Och, could he even take her back through time with him when he returned? He had but one crystal. Mayhap if they walked into the disturbance simultaneously ’twould work, but what if he lost her along the way? He’d clasp her hands in his, or better yet, hold her tight in his arms. He should have bargained for more than the two tokens. After all, one of the reasons for this journey was to find a lady of his own. Would fate be so cruel as to lead him to her, only to be thwarted when it came time to return? His gut wrenched. “Why did I no’ think to ask Giselle what my future held?”
Shaking himself out of his reverie, he focused on more pressing matters. If he meant to train today, he’d need sustenance. He finished his porridge and rinsed the bowl before placing it and the spoon into the contraption that would wash them. Robley grabbed his mug of coffee and headed for the bathing room. A bath, shave and dressing in his new twenty-first-century garments would be his next adventure.
Though he found the jeans somewhat constricting, he had not mistaken Erin’s appreciative glances. Her eyes had darkened, and she’d become breathless when she’d spied him in his jeans and T-shirt. Her reaction did much to encourage him. She had not looked upon Mark in the same way. In fact, she’d hardly cast her eyes in the other man’s direction at all.
By the time he’d finished his ablutions, it was past eleven o’clock, and Robley prowled around Erin’s great room, picking up this item and that to turn over in his hands for inspection. She had entire shelves filled with books, flimsy by his standards, but books nonetheless. A treasure, to be sure. It took months for a monk to copy and bind a book in his time.
He drew one from its place and glanced at the cover. His brow rose nearly to his hairline at the picture of a half-naked man wearing a broad-brimmed hat, jeans and boots. He thumbed through the thin pages. What manner of book did his lady read? Curious, he took the tome with him to the couch and settled himself to read.
Scandalous! His pulse quickened, and he couldn’t prevent the erotic images from flooding his mind. He set the book down, but not before taking note of the page number. Why, the man and woman had scarce made each other’s acquaintance, and they were already tumbling into bed, doing all sorts of sensual things to each other. Visions of Erin danced through his head, and he imagined holding her. Naked. His jeans grew uncomfortably tight. He picked the book back up to read more.
A few chapters later, he glanced at the clock. He had just enough time to warm some leftover pizza in the microwave for his midday meal before Mark arrived. Taking the book with him, he laid it on the table and propped it open with the salt shaker. He took a plate out of the cabinet and brought it to the fridge to fetch the pizza. Erin had said only a minute or so to warm the leftovers. He put a generous helping onto the plate and set it in the microwave. Again he watched the plate rotate inside. Molly, their cook, would never believe such a thing was possible. He hardly believed it himself. The ping sounded. He moved to the table to eat his pizza . . . and read.
Robley stood outside Erin’s building with his claymore strapped to his back over his hooded sweatshirt. He searched the roadway for any sign of Mark. A moment later, a deep rumble commenced from down the road, growing louder as it approached. Robley stared at the sleek, shiny, two-wheeled black-and-silver vehicle and the lone helmeted rider fast approaching.
Wonder of wonders! The rider pulled the beast up beside him, kicked a stand down and shut off the marvelous sound. He pulled the helmet from his head.
Robley’s eyes widened in unadulterated admiration. “What is this?”
A cocky grin lit Mark’s face. “This is my Harley, or what I like to refer to as my chick magnet.” He dismounted and joined him in mutual appreciation for the bike.
“Chick magnet? What has this to do with chickens?” He shot him a questioning look. “I dinna take your meaning.”
“The ladies love to ride, and Harleys are the gold standard in bikes.” Mark chuckled and shook his head. “You act like you’ve never seen a motorcycle before.”
“Humph.” Would he become nauseated when they rode? By the saints, he prayed not. Anticipation lit a fire within him. “Let us depart.”
“OK. I only have the one helmet.” Mark straddled the bike. “Do you want to wear it?”
“Nay.”
“Hold on to this.” He indicated the metal rack extending up from the back of the second seat. “Climb on. Your feet go here.” He pointed again.
