The woman sighed. “Ye can sleep in the stable with the cow tonight,” she said. “But ye must be on yer way come morning. My da doesnae trust strangers.”
Patrick winced, reminded he was indeed a stranger in an unknown place. As bright as the stars were, they were no match for the glow of man-made lights which no longer warmed the night sky. And the air hung soft about him, without the fumes automobiles had brought to the moor. His hand strayed again to the worn butt of his pistol.
The woman’s sharp intake of breath jerked his attention to the sudden alarm stretched across her features, her stare snapping from his hand to his face.
“Who are ye?” she whispered. “And why are ye here?”
* * *
In the shadows, the man had seemed little more than a lost soul, his tilted head and rounded shoulders apologetic and completely non-threatening. But as his hand drifted to his waist, the moon chose that moment to shine its light on the stranger’s odd clothing and even odder weapon. For Laila was certain the flash of light struck from metal embedded in what appeared to be a somewhat curved wooden stick. Did he intend to attack her with it? Those who lived along the shore wouldn’t dare harm her—despite dark murmurs, she balanced the line between witch and healer quite effectively—but what would a stranger know of her power? Or lack.
Used to walking the beach unmolested, Laila faltered as a tendril of fear curled itself about her stomach and slid upward. She swallowed against the unwelcome sensation. The man flinched and glanced down at his clothing.
“My name is Patrick Lindsay,” he managed, obviously flustered by her question. “I dinnae know quite why I’m here, but I mean no harm.”
Laila indicated his weapon with a nod. “What is that?”
He seemed startled as he glanced at his waist, but pulled the stick smoothly from his belt. “’Tis a flintlock pistol.” He shrugged one shoulder as he turned it over in his hands. “Not a verra fine one, and rusted as well. It fired its final shot long years ago. ’Tis not loaded now.”
Though she strained her ears against the man’s accent, it was the words themselves that defeated her. “What is a flintlockpistol?”
Patrick’s gaze leapt to hers. “Ye havenae heard of a pistol?”
Laila shook her head. “No. Is it a weapon?”
“Och, aye.” He held it aloft, pointing with one finger to the length of the stick. “Ye put yer ball and such in here, then aim and pull the trigger.”
Ball? Trigger? Laila squinted at his demonstration, trying to understand what seemed commonplace to him. “What happens when ye pull the trigger?”
The man tossed her a wry grin. “It makes a verra loud noise with lots of smoke. If ye’re lucky, ye hit the lad ye’ve aimed at.”
Laila’s eyebrows shot upward. “Hit?”
“Aye. With the wee ball.”
“Does it hurt?”
Patrick nodded vigorously. “Aye. It can kill ye or knock a hole in an arm or leg.”
“But only if ye are lucky, aye?” Laila recalled his words. He nodded. “Why is that?”
“Och, it isnae a verra accurate weapon at much of a distance. And I’m not a verra good shot.”
A chill skittered down Laila’s spine. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she admitted.
Patrick jammed a hand into his sporran. “Would ye like me to show ye?”
Laila waved her hand at him. “No!” She cast a quick look over her shoulder. “’Tis a bit late to be making noise and smoke, and I dinnae wish anyone harm.” The last thing I need is to rouse Ormarr—or the clansmen.
Patrick dropped whatever he’d reached for back into his sporran, a disappointed look on his face. “I suppose not.” His look brightened. “What is yer name, lass? I’ve told ye mine.”
“My name is Laila,” she answered. “I am the clan healer.” She motioned for him to follow. “Come. Let us get ye settled for the night. I will show ye the road south in the morning.”
“South?” he exclaimed. “Why south?”
Laila lifted her torch, keeping watch for stones and roots in the path. “Ye cannae go further north from here save on a ship. And there will be none again ’til spring.”
Patrick hurried to her side, matching his stride to hers. “Storms?”
She tossed her reply over her shoulder. “Nae. Vikings.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Patrick skidded to a halt. Vikings? What had the wee witch done? He was no match for Vikings! Their strength was legendary. Their savagery quailed at nothing. No force was known to stop them. Not to mention the berserkers who were said to chew their own shields. Patrick firmly clamped down his runaway imagination.
