Highland Games Through Time

by Nancy Lee Badger

  Spring flowers in September?

  Taking stock of how seriously she had damaged Iona’s dress, she shook her head at the torn and blood-soaked fabric. Haven pushed to her feet. She wrapped her bleeding thumb in her ruined skirt as she inventoried each ache and pain. Whatever had happened, the lightning had not killed her.

  Pitching forward on ungainly legs, Haven escaped the fog. Away from the mist, she sucked in clean, fresh air. She coughed then peered at a stand of huge, gnarled trees, far from the familiar grove of white birch and smaller pines that ringed the historical village.

  The sun shone low over the east. Had she been asleep since she’d run from the creepy guy in a robe? And where was he? Her head ached. Rubbing a palm over her bruised ribs, Haven leaned back against one of the trees to recoup. She raised the heavy velvet brocade of her skirt to inspect the damage. Pink skin covered one thigh.

  Tender, but not blistered.

  Haven struggled to recall the cause of this new injury. She’d tripped over a root and twisted her ankle, and she vividly remembered the man’s hard body. When she’d fallen under him, she’d bruised her ribs. But, how did she hurt her thigh? It burned similar to…

  A cherub face and a water barrel came to mind. Like the water that had splashed her, the rain had mingled with the contents of the broken potion bottle inside her pocket. A bleeding thumb added another new ingredient. Herbs and gemstones filled the same pocket. Something made the mist stronger and led her toward her destiny even though all she had wanted was to escape the creepy stranger’s clutches.

  Cleaning the burn was her first priority. She spied a small puddle caught between several twisted roots. Kneeling, she sprinkled dry herbs from her other pocket into the water, dipped fingers into the mix, and made a paste. With a groan, she pushed to her feet then slathered a generous dollop of her hastily created concoction on her burned thigh.

  A heavy sigh escaped her lips as the muddy mixture soothed the pain. Tugging a small handkerchief from her bodice, Haven pressed it to the wound. To keep it in place, she untied the gold sash from under her breasts then secured it around her leg.

  Her hair tumbled down because she’d lost Jake’s handmade nails. Would he notice her missing from camp? And, where had the Indian summer’s warmth gone? Haven hugged her arms around her chest, wiggled her injured ankle, and took a step.

  Good. I can walk.

  She’d best get back to camp and lodge a complaint against the creep. She didn’t know his name, but there couldn’t be too many with his features. Glancing around, she sought her bearings, but nothing looked familiar.

  Intuition urged her forward. With no discernible trail, she stumbled along and pushed her way through branches and thick bushes. The sound of fabric tearing added to the lazy chirps of birds high overhead. Haven yanked her long curls free from a branch several times, and lost a shoe as she picked up the pace. With one thin, silk slipper and one bare foot, her feet protested the roots and rocks that blanketed the forest floor, but she kept going.

  A yearning sprang up to sit beside a creek and kick and splash her bruised, sweaty feet moments before she slid to a stop. Another vision? As she untangled another twig from her hair, she gawked at a path. The narrow opening in the greenery split the dense overgrowth like an axe.

  This is more like it.

  She hoped the trail led toward camp. As she walked, each footstep released the scent of decaying leaves. Gnarled and twisted roots crisscrossed her path, making each step a hazard. Ahead, she spied a narrow creek. Bluish-green water gurgled as it swept over rocks rounded by age. Tall grass covered the bank.

  An odd black and white bird, as large as a chicken, screeched as it flew above her head. Twigs snapped to her left. Mist swirled around the base of scraggly trees. The eerie, unfamiliar forest made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Not wanting to stay in the cold, dark woods, she hurried forward. Her shoulders relaxed the moment she broke into a clearing and spied a creek.

  A breeze teased the tops of the trees on the opposite bank. Her hair fluttered across her brow, warmed by open skies filled with sunshine. Eager to soak her achy feet, she smiled at the peaceful vista while she debated a direction to travel. Surrounded by nature felt okay, to a point, because who in their right mind loved smelly trucks and noisy machinery?

  A hot shower and some clean clothes would be nice.

  And breakfast.

