Chapter 2
Sweat dripped from Hunter’s brow, his dark hair damp with it, his skin slick enough that he couldn’t be grabbed as he twisted and feinted, ducked and thrust, his sword an extension of his body, so attuned that he could almost predict his enemy’s movements.
For once, it had been worth coming down to the training yard.
“Too slow!” he barked at one of the novices coming at him.
“Keep yer sword up!” he shouted at another.
“Och, Lyall, ye should have stayed at home!” he muttered at the one lad who hadn’t shown a bit of improvement in the months he’d been there.
But the rest of them weren’t bad, showing a lot more promise than he’d expected when they first arrived. His man-at-arms, Jack, finally seemed to be taking his role seriously, whipping the new batch into some semblance of shape.
Hunter kicked one of them to the ground and twisted to tap another on the chest with the flat of his blade—a sign that they’d be dead if this were a real battle. The other three kept coming warily, though determination flashed in their eyes.
As of yet, no one had managed to tap the Laird, and there’d be a celebration in the barracks for any novice that managed it.
A few seasoned soldiers watched from the edge of the training yard, their faces creased with knowing smirks. In all the years that they had been warriors, they’d never managed to tap Hunter with their blades either.
As Hunter delivered a hard kick to the leg of one of the young men, sending him sprawling to the sawdust, a voice rang out across the yard.
“Me Laird!” Jack paused at the gate of the makeshift arena to catch his breath.
A year or so without war had made Jack lazy, though Hunter supposed that was the point of peace: to enjoy it. Maybe one day he would figure out how.
“What?” Hunter grumbled as he quickly dealt with the last two, disarming one with a bone-shaking blow to the blade and tapping the other square in the stomach.
“Ye have to come to the gates, me Laird,” Jack replied.
It had taken some time, but it seemed he was finally growing accustomed to the formalities.
Though, in truth, Hunter often wished he could just be the man-at-arms again, dealing with tactics and training and inventory and victory instead of the myriad demands and questions and duties that came with a lairdship.
If he never had to deal with the council again, it would be too soon.
“Last time someone said that to me, I ended up with a baby,” Hunter said as he approached his friend.
Jack grinned. “Well, it’s nae a bairn this time. Come on.”
“What do ye mean, come on?” Hunter walked through the gate, following regardless. “Ye daenae give the orders, Jack.”
Laughing, Jack continued on past the armory and the stables, where lads who’d clearly been laughing and chattering a moment ago suddenly stood to attention. Stern and silent and rigid as fence posts, they gave respect to their Laird as he walked along behind Jack.
“What is it this time?” Hunter asked as he drew level with his man-at-arms. “Ye realize ye were interruptin’ the only good trainin’ session those lads have had in a week?”
Jack waved a dismissive hand. “It’ll just rile ‘em up to do even better next time.” He paused, some manner of mischief in his brown eyes. “As for what’s waitin’ for ye… well, it’s better if ye see for yerself. Cannae say I’ve ever seen aught like it.”
“No, I don’t think you understand!” Nancy didn’t lose her temper very often, but these idiots were testing her patience beyond all rational limits.
“You need to get some officers here, possibly a paramedic, because I’ve clearly been hit by falling debris, got concussed, and have wandered way out of town. ”
Her head didn’t hurt, but that didn’t mean much. She knew that the brain could shut off all kinds of pain receptors when someone was suffering a trauma response. She didn’t need Dr. Adeline Clark to tell her that.
“Am I speaking French?” she barked, as the five men kept staring at her.
They were dressed up in the belted plaids she’d seen at the museum, the tartan woven in shades of red, green, and yellow. Their hair was long and tied back, three of them bearded and grizzled, while the other two were clean-shaven but just as rough-looking, all covered in an array of scars.
There must be a show at the museum, and these are the volunteers… or some festival in town for Scottish Heritage… or I’m dying, and this is my brain trying to protect me by hallucinating.
The latter seemed the most likely, her heart missing a few beats as she thought of all the things she still had to do. And Emily… This would crush her.
To come back from a solo writing trip to find out her best friend had died trying to inadvertently help with her research? No, that wasn’t a road one could come back from.
“Where’s the museum?” she tried again, adjusting her glasses. “Where are the kids? Did they get out safely? Where’s the tapestry? I was stuck under it.”
The men continued to glare at her, eyes glinting, surprisingly realistic swords gripped in their scarred hands.
“Hello? Anyone home?” She puffed out an exasperated breath… and began to circle the drain of her mental spiral.
Was it her breath at all if this was a hallucination?
Was her brain just trying to keep the physical things credible while also landing her smack in the middle of someone else’s Highlander fantasy?
Or was her brain just using her last memories to throw together whatever it could in her final moments, too damaged by a falling ceiling to let her actual life flash before her eyes?
“Ye daenae look like a goatherd, lass,” one of them finally spoke, “and I daenae ken aught about a tapestry.”
Another curled his lip. “If ye’re tryin’ to act crazed to escape punishment, ye should ken that the Hawk doesnae take kindly to people sneakin’ into his castle or tryin’ to trick him.”
That damned name again.
“The Hawk?” she whispered, more to herself than to the hallucinations who didn’t seem to know what to make of her. “No, don’t tell me. I already know this. I don’t need you regurgitating what the art teacher told me.”
“Did ye say ye were French?” one of the men asked, his eyes narrowing.
“No, I asked if you thought I was speaking French, since you don’t seem to understand a word that I’m saying, and I don’t have a clue why I’m here, or where ‘here’ even is, in the metaphysical sense,” she rambled, her stress levels soaring to untold peaks.
“Am I in my frontal lobe? Am I in a dream? Who knows. I’d need a doctor for that, and it’s because of a doctor that I’m probably lying unconscious in that back room, buried under a tapestry and a few tons of stone. ”
Another of the men raised an eyebrow. “Ye daenae ken where ye are?”
“She’s just sayin’ that,” another interjected. “Another part of her trick. Daenae be fooled.”
“Well, my brain is doing a great job with the five of you,” she said, laughing stiffly.
“And no, I don’t know where ‘this’ is. But the real me is probably dying, and I’d imagine I have the kind of head injury that a person doesn’t walk away from.
Since I haven’t had a very fun life, my brain is giving me this to fill in the blanks of the last moments of my life, so… there’s that to think about.”
A bearded, gruff man sniffed and raised his sword. “Aye, I’d wager they’re the last moments of yer life. Ye must ken what the Hawk does to intruders, or ye wouldnae be actin’ all mad now that ye’ve been caught.”
“Caught? I walked up to the damn gates myself.” Nancy laughed, feeling about as delirious as it probably took to have some full-blown hallucinations of a museum brought to life.
“If the Hawk is here, then go fetch him, because I’ve got some questions.
I mean, he’s the actual reason I’m in this mess, so—”
“Were ye lookin’ for me, lass?” a deep, husky voice growled behind her.
Slowly, wondering what on earth her mangled brain was up to now, she turned… and came face to face with a giant. Or rather, face to chest with the tallest, hottest, most rugged hallucination her mind had ever conjured.
Not bad for a dying wish…
If it wasn’t for the sword in his hand, she might have reached out to touch him, to see how real he felt.