The Return of Black Douglas (6 page)

Chapter 10

An idea, like a ghost,

must be spoken to a little

before it will explain itself.

—Charles Dickens (1812–1870)
English novelist

The image of the Black Douglas began to fade away gradually, leaving the echo of his last words ringing in their ears.

“Fear na ye.”

“Please, don’t go!” Isobella turned to Elisabeth. “How can he leave us here like this?”

“With easy abandon, I’d say.”

Isobella gave her sister a glaring look of disapproval, thinking that nobody, not even a ghost, could be that heartless. “Wait! Come back! What if we need you? What if we’re in danger? You won’t be able to come back to help us, will you? We could die out here!”

Elisabeth was already turning away from the place where Douglas had been. “You might as well give up. I think he is a couple of centuries away by now.”

“Damn and double damn!” Isobella kicked a rock and paced back and forth a few times. They were completely alone and defenseless against the wilds of this primitive place.

Elisabeth was staring stupidly at something behind her, so Isobella turned to have a look and saw that where the meadow curved into a small cove, a group of men with drawn swords were staring in their direction. They appeared to have been engaged in a battle of cracking heads and running each other through.

Only now, the men were stiff as statues. Swords still drawn, they ignored the bodies strewn about as they stared directly at the women, as if frozen in time. Isobella let out a long sigh of relief. “Thank God, they are not English.”

Elisabeth gave her a look that needed no interpretation. “Oh well, it is such a tremendous relief to know that if I am killed, it will not be by the bloody English. Dead is dead in any language, time period, or nationality.”

Isobella wasn’t listening. “Do you think they saw us suddenly appear out of nowhere?”

“Does peanut butter stick to the roof of your mouth? Of course, they saw us,” Elisabeth said in a low whisper. “Look at the expressions of fearful disbelief on their faces. Right now, I’d say they are trying to decide if we are witches.”

Isobella whispered, “We’ve landed in the midst of some kind of clannish brawl. Highlanders were always fighting someone, including family members when no one else was about. Fighting and killing was like a national sport to them.”

Unexpectedly, a cry cut through the air and three of the men rushed the others, yelling in unison,
“Cuimhnich bas Alpein.”

Elisabeth glanced at Isobella. “Any idea what that war whoop was all about?”

“It’s Gaelic. Probably a battle cry. All I caught was something about Alpin.”

“Who or what is Alpin?”

“There was more than one Alpin, but they might be referring to the MacAlpin who was the Dalriata King of Picts and Scots in Ireland before they settled in Scotland.” She said nothing more for she was thinking that whoever the three men were, they attacked with such furor that the four men opposing them turned and hightailed it into the trees.

“Do you think we should make a run for it?” Elisabeth was frowning now and looking around, as if searching for the nearest exit.

“No,” Isobella replied with a shake of her head. “Men, like animals, chase anything that runs. If we made a run for it, they would think us guilty of something and give chase. And they would catch us. We would have more explaining to do than if we just wait to see what they do.”

Elisabeth nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Well, we have no idea who they are, but we need to make contact with someone. We can’t stay here forever. If we hide, they will find us. If we run, they will catch us.”

“And if we stay here, they will have us for dinner,” Elisabeth added, “Or dessert. I don’t see anyone who remotely resembles Sir Galahad among them. I will admit they do look grimly efficient.”

“That is because they probably are,” Isobella replied.

“How do we know which ones are the good guys?” Elisabeth paused, for the three men had now stepped out of the shade of the trees. Now they were standing in full sunlight, and Elisabeth’s jaw dropped.

“Oh, my lord, I take back everything I said. Things are not looking so bad after all.” She turned toward Isobella and said, “Please tell me those are not Douglas men and our ancestors. I’m having very lascivious thoughts right now and would hate to find we are related.”

With a flushed face and a dreamy expression, Isobella stared at the bodies, etched by the strength and stamina of the warrior caste. They were supreme examples of the godly mathematics of male beauty.

