Highland Games Through Time

by Nancy Lee Badger

  “Then Dad wouldn’t feel sorry to see me sitting home every evening.”

  “What was that ye said?” Cameron came up behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder. She fought the urge to lick the crease between his fingers.

  Dear Lord! I am going mad around this man!

  “John told me his wife’s family worried when she did not arrive as planned. They will see to the repair of the buggy, and John will accompany them. I told them we would travel elsewhere. He argued, but ye and I have somewhere to be.”

  She shrugged and forced his hand away. He was correct, though she would hate to leave the children. She’d always dreamed she’d have a house filled with kids.

  Someday.

  She rose and headed toward what appeared to be the kitchen. The aroma of baking bread and the chatter of older children pulled her away from Cameron.

  To her amusement, he followed on her heels. After she had spoken with the children and sampled hot, fresh, crusty bread, she joined him by the open kitchen door.

  “Lass, can ye tell me what went wrong with the spell?” he whispered.

  “I have a simple explanation. I didn’t finish. When that explosion knocked me off my feet, it knocked all the breath from my lungs. I said Send us back to an Ancient Scot.”

  “And?”

  “It sent us to John. I meant to say Ancient Scotland of 1598.”

  “Quiet,” he whispered. John had entered the room, and smiled at the two of them. Cameron mumbled something about seeing to the pony and disappeared.

  “There ye are, Miss Mackenzie. Sit here at the table and break bread with us.”

  “Thank you, John, but I just finished some stew and I still have this,” Iona said, and raised the hand that held the hunk of bread, “Delicious.”

  “ ‘Tis my wife’s bonny cooking.” John smiled at the short, round woman who stirred a pot hanging from an iron tripod inside the kitchen’s huge fireplace. Lined with smoke-blackened stones, heat radiated out and a deep weariness settled on Iona’s shoulders.

  When she collapsed onto the offered stool, she smiled when the woman pushed a basket of piping-hot muffins her way.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Moffat.”

  “Call me Rebecca, dearie. After all, ye saved my husband and my dearest possessions. When I heard the rumor that Union troops were headed toward town, I prayed for a miracle.”

  “And I apologize, dear wife, for staying behind to defend our house. A home is here,” he added, punching the middle of his chest. All three smiled and nodded. Then the hairs on the back of Iona’s neck lifted.

  “True, but a man needs four walls and place to lay his head,” Cameron said as he filled the doorway. He filled any room with his masculine presence, yet she didn’t want to think of him as anything more than a traveling companion. He’d been forced on her and she on him. Dorcas had laid out the rules and they jumped to obey.

  She would concentrate on the task at hand. Save Haven. Using Cameron to accomplish that was a necessity. She’d use him, then set him free. He could grumble all he wanted, but Iona had no plans to dawdle. Even so, a good night’s sleep in a real bed might feel nice.

  “Ye look tired, lass.”

  “Thanks.” How dare he comment on her looks when he looked so yummy.

  God, I am going to Hell.

  “What?” Cameron leaned over her shoulder and cupped her chin in one large paw. She was so tired, she hadn’t the strength to pull away. Heat drenched her from both his warm hand and hot breath. He was so close. His strong, clean scent wafted over her. Different, some how. A mixture of earth, smoke, and grass.

  “We should go,” Iona said. She stood then wavered, her sore feet winning the battle. Her borrowed boots—muddied and worn down during her travels—made her want to slip her shoes back on. Exercise was one thing, but a long walk in historically accurate but non-supporting footwear was futile.

  “We be staying here this night, lass.” Cameron slipped his arm around her waist. She let him slide her from the stool. When he pulled her through the back door, she grabbed the doorjamb and set her feet.

  “Whoa! Where are we going?”

  Cameron relaxed his grip. “The barn.”

  He left her standing in the doorway, gaping at his audacity. Iona glared at his retreating backside. Even the catlike moves of his long, leather-clad legs could not sway her sudden fury. When John touched her shoulder, Iona jumped.

  “My apologies, lass. I dinna mean to frighten ye.”

  “No problem, John. I guess our little escape affected me more than I care to admit.”

