Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (30 page)

Niall smiled and dug in with his fork. "How will you get through the night on only that?" he asked in return. "It's for both of us. Help me eat. The eel is very good!" He pushed the plate toward her, laughing at her look of horror. "You don't like eel?" he asked. "It was such a treat when I was a lad, and someone caught one in the loch."

"What...do you mean?" Doubt and fear crossed her face. "A lad? You grew up in Minneapolis."

"A dream I had in the castle," he lied quickly.

"There are lots of lakes there. I guess with the head injury...."

He stabbed a bit of salmon on his fork and offered it to her. She tasted it, approvingly. "Now tell me about myself," he said.

"You can't tell?" She gave an unladylike-like snort. "Look how they just scrambled to get all this! Girls scream for you at our concerts. I keep expecting you to tear off your sweat-soaked shirt and throw it to them." She paused. "I guess that's hard with all those buttons." She poured a thick, white sauce on her salad. "You're a musical genius. You get things out of music no one else can. You make things happen. People do what you tell them. Sometimes that's good." She reached for another bite of his salmon. "And sometimes it's bad."

She sipped her water. "You're smart, but you got lousy grades, at least with the teachers you couldn't charm. You didn't care; you knew where you were going and figured you didn't need it. And you were right. You usually are. It's legend how Conrad hired you on the spot before you even auditioned. You're funny. You keep people laughing so hard they can barely breathe."

Niall smiled. Maybe Shawn had a redeeming quality or two.

"You're generous. You throw great parties, and make everyone feel like you threw it just for them." She told him, as he savored his eel, about his childhood, the re-enactment camps with his father, his mother. "You wanted to buy her a mansion. She said she'd rattle around in it all alone. So you gave her this beautiful house in the country instead. She despairs of you. She says your father is rolling in his grave, the things you do."

"What happened to my father?" Niall asked, thinking of the man smiling in the picture he'd found.

"Well, except for saying he died when you were in high school, you never talk about him. Except one night when you got drunk. Really, especially, drunk."

"What happened?" Niall asked again.

Amy hesitated. "There was a boy who took up with the re-enacting unit. Your dad took him under his wing. He didn't really have a father. Only his mom's boyfriends, awful guys...."

"Mom's boyfriends?" Niall asked. "I don't understand."

"His mother." Amy eyed the pigeon pie. "She had boyfriends."

"Was she a widow?" Niall asked. "Do you mean men courting?"

Amy's eyebrows drew together in disbelief. She looked at him sideways. "That's far too nice a word. She wasn't widowed, she was never married at all." She reached suddenly, and scooped up a helping of pigeon pie. Her next words tumbled out, as if she hoped he wouldn't hear them all. "This is really pigeon?" She poked at it on her plate. "If I just don't think about that, I'm sure it'll taste very good. You really want to hear this? You would never talk about it before." She gulped a bite. "It's really good. How did you know pigeon pie would taste so good?"

Niall reached across the table, touching her hand. "I've no memory of it," he said quietly. "I assure you, it will not upset me."

Amy stared at her plate and spoke softly. "You were a wreck the night you told me. You were really, horribly drunk. I'm afraid to remind you of it."

Niall squeezed her hand. "Tell me."

She left her hand in his as she spoke haltingly, softly. "He let the boy live with you sometimes, when things were bad at home. He helped him with job applications and school. One day, after he'd disappeared for a few months, he showed up at one of the camps, wanting a ride home. On the way, he asked for money. Your dad knew it was for drugs...."

"What's this drugs?" Niall asked.

"You don't remember drugs? Marijuana, crack, cocaine, that sort of thing." Niall couldn't grasp these words. "It messes up your mind," Amy tried to explain. She mimed holding something to her lips and breathing in, lifted her eyes to heaven. "Some people do it for fun, and then that's all they want to do, ever. They can't keep a job. They steal to buy the stuff. Anyway, your dad wouldn't give him money. He pulled into a parking lot to talk; said he'd take him home. But the boy just wanted drugs, just wanted money. He pulled out a—well, you get the idea, Shawn."

"No," Niall said. "Tell me the rest."

