She caught a glimpse of some kind of amulet that hung from the old woman’s neck. It looked like a hunk of amber, a mineral known for luck, strength, and love.
Could she be a witch? Like me?
When a bagpiper hit a particularly off-pitch note, Iona jumped. The memory quickly faded. She shook away the image of the dark tent and its inhabitant. Her cheeks warmed as she remembered what happened after the woman had thrust a letter into her hands, whispered, “Read this and be content,” then disappeared inside her weathered tent. Iona had peeked at the letter in her hand. Written on paper cracked and yellowed with age, she was surprised it was addressed to her and signed by Haven. Tears had welled up, at the time, and threatened to flood her vision again.
A smile tugged at the right side of her mouth when she recalled what happened when she quickly escaped the smelly, dark tent. The memory rose as if the events were occurring in front of her now.
A raucous bunch of young, kilted men—their faces painted blue and their short swords held high—had barreled up the lane. She had backed up, tripped over a tent peg, and slammed against a hard chest. Two meaty paws had clamped around her upper arms.
She wriggled out of their grasp, whipped around to face her assailant, and gasped. A Viking stood before her. Well, someone who had resembled a Viking, anyway.
A tawny chest peeked from the laces of his saffron shirt and brown suede vest. An ancient kilt rode low on a trim waist. Sun-streaked blond hair fluttered across chiseled cheekbones, and brushed tanned skin just below his ears. Brilliant amber eyes, reminding her of clover honey, had locked on her face.
“I beg your pardon,” she had said.
She remembered wanting to wipe away the perspiration that dotted his forehead. The erotic scent of sweat, earth, and male, as well as pine and an unusual spice, surrounded her. Iona had nearly failed to hold back an embarrassing twitter. He had made her feel small and feminine.
Looking down at her, he had raised two blond eyebrows as if he could decipher her thoughts. She tried not to stare at the two swords belted across his back. A bone-hilted dirk hung from his side. A small, fur-trimmed sporran hung over his groin. She quickly decided to put some space between them. When she had stepped back a few feet, she tripped. Again.
“Be more careful, dear lady,” he’d said.
She’d melted.
Was that a Scottish brogue washing over her? They stood in the midst of ten thousand people at the largest Highland Games in the northeastern United States. He wore a kilt and weaponry of a Scottish Highlander while she wore the gown and plaid of a chieftain’s daughter. What did she expect? A Frenchman?
“Cameron Robeson!” cried a shrill voice from inside the tent, and he had turned to leave. Earlier, when he’d grabbed her, her letter had fluttered to the ground. She bent to pick it up, and he groaned. She’d forgotten how easily her loose bodice flopped open. She’d given him a free show. When asked, she’d shared her name and was surprised when his face clouded.
Strange.
Iona pinched her cheeks and drove away the dizziness and memories. The Viking had disappeared inside the tent that belonged to the strange, old crone. Iona’s search for information about Haven’s whereabouts led her to believe the old woman was the vendor who had sold Haven an assortment of herbs to make a spell.
In the letter, Haven had sounded sad, in turmoil, and claimed she was pregnant. But, she had disappeared only two days ago. Haven had dated the letter with a day in December, but it was only September. The year on the letter was a major clue that stole her breath.
1598.
Incredibly, other aspects of the letter worried her more. Was her mysterious Highlander holding her friend against her will? Was she really living in the past surrounded by plaid-draped heathens? Iona’s head ached as she tried to figure out what she could do to help her friend.
Yesterday, she had raced to the genealogy center where she encountered some interesting facts. She had rifled through several books until she found the Gunn clan family history. With the description Haven had included of her husband’s credentials, she found mention of him dating to a period that included his wife and sons. An explicit description of Haven’s birthmark, which Iona knew was actually a cat tattoo, cinched it.
One article made mention of the late 16th century wedding of Laird Kirkwall Gunn to Haven MacKay. Their wedding followed the nuptials of a rival, Lord Marcas Mackenzie, who married Lady Fia of the Keith clan.
