Chapter Three
“A fierce Highland warrior stood speechless, completely breisleach …”
Angel had no difficulty maintaining a cautious eye on her passenger as his wide-eyed focus and intense scowl scanned their surroundings with constant startled jerks while flicks of tension clenched his jaw. He’d flinched when she started the car, and when she inched into traffic, he sucked a sharp breath into his lungs and held it for several seconds. Not for the first time, she wondered whether some drug addled his mind, but his speech didn’t slur, at least not what she could understand anyway. His hands tightly gripped the edge of his seat as though at any moment he might decide to open the door and jump out. To distract him from whatever caused such a high level of distress, she attempted benign conversation. “So, how long have you been in San Francisco?”
A long pause had ensued before he answered. “I don’t understand ye, lass. Where is this San Francisco?”
She removed one hand from the steering wheel and waved it across the windshield. “Here, this city, you’re in San Francisco. Do you not know where you are?” He did have a rather large lump on his head that continued to trickle drops of blood onto his shoulders. It appeared his slide down the hill had reopened the head wound along with several wounds on his arms. That might explain his confusion.
“Did you hit your head?” Of course, he did, stupid. Benign conversation didn’t come easily to her, especially in stressful situations. “Are you feeling dizzy, confused? If you feel nauseous, let me know so I can stop the car. It’s bad enough we’re both covered in dirt and debris, and you’re bleeding onto my floor and seats. I’d rather not add vomit to the mess.”
He glanced at her, then at his arms and legs, which continued to ooze trickles of blood. “My apologies, m’lady...” He seemed about to say more, but his mouth thinned until his lips almost disappeared and tiny clicking sounds emerged from his clenched teeth. He’d switched his hands to clamped fists over his thighs. The term ‘white-knuckled’ took on a completely new meaning.
He hadn’t answered her questions. “Are you in pain, Brian?”
“Only a wee bit, m’lady, dinnae fash yerself on my account. ‘Tis naught but a splash of water and a dram of uisge beatha will set to rights.”
Angel shivered at his thick accent. The rumble of his rolled r’s reverberated deep in her chest. Granny M, her mother’s mother, still spoke with a slight Scottish brogue, even though she’d been in this country since she was about four years of age. Angel loved Granny-M to distraction, not the least because she’d lived with them since her earliest memories. On many enchanted rainy nights during her childhood, Granny had doled out fascinating tales laced with her Scottish brogue, and the sound transported her to magical castles in the misty past.
Distracted by her passenger and fond remembrances, she almost ran the red light and slammed on the brakes inches before she entered the cross-section.
Brian crashed his hands against the dashboard with a sharply indrawn breath and gruff yelp. “Have ye driven this carriage frequently?” Every time she stopped at a stop sign or red light, Brian’s thighs tensed as though he’d halt the vehicle’s movement with the sheer pressure of his feet pushed against the floorboards. Distress leapt from every taut muscle, the clenching and unclenching of his fists, and the sharp jerking of his head as he assessed their surroundings.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you, I almost jumped the red. I got two tickets within a few weeks of each other at this spot two years ago. Dad took away my privileges for a month.”
He only issued another gruff grunt. She’d already inquired as to his state of pain a half dozen times with little or no response to help her determine the extent of his discomfort. However, the sudden loss of color, the sweat beading and mingling with blood dripping off his brow, and tightly clenched muscles in his arms and thighs spoke volumes.
“How did you happen to find yourself at Lands End in this battered and disheveled state?” she inquired.
He cast a furtive glance at her then turned his wide-eyed observation back to the road offering only a grumbled response. The man’s adroit avoidance of answering had her mind spinning wild tales about his situation. She questioned the wisdom of her decision to offer him a ride. But her parents and Granny would be home, and Brian definitely needed medical attention and a good meal. Her family would not turn away any person newly emigrated from Scotland.
“Brain, you don’t appear at all well. Why don’t you close your eyes, and lean your head back for a few moments. We’ll reach my house shortly.”
He chuckled. “Me bràthairs used to call me Brian. I haven’t been addressed so in years.”
“I knew you were more like a Brian than an Angus. I expect your parents call you Angus, but why did your brother’s stop calling you Brian?” As she took a sharp turn on the road, he slammed his hands on the dashboard and crashed against her hip. The touch of his muscled thigh pressed into hers released a swirl of prickling heat up her throat and cheeks. She wondered if he noticed her blush. Everyone always teased her about how radiantly she flushed over the silliest of things.
“Sorry ‘bout that, I guess I’m going a bit fast for some of these turns. Just want to get you home as quickly as possible.”
A long silence had ensued before he spoke, his voice gravelly with emotion. “My bràthairs are both dead. Killed in battle.”
“Oh God, I’m sorry. I know the pain of losing a sibling.” Only she had not lost her sibling, exactly. She hoped her brother still lived somewhere out there in the wilderness.
