in an off-the-wall Jedi sort of way. “Do you desire violet, orange, green…” Fergus trailed off, referring to his multicolored flashlight.

  Neil pictured the light show drawing the enraged Scotsman to them like a wounded grizzly going in for the kill. “Are you certain we’re alone? No madman in sight?”

  “Not yet, but we ought to be on our guard,” Fergus admitted. “I dropped my other flashlight in the rush.”

  “Well, don’t go waving this one about,” Neil cautioned. “Like setting off flares.”

  Mora bent back over the gully. “Ye’ll not want to be trapped down there if The MacDonald comes.”

  “Nor the two of you up there. Let’s go with the green light, Fergus. Blends in better with the mist.”

  By the light of the lurid beam, he watched the orange cord slide through the white vapor rising around them. Lower and lower came the line, until it was within reach.

  He grabbed it in both hands. “Tie it around a boulder!”

  “Done!” Fergus called back a few moments later. “Secure it at your waist and we’ll help tow you up.”

  Gripping the cord with the black leather gloves he’d discovered in his coat pocket and scrabbling at the rocks with his shoes, Neil slowly ascended the pit. Good thing he’d practiced climbing on that fake rock wall at the gym.

  Here and there, he found a toehold to give him a boost. Except when his foot slipped. Then he banged into the stones and had to try again. The wall at the gym was more forgiving. His head ached, and the cut on his left knee bit at him when he dug in too hard, but with Fergus and Mora’s help, he finally hoisted himself over the side.

  Chest heaving, Neil lay on his back a moment to catch his breath, and stared up into their faces. The green halo lent Mora the unworldly beauty of a wood nymph and made Fergus appear even stranger than usual.

  What the Highlanders would think of a Bart Simpson look alike, he had no idea, but—“I doubt we’ll be noticed in all this fog. A blessing, really. What do you think has become of our adversary?” he asked Fergus.

  “Last I saw him he was down, but starting to groan.”

  “So you dove through the door after us? I thought you’d make your getaway.”

  He shrugged, a wry smile hovering at his lips. “Figured you might need some help.”

  Mora turned questioning eyes on Fergus. “What of yer mother?”

  “I expect this is what she intended all along.”

  Mora pressed his arm. “Thank ye fer coming to our aid.”

  Looking well pleased with himself, Fergus gave a nod and shone the lurid beam over Neil. “You all right? Your pants are torn and your leg’s bleeding.”

  He fingered the back of his head. “I could do with an aspirin and bandage.”

  A grin split Fergus’s ghoulish features. “I’ve got both.” He dug in a recess of his coat and pulled out what appeared to be a sardine can. “Chocked full of provisions.”

  Mora gave him an incredulous look. “In that wee vessel?”

  “You’d be surprised what’s stashed in here, and you can boil water in the tin.”

  “Why not a kettle?”

  “Have you got a kettle?” Fergus rejoined.

  “Not at hand.”

  “Well then—”

  Before Fergus could trot out all the spy paraphernalia he prided himself on carrying, Neil broke in. “Very useful, I’m sure, should we need to boil water,” he grunted, and got stiffly to his feet. “We’ll patch me up later. There’s no telling when or where Red MacDonald will turn up. We must seek shelter for the night.”

  “You mean like the leeward side of a hill?” Fergus asked. “My bag of tricks stretches only just so far, but I’ve seen Survivorman.”

  “You could ne’er survive long out here, Angus Fergus,” Mora argued. “’Tis a wild land, filled with wilder men. Ye need brawn and a broad claymore at yer side.”

  “Darn if I didn’t forget mine.”

  “And yer nunchucks,” she said.

  Fergus gave a short laugh.

  Neil chuckled. “She’s got you there. Someone really ought to give you a pair so we can stop hearing about them.”

  “On my wish list.” Fergus swiveled his head to look at their surroundings. “Say Neil, how do we find the leeward side of anything when this blasted wind’s blowing at us from every direction?”

