Highlander of Mine Page 2

  She shook her head. Confusion coursed through her, making everything blurry and hurt, because she did feel something familiar about him. Familial. But the words he’d said felt like nails that kept hitting her too tender skin over and over again. She was bleeding interiorly. Maybe exteriorly too.

  “This is for your own good, Fleur.”

  “What?” she finally seemed to have the capacity to ask.

  He looked up as two long shadows drew near. They were women. Beautiful, glowing-like-gold women with glittering turquoise eyes.

  Recognition flashed through Fleur as she noted their gold running suits. They no longer wore their matching hats and larger-than-life sunglasses, but they were the twin-like women who’d sat under a giant umbrella by the side of a road as if that was a natural vacation destination. Not a beach, but the side of a nearly desolate thoroughfare. Fleur struggled to stand to run away from the man, from the strange women, from the moment. In her attempt to flee, she caught the gaze of the coyote still on top of the man’s head. Something in her snapped back in time to her grandmother warning her about, Coyote, the trickster god. The man, the god, not the pelted canine, reached out for her easily enough as if she weren’t fighting with every last ounce of her strength, and with tender but calloused hands he drew her closer to him.

  He gazed deeply into her eyes. “I’ve had enough, Fleur. I want so much more for you.” Clearing his throat the way men do to counter a cry, he looked at the two women, then he slowly nodded.

  “We’re giving you a glimpse,” one of the women spoke in a hushed tone. “You’ll stay here, in the Highlands, but go back a long time ago.”

  “What?” Anger surfaced for not having enough wits to ask anything other than that one useless word. But she was far too freaked to figure out many other questions. And through it all she heard...she heard a heart beat. Her own, or maybe the trickster god across from her, holding her still in the wet sand, she didn’t know. But she heard it. Thump—thump, thump—thump, thump—thump.

  “I want so much more for you,” he repeated.

  “What?” Fleur heard her own voice, sounding small, almost child-like.

  Coyote’s lips curved at just the tips, looking almost proud of her. “Always the one with the questions, my girl.” Then he nodded and glanced at the women again. “How does it work?”

  The woman closest to Fleur raised an elegant hand. “You’ve had some problems understanding the accents here, and where I’m sending you the Gaelic is even thicker, but no worries. You’ll understand them, and they’ll understand you.” Then, she gently smiled down at Fleur and snapped her fingers. The world was awash with the scent of salt, the noise of the incoming tide, and totally usurped by blackness.

  Chapter 2

  Cave Smoo—a little outside Durness, Scotland

  September in Our Lord’s year of 1653

  Damnation, it was almost autumn, Duncan MacKay thought to himself. It wasn't supposed to be this hot. Instead of the usual continual rain for this season, it was more like a wicked summer, with the sun lashing down rays as vicious as a cat o' nine tails until sweat ran down his body in rivulets. Well, running for almost thirty miles—beginning in Tongue then ending here—would make a grown man sweat too. Certainly, Highlanders were used to sprinting for long distances, but son o’ a bitch this was a bit much for a simple training, especially with men so green. Some of the troops were mere lads, not even ten and four years of age. Even younger than his own brothers.

  He winced at the thought, reminding himself to steer clear of such considerations, except when he was alone. And drunk.

  That’s when he realized he was alone. He’d somehow outrun the new recruits. And he was the old man, eh? Well, of course they’d call him that. He was two and thirty, while they were almost twenty years his junior.

  Standing beside Cave Smoo—the troops destination before they retired further in to Durness, his hometown—Duncan focused on the deep, greenish gray Geodha Smoo, the bay that licked at the cave. Making sure no one was close by of the few houses on the other side of the dirt road, he took a deep breath. Or tried to. After the run, he was puffing like an old man who couldn’t get enough of his pipe. Walking again made him feel as if he was flailing about similar to a wounded stag. All for his new captain, Rory, the MacKay’s brother fresh from the Lowlands, thinking he’d teach his recruits a thing or two about military discipline by running the devil out of them.