  “I was scared, too,” he whispered. Iona had to smile at that. They had all been worried they would meet up with more strangers, or a bullet would find its mark. Except Cameron. Cowardice didn’t seem something he suffered from. He’d taken charge and brought John to safety. She had simply tagged along.

  “We are safe now,” she said, “and those troops will decimate Atlanta then head for the coast. If you feel the need to head home, I suggest you wait a couple of years, until this all calms down.”

  She felt sorry for him. John and his wife lost so much, yet their family surrounded them with love and would see that they had a place to call home.

  John’s hand squeezed her shoulder and she turned to face him. He stared at her with a look of pure astonishment.

  Dear Lord, what did I say?

  “Ye must have the gift of sight.” When she didn’t argue against his accusation, he added, “I will heed yer words. We shall find a place, over the mountains in Alabama, with Rebecca’s sister and her brood. I think she’d miss them children, anyway. I canna wait to start a new home.”

  “Sounds like a fine plan.” Home. I miss Dad. Wondering about her father, and hoping he was getting along okay, back at the New England Highland Games, Iona sighed.

  “Yer man is waiting for ye in the hay loft,” John whispered, “and Rebecca says they keep several warm blankets and lamps out there for visiting family. Ye will find clean water for washing up and some linens. Sorry there are no spare beds inside.”

  “The barn is fine,” she said, too loud and too fast. Sleep in a hay loft? With Cameron? “How many are staying in the barn tonight?”

  “Just the two of ye.”

  Was that a smile? Did John and his family assume she and Cameron were lovers? Had John seen something in the way she looked at Cameron? Or, had Cameron lied to John, as men often do? Her cheeks burned as she headed toward the two large barn doors. Four horses stood behind a wood fence. One neighed, so Iona sidestepped farther away.

  She and animals did not mix. At the New England Highland Games, she did her best to stay clear of meandering sheep and the orange, longhair Highland cows.

  She pushed one barn door wider, then peered inside. The quiet solitude drew her in. She took another silent step, and darkness closed around her. She shuddered, but she was more than tired and a bed was a bed.

  Wet hay and something foul made her nose twitch. Fluttering wings held her attention as she peered up toward the loft. She gasped.

  Cameron stood at the top of a plank ladder. The setting sun streamed in through an open hay door behind him. Gold flecks in his amber eyes gazed down at her, pinning her to the spot. A misty halo ringed his entire body, and his chest was bare.

  “Oh, my,” she whispered.

  He smiled.

  The man had the ears of a bird of prey and the grace of a mountain lion. He knew she stood below him, melting. She shook her head. No way was she sleeping anywhere near this man.

  There are more important things in life than sex.

  “No, lass, ‘tis life itself.”

  Had I spoken my thoughts out loud? Great.

  She needed him to help get her to Haven. He wore the amulet. She would say the correct spell, so he needed her as well. Need. That was all the man meant to her, and her to him. Iona pledged that she would not succumb to the desire raising its mysterious head.

  “This is silly,” she mumbled, “I am too
tired to care what he wants or what others think.” She grabbed a handful of gown and climbed up the ladder to the loft. When she neared the top, two hands grabbed her under the shoulders.

  She let out an unladylike squeak. “Unhand me!”

  Cameron dropped her to her feet and backed up a couple of steps. She didn’t care if the smirk on his face was at her expense. The man was full of himself. He knew he was God’s gift to women. Too bad she didn’t plan to join their ranks.

  “I have made us a most comfortable bed over here, lass.”

  “For the last time. My name is Iona, I am not your lass, and I will not sleep with you.” She crossed both arms over her chest and stood her ground. If he didn’t show her a healthy respect and give her space, she had a few spells she’d memorized from Haven’s ancient book. She’d been dying to try them. Cameron’s expression morphed into something more cautious than smirking. Maybe he’d caught the no-nonsense tone of her voice at last.

  “Fine, Iona, though I find it difficult to call ye that.”

  “Why? I think it’s rather pretty.”

  “They named ye after an island?” Cameron asked. He covered the space between them until shadows enveloped them both. Night was falling and soon the dark would make him invisible.