  Haven closed her eyes and inhaled. With no one around, a sense of peace made her twirl in place.

  “Ouch.” Her feet hurt. She wrapped her arms around her middle, relishing her newly discovered sense of serenity. Rocky crags loomed to the north. Behind her, the wind whistled through the branches. She shivered as she remembered the storm the old crone had correctly predicted. Haven had used the lightning and rain to her advantage to escape the robed man’s clutches, but her skin still tingled with apprehension.

  Her gown weighed her down and she worried whether she could manage to walk if caught in another storm. Having spent the night outside, last night’s gentle rain had been a blessing. Thankful for the growing warmth of the morning sun, she hurried to the edge of the creek.

  Distant mountain peaks, easily seen from the historical village on the slope of another mountain, were no longer visible, probably because the creek ran through a small gorge lined with big trees and gray granite outcroppings. The water’s slow-moving current lapped the grassy edge while happy little birds chirped. Leaves rustled amid bushes to her right, making her glad she stood in the open.

  The urge to soak her feet propelled her forward until she saw her image in the surface of the water. She groaned at the sight of her disheveled hair and mud-splattered gown. Sunlight swept over the creek as she bent to pull off her lone slipper.

  Obviously, the shoes weren’t made in the correct way. Scottish women walked all the time. She made a mental note to research shoes before next year. Would she volunteer next year? She’d give the Highland games a few more days before she decided. If she didn’t get back quickly, Iona might not ask for her help again.

  She grabbed her muddy slipper and freed her achy toes. After wiggling them in the tall grass, she stepped into the current. Pure pleasure forced a long, low sigh from her lips. Her smile faded when a sudden icy chill washed over her.

  “I feel like I’m being watched.”

  Haven glanced upstream and froze.

  * * *

  Two screaming falcons soared overhead, filling Kirk with envy. Tightening his fist around his bow, he shook his free hand. His footsteps scattered pinecones and twigs, flushing out a quail. Would the fowl yield enough edible meat to feed his men? Probably not.

  Along with several in his party, he scouted about for fresh food while the wounded had their injuries tended. If he could add a haunch of venison to the table, it would supplement their meager stores. Their trek was taking longer than expected, since the battle had injured several of his men. Some could not yet sit a steed.

  “Anything fresh will taste good at this point,” he whispered to the wind. He chuckled, vaguely aware the wind might answer him one day. Living with his sister, Skye, and her odd ways had taught him not to rule out anything. In truth, he had lost his appetite the moment the missive from Castle Ruadh had reached the gates of his Highland keep a month earlier.

  Why should I feel sorry for myself? I am to wed a beauty while our union brings peace.

  His lonely heart had been ripe for such an event, even without the Privy Council’s edict. King James had decreed all chiefs and lairds must guarantee good conduct between clans in the Highlands. Their monarch ordered the larger, more powerful clans to restore order and keep their smaller neighbors in check or he would send his armies. Over the centuries, bloody battles tainted the lives of the people of both the Keith and Gunn clans.

  The Keith’s laird offered his niece to the Chief of Clan Gunn to secure peace between two warring tribes. The plan sounded ideal on paper, but the terms might not be acceptable to all. The ent
ire deal worried his men. Clan Keith had been their enemy for too many generations. How could anyone forget the atrocities heaped on his clan’s doorstep?

  “Have ye forgotten the massacre at the chapel of St. Tayre?” Cameron had whispered in his ear once he had read the missive from Clan Keith.

  “Aye, Cameron. Though the battle took many lives o’er a hundred years ago, I remember the stories. I am kin to those who died as well. I shed tears whenever the village elders retell the tale.” Cameron had acquiesced and vowed to accompany him when Kirk accepted the proposal.

  Even the promise of peace, paid for with a woman’s virginity, did not make him eager to arrive at their destination. Not when several of his warriors nearly died under the arrows and blades of The Mackenzie and his band of mercenaries.

  He stroked his scarred flesh. It had been months since he enjoyed the pleasures of a female. The strange apparition from the mist was the first time in a long time that he had tasted a woman’s lips or smelled her arousal.

