Follow Me

Chapter Five

Sleep came immediately and again the dreams were strange, but different than before. First there was utter darkness. Then a swirling, dizzying sensation much like being on a rocking boat, followed by a headache, colors, darkness again, cold. And then piercing light, forcing her eyes open.

Blinking, Harper realized it must already be morning and scoffed at her own naivete. Of course it didn’t work. The headache from the night before persisted and she blamed the second glass of whiskey. Never a drinker, she shouldn’t have indulged, but she had needed it to calm all her skepticism and suspend disbelief. She also must’ve slept wrong. She didn’t recall the bed being so lumpy. And the stench. What was that smell? Decayed earth and animals? And why was wind blowing into the room? Did she leave a window open? Had she really been so drunk?

She slowly sat up in bed and looked for the source of the breeze. She gasped and her heart threatened to burst from between her ribs. What the hell? Did she sleepwalk? Did the cloak or her own imagination cause hallucinations? She was in a filthy room with a mud floor and a door threatening to pull away from its hinges. Hinges not made of metal. Well, this was a hangover for the books.

Instinctively throwing the ancient fabric from her shoulders, she stood on shaky legs. It was freezing in here, but she was reluctant to wrap herself in the old cloak again, even if it might provide additional warmth. Setting aside her bag, she moved to the entrance and looked over at the castle. The misty air and the cold drizzle obscured the view, so surely it was a trick of the light glistening off the lochs but the bridge was gone. And so were the paved roads leading to it. This was definitely one hell of a hangover.

Despite the cold, sweat ran down her back and between her breasts. Not possible was the refrain on repeat through her mind. The icy air was made more evident in the rush of wind that lifted her hair from her face and helped soothe the headache that still persisted. Her thoughts were at war. Reality versus what she was seeing—and smelling. She needed clarity, a touchstone to steady her mind. Leaning against the sagging doorframe, she looked up at the dark gray clouds chasing each other across the sky. Was she hoping they would part and reveal an airplane?

Harper turned at the clip-clop sound of approaching hoofbeats. A very large man atop a very large horse was coming up the rutted dirt road. His head was down, but when he lifted it and caught sight of her, he slid backward off his mount in slow motion. The ground seemed to vibrate with his fall and the metal from his weapons clanked in the quiet morning air.

Not taking the time to think, only to react, Harper ran to the man and knelt beside him, ignoring the damp that seeped into her clothes. She carefully cradled his head in her lap. His eyes were closed, and his sensuous lips were curled in a half-smile as if he had just tasted something sweet. He was incredibly handsome, with a sculpted jaw and long lashes. The muscles in his arms and chest strained against his linen shirt and vest of sorts. His bare thighs and legs peeked from under his kilt were brawny, like those of a warrior, reminding her of Jason Momoa. Long hair teased his collar, and his sun-darkened skin completed the vision. Only he was in the flesh. Was he an actor? Was this man really here? Or was he just another figment of her imagination?

The tingles in her stomach raced up to her chest.

“Are you all right?” she whispered. “Please be all right.”

Opening his eyes and looking up at her as if she were an extraterrestrial being, he grinned. “Did I die?” he asked.

His eyes were so startlingly blue, she inhaled several times to keep from falling into them. She’d heard that expression before, probably in some romance novel, but this was the first time she’d ever experienced anything like it. Or maybe the fluttering in her veins was all part of the hallucination. Yes, that had to be it. It was as if she had known him for an eternity and loved him even longer. But that was as ridiculous a notion as—everything else here.

Remembering his question, Harper shook her head and smiled. The man was dressed as though he was attending a Renaissance faire, complete with the hilt of a sword peeking out from his back, a kilt of course, and a leather belt loaded with all sorts of knives and—an axe! Did everyone in Dornie forget it was the off season and dress up anyway? Of course, she should talk, with her long skirt and cloak.

A few people, also in period dress, gathered about watching them, but it was as if no one dared approach. Well, she reasoned, who wouldn’t be reluctant to come near such a man. He was taking this charade pretty seriously. It occurred to her that this could all be one elaborate prank set up by Skye. But then what of Davina? The accident surely would’ve ended the hoax, wouldn’t it? None of this was sinking in, but just to be on the safe side and play along, Harper decided she’d best use her French accent.

