Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (38 page)

With a deepening thirst as they rationed the water ever more carefully, the growing rumbles of his stomach, and the eventual necessity of relieving himself, Shawn guessed they had been in the cellar far longer than the day's sleep he'd expected. They huddled together through a second rabble-rousing party, holding hands. Morning or night, the dark womb around them never changed. The room stank of whatever the burlap bags held, of rotting vegetables, and of their own waste. They dared some quiet talk during the loudest of the party.

"Allene." Shawn cleared his throat uneasily, about to say words he'd never said in his life. She shushed him, but he pulled her finger from his mouth. "No," he whispered. "I have to. I'm...uh, I'm....I'm sorry." In the dark, he sensed her head turning toward him, her eyes opening wide. Although conscious of the monk nearby, it had to be said. "I've been a jerk. I never meant to, it's just...in my life, this is normal."

"Normal?" Her breath came out in a soft swoosh. "Taking advantage of a woman is normal? Seducing a man's daughter behind his back while he's trying to save your life? Normal?" Loud voices bellowed a drinking song over their heads, with more enthusiasm than talent. Something soft sniffled at the back of his hand. He flung it, startled. It slammed against the far wall. Allene let out a muffled yelp. They fell silent for a moment.

Shawn squeezed his eyes tight, nauseated. A rat had touched him! He forced his mind back to their conversation. It sounded pretty bad, in her words. He tried to explain. "It's not really seen that way. Women—I mean, women in my world—they like that sort of thing."

"In your life? In your world? Niall, you're not yet yourself. This is your world. Have I not known you since we were both bairns? I've never known such women, except loose women." A loose woman, Amy? Hardly. She'd never slept with anyone but him. She made the Victorians look licentious. "Or desperate women," Allene added, "who appease a man to feed their children or have a place to lay their head." The idea unsettled him. Amy wasn't desperate. She earned her own way. She didn't need a man to feed or house her.

Feet stomped a raucous rhythm above them. Hands clapped. Dirt sifted down, a fine sprinkling into their hair and faces. He rubbed at his irritated eye.

"Niall." Allene's breath brushed softly against his cheek. "I'm scared. You're no the brave and giving man I knew but last week."

Shawn hung his head. He wanted to tell her he wasn't Niall. She couldn't possibly understand. "I'll try," he said. "I'll try harder to be that man." He couldn't say, himself, why it suddenly mattered. But he wanted her respect.

Above, the bacchanalian song ended, liquor-logged voices called to one another, and shuffling footsteps moved drunken men around the room. Several minutes later, someone spoke. Something scraped, a bench at a table, Shawn guessed. A voice rose in irritation. Shawn and Allene held hands, straining to hear.

"My men have gone farther into the Great Glen with your lad," said the voice from last night. He slurred his words. "We've not heard from them yet. Are you sure you've seen no monk, nor Campbell? Would we could check your cellar and find whether there may be a monk or a Campbell hiding among the turnips!"

Shawn's insides ran cold. Mostly.
I did the right thing. I apologized.
He felt his father's presence, strong, warm, and smiling, and the fear eased a little. He slipped an arm around Allene.

"Now, my lord," came Fergal's placid voice, "surely none would be foolish enough to hide the king's enemies right under the king's men! An' surely you don't think I'd trust a Campbell with my turnips!"

The king's soldiers guffawed. "Safer your turnips than the MacDougall's cattle!" shouted one.

"Those were our cattle!" Allene whispered indignantly.

"A fine jest," said Fergal. "Though the MacDougalls would no see the humor. A round on the house." The men cheered. "'Twill be another day ere the Grants and your men finish searching the Glen. 'Tis a deep wilderness, when a man does not want to be found. And Campbell is perhaps far away by now. Would it no be wiser to move on? Rumors have Hugh in the forest near Glasgow."

"Bah!" bellowed the first soldier. "I would feign search your cellar, drunk though you intend to get my men!"

"Surely not, my lord," said Fergal, mildly. "I mean only to keep them happy. To King Edward!"

The men cheered, but the commander shouted above it. "To the cellar!"

In the cellar, Shawn sweated. "We have to hide," he whispered.

"Trust him," Allene whispered back.

"It's the rest of them I don't trust," Shawn hissed. "He's just one man."

"The cellar is well hidden."