Once mortal enemies, the story contended, Kirkwall had sued for peace and the king granted him a treaty, which governed their lands for decades. History records stated how the Gunn Chieftain’s wife saved many men when a fever struck the land. She’d also healed other villagers injured in a fire which consumed several homes. Haven probably used potions and her innate ability to heal.
A vibrant memory of what happened next at the genealogy center fluttered around in Iona’s head while her mouth grew dry.
When a simple hello wrapped around a husky brogue skidded down her spine, Iona had turned to face the man she’d met earlier; the Viking; the man with the largest hands she’d ever felt. He towered over her where she sat at the book-strewn table. Jumping to her feet, she rattled off an explanation about looking up something for her friend Haven. He had stepped closer. She had relished the scents she had begun to associate with the man. He leaned down, and his warm breath brushed her ear.
“Haven? Ye know Haven MacKay?” His chest had prodded her breasts, and the thin material of her Highland gown failed to insulate her against the heat that pulsed off him. Intoxicated by his fresh scent, she had fumbled for something to say.
“She’s my best friend. But, she’s left the games and I don’t expect her back. Ever.”
He had raised his head, but his shoulders had slouched. Perhaps Haven broke more hearts than she cared to share. After the Viking had bowed, then strode away, to her surprise she couldn’t forget him.
I have to forget him.
Iona had then headed for the village. The trail curved up the side of the mountain, passed through the trees, and opened into a courtyard lined with ancient-appearing tents. Jake stood by his blacksmith display and the memory of their short conversation arose again. Her apparent distress garnered his attention.
“Did you find her?” Jake had asked.
She had lied and shook her head since it was silly to get his hopes up until she reread the letter, which she had done as soon as she reached the sanctity of her quiet tent. She wanted to talk to Jake, but hadn’t figured out what to say.
This is all my fault.
Enraged at her lust-filled reaction to a strange man, yesterday, Iona stomped her doeskin slipper and gazed out over the parade ground. Even though she was surrounded by handsome, kilted men, wherever or whenever Haven was, she needed her help. Someday, Iona would take her own advice. She’d find the man of her dreams, grab him, and hold on tight.
Iona turned away from her vantage point and came face to face with someone she wished she could have avoided.
At least until I get my story straight about Haven.
CHAPTER 2
Ross Mackenzie strutted toward Iona, his bonnet tilted at a rakish angle and his chieftain’s feather horribly wilted. Iona wanted to laugh, but the situation pertaining to Haven was no laughing matter.
“There ye be, daughter. I’ve a mind to put a bell around yer pretty little neck.”
“Dad, what a silly thing to say. I’m not a child.”
“I donna care if ye be four or twenty-four—”
“Twenty-five.”
“Yer still my child.” Ross opened his arms wide. Iona propelled herself into his arms, and hugged him, tight.
“Where’s that bonnie Haven MacKay? I shared a lovely lunch with the lass the other day. She promised to visit me in clan village.”
Drastic times called for drastic measures and if she let too much information slip, her father would hinder her success. If she was to help her friend, Haven, she needed t
o slip away without her father asking questions “Haven is…gone. Actually, she got married.”
“What? Donna joke with an old man, Iona. Haven isn’t the marrying kind.” He stroked his chin, then straightened, as if a sudden thought hit him. “She dinna go back to that bastard that broke her heart?”
“No! She left Cal Murchie. She…ah…met someone new. Someone Scottish.”
“I’m a’guessing ninety percent of the folks here at the games are Scottish, so ‘twas easy.”
Iona laughed and kept a fake smile plastered on her face. “Right. She met a man and off they went.”
Her father stomped one black Ghillie Brougue—one of the pair of lace-up shoes she’d recently bought him—into the grass where they stood overlooking a mock battle. Roars and applause kept her father from responding for a few minutes, which gave Iona more time to think.
