Fic for oboetheres: Time is the Longest Distance Between Two Hearts, Part 1, Section 1/3
Title: Time is the Longest Distance Between Two Hearts, Part 1, Section 1/3
Recipient: oboetheres
Author: jagnikjen
Characters/Pairings: Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, Anthea, OFCs, OMCs, Greg/Mycroft, Mycroft/Anthea,
Rating: R for one instance of masturbation, mildy described
Word Count: 8483 (this part)
Warnings: Some mild suspending of disbelief might be required.
Summary: Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade is a closet Scottish history buff and has traveled to Scotland on his first holiday in several years to participate in war re-enactments. Fascinated, Greg inspects the stones after an outdoor performance in celebration of Midsummer’s Eve and finds himself hurtled through time.
Author’s Notes: First-Thanks to the mods for this assignment. I’m guessing it was because of oboetheres and my mutual appreciation of Mystrade. But whatever the reason, it was the perfect assignment for me.
Second-Thanks to oboetheres for the prompts. I’m afraid I latched onto the bits that I liked and might not have done justice to a possibly important component request. I hope my recipient will forgive me… I’d been meh about writing for a while, but once the idea for this fic solidified, I had a blast writing it and I remembered how much I enjoy writing and why. Thank you!
Third-Many thanks to my friend cece_away for her initial read through and encouragement, and a HUGE THANKS to recentlyfolded for the beta. Her comments and observations pushed me in a good way and this fic is infinitely better for her help. Any reduction in quality of the last bits of this is because my fic eyes ended up being much larger than my time-frame stomach and I simply ran out of time. That said, this fic has basically become part one of a two-part series, so any rough patches will probably (eventually) be smoothed out and Greg’s interesting adventure will continue.
Fourth-Gaelic compiled from these websites:
http://www.faclair.com/
http://www.omniglot.com/language/phrases/gaelic.php
https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/Appendix:Glossary_of_Scottish_slang_and_jargon
Any errors are completely my own mis-interpretation of the texts.
Names came from: http://www.namenerds.com/scottish/gaelicdude.html
Fourth-The title is a mangled version of a Tennessee Williams quote.
Fifth-Yes, it’s a shameful theft of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander premise. *sorrynotsorry*
Chapter One
Greg’s knees complained about the hardness of floor as he knelt over the length of wool. He folded the clean length of subdued blue plaid slowly and carefully as he’d been taught. He slid the thick brown leather belt underneath the fabric and then lay down, positioning his waist where the belt was situated and making sure the cotton shirttails of his off-white Jacobite shirt were smooth beneath his arse and over his thighs. He folded the sides of the wool over his body, then fastened the belt. The snap crackle of his joints sounded loud in the room when he stood, and he shook his head. He was getting too old for this. But battle re-enactments were one thing he’d always wanted to try, and he’d saved and planned for this holiday for three years. He was going to enjoy it or die trying.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror and inspected his reflection. He’d left the laces at the neck of the shirt loose and a cluster of charcoal-colored chest hairs peeked from the vee. The kilt brushed his kneecaps in the front and draped a little lower in the back. Thick cream-colored knit socks peeked over the tops of brown leather high boots. While he’d purchased a kilt outfit for the battle re-enactments, he hadn’t seen the point in investing in ghillies and going to tonight’s event had been a last minute decision.
The big question, though…pants or no pants?
The hell with it. No pants. Tonight’s performance was more for tourists than battle re-enactors. There would be no mock battles with the accompanying worries about protecting the family jewels. The re-enactment organization assured the participants that many true Scots went regimental or, in contemporary terms, commando. He’d never done it, but a sense of adventure had come over him this trip, so he stripped off his boxer briefs and tossed them at his carryall. He pulled cash and some identification from his wallet and tucked them into his sporran and clasped that on as well.
An hour later, after a quick meal in the hotel dining room, Greg rode the event bus to the standing stones. He answered a couple of emails from the Yard via his mobile before powering it off and stuffing it in his sporran. The ten-minute walk from the road to the site allowed him to stretch his legs and get his blood pumping. The jiggle of his cock and bollocks felt odd. Good but odd. With as thick as the kilt fabric was and the pressure of his sporran, there was no way for anyone to know he was sans pants, but a sense of titillation, along with the tiniest bit of self-consciousness, underlined his anticipation. That and the soft scratch of the wool against his flesh. God, he could just find an out-of-the way spot and wank if he wanted to. His cock twitched and his stomach did a little jig at the thought. He swallowed the nervous laugh that bubbled in his throat. He was a detective inspector with New Scotland Yard, for Pete’s sake. If he got caught doing anything of the sort, he’d be busted down to special co
nstable. As alluring as the prospect of a semi-public wank might sound, he’d best steer clear of any temptations.
The air was cool and the sun sank quickly. Lush green grass covered the rolling hills that undulated to the horizon, and the bright lights of Dumfries shone to the south. Small groups of people, some in contemporary street clothes and some in historical costume, sat here and there on the grass. Torches disguised like old fashioned lanterns dotted the area, offering enough light to see by as the sun disappeared and creating a romantic atmosphere.
An image of Peter flitted through his mind, but Greg shook his head and dislodged it. They’d broken up and it was for the best. He swallowed past the sudden tightness in his throat and sighed. Why could he never find someone who understood the demands of his job? He liked being a police officer and he was damned good at it. A job he was on holiday from at the moment. Right. On holiday. He was here to have a good time and if he met an interesting and interested party, he’d consider a fling. Of course he would. If he didn’t, no worries. His love of Scottish history had brought him here, and being kilted up and part of something outside his everyday existence was a welcome and exciting treat.
“Oh-” he murmured as a cool breeze swirled around his legs and upwards, reminding him unnecessarily that he wore nothing beneath his kilt. Glancing around, he found a suitable spot to sit. He crossed his ankles before dropping to sit cross-legged with the folds of wool beneath his arse and covering his bits.
Some ethereal-sounding music drifted through the air. Flutes, maybe? He thought he recognized a hint of some low-toned drums too. Movement drew his gaze to the standing stones. Women of all shapes and sizes and wearing gauzy gowns in pastel colors appeared. Loose flowing skirts swung and flowed as the women moved. Small green lights flittered around the dancers and wafted out into the audience. However they’d accomplished that, he was impressed.
Greg’s pulse thrummed with the underlying rhythm of the music. The women twirled and jumped in and around one another in a circling pattern amongst the stones. Chanting filled the air and his scalp prickled at the haunting tones.
Suddenly, the world around him went quiet and the women disappeared into the copse of trees on the other side of the standing stones. He sat, astounded, for a moment. Applause filled the void and he blinked, coming back into awareness of his surroundings. He lay back on the cool grass, stretching his legs and allowing the blood to flow back towards his feet. Overhead, the sheer number of stars took his breath away. It’d been ages since he’d been someplace he could see anything other than the brightest stars. The sky was a dark velvet blue and he could almost feel the softness on his fingertips. The air smelled clean and felt crisp in his airways and lungs.
He wanted to check out the stones, though, before the bus left for town, so he rolled to his feet and walked that direction.
Nine stones stood in an irregular ten-meter circle. They ranged from three to five meters in height. Most were no bigger in diameter than a person, some fat, some skinny. The surfaces were smooth from centuries of Highland winds and rains. He ran his fingers along the rock and jerked his hand back in surprise before flattening his palms against one. It reminded him of the bricks of a fireplace with a banked fire keeping them warm. His gazed flicked to each of the stones in turn. Were the rest warm as well? He moved from stone to stone, running his hands along the sides.
A high-pitched keening noise assaulted his ears as he approached the largest stone, and he covered his ears with his hands. A rush of wind swirled around the stone, ruffling his kilt, pushing him close. His stomach swooped and he tried to catch his breath. What the hell was happening? He tried to step back, step away, but the force had grown too strong. He put his hands out as he was propelled forward. The sound deepened to that of a freight train barreling down on him. His vision narrowed, and the world grew darker and darker.
Oh God oh God oh God.
Pressure surrounded him and cut off the scream clawing at his throat. Air whirled around him from every direction and launched him into a swirling vortex of wind and warmth and moisture. He could see nothing but dark shadows rushing past him for long moments.
Then everything went quiet and black and blank as he passed out.
~*~*~
Story notes:
Ten meters=@ 32 feet
Three meters=@10 feet
Five meters=@16 feet
Chapter Two
Laird Mycroft Holmes looked out over his holdings from the window of his private study on the third floor of his castle. Fields were green or golden as far as his eye could see. The fall harvests looked to be abundant. The castle was in good repair. His tenants all seemed in good health and good spirits.
Good, life was all…good.
The sun was almost gone and dark clouds billowed across the distant peaks in the western sky. Lightning flashed brightly in the roiling mass of blackness.
Mycroft turned from the window. “Hugh,” he called loudly.
Several moments later, his steward, Hugh, tall and broad and with the naturally pale complexion of a Highland Scot, appeared from the small antechamber that served as his office. “My laird?”
“There’s a violent storm headed this direction. Send riders to alert the villages and get everything under cover.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Papa, Papa!”
Mycroft couldn’t help the smile as Owen and Rory tore into his office. His twin five-year-old whirling dervishes had as much energy as the incoming storm, but they were two of the lights of his life. Ginger-headed Rory leaped and Mycroft caught him easily. With a quick arm maneuver, he flipped Rory over his shoulder and around his waist before settling the boy back to his feet.
“One of these days, you’re going to drop him on his head,” said Anthea as she followed at a more sedate pace. Eight-month-old Kenna bounced on her mother’s left arm and attempted to stand on her mother’s hip. Owen, who sported the dark hair and eyes of his mother, clutched the folds of Mycroft’s kilt. He wasn’t quite the thrill-seeker his brother was. Mycroft picked him up for a hug and kiss and took a seat in the chair next to the window. The children’s nurse, Mistress Bruis, waited at the door.
Mycroft looked at the boys, now standing before him, both fidgeting. Rory locked and unlocked his knees in an alternating rhythm, while both of Owen’s hands plucked at the legs of his trews.
“Did you boys behave today?”
“Aye,” said Rory.
“I was good, but Ree spilt his milk,” said Owen.
“I see,” said Mycroft. “And was the milk spilt on purpose or was it accidental?”
“It was a accident, Papa. I was trying to get the cup, but I knocked it over instead.” Rory wore a worried expression and could barely meet Mycroft’s gaze.
“Did you help Mistress Phennel clean it up?”
Rory nodded.
Mycroft looked to Anthea who confirmed their son’s response. “Accidents are just that, so I don’t think we can hold it against Rory, do you, Owen?”
“No, sir.”
“As for you…”
Owen heaved a heavy sigh.
