Warrior and the Wanderer (9 page)

She put her hand on the door latch. Ian MacLean was directly behind her. It took all her will not to turn around.

Chapter Five: Rain

F
or the first time since he had crashed into this nightmare, Ian felt comfortable. He had a belly full of beef, tough beef, but beef none-the-less. He eyed Bess across the trestle table that was as wide as an L.A. freeway. She was engaging the priest in what looked like serious conversation. Would she tell him that she had engaged in some serious making-out with him on the good father’s bed? He doubted she would, as it didn’t match this Highland female warrior role she was playing.

Ian took another swig of wine. The bottle had no label, just a layer of dust. He suspected the priest had poured him some fermented fruit of the Napa Valley, but damned if it didn’t taste like French.

Mellower than he had been since he had crashed into the lake, Ian felt increasingly agreeable to playing whatever game Bess and this priest enjoyed. A cult this big, covering this much property, had to be the best-kept secret in America. Perhaps all of the players were exceedingly eccentric dot com billionaires. And they had brought him into their tribe and had given him the role of witness against her murdering husband.

If this situation was millionaires pretending to be someone else, then why did it feel so disturbingly real?

Ian glanced all around him. This was no Hollywood set. This place was real. Maybe this was an ancient Scottish church moved stone by stone to northern California? Billionaires could afford that, surely. And what about Bess’s castle? It was huge and solid. Fake? It certainly didn’t feel fake. He had been in a Scottish castle or two, but they had actually been in Scotland.

He drained his horn cup of the wine and reached across the table, past an iron candleholder with one very stout dripping candle, for the bottle.

“My dear Lady Campbell, an annulment is not an easy thing to grant,” the priest said, over a mouthful of meat. Chewing he said, “And Lord MacLean must agree as well unless you get the consent of the queen regent.”

Bess leaned forward, nearly knocking her cup over. She grabbed it with the quickness of a fox, a beautiful, red-headed fox. “Father d’Auguste, I beseech ye, listen to me. My husband murdered my brother, and he tried to murder me by drowning. He chained me to a rock—” She stopped abruptly and focused on Ian. “Tell him. Ye rescued me. Tell him what ye saw.”

He tipped back another swallow of wine and centered his gaze on her. “What’s it worth to you, Blaze?”

“What?” she asked.

Ian dropped the cup to the table. Bess and the priest jumped a little. He had the power to get the hell out of this nightmare. “My confession to Father Flannigan here—” he began. “What’s it worth to you?”

“Father d’Auguste,” Bess corrected.

“Whatever,” Ian continued. “I will tell him what I know so you can get your precious annulment, but I want something in return. I think I deserve that much. I’ve played along with this twisted Braveheart scenario long enough. I’ve been hit in the head with a rock, tied up naked, dragged behind a horse, stabbed and hit by a claymore, and slapped hard for doing nothing wrong. I’ve—”

“What d’ye want?” Bess asked him.

“A phone call.”

She and Father d’Auguste stared at him as if he had grown a second nose. The priest looked positively stricken, paler than pale. A thin sheen of sweat covered his face. Slowly, he gripped the side of his neck. And with a thunderous bang, fell forward, his face landing in the remnants of meat juices on his pewter plate.

Bess screamed as he slid to the floor.

Ian leapt up, kicking his chair, more of a stool really, behind him. He raced around the table, and knelt beside the old priest who lay splayed on the floor, face up.

Bess knelt on the other side of the large heap of woolen robes concern marring her lovely face. Ian rested his hand on the priest’s thick neck, slick with sweat, and still warm. If there was a pulse, he could not detect it under the rolls of flesh. He examined the priest’s face, a frozen mask of agony.

He bent low over the gaping mouth detecting not a wisp of breath. The extent of his CPR training came from the back of a “Get One Hour Free” card to a Vegas call girl service.

