Tempting the Highlander (Pine Creek Highlanders #4)

Chapter Fifteen

H e didn’t know why he was surprised that when Catherine Daniels set her mind to something, she approached it with the fierceness of a lion protecting her cubs. But as she again tried to split open his head with her stick, Robbie wondered if he was creating a monster or merely providing an outlet for six married years of abuse.

He robbed Catherine of her target by simply ducking her impressively vicious swing. “You’re letting your emotions rule your actions,” he pointed out as she turned to face him, her stick raised for another strike.

He held up his hand to stop her. “This is what I was trying to explain earlier, Cat. You started with calculated moves, but now you’re just taking wild swings out of sheer frustration. If you become emotionally involved, you’ve lost the fight.”

She stood the stick on the ground and leaned against it as she wiped a shaky hand over her brow. “When someone’s trying to knock your teeth out, it does get emotional,” she said, her face red with exertion.

He walked up and disarmed her, then balanced the stick on one of his fingers. “Nay, it’s about control. Your weapon is your lever, you’re the fulcrum, and your strength is multiplied when you power your swing through your body.”

“My high-school physics is rusty.”

“But you still use it every day. You pry the stubborn lid off a jar or displace your weight when you lift a twenty-pound roast out of the oven. Use your body, Cat,” he said, positioning her hands, putting one in the middle of the stick and one about eighteen inches off center. He moved to stand behind her and placed his own hands over hers. “Don’t swing it like a baseball bat. Push the stick away from yourself,” he instructed, thrusting her right hand forward.

He followed that move by pushing her left hand in a downward arc and then up, stopping with the shorter end of the stick about level with a man’s jaw.

“There,” he said. “You smack him on the shoulder first and quickly follow through by using the momentum of his reaction—which will be to push the stick away—and come up and strike him under the chin. Or here,” he suggested, jabbing the short end forward again. “You can aim for either his throat or his sternum. One quick, powerful thrust, and he’ll be gasping for breath.”

“But what if the person I’m fighting knows how to fight?” she asked, stepping out from his embrace and turning to face him. “What if he’s someone like you and knows all the tricks?”

Robbie gestured toward the pasture. “Then you revert to your trusty old standby. You run like hell.”

“And if I can’t run? If I’m cornered?”

He nodded at the stick in her hand. “You’ll at least be able to fight your way out of a corner by the time we’re done. But Cat, most of the people you encounter won’t be trained in hand-to-hand combat.”

“And they’ll think I don’t pose a threat, because of my size and gender,” she repeated from his earlier lecture.

“Aye. Surprise is your greatest weapon.”

She looked down at the stick, then back up at him, and broke into a brilliant smile. “Thank you. I never thought violence could have a bright side, but being able to defend myself sure beats the heck out of spending three weeks in the hospital.”

“Aye. But it’s only violence if you allow your emotions to get involved. Properly used, a weapon is nothing more than a tool. You don’t want to kill anyone but protect yourself. And you accomplish that by being the one who is in control.”

She twirled the stick in her hand like a baton and shot him a smug smile. “I rather like that idea. What other tricks have you got up your sleeve?”

Aye, he was creating a monster, all right. But at least she would be a prepared monster from now on. “How do you feel about knives?” he asked.

Her smile left as quickly as it had come. “You have to get close to someone to use a knife.”

He dismissed her concern with a shake of his head and leaned over and pulled his small dagger from his boot. “But it’s still better than a stick,” he said, holding out the dagger for her to take. “And can be handy for other things as well.”

She examined the sharp, tiny knife. “This looks old.”

“Aye. It’s about the same age as my sword.”

She canted her head at him. “Where is your sword, by the way?” she asked, lifting a brow. “And the two plaids I washed and mended and put in your closet?”

“Stashed on the mountain.”

She stared at him, obviously weighing her chances of getting him to elaborate. She must have decided he wouldn’t, because she dropped her gaze to the two weapons in her hands.