“…what have I told you about trying to get your brother into trouble?”
A sheen of moisture rose up in Owen’s brown eyes and his lower lip trembled. “A man has got to be able to count on his brother, sir.”
Mycroft sighed. “That’s right. What do you think a fitting consequence ought to be, Rory?”
Rory regarded his brother and then turned large blue eyes back to Mycroft. “An apology, sir.”
“Nothing else?” Mycroft asked. “You are the wronged party.”
“No, sir.”
“Very good then.” He looked at Owen and raised his eyebrow.
Owen turned to Rory and took his brother’s hands. “I’m sorry I tried to get you into trouble, Ree.”
“Thank you, Wen. I forgive you.” Owen threw his arms around his brother’s neck and hugged him, leaving Rory to cling to Owen’s shirt.
“Rory, go with Nurse and prepare for bed.”
Rory disengaged himself from Owen’s embrace and looked at his father. “What abou-”
Mycroft raised his eyebrow again.
“Yes, sir.” Rory walked toward the nurse, glancing back every few steps.
Once Mistress Bruis and Rory were out of sight and out of earshot, Mycroft said, “Owen, you will do Rory’s chores as well as your own tomorrow.”
Owen hung his head, dark curls, much like his Uncle Sherlock’s, hiding his face. “Yes, sir.”
“Quite. Now catch up with Nurse and Rory.”
Mycroft’s younger son took off, and he and Anthea followed his progress by the sound of boots on the stone flooring.
Anthea pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s forehead and settled Kenna onto his lap. “You’re a good father, Mycroft Holmes.”
He looked into the smiling round face of his infant daughter. She had Anthea’s brown eyes, but the wisps of her thin hair glowed orangish in the light cast by the roaring fire in the huge hearth. Funny that each of the twins was a duplicate of one of their parents while Kenna was a combination. Tiny fingers grasped the coarse hairs on his face and saliva dribbled from the corners of her laughing little mouth. “Pop. Pop,” she burbled.
Mycroft smiled. “I do try.” His own father had been stern and harsh. His father’s manner had alienated both him and Sherlock. Sadly, as the first born, Mycroft couldn’t run away as Sherlock had done so many times. Mycroft had sworn to himself that if he ever had children, he wouldn’t go down that same path. Rory didn’t have the same gentle sensibilities that Mycroft, Sherlock, and Owen shared and could have borne a stricter hand.
Kenna seemed a happy baby and hadn’t quite shown the way of her personality. Time would tell.
The nurse re-appeared in the doorway. “The boys are a-bed, my lord. Shall I whisk your wee lassie off as well?”
“Thank you, Mistress Bruis.”
The stout woman bustled forward and curtsied as Mycroft handed his daughter over.
He rose and took his wife’s hand, kissing the soft back of it. She was lovely with dark brown eyes, soft shiny brown curls, and a figure that many admiring looks assured him was enticing to men. Most men. But not to him.
Betrothed as teens, they’d become allies and close companions early on. That aspect of their relationship had served them well over the years. He loved her, he truly did. She was his chatelaine, the mother of his children, his best friend and his most trusted confidant. But he wished for more in a marriage. He wished his feelings were more than just duty-a duty he gladly undertook, but a duty nonetheless.
“I have some clan accounts to discuss with Hugh,” he said with a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll be but an hour.”
~*~
Mycroft climbed the narrow stairwell to the fifth and top floor of Bassendean. His modest castle misled those who wished him ill will or harm to underestimate his resources and resulting ability to persevere.
A small fire crackled and flickered on the hearth of his bedchamber, throwing long shadows across the walls. There was just enough light for him to see that Anthea had decided to share his bed this night. He was glad for it. The impending storm had him on edge. The trees were already thrashing about in the howling winds, and the younger trees were bent almost to the ground with the force of them. Eerie whistles shrieked through the halls of the castle and under the doors, making him shiver in disquiet. The brunt of the storm hadn’t even reached them yet. Slipping into the small room between his and Anthea’s sleeping chambers, he stripped down to his braies and returned to the cavernous laird’s chamber and climbed into bed.
He stretched out in the cool bedding, but the warmth of Anthea’s form drew him towards her. His movements caused her to stir.
“Mycroft,” she murmured in a rough, sleepy voice.
“I’m here, cridhe, go back to sleep.”
She snuggled into his side and released a deep breath. The feel of her, the scent of her, it was almost enough to rouse his libido. They hadn’t been intimate since Kenna’s conception and self-pleasure only went so far. He missed the intimate touch of another human being. She drifted back to sleep and he closed his eyes, swallowing against the melancholy that lodged like a stone in his throat and threatened to choke him.
~*~*~
Story Notes:
‘cridhe’=‘heart’
Chapter Three
Mycroft sat straight up in bed. His heart thumped so hard and fast that he gasped to catch his breath. A roaring surrounded the castle. Though the stones were well over nine inches thick, they vibrated under the onslaught. His bedchamber was on the top floor of the tower and receiving the brunt of the barrage. His hands trembled and his stomach clenched. Holy Mary, mother of God, what was that noise?
He blinked in the pitch blackness, seeing nothing, not even a glow of embers on the hearth. He took a measured breath and then another and another until the uneven gallop of his heartbeat slowed to a steady canter. Until he could think. What on earth would cause such thundering? He couldn’t remember ever experienc- No, wait.
Hail.
His breath left him in a whoosh and his stomach clenched for a wholly different reason. He scrambled from bed and rushed to a window. He pulled back the tapestry and threw open the shutter. The force of the wind, as well as the deafening howl, forced him back a step. Icy rain lashed at his skin and he shivered despite it being Midsummer.
“Mycroft, what is it?” asked Anthea from the bed, her voice laced with worry.
“Hail.” He heard the dread in his own voice.
Something pelted him in the chest. Several somethings, and he knelt to feel around on the floor. It was too dark to see, but he felt the small roundish objects easily enough. Hailstones the size of his back teeth. They immediately started melting in his hand. Dear God-the crops. His stomach sank to his feet. Lord have mercy on us all.
A hand touched his arm just as a flash of lightning burst across the sky so nearby it blinded him for a moment. He flinched in surprise.
Anthea cried out as well. “My apologies, Mycroft. Are you all right?”
He pulled her close, receiving comfort as much as offering it. “I don’t know. This hail, the stones, they’re very large. The crops are going to sustain damage,” he said and sighed. “I had a feeling the storm was going to be bad. I just didn’t know it was going to be this devastating.”
“You did what you could. Surely no one would remain outside after your warning. We’ll deal with whatever happens. We always do.” She tugged at his arm. “Come back to bed, there’s nothing more we can do until it passes.”
“Aye.” Mycroft closed the shutter and settled the tapestry in place before crawling back into bed, still trembling.
Anthea lay close, her head on his shoulder and her fingers brushing through the hairs on his chest. He closed his eyes and listened to the storm rage. Provisions had been set back. They’d survive, but the ferocity of the storm concerned him. Not only would crops be damaged, if not destroyed completely, but even the smallest streams would become dangerous rapids. He knew of a handful of small crofts that sat along two or three normally trickling brooks. With the amount of rain falling, they’d have filled and overflowed their banks quickly enough. He only hoped the rainfall wasn’t heavy enough for any flooding to reach them. He prayed mercy on their kinsmen. Livestock and crops could be replaced-their people could not.
He didn’t want to contemplate it. He could do nothing right now, nothing until the light of day.
Anthea’s soft hand continued its movements, sweeping back and forth across his chest. His prick twitched. Perhaps he could convince her to allow him a distraction. No, that wasn’t fair.
She’s your wife.
Anthea pressed a kiss to his neck, brushed a fingertip across his nipple. A spark of need flared in his gut and he bit back a groan. Either she too needed a diversion or she sensed his unrest. She did it again and he hissed.
He took hold of her wrist. “My dear.” His voice was low, practically a growl. “You realize what you’re starting, do you not?”
“Aye, husband.”
“And you’re sure?” Another low growl.
“Let me,” she murmured. He’d allow her to lead and would go no farther.
Mycroft took Anthea’s mouth in a gentle though thorough kiss. His prick hardened and she took him in hand, stroking with a light twist on the downstroke. He closed his own large hand around hers, tightening her grip, and fucked her hand. It wasn’t quite as satisfying as her cunny, but it was better than his own solitary hand. His bollocks tightened and a tingling gathered low in his body. With a last thrust, Mycroft spent himself between them. He lay still for a few moments, catching his breath. “Thank you, my love. And you?”
“Nay, just hold me.”
He spooned around her, her soft hair tickling his nose, and her body soon slackened into slumber. His limbs were loose and relaxed, his libido satiated for the moment, duty performed, biological urges met. He wanted more than that from lovemaking however. He wanted to be desired and cherished. He wanted to be thought worthy and beautiful. He wanted to feel complete.
Mycroft was awake when dawn broke. His head throbbed in dread at what the reckoning of the storm would bring, but there was no avoiding it. As laird, he needed to know what nature had wrought. Villages would send their messengers with accountings of the losses and damages. Hugh would log the information in his ledgers and then a meeting would be held to determine who needed what kind of help. The silver lining was that they had the whole summer to make repairs. Some of the crops could be replanted as well and still have time to come to fruition.
~*~
The day was a long one. Mistress Phennel had delivered his and Hugh’s meals to the outer bailey as tenants and village leaders came and went throughout the hours.
When the day finally ended, Mycroft slowly climbed the stairs. The worst of the storm had spent itself directly over the castle. Outlying villages and farms had suffered a good soaking, but none had reported hail. Few of the crops were grown so close to the outer bailey, so overall losses had been minimal. He could scarce believe it. He was thankful, to be sure. Several wooden outbuildings had been demolished by the force of the wind and hailstones, but they had been so old that their destruction mattered little.
The keep was mostly dark, and Mycroft carried a small lantern as he made his way upwards. The children had long since been put to bed and Anthea was more than likely tucked into her own chamber with her prayer book or some sort of needlework. A thin strip of light shone at the base of her door and he knocked.
“Come,” she called and he lifted the latch.
The room glowed golden orange from the dozens of candles flickering in their stands close to her desk. A small fire blazed on the hearth behind her.
Encroaching a mere three steps into her domain, he asked, “Are you well?” Her attentions last night had been more than welcome. Because of her general disinterest in sex, guilt always plagued him after they’d been intimate. Even after seven years of her assurances that tending to his needs did not horrify her, that she was satisfied with their arrangement, and that she was pleased to be of assistance, he still felt as though he were imposing his base needs upon her.
“Mycroft.”
He blinked and sought her gaze. Her tender smile elicited a fierce desire to protect her at all costs. Even from himself if needs be.
