Warrior and the Wanderer (34 page)

The Dane left in the span of a blink. Lachlan sat in his place.

Only one of them would make it to the future. Or both of them.

Ian looked at Lachlan. The man’s confident sneer faded to fear.

“Ready for the ride of your life?” Ian asked.

He thrust the key into the ignition and turned the motor over.

The satisfying roar scattered everyone who stood within spitting-distance of the Corvette. Bess was the only person who did not move. She stood a few paces away, framed by the driver’s side window.

She held her chin steady. The long, wavy locks of her sunset hair blew about her porcelain face. No artist could paint a lovelier picture.

“I love you!” Ian shouted to her, over the sound of Lachlan’s screaming, and clawing at the door.

He slammed the door locks home; keeping Lachlan inside, then smashed his bare foot on the gas pedal, forcing the tachometer to peg to red.

“Let’s go!” he cried.

He took one more look at Bess.

Too bad he would never remember her. And there was no time to savor the moment. He wrenched the transmission to “drive” and steered himself and Lachlan toward their uncertain destinies.

Chapter Twenty: Blaze of Glory

“H
e did what he had to do,” Bess said. “For me, for my clan.”

She stood transfixed as Ian’s silver carriage spirit away the most evil man in Scotland, and the best man she had ever met. The man who had declared his love for her.

Her throat tightened. Not because she saw ahead of her a new life as chief of many, as protector of royal holdings in the west of Scotland and one of its great isles, Mull, and not because Lachlan was gone forever. Her throat tightened, threatening to strangle her, because her heart was forever lost with Ian, in his time five centuries yet to be.

The sky turned violent. The clouds reached down to the ground like the fingers of God and converged over Ian’s carriage obliterating it from her sight. She imagined the clouds reaching inside her and taking her heart away. She would not need it now. She was a clan chief, protector of many. She did not have time for her bloody heart.

The sun touched the ground, smashing through the clouds.

Heat and intense light rushed into her like a battering ram. She stumbled backwards shading her eyes with her arm. She squinted trying to catch a final glimpse of Ian’s carriage before he was gone forever.

“Och! What the hell is that?” Alasdair exclaimed from behind her.

“Ian MacLean has done our clan a great service,” she said. “Rally the warriors and let’s take Duart.”

She did not have to shout her order. Alasdair knew as well as she to take advantage of the moment Ian had given them, of the leaderless clan he had left behind. Clan Campbell would have Clan MacLean under their protection soon. This she knew as well as her own name.

She stood quietly feeling the rush of heated air brush over her face and dissipate into nothing stronger than a gentle zephyr. Ian was gone, except for his memory….

“I love ye as well, Ian Maclean,” she whispered. The warm breeze caught her words and carried them away to the calming western horizon. The sun and clouds looked normal for a spring morning. Bess turned away and became what Ian had called her many times, a “warrior princess”. She could hear his resonate voice so clearly in her head. Could hear him singing his wonderful odd songs.

King James faced her.

“Yer Majesty,” she said offering him a slight curtsy.

“We have much to do today,” he said. Suddenly he sounded older, more grown up.

“Aye, we do,” she agreed tightening her grip on the claymore.

A ruckus rose to the east, just outside the gates of Duart. Alasdair was making good on her order without a moment’s hesitation. Her warriors rallied to the castle pushing back Lachlan’s army with the fury of the rushing tide. She should be there to lead them, but the victory was already in her clan’s grasp. The MacLean warriors had clearly seen her kiss Ian, had seen Ian take their chief away in a vicious hail of storm cloud and blinding sunlight. They had seen her close to the man who had such unbelievable power.

“I will join you in taking Duart,” James said.

“Your Majesty, as much as it pleases me and my clan that ye have brought your army to us and yourself, I must respectfully request that ye and your army return to Stirling.”

“Lady Campbell—”

“Call me Bess. If it pleases Your Majesty.”

“Bess,” he said with a flush to his pale cheeks. “I wish to see this through.”

She pointed to the castle with the tip of her sword.

“The deed ’tis done. Ian made it so.”

“The bard. He was consumed in fire with Lord MacLean. At least that is what my eyes have seen. I do not believe them, however.”

“I believe my eyes,” she said. “Lachlan is gone from us…So is Ian.”

“I have not seen such a carriage such as that with such power,” the king said with awe. “You are certain it will not return?”

“Very certain, Your Majesty.”

Any more words about Ian and she would burst into tears in front of her king. She swallowed, and sheathed her sword. Smoothing her hands over the mail on her body, she faced the castle.

“I’m to Duart,” she announced.

“I’m with you,” James said.

Bess paused. “Yer Majesty’s mother kens no’ where ye are. She is worried, this I ken. Return to her. Rule fairly. This can be yer legacy. Dinnae fash about the west of yer kingdom. I will see it protected.”

James stood silently for a while pondering her request. Under normal circumstances, Bess would never be so bold as to make such a statement to her king. But these circumstances were leagues from regular.

“I will take my army back to Edinburg,” he said. “By your leave, Lady Campbell-Bess.” He bowed low to the ground.

Bess curtsied. “Yer Majesty.”

James stood upright. “May I be so bold to say that I have never met a more capable or more lovely clan chief?”

Bess managed a smile. “But Yer Majesty hasnae met a clan chief before ye met me.”

“True, but how did you know that?”

“A good guess. Ye have lived your life sheltered behind castle walls. Now that ye have had a chance to see far beyond them, ye will look to these hills and isles for your freedom from those ramparts. Ye will always be welcome.”

