Somewhere in the Highlands (Somewhere in Time Book 4) Read online

  “He has a braille laptop,” Fergus explained. “And other high tech aids, including an ultrasonic mobility device that emits sound and alerts him to the distance of objects as he walks. Mom could stick him in a kilt and send him back through the wormhole and he’d probably find his way.”

  “If need be. He’s arriving later this afternoon,” she calmly replied.

  Fergus swung his head at her. “From Seattle? Are you flying him in on Air Force One?”

  “The airlines will have to serve. I called Hal last evening and he’s catching the first available flight to Charlottesville. Wrenie will bring him straight from the airport.”

  “Great. My Goth cousin.” Fergus nodded at the room. “She’ll fit right in here, Beezus.”

  A speculative gleam lit his mother’s pale blue eyes. “She could help with your uncle. She’s in between jobs now and has a few nursing classes under her belt.”

  “Along with a knack for beading and a hodgepodge of everything else,” Fergus added.

  His mother waved him aside. “Wrenie’s good in her way and would do as an aide for Ruen, at least until I can make other arrangements. She’s also able to keep a secret. Face it, both of you, we can’t have just anyone in here.”

  Beezus held up a hand like drowning woman clutching at something, anything. “No. We can’t, and I would be grateful if she can help with Uncle Ru. But I don’t get it. You mean Hal packed his bag and came just like that?”

  “Heck yeah.” Fergus could guarantee it. “If there’s a geek in this world who can resist portals in time, I have yet to meet them.”

  “Not just geeks,” Beezus offered in that more subdued voice she’d adopted since her disgraceful revelations.

  “Right. And my yet to prove yourself worthy assistant in this quest.”

  She flushed. “I won’t let you down, Fergus.”

  “You already have.”

  “We shall see how you go from here,” his mother said firmly to her, with a warning glance at him. “Agreed?”

  He gave a grudging nod and frowned at Beezus. “But I’ll be keeping a sharp eye on you, Beezus Mac.”

  A spark of fire shone in her tawny gaze—more like the Beezus he knew, or thought he did. “Fine, Fergus. I’ll try to give you something worth looking at.”

  He was still angry with her; she’d endangered them all. But it would take more than shock and a sleepless night to dim her appeal. And he almost smiled. “I’m counting on it. But back to the quest, I really ought to have a magic sword for such a vital undertaking. King Arthur had Excalibur, Aragorn, the sword of Andúril, The Seeker has the Sword of Truth…”

  Beezus brightened a little, a hint of admiration in her eyes. “You were awesome with that lightsaber you made into a taser.”

  Fergus warmed at her praise. “Oh, I’m taking it, but feel I should have something more…I don’t know…Medieval to go along with the taser.”

  She considered. “A blend of old and new?”

  “Isn’t that what a true Jedi is?”

  “I suppose so.”

  After a pensive pause, his mother said, “You ought to take a second look in the attic.”

  He pounced. “Why? What could I possibly have missed before?”

  “The attic is rather special. It yields what you need at the right hour. Neil and Mora found what they were meant to discover. This is for you.”

  “But you won’t tell me.”

  “It’s for you to find.”

  A typical, and irritating, answer from this wise woman. Even though he knew she had her reasons, as always.

  Beezus hesitated then asked, “Is there anything up there for me?”

  His mother inclined her head. “If you seek for it.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  Beezus gulped. “You mean, go back into that house with him lying there?”

  “And Fergus by your side,” his mother said.

  “I think he’s braver than me.”

  Fergus could hardly believe his ears. This concession, from Beezus?

  “You have far more courage than you know, child,” the mature woman said quietly. “Her farseeing gaze passed between them. “It’s time to prepare for what lies ahead.”

  “Do you know what that is?” he pressed.

  “In part. Morley is yet too powerful for me to see clearly. Remember, fire alone can destroy the stole. Without it, he’s only cunning, not superhuman.”

  “Like a regular old Red MacDonald. That’s all.” Fergus resorted to his usual sarcasm.

  His mother was grave. “Bad enough.”

