The Return of Black Douglas (10 page)

“An infinite number, lass… numerous as the stars in yer eyes.”

She understood how a flower must feel the first time it unfurls its petals.

“’Tis good ye are no’ a coy lass, I am warmed by the bloom of desire in yer eyes. Do ye prefer to remove yer clothing and bathe yersel’, or do ye want to leave some o’ yer clothing on and let me wash the blood off of ye?”

Well, if that isn’t the proverbial between a rock and a hard place, I don’t know what is.
“That doesn’t sound like much of a choice to me.”

“’Tis borne of necessity, lass, for ye canna stand on yer own, so either way, I will have to help ye. Soaking yer ankle in the cold water will ease the pain and help the swelling.” He pulled the surcoat over her head, and she felt a cool waft of air wrap itself around her.

“What if you put me on that flat boulder jutting out over the water?” she said pointing, “I can sit there and soak my foot. Do you have some sort of cloth or a kerchief I can use to wash off the blood?”

“Aye,” he said and placed her on the rock, his surcoat beside her, and then fetched a cloth from his pouch.

By the time he returned, she was shivering from the cold, but it did ease the pain. He wet the cloth and bathed her face. She had never known face washing could be so sensual, and when he paused long enough to trace the shape of her lips with his thumb, her pounding heart kept tempo with her shallow breaths. Inside, everything felt warm and liquid. He attended to a couple of scratches on her arms and wiped the dried path of blood from her legs.

She would never have believed something so innocent could be so arousing. To have a man touch her like this—there was something undeniably sensual about it. She leaned back on her arms, her head back, her eyes closed, until she suddenly became aware that he was no longer washing her legs. His hand was resting warmly on her left thigh.

She opened her eyes and saw that he was watching her, but nothing in the clear blue depth of his gaze gave any hint as to what he was thinking. But his hand was warm, his touch light, and it was terribly erotic.

“I think you’ve gotten it all,” she said, her voice low and breathless. “My ankle is feeling better, but my foot is going to freeze.” She pulled her foot out of the water and felt everything turn liquid inside as he began to dry her foot with his plaid. Afraid it might come unwrapped and fearing her reaction, she squeezed her eyes shut.

His hand stilled, and its warmth seeped into her skin. “Have ye never seen a naked man before today, lass?”

“I saw Michelangelo’s David.”
Isobella, you’re an idiot!

He studied her closely. “I am beginning to think ye havena the wit to be a spy.”

She was frantically searching for a way to respond when his horse saved the day by coming up to Alysandir and giving him a shove with his nose. Alysandir picked up the surcoat and pulled it over her head and carried her back to her previous perch before he gathered his clothes and disappeared. While he was away, she put on her shoes. A pair of athletic socks had never felt so good.

He returned a short while later. “What ye witnessed earlier was brutal, and I ken I have washed away only the bluid and no’ the memory. Ye fear me now, no?”

She crooked her head to one side to better look at him. “No, I don’t, but I am in awe,” she said, with sincere honesty. “It was both the most spectacularly beautiful thing I have ever seen and the most barbaric.”

She saw the pained expression in his eyes and knew that whoever the dead men were, killing them was not something he wanted to do or enjoyed. To the contrary, it seemed to have subdued him considerably. He was not only a man of courage but also a man with a noble conscience.

For the first time in her life, she understood the true meaning of the word “hero.” It wasn’t an NFL player or a rock star, a narcissistic CEO or an actor with an inflated sense of self, and it certainly wasn’t a foot-long sandwich. Alysandir was simply a remarkably brave man who had committed an incredible act of extraordinary bravery, a man of great courage and strength of character who gladly risked his life for others without consideration of the danger to himself or thought of reward. And when killing was necessary, he did not take pleasure in the act but carried the burden deep inside where others could not see.

“Who were they?”

“Puir Highlanders driven to rogue thievery out of desperation.”

“Because warfare is all they know.” She said the words without thinking. When she glanced at him, she saw his surprise and some sort of understanding passed between them, although neither of them addressed it.

“Aye,” he said at last, ’Tis all they know and the only way they have to survive.”

Killing was a way of life here. She recalled that the ancient Greek geographer Strabo had written that the Celts were “madly fond of war, high spirited, and quick to do battle, but not of evil character.” Warfare was one of their major pastimes, and if an enemy did not present itself, they were content to war with each other. Naturally, it would be even more manifest when they were faced with starvation.