  Neil smiled faintly. He cast his mind back, way back, to a time that returned to him like the whiff of a faintly recalled fragrance. The bracing night air, laden with the earthy musk of trees and crumbling leaves, sharpened his recollection. A dark path skirted through his mind and his thoughts wandered over it. Farther, farther, back it led him through untold ages to a time and place emerging in the mist of remembrance.

  “I might have an idea.” Taking the light from Fergus, Neil swept the glow around the hazy glen.

  Forms took shape. A stone outcropping jutted against the steep slope, and reminded him of a mini fortress. It seemed to him that he’d thought this before. The gnarled limb of an oak pointed as if toward something. A favorite hunting spot, perhaps?

  Yes…he’d tromped these hills with his loyal deerhound. Kiln, his name was Kiln. As the dog’s lolling tongue and wiry reddish coat came back to him, he envisioned them both reclining before a fire, man and beast, while a haunch of venison roasted over the flames.

  “This way, I believe.” Closing his free arm around Mora’s shoulders, Neil limped ahead.

  Fergus fell in behind. “To where?”

  “A wee crofter’s cottage lies between those two hills.”

  Mora drew up at Neil’s side. “Did ye say wee crofter?”

  He paused. “By heaven, I did.”

  “And ye remember this place?”

  “That I do, used by warriors and hunters for respite, Mora fair.”

  She gaped up at him. “Ye have not called me by that name since—”

  He bent his head low, brushing his lips over her open mouth. Fergus slid the light from his hand as Neil enfolded Mora in his arms and tenderly covered her startled lips, soft and pliant beneath his. He forgot the ache in his head, his throbbing knee, all else except Mora, just the two of them, alone in the misty night.

  How he’d yearned for this moment to the sinew of his being…the cherished feel of her, the scent of flowers in her hair, the silken strands caressing his face in the chill Highland breeze.

  Her smooth cheek, damp with the wet, nuzzled his and she circled her arms around his neck. Was it four hundred years ago or mere days since he’d last kissed his betrothed on this sacred soil? One kiss they’d shared in the past, of that he was certain. Any more than this eluded him. The thread of his memory disappeared in the haze.

  When N
eil considered all those lovers through the ages cruelly denied their time together, he wondered that he and Mora had been given a second chance, however slim, to reclaim theirs. All he knew was he loved the woman he held now more than his life. And he would give it for her.

  Then it occurred to him that he might have to do just that.

  Chapter Twenty

  Chest fluttering, near giddy with excitement, Mora journeyed at Neil’s side through the hazy darkness illuminated only by that peculiar torch. Their kiss! No turning away from her this time. He’d claimed her as a devoted lover and soon to be wedded husband.

  She still could hardly believe the dizzying wonder of his lips covering hers. What heights she’d soared to those brief moments in his arms. The blessed saints be praised, his heart was entwined with hers, and the memory of the past returning to him, at least in part.

  The Hielan night no longer seemed quite so to-the-bone bitter, nor the task before them so forbidding, like scaling a mountain of sheer rock. Not if they undertook this quest together step by step. He’d promised to go with her, hadn’t he? First, they must find shelter. Was it not marvelous Neil had some notion where to seek?

  Grasses hoary with frost glinted in the light. Dry leaves whipped past her skirts and flew up into the foggy night. Trees bent by endless wind loomed in the whiteness hugging their boughs as they made their way over the track. The green glow illuminating their path reminded Mora of Banshee eyes. At least, from the tales she’d heard of the hideous creatures.

  Where on earth did Fergus come by his magical accoutrements? She’d never seen the like, but had to admit his odd paraphernalia was most welcome.

  Without Fergus, Neil might still be struggling to escape the pit.

  Terrible image—mayhap falling back down into its rocky depths. Wise Mrs. Fergus had known they would have need of her son, strange though he might be. From the depths of her heart, she thanked that most kind and gracious woman.