The king smiled. “I will gladly return.”

Far more than she could say for Ian. She gave her mind a mental slap and looked toward Duart.

“You have seen more of the world than I have,” James said.

She blinked. “Your Majesty, I have seen more than one could in one lifetime through another’s eyes.”

“The bard?”

“Aye.” She took a deep breath.

“A man of such power would not take his own life.”

“He would,” she said. “To save me. To keep the bloody balance in the world.”

“He died for…what?”

“He didnae die. He returned home.”

The King did not reply to this. He probably though Bess had suddenly, in her grief, gone completely daft.

“I shall take my leave,” he said.

“For all ye have done for my clan,” she said. “Thank ye.”

“Only to protect my kingdom,” he said with a wink and brief nod.

She smiled. Scotland would have a sound and good future because of this young king.

She watched him depart on horseback, leading his army.

A good king with a fine future.

Slowly, she turned toward Duart and her clan.

Bess walked boldly forward, claymore sheathed, and chainmail weighing heavy on her body. Her warriors allowed her easy entrance into the castle that was now under her control. She eyed the MacLean clans people who stood quietly in the bailey. They looked at her expectantly, waiting for her words.

She stopped in the middle of the bailey. Alasdair stood to her right just behind her.

“The MacLean name is yers!” she announced. “Keep it with pride!”

Alasdair grunted disapproval but made no further protest.

The crowd murmured confusion at first then their voices gradually hummed with approval.

“I leave ye be, and offer ye the protection of Clan Campbell.” Then she turned to her champion. “Alasdair, ye will oversee the castle and all its occupants, see that they have what they require.”

He bowed his head in consent.

With that she left them, her vacant heart pounding behind the warrior chainmail she wore.

She raced through the empty great hall, up the curving narrow stair to the highest garret in the castle.

Like the foolish lass she was, Bess broke into wave upon wave of wrenching sobs. She ripped the sheath and the mail from her body. Her claymore clattered to the floor. She raced to the window and gripped the stone sill. Tiny bits of grit embedded under her nails. She looked out on the western landscape her heart beating in her throat.

Bess forced the tears back, commanding her body to ease. Slowly, steadily, she slipped into as much calm as she could muster inside her soul. Her heart was another matter entirely. It beat with a nasty rhythm, one Ian would never have sung.

She was alone in her enormous grief. When alone she could lower her sword and be Bess. Ian had loved that part of her, and he had loved the warrior in her as well. She knew this from her memories. Ian would not remember her in his time. That caused her the greatest ache of all.

She had to be strong for the good of her clan and for those MacLeans her clan now protected. Strength was in accepting the help of others, and gaining allies. And on the field of battle this day not one drop of blood had been shed.

She looked across the rocky landscape to the breaking clouds, to the rays of sun piercing through the grey.

Her future was clear. She would protect her clan and the MacLeans. She would protect royal interests in the Highlands. All goodly prospects, but none able to fill the emptiness in her heart. She would never love anyone as deeply as she loved Ian. She would never—

Bess gripped the stone sill harder.

She stared at the west. The sun disappeared behind a puffy bank of clouds. But she still saw that which her astonished eyes said was impossible.

The sunlight burst through the cloudbank silhouetting two approaching figures. The edges of the figures were blurred by the brilliant light.

She blinked just as the clouds rolled back over the sun muting the light, making everything so very clear.

Two men strolled over the ground. They were immersed in some conversation and passing a bottle between them. One of the men was wider than the other. From this distance he held a burly appearance.

“The Dane!” Bess whispered excitedly.

Another man, taller than any of this time, strolled beside the Dane. His walk was one of confidence with a slight falter, a limp. But confidence radiated forth. This was a man in charge of his destiny for the first time in his life.

“Ian!” she shouted.

Bess and bolted from the garret. Her feet barely touched the steps as she took them two at a time. She flew through the great hall on wings she had earned, never borrowed. Victory was indeed hers.

She raced past her charges, Alasdair, and the warriors both MacLean and Campbell.

Alasdair followed her. She ran faster than he ever could. She ran over the short drawbridge, her feet pounding the boards to rival thunder. She saw Ian and the Dane walking toward her, and her heart sang with a beautiful music.

“Ian!”

* * * *

Ian stopped, empty whisky bottle in hand.

He had bloody well done it! He had succeeded in keeping the balance. And his reward was Bess rushing toward him with a generous smile on her lovely face and her arms open. He had done something that finally mattered.

Still holding the neck of the bottle, he ran toward her. Like in one of those boy-girl-Hollywood-happy-endings that Americans made so well, he swept her off her feet in a passionate embrace.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed into her ear. “Nothing has ever felt so right as this.”

“Ye’ve come back to me,” she whispered on a rush of breath.

He gave her a crooked grin. “So it seems.”

They shared a kiss before anyone who cared watch, and there were many.

All of Duart had spilled out through the gate and over the bridge to witness this impossible reunion. Bess heard several of them say, “I thought he was dead.”

“No’ dead,” she told him. “Never dead in my heart.”

“I wasn’t gone that long,” he said letting her slip slowly through his arms, to stand on her own feet.

“’Twas too long for me,” she said. Then a question occurred to her as she caught a glimpse of the Dane in her periphery.

She asked The Scandinavian time travel agent, “Can he stay?”

The Dane stepped forward. “
Jah,
” he replied. “Ian MacLean’s place is here.”

“And Lachlan’s place?” she asked.