She gave the dagger back to him. “I think I’ll learn how to use the stick first,” she said, placing her hands where he’d positioned them before. “It’s much more scary-looking and will be more intimidating.”

Robbie slid the dagger in his boot with a chuckle, then planted his feet and crouched, holding his arms out and waggling his fingers at her. “Come on, then, little Cat. Let’s see if you can’t take my breath away.”

She eyed him, eyed her stick, then looked back up, her fierce expression broken only by her determined smile. But she didn’t go for his shoulder first and then his jugular as he had showed her. No, the little monster feigned the expected attack, then aimed her first strike at his knees—just as a green Suburban pulled into the driveway.

Distracted by both the arrival of company and her deception, Robbie misjudged Cat’s swing, and the solid maple stick connected with his left knee. He was only able to keep his head from being cracked open as she followed through by speeding up his unexpected journey to the ground.

He heard Cat’s gasp at about the same time he hit the dirt. Aye, Dr. Frankenstein had nothing on him when it came to creating monsters.

“Ohmygod! You let me hit you!” She grabbed his shoulder and tried to lift him up. “You’re supposed to pay attention!”

He let her roll him over and lay with his eyes closed, hiding his smile as she continued to scold.

“This is why you come home all beat up,” she muttered, brushing the dirt off his cheek. “You allow yourself to get distracted.”

Robbie heard four truck doors slam, quickly followed by approaching male laughter he would recognize from his grave, and female tsk-tsk -ing.

He finally released his smile and opened his eyes. “My papa’s about to praise you for your trick and probably give you a hug for bringing me to my knees.”

“Th-That’s your father?” she groaned, looking toward the driveway, her face turning a lovely shade of red. “Ohmygod,” she whispered, glaring at Robbie just before closing her eyes. “He’s going to think I’m more crazy in person than on the phone.”

Robbie sat up and brought his nose inches from hers. “I’m impressed, little Cat.”

“For hitting you?”

“Nay, for deciding I wouldn’t retaliate. I saw it,” he whispered. “In your eyes, right when you hit me. I saw your horror, and then I saw the moment you realized you had nothing to fear from me.”

“All that while planting your face in the dirt?” she asked. She reached over and tapped the end of his nose. “Amazing, considering you couldn’t see my swing coming.”

Robbie touched his nose and hid his smile by standing up and taking the time to rub his knee.

“Now I’m understanding how ya’ve been able to keep this one longer than the others,” his papa said as he brushed past Robbie and over to Cat. “She’s the one terrorizing you.” He held out his hand. “I’m Michael. We met on the phone yesterday.”

“It—it’s nice to meet you, Mr. MacBain.”

“And I’m his mum,” Libby said, taking Cat’s hand from his father to hold in hers. “Please, call me Libby. I’ve been hearing some wonderful things about you. Not from Robbie,” she added, turning to frown at him before looking back at Cat. “Rick and Peter stopped by two days ago for a short visit.”

“And this is Gram Katie,” Robbie added, putting his arm around Libby’s mother and bringing her over. “And you’ve already met Ian.”

His poor housekeeper tried to tuck her hair into place, and then she brushed down the front of her grass-stained sweatshirt. “It’s very nice to meet you,” she told them, giving each a nod as she slowly inched her way toward the house. “I’ll just go put on the kettle for tea. I have a pan of blueberry cobbler cooling on the counter.”

“We can’t stay, I’m afraid,” Michael said. “We’re on our way to Bangor to shop. We’re just dropping off Ian.”

Robbie looked at his uncle.

Ian lifted his chin. “I hate to shop. And I feel like a walk in the woods, with you along to protect me from the bears.”

“He’ll walk with you, Ian,” Libby said, staring at Robbie. “Just as soon as I get a hug. You live two miles away, and I haven’t seen you in nearly two weeks.”

“You’ve been at Maggie’s when I’ve tried to visit,” Robbie said in his defense, reaching out and giving her a hug.