Get a hold of yerself, man. Soni promised one or two days for a heroic deed. How likely will it be to run into a Viking force in the next few hours?
A breeze kicked up over the ocean, slapping Patrick with its cold fingers and unexpected force. A breeze that could push a longship right to the shore . . . He cast a worried look over his shoulder, but observed no menacing shadow of impending doom on the horizon. Glancing back at Laila, he noticed her shoving the boat into the water between the island and the far shore. He hurried to her side.
“I can do that,” he said, putting his shoulder to the wooden frame, happy to have something to which he could lend his strength. Laila stumbled as the little boat lurched away, but caught herself, one hand gripping the prow.
“I dinnae need help,” she told him. “Here.” She thrust the torch at him, and he grabbed it by reflex. She jerked her chin at the boat. “Get in.”
“Lasses first,” he demurred gallantly.
Instead of displaying a becoming blush with perhaps a pert giggle, Laila scowled.
“My boat. I give the orders.”
Somewhat chastened, Patrick stepped into the boat, remembering to keep his body low. The wooden craft danced up and down beneath his feet, but the soles of his boots didn’t slip on the slick boards.
He gave a nod of satisfaction. Almost as good as da’s work. Even after nearly a month of campaigning in the weeks leading up to Culloden, the stitching had unraveled very little, and the soles, though worn, were still in one piece. He pivoted and sat on the slender bench at the stern, a smile on his face at the sudden thought of his father. A twinge of remorse to wonder what he’d thought when he, Patrick, hadn’t returned home. Had anyone told him his son had died on Culloden Moor? Would his father have thought him brave?
Laila took the torch from him. “Grab the oars.”
He’d never know the answer to his questions, and shook his head to clear the wistful thoughts as he’d done so many times in the centuries past. Handing the torch back, he glanced quickly to either side, spying the slender oars, and slid them out into the water.
His shoulders felt the strain as he dragged the boat against the waves and into deeper water. Laila sat in the vee of the prow, silent and watchful as they slid through the water. Moonlight struck her hair, gilding the golden locks to silver. Patrick watched her face, lost in the confident beauty of her poise, her regal carriage telling him she was a woman used to getting her way.
Nary a passionate kiss whilst alive. I have two days as a man again. My last two days on earth. What chance do I have . . . ?
Laila rose to a half-crouch, leaning forward as the boat scraped against the opposite shore. Patrick slid the oars inside the boat as the healer stepped over the side and into the shallow water, giving Patrick a glimpse of slender ankles and sturdy boots.
“Come on,” she chided, casting an impatient look over her shoulder. Patrick closed his mouth and slowly slid his gaze to her face. He thought her cheeks darkened. Blushed?
The thought warmed him, but he sighed. Nae. The lass is too confident, too beautiful. I am not likely to give her cause to blush.
He carefully rose from his seat and stepped out of the small craft onto the rocky shore. Giving the tattered rope a good tug, he dragged the boat away from the waves. Laila gave a short nod of approval and strode up the
beach to a small house, its roof thickly thatched. She pointed to a similar structure a few feet away.
“This is the barn. Ye will find a pile of hay to sleep on. ’Tis warm and dry inside.” Facing him, she added. “Ye will be gone in the morning?”
Patrick felt her words more of an order than an inquiry, and since he didn’t know what the wee witch, Soni, expected of him, he shrugged, running the fingers of his left hand up and down the lapels of his jacket.
Laila’s gaze fixed on a spot near his heart. “Ye are injured!”
Startled, Patrick glanced down, drawing aside the coat’s edge. “Och, ’tis but a nick.” The stark reminder of the battle and the wound that took his life made his stomach heave. His shoulders hunched forward, forestalling the nausea at the memory of smoke and sleet, of thundering artillery and piercing cries, of blood, and pain, and fear.
Laila grasped his elbow gently and guided him inside the barn. With a firm push, she seated him amid the hay. The scent of fading summer drifted to his nose, dispelling the aura of that last cold day on Culloden Moor. He took a deep breath and tilted his head to stare into her face.
Concern etched delicate lines across her brow and a fine golden curl slipped from behind one ear to nestle lightly against her cheek. Patrick bit his lip to keep from lifting his fingers to touch the bright strand.
