Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (17 page)

Shawn turned quickly away, but not before catching her lifting a hand to her mouth to suppress a laugh. Betrothed! His mind spun with kaleidoscope possibilities. "My apologies," Shawn said. "It is only that your daughter has such lovely eyes."

A wave of disapproving frowns washed around the table. Iohn thumped his head, setting off another round of timpani. Shawn rubbed it, glaring at him. The stone walls wavered for a second, and settled down. The arched window with the blue sky split into two and moved back together. He glanced at Allene, who also gave him a sharp frown. Clearly, these people did not approve of compliments. "My apologies," he mumbled. "I didn't mean anything." He turned to the parchment spread across the table, scratched with marks and lines in a rough estimate of Scotland, hoping they'd go back to their discussion.

Conal tapped the parchment. "Pay close attention. All our lives depend on it."

"The Niall we knew only last night would not need to be told." Darnley spoke with heavy disappointment. "Will we at least send one with him to make sure he does not wander off in his strange state?"

Anger boiled in Shawn. Never had his competence been questioned, much less to his face. No one, after all, liked to be on his bad side. He considered his options. A glance at their daggers narrowed those options significantly to courtesy and re-gaining the trust the real Niall, whoever he was, had obviously had from them. "I'm not addled," he said. "Things are coming back."

"Will you send another with him?" Lord Darnley asked again.

"I have spoken," the Laird said. "He'll sup early, then rest. Lord Darnley, you will prepare his provisions. No one beyond these walls is to know anything. Niall, you leave an hour after midnight." His beefy finger pointed to their present location. You must be well clear of open areas before sunrise, lest anyone see you."

He traced a line from the castle to the rough depiction of a copse. "From here to here is nine miles. Dawn comes early, so you mustn't stop till you have cover of trees."

"Nine miles?" Shawn asked. He almost asked why nine miles should take from one a.m. till daybreak, but thought better of it. Apparently, he was walking, and that was obviously a given to these men.

"The forest will shelter you till you reach the Great Glen, which you'll follow until
Ku Chuimein
." His finger continued along the trail he'd drawn.

Shawn dared not ask what the Great Glen was, or how he would follow it. This, too, seemed a given to these men. Besides, he was going north, regardless of their plans for him.

The Laird raised his eyes to Shawn's. "Hugh must meet us at Stirling, or all Scotland falls, and our clan with it." He turned to his men. "I would talk to Niall alone. Lord Morrison, d' ye bring the robe to Niall's chambers, now. Ye'll find it in my wardrobe." The men, all but one, stood, unquestioning, gave respectful bows, and crossed the half-acre of the great hall, out the huge wooden doors.

"My Lord," Darnley said. "You must send one of us with him, at least! Tell me how to find Hugh, and I will get him there safely."

"I have spoken, Lord Darnley," the Laird said.

"My Lord, you must see...."

"I have spoken," rumbled MacDonald. His eyebrows drew together.

"'Twill not do...."

The Laird rose, thunder in his eyes, to his feet. Lord Darnley bowed, his mouth pursed tightly, and removed himself.

The Laird seemed to have forgotten Allene, standing in her drab gray-brown dress against the gray stones. Shawn, though he kept his eyes to himself, was powerfully aware of her. Her presence filled the hall. He wondered if he could find her room tonight. If they were engaged, certainly Niall had been there before. And certainly he could easily get back in her good graces.

The Laird spoke softly for a change. "A guide will go with you," he said. "The lad knows where to find Hugh."

Shawn nodded, not happy with this decision. But a lad would be easy to slip away from. "What lad?"

"Lower your voice," MacDonald warned. "Walls have ears, and there are those who have ambitions beyond their present position. Trust few, and you will live longer. Be clear on that, lad: trust no one, not even your closest friend. D' ye understand?"

Shawn nodded, stifling the urge to give a theatrical gulp. But these people had no sense of humor.

The old man waited; for what, Shawn couldn't guess. "Ye'll no argue?" he finally said.

"Why would I argue?" Shawn asked. All he wanted was to get out.

The Laird shrugged. "Ye've never yet failed to speak your mind. Surely you remember the deaf and mute lad who came with us last time." He stared at Shawn, boring deep into his eyes, and Shawn had the distinct feeling the words were supposed to mean something other than what they appeared to mean. He didn't even try to guess what.

