Highlander of Mine (5 page)
Before Fleur could respond, Helen was on her feet, shuffling toward the exit Fleur had yet to see. She stood and turned around, alone in the house. Alone and suddenly so scared. She rushed toward the front door, the one where Duncan had pressed his fingertips against the small of her back. When he’d done that—oh, the tingly sensations still rippled through her.
Fleur found herself in Helen’s garden, close to a thigh-high rosemary bush and wavy chamomile white and yellow daisies that flickered at her. This was so like her grandmother’s garden, back when Papa was still alive. And Helen looked so much like Rachel. Maybe...maybe all of this was a dream. But how could she wake from it?
“You don’t,” said a nearby female voice.
Fleur jumped when she looked just beyond the rosemary to see two dark redheads pulling weeds in a row of carrots. They both wore golden coveralls, and were covered in small smudges of dirt. One looked up at her and smiled, and that’s when Fleur took a step back.
“You’re...you.”
The redhead nodded.
The other looked up from pulling a dandelion then winced. “Shoot, they keep dandelions, don’t they? They use their roots and their leaves in teas and in tinctures, huh?”
The closest redhead nodded. “That’s okay. I think the dandelions were taking over the poor pansies over there. See? So you can pull a few of them.” Then she smiled up at Fleur. “Remember me? I’m Clio.” She then pointed to the other woman. “That’s my sister, Erato.”
Fleur snorted a laugh, remembering slightly her mythology. “The muses. Are you telling me you’re Greek muses?
Clio turned to Erato again. “She knows a lot for being a genealogist.”
Erato scowled. “I did tell you she was super smart. What was your high school called? The one you went to down in Texas?”
“T-Texas Academy of Mathematics and Science,” Fleur whispered, not quite feeling her feet any more, stunned that Erato knew so much about her.
Erato nodded. “An American Justice of the Peace went to school there. Which one?”
Both the muses turned to Fleur, their hands still in the sandy dirt, but paused as they waited for an answer.
Fleur shook her head. “This can’t be happening.”
Clio blinked. “Well, as you said to Duncan, it is, because you’re here. I’m paraphrasing, of course, but you said something like that. And quite honestly, I thought you were handling the switch in time rather well until now. There you were on the road, trying to get him to believe you’re from—”
“The future!” Erato finished with a triumphant smile that looked like she was attempting to imitate Doc from
Back to the Future
. She even had a finger pointed to the sky as she grinned.
Fleur sank to her knees. “Why? Why are you doing this to me?”
Erato was first to kneel close to Fleur, hugging her around her shoulders. “You know, this morning wasn’t what we expected. We’ve never worked with Coyote before. That’s why we decided to come back so soon and talk to you privately about...well, everything.”
Fleur didn’t know why, but after hugging Helen and now a woman who was trying to pass off as a muse seemed—God, she didn’t know what was wrong with her—but she didn’t mind at all.
Still, she wanted some answers. “So—so I really saw Coyote this morning?”
Clio nodded. “He loves you, which made things a little serious there for a moment. Not that Erato and I don’t adore you, but we haven’t been watching you since you were a child, like him. He’s much more, um, directly involved. So it went to a personal level this morning.”
“I really am back in time, aren’t I?”
Clio then sat next to Fleur and wrapped her arms around her too. “Yes, sweet girl. That is hard to swallow, isn’t it?”
“Why?” Fleur asked, trying to gain a little distance from the two, well, muses.
Clio looked at Erato, who nodded. “Okay, well, we saw what Coyote saw. You aren’t happy. You aren’t
you
.”
Fleur tried to stand, but could only crawl a few feet away. “How do you know, hmm? I’m happy. I’m
happy
. Yeah, I’m happy.” As soon as she uttered the words she knew the lie she’d said. It felt like bile in her mouth, and she hunched over wondering if she would vomit.
Clio and Erato looked at each other, but then back at Fleur.
Without warning, Fleur felt a tear escape her eye and trickle down her cheek. She wiped it with the back of her hand, angry that her body was betraying her.
“All right! I’m not happy. But who the hell is?”
Erato shrugged. “Generally, I am.”
Clio nodded. “Most often I am too.”
“Yeah, but you’re muses. You don’t count.”
