Lord of the Highlands

He didn’t have a moment to savor his victory. Hearing the commotion, the other men called to their fellow.



Someone was making a clumsy approach from around the back, and Will kept his eyes trained on the rear of the birlinn. Which meant he didn’t sense the man behind him until he felt the knife on his throat.



“What have we got here?” a voice hissed in his ear.



Anger, clear and lightning bright, was his only response. Felicity. He needed to live for Felicity.



Will grabbed the man’s knife hand, securing it. With a growl, he slammed his elbow back, catching the man in the gut. His attacker stumbled back. Will stood, pivoted, watching in slow motion as his attacker arced his blade arm back up.



Forget the blade. Fight the man.



Will made a fist, his every ounce of desire to see Felicity a tidal wave driving his punch. His right fist slammed into the man’s jaw. Immediately, Will torqued his torso, catching the man’s cheek with his left. He swung up, his right fist connecting with the man’s chin.



The militiaman wavered, gave an uneven shake to his head, and then collapsed into the river.



The third and last man approached fast at Will’s back, and he spun to face him, just in time to see Ormond hobbling behind, arms still trussed at his back. His friend dove for the militiaman, slamming awkwardly into him, both falling with a splash into the river.



Ormonde struggled to stand but his feet kept sliding on the viscous muck of the river bottom. His trussed hands made his body awkward, and his head slipped below the surface of the freezing water. He bobbed up, inhaled sharply, and disappeared again.



The militiaman had recovered from his fall and stalked toward Will, Ormonde ready to drown if he didn’t act fast.



Rollo reached down, his frozen fingers fumbling along his calf. His dagger. He gripped it, careful to keep ahold of the wet hilt. Standing tall, he took the blade of the sgian dubh between his thumb and fingers, and threw.



The man teetered, clawing at the knife stuck in his throat, and then disappeared into the black water.



Will stumbled, leaping for his friend. Hooking his hand under Ormonde’s arm, he pulled him to standing.



“That was quite a pretty throw,” Ormonde said, steadying himself. He feigned nonchalance, but Will heard the relief in his voice.



“MacColla’s woman showed me the trick.” Will stood behind him, studying his wrists. The knots were tight, the bonds cloth, not rope.



“Good Lord,” Ormonde exclaimed. “You’re better men than I with these . . . uncommon women of yours.”



Will laughed low, picking at the knots. The water had made them tenacious, and he leaned down to tear the fabric with his teeth. “I seem to always be saving your hide,” he grumbled, then spat a thread from his tongue.



“It’s the hair, Will.” Ormonde shook out his arms, and gestured to his bright red curls, dusky brown in the moonlight. “I stand out.”



“Then how did you manage not to get shot?” Rollo asked, eyeing his friend for injuries. “Such fireworks. The Gloucester militia must’ve expelled their munitions stores for the next month.”



“Stand out I may,” Ormonde assured him, “but I am also quite wily.”



“I see.” Will chuckled. “Or the militiamen are blind in the dark, more like.”



There was a light splashing along the bank, and, locking eyes, both men froze. Turning in unison, they poised for attack. But it was only Massey, chest heaving with exertion, peering into the darkness of the river. “Oh,” he said simply, seeing Ormonde standing shoulder to shoulder with Will.



Will smiled. Massey’s single “oh” spoke volumes. He turned his attention to the water, scudding his feet along the riverbed.



“Is this what you’re looking for?” Ormonde slipped under to dig in the silt, coming back up with Will’s muddied staff. “You took a great risk, helping us,” he said, dashing the water from his face. “You have my gratitude. And it seems it is I who owe you now.”



Will raised his hands in protest. “Och, please man, let’s just call the tally even.”



The two men laughed low. “Now go, friend,” Ormonde said, handing Rollo his cane. “You’ve done enough. Go to your woman.”



“Now you’d have me leave?” Tugging his wet collar from where it clung at his neck, Will shook his head. “Soaked, cold, and disarmed? Thank you, no.” He shivered, looking downriver to where the fishing boat bobbed near the dock. “We’ll take that tub down to Bristol and part ways there. I might hate sailing, but it’ll be the fastest way between here and Lochaber.”



Ormonde laughed, clapped Will on the back, then shuddered as a sudden chill seized him. “Good Lord, man,” he said, a smile still on his face. “Lochaber? You must really love this woman.”



“Aye,” Will said simply. “Love her I do.”



