Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (36 page)

"Shawn, this happened seven hundred years ago." She poured the coffee into Shawn's mug. "It's not he will, but he did. You're talking as if you can change it. Why this sudden interest? I mean—it's kind of scaring me, really." She set the steaming coffee in front of him, in Shawn's black mug with the gold trombone. "You haven't had your usual latte since you got back." She seated herself in a chair beside him, her thigh touching his.

"My...." He paused, sounding out the word in his head. "Latte?"

"Your double tall mocha." A sweet floral scent hovered about her.

"Yes, well." Niall chose his words carefully, having no clue what lattes or tall mochas might be. He knew he couldn't tell it from a short mocha. "I haven't thought about that." He wrapped his hands around the mug, feeling something of the man who had owned it. He'd miss coffee. He found himself wanting to drink it all day. He wondered how Shawn was surviving without it.

"Something happened in that castle," she said. "I wish you'd tell me. Why the change?"

"What change?" It was a foolish thing to say, but he didn't know how else to respond. And the touch of her leg and her scent were distracting him terribly.

"You're so serious now, and kinder."

He set the mug down. "But you stayed with him, I mean, with the man I was. Why?"

She shrugged. "Who would be stupid enough to leave the great Shawn Kleiner? Fear. Afraid no one else would ever notice me."

"Och!" He shook his head sadly. "You're bright and talented and beautiful. Any man would notice you."

She lowered her eyes. "You've never said that before. You always acted like it was you or no one."

"I was a fool." Niall stared at her, at her pale, smooth cheek and intelligent eyes, and knew Shawn must be a fool. He closed his eyes, in pain, sure this fool was even now with his Allene.

"I stayed because I saw something better in you. When we were alone, it was like the mask slipped and I saw someone I wanted to be with. Someone good and kind buried in there."

Niall nodded, trying to piece together the dichotomous images of a man he'd never met.

Amy murmured into the silence. "You haven't been pushing me."

"Shawn pushed you?" The words slipped out before he could stop himself. Men didn't shove women; only brutes did. "I'm sorry," he said, pushing aside his hair briefly so she could see the vicious bruise and jagged cut. "I still feel Shawn is someone else. It will come back. But...why did I push you?"

"It's an expression," Amy said. "You don't remember that? It means pressuring someone to do things they don't want to."

"I did that? What was it I—
pushed
—you to do?"

"What was it?" She looked at him incredulously. "You know what!" Her cheeks turned pink, and he understood.

His eyes opened wide! "We...?" He stopped. No injury would make Shawn forget that. She wouldn't believe it, and he'd find himself locked up or fired. "Yes, we did!" he assured himself and her with gusto. And to think stealing a kiss from Allene had been considered bold! "Did you...um, did you want me to
push
you?" So many temptations in this world, and so many strange euphemisms! He glanced uneasily at the cross, wondering how to stave off such expectations if she wanted that.

"No," she said. "It's nice just being with you for a change. I'm starting to feel like I could tell you…."

A knock sounded at the door. She sighed and stood to open it, her long black hair flowing down her back. He watched her, digesting the news. And yet, given the way these women dressed and behaved, he thought he shouldn't be surprised. He was disturbed to find he liked the idea. He pushed the thought from his head, with another guilty glance at the crucifix. There was Allene and all of Scotland to think about.

"Rob!" Amy said, at the door.

"Twenty minutes in his room and he hasn't gotten you in bed," Rob replied. "The changes just keep coming!"

Amy gasped. "What an awful thing to say!"

"It's been an awful way for him to treat you. Breakfast is on, and people are asking where you two are. Most are assuming, of course. Caroline's in a real snit." He scowled at Niall. Amy shoved out the door past him, glaring. He waited till she was gone before saying, "How long are you going to string her along with the Saint Shawn act? She deserves better."

"Yes, she does," Niall agreed. They stared at each other for several moments before Rob slammed out of the room.

Niall turned back, thoughtfully, to the pile of paper and pens, and his copious notes, diagrams, and maps of the Stirling area. Pushing Amy and his new-found knowledge of their relationship, and Rob and his anger, forcibly from his mind, he studied them again, turning them around, looking at them from every angle.

