Must Love Kilts

by Angela Quarles

  “Gee, thanks, sis.”

  Fiona edged closer to the table and leaned in. “Do you love him?”

  “I…I’m not sure.” It was too soon for that. Wasn’t it?

  “Well, I think it’s safe to say you have the hots for him.”

  She shrugged. “So what? There are men here, where there are showers…” She lifted a bite. “And chocolate…”

  “And you’ve experienced that same level of connection with other men you’ve dated?”

  Traci slumped against the couch, the edge digging into her back. “No,” she mumbled.

  “Aha!”

  “There’s nothing to ‘aha’ about, you goof.” She tossed her wadded up napkin, which hit her sister’s forehead and bounced to the floor.

  Fiona narrowed her eyes. “Yes, there is. You should go back. See how it goes. You can always zap back if it doesn’t work out, right?”

  Panic clawed up at the idea of popping back into Iain’s life, as if she expected that she meant something more to him than a good lay. “I can’t,” she choked out.

  “This doesn’t seem like you.” Fiona cocked her head. “Granted, we haven’t hung out all that much since you went off to college, but we had fun getting reacquainted in Scotland. And you always seem so strong and sure about everything. It makes me ridiculously jealous. So, yeah, this…meekness—dare I say, wussiness?—doesn’t seem like you.”

  Traci curled her lip. God. She was being a wimp, wasn’t she?

  Fiona folded her arms and rested them against the table. “You know what’s also different?” She leaned forward. “I remember you being such a romantic sap when we were kids. You’d sneak into my room, crawl under the covers with me, and we’d speculate about our future husbands. You’d say, wistfully I might add, ‘Just think, Fiona. Out there somewhere right now, growing up just like us, are our husbands.’ ”

  She’d been such an idiot back then. A naïve fool. She vaguely remembered those conversations and wanted to say to that little girl, Bless your heart. “Yeah, well. Reality and all that. I grew up.”

  Fiona leaned back onto her hands. “But what if…what if our future husbands weren’t growing up somewhere out there?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I mean—what if they’re back there? You know, back in 1689?”

  Again, a formless panic fluttered in her chest. “Fiona. Yes, I was attracted to Iain. We had great sex, but…”

  “But what?”

  Fuck it. She was sick of lying to herself. Sick of pretending. “What if that was all it was to him, okay?” She crossed her arms and curled forward, horrified to hear the hurt in her voice and that it was almost panicky-loud. “That’d be really embarrassing to show up and say, ‘Here I am!’ and he’s all like, ‘Wait-what?’ Especially because he’d know how much I was sacrificing to come back to him.”

  Fiona’s gaze seemed to take her all in. “Did he make you feel like you were nothing more to him? Did he say that exactly? Or was he saving face when you pushed him away?”

  Traci’s heart gave a what-if stutter as she sifted through the charged memories of their last encounter. There’d been a hesitation, a moment when she’d wondered if he’d leave his clan. Then panic and hurt and humiliation when she realized he was only debating about whether to help her or not.

  Then that hotter-than-sin sex. She flushed all over just thinking about it. But as she replayed it in light of her sister’s words? Oh, wow, yes. He’d been angry. And he’d almost too cheerfully taken up the role of love-’em-and-leave-’em. She’d assumed it was because he was relieved. But combined with the anger? Could he have been pissed thinking that was all she’d seen in him and played the role to the hilt to deflect? Like she always did?

  A choking sob lurched out of her throat. “Oh God. Did I make a mistake?”

  “Only one way to find out,” her sister said so cheerfully that Traci almost considered sororicide.

  “It’s not that easy,” she said, enunciating each word.

  “Yes, it is. Come on. Life is short, and love is hard enough to find as it is. Take a chance. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  Her stomach curdled. “I go there, and he laughs.”

  Fiona looked shocked. “Are you serious? Is that what this is about? Woman up, sister. If he does, then you know he wasn’t the guy and can move on.”

  Easy for her to say. “But I’d still look like a fool for thinking there was potential with him when there wasn’t.” She didn’t think she could again face that pain. For a third time.