"Aye," said Shawn, and almost choked to hear the word come out of his mouth. The Laird, however, seemed unsurprised.

"Two more things: follow the lad wherever he takes you. Aye?" Again, the eyes bored deep into his, and Shawn guessed he was not going the way laid out in such detail on the map. "An' you value your life and those of us in the keep, do not question me now. Clear?"

Shawn nodded. A shadow of fear niggled at him. This man was serious; dead serious. "And the other thing?"

"Lord Morrison will lay out clothes. Put them on immediately, and go to sleep. You'll be roused when the time is right."

Sleep sounded good. "Will there be coffee then?"

"Caw—caw. Fee? What is this?"

"Okay, so you're into historical accuracy. No coffee."

"You'll be given what you need. You'll cross the hill to the copse. Fast. My lad will lead you from there. When he gives the signal, change into the clothes you'll find among your provisions, and play the part."

"What part?"

"You'll understand when you open the sack. You've a gift, Niall. Now is the time to use it for more than a winter night's entertainment."

Shawn could think of only one gift he had which provided for winter nights' entertainment. This man couldn't possibly intend for him to seduce women across Scotland, so Niall must have another gift, with which to save Scottish civilization. He was curious what that might be.

But then, it didn't matter. He was going to Inverness.

* * * * *

Chapter Six

Inverness, Scotland, Present

It was another hour before they let him out. Niall scrawled a signature on the parchment they pushed in front of him, taking his best guess at how to spell Shawn. Judging by the other signatures on the page, script need not be legible. That suited him well.

Amy stuffed his tunic, trews, and boots into a bag, over his protests, and handed him wide blue hose of some stiff material, instead. Jeans, she called them, swiping at her eyes. When she left, he pulled his own clothes back out. He wouldn't parade publicly in such a short, immodest shirt.

Amy returned, sighing at his garb. "Never mind," Rob said. He slid his arm around her waist.

"Conrad planned to be here," Amy said over her shoulder. "But he had things to deal with."

Planned…things to deal with.
The words shaped themselves in Niall's ear. "Conrad?" He kept his words to a minimum, till he could copy their language more carefully. The name sounded familiar.

Her feathery eyebrows drew together. She frowned. "You don't remember Conrad?"

"I remember nothing."

"Conrad leads the orchestra," Amy said.

So Conrad was a leader: a king, an earl, a duke? "Is he the laird?" Niall asked.

"What?" Amy sounded shocked. "There's no laird here. You don't remember the orchestra?"

"The doctor said the memory usually comes back quickly," Rob told her. "Let's get him home." He hoisted the bag of clothing and dropped a hand on Niall's shoulder, steering him toward the door. "A brief history of Shawn Kleiner. You play trombone." Niall wondered if that was a game of some sort. He tried not to stare at the cots on tall spindly legs with wheels at the end. So they hadn't been a dream. "You're a big star."

"Star?" He could make no sense of that.

"A big shot. Important. King of the hill."

Niall nodded, committing the expression big star to memory. He listened with one ear while sorting out the situation. Amy had left Shawn, the big star, in Glenmirril and come back to find Niall. So where was Shawn? In Glenmirril's tower, in Niall's time?

History said he, Niall, died on the journey, perhaps of his injuries. Well, he was healthy now, thanks to their medicines. If he'd really come forward in time, he'd just go back, King Herla's apparent failure aside. He had a job to do.

They strode out of the passageway, into a large front chamber. People turned to stare. Silence fell; then a girl squealed, "It's Shawn Kleiner!"

"Unbelievable," Amy muttered.

Rob warded off the stampeding girl, saying, "Leave him alone. He's hurt." The group that had massed for assault drew back; Amy and Rob ushered him to a large wall of glass. It slid open, without a hand touching it. Niall sucked in his breath, but said nothing. Just outside the incredible wall of moving glass, waited the one thing he'd hoped had been only a dream: the beast that had crouched outside the castle, one of the large metal wagons that shot like an arrow with no horse to pull it. Despite his intentions to learn and copy, to fit in, he took an inadvertent step back. His hand fell on the hilt of his dirk.

