Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (54 page)

Amy saw no point in reminding him yet again that Hugh was seven hundred years gone. "Night's coming," she pointed out, instead.

"The days are long. I can get a good start. I know these forests well."

She leaned in, conscious of the crowds around them, already staring both at his outfit and her concert black, and whispered, "You knew the forests of seven hundred years ago well." She glanced around at the business men hustling beside them, fearful of being overheard. "If what you say is true."

He squeezed her hand. "Take me to the forest."

Amy sighed. "The bus station is next door." They followed the sidewalk, under white beams of modern construction. Ancient church spires shot into the Stirling sky farther up the city hill.

"You really believe this?" she asked. She couldn't think of him as Shawn. But neither could she face the question of how he came to be in Shawn's place. His story, strange as it was, accounted for everything. He'd spoken, on the train, with such intimate knowledge of a time unknown to all but the most authoritative experts. He couldn't have faked the scars on his back or an arrow wound. Since the moment he'd stepped onstage for the concert, he had shifted back to a heavy Scots accent—yet unlike the modern ones all around her.

"Believe I'm from 1314?" He smiled. "O' coorse."

At the station, Amy found the bus headed west. She watched Niall. He stared at the bus much as she had stared at haggis, the orchestra's first night in Scotland. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He pushed his hand through his hair, exactly as Shawn would. He heaved a sigh, and climbed on.

They rode the bus for a time in silence, watching first the city, and then fields, race by. "It was all forest," he said, gazing at it. She touched his hand. He closed his fingers around hers. Thoughts chased one another through her mind—where Shawn was, who would come back to her.

...who she wanted to come back.

"Tell me again what he's doing there," she said.

Niall told her again, his best guess. Her fingers lay warm in his hand. Guilt flowed around her heart. Shawn was in danger, possibly dead, and she was holding another man's hand. She'd even given him a commitment of sorts. She closed her eyes, remembering times she and Shawn had been alone, the way he'd touched her hair as if caressing a rose, or gazed at her as if seeing an angel. That Shawn, she grieved and feared for and wanted back. But Niall was all the good things she'd believed were in Shawn. She felt safe with him. Even his insane story gave her no turmoil. It made more sense than Shawn's stories ever had. The pieces all fit.

Niall stared out the bus window, now and again checking his maps, and finally, several miles past a small town, said, "Here."

Amy rang the bell, and the bus pulled over. Looking green and holding his stomach, Niall gave a grimacing attempt at a smile to the bus driver, bowed briefly, and thanked him. They descended the steps, to the side of the road, near a picnic table. Beyond the small clearing, trees ascended a gentle slope.

"'Tis very different," Niall said. He studied the sun, still bright in the sky even in the summer evening, and the lay of the land; looked skeptically at the hiking trail for weekend woodsmen, and started up the path. "You'll come along?" he called over his shoulder.

A moment of panic hit Amy. She trotted after him, up the path. What if it really was Shawn, hit on the head and believing this craziness so well he'd sucked her in? What if she was letting a sick man wander into the wilderness alone, wearing a tunic and tights? "Conrad would never forgive me if I left you." Had she really just committed a year of her life to this man?

"I may be gone for some days."

"Days? You can't do that." The panic increased, a swift beating of her heart. He wasn't Shawn. She couldn't wander into the hills with a man she didn't even know. He could have made the whole story up. He could be anyone.

"Och, an' why not?"

"Well, you didn't bring camping equipment. You didn't bring food." She wished her words wouldn't tumble out so fast over each other, betraying her fear.

Niall stared with eyes open wide. "Does the forest no have berries and deer still?"

"You can't kill deer here."

"I'll no eat them alive!" Niall shook his head. "I must find Hugh. You'll be safe?"

"The bus will be back," she said. A battle raged inside her: follow him or stay. Whoever he was, she wanted to be with him.

He closed the distance between them, taking her hand. "Take care o' yerself an' the child," he said. "If I see you again, well...I'll not be sorry." His smile squeezed her heart. A surge of envy for the lucky Allene tore through her, racing alongside fear for Shawn. There was an awkward silence. "If not, thank you for helping me." He paused, then said, "'Tis glad I am we met." He kissed her fingertips, lingering a moment, and squeezing her hand. Then he turned abruptly and set off at a smart tempo, up into the forest.