Shawn, nonetheless, began digging among the sacks and piles lining the cellar's walls. The monk rustled nearby, presumably doing the same. Feet stamped above, and he heard the brushing sound he'd last heard as Fergal swept straw over the trap door. He forced his muscles to relax; tried to slow his breathing; tried to settle his mind. Allene squirmed in beside him, yanking the rancid sacks over them both. He wrapped his arm around her. "You okay?" he risked asking the monk, under cover of the shouting above.

"We are in God's hands," the man replied, and they fell silent, waiting.

Shawn wished he could believe that. He lay back, Allene's head on his chest, and returned to mentally rehearsing his music on the harp—anything to keep his mind off the soldiers. It could only lead to blind panic. He had six pieces now, and wondered, should he be called on to actually perform, if that would be enough.

The harp! With a start, he realized he'd left it against the wall near the trap door.

He sighed. Maybe with a monk here, they would be safe in God's hands. But his heart pounded, a snare drum in the hands of a drunken percussionist. He'd feel better if God made Himself visible, preferably with a flaming sword in hand. Even a minor angel or two would do.

Above them, a soldier shouted. "Found it!" The men cheered. Allene curled more tightly into him. Her breath came in short, sharp jolts. Hinges creaked. Shawn squeezed his eyes shut. The putrid sacks pressed on his nose. "I'll go down," volunteered one. "Hand me my sword!"

Shawn swallowed hard, tightening his arm around Allene. Her faith in him was misplaced. He couldn't protect her.

The soldier shouted again. "I'll stab these turnips and see how many bleed like a Campbell." Great laughter greeted this apparently clever quip. Shawn, shrinking smaller under piles of turnips, onions, and burlap sacks, missed the humor. He wondered where the real Niall was. Flying home with the orchestra? Shawn didn't want to die here in his place.

A thud of feet landed on the cellar floor, along with a muffled voice. "I'm in!"

Inverness, Scotland, Present

Niall couldn't face the queasy bus ride back to the hotel. Besides, he wanted time alone to think through his next problem. If he could persuade Amy to go with him, he could risk asking again what her century knew of changing times. He'd word it more carefully this time, so as not to upset her.

"I'll walk," he insisted. The others, congregating around the huge bus in the warm afternoon sun, seemed to find this outrageous. "All the way to the castle?" Dana asked in disbelief. She shook her head and climbed on the bus.

"It's at least a mile," Amy said, her forehead wrinkling.

"It seemed but a few furlongs," Niall replied.

"Furlongs? How long have you been thinking in furlongs?" demanded one of the men.

"Not fer long!" another cracked. They laughed and punched one another's arms.

"Yes, I'm sorry, not furlongs," Niall agreed. "Miles." The men turned their backs, jostling to get their instruments into the storage areas under the bus, talking about the rehearsal and their plans for their free afternoon.

"Do you remember the way?" Amy glanced at his temple.

"I was hoping...." Niall began.

"He'll be fine." Rob rounded the bus, his face dark. "I've got a seat on the bus for us, Amy."

Niall's hackles rose, with a sudden, irrational determination to have Amy choose him. He looked with wide eyes at the glass and stone buildings, old and new, rising along the River Ness. He knew exactly where to find the castle hotel. But he wanted to talk to Amy. And Rob's possessiveness ground his nerves. "That way, is it not?" Niall said, pointing north.

"'Is it not,'" Rob sneered. "He knows it's south. He's playing you, Amy."

"Which way is south?" Niall turned west. His back to Amy, he arched an eyebrow at Rob, challenging him.

Rob's lip twitched. His eyes hardened. "I'll take you." Most of the musicians were on the bus now. He slid his trumpet into the great silver beast. "Amy, get on the bus."

Niall waved away Rob's offer. "Weren't you going fishing with the...uh," he almost said lads, but caught himself and substituted, "others?" He needed to talk to Amy!

"Yeah, we're going fishing."

"I'm slow." Niall rubbed his posterior, reminding Rob he'd been wounded there, too. Their eyes locked like rams' horns, showing none of the concern their words conveyed. "I don't want to hold you up."

"You haven't been moving slow." Behind Rob, someone pounded on the bus window. Rob glanced back, his shoulders tense.

"It was a long rehearsal," Niall lied. "I'm stiff."

"Then ride the bus."

"I need to work it out." Niall stared Rob down. "I'll be slow."

