The Highlander's Vow (Loch Moigh #4) (3 page)

He turned his mount, gestured to the knight opposing him and spurred his destrier toward her once more. Scrambling up to standing, she panicked. War horses thundered at her from opposite directions, hemming her in and too close for her to make a dash for it. Besides, where would she run to if she could escape?
Bloody hell!
She’d landed in the midst of a jousting tournament, and she was trapped between the contestants. Did they not see her at all?

She pressed her arms tight against her sides and tried to make herself as small as possible, hoping to avoid the clash between the two. The first knight dropped his lance, leaned over and snatched her up by the waist. The spectators let out a roar. Confusion swirled through her, as he settled her on his lap.

He bent his helmeted head close and whispered into her ear, “You are safe with me, my lady. You have my word. Be at ease.”

Truth.
Powerful emotions pulsed from him, and all she could manage was a weak nod. She sensed so much more than simple sincerity. Loss. Regret. Excitement. Disoriented, she placed her hands on his arm and turned her attention to her surroundings.

Never had she seen a jousting arena such as this one. Where was the keep of the noble who must be sponsoring the tournament? And what of the villagers sitting on the benches surrounding the field? Only a few were dressed properly. Where had she been taken to . . . and when?

Looking out beyond the field, she gasped. She was in a village surrounded by forest. The buildings appeared . . . false somehow. The fronts didn’t match the rears. The thoroughfare teemed with people in a variety of garments. The smells of roasting meat and sweets filled the air, and more cheering erupted from the crowd as new jousters cantered onto the grounds.

She studied the gauntleted hand of the knight who held her. “If you please, sir, I must speak with your liege lord immediately. ’Tis of the utmost importance.” He chuckled low in his throat, and the deep, rich timbre of his voice both calmed and stirred her.

“I have no overlord, so I’ll have to do. I know what has happened to you, for the same happened to me a decade ago. I recognized the shimmering lights.” He guided his mount out of the arena.

“What the hell, Struan?” an older man cried and grabbed the reins of the knight’s destrier. Peering intently at her, he continued to address the knight. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes . . . You and Michael did a great job of shielding her and making the whole thing look like part of the show.”

“We need to head for the RVs, Gene,” her knight said.

Arvees?
She had no idea what that might mean.

The older man, dressed in a tunic and hose, peered up at her. “Who might you be?” He began leading the horse across the park beyond the jousting arena.

Blinking against the tears filling her eyes, Sky straightened her posture, though every inch of her was shaking. “I am Lady Sky Elizabeth of clan MacKintosh, and the earl of Fife’s eldest daughter.” Swallowing against the tightness in her throat, she asked, “If you please, could you tell me where I am?”

Her knight removed his gauntlets and helmet. “You’re in Sterling at the—”

“Stirling? Why, ’tis where our young King James resides. Take me to him at once, and all will be put to rights.” Again the deep timbre of the knight’s chuckle caused her heart to flutter like the wings of a wee hummingbird.

“As I was about to say, this is the New York Renaissance Faire in Sterling.”

“
New
York?” Exhausted and confused, she closed her eyes against the throbbing pain in her head. “What has befallen the old town of York that you must now call it new? Though I’ve ne’er been to the walled city myself, I am well educated, sir. I ken York is near the border between Scotia and England.”

To add to her misery, sweat trickled down the back of her neck, and the heavy velvet of her gown stuck to her skin under the heat of the blazing sun. The knight must be miserable in this heat clad as he was in armor.

“Ah . . . not exactly.” He shifted behind her. “I’m afraid you are far, far from your home and your time. This is the year of our Lord 2014.”

“Nay!” she cried. “I willna hear it.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I have gone from one terror to the next this day . . . and . . .” She lifted her cloak and peered at the dung clinging to her side. Her gown was ruined. Why something so trivial should affect her so, she could not fathom, but the sight of the burgundy velvet covered in horse shite was more than she could bear. “And this is my favorite gown,” she cried. “I chose to wear it for luck, and see you what has befallen me?”

