Warrior and the Wanderer (10 page)

He glanced at the wooden poor box by the open door. One leg of his jeans flapped out over the edge. Maybe if he felt something comfortingly familiar against his skin, his brain would keep from bursting with these crazy thoughts. He stepped up to the box.

They were heading to Edinburgh.

He was anxious to see how this merry mob pulled off recreating his former home city. Would it be obviously fake or impossibly real? He hoped it would be the first.

* * * *

Sunset brought light cold rain. Bess held the slippery reins tighter. Five leagues and they would be to the West Port of Edinburgh, another quarter-league and they would be at the castle, another several dozen steps and they would be in the presence of the Duke of Argyll. And several minutes later, Bess would have the support of the Crown against her husband. She had her annulment secure in a pouch beneath her skirts. Thanks to Ian MacLean.

They had left Cambuskenneth Abbey in haste several hours ago. Against Alasdair’s grumbling dissent, Bess had allowed Ian to ride with her rather than be tethered and made to walk behind her mount. They would make more distance quicker that way. Alasdair rode behind them, guarding her, and grumbling.

Ian was oddly silent.

As the horse stepped over the sloping ground, navigating the trees that grew close to the path, she could hear Ian’s steady breathing, feel the rise and fall of his broad chest against her back. He held onto her despite his wound, which she had rebound, grateful the stitches had not broken. She did not looked back at him, forced her gaze to remain straight ahead on the path.

He was alert. She could feel that as well. His body was stiff against her back. She could feel him turning his head from side to side, scanning the landscape, and scanning the forest. She wanted to ask him so many things, but could not break his silence or hers. To engage in conversation, frivolous or otherwise, would draw her nearer him. She had been dangerously close, had almost lost herself in his strangely odd charms, and had almost given her body to him. Without the annulment she held now, the penalty for adultery would have been death. Ian had saved her from that with his miracle resurrection of Father d’Auguste and his generosity in giving the priest’s gift to her.

The rain fell steadier, as steady as the beating of her heart, and Ian’s breathing. Too steady, too even, and bloody unnerving and distracting from her mission. She held the reins harder and quickly ducked under the low bough of a pine. Ian did not do the same.

“Och, damn and hell!” he spit as the branch whipped his face.

Alasdair chuckled.

And then more silence.

Bess blinked away the raindrops that collected on her lashes.

She kept her gaze forward into the growing dim. Ian MacLean was a mystery, a handsome contradiction. Handsome, she repeated in her thoughts. That was the only thing about him that she was not confused about. He had performed a miracle at the abbey. Had brought Father d’Auguste back from death. In contrast he had performed an act of thievery from the poor. He had taken his finely tailored garments and his boots from the box. He wore his doublet and his boots. The rest of his clothes he kept in a rolled bundle securely under one arm.

The rain fell harder, pushing through the dark boughs arching over the path.

Alasdair rode up beside her.

“There’s a rock overhang yon!” He pointed down the path into the darkened trees, through the rain.

Bess squinted and barely saw something ahead, a large shadow to one side of the path, and the slope of purple horizon just beyond.

“Aye!” she shouted above the wet din. “Until the rain lightens a bit.”

She turned to see if Ian had heard what they were doing now. He was gone. Had slipped quietly from the back of the horse and stood on the path, staring into the encroaching darkness.

Eyes searching the forest, rain sheeting down on top of him, Ian stood as still as a sentinel. Rain dripped from the ends of his hair and ran in small rivulets along the determined line of his jaw and through the dark bristles of his chin. He stood so very still.

She dismounted and walked her horse off of the path, keeping Ian in her sight. She tied her mount to a thin tree trunk and removed the saddle and pack. Ian did not move.

Bess tossed her belongings under the shelter of the rock overhang which was not tall enough for anyone to stand, but wide enough for the three of them to sit comfortably around a fire. Alasdair had drawn his claymore and walked in Ian’s direction.

“No,” Bess said, “I’ll get him. Build us a fire.”

Alasdair grumbled and walked to the shelter, glancing over his shoulder at Ian who stood in the pouring rain like a man gone light in the head.

“Come in from the rain and into the shelter,” Bess said.

Ian did not move right away. He blinked the rain from his eyes and then turned and walked to the overhang. He bent down and peered inside at the small fire Alasdair made from the dry makings he found there. Her champion had removed some of the bread and meat the Holy brethren had kindly given to them for their journey. They had given the food to them so reverently, keeping their awed gazes upon Ian. Alasdair’s gaze on him this rainy night was rife with contempt.

Bess slipped past Ian into the shelter. She took slices of beef and laid it on top of a torn piece of bread. She held it out to Ian, as if she were making an offering. She did not mean to do that. It just happened.

Ian bent down and joined them in the shelter. He took the bread and meat and sat beside her, his long legs out in front of him.

He took large, deliberate bites, his eyes not wavering from the rain and darkening landscape outside. She could not fathom what he found so interesting. Ever since he learned they were traveling to Edinburgh, he had become silent. What was it in Edinburgh that vexed him so?

“The MacLean should be bound so he cannae escape,” Alasdair said mouth full of meat and bread.

“I won’t escape,” Ian said.

Alasdair looked expectantly at Bess.

“I believe him,” she said, “Ye’d have to be a madman to try and run on a night such as this.”

“I won’t run,” Ian said. “Despite the rain.”

“Madman, aye, ’tis what that one is. I still say he should be bound,” Alasdair growled.

“He stays as he is,” Bess said.

“As ye wish it.” Alasdair shook his head and wrapped himself in his plaid making himself ready for sleep by turning his back on them and curling up on the dry ground.