“I know you had to kill them, and I’m glad that you did not enjoy it,” she said.

“Aye, kill them or let them kill us. That is the way of it. Kill or be killed. There is no midpoint, mistress. Had they killed me, ye might have been spared, but if ye were, ye stood a good chance of finding yersel’ flat on yer back. Either they would have kept ye to use fer their own pleasure, or they would have bartered ye to be used by another.”

Survival of the fittest
. “That possibility entered my mind. I do not judge nor do I criticize what you did. I know it is part of the way of life you lead here.”

His gaze penetrated deeply, warming her. “Ye are a strange lass and far more accepting than most. Although it is rare for a woman to witness such as ye did, it is rarer still to find one who is not horrified or one capable of accepting it as a way of life.”

“Yes, I would imagine most women would not consider that a form of entertainment.”

“I do not know that last word.”

“Entertainment… it means amusement, as in seeing a play or playing music.”

He said nothing as he dropped down on his haunches and picked up her foot. “’Tis a strange shoe ye wear.”

She glanced at the North Face cross-trainers and said, “Yes, I suppose it is.”

He lifted his dark head, and their gazes met and held. Without a word, he turned to rummage through the bag attached to his saddle and withdrew two round things that looked similar to a biscuit.

“Will ye have an oatcake?” he asked, and offered one to her.

A distrustful look settled over her brow. “Persephone was dragged into the underworld for eating just a pomegranate seed.”

He chuckled. “Aye, ’tis true, well enough, but there are no seeds in my oatcake and I find myself far too weary this day to drag ye any further than to put ye astride my horse.” He offered it again. “What say ye? Starve or eat?”

She held out her hand, thinking she would soon take a bite from history.
Blaah!
It tasted exactly as she had imagined it would, only worse, like cardboard—really old, musty cardboard with a hint of leather. She refrained from asking just how old the oatcake was, but it did hold the hunger pangs at bay.

Later, he saddled his horse and she found herself surrounded by his warmth as he gathered the reins and mounted behind her. This time, when his arms came around her, she knew she was in the hands of a very brave man, more than capable of protecting her.

Before long, a thin grey cloud of water droplets gathered and a fine, white mist floated down upon them. He stopped long enough to take a plaid from the back of his saddle and to hand her the mead flask. “I know, have a nip. It will warm my insides.”

His eyes gleamed, calm and blue as a tranquil sea. “’Tis a good memory ye have, mistress, when it suits ye.” He mounted, put the plaid around himself like a woman’s shawl, and then brought the edges forward to wrap around her, tucking the edges beneath his powerful thighs.

“We are one now, lass,” he whispered with a warm breath brushing her ear. A melting of warm desire enveloped her. She had no idea a Scot five hundred years in the past could, or would, be so seductive. She was becoming way too comfortable with him, so she stiffened and said in a rather prim voice, “We are not one, for we are halves of two different fruits.”

His laugh was beautiful, and her body was warming both from the heat generated by their closeness and her occasional hefty gulps of mead. She could see herself throwing caution to the wind for a little Highland fling. She almost unseated herself with the thought, and she would have fallen if he had not had the quickest of reflexes and grabbed her.

“Careful, lass.” He breathed the words against her skin, and she melted against him as the slow ache of desire quickened the blood warm in her veins.

The mead had to be doing this for she had already decided to swear off men. And the Black Douglas whipping up this time-travel scenario made any kind of a dalliance dangerous territory—at least until she knew what was going on. She wondered what kind of game her mercurial ghost was playing. She felt like a feather “for each wind that blows,” as William Shakespeare had written. She wished she knew more about the rules of time travel—where was theoretical physicist Michio Kaku when she needed him?

Here she was, escorted back in time by a ghost who probably had his own set of rules. When the Black Douglas spoke vaguely about returning them to their own time, was he toying with them or didn’t he know the rules either? Well, there was nothing to do in the meantime, other than make a life for themselves here.

She put her hand to her head and massaged her temples, where a dull throbbing had begun. She decided to enjoy her time here by taking advantage of the educational aspects and archaeological opportunities she would find. Scotland had a long and enriching history involving many tribes, clans, and cultures.

