Roam: Time Walkers World Special Edition

by E. B. Brown

  “Stay here until we know more of this. This is magic like no other. This power is meant to be fleeting, not something men can hold onto forever,” he said. “Trust that I will keep you safe – here in this time.”

  “Dagr, my own kin killed my father,” she said, her voice trembling. “So that he could not stop them from killing my mother. They used her blood to save Ian as he lay dying from a battle wound. If my own family would do such a thing, tell me – tell me why I should trust any of you? Especially now after this?”

  “Because I will do what I must to protect you. I give you my word. ‘Tis all I have to give.”

  “If I stay, I must marry Malcolm. Will you give me your word so freely then?”

  He lowered his head to her lap, clutching her hands as the words poured forth.

  “Yes. I will. Even if I must see you marry him. Even if I must see him hold you. Even when you bears his sons,” he whispered. “Still, I will keep my word. It is all I have to give in this time, and I give it to you.”

  He felt her fingers brush over his hair as she laid her cheek upon his bent head.

  “I cannot bear to stay,” she said.

  “And I cannot bear to watch you go,” he replied.

  Footsteps crunched on the frozen ground, betraying another visitor in the garden. Dagr stood up, facing Skye. He pulled her hands to his lips, kissing them gently as he looked down into her shining eyes.

  “Dagr? Where are you?” Malcolm called from beyond the tall hedge.

  “Here, my lord,” he replied, his gaze locked with hers. He tucked her hand into the bend of his elbow and turned to face his grinning brother.

  The next evening Dagr kept to the shadows during the cèilidh, unwilling to meet Malcolm’s friends or support the pretender any more than necessary. His body still ached from the beating he endured and the realization of his predicament weighed heavy on his thoughts. He knew his father and mother must be worried, his aggravation running high because he knew there was nothing he could do ease their burden.

  Without a hint of remorse, Malcolm paraded himself in the grand hall as if he was already Laird. Although Dagr believed down deep in his heart that Malcolm would never move to harm him, Dagr knew the prospect of his acquired position was much more enticing than returning to his true time and his true place as second son to Chief Winn. Malcolm’s jealousy had only grown stronger as they aged, and by the time they reached manhood, Dagr struggled to feel that brotherly connection they once shared. As Malcolm strayed from the family, the bonds of kinship were consistently tested. Dagr prayed he could overcome that obstacle and convince his brother to come home.

  Dagr listened to the burly Scots around him. It was a curious mixture of culture within the room. Malcolm gave him a brief instruction on hierarchy and rank before the gathering, advising Dagr he would likely run into a few Norseman in addition to McMillans and Camerons. Years before, a Viking made a pact with one of the Blooded Ones; since that time, the foreigners came to be known as the Five North Men. They settled in the Highlands and formed alliances with the Clan Chiefs, some stronger than others. Laird McMillian was allied with a Norseman named Kanor Bystrom, an affable brute of a man who entertained an assortment of young women by the roaring hearth fire. His image reminded Dagr of his grandfather Marcus, a man who once lived in the twenty-first century.

  Like Marcus, Kanor seemed to be a man who laughed easily. Dagr stifled the wave of memories crashing down upon him as he watched the Norseman. Kanor wore the fur mantle of a chief, layered over a thick wool cover. Flat leather straps crossed his chest, securing a heavy long-handled ax to his back. His reddish beard was wrapped in segmented braids, tied off with tiny twine thongs in a way Dagr’s mother liked to braid his father’s hair. At first glance, the man seemed an affable brute, but Dagr knew better than any other what terror the temper of a Norseman could bring.

  Standing beside Malcolm was Angus Cameron, and with them, an older russet-blond haired man Dagr assumed was Ian. Wearing the colors of Clan Cameron and a thick gold brooch on his chest, Ian kept a wary eye on those around him. Until then, Dagr had only the pleasure of meeting the younger Cameron, and it remained fresh in his mind that he owed Angus a debt.

  For what Angus had done to Skye, Dagr would repay him tenfold.

