Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (21 page)

"Come on, quit making a show of it," Amy whispered. "Why do you always have to do this?

He moved forward, among the tables, stiffening his spine resolutely as the future leader he was. He understood immediately, from the greetings of a number of men and the coquettish smiles of many women, that Shawn was a great favorite. But neither did he miss those who turned the other way as he walked past. He said little, merely nodded gravely to those who hailed him. He saw the looks of confusion on their faces, and their hands fell lifelessly.

He saw and felt the whispers swirling behind his back. Obviously, this was not the way the real Shawn would have behaved. He didn't worry. The head injury would cover a multitude of inconsistencies.

Amy led him to a table, with Rob and the pheasant-haired woman—Dana, he reminded himself—and several others. A serving woman in a short, black skirt rushed to slide a soft cushion on his chair. He seated himself carefully, nodded courteously in response to their greetings. Dana barely glanced at him, but slipped a comforting arm around Amy's shoulder. "How are you doing?" she asked, and Amy murmured back.

The servant girl hovered. "Bring me ale," Niall said to her. The seven other faces at the table turned toward him.

He looked back at them, questioningly.

"You usually prefer lager," Amy said, softly.

"Ale," Niall answered. The serving woman nodded and left.

"I hear you play harp now," one of the men said.

"What's this about an arrow in the butt?" asked another.

"It can't really have been an arrow," Amy said. "He must have gashed himself on a rock or...or something.

"You finally got Amy mad enough to ditch you," hooted another man.

"Maybe it was Amy who shot you. What did you do?"

"Would you stop it," Dana snapped.

Beside him, Amy turned red and stared at her napkin. "I told him I'm sorry," she said.

"She's not to blaeme," Niall said, feeling for her. Remembering his experience with Celine, he felt sure Amy was not at fault in anything, regarding Shawn.

The servant returned, bearing a tankard—a tankard of glass! Niall picked it up and stared at it in astonishment.

"Shawn! Put the mug down!" Amy hissed.

"Never seen a mug?" one of the men asked.

"He hurt his head," Amy explained.

"Sir?" said the woman.

He looked from the others' surprised faces, to the serving woman, and set the mug down. From a glass bottle similar to the one he'd seen in the basket, she poured what must be the ale, flowing gold, into the mug. He picked up the frothing mug, trying to recover his dignity. He gulped, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand to cover the sudden puckering of his lips, and forced back the urge to spit it out. It was strong and bitter, nothing like the ale he knew. They all watched. He swallowed, and smiled back, weakly. "Guid," he said. "Verra guid ale."

"Picked up an arrow and an accent overnight," one of the men remarked.

"An arrow, an accent, and an ale," said another.

"Aye," he agreed, for lack of anything better to say. But he vowed to listen and copy their speech more carefully. Thankfully, the woman returned, setting food in front of him: meat, peas, something like turnips, but bigger. He wondered if it would taste as he expected, or be as different as the ale was from what he knew. It smelled good. With a last, suspicious look at the so-called ale, he bowed his head. He crossed himself and folded his hands, his fingertips touching his nose. He thanked God, asked for guidance, crossed himself again, and raised his head.

The others stared, open-mouthed.

"Picked up an arrow, an accent, an ale, and religion," said Rob.

Dana glared at him. "You think this is funny?"

"Picked up an arrow, an accent, an ale, religion, and a couple of girls," said a third. Niall's ear processed his inflections for future use.

"Knock it off!" Amy set her fork down hard. Her lower lip tightened, as if holding back tears.

"Peace, Amy," Niall murmured, touching her arm. "Is the food
good
?" he asked the others, shaping his words carefully. He picked up one of the curious pronged forks they all favored, and copied their motions, cutting his meat with knife and fork and lifting it to his mouth. They nodded their assent, commented on the tastiness of the food, and slipped into conversation he couldn't entirely follow. He listened carefully throughout the meal, fully aware of their curious looks in his direction, as words became steadily more sensible, from the sounds coming out of their mouths.

"Are you okay, Shawn?" Amy asked him at length. "Do you want to go back to your room?"

The concern on her face reminded him what this odd word okay meant. He imitated their vowels carefully. "I'm okay. I'll stay," he said. He watched the man across the table lift a square of cloth to his mouth. He did the same. He had a great deal to learn from these people, if he was going to find a way out of this mess.

