Lost in the Highlands the Thirteen Scotsman Read online

  Copyright 2016 © by Lorraine Beaumont

  Lost in the Highlands Series© by Lorraine Beaumont

  Lost in the Highlands, The Thirteen Scotsman © by Lorraine Beaumont

  All Rights Reserved

  License Notes

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion hereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, Characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to event’s, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Proofread by Louise Harris

  Printed in the USA

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  www.lorrainebeaumont.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  EPILOGUE

  RAVENHURST SERIES

  EDENBROOKE HOLLOW SERIES

  BRIARCLIFF SERIES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  EXTRAS

  OTHER SERIES BY LORRAINE

  Forgotten Time (Book 1) Free

  Shadows of Yesterday (Book 2) Free

  Time to Remember (Book 3)

  Dreams of Tomorrow (Book 4)

  Now and Forever (Book 5)

  Ravenhurst: A Victorian Christmas (Book 6)

  Lucian’s Story (Book 7) Coming 2016

  Ravenhurst: A Modern Day Christmas (Book 8)

  Coming 2016

  Special Interactive First Person

  Trilogy Ravenhurst Series

  The Briarcliff Series

  Elyograg (novella) Book One - Free

  Gargoyle Book Two - Free

  Degare’ Book Three

  Blood Fire Coming 2016

  We Three Witches-A Good Spell Gone Wrong

  Now Available

  For all the Lassies’

  PROLOGUE

  GRANDFATHER MOUTAIN, NORTH CAROLINA

  PRESENT DAY

  Smoothing my hand over the front of my plaid, I stepped out of the changing room and spun around for my audience of one.

  “Paige, aren’t ye a bonny looking lass, wearing that plaid as if it were yer verra own.” Tavner let out a low whistle. He was one of the original council members for the Highland Games here on Grandfather Mountain.

  “Tavner, you’re gonna make me blush.”

  “Aye, I like ta do more than that if only I was a wee bit younger.” He winked at me.

  “Oh, stop.” My face flamed as I laughed.

  “Now get on with ye lass, and get yer reading done before the line gets too long.”

  “Why do I need a reading?”

  “It’s a custom since ye are a virgin,”

  “What?” My eyes boggled.

  “Ah, not that kind of virgin lass,” he chuckled and his beard quivered. “It just means ye are new to the games. The gypsy will tell ye which clan ta give yer favors ta in the games.”

  “What’s the difference? Can’t I just give them to who I want?”

  “Nay, lass, that is no how it works.”

  “That’s ridiculous, it’s only a game.”

  Tavner’s expression turned grim as he made the sign of the cross over his barrel chest. “Och lass, it is more than a game to us Scotsman.”

  “Well, of course,” I said trying to recant. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” I felt horrible.

  A strange look crossed his face and then he stepped up to me. “It’s all right, lass. Mistakes happen all the time.” He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  “So, um, where’s this fortune teller’s tent I need to visit?”

  “Ye will no have a problem finding it lass. It will be the one with a line of lassies like ye waiting outside of it.”

  “Don’t you think there should be more than one? I mean, if she is that popular.”

  “Only a true wanderer can give ye a reading, and she is the only one here that I know of.”

  “All righty then,” I sighed and swiped a piece of my hair back from my face. “I guess I will go and get this reading done. I don’t want to make another highland faux pas.”

  “Ye will be fine lass. Stop off and get yerself some mead on yer way down.”

  “What’s mead?” I asked.

  “It’s a drink made from fermented honey. Ye will like it.”

  “Thanks, Tavner.”

  “No, I thank ye, lass,” he called after me, which I didn’t understand

  ‡

  Several brightly striped tents were set up on the lower plateau of the mountain. After I got myself a large mug of mead, I made my way to the fortuneteller’s tent. Tavner was right. There was a very long line of girls waiting outside the boldly striped tent. Sipping my mead, I stepped to the back of the line and waited my turn.

  Hours later, a flock of giggling girls ran out from the tent waving banners of different colors of what clan they would represent in the games. “At this rate there won’t be any clans left for me,” I grumbled and took another large bite of my turkey leg.

  The burly Scotsman that had been giving me strange looks off and on as I waited in line leveled his eyes on me. “Morag will see ye now.” He pushed back the tent flap and I tossed my empty cup and turkey leg bone into the trash as I ducked under his arm into the dim interior.

  “Come in lass,” said a crackling disembodied voice as I made my way into the dim tent. “Have a seat and give me yer hand, lass.”