The healer slid her torch into a bracket on the wall. “Pull that jacket off and let me take a look.”
Patrick wished he was bold enough to deny her command, but he could not withstand the no-nonsense tone of her voice. He slowly shrugged his shoulders and pulled his arms free of the coat. Looking down, he fingered the jagged tear in his shirt, picking at the warp and weave of fabric that was beyond repair. Blood stained an area the size of his palm, dark and ominous.
“Och! Dinnae do that!” she exclaimed, laying a palm against his hands. “Ye dinnae wish to start it bleeding again.”
Patrick pushed against the site. Though pain had once exploded through him with incredible force as the grapeshot ripped through his chest, there had been no pain since. But the hole had become a part of him since he’d risen from his muddy grave. Tonight, to his surprise, he was whole.
“Ah, I dinnae believe the blood is mine,” he hedged, looking for a way to explain the bloody tear but lack of a wound. Laila settled on her knees before him and loosened the tie at the neck of his shirt. Pulling it aside, she inspected the upper part of his chest. Heat infused Patrick’s skin, swirling lower and lower until he shifted uncomfortably in the hay.
Laila leaned back on her heels and placed her hands in her lap. “Ye appear to be fine,” she agreed. Her brows knitted together in puzzlement. “What happened? Ye are a bafflement to me.”
Thoughts flew through his head as Patrick tugged the laces of his shirt together. His skin tingled where her fingertips had touched. Such an impersonal gesture, healer to patient, yet he burned.
“I was in a wee stramash,” he murmured, cursing his fingers silently as they fumbled the knot. Laila reached up and deftly secured the ties, then settled back, her head tilted in encouragement.
“Ye said that earlier.” Both eyebrows lifted.
“Aye.” Patrick pursed his lips, playing for time. “’Twas a battle—”
“Near here?” She gave him a wary look, drawing back as though uneasy.
Patrick glanced about, trying to determine exactly where here was, though it scarcely mattered. From the look of Laila’s clothing and her unfamiliarity with a pistol—and if her fear of Vikings was anything to judge by—it appeared the wee witch had sent him back in time. Years back. Possibly centuries.
“’Twas many days’ march away,” he told her. Her posture relaxed. “I’ve been wandering for some time now.” ’Twas true enough. He’d been wandering the moor for a great deal of time. “We’d traveled a distance and our clothing was tatty.” He fingered the hole again. “When the battle was over, I exchanged mine for this.” A small lie. Perhaps necessary.
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Exchanged? Ye took a shirt from a dead man then gave him yers?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked, taken aback. “I wasnae stealing.”
Amusement blossomed across her face, dancing merrily in her eyes. Patrick was smitten, even if she teased him.
“Ye dinnae have ill-gotten gold in yer pockets? Jewels? Weapons?” God help him, but he loved the sound of her voice, though he feared Laila thought him a thief.
Patrick shoved his hands into his coat’s pockets, turning them inside out. “Empty,” he protested. Her glance dropped to his sporran. With a sigh, he opened it. “Two bits of silver, one bullet, a piece of wadding, and lint for making a fire.” He showed her the items. “Nary a jewel or other piece of stolen goods.” He repacked the lot. “Though I’d give them to ye if I had any.”
“What do ye mean?” Laila asked, plainly intrigued.
He cleared his throat, searching for his voice as it suddenly left him. “Ye should wear jewels,” he whispered. “And fine silks and linens. To match yer beauty.”
For a moment he thought she would laugh at him. Heat stung his cheeks.
“’Tis lovely of ye to say so,” she murmured at last, her voice thick and sweet as honey. “But I am a simple healer and have no need of such things.” She cast a look at the barn, sturdy yet plain, stark and sufficient, without a single trapping of affluence beyond the prestige of the building itself. “Nor am I likely to attain them.” With a quick intake of breath, she grinned. “’Tis well that I’m a plain lass, aye?”
“Ye arenae plain!” he protested. “I’ve never seen hair such as yers—the color of the purest gold—nor skin as soft and supple as the finest kid leather.”