  Would she ever see Mrs. Fergus again? Mora felt a pang of sadness. In a short time she’d grown attached to the compassionate seer. The dear soul.

  Could that lady still help them from such a vast distance? Mora envisioned her peering through one of her multifaceted crystals and following their progress, then shuddered at the accusations of witchcraft that would surely follow.

  She hadn’t the least idea if this were possible, or how they would reach the crypt in so few days, let alone join both the new and old Neil together. But at least now she possessed some glimmer of hope. The key hung in the crucifix at her neck, and Neil had the sacred vial in his possession, all-important for the task ahead. They’d not lose these treasured relics. That she vowed, if it took every measure of courage and will she possessed.

  They would also require supplies from the castle and a guide. Unless, with the greatest blessing of Providence, Neil recalled the way to the MacDonald land, preferably without chancing upon Red MacDonald, or being overtaken by him. The man was as stealthy as a malignant spirit, the fiend.

  At that ominous thought, she pressed tightly to Neil. “No sight or sound of anyone yet,” he said, as if sensing her uneasiness. “Only the wind blowing in our ears, though it could conceal a footfall.”

  As she well knew.

  The limp in his injured leg grew more pronounced with each step. “Lean on me.” Praying Fergus carried healing unguent in his many pockets, she slid an arm around Neil to lend support.

  If he went lame what would they do? He’d need all his strength to meet what lay ahead.

  At last, a stone croft, blanketed in mist came into view. The blessed Virgin be praised! She stiffened. Did she smell turf smoke, hear the soft whinny of a horse?

  Her heart plummeted. Someone must be there before them. Friend or foe?

  Pray God it wasn’t the Red MacDonald!

  ****

  Now what? Neil wondered. More to the point, who?

  Perhaps the individual in the croft was simply a weary traveler or hunter seeking refuge for the night, and wouldn’t begrudge them admittance. God help them if that blasted MacDonald lurked within. His head throbbed, and his knee snarled at him. They were all badly in need of rest and a place of refuge to regroup and form their plans before going on to the castle. The last thing he wanted to tackle right now was hand-to-hand combat with a superior swordsman.

  Outside of a miracle, he’d lose, particularly as he didn’t even possess a sword. And losing to Red MacDonald meant certain death. But he summoned his fortitude and drew his knife. At least with every moment he spent here, more of the old Niall was returning, including his knowledge of battle skills. But this Neil needed more time.

  There might be none.

  “Stay behind me,” he whispered in Mora’s ear. A finger at his lips, he motioned to Fergus. Lord only knew what his unique friend might produce from his pockets to serve as a weapon.

  Guided by the garish glow, Neil limped silently ahead until Fergus drew up beside him. With a mixture of disbelief and bemusement, he saw Fergus grasped a spork, his favorite spoon fork combination. “You’re kidding, right? Not seriously gonna stab him with that?” His question a mere whisper of sound.

  “Think I dropped the pepper spray somewhere in the grass,” Fergus hissed. “And I can’t find that screwdriver set.”

  “You’re lethal, you are,” Neil grunted. Clearly, Fergus would be of little use and Mora was unarmed. Even so, she’d likely be of more support than Fergus if the worse came.

  “I know karate,” Fergus reminded him.

  “From watching Jackie Chan movies. Even the paracord is better than a spork. If you get it around his neck.”

  “Fine.” Fergus restored the eating implement and withdrew the orange cord. “Wish I had that Indiana Jones whip.”

  “Don’t we all,” Neil said.

  Mora fished in the brush and pulled out a stout stick. She could wield it like a rod, Neil supposed, if it came to that. He prayed it didn’t.

  Thus armed, Neil out in front, they crept toward the stone walls of the tiny cottage. “The Three Musketeers,” he whispered over his shoulder.

  “We still need D’Artagnan,” Fergus pointed out.

