Super Summer Set of Historical Shorts

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Though he didn’t stop, Quinn bowed his head respectfully. “Good evening.”

  Of course, Eachan stopped and grasped the girl’s hand. “And a fine night it is, especially with you making it so.”

  Good God, his younger brother ought to be a bard. The lad flaunted his charm to every lassie who crossed his path.

  Let Eachan have his fun. Quinn hadn’t an eye for just any lassie this eve. After his wee chat with the old seer, he hadn’t stopped searching for a bonny blonde wearing a blue dress. To his chagrin, when he’d been named grand champion too many women had surrounded him, each one paling in comparison to the nymph who’d given him the rose. He glanced at the flower still pinned at his shoulder. It had opened a bit more and, bless it, the bloom had taken on a healthier glow.

  “Och, if it is not the behemoth himself,” said Rory MacLeod, chieftain of Clan MacLeod of Harris.

  Quinn slid onto the seat beside the man, gesturing for MacGregor to sit as well—Eachan would follow in his own time—when he finished slavering over the lassies no doubt. “What’s this? The way everyone is carrying on, you’d think I’m akin to Goliath.”

  “Ye are,” grumbled MacDougall across the board.

  Quinn took a healthy drink of ale. “Not by half. And MacGregor’s a hand taller.” He stole a glance over each shoulder. Where is she?

  The courtyard suddenly grew quiet and all eyes shifted to the arched entry. Sitting a bit taller, Quinn looked as well.

  And then he saw her. The woman from the forest. The nymph who visited Quinn’s dreams. His heart thudded against his chest. His mouth grew dry.

  “God’s bones.”

  “Aye,” said MacGregor in a tone so lecherous, it immediately made Quinn want to throw a fist across the lout’s jaw.

  The goddess moved gracefully the entire length of the hall until she reached the high table. While she stood at the far end, some bumbling arse pulled out a chair for her. But she didn’t sit immediately. Her gaze locked with Quinn’s as if to say she was so far above him, he would be begging for the scraps from her plate by the night’s end.

  Aye, I’d beg on my knees if she’d allow me five minutes to gaze into her eyes.

  She embodied the regality of a Scottish queen, wearing a crown of red roses, a gown with a snug fitting bodice, and a blue and green plaid fastened at her shoulder with a chieftain’s brooch with four emeralds—one as bold as Quinn’s.

  “A woman clan chief?” mumbled MacGregor.

  But Quinn paid him no mind. What he wanted to know was why had the lass appeared alone in the forest? Especially if she was of the gentry. Why had she brought the rosebud to him last eve? Blessed be the saints, she defined bonny. Beneath her crown, the woman wore her hair unbound. Aye, the cascades of waves flowing all the way to her hips made every man in the hall weak at the knees. A medieval princess presiding over a medieval castle could not be more fitting for this eve.

  What were the words she’d said?

  Quinn’s mind couldn’t focus, but he knew his victory that day had not impressed her. Aye, dozens of women around would give their eyeteeth to lie with him this night, but not a one would suffice but the beauty who gazed upon him without a smile. Did she harbor some dark secret about him that was too horrible to utter?

  “Who is she?” he asked MacLeod.

  “I have no idea.”

  Down the table, the rest of the men looked baffled as well, but nary a one spoke out.

  Quinn spent the rest of the meal watching her. She rarely glanced his way, but when she did, his heart raced.

  “You aiming to eat that?” asked MacGregor.

  He blinked. “Huh?”

  The henchman pointed with his fork. “The pound of pork on your plate. Bloody oath, after the day’s activity, I would have thought you’d be famished.”

  Quinn pushed his food toward his friend. “Take it.”

  When finally the pipers and fiddlers announced a reel, he sprang to his feet and boldly strode toward the lass. A delicate eyebrow arched as he executed a courtly bow. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

  When she hesitated, the chieftain beside her leaned in. “It would be disrespectful to refuse His Lordship.”

  “Nay,” Quinn said. “I want only what the lady desires.”

  “What I desire, m’lord?” she asked in the same sultry tone he’d thought he dreamed the night before.