  Shrugging away the memory, Kirk’s fate was laid before him the day he signed the Keith’s agreement. Until they reached the Keith stronghold, he feared his warriors’ confidence in him might wane. He would forget the black-haired Goddess and follow his destiny. Hell on earth would be the only outcome if their clan did not achieve peace with Clan Keith.

  And soon.

  Clan wars had reshaped Scotland since the beginning of history. The last few years had tested everyone’s patience. Skirmishes in and around their villages had been hardest on the young and the very old. The King’s decree threatened to do more than stop their clansmen from borrowing cattle, which all young men did as an act of passage.

  He loathed traveling to Castle Ruadh, the Keith’s home. He would rather be at his keep. Ugly and cold, the tower had been home to many generations of Clan Gunn. The breeze off the river that meandered near Keldurunach breathed life into his dark soul. When the battlements shimmered under the morning sun, he felt at peace.

  The planned joining of clans might yet prove unattainable, if the recent attack was any indication. What was Mackenzie’s plan? Was he intent on raiding the treasure wagon? Cameron had defended it against a handful of foot soldiers who managed to grab only one trunk. His men put a quick end to Mackenzie’s mounted warriors, killing several.

  Where had a fool like Mackenzie gotten mounts? Last reports stated the man lived as an outcast from his family with no coin and no home. Had his need to fill his coffers pressed him and his band of cutthroats to attack Kirk’s well-trained warriors? Or, had Mackenzie simply wanted him dead?

  Branches on the opposite bank of the stream rustled.

  Too high for a hare.

  Kirk notched an arrow onto his bowstring, pulled it taut, and took aim. Something big approached. His fingers trembled with eagerness. The arrow was razor-sharp and flocked with green and red feathers. He planted his feet and readied his weapon. A vision swam in front of his face, a nightmare in broad daylight. He blinked and the face of the man who had caused his beloved’s death hovered.

  “Mackenzie,” he muttered. Pushing the image away, he concentrated on the bushes. Kirk braced his arms as he tamped down their shaky response to the painful recollection of his sweet Cora’s death. In vain, he waited, while he loosened his jaw to lessen the pull on his scar.

  Lord Mackenzie’s attempt to separate him from the main battle had been devious. The devil had almost succeeded, but they were equally matched and had competed against each other at the games held each year, when amnesty brought a few days of civility.

  Last night, they nearly fought to the death until lightning struck and the battle deteriorated. Blinded, he had waited for an arrow to pierce his chest or for Mackenzie to strike a fatal blow. The woman had appeared between him and his mounted foe. He could still taste her petal-soft lips. Her fragrance had engulfed him; intoxicating him; making him forget his destined future. She had disappeared when the odd mist dissipated, throwing him back into The Mackenzie.

  Recalling her curves, and the heat of her skin beneath his palms, his body tightened. Painfully. Picturing her naked body beneath him and her coal-black hair splayed upon his furs, a smile stretched across his face.

  His scar ached.

  His attention snapped back to his invisible prey near the opposite bank. When his concentration strayed, he had lost sight of the large birds as well as whatever moved through the trees. Too tense to hold the bow straight, he lowered his arm in disgust then kicked a pinecone across the forest floor. The seedpod skittered along, soon replaced with the sound of more thrashing on the opposite bank. He again fitted the arrow’s notch to his bowstring and took aim.

  Not one to shoot blindly, he watched and waited for the creature to show itself. As the branches parted, the antlers of a magnificent stag appeared. The beast’s muscles rippled beneath its soft, brown pelt. Dinner, plus skins to warm the feet.

  Come closer, my sweet.

  Taut and at the ready, he held his arrow in rock-steady fingers. Kirk’s elbow jutted past his cheek as tension shimmered through each finger. He zeroed in on the beast’s upper shoulder where a well-placed shot would achieve a swift death. His gaze followed the path of the animal when it sprinted southward along the far edge of the stream. As the magnificent creature raced along the bank, kicking up sand and clumps of grass, his throbbing fingers slid away.

  “Don’t shoot!”

