My Lady Highlande

by Nancy Lee Badger

  As the smoke thickened, she grabbed a bundle of cloth from atop a box and swatted the base of the flames. Black smoke thwarted her efforts, but she kept slapping at the wall of flames, until her lungs filled with the noxious mixture of burning canvas and packaged herbs.

  She stumbled, knocking over a display table, and the rattle of cooking tools falling, made her curse beneath the bit of breath she had left.

  “Nay, nay, nay!”

  When she tripped over whatever had hit the ground, she dropped the wad of cloth. With nothing in her hands to fight the flames, she turned and headed toward the front, and away from disaster.

  How is this happening to me? No’ now!

  Not when she had found her calling. Not when she had given up her home, the memory of her beloved parents, and ventured to another time. Despair gripped her, squeezing her ribs and threatening to form tears in her smoke-stung eyes.

  “The profits!” Slipping behind the curtain separating the shop from her meager living quarters, her hands clawed through smoke and her belongings, until she pulled the hidden strong box from its hiding place. Hauling it back into the shop, she tossed it toward the front of the tent.

  As she grabbed handfuls of her favorite gemstones, and stuffed them into a cloth sack, smoke and heat rolled over her back. When the encroaching smoke devoured the last breath of clean air inside the tent, she dragged her sweaty body to the front of the tent, toward safety.

  ***

  Bryce Buchanan stood beside the athletic field in an area roped off from the visitors. His fellow athletes talked among themselves beneath a blue sky that looked…unchanged. Barely a day earlier, he’d wrestled with his conscience until he chose to return to the present, from the Highlands of 1603 Scotland. Too many strange things had happened, and he nearly lost his life on several occasions. He hated to leave his friend, Jake, but Jake had married a woman from that time.

  He’d hitched a ride out of there the moment his friend, Jake, mentioned there was a way to get home. He was happy to leave behind the Highland warriors who had brandished huge swords in his face; the dragon-like creature who wanted to make a meal of him; and the fire that left him scarred. He couldn’t get home fast enough.

  Jake asked him to dispose of his belongings. Bryce already planned to box up any important-looking papers, then would sell Jake’s furnishings and donate his clothes. He’d keep a few things at his place just in case his friend had a change of heart.

  The horse and all Jake’s blacksmith tools were a problem.

  “How do I sell a nag that is older than dirt?” He chuckled at the familiar words. He might miss Dorcas Swann the most.

  Maybe Jake’s pretty neighbor would help him. He’d met Jenny the same day Jake’s bride fell into his arms. Well, Skye Gunn wasn’t Jake’s bride at the time, “But the sparks between those two were hot enough to singe my shirt.”

  “Sign my breast?” a female voice chirped from behind him.

  Turning, he pasted a fake smile on his face, and slipped a black marker from his leather sporran. The leather pocket that hung over his groin was handy, since neither his kilt nor his T-shirt sported pockets.

  “Nice purse,” she said. “Can I see what’s under your kilt?”

  He didn’t answer. Never did. With one eye on her hands, he leaned closer and scribbled his signature on the creamy flesh that peeked above her peasant blouse.

  She kissed his knuckles, then disappeared into the crowd. Since his last attempt at turning the caber put him at the top of the leader board, all he had to do was watch the last competitor try for a perfect twelve o’clock landing to tie his score.

  His muscular redheaded opponent, wearing what looked like the MacLeod tartan and fresh off the plane from Scotland, was a worry. Bryce kept an eye on his technique, hoping to spot a flaw.

  No such luck.

  The athlete kept his back and knees slightly bent, and cupped his hands under the narrow end of the twenty-foot long telephone pole. An official, with a clipboard, also acted as a spotter. The crowd hushed, and only the lonely notes from a single bagpipe floated toward them from the distant parade ground. Would the competitor make the crowd explode with praise, or sigh with pity from a botched toss?

  He rested the caber against one shoulder, stood, then speed-walked across the field. The official followed behind him, in case he lost his balance. The competitor’s kilt, a bold yellow and black plaid, flapped in his wake, as he gained speed. When he stopped, bent forward, and groaned, the crowd went silent.

