In the meadow to the east of the smaller ski lodge, a flock of curly-haired white sheep grazed on sweet grass and late summer wildflowers, their black faces all but hidden as they munched. The flowers, still vibrant in early autumn, produced a fragrance that mingled with the scent of sheep droppings and roasting meat pies. Orange plastic snow fences kept the placid animals penned as they awaited the sheepdog trials. Her stomach growled.
“Lunchtime!” She skipped around a mud puddle, careful to keep her borrowed doeskin shoes dry. The day’s relative quiet had threatened to lull her into finding a quiet spot to nap. Instead, she hid and practiced the ancient words. She’d peppered the air with crumbled juniper and boxwood then sprinkled more herbs as she chanted the scripture. It hadn’t worked. Well, not in the way she had planned.
All I accomplished was making smoke, and stood like a statue while some man strolled by and kissed me.
Haven peeked in her dress’ hidden pocket and checked her supply of infusion of honeysuckle and thyme. Only a fraction remained. She’d refill her supplies next chance she got and then she’d find a way to get back to her mystery man.
Why do I want to do that?
He can’t be the person she wanted. He certainly didn’t dress like a successful businessman. Unfortunately, arousal swept over her at the thought of being able to speak to him, or touch him.
Or, kiss him.
“What went wrong?”
“Talking to yourself again?”
“Iona! Where’d you come from?”
“The village, of course. I saw you sneak off and—”
“I didn’t sneak.” Haven crossed her arms over her chest, her defensive stance obviously not lost on her friend.
“Fine. I was concerned, okay? After all, I invited you to the Highland games to help me. If anything happened to you—”
“What could happen? This is a huge event, I admit, but it’s a family atmosphere. I’m glad to help.” Haven stared up at her tall friend. Iona Mackenzie stood about five inches taller than her own five-foot five. Unlike her wispy black curls hanging down her back and teasing her ears, Iona’s red hair flared like a fiery crown.
Where Haven liked to pull some hair back off her face by tucking strands behind her ears, Iona piled her unruly curls high on her head, anchored by black, hand-wrought, iron spikes. A few loose tendrils framed her best friend’s delicate face and emerald-green eyes. Haven’s eyes, in comparison, were as dull as pea soup.
Or so my ex-boyfriend had complained.
She didn’t mean to compare herself to Iona, but Cal Murchie certainly did, and on many occasions. He once described Haven to a colleague as mousy and as drab as dishwater. She’d overheard his conversation one day, but never thought to jump out and demand an apology. Iona would have.
She idolized the woman. With her father, Iona ran an antiques store adjacent to the herbal store where Haven worked with her aunt. Iona also staged historical displays at a downtown museum. Her friend’s shoulder proved a comfortable port in a storm. And storms had dumped tons of rain on Haven. Another reason she volunteered to help her at the games.
Iona acted happier, here at the games. Haven loved seeing a different side of her friend. At her antique shop or while working at the museum, Iona forced her hair into a tight bun, wore high heels, and dressed in designer suits or modest dresses. Haven’s meager budget allowed for a pair of decent jeans and several simple skirts. Nothing could detract from Iona’s natural good looks.
Today she wore a long, bleached muslin dress with an overskirt of rich wool made up of dark green and blue, crisscrossed with thin white and red stripes; her family’s tartan. A swath of the same plaid rose up and over her left shoulder, pinned by a jeweled brooch. The style established her position as a chieftain’s daughter. Proud to be a descendent of a family steeped in history and intrigue, she also brightened the entire historical village.
“You said you needed help. Here I am. You’ve done the same for me,” Haven said. Dressing up and pretending to be a Highland lass for a few days was the least she could do.
“So. Are you going to tell me why you were talking to yourself?”
“I like the sound of my voice?” Her friend’s head shook at her answer. She’d best come clean. Sort of. “I used the last of my chamomile to make tea last night, and I was hunting for more.”