He suspended his breath and waited, but Libby only patted his back, gave him a squeeze, and stepped away with a nod.

“There. I feel better now.” She turned to Cat, who had managed to inch her way a good ten feet closer to the front porch. “You’ll have Robbie bring you to dinner this Sunday,” she told his housekeeper. “And please, bring your children. I’m anxious to meet your family.”

Cat looked from Robbie to Libby and nodded. “Thank you. I’d like that. I’ll bring dessert.”

“I believe you have my lasagna pan,” Kate said, taking Cat by the arm and heading toward the house, Libby falling into step on the other side of her mother. Ian muttered something about this taking a while—and something about blueberry cobbler—and tagged along behind them.

Robbie turned to his father, who was eyeing the stick lying on the ground. Michael picked it up, hefted its weight, and looked at Robbie with one eyebrow raised.

“It’s a long story,” Robbie said, leaning over to rub his knee again.

“I imagine I have time to hear it, considering the women are in the kitchen. They’ll likely be there an hour talking about recipes.”

Robbie sighed, sat down on the ground, and wrapped his arms around his bent knees. He stared at Pine Lake, waiting until his father was settled beside him.

“She and her children were camping out in that old cabin up on TarStone, on the land I bought from Greylen two years ago.” He looked at his father. “She’s running from an abusive ex-husband who just got paroled from prison three months ago.”

“Aye. I guessed it was something like that from what Peter and Rick said.” Michael rolled the heavy maple stick in his hand. “And so you’ve taken in another stray—three, actually—and you’re teaching Catherine how to deal with her ex-husband?”

Robbie shook his head. “Nay. I will take care of Daniels personally, if I’m lucky enough for him to show up here.” He gestured toward the stick. “My lessons are only to help Cat feel less like a victim and more like the brave woman she really is.”

Michael raised his brow again. “You sound as if you have a vested interest in the woman.”

Robbie gazed out over Pine Lake. “I do. If I have any say about it, Cat won’t ever be leaving here.” He looked back at his father. “She’s the one, Papa. I felt it the moment we finally came face-to-face.” He turned more fully to Michael. “I want her. But I’m not sure how to handle both my need for Catherine and my calling. You and I have talked about my gift since I was a child, but we never discussed how I would balance it with a wife. She’s a modern and won’t understand the magic.”

“Ya’re a modern, too.”

“Aye. But I grew up with the magic. Hell, I have conversations with an owl. What do you think Cat’s reaction would be if she knew that?”

Michael set his hand on Robbie’s arm. “We’ve all married moderns, son. And some of us have learned the hard way that there’s no simple way to explain who we are.”

Both men looked toward the house when they heard voices and saw the women standing by the truck. Michael used the stick to lever himself to his feet.

“But if I may suggest?” Michael said quietly. “Have a very firm hold on her heart before ya try to explain anything. For as much as your mother loved me, she wasn’t quite ready to hear what I had to tell her.” He canted his head. “Mary wasn’t even aware of her own gift while she was alive, I don’t think, or she would have been able to accept who I was and where I came from.” He smiled. “But I think once she felt ya stirring inside her, she understood and tried to come back to me.”

It was all Robbie could do not to tell his father that he’d visited with Mary in the storm, as the beautiful woman she’d been when Michael MacBain had loved her.

“Has she not come to you once, Papa?”

“Nay,” Michael said, shaking his head. “Not after Libby came into my life. Mary cared enough not to intrude. Not only for my sake but for Libby’s as well.” He looked up toward TarStone. “She’s watching us, though. I can…I feel her sometimes.” He looked back at Robbie and smiled. “A whisper or a mere breath on my neck. Or I’ll catch a hint of drying herbs in the middle of the tree fields in the dead of winter.”

“Aye,” Robbie said, slapping his father’s back and leaving his hand there as they started toward the truck. “She’s always been watching.”