She would have countless opportunities to excavate and write a few reports on her findings to be left for posterity. If one had to travel back in time, this was a great place to have landed. But she wondered why the Black Douglas brought them here to this time period. He was up to something, and that made her feel like a chess pawn.
Wonder and imagine all you wish, but he won’t reveal anything until “the spirit moves me.”

“’Twould seem the mead is having an effect upon ye, Isobella Catriona Douglas.”

The way he said her name flowed over her like a massage with warm oil.
Everything about Scotland is having an effect upon me… especially you…

“You told me your first name, but you have yet to give me your last name. You do have one, don’t you?”

“Aye.”

She knew Scots were very private people and not at all like Americans, who had a natural propensity for telling everything about themselves to total strangers. But, what was the harm in knowing his name?

“Mackinnon,” he said at last. “Alysandir Mackinnon of Caisteal Màrrach on the Isle of Mull.”

Mackinnon… Oh, lord, did she know that name! It was one of the oldest Celtic tribes and used the wild boar on its crest. “And you have always lived here.”

“Aye, I was born here and here I remain, like my ancestors afore me.”

“And who is the laird or chief of your clan?”

He didn’t answer. “I take by your silence that you are the chief.”

“By chance, not choice.”

She caught the sadness in his words and understood he had assumed the title because someone dear to him had died. “We can shoot the arrow, but we cannot control where it lands,” she said. “Some of the world’s greatest men were forced into the very thing that made them great.”

He nuzzled her neck and breathed the words, “Yer wisdom warms me.”

She was in way over her head and didn’t know how to extricate herself. So she yawned and gave in to the sweet warmth of honeyed mead. That and the rhythm of the horse, the exhaustion, and the strong arms around her were all comforting, and she was ushered into silence by her last conscious thought.
I do like that mead, almost as much as the Scot who gave it to me.

And liking either of them too much would be very dangerous.

Chapter 14

The Hero can be Poet, Prophet,

King, Priest or what you will,

according to the kind of world

he finds himself born into.

—
On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History
, 1840
Thomas Carlyle (1795–1881)
Scottish historian and essayist

The mist had burned away by the time she awoke, not certain where she was. Then she saw the tanned hands careless on the reins in front of her, felt the warm strength of arms that held her, and heard the name that quietly rode into her consciousness. Alysandir Mackinnon.

He had slowed his horse to a walking pace now, and she wondered if it was to allow her to sleep. Neither of them spoke as they rode over rocks dappled with lichen, scattered between puffy tufts of heather. Nearby, a curlew gave warning, and when they passed, it went flapping out of a tree, leaving only chirping meadow pipits and greenshanks to do the scolding.

She took in the silvery boles that rose like columns into the lofty branches of a grove of beeches, where a gleaming ray of the descending sun had come to rest upon a white trunk. Beyond the grove stretched tracts of brown heath and brilliant whin, with a holly brake interrupting the scene now and then. It was rough country and hauntingly beautiful.

She was wondering if they were going to ride all night when he guided his horse toward a place where an outcropping of stone formed a semicircle around a small clearing. She could hear the music of a waterfall and saw the burn nearby, as it tumbled over timeworn stones. She recalled that in Scotland, one was never far from a burn.

The spongy, damp earth cushioned the sound of hoofbeats. The evening was unnaturally quiet, the light penetrating the trees insubstantial. A breeze seemed to come out of nowhere to float eerily through the pine trees, creaking the branches it passed through.

He pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted; only this time, when he lifted her in his arms, he did not carry her anywhere. Instead, he lowered her to her feet, not releasing her but holding her close while he searched her face with a steady gaze that also probed the depths of her eyes, searching, asking. It didn’t take a PhD in psychology to know that he wanted her. She swallowed audibly and looked away, fearing that he might see the same acute yearning for him in her eyes.

“Why are we stopping?”

It was unnerving the way his eyes, his words caressed her, sparing nothing and sending an eddy of pleasure rippling throughout. She supposed she deserved that for unashamedly gawking at his nakedness earlier. She found herself wondering what kissing him would be like and gave herself a mental slap.

Letting him know she desired him would be foolish, for he would act upon it and a loose woman could end up the castle whore, so she gave him a seraphic smile. Then she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye, letting him know that if he tried to force his attentions upon her, she would not be receptive to such overtures. She narrowed her eyes as if to say she would not give up without a fight.