Robley climbed on, adjusted his sword and kept his feet on the ground until the Harley moved onto the roadway. The bike vibrated and roared to life as they gathered speed. A wide smile broke free. No nausea, only an exhilarating thrill. “I wish to learn how to operate this vehicle,” he shouted over the rumble.
Mark nodded his helmeted head, and excitement thrummed through Robley’s veins. Did he possess enough of the modern-day currency to purchase a Harley Davidson? Because he wanted one—by the end of the day if possible.
Far too soon, they pulled up next to a building, and Mark shut off the bike. He set the stand and removed his helmet. “You liked the ride?” he asked as he dismounted.
“Indeed.” Reluctantly, Rob climbed off the amazing machine. “In exchange for my tutelage in combat techniques, you will teach me how to drive a Harley?” Truth be told, he would gladly forfeit the time in the lists for another ride. Only this time, he wished to go faster and farther afield. Much faster and farther.
“If you want. After our workout, we’ll find an empty parking lot where we can practice. It’s not hard. The clutch is the pedal here.” He tapped his foot on the part. “The gears and accelerator are on the handlebars, and these are the brakes.” He indicated each part as he named it. “Let’s go inside. I want you to teach me how to disarm my opponent the way you did with Jerry the other day. He’s meeting us here, by the way. I hope that’s all right with you.”
“For certes, he needs to train as well.” He followed Mark through the door to a very large chamber. The wood-plank floor was polished to a high shine and had lines and circles painted upon its surface. Racks and shelving positioned near the wall on one end held all manner of swords and accoutrements. Most of the swords were unlike any he’d seen—smaller, shorter, with narrow, unsharpened blades and blunted tips covered with small plastic circlets. But there were also many resembling his claymore, only made of plastic. A group of individuals wearing padded garments like he wore under his armor were engaged in practice with broadswords. “What do they wear over their faces?” he murmured.
“Ah, it’s just protective gear. Come on. There’s Connor. He owns the place.” Mark took off for the tall, fit man standing to the side and watching over the group practicing. He held a long plastic sword with the flat side of the blade resting upon his shoulder.
“Connor, I want to introduce you to my friend. You won’t believe the mad skills he has with that weapon he’s carrying. Robley MacKintosh, this is Connor McGladrey.”
His stance, assessing stare, the width of his shoulders and the condition of his well-toned muscles took Robley by surprise. He recognized a hardened warrior when he saw one. Connor appeared somewhat older than Robley, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties. His red hair and beard were neatly groomed and threaded with silver. Robley extended his hand. “’Tis glad I am to make your acquaintance.” They clasped forearms for a second. Robley gestured to his own claymore. “Do you fancy a new sparring partner?”
“Aye.” McGladrey’s eyes lit up. “But first I must fetch my sword. Prepare to be soundly trounced, boyo.”
Robley laughed. “You have the lilt of the Irish.”
“And you’ve the brogue of a bluidy Scott.” He eyed the hilt of Robley’s sword intently, his expression inscrutable. “Wait here.”
He strode up a short flight of stairs and moved behind a counter to a back room, returning just as quickly. This time he held a real broadsword. “Let us move to where we have room to m
ove.” He swaggered off to the center of the indoor lists. Robley and Mark followed.
Robley rotated his neck and shoulders, stretching his muscles in readiness. In Connor McGladrey, he sensed he’d finally found a worthy opponent. He drew his claymore, and they faced off, slightly crouched, loose and battle ready. Robley shifted, first right, then left, taking his weight upon the heels of his feet. He adjusted his grip, balancing his weapon. Everything slid into its proper place.
“Normally, I’d insist you wear protective gear, and we’d use mock weapons,” McGladrey informed him as he paced, running his eyes over Rob. “Liability, ye see.”
“Och. No need. ’Tis unlikely you’ll manage to touch me.” He watched Connor, waiting for the first strike, gauging how the other man moved, how he held himself, which side he favored. Wits and brawn. Their swords rose at the same time, crashing together in midair. The force of the first blow reverberated down his arms. They both backed off. Robley grinned.
