The only redeeming quality was her husband’s neighbors and servants. They swarmed over the castle. Dozens of the villagers volunteered to make repairs.
Skye’s kindness did wonders to win over the village residents who cooked, cleaned, fished, and hunted in order to fill the castle’s empty larder. She rewarded their generosity by using her healing powers to ease sickness and heal their injuries.
Her new home was within an hour’s walk from the Keith stronghold in Wick, which was a relief. It was minutes away, riding. At first, Lethan owned no Highland ponies, so she grew fond of walking. Weeks later, Kirk and Haven sent them two wonderful beasts as a wedding gift; a stallion for Lethan, and a mare for her.
“Shall we take a ride and enjoy yer brother’s gifts?” he had asked. They rode together, those first wonderful weeks. She assumed love had colored her vision, and she gave herself to him night after night until the morning he had left her bed, smiling, to go hunt with some men from the village.
“Venison will fill the bellies of many over a cold winter,” he had told her.
Only a month after their wedding feast, he was dead.
Skye’s chest had ached when a group of villagers, their clothes covered in blood, returned his battered body to her.
She had cried for days.
It had taken another year to discover evidence that lead Kirk and the rest of her family to name Andreas Borthwick, the evil sorcerer, as the man who had maliciously caused her husband’s death.
Andreas Borthwick; the same evil sorcerer who blamed the Gunn Clan for the death of his love. The woman, Helen, was the daughter of Lachlan Gunn of Braemore. Helen refused the young Andreas’ advances. She was betrothed to a cousin, but the cousin was slaughtered. Kidnapped by the Keith clan, she jumped into the sea, to her death.
Dorcas shared with her the particulars, and her words had made her tremble. “Andreas Borthwick wants revenge on the Gunn clan for her refusal, and the Keiths for causing her to choose death.”
How an evil despot could feel love for a woman, long dead, was beyond her ken. Why he felt that revenge against their people would soothe his pain, she could not fathom. Up until recent years, they had thwarted his attacks. Unfortunately for her young husband, the sorcerer had succeeded in taking out his revenge.
On Lethan.
On an innocent man.
What she did know, deep inside, was that the bastard had unleashed his hideous, blood-thirsty minions upon someone gentle and kind. When she had met them at the castle, after her kidnapping, the cowards mocked her, laughed, and spewed lies.
“Our master bludgeoned your dutiful husband until he begged for mercy,” one said. The others laughed.
“I doona’ believe ye.” Whether or not the sorcerer actually wielded the blows made no difference.
Skye blamed their leader.
The sorcerer left his calling card, but a villager had pocketed the valuable bauble until her guards questioned all the hunters. After having broken his body with fists and kicks, the sorcerer, or one of his minions, had tightly tied the silver chain around her husband’s neck, stealing his last breath.
She immediately recognized the chain and its amber stone as one that once belonged to Dorcas Swann. Skye mourned her young husband in public, and planned her revenge in secret. The sorcerer had robbed her of the life she envisioned in a castle on the North Sea. Andreas Borthwick made sure their lives had no chance to meld. He left her with next to nothing.
I never told Lethan that I loved him.
Had she fallen in love with a near-stranger over a simple cup of cider? Lethan Falconer had doted on her, chosen her as his wife, taken her to his bed, and promised a better life and a new family.
Skye clasped her hands over an empty womb.
No child had sprung from those tender nights of lovemaking, as she and her new husband had shared a bed by candlelight. She felt affection for him for making her first time a quiet, gentle bonding of two young souls, but was it more?
On the day Lethan died, rumors had spread like wildfire. Some villagers questioned how a mighty hunter could fall dead on the forest floor, bloody and broken, within earshot of others. It made no sense unless sorcery was involved.
“The sorcerer shall be destroyed, and by my hand,” she had vowed. She could use Jake’s help. His special ability would help as they hunted him down, but the man’s final breath would be by her hand.
Managing Jake, his secret, their return to the past, and the death of the sorcerer, before he killed her family, had taken its toll. Worry kept her from falling asleep, which is why she was awake enough to witness Jenny’s kiss.