She smiled. “Not dead yet. Can you sit up?”

Harper knew she had a limited imagination, but if she could have conjured up the perfect male, this man would absolutely fit the bill. Except, if he were truly a medieval Scottish warrior, shouldn’t he be able to sit on a horse better?

He reached his massive hand to her cheek and gently ran his knuckles along her jaw. “Ye are real,” he said, his tone one of utter disbelief. “Not an angel.”

His touch was like electricity, sharp but oh so pleasant. Forcing herself to examine all this objectively, she shook her head to clear it.

He was asking if she was real?What about him? It could be just a pickup line, but if so, she wasn’t falling for it. “And no, it didn’t hurt when I fell from heaven,” she retorted sarcastically. The look on his face was a combination of hurt and bewilderment and she immediately regretted her response. “I’m sorry,” she quickly apologized. “I am real.” Are you? Her skin felt hot and cold at the same time. This new reality warred with logic and Harper had no idea which one to embrace.

Sitting up, he continued to stare at her. “I hae never fallen from me horse before. Certainly nae at the walk.” He frowned as if to try understanding what had just happened. Angling his head, he gazed at her in confusion. “Who are ye? Clearly nae a MacKenzie since I would hae remembered ye.”

“Nay,” she answered in kind. “I am a Forbes. Are ye badly hurt?” Clearly embarrassed that he had slipped off his mount, Harper didn’t want to make it more uncomfortable for him, but she was concerned he had done some damage to himself. The ground was not exactly soft and welcoming.

“Nay, just—it’s just ye are so—bonny. And a Forbes. Lucky.” There was no guile in his compliment. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I hae never fallen from me horse,” he repeated, said to no one in particular. “Not even in the heat of battle.”

It was clearly so disconcerting for him, rather than defensive, as if he truly was puzzled. Harper had to stifle her grin. He sounded so… authentic.

“Thank you—ye for the compliment.” Harper was awestruck, but not just by the man himself or by his words. Then, lifting her gaze to the few who had gathered around them, she realized no one was in modern dress. The same question poked at her. Would so many be gathered in medieval clothing if it was the off-season? It would have to be quite the lavish production. But of what? A movie? Maybe. But it all seemed so… real.

Beginning to believe the cloak had worked and she really was in 1562 Scotland was becoming harder to deny. Unless someone was playing an elaborate joke. Maybe she was still asleep. Or drunk? She’d had those two whiskies at dinner. Oh, what the hell. She had no choice but to go with it at the moment. She decided on the real test. “Do ye know my friend Skye?” Quickly, it occurred to her she needed to maintain that French accent.

The man sat up straighter, his surprise and pleasure obvious. “Ye know the lady?”

“Oui.” The lady? This was really getting strange. “She and I grew up together.”

The man stood and, reaching down his hand, he helped Harper to her feet. He towered over her, but his amazing blue eyes and gentle manner suggested she was in no danger. “I am Daimh, and I can take ye to her.”

“That would be wonderful.” I’m beginning to think I’d follow you anywhere. Harper couldn’t resist smiling at him. Men from the twenty-first century were never as unguarded as this man seemed.

“I am Harper.” Still, it was possible this was some elaborate prank. But that was getting more difficult to deny. Deciding she must identify more than her name, she added, “and a Forbes, as I said before.” Hopefully, the Forbes clan was not considered an enemy.

“Good,” he said grinning. “Our clans have fought together just recently.” Relief flowed through her. One less problem to deal with.

Daimh glanced around for his horse and nodded to a boy in front of a nearby stable.

The boy waved in response and turned away. “Well, it appears me horse has found his own way to his stall. Come, there’s a wee boat over here.”

“I must get my things.” Harper hurried into the cottage. She gathered up the old cloak and gaped at it in awe before folding it away in the satchel.

***

Daimh watched after her as she ducked inside the old cottage. Who was she? Where did she come from? And why would his heart not stop it’s pounding?