The dance had begun in earnest. The next clash involved a series of offensive strikes, advances and defensive feints, forward and back. Robley slid his blade along Connor’s, pivoting as he applied pressure in a circular motion.
Connor laughed aloud. “I’ve not defended against that move since . . .” Shock crossed his face for an instant and disappeared just as quickly. Instead of attempting to parry, he’d allowed his blade to glide into the rotation, effectively thwarting Robley’s attempt to disarm him. Robley’s brow rose, and he bowed his head slightly in respect. Connor was no novice. He faced a true knight of noble blood, judging by the way he carried himself.
Keeping his glare focused upon Rob, Connor initiated a flurry of blows, forcing him back. Robley blocked each swing and shifted into the offensive, gaining ground. They both backed off, circling each other again, swords at the ready, nerves on edge.
“You’re quite handy with a claymore, but no’ nearly as handy as meself,” his opponent boasted.
Robley shrugged, his manner nonchalant. “Come then. Prove it.”
Connor advanced, striking hard, high, low, pivot and thrust. Rob jumped back. They parted, stepping around each other warily, looking for openings, seeking weaknesses. Tension pulsed between them. Determination and battle lust washed through him. Predatory instinct took over, and he moved in for the kill, beating Connor back to the very edge of his limits. In a sudden spurt, Connor came back at Robley, just as determined—every bit as skilled.
Robley laughed aloud. “’Tis good to be alive, aye?”
“Aye, that it is, boyo.” McGladrey nodded. “That it is.”
They continued on for a good while. Robley reveled in the physical exertion, the contest of wills, wit and strength. Equally matched, neither got the upper hand for long; neither gave ground for long. They had an audience. The clanging ring and hiss of steel on steel rent the air, and sweat dripped into his eyes. His muscles were loose, his blood hot, and his lungs worked like a bellows. This is what he lived for. “Had enough, old man?” he taunted.
“Not nearly enough, laddie,” Connor taunted back, blocking his attack. “But we need to talk, aye? Pax?”
“Pax.” Robley backed up and touched the flat of his blade to his forehead in salute. He reached for his scabbard, sliding his claymore home. Mark handed him a small white cloth, and Rob wiped the sweat from his face and the back of his neck while catching his breath. “My thanks.”
“That was incredible, man.” Mark followed them toward a door marked “Office.”
“Mark, will you take my place instructing the class while I have a word with our guest? Jerry has arrived. Have him join you.”
“Oh.” Mark’s face lit up. “Sure.” He veered off to take up his role as instructor, his posture a little straighter and his stride a bit longer.
Connor opened the door and waved him in. He placed his sword across a rack hanging from the wall. “What year are you from, Robley of clan MacKintosh?” he asked, sliding behind the desk. He sank into the chair and propped his elbows on the surface. Clasping his hands together, he arched an eyebrow and flashed Robley an arrogant look.
Connor was of noble blood for certes, he thought to himself. “I beg your pardon?” Rob shifted his claymore and took the seat opposite. Heat crept up his neck.
“I know a well-seasoned, blooded warrior when I meet one in the lists, and I’ll wager noble blood runs through your veins. Your sword,” he said, jutting his chin toward Robley’s scabbard. “As sure as I’m sitting here, that blade was made for you centuries ago.” Connor leaned back in his chair, regarding him with steady intensity. “When are you from?”
No wonder he’d recognized a worthy opponent in Connor. He should be more shocked than he was, but True had come through time, as had he. There were bound to be others. “And you? When are you from?”
“The year of our Lord 1299.” Connor shrugged. “I was an arrogant boyo, full of meself, and the heir to a chiefdom. I was out hunting with a group of my friends when I spied a strange woman. Limned in blue fire she was, tall and slender with hair the color of moonlight. None noticed her but me, and I wanted her for meself. I ordered my fellows to continue on and told them I’d catch up with them later.” He grunted.