“If they are Douglases, it would be our luck, wouldn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever seen three men put together any better. Would you look at those biceps,” Isobella said, drinking in the sight of the slender, well-muscled upper body of the man she identified as their leader. There was something about the graceful proportion of form, the balanced turn of a well-shaped head, and the power of a warrior’s body when he moved.

“They did not get those muscles lifting weights in the gym. They earned them the hard way. And have you noticed the size of those swords they were swinging? And they aren’t even claymores.”

Elisabeth shook her head. “No, I was imagining the size of something else when you interrupted my thoughts. Only you would look at medieval weapons when you have three demigods to drool over. I could close my eyes and grab one and come out just fine.”

“Judging from the expressions on their faces, it would seem they are thinking the same about us. Either that, or they haven’t eaten in a week,” Isobella replied. It was good to know that Elisabeth found the male bodies stimulating—and not in a medical way. She and Elisabeth might be polar opposites, but rugged Scots were something they both approved of.

Instead of coming toward them, the men quickly disappeared into the trees. “Well, if that doesn’t beat all. I know a trip through time was probably rough on us, but we can’t look that bad.”

Isobella smiled. “I don’t know about myself, but you look as beautiful as ever.” And that was true. The sun glinted off Elisabeth’s neat ponytail of curly auburn hair, dusting it with gold. Her jeans had nary a wrinkle and her T-shirt looked as if it had never seen a smudge.

Isobella knew her loose hair looked wild as a milkweed pod. Her shirt and shorts were wrinkled. She was always the one who never seemed to reach an agreement with the word “neat.” The last time she had been spotless was lying beside her twin in the nursery, when they had both been scrubbed to a rosy hue and dressed in identical pink gowns.

Elisabeth gazed at the place where the men disappeared. “I have to say that wasn’t exactly the outcome I expected. What happened to barbaric charge and capture, or chivalrous rescue?”

Isobella shrugged. “I guess we aren’t as high on the food chain as we thought. Perhaps they are still frightened by our sudden appearance. On the other hand, you may be right about them thinking we are witches. We did sort of pop out of nowhere.”

“So, what do we do now?”

Before Isobella could respond, they heard a faint rumbling like thunder in the distance. She gazed at the clear sky. Where was the thunder coming from? Suddenly, she realized the thunderous sound was horses, fast approaching.

They turned in time to see four men burst out of the underbrush and come charging toward them. Isobella wondered if they were the same four men who had been chased off moments ago, but when she saw one had his sword drawn, she didn’t really care to find out. She yelled to Elisabeth, “Run!”

Isobella took off running with Elisabeth right behind her. The terrifying sound of thundering hooves grew louder as the men covered the distance between them. These men meant business, and she wondered if they had traveled back through time to be hacked to death by barbarians.

Suddenly, Elisabeth screamed. Isobella turned around quickly, ready to go to Isobella’s aid, when she watched, horrified, as Elisabeth was swept up by a warrior and onto his horse.

Isobella broke into a dead run, but in her haste, she did not notice a loose bed of stones treacherously close to the edge of a ravine. As she ran across them, they slid out from under her and she went over the edge on a carpet of flying stones.

***

Alysandir might have ridden away without another thought, had they not heard the Macleans bursting out of the trees. He turned and saw them riding like banshees were after them, heading toward the clearing in the glen where the two women waited.

A spine-chilling scream shattered the silence. He saw that Colin and Drust were waiting for him to say something. He knew they were itching to ride like avenging angels, to deliver the two tarnished damsels from danger.

Beware, his mind seemed to say, not knowing whether it was a prophetic sign or his own hard heart that was reluctant to engage in a chivalrous rescue. With a heart heavy as stone and a feeling he should ride like hell in the opposite direction, he spurred Gallagher and rode toward the glen. He did not look back, for he knew his brothers followed with eager anticipation.