  “Aye, for a woman of your ilk should not be cosseted by the rules that bind mere mortals.”

  Enticing blue eyes grew darker. “I assure you, I am as mortal as you, perhaps more so.”

  “Perhaps, but this night you are not of this world.” He bowed, deeper this time. “Please dance with me, m’lady.”

  ***

  By the time Alice placed her fingers in Lord Quinn’s outstretched palm, she was shaking like a sapling in a gale-force wind.

  Curses to Gran for putting her up to this. Everyone was staring at her as if she were the queen of the fairies. Moreover, they acted as if she would smite them if anyone uttered a criticizing word. Had Toward Castle not been burned, had the Lamont lands not been stolen, Alice might be a force to be reckoned with, but without them she was nothing. She was nothing but a poor maid who had grown up hiding from her enemies—people like Quinn Campbell who presently held her hand, leading her to the round patch of grass where the dancers were congregating for a reel.

  With bold strides, His Lordship escorted her to the lady’s line. Before he left to join the men, he leaned forward and whispered, “Pray tell, what is your name?”

  “Alice,” she replied, his closeness making her tremble all the more.

  “Merely Alice?”

  “Aye.”

  The music demanded he accept her response and he joined the men’s line. Taller and bonnier than the others, he stood there like a king, his gaze not leaving her face even after they began to dance. Intense and focused, his eyes were a rich mahogany, nearly the same color as his hair. He danced like a competitor, his motion crisp and accurate while his kilt slapped the back of his legs. During the turns, he grasped her hand firmly though gently enough not to cause pain.

  Alice didn’t want to like him, but it was impossible not to fall victim to the handsome contours of his face. He’d clubbed his hair back, though a wave falling to the side of his chiseled cheek had escaped. It gave him an air of wildness, which combined with the shadow of his beard, made him almost irresistible. Had the man not been a Campbell, Alice doubted she’d be able to move her feet.

  “Are you enjoying the fête?” he asked, his deep brogue rolling off his tongue.

  It didn’t escape her notice that he’d mentioned nothing about the games earlier. “I have.” Again, Alice chose brevity in her response. “And you?”

  He grinned, a smile as brilliant as the sun set her stomach aflutter. “I suppose I haven’t had much time to consider it.”

  “Does the competition make you nervous?”

  “Not overmuch. I hate to lose, though, so I suppose—” His words were cut off by the need to skip along with the woman to Alice’s right while she locked elbows with a man she’d never seen before.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she assessed the new man, hoping to find him attractive, yet being unduly disappointed. She couldn’t stop her giggle when she again joined hands with His Lordship.

  His eyes twinkled. “You’re the bonniest woman here,” he whispered, his breath skimming her neck.

  Merciful fairies, why not allow herself to like this man, just for tonight? The thought made her search the faces for Gran. She must be lurking somewhere in the shadows. Alice had been dismayed when her grandmother had pushed her toward the ceilidh alone. If only they could have gone in together. But the wizened woman had been emphatic that Alice must join the clan chiefs alone—without letting anyone know who she truly was.

  Aye, by the end of the evening, she might mention she was the sole Lamont heir, but not until.

  Pinned at Quinn’s shoulder, the damask l
ooked vibrant. Would it bloom in full this night, or would there be more? Of one thing Alice was sure: if Quinn Campbell continued to command her time, she had absolutely no chance of finding a suitor.

  Chapter Five

  Command her time, His Lordship certainly did. And there wasn’t anything Alice could do about it. Had she forgotten how to say no? By the time the music stopped, she’d almost lost sight of the powerful hatred between their clans—or that Lord Quinn still had no idea she was a Lamont.

  Nearly out of breath, she curtsied. “Thank you for—”

  Crack!

  As a musket blasted from the wall-walk, a lead ball whistled over Alice’s head. Before her eyes, the shot hit her dancing partner’s shoulder. Hurtled backward, His Lordship’s smile distorted into a grimace of shock and pain. Arms flailing, he crashed to the ground as more shots boomed from above.

  A woman screamed.