“Ouch, kitten’s got claws,” Erato said.
Fleur huffed. “I mean, humans. What human is happy?”
Erato nodded. “I see your point. There are many humans who aren’t happy, so Clio and I have our work cut out for ourselves. But this
glimpse
is so much more than finding your happiness.”
Fleur shook her head, thinking back. “So, what? Coyote thinks I’m a shell of what I could be, and you two think I’m not me. Subsequently, I’m supposed to find myself in sixteen-freaking-fifty-three? What the hell happens in 1653 that’s important to
me
? What does any of this have to do with
me
? If you were really looking out for my best interest, then you’d have taken me to 947, when—”
“That’s the carbon dating of the Viking skeleton that your friend Rachel found, isn’t it?” Clio asked. “You think this has something to do with your work?”
Fleur threw her hands to the slowly darkening sky. “Ah, duh. Yes! I love my work. It’s the only thing that’s kept me sane in these last few years. It’s been my one sanctuary. I can’t even trust Rachel as much as I trust my research and the clarity I find when I’m conducting it. Why wouldn’t you try to incorporate my work into
my
supposed glimpse?”
Clio pursed her lips and looked at Erato. “I don’t like her attitude.”
“Try to be patient.”
Fleur growled and tried to stand again, but she felt a powerful hand pull her back down to the garden. Before she could blink, hands held her own to the dirt, in the dirt. She looked up into Erato’s crystal turquoise eyes.
“Do you remember when your grandmother taught you to call back for your spirit when you touched the soil?”
Fleur felt her insides melt then vanish. A cool breeze swept along her intestines in an unpleasant way. She remembered days when Na had taught her so many things, things she’d tried so hard to disregard as the years progressed, because there was no room for them. There was no place for them when she was trying so hard just to...What had she been doing? Trying so hard to survive.
“She remembers,” Clio whispered.
“Yes,” Erato said, her face stern as she held Fleur’s hands in the dirt a little firmer, “I sent you here to call back for your spirit, because you’re lost, little girl. You have been for quite a while. And, yes, I know you can find yourself here. But there are two reasons why a
glimpse
is happening, because, you self-centered creature, it’s not just happening to you.”
Erato released Fleur and immediately stood, looking pissed. Clio came to stand beside her sister, taking her hand in her own. They looked down at Fleur still on the ground, feeling so small and angry.
“There’s someone here from the future too?” Fleur asked, even madder at herself from the way her voice cracked and sounded childish.
Clio shook her head. “There’s someone here who needs you as much as you need them. It’s your duty, your privilege to find them. When you help them, then you will find yourself and your inner strength.”
Fleur huffed, not sure if the sound she made was more a sigh or an attempt to deflect from crying. As ire coursed through her, she could no longer find words for how unfair this was, because she was scared she’d yet again sound infantile and whiny.
Erato suddenly knelt close to Fleur again and chucked a finger under her chin. “Learning to pick your battles is an excellent lesson, one which you will learn while you’re here. And don’t worry about picking the wrong ones. Maybe fight all of them, Fleur? Maybe you should be pissed at my sister and me? After all, we sent you back more than three hundred years to a time you hardly know, a place you know even less about, and more than likely nothing about this is related to your work.” Erato smiled then stood again.
Fleur swallowed.
“But I have to warn you of a couple things,” Erato said. “First, Cromwell knows well of the Highlanders’ rebellion. We need you to finish here before his army comes into Scotland. And we really should have warned our last
glimpse
participant better, but you can get hurt here as you would in your own time. You can even die. So stay clear of Cromwell and his New Model Army. They’re wiping the rebellion from the map and coming here soon.” Erato looked toward the large stone house then sighed. “The other thing is...well, you can probably guess it, but to be fair I should tell you about...Helen.”
Fleur stood slowly, holding her hands over her heart, holding her breath too.
Erato placed her head on her sister’s shoulder. Clio instantly patted it, making Fleur a little jealous of their relationship, how in tune they were to each other’s needs.
It was Clio who said, “She’s sick.”