Michael stopped and looked him directly in the eye. “If ya’re sure Catherine Daniels is the woman ya want to grow old with, then talk to Libby and your Aunt Grace and Sadie and Charlotte. They’ve gone from moderns to believers in some very interesting ways. Your Aunt Sadie thought she’d actually died, because she couldn’t comprehend the magic at first.”

“Maybe I should just keep my calling separate from my life with Catherine. Why complicate things?”

Michael snorted and shoved the stick at Robbie’s chest. “Aye, you do that, son. And see if ya don’t wake up some morning to an empty house. Keeping secrets from each other—even small secrets, much less something as important as your calling—is more abusive than anything Catherine’s ex-husband could have done to her. At least physical abuse is openly hostile, but the silence of keeping things from each other is more lethal than a sword slicing through a person’s heart.”

Robbie dropped his head and sighed. “I’ll tell her.”

“After you’ve caught her,” Michael reminded him, slapping him on the shoulder and turning them both toward the truck again. “And after you’ve dealt with Daniels in a way that won’t come back and haunt ya.”

They reached the truck, and Robbie leaned over and gave first Gram Katie and then his mum a kiss on the cheek. “Are the boys invited to Sunday dinner?” he asked. “That’s quite a houseful.”

“Of course they are,” Libby said, sliding into the front seat. She looked past him at Cat. “We eat at noon, and then everyone goes for a walk after dinner, so bring boots.”

Catherine nodded and said good-bye to Kate as Michael settled the elderly but spry woman in the backseat and handed her the seat belt.

Michael looked over the roof of the Suburban at Robbie. “Something’s troubling your uncle. Ian’s been restless the last couple of days, and Winter is worried about him. See if ya can find out what’s troubling him on your walk home.”

“Aye,” Robbie agreed, nodding. “We’ll have a talk.”

“Good,” Michael said, ducking into the truck.

Robbie leaned in, gave his mum another kiss on the cheek, and then closed her door and smiled at the red letters printed across it: “Bigelow Christmas Tree Farm, Pine Creek, Maine.”

John and Ellen Bigelow had planted their first Christmas tree fifty-six years ago. His father had never changed the name of the farm, though he’d owned it for more than thirty years now. Michael had always cited some excuse about name recognition, but Robbie suspected it was more likely his attachment to the two wonderful people, not a business decision.

Ellen Bigelow had died when Robbie was eight, and John had passed on seven years later. Both were buried on a knoll overlooking their farm, a balsam fir tree planted at the head of their graves.

“Ian’s inside eating cobbler, isn’t he?” Robbie asked Cat as they both watched their company leave.

“There must be something in the water around here. Everyone has a sweet tooth,” she said, walking back to the house.

Robbie fell into step beside her. “How do you feel about your lesson this morning?”

She looked over at him as they climbed the steps. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

“I’m not.” Robbie handed her the stick. “That’s exactly what you’re after—do the unexpected. If I get smacked, it’s my fault and your credit.”

“You didn’t just go into the woods and find any old stick,” she said, stopping at the door and holding it up between them. “You put some work into this.”

He had searched for just the right young maple sapling, stripped off its thin bark, and cut it down to Catherine’s size. It was straight as a flagpole, and he’d sanded it smooth and rubbed in a coat of wax to preserve its beauty.

“There’s nothing that says a weapon can’t look good. You remember the fine craftsmanship of my sword, don’t you? It used to belong to my namesake, my great-uncle Robert MacBain. He called it An Cluaran, which is Gaelic for The Thistle. My father told me Robert always boasted that it was the sting of his sword that men feared.”

Cat smiled up at him. “It’s a guy thing, isn’t it, to name your stuff? Like your truck,” she said, nodding toward his Suburban’s bug shield.

“Aye. It’s called being possessive.” He leaned down. “Which is why I’ve named my housekeeper after a mountain cat.”

Her face flushed scarlet, and she spun away and walked into the kitchen. Robbie followed and found Ian sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in one hand, a fork in the other, and more blueberry cobbler on his beard than on his plate.