“Have you had trouble sleeping? I have a recipe for a simple herbal sleeping draft. You remember. I bought the ingredients in your aunt’s store. She has the best assortment of analgesics and mood relaxers. Or, is it your sleeping arrangements? The cots are primitive—”
“The cot and the tent are okay. I’ve had trouble relaxing ever since…” Her chest tightened. Tears threatened to fall, and her throat suddenly constricted. Iona knew all about Cal. Haven had cried on her shoulder enough times. No need to bring him up today.
Raucous cheers pulled their attention toward the lower athletic fields. Men in colorful kilts and sporrans, draped in yards of wool, carried huge swords and trampled the grass as they fought a mock battle to the delight of the crowd. Their thunderous war cries filled the air, and nearly drowned out the marching pipe bands.
“Those weapons must weigh a ton.” Haven spied several carrying round shields whose brass and leather surfaces were tipped with lethal-looking points.
“I came to tell you I’m headed to clan village. Dad needs help setting up. Will you be okay until I get back?” Iona tilted her head and looked apologetic.
“Sure. Don’t worry about me.” Haven slipped her arms around her friend, stretched up on her toes, and kissed her cheek. Iona set off down the trail. She studied Iona as her friend passed several brawny athletes, but didn’t stop to flirt. Although Iona was quick to push others into a man’s arms, Haven couldn’t remember the last time the woman went out on a real date.
She’s picky, I guess.
During a lull in the battle, a bagpipe’s ghostly wailing made her believe she stood in the Highlands of Scotland. In reality, she stood on a mountainside in northern New England amid modern day people pretending to be old world Scots.
Haven’s heartbeat thumped with the urge to relive the pleasurable vision. And the kiss. She could almost smell his manly fragrance enhanced by the mist that had surrounded them, drowning out all sounds of the forest or games. Kissing a broad-shouldered Highlander might seem like Heaven to another, but Haven wasn’t interested in make-believe. She wanted a real man. A serious man to love and cherish her forever.
Someone not like Cal Murchie.
Haven had lost herself so deeply in the stranger’s kiss that she’d forgotten to ask questions. Why hadn’t the fog given her time to ask his name or location? What if he attended the games?
Impossible, she thought as she bent to pick up a bright red maple leaf. The storm that drenched him, and plastered dark auburn hair to his head, sure wasn’t happening here in New England. Last night’s storm blew out toward Maine and Canada hours ago, leaving blue skies behind.
And puddles.
Haven tiptoed around another puddle and headed back to work. If she ever volunteered at a Highland gathering again, she’d come prepared. She’d check out some books in the library or go on-line to research all things Scottish. As a last minute volunteer, Iona had accepted her as is. She also was enjoying a hiatus from her menial jobs.
Working at the small herbal store for her aunt, she earned close to minimum wage. She supplemented her wages by writing column on herbs and their medicinal properties for the local paper.
Where I met that bastard, Cal.
Sounds of a hammer on steel, and an axe chopping wood, proclaimed the existence of other volunteers. Guests walked the grounds and visited the various displays. The historical kitchen tent and metalworking shop were popular. Iona spun wool on an ancient spinning wheel—when she wasn’t on break. Haven’s only talent?
Knitting.
The odor of open campfires and fragrant balsam pine filled the air, carried on a breeze that playfu
lly tossed her long hair over her face.
“I should go and braid this mess.” She twirled a lock of hair and yearned for a more exciting color. Like Iona’s wild, red hair. She picked up the hem of her green frock and sighed when she spotted the mud. It had soaked the bottom and stained her shoes.
And me without a washing machine or a decent bathroom.
How had her friend talked her into this?
Haven walked toward the encampment’s main fire. On a tripod, a blackened pot hung from a simple chain. Another volunteer stirred something that smelled horrible, unlike the delicious meat pies and bridies Iona introduced her to, yesterday.
I’ll do better when I make our dinner.
Past the large campfire, a small forge smoked and sparked. A tall young man usually tended the flames, but Haven spotted him with an open book, leaning against a tree. She whistled softly. He stood naked to the waist, except for a leather apron.
