Logic dictated that if — and she would only concede if — they’d time travelled then they’d have to get back to where they’d entered the time warp in order to return to the twenty-first century.
“Aye, but I shan’t advise you go.” He started down the spiral steps he’d made by imbedding thick half-timbers at ninety-degree angles to the stones that made up his tower.
Grabbing what purchase she could on the ragged stones, she chased after him. “Why not?”
He stopped two steps below her and turned, his long broad sword sheathed in a simple leather scabbard strapped to his back scraping stone. Standing at eye level, he frowned as he studied her.
God, he’s magnificent.
Standing well over six feet tall, heavily muscled, blue eyed and blond, he wasn’t handsome in the classic sense, but definitely arresting. His chiselled features were almost gaunt. And that scar running from his left cheekbone to his jaw. The wound hadn’t been stitched but had healed on its own, drawing the left corner of his lips up, giving him a permanent smirk. As if he knew a secret he wasn’t about to tell.
He fingered one of the curls draped around her shoulders, startling her. “Ye are most fair and fulsome, lass. Without a clansman to guard ye, ye’ll be harassed, if not claimed. Ye and yer bairns.”
Had he just called her pretty? She couldn’t be sure. Chaucer and his ilk’s writings hadn’t been her strong suit in college. “But we wouldn’t be alone. You’ll be with us.”
Left to her own devices within the dense woods below, bracketed by hills and ravines, she’d lose her bearings. He had to guide them.
He started down the steps again, his broad shoulders rolling with each step. “Nay, I shan’t.”
As they stepped into sunshine she grabbed his thick forearm bringing him to a halt. “Why not?”
His right hand covered hers. “Look at me, mistress. ’Tis obvious I’m a warrior. Should I be caught I’ll be forced to my knees and they’ll demand I swear fealty to Malcolm … or die.”
“Is he your enemy?”
“Kith but I’ll slit my throat before swearing fealty to another errant hedge-born mammon.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. If he’s kith, a friend—”
“Mistress, unbridled avarice has nay friends. I — and thousands more — lost all we held dear thanks to one such liege. I say never again.”
Good Lord. “Do you never go to Edinburgh then?”
“I go on rare occasion. But only whilst in the guise of a leper to keep them at bay.” MacDuff brought her hand to his lips. “My apologies, lass.”
As her heart stuttered, he strode towards her students, who sat in only their briefs before his stone hut. She followed, asking, “We’re in Scotland. How is it that you speak English?”
“My mother’s people fled the south to escape the Norman invader.”
“And your father?”
“A Highlander.” Coming abreast of her students he asked, “Have ye had yer fill, lads?”
She should hope so. They’d decimated the huge mound of oatcakes, honeycomb and berries MacDuff had set before them. How they’d managed to eat so much was beyond her. Her stomach was still in knots, had been since the explosion. When they nodded, their host grunted and strode towards their clothing which they’d draped on branches to dry in the sun.
While Hamish MacDuff frowned and fingered Velcro closures and zippers, Mark Gibson asked, “Does he have a car? Will he take us back to Edinburgh?”
She squatted before them. “Gentlemen, I hate to tell you this but we’re miles from Edinburgh and there is no car.” She took a deep breath and related as best she could what she knew and what she feared.
Peter jumped to his feet. “No way! I have a soccer match this weekend. This is all bullshit.”
Before she could admonish him, MacDuff was at her side and had Peter by the upper arms, holding him at eye level.
“Laddie,” MacDuff snarled, one hand moving to Peter’s jaw, “heed well for I shan’t spake of this but once. Spaniel is a lady and ye shall treat her as such.”
Fearing he’d snap Peter’s neck, she grabbed MacDuff’s arm. “Put him down! Please.”
Ignoring her, MacDuff hissed, “Do ye ken me, lad?”
Peter, white faced, nodded. MacDuff humphed, opened his hands and Peter, gasping, fell to the ground. Sarah dropped to her knees and checked the red marks beneath Peter’s jaw. “Are you all right?” When Peter nodded she snarled, “MacDuff, you could’ve killed him!”
MacDuff, standing with legs splayed, hands fisted on his hips, shook his unruly sun-streaked mane. “Nay. He appears a good lad for all his ratsbane of a tongue.” To the others he said, “Who among ye best wields a sword?”
Mark, turning pale, raised a tentative hand. “Uhmm … I’m on the fencing team.”
MacDuff eyed him then, apparently satisfied, asked, “Who best tends coos?” When they looked at him blankly, he pointed to the three shaggy, long-horned beasts grazing beyond the pool. “Who kens those?”
When they all raised hands, MacDuff pulled a rough-hewed bucket from a peg imbedded in his stone croft’s wall and tossed it to Ty. “Dress then milk, laddie.”
Apparently deciding it was wiser to obey than admit he’d never milked in his life, Ty elbowed Bryce. “Come on.”
Sarah whispered to the other boys, “Gentlemen, why don’t the rest of you get dressed.” She had to speak to MacDuff. Alone.
They took off at a dead run as MacDuff settled on his haunches to pick up the remains of the boys’ lunch. “What say you, Spaniel? Do you stay or go?”
She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. “You can’t manhandle children that way.”
His eyebrows shot together as he came to his feet. “Is it not the rule of clan and church to discipline in a parent’s absence? Ye told the lad three times within my hearing — and God only kens how many more times without it — to mind his tongue and he had yet to pay ye any heed.”
“Yes, but—”
He leaned forwards and tapped the tip of her nose. “Nay buts, mistress. Ye want them to grow into good men who respect women, aye?”
She heaved a sigh. “Yes, of course. But please don’t pick him up like that again.”
MacDuff grinned. “Ye’ll find I shan’t have need. He’s learned his lesson.”
“And please don’t call me Spaniel.”
“Oh? ’Tis what the lads shouted when they could not find ye.”
“My name is Sarah.”
“Why then do they call ye Spaniel?”
Bone weary, she settled on the grass and tucked the huge, coarse linen tunic reeking of male musk, sawdust and smoke that he’d loaned her about her legs. “They think I look like one.” When his brow furrowed, she said, “A spaniel is a spotted hunting dog.”
Laughing, he sat down next to her. “Ye have bonnie brown eyes and charming spots upon yer cheeks, but without a long snout and tail I have to say nay, ye do not.”
“Thank you.”
He studied the boys for a moment. “Ye call them children, not bairns. Are they of royal blood then?”
She watched Peter, Jeremy and Mark romp through the field as if they hadn’t a care. “In our world, yes.”
“And ye?”
“I’m their teacher. Well, one of them. The children often move from place to place. Our school, with its many branches in different cities, provides continuity, some measure of stability.”
“And where is yer world?”
Dare she tell him? Would he think the boys and her bewitched? “You won’t believe me.”