“I am fine, husband. Put away those thoughts and go to bed. You look ready to collapse.”
“Aye.” He crossed the room and leaned over to kiss the top of her head.
She tilted her head back and covered his mouth with her own, though the kiss remained chaste. “What was that for?”
“Because I love you, My.”
“And I love you. Good night, cridhe.”
Chapter Four
Mycroft sat at his desk in his private study on the third floor of the keep. The windows were open to the late afternoon air. Papers ruffled in the easy breeze. Sounds of life floated up to him from the baileys below: the chatter of voices, the snorting of horses, and the cluck of the chickens. A dog barked in the distance, followed by the bleating of sheep. The metal clang of the smith’s hammer rang rhythmically. White clouds scudding across the bright blue of the sky captured his gaze, and he struggled to concentrate on the work in front of him.
A sennight had passed since the storm, and cleanup had gone smoothly and quickly. The good Lord had shown mercy, and Mycroft was more than thankful. Confusion, however, had been a constant companion. Why had the damage been minimal? Why had the storm been concentrated over castle? The Lord worked in mysterious ways, and he wasn’t one to question.
“Praise be to God in heaven. Thank you, Lord, for your tender mercies,” he murmured.
The bulk of the work had taken place and the clan could look forward to the Midsummer’s Eve festivities to be held a few days from now. The men had been hauling wood from destroyed buildings as well as the downed tree limbs and branches in preparation for building the bonfires, and the women had turned to baking and preparing food for the feast. Smells of roasted meat and baking bread had filled the castle from sunup to sundown. He sniffed the air and his stomach grumbled at the rich scents that attested to the Lord’s blessing and benevolence. He would be in search of a meal soon.
“Mycroft, come.”
Mycroft blinked, bringing the window and tapestries back into focus, and looked up to find Anthea standing in the doorway. Prompted by the tone of her voice, he rose immediately and strode toward her. “What is it, cridhe?”
When he reached her, she smiled and took his hand. “Just come.”
His initial anxiety dissipated and he allowed himself to be led downstairs and into the courtyard. Rory and Owen squirmed with impatience, lumpy packs on their small backs.
“What’s this?” he asked, looking from Rory to Owen to Anthea.
Anthea took Kenna from Mistress Bruis, who’d been overseeing the waiting.
“It’s a picnic dinner, Papa,” said Rory. “Mama says you’ve been working too hard and that we should do something ‘laxing.”
In a blink, he had a small hand in each one of his and was being tugged toward the open fields. He smiled down at the pair of grins beaming up at him.
“Some relaxation seems like just the thing even though Midsummer’s Eve is only a few evenings hence.”
“We both know you’ll do little relaxing,” scolded Anthea kindly from behind him and the twins. “While everyone else enjoys themselves, you’ll be the laird. Nothing relaxing about pretending to drink or watching others have a good time.”
“You are correct as usual, my dear.” Mycroft tapped the backs of the boys’ hands together. “I pray you boys are as blessed in your marriages as I have been in mine.” He had been lucky.
The boys twisted to look back at their mother, matching expressions of bewilderment adorning their faces.
“Why don’t you go find a good spot for the blanket?” Anthea suggested and they took off over the small rise ahead of them like dogs after a rabbit.
Mycroft lifted Kenna from Anthea’s arms and jiggled her in the air. Happy baby shrieks permeated the air and a deep sense of contentment filled him. He had a beautiful, loving, understanding wife by his side; strong, healthy children to carry on the family name and legacy; and prosperous lands. What more could a man ask for?
Passion.
The thought came unbidden and he swallowed a sigh. He lived a life many would envy. He was content. Mostly. Men finding pleasure or even love with other men was considered unnatural and had been linked to Satanism. Mycroft had no wish to be branded as any sort of deviant and suffer the consequences. Few knew of his sexual leanings. Anthea did, of course, and he knew of hers. He could count on one hand the number of men he’d been with. Three of his liaisons had happened during his teens and had been considered youthful experimentation. The other two had occurred after his marriage and couldn’t be construed as anything other than much-needed release on his part. He loved Anthea, but intimacy with her just didn’t provide the emotional and physical satisfaction he craved. Finding and keeping a lover would be dangerous. He’d never yet met a man worth the risk.
He and Anthea crested the hill. The boys’ packs lay carelessly discarded on the grass next to a shallow stream. Shrieks of laughter carried on the gentle, sweet-smelling breeze. The crack and snap of twigs indicated that the boys had crossed the stream and were tramping around a small coppice.
The sun had begun its descent, but wouldn’t drop below the jagged edges of the distant peaks for at least an hour. It bathed the land in a soft golden light
Anthea unwrapped her plaid and settled it on the grass before sitting on one corner. Mycroft settled Kenna in the center of it before joining them. They reminisced about their childhoods and laughed in easy companionship.
Eventually, Mycroft’s stomach grumbled and he opened the packs. He pulled dried venison, bannocks, and cheese from one, along with a flask of wine. In the other were grapes and apples and a skin of water. A meal fit for a king. Mycroft snorted softly to himself. Fit for a laird in any case. He and Anthea ate their fill and fed Kenna small bits as well. The boys were in their element and food would hold little interest for them. The sun finally dropped out of view, although golden shards of light fanned out above the mountain tops. In the evening sky, pale orange flowed into raspberry pink which morphed into rich blue as nighttime tiptoed ever closer. The world was wrapped in the muted hazy blanket of twilight.
Owen dashed out of the coppice and ran to the top of the next low rise and stopped short. Not expecting Owen’s halt, Rory plowed into him and they both tumbled over and out of sight.
“Mama, Mama, Papa, come look!” called one of them. It sounded like Rory. Their heads became visible when they retook their feet.
Mycroft exchanged a puzzled look with Anthea as they both rose. He scooped up Kenna and helped Anthea cross the stream without getting her skirts too wet. Hand in hand, they crossed the grass and lengthened their strides to climb the small hill. Upon reaching the crest, they came to an immediate stop.
The meadow sloped away from them, the grass a bright velvety green. The valley was filled with thousands if not millions of small insects that hovered, flittered, and twinkled in the misty gloaming.
Mycroft’s breath caught, a smile crept across his face, and he took a step back.
“It’s beautiful,” Anthea murmured, awe coloring her voice. “I’ve never seen anything like that. What are they?”
They shared a glance before they returned their gazes to the sight in front of them.
It was quite extraordinary. He’d seen the phenomenon once as boy, but never since. Whether because he’d missed it or it just hadn’t happened, he didn’t know. “It’s the…it’s the harbinger.” Oh. Oh, goodness. Mycroft slapped a hand to his forehead and looked at Anthea. “It’s been so long, I failed to recognize the signs.”
“Signs?”
“The hailstorm and now this. We’re going to have a Midsummer visitor.”
Chapter Five
Greg awoke and immediately clamped his eyes shut against the blinding sun. A searing arc of pain bolted through his head. He groaned and his stomach roiled in response. His body curled into a fetal position of its own accord, and he covered his head with his arms, swallowing back the sick that threatened. He breathed in and out through his nose. The air was crisp and fresh, and the pain lessened by degrees.
He took virtual stock of his body. Feet, ankles, and legs all felt fine. Waist, abdomen, chest, also fine. Hands, arms, shoulders, no pain there either. All right then. Nothing seemed to be broken or bleeding. At least not that he could tell hunched in a ball. Slowly, he straightened his body and rolled onto his back. He opened his eyes behind the shield of his arm and when nothing hurt worse, he let out the breath he’d held and uncovered his face. His head pulsed dully, but it was bearable. He swallowed again, trying to flush the sour taste from his mouth. What he wouldn’t give for a bottle of water.
What on earth had happened? One minute, he’d been exploring the standing stones; the next, he was- He shuffled up onto his elbows and looked around. Wait. Where were the standing stones? He craned his neck to look behind him. No road in that direction either. The hell?
He laid back down for a moment and tried to recall something, anything. Nothing more than touching the standing stones and then waking up here presented itself. Did he have amnesia? No. Name and personal details all came to mind. Queen Elizabeth was on the throne and David Cameron in Number 10 Downing Street. Okay, so he’d just call for help, get back to the hotel, and figure things out from there.
He patted his waist and encountered nothing but wool. His stomach lurched. Oh, no. Please don’t let him have lost his mobile.
He ran an extended arm along the grass. A soft “yes” escaped him when his fingers touched something furry. He felt for the clasp and frowned when there was nothing but open pouch. Odd. Where was the metal closure? Where was the chain that it had hung from around his waist? This day was getting better and better. He reached inside and found nothing. “Dammit,” he exclaimed and flinched at the throb the sound of his voice elicited.
This couldn’t be happening. Considering what he remembered, he didn’t think he’d been assaulted and robbed, despite the fact that his mobile, cash, and identification were missing.
Without his mobile, he couldn’t call for help, which meant he’d have to go in search of it himself. Greg clambered to his feet and another stab of pain lanced his head. He sucked in a sharp breath and doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees to keep from hitting the ground once again. He drew deep breaths until the dizziness passed and he straightened once again.
Clear blue sky stretched on for endless miles, as did the rolling green hills. He tried to get his bearings based on what he remembered from arriving at the standing stones. Had that been moments ago? Had it been last night? God, he didn’t even know how long he’d been passed out.
Well, he couldn’t have gone too far, could he have? Surely the stones or the road were close, yeah?
He pivoted in place, looking for anything familiar. But there was nothing. No standing stones, no road, no houses. What the hell? His breath came in shorts shallow pants and his pulse raced. He suddenly felt cold and couldn’t catch his breath. Breathe, Greg, breathe.
He sucked in several deep breaths and felt better. A bit, anyway. His heart rate returned to some semblance of normal and he looked around again. Really looked. Slowly looked. There were no power poles and no mobile towers. Bloody hell! He wasn’t even in that remote-ish of a part of Scotland. He’d had mobile reception during the bus ride to the standing stones. He knew of no place in all of the U.K. where power poles couldn’t be seen in the distance at least. Where on earth was he?
No answers came to him in the silence. The universe was keeping her secrets. Well, he was a detective inspector for New Scotland Yard. He could figure this out on his own, right? Right.
The only thing Greg knew for sure was that he needed water. He was vaguely certain there were more than a few hours of daylight left, though how many more he couldn’t determine. He surveyed his surroundings. Sheesh-he knew nothing of survival training. He should have paid more attention to those American survival shows he occasionally watched.
He inhaled and exhaled a deep breath. All right-down. He would go downhill. The higher he went, the colder it would become once darkness caught up with him. His bits shrank a little at the thought and he questioned his decision to go commando for the first time. He hoped he’d find a stream or a road. Either would be welcome. He glanced up at the sun. Based on it’s position, he thought it likely that downhill was also south.
