Highlander of Mine (4 page)

“Why are your brothers in Virginia?”

His shoulders hunched all over again. His face soured for an instant, then he turned from her, clicking his tongue and the horse began walking. She didn’t think he would answer, but finally he said roughly, “Long story.”

“Maybe you’ll tell me about it...later?”

He shrugged.

“You never told me what you said to that Rory guy.”

There was no mistaking that every time she called Rory, that Rory guy, Duncan softly chortled. She really liked that, making Duncan laugh.

“I told him about yer missing things,” he said. “That more than likely some mosstroopers stole from ye, and I’m wantin’ my ma to see ye to make sure ye weren’t hurt.”

“Wait, you think I’m hurt?”

He pivoted his head again. “Ye said ye don’t ken where ye are. I’m assuming someone hit ye over yer head. Once we get that sorted, then we can find out why ye’re really here.”

She squeezed her legs and pulled on the horse’s mane, effectively making him stop, even if she didn’t have the reins. Duncan halted and looked up, a frown of irritation sent at the mount.

“I didn’t get hit on the head.”

“Mayhap they hit ye without yer awares. It can happen.”

“I didn’t get hit on the head. Feel for yourself.”

He swallowed.

She pulled her ponytail holder out, letting her hair go wild and wrap around his face as she leaned down toward him again. “Feel my head. I don’t have a bump, not even a bruise. I’d have a headache if I’d been hit, and I don’t. I feel fine. I feel...great in fact.”

His shoulders hiked a little more, and his eyes stayed fixed on her hair waving around from the sea breeze.

She leaned as close as she dared, holding tight with her inner thighs to the horse. Duncan’s face was only a couple inches from hers.

He cleared his throat. “Then—then why is it ye don’t ken where ye are?”

“I know where I am. I just didn’t know
when
.”

He started to shake his head slowly.

She didn’t know why, but she had to have him believe her. Although it was utterly insane. If he believed her, then maybe she wouldn’t feel so alone.

His gaze drifted from her eyes down to her lips where it stayed for a few seconds. A zip of desire shot straight through her. He glanced up into her eyes again, but his own had turned a dark green. No longer hazel, but were now a forest of color.

“That can’t be,” he said softly.

“I know. I don’t believe it either, but here I am.”

“That can’t be.” He repeated.

“I
ken
.” She emphasized his Scottish word usage.

Briefly, he smiled, but it was lost once he said, “The fae are playing a trick on me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think fairies had a part in this. And besides, it was
me
they threw back in time.”

He sucked in a breath. “Ye’re from the future?”

The way he’d said it, with such incredulity, it made her laugh and think of all the
Back to the Future
movies. When she was a girl, she’d watched them over and over again at the community center in her hometown of Porcupine, South Dakota. She remembered them with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia that made her heart hurt. Still, she nodded. “I guess. Unless, none of this is real. Unless, I’m dreaming you.”

He shook his head and returned to walking the horse. “No one would dream of me.”

At first, she didn’t think she’d heard him right, because the words had been said on the quietest of a whisper, and probably only for his ears. But the wind had taken his words and given them to her. It cracked her heart to hear the big man say such a thing. He was stoic, yet...captivating with his voice gone so soft, with his ever-changing-colored eyes, with that huge scar down his cheek and through his red eyebrow. Fleur thought when she’d been down on his level she’d have liked to kissed his scar, because she thought that injury was just one of thousands the man wore. Inside and out.

He walked toward a large stone house, one that looked surprisingly modern without a sod roof, but some kind of tile. It was a long home with arched windows, and Fleur couldn’t guess where to get the glass for such a thing during this time. Lovely was the only word Fleur could think of for the house, looking more from a fairy tale than anything of reality with high stone walls and bright green ivy sprigging cheerfully up the dwelling. A huge colorful garden mixed with vegetables, flowers, and herbs, just like what her Na would have had, welcomed her. Duncan tied the horse to a rail of the fence that surrounded the estate. With a swift move he had Fleur by the waist and eased her down.

Right against him.