Rob stared at him. "Toto," he intoned.

Amy punched his arm. "Shut up, Rob."

* * *

Niall searched one last time for another explanation, on the drive to the hotel—an inn, judging by their conversation, what he could make of it through their broad, flat vowels. He'd steeled himself for the jolting against his injured parts. But the seat was soft, and the ride surprisingly smooth. He closed his eyes against the buildings speeding by, however. Behind closed lids, he soaked up their language, while searching for another possibility.

It wasn't delirium, it was far too elaborate for a ruse, and the notion of skipping across time like King Herla was too disturbing. Could he be in a fairy knowe? He'd never believed in those, either, but it seemed a touch more likely. Fairies were said to be tricksters. They'd have the means—if they existed—to create such things as he'd seen.

He let the morning drift through his mind, each detail of the broken walls of Glenmirril. But fairy knowes—so Rabbie said—held worlds more beautiful than man's, not tumbled-down copies. And even if Auld Rabbie's tales were true—which he doubted—elfin folk never came in pairs, nor bore such common names as Rob. And they captured men who wandered into their mysterious places; they did not venture into men's homes. Amy and Rob wore strange clothing, but not the beautiful things Rabbie described, and no thread of green. Fairies wore green.

Rabbie told of a people confident, devious, and sensuous. Amy had shown only forthright concern. She had not tried to seduce him with fairy kisses as the Elf queen did Thomas the Rhymer. Her eyes had flickered nervously to the knife, outside the castle, with no hint of the fairy folk's deviousness or cruelty.

Even now, she naively took his closed eyes for sleep and leaned forward from the back of the monster, talking softly about him, or rather, about Shawn. Shawn, then, whoever he was, had clearly disappeared.

"I shouldn't have left him," she said. Uncertainty trembled on every word, a sparrow in a storm. Her hand brushed his forehead, setting off pleasant tingles. He held still with some effort, trying once again to fit the facts to a ruse or kidnapping. Maybe Shawn had taken his place. His heart thudded. Surely Allene would not be fooled! Would this man, this big star, be near her?

He opened his eyes. Another of the man-carrying beasts hurtled straight toward them. He squeezed his eyes shut, tensed for death. When nothing happened, he lifted one tentative lid. The thing streaked past, almost skimming the sides of their own. He let out a thankful breath and closed his eye again. It helped not to look.

He explored the idea of kidnapping, while fighting the lurching of his stomach. He'd be held for ransom. And yet—where had he been taken? A place that looked exactly as his own castle might, in seven hundred years.

"Are you okay, Shawn?" Amy asked from the back seat. Only when her hand fell on his shoulder did Niall realize she was speaking to him. He opened his eyes, and wished, at the sight of hills flashing past, that he hadn't.

"I'm well," he said, curtly, and shut his eyes again. He listened to their voices, as they spoke with each other, and let his mind drift back to his prior thoughts, to cars and phones and leaders called conductors. He wasn't in England. Captors did not ask their victim to come along, nor looked so scared of, or for, him. And it served no purpose, pretending to think him someone else. They seemed genuinely perplexed and concerned. Especially Amy.

The car slowed as it entered the fringes of a town, which quickly became a city, with stone buildings rising like gullies on all sides. Parts of it seemed vaguely like the Inverness he knew, but full of cars and people in clothing even stranger than Rob's and Amy's. He braved the view of all those cars shooting every which way, to lean forward and study the city. Giant versions of their own car, towering two stories high, rumbled by, ready to topple on them. Women bustled along in twos and threes, carrying heavy sacks. Men sat at tables sipping from delicate, white tankards with no handles. Paintings hung everywhere! Outdoors! He wondered if they needed to be replaced often, if they were brought in on rainy days, or if these people had paints and canvas that withstood the elements.

Seven hundred years. It would explain everything. When you've ruled out all else, his tutors had taught him, what you are left with must be the answer, no matter how unlikely.

The car stopped in front of a painting of himself. A man lolled in a field of bluebells wearing a tartan wrapped around his waist, a linen shirt with billowing sleeves, and an idiotic grin. Two busty women draped themselves over him with moon-eyed gazes. Niall sat upright, staring. The man looked just like him, yes, but how could these people ever mistake him, Niall, for such a dolt!