She wondered in what battles his brothers had died. Angel chewed on her lip and tapped her fingers on the steering wheel suppressing the questions tripping over her tongue. He’d failed to answer her mundane questions, so he probably wouldn’t respond to further personal probing.
“’Twas a time ago,” he shook his head, interrupting her thoughts but didn’t elaborate further.
* * *
Angus hated that he’d failed to conceal his terror. The young lass didn’t appear the least disturbed by the fearful things that pressed upon them at every turn, while it took concentrated effort not to vomit all over himself.
Everywhere he looked horseless carriages roared alongside them. People from every corner of the world seemed to mingle on the streets. The women they passed were dressed in tight trews that flared at the bottom, similar to Angel’s, with tops in blazing colors and patterns. Many of the shirts barely covered their upper bodies. Some actually exposed their midriffs, and the men’s dress closely matched the women’s attire. Many of the men and women wore long vests with streams of fringe that hung to their knees. None of the apparel worn by people they passed resembled anything familiar to him.
Their blatant display of flesh reminded him of sordid parts of London, Paris, or even Edinburgh when he’d visited those cities with his brothers. Places where all sorts of vile deviants preyed on innocents and fallen women garishly offered their wares. Yet even those recollections didn’t provide a reasonable comparison.
Also similar to those cities, houses pressed tightly together on every street. Yet, from what he could see as they sped down the road, this sprawling city didn’t display the level of filth and derelict demise common to larger cities haunted both day and night by the lowest street urchins. The streets appeared free of offal and its accompanying stench that ran freely in other places he’d traveled.
They passed many fine street-side shops emitting scents of baked goods, coffee, and other equally mouthwatering aromas. A rainbow of colorful houses in excellent repair riveted his attention. Most of the buildings stood multiple stories high, and all possessed glazed windows the likes of which he’d never before seen, while others displayed stained glass to rival any cathedral.
Although there had been many dogs and cats roaming the side streets, he’d not seen a single horse, cow, ox, sheep, or chicken. He’d noticed only occasional tiny areas of pasture, and one long woodsy park, and he’d not seen a single field of crops. Everything confounded him.
“We’re here,” Angel announced as she maneuvered up a slightly inclined passageway. They stopped in front of a wood-sided house with a large white panel in front. She hit a small box attached near the roof of their conveyance, and a door on the building in front of them magically opened. She pulled inside and turned the key. The noise previously spewing from their vehicle ceased.
All smiles and jovial cordiality, Angel hopped out of the vehicle. “Come on, let’s get you inside, and patched up. I’ll bet you could use a nice, hot shower and a solid meal under your belt.”
He jerked on the handle until he accidentally pressed down and the door suddenly sprang open. Even though the strange flat hardness of the road under his feet did not feel natural, he’d never been so happy to exit a carriage in his life.
She led them past the carriage-house to a gate in a wooden fence that stood over six feet high. Even at his height of six feet, three inches, he could not see over the fence due to a thick cluster of ivy running along the top. Once they passed through, he found himself in a meticulously tended walled garden. On the left, a brick pathway led to a white door with half windows framed against a bluebell-colored building with bright white trim. The building stood three stories high. On the right, the path led into a garden that stretched several hundred feet to an area with seating spaced around a large, sheltering oak tree.
At the top of five steps, a covered veranda extended along the back of the house where a wiry, yet stunning older woman stood. “Tis aboot time you returned, young lady, we expected you for breakfast an hour ago.”
His angel bounded up the stairs and kissed the woman on her cheek. “I love you too, Granny M, and look, I’ve brought you a visitor,” she swung her hand in Angus’ direction. “If I recall, you’ve been saying for a few days that we’d be having an unexpected guest. Once again, Granny, it seems your sight is functioning in fine fettle. Meet Mr. Angus Brian Cameron, recently from Scotland. I call him Brian. Don’t you think he’s more a Brian than an Angus? Brian, allow me to introduce you to the indomitable, Mrs. Marion Andra MacPhearson Sinclair, known to one-and-all as Granny M.”
Had she hoped to ease him with the long string of Scottish names? It hadn’t worked.
“Brian suffered a nasty fall near Lands End, and who knows what other problems. He needs some medical attention. I thought Dad could help him.”
The older woman crossed her arms over her chest and thoroughly scrutinized him. “Well, lad, looks like you might have a story or two to share. Come on then, let’s get you cleaned up.” Her slight Scottish brogue provided the first hint of something familiar, other than the dog, Simon, who had already bounded into the house following Angel. He could hear the lass calling to someone inside.
Angus Brian Cameron, fierce Highland warrior and last surviving son of his illustrious parents, stood speechless, completely breisleach. Never had he been more confused and disoriented in his life.