Rob's eyes narrowed. "They'll wait."

"Best not," Niall said. "The biggest fish bite before sundown."

A muscle twitched in Rob's jaw. "What do you know about fishing?"

Niall coughed. He knew plenty. Shawn, perhaps, did not. "I've heard they do," he said. "In the Highlands. You'd best take the bus." A breeze blew, rippling Rob's short, blond hair, while each man considered his next move.

Someone on the bus pounded a window, louder this time. "Let's go, Rob! The fish are waiting to jump in our boats!"

"I'll take him," Amy said, pushing her violin in with the other instruments under the bus.

Rob glared up at the window. It reflected the tree-lined boulevard. He slammed the big door of the bus's storage compartments much harder than necessary. "He's playing you for a fool, Amy." He shot Niall a last glare before swinging onto the bus. Niall couldn't resist a smirk back, though he chided himself such behavior was unworthy of a future laird.

He took Amy's arm, elated to have won, and hard-pressed to contain his excitement at retrieving the opportunity to question her. They crossed the street and set off down the sidewalk, along the river. Behind them, the bus roared to life, belching smoke, with all those people in its belly. Niall shuddered. He quickened his step, beside the silvery Ness.

"It was a good rehearsal," she said, hurrying to keep up.

"Yes," he agreed. His excitement pushed him forward, rashly, to his real concern. "Switching times," he said excitedly. Inspiration hit him. "Are there stories? In my time..." She looked at him sharply. He searched the corners of his mind for a correction. "In my time in, uh...in my time growing up, I recall stories of fairy hills and such. Stories of men who went into hills to visit dwarf kings and came out three hundred years later. Have we no such stories?"

"This again?" Amy stopped. "Who are you, and what have you done with the real Shawn?" He paled, resisting the urge to put his hand to the noose he felt twisting around his throat. She cocked her head. "I'm kidding." The Ness whispered beside them. "But what in the world happened out there? I want the truth."

"Nothing." The wraith noose slid away. Niall breathed more freely. "Something I saw on the internet. Are there stories?"

She started walking again, frowning. He knew he hadn't convinced her. "There are all kinds of stories. H.G. Wells and
The Time Machine
."

"What kind of wells?" Niall's heart leapt in excitement: stories of disappearing in time still abounded! He imagined a deep well on a fairy hill.

"H.G. Wells, the author?" Amy said. "In his story, the guy made a machine that took him through time. In other stories, people walk through stones on, well, fairy hills, like you said, or in magical places. There are just sort of—gates—into other times, and it happens by accident, where they say the crust between times is thin. There was a whole series about standing stones where that happened."

There were standing stones less than a day's ride from Glenmirril. Men whispered of witches and mysterious goings-on there. He and Iohn had talked of it. Maybe he needed to get to them, now in this time, to get back to his own. But it had happened without them the first time.

"There was one where the guy surrounded himself with things from the early nineteen hundreds and went to a hotel from that era, and just sort of believed himself back to that time. And as long as he believed he was there, he was. Then he sees a penny from his own time, and gets sucked back."

Niall thought regretfully of his coins, sitting now in the pawn shop. But clearly, seeing them hadn't taken him back where he wanted to be. Nor had believing he was in his own time, that first morning, altered the truth of where—when—he really was.

"But none of it is true," Amy said. "No one's ever claimed to have really traveled through time, and if they did, they'd be locked up."

"Maybe that's why they don't claim it," Niall murmured. He fell silent. He couldn't be locked up.

His hand slid from her arm, and he trudged along under the summer trees lining the walk. The river whispered its rhythm against the narrow pebbled shore. Her hand crept into his, and he jumped, guiltily. Memories of Allene flooded him, of climbing the hills together. How she would yell to see him walking hand in hand with another lass. But he could hardly pull his hand away, without raising Amy's suspicions more. A warm flush crept up his arm. He liked the feel of her hand, and hated himself for liking it. All night, since her revelation yesterday, he'd fought off images of her and Shawn pushing. The images returned, with himself in Shawn's place. The flush inched up his neck. That's what Rob wanted...he wanted to
push
her!

Niall almost groaned at the realization, and wondered why he hadn't seen it immediately. Rob was smitten with Amy. Niall wrapped his hand more tightly around hers. Rob was not right for her. He tried not to worry about holding her hand.