“Give me room!” he shouted to the growing crown of brown-robed monks who had seemingly come out of nowhere. They gathered in a circle around their fallen priest with monkly piety, their lips moving in silent prayer. Ian glared up at them. “If ye really wish to help him, move the hell back!”

They quickly complied, some crossing themselves.

Ian stabbed his fingers in between the priest’s parted lips, over the stained teeth, pressing the tongue down and out of the way. The soft flesh inside the priest’s mouth was slightly warm.

“Ian!” Bess exclaimed. “What are ye doing to him?”

He grabbed a fistful of her gown and yanked her down to the other side of the priest.

“Look at me,” he said. “You breathe for him like this…!” He quickly mimicked mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

“I…I…don’t know….” she stammered.

He clenched his eyes closed. “Give me strength,” he mumbled.

“Ian…I—”

“Do what I just showed you!” he shouted. And lowering his tone, he said, “It may safe his life.”

Bess slowly leaned over the lifeless priest and begin puffing air into him just like Ian had demonstrated.

He then straddled the big man. The ridiculous kilt he agreed to wear hitched up on his thighs. The stitches in his side strained and made him see lightning flashes of pain. He blinked them away and took a deep breath.

“Stop,” he told Bess.

She sat upright, cheeks flushed from the exertion.

Ian bore his full weight down on the priest’s still heart hidden beneath an abundance of flesh and wool, compressing his interlocked hands down, forcing his own pain at bay.

“What are ye doing?” Bess cried. “Stop!”

“When I stop, you begin again, three long puffs of air.”

“Father d’Auguste is dead.”

“Not if I can help it,” Ian grunted out.

For the briefest instant trust surfaced in Bess’s emerald eyes. She blinked, and then did as Ian told her.

Then it was his turn. He pushed down between the wool robes, and layers of flab. Over and over. His stitches were giving way with each exertion.

“Wake up, ye bloody bastard!” he shouted. “WAKE UP!” The back of his throat burned as he screamed at the priest. From the corner of his eye, he caught Bess’s aghast stare.

Ian balled his hands into one interlocking fist. He hammered down on the mound of flesh over the heart, ignoring his own pain.

“NO!” Bess screamed in his ear. “What are ye doing?”

Ian fell down, his ear against the heap of chest and belly. He listened, holding his own breath.

Please!

He closed his eyes.

Please….

A faint thrumming tickled his ear. Then the great mound heaved beneath him with a sudden intake of breath like the strength of a hurricane. Then the heart beat with conviction telling Ian he had won. He fell back against the wall feeling his own blinding pain. He touched his throbbing side and looked down at the fresh blood soaking into the rough linen shirt. He closed his eyes and took several ragged breaths.

“’Tis a miracle!” Bess exclaimed as she knelt and mopped the priest’s brow with the hem of her skirt. He looked up plaintively at her, managing a small smile.

“Ian MacLean brought Father d’Auguste back from the dead,” she said. “Like the miracle of Lazarus.” Her voice was awestruck.

Father d’Auguste lay blinking, shaking his head. When he looked at Ian, he crossed himself. “
Aguus Dei!
”

“It’s no miracle,” Ian declared, waving him off. He stood shakily to his feet. “It’s the Heimlich.”

“’Tis a Godly miracle, what ye’ve done,” the priest said. “I owe you my life. What may I give you as reward?”

Ian paused. He looked at Bess. She was staring up at him with a look upon her face that was excessively awe-struck. He wanted her to stop looking at him like that, wanted her to break character. He wanted a phone, he wanted his clothes, but the look on her face swayed him from his good sense. He would play this role a little longer to get what he wanted from Bess.

“How about an annulment for the ginger-haired lass here?” he replied gesturing to Bess.

She gasped. “Ian, I—I cannae—”

“You bloody well will take my gift.” Ian gritted his teeth against his pain, closed his eyes against the stares of everyone around him. “Father, give Bess her annulment.” He opened his eyes and looked hard at her. “And then you’ll get me out of here and back to civilization.”

