****
Murdo shook his head in the darkness, grinding the back of his skull into hard rock. Were those murmuring fairy voices, he wondered. Am I dead? Damn the War Furies. Don't they have anything better to do? Perhaps correct some glitch in the timeline. Save someone.
My leg ached.
A burning pain gnawed on my shoulder.
Something wet lazily brushed my forehead.
Where in the bloody Universe had a dog come from? By the Gods, I had just been inside the stone circle. I struggled to open my eyes.
No luck. Time travel was rough business. Only one homeward jaunt had ever landed me in my time without a detour, injury, or illness among the party.
"Sir?" an angelic female voice called.
By Conn, I hear the fey.
"He's coming around."
"Maybe," another feminine voice said.
Fairies chatting in the darkness around me? Am I still in transit?
The bloody cur licked my forehead again.
Time to move or be fawned over by a hound. I shook my head harder, grinding my skull even more into rock.
"He's magnificent," one fey whispered.
"Sh, he can hear us," another admonished.
What? That's the last a man can take. I managed to flit my eyelids open.
Blinding sunlight bore down through a woven canopy overhead.
Squinting, I made out two maidens hovering above and one...The other's gender is indecipherable. I glanced down at the third's chest and found two small mounds broke the drape of her purple shirt.
All were female. Three females. A brunette, a redhead, and a blonde. No dog.
The blonde reached up and ran a damp palm across my forehead, the soft heel of her hand massaging, my sweaty brow.
If she isn't a healer, she should go to trade school.
Her fingers wiggled through my hair, teasing my eyes completely open.
This concerned blue-eyed dog, with a long blonde braid falling over her shoulder, is Druidess material. The lass being a sacred priestess in the twenty-first century is highly improbable. And no honorable Ring Master would fall for tempting Centurian females rumored to throw themselves at anything male in the twenty-first century. Gallant thoughts will honor the maiden's kindness and save my own honor.
"Are you all right, sir?" The blonde blinked sincerely. Her gaze gently wandered across my features. "I'm sorry. There's been an accident. I hit you with my car."
The gas-propelled terrestrial cart. Aye, the revving engine. I'm on my back. Splayed out under the baking sun. No dog.
"You're not bleeding." The blonde glanced down at my kilt and reached toward my groin.
The females planned to uncloak me? How predictable for this century.
Not this Ring Master. Sucking air into my lungs, I bolted upright.
Pain shot through my leg. My knees rammed the sharp base of the terrestrial cart.
"You mustn't move," the blonde scolded. "We don't know if you're all right."
Her frown was oddly attractive, nurturing. Maybe she was a healer. Damn Morganna. The trickster. But my leg ached and shoulder burned. And no Ring Master wished to appear weak in front of lasses. I sucked in a breath and gulped down some burning pain. "I'm all but mortally wounded."
All three females gaped like a triad of nosy crones, blocking the sun. "What?"
Their shocked expressions indicated they didn't hear mortally wounded often. A wise man would gauge his words carefully on Post-Modern Earth. "I'm well." I carefully slid one knee out from beneath the period cart, then, the other.
My scabbard popped shorn of the machine.
Bent.
A bent scabbard.
My heart sank.
The Ring Master's sword, my time-travel key, sheathed inside the hard leather case, would be bent as well. And if the blade couldn't penetrate stone...Trouble. I never heard tell of a dented key factored into travel problems. Gods' jest put things mildly. But the fairies always had a wicked sense of humor.
Chapter 2
Kneeling beside the huge man, Katie glanced at her gaping girlfriends. Can anything crazier have happened, she thought. And his passé English with his outfit. Too weird.
He pulled his knee out from under the front of the car.
Not good without a doctor's assessment. "You need to see a doctor."
The man continued to rise.
The license plate was bent backwards, curled beneath the car with the letters and numbers hidden from view.
How can't he be injured?
"No." He shook his head, drawing his second knee up from beneath the car.
Nonsense. "But I hit you."
He froze, staring at his leg with a budding look of realization.