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
Of course, London was roughly 350 miles south, so he was slightly ahead of the journey. With a sigh, he took a step, then another, and another, his head throbbing mildly in sync with his steps.
His knees started griping almost immediately, but Greg kept walking until his lungs began complaining. He stumbled the last few meters to a large boulder and collapsed onto it. It held the warmth of the sun and warmed the backs of his thighs and his arse. He lifted his kilt and sat directly on the stone. An inadvertent “ahhh” escaped him. The cramps in his knees eased and his breathing quieted. The sounds of nature finally had a chance to penetrate his mind. The distant rushing of the wind. Twittering birds. Whirring insects. And-he grinned in recognition-water. Closing his eyes, he listened intently. The sound came from the left. He rose and headed in the direction of the sun. Sure enough, he found a small stream within a few minutes and fell to his knees. The icy water soothed his parched throat and he drank greedily. He scooped handfuls of it over his head and scrubbed his hair, face, and neck. A chill shivered through him, but he felt refreshed, if only slightly.
He sat up with a gasp. What had he done? That water could be contaminated with God-knows-what and he’d just slurped pints of it.
Easy, skippy. He shook his head. Any water was better than no water at this point. That much he knew. He could be treated later if he caught something. Of course, his immune system was pretty strong considering the things he’d been exposed to at various crime scenes. He snorted. Or in Sherlock’s flat. Yeah, all right then. He probably didn’t have anything to worry about.
Too bad he didn’t have some sort of container, but he supposed he’d follow the stream for a bit and see where it led him. He leant over for another long draught, found a spot to take a piss-not in the stream-and set off again.
The sun had been slightly past its zenith when he’d started out and now it looked as if it was more than halfway to evening. His stomach had started grumbling some time ago, but he had no idea what was safe to eat. Without even the most rudimentary of tools, he couldn’t catch or kill anything anyway, much less cook it. Of course, he hadn’t seen anything to catch or kill.
Well, shoot. He settled his hands on his hips and looked around.
A thin trail of smoke caught his eye and his heart leapt and his pulse jumped. Thank God. A house at least. And food. And people. A way to get home.
He took off at a painful jog, keeping the line of smoke dead ahead. Eventually, he caught sight of a chimney and a bit of thatched roof.
A scream rent the air, then a deeper yell. The smoke thickened and blackened as flames ate up the thatch.
Bloody fucking hell.
Greg forced his aching knees into a run.
Chapter Six
Greg tore through the rickety gates and into the small yard of the burning cottage, gasping for breath and with his head resounding like a gong. There was no time to worry about himself, however. He swallowed back the urge to puke and swiped his arm across his forehead.
Several men wearing tattered and dirty clothing held back another man and a teen-aged boy, both struggling to get free-likely the owner of the cottage and his son. A woman and a pair of ragamuffin children huddled under a tree. The children clung to each other, crying, and the woman just looked stricken as she watched her home burn.
The crackling roar of the flames as they consumed the thatch made Greg’s heart hurt and his stomach clench.
The men laughed.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Greg yelled and charged them. Pain bloomed along his jaw and through his head, and his world went black once more.
When he awoke, he was sat against a log, wrists and ankles bound with a rough rope. Heat from a fire warmed his front, although his back felt a bit cool. The sun was gone and the sky was inky. A stiff breeze ruffled across his head and caressed his skin. Burning wood and roasting meat assaulted his sense of smell. Both the scent of food and his extreme hunger made him a bit queasy.
Three faces on the other side of the fire glowed orange. They were different faces than the ones that had knocked him out. Their clothing was clean and similar to each other’s in appearance. He wasn’t sure if being in the custody of these new men was a good thing or a bad thing. Were they soldiers of some sort? And for what side of the ‘fight’?
One of the men rose and came toward Greg, a burly bloke with true red hair, if the orange halo created by the fire was any indication. He held out a skin of liquid. Greg had just enough slack in his restraints that he could hold the skin and remove the stopper. He took a careful sip. It was some sort of ale, though nothing like the stuff he’d tried at the pub. He took another swig before corking the container and handing it back to the man. “Thanks.”
The man nodded.
“You understand English?”
“Aye.”
Thank God. He could get some answers. Setting a house on fire seemed like a like an odd thing to include during battle re-enactments. If it was part of the whole program, then why had he been the only one there?
But first things first. He held up his bound wrists. “I’m a detective inspector with the Met.” At the bloke’s frown, he added, “The police force. In London.” Still no comprehension. “Is this really necessary?”
“Aye.”
“Why? I realize this is all part of the re-enactments, which I didn’t know had started, by the way, but I’m lost. I’m not supposed to be a part of this one. I just want to get back to Dumfries.”
The man raised a red brow. “Dumfries?”
“Yeah, you know, home base for the re-enactments.”
The man shook his head, a furrow appearing on his wide forehead. “I nay ken yer words.”
Greg’s heart rate kicked up a notch. These guys were taking their war games a bit too far. Of course, he was at a distinct disadvantage. “Look-” He held up his hands again, and twirled one of them around. “-I’m not a part of this particular scene. Something’s happened to me. I’m lost. Maybe I could borrow your mobile since mine’s disappeared, to call the hotel or a taxi or something.”
The man looked even more puzzled. “I nay ken yer words.”
Greg ground his teeth together. “But you understand English?” He raised a brow to punctuate his question.
“Aye.”
“Well, understand this- You have no right hold me, especially if this is just some re-enactment. I demand you release me.” Greg held out his bound limbs again.
The man just stared. He understood only some English apparently.
“Rest assured I’m going to report you to the re-enactment organization, and I have half a mind to report you for kidnapping.”
Greg took a deep breath and shook his head. Yeah, he looked and sounded pretty damned police-like sitting on the ground and tied up like a petty criminal. He wouldn’t take himself seriously either. Fucking hell. Greg took another breath and looked up. Back to basics, then. “Where am I?”
The man answered, but his brogue was so thick Greg couldn’t understand what he said. “I’m sorry, can you say it again?”
Slowly and deliberately, the man did so. “Bass-en-dean.”
“Bassendean?”
“Aye.”
“In Scotland, yeah?”
“Aye.”
Well, that was something anyway.
“Can I borrow your mobile?”
“I nay ken mobile.”
“What? You don’t have a mobile?”
“Nay.”
Christ. He ran a hand over his face. Who was this guy? Had they found the most back-woods native in all of Scotland to run the re-enactment? Make it more authentic? Just his damned luck.
“Food?” the man asked.
It sounded more like good than food, but at least Greg understood. An offer of food seemed neutral enough and aside from tying him up, they hadn’t been hostile. He nodded.
The man returned to the fire. He pulled what looked like a roll from a haversack and tore some meat from the roasting animal. He came back and handed Greg what amounted to a quick and perfunctory butty.
He nodded again in thanks.
Already ravenous, he wasn’t going to question the lack of hygiene or the species of the meat he was about to consume. If his new captors hadn’t keeled over, that was good enough for him. It’d probably been twenty-four hours since he’d last eaten. He’d need sustenance if he wanted to keep his head clear and effect some sort of escape if the opportunity presented itself.
The butty eaten, a full stomach eased most of his woes. The nausea was gone and the pounding had been reduced to nothing more than a low thrum. A good night’s sleep would most likely take care of that, though he doubted any sleep he got tonight would meet that description.
“Will we be heading back to town tonight?” he called over the crackle of the modest fire.
All eyes turned to him. The man who’d spoken to him before frowned. “Town?” Tune? Greg heard.
Greg nodded. “Yes, town. You know, Dumfries?”
“Nay.”
“So we’re not going to town or we’re not going tonight?”
“A-màireach…the laird. We ride in the day to the laird.”
The laird. They were taking this re-enactment thing pretty seriously. “The laird?”
“Aye.”
Greg scrubbed a hand down his face, the other hand along for the ride due to his crude handcuffs. He was so damned confused. So Burly Bloke could understand some English, basic English, but he obviously had trouble translating his Gaelic to English. His thick brogue didn’t help matters either. Hopefully, this laird could speak English and would be easier to understand. Greg could get some answers as well as some help. How the hell had this happened to him? “Okay. Tomorrow we’ll see the laird. So we’re sleeping here tonight?”
“Aye.” Burly Bloke rose and approached Greg. He held out a hand and indicated that he wanted Greg to stand. Greg accepted his hand and was tugged to his feet. He’d have made a run for it, but his ankles were bound.
Burly Bloke flipped the top layer of his kilt over his shoulders and gestured that he was going to do the same to Greg. He understood that Burly Bloke didn’t want to untie his hands or feet for whatever reason, and he appreciated the warning of his intent; otherwise, they might have had words.
Burly Bloke reached around Greg and carefully separated the layers of Greg’s kilt and draped it over his shoulders.
Greg nodded.
Burly Bloke indicated that Greg should settle back down and catch some shut eye.
If they were taking him to the laird tomorrow, then he might as well quit wasting his breath. He’d definitely be having words with the re-enactment organization when he got back. Nowhere had they disclosed that this was total immersion. Greg had expected to go back to the hotel each night, shower, and sleep in a comfortable bed.
Since that clearly wasn’t happening tonight, he got as comfortable as he could and closed his eyes.
~*~
Greg was roused by the babble of incomprehensible chatter. The sky was a pale blue gray, indicating that the sun hadn’t quite made an appearance. It was early, but there was enough light to see by. He shivered in the chill. The Scots’ horses were saddled and ready to go, and what by process of elimination was to be his own mount, a pathetic-looking ass stood munching the grass.
“May I ride properly seated? Not thrown over the back? I won’t try to escape. I really do want to speak with the laird.” And give him a piece of my mind.
Burly Bloke studied him hard before nodding. “Aye,” he said and untied Greg’s ankles and wrists. He retied Greg’s wrists once he was astride. Burly Bloke handed Greg another bread roll and mounted his horse.
Greg lost track of time as they rode, not that he’d had any sense of it to begin with. The sun had crested the horizon and the rays warmed him, thank goodness. He hoped this laird had coffee. He could use a large steaming mug of it with lots of sugar and a dollop of cream.
It could have been an hour or it could have been three before a manor house-castle?-came into view, slightly elevated on a hill and circled by a stone wall. Greg could only see the top three stories from this distance. The structure itself looked more like the manor houses he’d seen online, but the whole arrangement, hill, wall, bailey-that configuration indicated castle. Their small group rounded a stand of trees and the road stretched up a small rise and straight into the bailey.
Greg heaved a sigh and felt a bit of the tenseness he’d carried leave his shoulders. Finally. He was going to meet this so-called laird and he was going to get some answers.
