by L. L. Muir
After all, if she had to marry one of the three little pigs, she would choose the one with the house of brick.
Admiring the thick curtain wall up close, she thought maybe, once she was back in the twenty-first century, she’d go hiking around Loch Rannoch and search for traces of it.
“Welcome to Todlaw,” Flanders said, then dismounted and handed his reins to a boy that ran up to take them. The handsome Viking then reached for her.
“Todlaw?”
“Aye,” He grabbed her waist and lowered her to the ground. “It means Long Fox. Ye’ll understand why soon enough.” He moved away to help Spa, then the three of them, along with his two guards, headed for the large square tower while the other soldiers walked away with the horses.
The curtain wall made a complete perimeter that was half the size of Stephan’s fort, and she couldn’t help but think it was better—more manageable, more easily defended. Todlaw had fewer people, and much fewer women, at least outside.
Flanders led them all up a massive staircase with an entrance on what had to be the second floor. One large oak door opened into a dark interior, but after it closed behind them, her eyes adjusted and it wasn’t nearly as hard to see as it had been in Stephan’s longhouse. She figured half of her chills could be blamed on being nervous.
Lit by torches, the interior walls were made of the same stones as the keep. The firelight made them look wet and alive. Their small party stood in an empty rectangle entryway that looked like the construction workers had just cleaned up, but the buyers hadn’t moved in yet. A large opening along the right revealed a spiral staircase. Immediately to the left, a high archway led into the next space where a large audience stood just inside and watched something at the opposite end. The back row of short men stood on a bench and craned their necks to see over the heads in front of them. Their excitement explained the sparse crowd outside.
Flanders squeezed Phoebe’s hand and nodded to Spa. “Ye’ll stay here until I can introduce ye.” His men moved closer after he walked away, like they were trying to shield her and the girl, even though no one had noticed them. Spa’s eyes showed white all around—she was freaking out. Phoebe took the girl’s hand, pulled it up under her own arm, and hugged it against her. Spa closed her eyes and relaxed into her.
Phoebe thought it was sad how the pretty girl always seemed surprised when anyone was kind to her. She didn’t even want to think about the kind of life the girl had with a father that would just leave her with her kidnapper, just because he couldn’t afford a ransom he shouldn’t have to pay. Most fathers would fight to get their daughter back.
Well, not Phoebe’s. But most.
She wished Flanders would get on with it. She needed to pee...
James tried to appear neutral when he awarded the prize to the man he’d bet against. No one knew he’d wagered his favorite dagger against Flanders’ new boots on the outcome of the competition. He would lose some gold to the cook as well.
If his friend would just get back already…
James had bet on the larger of two men willing to build one of the last two sections of the curtain wall in the three days allotted. The scrawnier man’s wall was clearly higher in the end, so, as a reward, he would have an entire week to do as he pleased while the rest of the castle worked. Of course, James was still pleased that so much progress had been made in the previous week. One man’s industry often inspired others, so the week of rest for the one fellow would actually leave them ahead of schedule.
With a completed curtain wall and one functioning keep, they would pass the winter much more comfortably than last year. The following winter, they wouldn’t be living on top of each other, what with a second tower to expand into. He wouldn’t bet on that, however, because once a major project was finished, men tended to look for women, and women meant families.
Hopefully, by the time the entire castle was completed, he would have a family of his own. Stephan was sending two women with Flanders, the rider had said, but James wouldn’t get his hopes up there, either, because the greedy, scheming laird to the east could never see beyond a woman’s face.
How the man had ended up with a wife like Gerts, he would never know. Someone else had probably recognized her worth, and Stephan stole her away. In fact, James didn’t know anything that Stephan had built with his own two hands, including his fort and clan. Everything he had, he’d taken from someone else.
Two more bride candidates from his neighbor meant James had to find a reason not to send them back, to protect them from the greedy bastard. Though Stephan always expected James to return any unchosen candidates, James always found a way not to, sometimes marrying them off to one of his clansmen and sending back a bride price in her stead.
He expected that after so many disappointments, Stephan would stop sending women altogether. If he expected to retain any of them as slaves, he had to know that sending them to Todlaw meant losing them for good.
And since Stephan couldn’t be trusted, James wondered if the man was saving up all his grievances to lay, in a bundle, at the feet of King Robert. An ambitious man like that would need another rung to climb, and the only step up from what he already had would be a stone keep to replace his wooden fort—a commodity he mocked James for, but something he would covet the moment he saw it again.
The last time Stephan had made the trek to Todlaw, the keep had resembled a ruin, and the outer wall had only been started. Now, even King Robert would be tempted to claim the place for himself. If he wanted a well-trained regiment from Clan Duncan at his beck and call, however, he would have to keep his paws off.
A familiar head of blond hair appeared at the back of the hall and started forward. Flanders was back and overdue. James had sent him to speak with Stout Duncan, but his second in command had been sidetracked by a summons from Stephan. And no wonder. Anyone sending two pretty lasses through the pass would want a capable guard to see them to the other side, and Flanders was a brilliant though over-qualified choice for an escort.