God, I'm going to prison. I barely have enough money to fly to the States if necessary. A costly lawsuit is definitely out of the question.
He braced his hands behind him and shoved onto his feet.
The man would hurt himself. I grabbed his sweaty iron arm. "Be careful." I leaned into him, wrapping an arm around his waist.
A steady solid tree trunk. And embracing the warm towering tree was awfully pleasant. Except I ran him over. Boy, I screwed up. Shooting a pity grimace up at his squared jaw, I'd beg my way out of this. "Please be careful."
He stared at me with an emotionless mask. "I'm quite well."
Is that a poker face?
A smile played upon his lips.
Maybe he isn't hurt. Hopefully. But nonsense like that would keep me imprisoned forever. "Where do you live? We can drive you home." The offer seems sadly deficient in that I'd run him half over.
He shook his head.
Well, leaving him here could end up in his death if he had some undetected internal injury. "You've got to let us help you. Tell me where to go. I'll drive you home. You can't walk after being run over."
"I'm quite well." His voice timbered with determination.
"What is your name?" Pam interjected, shoving into my periphery.
He glanced between Pam and Jennifer. "Murdo McEwen."
"You're a Highlander then?" Jennifer asked.
What does that matter? A breathing Murdo is the best type. I shoved his elbow and ushered him around the car. Away from Mt. Sugar's annoying stickiness. "Come on, Mr. McEwen."
Murdo stepped along without complaint.
Perhaps he truly wishes for a ride home. I guided him past the front door with an arm around his waist. "Just have a seat and we'll see you home."
"I don't--"
"Nonsense." What a country boy. I studied his mask of naïveté while swinging the front passenger door open. "You just sit here and we'll see you home." I nudged him toward the gray seat.
Murdo studied me though. A bit of a that lingering smile still tugged at his lips.
Why does slam the door shut, gun the car down the road, and leave the almost-deceitful man behind come to mind? But letting him die in the country is totally unacceptable.
He turned, bent, and descended into the chair.
Dwarfing the bobbing vehicle. The Agila. A clown car. A ridiculously stupid clown car that lessened the seriousness of the situation. I swallowed a laugh, closed the door, turned, and bumped into Pam.
Pam's pursed lips leaned close to my cheek.
She isn't trying to kiss me. No. That redheaded aardvark façade was always condescending.
"What are you doing? We don't know him," Pam whispered.
City people. "This isn't New York City. They've got a thing about honor around here."
"Our forefathers came from somewhere, Katie. In the process, they brought crime to the United States of America." Pam always looked like a troll doll with spiked red hair. Pam's rooster stance only over-emphasized the caricature. "Theft, rape, and murder."
Right. I managed an eye roll. "If he wants to kill someone, I'll keep him busy while you two escape. After all, I just tried to kill him. I owe him one."
Pam blocked the path to the driver's seat around the ca
r's front end with gritted teeth. "No you didn't. That was an accident."
She can't be serious. "I'd never forgive myself if something happened to him. What if he has internal bleeding or something? What if he sits down under a tree on the walk home and goes to sleep--" I leaned close to Pam, "--never to wake up again?"
Sighing, Pam turned away. "I'm keeping my door unlocked just in case I need to jump out."
"Fine then." I brushed past Pam's shoulder to skirt the boxy front end of the car.
Heat radiated from the engine.
Now, all I need is for the rental car to blow up. Will renter's insurance cover that? The bent license plate would need straightening before returning the car. At least, I won't need my uncle's forge for the chore.
"Keep the speed down, dearie," Pam called after me.
Yeah. Yeah. I squinted at the sunlight glaring off the shiny hood to the windshield. Still, I could see Murdo gazed into his lap. God, the man looked despondent. Is his body language a sign of the pain he feels? He won't die, yet. Couldn't. Not yet. I pulled the door latch.
Jennifer reached for the rear door beside me.
The tanned girl was pallid. Lord. Why? And how had I hit a man with a car and not killed him? Talk about luck. Or worse. I turned away, disregarding Jennifer's distress, sinking into the fabric upholstery of the driver's seat.