Her clothes were a bit strange, and her hair was unlike the other lasses, but she was the most bonny lass he had ever laid eyes on. And kind. She hurried to his aid when he fell. He fell! How was that even possible? But one look at her standing there and the world faded to naught and his mind swirled. He had been struck hard in the head before, but even then he ne’er lost his sense of balance. It was as if the faeries themselves had captured his focus, as if they hadn’t toyed with him enough. But, unlike before, the sight of this lass gave him a glimpse of heaven itself.

Reappearing at the entry to the cottage, she looked at him in the strangest way, as if she didnae believe he was real either. He’d been frozen in place but for a moment before he finally pushed himself to move forward and take her arm. Mine, you are mine, was his only thought. That was ridiculous. He knew nothing of her, not if she was marrit or from whence she had come. But it was as if an irresistible force had hold of him and tethered him to her.

He had learned long ago that some forces could not be fought and trying to do so was only exhausting. But this was one force he would yield to without argument.

***

Returning to Daimh, she followed him to the edge of the loch where a small wooden canoe bobbed in the water, making her hesitate. The vessel was tiny and Daimh was so big, she was afraid he would sink it. Of course, it would be the only way across the water since the bridge wouldn’t exist for well over another four hundred years.

As if he read her mind about the fragile craft, he laughed, a sound from deep in his barrel chest. “Stronger than it looks. We will not get wet, ye hae me word.”

Stepping into the boat, he managed deftly to stabilize it as he held out his hand to encourage her aboard. She decided she had to trust him. Her pulse thrummed, as if she had too much coffee. This was undeniably exciting, and she’d had so few actual adventures in her life. Unless, of course, this was merely an hallucination.

Once she was seated, he reached down and, grabbing a folded plaid, offered it to her.

Gratefully wrapping it around her shoulders, she hadn’t really been aware of shivering until the cloth warmed her. He didn’t seem to notice the icy rain, but then he must have been accustomed to it.

As he untied the craft and rowed, she had the chance to admire him more closely and her stomach quivered with little tingles. He was a very attractive man, the kind that had always made her think about the possibility of being swept off her feet. But, with her pragmatic nature, she had always dismissed such nonsense. After her divorce, she had known without a doubt she didn’t need a man to make her dreams come true. In fact, men like her ex were the thing of nightmares, nasty and diminishing. But this man, Daimh, was very appealing and this whole experience was already the stuff Skye’s fairy tales were made of. No wonder her friend loved those stories.

With little effort, he had them across the water in minutes. He hopped from the boat and tied its rope to a metal post stuck in the ground. Then, he helped her out and, slipping his hand under her elbow, led her up the path to the castle, which rose above them, huge, imposing. There was no doubt it was the same structure she had just visited, but these walls were less dark with age and smoke. With the castle having been built in the 1300s, it was already very old.

This was almost too much to take in and if the man hadn’t had hold of her arm, she might have given in to the weakness in her knees.

“I really can sit a horse,” he said, lifting his chin. “I cannae imagine what happened back there, but it was a rarity, I promise.”

“I believe you,” she said. What else could she say? He was no doubt embarrassed and she knew it would not help his ego if she teased him.

They passed through the gate into a courtyard. Harper couldn’t believe her eyes. The surrounding buildings were primitive at best, built of straw and raw timbers and the men, women, children, all dressed in medieval costumes, moved about as if their activities were perfectly normal. Some carried kindling, others piles of fabric. A nearby blacksmith pounded upon a glowing piece of metal upon an anvil. A group of children engaged in a game of chase ran past them, scattering a flock of chickens about Harper and Daimh’s legs. And two women carrying baskets of greens greeted them as they neared the main structure. Daimh led her up a flight of stone steps, then through massive wooden entry doors into a huge hall. She’s seen none of this on her earlier tour of Eilean Donan.

