"I can't repair it if I don't take it to the foundry," she almost groaned.
In disbelief. Well, she can't hurt nidium. Nor can she repair the sword.
"Come on, Murdo. I need to get going. Without genius John, I'll still be behind, even though I'm at work. There are orders to fill. The dimwit should have realized he'd be hung-over."
Fine then. I grabbed the sword's hard hilt. Even though the stone-circle key is mine to safeguard or destroy, she can't hurt the weapon. Unless she tossed it into salt water. She'd only struggle with the metal. Allowing her to attempt to repair the sword could gain me her trust. Aye. That's the best use of the bent weapon now. I unbuckled the sheath and passed the enormous stone-circle key into her outstretched palms.
"I'll be careful," she reassured with softly-spoken words and a nod. "I know what I'm doing."
That I doubt. Naught like nidium existed in the Universe. Only the fairies had knowledge of the alloy's recipe.
"John will be downstairs soon. He said he'd help you." She draped a warm palm across my forearm, setting a tingling wave ripping through my cells. "Thank you for helping Uncle John."
Gratitude in a man's maiden is quite a treat. But I'd show her what a Time Guardian is made of. "One should always be grateful for the roof put over one's head. 'Tis only compensation."
She cocked her chin to the left, lips twitching as if in deep in thought but unsure of whether to speak. "I'll see you later." She stepped, pushing her bonnie curves into my chest, one hand snaking up to my neck, coiling into my hair. The maiden stretched on her toes, elevating her wee lips to mine.
Even though the warm kiss catapulted my aching loin into throbbing madness, I'm not about to fight the gesture. The moment is nothing but a shadow of what is soon to come. Soon.
****
Katie gripped the steering wheel en route to the foundry as the car bobbed along the streets of sleepy Fort William with the rising sun gleaming in her rearview mirror. His kiss still tingled upon my lips like magic ointment. The trees and craggy hills of Scotland had finally delivered me a Scotsman worth keeping. Scratch that. A New Zealander. Oh, tonight. I smiled.
The perfect detour ran right along Loch Nevin...Right after dinner.
The car rolled by the West Highland Museum.
Plaid. The museum was loaded with tartan. I would pack a length of wool into the bag I took tonight. Because heather had to be scratchy against bare skin. Skin that would certainly offer comfort to me. Or him. But is wool any better than heather? I laughed inwardly.
Would heather or wool matter when consummating our relationship?
The road forked.
Following Noggin' Road in turning north, I steered up the drive to the old whitewashed building that could have easily been a barn with two sliding doors. The chain and padlock noted the doors stood locked. I threw the car into park, slammed the car door at my heels, and trod through shifting gravel up to the door.
Murdo's sword swung with my fist.
A crisp chill hung in the air, still unchanged by the warmth of sunlight.
As always. Scottish mornings were cool. And I'd fix his sword before the sun warmed the countryside. I unlocked the two massive sliding doors and pushed them wide.
Just like when back in the stables in Kentucky, minus the perfume of horse dung and hay. The forge smelled of steel and ash. Unique. Far more pleasant than ripe manure.
Sunlight reflected off Uncle John's mirrored wall, his favorite place to practice with a sword in hand when he waited for the forge to heat or other things.
The sunlight illuminated the collection of his most marketable reproduction swords where the weapons hung displayed on the neighboring wall with Uncle John's treasured family heirlooms. And the forge's dark squared opening gaped to the left on the back wall. A stack of wood ran the wall's length from the forge entrance, ending at Uncle John's office door.
Four strides landed my brown boots at the woodpile of oak wedges, long and scented like dusty earth. Not wood today. Charcoal would heat Murdo's blade. I thrust coal into the cobbled forge's gaping maw, stepped rearward, and bumped into the anvil where a sparkling rapier of at least five feet in length laid on the workbench.
Stray morning light danced upon the shiny blade.
Uncle John's handiwork. Perfect. I rubbed a fingertip along the stinging edge.
Deadly. More than ceremonial like Murdo's sword. Especially since my finger stung. Uncle John would have a fit if I didn't sear the sliced skin with peroxide. I entered his office to tend to the wound.