  Fiona covered her hand. Squeezed it. “It doesn’t make you a fool to have believed someone better than they end up being.”

  The truth of her sister’s words punched her in the stomach. Ever since senior year in college three years ago, when she’d had the double-whammy of falling for Brad and Johnny, she’d allowed the experience and the overwhelming emotions to rule her relationships with men. She’d engineered her life so she’d never play the fool again. All this time, she’d seen it as a practical way to scratch her itches and avoid drama. But…

  But what had that gotten her? Except for the occasional, unsatisfying bed gymnastics.

  In a last ditch effort of self-preservation, she trotted out the line she always used with her friends. “I’d rather be single and happy than in a relationship and miserable.”

  Her sister frowned and placed another hand over hers. “But what if you could be happy and in a relationship? Are you willing to risk missing that?”

  Traci pulled in a shaky breath.

  Could she do this?

  Overriding all was the bigger question: What if she didn’t?

  Both she and Iain used flirtation as a tool. As a mask. One of them had to risk taking it off. To…to see if there was something more. She’d been almost ready to do that before he’d had to join Dundee.

  “Fiona. What does ‘mo gooslak rinekuh’ mean?”

  “ ‘Mo dhuslach rionnaige?’ ” She cocked her head. “It means ‘my dust of a star.’ Why?”

  “My dust of…” She frowned. And then her whole body jerked and she choked on a sob. Stardust.

  Heart pounding, she swallowed hard and looked at her sister. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  Fiona clapped. “Oh, good.” She jumped up and hurried to her honkin’-big purse. She dragged out a cloth sack and held it up, eyes gleaming. “I’m coming with you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Short the consultation made by the King’s people,

  Up the side of the hill they went ;

  Copiously poured the sweat from each brow,

  As thro’ the north side of the pass they climbed.

  “King James’ Army Marching to the Battle of Killiecrankie,” by Iain Lom MacDonald

  Christ, the suspense was killing him. In the wee dark hours of the morn, Iain conversed with Donald Glas MacGregor of Glengyle near one end of the great hall at Blair Castle. Though the room was filled with officers and fellow Highlanders milling about and exchanging clan news, tension defined their movements and their speech. All awaited word from the scouts sent forth sometime before midnight. Their aim: discover the position of the government forces led by General Hugh Mackay.

  Yesterday, they’d marched to the castle, beating Mackay’s men to the strategic location.

  MacGregor’s eighteen-year-old son, Rob, pushed past Highland warriors twice his bulk and reached his father’s side, his face alight with excitement. His crop of curly red hair, which gave him his nickname Rob Ruadh, or Rob Roy as the English were already calling him, could be discerned even in the murky light of the hall. “The scouts are back. Dundee is calling a council.”

  At last. Iain searched the crowd for Alasdair, Glengarry’s son. He stood near the fireplace conversing with the MacNiall of Barra. Iain nodded and made his way to join him. Since Iain’s confrontation with his uncle, he’d forged a new bond with the future chief of the MacDonells. Now Iain and
Duncan were more often than not at Alasdair’s side rather than their uncle’s.

  Iain could no longer stomach being near his uncle. ’Twas now clear how he had manipulated Iain. And like the weak leader he was, his uncle sensed the shift in the demeanor of their fellow clansmen and kept his distance.

  Alasdair fell in beside Iain, and they followed the others as they converged around Dundee. He sat at the great table with Cameron of Lochiel and other leading chiefs. Alasdair clapped Iain on the back. “Are you ready to fight this day? I can feel it in me blood. Today’s the day, I tell you.”

  Duncan joined them as Iain said, “Aye. Let us be done with this.”

  Alasdair chuckled, and the trio nudged through the gathering until they reached Lochiel’s right side and could hear the talk.

  Dundee stood, lifted his empty pistol, and banged the butt twice on the heavy plank table. The wax candles on the ornate silver candelabra before him sputtered and flickered. The men instantly grew silent.