This time she did laugh, the sound of simple amusement, no notes of derision marring the lovely sound. Nevertheless, Patrick’s neck heated.
Laila patted the back of his hand. “I have never had my skin likened to fine leather. I’m not sure if it is a compliment or not.”
Patrick nodded vigorously. “Aye. There isnae a finer feel beneath my fingertips than kid leather. ’Tis verra fine, a pleasure to touch.”
Her gaze turned inquisitive. “Ye arenae a soldier, are ye, Patrick?”
His hand patted the pistol in his belt. “I was.” His throat tightened, robbing the volume of his words again. “For a brief time, I was a soldier.”
“What were ye before ye went to war?”
“I was a shoemaker.”
“’Tis an honorable trade, though I have a feeling things are verra different in yer village.”
Patrick glanced at the young woman, and caught the puzzlement in her eyes as she stared at his boots. Unease swept over him, aware of the differences in their attire. Where . . .no, WHEN had the wee witch sent him?
Self-conscious, he rubbed at a scuffed, muddy spot on his right boot. “My da is the master. His shoes are so fine, they are like wearing a glove, supple, light. They dinnae simply fit yer feet, they caress them.”
A lump rose huge in his throat. And an answering one beneath his sporran. Silence filtered through the cracks in the wooden walls of the barn, heavy with confusion, pregnant with indecision.
“Tell me about yerself,” Laila invited. Her words settled over him with the comfort of a worn plaide. Warm. Familiar. Inviting. He glanced at her face, light from the moldering torch lacing her features with gold.
His lips parted, but what could he tell her? I’m a ghost. I was alive centuries from now. I let a wee witch send me here. Where is here? Patrick glanced past her to the partially open doorway.
“Shouldn’t ye be going home, lass?”
Laila settled in the pile of straw, curling her legs beneath her skirt. “Tell me why ye went to battle.”
Patrick’s hopes fell. He wasn’t a soldier. He’d only ever been a shoemaker. Until . . . .
Laila’s eyebrows inched slowly upward, inviting his reply. “Why?”
Patrick hung his head and murmured through a soft sig
h. “Because I wished to be brave.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Laila blinked. Bewildered. He wished to be brave? Of all the . . . . Men! She dropped her gaze to control her eye roll. Her exasperation. Patrick seemed sincere, and she did not wish to add to his shame.
She chose her words carefully. “I sense ye are a careful man. Kind.” Eyes under control, she lifted her gaze. “Why did ye choose battle to prove yer courage?”
Patrick sat motionless for a moment, then leaned back against the stable wall. “Every other man in Perth was a braw fighter. We’d been without our king . . . er, leader for years and this was to be our chance to win our freedom. None included me in their plans. They gathered around the table at the meeting house. Loud. Cuffing each other on the shoulder in camaraderie. The lasses serving drinks cozied up to them, offering them more food, more drink, more . . . .” His shoulders drooped, reflecting his awkwardness. “My glass wasnae refilled.”
Lasses and men. A chilling combination at the best of times. Laila wanted to shake her head. Shake him. “Why must ye preen and pose and fight to prove yer worth? Does no one value calm strength and kindness?”
Patrick sent her a startled glance, and she realized she’d spoken aloud. Heat warmed her ears. “I am sorry. As a healer, I see the results of too many fights that seem pointless. I often wonder why men fight.”
“To get . . . . To show . . . .” Patrick sighed. “I dinnae know. I just know I wasnae counted among the braw men of our village, and it . . . hurt.” His fist burrowed against the center of his chest.
Laila let silence simmer for a few moments, then asked softly, “Did ye get yer wish? To be brave?”
The man’s gaze seemed to turn in on himself, a trait she’d seen in men mortally wounded, contemplating their lives in those very last moments. When he spoke, his voice whispered like autumn leaves scraping along a pathway before a ragged breeze.
“We’d marched for days. The night before the battle, we slogged through mud and snow all night, without sleep or food or rest. We were meant to catch the government forces unawares before dawn, but the plan went awry and we were turned back before we reached the enemy. Exhausted, we returned to Inverness. Some men tried to get a bit of rest. Others headed out in search of food.” Patrick stared at his hands turned palm-up in his lap. “I was too tired to move further.”
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