“
Vae victis.
Such bravery, but wholly unnecessary. A man can desire a woman without raping her.”

His words were powerful and the caress on her face infuriatingly gentle. He stroked her cheek and then gently lifted her chin with the curve of a forefinger. The humid breath of the wind caressed her face as tenderly as did his gaze when she looked at him.

Vae victis, woe to the conquered
.
If he only knew she was conquered already.
But she did not have to let him know that. She sighed, thinking the golden tint of late afternoon did nothing but enrich the warm tones of his skin, the high cheekbones, and the silvered gleam in the depths of his blue eyes.

“What would ye say if I said I wanted to kiss ye?”

For a moment, she stared at him blankly, but then his words sunk in and she said, rather flippantly, “I would have to say no.”

“Then I willna ask,” he said and drew her more tightly against him.

Her insides felt like they were floating, and her heart had already risen to her throat, rendering her speechless.
No, this can’t be happening.
She twirled around with silent dignity, intending to walk dramatically down to the burn to break the spell. In her haste, she forgot about her ankle and proceeded to tumble over the gnarled root of a tree, rolling a couple of feet and landing on her side in a thorn bush. At first, she didn’t think she was hurt. Then she howled in pain.
“Yeowwwww!”

He stood in place, observing her. He said calmly, “Bad choice. The cure was worse than the poison. Kissing me would no’ ha’ been so painful.”

In spite of her pain, she laughed, but she stopped when she learned a valuable lesson: In the pain department, thorn bushes rank considerably higher than bracken. Her left side bristled with thorns from hip to ankle, and she felt as though she had been stabbed with a million needles.

She knew she was becoming a great deal of trouble and wondered if he was contemplating riding off and leaving her. When she glanced up at him to get some inkling of his thoughts, he shook his head and dropped down to survey the damage.

“Apparently ye were never told that a gorse bush is to be avoided. ’Tis a valuable lesson ye have learned today, and ye are fortunate the thorns are only on yer left leg. I need to put ye where ye willna get into more trouble.” He reached for her, and she pulled back. “Be still. Do ye want to push the thorns in deeper?”

She leaned back. “Aren’t you going to pull them out?”

“Nae. I will see to my horse and make camp first.”

Her mouth dropped faster than a ripe fig. He was going to see to his horse? And leave her sitting here pricked with a million thorns?

“When I have a fire going, I will boil some water to bathe yer leg. The hot water will make the thorns easier to pull.” He turned to remove the flask of mead from his pouch and tucked it into his tunic. He lifted her carefully, carried her to a ledge hewn from a large rock, and sat her down gently.

He was like no man she had ever met. It was not simply because he was from another century that was wild, passionate, and untamed. No, it was more than that. He did not try to impress her or pelt her with sexual innuendos or play games. And he didn’t seem to define his masculinity through aggressiveness. His virility and courage were as natural to him as his horsemanship.

He removed the flask and handed it to her. “Drink some o’ this while I see to my horse.” When she took a sip, he turned away. He returned shortly to wrap the upper part of her body in his plaid, and she wondered how many women had received such. She drank more mead, thankful once again for its numbing warmth.

As he unsaddled his horse and rubbed him down, she sensed a bond between the two of them, for the sturdy hobbler responded to Alysandir’s slightest command. Once the horse was cared for, Alysandir gathered wood and kindling to start a fire.

She took another drink. “Aren’t you going to tie your horse?”

“Nae.”

“Why not?”

“He willna leave.”

Alysandir used a tinderbox to coax smoking leaves into a fire, adding small chips of wood taken from the interior of a fallen log to bring the emerging flame to life. He added a few logs, and soon the fire blazed. She could feel its warmth reaching out to her. She had never thought to consider a wool plaid and a smoky, peat-smelling fire sheer luxury, but she did at this moment. She shuddered to think what she would be doing now, if he hadn’t come along. She pulled the plaid closer and noticed he seemed amused.

“Ye have the look of a wet cat aboot ye.”

“You don’t look too impressive either,” she shot back, feeling a bit miffed at her bedraggled appearance when he, even battle weary, looked absolutely sumptuous. Oh, fiddle. She was so tired she couldn’t put two thoughts together. The oatcake she had eaten earlier did nothing to stop the awful gnawing in her stomach, and her leg throbbed with each pulse of her heart.