Her knight chuckled again. “You blame the gown?”

“Nay! Do you think me simpleminded?” She turned to glare at him. Stunned, her glare turned to a wide-eyed stare. Why, he so resembled a younger version of her aunt Elaine’s husband, a Sutherland, that the two could be brothers. Brilliant blue eyes, blond hair and strong chiseled features, a fine, straight nose—never before had she thought of a man as beautiful, but he was, in a rugged, masculine way. Her face heating, she turned back around.

“You view the straits I find myself in as a source of amusement, sir? I assure you, I dinna.” Ire stiffened her spine. For certes she’d lost her wits, one moment crying over a gown, the next gawking at the lad’s comely face, then filled with indignation. She needed a good long nap.

She studied the older man who continued to lead the knight’s destrier. His thick hair was completely white, as was the mustache he wore curled up at the ends in a most peculiar manner. How did it stay fixed as it was? He led them through a gate, which opened up to a large wood dotted with large . . .
trucks and trailers.

Her cousin Robley had drawn her pictures of such after his sojourn to the future, and he’d also explained their use. They approached a grouping of trailers and trucks arranged in a semicircle under a stand of oak trees.

The knight lifted her down to the ground before he dismounted. Then he and the older man busied themselves with removing his armor, until the knight wore naught but a short tunic and hose. He was every bit as finely formed as she’d suspected, with broad shoulders, muscled arms and chest, and . . . Good Lord, the thin hose he wore did little to conceal his . . . assets. He caught her staring. Her cheeks burning, she averted her gaze.

Her thoughts spun out of control, flitting to one thing then the next. Every one of her family members who had traveled through time had done so for a specific purpose. Had she been sent here for a reason as well? Was her situation an accident or the caprice of some faerie?

Anger burned within her. More than anything, she needed to expose Oliver’s plot and Lord Robert’s deceit. With her disappearance, the Erskines would lay claim to her dowry anyway, accusing her kin of secreting her away, thereby once again breaking a marriage contract. Especially if Oliver suspected she’d overheard his plans for her. Aye, the Erskines would accuse her kin of some treachery to hide their own. Her clan would suspect the Erskines were behind her disappearance, and the entire tangle would surely lead to war.

She’d landed at a fair, like the one where Robley had met Lady Erin. Her mother had also been at exactly the same kind of place when Madame Giselle had sent her through time. Even Lady Meghan had been at a fair such as this when Hunter had snatched her away from her father and brought her back to the fifteenth century.

Hope flickered to life. Was it possible she’d find Madame Giselle here in this very place? If so, she could go to her and beg the fae princess to send her home. “Pray, tell me. Might this gathering include fortune-tellers and the Romany who read cards and such for coin?”

“Of course. There are several wagons and tents throughout the festival where fortune-tellers are stationed.” Her knight leaned close again. “Why? Do you wish to have your fortune told? I can assure you, they’re all frauds. They put on a show just like the rest of us.”

Her hopes soared. “Have you heard tell of an old crone known as Madame Giselle? She’s oft found at fairs like this in your era, and—”

“
My
era? How would you know the name of a fortune-teller frequenting Renaissance fairs in
my era
?”

Her knight’s tone held an edge, and Sky focused her energy, trying to interpret what that edge might mean. His shock and confusion came through clearly, but he also now held a wariness toward her. Nay, ’twas distrust tinged with resentment. Why would he resent her? She’d done naught to him. “We have much to discuss, sir.”

“Indeed.”

CHAPTER TWO

S
truan stood in the middle of their campsite in
his T-shirt, a pair of medieval-style hose and leather boots. His gut churned. He had no idea what to make of the young woman he’d held on his lap a scant few moments ago.