Jake sighed, and bolted from the room.
As several heartbeats passed—each one a plea for his return—a light tap on the bed chamber door sounded. Jenny entered, and smiled. She set her medicine bag on the bed.
Skye pushed into a sitting position, and peered inside. A familiar assortment of bandages and sewing needles filled one side. Items Jenny referred to as ointments, gloves, and antibiotics were odd.
She had no fear of sharpened needles. Hadn’t she tried her best to sew her brother’s dreadful facial wound? The scar left behind by a warrior’s dagger tore him from his chin to his left eye. Luckily, Lady Haven was more skilled than she. The poultice that Haven, the woman from the future, had concocted had soothed the wound. The scar faded quickly, and Haven captured Kirk’s heart.
She was far and away from Kirk, Haven, and everyone she knew and loved. Her magic had brought her to safety, and there would be time to ponder why her spell sent her to Jake.
“How are you feeling?” Jenny asked.
“Fine as can be. Sorry if I called ye Janet. ‘Tis the name I am familiar with, back home.”
“Call me whatever you like.”
The woman’s smile was sincere, and Skye cringed. How could she curse the woman’s familiarity with Jake when Jenny was her best hope for tending her injuries?
“Let’s see how you look. Can you roll onto your left side?”
Skye moved into a better position, but still clung to the blanket to cover her breasts. The wound pinched as she adjusted her pose. “Like this?”
“That looks painful.” The bed dipped, as Jenny sat beside her. Jenny probed Skye’s surrounding skin with gentle pressure.
Skye tried not to flinch. The woman’s fingertips were light and cool. The pain was tolerable, now that her bath had washed away the stinging salt and sand. Her damp hair smelled fresh, her body was deliciously clean, and she could not wait to get a good night’s sleep. She kept her attention on the door in hopes that Jake would return.
Why?
I have no idea.
The man was irritating as a stinging nettle, and as pleasant as a plow horse.
“You don’t need stitches,” Jenny said. She reached into her bag and, as she fumbled, Skye exhaled. She had prepared herself for the pain of a needle slicing into her skin. How else would Jenny keep her wound closed long enough to heal?
She had reached the age of two-and-twenty summers with nary a scratch. The fates had caught up to her as memories of other wounds brought tears to sting her eyes. She was far from Lethan the day he needed her most, and he had died.
I was there for Alec.
She raised her chin in triumph, praying she was correct. If Alec had escaped by hiding behind a barrel, then her injury was worth it. Her sacrifice meant Alec was safe and sound. The sorcerer would have threatened her with him, had he grabbed him as well, that day.
Was it only a day or two earlier?
The ordeal must have frightened Alec. Had he told the others that the evil sorcerer had kidnapped his aunt? Were they searching for her as she lay in a soft bed nearly four-hundred years in the future?
“A pinch,” Jenny said. She held a long, pointed tool filled with fluid.
Skye clutched the blanket at her chest, but refused to move.
“Again. Just a little more, and then you won’t feel a thing.”
Prom
ises, promises.
Skye nearly cried, but held back the tears. Before she could comment, all the pain was gone.
All gone?
“What witchery is this?” Skye turned and met Jenny’s smile.
“Jake mentioned you’re not accustomed to modern medicine. I gave you some anesthetic. Now, I will bind your wounds. You won’t feel a thing.” Jenny patted her shoulder. “I promise.”
“Aye, ‘tis a miracle. I thank ye for your magic.” Skye pulled a downy pillow in front of her clasped hands and sank into its embrace. Tugs along her hip had her glancing at her wounds. Tiny white strips ran from one side of the slashes to the other. The wounds closed, and she felt nothing. All her pain was miraculously a thing of the past.
‘Tis where I must go. The past. And, soon.
CHAPTER 11
Jake bent, and settled the hoof between his knees. He adjusted his leather apron, and shrugged his shoulders. The black T-shirt he threw on felt tight. Had it shrunk in the last laundry load?
