Warrior of the Highlands

Page 27

“I… ” She was breathing heavily. Focusing on the climb down had left her light- headed. Unable to think. She needed to rest for just a moment. Haley hadn't slept the night before, hadn't had any real food in some time, and it was finally all catching up with her. “Can we sit down? I need to take a break.”
MacColla shook his head, disappointed in himself.
“Och, of course.” He took her arm, helping her to the ground. “Of course you can rest.”
Her skin was clammy in his hands, cool and damp. Campbell had been the only thing on his mind, and he'd ended up pressing her too hard. The lass had be en gone for some time and likely hadn't eaten or slept - of course she needed rest. He wasn't used to dealing with women and cursed his clumsiness.
“Have you a chill?” He stood to unwind his plaid for her, but she stopped him.
“No,” she tried a small lau gh but it came out as a breathy exhale. “Please, there's no need to strip.”
“Shall I find us some food? You need to feed yourself.”
“Really, MacColla. I'm not going to expire.” She gestured to the ground at her side. “I just need… a moment.”
“It's Alasdair, lass. My Christian name.” He sat next to her.
“You may call me Alasdair.”
“You're MacColla in my mind.” She looked at him, a sidelong glance that suggested much yet said nothing. “I don't know that I could call you anything else.”
His mind raced. “And how do you know of me?”
She clearly wasn't a spy for Campbell. And though he was known for his victories with Graham, he'd thought women didn't generally concern themselves with the finer points of battle.
“Tell me who you are, leannan. A Fitzpatrick, you say. Tell me of your family.” He tentatively reached to her, paused, then put his hand lightly at the small of her back. “I'm about to bring you to the very heart of mine. I must know.”
Instead of answering, she rested her chin in her hands.
Looking into the distance, she asked matter-of-factly.
“What year is it?”
“Ciod an rud?” Her peculiar question caught him off guard.
“What did you say?”
“I just wondered… ” She turned to face him, the mystery in those gray eyes honed to a razor-sharp point. “Really, MacColla, what year is it?”
“Sixteen forty-six, though surely you ”- “Is James Graham alive?” She waved her hand. “Never mind. Don't answer that.”
“Who are you to have such concerns?”
“I'm not from here.”
“Aye” - he gave a small laugh - “I'd reasoned that for myself.”
“No.” She looked away from him again. “I mean, I'm really not from here.”
Haley seemed so small then, so alone. He leaned closer to her, wrapped his arm tight around her shoulder. MacColla thought it best to simply wait in patient silence for whatever tale she had for the telling.
She inhaled deeply. “Well. Here goes. I'm from the future,
MacColla.” Haley looked at him, waiting for a response.
He just stared blankly, unsure what she was getting at.
She shut her eyes, as if bracing for something painful, then rattled quickly, “My name is Haley Anne Fitzpatrick, I'm from Boston. Massachusetts. I have… ”
She scrubbed her face, swallowed, and tried again, her voice thickened by tears. “I've got five brothers. Danny, Colin, Conor, Gerry, and Jimmy. My dad… ” She made a tiny pained squeak, tightly controlled anguish keening fromthe cracks. “My dad's from Donegal. But he went to America the moment he finished school. He's a cop. Was. Was a cop.”
She stopped for a moment, breathing hard, as if she'd just sprinted a mile.
Finally Haley continued, this time sounding numb, wooden, “My mom's Irish too, but not fresh off the boat. Her folks were from Cork. I'm a PhD student at Harvard.”
Her tone swelled again, abruptly overwrought. “Get that. Harvard. That's a big deal where I'm from. Celtic scholar. My focus is seventeenth-century weaponry. Isn't that a hoot?”
She babbled feverishly now, unhinged. “I was born in the 1970s. How wacked is that? Platform shoes and disco dancing. But I was too young for all that. For me it was Kool-Aid. Star Wars. Madonna.”
She grabbed his arm, gave it a shake. “It's the twenty-first century where I'm from. Planes in the sky. Telephones. Video games. Not to mention hot showers.” She paused, then mused wistfully, “God, hot showers seem like rocket science right about now.” She looked unseeing into the distance.
MacColla finally asked, “What is it you're saying?” His voice was dangerously quiet. “I don't ken your words, leannan.”
Leannan, she thought. He'd been calling her leannan.