Chapter 39



Will stood before the stone tablet, cane forgotten at his feet. He turned the star chart in his hands, careful not to tear the tattered paper. It had gotten a thorough soaking in the river, and some of the lines and dots had bled into formless clouds of gray ink.



He placed it over the stone. Rotated it, studying the map from a different angle.



He needed to be certain. He’d have only one chance to go to Felicity, and he hoped he knew what he was doing.



“The hubris of youth!” a voice cackled, and even before he spun to see, he knew he’d find the old witch Gormshuil there.



“Took you longer than I’d thought,” she said. She walked toward him, her approach along the path almost leisurely. The morning sun cut through the trees at a sharp angle, turning her gray braid into a white rope hanging over her shoulder. Though long, the wiry wisps didn’t do much to conceal her pale scalp.



“You’re a stubborn one, William Rollo.” Gormshuil stopped, standing in front of him, sucking thoughtfully at her teeth. She smelled of earth and cherry-sweet smoke. “Who knows where you’d end up without my help?” she scolded, snatching the chart from his hands.



“What have you done?” She muttered and shook her head, studying the chart. Her features danced a medley of expressions: grunted annoyance, to anxious confusion, to squawks of impish humor.



“I kept it as safely as I could,” Will said, his tone uncharacteristically hesitant.



“Let’s pray you’re able to mind your own self better than you did this wee scrap.” Gormshuil’s eyes were the white blue of a hazy sky, and they hardened on him. “Do you know what it is you attempt?”



“Aye, of course—”



“Ist, boy, and listen. Do you know where it is you go? Your woman’s world is not your world.”



“Felicity is my world,” he answered quickly and surely.



“I pray you’re correct.” Gormshuil chewed thoughtfully at her lip. “Because I don’t know that you’ll ever be able to return.”



“I don’t want to return,” he said, and he meant it.



He thought on his family. Jamie was dead, and his mother might as well be. Will would mourn his father, but if the attentions of one attractive, older maid were any indication, the man was recovering just fine.



And though Will would miss his friends, he’d not miss how their obsessions had a way of drawing him in. He’d given his all to help MacColla, to help Graham. He loved those men like brothers, and would do it all again, but they lived on, with their own concerns and loves. While Will was left always alone, in the wake of the lives of others.



And then there was Ormonde. Will gave a fond and knowing chuckle. God love him, but the man was like the tides, pulling all under and down, to the neglect of anyone else’s desires but his own.



He considered his country. Oliver Cromwell was dead, and his son Richard ousted from power. Charles II was well on his way to being restored as king.



No, he thought. He knew exactly what world he was leaving. “I know what I do,” he told the woman. “And I ask that you help me.”



She studied him silently, then with a sly smile and a brisk nod, Gormshuil returned the star chart to the granite tablet.



She licked her thumb, smudging at some of the lines on the page. “You’ll do like so,” she told him. Her finger was wrinkled and thin, the pad of her fingertip flattened with age, but it moved fluidly over the paper, gracefully outlining shapes on the chart. “Trace thus.”



Goose bumps pebbled his skin with the sensation that he glimpsed some deeper geometry, some overreaching structure to the universe.



“Clear your mind,” she snapped, and Will wondered if the witch had read his thoughts. “Reason not, Will Rollo. Keep your thoughts a tranquil pool. Felicity the only ripple on its surface.”



Dozens of questions gnawed at the edges of his brain, and he fought them all. Inner calm had always been, for him, hard-won. He wanted to ask just one more thing, but before he had a moment to seize on a single question, Gormshuil gave a sharp sniff and rolled her eyes back in her head.



“Now,” she hissed. “Off with you, now.” She wheezed a long exhale. “Go.”



The witch’s hands gripped his upper arms, turning him to face the tablet. Though an old woman, her grip was strong, and those long, bony fingers cut into him like talons.



“For her, time has slowed,” she intoned. “But it’s not stopped. She, a lone candle among millions. If you want to find the woman you seek, you must go. Now.”



He hadn’t considered he might travel forward in time, only to not find her. Panic seized him. He gripped the stone, anchoring the paper to the tablet with one hand.



The other flitted over the chart in rapid movements that felt almost automatic, remembered somehow. His arms were numb where Gormshuil gripped him, and he wondered distantly if she weren’t transmitting some secret magic through her touch.



The buzzing began at his feet, a warmth at the soles, as if he were being permanently rift from the earth. It intensified, crackled up his legs, molten heat locking his limbs.



Is this what Felicity had felt? God, no. Had he made her do this, made her feel such pain?