He waved the knife at her hand and she held out her forefinger, which he delicately poked with the razor sharp point. Excitement mingled with apprehension as she watched one perfectly round drop fall onto the herbs.
He wrapped his hand tightly around hers and she tried to think about two hazy people in the distant past meeting and falling hopelessly in love. It was harder than she thought, since she didn’t know a thing about them, but her desperation to remain alive was certainly real.
She stopped singing abruptly, right in the middle of ‘don’t you cry for me’, and they stared at each other. Lachlan closed his eyes and she followed suit. A moment later when she opened them, he was still kneeling on the ground, bits of dried green herbs dusting the front of his kilt. She let go of his hand, looking around at the forest.
The trees and the path all looked the same. She craned her neck and saw the tower in the distance. For an almost three hundred year span of time, she really felt the surroundings should look different.
She jumped up and ran up the path to the edge of the forest, and saw the castle looking exactly the way they had left it half an hour ago, down to the nineteenth century brick addition.
“Did we not go far enough back?” she asked, wishing Evie had let them take binoculars.
Lachlan came up behind her and rested his hand on her shoulder. She twisted around to find him frowning at the castle. He pointed in the direction of the crypt and pulled a small set of binoculars from the folds of his kilt, looked down the hill, then handed them to her with a shake of his head.
“I can’t believe you took those,” she said.
He shrugged. “They’re a wee marvel. I couldna resist.”
She looked through them, past the crypt to the storage shed. Outside the shed, parked neatly in a row, were the three golf carts the groundskeepers used to get around the property.
“We didna go back at all, it seems,” he said, wrapping his arms around her.
She rested her head back against his chest.
“It has never failed to send me somewhere before, even if it wasna right,” he said, pulling her close. “I dinna understand it.”
“It’s me,” Piper said. “It didn’t work because of me.” She turned and pressed her face into his chest. “Maybe it’s already started. Maybe I’m already starting to disappear.” She felt the panic rising and clung to him.
Lachlan took her by the shoulders and pushed her back so he could look down into her eyes. He gave her a small shake.
“No,” he said simply, then leaned down and kissed her.
It was a soft, searching kiss. She had to hold onto him to keep from sinking to the ground. He rested his forehead against hers for a moment, then lifted his head.
“Ye are still here, my love. I willna let ye go.”
Chapter 9
Pietro dropped the pitchfork he was holding and the last thing he heard was the clatter when it hit the floor.
He opened his eyes to see the beams of the ceiling above him and shot to his feet, heart racing, head spinning. He reached out and grabbed one of the stall doors. The rough slats of the door under his fingers made his racing heart nearly stop. That was wrong. Everything was wrong.
Holy hell. Where was he? He spun in a circle and sat down in the straw, squeezing his eyes shut tight. After a count of ten, he opened them and groaned. Nothing had changed.
Or rather, everything had changed. His stable was not his stable anymore. He ran from stall to stall, peeking over the swinging wooden slat doors. His horses were not his horses anymore. Looking around frantically, he saw that he was alone in the barn. Where were his stable lads?
He ran out the door, at least the door was still in the right spot, and made it to a patch of gorse that shouldn’t have been there, fell to his knees, and threw up.
Shaking, he managed to stand back up and turn around to face the castle. It was nearly dusk and the whole thing was lit up like a birthday cake, except a good half of it was missing. There were people milling about in the courtyard below, a wagon of some sort was pulling up and a couple of children jumped off the back of it and ran into the kitchen. There were chickens pecking around in a small enclosure at the far end of the yard. A large herb garden was surrounded by a low stone wall. None of it was right.
A trampling sound from behind him made him whirl around. Coming out of the forest at the top of the hill was a group of men, all wearing kilts and carrying various hunting weapons, game birds hanging from their belts. In a few minutes they’d be upon him.
He looked down at his clothes. Grubby jeans, riding boots, t-shirt and flannel shirt over it.
He had a more formal, old fashioned looking uniform of buff breeches and wine red jacket he wore when an important tour was scheduled. Piper had been adorably excited when she picked it out for him, but had assured him he could wear whatever he wanted for regular everyday work.
Even that uniform would stick out like a sore thumb in the group of men he saw. He had a gut feeling he needed to stay out of sight, even though he couldn’t quite understand what was happening.
Deciding to trust his gut, he ducked down low and tore off around the back of the barn, waited breathlessly for the men to saunter past, then tore up toward the forest the way they had come, almost hysterically anticipating an axe blow to his back, but not stopping or looking behind him until he was hidden in the trees.
He wrestled his phone out of his pocket. It was completely dead, though he’d had a full battery charge just that morning.
Getting his bearings, he made his way north along the tree line. If he stayed along the edge of the woods, he knew he would wind up at the ruins of some old crofter’s huts that were a mile or so away.
He’d scouted the area the day before as a possible place to hide one of the daft flags Piper insisted on using instead of having a proper hunt.
It was closer than the village and one of them still had a partial roof. He’d hunker down there until morning and by then maybe everything would be back to normal.