“I am surprised. She’s a fine looking young woman, but she’s no catch for any—”
“Dad! Just because you couldn’t see her finer qualities does not mean other men did not. She might not have grown up with money, a fine education, or a great father like you, but she’s found herself a handsome man and has decided to live in Scotland.” The last few words came out in a whisper, because she hated having to lie to her father. Iona waited for a response.
“Then, I wish her God speed. Water?”
His change of subject caught her off guard until she saw the bottle of water he had pressed into her palm. He turned and walked away without another word.
Iona’s breath whooshed out as she watched her father disappear in the direction of the clan village. A headache threatened, so she headed back toward the historical encampment. If she couldn’t find an aspirin, a vial of crushed willow bark would go a long way in lessening the pain before a migraine took root. She’d have to catalog all her remedies if she planned to travel back to help Haven. In the year 1598, she might not find powdered herbs and potions readily available.
She hurried up the trail and waved to Jake. Stripped to the waste, he answered with a wave, then bent over his ancient furnace. Clad in leather pants and boots, his naked chest was protected by a heavy leather apron.
“If only he were older,” she said, then sighed.
“If only a bonnie lass would sigh for me,” a deep voice said.
Surprised, Iona stumbled. Two hands grabbed her around the waist and set her back on her feet. A zap like an electrical charge surged through her. Dazed, she turned toward the voice, already guessing who had snuck up on her. What was his name? Cameron?
“Are ye balanced, lass? I would hate ye to muddy that pretty gown.”
Iona looked down at her costume, the plainest outfit she owned; a simple cotton skirt she’d dyed blue along with her last batch of wool. An unbleached muslin peasant blouse, and a deerskin vest laced up the front. She had planned to spend the day interviewing vendors and searching for clues and wanted to look presentable, but not flashy.
She glanced up and understood the look in Cameron’s eyes. They weren’t filled with concern for her well-being. Lust reflected in his gaze, which only made her see red.
“Are you following me? Isn’t there a sheep in need of shearing or a cow that requires milking?” she snapped. Why did her temper show itself at this moment? Was it because her father had blindsided her with his twenty questions, or because this man made her wary?
“The only cow I have met was a grumpy Highland steer.”
His smile was disarming, and it took several moments before Iona noticed the dirt and grass stains on his clothes. “What? What happened to you?”
“The petulant beastie took me for a drag when he loosened his bindings. I thought it best to capture him before he took down the children’s tent.”
“Oh dear God, are you all right?” she said as she thumbed a speck of dirt from his cheek. His skin was warm, but he winced when she connected with a small gash beside his nose.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. Here,” she whispered. Iona slid a hand inside her dress’ hidden pocket and pulled out a linen handkerchief. She unscrewed the cap from the water bottle, tilted it over the fabric, then dabbed his nose with the damp cloth.
“Better?”
“Aye.”
“So, are you following me?” She almost hoped he would say yes.
“I wanted to talk with ye again, and was told ye laid yer head up here.” Cameron raised his chin in the direction of the historic village.
“Checking up on me? Should I be flattered, or worried?”
He laughed, and the smile that followed lit his face. A tingle skittered down her spine, and her heart beat inside her chest like a marching band.
Oh, my.
“I have need to speak about…Haven.”
Iona’s heart fell.
Haven? No. This could not end well. She had to help her friend, not talk with one of her boyfriends. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“No. We must talk.”
Not a question, she noticed. More like a demand, and demands never sat well with her. Iona turned her gaze up the hill and caught Jake’s attention. He must have sensed her distress because he motioned to another volunteer to watch the fire, and sauntered toward them with a slight smile.
Cameron stiffened, and his hand went to the lethal–looking dirk at his side. His smile instantly transformed into a frown.
“I will take my leave, my lady.”
Iona stifled a giggle at his speech and odd choice of salutation. He must have noticed her choked laugh, because he dropped his hands to his side. When they rooted inside the leather sporran hanging from chains beneath his belt, she stared.