  There was not a Highlander here who would not follow him wherever he led.

  “The hour is at hand, my loyal followers.” His voice rang with the educated accent of the Lowlanders that Iain had encountered at university, its timbre strong and clear and filling the depths of the room. “We have three choices before us, and I solicit your advice. Mackay is encamped at Dunkeld and will march here at dawn’s light.

  “Do we wait to attack until the bulk of the clans can join us on the twenty-ninth as planned and harass him until then? The scouts have returned and estimate his force at four thousand, while we barely command two thousand. Or do we attack at the narrow pass of Killiecrankie? Our other option is to allow his passage and engage him on open ground. What say you?”

  Shouts erupted all around as various chiefs and officers sought to make their opinions heard, but Iain cared not—as long as he’d be soon lifting his sword. One of Dundee’s officers advocated waiting for reinforcements. This opinion was bolstered by many of the Lowlanders, for they were still upset that King James had sent but three hundred Irish instead of the several thousand promised.

  Alasdair stepped forward and spoke. “I say we engage. We are not like these paid soldiers. We may be with hunger, we may be fatigued, but we still relish a good fight.”

  Dundee nodded and angled toward Lochiel. “What say you, my friend?”

  Though sixty years of age, Lochiel was a fierce warrior. Iain had heard tell that back during the fight against the Covenanters, an English soldier had wrestled Lochiel to the ground, trapping his arms beneath him. But before the soldier could deliver the killing blow, Lochiel had raised his head and bitten out the man’s throat. Looking at the still fearsome man now, Iain could well believe it.

  The old Highlander straightened his broad shoulders and pounded his fist once on the table. He looked each major chief in the eye, one by one, until he had impressed them with the gravity of what he was about to say. “Fight at once. Fight, even if you have only one to three. Let the Saxons fairly through the pass, and let us press home.” He stood then. “And I do not fear the result. Once we are fairly engaged, then we will lose our army or gain a complete victory. We should dare to attack the enemy at odds of nearly two to one.”

  A great roar from the other Highland chiefs met this speech. Iain closed his eyes, lifted his head to the ceiling, and merged his shout with theirs, his blood roaring in anticipation.

  Dundee placed a hand on the table, his face both grave and pleased. “I agree. We will engage.”

  Dundee’s officers protested, but the Highlanders outnumbered them and were with Dundee.

  Lochiel wasn’t finished. He turned to his friend. “You must command. But you must not fight. On you rests the fate of our small army and the plight of King James. Not one of us will lift a sword unless you agree.”

  Again the Highlanders shouted in agreement. Dundee raised his hand for silence. The candlelight glinted off the silver embroidery on his kid gloves.

  “No. I will refrain in the future, but give me this day to fight at least, and I will be content. What leader would I be to all of you if I did not endanger my life the same as you?”

  Many grumbled, for Dundee had the rare talent of uniting the oft-feuding clans. He had their respect, which was no small feat.

  Yet Dundee made it clear that he meant to lead the charge, and he gave the final instructions for their march. They would leave at dawn’s break. And engage a force twice their size. If they lost, the survivors would be treated as traitors.

  Oh Mary Mother, help them all.

  Traci crossed the gravel lot to their rental car outside the Killiecrankie Visitor Center, Fiona quick-stepping beside her. They again wore erasaids, but this time they had strapped knives to their calves, and Traci had a reproduction doglock musket and ammo. Thankfully, they didn’t look too out of place. Costumed reenactors were already arriving for events leading up to Saturday’s battle reenactment. Too bad it was being held on the closest Saturday to the battle instead of on the actual anniversary, today, or their task of getting onto the battlefield would have been much easier.

  “Can you believe Mom and Dad?”

  “Nuts,” Fiona answered. “But not surprising.”

  Last night, they’d called their folks from a hotel on the north end of Manchester where they’d stopped for the night. They’d tried to tell them they were going on a remote camping trip, but when their parents insisted they take satellite phones, they’d had to fess up. Plus, what if Fiona decided not to return?

