Highland Games Through Time

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Highland Games Through Time Page 31

by Nancy Lee Badger


  Heat pumped from his plaid-draped body and melted her insides. Tingles swept along every nerve ending, and her body came alive until she remembered her thoughts about men. This was all wrong. They hardly knew each other. She didn’t kiss men she didn’t know.

  “Let me go!” She growled her demand against his mouth.

  Cameron stepped back, smiled, then strode down the trail. Iona watched his retreat. A sharp bark of laughter escaped.

  A man like him? Retreat? Never.

  Jake appeared at her elbow as quiet as a whisper. She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. He’d read in her face emotions she had no wish to share.

  “Jake, I think he knows Haven.”

  “That’s a surprise. He’s not her type.”

  Iona recalled the description she’d read of Haven’s husband in the history book. She obviously had fallen in with a similar sort, because Cameron sounded like the same kind of man. A warrior. A Highlander.

  She glanced up at Jake, shrugged her shoulders, and walked toward the village. “Unfortunately, he and I didn’t get a chance to talk about her.”

  She came to a stop by Jake’s forge and lowered her gaze. Iona stared at the glowing cinders and could still feel Cameron’s lips on hers.

  “I saw.”

  Iona’s cheeks warmed and she feared they had turned an embarrassing pink. “I’m not sure about his relationship with Haven. I never saw them speak. Actually, I just met the man.”

  Jake’s ungloved hand cupped her chin and lifted her face until she couldn’t escape his gaze. “You two looked pretty chummy for strangers.”

  “Forget about him,” she said, though she knew she couldn’t, “because you need to know what I found out. Her disappearance is surreal, if I can believe the letter she left me.”

  “A letter? What did she say?”

  “She got married and left to live in Scotland.” There. She shared part of the news. How would Jake take it? He and Haven had grown chummy over the last couple of days.

  “Good for her,” he said, though his answer sounded like a growl. “Too bad she didn’t come around to tell me face-to-face.”

  “I’m sure she had her reasons.”

  “Wait a minute. Her tent is still here and her stuff is inside. I checked when I went to remind her it was her turn to cook breakfast.”

  “This happened all of a sudden, right after the dance. I don’t know if I can explain.”

  “I wish you would. I…I care for her, too. I’ve been very worried and planned to search until I’d found her.”

  This news wasn’t good. Iona could not in good conscience let the man search for someone he’d never find.

  Jake slipped his glove back on, then bent to stoke the fire. His leather farrier’s apron barely covered his chest and left his entire bronzed back naked to the September sun. Smooth leather gloves shielded his hands while he worked. He’d tied his wavy black locks in a queue at the base of his neck to keep his hair from falling into the smoke and cinders.

  When he returned his attention back to her, his eyebrows twitched and his blue eyes begged for an answer. Iona had to trust him.

  “Read this, but please keep it to yourself.”

  Jake slipped off one glove, and accepted the brittle letter. His gaze flicked back and forth as he read the short missive. Iona knew the words by heart.

  Dear Iona;

  The night of the dance—the night of the storm—I found myself transported to a distant land. No, I had not planned on this. I would never leave you in the lurch, but an odd man in a hooded black robe chased me and I did what I had to do. Please don’t look for me except in the history books.

  I have married a handsome Highlander named Kirkwall Gunn, laird of Clan Gunn, in northern Scotland. He is a gruff sort of man. A giant, actually, who keeps me on a short leash.

  Ready or not, I look forward to the birth of my child and I plan to end my days with my children, here among these harsh people. If anyone asks, please lie and say I am happy and ran off with a Scottish visitor to the games. My possessions are yours, little as they are.

  Kiss Jake for me and tell him I am enjoying stew and fresh milk with my new clan. He will understand.

  Be well, dear friend, but also be cautious, especially of a demented creep in a long, black robe.

  I took your advice and held on tight. Now, take mine. Time is fleeting…careful what you wish for!

