Chapter 2
Stephen de Piaget stood in the freezing drizzle, shaking with weariness, and wondered what in the hell had ever possessed him to get any closer to medieval mores than could be found in any number of lovely texts in the handcrafted bookcases in his office at Cambridge.
He really should have left chivalry, swordplay, and the accompanying trappings of both safely in a book.
“Had enough, friend?”
Stephen looked at his sparring partner, the thoroughly evil and apparently indefatigable Ian MacLeod, and grimaced. “Not yet.”
“Then hoist your feeble English sword, man, and let’s have another go. I’ll try not to leave you in tears today.”
Stephen refrained from pointing out that it was a Claymore he was hoisting, which Ian well knew, not a feeble English sword.
He also refused to acknowledge the rest of the taunt, for he never wept.
He might have cursed a time or two in a gentlemanlike fashion, but tears?
Never, not even when his younger brother Gideon—younger by a mere eleven months, as it happened—had blown cornering the entire UK telecommunications market.
“Thinking about what they’ll put on your headstone?” Ian drawled.
“Skiing in the Alps, actually,” Stephen lied politely. “And how unfortunate it is I’m only able to take time for a pair of trips each season instead of loitering there all year round to keep the old family seat visible.”
Ian laughed. “You’re a bloody snob. I can scarce believe I allow you through my gates. It must be the pleasure of humiliating an Englishman.”
Stephen would have assured Ian that the pleasure of that most certainly wouldn’t be his that day, but the truth was, he was facing a master at his craft and he wasn’t completely certain Ian’s words wouldn’t be prophetic.
It turned out to be, he had to admit, a very long morning.
Ian MacLeod had an inexhaustible supply of not only insults but skill, and he was apparently committed to trotting out both for Stephen’s benefit.
The only thing that kept Stephen from calling peace at least once—very well, several times—was pride.
He was standing on Scottish soil, listening to an endless stream of Scottish battle dirges played by someone he couldn’t see, and he was facing a Scot who from all indications hadn’t learned his craft along with passing his O Levels.
There was national pride to consider—along with his own, of course.
He felt, finally, that perhaps a small rest could be called, that he might be permitted to satisfy his curiosity. He rested the flat of his sword against his shoulder and frowned thoughtfully. “What is that recording?” he asked. “The Lone Piper at the Tattoo playing all his favorite tunes?”
Ian laughed. “’Tis no recording, my lad. That’s Robert MacLeod.”
“Who?”
Ian pointed to his right. “Our clan piper. In the olden days, of course.”
Stephen shut his mouth when he realized it had been hanging open. After all, he knew he shouldn’t have been surprised by anything he found on MacLeod soil.
He’d known Ian MacLeod and his cousins James and Patrick MacLeod for what was going on ten years now.
He’d been a fairly brash young man in his twenties when he’d first headed north, extremely proud of his academic successes at Cambridge and looking for some way to expend a bit of energy.
He’d heard rumors of some nutter in the Highlands who taught swordplay and felt compelled to investigate.
It had seemed strange to him then—and still did, actually—how many medieval activities a body could find to engage in with hardly any effort at all, but since that suited his purposes, he never complained.
He had simply made an appointment with Ian MacLeod, hopped in his car and ventured north, then felt the hair on his arms stand up when he’d set foot on MacLeod soil.
He wasn’t unaccustomed to dealing with intimidating people, but Ian MacLeod had been a different animal entirely.
It wasn’t merely that he’d looked as if he could have easily defended himself in any darkened alley, though that had been impressive in itself.
Stephen hadn’t been able to lay his finger on just what that something was until he’d walked out Ian’s back door.
Calling the space beyond that a garden hadn’t done it any justice.
If he hadn’t known better at the time, he would have called it a rough Scottish interpretation of medieval lists.
That had been rather odd, truth be told.
Beyond that space had been an arena where no expense had been spared for the comfort and safety for what Stephen had immediately identified as very, very expensive Brazilian war horses.
Those Lusitanos had been housed next to sturdy Highland mountain horses without any apparent worry over the dichotomy.
Stephen had realized two things that first day. The first, as he’d watched Ian MacLeod draw the six-foot Claymore from the scabbard on his back, was that he was profoundly out of his depth.