When he’d seen the lights shimmering in the middle of the arena, memories of the day he’d been taken from his dying father’s side tore at his heart. For a second, he’d been overwhelmed by an urge to jump from Brutus’s back and run into the portal himself. Good thing he’d come to his senses just as quickly. Where would the shimmering portal have sent him? And to when?

He’d read the history books and knew the outcome of the horrific battle he’d fought so many centuries ago. If the portal took him back to 1333, to the very day he’d dragged himself into the shimmering lights, he could not have altered the outcome. Worse, he would have died—as had his father, the fourth earl of Sutherland. Nope. He had no reason to go back.

Realization slammed into him. Today was the anniversary of his fall through time, July 19. Was it mere coincidence that this woman appeared as he had on this very date, and in the midst of a modern-day Renaissance festival?

Whatever the reason, he knew what it was like to be yanked from one’s place in time. He understood firsthand the confusion, fear and panic, and he couldn’t resist lending her his aid. Where would he be today if the Gordon family hadn’t done the same for him? Pay it forward, right?

“Your camper or mine, Gene?” he asked his foster father. Struan glanced at their guest, only to find her checking him out. When their eyes met, her face flushed and she averted her gaze. Heat of an entirely different nature curled through him.

“Mine,” Gene answered. “Marjorie will have lunch ready.”

“If you please,” Sky said as she took off her cloak, draped it over the small table set under a large oak and busied herself with flicking at the drying bits of manure clinging to her gown, “I have told you who I am, but I’ve yet to learn who the two of you might be.”

“My apologies, my lady.” Gene bowed. “I am Eugene Gordon, and this is our foster son, Struan Sutherland. The other jouster who was on the field with Struan is my son, Michael. You’ll meet my wife, Marjorie, in a minute. We also have an older son and two daughters, but they’re at home looking after things for us while we’re on the road.”

Her eyes widened. “I am well acquainted with both clans. Our clan oft engaged in commerce with the Gordons, and I claim kinship with yours, Sir Struan. Indeed, my aunts are both wed to Sutherlands, one to the earl himself, and the other to his younger brother.” She studied him. “Who are your kin within the Sutherland clan? I only ask because you bear such a strong likeness to the earl and his brothers.”

Great. What the hell is going on here?
She’d fallen through time on the anniversary of his own journey to this century, practically at his feet, and she had ties to the Sutherlands, his family by blood. Far too close to home to be coincidence.

He said nothing. He had no desire to discuss his origins with her. She was of noble birth, while he was the bastard son of an earl, reviled and spurned by those whose lineage was pure and unsullied. Indeed, his father’s legitimate offspring, along with the countess of Sutherland, had certainly made Struan’s life a living hell. If it hadn’t been for his da, Struan wouldn’t have survived his youth, of that he was certain.

The intensity of her scrutiny had him gritting his teeth—it was as if she looked beneath the surface for something deeper than words. Gene’s RV door opened, and the woman who’d taken him in, fed, housed and loved him like a son, stepped out. She wore her shoulder-length silver hair in a French braid today, and the laugh lines around her blue eyes creased in welcome.

“Do you plan to stand out here in this heat all day? I’ve made lunch. Come in and bring your friend with you.”

“I fear I am no’ fit to enter your . . .” Sky’s expression clouded with confusion as she viewed the fifth-wheel camper. “I’m covered in filth.”

“Oh my. Hold on. We’ll clean you up a bit first.” Marjorie disappeared.

“This”—Struan pointed to the trailer—“is technically a camper trailer, a fifth wheel. We live in them while we’re on the road. We call them campers or RVs for short, although—”

“Like the Romany?” she asked, turning her big, gorgeous eyes up to him.

What color were they? Kind of an earthy bluish-green with flecks of brown. Her lashes were dark and thick, and so was her lustrous chestnut hair. She was a pretty little thing, no doubt about it. And she certainly had made a luscious armful as he held her on his lap. He couldn’t help but notice her curves, the fullness of her breasts. Distracting.

