Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (11 page)

He leaned his head against the parapet, but the floral scent wrapped around him. Voices reached out again, from far away. His head spun. He risked opening his eyes. There were no cars in the lot. Funny. Whose voices had he heard? He crossed to the east side of the tower, reeling as the rising sun speared his eyes. He raised a hand against the glare, and squinted down at the pebbly beach below. Two women, in full skirts, ambled along the shore with a man in a gray tunic. The water glittered under the rich greens of the mountains behind it. He swore. What was with these damn reenactors? Didn't they have a life, that they were out this early in the morning playing dress up? They really needed to join the real world.

Ah, well. Time to get back to Inverness. In the light of day, he could do it. He turned to grab the picnic basket. Maybe he'd refill it and take Caroline up here. He stopped.

It wasn't there.

The basket in the corner curved up on the bottom, open on either end. Piles of bluebells lay lengthwise in it. He scratched his ear. He couldn't remember any basket, apart from the one holding the picnic. He turned slowly around the keep. That one wasn't there.

The sweater? A dull throbbing grew behind his temples. It was hard to think without his morning latte. But he remembered laying his head on something soft. There in the corner—a dark brown woven...something. He crossed the keep and picked it up, shaking it out. One of the reenactor's cloaks. He screwed his eyes shut, seeking a path through the confusion. So they'd found him here already and given him a cloak to sleep on. Strange. He'd have thought they'd wake him up with a little annoyance. Oh, well. He'd go down and thank them and ask for a lift back to the hotel.

But first, he sat down for just a minute, cradling his head in his hands. Just another minute to let the head-pounding and nausea quiet down. He wondered, for once, why he did this to himself, and whether it was worth it. It didn't even stop the dreams, anymore.

A commotion erupted on the stairs, a flurry of female voices, a swish of fabric against stone walls, and the light, hurrying steps of a woman. He groaned. The floor shifted under him again. Time to face the dragon-lady tour guide.
"Dh'fhàg mi an seo e a-raoir,"
said one voice.
I left him here last night
drifted lazily through Shawn's brain. "'Tis unlike him not to appear for the morning meal." Shawn rubbed his ear and shook his head. He was still hearing the Gaelic lilt from his dreams, although garbled and hard to understand.

Two young women emerged at the top of the stairs. Young women? He scoffed. Jailbait, more like it. But oh so attractive, even if they were two more of those ridiculous reenactors. One hung behind, clutching a small wooden bucket. Dark hair hung in plaits down the back of her plain brown dress. Plaits? Shawn thought. Where did I get that word? She kept her eyes on the floor. The one in front—now there was a force to be reckoned with. Fiery red hair shimmered around her face; blue eyes flashed. Freckles danced across her pale skin. A fine blue kirtle emphasized a small waist and fell to her toes.

"There you are!" she burst out.

To Shawn, it was an explosion. "Turn down the volume, will you?" he said. "My head is pounding."

"Drank ye too much ale?" she asked suspiciously. She turned to the girl behind her. "What gibberish is he speaking? It sounds like some drunken form of the Sassenach tongue."

Shawn stared. She
was
speaking Gaelic! Maybe it was the whiskey that made it sound so strange. He squeezed his eyes tight and opened them again, sure now that he was awake, and yet she was speaking Gaelic! These people, he thought for the second time this short morning, really needed to join the real world. He laughed out loud. The girl gave a suspicious stare. "'Tis hardly funny. My father and all the lords await. Did ye drink more?"

He switched to the Gaelic of his camp days and his grandmother. "What's it to you? Listen, I need a lift...."

"He speaks strangely, my lady." The quieter girl cocked her head at him. "And he seems not to recognize ye."

"D' ye not?" The redhead frowned.

"Should I?" he asked.

Her face softened.
"'S mise, Allene."
He struggled to make out words.
It's me, Allene.
"Is it your head?" She reached for his hand. It wasn't what he'd expected. But what the hell. Even half-drunk, he recognized an opportunity. He pulled her down, tipping her off balance. Their lips met. She softened for just a second, then yanked back.

"You!" She spun to the girl behind her, grabbed the bucket, and doused him thoroughly with cold water. "Ye are drunk! I told ye not to!"