~*~*~
Story Notes:
‘butty’= at its most basic, a sandwich
Recipient: oboetheres
Author: jagnikjen
Characters/Pairings: Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, Anthea, OFCs, OMCs, Greg/Mycroft, Mycroft/Anthea,
Rating: R for one instance of masturbation, mildy described
Word Count: 8483 (this part)
Warnings: Some mild suspending of disbelief might be required.
Summary: Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade is a closet Scottish history buff and has traveled to Scotland on his first holiday in several years to participate in war re-enactments. Fascinated, Greg inspects the stones after an outdoor performance in celebration of Midsummer’s Eve and finds himself hurtled through time.
Author’s Notes: First-Thanks to the mods for this assignment. I’m guessing it was because of oboetheres and my mutual appreciation of Mystrade. But whatever the reason, it was the perfect assignment for me.
Second-Thanks to oboetheres for the prompts. I’m afraid I latched onto the bits that I liked and might not have done justice to a possibly important component request. I hope my recipient will forgive me… I’d been meh about writing for a while, but once the idea for this fic solidified, I had a blast writing it and I remembered how much I enjoy writing and why. Thank you!
Third-Many thanks to my friend cece_away for her initial read through and encouragement, and a HUGE THANKS to recentlyfolded for the beta. Her comments and observations pushed me in a good way and this fic is infinitely better for her help. Any reduction in quality of the last bits of this is because my fic eyes ended up being much larger than my time-frame stomach and I simply ran out of time. That said, this fic has basically become part one of a two-part series, so any rough patches will probably (eventually) be smoothed out and Greg’s interesting adventure will continue.
Fourth-Gaelic compiled from these websites:
http://www.faclair.com/
http://www.omniglot.com/language/phrases/gaelic.php
https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/Appendix:Glossary_of_Scottish_slang_and_jargon
Any errors are completely my own mis-interpretation of the texts.
Names came from: http://www.namenerds.com/scottish/gaelicdude.html
Fourth-The title is a mangled version of a Tennessee Williams quote.
Fifth-Yes, it’s a shameful theft of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander premise. *sorrynotsorry*
Chapter One
Greg’s knees complained about the hardness of floor as he knelt over the length of wool. He folded the clean length of subdued blue plaid slowly and carefully as he’d been taught. He slid the thick brown leather belt underneath the fabric and then lay down, positioning his waist where the belt was situated and making sure the cotton shirttails of his off-white Jacobite shirt were smooth beneath his arse and over his thighs. He folded the sides of the wool over his body, then fastened the belt. The snap crackle of his joints sounded loud in the room when he stood, and he shook his head. He was getting too old for this. But battle re-enactments were one thing he’d always wanted to try, and he’d saved and planned for this holiday for three years. He was going to enjoy it or die trying.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror and inspected his reflection. He’d left the laces at the neck of the shirt loose and a cluster of charcoal-colored chest hairs peeked from the vee. The kilt brushed his kneecaps in the front and draped a little lower in the back. Thick cream-colored knit socks peeked over the tops of brown leather high boots. While he’d purchased a kilt outfit for the battle re-enactments, he hadn’t seen the point in investing in ghillies and going to tonight’s event had been a last minute decision.
The big question, though…pants or no pants?
The hell with it. No pants. Tonight’s performance was more for tourists than battle re-enactors. There would be no mock battles with the accompanying worries about protecting the family jewels. The re-enactment organization assured the participants that many true Scots went regimental or, in contemporary terms, commando. He’d never done it, but a sense of adventure had come over him this trip, so he stripped off his boxer briefs and tossed them at his carryall. He pulled cash and some identification from his wallet and tucked them into his sporran and clasped that on as well.
An hour later, after a quick meal in the hotel dining room, Greg rode the event bus to the standing stones. He answered a couple of emails from the Yard via his mobile before powering it off and stuffing it in his sporran. The ten-minute walk from the road to the site allowed him to stretch his legs and get his blood pumping. The jiggle of his cock and bollocks felt odd. Good but odd. With as thick as the kilt fabric was and the pressure of his sporran, there was no way for anyone to know he was sans pants, but a sense of titillation, along with the tiniest bit of self-consciousness, underlined his anticipation. That and the soft scratch of the wool against his flesh. God, he could just find an out-of-the way spot and wank if he wanted to. His cock twitched and his stomach did a little jig at the thought. He swallowed the nervous laugh that bubbled in his throat. He was a detective inspector with New Scotland Yard, for Pete’s sake. If he got caught doing anything of the sort, he’d be busted down to special co
nstable. As alluring as the prospect of a semi-public wank might sound, he’d best steer clear of any temptations.
The air was cool and the sun sank quickly. Lush green grass covered the rolling hills that undulated to the horizon, and the bright lights of Dumfries shone to the south. Small groups of people, some in contemporary street clothes and some in historical costume, sat here and there on the grass. Torches disguised like old fashioned lanterns dotted the area, offering enough light to see by as the sun disappeared and creating a romantic atmosphere.
An image of Peter flitted through his mind, but Greg shook his head and dislodged it. They’d broken up and it was for the best. He swallowed past the sudden tightness in his throat and sighed. Why could he never find someone who understood the demands of his job? He liked being a police officer and he was damned good at it. A job he was on holiday from at the moment. Right. On holiday. He was here to have a good time and if he met an interesting and interested party, he’d consider a fling. Of course he would. If he didn’t, no worries. His love of Scottish history had brought him here, and being kilted up and part of something outside his everyday existence was a welcome and exciting treat.
“Oh-” he murmured as a cool breeze swirled around his legs and upwards, reminding him unnecessarily that he wore nothing beneath his kilt. Glancing around, he found a suitable spot to sit. He crossed his ankles before dropping to sit cross-legged with the folds of wool beneath his arse and covering his bits.
Some ethereal-sounding music drifted through the air. Flutes, maybe? He thought he recognized a hint of some low-toned drums too. Movement drew his gaze to the standing stones. Women of all shapes and sizes and wearing gauzy gowns in pastel colors appeared. Loose flowing skirts swung and flowed as the women moved. Small green lights flittered around the dancers and wafted out into the audience. However they’d accomplished that, he was impressed.
Greg’s pulse thrummed with the underlying rhythm of the music. The women twirled and jumped in and around one another in a circling pattern amongst the stones. Chanting filled the air and his scalp prickled at the haunting tones.
Suddenly, the world around him went quiet and the women disappeared into the copse of trees on the other side of the standing stones. He sat, astounded, for a moment. Applause filled the void and he blinked, coming back into awareness of his surroundings. He lay back on the cool grass, stretching his legs and allowing the blood to flow back towards his feet. Overhead, the sheer number of stars took his breath away. It’d been ages since he’d been someplace he could see anything other than the brightest stars. The sky was a dark velvet blue and he could almost feel the softness on his fingertips. The air smelled clean and felt crisp in his airways and lungs.
He wanted to check out the stones, though, before the bus left for town, so he rolled to his feet and walked that direction.
Nine stones stood in an irregular ten-meter circle. They ranged from three to five meters in height. Most were no bigger in diameter than a person, some fat, some skinny. The surfaces were smooth from centuries of Highland winds and rains. He ran his fingers along the rock and jerked his hand back in surprise before flattening his palms against one. It reminded him of the bricks of a fireplace with a banked fire keeping them warm. His gazed flicked to each of the stones in turn. Were the rest warm as well? He moved from stone to stone, running his hands along the sides.
A high-pitched keening noise assaulted his ears as he approached the largest stone, and he covered his ears with his hands. A rush of wind swirled around the stone, ruffling his kilt, pushing him close. His stomach swooped and he tried to catch his breath. What the hell was happening? He tried to step back, step away, but the force had grown too strong. He put his hands out as he was propelled forward. The sound deepened to that of a freight train barreling down on him. His vision narrowed, and the world grew darker and darker.
Oh God oh God oh God.
Pressure surrounded him and cut off the scream clawing at his throat. Air whirled around him from every direction and launched him into a swirling vortex of wind and warmth and moisture. He could see nothing but dark shadows rushing past him for long moments.
Then everything went quiet and black and blank as he passed out.
~*~*~
Story notes:
Ten meters=@ 32 feet
Three meters=@10 feet
Five meters=@16 feet
Chapter Two
Laird Mycroft Holmes looked out over his holdings from the window of his private study on the third floor of his castle. Fields were green or golden as far as his eye could see. The fall harvests looked to be abundant. The castle was in good repair. His tenants all seemed in good health and good spirits.
Good, life was all…good.
The sun was almost gone and dark clouds billowed across the distant peaks in the western sky. Lightning flashed brightly in the roiling mass of blackness.
Mycroft turned from the window. “Hugh,” he called loudly.
Several moments later, his steward, Hugh, tall and broad and with the naturally pale complexion of a Highland Scot, appeared from the small antechamber that served as his office. “My laird?”
“There’s a violent storm headed this direction. Send riders to alert the villages and get everything under cover.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Papa, Papa!”
Mycroft couldn’t help the smile as Owen and Rory tore into his office. His twin five-year-old whirling dervishes had as much energy as the incoming storm, but they were two of the lights of his life. Ginger-headed Rory leaped and Mycroft caught him easily. With a quick arm maneuver, he flipped Rory over his shoulder and around his waist before settling the boy back to his feet.
“One of these days, you’re going to drop him on his head,” said Anthea as she followed at a more sedate pace. Eight-month-old Kenna bounced on her mother’s left arm and attempted to stand on her mother’s hip. Owen, who sported the dark hair and eyes of his mother, clutched the folds of Mycroft’s kilt. He wasn’t quite the thrill-seeker his brother was. Mycroft picked him up for a hug and kiss and took a seat in the chair next to the window. The children’s nurse, Mistress Bruis, waited at the door.
Mycroft looked at the boys, now standing before him, both fidgeting. Rory locked and unlocked his knees in an alternating rhythm, while both of Owen’s hands plucked at the legs of his trews.
“Did you boys behave today?”
“Aye,” said Rory.
“I was good, but Ree spilt his milk,” said Owen.
“I see,” said Mycroft. “And was the milk spilt on purpose or was it accidental?”
“It was a accident, Papa. I was trying to get the cup, but I knocked it over instead.” Rory wore a worried expression and could barely meet Mycroft’s gaze.
“Did you help Mistress Phennel clean it up?”
Rory nodded.
Mycroft looked to Anthea who confirmed their son’s response. “Accidents are just that, so I don’t think we can hold it against Rory, do you, Owen?”
“No, sir.”
“As for you…”
Owen heaved a heavy sigh.
“…what have I told you about trying to get your brother into trouble?”