  Love,

  Haven MacKay Gunn,

  21 December 1598

  When he handed the letter back then turned away, Iona filled with worry. His silence was not a good sign.

  “Jake?”

  “Nice joke. Is Haven watching from the trees?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nice touch alluding to the night we gorged on stew and Oreo cookies and joked about our lack of milk. If she didn’t want me bothering her any longer all she had to do was say so.”

  “You jackass.”

  He stopped, turned to face her, and stood silent. His gaze bored into her.

  “Jake, I believe this really happened sometime after the dance, which is why she is no longer here at the games. I even went down to the genealogy center and found her mentioned.”

  “What?”

  “In 1610, along with her husband, Kirkwall Gunn, laird of their clan.”

  Jake laughed. “Gunn? That’s rich. I’m a member of the Gunn clan, too. We’ve always hated the MacKay clan. Now you tell me she might be my ancestor? That’s just great.”

  “When you stop feeling sorry for yourself, will you help me figure out how to get her out of this mess?”

  “And do what?” He peeled off his other glove. “She can take care of herself. Obviously, she didn’t want to spend the week with m…I mean, us.”

  “She might be trapped in the past. Maybe she wants to come home, but can’t do it alone. I have to help her, and I could use your assistance.”

  Jake’s stare and the look of disbelief in his eyes made her hopes slip away. Haven’s unhappiness was apparent in her words, and it was Iona’s responsibility to make things right.

  “What do you want from me?” he whispered.

  “I’ll get back to you once I have formulated a plan.”

  “What about your new friend?”

  “Cameron? Jake, he’s a Robeson. That’s a sept of the Gunn clan, too, and he seems to know Haven. I’ll milk him for all the information I can.” Her nipples hardened at the thought of those massive hands caressing her breasts. Where had that thought come from? “I’ll check Haven’s tent for clues.”

  “I didn’t notice anything out of place.”

  “She borrowed a ball gown from me. I’ll see if she left it in the tent. She mentioned a specific book. If I find it, I might be able to figure out how she was able to…time travel to the past.”

  “Do you know how crazy you sound?”

  Iona nodded, then leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I promise to speak to you before I do anything rash.”

  “Get back to me by dinnertime.”

  She glanced toward the White Mountains to the west where blue skies still ruled.

  “Okay. I promise,” she lied.

  CHAPTER 3

  Cameron grumbled as he knelt beside his sleeping pallet. Shoving aside the furs, he spied the hilt of one of his swords. Digging deeper, he found its mate.

  His mate.

  Why did his manhood twitch when he spoke such words? And why had his anger made his head throb when he searched for one woman yet kissed another? He did not know the lass Iona, but she knew Haven. She was hiding information, and he would never again act the fool under someone’s control.

  He had given up his search for the hooded man, who had promised him riches beyond belief. He had not planned to kiss Iona, but when his mouth covered hers by its own accord, desire burned deep inside his chest.

  Pushing to his feet, he slipped the swords into the leather scabbards crisscrossing his back. His dirk still hung from his belt and a short sgia
n dubh nestled out of sight inside his sock. With a nod to his employer, Dorcas Swann, he grabbed a potato sack and left the tent.

  Outside, the sting of crushed herbs and incense gave way to a fresh breeze. Pine-scented mountain air caressed his cheeks and teased his overgrown locks. He was pleased she had given him a task to fulfill.

  Mistress Swann was an odd old woman, and despite her short, crooked stature held him enthralled and under her spell. She had come forward and saved him during his sentencing, and had swept them into the future.

  He paused and gazed across the athletic fields. A mock battle rent the air with the clang of make-believe swords and the shouts of play-acting men. The scene brought back painful memories.

  Memories of actual battles, where blood splashed and real men fell dead, filled him with a bitterness his newfound life could not sway. The nightmare about what had sent him to the future and kept him awake many a night now materialized during the day, and slammed painful memories into his head.

  “Yer possessions are forfeit. Yer cottage, steel, and horse shall be delivered into the hands of whomever ye name as the new rightful owner. Name him now or it shall be decided for ye.”