The second was there was no way in hell that MacLeod lad had learned his swordplay from a DVD.
“You’re daydreaming, Stevie,” Ian called cheerfully. “Or has Jamie’s piper given you a start you can’t recover from?”
Stephen realized he was standing in Ian’s training field, simply staring off into the distance.
Or, rather, staring at the Highlander—in full dress, no less—standing a hundred yards away with his kilt swaying with a wind that troubled nothing else.
He suppressed a shiver, then turned to Ian.
“We have paranormal oddities at Artane.”
“Ah, but can they play the pipes like that?”
Stephen smiled briefly. “I’m afraid they can’t. The ghosts in my father’s hall just hide in alcoves and bellow ‘boo’ as the mood strikes.”
Ian laughed. “I imagine they do, my friend.” He resheathed his sword, then stretched his hands over his head until his knuckles popped. “Well, when shall we meet again?”
“Perhaps when my ego has recovered from this thrashing,” Stephen said dryly.
Ian paused, then looked at him seriously.
“’Twasn’t a thrashing, Stephen. Not this time.
Well,” he added with a bit of a laugh, “not entirely. But for a lad who didn’t have the benefit of either a father or an uncle to put a sword into his wee hands when he was a babe, you’ve done fairly well.
Of course, you’ll never best me, but no one does. ”
“Not even James MacLeod?”
“Jamie?” Ian asked with a snort. “Are you daft? He scarce remembers what end of his sword is the dangerous one, though with him both ends are perilous to his soft hands.” He smiled smugly. “Nay, there is none to equal me.”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “How does your lovely wife put up with you?”
“I keep her well supplied with wool, flowers, and my sweet attentions. And I change nappies. File that away in that poor brain of yours, my good Haulton, on the off chance you’re ever fortunate enough to find yourself saddled with a mate.”
“I will,” Stephen promised, thanked Ian for his attentions on the field, then walked away before Ian made an offer for another round of torture.
He looked back over his shoulder once, just to see if the piper were still there. The man was watching him, which was extremely unsettling. Stephen watched as the man made him a low bow before he turned and vanished.
Stephen had to take a deeper breath than he might have otherwise, then walked swiftly back to the guesthouse Ian had added a pair of years earlier to the property for those brave enough to come for training.
And whilst he walked, Stephen reviewed the things he couldn’t help but admit were past disputing: Artane did have ghosts; Artane’s ghosts were poorly behaved; and the rumors that Ian MacLeod had been born somewhere in the Middle Ages were absolutely true.
Actually, he’d heard all about Ian’s past straight from the horse’s mouth, though that wouldn’t have mattered. All facts pointed to the truth of it.
He walked up to the door of the cottage, then realized he should have been paying more attention to his surroundings.
He had been assaulted there more than once by another member of the clan MacLeod, partly because he was an Englishman cheeky enough to set foot on Scottish soil, but mostly because Ian wasn’t the only person he came to Scotland to train with, if training it could be called.
There was no one there today, but he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised by that.
He’d heard rumors that Patrick MacLeod, the survivalist instructor in Ian’s school of medieval torments and Ian’s own cousin, was off on holiday.
Perhaps since Patrick wasn’t about to rough him up, Stephen supposed he would do well to get himself back home before the sun set.
He showered, packed his gear, wrote Jane MacLeod a thank-you for the lovely dinners and conversation, then took everything out to his utilitarian Range Rover.
He actually preferred his Mercedes for long trips, but it was a bit difficult to find a place in it to stash his Claymore.
That, and it seemed as though Rovers were the beast of choice for English viscounts and Scottish lairds.
No sense in causing any unwanted interest. He shut his gear in the boot, slid his Claymore into the especially constructed compartment in the roof that had taken some doing to have created, then turned.
And felt a brick connect with his nose.
Actually, it was only an elbow, and he knew that because his assaulter made some vile comment about the insult to his funny bone. Stephen would have made a comment about the blinding pain in his face he was currently enjoying, but he didn’t have the breath for it.
The ensuing attack was vicious and relentless. Stephen would have been quite keen to merely stand to one side and watch whilst a clone of himself had to fight off a medieval clansman doing what he did best—which was using all kinds of moves that no medieval clansman could possibly have known.