“Hey, Jake,” she called. The studious-looking twenty-two year old returned her wave. Jake Jamison’s muscular upper body and trim waist made many a woman’s eyebrows twitch. He’d tied his wavy black hair in a leather queue. His brilliant blue eyes and sweet smile drew the attention of young women who tramped through the village by the hour. On closer inspection, the book’s title made her heart skip. A man who read poetry? Cal only read the newspaper’s sport section and his financial statements.
“Hi, Haven. “ He looked up with a big grin. Jake replaced his bookmark—a large, gold oak leaf—and grinned.
“I don’t believe they printed Robert Frost’s poetry during the sixteenth century.”
“I hide my book when visitors approach. I happen to like Robert Frost. I doubt Scottish Highlanders owned books at all. At least nothing printed by machine. Life in simpler times meant most villagers spent their days farming and trying not to get killed.”
“Like those Neanderthals down there on the athletic fields? They’re obviously not into farming. Even if their battle is part of the re-enactment for the history buffs who visit the games, their weapons look dangerous. Still, some of them are handsome enough to…”
“To what?” Jake’s grin proved hard to ignore. He set aside his book and they slowly walked together toward the lower edge of camp that afforded them a better view.
Though she’d told friends she’d recently sworn off men because of her deceitful ex-boyfriend, Haven hadn’t lost hope. She stared with quiet appreciation at the assortment of bronzed giants and smaller opponents. “Who’s the big dark-haired guy with the broadsword?”
“The big brute slamming his sword down on his opponent’s leather shield?”
“That’s the one. The shorter guy isn’t looking too happy.”
“He’s a MacDougal. Comes here by way of Provincetown, Rhode Island. Heard he’s a restaurant manager by day.”
“I presume by night he’s the contented married husband of some petite mouse of a girl? I hear opposites attract,” she joked. As the words passed her lips, her body sizzled as she imagined having a handsome, muscular husband waiting for her at home. How might that feel? Especially one who stood over six feet tall, wore next to nothing, and screamed bloody murder as he brandished a sharp, shiny weapon? Someone keen on travel, and interested in the Scottish games could be fun. But, he’d have to be faithful and trustworthy. Good luck finding a man she could trust in this day and age. Cal Murchie taught her that.
“You’re way off track this time, MacKay. That little guy’s his partner. They are very much in love, so the rumor goes, and that’s too bad for you, huh?”
“Devil’s own luck! Why are all the good ones gay?”
He laughed as he excused himself. He teased her because, in an unguarded moment, she told him she stunk at dating. Jake headed for the portable toilets set discreetly in a grove of dense trees. From the corner of her eye, Haven’s gaze locked on the rotund body of a young boy dressed in Highland attire, from the Glengarry on his head to the leather brogues on his feet. His too-short kilt, a lovely combination of blues and greens, rode above his pudgy knees. From this distance, the tartan looked similar to Iona’s Mackenzie plaid. The boy’s once-white Jacobite shirt, laced at the neck, sported ketchup stains.
The outfit must have cost his parent’s a fortune.
More than a month’s rent on her own downtown apartment. Envy snaked through her as he marched closer. He skipped off the trail then bent over and picked up two pinecones, giving her an unwanted view of pasty thighs above bright green and black Argyll socks.
Some people should not wear kilts.
Haven kept her eye on him as he passed and headed toward the blacksmith’s tools. The unguarded tools. She fell into step behind him, prepared to save Jake’s personal collection of tools from the boy. She hoped he didn’t expect a guided tour of the make believe village. Luckily for her, another volunteer cut him off before a pudgy hand could grab one of Jake’s tools. The boy mumbled something and spit on the ground. Whatever the other volunteer answered didn’t please the kid, who spun on his heels and marched back down the mountain.
Good riddance, she thought.
When the child tossed a prickly pinecone at the flock of grazing sheep, Haven’s soft spot for children hardened to stone. The boy reminded her of Cal’s son, the son he forgot to mention.
Grabbing the twigs of juniper and boxwood from her pocket, she brushed the air. She laughed when the animals trotted out of his reach. When she clapped, he glanced her way. A pudgy brow arched skyward. He pulled up his slipping kilt, tilted his black bonnet at a rakish angle, and skipped down the path while muttering obscenities. The sheep would be long gone and on the other side of the pasture by the time the boy got close enough to slip through the fence and give them a kick.