  His cousin Kirkwall’s words still rang in his ears, the voice grating on his nerves even days after his trial. He had not shrunk from his laird’s authority and had answered loud and strong.

  “I name Reid MacRob.”

  The freckle-faced redhead jumped from his seat near Kirk’s side. “Me?”

  “Reid MacRob. Stand before me.”

  Kirk’s foster son had tripped as he clambered down from the laird’s pedestal and knelt before Kirk with adoration for his laird evident in the lad’s eyes and smile.

  Everyone loved Kirk.

  “Do ye accept these possessions even though they once belonged to a thief and traitor to the clan?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do ye pledge to use them to honor yer clan until ye leave us?”

  “I will never wish to leave, my laird.”

  Cameron barked a nervous laugh and shook away the memory, then pondered how young Reid might have to eat his words. All Cameron’s problems would go away if he killed Kirk.

  Phantom ropes burned his wrists. Cameron could still smell the smoke of a hundred candles and the stench of unwashed bodies as if his trial was yesterday.

  Trudging farther from his employer’s tent, Cameron’s path circumvented the food vendors. Pleasant aromas cleared away the old memories and made his stomach growl. He would find the time to again consume the local faire. Some of the food was familiar, but flavored with spices he could not afford back home. He found it palatable.

  No time to fill his belly now.

  This was not the time to indulge, though a large tankard of Scottish ale would help pass the bitter hours spent in a nonsensical world. He skirted around the athletic field and shook his head at the participants.

  Several kilted men surrounded a brutish warrior who hefted a large hammer. The fellow spun around several times to the cheers of the other participants and hundreds of spectators. When he let it fly, the tool flew through the air then landed in a heap. Applause thundered across the valley and echoed through the lofty pine trees and colorful mountain peaks. Cameron ignored the athlete’s well-earned accolades and continued on his way.

  He followed the signs that pointed up the hill to the historic encampment. Would he see Iona again? Several hours had passed since their last encounter. Try as he might, he could not purge the sight of her lovely figure from his head. Even if her tongue had enraged his inner demons by her saucy arguments, he had no right to kiss her.

  In truth, Iona had planted her dainty hands against his chest as if to keep him at a distance. He had ignored the gesture, gathered her in his arms, and assaulted her with lips and tongue.

  If she never speaks to me again, I would understand. She is just a wench.

  My woman.

  Why think of her in such a way?

  ‘Tis no more than a fleeting desire for a beautiful woman.

  His pace quickened as he trotted along the trail up the hillside. It curved past a small open meadow filled with odd-looking sheep, and through a thick stand of pine trees. He soon spied the tents and smoking fire pits of the reenactment village.

  It was actually a fair representation of a typical Highlands community. When first he had discovered the small village, far from the noise and populace of the main avenues near his employer’s tent, the sharp pain of homesickness surprised him. Neither the sparks of the blacksmith’s hammer, nor the acrid odor of his furnace gave Cameron pause.

  With renewed purpose, he headed straight for the man called Jake. As a kinsman, Cameron must use their connection to convince him he meant nothing to Iona. His future would only include Haven MacKay, and the sooner he returned to his home and time, the sooner he would release her from the clutches of his cousin, the laird.

  With luck, Lady Haven would see the error of her ways and go off to a better place, with him. As for Kirk?

  May he rest in peace.

  When Cameron came to a stop close enough to feel the flames, the blacksmith looked up from striking his mallet on a smoking bit of metal. Bits of fallen bark and metal shavings peppered the dirt at the man’s feet.

  Jake swept one forearm across his brow leaving behind a streak of coal-black soot. Sweat beaded on the man’s arms. His chest heaved beneath the leather apron. Hand-wrought iron nails cooled in a bucket at his feet.

  “Those be hairpins? Like the ones Iona wears?”

  “Yes. I gave her a set as a gift. She’s my—”

  “Woman?”

  “Friend.”

  “Aye, as a friend, she has wheedled her way into my business, as well,” Cameron added.