Chapter 5

D
uncan’s eyes widened slightly, perhaps was a bit shocked, maybe even confused. But he stayed still. Fleur was wedged between the horse and him and didn’t mind in the least. Looking up, she smiled as he tightened his hold of her. Her breasts pressed against his iron chest and part of her stomach against his. That’s when she realized she was almost on her toes, not quite touching the ground. Because if she did, she wasn’t sure their bodies would link like this. He was so tall. A foot taller than her, maybe more. But what impressed her the most was his build, so broad and powerful. Her breasts felt achingly heavy, and her nipples contracted.

His breath became shaky, and his face was so close, his lips only a few inches from hers.

“Duncan? That ye lad?”

At that, he released her and almost jumped back. He looked over the horse in the direction of the female voice calling.

“Aye.” He stepped around the mount and with a wave, gestured for Fleur to walk ahead.

As she did so, he spoke over her head. “Ma, ye have a visitor.”

Circling around the horse, Fleur saw a woman on the porch of the house and stopped dead in her tracks. Duncan stepped into her, held her by her hips, but even his magical touch didn’t stir her from staring at the woman. Holding a shawl tight around her thin shoulders, she looked so much like Rachel, Fleur could hardly believe it. She huffed with recognition, but the woman had far more gray in her hair than Rachel had. Further, it was tied neatly in a chignon at the nape of her neck, and Rachel would never hold her wavy dark hair back like that. Still, the hair was very similar—wavy dark brown tresses mixed with distinguished gray silver. This woman was much paler than Rachel and held just a few more wrinkles. But her eyes danced just like Rachel’s as Fleur returned to walking and drew closer.

The woman smiled. “My, aren’t ye the bonniest sight I’ve ever seen.”

That was almost identical to what Rachel had said when they’d met the first time at a Cornell faculty mixer. “My, aren’t you the prettiest nerd I’ve ever seen.” Booze and over educated people were never a good mix, Fleur had thought, but then she’d met Rachel, and all she wanted to do was hug her and stay. And now in this time, an overwhelming need to cling to the woman before her urged Fleur on.

She embraced Duncan’s mother and whispered, “No, you are.”

The woman laughed, again, almost identical to Rachel’s chuckle. But she knew this woman was not her friend. Fleur could feel the difference, this woman was a bit tougher, a bit harder around the edges, but every bit as maternal and nurturing.

Fleur released Duncan’s mother, but they still clung to each other’s arms. The woman searched Fleur’s eyes, then her face, smiling with moisture beginning to pool in her eyes.

“Ma, this is Lady Fleur Anpao. Lady Anpao this is my mother, Helen Cameron.”

Fleur wondered why Duncan had a different last name, but couldn’t think of a way to ask such a personal question.

Helen released her hold of Fleur and placed tiny fingertips against her lips for a moment. “A lady.”

Fleur tried to shake her head, but Duncan whispered in her ear, “Don’t. She’s always wanted to meet a fine lady like ye.”

The compliment was enough to humble Fleur down to her bones. She peeked over her shoulder as Duncan straightened, his face devoid of any emotion, save one. He looked just a bit surprised. At the way she’d reacted when meeting his mother? She was shocked by it too, but she felt such a connection to Helen, almost as instantaneous and strong as when she’d met Rachel.

She extended a hand and Helen reached for it. While holding hands, they both curtsied and giggled.

“What brings the lady to my humble home?”

Although Helen had used the third person, Fleur understood that she was asking her, not Duncan. As Helen released her, Fleur said, “I—I wanted to talk to you about Virginia.”

“Where my younger boys are.”

Fleur looked up at Duncan again who gave a short nod. She nodded too then.

“Ye’re an American lady, eh? Oh, how grand is this, Duncan, my lad?”

“Aye, Ma. ‘Tis grand. May we visit inside?”

“Oh, my manners.” Helen curtsied again, while Fleur reflected on Helen’s beautiful accent and how it had sounded as though Helen had said, “Och, me mannors.”

Duncan opened the big black door and placed his warm fingertips against the small of Fleur’s back, giving her enough pressure to indicate she was to step through the door while he held it. But she almost couldn’t walk. Her thighs felt wave after wave of heat, luscious and carnal, crash through her at that slight, probably innocent touch. She recovered fast and smiled at him as she passed. But from her periphery, she saw his eyes turn a tad glassy. Maybe it wasn’t such an innocent touch?