What I wouldn’t give for a hot bath and a warm, soft bed about now.
She sighed, imagining the fragrance of crackling clean sheets and skin scented with rose soap. What she settled for was another nip or two of mead.
Can one become a mead alcoholic?

She watched him carry a few things from his pouch to the fire, and she marveled at watching a real knight set up camp. It was so much better than one seen in a high-budget film.
I wonder what he’d think if he saw
Braveheart
? Laugh his head off, probably.

She watched him carry a tin of water from the burn and place it on the fire. While it heated, he came toward her. “I will need my plaid to carry the water over here.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You aren’t going to pour boiling water on my leg, are you?”

He gave her a look that said how stupid he thought that question was. “Lie doon, lass.”

She smiled, feeling a bit giddy as she obeyed, and stretched out on the stone, gasping at the brittle slap of cold against her skin. “Hurry. I’m freezing.”

“’Tis to be expected when ye go about naked as a shorn sheep.” He rolled up one end of his plaid and poured the hot water over it, then quickly arranged it over the length of her injured leg. She raised her head, yelped, like a kicked dog, and lay back down. A moment later, she said, “Ahhh, it’s nice and warm.”

“’Tis the mead what warms ye. Lie still, for it will soon cool. I must work quickly.” He peeled part of the plaid back and began to pull the thorns.

She gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes tightly together to ward off the pain, determined to show how Texas tough she was. After what seemed hours, she raised her head.

“
Ouch!
This is taking forever. How many…
ouch!
… more are there?”

“I ken there will be aboot as many as were poked into yer skin,” he replied.

“Can you translate that into an
ouch!
… number?”

“Mayhap ten or fifteen.”

“I’ll be dead by then.” She closed her eyes and grimaced with each thorn, howling with the extraction of a few of them.

“Pain can be a guid thing.”

“How so?
Owwww!
Are you doing
owwww!
… that on purpose?”

“Nae. That one was in deeper than the others. It was the last one.”

She let out a long breath. “Thank God.” She opened her eyes. “How can pain be good?”

“It can teach ye a lesson. ’Twould be safe to say ye willna fall into a thorny gorse bush again, now will ye?”

“If you are trying to learn how to be humorous, you’ve a long way to go.” She rose up on her elbows. “I might have known you would find another way to poke me.”

“Of that ye can be certain,” he said, laughter dancing in his eyes. “I anticipate the moment.”

You idiot!
Her head fell back and cracked loudly against the stone. “
Owwww!”

“Yer twin… is she as clumsy as ye?”

“No, and not half as entertaining either.”

“Humph!” He picked up the plaid and carried it back to hang near the fire.

She was feeling a bit tipsy as she watched him fill the tin again and set it on the fire to boil. He added a few leaves, which she assumed were tea leaves or something akin to them. She was shivering by the time he poured some of the steaming liquid into a small tin cup and handed it to her.

“’Tis herbs that will give ye strength and warm yer insides,” he said, and handed her another oatcake.

She wouldn’t have to worry about gaining weight here. She wondered how a warrior such as he could wield a heavy sword and maintain his stamina on herb tea and oatcakes. He stood a few feet away, his feet wide apart and thumbs in the waist of his chausses, with a serious expression on his face—and he looked sexy as hell.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

He checked the plaid and, finding it dry, folded it. “Nae, ye didna do anything, if that is what ye mean, but ye willna like what I am aboot to say. I have only one plaid, and that means we will have to share it for the night.”

How convenient. She was too tired to even consider arguing the point. “Fine. Just make sure that is all you intend to share, for I warn you, I will resist.”

He smiled wickedly. “A woman who resists is a woman won, and her passion is equal to the fervor of her resistance.”

“You will realize in the morning just how wrong you are about that.”

He tossed the plaid on the stone ledge and stepped closer. Cupping her chin, he lifted her face until she had no choice but to look into his eyes. She was captivated by the overpowering gentleness she saw there, the softness of his touch.

“Ye are afraid of me? Afraid I might harm ye?”

She intended to say something trivial but stopped herself. His magic closed off any means of escape, just as an enemy surrounded a fortress. She had nowhere to turn. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. He was too overpowering in a gentle way that reached out to surround her like a warm blanket.