“If you don’t want to be waddling home, Uncle, you’d better push away from the table,” Robbie said, watching Cat walk over and set her stick by the grandfather clock.

“I’m coming,” Ian muttered, sliding his chair back. He went over to Catherine, started to say something, then suddenly reached out and hugged her so tightly she squeaked.

“Thank ya for…well, for everything, lass,” he said, stepping back and grinning from his own flushed face. He walked over to retrieve his coat. “I hope ya can keep up with me today, young Robbie,” he said, walking out the door. “I don’t have time to dawdle.”

Robbie looked at his shocked housekeeper, shrugged, and then followed his uncle outside, only to find the old warrior was already halfway up the driveway.

Robbie jogged to catch up, then tucked his hands behind his back and fell into step beside him. “Is this what you’ve been doing all week?” he asked. “Visiting everyone to say good-bye?”

Ian glanced over at him, then looked back at the path. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so hard,” he muttered. “How in hell am I supposed to say good-bye if they don’t even know I’m leaving?”

“You can’t, Uncle.” He stopped and turned Ian to face him. “You can still change your mind.”

“Nay,” Ian growled, squaring his shoulders. “I want to be with my Gwyneth.”

Robbie started walking again. “Then you shall. I’ll pick you up at Gu Bràth tomorrow afternoon at three. That will give us plenty of time to reach the summit before sunset.”

“What can I bring with me?”

“Do you still have your old plaid?”

“Aye. And my dagger.” He frowned at Robbie. “We sold my sword to help finance our new life here.” He snorted. “Not that I could lift it now.”

“Then that’s all you can bring. Nothing modern.” Robbie stopped him again and touched his uncle’s jacket over the chest pocket on his shirt. “You can’t even take your reading glasses, I’m afraid. And you must give me your word that you won’t use what you’ve learned in this time to change anything in the past.”

Ian started walking again. “There ain’t no books to read, anyway,” he muttered, waving his hand at the air. “And no malls and cars and millions of crazy people.”

“There’s no indoor plumbing, either,” Robbie reminded him. “Or hot showers or electric lights or central heating.”

“But there’s my Gwyneth,” Ian whispered, his eyes shining as he looked over at Robbie. “And Niall and Caitlin and Megan. That’s all I’m needing to be happy. What’s our lie going to be?”

“That you and the others were captured by marauding…ah…Vikings, I think we should say. And held prisoner for ten years. The others died fighting or trying to escape. But when you grew old, they simply sailed back and dropped you off on the beach.”

Ian chuckled. “Like anyone will believe that.”

“Who’s to dispute it? Scotland’s been constantly raided throughout history.”

Ian stopped and looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “What about my age? I’m thirty-five years older than when I left, not ten.”

“You actually have the health of a sixty-year-old man of that time, Uncle. Life was hard on a body back then, and rarely did men reach their eighty-fifth birthdays. Our lie will work.”

“And the fact that I speak English?” Ian asked, walking again. “I’m liable to start speaking it without thinking.”

“Then we should change Viking to English marauders.”

“Aye. That will make more sense,” Ian agreed. “And I can say that I walked all the way home from England.” He puffed up his chest. “Aye. I could get many a fine tale for the campfires with that one.” Ian stopped him again. “You’re going to stay with me awhile, aren’t ya? Until I get adjusted?”

“Aye, I’ll stay as long as it takes.”

“What about Daar’s book of spells ya’re hunting for? Have ya found it yet?”

“Nay. But you might be able to help me with that. We’ll see once we get there.”

Ian’s shoulders straightened, and his eyes sharpened. “I’ll help. And I’ll—”

They both looked up at the sound of a piercing shrill that came from over their heads. Mary flew past them and landed on a branch hanging across the tote road.

Robbie was stunned. The last he’d seen Mary, she had still been in the old time. How had she managed to return by herself? But then he remembered what she had shown him in the storm. Mary could travel at will just as he could.