So much clutter mounded upon his massive desk in the shadows. But a homey mess. I doctored the slice and covered it with a Band-Aid.
After all, one couldn't be too careful. The forge was a nasty place for cuts. Tetanus shots were undoubtedly the best preventive maintenance for sword smiths. Otherwise, a girl just needed some music. I popped my favorite collection of CDs into Uncle John's stereo system on the corner shelf tucked behind the door.
Good thing Scots were insanely fond of music. Uncle John kept cutting-edge audio equipment in his forge. One simply could not create without the appropriate ambiance of good old Willie Nelson, local favorites, and Highland revival music. Uncle John had been oddly right about singing the metal into form. The music proved magical in the process.
Uncle John is always right.
That's why he is in charge. I pushed play, left the collection of six CDs to do their work, and arranged the coal inside the furnace.
The faster I pounded the order for the $10,000 etched chieftain's broadsword into existence, the quicker I could get back to Murdo and claim what I want. My prize for patience. No poetry-spouting gorgeous man could deny me that future.
****
The door creaked behind Murdo. John the bastard, no doubt. I placed the socket wrench on the coarse tarp, brushing my knuckles against the underlying hard garage floor and peered over my shoulder.
Cousin John leaned on the dark doorframe in a wrinkled T-shirt and jeans.
Mussed. The man was all but ready to wander out into the world.
John rubbed his disheveled hair. "You're almost finished."
Of course with the day half over. "Aye." I turned back to the motor casing resting against my tartan covered thigh.
Footsteps shuffled toward me and halted beyond his back.
"Well, you've kept yourself busy. Haven't you?" John snarled with condescension.
The dolt truly needed to die. Just give me time. I'd handle the deed. I steadied the pile of steel tools near my knee. "Aye." Go back to bed.
A hum and creak led to a high-pitched screeching racket.
What is that racket?
Sunlight shafted into the room from behind my back.
John didn't seem to care. I twisted toward the source of noise and light.
The wall, a huge door, lifted, opening an access portal, revealing the low front end of a small ground-hugging red streamlined terrestrial cart.
Priceless. A shuttle designed for speed. So the vehicle couldn't rip through the stratosphere. I'd tear through the atmosphere strapped into that projectile, tires locked to the ground or not.
"Ah. Da's home." John draped a hand on my shoulder and leaned close. "Do me a favor and say I assisted in reconstructing the motor."
Like the elder John would believe his son's grease-free hands.
The hatch halted overhead. The noise faded. One of the car doors swung wide. A large black work boot, capped with blue denim, landed on the gravel drive. The driver, a man who anchored his silver hair beneath a green tam, thrust skyward. A perfect match for Cousin John. Uncle no doubt. The father was bigger.
The other shuttle door swung open.
Well, time to meet the boss. Pushing upward, I tugged at my belt.
Meeting Katie's guardians in a ruffled state won't be good. I tucked the bulging orange T-shirt back underneath the kilt at my waist.
Cousin John headed for the passenger's side of the car. "Da. You're home."
&nb
sp; The wilted cretin seemed genuinely glad to see his father. Odd.
"'Tis good to be home again," Big John bellowed.
A woman with dark brown hair pulled up into a fancy knot behind her head smiled from the other side of the car. "I see you've taken care of the place, John."
"Aye." The good son kissed his mother's cheek and hurried around to the trunk. "I'll fetch the luggage."
Big John swung his door shut, looking at Murdo. "And you must be the infamous swordsman."
"Aye." Infamous or not. I am the guest.
Iona skirted the car and latched onto her husband's elbow. "I'm certain Mr. McEwen is more than a swordsman." She smiled, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. The lady was beautiful no matter all her lost years.
The couple stepped through the garage door, both in crisply ironed jeans. Iona's dark purple blouse complimented Big John's green Rugby shirt.
"Perhaps a mechanic by the looks of those hands, Mother," Big John added.
The man was anything but blind. "A bit of one." I glanced at the motor by the uncle's boots. "Can't promise it'll run."
"I'm certain it will," Iona chimed. "And where is my Katie?"
