Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (31 page)

There stood, in twenty minutes, on a new desk in his chambers, one of the amazing computers.

"Unbelievable!" Amy stood in the doorway, watching the men scurry to connect the last cable and rush out.

Niall nodded approval, satisfied he had discovered how to use the assets Shawn had left him. As he hung up Shawn's jacket, he recalled the crucifix. He fished it from the pocket, unwrapping it on the way to his bedroom. He removed the painting over the bed, setting it on the floor against the wall.

"Shawn! That's an original McTaggart! You can't do that!"

Niall spun, startled at the alarm in her voice. She was looking at the painting.

Niall shrugged, with a dismissive glance at the seascape. "I want the crucifix there." He hung the cross in the painting's place.

"Same old Shawn," she said. "And yet, not." She studied the crucifix. "You were raised Catholic. Maybe when you hit your head, it sort of—jolted—something?" She sighed heavily and went back to the sitting room.

"I'll try now." Niall joined Amy in front of the computer. He seated himself, recalling how she'd done it, and tried. Nothing happened.

"The start button," Amy said. Niall searched the letter board. "On the screen." She pointed, and he remembered. After several more mistakes, processing and learning from each one, he found his way back to the internet, his own personal monastery full of books.

"I have to go to bed," Amy said. She crossed the room to a sink and another machine. "I can't believe I haven't seen you drink coffee since you got back." She ran water into a glass ewer and punched buttons. "It'll keep you awake if you're going to keep studying."

With only a cursory glance at yet another machine, this one burbling like a stream in the Highlands, Niall turned back to the page he'd pulled up, leaned forward, and read.

Edward gathered an army like the world had never seen, to crush the Scots once and for all. Every possible man must be called upon to defend the struggling country.

Hugh and his men were needed, and nobody but Niall knew how to find them. Except....

The realization hit Niall hard, a fist in the gut. His head shot up.

At the machine, Amy jumped. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Niall said quickly. But something was very wrong. Somebody else did know. Somebody who should not be traveling to find Hugh!

Central Scotland

In the gray, stone foyer of the great monastery, the huge leather and brass-studded doors looming over them, Shawn gathered his jaw back up to the rest of his mouth. Brilliant golden-auburn curls surrounded Allene's furious face. All thought of Inverness fled his mind. Even the poor excuse for dinner and the lack of a double tall mocha no longer mattered. Had he really just been handed four days—alone!—with this beautiful girl? He couldn't believe his luck!

She, however, did not see things in the same light. "Ready at last, aer we?" she demanded. "We've lost fifteen minutes we could scarce afford."

"Fifteen minutes, huh? Oh, no, call out the National Guard." But a grin spread across his face. He was helpless to stop it.

"I've badly misjudged ye, Niall Campbell! O' course you're angry I found a way to come along, though 'tis your own fault I'm needed!" She tossed her head. "Mooning MacDougall, indeed! But I hardly thought ye'd bear such a grudge."

"I'm not angry! Who said I'm angry?" Indeed, pleasant thoughts—vivid thoughts—raced through his mind faster than he could enjoy them. "I didn't want you to come along?" That, at least, explained her look of triumph in the great hall of the castle. She and Niall must have argued. In fact, he guessed, piecing together more of the puzzle, they must have argued in the tower. She'd known exactly where to find him. Niall had been angry, stayed in the tower, and fallen asleep. And woken up—where? He was too interested in Allene to pursue the thought.

"O' course you're angry! Why else did ye give me no greeting in the grove! Surely you were not afraid of my father there! Why else did ye no say a word to me all night?"

"I didn't know it was you!" he protested.

"O' course 'twas me! Is it not the way we traveled last time?"

"Of course!" Shawn struck his forehead with his palm. "I forgot. Still not right in the head, you know. Well, then!" He rubbed his hands together, the grin refusing to leave. "Let's go! No hard feelings? Let's start fresh, okay? I'm really glad it's you."

"We must be on our way," she snapped.

"Well, hold on! If you're supposed to be my mute servant boy, I couldn't talk to you, could I?"

"Not in public, certainly, but 'twould have been aw' right last night."

"Just trying not to blow our cover," he said. "Tell me when, and we'll talk. I can't wait!"