The floor was covered in woven mats and the sweet scent of herbs and lavender drifted up. The walls were decorated with older tapestries and artwork and weapons. Axes and swords and knives, as well as the horns of deer, attested to hunting as a definite sport here. Or the source of food. A huge fireplace across the hall boasted a roaring blaze and quickly dissipated the chill that had permeated her bones. It was the most perfect of medieval settings. Talk about an imagination—if that was what this was. But she reminded herself she really didn’t have much of an imagination. Before now, that is. So then where was the fire-breathing dragon to guard the place? Or was that a different tale?

Her gaze was drawn to a painting on the far-left wall. It was the same one of Skye she had seen on her tour. The colors were brighter but the image was unmistakable. Except now, next to it was the man’s portrait Skye had bought at that estate sale. But that wasn’t possible. That painting was in Memphis, Tennessee. So how was it here? Unless…?

Before Harper could fully absorb that and all the rest of her surroundings, a whisper of fabric on the stone steps across the room caught her eye and the bark of a dog caused her to start. Transfixed, she watched as the cloth became a gown and then a woman, accompanied by a small black pup, who descended the stairs. Her face was obscured as she concentrated on a piece of parchment.

“Skye?”

Looking up, the woman did a double take, let out a scream of surprise, dropped whatever she’d been reading, and raced down the remaining steps and across the space, sweeping Harper in her embrace.

No, it simply wasn’t possible. It was all a figment of her apparently newly discovered overactive imagination. But the woman holding her was solid.

Harper pulled back and gazed into the face of her dearest friend. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Skye? Is it really you? Am I imagining all this?”

Skye was laughing with joy. “Harper! How?”

Daimh must have been reassured Harper was indeed friends with Skye, because he placed Harper’s bag at her feet and slipped away.

Skye leaned in and whispered in Harper’s ear. “Mon Dieu. Say mon Dieu. I assume you’re supposed to be French.”

“Yes. Yes. I mean aye. Or oui. Is it real?” Looking around her, she shook her head in total disbelief. She had to be dreaming, but here was her bestie—in the flesh.

“Aye. It is true. You are actually here. But how?” Skye was vibrating with excitement. “Come. Sit over here and tell me all.”

The dog let out a yip and Skye bent down to him. “Dionadair, this is my best friend Harper. I have no idea how this has come about, but you must be on your best manners and welcome her.”

As if he understood, the little black dog wagged his tail and dipped his head to be petted. A Scottie, of course.

“Good boy.” Skye praised him, patted him, and standing, she then took Harper’s hand and pulled her to the chairs by the fire, the pup obediently following and lying down at Skye’s feet.

Harper was completely nonplussed by everything. Her mouth hung open and it was as if she was in a trance of some kind.

Skye’s voice broke through. “I told you it would work.”

Harper tilted her head. “But it’s not possible.”

“But it is. And I am so glad you’re here. Ye have no idea how happy I am to see you. Will you stay?”

“Well,” she giggled, “I suppose I cannot return to the nunnery.”

“What?”

“The short hair. How else could I explain it?”

“You cut your hair! And you actually thought this through. I’m proud of you for thinking outside the box.”

“I still don’t believe it,” Harper affirmed. “I’m just asleep and…”

Skye grinned. “But it is hard to deny.”

“I suppose.” Biting her lower lip, Harper angled her head at Skye. “It really is you and I am really here.”

“Yes. So, getting back to your history… we grew up together and you went off to the nunnery? Is that it?” Skye asked.

“Yes, in France obviously. My parents are gone, and my uncle sent me there after my husband died. To the nunnery. But I missed you and could not take my vows, so I tagged along with a priest and his retinue on their way to Mary’s court, hoping to find you there. But I heard from the locals the laird…?” Harper hesitated. “Just listen to me. I sound like all that really happened.”

“And if you were to tell the truth of how you really got here?”

“Do you think we might be burned as witches?”

“Could happen. If with everything you know as a woman of the twenty-first century… if you are having trouble believing the idea of time travel, what do you think these very superstitious people would think? In a few months, they will pass the Scottish Witchcraft Act and even a hint of suspicion after that could be verra dangerous.”

“But still…” Harper heaved a breath. Logic dictated she go along with the fantasy—or was it now the reality? She did trust Skye. If the woman in front of her was undoubtedly her best friend instead of an apparition created by a fevered brain. Harper pressed her fingers into her forehead. It was cool. So much for an illness. “Okay, Fill me in. Tell me what happened after you arrived here. Tell me more about life here. About the laird.”