  Time for a soak. A just reward for the crazy, much too long dash he’d endured. He stumbled toward the cold water, wondering how on God’s green earth Rory thought killing off the troops with all this scampering about made for a good military. Wasn’t the point to win the battle, not to run from it? But what did Duncan know? He was merely a man who’d been in war or fighting for the last decade and a half of his life.

  The icy seawater splashed over his body as he charged into it. Finally up to his chest, he let out a huge breath, mayhap releasing a little bitter resentment too. Nay, why let go of anger and his grudges when they served him so well? He dunked his head under the water and felt the immediate dichotomy of intense panic to surface yet the equally strong sense of peace in the quiet solitude. Eventually, he rose and trudged back to the beach, paying heed only to the water rippling off him. Caught by a breeze, a loose strand of his red hair glimmered in the sun, holding his attention for a moment. Best he cut it. Then the sand was back under his leather boots. His hose squished under his toes, angering him, for he’d been too hasty wanting to cool off with the dip to take off his boots.

  Looking over his shoulder, he saw the crowd of recruits still far off.

  Laird MacKay had asked for Duncan by name to help train the new troops, since the laird’s brother, Rory, was new to the captaincy. New to military life in general. Duncan had been the obvious choice because he’d been a soldier then a soldier of fortune, for a decade and a-half. And now was the time when Himself needed soldiers. Ah, hell, was there ever a time when soldiers wouldn’t be needed? After Cromwell had burnt through Scotland, the chiefs and lairds kept speaking of revenge. Reciprocity, they’d said. What the hell did they know if they hadn’t lost one of their own, say, a younger brother with sparkling mischievous green eyes?

  Jesus Christ, what was wrong with him for thinking such things again?

  He shook his head, startled upon seeing orange flames from the corner of his eye. After a second look, he realized he was standing less than ten feet from a small fire right at the entrance of the cave, wondering how he couldn’t have seen it when he first arrived. But it was the sight beyond the sparks that entranced him, sitting so still he thought mayhap she was a statue. But eventually one side of her full pink lips curled up in a...Jesus, what a smile.

  “Hi,” she said. Her voice was melodious and fluid, as if she’d just woken.

  It seemed to take him an eternity, but finally he said, “Hello.”

  “It’s probably illegal to have this fire, huh?”

  Fire? What fire? All he could do was stare at her. He’d never seen a woman so beautiful in all his life. She was dressed in black, yet nothing like he’d ever seen before. But she—her—Lord Almighty, from her blackest black hair to her tiny nose and those full pink lips, she was wildly exotic. Her eyes shone back at him, sparkling like onyx. As much as she wore black, even her dark coloring, she glowed as if she were made from heaven’s own light.

  Mayhap she was an angel.

  “Am I in big trouble for the fire?”

  He had to shake himself to gain access to some part of his mind that could function and speak.

  “Nay.” Brilliant. He sounded just this side of idiotic.

  God, then she did it again. She smiled. It widened and brightened, and Duncan felt his solar plexus explode with something he’d thought long dead.

  “You seem...cold. Want to join me?”

  Before he could even think, he walked toward her. He sat right beside her too, not even a thought about circumstances or consequences, just staring
. Couldn’t be helped. Couldn’t stop himself if he’d wanted to. And, oh, how he didn’t want to.

  She kept her eyes on him, her smile shifting to warm and welcoming. For a long moment she searched his face, then glanced about his linen shirt. He’d forgotten he was drenched. With a quick glance, he noticed his goose bumps and nipples peaking out from his nearly translucent white shirt. He may as well have been naked from the waist up. Thank the Lord, his brown, heavy plaid was thick and didn’t reveal as much. That was when he realized he sat cross-legged, as she did. Oh, her legs. Yet again he couldn’t stop from staring at her long limbs, clad in black shiny trews that left precious little to the imagination.

  “I’m Fleur. Fleur Anpoa.”

  Pretty name. He almost let the words trip out of his mouth, as though he was a bumbling lad. “Duncan,” was all he could stammer. Aye, that was much better.