  A brilliant melody rang throughout the hall from the voice of a woman in the corner. As he listened to the song, the pangs of homesickness nudged him in the gut. If he could not convince Malcolm to return home, then what would he do? Protecting his brother, and all those of his line, was a duty he pledged he would uphold no matter what the cost. The night he was gifted with his extravagant cloak, his father sat beside him in the dying light of the fire. It was a brisk evening and the fur felt warm upon his skin, reminding him in so many ways that he was chosen by God above to serve his family.

  Father grunted his approval of Dagr’s cloak, agreeing it was a beautiful garment. Yet Chief Winn had something more to say to him.

  “My father once told me I must honor my family, and now I shall tell you the same words he spoke to me,” Winn said. “It may take ye from this time. It may take you from yer own people. But it is yer duty now, and I expect ye to honor it.”

  Winn gave him a purpose that night. Although they lived among the English, there would always be a need to protect the Blooded Ones – even if it meant protecting them from their own vanity. Staring at Malcolm, Dagr felt that duty more deeply than ever, like an ember smoldering down deep in his blood.

  Across the hall, Malcolm caught Dagr’s eye. The younger man glowed within his circle, wearing his happiness like a mantle in a way Dagr thought was long lost. As Malcolm tipped his cup to Dagr, Dagr realized how good it felt to see his sullen brother so happy. He acknowledged the toast by tilting his own cup, sipping his brandy wine as he smiled.

  When Skye joined Malcolm, however, Dagr’s grin disappeared. He could no longer bear to watch once he saw Malcolm lift her hand to his lips and press a kiss upon her skin, nor could he bear to look away. Dressed in finery with a velvet mantle wrapped around her neck and shoulders, she clutched the garment against her breast with one fist as she spoke to the men. Her eyes seemed bright, almost playful, and if Dagr did not know any better, he would suspect she was trying to look happy. She played the part so perfectly that he almost believed she actually cared for Malcolm.

  What game did she play? Had her smile looked so sweet when Dagr held her in his arms? he wondered, overcome with a disturbing dose of jealousy.

  She was stunning as she graced the men with lively conversation, her golden blond hair bouncing around her shoulders as laughed. Malcolm, obviously pleased to see his betrothed, rested his hand lightly on her hip, and Dagr bit back a smidge of satisfaction as she deftly moved away. He needed to see it, some notion that she felt the same way he did. Even if they could never act on it, even if she was destined to marry his brother, if he knew for a fleeting moment where her heart truly rested than perhaps he could move on.

  Dagr could see her eyes narrow when Angus placed a hand on her elbow, so he knew her fiery temper was still held in check. For want of a lesser evil, it seemed she fled from her cousin straight back to Malcolm’s side, which Dagr should agree was the best of her options. Yet the way she stood close to Malcolm and welcomed his hand on her waist set Dagr’s blood on fire. He retreated to the shadows under the stairs, where he could remain unnoticed and somehow quell his raging anger.

  He downed the remainder of his brandy wine and left the cup on a side table, intent on finding something stronger to dull the ache in his chest. With a final glance back at the crowded room, he decided a short trip outside in the night air might ease him. Anything would be better than watching Skye carry on with Malcolm.

  The night smelled like snow, and Dagr knew that soon an ungodly storm would fall upon them. He wondered how well fortified the castle was, and if supplies would be low during an extended bout of snow. It was a question that he would need answers to if he meant to stay with Malc
olm. As his brother’s advisor, it was his duty to see such matters were settled before the need arose. He imagined his life would be spent serving Malcolm’s most trivial needs, however if Malcolm insisted he stay in the fifteenth century, he was going to make sure his brother was not killed. No matter what time they lived in, Malcolm was still his brother – and Dagr still had a duty to save him from himself.

  Dagr turned to the sound of footsteps in the outer corridor.

  “Have ye considered my offer?”

  Skye joined him in the shadows beneath the curve of a trellis bow. She spoke too loudly for his comfort, so he grabbed her hand and pulled her away from noise of the hall into the outside corridor before anyone saw them together. The last thing he needed was for Malcolm to turn on him, which he was certain would happen if Malcolm suspected Dagr felt anything for Skye.