The sun was setting and he moved closer to open land, keeping his eyes down, not wanting to trip and break his neck on an exposed root or fallen log. He concentrated on his surroundings, mentally taking note of every tree, vine and twig, listening for birds, doing everything he could to avoid asking himself any difficult questions.
He remembered the pitchfork falling out of his hand. Maybe he’d had a heart attack and no one had found him yet. He almost faltered in his steady pace, wanting to return to the stable and see if he was still lying there and this was a crazy out of body experience.
No, better keep moving, if for no other reason than being back at the strange barn and the even stranger castle gave him the creeps.
He knew he had to be close to the ruins. One of them was little more than a foundation stone, the other an overgrown bit of crumbled hearth, half a wall and just enough overhang for him to get underneath.
Jogging out of the cover of the trees, he stopped in his tracks and stumbled backward. The crofter’s huts were there, a hundred yards away, but they weren’t in ruins.
They were neat, compact cottages, each with four intact walls and sturdy stone chimneys. He blinked as a thin stream of smoke puffed out of one of them. There was a garden overflowing with fall vegetables between them, a closed up chicken coop and goat enclosure in the back.
“I’ve gone completely mad,” he said, turned and ran back into the forest.
***
He awoke to cold ground under his back and the lowering sun shining through the tree branches, revealing a brilliant purple dusk.
He turned his head slowly to the side. He was in a clearing, and that was about all he knew. He didn’t know if he had passed out, fallen and hit his head, or had simply lain down to sleep, his only recourse other than try to accept what he couldn’t.
He sat up and ran his hand across his face, then raked his fingers through his hair. Nothing seemed to hurt, and there weren’t any raised bumps on his skull.
>
He lay back and stared at the darkening sky some more, wondering if things would start making sense eventually, or if he was going to need to take action. And if that was the case, what action should he take? It wasn’t like he was faced with an enemy.
There was a shuffling a few yards away from him and he swore under his breath. The second he had to go and think of enemies, one appeared? That seemed unfair.
He laughed to himself. He hadn’t been in a fight in ages, and the thought made his blood course with adrenaline.
A whimpering cry followed the shuffling sound and he leapt to his feet, making off silently toward it in a first offensive.
Through the increasingly dim light, he made out a crouched form next to a boulder and using all his stealth, crept up and grabbed the person by the shoulders, so he could see who he was up against.
“Oh, shit,” he said, dropping his hands and stepping back. “Jesus. I’m sorry.”
The enemy he had snuck up on to neutralize was a small, crying woman. She was cowering against the boulder, looking at him with as much horror as if he were the devil himself. He dropped to his knees and held up his hands.
“I didn’t see who ye were,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt ye. Oh, Christ, did I hurt ye?”
He’d grabbed her pretty roughly. Her thin shoulders were shaking and her chest heaved.
He realized with a jolt she was wearing a long blue dress, with a bunch of layers and buttons.
It wasn’t exactly low cut, but he noticed a lot of creamy skin exposed nonetheless, and he jerked his eyes away from her enticing cleavage to continue begging her forgiveness.
“Ye’ve no need to continue taking the Lord’s name in vain,” she said tartly, drawing herself up straighter and swiping away the tears that had stained her face.
He blinked a few times to try to clear his messed up mind. He had to be in some sort of dream.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her russet hair flowed down her back in a twisty braid, with long, shiny strands tumbling over the front of her shoulders, which drew his eyes back to the swell of her small, pale breasts.
Feeling like he was drunk and moving in slow motion, he swallowed and searched her face. She looked vaguely familiar, but he never could have forgotten such a face, if he’d ever met her before.
Her porcelain skin was luminous, even streaked with tears as it was. Her large eyes—he leaned closer to try to see their color, maybe dark brown?—were now narrowed at him, her inky black lashes almost brushing her angrily furrowed brows.
“God, I’m sorry,” he said, then smacked himself in the forehead. “Truly, lass, I am sorry.”
She stared at him for a second, then slumped back against the rock. She pulled up her knees and started crying into her skirt.
He almost wished he’d been faced with a knife wielding foe, rather than this sweet crying woman.
Each pitiful sob tore at his heart, but he’d already acted like a heathen ruffian, jumping out and grabbing her. If he tried to comfort her, she’d probably scream and bite his hand.
Tentatively he reached out and patted her on the shoulder, and when she didn’t rebuff him, he scooted next to her. The night was getting cold, perhaps he could lend her some body heat.
“Why are ye out here all alone?” he asked.
He was beginning to accept that things were not what he was used to and an oddly dressed young woman alone in the woods at dusk was probably cause for some alarm. People were probably out looking for her.
To Pietro’s amazement, she turned and flung her arm around him, pressing her face into his chest and crying all the harder.
After the slightest hesitation, he stroked her hair, pushing some strands off her face and tucking them behind her ear. He was overcome with a fierce sense of protectiveness.
“Ye’ve nothing to fear, lass,” he said, feeling bold.
She sniffled and pushed away from him, looking up at him as if taking his measure.