Panic seized Amy. She took a quick step after him and stopped. He disappeared around a curve in the trail. She ran another four steps and stopped again. The forest loomed, trees towering over the path and shutting out the sun. In the moment's hesitation, fear overtook her. There might be wolves. She put her hand on her stomach, and took another step—this one, backwards, back toward the road, still looking up the path where Niall had disappeared. In space or time?

She shook her head sharply. People couldn't disappear in time.

She grabbed her cell phone and pounded Conrad's number.

Central Scotland, 1314

Shawn woke to the crackling of the fire. The smell of roasting meat made his stomach rumble. A diet of berries had left him looking forward to something more substantial. And maybe venison another night, he thought with satisfaction. Around him, men shouted and called, and moved about with purpose. He stared in fascination: could it really be possible these men had died hundreds of years before his birth? That if he knew the right history books, he could tell them each their own future? The sun blazed into the clearing, even at this early hour. Wooden staves smashed against each other as men honed their battle skills.

Allene poked him with her toe. "The messengers left hours ago, ere the sun rose, to raise their clans." Shawn rolled over, blinking in the bright morning. Her hair tumbled around her face, without her maid to plait it. "You're to be up and training with the men, Hugh says."

Shawn squeezed his eyes shut tightly, pressing the heels of his palms into them. The bandage on his hand scraped his skin. He wanted to ask,
Training for what?
But he'd be asking only to give himself a brief respite in his fantasy world, a world where he was not expected to fight a losing battle with medieval weapons that would gouge, tear, and maim. Maybe he'd wake up and find it was a horrible dream from too much beer; that Amy was sitting beside him, waiting for him to come around. Maybe he'd get lucky and remember something from the re-enactment camps with his father. Maybe he'd find a way to escape. He opened his eyes.

Allene stared down, blue eyes determined, red hair flying around her freckled face. "So be up wi' ye!"

Allene would follow these men to battle—she couldn't stay here—and be left with the camp followers behind Bruce's army. If the English won, there would be rape and murder, there on Coxet Hill. The thought of running crept, tail between its legs, from his mind. Allene's small dagger, handy as it was against a lout like himself, would not stop armed warriors. He could be one more man between her and the English.

He pushed an easy grin onto his face, not wanting her to follow his thoughts. "A shame you don't have a bucket of cold water."

She aimed a sharp-toed foot at him; he rolled and sprang to his feet, laughing at her. She scooped up a pine cone. It hit him in the forehead before he could move.

"Niall!" barked Hugh, as Shawn rubbed his head. "Ye've lain abed long enough to recover from yer romp wi' the wee hound!" The men laughed, wild and free in their hiding place. "Up and about, or ye'll be scrubbin' the Heart like anyone else!" He grabbed a broadsword from the cache leaning against a tree. His biceps, the size of a small oak, flexed as he launched the weapon across the clearing. It arced through the stream of smoke rising above the blazing fire. Morning sun flashed off the blade in a long bar of light. A dozen men turned with eager expectation.

Shawn's eyes widened at the weapon hurtling toward him. He threw himself to one side, hands over his head. The sword smashed into the ground where he'd stood. It kicked up a divot of dirt as it struck the earth, and toppled to the ground.

Shawn raised his eyes—shocked, startled eyes—from the fallen weapon to a circle of mouths open in disbelief. "You dinna spin and catch it?" Hugh demanded.

He and Hugh stared at each other across the sparking, spitting flames.

Then Shawn found his voice. Blood flushed his face. "Are you crazy!" he roared. "What the hell was that for? Are you effing insane?"

"What the hell was divin' fer cover like a wee lass for?" Hugh roared back. The blast of air swayed the flames toward Shawn; the bushes behind him trembled. "Ye were meant to catch it as ye've always done!"

Shawn stared at him in disbelief. Niall played catch with ten pound, four foot blades? They expected him to play catch with one? He sagged against the tree behind him, and touched his temple. "The head...the injury," he said weakly. "I forgot." He forced a laugh. "Can you believe it?"

"Ah, the blow to the head," Hugh said with less power. "So you won't be helpin' train the men?"