  “The stuff of nightmares. And Calum?” he asked under his breath.

  “Must sire a son. Soon—” She stopped, and a faint, unexpected smile lightened her demeanor.

  Fergus was immediately suspicious. “What?”

  “If I’m right, all shall be revealed. If not…” Mystery veiled her eyes.

  Whatever his psychic mother was referring to, he was not relinquishing Beezus as the vessel to bear Calum’s sacred offspring, even if it meant Fergus ceased to exist. That could not be her destiny in all of this. But whether it was, or wasn’t, their seer wouldn’t say.

  Chapter Eight

  Muttering, “Zombie alert. I really ought to oil those hinges if we intend to take any by surprise,” Fergus pushed open the creaking attic door and stepped inside.

  Half expecting some supernatural phenomena after Mrs. Fergus had emphasized the unusual nature of the room, Beezus tread cautiously behind him.

  “All clear. No Walking Dead,” he announced.

  She sighed in relief.

  “Were you seriously concerned?” he asked over his shoulder, not quite muffling a snort. “I thought the body in the hall was plenty grisly and you made it past what’s left of the Red MacDonald without losing it.”

  “Barely. And I don’t know what to expect up here.”

  “Well nothing that needs to be shot in the head. Just as well. Forgot my Colt 45.”

  “Do you actually have one?”

  “Sure do. Neil left it behind. I’ve even learned how to fire a semi-automatic.”

  “Impressive.”

  He shrugged, though she sensed her praise pleased him. “I’m a decent shot, but we can’t take a pistol on our quest. Don’t want to introduce any blow ‘em away firepower the Highlanders might actually reproduce before its time.”

  “What about technology?”

  “I think the taser is beyond them.”

  “Can’t imagine they’d have a clue how to replicate that.”

  “Or my other gadgets. Probably just think I’m a wizard.”

  Her chest fluttered. “As long as they don’t arrest you for witchcraft.”

  “I’m a crafty wizard. Not easily apprehended.”

  “I’m counting on it. On both of us evading capture.” The danger of their mission struck Beezus anew. The other thing that jarred her was the pervasive chill. “Burr,” she shivered. “Good thing I wore thick leggings and a fleece hoodie.”

  “Should have warned you about the cold in here. I could probably rummage you up a moth eaten fur coat from the 1920’s.” He had on his black, ‘No I will not fix your computer’, sweatshirt over jeans that fitted his lean figure.

  “If you come across one, I’ll gladly take it. We should’ve worn parkas, but there’s no going back without what we came for.”

  “Whatever that is. Far be it from our seer to give us a clue.” Sounding annoyed with his mother, Fergus flipped on the single light dangling overhead. A weak glow emanated from the bulb, but the bulk of the illumination came from the pale morning sunshine filtering through the dormer window. “That’s as good as it gets. Got my flashlight as backup.”

  She cast her eyes over trunks, boxes, and assorted shapes from old lamps to mannequins, some covered by sheets, spreading beneath the crisscross of wooden beams that supported the slanted roof. Nothing appeared to be arranged in any particular order and everything was covered with d
ust. Here and there, pathways wound through the collection; a dispiriting sight.

  “Fergus,” she prompted quietly, as though speaking in church, “where do we begin?”

  “Anywhere and everywhere.”

  “That could take hours—days.”

  “Time we don’t have.” His tone was glum.

  “Right. Got to pick up the pace,” Beezus said, with more energy than she possessed. If only she weren’t so tired.

  “The attic was full enough before Mom and I heaped all of our stuff in here. Especially hers. Mom’s a packrat. Neil and Mora had an easier time of it than we’ll have pawing through this lot.”

  “Looks worse than our townhouse, and Uncle Ru crammed it to the hilt.”

  “Yep. Warehouse 13’s got nothing on us. Although combing through the contents of this room is child’s play in comparison to conquering madman Morley and his magical stole.”

  “I really should’ve heeded my gut instinct about him, but Uncle Ru was certain he could be trusted.” How shattered the poor man was now, and what remained of his health, broken.