When they galloped into the clearing, the Macleans rode away—one rider with a woman slung over his saddle. Alysandir looked for the other woman and watched as she went sliding over the side of a crag. He turned to his brothers. “Go after the Macleans and retrieve the lass. Meet me back at Màrrach. I will go after the clumsy one.”

Grinning like two buffoons, his brothers turned around, and with a touch of spurs to flanks, their horses leapt forward and broke into a fast gallop.

***

Isobella fell and kept on falling, tumbling and rolling like a tossed die, as she was battered by rocks, as well as the scratch and claw of gorse, bracken, and fallen branches. When at last she rolled to a stop, she was certain she was paralyzed, and the only medical doctor in this whole time period had just gotten herself seized. Why had she had to cry over the effigy of the Black Douglas? And where was he now?

A light breeze stirred. A few dried leaves fluttered and fell back to the ground. Then everything fell silent. She hurt everywhere, and what didn’t hurt ached abominably. However, if she hurt, she wasn’t paralyzed. Her thumb, especially, hurt like hell—probably jammed or broken.

Glancing down, she could see her body looked like she had run through briars or had an encounter with a giant porcupine. Dozens of scratches oozed blood. She also had that tinny taste in her mouth. And those were just her obvious injuries. She didn’t even want to think about the numb places or how her insides might have suffered.

She remembered her Prada backpack and, after a brief search, was relieved to find it had survived the fall and that her arms were still wound through the straps. She removed it and absently placed it on the ground next to her, trying to come up with a plan. She rolled over and struggled to stand, but her ankle hurt too much to put weight on it.

She doubted it was broken—probably a severe sprain or minor fracture that would take eons to heal. Either way, there was nothing she could do about it. Her legs were burning like fire, and she cursed her stupidity for wearing shorts. Showing so much flesh will garner lots of points with the womenfolk before they scratched her eyes out. If she didn’t end up being raped, it would be a miracle.

She put weight on her foot again, simply because she had to get out of this place before dark. She tried to take a step and fell. She gritted her teeth against the ripping pain in her ankle. While she wondered what else could go wrong, she was beginning to think Elisabeth was the more fortunate of the two. At least she didn’t have to spend the night alone in a strange landscape, at the mercy of God knows what. All sorts of creatures could be lurking about—wolves, wildcats, wild boars, and the like—all probably ravenously hungry.

She didn’t know where she was, and even if she did, there wouldn’t be any clothing stores about and she had no money—and no one to contact even if she did. If she did find a village, they would probably murder her for looking like a harlot on hard times.

Welcome to Scotland…

A faint breeze stirred. A solitary quietness settled around her. A lonely owl hooted somewhere in the distance. Isobella shivered at the reminder that she was all alone and there was no escape. Her ankle was swelling like a yeast cake, and she could hear the rush of water from a nearby burn. Cold water would help her ankle, so she attempted to stand, fell, and decided to stay there.

She feared for Elisabeth. Would she be raped or killed, or would she spend her life in the bowels of a castle’s dank dungeon? Isobella knew this time period, and the chances of Elisabeth being carted off by a sympathetic and kind-hearted band of men were about as slim as her own chances of being rescued by anyone. Here she was, the lead character in a time-travel tale hosted by a famous warrior-ghost and set in sixteenth-century Scotland. So, where were the spine-tingling feats of daring, the heroine nearly ravaged and rescued at the last moment? Where was the hero who would appear out of nowhere to rescue her?

She didn’t want to die like this. She wanted to live.
Give me another chance. Give me a hero…

A breeze stirred. Leaves rustled. A rock tumbled down the crag. She looked up and saw him astride a sturdy horse, staring down at her. The sun glinted on his armor, making him look like an avenging angel. The two of them looked at each other for a moment, studying each other intently. Something about the aura that surrounded him said he was not a commoner, and his clothes seemed to verify that, for he wore a dark red surcoat that fell halfway to his knees and a sword that was suspended by a bandolier of leather as dark as his boots.