“You and your kin are wanderers?” she persisted, her brow raised in question.

Or was it annoyance? Her persistence brought him out of the stupor ogling her had put him in. “Something like that.” He walked away from her to take care of Brutus. What was her story? Struan removed his gelding’s bridle, replacing it with a halter and lead, attaching the line to the front of the horse trailer. Brutus had enough slack to graze and to reach the buckets of water Struan had placed there earlier.

Marjorie reappeared with a scrub brush and a bowl of water in her hands. She also had a towel draped over her arm. “Thank heavens for OxiClean,” she said. “This will take out the stain and eliminate the odor.” Marjorie set the bowl on the small picnic table where they sometimes took their breaks. “Is someone going to introduce us?” Marjorie looked at her husband, and then at him.

“Sky, this is Marjorie. Marjorie, this is Lady Sky Elizabeth, the earl of Fife’s eldest daughter,” Struan said, repeating what she’d told them. “She . . . appeared the same way I did a decade ago. Only she did so in the middle of my jousting match with Michael—in front of an audience. Practically under Brutus’s hooves.”

Marjorie’s expression turned to shock. The towel slid off her arm. “Oh my.”

“’Tis a pleasure to meet you.” Sky’s posture straightened, and her chin lifted a regal notch. “I am most grateful to you for your hospitality.”

“Oh my,” Marjorie repeated.

Sky’s hands trembled. Though she presented herself as composed, regal, she had to be terrified. Out of her element, no way to prove who she was, no means of support and not knowing a soul, how could she not be? At least language wasn’t a barrier.

He picked up the towel Marjorie had dropped and placed it on the table next to the bowl and scrub brush. His heart went out to Sky Elizabeth, along with a bit of admiration and respect as well. As frightened as she was, she still managed to comport herself like a proper lady at court.

“Here comes Michael.” Struan gestured toward his foster brother cantering his horse toward their campsite.

“Come here, you poor thing.” Marjorie clucked like a mother hen and set to work cleaning the stained gown. “See? Good as new, just a little damp.”

“My thanks,” Sky murmured. “How shall I address you, missus?”

“Call all of us by our given names. We’re informal in this time.” Marjorie gave Sky’s gown a final pat with the towel. “What would you like to be called?”

“You may call me by my given name as well.” She smiled shyly.

Struan’s pulse quickened at the sight of her sweet smile. Clenching his jaw, he turned to Michael, whose attention was fixed on their guest. “Michael, this is Sky Elizabeth.”

“Can’t believe it.” Michael dismounted and led his horse to the trailer where Brutus was tied. “Are we some kind of magnets for time-travelers or something?” He glanced over his shoulder at Sky.

“Best have this conversation inside,” Gene said. He gestured toward his RV. “Let’s have lunch, and we’ll talk.”

Michael had only been seven years old when Struan had fallen into the Gordons’ midst, wounded in battle and heartsick from the loss of his father. It had been Michael who had helped Struan get over his fear of the unknown. The lad had a compassionate heart and a gentle, good-natured humor. “I think it’s you, Michael,” he teased. “That big heart of yours acts as a beacon through the centuries.”

“I hope not.” Michael’s grin belied his objection. “Or we’re going to have to start up a nonprofit organization to shelter displaced time-travelers.”

Once he and Gene helped Michael out of his armor, they headed for the camper. Struan grabbed Sky’s cloak from the table and followed her up the narrow metal steps and inside. “Are you hungry, lass?” He’d worked hard to eliminate his Scottish burr and to become American in every way, but her presence brought out the Scottish Highlander in him.

She nodded and looked around in wonder. “Why, ’tis so much cooler within than without, and we are no’ even underground.” She held up her hand and wiggled her fingers. “I feel a breeze. How is this possible?” She turned to him for an explanation.