  Iona traced the frown marring his handsome features with one quivering fingertip. When the frown lines reversed direction, she realized that she’d touched him.

  “Dear Lord,” Iona whispered. Cameron’s soft chuckle fueled a bloom burning the tips of her ears. “What’s so funny?”

  “My cousin was named after a town. Never could live down the shame.”

  “Shame? Why would he be ashamed?”

  “ ‘Tis customary to name one’s son after oneself or another family member. Kirk’s father did neither.”

  She gulped. He couldn’t have meant Haven’s Kirk. Could he?

  “I believe Kirk means church in Gaelic, not a town. I would have been honored to be so named.”

  “His name is Kirkwall. ‘Tis a town in the Orkney Islands. He squirmed each time his da told the tale. ‘Twas where he’d gotten Kirk’s mum with child. He made sure he made others aware of the account, and my cousin learned to hate him.”

  “How horrid!” Kirk is his cousin?

  “Tell me why ye were named after the lovely island of Iona, though that ‘tis reason enough.”

  His eyes bore through hers. Under his attentive stare, heat scorched her chest. The sensations that ripped through her were all wrong. Her nipples pebbled into tiny rocks and rubbed against the confines of her gown. Why had she reacted? He hadn’t even touched her. Her pulse raced and breathing was a strain. She coughed once, then found her voice.

  “I am indeed fortunate my parents enjoyed their many visits to several Scottish isles. I could just as easily have been named Mull.” Iona forced a smile. The rich musk of Cameron Robeson mingled with the earthy smell of hay and leather. He grew closer, blocking all light. Her hands reached out as if to halt his progress, but touching his chest and feeling the rapid beats of his heart did her in.

  “Cameron, please.”

  What do I want? Why am I begging for something I have very little chance of surviving?

  “Iona, love.” Cameron gathered her in his arms. He planted tiny kisses on her forehead, then must have sensed her fear. “Relax. I shall not do anything with ye that ye are not willing to share.”

  The sensation of falling brought Iona’s attention back to her predicament. When had he pulled them down into a cocoon of soft, wool blankets? They smelled faintly of the horses who had snorted at her moments ago.

  “I can’t—”

  “Hush, woman, give me leave to comfort ye this night. Tomorrow we might die.”

  “Don’t say that. We will find our way to your time, then I’ll come home with my friend, safe and sound.”

  “Yer friend? Lady Haven?”

  “Yes. I have a plan in place to save her from the bastard who has forced her to live outside her time. Why? Didn’t Dorcas explain why I wanted to accompany you?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Iona blinked back tears as Cameron released her, then rolled off the bedding. Shock coursed through her.

  Where did he go?

  Sitting upright in the makeshift bed, she spied his silhouette by the open door where the innkeeper hauled hay into the storage area of the loft. He reached out and jiggled the rope. Was he going to slide down it and leave her?

  Iona rolled ungracefully to her feet then brushed pieces of straw from her backside. Sweeping fingers through her unruly hair, she crept to his side.

  But, not too close.

  “I have upset you in some way.” It wasn’t a question, but Iona waited to see if he’d say something to explain his abrupt stop to the lovely things he had been doing with his fingers and mouth. As if reading her mind, he turned and glared.

  “I thought to give ye some needed space. I’ll sleep elsewhere.”

  “But—”

  “Best get ye to bed. Morning comes early and we shall be on our way.”

  At having him dismiss her, and more rudely than she was accustomed to, Iona spun away and kicked off her shoes she’d traded her boots for before she plopped onto the bed. She pulled the blankets over her shoulders and pinched her eyes shut.

  Tears would not dare dampen her face tonight, not over his treatment. She hadn’t asked for his touch. She didn’t need a man whispering sweet nothings in her ear, especially not an overgrown, out-of-time Neanderthal.

  She awakened with a start. She must have dozed, but for how long? Pitch black surrounded her and a noise had pulled her from a most enjoyable dream. In her dream, two sweaty bodies twisted and grunted amid a haystack under a clear blue sky.