So much caring? My gaze slid back to Iona's twinkling brown eyes. Here stood a happy woman.
Cousin John brushed past her elbow with two suitcases. "At the forge."
"What?" Big John boomed. "I told her not to work alone time and time again, John. She's still apprenticing." He fell quiet, studying the retreating form of his son. "Do either of you ever listen?"
The son stepped around the canvas on the garage floor and disappeared through the garage doorway into the house, ignoring his father.
Big John turned his gaze to me. "The car's gone. My son looks haggard. My houseguest has oil-coated hands. I'd say dear Katie had no one to assist her today because my son drank himself to sleep last night."
"You've quite an eye, John Innis." Iona patted Big John's corded forearm and stepped toward the door. "I'll see what I can whip up for tea."
Once she had disappeared in the dark doorway, Big John grinned at me. "Don't know what a man would do without a wife."
Since meeting Katie, I didn't either. Better to keep that admission to myself.
Big John extended a large hand, obviously for a handshake. "John Innis, Murdo McEwen. It's nice to meet you."
Taking the broad warm palm, I shook the hand heartily, noting the reciprocated gesture was firm, welcoming.
The big man's grin stretched to the limit, then his grip loosened and his hand fell away. "You'd best get cleaned up. Scrape the grease from beneath those fingernails. The wee lassie won't understand when she's ready to leave for the feast."
Not dinner. And the day had vanished. I glanced down at my filthy hands.
"Come on then." Big John patted me on the shoulder. "Into the shower. Lasses love their men as fresh as roses."
So do Druids.
****
With a Scottish drumroll blaring in the background, I swung the heavy iron hammer toward the black anvil.
My shoulder screamed at the motion.
A month's vacation away from swinging hammers proved too long this summer, again. There's no trading the adventure for anything. I'd found Mr. Perfect. Didn't the milestone deserve a thunderclap or two? Or shoulder popped out of socket?
The dark hammerhead crashed down upon the bright orange surface of Murdo's heated sword.
With a loud clang. I'll never get used to that racket.
My arm finally stopped rattling up to my shoulder.
The torture to my body proved wasted effort. The hammer kept bouncing away, leaving the bowed sword the way the squared head met the blade. Nothing else could be done. I'd carefully checked the temperature to 1300 degrees Fahrenheit to prevent the sword from melting. Then checked Uncle John's library and other online sources for additional information. Nothing worked. The metal wasn't heating up enough to effectively work out the bend. But it's metal color couldn't be brass or bronze…
I mindlessly rubbed a drop of sweat trickling down my temple with the back of my hand.
Hell, in the leather over shirt with Hades roaring at my back, I'd dehydrate soon. Cleanse, purify, and refine my ass. My gaze slid to the words stenciled over the foundry's open doors: To cleanse, to purify, to refine, so goes things in the foundry.
Lovely philosophy. Just I didn't want to melt into a puddle of saltwater. If only Uncle John's motto enlightened the situation. What next? I'd done everything aside from overheating the metal. The intricate etched design of Celtic knot work running the five-foot length of the blade required great care. But nothing affected the sword except heat. The metal still glowed a brilliant orange. Almost red. Uselessly. How can I tell Murdo his sword is unmanageable? Admit I'd failed to rectify the situation I'd created. He'd probably leave. Who wanted a failure for a girlfriend? I thrust the sword back into the scalding forge.
There has to be something else. Some clue online. I tossed my gloves aside, went straight to Uncle John's computer, pushed his mounds of paperwork across his desk, and claimed an elbow rest.
The computer chimed, dialing up the Internet.
Uncle John had gone all out in February and updated his computer system with the latest in refined laptops. Great. He could have updated his information he kept on hand. Something to solve my problem. I absentmindedly rubbed the plastic rim around the finger mouse pad.
Almost instantly, the Sconenet web site blinked into existence.
Now on to Anvilfire's bookmark. Something had been there when I looked earlier today. Something. Nagging at my subconscious.
A droplet of sweat tickled between my breasts.