  The ancient woman stared straight ahead and I felt like she was looking past me at someone behind me. She was blind, or almost. I reached out and gave her my hand after I had taken a seat.

  ‡

  “It’s a deal then?” The gypsy stuck out her gnarled age-spotted hand.

  “Yes. We have a deal.” Afraid I might hurt her, I grabbed her hand gently. She seemed so frail all stooped over, bracing herself on her cane.

  Her fingers tightened around mine until the point it was becoming painful. Tugging on my hand, I tried to get her to release mine but she was surprisingly strong.

  With one last finger-crushing squeeze, she looked deeply into my eyes. “Are ye sure yer up to the task, lass?”

  “Yes. I’m sure.” What did she want me to do write it in blood or something?

  On cue, I felt a prick on my third finger.

  “Ow”. I yanked my hand.

  “Not so fast lass.” With a surprisingly amount of nimbleness the woman pulled out an aged piece of parchment and smeared the blood from my third finger on the bottom.

  “Now lass, take this pen and sign yer name, here.” She was overly excited; her breath was coming out in rushed hitches as she pointed to the bottom edge of the paper.

  My finge
rs were going numb. Just to pacify the woman, I played along. “Sure.” I jerked on my hand, again, second-guessing my drunken impromptu agreement.

  “Not so fast little lassie, not til ye sign,” she said as though she knew what I was thinking.

  “Why can’t I?” I had to ask.

  “Do ye want a Highlander for yer verra own or no?” She hitched up her brow and it disappeared under the patterned scarf tied around the top of her head.

  “Fine.” I took the pen from her outstretched hand and signed my name to the bottom.

  The gypsy released my hand, cackling merrily as she broke into a little jig, dancing in circles around me. Arms flapping, shuffling her feet, the stacks of bracelets on her arms made a jangling sound. She lifted her skirts and swung them back and forth. Without missing a beat, she hooked her arm through mine; then whirled me back and forth in each direction before she started a little do-si-doe move on her own. It was the most bizarre thing I had ever seen. Before I signed the paper, the woman looked like she was going to keel over at any moment, not now though. Now she was as spry as ever, which made me wonder as to why she would act in such a way.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t have the chance to ponder that question for very long because when she stopped dancing, she rounded on me. Hands placed on her hips, she walked circles around where I stood, like she was sizing me up for something.

  “Good, good.” She patted my body affectionately which kind-of felt more like a frisking at a police station. By the time she was finished her inspection of me, I felt a bit violated.

  “Yer a plump one, aren’t ye lass?” She smacked my behind with a surprisingly amount of force, which pitched me forward.

  Rubbing my bottom, I frowned down at her. She reminded me of the wicked witch from Hansel & Gretel, and I the unwitting victim about to be tossed in the oven for her dinner.

  “So what of it?” I asked feeling riled.

  “Oh, not ta worry.” She waved her hand dismissively in the air. “Strapping Highlanders like their woman folk wit a bit o’ flesh on them. So ye will do jes fine.” She smiled widely, which revealed another empty space in her mouth. I had seen four so far, giving more credence to the witchy character I had envisioned her as being.

  Teetering on my feet, I grabbed the maypole that was set up off to the side of one of the vast open fields where the games were held. All the young pretty girls/maidens I had seen earlier were now long gone having been picked off, one by one, by a slew of young handsome admirers. I wasn’t allowed to participate. Tavner, one of the elders, who judged the games, said I picked the colors for the ‘13’ and in doing so, I sealed my own fate. Whatever that was supposed to mean—so as a conciliatory prize I got myself another cup of mead. Tavner told me the drink was made from fermented honey. What he didn’t tell me was how good it would taste. So one cup had turned to two, then two turned to three and the rest of the evening had become a blur and now, somehow, I ended up here, with this wicked witch err, gypsy.

  “Come on lass, the light is waning.” The gypsy grabbed my hand none too gently and led me, which was more of a dragging, across the flat of the hill over uneven clumps of grass to the base of a rather imposing mountain.

  “Do ye see the steps, there, lass?” She pointed her gnarled finger to the stone steps cut into the face of the mountain leading up into a bank of clouds at the top. I felt like Jack, from ‘Jack and the beanstalk’ as he made way to climb the beanstalk to steal the golden egg from the Giant living in the castle in the sky.

  “Ah,” I hiccupped and my vision blurred.