A flash of sunlight caught my attention.
Murdo unsheathed a shining sword.
Holy cow, he is going to kill us.
Chapter 3
Katie's heart thundered as she stared at the golden sword. This is our end, she silently choked down the truth. Pam's right.
Murdo thrust the claymore back into its black sheath.
Why? What now? I inhaled and gripped the comforting hardness of the faux-leather cover on the steering wheel. But the claymore was so damned intriguing. A broadsword. Brass. Maybe even bronze. "Is that a ceremonial sword?" Dumb question, Katie. What other purpose would brass serve? I'd seen a few at historical reenactments hosted by the SCA, the Society for Creative Anachronism.
Murdo didn't look over at me. "'Tis all the blade is good for."
His dejected tone obviously is the result of my bending his sword. Maybe he can't afford a nicer piece. "It's quite handsome." Incredible with the Celtic artwork etched along the weapon's length.
Murdo tried to bend the blade straight.
Lord, the very kink I created when I rammed my car into him. No wonder he said the claymore is good for nothing. The only ceremony the sword will be good for is in casting the useless weapon into the sea as a Celtic gift to the Gods in a hokey Druid ritual. And how the SCAers love those rituals. "I'm truly sorry."
****
With one strong push, Murdo forced the last bit of the bloody blade back into the black scabbard. The maiden's voice is laced with panic, he noted. I'd no intention of upsetting her with my worries. "There are no coincidences." At least, the High Priestess got that one right.
But all things happen in threes. Being dumped in the twenty-first century was the first. Getting hit by the terrestrial cart was second. The third will be equally significant. What the fey have planned for me is bound to be interesting. Especially with this trio of Centurian females. I peeked sideways at the attentive blonde.
She smiled with great enthusiasm. "I can fix it."
What? I lifted a speculative glance.
Bright-eyed, she sat with trees outside the window framing her. The sweet optimistic arch in her brow warned the maiden tried far too hard to assure anyone of her sincerity. How am I to tell the beauty no? Twenty-first- century technology can't repair a fey-forged nidium sword without revealing who and what I am. If they even know. Duty ultimately requires I hide my identity.
"I'm a sword smith," she explained. "I have all the equipment. It's brass, right? There won't be a problem."
No. Not a maiden. She beats searing metal into submission? I scanned her lean build.
The end of her long golden braid curled up like rope in her lap. She's beyond sweet. Absolute perfection. The maiden probably can't perform as she claimed though.
"I can." She nodded, tossing her braid casually over her shoulder.
As if she intended the motion to reaffirm her claim. Rather, it only emphasized her cleavage. Not looking at those round breasts cloaked in the stretchy fabric these Centurians thought so wonderful was difficult. No Ring Master would trade his wool for cottony spandects, or whatever they called it. But the breasts are thrust out for all of the world to see. There's no avoiding them. And she's talking to me. Bloody Hell of the Christians, I'd have to answer. "Perhaps...I can work the bend out with your tools." Only I had a chance of success with the reparations using my Post-Modern alchemist's knowledge of nidium, the fey metal.
Reaching for the wheel, her features enlivened. "You know about metal working?"
She tinkered with something on the control panel.
The motor rumbled to life.
The motion is quite like starting one's space-worthy shuttle. Interesting. I'd just listen. Observe. Pretend to study the paved road beyond the sun reflecting off the car's hood.
Why did flying shuttles seem like a thing of the past? Morganna abandoned me in the Christian Hell. I might have to seek out something similar, a space-worthy vehicle. Perhaps, all the inventive clamor in human history is nothing more than a few Ring Masters trapped in time? Bored. Making do with available technology and the challenge to build advanced technology out of rocks and sticks. After all, Scots are renowned for invention. Maybe even Leonardo Da Vinci was a Time Guardian!
"You're a smith then?" she persisted.