  Bryce crossed his fingers behind his back. He wanted to win. After all that he’d left behind in ancient Scotland, he deserved applause…and another medal.

  “There it goes!” another athlete beside him said.

  “His form is spot-on,” Bryce answered. He wanted to stay positive, but envy threatened to ruin his afternoon.

  “Did you just growl?” the man joked.

  Not funny. “No, but I hope he lands off-center.”

  “Sure, but he came all the way from Scotland for a chance at the championship medal.”

  If you only knew how far I came to be here today…

  The caber flew through the air, turned end over end, then landed, facing slightly to the east of the athlete’s chest. The crowd clapped and whistled, but didn’t roar, as they had when Bryce had competed.

  “You won!”

  “Yep. Guess I better appease my fans.”

  Bryce walked into the center of the grassy field and lifted both arms. The crowd went ballistic, roaring their appreciation. It occurred to him that the sound was similar to the mob of villagers, back in 1603 Scotland, who’d screamed his name.

  The Highland festival that surrounded the wedding of his best friend had occurred barely a few days ago, yet he could still hear the happy clansmen as they clinked tankards of ale. The laughter of children as they chased sheep in the meadow, while breakers crashed on the shores below Castle Ruadh, reverberated in his head. He could almost taste roast venison and fresh-baked breads served on platters as large as shields.

  His stomach growled.

  Bryce waved at the cheering crowd, and shook hands with several officials. He accepted the large medal hanging from a ribbon and shoved it inside his sporran. With his attention drawn toward filling his stomach and satisfying his thirst, he slipped under the rope.

  “Hey, Bull, where you going in such a hurry?” a young man yelled from the athletic field.

  “I’ll be back,” he said, chuckling. The familiar nickname was embarrassing at times. When he wore an athlete’s tank top along with his belted kilt, the crowd called him Bull. At six-foot-four, and tipping the scales at 280, he accepted the moniker. The man had probably caught his earlier attempt to set a world record in the hammer throw. He smiled to himself. He had nearly cracked that record, but for some reason his head wasn’t in the game. He strode in silence toward the food vendors.

  Nothing they sold would match the bounty he’d tasted while a guest at Castle Ruadh, but a flaky meat-filled bridie or a pitcher of beer would suffice. Would he ever taste deer meat cooked in onion, wine, and fresh herbs again?

  Did I make the right choice?

  He could have stayed in the past, surrounded by people he’d grown to like and value. After magic and a sorcerer’s threat had landed him, Jake, Skye, and two of Jake’s horses in 1603 Scotland, he realized he missed modern life.

  He didn’t miss his job, but he had a plan to change that. He had petitioned for a leave of absence for the beginning of the new term that had started the first week of September. When his replacement in the European history department at Falconscroft came down with a nasty case of shingles during the first week, Bryce offered to postpone his travels until the man completed his dose of antibiotics and returned to health.

  Fortunately, he had hired a graduate student to carry out most of the lessons at the exclusive private college. His unplanned trip back in time could have spelled disaster for his reputation, if he had simply appeared to have walk
ed out on his profession.

  The idea of never teaching again was scary, and was one of the reasons he insisted on returning home. When he’d checked in with the school, soon after returning to the present, they informed him that the replacement professor’s health had improved, and he was expected back on Monday. They told Bull not to worry, and enjoy himself.

  Now I’m torn.

  He had planned to backpack across Europe in the hopes of delving into the history of the land and its people. Why hadn’t he stayed in ancient Scotland? He could have absorbed the culture and history in person.

  Rubbing his chest, he recalled Highland warriors who had brandished swords, and dragons breathing fire. They had threatened his life, so he’d left.

  Regrets? He had a few, but now he was stuck here, unless he ran into a crooked old woman with a carved cane, and the power to return him to the past. Would he petition her to help send him back?

  He shook his head, pounding a fist against his hip. Indecision was not in his nature. Coming home and throwing himself into athletic competition was the right choice. He had no business living with savage Scots in the desolate Highlands of Scotland.