The women in short dresses came to clear the plates. One of them leaned close for his dishes, pressing her bosom against his cheek. "My apologies, madam." Niall pulled away. He heard Amy gasp, and noted the surprise on her face.

The girl in the short skirt giggled, and there was her bosom, right against his cheek again. He realized with shock that she was doing it on purpose. She slipped a bit of script-covered parchment in front of him. "Will you sign it?" she asked. "My friends couldn't believe I was going to see you tonight. Will you, please?"

Amy watched him.

"You want me to sign...my name?" he asked. She nodded so hard he feared her head would bob right off. He took the nib-less quill she offered. He thought back to the paintings of Shawn, picturing the letters that had spelled his name. He touched the quill to the parchment. Purple ink flowed from it. Purple ink! He realized everyone at the table was looking at him strangely. He lowered the quill and wrote
Shawn Kleiner
in his finest script. It dawned on him half way through that Shawn might not write in Niall's own fine hand, and that he himself had scrawled an illegible signature at the hospital.

He looked up at Amy. She stared at the elegant script in shock, and raised her eyes to his. Shockingly blue eyes. Shockingly upset eyes.

Glenmirril Castle, Scotland

A knock sounded on Shawn's door, seemingly minutes later. But the room was dark when he opened his eyes. He sat up, yawning, and scratching at his belly through the woolen monk's robe. The morning's hangover had passed, but not the craving for coffee. Outside the window, the moon hung low on the horizon in a pale charcoal sky. He stood up, stretching. The door eased open. To Shawn's surprise, the Laird himself came in, bearing a candle in one hand and a large bag slung on his back.

MacDonald must have seen the surprise in Shawn's eyes, even in the dim light, for he laid his hand on his shoulder. "I told you to trust few. I take my own advice. No one but you, me, and the lad must know the truth of your journey. You are my future son-in-law, and my heir. May God go with you, Niall. Ye've said your prayers?"

Shawn shook his head. Not since that last Mass, six days before his father's murder, had Shawn prayed. The old man pushed him down. He landed roughly on his knees, the Laird kneeling beside him with folded hands and bowed head. "God, our dear Father, grant Niall safety and wisdom on his journey. May God protect us all, especially my lad. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, amen." He crossed himself again, and they both rose. The Laird hefted the bag up to Shawn.

Shawn took it, wondering at its size and weight. Food? Thinking of the salmon and chocolate mousse they'd be serving at the hotel, his stomach growled. "It can't be past midnight," he said.

"Much earlier. Too many expected you to leave in the wee hours of morn. You must be well away before they start to watch for you."

"Wasn't it only the lords in the room who knew that?"

"Aye." The Laird did not elaborate. He pulled a rope from under the bed, and carried it to the window set back in the recess.

Shawn's stomach quelled again. "What's wrong with the door?" He went to the window himself, and looked out. Stiff wind yanked at his hair. He looked down, down, down into a bubbling witch's cauldron of mist. His stomach lurched far worse than any hangover. The rock wall dropped sheer, hundreds of feet. The rocky escarpment on which the castle stood dropped further still. Shawn's head reeled. He yanked it inside.

"You're kidding," he said.

"They may be watching the drawbridge. Hold the bag tightly, now." MacDonald tossed the rope out the window. It slithered down, slapping the wall. The Laird coiled the end tightly around his hands. "When you reach the bottom, run up the hill and down to the copse on the other side. Ye'll do it my way this time, eh, Niall?"

"Uh, yeah," Shawn said. He hoped the man didn't read his intentions to go his own way, directly north to Inverness.

"My way, Niall," the old man insisted. "Tweaking my plans may have worked with the MacDougalls, but not this time. Swear it!"

Shawn nodded vigorously, wanting nothing more than to be out of here. The Laird studied him hard, as if expecting more. "I'll do it," Shawn assured him.

"An' a last word of caution." The old man placed a short, thick dirk on the window ledge. Shawn eyed it. The old man eyed him. They eyed each other. "You treat the laddie proper. I'd no ha' sent him but for such desperate need."

"Yes, sir." He had no idea what the Laird feared, but the knife's sharp blade ran a cold finger down his spine.

"An' I hear a word agin you, we'll be having words." He tapped the handle of his dagger, glinting in the moonlight on the sill. "Am I clear?"