"No." I can't sing metal into submission like Gaelic heroes of old. "I've done a bit of metal working a time or two though." A Ring Master is forced to know something of the skill. Enough to outwit an enemy.
"And your leg?" The blonde maiden insisted. "It must be aching. Look how your sword is bent."
"A bit." Admitting my pain to the female isn't good. A caring woman would prove helpful in maneuvering through society though. No need to look the weak man before her.
"Then, your sword took most of the blow?" she asked.
"Aye." True enough.
Her mask brightened as if she intended to jump on an opportunity. "We're headed for Edinburgh. Tomorrow, I'm heading back to my uncle's house where I can use his equipment to repair your sword."
Tomorrow? Oh to be done with these females today before I became caught up in some Centurian melodrama. But where else to go? Attempting to repair my claymore is my only chance at getting back to the thirty-first century. Just accept the woman's offer. But stranded with these females inside a terrestrial cart the size of a luxury Spitfire Fighter, a man would need to know the maidens' names or there would be trouble among the lasses. I sighed. "And what are your names?"
I grated my teeth less than an hour later.
Forget war among the females and sword reparations with all the blonde's yanking the steering wheel, dodging a yellow taxi that whipped out of nowhere. Would we even make it through the city alive? But I'd been struck by a terrestrial cart and obviously injured enough not to have the forethought to refuse riding in the car driven by the person who struck me in the first place. Yet, we zipped through a neighborhood, heading toward Holyrood. Well, at least I'd see the infamous street before dying at the hands of this maiden.
A vehicle honked, engines revving. The irritating noise howled in passing. A burly man shook a fist at the blonde through the red car's window.
Gesture well deserved.
Katie glanced in the rearview mirror.
Pam and Jennifer stared out different windows from their perches in the back seat.
Silently. The quiet lasses seemed as discomfited as me with the situation. Did Katie realize? I shot a questioning gaze Katie's direction.
Her eyes widened, redness scorching up her neck, and she turned back to the passing houses.
Interest from the sword smith? No. But what an intriguing
thought. A gentleman would change the subject to alleviate her anxiety. "Why Edinburgh?"
She veered around a green car parked along the curb. "We're going to see if the Vaults beneath South Bridge are haunted."
The lasses were witless. Only a fool would dabble with spirit. Yet, here I sit, waiting to see what came from this wicked ride through history. "Vaults?"
"You know." She waved a dismissive palm. "The old tenement slums beneath the city. There was another whole world existing underground in Edinburgh until the eighteenth century."
Haunted places abounded in Scotland. Castles, cemeteries, avenues, and, aye, the Vaults. Full of mixed-up mixtures of elementals. Why the intrigue in spirits? Spirits can actually be shamanistic communications from futuristic Seers though. Sometimes they're messages stuck in a Spirit Loop, a bit of a message that repeated itself until the energy activating the skit dissipated. Or spirit packaged itself in nastier forms. Hopefully, all the legends are just the fairies permitting shamans to speak with people and their own incarnates in the past as an astral projection along the timeline. Looking for those messengers never proved a sweet task.
"Tell me where you live. I can drop you off at your doorstep." Katie slowed the cart and watched the road where pedestrians crossed at a roadway junction.
The maiden wanted too many damning details. I'd have to lie. "When you stop, I'll find my way home."
She snapped her wee nose back to me. "But, I need to know where to send your sword after I fix it."
Gods' jest. What to do about that aspect of the situation? Eighth Point of Gaelic Time Travel: Speak naught of the future. And a man despised lying. But honor calls. "I'm not from Scotland. I'm in town from New Zealand."
"Oh?" Katie piped over the squeaking upholstery.
"New Zealand?" The redhead thrust her pointed nose between the gap in the seats between our shoulders.
At least, I had the right accent to lie about being from New Zealand. "Aye."
The redheaded maiden's brow arched with interest. "I've thought about going there next summer." She turned to Katie. "What do you think about a vacation down there? "
"Maybe. It would be fun." Katie didn't sound enthused.
10 Timeless Heroes; A Time Travel Romance Boxed Set Page 80