A sheen of moisture rose up in Owen’s brown eyes and his lower lip trembled. “A man has got to be able to count on his brother, sir.”
Mycroft sighed. “That’s right. What do you think a fitting consequence ought to be, Rory?”
Rory regarded his brother and then turned large blue eyes back to Mycroft. “An apology, sir.”
“Nothing else?” Mycroft asked. “You are the wronged party.”
“No, sir.”
“Very good then.” He looked at Owen and raised his eyebrow.
Owen turned to Rory and took his brother’s hands. “I’m sorry I tried to get you into trouble, Ree.”
“Thank you, Wen. I forgive you.” Owen threw his arms around his brother’s neck and hugged him, leaving Rory to cling to Owen’s shirt.
“Rory, go with Nurse and prepare for bed.”
Rory disengaged himself from Owen’s embrace and looked at his father. “What abou-”
Mycroft raised his eyebrow again.
“Yes, sir.” Rory walked toward the nurse, glancing back every few steps.
Once Mistress Bruis and Rory were out of sight and out of earshot, Mycroft said, “Owen, you will do Rory’s chores as well as your own tomorrow.”
Owen hung his head, dark curls, much like his Uncle Sherlock’s, hiding his face. “Yes, sir.”
“Quite. Now catch up with Nurse and Rory.”
Mycroft’s younger son took off, and he and Anthea followed his progress by the sound of boots on the stone flooring.
Anthea pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s forehead and settled Kenna onto his lap. “You’re a good father, Mycroft Holmes.”
He looked into the smiling round face of his infant daughter. She had Anthea’s brown eyes, but the wisps of her thin hair glowed orangish in the light cast by the roaring fire in the huge hearth. Funny that each of the twins was a duplicate of one of their parents while Kenna was a combination. Tiny fingers grasped the coarse hairs on his face and saliva dribbled from the corners of her laughing little mouth. “Pop. Pop,” she burbled.
Mycroft smiled. “I do try.” His own father had been stern and harsh. His father’s manner had alienated both him and Sherlock. Sadly, as the first born, Mycroft couldn’t run away as Sherlock had done so many times. Mycroft had sworn to himself that if he ever had children, he wouldn’t go down that same path. Rory didn’t have the same gentle sensibilities that Mycroft, Sherlock, and Owen shared and could have borne a stricter hand.
Kenna seemed a happy baby and hadn’t quite shown the way of her personality. Time would tell.
The nurse re-appeared in the doorway. “The boys are a-bed, my lord. Shall I whisk your wee lassie off as well?”
“Thank you, Mistress Bruis.”
The stout woman bustled forward and curtsied as Mycroft handed his daughter over.
He rose and took his wife’s hand, kissing the soft back of it. She was lovely with dark brown eyes, soft shiny brown curls, and a figure that many admiring looks assured him was enticing to men. Most men. But not to him.
Betrothed as teens, they’d become allies and close companions early on. That aspect of their relationship had served them well over the years. He loved her, he truly did. She was his chatelaine, the mother of his children, his best friend and his most trusted confidant. But he wished for more in a marriage. He wished his feelings were more than just duty-a duty he gladly undertook, but a duty nonetheless.
“I have some clan accounts to discuss with Hugh,” he said with a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll be but an hour.”
~*~
Mycroft climbed the narrow stairwell to the fifth and top floor of Bassendean. His modest castle misled those who wished him ill will or harm to underestimate his resources and resulting ability to persevere.
A small fire crackled and flickered on the hearth of his bedchamber, throwing long shadows across the walls. There was just enough light for him to see that Anthea had decided to share his bed this night. He was glad for it. The impending storm had him on edge. The trees were already thrashing about in the howling winds, and the younger trees were bent almost to the ground with the force of them. Eerie whistles shrieked through the halls of the castle and under the doors, making him shiver in disquiet. The brunt of the storm hadn’t even reached them yet. Slipping into the small room between his and Anthea’s sleeping chambers, he stripped down to his braies and returned to the cavernous laird’s chamber and climbed into bed.
He stretched out in the cool bedding, but the warmth of Anthea’s form drew him towards her. His movements caused her to stir.
“Mycroft,” she murmured in a rough, sleepy voice.
“I’m here, cridhe, go back to sleep.”
She snuggled into his side and released a deep breath. The feel of her, the scent of her, it was almost enough to rouse his libido. They hadn’t been intimate since Kenna’s conception and self-pleasure only went so far. He missed the intimate touch of another human being. She drifted back to sleep and he closed his eyes, swallowing against the melancholy that lodged like a stone in his throat and threatened to choke him.
~*~*~
Story Notes:
‘cridhe’=‘heart’
Chapter Three
Mycroft sat straight up in bed. His heart thumped so hard and fast that he gasped to catch his breath. A roaring surrounded the castle. Though the stones were well over nine inches thick, they vibrated under the onslaught. His bedchamber was on the top floor of the tower and receiving the brunt of the barrage. His hands trembled and his stomach clenched. Holy Mary, mother of God, what was that noise?
He blinked in the pitch blackness, seeing nothing, not even a glow of embers on the hearth. He took a measured breath and then another and another until the uneven gallop of his heartbeat slowed to a steady canter. Until he could think. What on earth would cause such thundering? He couldn’t remember ever experienc- No, wait.
Hail.
His breath left him in a whoosh and his stomach clenched for a wholly different reason. He scrambled from bed and rushed to a window. He pulled back the tapestry and threw open the shutter. The force of the wind, as well as the deafening howl, forced him back a step. Icy rain lashed at his skin and he shivered despite it being Midsummer.
“Mycroft, what is it?” asked Anthea from the bed, her voice laced with worry.
“Hail.” He heard the dread in his own voice.
Something pelted him in the chest. Several somethings, and he knelt to feel around on the floor. It was too dark to see, but he felt the small roundish objects easily enough. Hailstones the size of his back teeth. They immediately started melting in his hand. Dear God-the crops. His stomach sank to his feet. Lord have mercy on us all.
A hand touched his arm just as a flash of lightning burst across the sky so nearby it blinded him for a moment. He flinched in surprise.
Anthea cried out as well. “My apologies, Mycroft. Are you all right?”
He pulled her close, receiving comfort as much as offering it. “I don’t know. This hail, the stones, they’re very large. The crops are going to sustain damage,” he said and sighed. “I had a feeling the storm was going to be bad. I just didn’t know it was going to be this devastating.”
“You did what you could. Surely no one would remain outside after your warning. We’ll deal with whatever happens. We always do.” She tugged at his arm. “Come back to bed, there’s nothing more we can do until it passes.”
“Aye.” Mycroft closed the shutter and settled the tapestry in place before crawling back into bed, still trembling.
Anthea lay close, her head on his shoulder and her fingers brushing through the hairs on his chest. He closed his eyes and listened to the storm rage. Provisions had been set back. They’d survive, but the ferocity of the storm concerned him. Not only would crops be damaged, if not destroyed completely, but even the smallest streams would become dangerous rapids. He knew of a handful of small crofts that sat along two or three normally trickling brooks. With the amount of rain falling, they’d have filled and overflowed their banks quickly enough. He only hoped the rainfall wasn’t heavy enough for any flooding to reach them. He prayed mercy on their kinsmen. Livestock and crops could be replaced-their people could not.
He didn’t want to contemplate it. He could do nothing right now, nothing until the light of day.
Anthea’s soft hand continued its movements, sweeping back and forth across his chest. His prick twitched. Perhaps he could convince her to allow him a distraction. No, that wasn’t fair.
She’s your wife.
Anthea pressed a kiss to his neck, brushed a fingertip across his nipple. A spark of need flared in his gut and he bit back a groan. Either she too needed a diversion or she sensed his unrest. She did it again and he hissed.
He took hold of her wrist. “My dear.” His voice was low, practically a growl. “You realize what you’re starting, do you not?”
“Aye, husband.”
“And you’re sure?” Another low growl.
“Let me,” she murmured. He’d allow her to lead and would go no farther.
Mycroft took Anthea’s mouth in a gentle though thorough kiss. His prick hardened and she took him in hand, stroking with a light twist on the downstroke. He closed his own large hand around hers, tightening her grip, and fucked her hand. It wasn’t quite as satisfying as her cunny, but it was better than his own solitary hand. His bollocks tightened and a tingling gathered low in his body. With a last thrust, Mycroft spent himself between them. He lay still for a few moments, catching his breath. “Thank you, my love. And you?”
“Nay, just hold me.”
He spooned around her, her soft hair tickling his nose, and her body soon slackened into slumber. His limbs were loose and relaxed, his libido satiated for the moment, duty performed, biological urges met. He wanted more than that from lovemaking however. He wanted to be desired and cherished. He wanted to be thought worthy and beautiful. He wanted to feel complete.
Mycroft was awake when dawn broke. His head throbbed in dread at what the reckoning of the storm would bring, but there was no avoiding it. As laird, he needed to know what nature had wrought. Villages would send their messengers with accountings of the losses and damages. Hugh would log the information in his ledgers and then a meeting would be held to determine who needed what kind of help. The silver lining was that they had the whole summer to make repairs. Some of the crops could be replanted as well and still have time to come to fruition.
~*~
The day was a long one. Mistress Phennel had delivered his and Hugh’s meals to the outer bailey as tenants and village leaders came and went throughout the hours.
When the day finally ended, Mycroft slowly climbed the stairs. The worst of the storm had spent itself directly over the castle. Outlying villages and farms had suffered a good soaking, but none had reported hail. Few of the crops were grown so close to the outer bailey, so overall losses had been minimal. He could scarce believe it. He was thankful, to be sure. Several wooden outbuildings had been demolished by the force of the wind and hailstones, but they had been so old that their destruction mattered little.
The keep was mostly dark, and Mycroft carried a small lantern as he made his way upwards. The children had long since been put to bed and Anthea was more than likely tucked into her own chamber with her prayer book or some sort of needlework. A thin strip of light shone at the base of her door and he knocked.
“Come,” she called and he lifted the latch.
The room glowed golden orange from the dozens of candles flickering in their stands close to her desk. A small fire blazed on the hearth behind her.
Encroaching a mere three steps into her domain, he asked, “Are you well?” Her attentions last night had been more than welcome. Because of her general disinterest in sex, guilt always plagued him after they’d been intimate. Even after seven years of her assurances that tending to his needs did not horrify her, that she was satisfied with their arrangement, and that she was pleased to be of assistance, he still felt as though he were imposing his base needs upon her.
“Mycroft.”
He blinked and sought her gaze. Her tender smile elicited a fierce desire to protect her at all costs. Even from himself if needs be.
“I am fine, husband. Put away those thoughts and go to bed. You look ready to collapse.”