Amy squirmed, staring at the table, at her napkin. She pulled her hand out from under Niall's and twisted her ring. "You were a wreck, crying, sobbing."

"Amy, tell me," Niall said.

She stared at the table linens. Finally, she spoke softly. "He stabbed your dad. A dozen times, two dozen, I don't know. A lot."

Niall said nothing for several minutes. He thought of his own father, coming to a less than pleasant end, fighting beside William Wallace at Falkirk. But it had been war. Niall had been eight years old, and barely remembered the man. He wished, suddenly, that he had a picture of his father, as Shawn did. He wondered, given his and Shawn's similarity, if his father might have looked like the man in the picture with Shawn. He tried to imagine that man wearing a gambeson, fighting in a schiltron on a battlefield...dying with a spear through his chest. He closed his eyes against the ugly picture.

"Say something, Shawn."

Niall brought his thoughts back to the present. Shawn had known his father, loved him. His father had been betrayed and killed by someone to whom he'd shown only kindness. That was different from dying in battle. Very different. He looked at her, saw the worry and concern in her eyes. "I don't remember it," he said. "It's but a tragic story to me. Tell me more of who I was."

She bit her lip, and told him, softly and stumbling at first, how Shawn had worked with his young cousin, teaching him trombone; how he'd run from an irate husband, and broken her heart by lying to her again. He and Amy arranged music together for the orchestra and Shawn's albums, traveled, walked by lakes, and sampled new blends of coffee. "You've been funny and kind and thoughtful," Amy said. "You've also been selfish. Self-centered. Thoughtless. Hurtful."

He slathered butter on a large, hot slice of freshly baked bread, and handed it to her. "Can you believe I'm not those things now?"

Amy took the bread. Their hands grazed one another. The sensation jolted Niall. "You've shown yourself to be those things. Over and over. The last few hours have been nice, but you've always been able to be nice for a few hours, even weeks at a time. I have to keep believing you're those things, no matter what I see now. Or I'll get another shock."

"No." Niall laid down his fork. It surprised him how much it mattered that she not think these things of him. After all, he would, somehow, get back to Hugh. The real Shawn would—maybe—be back. And he, clearly, did not care. "The person you knew was those things. I'm someone new."

"Prove it," Amy said.

Niall considered the possibilities. When he found his way back to his own time, would the real Shawn return? If so, Niall's words now would appear to be lies. Just another brief show of kindness to string Amy along. Might he find his way back, and simply disappear without Shawn reappearing? If so, his words might, again, appear to be lies. If he couldn't get back...? He had to admit, he had no idea if, never mind how, such a thing could be accomplished. He looked around the restaurant, at his table piled high with the best things in life. What an easy and pleasurable life it would be, trapped here. Not that he could allow that. He had things to do, where he belonged. And he missed Allene.

"What would prove it to you?" he asked.

"An apology." Amy wadded her napkin, throwing it in her lap. "A sincere apology carved deep on your heart. It'll never happen." Her eyes met his, hard and angry.

He stared at her, saddened for the pain Shawn had caused her.

The waiter broke the moment, appearing with the bill in a black, leather folder. The crest on the front caught Niall's eye. "Explain this," he said to the waiter, pointing at it.

"It's the crest of the traitor after whom the tavern is named, sir. He slept here, hundreds of years ago, on his way to meet them at the Battle of the Pools."

Niall's heart froze in his chest.

It was Darnley's crest.

* * *

They returned to the hotel on far better terms than they'd left. Still curious about his request, Amy showed him the computer tucked in a corner in the castle's sitting room. It was an anomaly of slick black casing amidst aged books and shelves, heavy, ancient furniture and a suit of armor. He jumped at first; then, seeing that no one else took notice of it, circled it: a suit of armor with no one inside! He rapped on it and lifted the visor, just to be sure. It was entirely too reminiscent of Edward's men for his liking.

