Page 22 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)
Chapter Twenty-One
At one end, bakers flaunt their freshly baked loaves, their crusts crackling invitingly.
The warm scent mingles with the sweet aroma of sugar-dusted pastries wafting through the air.
Not too far away, a round-bellied cheese monger is strutting his stuff with wheels of spicy cheese that look so yummy they should be illegal.
A little further off, blacksmiths are putting on a show, their brawny arms hammering molten metal into intricate ironworks. Sparks fly from their anvils like tiny fireworks against the smoky backdrop of their stalls.
In between these entrepreneurial spirits are entertainers adding spice to the buzzing celebration.
Minstrels pluck at lutes while jesters tumble and juggle in bright costumes.
Dancers spin around in vivid skirts, creating a parade of color, and when the drum beat fills the air, I’m utterly mesmerized.
“Cal,” I whisper, awe-struck by this magical spectacle that feels more familiar than foreign. “It’s like... like coming home.”
He stops dead in his tracks and turns to face me with a smile that makes my heart flip-flop in my chest.
“Aye, Teine ’ na broinn ,” he says gently, wrapping my nickname around me like an embrace. “Your roots run deep here, too. This place... it’s part of who we are.”
In one swift move, he sweeps me into his arms and spins us around to match the beat of the music. My blouse billows around us like a cloud caught in an updraft, and when he lifts me high, I feel as light as air.
“Do you think there’s more of your family tree in this early-modern era crowd?” I ask as we sway to the soft music.
“I remember my Da talking about a Fergus who could be my three-times removed great-grandfather, which would make Alistair a distant uncle,” he muses, eyes shining. “And ye know what? I see bits of myself in them—especially the stubborn streak.”
I laugh at that. “Ah yes, the infamous MacDowell stubbornness your mom warned me about!” I tease, grinning up at him. “It’s amazing you’re still single after all these years, Cal.”
He stops mid-dance step, his grin turning devilish like he knows something I don’t.
“Who said anything about being single?”
I smirk, giving him a playful nudge.
“But really, Mills,” Cal continues, a little softer. “Between tending to the farm and heading my sailing club, romance hasn’t exactly been on my schedule. The women I’ve encountered seem to want more than I can offer...” His voice fades into a thoughtful silence.
“So now wanting commitment makes women high-maintenance?” My hands instinctively find their way onto my hips.
Cal’s chuckle softly bounces around us. “Not all... just those who have wandered into my life so far.” He pauses for a breath.
“Then there’s you—incredibly independent and free-spirited. How on earth has no man managed to win your heart yet?”
I burst out laughing. “Believe me, they’ve given it their best shot! But it’s always been a misguided chase… not quite aligning with what I’m looking for.”
Our eyes meet, and something wordless but meaningful passes between us, a mutual recognition of the pitfalls we’ve encountered dating in the modern world.
The village fair has picked up pace, with a steady hum of activity and laughter surrounding us. More people join the dancing, their movements in sync with the lively music that floats through the air. The savory scent of food mingles with the sweet aroma of pastries.
We’re in the middle of an excited crowd, all eyes turned towards the main event: The Annual Highlander Challenge.
Fiona explained it’s a mishmash of brawn, gastronomic endurance, and an overly theatrical swordplay display.
A burly man with a beard who could give Santa Claus a run for his money takes center stage.
“Welcome one and all!” he booms out. “You’re about to witness feats of Highland prowess that’ll make Moray Firth look like a shallow pond!”
Cal edges closer to me, his voice barely above a whisper as he grins.
“I think ‘prowess’ is being generous.”
The first event on the roster is a pie-eating contest. Contestants take their places at an elongated table, their faces reflecting a combination of determination and potential pastry-induced regret. The rules are simple: eat till you can’t eat no more without keeling over from pie overdose.
With the shout “Begin!” from our heavily bearded announcer, they dive into their task. It’s an explosion of flying crumbs, flailing limbs, and pastry shrapnel.
“Never thought I’d see such gusto for heartburn.” Cal shakes his head and chuckles.
Next up is the sword-fighting demonstration.
More like the sword-flinging circus act.
A wiry man with more swagger than sense steps forward, brandishing a massive sword that looks better suited for lumber-jacking than combat.
His opponent—another hulk with an equally comical weapon—matches him in dramatic posturing.
“The goal here,” announces Beardy McBeardface with grandeur, “is not harm but showmanship!”
What follows can only be described as a Monty Python sketch. The pair engage in an overblown dance of sidesteps and swoops, their swords clashing with a resounding, more theatrical than threatening echo.
“Parry my blows, or ye shall perish a painful death!” the wiry one shouts.
An ancestor of Macbeth, obviously.
It’s less about actual skill and more about who can fake the most ludicrous injury. When McBeardface takes a particularly melodramatic tumble, the crowd erupts into applause, clearly valuing flair over actual fighting prowess.
I sidle up to Cal, grinning ear to ear. “I feel like I’ve stumbled into a medieval comedy club.”
“If this is how they fight wars here, I think we’re pretty safe,” he answers with a wink.