Darling. Sweetheart.
Lover.
Of Alasdair MacColla. So preposterous. And yet it gave her strength to see it through.
“What am I saying?” She pinned him with her gaze once more. “I'm saying this is the past. To me, you're from the past. You died. Years ago. Hundreds of years ago. I know about you because you're famous. Congratulations,” she tossed off. “You die in Ireland. I don't remember when exactly, or how. You're betrayed, that's all I can remember.” Haley raked her hands through her hair, resting her head in her hands, deflated.
“You get killed,” she said softly. She looked at him, chin resting on her arm, no longer bothering to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “It all goes to shit. God, there's Culloden. The Highland Clearances. Tartans are outlawed. Swords too.” She muttered, “All to shit.”
He didn't understand half of what she'd said. Less than that even.
But the future?
Uncertain of what to say, he tried to make a joke of it. “Are you certain you didn't clout your own head with that wee busk of yours?”
She shot him such a look of raw pain, he felt it through his body, as gutting as any physical wound.
“Why do you keep asking of James?” His tone was gentle, and the flicker of relief he read on her face made his chest swell. Had she feared him? Feared his response? “Graham of Montrose,” he added softly.
“Oh. I know who you mean all right. I found a weapon. “I think it was his weapon. 'For JG, with love from Magda.' the inscription said. I mean, who else would it belong to?”
“But how does that prove ”-
“I can't explain it. I just got a gut feeling about the gun, that it couldn't have been made - wouldn't have been made - before 1650. Here,” she gestured to the gun she'd fired earlier, its long, thin barrel tucked now at his belt. “Hand me that.”
She took it from his hands, plowing forward despite the bewilderment on his face. “What kind is it?”
“A pistol, lass.”
She shot him an exasperated look. “Yeah, but what kind?
What kind of mechanism does it have?”
He took it back from her, studied the curved wooden handle in his hands. The frizzen and flash pan, its cock and the dog catch that locked it. “It's one of the new flintlocks with the wee lock just here.” he said, pointing to what was an early version of a gun safety. “'Tis an English weapon.”
“How many flintlocks have you seen before this?”
“Not many. As I ken it, they're favored on the Continent. But in the Highlands?” He shrugged. “Nay, there's none such as this here, generally speaking. You speak of guns, but my men are lucky if they find a blade in their hands.”
“So what do the Highlanders shoot? When they do have a gun, I mean. What type of gun do you have?”
“You're a peculiar one, leannan.”
Her intense focus urged him on.
“Wheel lock,” MacColla replied with a sigh.
“That's it?”
“Good Christ, I thought you lassies just had a mind for frocks and hairstyles.” He chucked her chin. “I'd no idea what I've been missing these years, away at war. I could've been in parlors discussing muskets and armor with the beautiful ladies.”
Seeing her grave face, he just leaned back on his elbows, kicking his feet in front of him, to give it some thought. His arm remained wrapped around her, hand tucked casually at her hip.
“I once had a matchlock. But in a good Highland mist?” He shook his head. “With that wee wick on the end, och. Damp makes the gun unusable, aye? Too bloody hard to keep lit.”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “That was true.”
“Oh,” he gave a surprised chuckle. “I thank you.”
Ignoring his sarcasm, she continued, “Well this gun that I saw, Graham's gun, it was actually a combination weapon” - she waved her hand - “but that's beside the point. This pistol had a perfect little flintlock. The striking surface, the flash pan, all one tiny, perfect self-contained bit. You tell me how many of those you've seen lately.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I'm saying we dated the piece to 1675 which is… ”
“Which is after James was said to have died.” Sitting up, he withdrew from her, his face solemn.
“But why should I believe you?” He kept his tone matter-offact. Though he didn't accept her story, neither did he discount her. Her fighting skills had already shocked him enough for one lifetime. MacColla couldn't imagine why he should be surprised she'd come at him with something even more outrageous. “What you say about this gun proves nothing.”
He saw her mind working, those gray eyes staring at the pistol she held in her hands. The pistol she'd fired as if she'd been doing it all her life.
Could it be true? She shot and fought and spoke like no other woman he'd met. Like none he'd ever heard of.
She was willful and strong. And so healthy too, that was clear. Her limbs, long and straight. Even those radiant cheeks and her bright, even smile. They spoke to a life of luxury. Of privilege.