He pulled off Shawn's jacket and joined Amy as she seated herself in front of the computer. Niall kept his expression neutral, watching every movement, memorizing, as she worked her magic, wiggling and clicking a small box—he had no words for the thing—and tapping her fingers on some sort of board, covered with letters, and suddenly, there on the computer screen, were incredibly life-like paintings of Stirling Castle! It was as if someone had captured the actual image and put it on the screen. His gasp slipped out.

She turned. "It's an impressive castle, isn't it?"

He dropped, eyes wide, into the chair next to her. She thought the
castle
was impressive!

Clicks, colors, and pictures changed faster than he could follow. A dark blue bar swept up and down words that appeared on one side of the screen, seeming to move with the motion of her hand, although that could not be possible. It settled on one word:
internet.
With another soft click, the computer hummed, and the screen changed, covered now with words and images. He shut his eyes—this was impossible!—and opened them again. She raced her right hand over the small box, back to the
letter board
, as he christened it. Her fingers flashed, and the image changed again, to a long list of words. Pools! The word jumped out at him, in heavy letters, over and over again.

"Everything you want to know, right here," Amy said. "Where do you want to start?"

"I—I don't know," Niall said weakly. "What is it?"

"You don't remember the internet at all?"

Niall touched his temple to remind her. "As though I never saw it. Explain it." The lacerations were rough under his fingertips; she blanched and accepted the excuse.

"I click on it," she said, matching action to words, "and it pulls up a page with whatever information you want."

"A page like a book...." Niall murmured. He fell silent, daring show no more ignorance. This internet must have been as well-known and navigable to Shawn as the Great Glen was to Niall. He understood. This box, this computer, gave him access to a monastery full of books on any subject he desired! "I don't know where to start," he confessed.

"Let's start at the top, then." Amy clicked the box. Niall caught the motion of her finger, committing it to memory. The image changed to a black background with white and blue letters.

"Read it," Niall whispered.

"Is this something to do with what happened in the castle?" Amy asked.

"Please." Niall spoke a little more forcefully. He studied the shapes and spellings as she read. The wine bottle, brochures and menu had all helped. He could follow the words on the screen almost easily now, thanks to his previous attempts.

It might be what saved Scotland, his ability to learn quickly—including how she was doing this. He studied her hands and the movements of the small arrow on the screen, replaying them in his mind, even as he watched her next motions.

She seemed more than willing to pull up page after page on the Pools, while he memorized her every action. There seemed to be hundreds, and each gave the same dismal story he'd heard at the dinner table: the English slaughtered the Scots.

He studied them all, narratives, diagrams, and paintings of this battle he was supposed to be fighting. A machine copied a multitude of pages for him—he blinked and swallowed to see the images on the computer transferred to paper he could touch—till a thick stack stood on the desk. It would take all the monks of Monadhliath a year to copy so much!

"New interest, Shawn?" asked a musician. Niall barely heard him. His finger traced the shapes of battle, the first day's movements, the second day's movements, the directions from which the English approached.

"What's with Shawn?" someone else asked, more quietly.

Niall marked notes on one of the maps the machine had spit out. It was marshy land on which they'd fought. He knew it, somewhat, from his fostering years in the lowlands. It would be hard on England's heavy horses. Still, the news was bad—all bad. The Scots had simply been overwhelmed. He touched the crucifix at his neck, refusing to believe he'd be here, if there wasn't some way to make use of it.

The steward came in, clearing his throat. Niall was not to be deterred. Unsavory though Shawn had been, he carried influence. Niall turned to the man after the third entrance and throat-clearing.

"We've other guests waitin' fer the computer," the steward said.

Niall stood, rose to his full height, put on his best impression of the Laird, and, copying Amy's vowels and pronunciations, said: "I want a computer and internet brought to my room immediately!"

"I canna do tha'!" the man protested.

Niall remembered the comment from last night's dinner. "I can bring business to your hotel!" he barked. "Or I can take it away!"

"Spoken like the old Shawn," Amy muttered. She covered her eyes with one hand, shaking her head.

Niall had bigger concerns than being compared to Shawn. He faced the steward squarely. "I expect to be back on the internet, in my own room, in thirty minutes." He dredged his brain, trying to recall the word she'd used—the machine that spit out manuscripts. "Don't forget the printer," he added.