  “You live around here, Duncan?” Her accent was lovely—definitely not Scottish, from the Highlands or the Low, but not quite English either.

  “Aye.” Damn it all, say something more. Helpless, he gazed at her, while she looked deeply into his eyes.

  “It turned into a beautiful, albeit a bit too hot, day, huh? I wonder what happened with that storm? All the dark clouds that were trying to hide the sun?”

  There’d been a storm approaching? He hadn’t noticed. Then again, in Tongue, when Rory had begun this idiotic training, Duncan hadn’t paid heed to much other than his legs and the air he’d breathed.

  She smiled widely and arched a perfect black brow. “Not a man of many words, hmm?”

  Well, if she were in his head, and already he knew a part of her was, then she would know his mind was amuck with too many words, too many...feelings. No, that wasn’t quite right. Of his sentiments he felt only two—curiosity, and an animalistic sense he knew only during battle. But this—this was different. This wasn’t mere desire, for he knew what that felt like. This other feeling was magnetic and too powerful for him to make much sense of. All he knew was he wanted to sit with her for the next eon or so. While sitting with her, he didn’t think of his responsibilities, of how he’d failed so many people, of how he was always too late to do any good. All of it was gone. With her, he thought only of this deep sense that he knew her. Nay, that wasn’t it either. He had to know her.

  Speaking would be a good way to get to know the woman.

  Of course, his lips were glued shut then.

  She chuckled, a noise as powerful as her appearance. “So I have to do all the talking? You might not want that, because once I get going, sometimes there’s no stopping me.”

  “I’d love to hear ye talk.” That had come out of his blasted mouth wholly uncensored. Damnation. But it was the truth. Ach, the lovely lilting way she spoke—so different from anything he’d ever heard before—made him eager for the next word she’d say, then the next, and the next . . .

  He tried to piece together from whence she must have come with her different clothing...India? The black garb she wore did appear to be a silk mayhap. Was she from the Ottoman Empire? But that accent made him think—and she wore bright-colored leather slippers so similar to what he’d heard the Indians from America wore. His heart slammed against his ribs wondering if he could be correct.

  Her arched brow stayed where it was. “Be careful what you wish for.” Then her smile vanished, as if she had a sudden petrifying thought. She shook her head and glanced around the cave. “Oh, no.” She scrambled to a large gray limestone rock. On her knees she felt the ground, searching for something.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, God. Oh, no.” She kept looking around the sand and wall of the cave. “It’s gone.” She looked down at her left wrist. “It’s all gone.” That’s when her gaze shot out of the cave, and she sprinted out on the beach, the sun drenching her, illuminating her with golden sparks off her dark hair.

  Duncan followed, wondering what she’d lost, when he spied her turning in a circle, taking in the road and all around the cave. Her eyes were huge, and she kept swallowing.

  He didn’t think, yet again. But reached out for her, taking one of her hands in his. “What can I do?”

  She looked down at his scarred hand. Her own was delicate with extra long, thin fingers. Her hand was so elegant he thought to release it, scared it would be similar to porcelain, and he would be the bull that would break it. But then she clutched at him.

  “The houses...the houses have sod roofs. What’s that smell?”

  “Peat moss smoke,” Duncan said, aware that many strangers, and she was obviously not from here, weren’t used to the sweet smoky odor, but liked it nonetheless.

  “Why didn’t I smell it earlier?” She inhaled sharply, her dark gaze running in every direction. “Oh, God. Where am I?” Her black eyes glistened with panic.

  He tilted his head toward the cavern. “Cave Smoo.”

  Her other hand fluttered to her chest, hovering over her heart as if protecting her. She nodded, but kept spanning the horizon. Now he really started to worry. Didn’t she know where she was?

  She took a shaky breath. “This doesn’t look like what I know. It doesn’t look like what I just saw. This looks...looks like it must have in the past. A long time ago. Like—like a painting of what Durness might have looked like hundreds of years...What—what year is this?”