“Aye.” He crossed the room and leaned over to kiss the top of her head.
She tilted her head back and covered his mouth with her own, though the kiss remained chaste. “What was that for?”
“Because I love you, My.”
“And I love you. Good night, cridhe.”
Chapter Four
Mycroft sat at his desk in his private study on the third floor of the keep. The windows were open to the late afternoon air. Papers ruffled in the easy breeze. Sounds of life floated up to him from the baileys below: the chatter of voices, the snorting of horses, and the cluck of the chickens. A dog barked in the distance, followed by the bleating of sheep. The metal clang of the smith’s hammer rang rhythmically. White clouds scudding across the bright blue of the sky captured his gaze, and he struggled to concentrate on the work in front of him.
A sennight had passed since the storm, and cleanup had gone smoothly and quickly. The good Lord had shown mercy, and Mycroft was more than thankful. Confusion, however, had been a constant companion. Why had the damage been minimal? Why had the storm been concentrated over castle? The Lord worked in mysterious ways, and he wasn’t one to question.
“Praise be to God in heaven. Thank you, Lord, for your tender mercies,” he murmured.
The bulk of the work had taken place and the clan could look forward to the Midsummer’s Eve festivities to be held a few days from now. The men had been hauling wood from destroyed buildings as well as the downed tree limbs and branches in preparation for building the bonfires, and the women had turned to baking and preparing food for the feast. Smells of roasted meat and baking bread had filled the castle from sunup to sundown. He sniffed the air and his stomach grumbled at the rich scents that attested to the Lord’s blessing and benevolence. He would be in search of a meal soon.
“Mycroft, come.”
Mycroft blinked, bringing the window and tapestries back into focus, and looked up to find Anthea standing in the doorway. Prompted by the tone of her voice, he rose immediately and strode toward her. “What is it, cridhe?”
When he reached her, she smiled and took his hand. “Just come.”
His initial anxiety dissipated and he allowed himself to be led downstairs and into the courtyard. Rory and Owen squirmed with impatience, lumpy packs on their small backs.
“What’s this?” he asked, looking from Rory to Owen to Anthea.
Anthea took Kenna from Mistress Bruis, who’d been overseeing the waiting.
“It’s a picnic dinner, Papa,” said Rory. “Mama says you’ve been working too hard and that we should do something ‘laxing.”
In a blink, he had a small hand in each one of his and was being tugged toward the open fields. He smiled down at the pair of grins beaming up at him.
“Some relaxation seems like just the thing even though Midsummer’s Eve is only a few evenings hence.”
“We both know you’ll do little relaxing,” scolded Anthea kindly from behind him and the twins. “While everyone else enjoys themselves, you’ll be the laird. Nothing relaxing about pretending to drink or watching others have a good time.”
“You are correct as usual, my dear.” Mycroft tapped the backs of the boys’ hands together. “I pray you boys are as blessed in your marriages as I have been in mine.” He had been lucky.
The boys twisted to look back at their mother, matching expressions of bewilderment adorning their faces.
“Why don’t you go find a good spot for the blanket?” Anthea suggested and they took off over the small rise ahead of them like dogs after a rabbit.
Mycroft lifted Kenna from Anthea’s arms and jiggled her in the air. Happy baby shrieks permeated the air and a deep sense of contentment filled him. He had a beautiful, loving, understanding wife by his side; strong, healthy children to carry on the family name and legacy; and prosperous lands. What more could a man ask for?
Passion.
The thought came unbidden and he swallowed a sigh. He lived a life many would envy. He was content. Mostly. Men finding pleasure or even love with other men was considered unnatural and had been linked to Satanism. Mycroft had no wish to be branded as any sort of deviant and suffer the consequences. Few knew of his sexual leanings. Anthea did, of course, and he knew of hers. He could count on one hand the number of men he’d been with. Three of his liaisons had happened during his teens and had been considered youthful experimentation. The other two had occurred after his marriage and couldn’t be construed as anything other than much-needed release on his part. He loved Anthea, but intimacy with her just didn’t provide the emotional and physical satisfaction he craved. Finding and keeping a lover would be dangerous. He’d never yet met a man worth the risk.
He and Anthea crested the hill. The boys’ packs lay carelessly discarded on the grass next to a shallow stream. Shrieks of laughter carried on the gentle, sweet-smelling breeze. The crack and snap of twigs indicated that the boys had crossed the stream and were tramping around a small coppice.
The sun had begun its descent, but wouldn’t drop below the jagged edges of the distant peaks for at least an hour. It bathed the land in a soft golden light
Anthea unwrapped her plaid and settled it on the grass before sitting on one corner. Mycroft settled Kenna in the center of it before joining them. They reminisced about their childhoods and laughed in easy companionship.
Eventually, Mycroft’s stomach grumbled and he opened the packs. He pulled dried venison, bannocks, and cheese from one, along with a flask of wine. In the other were grapes and apples and a skin of water. A meal fit for a king. Mycroft snorted softly to himself. Fit for a laird in any case. He and Anthea ate their fill and fed Kenna small bits as well. The boys were in their element and food would hold little interest for them. The sun finally dropped out of view, although golden shards of light fanned out above the mountain tops. In the evening sky, pale orange flowed into raspberry pink which morphed into rich blue as nighttime tiptoed ever closer. The world was wrapped in the muted hazy blanket of twilight.
Owen dashed out of the coppice and ran to the top of the next low rise and stopped short. Not expecting Owen’s halt, Rory plowed into him and they both tumbled over and out of sight.
“Mama, Mama, Papa, come look!” called one of them. It sounded like Rory. Their heads became visible when they retook their feet.
Mycroft exchanged a puzzled look with Anthea as they both rose. He scooped up Kenna and helped Anthea cross the stream without getting her skirts too wet. Hand in hand, they crossed the grass and lengthened their strides to climb the small hill. Upon reaching the crest, they came to an immediate stop.
The meadow sloped away from them, the grass a bright velvety green. The valley was filled with thousands if not millions of small insects that hovered, flittered, and twinkled in the misty gloaming.
Mycroft’s breath caught, a smile crept across his face, and he took a step back.
“It’s beautiful,” Anthea murmured, awe coloring her voice. “I’ve never seen anything like that. What are they?”
They shared a glance before they returned their gazes to the sight in front of them.
It was quite extraordinary. He’d seen the phenomenon once as boy, but never since. Whether because he’d missed it or it just hadn’t happened, he didn’t know. “It’s the…it’s the harbinger.” Oh. Oh, goodness. Mycroft slapped a hand to his forehead and looked at Anthea. “It’s been so long, I failed to recognize the signs.”
“Signs?”
“The hailstorm and now this. We’re going to have a Midsummer visitor.”
Chapter Five
Greg awoke and immediately clamped his eyes shut against the blinding sun. A searing arc of pain bolted through his head. He groaned and his stomach roiled in response. His body curled into a fetal position of its own accord, and he covered his head with his arms, swallowing back the sick that threatened. He breathed in and out through his nose. The air was crisp and fresh, and the pain lessened by degrees.
He took virtual stock of his body. Feet, ankles, and legs all felt fine. Waist, abdomen, chest, also fine. Hands, arms, shoulders, no pain there either. All right then. Nothing seemed to be broken or bleeding. At least not that he could tell hunched in a ball. Slowly, he straightened his body and rolled onto his back. He opened his eyes behind the shield of his arm and when nothing hurt worse, he let out the breath he’d held and uncovered his face. His head pulsed dully, but it was bearable. He swallowed again, trying to flush the sour taste from his mouth. What he wouldn’t give for a bottle of water.
What on earth had happened? One minute, he’d been exploring the standing stones; the next, he was- He shuffled up onto his elbows and looked around. Wait. Where were the standing stones? He craned his neck to look behind him. No road in that direction either. The hell?
He laid back down for a moment and tried to recall something, anything. Nothing more than touching the standing stones and then waking up here presented itself. Did he have amnesia? No. Name and personal details all came to mind. Queen Elizabeth was on the throne and David Cameron in Number 10 Downing Street. Okay, so he’d just call for help, get back to the hotel, and figure things out from there.
He patted his waist and encountered nothing but wool. His stomach lurched. Oh, no. Please don’t let him have lost his mobile.
He ran an extended arm along the grass. A soft “yes” escaped him when his fingers touched something furry. He felt for the clasp and frowned when there was nothing but open pouch. Odd. Where was the metal closure? Where was the chain that it had hung from around his waist? This day was getting better and better. He reached inside and found nothing. “Dammit,” he exclaimed and flinched at the throb the sound of his voice elicited.
This couldn’t be happening. Considering what he remembered, he didn’t think he’d been assaulted and robbed, despite the fact that his mobile, cash, and identification were missing.
Without his mobile, he couldn’t call for help, which meant he’d have to go in search of it himself. Greg clambered to his feet and another stab of pain lanced his head. He sucked in a sharp breath and doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees to keep from hitting the ground once again. He drew deep breaths until the dizziness passed and he straightened once again.
Clear blue sky stretched on for endless miles, as did the rolling green hills. He tried to get his bearings based on what he remembered from arriving at the standing stones. Had that been moments ago? Had it been last night? God, he didn’t even know how long he’d been passed out.
Well, he couldn’t have gone too far, could he have? Surely the stones or the road were close, yeah?
He pivoted in place, looking for anything familiar. But there was nothing. No standing stones, no road, no houses. What the hell? His breath came in shorts shallow pants and his pulse raced. He suddenly felt cold and couldn’t catch his breath. Breathe, Greg, breathe.
He sucked in several deep breaths and felt better. A bit, anyway. His heart rate returned to some semblance of normal and he looked around again. Really looked. Slowly looked. There were no power poles and no mobile towers. Bloody hell! He wasn’t even in that remote-ish of a part of Scotland. He’d had mobile reception during the bus ride to the standing stones. He knew of no place in all of the U.K. where power poles couldn’t be seen in the distance at least. Where on earth was he?
No answers came to him in the silence. The universe was keeping her secrets. Well, he was a detective inspector for New Scotland Yard. He could figure this out on his own, right? Right.
The only thing Greg knew for sure was that he needed water. He was vaguely certain there were more than a few hours of daylight left, though how many more he couldn’t determine. He surveyed his surroundings. Sheesh-he knew nothing of survival training. He should have paid more attention to those American survival shows he occasionally watched.
He inhaled and exhaled a deep breath. All right-down. He would go downhill. The higher he went, the colder it would become once darkness caught up with him. His bits shrank a little at the thought and he questioned his decision to go commando for the first time. He hoped he’d find a stream or a road. Either would be welcome. He glanced up at the sun. Based on it’s position, he thought it likely that downhill was also south.
