Page 27 of Warrior of the Highlands (Highlands #3)

“You get killed,” she said softly. She looked at him, chin resting on her arm, no longer bothering to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “It all goes to shit. God, there’s Culloden. The Highland Clearances. Tartans are outlawed. Swords too.” She muttered, “All to shit.”

He didn’t understand half of what she’d said. Less than that even.

But the future?

Uncertain of what to say, he tried to make a joke of it. “Are you certain you didn’t clout your own head with that wee busk of yours?”

She shot him such a look of raw pain, he felt it through his body, as gutting as any physical wound.

“Why do you keep asking of James?” His tone was gentle, and the flicker of relief he read on her face made his chest swell. Had she feared him? Feared his response? “Graham of Montrose,” he added softly.

“Oh, I know who you mean all right. I found a weapon. I think it was his weapon. ‘For JG, with love from Magda,’ the inscription said. I mean, who else would it belong to?”

“But how does that prove—”

“I can’t explain it. I just got a gut feeling about the gun, that it couldn’t have been made— wouldn’t have been made—before 1650. Here.” She gestured to the gun she’d fired earlier, its long, thin barrel tucked now at his belt. “Hand me that.”

She took it from his hands, plowing forward despite the bewilderment on his face. “What kind is it?”

“A pistol, lass.”

She shot him an exasperated look. “Yeah, but what kind? What kind of mechanism does it have?”

He took it back from her, studied the curved wooden handle in his hands. The frizzen and flash pan, its cock and the dog catch that locked it. “It’s one of the new flintlocks with the wee lock just here,” he said, pointing to what was an early version of a gun safety. “’Tis an English weapon.”

“How many flintlocks have you seen before this?”

“Not many. As I ken it, they’re favored on the Continent. But in the Highlands?” He shrugged. “Nay, there’s none such as this here, generally speaking. You speak of guns, but my men are lucky if they find a blade in their hands.”

“So what do the Highlanders shoot? When they do have a gun, I mean. What type of gun do you have?”

“You’re a peculiar one, leannan .”

Her intense focus urged him on.

“Wheel lock,” MacColla replied with a sigh.

“That’s it?”

“Good Christ, I thought you lassies just had a mind for frocks and hairstyles.” He chucked her chin. “I’d no idea what I’ve been missing these years, away at war. I could’ve been in parlors discussing muskets and armor with the beautiful ladies.”

Seeing her grave face, he just leaned back on his elbows, kicking his feet in front of him, to give it some thought. His arm remained wrapped around her, hand tucked casually at her hip.

“I once had a matchlock. But in a good Highland mist?” He shook his head. “With that wee wick on the end, och. Damp makes the gun unusable, aye? Too bloody hard to keep lit.”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “That was true.”

“Oh,” he gave a surprised chuckle. “I thank you.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, she continued, “Well, this gun that I saw, Graham’s gun, it was actually a combination weapon”—she waved her hand—“but that’s beside the point.

This pistol had a perfect little flintlock.

The striking surface, the flash pan, all one tiny, perfect self-contained bit.

You tell me how many of those you’ve seen lately. ”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying we dated the piece to 1675 which is . . .”

“Which is after James was said to have died.” Sitting up, he withdrew from her, his face solemn.

“But why should I believe you?” He kept his tone matter-of-fact.

Though he didn’t accept her story, neither did he discount her.

Her fighting skills had already shocked him enough for one lifetime; MacColla couldn’t imagine why he should be surprised she’d come at him with something even more outrageous.

“What you say about this gun proves nothing.”

He saw her mind working, those gray eyes staring at the pistol she held in her hands. The pistol she’d fired as if she’d been doing it all her life.

Could it be true? She shot and fought and spoke like no other woman he’d met. Like none he’d ever heard of.

She was willful and strong. And so healthy too, that was clear. Her limbs, long and straight. Even those radiant cheeks and her bright, even smile. They spoke to a life of luxury. Of privilege.

He didn’t see how to reconcile those things. That she could load and fire a gun as well as any man, and yet she had skin, luminous and fair, as if she were crafted of the finest ivory.

He’d thought she might be a spy, but could it be that she practiced some form of the dark arts? Goose bumps fanned across his skin then ebbed, like a wave washing over the sand.

“Are you . . .” His voice was hoarse, grave. “Is it that you’re some sort of . . . witch?”

“What?” She laughed then. “ Me? A witch? God no.” She shook her head, and then a peculiar look darkened her features. As if she hadn’t before considered such a conclusion, potential ruination narrowly averted.

A sad half smile quirked her mouth. “Are you kidding? My family? I told you, we’re Irish. Irish Catholic, to put a fine point on the whole thing. I’ve been baptized, first communioned, confirmed . . . the whole deal.”

Haley sighed deeply. She looked at him with such sadness. He wasn’t sure what to do. What to think.

“You still don’t believe me, do you?” she asked.

“Well . . .”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t believe me either. Okay—”

“Haley—” he began.

“No, no, let me think.” She knew so much about the time period. Knew about MacColla. What could she tell him to make him believe?

She wracked her mind for any tidbit from his life that she could recall. She’d taken the seminars, read her David Stevenson. She knew famous bits of trivia that wouldn’t have been so well known in his own time.

I can do this , she thought. She knew things he hadn’t told her. She knew things none of his peers would’ve known.

She could convince him. Haley shifted, crossing her legs to face him.

“Your dad was imprisoned for years with Campbell. Wait,” she said suddenly, her face blanching. “He’s not still imprisoned, is he?” He shook his head and she made a mental note to try to piece together what had happened to his father, and when.

“Your brother Gillespie was with him,” she continued. “There are other brothers too, but I don’t know about them so much . . .” she trailed off.

That wasn’t going to cut it.

MacColla just smiled at her. “Many know of Campbell’s treachery against my father, leannan .”

“There’s that poet,” she snapped and pointed her finger at him in excitement.

MacColla scowled.

“You know . . . what’s his name?”—she tapped her fingers on her lips—“Iain Lom MacDonald! He loved you. Wrote all kinds of poems and songs about you.”

MacColla’s scowl turned into a beet red blush.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him.

“No, just a minute, I’m not done. He had a nickname.

Now that wouldn’t be public knowledge, would it?

The Stuttering MacDonald, maybe? Bald Iain?

Well, he stuttered and he was bald, and had some sort of nickname along those lines. I just can’t . . .”

She raised her hand, seeing what looked like growing impatience on his face. “Wait,” she pleaded. If she could only think of that nickname, surely it would be some sort of proof of something .

What was the poet’s nickname? Nickname . . .

“Ah!” It came out as a yelp, her eyes widened. “I’ve got it: your father!” Haley leaned in, animated. “Your father had a nickname. Colkitto. It was because he was left-handed. Those close to him called him Colkitto.”

He nodded silently, his eyes squinting. Whether it was from bafflement or suspicion, she couldn’t tell.

“You see, in my time, for a while people . . . well, historians mistakenly called you Colkitto. They thought you were the left-handed one. People argued about it. But it’s not your nickname, is it? Your father Coll was . . . is known to his closest friends as Colkitto.”

She inhaled deeply, smiling in triumph.

But not MacColla. His somber face chilled her, and stole the curve from her lips.

He rose. And though he offered his hand to help Haley up, his voice was gruff when he said, “We must go. I’m expected in Kintyre. My family waits for me even now.

“Fret not, leannan .”

MacColla began to walk, adding, “You’ll soon be able to ask the man for himself.”