That’s when Fleur thought of the smell. It permeated Helen. She knew it well because when her grandmother had been in the hospital, Fleur had to walk through the cancer wing. There was a sickly sour scent with cancer, especially if it was terminal. There had been a scent from Na too, but Fleur’s grandmother had had diabetes, a disease that made her Na smell too sweet.
“Helen’s got cancer,” Fleur whispered.
The muses nodded.
Sighing, Fleur realized that the kindly muses had given her a hint whom she was to find. Helen was sick. Helen must need her. And Fleur knew, God how she knew it, that she hadn’t taken as good of care of Na when she was dying as she had hoped. Years of resentment had reared its ugly head when Na had needed her. And although Fleur had held Na’s hand through all of it, even as Na took her last shaky breath, she still regretted one conversation they’d had. So she needed a good purging from the guilt, the shame, by being in the presence of someone whom Fleur could take care of. Helen. The pieces all fit into place then. She was here to nurse Helen, finally lessen the past hurt, and then—
“So when I find this person and help them, then I can go back to my time, is that the way it works?” Fleur asked.
Clio looked at Erato. They seemed to communicate a whole conversation with just a few eyebrow arcs and narrowed eyes. Finally, Clio turned back to Fleur. “I will tell you this: Unlike others who have had a
glimpse
, you will have many more choices. That might be a—”
“You might think it’s a blessing.” Erato finished for Clio.
“Or a curse.” Clio nodded, then smiled. “But like all of life, the choices you make will be your own. Yours.”
Fleur nodded, thinking that it could be a blessing. Maybe if she played along with the muses, she’d find peace, and then she’d be back at her lab in no time, grinding bones, discovering their ancestry through their intriguing chromosomes.
“Thank you,” Fleur said on a wide grin.
“She thinks she’s got this all figured out, doesn’t she?” Clio asked Erato.
Erato lifted her hand and smiled at Fleur. With a wink and a snap of the fingers, the muses were gone. Fleur stepped back until she fell on her ass close to some posy flowers. Blooms that supposedly warded off death, but had done nothing to stop the black plague. Fleur worried her bottom lip while she scanned the pretty blossoms.
“W
hat do you mean there’s something wrong with the lady?” Helen asked as she stood on a step leading to the colorful gardens at the hindmost of her home.
Duncan hadn’t meant to say it exactly like that. Yet it had come out anyway. How could he tell his ma that Fleur had said she’d come from another time? How could he tell her that Fleur might be crazy? Or worse, he might, because something in him believed her.
Lord, that scared him too. A woman flung back in time to Scotland, that was the making of a good tale. His life was far from a story though. He’d been a mercenary far longer than he’d been anything else. All he knew was war, battle, and the consequences of such. He knew his sword, and he was learning how to aim better with the musket. He knew tactics and fighting. He knew blood and gristle.
However, lately fighting as a mercenary felt like a lifetime ago. Actually, several lifetimes ago.
When he’d gotten news his brothers had been taken to America after the horrible defeat to Cromwell, he’d sailed to Scotland faster than he’d ever traveled before. He’d expected to find his mother, then travel to London to get under deck of an even faster boat to find his brothers and bring them back. However, Helen had begged him to stay with her, even saying the lads were better off in America. Duncan hadn’t been the most obedient lad, though he’d always tried to listen to his mother, and when she had tears in her eyes, asking him to stay, he’d relented.
God, how he wanted to run though, to get away, do anything other than stay put. Durness hadn’t grown much since his youth, and he’d hated it then as much as he did now. Perhaps he would feel differently if the people around him didn’t know him so well. But they knew everything. They remembered how he and his mother only had each other for many years, until he was nine. Laughing, they’d recall his stepfather, Albert, and how Duncan hadn’t taken to the man. His mother was wed and pregnant before he could sneeze, it seemed. Then Duncan had started to sleep outside, because he couldn’t stand the sight of his stepfather. The townspeople would chuckle at Duncan who would sleep in the barn, thinking him odd, comparing him to a dog. Nonetheless it was better than being close to Albert who treated him no better than a dog.
Truthfully though, it was more difficult being around his mother, who he felt had picked Albert over him, although Albert was long dead by now. He knew that before Albert they had struggled for food and shelter, yet when it had been just the two of them, they’d always been happy. Then Albert came along and pushed him out, even when his younger brothers were born, Albert had pushed him out of his own family.