  “Hmph. Certainly a stupid fantasy. Hay hurts.” Iona rubbed her backside as she crawled to the end of the bed. The sound was a kind of thrashing and it grew louder from somewhere down below.

  Was a horse kicking its stall wall? Had an unruly pig missed a meal? With cautious steps, she slipped on her shoes and knelt at the top of the ladder. A sliver of moonlight lit the planks, so she gathered her dress in one fist and descended with slow, careful steps. She tumbled from the last rung, which she’d forgotten began about two feet off the ground, and landed on her knees.

  “Ouch,” she whispered. No need to wake the beast or whatever was growling beyond the light source. Pulling her sore body to its feet by grasping the side of some type of tool, she stood. She sniffed her damp fingers.

  “Great. A manure spreader.” As Iona wondered where the nearest clean water lay, she inched along the wall using the filthy hand to guide her through the dim barn. The thrashing sound came from a corner near what appeared to be a back door.

  Etched out of the darkness by the same moonlight she’d seen above, the gyrating outline beckoned her. She tiptoed toward the lump and wondered where Cameron was. A roar issued forth, startling her. The sound split the night and Iona let out a horrified scream.

  * * *

  The dream held Cameron in its grip, and he fought like a man deranged to release his burdened mind from the memory of the horror of his banishment.

  “Come with me, Cammie,” the old crone said. She chuckled, then tugged at the leash his jailer had thrown her. Too dumbstruck by his verdict, and his cousin’s parting words, he could do no more than follow. The old woman tapped her crooked cane in front of them, parting the crowd with ease.

  Slow steps found them outside the hall. He stumbled down the steps to the crowded bailey. The entire village had come to hear his punishment. Clad in rags and bound hand and foot, tethered to a leash like a dog, embarrassment added to his pain as he walked past their staring faces.

  He pulled against his tether. He was no longer a warrior, cousin to the laird. His shoulders slumped.

  No longer.

  He was nothing but the property of a crooked old woman.

  “Where ye headed, traitor?” the village blacksmith yelled.

  A shopk
eeper stepped between him and his new overseer. “What punishment has our laird demanded of ye, Robeson? What is to become of a man who would help to murder our laird?”

  “Tell us, handsome Cameron. What horror does this old woman intend for ye?” a tavern wench he knew intimately asked before she laughed.

  “The boy is mine,” the crone called to all, “and he has been banished.”

  Cameron stiffened at each intake of breath. Dozens of people, once chanting and laughing, stepped away.

  Banishment; a fate worse than death to any member of their clan.

  From this day forward he would be alone and unloved with no chance of fortune, family, or peace. Fame and glory might hover beyond the horizon once he and the old woman parted ways, but he would have to become a mercenary; unclean, feared, and finding no respect with all he had grown to know and love. Then the words Kirk had muttered came back to haunt Cameron. Was redemption possible?

  The crowd thinned, yet their mutterings reverberated in his ears until the old woman stopped beside a cart. A gray Highland Pony stood on three legs, the fourth bent in rest. The cart was more of a wooden box with a roof and sides, built of hand-hewn slabs with doors and slide-out drawers fitted to three sides. Bundles bulged at the top where, she explained, resided a cook pot, tent, and several furs for sleeping on the ground. The pony swung his long face toward Cameron and neighed.

  “I have nothing for ye.”

  “His name is Robbie. Feed him this apple,” she ordered, pulling the glistening fruit from her pocket. Cameron licked his lips. The old woman laughed.

  “Ye be hungry as well. Here.” She placed a second apple in his palm. When had his bindings been removed? And, the leash? Cameron stood silent with apples in each hand and no sign of his ropes. He bit into the bright red fruit and let the tangy sweetness fill his dry mouth. A rumbling stomach quieted with each bite and he turned and mumbled his thanks to the woman. He stood alone but for the nag. The crone had disappeared.

  Velvety lips nuzzled his right hand and he turned in time to watch the pony chomp down on the other apple.

  “Ouch!”

  Pain pulled him from the dream, and when something touched his shoulder, he grabbed for his assailant. Reaching out, his hand collided with something soft and warm.