His horseshoe inventory had shriveled to nearly nothing, having sold dozens at the New England Highland Games. Most were destined to hang over doorways as good luck charms.
He’d rather spend his days working over hot coals creating simple iron horseshoes, than face the woman in his bed.
He had spent a sleepless night in the guestroom. Bull had slept on the couch, which helped keep him from acting the fool. Bull’s presence was the perfect deterrent that kept him from heading across the hall. Skye was injured and needed her rest, but something about her pulled at him.
Not good.
Zeroing in on the hoof, he clipped the nail ends with the clinch cutter and pulled the old shoe off. With the hoof pick, he cleaned dirt and a small stone from the underside of the unshod foot. Old Balfour leaned against Jake’s shoulder, silent and unconcerned.
Jake’s routine, perfected during years working with malleable iron and stubborn horses, spanned several quiet minutes until his head filled with an image of Skye sprawled in his bed.
The hoof pick clattered to the wood plank floor.
“Get a grip,” he said with a sigh.
Balfour whinnied in response.
Ignoring the pick, he pulled a rasp from his toolkit and smoothed the base of the hoof with short, even strokes. Grabbing the nailing hammer from his shoeing apron, he reached for a new horseshoe from a nearby hay bale.
He pounded nails through the new horseshoe. Slow and methodical, with one deep breath between each nail, he pushed Skye’s image aside.
The repetitive sound calmed the odd churning in his gut. The scent of hay and horse added a renewed sense of calm. He was in command. The morning was new, the sun was shining, and nothing anyone did would ruin such a perfect day.
The image of Skye’s naked form as she rose from the tub was a memory he couldn’t defer. Groaning, he recalled how he had walked in on her. He’d stood so close he could have touched the water dripping down her pale flesh.
Confusion addled his brain, and he tightened his grip on Balfour’s leg. The horse nipped at his glove.
“Cut that out.”
Balfour snorted.
Why did he think of her luscious body? What would come of his attention to her attributes?
Nothing, because I hate her.
Didn’t he?
He hadn’t slept. A lack of sleep was not why he woke jittery and on edge. He could use more rest. Balfour whinnied, while Jake knew that catching up on sleep wasn’t in his future; not while a sixteenth-century viper slept in his house, and in his bed.
A knock on the door, after dinner, heralded the arrival of his belongings from the games. After he kicked Bull out of the kitchen, and his friend had shoved the last piece of pizza into his mouth, they unloaded the truck and paid the men.
After he locked the door and turned off the lights, Bull collapsed on the couch, forcing him to sleep in the tiny guest room. Bull had complained that the double bed was too small. Jake’s couch was huge, so he let his friend sleep in the living room.
A small bed with a real mattress was better than the army cot he’d slept on at the Highland games, and during his stint in the army. Having Bull as an obstacle between his temporary bed and where Skye slept was the deterrent he needed to keep his distance.
Jenny had given him the run-down about Skye’s wounds. She never asked how they happened, which was a gift. She’d left him with ointment, extra bandages, and reminded him to watch for infection.
He had asked Jenny to feed and water his animals a while longer. He would need to concentrate on getting Skye home, and he couldn’t leave without making sure someone kept an eye on the horses. While his guests were visiting, his attention had to stay on Bull and Skye.
If Skye’s wounds turned septic, they’d be in big trouble for the same reasons they hadn’t taken her to a hospital last night. He muttered a little prayer for her speedy recovery, then vowed to get her home and out of his hair.
The barn door creaked open.
He glanced up. Dust motes floated in the slight breeze created by the open door. A shadow walked toward him with slow, careful steps.
“Jake? May I enter?”
“Sure, but why are you out of bed?” Reluctantly, he shook away the image of her wet, naked body and straightened. Balfour’s partially nailed hoof hit the barn floor with a thud.
“Ye see before ye, an early morning riser. As such, I wanted to meet yer beasts.”
Feigning checking on his horse, he followed Skye’s slow progress from the corner of his eye. She walked closer, and he stifled an urge to tell her she ought to rest. She would refuse to listen to his opinion about anything, so he bit his tongue.