  “We may need a lot more than that.” Still, Neil wouldn’t say no to assistance from the famed Musketeer if he should happen by. But all they had were themselves.

  “If we come under attack, we’ll have to improvise. Fast. Fergus try to trip him up with the paracord. Mora strike whatever you can reach, while I go for the throat.” Admittedly, there was satisfaction in the thought of cutting the throat of the man who’d murdered Mrs. Dannon this way, though success was remote at best.

  With Mora and Fergus behind him, Neil looked through the small window encased in a thick wooden sill. The wavy glass was dirty, and he barely made out the solitary figure seated by the hearth. The orange flames played over the slight form draped in an arisaid, a length of it wrapping her head.

  “A woman?” he said under his breath—then almost sprang up onto the thatch roof when she turned toward him and beckoned with a pale hand.

  “Damn. She knows we’re here.” Not only that, but this was the very woman who’d appeared in his mind at Mrs. Dannon’s viewing. Eerie to say the least.

  “She’s not likely to attack us.” His voice was gruff with fatigue and the sudden shock. “You can disarm now.”

  He sheathed his knife. Mora laid aside her stick. Fergus stuffed his paracord back in a pocket amongst the jumble.

  Still leading the way, Neil limped around to the front of the croft, the cold air laden with the tang of smoke from the chimney. Before he even knocked, the door opened.

  The wrapped figure appeared in the entryway, her arms upraised in welcome. “Niall, ye’ve come to us at last. ‘Tis overjoyed I am to see ye.”

  His breath caught in his throat. She sounded like Mrs. Dannon, only with a heavier brogue.

  “Mora, lass. Ye must be perishing with the cold. The men are searching high and low for ye,” the woman continued. “W
ho is yer companion?”

  Neil and his companion stood as if rooted to the spot, staring at her shadowed face. Neil couldn’t speak and Fergus had apparently gone mute.

  “A dear friend, Fergus,” Mora answered for the trio.

  “Then he is most welcome.”

  Mora darted forward. “Praise be! Margaret Mackenzie!”

  “None other.”

  Good heavens. His aunt from 1602. The woman Mrs. Fergus had said would help them. Neil stepped toward her and knew without even seeing her face exactly whom she would resemble.

  Mora flung her arms around the neck of this unlikely hostess who heartily embraced her in turn. Then the woman called Margaret MacKenzie turned to Neil and clasped him around the chest. He folded his arms around her in stupefaction. She smelled of turf smoke and the Highlands, of comfort and home.

  She beckoned to Fergus standing dumbly behind them. “Get ye inside, the three of ye, and warm yerselves by the hearth.” She gestured them into the snug room.

  It was both heartening and surreal to think, in a way, Neil had Mrs. Dannon back. But what would it mean, and how had Margaret MacKenzie known they would be there?

  Another psychic?

  ****

  The saying, “in a lifetime there are many lifetimes,” took on a whole new meaning for Neil. Though not one he fully understood, no matter how much he pondered it. This mystery would have stumped Einstein. Even Fergus wasn’t up to speed.

  Leaving such mystification to the Divine, Neil concentrated on the practical matter at hand, warding off infection and regaining the full use of his leg. Imperative. He’d not get far without it.

  He sat before the hearth and tended to his wound. The scent of a turf fire blended with the pungency of whatever simmered in the black kettle that hung over the blaze. Pants leg rolled up, he cleaned his gashed knee with the alcohol prep pad secreted in Fergus’s sardine can.

  “Yeowww,” he winced, eyes watering from the sting.

  Fanning his knee, he slid his gaze over the small room. To his modern eye the croft was primitive, what some might call quaint, even charming, though they’d object to the lack of indoor plumbing. To the deeper part of his psyche, its gray stone walls, thick wooden sills and doorway, hand-hewn stools and narrow table, beds built against the wall, bits of crockery in the small press, and animal skins on the hard packed dirt floor seemed comfortably familiar.