She gave him a dirty look and yanked up her cowl. The monks raised hands in benediction. They swung the huge doors open, and Allene stormed out into the pink-streaked evening, Shawn all but running to catch up. His fantasies of the coming days overshadowed the aches of last night's exertions.

Inverness, Scotland, Present

Jimmy burst into the Blue Bell, waving the money he'd won off the American musician. "Next round on me, lads!"

A cheer arose. Barmaids hopped, taking orders and carrying brimming pints to the men gathered around the dart board. "There's a big game in Glasgow tomorrow night," said one of Jimmy's mates. "Five thousand pounds to the winner. Pay off yer bills and get the missus off yer back fer a bit. Ye got the entrance fee there, if ye don't piss it away on drinks."

"Where in Glasgow?" Jimmy asked. He eyed the bundle of notes, before pushing it into his pocket. He chose a dart from the tray, testing its weight and balance.

"The James and Barley."

Jimmy laughed. "I'm loiked none too well there. Got meself piss drunk an' in a fight once too often." He eyed the dart board carefully, and launched the dart. It landed dead center. He smiled.

"It's been a couple years," said his mate. "They'll've forgotten. Me cousin works there now. I'll ask 'im to put in a word fer ye. Five thousand pounds, Jimmy, think on it."

"I doona ha' to think on it," said Jimmy. "If ye'll do that, I'll go." Jimmy shook the other man's hand. Several men clapped him on the back and shoulder, wishing him well. "I'll not let ye down," Jimmy said.

Central Scotland

The moon came out, drawing Allene's nervous attention, but showing Shawn the landscape. The hills continued, rocky now and covered in short, tough grass, rather than forest. At times, they climbed almost vertically up grassy slopes. At others, they crossed broad stretches of moorland, lifting their feet high over the heather or stumbling on uneven, marshy ground. Mostly, they marched in silence. Now and again, in a dark grove, Allene let fly. "And here was I thinking ye a better man!" she said.

"I can be as good as you want, baby," Shawn replied, the leer coming through in his voice. It earned him a shocked gasp and another glare. She flounced ahead, still lecturing.

He shrugged. "Your loss," and went back to passing the time playing the harp in his mind while the real harp bumped against his back. He was beginning to enjoy the effort. He grinned, did a bit of the triplet section of
Blue Bells
in his mind, and thought about those enjoyable nights with Celine. Maybe when he got back, he'd surprise her with his newfound skills and take it from there. He enjoyed the thought, his legs moving steadily under him, while another of Allene's tirades washed around him. He started on
Gilliekrankie
, relegating her mutterings and outbursts to the background. She'd come around. He knew she would. Eventually she stopped, tramping in silence, every now and again giving an angry toss of her head, and Shawn himself a dirty glare.

At last, they came to a stream. It appeared suddenly, glittering in the moonlight, at the bottom of a shallow gully. Not the coffee he craved, but better than nothing. Allene threw herself down on the bank. Shawn removed the harp from his back, leaving it beside her, and edged down to the water. His leather boots slipped on the wet grass. But he reached the stream without mishap and dropped to his knees in the rocks, scooping up icy water, and gulping deeply. When he'd sated his thirst, he splashed his head and face, and up under his harlequin tunic and billowing shirt. It was the closest he'd come to a bath in two days.

He looked over his shoulder. Allene had edged her cowl back from her face, watching him. Moonlight gilded the outline of her brown robe. She plumped her arms across her chest, and turned her head away. He'd ignored her long enough. Time to start making up. First, an apology.

"I'm sorry, you know." He sat back on his haunches.

Moonlight glowed on the pale edge of her cheek. She turned her head further away, lifting her nose in the air.

"Come and have some water," he said, gently. He knew timing like the best comedian: time to turn on the charm.

"In me own time," she sniffed.

"Aren't we in a hurry?" Always show concern for what she wants.

"We've a moment."

"Come on, Allene," Shawn crooned. "Forgive me. I've been an ass. I'm not trying to be. Sometimes I just can't seem to help myself." Self-deprecation was a powerful weapon in his arsenal of charm. She said nothing, but the silhouette of her stiff shoulders lowered perceptibly. Shawn recognized progress. "The water's good," he said. "Come down here, before you drop of thirst."

"Perchance," she said.