  CHAPTER 7

  “God’s teeth,” Kirk cried, as a woman in a blood red gown burst into the clearing. She yelled and waved her arms. The beast, spooked by her actions, turned and disappeared back inside the protection of the thick forest.

  A low hiss escaped Kirk’s lips.

  She stopped and watched as branches swayed. At the stag’s escape, relief showed in her loosened shoulders and half-smile. Twigs snapped and hooves thudded as the dinner ran away. With a low growl, he again raised his arm then let his arrow fly. If the creature ran straight and true, he had one chance to bring it down.

  When his arrow sailed above her head, the woman screamed then threw her arms over her head. She had been in no danger once he let it fly. He had learned to use a bow as deftly as he wielded a broadsword. But, he could have shot her earlier, before she had made her presence known.

  The comely woman spun around and faced him, her features awash with incredulous shock. She obviously had no such knowledge of his skill. And, when she balled her hands into pink knuckled fists and placed them squarely upon her hips, he saw how her initial shock had morphed into downright anger.

  Her darkened gown swirled amid long legs and clung to valleys no man but her husband should share.

  Is that blood?

  A tiny waist led his gaze up to tresses black as a starless night. Tendrils whipped in the breeze. He imagined wide-opened eyes and small, pursed lips but her hair shrouded her features. Dropping his gaze again to the hands fisted on her generous hips, he laughed. She stomped one delicate foot encased in a red slipper.

  Why is her other foot bare?

  “Why did you shoot at that magnificent creature?”

  “What the devil do ye mean by jumping out of the bushes at a man?” He paused to decipher the origin of her accent, the odd tone somehow familiar.

  “Don’t answer my question with a question!”

  A breeze swept her hair aside and her eyes, under feathery lashes, struck him as unusually pretty. Also familiar. Painted the palest shade of meadow grass in early spring, they opened wide. She glared at him. He watched while she looked him up and down. Would her eyes sparkle as bright when she lay beneath him surrounded by candlelight? Kirk blinked at the meanderings his thoughts had taken while this strange woman stood before him in the middle of nowhere.

  “Lucky for my head and that deer, your arrow landed in a tree.”

  “Not a bit of luck for me, since I missed bringing down our supper. To miss killing a stag is a menacing omen, so ye best have brought a basket full of good luck with ye.” His words appeared to gra
b her attention. One of her slender hands slid forward and rubbed her too-thin abdomen as if hungry.

  “Who are ye and what are ye doing out here?” Kirk asked. He strode to the edge of the stream and bent down. He raised a cupped hand filled with water and drank. She wet her lips with the tip of a pink tongue, and his body tightened.

  “Same as you, you lunk-head.” Her face took on a quizzical look and her hands flew up into the air as if she prayed to God.

  Her beautiful face, and her midnight tresses, sparked a memory that had returned to him in lust-filled dreams.

  Is this the woman in the mist?

  She cursed him. Though the word was unfamiliar, the meaning was clear.

  Kirk straightened. Scratching his head, he considered her words then focused on her features and dress while wondering why she assumed he knew the reason she stood in the middle of the Scottish Highlands. “Ye would do better to gain my assistance with words dripping in honey. Curses shall not sway me, my sweet.”

  Her eyes searched his face as both of her black brows arched.

  “I’m taking a break before I return to work. Now, if you would be so kind as to direct me toward camp, I’ll see about doing what I was hired to do.”

  * * *

  The stranger, standing on the opposite shore, stated he intended to eat venison. As Haven stood on the edge of the creek, the auburn haired giant glared at her from the opposite bank.

  One hell of a handsome giant.

  Her chest rose and fell since her race to warn the deer left her winded. While she inhaled and gathered strength to give the man a piece of her mind, witty words suddenly stuck in her throat. The sight of the half-dressed woodsman, standing a good head taller than she, might also account for her startled reaction. Desire washed over her.

  What the hell? Could it be…?

  A bare chest, adorned with a simple swatch of wool pulled over one shoulder, rippled with wall-to-wall muscle. A damp, curly mat of reddish chest hair dipped down below the leather belt holding up his antique kilt. His apparent crankiness at missing out on killing a deer belied a healthy body covered head to toe in similar muscles.