“Foolishness. I thought to gain her favor or some kind of edge over my fellows, so I followed the faerie. I know that’s what she was. She led me all the way to the hills of Tara. The air around her began to ripple and shimmer. She disappeared. The shimmer remained.” He paused, his expression turning inward. “I went to have a closer look. The next thing I knew, a stranger was shaking me awake where I lay unconscious in the midst of a field of wheat.” He shuddered.
“I’ve not seen the blue-rimmed being since, though for years I searched. I did my best to find a way home.” He shot Robley a pointed look. “That was more than twenty-five years ago.” He slid a picture around for him to see. “I’m married now, with a family. I have two fine sons and a daughter. The laddie who found me asleep in his field took me to his home. I helped the family with farming in exchange for lodging and their help. They secured false documents for me, like a birth certificate and passport. Eventually I married their daughter and started this business.”
“I’m from the year of our Lord 1426,” Robley confessed. He thought better of mentioning his bargain or the crystals. “The same rippling disturbance in the air brought me here. I fell into a lass as I came through. She has taken me in for now.”
“Ah.” Connor nodded. “You need a job, money. Work here, and I’ll pay you in cash until we can get you into the system. My oldest son is off to his first year of college. Though he pitches in as much as he can when he’s home, I could use the help now. My other son has no interest, and my daughter is still too young to work here.”
“Your daughter wields a sword?” Rob blinked.
“Aye.” He barked out a laugh. “Out of the three, she’s the most adept with a sword, dagger and bow. Meghan also studies mixed martial arts. She’s a natural, a wonder,” he said with obvious pride.
“Martial arts?”
“Hand-to-hand combat from the Orient, which is now called Asia, by the way.” He straightened. “I’d like to help you the same way the family who took me in helped me. There are ways to secure a false birth certificate, and with that you can get a driver’s license and passport.” His mouth tightened. “I know you must be missing your kin, but there’s no way back, laddie. Believe me, I tried. Best accept your fate and let it go. The sooner you do, the sooner you can begin building a new life in the here and now.”
“I dinna ken how I’d manage to find my way back to your establishment each day, but I’d like to take you up on your offer. Would I teach sword fighting?” He’d have to remember to ask Erin about “the system” Connor mentioned.
“Absolutely.” Connor stood. “There are buses. We’ll figure it all out, but in the meantime, I want you and your lassie to come to dinner. Meet
my family, and we’ll talk about what must be done. They’ll accept your presence without question.” He reached for a small rectangle of paper and a pen. “I’m writing my cell phone and landline numbers on the back. Talk it over with . . . What’s your lassie’s name?”
“Erin Durie.”
“Aye?” His eyes widened. “I know Erin. Years ago, my wife and I started a reenactment organization to preserve the history and way of life from my time. Erin has been a member for at least five years now. This is good. She’ll be a great help to you.” He handed him the bit of paper.
Robley glanced at it before tucking it into his pocket. “It almost seems as if . . .”
“Like your coming here and meeting Erin was meant to be?” Connor’s wry grin hit home. “That’s exactly how I felt once I’d accepted what happened. I fell in love with my sweet Katherine the moment I laid eyes on her. I was but ten and five, and she but ten and four. I resisted the attraction until I could fight it no more, because I wanted to return home. I’m happy. Content. You will be too.” He came around the desk and put his hand on Robley’s shoulder for an instant. “Give it time, laddie.”
After hearing Connor’s tale, Robley didn’t have the heart to tell the man he had a way to return and planned only to be in this era or time for a short while. Connor hadn’t had a choice in the matter, and he didn’t want to upset him. “My thanks. I’d best return to Erin’s before she arrives home. I wouldn’t want her to believe I’ve disappeared.” Plus, he wanted his first lesson on Mark’s Harley.
“Do that. Call me once you’ve discussed things with Erin. It’ll be good for her to know you aren’t the only man to fall through time as you did.”
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