  Of course, her parents hadn’t believed them at first. That had taken lots of explaining. But when they’d finally been convinced, they’d insisted on retiring with them in 1689.

  Given how obsessed her parents were, it wasn’t surprising.

  Nor was it surprising that they hadn’t even realized how out of character it was for Traci. It was all, “Of course you have to go back” and “Of course you love Scotland.”

  Traci shook her head. She’d never understand her parents, and they’d never understand her.

  Fiona had taken over the call and assured their parents they’d return in a few weeks to say goodbye and plan their parents’ retirement in five years’ time in Ye Olde Scotland.

  Traci’s mind couldn’t go that far into the future. This was all assuming everything worked out with Iain.

  First, she had to get there. And find him. Make sure he was safe. And lay herself friggin’ bare.

  The more difficult call had been with Katy. Katy who, despite having found her own love, had been frantic about talking Traci out of it. Finally, Fiona had grabbed the phone, said, “We’re going,” and hung up.

  Traci settled behind the wheel. When Fiona entered on the other side, she eased the car out of the lot and drove toward the quaint village of Killiecrankie.

  Fiona unfolded the rough, pencil-drawn map they’d received from the tour guide at the visitor center. “You sure this is when you want to find him? In the middle of a battle?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  On the crest of the hill,

  Above the dark of the thicket,

  Stood the men who could rout the evil-doers.

  “Killiecrankie,” by Iain Lom MacDonald

  In the middle of a battle.

  Traci gripped the steering wheel tighter at her sister’s words. “Yes. It’s too late to meet him beforehand—he’s already with his clan at the battle site. But afterward? No way. I’m worried as hell he might die.” She’d finally identified the restlessness and foreboding. Yesterday, when she’d committed to go back, the restlessness had clicked into a conviction that she had to get there in time for the battle. In time to save Iain. Nothing else mattered.

  “If he dies, it doesn't have to be then. He could have had an accident on the way to the battle.”

  She flexed her wrists forward and back on the wheel and glared at her sister. “Not helping.”

  Fiona picked at the edge of the paper map. “By the way, was Duncan going to this battle
too?” Oh, she said it casually enough, but Traci wasn’t fooled.

  She chuckled. “So…Duncan, is it? I should’ve known you were coming with me for more than sisterly affection and seventeenth-century scenery.”

  Fiona shrugged and looked out the window. “They really do have funny looking cows up here. So shaggy.”

  “Whatever. But, yes. Duncan was with him.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Fiona’s fingers tighten around the cloth sack in her lap, the paper map fluttering forgotten to the floor. What had happened between them that one night?

  Traci looked out the passenger window. “Here’s the Claverhouse Stone the guide mentioned.” On their right stretched a sheep field enclosed by a barbed-wire fence. In the middle lay a standing stone. With no room to pull over, Traci continued for a couple hundred yards to the first driveway. She pulled the car up to the house’s gate, an ornate affectation that seemed out of place. She set the brake and snagged the rough map where it had fallen on the floor.

  “According to the map, the government forces left their baggage train on this field.” She peered out of the windshield and pointed to the tree-covered ridge behind the sheep. “Somehow we need to get up there. That’s where the government forces met the Jacobites.” The land rose in a series of ledges, to the summit of Creag Eallaich, and it was the first ledge they needed to reach. She wanted to get as close to the Jacobites right flank as she could before they zapped back.

  She had no do-overs here. That, she was keenly aware of. Time flowed at the same pace for both of them now, and she had only one chance to get there in time.

  Fiona studied the two-lane road they’d come down. “I saw a paved road back there that led up that way. It was right after we passed through the village but before the sheep field. Maybe that will get us where we want?”

  Traci fished out the OS Explorer map of the Pitlochry region from the center console and found the road. “No. That only heads straight up for a short bit.” She scanned the map. “This is the gate for the private drive that leads up to Urrard House, which is where we need to be. The center of the battle ends up there. If we go a little farther up the road behind us, it looks like there’s a lane that will bring us mostly there.”