  Alice’s throat burned as if she’d been the one screaming.

  Time slowed as the courtyard plunged into utter mayhem. Alice stared in disbelief. Oh, God. Quinn Campbell had been shot. All around the courtyard, long tables crashed to their sides as Highlanders charged their muskets and returned fire.

  With her next blink, Alice dove on top of Quinn to protect him from the volley of fire. “Help!” she shouted.

  The big man shifted beneath her. “I’m all right, lass,” he grunted. But he wasn’t.

  She spotted stone wall only five paces away—safety. “Can you rise?”

  “As long as I’m breathing I’ll fight to the end.”

  Musket fire cracked from all directions.

  “You’ve no weapons save your dirk!” she shrieked.

  “That can be remedied.” Even facing death, the man was cocksure.

  Alice shifted aside. He’d lost too much blood. He might be talking like a warrior now, but as soon as he tried to stand he’d find himself far weaker than he believed. She took his hand and squeezed. “On the count of three, follow me.”

  “But I—”

  “Three!” With no time to argue, she sprang to her feet and tugged his hand.

  Wincing, he stood.

  In a crouch, she tugged him toward the safety of the wall—an alcove of some sort. “This way.”

  “Over here!” Gran called from a cavern no more than three feet high, as if she’d been hiding in that spot all night.

  “Hurry,” Alice shouted, glancing over her shoulder. His Lordship followed, his face blanched but determined.

  The clashing sounds of battle faded as they made their escape. And once they’d passed through the gap in the wall, Gran led them through a dank tunnel that opened to the foregrounds.

  “What’s happening?” Alice looked twice at her grandmother. In place of her cane, the woman was holding a musket. “Are you a part of this?”

  “Nay, but I’m not surprised.” She tugged Alice toward the edge of the moat. “The water is only a few inches deep here. Go quickly. You’ll find a skiff at the end of the pier. Spirit him away from here. Stop for no one.”

  Resting his hands on his knees, Quinn shook his head. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Och aye, ye beast?” Gran challenged. “You aim to go back inside? They have the place surrounded and the only quarry they’re after is you!”

  Refusing to release Lord Quinn’s hand, Alice surged ahead. “Who are those people?”

  Gran stopped, leaning heavily on her musket. “They’re rogues. I told them there was another way, but they refused to listen.”

  ***

  “Just because I am a woman doesn’t mean I am helpless.” Alice indignantly plopped her bottom on the rowing bench, jostling Quinn’s injured shoulder. “And by the sound of the shouts coming from the castle, there is no time to argue.”

  Tears stung his eyes as he bit back a bellow. “Och, have it your way.” He picked up the oar and nearly roared again as white-hot pain shot through his entire body. He wasn’t about to admit it, but the lass was right. His left arm had been rendered useless and tortured him as if impaled by an iron spike.

  What else could go wrong? There he sat beside the woman who had filled his every thought for the past two days, shot in the shoulder and pulling on an oar, rowing a meager skiff toward the rough seas of the Clyde.

  As they sailed out into Rothesay Bay, Quinn looked to the castle. Shouts rose above the rush of the sea. Christ, he should be there fighting with Eachan and Glenn. And who the blazes had attacked a friendly gathering? Those miscreants had broken the code of Highland hospitality.

  A hundred warring thoughts crowded his mind as men carrying torches raced for the shore.

  “Row faster!” Alice shouted.

  Quinn dragged his oar through the water with such force it made the boat veer toward the port side—Alice’s side. “You should have let me row,” he barked.

  She gave her oar an impressive heave. “I can hold my own as well as anyone.”

  Shots blasted from the shore.

  Quinn shoved the lass downward, covering her with his torso. “Take cover!”

  For a moment the boat rocked in the water like a buoy. More shots rang out, but the boat remained sound. Quinn straightened and peered through the darkness. “I think we’re out of range.”

  “Thank heavens.”

  Together they resumed rowing while torches flickered on the Rothesay shore, growing more distant by the moment.

  “How are you faring?” Alice asked, her voice breathless. Aye, the lass was using every bit of strength she could muster, bless her.