Hesitantly, he touched the mouse, moving the cursor as he'd watched Amy do. He clicked on the map and it responded. It took him a minute of study and deciphering the odd script, to realize he was now looking at a larger area.
Zoomed out
, Amy had called it. He studied this broader view of the area, waiting for the bolt of sudden insight he'd been sure Christ would send him. He took a long drink of coffee, staring at the maps over the golden rim. No bolt of inspiration came. Worse yet, his mind would not stay on the battle.

Niall sighed. He leaned back, tipping his chair on two legs, and pushed his hand through his hair. His thoughts kept returning to Shawn and all the bits and pieces of information he'd learned about him. He stood, finally, resigned to his inability to study the battle, and went back to the bedroom.

There, he pulled out the trombone case, opened it, and felt under the lining for the picture. He slid it out and stared at it, the man and the boy. As he did, the flute once again started its melody in the background. He looked up. Caroline or her friend must have skipped breakfast. A violin joined, playing long, slow notes, and still he stared. God knew more about Shawn than Niall could guess.

"I pray for him," he said softly. "God, may Your will be done in his life. May your angels guard him." The flute trilled and launched into a scale rising swiftly on eagle's wings. Niall's soul danced with it, anticipating something good. The sound lifted out of reach, leaving the room emptier than it had been.

A knock sounded on his door, and a man yelled, "Buses leaving for rehearsal, Shawn! Get downstairs!"

Niall gave the photograph one last, lingering look, trying to imagine the boy and his father as they'd been the day it was painted. Pity swelled in him, knowing what each had come to. He slid the picture into the back pocket of his jeans, and left for rehearsal.

Central Scotland, 1314

Shawn's heart beat hard and swift in his bruised chest. He lay trapped, injured and helpless, under the feet of men—brutes—who wanted to kill him, still trying to find a better explanation than what it appeared. There was none.

Another song started up. He couldn't guess how much time had passed. He'd woken several times, sometimes to silence, sometimes to talk and laughter, always with aches in every part of his body and the growing stench of the cellar in his nose. He looked twice at his wrist in reflex, but he hadn't worn his watch that day with Amy.

Above him, the men bellowed bawdy lyrics about a girl in the hay; the kind of thing, Shawn thought, he himself had been singing just days ago while downing ale. Beer, he corrected himself in irritation. Panic swelled at the thought of never again throwing a party for his friends. He fought it back: no escape had suggested itself yet. But it would.

The reed instrument kept piping the mismatched melody that bore no relation to the men's song. He couldn't believe they didn't clout the man playing it. People seemed willing to hit and stab each other for little enough in this time. If just a little kiss got you stabbed, then playing so badly out of tune deserved at least drawing and quartering.

He thought of the innkeeper's daughter, laughing in the stable. His hand stung; his chest hurt. He wondered where she was, and what her father had done to her. He wondered if she ached like he did, and felt another sting: of remorse. He twisted on the burlap sacks, seeking comfort he couldn't find.

Above, a woman squealed, men laughed, and feet pounded across the floor over his head. These men wanted to kill him! His hand throbbed. Distaste coated his mouth. He sipped from the water skin, grateful for it.

Allene's hand slipped into his. Sweat covered her palm. It surprised him. Cool, unflappable Allene, so at home in this bizarre world? Fear gripped her, too. He squeezed her hand. Nearby, the other man rasped; Shawn guessed he had woken, and was most likely sweating profusely under the heavy tread and raunchy humor of the men who not merely wanted, but had already tried, to kill him.

His hand throbbed.

He closed his eyes, waiting, listening. The rat scratched in the corner. His legs itched.

Allene's hand lay clammy and soft in his. She lay her head on his chest, over his pounding heart. "Remember the day we ran in the hills among the heather?" she breathed.

Shawn tried to picture goody-two-shoes Niall and the angry Allene running carefree. "No," he said. "The blow to the head, you know." But talking would ease her fear. "Tell me."

"It was my fifteenth summer. I was out with the women, collecting peat. You rode over the hill, coming home from your foster family. I slipped away to meet you. I knew by then my father had promised you my hand, and I knew the girls envied me. But I was scared."

"You kissed me behind the oven." Pretty wild guy, that Niall, Shawn thought.