  “Must ye be so rough?” she hissed, slapping him on the arm. Her breath made a misty cloud in the cold air. He glanced down at where she struck him, a grin twisting the edge of his lip despite his annoyance.

  “Did you think that would hurt me?” he laughed. “If ye mean to protect yerself, at least aim for a better spot. There're a few ways to put a man on the ground, but my shoulder is not one of them.”

  “I just do not care to be touched, ‘tis all,” she replied, her eyes darting downward. He slipped his fingers under her chin, turning her gently back so he could see her sad eyes.

  “Ah, then I was mistaken,” he said softly, more to himself than to her. “I thought ye followed me for something else.” Looking into her shining brown eyes, the truth was evident to him. Staring back at him was a lost soul, one to match his own. Whatever game she played was one of survival, and although his jealousy and frustration were diminished, it still ruled his every move.

  Even if she cared for him, nothing could become of it. In this time, she was betrothed to his brother, but at that moment, she was sheltered in his arms. He should hate that he enjoyed the feeling of her soft skin touching his, or that he longed to tell her exactly how he felt. Instead, he held her and listened to the sound of her gentle breathing as he laid his head next to hers.

  “Oh?” she asked.

  “I should let you go,” he replied. He should. But he would not.

  When she parted her lips and turned her face to his, he slipped a hand into her thick hair. Despite the roar of the music echoing from inside the hall and the sounds of rowdy shouts beyond the corridor, in the shadows they were alone in a place where no one could touch them. As he gently kissed her she urged him on, kissing him back with the innocent demands only an untouched heart could make. Perhaps it was the way she sighed when he ran his fingers down her throat, or the way she curved against his body and surrendered completely that made him suspect her heart had never been touched before. She was too trusting, too free – and she belonged to his brother.

  “Go back to the cèilidh,” he whispered hoarsely, tearing his mouth from hers. “Go before I canna stop.”

  “Dagr –”

  “Go,” he replied.

  She stepped back a pace, her eyes shadowed in confusion. “Why are you so loyal to him? What makes you so ready to do his bidding?”

  “I am his servant,” he said, uttering the words slowly.

  “Skye!”

  She froze at the sound of Angus’s shout. Her response seemed odd to Dagr, one of fear rather than loathing. He caught her hand as she went to leave, and as she turned her mantle slipped down off her shoulder. Skye was canny, snatching it quickly and putting it in place, but he had seen enough. Across her skin where her neck met her shoulder, three distinct purple marks stood out in a row despite the powder covering she had applied as a disguise. The heady desire he felt for her faded quickly into a protective haze as he stared down at the bruises on her pale skin. Only a man’s hand was large enough to make such a mark – and Dagr suspected he knew what man was responsible.

  “Who did this to you? Was it Angus?” he asked. She pulled her hand away, avoiding his gaze as she shook her head. Although he did not wish to let her go, he would not hold her against her will. Skye had enough men in her life who were willing to bend her to their will, and he would not be one of them.

  “’Tis nothing. I – I must go,” she whispered. She held the mantle with a clenched fist at her throat, her breaths coming fast as she faced him. “Did you decide to help me? Or will I leave this place alone once more?”

  “I will go with you,” he replied evenly, staring into her eyes. “As soon as you tell me who harmed ye, I will help ye find the Seventh Key.”

  Her saw her throat contract as she swallowed and nodded, and then she was gone.

  Later, when he had consumed enough Scottish ale to put down a bull, he joined Malcolm as the announcement was made. Old Laird McMillan was roused from bed for the blessed occasion, taking the carved wooden chair upon the granite dais that Malcolm so enjoyed occupying. Even Dagr had to admit the resemblance between the Laird and Malcolm. With dark curling hair and strong broad jaws, the men could pass easily for close kin. Even their deep green eyes matched, a brilliant jade color like Dagr’s McMillan mother. There were whispers that the Old Laird would soon meet his maker, and as Dagr surveyed the man he could see the rumors were most likely true. His skin was a sickly yellowish color and his belly protruded alarmingly in an unnatural manner over his belted trews. His green eyes were set far into his skull, and it appeared it took all of his strength to raise his voice enough to address the crowd.