Shawn gasped and spluttered, shaking his hands and head, and scrambled to his feet. Water dripped liberally from his eyes, hair, and nose. The icy water chilled him down to his bones and brain. He gasped sharply for breath, glaring. "What the hell was that for!" he demanded. He had not forgotten how to swear in Gaelic.

Behind the fiery girl, the more docile one gasped. "D' ye no be talking to my lady like that!" Her words belied her mild voice.

Shawn stared in fascination, sifting words from her garbled dialect as he wiped water from his eyes. What an actress! She sounded truly shocked, as if she'd never heard the word before. "That's good," he said. He switched back to English, not wanting to play their silly game. "Sorry about your dad and the lords, but...."

"Stop this gibberish," the girl with the fiery hair said.

Shawn sighed in irritation and repeated himself in Gaelic.

"What are you wearing?" interrupted the princess, as Shawn was already thinking of her. "That is not our plaid! That is MacDougall's!"

Shawn glanced down at the tunic, and the plaid hanging drunkenly off one shoulder. "Oh, this. Yeah, I just picked this up for kicks. Wanted to feel a little authentic, you know. Oh, I get it. You thought I was...." He groped for a Gaelic word and could think of none. He substituted English. "You thought I was one of the reenactors."

"You're drunk," the girl snapped. "You make no sense. I've no idea what a...a
re-en
…what that is. My father will not like to see you wearing his enemy's plaid. You may in your drunken state find it good jest, but I assure you, he will not!"

"This is enough." Shawn switched back to English. She stared at him in such confusion that he wondered if maybe she was one of those from the far west who spoke only Gaelic. He pushed himself to his feet, picking up the cloak. "Is this yours?" he asked, giving her the courtesy of her native tongue. "Thanks for the loan, even if you did follow it up with a bucket of cold water. There must be someone here with a car."

"Would that I had another bucket of water!" the girl said in agitation. "What were ye thinking to get drunk at such a time!"

Behind her, the lady in waiting spoke mildly. "My lady, however upset ye are, he must be rid of that plaid before your father sees it."

Lady Allene pursed her lips. "Cover the plaid with that cloak. Go to your room immediately and change. And in the name of the Good Lord Jesus, I pray thee never get this drunk again. You are addled!"

"I told you, I'm not one of the reenactors. I have no idea what room you mean. My things are in Inverness."

"He's speaking nonsense, my lady," the maid said. "Are you sure 'tis only the drink? 'Twas a nasty blow he took to the head, bringing home the cattle."

"What blow?" Shawn asked. "What cattle?" He misunderstood their garbled speech, surely.

The redhead stepped forward, reaching for his head. Shawn jumped out of her reach, starting the nausea in his stomach again. "Uh-uh," he said. "Stay away from me."

"Follow me," said the girl, showing a little more concern. "He was sweating last night. Perhaps the arrow wound has become infected and addled his mind?"

"Arrow wound? What arrow wound? I'm not addled."

She ignored him. "He was still seeing double last night. Keep the cloak tightly closed, Niall. We dinna ken who is about in the hall."

Shawn shook his head, spilling drops of cold water down his nose, and wrapped the cloak around himself. Fine. Play along. At least he'd get some dry clothes. Or maybe the coffee his body craved. He followed the girls down the dim, twisting stairs, past the window with the stone cross inset, to the courtyard.

It bustled with life: women cooking, boys fetching, soldiers calling, and all of them hustling among the fingers of mist pulling at their clothes. They had their children there, dressed in what looked to be fairly authentic garb. They even had sheep in the courtyard! He wondered that they had moved all this in while he slept. And—something else—something not right with this picture. Even apart from the fact that it lurched like a ship on high seas now and again.

But despite the cold shower, the hangover clung to his brain tenaciously, and he couldn't put a finger on what was wrong.

He followed the women across the courtyard. Men offered him brief bows—nods of the head, really—and women dropped him quick curtseys. He nodded, grinned, winked at them in turn. I could get used to this, he thought. The insides of his head swayed pleasantly, with the hangover and the pleasure of flirtation.