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
Of course, London was roughly 350 miles south, so he was slightly ahead of the journey. With a sigh, he took a step, then another, and another, his head throbbing mildly in sync with his steps.
His knees started griping almost immediately, but Greg kept walking until his lungs began complaining. He stumbled the last few meters to a large boulder and collapsed onto it. It held the warmth of the sun and warmed the backs of his thighs and his arse. He lifted his kilt and sat directly on the stone. An inadvertent “ahhh” escaped him. The cramps in his knees eased and his breathing quieted. The sounds of nature finally had a chance to penetrate his mind. The distant rushing of the wind. Twittering birds. Whirring insects. And-he grinned in recognition-water. Closing his eyes, he listened intently. The sound came from the left. He rose and headed in the direction of the sun. Sure enough, he found a small stream within a few minutes and fell to his knees. The icy water soothed his parched throat and he drank greedily. He scooped handfuls of it over his head and scrubbed his hair, face, and neck. A chill shivered through him, but he felt refreshed, if only slightly.
He sat up with a gasp. What had he done? That water could be contaminated with God-knows-what and he’d just slurped pints of it.
Easy, skippy. He shook his head. Any water was better than no water at this point. That much he knew. He could be treated later if he caught something. Of course, his immune system was pretty strong considering the things he’d been exposed to at various crime scenes. He snorted. Or in Sherlock’s flat. Yeah, all right then. He probably didn’t have anything to worry about.
Too bad he didn’t have some sort of container, but he supposed he’d follow the stream for a bit and see where it led him. He leant over for another long draught, found a spot to take a piss-not in the stream-and set off again.
The sun had been slightly past its zenith when he’d started out and now it looked as if it was more than halfway to evening. His stomach had started grumbling some time ago, but he had no idea what was safe to eat. Without even the most rudimentary of tools, he couldn’t catch or kill anything anyway, much less cook it. Of course, he hadn’t seen anything to catch or kill.
Well, shoot. He settled his hands on his hips and looked around.
A thin trail of smoke caught his eye and his heart leapt and his pulse jumped. Thank God. A house at least. And food. And people. A way to get home.
He took off at a painful jog, keeping the line of smoke dead ahead. Eventually, he caught sight of a chimney and a bit of thatched roof.
A scream rent the air, then a deeper yell. The smoke thickened and blackened as flames ate up the thatch.
Bloody fucking hell.
Greg forced his aching knees into a run.
Chapter Six
Greg tore through the rickety gates and into the small yard of the burning cottage, gasping for breath and with his head resounding like a gong. There was no time to worry about himself, however. He swallowed back the urge to puke and swiped his arm across his forehead.
Several men wearing tattered and dirty clothing held back another man and a teen-aged boy, both struggling to get free-likely the owner of the cottage and his son. A woman and a pair of ragamuffin children huddled under a tree. The children clung to each other, crying, and the woman just looked stricken as she watched her home burn.
The crackling roar of the flames as they consumed the thatch made Greg’s heart hurt and his stomach clench.
The men laughed.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Greg yelled and charged them. Pain bloomed along his jaw and through his head, and his world went black once more.
When he awoke, he was sat against a log, wrists and ankles bound with a rough rope. Heat from a fire warmed his front, although his back felt a bit cool. The sun was gone and the sky was inky. A stiff breeze ruffled across his head and caressed his skin. Burning wood and roasting meat assaulted his sense of smell. Both the scent of food and his extreme hunger made him a bit queasy.
Three faces on the other side of the fire glowed orange. They were different faces than the ones that had knocked him out. Their clothing was clean and similar to each other’s in appearance. He wasn’t sure if being in the custody of these new men was a good thing or a bad thing. Were they soldiers of some sort? And for what side of the ‘fight’?
One of the men rose and came toward Greg, a burly bloke with true red hair, if the orange halo created by the fire was any indication. He held out a skin of liquid. Greg had just enough slack in his restraints that he could hold the skin and remove the stopper. He took a careful sip. It was some sort of ale, though nothing like the stuff he’d tried at the pub. He took another swig before corking the container and handing it back to the man. “Thanks.”
The man nodded.
“You understand English?”
“Aye.”
Thank God. He could get some answers. Setting a house on fire seemed like a like an odd thing to include during battle re-enactments. If it was part of the whole program, then why had he been the only one there?
But first things first. He held up his bound wrists. “I’m a detective inspector with the Met.” At the bloke’s frown, he added, “The police force. In London.” Still no comprehension. “Is this really necessary?”
“Aye.”
“Why? I realize this is all part of the re-enactments, which I didn’t know had started, by the way, but I’m lost. I’m not supposed to be a part of this one. I just want to get back to Dumfries.”
The man raised a red brow. “Dumfries?”
“Yeah, you know, home base for the re-enactments.”
The man shook his head, a furrow appearing on his wide forehead. “I nay ken yer words.”
Greg’s heart rate kicked up a notch. These guys were taking their war games a bit too far. Of course, he was at a distinct disadvantage. “Look-” He held up his hands again, and twirled one of them around. “-I’m not a part of this particular scene. Something’s happened to me. I’m lost. Maybe I could borrow your mobile since mine’s disappeared, to call the hotel or a taxi or something.”
The man looked even more puzzled. “I nay ken yer words.”
Greg ground his teeth together. “But you understand English?” He raised a brow to punctuate his question.
“Aye.”
“Well, understand this- You have no right hold me, especially if this is just some re-enactment. I demand you release me.” Greg held out his bound limbs again.
The man just stared. He understood only some English apparently.
“Rest assured I’m going to report you to the re-enactment organization, and I have half a mind to report you for kidnapping.”
Greg took a deep breath and shook his head. Yeah, he looked and sounded pretty damned police-like sitting on the ground and tied up like a petty criminal. He wouldn’t take himself seriously either. Fucking hell. Greg took another breath and looked up. Back to basics, then. “Where am I?”
The man answered, but his brogue was so thick Greg couldn’t understand what he said. “I’m sorry, can you say it again?”
Slowly and deliberately, the man did so. “Bass-en-dean.”
“Bassendean?”
“Aye.”
“In Scotland, yeah?”
“Aye.”
Well, that was something anyway.
“Can I borrow your mobile?”
“I nay ken mobile.”
“What? You don’t have a mobile?”
“Nay.”
Christ. He ran a hand over his face. Who was this guy? Had they found the most back-woods native in all of Scotland to run the re-enactment? Make it more authentic? Just his damned luck.
“Food?” the man asked.
It sounded more like good than food, but at least Greg understood. An offer of food seemed neutral enough and aside from tying him up, they hadn’t been hostile. He nodded.
The man returned to the fire. He pulled what looked like a roll from a haversack and tore some meat from the roasting animal. He came back and handed Greg what amounted to a quick and perfunctory butty.
He nodded again in thanks.
Already ravenous, he wasn’t going to question the lack of hygiene or the species of the meat he was about to consume. If his new captors hadn’t keeled over, that was good enough for him. It’d probably been twenty-four hours since he’d last eaten. He’d need sustenance if he wanted to keep his head clear and effect some sort of escape if the opportunity presented itself.
The butty eaten, a full stomach eased most of his woes. The nausea was gone and the pounding had been reduced to nothing more than a low thrum. A good night’s sleep would most likely take care of that, though he doubted any sleep he got tonight would meet that description.
“Will we be heading back to town tonight?” he called over the crackle of the modest fire.
All eyes turned to him. The man who’d spoken to him before frowned. “Town?” Tune? Greg heard.
Greg nodded. “Yes, town. You know, Dumfries?”
“Nay.”
“So we’re not going to town or we’re not going tonight?”
“A-màireach…the laird. We ride in the day to the laird.”
The laird. They were taking this re-enactment thing pretty seriously. “The laird?”
“Aye.”
Greg scrubbed a hand down his face, the other hand along for the ride due to his crude handcuffs. He was so damned confused. So Burly Bloke could understand some English, basic English, but he obviously had trouble translating his Gaelic to English. His thick brogue didn’t help matters either. Hopefully, this laird could speak English and would be easier to understand. Greg could get some answers as well as some help. How the hell had this happened to him? “Okay. Tomorrow we’ll see the laird. So we’re sleeping here tonight?”
“Aye.” Burly Bloke rose and approached Greg. He held out a hand and indicated that he wanted Greg to stand. Greg accepted his hand and was tugged to his feet. He’d have made a run for it, but his ankles were bound.
Burly Bloke flipped the top layer of his kilt over his shoulders and gestured that he was going to do the same to Greg. He understood that Burly Bloke didn’t want to untie his hands or feet for whatever reason, and he appreciated the warning of his intent; otherwise, they might have had words.
Burly Bloke reached around Greg and carefully separated the layers of Greg’s kilt and draped it over his shoulders.
Greg nodded.
Burly Bloke indicated that Greg should settle back down and catch some shut eye.
If they were taking him to the laird tomorrow, then he might as well quit wasting his breath. He’d definitely be having words with the re-enactment organization when he got back. Nowhere had they disclosed that this was total immersion. Greg had expected to go back to the hotel each night, shower, and sleep in a comfortable bed.
Since that clearly wasn’t happening tonight, he got as comfortable as he could and closed his eyes.
~*~
Greg was roused by the babble of incomprehensible chatter. The sky was a pale blue gray, indicating that the sun hadn’t quite made an appearance. It was early, but there was enough light to see by. He shivered in the chill. The Scots’ horses were saddled and ready to go, and what by process of elimination was to be his own mount, a pathetic-looking ass stood munching the grass.
“May I ride properly seated? Not thrown over the back? I won’t try to escape. I really do want to speak with the laird.” And give him a piece of my mind.
Burly Bloke studied him hard before nodding. “Aye,” he said and untied Greg’s ankles and wrists. He retied Greg’s wrists once he was astride. Burly Bloke handed Greg another bread roll and mounted his horse.
Greg lost track of time as they rode, not that he’d had any sense of it to begin with. The sun had crested the horizon and the rays warmed him, thank goodness. He hoped this laird had coffee. He could use a large steaming mug of it with lots of sugar and a dollop of cream.
It could have been an hour or it could have been three before a manor house-castle?-came into view, slightly elevated on a hill and circled by a stone wall. Greg could only see the top three stories from this distance. The structure itself looked more like the manor houses he’d seen online, but the whole arrangement, hill, wall, bailey-that configuration indicated castle. Their small group rounded a stand of trees and the road stretched up a small rise and straight into the bailey.
Greg heaved a sigh and felt a bit of the tenseness he’d carried leave his shoulders. Finally. He was going to meet this so-called laird and he was going to get some answers.
~*~*~
Story Notes:
‘butty’= at its most basic, a sandwich