Happy that she’d remembered the simple spell from the ancient book, Haven scratched along the scooped neckline of her peasant top where the rough fabric scraped her skin. Although mid September, the sun beat down. She should have whipped up some herbal-based sunscreen. She enjoyed cooler days, but the weather could be worse.
It could be snowing.
Returning to the village center, she spied Jake back at his forge. He’d built a fire inside a half circle of piled stones. A crude, leather bellows hung from a tripod. Various buckets, filled with kindling, rusty pieces of metal or water, surrounded his anvil. She walked over to get a closer look.
“Jake. How are you holding up?”
“Me? I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
She’d been concerned the first moment she’d scrutinized his job as the village blacksmith. Bent over hot coals most days, she worried the heat might take its toll. Then he’d explained to her that, as a trained horseshoe-making farrier in real life, he knew what to do.
“You look hot, that’s all.”
“I could use another break, Haven, but can’t leave the forge alone right now since I built up the fire. But, I can’t work the iron until these new logs burn down to coals. How about watching it while I get a drink and some chow down the hill?”
“Me? I don’t know anything about—”
“All you need to do is keep the people away from the fire and my tools, like I saw you do with that fat kid.” He pointed to all the equipment he’d laid out for a demonstration. “Hand out those nails.”
She peered inside the smallest bucket and pulled out a handful of black, curved, metal objects. “What are these?”
“Freebies for the kids. Give me thirty minutes. I’m in your debt.” He kissed her on the nose then yanked off his gloves and leather apron. With a swipe of a damp rag, he washed the soot from his face and naked chest.
She swallowed, hard. He slipped inside his nearby tent then reappeared wearing a saffron Jacobite shirt. As he tucked it inside his leather breeches, he hurried down the mountain toward the crowds and the vendors.
Haven sighed then laughed aloud at his brotherly kiss. Jake, a couple of years younger than she, had kissed her in friendship. If she’d ever had a brother, Haven would have like
d him to be like Jake. She’d shared her troubles and Jake agreed she’d been treated shabbily by Cal. Jake called him a bastard for what he’d done to her.
He’s a kindhearted young man with an old soul.
She watched him walk away as she wiped her palm across the damp tip of her nose. Too bad her own soul yearned for a man who would lay down his life to see her happy. Jake was not that man. When her thoughts turned to russet hair dripping rain into her eyes as he kissed her senseless, a rush of molten fire tore through her.
No, must be the heat from the campfire, she lied.
CHAPTER 3
Forty-five minutes after Jake left Haven in charge of the blacksmith station, perspiration dripped from Haven’s forehead. Her hair turned curly, and a few strands escaped the confines of her braid. She swept loose hairs behind her left ear as a trio of little girls with golden pigtails skipped up the path and reached Jake’s display. Forcing a weary smile, she passed out the odd-looking, square-headed nails Jake had shaped into crude rings.
With safety a priority, she kept the children back from the forge itself. Should anything bad happen, it would take the emergency medical crew, stationed near the larger ski lodge, time to get to the village.
She could heal burns or cuts, but Haven promised Iona not to practice her healing abilities in public. Some people might get the wrong idea, or construe some of her poultices as possibly poisonous.
Which they aren’t.
Her aunt schooled her in using herbs, roots, berries, and even gemstones to create healing medicines.
The din of the crowd brought her thoughts back to the present. Farther down the mountain, the noise of boisterous voices rose from the direction of the popular beer tent. Several patrons and most of the athletes carried personal flasks filled with single malt Scotch. Security personnel walked around the area to keep order. A broad smile tugged at her parched lips. Tipsy visitors seemed the least of their worries. Every man and woman carried some sort of weapon.
Where had Jake run off to? Was he stuck in the long food lines? Or, had he escaped inside the beer tent?
10 Timeless Heroes; A Time Travel Romance Boxed Set Page 131