  Bryce breathed in a whiff of smoke, coughing. He spun around. “This isn’t the mouth-watering scent of grilled or fried food.”

  His vision wavered as he stared through thickening smoke. Memories of a similar smell, during a recent horror that nearly claimed his life, turned his stomach. The scars on his back itched, even though any pain had died due to the old witch’s care. Her smelly salve, which Jake had claimed was medicine, worked like a charm. The burns had healed, but the acrid stench remained. It filled the air and reminded him all too well of that day.

  “The same stench.”

  He rolled his shoulders. Shaking the dark memory loose, he strode in search of the source of the smoke. It could simply be a cook pit like the ones used by the volunteers acting like ancient Scots at the historical encampment, but they pitched their tents on a hillside in the opposite direction. Accidents happen, unlike what caused the barn fire that nearly claimed his life.

  He followed the odor of smoke. Had a vendor set his cooking oil too high? Had he burned the meat pies? Was a member of Clan Village having a problem with a grill? Many representatives of the hundred or so Scottish clans in attendance cooked inside their tents, in between assisting visitors with genealogy. Worse yet, had a structure fire ignited in the middle of the New England Highland Games?

  Thousands of people crowded the vendor tents, athletic field, and parade grounds. One lonely fire truck and ambulance stood at the ready, but how could they help if dozens of tents went up in flames? Additional trucks and personnel were miles south, in the center of the small town of Lincoln.

  Pushing through the crowds, he zeroed in on black smoke puffing from behind a tent that stood in the shadow of the ski lodge.

  “What the…if the flames jump, the whole lodge could go up!”

  Ducking his tall body under the low-hanging tent flap, he stormed inside, and slammed into a soft bundle of womanly curves that shoved him off balance.

  CHAPTER 2

  When Bryce stood up inside the smoke-darkened tent, the small, warm body of a woman staggered away from him, and back into the heavy smoke. She coughed, and he reacted.

  “Whoa!” Drawing her to him, he instinctively wrapped his arms around her, as if he planned to heft a caber and toss it end over end. However, when the soft bundle of energy squeaked, he froze. Whoever she was, she wanted out, while he wanted in.

  Inhaling deeply, the fragrance of flowers filled his lungs, making him hesitate. Why had the subtle bouquet unhinged him for the barest of moments? Why wasn’t he home in bed, with one of the beautiful groupies who hung on his arm, after every turn of the caber. As an athlete, he was accustomed to free kisses, and eager bed partners, but none of them had made his heart skip with a simple whiff of their womanly perfume.

  When the acrid smoke stole his next breath, and her scent faded away, he sprang to action. Hesitating was not like him. The smoke had gotten thicker and the heat level rose, while he was thinking about bedding a woman.

  Right. Fire.

  “Whoa, darlin’”

  “Out of my way!”

  When she pounded his chest, he tightened his grip around her delicate arms. As she twisted to escape, his grasp on the silky softness of her bare arm slipped, replaced by handfuls of rounded, cloth-covered breasts.

  “Sorry,” he said, and forced his attention from the bounty in his grasp. He coughed, more to hide a laugh, even as smoke filled the dark space.

  “Unhand me, ye brute.”

  Ignoring her, he took hold of her arms again and pulled her outside with him. “Calm your jets, little lady. I was looking for a fire. Didn’t know one would drop into my lap.”

  Not twice in his lifetime, he thought, thinking about how he had met Jake’s young wife, when Skye literally fell into his arms.

  His smile was probably invisible in the smoke that poured from the tent, surrounding them, but he needed to get her under control. The panicked look in her eyes, and the soot beneath her nostrils was a bad sign. She’d inhaled too much of the acrid fumes. Why wasn’t she coughing under the onslaught of burning residue? He had visited the tent a few times, and had to assume the suspect bags of herbs and weird bottled potions helped fuel the flames.

  She sucked in a gravelly lungful of air, and coughed.

  “I think I best get you clear of this mess.”

  “ ‘Tis my mess, ye brute. If ye doona’ remove yer hands from my person, I shall render ye incapable of spawning heirs.” Her knee rose, but he shifted his thigh, and blocked her attack.