Allene led him to the wing adjoining the tower, up more stairs, and down a stone hall with arched windows letting in light and morning sounds from the courtyard. He remembered coming here on the tour. She opened a large wooden door. He remembered this room. The historical society had furnished it as it might have appeared. It hit him! He stopped abruptly. "Yesterday was the last day for the living history."

"Go 'won wi' ye, my lord." The meeker girl pushed him in. There was the huge four poster bed, and the heavy draperies at the open window. He stared harder. Hadn't the hangings been red? Of course, he hadn't paid much attention. He'd been thinking about Amy and finding a way back in. Because there were the hangings, a deep blue. And the tapestry of the man on horseback—he looked for it. There were several, but none looked familiar. It must be a different room, after all.

Regardless, Allene implied it was his. They'd made a huge mistake. He wondered who his character was, the person they mistook him for, to deserve bows and curtsies and this huge room. "Nice," he said. "What am I supposed to do, again?" He put a hand to his pounding head.

"Get rid of that awful plaid!" snapped the lady in waiting. "Shall I fetch the physician, my lady?"

Allene crossed the room briskly and drew, from a huge wooden wardrobe, a clean linen shirt, tunic, leather boots, dirk, and a fresh plaid. "Haste!" she said. "My father is waiting and none too happily! Angry as I am at you right now, I'd not see you hang!"

"I'm sure you'd love to see how I'm hung," Shawn shot back. "And if you ever want to know what's really under my tunic..."

She slapped him.

Hard.

The blow sent new shock waves through his pounding head. He stumbled back into the room, a hand on his stinging cheek. "Hey! You're carrying it a little far, don't you think!"

"Change your clothes!" she snapped. "Iohn will be up directly. See you're ready." She closed the door with a dull booming thud.

Shawn dropped on the bed, cradling his thundering head in his hands. Why in the world were they mistaking him for this character? Maybe he looked like the man, or maybe they'd never met him. Maybe this was a new group of actors, different from yesterday's. Maybe there was some special production today. He tried to remember any mention of such an event, but couldn't. There had been posters at the gift shop, but he'd paid no attention. Too bad. It might have given him some clue who these people were, taking their little playacting so seriously.

He rubbed his cheek and looked at the clothes 'Lady Allene' had thrown out for him. He couldn't see, in his hung-over state, much difference between this plaid and his own she found so offensive. Red, blue, who cared? He wanted to march out of the castle and head for Inverness and break it off with Amy. This whole morning so far had him in a foul mood, and it was her fault. On the other hand—he looked at the clothes on the bed. At least they were dry.

He changed, and found himself more comfortable. He dropped his own things in a heap on the floor. Opening the wardrobe, he found a hat with a plume, a bonnie plume, he might even say, and shook his head. Being around these people was messing with his mind. He put it on, wishing for a mirror.

A brisk knock landed on the door, and it flew open. A man with jet black hair and—Shawn squinted, to be sure—mismatched eyes, one blue and one green, filled the doorway, wearing the standard costume. So much for variety around here, Shawn thought. Except for the unusual eyes.

"My Lady Allene is distressed with your behavior," the man said, curtly. "Would that you stop teasing her. Your jests wear thin at this of all times. Would you have her send for a physician?"

"I doubt it. You people are so into this, he'd probably bleed me for the sake of realism."

The man frowned. "He'd no bleed you for drunkenness, though MacDonald might throw you in stocks, were your journey not so vital. Think you not, that you'd best let me accompany you? Allene is worried about sending you alone in this condition."

"No, I'm fine," Shawn said. He tried to work his liquor-logged brain around the mention of a journey. He'd just journey right on up to Inverness, without this man's help. He glanced at the bed, hoping he could sleep off this hangover, first.

"Well, then, I would that you show better behavior in front of the Laird, than the drunkenness you've shown my Lady. And bonnie though it is, the hat is perhaps not appropriate."

"I'm not drunk," Shawn muttered. He tossed the hat on the bed. "I'm hung over. I
wish
I were still drunk." He'd had a brief relationship with a girl who had been deep in the whole Ren-faire scene. He remembered her friends as a much looser bunch, winking and nudging at a good hangover, not threatening stocks. The 'ladies' among them had not been averse to a little bawdy humor, nor for that matter, to following it up in the nearest barn with even more fun. None of them would have slapped him. These Scots must be different.