"I'm supposed to teach them?" Shawn closed his eyes and slipped into that fantasy world, after all.

Central Scotland

Niall forged up the forest path as the sun sank in the west. How neat and civilized, how typical of the time, he thought, of the tidy path directing his feet where someone else had decided he'd like to go. Even a trek in the wilderness featured ease and comfort.

He looked at the bluebells, sprinkled under the trees; his gaze climbed higher up the towering firs. Pine scent hung heavily in the air. The branches of broad-leafed trees, bursting with the vibrant, lively greens of June, met overhead, keeping his world cool and shady. He wondered if any of these trees had existed in his time. He wondered if he'd set himself a fool's errand. It might prove impossible to navigate miles of forest without his landmarks—the fallen oak, the tree with the knobby trunk.

He reached for the crucifix; touching his bare throat, he felt, for a moment, abandoned. God was not in a wooden cross, he admonished himself, but all around, setting angels by his side. He bowed his head, praying for himself, for Allene.

For Shawn.

Opening his eyes, he looked around. The trees would be different, but hills, lochs and rivers remained. Giant boulders that had guided him with their distinctive shapes might be here yet.

As his leather boots moved silently forward, his mind turned back to Amy, scared at the bottom of the hill. He shouldn't have left her.

He stopped. But he couldn't turn from the search for Hugh and his own time. Still, he hesitated. She'd assured him the bus was coming right back. All the same, he'd left a woman alone on the edge of a forest. But what if she crossed back into his own time with him? He couldn't do that to her, either. She'd assured him she'd be safe. He crossed himself, sending up another prayer for her, and turned regretfully back to the tree-lined path.

He listened, standing still.

Away from the cars, the forest sounded as it had in his time. A squirrel skittered up a tree. A moment of silence, and a bird trilled. Niall closed his eyes, focusing on the sounds. And now he heard it: a burbling rush of water, far off to the west.

He opened his eyes to the pleasant, dappled lane. A steep hill rose on his left, with a racing stream beyond. He smiled. He'd found it. He left the mapped and manicured twenty-first century wilderness and plunged through underbrush, up the hill. Leaves tore at his tunic. He pushed faster, willing away the irritation of many small stings of jabbing branches.

He found the stream and followed it west through the dusk. A few handfuls of berries, mountain stream water, and a squirrel—shot with a well-aimed stone and roasted over an open fire—served as dinner. As the sun sank, he prayed, bowing his head and thanking God for the heavy wool plaid Amy had bought him—the night was chill—and the maps she'd given him. He wrapped himself in the plaid and lay down, listening to the night sounds, the buzzing of midges and whisper of the stream, the rustle of leaves in the breeze high overhead.

Then another sound caught his ear: a heavy rasping breath. He rose slowly, the small fire guarding his back. The forest became still. He peered through the leaves. The yellow eyes of a wolf stared back.

Central Scotland, 1314

Under the trees edging the mountain loch, Allene dipped her cloth repeatedly in the cold water, damping blood off Shawn's thigh.

"It needs stitches." Shawn bit his lip at the sharp pain, and hated himself for even suggesting it. They wouldn't have anesthetic. He was offering himself up for more pain in lieu of the feel of Caroline's arms that should have been his.

He closed his eyes, sucking in his breath as her cloth stung again. He had no business thinking of Caroline. What if he'd appreciated Amy? What if he hadn't pulled that stupid stunt, gambling away his trombone? Heat spread up his face. To these men, locked in daily struggle with death, he would look a fool, gamboling down the street, drunk, swinging his bucket of money with Caroline.

And what if he'd taken Amy home when she wanted to go? Maybe he could even have listened, when she'd wanted to talk about...the abortion. It hurt even to think the word. His face grew hotter, thinking of that day, and he wondered why he only now remembered her reluctance. If he'd listened, maybe he wouldn't be here. He'd be home, not with Caroline, but with Amy: Amy who had loved him through all his faults and mean tricks. Maybe even with Amy and a son of his own.

"Stitches?"

But he was here. He had a job to do. He swallowed, dreading it. "It won't heal like this. You need to sew it together." Shawn studied the raw, gaping wound. Each time he drilled with the men, what little healing it had accomplished overnight tore open.