  He wanted to laugh at her haughty answer, but he couldn’t breathe. Even while standing in the clean air outside the smoky tent, his chest heaved. He loosened his hold on the stranger in his embrace. She pulled cleanly away, then stomped on his foot.

  “Let me be!”

  Squeezing his eyes shut because of the stinging smoke, he snarled a response while breathing cleaner air into his lungs. At the sound of footsteps tromping away on the gravel-filled trail, Bull rubbed his tearing eyes. Forcing them open, he stared at the back of a woman who had responded to his act of heroism as if he’d done something wrong. Was saving her life too outrageous? Couldn’t she take a minute to thank him?

  She stopped, turned toward him, and obviously struggled to clear her lungs. He wanted nothing more than to gather her in his arms, and sink into her flowery fragrance for the rest of the afternoon. He fisted his hands and dragged them back to his sides.

  He stared at her, concentrating. Petite, but definitely a woman in her early twenties, she stared at a point beyond his left shoulder, as if embarrassed to meet his gaze. So tiny, she barely came up to his chin. Her wide-eyed glare showed off pupils as gray as moonlit clouds. Pink lips, slightly parted, caused his groin to tighten.

  The glow tinting her cheeks was becoming. When her chest heaved and she sucked in cleaner air, his gaze dropped. Sweat trickled below her left ear, down her neck, and into the bodice of her blouse.

  “Lovely.”

  “Keep yer silver tongue away from me, warrior,” she said.

  “Did I say that out loud? Sorry.” The shape and feel of the bounty beneath her clothes was all woman. Like others attending the Scottish festival, she wore a puff-sleeved linen shirt beneath a vest that laced up the front. The shirt was a pale yellow, and the vest was a deep green fabric. It looked very soft, and his fingers itched to slide up and cup her large, rounded breasts.

  On purpose, this time.

  Her only departure from others dressed in ancient Highland attire, was the jeans she wore instead of a skirt. The tight-fitting jeans were wrapped around two shapely legs and he forced his eyes upward. His gaze stopped at the ties of the vest. How quickly could he loosen them with his teeth?

  “What be ye looking at?” she snapped.

  He forced his gaze back to her heart-shaped face. Soot beneath her nose
reminded him of the seriousness of the situation.

  “A rude pipsqueak who doesn’t know enough to say thank you?”

  “Rude? Yer the pig-headed…” Bending slightly at the waist, she coughed, struggling to catch her breath.

  He stepped closer.

  “Keep yer paws off my…private parts, and I will no’ unman ye.”

  “Fine. Let’s get away from this tent before it rains hot cinders on us.” He strode up the trail. Sensing she followed him a few steps, and then stopped, he spun to glare at her.

  “Who did this? Why?” she cried, refusing to move any farther. Jerking a scrap of tartan plaid from her hair and letting it fall free, she hid her face in her hands. Her long blonde hair rained down, hiding her upper body under a mass of curls.

  He yearned to reach out and run his fingers through her hair, to see if it was as silky as it looked. It was stronger than any urge he’d felt since leaving Castle Ruadh. As she sobbed, a round brooch, with an odd shape carved into the metal, tumbled to the ground at his feet.

  A glance at it made him think of a dragon he’d had the misfortune to tangle with some days ago. Bull bent to grab it, and she shrieked.

  ***

  Izzy staggered backwards, staring at his large hand as he bent to grab her treasured amulet. She yearned to escape the smoke and alluring scent of the big man. In her haste to leave the smoke-filled tent, she had slammed into his rock-hard chest. The contact must have damaged the chain holding her pendant.

  Biting her lower lip, she kept quiet. The brute’s broad shoulders, and the stripe of sweat she had witnessed down his back when he bent over, took her breath away.

  Slapping the necklace into her outstretched hands, he grasped her arms in two meaty fists, pulling her off her feet before she could protest.

  He carried her farther from the tent, and back to where the air was clear of heavy smoke. She breathed in fresh air, tangled with the manly scent of musk and leather.

  “Put me down, ye brute!”