Skye dropped her shoulders with a sigh and a wide grin. “The laird. My husband.”

“Wow. I can’t believe you actually found him.”

“And he is even better than I imagined. Wait until you meet him.” Skye was practically swooning. “And now I’m married to him—and pregnant.”

“Oh, my God. I mean mon Dieu. I am so happy for you.” Harper clasped Skye’s hands, her grin so wide it hurt her cheeks. Warmth filled her, knowing Skye’s previous life had been one struggle after another. No one deserved a happily-ever-after more.

“I know it’s…”

“Unbelievable,” Harper finished. Leaning closer to Skye, she whispered, “Does anyone here know the truth of how you got here?”

“Only one. Her name is Neasa, and she runs this place. We were imprisoned together, and I had to tell her. I thought we were going to die, and I wanted someone to know the truth. Plus, she saw my nail polish.”

“Your husband doesn’t suspect? Wait—you said imprisoned? Like in a dungeon? I don’t understand.”

“I’ll tell you all about it. But a vicious mean girl was responsible.” Her lips curled in disgust. “And I’ll bet you’ve met her, since you had the cloak.”

“Davina?” Harper asked. “She imprisoned you?”

Skye nodded. “Davina had her eye on Ian and in her jealousy tried to get rid of me.”

“How?”

Skye lowered her voice. “It sounds so ridiculous, but the people here believe that potatoes are dangerous. Davina had some brought into the kitchen and accused me of trying to poison everyone. And when I tried to explain they were just delicious food, many of the others were convinced I was trying to hurt them. So they had me sent to the dungeon.”

“Oh my God.”

“Neasa defended me, so she was locked up with me. Only Freya and Kenna were willing to defy the others, knowing for certain I had been set up. When the men returned, Freya told Ian what had happened, and they rescued us.”

“Oh my God. And where was your laird when all this was happening? Where did he return from?”

“He and the others were away fighting for Mary at Corrichie.”

“And Davina?”

“She tried to lie her way out of it, but the boy she hired to secure the potatoes confessed after I saved his life and then Davina knew she was doomed. She grabbed my cloak, knowing it was of value but not knowing why, wrapped herself in it and disappeared. It must have been quite a shock to her to wake up hundreds of years in the future.”

“So that answers the question of how she got the cloak. But what of the rest? Since there are some big gaps in your story. You said you saved a boy’s life. How?”

“I brought doxycycline along with me and it actually cures the plague.”

“Plague?” Harper recoiled. “This is seriously getting worse and worse. Go on.”

“When Davina sent him to get the potatoes, he came in contact with a French soldier who was ill with it. When Rory got sick, I recognized the symptoms and had Freya give him the antibiotic. And then I had to take some as well, since Davina stabbed me before sending me to the dungeon and the wound got infected.”

“Can’t leave you alone for a minute,” Harper said. Her mouth gaped open as she realized Skye wasn’t joking. “She actually stabbed you?”

“She did. And it hurt. But more, it terrified me. I knew the risk of infection, especially with no way to clean the wound and stuck in a filthy environment. But it turned out fine.” Skye smiled. “The course of true love…”

“So it was still worth it?”

“I would do it again in a minute if I knew I would end up with Ian.” Taking a deep breath, she gazed off in the distance. “Yes, in a heartbeat.”

“I believe you.”

Skye turned her focus back to Harper. “Do you know where she is now? Davina? Did you see her?” The worry in her tone was obvious. “And what made you actually believe me enough to come here?”

“Davina is in the hospital in Dornie. In a coma.” Harper took a deep breath. “I was worried about you, so I traveled to Scotland to see if I could find you. I stayed at the cottage and was washing my face in the bathroom when a woman—Davina—simply appeared. She was so confused by everything, she ran outside and was hit by a car. She cracked her head and she’s now unconscious in the hospital.”

Skye’s eyes widened at Harper’s explanation. “Talk about Karma.”