“I’ll have the paper written and my seal upon it,” the priest said gesturing to one of the brethren.

Bess looked up at Ian, her expression a combination of disbelief and awe.

“I’m not a miracle worker,” he said, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Ye performed a heavenly miracle,” she insisted. “And yet the reward is mine.”

“You had a hand in it as well.”

“By your lead.” She dropped her gaze to his side. “Ye’re bleeding.”

“I’m OK.” Ian stood up. Bess tried to help him, but he waved her away. “Where’s the poor box and a phone?”

He headed down a narrow corridor feeling Bess behind him and turned right, not knowing where he was bound. He walked under a small pointed archway into the kirk. It was empty. All of the monks were probably in attendance at the priest’s side.

Ian stared up at the layers upon layers of ribbed vaults, pointed arches stretching toward heaven like a Gothic skyscraper. He walked slowly across the stone floor, feeling the cold stone beneath his bare feet, his gaze skyward at the narrow stained glass, the jewel-like colors enhanced by the final rays of the setting sun. Mesmerized by such beauty that could only be hewn from stone and glass by people of enormous faith, Ian stumbled into the solid granite stump of a baptismal font, striking his wounded side on the hard lip, launching himself deeper into his purgatory of pain.

“Chr—” He bit his tongue. This was definitely not the place for blasphemous language.

“Ian, let me see,” Bess said from behind him.

“No.”

She rested her fingertips on his arm. “Please.”

Ian faced her. “If it’ll get ye off my back. A quick look.”

“’Tis no’ your back I wish to see.”

She untucked his shirt from the front of his kilt, rolling the bloodstained fabric up, exposing his wound.

“Will I live?” he asked.

“Aye,” she replied. “The bleeding has stopped. Ye havenae burst yer stitches as best as I can see. I should have some water to cleanse away the blood to be certain.”

“There’s plenty right here,” he said gesturing to the font.

“Dinnae think on it!” she gasped, dropping his shirt and taking a step away from him.

“What?” he teased. “Maybe Holy water would heal me. Maybe not. Want to help me find my clothes?”

“Do it yerself.”

“But I’m a wounded man. And I got you your annulment.”

“And I am grateful to ye, but I worry that ye are quite mad.”

“You call me mad?” he snorted. “You’ve forced me with threats and blades into this strange world of yours. Stop with the pretending and get me a phone and my clothes back.”

Ian stepped forward, forcing her back against a column, leaving her no room to escape.

“I know not what ye speak. Phone, what is it?”

“C’mon, Blaze. If you don’t want to break character, I guess I can respect that sort of twisted conviction. At least point me in the direction of the poor box. I can’t go back to L.A. in this Rob Roy get-up.”

“The kilt becomes ye,” she said, and then quickly glanced away as if she regretted the compliment.

“What do you really want from me, Blaze?” Ian asked stepping forward and easing his arms around Bess, drawing her against him. “You’re going to get your annulment. You don’t need me to play with you anymore.”

The door to the kirk banged open.

Ian whirled around, pushing Bess behind him.

“Oh, my God,” he blasphemed right there in the rainbow glow of the stained glass. “It’s bloody Braveheart.”

“Alasdair!” Bess exclaimed. She stepped around Ian and raced down the aisle toward the burly Highlander. “You found us! What news of Stirling?”

The Highlander eyed Ian with suspicion bordering on contempt, before he spoke to Bess. “The Duke is no’ in Stirling.”

She stopped. Ian bumped into her back.

“Where has he gone?” she asked.

“To Edinburgh.”

“To Edinburgh?” she asked in surprise.

“To Edinburgh?” Ian repeated.

Braveheart nodded, still glaring at Ian.

“I’ve got to see how you recreate an entire city,” he said.

They had to use CGI to recreate Edinburgh in the middle of California, right? The evidence was piling up in the back of his mind that all of this was real no matter how impossible that notion could be.