"You know I got injured in the cattle raid." A little vulnerability, a plea for help, always appealed to women. "Just a delayed reaction from the injury. If I'd been in my right mind, I would've known it was you. I'm still not really in my right mind. I've forgotten things. I wish you'd help me fill me in the gaps."

Allene edged toward the water.

"Let me bring you some." Shawn doffed his hat, the feather trailing, and made a show of filling it. He carried it up the short slope, water glinting in the moonlight as it spilled over the edge and seeped through the material more quickly than he could scramble up the bank.

Her scowl thawed.

Shawn reached her and stared at the damp, empty hat in dismay. "I know I filled it," he said. "Let me try again." He slipped and slid back to the stream, re-filled it, and carried it up, making a show of trying to keep the water in with his hands.

A corner of her mouth twitched as he once again reached her with an empty hat. He tried a third time, and now she laughed out loud, and stood to come down to the stream herself, allowing him to assist her. He took her chilly fingers, rubbed them warm, and kissed them. "I hate it when you're angry with me," he whispered. He didn't know or care how often Niall angered her, or what he thought of it. But it was a good line, and delivered in an emotional whisper, it rarely failed. It didn't now.

She gazed up with sad, blue eyes reflecting the silver moon. "Do you know how scared I am when you're gone and I wait in the castle for news of your safety? And now you're angry with me for trying to help."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry you had to go through that. Really I am." He pushed the cowl down, freeing the wild red hair, and dared kiss her temple—and what a temple it was, he sighed in exultation! She threw herself into his arms.

"You won't make me stay behind ever again?"

"No, never," he promised. He had no idea what Niall could or couldn't promise, and cared even less. "I'll never leave you again!" He hugged her back tightly, stroked her hair, held her close. All the things that showed great emotion; all the things that always worked. He kissed her temple again, worked his way down, kissing her cheek gently till he reached her lips.

"Niall!" she cried, laughing. "You know what happened last time."

"That's one thing I'll never forget," Shawn agreed, recalling the lords' conversation. "That day behind the oven."

"Nor my father chasing you and whipping you?"

Shawn cringed. Poor Niall. "Your father's not here. And we're betrothed." He pressed his lips on hers, kissing her over and over. She pulled away, laughing. He grasped her hand; kissed her fingers, kissed the back of her hand, kissed her wrist.

"Niall, we mustn't. My father trusted you."

"His mistake," Shawn growled, kissing her forearm. She tensed; he sensed he'd made the mistake. "Of course he can trust me," he amended quickly. "I'll take good care of you. You can trust me." He pulled her closer, and lowered his head, pressing his hand in her thick hair. She gave in this time. Such a kiss! His knees quivered. His free hand dropped to her hip, his fingers hitching her robe up. Excitement rose in him. This voluptuous, incredible young woman! All his, here on the banks of the silver stream, under the stars. Tonight he would truly celebrate the best of Scotland!

"Niall!" She gasped. "Stop!"

"Oh, no! No, this will be so good," he whispered in her ear. His insides leapt and tingled. His hand found the edge of the robe and crept under, touching soft, bare skin.

"Niall, stop!"

"I can't!" He yanked the robe higher, inching his hand onto her rounded hip.

She jerked backwards. Something stabbed deep in his palm.

He jumped back with a shout. "The hell was that?" He clutched his hand, frantically scanning the river bank for archers. His heart raced. But they were alone. He lifted his left hand cautiously off his right. His head reeled at the sight of a deep gash in the soft pad between thumb and wrist. Blood flowed like wine. Nausea rose in his stomach.

"Niall! Surely ye'll no faint at the sight of blood!" Her gentle nature was gone, replaced once again by the shrew he'd come to expect. Never had a woman addressed him with such disdain. "Ye canna be the same Niall who dropped his trews to the MacDougall!" She yanked her robe into place, snapping it back down around her ankles.

He lowered his eyes and saw the short, vicious dagger in her hand. Indignation burst in him. "You stabbed me!" His hand stung fiercely.

"An what did ye expect, ye lout? I told ye to stop."

"You stabbed me?"

"Ye know well my father's expectations!"

"You! Stabbed me!"
A slow, steady throb began in his palm and coursed up his arm, pounding in his temples.