"'Tis not the same as spending my whole life with you. I dinna ken how you'd treat me, as a husband. I sat on a rock while you took off your shirt to clean in the stream. And I saw the scars on your back."

Shawn waited, curious. "And?" he finally asked.

"I caught my breath, and you turned and laughed, saying 'twas naught. Then you saw how upset I was, and took my hand. I asked how could you bear to look at me when I'd brought that on you. You said you'd brought it on yourself, and 'twas by catching my father's attention you won my hand." Her breath flowed over his cheek. Her voice fell lower. "You said had you not kissed me, you'd ha' spent your life watching me from afar and wishing an' you'd gladly suffer it a hundred times more to marry me. No one ever loved me like that. You made me a garland of bluebells and sent me back to the women, saying you'd never again anger my father and risk our future. I still have that garland, all dried now."

Above them, the singing died down. The talk dwindled soon after, leaving a nerve-wracking silence, in which their every breath thundered out to the soldiers to come and find them. The tramping of heavy boots at irregular intervals suggested men leaving for their rooms for the night. Or was it daytime? Maybe they were leaving to search for him. The flute's soft melody died down last of all and drifted away. In the silence, one man's words sounded through the floorboards.

"You sure you haven't seen a monk come this way?"

Shawn jumped at the words. Did the soldier mean him, Shawn, or the real monk? Not that it mattered. He knew who they wanted, and could only imagine what the other man must feel, beaten and wounded and more helpless even than Shawn. The memory of the innkeeper's angry face swam before him, hovering over him in the stable. Allene curled in closer, seeking safety. He tightened his arm around her, and held his breath, waiting for the innkeeper's answer.

"No, my lord," said Fergal. "The road has been quiet."

"We're looking for an enemy of King Edward. He's disguised as a monk, raising armies against the king."

"No one has been here disguised as a monk, my lord," came the landlord's steady voice.

"You don't want to harbor enemies of the king." A long silence followed. The itch started again on Shawn's leg. Then the same voice said, "Niall Campbell. Has he been here?"

Shawn's insides cramped. His throat hurt from the tension in it. His life lay in the hands of the man he'd thumbed his nose at, mere hours ago.

"The Campbells live some two days' journey west, my lord, on the other side o' the loch."

A sharp report jolted the floor above their heads; a great fist, perhaps, slamming down on the table? A man leaping to his feet in anger? Shawn tensed. He relaxed each muscle methodically. He slowed his breathing. "Well I know it!" the English voice bellowed. "Three days hence, he gave us the slip. We've not found him in the Great Glen."

"The Great Glen is deep," said the landlord, unperturbed. "There are great unexplored reaches. 'Twould be easy for him to hide there and not be found."

"He's not the only one who knows it well," the soldier said. "There is another who has taken us to all his hiding places."

In the cellar, Allene clung to Shawn's arm and whispered, "Thank God ye were wounded! I know ye, Niall. You'd ha' disregarded my father and taken the Great Glen."

"No..." Shawn said. His head swam from fear and hunger. His mouth became dry. Maybe Niall would have done that. He might be dead in the Great Glen, right now, had the switch not happened.

"Who knows your secrets, Niall? Darnley? William? Conal? Iohn? Try to remember. He'll keep following us. An' he doesna find us, he'll be at Stirling Castle, posing as a friend."

Shawn's jaw tightened. He had no way of knowing.

"We've begun to wonder," the soldier said slowly, and Shawn, relying on his sense of hearing as never before, heard slyness in the ugly voice, "if we were fed false rumors. My man swears it was monk's garb in which Niall was to travel." Allene squeezed his hand sharply. Shawn gasped in pain. He wracked his mind to think who knew about the monk's robe. All the lords. They'd discussed it in the meeting. "Maybe he changed clothes on the way? But we would have found the robe, under thick brush or thrown in a river, maybe even buried."

Shawn let out a breath. "The Purloined Letter," he whispered.

"'Twould be a job, finding one robe in the wilderness," replied Fergal.

"'Twould," agreed the soldier, "but that two score of the king's best men are searching. There are only so many ways to enter the Great Glen from Glenmirril. We've searched every one, far in, and far off the path. We were right behind him. There is no stone unturned."