“I was hoping to get some answers from her, but she didn’t wake up. But when I went to see her, I checked her clothes. They were clearly not made with a sewing machine and the material was very different from anything I had ever seen.”

“So you finally believed?”

Shrugging, Harper grinned. “Not really, but what choice did I have? The evidence was mounting up, so I figured it was worth a try. But, honestly, I didn’t think the cloak would work and until I woke up here, I didn’t give any credence to any of it.”

“Hard to deny now, huh?” Skye smiled. “How does that crow taste? Having to admit my fantasies weren’t so crazy, after all?”

“Still, unbelievable,” Harper repeated, still reluctant to totally concede. Her gaze wandered across the room, to the table against the wall where Daimh sat watching her with fixed attention. “Who is he?” She licked her lips.

“One of my husband’s trusted men. And a kind soul, although he appears very fierce. Most women are afraid of him, so he remains single.”

“He’s so good-looking.” She might even swoon—or not! “Why would they fear him? He can barely sit on a horse.”

Skye smiled more broadly. “Well, it doesn’t appear you are intimidated. Wait. What? What do you mean he can barely sit on a horse? The man is glued to a saddle when he rides.” Skye was clearly confused by this.

“I awoke in the cottage and stepped outside just as he was riding by. Seeing me there, he slipped off the animal he was riding and hit the ground with a thud. It wasn’t like I startled his horse. It was at a walk.”

Skye laughed out loud. “The thunderbolt. Like in that movie with Cher. “Moonstruck”. They talked about the thunderbolt that strikes when you’re instantly in love.”

“Really? You think I had that effect on him?” Delight surged through in Harper’s veins.

“Yes. Daimh rides like he was born on a horse. You must have had quite the effect for him to land on the ground.”

Harper’s cheeks grew warm with a blush. “Really?” she repeated. All this was hard to accept. Men didn’t fall over themselves—or off a horse—when they saw her. He had told her it was out of the ordinary, but she had thought he was just trying to save face. “That’s quite the compliment. And from so attractive a man.”

“These men with their muscles and bare legs should grace calendars, don’t you think? Wait until you see Ian.”

“Your husband?”

Skye sighed. “My husband,” she affirmed, her expression telling of her love for him.

“You do have it bad. I want to hear all the details of your wedding. Tell me everything.”

“See for yourself.”

A tall, extremely handsome man had come into the hall and was moving toward them. Harper immediately recognized him from the portrait Skye had discovered at an estate sale. The portrait that had started this whole adventure. The portrait that was in Memphis in present day and yet now hung next to a painting of Skye in the main hall. Harper’s mouth gaped open, not for the first time since she woke up. “I don’t believe it. It’s him!”

“Yummy, huh!” Skye nodded as he approached.

Walking closer to them, Harper could see the love in his eyes as he turned his gaze to Skye. “Is this yer friend? The one ye missed?” he asked, his brogue heavy. Another real Scotsman. Like Daimh.

“Aye. This is Harper. Harper, this is Ian. My husband.”

Ian stretched out his hands in welcome. “I am pleased ye are here. Me wife was sad with the holidays approaching to think ye could not join us.”

Harper grinned and had to lock her jaw to keep it from dropping even more. He was even better looking in person. “I felt the same,” she responded, careful to speak with her acquired French accent. “We have always tried to be together during this time of year.”

“Ye came from France?” Ian asked, though it wasn’t truly a question. “I couldnae help but notice the accent.”

“I was in a nunnery there. But I could not take my vows. My heart wasn’t in it, and I wanted to find my friend.”

“Well, I will nae tell the priest you escaped the clutches of the church,” he teased. “Can ye stay?”

“Of course she must stay,” Skye declared.

“Ye are more than welcome.” He smiled at his wife and slipped a hand behind each woman’s elbow, leading them to the head table that was now being set with platters of food.

Harper turned back to pick up her bag, fearful of letting it out of her sight, then stepped back to Skye and Ian.

He turned his face to Harper. “Come, let us break bread to celebrate your arrival.” And then to Skye, “I don’t ken this little slip of a lass will eat too much.”