  “At last, two houses will be joined in marriage!” Old McMillan called out. “My son – your future Laird – will wed the fair Skye Cameron. What say ye?” he asked the crowd. A resounding roar was the answer, echoing through the great hall amidst the pounding of feet and fists. The life Malcolm made for himself in the fifteenth century was many things – dishonest and deceitful were a few words that came to mind. Yet as Dagr watched the people around them celebrate, he could see the admiration in their eyes. They were happy for the old Laird, and they welcomed the future for the new one. Even Laird McMillan placed a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, his grateful smile returned in kind.

  In the fifteenth century at Castle Dunloch, Malcolm suddenly had everything he had ever wanted. Not only was he an important man, but he seemed to be a benevolent one as well. He received the good wishes of all those who approached, taking the slaps on the back with a smile and thanking them as they passed. The right and wrong of time travel seemed of less consequence as Dagr watched his brother. It had been so long since Dagr saw his brother so happy.

  “Dagr!” Malcolm shouted, pushing through the crowd with an apologetic grin on his face as he held Skye’s hand and pulled her along. “Where have ye been? Did you hear the Laird?”

  Malcolm’s cheeks were flushed when Dagr reached him, but a wide grin was stretched across his face. Dagr nodded.

  “Of course I heard it. How could I not?” he replied, forcing a grin to his lips. His jaw tightened when Malcolm kissed Skye’s hand with an exaggerated flourish and made no qualms over staring at her.

  The crowd broke into a song and a dance ensued, with couples breaking off to roam the floor. Malcolm offered his arm to Skye, but before he could escort her to the floor, Angus Cameron grabbed his arm and whispered into his ear.

  “Dagr, would ye mind?” Malcolm asked hurriedly, placing Skye’s hand on Dagr’s without waiting for permission. He murmured something in Skye’s ear and gave a curt nod to Dagr with a slap on the back. “Thank ye, brother,” Malcolm said, his voice low. “With all the louts here, ye are the only one I can trust with the woman I love.”

  Malcolm gave Dagr’s shoulder a hearty squeeze and left with Angus.

  Dagr guided Skye onto the dance floor without another word, feeling like a swine if he so much as glanced at her as he guided her through the crowd. She seemed just as uncomfortable as he did, twirling mechanically in his arms as he put her through the motions. He was a skilled dancer from the years he spent in English company, and he cau
ght on quickly to the simple rhythm of the song. Soon he felt her stiff back soften beneath his hand, and she moved easily with him instead of reluctantly. One dance turned into another, the pound of the music a welcome distraction from the parade of his conscience.

  As he twirled her away and then drew her close again, the music ended. With his arms wrapped around her as if she belonged only to him he looked down upon her face, his eyes searching hers in the dim of the hall. She was too close, her lips too pink, her eyes too wanting. He brushed his thumb along her jaw, entranced by the woman in his arms that he never wished to let go, until the memory of Malcolm’s words drove a stake through his heart.

  “Thank ye, brother,” Malcolm said, “With all the louts here, ye are the only one I can trust with the woman I love.”

  Ian Cameron held out his hand to his niece, and Dagr released her. Skye glanced back over her shoulder as she left, her eyes meeting his for a brief moment before she was swept into another dance with her uncle. Skye was accustomed to playing her role, however, and it was not long before there was a tight smile plastered on her face. Watching her and knowing she could never be his cut through him like a blade. Knowing she would soon belong to his brother? Well, that was his own personal hell.

  Across the hall at the head of the table, Malcolm sat down with Old McMillan, their heads bent together in conversation. Dagr wondered what tragedy had driven the man to claim a son that was not of his blood. Although Malcolm had explained the Laird did not want his lands and title to go to his kinsmen, what sort of man would use lies and deceit to accomplish that? It seems that no matter what century he was in, powerful men were never satisfied with what they had. Men like Malcolm and Laird McMillan would always want more, even if it meant selling their honor to get it. As he looked around the grand hall, Dagr wondered how many of the men were true allies – and how many were enemies in hiding, waiting for a chance to strike.