The house was floor to ceiling whitewashed wood and thoroughly clean, smelling slightly of herbs, which Fleur saw there were bunches hanging from the white beams at the top of the house. A small, pale blue, lumpy couch sat in front of a huge fireplace to the right of the abode and rocking chairs of varying sizes were placed around the couch. To the other side of the residence stood a long wooden table, also whitewashed with many chairs alongside it. Seven in all, and they sat so still, so vacant that Fleur palpably felt the impact of Duncan’s missing brothers, as if a piece of her heart had been slivered off.

Helen removed a long, half-finished knitted blanket, still with long wooden needles on one end, from the couch and waved toward the seat. “Can I offer ye a beverage, my lady?”

Fleur was about to sit, but said, “Water? May I have water? But I don’t want to be a burden. I can get it myself.”

“I’ll get the water,” Duncan said. He turned to his mother. “Would ye care for tea instead?”

“Nay, I’ll have water too, like the lady.”

Duncan nodded and strode away, then Fleur and Helen sat on opposite sides of the couch, staring at each other. However, Fleur noticed that Helen seemed exhausted as she sat.

“I really don’t want to be a burden. Perhaps we should visit at a time of your choosing?”

Helen shook her head vehemently. “Nay, this is a perfect time. I was just knitting. I don’t ken why. Mayhap this will keep Duncan warm.” She looked at the knitting in a vacant rocking chair.

Fleur couldn’t help but appreciate the design and thickness of the soon-to-be blanket, then nodded with an enthusiastic smile.

“Is the lady from the Virginian colony?”

“Fleur, please call me Fleur, if that’s all right?”

Helen’s blanched face bloomed with a slight pink hue as she smiled. “Fleur? Are ye French as well?”

Fleur thought about telling the story of how her father, a French Canadian man, had fallen in love with her beautiful mother, but their love was not meant to be. However, that was a lot of information, so she just smiled for an answer.

“I would be honored to call ye Fleur, ifnye call me Helen?”

Fleur nodded again with a wide grin. Then she recalled the question. “And, no, I’m sorry. I’m not from Virginia, but I’ve been there. It is a beautiful colony—lush with green, green trees. And the flowers that grow there are phenomenal. They’re so big and beautiful.”

Helen sighed and nodded. “I’m so glad to hear it. Did—did Duncan tell ye how my boys were taken from me?”

Fleur shook her head. “No, ma’am.”

Then Helen looked down, her shoulders caving in, making her thin frame seem so much smaller. That was when Fleur smelled Helen. At first, all she could scent was herbs, but it was when Helen shrunk from the pain of losing her boys that Fleur got a whiff of something that smelled slightly sour. Something amiss. And instantly Fleur thought she recognized the odor but couldn’t place it.

“They—they—being from the American colonies, did ye hear much about our revolution? Do ye ken of Cromwell?”

Fleur’s mind raced back to her undergraduate classes and the few history courses she had taken. Odd tidbits that shaped Western culture during the seventeenth century flew through her mind. The Thirty Years’ War, Cromwell and a parliamentary revolution that hadn’t lasted—Oh! Shit, Fleur thought. She was in the middle of Scotland during the British revolution. Cromwell was still in power. The king had been executed or would be. Oh my God, what a crazy time to be in Britain. And, Jesus, she was smack dab in the middle of the rebels. The Scots—well, not all of them, but many—did not take kindly to Parliamentary rule.

“You know, I’ve heard a little of what’s going on, but I’m not exactly current.”

Helen nodded and kept looking down at the pastel couch. “My sons fought against Cromwell. Well, Duncan didn’t. He was still in Sweden, weren’t ye, lad?”

Fleur hadn’t realized that Duncan had returned, but he held two thick pottery-style cups and gradually walked closer. His pace was sluggish, yet simultaneously jerky, as if he wanted to be anywhere but here.

“Aye,” he said eventually, then softly, “I’m sorry, Ma.”

Helen shook her head, never looking up. “’Tisn’t yer fault. Cromwell,” she said the name as if it were a curse, “took ‘em, took my sons. Cromwell’s New Model Army killed my Douglas, the second to the youngest. He was just nine and ten.”