After being hailed a dozen times on his way through the room, his friend finally stopped and gave him a knee, then stood and knocked James on the shoulder. “I’m late. I know.”
“Ye just missed the reward ceremony. Murray won.”
“Excellent. Then I’ve won our private wager.”
“Aye, ye have. But I think maybe ye’ll forfeit that prize for being tardy.”
Flanders’ eyes flared above a careful smile. “Only if ye agree to forfeit yers as well.”
James shook his head, confused. He wondered if his friend was trying to tell him that one of the women he’d escorted might be worth a close look.
The Viking waved at the back of the room and Niven waved back. The hall fell silent. Bodies parted and turned to watch two women enter, turn, then walk the long path through the center of the gawkers.
As so many that came before her, the first lass was a classic beauty. Her face was oval and full for one so thin. She was short, but might grow taller with a few more years on her. As most women who came to Todlaw, however, she looked frightened as could be.
He and Flanders exchanged a look.
Nothing new.
Agreed.
“James Duncan,” his friend said, suddenly formal. He held out a hand to the young lass, and she moved, gratefully, in his direction. “I present Spa Jarlgaard. Spa, this is James Duncan, and he will not bite ye.”
The lass ducked her head and smiled. James smiled back, then turned to look at the next one, hoping to see a reason for his friend’s strange behavior.
The lass was taller, older, and met his gaze with more anticipation than fear. It was a start.
Her gown was rich brown and well made, her kirtle clean. Her polite smile showed surprisingly white teeth, and her skin had a healthy glow. When his perusal reached her eyes, to see if there might be something intelligent there, he realized her entire head might have belonged on a different woman—one he’d known once, for a very short time. But it was har
d to forget someone who had haunted him for two long years.
She shook her head like she, too, couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “James?”
Her voice hit him like a lorry on the motorway. It was the American!
“You!” The word, bellowed from his gut, propelled him out of his seat. His mind reeled at the impossibility. How had she come here? How dare she come here? This was his land. His Scotland!
What the devil? But no, not the devil—a trio of witches was to blame!
He shook his head and the Nordic cry jumped onto his tongue. “Jeg er forrådt!”
He descended to the floor and strode past her, blindly searching for cool air. He clawed his way through his people and when he reached the bottom of the exterior staircase, he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. It was all a dark blur.
He turned to look at his precious keep hovering over him in the dark, horrified by what it now contained.
The American!
He snagged the first horse he came to, rolled up onto its back, and spurred it toward the gates, not caring if the gatekeeper got it open fast enough or not. He was looking for oblivion. If flying headlong into a well-made door would give it to him, so be it.
But alas, the gates parted and the horse slipped through as the opening widened. He turned the beast’s head to the left. He would go north. Loch Tay could make it all right again. He’d found sanctuary there a hundred times...in another time...
Loch Tay. One thought only. Any other might split him in half.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Phoebe didn’t know what was going on. She was sure the beast that had just stood up and roared at her was the same James she’d locked in her bathroom just days ago. But now, he was dressed like a Medieval King, sitting on the throne, and hosting cattle calls for a bride?
It couldn’t be.
He had to be an ancestor. The build, the hair was right, even the eyes—but this guy had a beard that couldn’t be fake, and if it was, he would have needed modern technology to make it look so real.
She got a good look at it as he stormed past her. It had to be real.
He had to be real.
She turned to Flanders, who looked just as confused as she was. “I don’t understand.”
He shook his head. “Neither do I.” He waved a woman closer and pushed Spa toward her. “She’ll need a room, and someone to stay with her.” The woman nodded and led the girl away. Phoebe watched, but Spa didn’t look back. She didn’t even seem shaken by the fact that the man who might want to marry her had just thrown the biggest temper tantrum in history. But then again, maybe Spa had seen that kind of behavior before.
Turk and the other guard, Niven, appeared at her sides. Their hands hesitated, but eventually, they got up the nerve to grab her arms. She didn’t resist, but she was curious. “What’s going on?”
Flanders nodded at the men, who then lifted her onto her toes and moved her around the big throne, hurrying her out of the room.
“Where are you taking me?”
Niven opened his mouth to say something, then bit his lip. They went through doorway after doorway, then into a spiral stairwell that forced them to separate in order to fit. Niven went down first. Turk pushed her ahead of him. They acted like they were being chased, but she stopped on a landing and asked again. “What’s going on? What did he say?”
The two forced her to continue or be bowled over. When they got to the bottom and there was nowhere else to go, she grabbed onto a large metal loop in the wall and held on for dear life. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what he said!”
Niven sighed. “He said, Jeg er forrådt. I am betrayed.”
“I am betrayed? What is that supposed to mean?”
The man shook his head and squeezed her hand relentlessly until she let go of the loop. Then they pushed her fast and tucked her arms close to her body so she didn’t have a chance to grab anything else.