Duncan cleared his throat, trying to rid his mind of such memories. It never did any good to think about them.
“She’s had her things taken,” Duncan finally uttered.
Helen tsked. “Poor lady.”
“I fear she has a bump on the head. She doesn’t remember anything.”
“Does she complain of being in pain?”
Duncan shook his head, remembering how Fleur had challenged him to touch her. Released from its holder, her long black hair had curled around him, ensuring how much he wanted to bury his face in her floral-scented tresses. Ach, to pull her off the horse and hold her in his arms, smelling her, would have been like heaven come to earth. Lightning-like impetus stirred in his solar plexus at the memory, the want, but, damn, he was in front of his mother.
Helen inhaled. “Doesn’t remember anything, hmm?”
For a moment Duncan considered telling his ma about Fleur’s confession that she was from a different time, except she’d asked him not to tell. And he kept his word. Always. No matter what.
“I’ll brew some willow’s tea, see if that helps her head.” Helen snorted a laugh, and held her fingers over her mouth. “I’m so taken with her, ye ken, that I asked her to stay with me, in the house. I suppose she’s really to go to Tongue and stay with Laird Reay. She is nobility, eh?”
Duncan almost grinned, thinking his mother was helping with his wishes. He wanted Fleur close. Although he didn’t sleep in his mother’s house, still preferring the barn, he wanted to keep an eye on
the lady
. Nay, he wanted...he wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and he knew it, but he wanted to listen to Fleur for days on end. He loved her pretty voice. It was breathy yet simultaneously had a bite of feminine huskiness to it. He’d love to hear her tell him of her adventures of how she landed here. Even if it was insane, he still wanted to hear it.
Lord, what was wrong with him? Having Fleur here was the last thing he needed. Helen had to give him her blessing to go to America and then get his brothers back. Jesus, the thought nearly had him crumble to his knees. He missed his brothers, Jacob, Michael, Thomas, and—oh God—Douglas. He could hardly believe Dougie was truly gone. After all, he’d been too late to attend the funeral or the wake. Lord, all his brothers were gone.
On the day trips Helen had let him go on, he’d discovered the ship his brothers had sailed to Virginia in, the
John and Sue.
He’d also found when they’d arrived in the colony, and to whom they were sold. If he ever found a Preston Fairchild from America, he’d kill him with his bare hands.
He’d never thought much of slavery or indenturedness until his brothers had been taken as prisoners of war then sold. Now, Duncan couldn’t stop thinking about the African folks who must feel like him, ready to tear out the eyes of the people who thought they could own his kin. His brothers, if they had served out their time, would be free within twelve years. A wholly unchristian sentence, many said, since the Bible wrote only of seven years a slave. However, Duncan had heard how the American plantation owners were beginning to treat their slaves with lifetime commitments. Always treatment of slaves was harsh, but he’d heard rumors that in some places it was inhumane and evil, especially toward the African slaves. They were becoming...chattel. Duncan couldn’t help but shudder at some of the reports he’d been told.
Then he’d received the first letter from Jacob, mentioning that a tribe—how did Fleur pronounce it?—Yamasee, helped them escape and took them in. Within the tribe, there already were some German, Irish, and African men and women. The letter had given Helen hope, and she’d smiled as Duncan had read it. However, he wouldn’t take such comforts until his brothers were back in Scotland, where they belonged.
After that, mayhap he’d go down to the tropical Africa and find a way to stop slavery. He might be in a losing battle, but it would be one hell of a way to die, fighting for something virtuous, rather than all the money he’d accumulated throughout the years, even if he’d given most of it to his mother.
“I—I can hardly believe I have a lady in the house,” Helen said, reminding Duncan of where he was. She giggled, then swooped in and hugged him around his waist. “Thank ye, son. This is the best gift, save when ye give me a grandchild.”
Helen felt so small against him, the bones of her shoulder blades and spine rubbed against his arms and hands. Lord, why couldn’t she put on more weight? He still had money to spare and considered going to Tongue to buy more pastries she might like and fatten up on.
“I’m sure the lads,” that’s what his younger brothers had been called, “will give ye plenty of grandchildren.”