“There’s yar pet,” Ian said, breaking into a wide grin. “I can’t believe that old bird is still alive.” He looked at Robbie. “Mary has been with you for, what, over twenty years now? How long do snowy owls live, anyway?”

Robbie shrugged. “I have no idea.” He presented his arm to the owl. “Come, little one,” he said softly.

“She’s bleeding,” Ian whispered, moving beside Robbie and pointing up at the branch. “There, on the bottom of her belly, just above her left leg. Do ya see it?”

“Aye,” Robbie growled. “Come,” he told the bird.

Mary spread her wings and glided down and landed on his arm. Robbie stroked her chest and lifted his arm to see her wound.

“You’ve gone and gotten yourself hurt,” he said, using his finger to gently lift her bloodied feathers. “Aye, you’ve been nicked by an arrow.”

“How do ya know that?” Ian asked.

Robbie smiled at his uncle. “She told me as much.”

Ian stepped back. “She did? She really does talk to ya?”

“Aye. We’ve had many conversations over the years.” He lifted a brow. “You’re surprised? I’m about to take you on an unimaginable journey, and you think it odd that I talk to my pet?”

Ian shook his head. “I quit trying to think years ago,” he muttered. “Ya must take her to the veterinarian and have that wound tended.”

Robbie looked back at Mary. “Or I can take her to my housekeeper. Cat’s father was a veterinarian, and she knows quite a bit about tending wounds.”

“Then go,” Ian said, waving him away. “It’s only a short distance to Gu Bràth. I’ll be fine. And I’ll see ya tomorrow afternoon.” He gave Robbie a wide grin. “I’ll hide my plaid under my jacket so no one will suspect anything.”

“Uncle,” Robbie said when Ian turned to leave. “I wish…I’m…” He waved him away. “Enjoy your last evening with Grey and Grace and Winter,” he said softly. “And know that tomorrow night, you’ll be with your Gwyneth.”

“Aye. I’ll do that,” the old warrior said, turning and walking down the tote road, leaning on the stick Robbie had found for him at the beginning of their walk. He waved over his shoulder. “I’ll be ready when ya come to fetch me.”

Robbie watched after Ian until he disappeared down the last knoll before Gu Bràth, then turned his attention back to Mary.

“I’ve a good mind to trim your wing feathers!” he snapped, starting toward home. “To stop your recklessness.”

Mary let out a deep rattle that sounded more like laughter than owl talk and dug her talons into his jacket sleeve to keep her balance as he lengthened his stride.

Robbie sighed. Scolding his pet had always been an exercise in futility. And Mary was just as determined as he was to keep the Highlanders here. She still loved Michael MacBain and had no wish to see the warrior’s life uprooted again.

“I have someone I want you to meet,” he told her, quickening his pace. “Her name is Cat, and she’s going to be your daughter-in-law just as soon as I persuade her to trust her heart to me.”

Mary blinked at him.

“Aye, I know this is sudden. But if you’d come back with me instead of staying behind and getting arrows slung at you, you could have given me your blessing before I realized my intentions toward Catherine. Now you’ll just have to accept her.”

Robbie stopped and glared at his pet. “Don’t even think to give her a hard time. And you needn’t test her like you did Libby. Catherine has already survived her trial by fire.”

He tucked his arm against his body and cupped the snowy’s head to his chest. “Aye, little one,” he crooned. “I have every hope she can live with my calling. And that’s where you can help. You’ve been in Catherine’s position. You were a modern woman in love with an ancient. You’ll know how Cat will feel, and you’ll know how I can win her heart. Will you help?” he asked, opening his hand so Mary could look up at him. “Will you join in my courtship of Catherine?”

Mary blinked and nipped at his thumb.

He chuckled and started home again, his step considerably lighter. “Aye. Then you can begin by being a perfect patient and not nipping her fingers when she sews you up with her pink silk thread. And Mary,” he added with a laugh, tapping the owl on the tip of her beak, “don’t bring her any gifts like you brought Libby. I already have more magic than I can handle right now.”