Iona tried not to think about what lay beneath the sporran and kilt. When he fished out a piece of white silk, she smiled wider. What an odd thing for a man like him to carry.
He hesitated.
“Is that for me?” she asked when he hadn’t moved for several seconds.
“Aye, my lady.” He shoved the cloth into her palm. “Ye have ruined yers with my blood.”
His manners and soft voice were unnerving, and when their eyes locked for the briefest of moments, the heat in his gaze dampened her panties.
Oh my!
She followed his gaze to see what could possibly interrupt them. Jake was almost upon them. She was grateful he’d set aside his tools and left his forge to come to her rescue.
Do I really want Jake to rescue me?
She looked at the twenty-two year old horseshoe farrier, with his long black hair tied back with a leather thong, and shoved the piece of silk in a pocket. Jake was too young for her, but he was a nice looking boy. Cameron, on the other hand, was all man. And men were not on the menu, not even great smelling, muscle-bound hunks.
Cameron straightened his back and clasped both hands into fists, then turned as if to leave. Jake must have seen something in her gaze, but she wasn’t sure what to tell him.
“Is everything okay over here, Iona?”
“Yes. I had an argument with this visitor and—”
“Argument ye say?” bellowed Cameron, suddenly beside her again, “when I saved ye from nearly falling on yer face?”
She jumped. The man was as stealthy as a mountain lion.
“Ha! Iona? She’s not a klutz. Certainly not like Haven.”
Cameron zeroed in on Jake. Why had he perked up at the mention of her friend’s name? She wanted to find out more. Could he be someone willing to help with her search? She could use some muscle, and had thought to ask Jake.
“Right, but I’m fine.” She gave Jake a smile as he reached out to slip an arm around her waist.
Cameron slipped in between them, stopping Jake in his tracks. Jake smiled, stepped back, then looked at Iona as if to ask if she needed more help.
She shook her head, slightly. “Jacob Jamison, this is my rescuer, Cameron Robeson. I tripped on my skirt. I don’t usually wear skirts this long.”
“You’re beautiful in anything,” Jake said. He smiled, th
en turned and hustled back to his forge.
“Aye, ‘tis true,” Cameron whispered.
Iona followed Jake’s retreating back. She had thought to bring him in, let him read Haven’s odd letter, then plead for him to help her find Haven. Could she trust him not to think her crazy? He didn’t understand their use of herbs and potions. If she had to start spouting spells in order to go back in time, he’d have her locked away in the blink of an eye.
“Haven MacKay? Does yer friend know Haven?” Cameron asked.
She nodded and watched Cameron’s features darken before he spun around and headed down the trail.
“Something I said?”
Cameron stopped, and his shoulders rose and fell, while his hand strayed to the blade at his hip. He faced her again with one knee slightly bent due to the uneven terrain. His draped kilt revealed one perfectly tanned knee and part of a muscular thigh. The sight of such a small glimpse of naked flesh made her swallow. Iona wished he’d do something more than stare at her lips.
Blood pounded through her veins and her breath hitched. He gracefully returned and suddenly faced her, stepping close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his liquid amber eyes. His scent washed over her, stronger than the fire pit’s smoke, yet subtle. He smelled great, of sweat, leather, and male.
He leaned down, one of the few men in her life that ever had to. How tall was he? When she felt his warm breath on her cheeks, her hand shot out and smacked him in the chest.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked.
He ignored her question, and smiled. Then, he gathered her close with one arm, and lifted her chin.
“Doing what comes natural, lass,” he whispered. His lips feathered across her open mouth, ignoring her shock and protesting grunts.
When she shoved against his chest even harder, he pulled her tight, pressed his lips to hers, and made her respond with a pleasure-filled moan.
Drat!
His tongue swept inside her mouth, thrusting and probing in an intimate manner, throwing her into a dizzying spin while his arms held her safely on the tips of her toes.
Highland Games Through Time Page 30