He smiled his most charming smile, once again taken by surprise at her beauty.
“It’s my husband,” she sobbed, falling back against him and gripping his shirt.
Well, crap.
He didn’t want to seem a cad and shove her away as if she had the plague, but he didn’t want some angry tartan clad madman to come bursting into the clearing and take an axe to his head because he was holding the man’s wife, either. But he didn’t want to let her go, not if he was honest. Maybe he’d get his fight after all.
He patted her back and rocked gently from side to side, and soon she stopped crying, and he began to feel sleepy and comfortable with his back against the boulder and her small, soft body nestled against him. He was about to let his head rest against the rock and close his eyes when she gasped and wrenched away from him. She stood and stepped back, brushing at her skirts and trying to straighten her hair.
“Ye’ve been kind to me,” she said with a hitch in her voice. “Now it is my turn to beg yer pardon. I do not know what came over me.”
Her lip quivered and she looked off into the depths of the woods.
“Are ye running from your husband?” he asked.
She put her face in her hands, then looked at him, eyes blazing and clear.
“Aye,” she said. “He’s a cruel savage. He forced me to marry him a fortnight ago. He willna speak to me. He shuts me up in my room.” She took a deep breath. “He’s mad, he’s evil. He mutters to himself, and goes off for days at a time, and when he returns he’s in a terrible state. He stares at me and gives me the darkest looks.”
She reached out and leaned against a tree, as if her confession had taken the last of her strength.
She looked at him and shuddered. He took a step forward and stood close, not touching her, but trying to give her strength with his proximity.
“I’m afraid of him.”
“I’ll help ye,” Pietro said. “I’ll help ye get away from him.”
“Why would ye do that?” she asked, taking a step back and peering up at him.
It was almost full dark. The moon had taken over the sun’s post, and the stars were winking to life all over the sky.
He almost laughed. What else did he have to do? Then he sobered. How could he help her when he had no idea what had happened to him. He had some money in his wallet, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be worth anything here. Now.
Once again he ran his hand over his head, feeling for lumps. He wasn’t much of a dreamer when he was asleep. Of his occasional dreams the most vivid were of his training days in the RAF, or of getting kicked by a horse.
He never had such detailed dreams where his place of work would be completely changed, the castle he parked his truck in back of every day almost unrecognizable.
If he had dreams of gorgeous women, they certainly were never dressed in old fashioned clothes that covered them nearly head to toe.
Still, he pinched himself rather viciously on the inside of his arm to try to wake himself up. He was still there in the forest, looking at the beautiful woman.
Whatever had happened, if he was unconscious on the floor of the barn, or dead and this was some strange afterlife, it appeared he was going to have to make the best of it.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She narrowed her eyes at him and frowned, then her face completely transformed into something he couldn’t understand.
“Ye dinna know who I am?” she asked. She almost looked delighted.
He shook his head and shrugged, hoping this wouldn’t spoil anything, but knowing there was no way he could pretend to know who she was.
“My name is Bella, “ she said, dropping a quick curtsy.
He stared at the top of her head in disbelief. She had actually curtsied. Now she was standing there looking expectant.
Jesus, he had to tell her who he was. If she was someone who was well known in these parts, it stood to reason that she would also know most everyone.
What should he say? He was
clearly Scottish, that fact was already established. He couldn’t very well spout out his very Italian sounding name and suddenly try to pretend he was from a faraway land.
“Are ye here for the celebration, then?” she asked.
He nearly sighed out loud with his relief. “Aye,” he said. “The celebration.”
He looked around wildly and finally told her his middle name, which his mother had chosen. It was Scottish enough sounding. As an afterthought he added her maiden name as well.
“I’m from the coast,” he said vaguely, hoping she wouldn’t ask any more questions.
She nodded and grew pensive, brows knitted. “Ye’ll help me get away from here?” she asked, glancing at the sky.
Throwing himself fully into whatever was happening to him, he took her by the elbow and pulled her close to his chest, wondering if he should suggest going back to the castle, or trying to make it to the village on foot. Feeling dizzy, he wondered what the village looked like, if it was even there at all.
She turned in the direction of the crofter’s cottages he’d seen before he passed out in the woods and nodded.
“They’re helping with the slaughtering for the feast. It’ll only be Granny Jinty and she’s half blind.” She looked up into his face and seemed to come to a decision. “It should work,” she said almost to herself.
Grabbing his hand, she turned and started pulling him out of the woods toward the cottages.
The moon was rising over the thatched roofs of the small stone huts. He smelled a peat fire, and he glanced nervously at her.
She put her hand in the middle of his chest and gave him a little shove behind her.
“Stay put and keep yer mouth shut. Act daft if ye have to say anything.”
That wouldn’t be difficult at all. He watched as she strode up to the door of the hut and hallooed.
Several long moments later, a stooped wisp of an elderly lady hobbled out and peered sideways at her, squinting and grabbing her hand to pull her closer.
Reunited (Book 2 of Lost Highlander series) Page 7