Fleur scooted across the couch and held onto Helen’s hands. “I’m so sorry.” Fleur had known loss, but the loss of one’s own child...that had to be the hardest death to deal with. Not remembering her mother, because she’d died hours after Fleur had been born, she’d been raised by Na. And dealing with her grandmother’s death had been difficult—not only had Fleur lost her grandma but the only mother figure in her life too. Yet to lose a child...God, that must have hurt. And Helen had lost her others to the war. Were they prisoners?

“What did Cromwell do with your other boys?” Fleur found herself asking.

Helen looked up. “Shipped ‘em off to America. Duncan found out they were sent to Virginia, then he heard news how they were indentured servants, being sold to the rice kings down there. Do ye ken the rice kings?”

Before Fleur could shake her head, Duncan said, “Ma, I told ye, they aren’ real kings. They just have a lo’ o’ money, so they’re called kings.”

“Right, right,” Helen nodded. Then she looked up at Fleur, her hazel eyes grown misty. “Do ye happen to ken one of them?”

Fleur shook her head. “I’m sorry, no.”

Helen shrugged. “Just as well.” She smiled then in a wholly mischievous way. “My boys ran away from their plantation master, they did. They ran into” —she turned toward Duncan slightly— “tell her their name again.”

Fleur glanced up at Duncan. All the planes of his face were tense, the look in his eyes was hard and distant. His shoulders seemed to hunch powerfully, as if he were ready to strike. He shook his head. “Not sure how to say it. Something akin to Yama—er, Yamasay, mayhap.”

“Yamasee?” Fleur asked.

Duncan’s eyes widened. He didn’t nod, but he seemed as though he wanted to.

Well, that was a coincidence. She’d studied the Yamasee, a tribe mainly in South Carolina, but in 1653 it wouldn’t be called that. It was still considered the Virginia colony. South Carolina was a special colony in that many slaves and indentured servants ran away to the tribes there. The result was fascinating to research as a genealogist. Yes, genealogy held the promise of answers that historians begged for and had proof of people who loved and lived together, instead of the long-thought of feuding. Both might be historically accurate, but it was thanks to genealogy that finally the fighting was no longer the focus.

Fleur looked at Helen who smiled at her, seeming to silently beg for good news.

“I think your boys will be fine in Virginia.” Fleur tried to grin herself.

She looked up and over at Duncan who finally moved the last few inches to place the thick brown cups on a nearby small table that held tallow and beeswax candles.

“If ye ladies will excuse me,” he said and then hurriedly left through a part of the house that Fleur couldn’t see from where she was sitting.

After hearing a door slam shut, Fleur glanced back at Helen.

“He blames himself for the loss of my younger sons, carries too much guilt for any one man.”

“Why? He was in Sweden? Why was he in Sweden?”

Helen glanced up with a proud smile. “Makin’ money for me. Can ye believe a grown son like that would keep sendin’ me his money? But he did. I think he sent me near every cent too. He’s such a good lad.”

Fleur smiled.

Then Helen leaned closer. “Ye’re the answer to my prayers, aren’t ye?”

Fleur blinked. “Excuse me?’

Helen leaned away, but had a small all-too-clever grin on her beautiful face. “’Tis my Duncan. He keeps blamin’ himself for all of this. He wanted to go to America and find my sons and get them back here. But to what, I says? To Scotland torn apart from war and this supposed revolution? Nay, as much as I miss my lads, they need to be in a land where they can prosper.”

“And Duncan?” Fleur asked before she could properly censor the question.

Helen smiled ruefully. “Duncan, if he will ever let go of this blame, will prosper no matter where he lands. But I asked him to stay with me. I ken he wants to go, find his brothers, then return to being a mercenary, making the fine money he did, so I could have the grandest house in Durness, mayhap in all of MacKay country. But I asked him to stay, for I’m...well, I need him to stay for a bit. And now ye’re here, so he’ll stay as long as ye do. Will ye being staying with me in my house? I’d be honored if ye did. Oh, but I should go find my Duncan to help me get the house ready for ye.”