  He’d heard the tales, and there were many, of a lost woman who hurtled through time and ended, well, usually it was the Isle of Skye or another island. Not in a cave. Besides, those were stories grandmothers told their grandchildren to charm active bairns to sleep.

  She couldn’t be from another time.

  But why was she so confused? Why didn’t she know the year? Then again, she might be touched in the head.

  “The year is 1653, my lady. As it’s been for the last nine months.” He didn’t know why he tacked on the title, but it seemed somehow fitting. He also didn’t know why he’d added the patronizing last bit about it being nine months within the year. He knew he could be a bastard, but he didn’t want her to know.

  She made an odd strangled noise and glanced at the lads running toward them. Suddenly, she stepped into him, letting his larger body protect her from view. That’s when he smelled her. Divine. Sweet. Floral. And the perfume went straight through his chest, stomach, then dropped to his groin.

  She glanced up, her eyes so round and wide. “I—I know this is going to sound crazy, but I don’t know where I am. I mean, I do. I know this is Cave Smoo, and over there is Durness. And I was staying in Tongue, but—but nothing looks familiar. Check my face, make sure that both sides of my lips are even. If not, I’m having a stroke. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I—what year did you say it was? That can’t be. It just can’t be.”

  He placed both his hands around her arms calmly. He wanted to pull her to him in a firm embrace, but he didn’t think that would assuage her fear. Looking in her eyes, he said, “I’ll help. I believe you. We’ll sort this out.”

  She swallowed, her eyes softening yet focusing more on his.

  “Your face is even and so beautiful.” He grimaced.

  She blinked.

  He decided to trudge on. “I’ll help. I promise.”

  The noise of the coming men distracted her. She gazed around him, but then nudged her way closer. Glancing down at her again, he saw her eyes too wide once more.

  “Can we keep it a secret that I don’t know where I am? Please?”

  He thought of his mother and how she could help what with being a healer. Would she call it that though? Or would Fleur call his mother a nurse, like the English would? Mayhap he could find a way for Fleur to trust him first, then he’d tell his ma of the woman’s bizarre condition—not knowing the date.

  He didn’t believe in fairy tales, women being flung through time. He didn’t believe in much any more. But something was wrong with the woman in his grasp, and he knew the men approaching wouldn’t be of much help other than sensationalizing her and her proble
m. They’d ask questions. Which meant he’d have to circumnavigate their natural curiosity. More than likely lying would be for the best, to assuage the young troops’ interest. However, he was an atrocious liar.

  But her pleading eyes gave him the wherewithal to give fabricating a try.

  He nodded reluctantly. She shocked him with a wide smile aimed right at him. Nay, he wasn’t surprised by her grin. It was the way her smile made him feel, as though completely dazed. Wonderfully bemused in an off-kilter kind of way. Lord.

  Chapter 3

  Rory MacKay couldn’t believe his eyes. His men, little more than bairns, were slower than ol’ man Duncan. Although Duncan was only seven years his senior, the man had a quiet way of introspection that reminded him of grandfathers. Rory hated to admit it, but he admired Duncan for his wise ways.

  Riding one of his latest imports from Spain, a legendary golden steed, along the worn Lairg road, Rory occasionally called out to his recruits, encouraging them to catch up with Duncan. The massive man was only a few hundred yards off now. That’s when he saw Duncan’s large, powerful body shielding something, something he held onto. A woman.

  Pushing his heels into his horse’s side, Rory’s steed began to trot, helping him gain a better view of the young miss. At first, all he could make out was black. Then he realized it was dark hair waving from the sea wind, blowing outside Duncan’s wet frame. The huge man’s usually bright red hair was darkened and dripping. Why was the man soaking wet? It didn’t matter, for the woman’s tresses distracted Rory. Hair such a deep shade that for a moment it seemed to reflect all colors, especially red. Finally, Rory could see beyond the burly Duncan to what he held. The woman was exquisite. At least a foot shorter than Duncan, she looked up at him with huge dark eyes, almost appearing to plead for something. Knowing he felt intimidated by the mercenary, Rory wondered if the poor lady was begging for her life.