Bess took up a plum from the abbey garden out of her pack and took a large, indelicate bite. If she were eating treacle candy, it would not have been any sweeter.

Alasdair snorted from the other side of the fire as he settled into sleep. He was soon snoring over the crackling of the fire, leaving Bess to watch over their most strange prisoner.

Ian tried to find a comfortable position on the ground, but gave up in favor of watching Bess watch him over the piece of fruit she was so sexily consuming. She had no idea how bloody beautiful she looked eating that juicy plum in the soft glow of the firelight.

“Ye’re a madman and a miracle worker,” she said wiping the juice from her chin with the back of her sleeve.

“What I did was no miracle.”

“Aye, ’twas,” Bess countered. “Ye brought a man back from the dead.”

“The priest had a heart attack. I just performed CPR.”

“’Tis a cure I’ve no’ heard tell of,” she said.

Ian stared at her wishing she would drop this Highland charade. “You’re a bloody mystery to me, Blaze,” he said shaking his head.

“How so?”

“For starters you speak as if you live in the Dark Ages—”

“Before the emergence of Martin Luther? I most certainly am not from that age!” she scoffed.

“See what I mean? You’re a walking, talking history book. I’ve been to my fair share of Highland games and even a Renaissance Fair or two, when I was getting my start, when my accent and way with an old Scottish song was a novelty with Americans, before I made it to the big time.”

“Americans? The New World?”

“New World? There you go again with that old talk, Blaze. Do you ever think that beyond these woods there is a big, beautiful world out there full of modern conveniences? Are you and the people of this remote community some sort of California Amish with a twist of plaid?”

“Speak plainly and I may be able to answer your question.”

Ian winced. “I have done nothing but speak plainly. You’re the one who refuses to carry on a normal conversation. Admit that there’s no Edinburgh at the end of this bloody road.”

“I speak the truth, Ian MacLean. We are on our way to Edinburgh.”

“To see some duke who’ll solve all your problems, right? Why do I guess we’ll end up in Portland, Sacramento, or San Francisco? That you’re calling the first big city we get to Edinburgh just to continue on with this historic fantasy of yours?” He plucked at the scratchy and damp plaid about his waist. “You’ve even got me dressed like one of you. I haven’t worn one of these since I sang for the tourists in the
real
Edinburgh, making them believe just what you and this git sleeping over there believe. That this is Scotland and you’re some Scottish chief on a quest for revenge against a man who ‘done you wrong’. Well, I’ve got news for you
lassie
, there hasn’t ever been a woman that I’ve heard of who has been chief of any clan. Your historical role playing has slipped to more like fantasy on that score.”

Her eyes flashed, her soft lips tightened. “Ye sat on back of my mount for hours without opening your mouth. Now, ye speak vile and strange words to my face, insulting me. I could have tethered ye to my mount and dragged ye through the mud, but I didnae.”

“I’m eternally grateful,” he said not covering the sarcasm. “Remember I played along and got you that annulment. Not playing medieval bondage with me is the least you can do. Unless I want you to. Maybe you’re into that kinky stuff.” The only benefit to playing along with her, he thought.

She huffed and narrowed her eyes at him. “Is it because ye are a MacLean that makes ye act so strangely?”

“Just break character and tell me the truth for once. Where are we?”

“On the road to Edinburgh.”

“That flooded path out there doesn’t look like a road to me.”

“I have answered your question truthfully.”

“To your mind, Blaze.”

Heaving a heavy sigh, he leaned back against the stony wall of their shelter from the storm. “Heaven forbid you should break character to answer just one question with truth. Maybe a kiss would drag the truth out of you.”

“A kiss would do nowt but bring ye more pain, Ian MacLean. Vex me not.” She reached to the belt under her armor doublet and slid her dirk from its sheath. When she was angry, out came the weaponry. Ian ignored it for now as a more insidiously impossible notion began to enter his mind. Before his could stop himself, he asked her, “When are we?”

“’Tis the year of our Lord fifteen hundred and twenty-three.”

“You’re lying.” He spoke in a muttered growl.

“I dinnae lie.” She gave him a wary stare.

He looked into her eyes. As much as he wished she was role playing, something told him that she was not. But she had to be playing the character of Bess Campbell, Highland warrior princess. There was no other answer that made any bloody sense.

Firelight glinted from the stout blade of her dirk, briefly blinding him. He blinked. It had to be fake. All of this that he had seen since he had crashed into the water had to be fake.

Ian suddenly grabbed Bess’s hand that held the dirk. He squeezed her fingers until she gave a small cry of pain and released the dirk. He caught it neatly by the handle in his free hand.

“This is a nice dirk. A very good reproduction.” He knew she would deny that it was anything but authentic. She would deny until her last breath unless they faced the undeniable. There was no Edinburgh at the end of the road. Not here in California.

He tossed the knife to her. It landed with a thunk on the ground by her skirts. She immediately tucked the weapon back into its sheath.

Ian folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. “Edinburgh tomorrow, is it?” he asked over a sarcastic smirk.

“Aye,” she replied. “On the ’morrow.” He expected her to say that.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said, closing his eyes. He found sleep after convincing himself that tomorrow all he would see was more of California.

Chapter Six: Edinburgh

“E
dinburgh.”

It was not fake. It was incredibly real.

Ian slipped from Bess’s horse. He swiped the rain from his eyes with the sleeve of his leather jacket and blinked hard, hoping the image before him would just dissolve into the damp gloom.

A stone wall easily over three times his height, stood before him. He warily slid his gaze to the right and left, the north and south. And back to the north. At the end of this grey wall, embedded with iron cages that held smoldering embers, rose the unmistakable silhouette of Edinburgh Castle.

“This is bloody real,” he breathed. “Not CGI.”