The early morning sunlight illuminated her like a halo. The bright light painted the outline of her black hair with silver tips. With her face in shadow, he was unable to read the weariness or pain she might still suffer.
Instead, he turned his attention back to Balfour. He shoved the animal’s hip, cradled his hoof between his thighs, and listened.
Her steps crunched across the hay-littered wood floor. He knew the moment she stopped at Dara’s stall.
“A magnificent garron. What be his name?”
“Her name is Dara. Careful. She bites.” As if to emphasize Jake’s warning, the animal’s dark brown mane shook as Dara threw her buff-colored chest against the stall gate.
Jake peeked under Balfour’s chest. Amazingly, Skye laughed and patted Dara’s nose. Relief washed over him, when she backed away and continued toward him.
Silence filled the sturdy barn, except for the snips of the grooming scissors, as he trimmed Balfour’s fetlock. The elderly gelding snickered as he begged his owner for attention from someone other than its owner.
“You are a spoiled brat, Balfour,” he whispered, leaning against the horse for balance.
Skye walked closer, and the aroma of wildflowers and fresh grass replaced the familiar smell of horse, hay, and brisk morning air. His body tightened, and his thighs tensed. The horse whinnied.
“Easy, Balfour. Almost done, big boy.”
Her laugh reached his ears like a low, sweet sigh of pleasure.
Jake’s body hardened to stone so fast, he dropped the horse’s hoof on his boot.
“Hell’s fire!”
“Are ye hurt?” Skye asked, though he heard the laughter behind the question.
He straightened, refusing to look at her. Even through the haze of painful toes, he could see she’d grown into a woman. Her intoxicating fragrance, curves, and soft, sexy voice was all the evidence needed.
She used to be a sassy-mouthed, seventeen-year old barbarian. After he had found Iona at the Keith castle in sixteenth-century Wick, he made it a point to keep his distance from all the locals. Especially Skye.
Was that why she tossed me back through time?
After reliving that night for a few moments, his body obeyed. Glaring at her, he found his voice. “What’s so funny about my horse’s name?”
S
kye sighed, and her face took on a sad, wistful look.
“Our clan’s ale master was named Balfour.”
“Did I meet him?” He hadn’t met too many Highlanders before she abruptly sent him home.
“Nay. He was a big, brawny, hairy beast. Like your animal. I miss him.”
“Where did he go?”
“He…died.”
“I’m sorry.” He lowered his head and waited for her to explain. When she said nothing, he bent and grabbed Balfour’s leg. The horse dutifully bent its knee, and leaned into Jake’s shoulder. The aroma of horse and wet hay filled his nose, finally blocking out Skye’s intoxicating scent. Within moments, his work was complete. He led Balfour to his stall and removed his halter.
Skye reached over and patted the horse’s neck, as they passed. Dara whinnied like a jealous lover.
I know how you feel.
Skye’s shadow drew closer.
“Balfour is a beauty for one so ancient.” Once Jake latched the stall box gate, he stepped aside. She walked closer to the old horse. Her small fingers combed through his dark mane, and brushed away a few strands of hay.
Jake imagined those fingers in his hair. While he stood mesmerized, Balfour stretched his neck forward, and his soft snorts broadcast his pleasure.
I’m jealous of a horse.
Putting some space between them, Jake gathered up his tools. Why was she up this early? Her simple explanation was odd. She was injured and needed to mend. Hadn’t she ever slept in? He could ask her, but then he’d have to listen to her silky voice. If she got any closer, her scent would turn him to stone.
“Jake?”
Hell’s fire! She stood inches from him.
Every muscle tightened, and he clutched the tools. When he wet his lips with a suddenly dry tongue, she blinked.
“Yes? What is it, Skye?”
She opened her mouth, then seemed to stumble over the words. The expression on her face shifted subtly from hesitant to inquisitive. Her eyes, a deep, sensuous blue, gazed up at him. Softened by the shadows of the small barn, they reminded him of a deep mountain lake on a winter’s day.
Highland Games Through Time Page 63