Separated from the rest of the foundry, the office was much cooler than the forge. Especially since I opened Uncle John's two windows situated between his two walls of bookcases. And it couldn't hurt to sit in here without a protective smock. Right? No Uncle John afoot meant he'd never know. I unbuttoned and stripped off the leather shirt.
Cool air kissed my shoulders.
Thank God!
The screen went white then bits of the Anvilfire's web site popped into place.
Here we go. I skimmed the info, scrolling down the page. "The more copper in the alloy, the more malleable, the easier the piece is to hammer into the desired shape. Thirteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit is the working temperature. The paler the piece of metal, the more zinc, the harder the piece. The more lead in the brass or bronze, the more likely the piece is to fall apart once heated." I really needed to stop talking to myself. It's not like it ever resulted in somebody having a breakthrough.
Something clanked back in the foundry.
Fine. I'm wasting time. I couldn't have missed anything. Why not just throw the laptop out the window? I'd tried everything noted when dealing with copper alloys of brass and bronze. The only thing left to do was to crank up the temperature. Too much heat equated to destroying the sword. Murdo's sword. And he hadn't seemed too keen on letting me take it this morning. I couldn't damage the blade. More. I thrust my arms back into the sweaty shirt, cleared the open door, strode into a billowing wave of hot air, and faced the forge.
Damned contraption. Although the temperature hadn't reached a steel-working height, stifling heat danced around the space like it taunted me. More. I cranked the gas valve a bit and waited for the heat to soar.
A smith couldn't do much of anything aside from working on brass or bronze with this temperature. Brass. What was he doing with a brass sword aside from pretending to be a warrior? Whatever. Might as well take care of Uncle John's work. I spotted the rapier lying on the workbench.
Sweet. I grabbed the replica of the sixteenth-century blade and hefted the black leather-wrapped handle of the sword from the worktable.
A nice solid hilt. Uncle John's work is impeccable. The blade's light. And a girl just needed to have a little fun. At least, that's what my SCA friends were chanting at all their little historical reenactments.
Another drop
of sweat tickled down the trough between my shoulder blades.
Geesh. It did no good to scratch with one of these shirts on either. I set the rapier carefully on the counter, stripped off the leather shirt, and lifted the sword back into the air.
Fun could be defined in various ways. Like bending knees. Placing one's right foot forward. Gazing at my reflection in the mirror. The sweat-soaked tank top did nothing for my appearance. But I know what would. "En garde, Katie Innis," I warned my reflection, swinging the tip through the air in an infinity pattern.
The resultant whining whisper spoke of death.
"Poor atoms," I mumbled. If any molecules floated in the forge, their bonds had just been severed. At least, Jennifer had joked about that often enough. How can she be so damned smart and so agreeable?
Bagpipes blared Amazing Grace through the speakers.
Down with Jennifers. Wonderful foreshadowing too. And there is that annoying virgin, Katie Innis. What in the Hell did she think she'd get out of facing me with a sword? I giggled, staring down the length of the silvery blade, watching the steely eyes in the reflection. "You think you can take me, Katie Innis? You've got another thing coming."
Watch. Wait. A swordsman's best friend is patience. Size up your enemy. That smudged cheek certainly reflected my opponent's exhaustion. But all could be a ploy. There was no guarantee the woman was tired. With the expression of upper body strength revealed in her muscular upper arms protruding from her gray tank top, I know the woman could hold her own in a duel. Should I toy with the woman or just lunge?
"Ya ha!" My knees jolted beneath her as I thrust the tip of the sword toward Katie'sheart and halted a hair's distance from the glass.
Two men stepped through the doorway in the reflection.
Uncle John in dark green and blue jeans. Murdo in kilt and white shirt.
Hell. I've been spotted acting foolishly. I spun, whipping the blade through the air.
"Och, Katie, Lass. 'Tis just I. Your ole Uncle John. Returned to the living." John threw up his palms.
Better a man than a ghost. But anytime I acted silly, someone showed up to ruin the fun. Then teased relentlessly until I wanted to fight. These Scots! I pointed the sword at both men, then raised the blade up to finger the cool sharp edge. "I saw you in the mirror."
10 Timeless Heroes; A Time Travel Romance Boxed Set Page 95