  “Fit enough to turn around and face those backbiters.” Quinn ground his molars. If it weren’t for the musket ball in his shoulder, he’d do just that. Truth be told, his strength was waning. He hated weakness. How much blood had he lost? Pints, no doubt and, by the sticky warmth of the shirt clinging to his shoulder, he reckoned the wound was still bleeding.

  As they made the crossing, he shook his head several times to stave off an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. His entire body ached. His eyelids drooped as if ten-pound weights hung from each one.

  God’s bones, he should be in command of both oars. But no, instead he was rowing a skiff in tandem with the bonniest woman he’d ever seen in his life and he could barely hold his head up.

  Bloody hero I am.

  By the time the skiff skidded into the sand on the far shore, Quinn’s chin was touching his chest. Grunting, he arched his eyebrows. “Give me a moment.”

  It took every bit of strength he could muster to step out of the boat into thigh-deep water. Something slippery made him loose his footing. With nothing to break his fall, Quinn bellowed a curse while he fell to his back. Icy saltwater flooded into his mouth and attacked his shoulder like daggers. The world spun as he tried to plant his feet.

  A hand grasped his wrist and tugged.

  Keep fighting.

  Quinn bore down, taking his weight onto his legs, while the woman slipped under his arm. “Stay with me a bit longer, m’lord. I’ll have you to the cottage in no time.”

  Chapter Six

  Alice staggered beneath the weight of the Highlander as she trudged toward the cottage. Even after he’d been shot and lost so much blood, Quinn had insisted on rowing. Didn’t he think she could handle a wee boat? Alice was better at manning a skiff than riding a horse. Now when she needed the man to bear his weight, his strength was sapped. Worse, they were both dripping wet and freezing.

  “Just a bit farther,” she urged.

  He grunted a reply, his eyes closed, his teeth chattering.

  “There’s the cottage just yonder.” Alice strengthened her grip around Quinn’s waist. “You’re doing fine.”

  Though his legs continued to move, he uttered not a word. Only by the grace of God did they push through the cottage door.

  Alice urged him onto the bench. “I’ll make up a pallet in front of the hearth to warm you.”

  As soon as his weight eased from her shoulders, she set to lighting the tallow candles on the m
antle. Quickly, she stacked flax tow and sticks. Lighting a twig in one of the candle’s flames, she crouched down and ignited the bundle. In two blinks of an eye, the twigs were popping.

  “It’ll be warm in no time,” she said as she angled two sticks of wood against each other so as not to snuff the wee flame.

  Brushing off her hands, she chanced a look at His Lordship as she hastened past him. Heavens, the man was whiter than an apron hanging on the line in the afternoon sun. As fast as she could, she swept an armful of pillows, linens and blankets from the cupboard.

  Except when she returned, the Highlander was nowhere to be found. Alice turned full circle. “Your Lordship?”

  Her toe hit something solid, followed by a resounding moan.

  “Heaven’s stars, could you not have waited five minutes afore you collapsed?”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, though she couldn’t be sure if he was conscious.

  Alice swiftly made a cozy pallet, then stood and regarded the very large, very wet man lying on the floor. Only about four feet from the makeshift bed, she tapped her fingers to her lips. “I reckon we need to remove your clothing, else you’ll catch your death.”

  He didn’t move—not even a twitch. “Mm.”

  A moan is better than nothing.

  She stooped and tugged his uninjured arm upward until he sat straight enough to prop against the table leg. “I’m going to remove your brooch and plaid,” she explained, fully aware that men’s kilts were belted around the waist, with the remaining length wrapped around their backs and pinned at their shoulders. The brooch unfastened easily and the damask rose fell into her palm.

  “A lot of luck you’ve brought us.” Alice shook her head, putting both the rose and brooch on the table, completely unable to fathom what her grandmother had been up to. Attending the fête proved a calamitous mistake. Alice should have stayed home and tended to her mending.

  “Can you unfasten your belt?” she asked. “I’ll avert my gaze and then you can slip under the blankets.”

  Of course, the daft Highlander chose now not to respond at all.