She pulled away and looked up at him, her small hands still on his belly. Searching his eyes, Helen shook her head. “But I want
ye
to give me a grandchild, little bairns that look like ye. Ye look so much like yer father.” Her voice and face traveled to the distant shore of past love. Duncan didn’t have a memory of his father, since he died when Duncan wasn’t quite the age of two. What he did know was what Helen had said, but more than that it was the way she looked when talking about him. She had loved the man something fierce. And she never held a look like that for Albert. Helen gazed back up at Duncan, despair apparent through her pleading eyes. “Duncan, I ken I wasn’ a good mother after—”
“’Tis fine, Ma,” he interrupted, knowing she’d say something about not being the kind of mother she should have been for him. She’d been trying to apologize ever since Albert had died.
“I should ha—”
“I said ‘tis fine.” He hadn’t needed to yell, yet turning his voice to ice had made his mother release him from her embrace, frowning. Then he felt like a royal jackass. “Sorry,” he muttered and tried to push past Helen. “I shouldn’ kept the lady waiting. She might be hurt.”
His mother caught his arm, and even though she looked as frail as a newborn foal, she held him still, scrutinizing him once more. When Duncan finally met his mother’s stare, he saw his own eyes, the same colors reflected back—green, gold, and the odd bursts of orange here and there. He bowed his head.
“Truly, ma, I’m sorry. I didn’ mean to be short with ye.”
She smiled and took a small step closer to him. “Ye’re such a good lad, Duncan.”
He shook his head, still glued to her by her grip on him.
“Ye are. Always givin’ me yer money. Makin’ my home so grand, it made me think I could invite the bonny lady into my house.”
“Ye can.”
“If she stayed with me, would ye sleep in here too?”
He shook his head again. “I don’ think the people of this town—”
“Ah, fick ‘em and what they think.”
That was almost as severe a shock as getting kicked in the bullocks, when his mother had sworn like that. She hadn’t merely said damn or some other oath he’d started using when he was a child. Nay, she’d used the big cannon of an expletive, shocking him down to his toes.
Helen started to laugh. “Ah, the look on yer face. ‘Tis priceless, my lad. Priceless.”
“Ma—” He could only mumble.
She took a quick breath. “Ye’re right. We should attend to our lady. Do ye think she likes wine? I have some, ye ken. All the way from France. My wonderful son bought it for me, probably from one of his mistresses down there. Lord in heavens, I wish the lad would settle down with a nice lady.”
He rolled his eyes. “Ma,” he huffed. “I didn’ have many mistresses in France.” He waited until she rolled her eyes too, then said, “Now when I was Venice, that was a different situation.”
She smacked him across one of his arms, while she smiled. Then she held her hands over her ears as she walked back into the house. “I don’ want to hear it. To me, ye’ll always be a virgin until ye’re married. And even after that, if ye give me a grandchild, it’ll be a blessing from the Lord, granting Immaculate Conception once again on earth.”
Duncan couldn’t help but snicker as he watched his wee ma enter her house, still holding her ears. He realized it hadn’t been the first time he’d laughed today. He’d chuckled earlier with Fleur. However before today, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. Really laughed.
The clopping of horse hooves nearing interrupted his levity. He sighed when he spotted Rory approaching at a trot, no less. Duncan raked a hand through his messy red hair, seeing the brightness of the color from the periphery of his eyes. He probably looked affright—identical to the savage he’d proclaimed himself to be earlier—and tried to catch his hair back in the leather tie at the nape of his neck. But then wondered why he’d go to such lengths when Fleur had already seen him looking more a beast than a man, like now.
As Rory approached, the bright orange and yellow setting sun hit the golden colors of his hair and his new palomino’s too, making the man appear to have a golden halo. Angelic. Fickin’ perfect, Duncan huffed, thinking of his ma’s language.
Had Fleur noticed that his new captain was a man who made grown women tremble in excitement? Had she as well?
Duncan imagined punching Rory in the jaw. As hard as he could. For no reason, of course. Not that he was jealous, he told himself.
God, he hated being home. Hated the discomfort of it all.
Through it all though, he wondered if delicate, delightful, divine Fleur thought of him, the uncomfortable oaf, at all.