Shawn stared at the knife, blinking hard. He nodded. "Yes, sir! There'll be no complaints!"

"Good man, Niall." The Laird slid the dirk from the windowsill. With trepidation, Shawn took the oilskin bag, strapped it firmly across his back, and crawled up where the dagger had been. Wind tore at his legs, hanging out. He looked down, thankful he'd never been afraid of heights. This view, however, just might change that. "I hope you're strong," he muttered, and, clutching the rope, dropped over the ledge. He fell, slamming against the stone wall. The wind shoved at him. The rope slipped in his hands, tearing skin from his palms. He grabbed tighter, wincing at the burn.

"Hand over hand," the Laird whispered fiercely. "Careful with the bag. Ye cannna have it breaking. Hurry! My back is no what it was."

"I can do this," Shawn told himself. He managed to twist his feet in the rope—the leather sandals gripped it well—and, going against every survival instinct, forced himself to loosen his grip in one hand, then another, lowering himself down the rope. The moon, thankfully, had slipped behind clouds. Mist steamed on the loch far below; there was not a stirring of life anywhere.

He lowered himself another hand under hand, fighting the wind, and clung for several seconds, refusing to look down, before releasing his grip again.

"Hurry!" the Laird hissed from above.

Wild images of arrows in the back sprang to mind. It was a ridiculous thought. But it gave him impetus to lower himself another several feet. The rope slackened suddenly. He slipped another two feet, slamming against the wall. "I canna hold on," came the voice from above. "Faster!"

He glanced down. He was close, but not close enough. He hitched the bag up, and forced himself to lower his hands, wiggle his feet, inching toward the rocky outcropping. The rope gave a sudden lurch, and he was hurtling downward.

A foot!

Only a foot, and he struck ground. His legs buckled, throwing him to his knees. The bag hit the rocks hard. The rope slithered down beside him. He coiled it, and slung it over his body.

Clouds scudded for the edge of the moon. Soon it would be bright again. He looked up to the window; it was empty. He was alone in the world. There was the hill he must cross. He hefted the bag to his shoulder, girded the monk's robe up around his bare legs.

And ran.

Inverness, Scotland, Present

Dinner lasted late, with thick, rich deserts Niall had never even imagined. He sampled several. Then there were drinks. A crowd gathered around his table, questioning him about his night in the tower, making wild guesses. "Shot in the leg, is the rumor," said a man with a thin goatee.

"Shot somewhere much more interesting is what I heard!" The men chuckled.

"Don't pay attention to ridiculous rumors," Amy snapped. "He'll be fine. He just cut himself on something, that's all."

"Allowed to be a little eccentric, anyway, when you bring so much business to the orchestra and the hotel," one of the men remarked.

The woman who'd given him the hero's greeting, with hair as white and soft as corn silk, and a garnet red dress clinging more tightly than any undergarment, dropped herself boldly on his lap, wrapping her arm around his head. Dana rolled her eyes and shook her feathered head. Amy glared. The bosomy woman smiled back, flashing teeth whiter than summer clouds, and cooed in Niall's ear. "Hope it hasn't hurt anything important. I was hoping for an encore tonight."

The words themselves made little sense to Niall, but a proposition in any language, he found, was not hard to understand. He stood, forcing the woman off his lap. "My lady, my apologies. You could not know, but I am betrothed."

A gasp went around the table. The woman looked as though she'd been slapped. They all stared at Amy questioningly. She turned red. "I... um...we talked...." she stammered, and finally said, "He's joking."

"Yes," agreed Niall, wanting to ease the embarrassment he'd obviously caused her. "I spoke in jest." At their curious stares, he remembered to copy their speech, and amended his words. "I am joking." He made no move, however, to sit down to accommodate the woman again. She turned on her heel and flounced away.

Niall resumed his seat. The uncomfortable silence continued, till one of the men cleared his throat and said, "Sounds like we might be here long enough to see the re-enactment." The focus off him, Niall sat back, listening. The word Stirling caught his attention, and he leaned forward. A re-enactment, he gathered, after some time, was men pretending to be warriors of times past, playing out famous battles. Not wanting to attract any more attention, he bit back his question: Why would anyone do such a foolish thing? Were there not enough real battles and wars?