“You think I betrayed him?”
They ignored her and dragged her into a wide room with high arches propped on pedestals—supports for the rest of the castle. They propelled her toward a large, dark hole in the center of the floor. She fought back, but they got her within five feet of it. Turk wrapped his arms around her and braced his feet apart so he could hold her by himself. Niven hurried to the wall and unhooked a long hulking weapon, then he came back and stuck one end of it in the hole. It was a ladder, a single pole with boards lashed across it at intervals.
Panic choked her. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe. All she could do was shake her head fast and furious—a silent denial they understood just fine.
Turk loosened his hold and spun her to face him. “Ye’ll climb down that ladder, do ye hear? We do not wish to harm ye. Just do as we say. And as soon as we can, we’ll let ye out of the pit again.”
Still, she couldn’t speak, but she wasn’t about to go willingly into Hell with whatever else they’d thrown in there.
Those self-defense classes kicked in and she fought with her legs. Obviously not schooled in modern defensive tactics for single women, Niven had no idea he should defend his genitals. She grabbed his arm and turned him sideways as she brought her knee up hard, just like she’d practiced a thousand times on a dummy. He bent, fell, then rolled into the circle of black and disappeared. His grunting and groaning sounded like it came from deep in the earth!
Turk sputtered and spat, clearly outraged that she would do such a thing. Apparently, she was living in a Pre-Kneeing age where there was an unspoken law that nards were not to be attacked.
Well, then, he shouldn’t have messed with a Post-Knee chick.
Unfortunately, she’d revealed her best move and he was determined not to suffer the same fate as his friend. “Flanders will hear of this,” he hissed.
“Hear of what?”
They both turned to find the Viking coming toward them like an angry parent who didn’t have time to settle their petty squabble. She pushed away from Turk and tried to look reasonable as she prepared her argument, but because of that little push, the oaf lost his footing and went flailing into the hole, dragging her with him!
She did her best to tuck and roll, and when the back of her shoulders landed on Turk, she swung her feet up over her head and down to the ground, using the momentum to keep her neck from breaking, but just barely.
Niven moaned nearby, but all she saw were shadows upon shadows, any of which might be her imagination, or the effects of nearly landing on her head. Turk grunted as he got to his feet. He was decent enough to ask if she was all right, then checked Niven, who moaned in the affirmative.
He moved around in the dark. “I cannot find the ladder.”
“That’s because I have it,” Flanders called. “The pair of ye can stay with her. I wouldn’t want her to be alone.” There was real regret in his voice—but apparently not enough to make him bring the ladder back.
“Definitely not my soulmate,” she said to herself. Then she broke the news to the other two that she still needed to pee.
James finally allowed his horse to slow when he caught the first glimpse of the moon reflected on the waters of Loch Tay. And in step with the animal, things inside him slowed as well. His heart rate, his hot blood. They slowed to a canter, then to a walk, and he took breaths in sync with the horse’s. Deep. Cleansing. Replenishing.
The anger was still there, but it had exhausted him.
He continued up the east side of the loch, refusing to think about when he might return home, if he returned at all. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been outside and not working on the wall. He was due for a long holiday.
It was easy to be a workaholic when one was building something with his bare hands, making a mark on the world. After each stone was placed, after each project completed, he would ask himself, “Will this be enough?”
When his descendants visited the Highlands in the twenty-first century, would they look for remnants of the castle James built? Would
there even be a record of him? Should he care? After all, it was all for God to decide.
Even in the dark, he found the road where, two years before, he’d first seen young Robert Duncan standing on the front of a coach, trying to stop those powerful horses. Robert was growing into a clever lad. He’d be a great leader one day, like his father.
James followed the road a short way and recognized that fateful cluster of trees. Only then did he realize he’d been drawn there all along. He stared at the rounder shadow of the small cairn, now half its original size since all the stones had been removed. No doubt those stones had become part of his keep, part of the wall, or part of the massive pile waiting to be transformed into the second tower.
A strange bump in the midst of fast growing trees, the grave looked all forlorn. Two years, and no one knew that a life was buried there instead of a body.
He couldn’t help being a little pleased to know that his Icebreakers underwear still existed while his fine socks had nearly been worn to threads. He tried to save them for special occasions, but until someone knitted him something tolerable, he would continue to wash them out at night, then don them and hide them within his boots before anyone could enter his chamber.
How many times had he thought of that grave? A dozen times a day, for two years?
No matter how often he’d been tempted to come, he’d resisted, found something else to distract him. Todlaw was easily his greatest distraction, but now he asked himself if it had been conceived just to keep himself from coming to these trees, from remembering what he left behind?
No. No, he insisted. Todlaw was the end game. Todlaw was the goal. He’d earned his way to the head of Duncan’s forces, taught them and trained them for the king’s sake, and earned a place to call his own, to find his wife, to raise his family. That had been the dream. An old bag of clothes meant nothing in comparison.