  A grimace crossed Fergus’s expression. “Maniac Morley killed his former self. I think I would rather face zombies.”

  “Me too. How did he pull that off?”

  “Before Morley ran him though, Red MacDonald had sired offspring to carry on the line that eventually spawned Morley, who just happens to be the reincarnated version of that fiend. And now he’s taken Red’s place in the freakiest possible way.”

  “Mind boggling.”

  “Totally,” Fergus agreed, “and I’ve seen some really weird stuff.”

  Beezus focused on their quest. “Somehow we have to take that traitor down and save Calum.”

  “In which order?” Fergus countered.

  “I don’t know, but a trove from centuries past is stored in this attic and we’ve got to find what your mother wants us to.”

  “A word from her would help,” he said under his breath.

  “Maybe it’s a rite of passage of some sort, doing this on our own? You said she sent Neil and Mora up here.”

  “True,” he allowed. “You begin at one side of the room and I’ll start at the other.”

  A stubborn, indefinable, inexplicable desire to be near him welled in Beezus. “Couldn’t we do this together? I might overlook something,” she said, in justification of her request.

  He glanced at her with faint surprise and a hint of approval in his eyes. “Roger that.”

  “Lead the way, Captain.”

  Giving her a mock salute, he quipped, “Set your laser to stun,” then turned to make his way through the collection. “Head toward the side nearest the window. Better catch the light while we can. I don’t plan to bivouac up here for the night.”

  “Lord only knows where we’ll be by then.”

  He grunted in agreement. “Depends on what we find, and our seer suggests. Might have to make a fresh start in the morning. Although, if we’re fighting our way past crazy Morley and his new henchmen, I’m not sure it makes a great deal of difference when we spring through that portal. The odds are decidedly not in our favor. Not that I dwell on them.”

  Another attempt at an apology burst from her. “I’m so sorry I dragged you into this, Fergus.”

  He was quiet a moment, then said, “It’s not the first time I’ve undertaken a seemingly impossible quest.”

  She was still speaking to his back, but it was a gracious reply, especially under the circumstances. “Your very existence wasn’t in the balance before.”

  “Yours is too, dear heart, if we don’t make it through that chapel.”

  A sobering thought.

  He stepped nimbly around a pile partly covered by a tarp in the center of the room. “We could use a few grenades to toss in beforehand to buy us a few minutes and escape in the confusion. They’d never know what hit them.”

  “Might bring the roof down on our heads.”

  “There is that. Wish the damn wormhole would shift away from the MacDonald camp.”

  “Seems stuck there.”

  “Maybe brilliant Hal can give it a shove,” he muttered.

  “Why don’t you like Hal?”

  Fergus groaned slightly. “Oh, he’s OK, just a bit of a know it all. The tedious thing is, he pretty much does.”

  “You’re a genius in your own right.”

  “I better be. Our lives depend on it. Best keep your wits about you, too.”

  Her mind only half on navigating the maze, Beezus followed him and dislodged an old-fashioned croquet set propped against a wobbly chair. The heavy wooden mallets clunked to the floor and colored balls rolled over the boards, throwing her off balance. Wind-milling her arms, she fought to keep from careening into a stack of boxes filled with Lord only knows what.

  “Fergus!”

  He darted back and caught Beezus as she fell, lurching, against him. “Good thing you’re fast!” she gasped.

  He closed his arms around her. “Hope speed equals brawn in our quest. I’m not too bulked up.”

  But he felt solid, in a wiry kind of way. “Thanks for sparing me a tumble.”

  “Can’t have my lieutenant with a twisted ankle. What use would you be to me, then?”

  “Not a shining example of mental focus, was I?”

  “Not exactly medal worthy.”

  That was all he said, but it seemed to Beezus that he held her a moment longer than necessary. She liked the way her head fit beneath his chin, the way she felt in his arms, too well.

  “Steady as she goes.” Shifting his hand to her elbow, Fergus guided her across the room.

  Some of the sheets had slipped down to reveal what lay beneath them. Was her addled brain deceiving her, or did she actually see a suit of armor in a dusky corner?