  “Iona’s busy. Do you need something?”

  Cameron swung his attention back to the man’s frowning face, crossed arms, and puffed-out chest. Jake’s frozen stance did not bode well, and he did not seem to appreciate him speaking about Iona. How would he react when he brought up Haven MacKay?

  Perhaps making use of the man’s skills as a blacksmith might tame his anger.

  “Aye.” Cameron pulled the dirk from his leather scabbard at his hip and presented it, hilt first. Jake accepted the weapon then looked it over with the practiced eye of a weapon’s master. While Jake stood preoccupied with the small knife, Cameron slipped both swords from his back.

  “These three are sorely in need of a smithy’s fine attention. I am near embarrassed at the unmarred edges and the shine blazing along the blades. I have no need of such finery. I prefer a weapon portraying savage use.”

  “You want them to lose that store-bought shine?”

  “Aye. Give them yer attention and return them to me with haste.”

  Jake smiled then shook his head. “You are an odd man. Most visitors to the Scottish Highland Games want shiny steel, jeweled hilts, or engraved blades.”

  “I had similar blades, but my needs have changed.” He shoved away memories of the decorative bronze and leather-bound hilt of the sword that once belonged to his grandsire. A sword he had left behind in Scotland, forfeited to young Reid MacRob.

  Jake rubbed a finger lovingly along the carved bone handle, then accepted the two longer bladed weapons. “You don’t fool me. I know why you came back. I saw you kissing Iona.”

  Flames danced in Jake’s gaze. Cameron thought he best give the lad some space. His fist yearned to cover the distance between them, but bruising the lad’s jaw was not an option. If the man was truly a friend, Iona would have his head if any harm should befall him on his account.

  “Listen, lad. I need these blades sharpened and their shine dulled by the time I finish my evening meal. Can ye do the deed or nay?” The lad’s blue eyes reminded Cameron of his cousin’s gaze. Jake glanced from the two swords to the dirk laying in his own palm.

  Expelling a low sigh, Jake nodded. “You can borrow this dirk until I finish.”

  Cameron accepted the black-hand
led dirk. The hilt was lightweight, rough, and very shiny.

  “What ‘tis this material?”

  “Plastic.” Jake chuckled and turned back to his furnace.

  Unsure of what the lad found funny, Cameron turned and walked away, intent on leaving without attempting to catch a glimpse of Iona. Why torment himself concerning a woman his body desired while his heart and a need for vengeance ruled all else?

  * * *

  Iona strolled to the far corner of the historic village, far enough that she wouldn’t smell the delicious aromas that wafted up from the food vendors and filled the air. Her stomach was still queasy after the excitement of Cameron’s kiss. Several canvas tents stood beneath mammoth pine trees where the air felt cooler.

  Or, it’s my wishful thinking.

  The exceptionally warm and wet September mid-morning made her melt. Or, was it the thought of seeing the Viking again?

  She had taken advantage of extra volunteers and handed over her spinning wheel. On a well-deserved break from demonstrating its use amid awkward questions from non-stop visitors, she slipped inside Haven’s domicile and glanced around the cramped space. An old army cot split the narrow tent in two. The mid pole held two navy blue backpacks off the damp ground. A familiar wool blanket in the MacKay tartan covered the bed.

  “She hasn’t slept here recently.” The day dress Haven had worn during the hours before the dance lay on top of the blanket. There was no sign of the red gown she had borrowed for the dance. “Did she run off to Scotland in it? Why would she do that?”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Iona whirled around, caught her slipper’s toe on the corner leg of the cot, and tumbled onto the bed in a heap.

  “A lovely offering, but ye are not for me.” Cameron glared down at her, and began fumbling through one of Haven’s backpacks.

  “Stop that!” Iona pushed herself to her feet and swept loose strands of hair behind one ear. What did he mean she wasn’t for him? What about their earlier kiss? A burning sensation swept her cheeks as he shoved her toward the tent’s entrance.

 

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