“It’s called air-conditioning, and it’s one of the many technological wonders of this age.” Struan hung up her cloak in the closet before helping himself to a beer from the fridge. “Would you like something to drink, Sky?”

“Aye, I find I’m most parched.” She stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room space.

“Sit.” Marjorie patted the seat of the booth-like dining area. “Would you like a soda, a beer or a cup of coffee?”

Sky sat down and scooted over. “Oh. My cousin’s wife oft speaks of coffee. I would very much like to try some.”

“Wait.” Struan frowned. “When are you from?”

Sky clasped her hands together in her lap. “Early spring in the year of our Lord 1443.”

“How would your cousin’s wife know about coffee?” The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “And how do you know about a fortune-teller who frequents Renaissance festivals in the twenty-first century?”

“’Tis a very long and strange tale, sir, but my family has . . . we—”

“Wait. Save it until after we’ve eaten.” Struan snorted. Already overwhelmed with everything that had happened, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what she had to say just yet. “Better doctor the coffee up for her, Ma. Remember my first cup?”

“I do. In fact, I believe there might still be a few spatter stains from when you spit it out all over the wall.” She chuckled.

“Mmm. I smell chili and I’m starving.” Gene drew his wife in for a quick kiss, smacking her bottom before letting her go. “I’ll fix Sky’s coffee, while you get lunch on the table.”

Sky’s face turned a dusky rose at the obvious display of affection between his parents. Her blush was an enticing sight, to be sure.

Gene handed Sky a mug of coffee with lots of cream and sugar. “Try this.”

Struan leaned against the kitchen counter, took a swallow of his beer and watched. In fact, his entire family watched.

Sky’s gaze went from him to the others, her cheeks coloring again. “Am I to have spectators?” she asked, eying the contents of her mug. “I trow ’tis harmless enough, or my cousin would no’ miss it so.” She took a tentative sip, and her lips pursed. “’Tis so very sweet . . . and bitter at the same time.” She set the mug down.

Struan laughed. “Just wait till you taste the chili.”

“Is chili sweet as well?” Sky asked.

“Salty. You’ll find the food in this time takes some getting used to. It’s either far too salty, far too sweet or too spicy.”

Marjorie handed him a bowl of chili with grated cheddar cheese and sour cream on top, just the way he liked it. There wasn’t enough room at the table for all of them to sit, so Struan stayed where he was, using the counter as his table. Michael slid in next to Sky. His ma and Gene finished serving, and then they all settled into their meal of chili and cornbread.

Poor lass. Sky tried so hard to mask her expression of distaste as she took that first spoonful of the spicy, salty chili. She covered her mouth and coughed. Struan went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. He unscrewed the top and placed it on the table in front of her.

“Has this been boiled?” she rasped out, eyeing the bottle. “My mother is from this era, and she taught us about germs and such causing illness.”

“It’s pure,” Struan assured her. He’d buy her a turkey leg and an ear of roasted corn from the fair before his next jousting match. “Your mother is from—”

“Aye.” Sky took a long drink of water. “Och, ’tis good, like the water from a Scottish spring.”

“She really likes to drop the bombs, doesn’t she?” Michael laughed.

“Bombs?” Sky frowned. “I dinna ken your meaning, sir.”

“Michael. Call me Michael.”

Sky pushed the bowl of chili away. “I’m sorry. It’s no’ that I don’t appreciate the meal, but . . .”

“Don’t you worry about it.” Marjorie split a piece of cornbread, buttered both sides and poured honey over the pieces. “Try this. Can’t have you starving to death your very first day here.”

Sky took a taste and smiled, her eyes half closing with pleasure. “Mmm. ’Tis most pleasing.”

Struan sucked in a long breath and concentrated on his meal. Sky Elizabeth was far too beautiful for his peace of mind.

“If you wish, I’ll speak of what happened this day.” Her voice hitched. “And tell you how I came to be here.”

“Please do,” Michael said. “We can’t wait to hear what you have to say.”