  She nudged him and pointed. “Medieval enough for you?”

  “Too much. I’m not clanking around in that tin can.”

  “Where on earth did it come from?”

  “One of Mom’s stranger finds in the art world, a reproduction made by an armorer living in hopes Hollywood will remake Camelot and call upon his services."

  “Perhaps he’s also discovered a wormhole in time?”

  Fergus shook his head. “No way. I’ve met him. That dude is just ‘tetched’ as the Scots say. I’d prefer he made chain mail. Better yet, mithril.”

  “Isn’t that the stronger than steel but lighter in weight silvery shirt given to Frodo?”

  “To Bilbo first, but yes. Crafted by dwarves who mined mithril in the mountains of Moria, until they dug too deep and were destroyed by the Balrog.”

  “Don’t you hate it when that happens?”

  Finally, a smile from Fergus.

  “Maybe there’s some mithril still left,” Beezus suggested. “Does your mom have any connections in Middle Earth?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “She’s the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met.”

  He gave her a long, searching look.

  Did she see a trace of wistfulness in that glance?

  “I know another,” he said gruffly.

  Her heart quickened. Was he speaking of her, or someone else? She didn’t dare a reply; her tongue might trip over itself as her feet had the runaway balls. Why it mattered so much if he cared for her, Beezus couldn’t say, only that it did. A lot. She also knew she had a great deal to atone for. But maybe, just maybe, he’d give her a second chance?

  Chapter Nine

  Whether he trusted Beezus or not—and he didn’t, really—it was all Fergus could do not to crush her against him, assuming he had the strength, and kiss her breathless. She might slap him. But she might not. Either way, they had work to do; he complimented himself on exerting extreme restraint and made every effort to concentrate on their daunting task. Neither spoke, but a sense of anticipation had sprung up between them, whether of what they might find while rummaging through dusty boxes, or the current that crackled whenever he accidentally brushed her hand, he couldn�
�t say. At least, he couldn’t speak for her. He knew why that near electrical charge surged through him.

  Why did Beezus have such a hold on his heart after all she’d done? Practically put a knife into his back and twisted it, even though she didn’t fully realize the ramifications of her misguided actions. Still, to be hopelessly head over heels in love with the girl? His mom would say he didn’t have the sense God gave a goose, and he didn’t give ’em much, she’d add. And she’d be right, as usual; it didn’t take a psychic to ascertain that about him.

  Hearts were not rational organs, and he supposed he was destined to live or die devoted to this potentially traitorous woman. And yet, Beezus might be true. If only he could be sure.

  “An archery set?”

  Her exclamation broke into his divergent thoughts, colliding like misguided geese. He glanced around to see Beezus draw an expertly crafted, unstrung bow from a leather-bound trunk that must date back two centuries. A leather quiver of arrows followed, also skillfully made from the finest materials. “Right. Bowis and dorlochis, as bows and arrows are called in Bonnie old Scotland.” He eyed them closely. “Those look vaguely familiar.”

  “They should.” Beezus tapped the name etched into the handle of the bow. “Betty Francis. I assume that’s your mother’s maiden name?”

  “In this lifetime, anyway. Come to think of it, she was an accomplished archer in her younger days.”

  “How about you?”

  “Not one of my gifts. Nearly put the instructor’s eye out, poor guy.”

  Beezus arched a furrowed brow. “Why was he standing so near the target?”

  “That’s just it. He was right beside me.”

  “Ah. Then this find isn’t meant for you.” She pursed those perfect lips together and studied the bow with a thoughtful expression in her eyes. “I’m not Robin Hood, but I wasn’t half bad at archery in college. Maybe I’m meant to find it.”

  Fergus doffed an invisible hat to her. “Appears that way. You’re our new Maid Marian.”

  “Did she actually shoot?”

  “Not sure. You can be Katniss, if The Hunger Games better appeals to you.”

  “It does. But what about you? No kewl sword is tucked away up here unless it’s hidden in the rafters or under the floorboards.”