Maybe soon, we’ll find the courage to leap together. But until then, I’ll hold onto this delicious tension, knowing that what we have is already a rare, electrifying bond.
The thunderous crashof the tavern door being flung open jolts me awake. The pounding of sturdy boots on the weathered wooden planks reverberates through the room, shaking the floorboards beneath us.
Shouts and laughter ricochet off the stone walls, each voice carrying a drunken edge. It gives me horrible flashbacks to the last call at my campus pub.
“Where’re ye hiding that Sassenach wench?” one of the intruders bellows.
Cal’s grip on my hand tightens, yanking me out of my groggy stupor. “They’ve got our scent, Mills. Let’s move!” His tone is urgent, snapping me further into alertness.
I open my eyes to see he’s already standing, buttoning up his white shirt and tucking it into the kilt he sleeps in. I pull on my boots, sticking with thebillowy tartan nightie Fi gifted me. A nagging voice in my head warns me I’ll probably regret this decision later.
‘‘This way,’’ he whispers, leading me down the stairs. We dart towards the back of the inn and as I risk a glance over my shoulder, I’m met with the sight of burly men in kilts storming inside like a rowdy mob after a night of heavy drinking. They’re tearing up the place, faces twisted in a drunken rage. If they catch us... well, I wish we’d practiced synchronized running because we’ll need an Olympic-level sprint.
“Hey! It’s that outlandish lass!” one bellows, his words slurring together.
We sprint towards the back door, almost crashing into Alistair, Fi, and Fergus spilling out from the kitchen. The crash of tables flipping over and mugs shattering reverberates behind us.
“Gregor Campbell, always lookin’ for a fight,” Alistair grunts, herding us towards a narrow wooden door. “The cellar! Quick, before they spot ye.”
Cal’s hand clamps tighter around mine as he hauls me into the damp, musty cellar. Fiona and Fergus scamper in after us, their eyes wide with terror. As Alistair slams the door shut, we’re plunged into darkness.
“Well, isn’t this cozy,” I whisper to cut through the tension. “If only we had some wine and cheese down here. We’d have ourselves a real party.”
Fiona stifles a snort of laughter. “Aye, maybe even a nice charcuterie board to go with it.”
“Hush, both of ye,” Cal hisses back at us, but I can hear the smile in his voice. Trust Fi and me to crack jokes while angry Scots are tearing up the place above our heads.
I lean closer into Cal’s solid frame for comfort. This is wild. One minute, we’re enjoying a peaceful meal, and the next thing you know, we’re hiding in a cellar from a clan of pissed-off Highlanders. How on earth did I get myself into this cock-a-leekie soup? Oh yeah... because I decided to peer into some mystical portal instead of whale-watching as any typical tourist would. Superb decision-making skills there, Mills!
The footsteps above intensify with the cacophony of overturned furniture and sporadic shouts. Holding my breath tight, I silently pray they don’t think to check in the cellar.
My eyes squeeze shut as I will them to find the whisky in the kitchen and bugger off. There’s no way I’ve traveled through time to get murdered by a bunch of drunk and angry Scots.
Alistair’s hand comes down on my shoulder, making me startle. “Dinna fash, lass,” he murmurs gruffly. “We’ll keep ye safe. I swear it on the MacDowell name.”
I nod, words escaping me. The guts and bravery of these people are something else. They’re risking their lives for strangers with weird haircuts and oddexpressions. In our short time here, they’ve fed us, given us shelter, and even danced with us. They feel like family now, and nobody messes with my family. This isn’t some whimsical adventure or wild daydream anymore; this is as real as it gets.
Cal squeezes my hand as the chaos continues upstairs, and I force myself to steady my breathing. We’re in this together, for better or worse. And if we make it out of this cellar alive, I swear I’m never taking indoor plumbing for granted again.
Alistair crouches down next to me, his eyes glinting in the dim light as he whispers urgently into my ear. “Ye need to understand the history of this land, lass. The clans of Inverness have been at war for generations, fightin’ for control and honor.”
His quiet intensity paints a picture of the bloody conflicts that have shaped these Highlands over centuries. Despite my uneven breath and trembling, clammy hands, I hold onto every word.
“The Macdonalds and Campbells… the Mackenzies and Frasers... they’ve all spilled blood on these hills,” he says gravely. “And now Gregor and Malcom Campbell seek to claim what they believe is rightfully theirs.”
The full weight of our predicament hits me like a punch to the gut. This isn’t some bar fight gone awry; it’s a centuries-old feud, and we’ve landed smack-dab in the middle. My timing is as impeccable as ever.
Above us, the symphony of mayhem plays on,each crash and cry sending icy tendrils of fear spiraling through me. How long can we stay hidden here before they sniff us out? And what happens when they do?
I glance down at my trusty combat boots, drawing an odd sense of comfort. Just yesterday, I’d quickly stopped at the cobbler to retrieve them and wriggled back into them, my feet protesting against the constant torture of those thin-leathered monstrosities they call boots here. Strangely enough, no one bats an eye at my unconventional choice of footwear for this era. Slipping back into them feels like a lifeline to who I am and where I hail from.
Alistair must pick up on my terror because he gives my shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Dinna worry, lass,” he murmurs soothingly. “We’ll unearth a path from this muddle.” His words are meant to reassure me, but as footsteps echo closer and the cellar door creaks ominously above us, I can’t help but wonder if our luck is about to run its course.
Fiona’s warm hand slips into mine. “Amelia,” she says firmly, her voice cutting through the tension. “Ye’re one of us now—we won’t let anything happen to you.”
I nod gratefully even though words fail me at that moment—how do you explain that you’re not just some lost tourist but a time-traveling author with zero business being here?
Suddenly, Fergus, our unofficial lookout by thecellar door, turns to us grimly. “They’re coming down the stairs,” he warns.