  “Lass, can ye manage it or no?” She sounded mad, or was that fright I heard in her crackling voice as she leveled her rheumy blue-green gaze on me.

  The gypsy grabbed my arm and shook it. My head rattled on my shoulders. “Yes, yes, I can manage it.” I wasn’t too sure but I would have said anything right now, just to get away from the woman and her unsettling scrutinizing gaze.

  I wobbled forward.

  “Och, lass,” she screeched. “Don’t go leaving the basket behind.”

  “What?”

  “Take it lass.” She shoved a rather hefty basket into my hands. Once she let go the weight nearly made me fall on my face. I staggered back and pulled the heavy basket up.

  “Take the basket of offerings lass, to the top of the mountain, cross over the screaming bridge to the other side and the Highlander ye seek will come fer ye.”

  “Screaming bridge?”

  “Och, lass never ye mind. Jes do as I say and all will work out for ye.”

  I struggled to keep hold of the basket. What in the heck was in this thing, rocks? I was about to ask her but she spoke before I could say anything.

  “Now get on with ye.” She shoved my bottom hard, propelling me forward.

  “Best of luck ta ye lass,” she cackled and then I could swear I heard her say, “Yer going ta need it.”

  One by one, I took the stairs up the steep face of the mountain with my basket of bounty firmly grasped in my hands. Breathing heavily, I finally made it to the top of the mountain. The heavy wool plaid skirt was weighing me down considerably, as was the basket.

  Why on Earth I had to carry the basket up here was beyond me. But then again, that was the least weird thing I was doing. Climbing a mountain dressed in full Scottish clothing and carrying a basket so a Highlander would come for me out of the mist was pretty out there. But I was so drunk. Well I was, and at the time, it seemed like a perfectly sensible thing to do. Now however, as I looked around into nothing but sky, I wasn’t so sure.

  There was a bridge in front of me spanning a chasm of eighty or so feet and it was screaming. At least that is what it sounded like as the swinging cabled bridge shuddered in the howling wind. Gripping my basket, I stepped tentatively on the moving monstrosity, second-guessing my decision the entire time. Taking a deep breath, I sprinted across it. Once I was safely on the other side, I set the basket down. The wind whipped against me as I walked over to the edge of the flat rock and glanced down. Approximately 300 feet below me were the tops of several trees. There was nothing between me and the trees except for the rock under my feet that didn’t seem nearly as large as it had moments before, and the sky. Feeling woozy, I backed up quite a bit and sat down near one of the only trees remaining on top of this desolate mountain. It wasn’t much taller than me sitting down. The limbs were all twisted at awkward angles, like it was confused as to which way to grow.

  The temperature was much cooler up here. I pulled my plaid more firmly around my shoulders to buffer the frigid wind.

  Huddled closely to the tree, I tucked my feet under my gown, rested my elbow on my leg, and propped my chin up with my hand. Twilight was fast waning and the moon was drifting higher in the sky. I needed to rest a moment and then I would make the long trek back down the mountain before it got too dark.

  That was the plan, but the thin air from the altitude combined with my over indulgence of mead, not to mention my arduous climb up several hundred stairs and the horror from crossing that damn bridge, made me drowsy. I decided a quick rest to revive myself wasn’t such a bad idea as my eyes drifted close.

  A shuddering underneath my bottom woke me. Disoriented, I looked around. A full moon bore down upon the mountaintop, illuminating the area in its ethereal glow as thousands of stars twinkled like diamonds just out of my reach. Again, I felt the shuddering the one that woke me. I stumbled upward to standing as the slight shuddering turned quickly to thundering. Gripping hold of the bedraggled tree, I held on for dear life as the entire mountain shook with such force I thought for sure the damn thing was collapsing underneath me. The thundering grew louder. White mist swirled out towards me from the screaming bridge. Not able to move, I watched.

  One by one, horses rolled out from the mist and surrounded me. By my count, there were thirteen horses, and as my gaze lifted higher, thirteen massive Highlanders came into focus mounted on top of each one.

  When the darkness came for me, I went willingl
y.

  DEAR READER…

  You are cordially invited to join me on an adventure through

  the pages of this book.

  cLICK OR TAP

  THE INVITATION TO READ THE RULES!

  CHAPTER ONE

  LOCH MORAR, SCOTLAND

  THE YEAR OF OUR LORD - 1687

  Thirteen somber faced men wearing kilts had me surrounded and not one of them was wearing underwear.

  Blinking against the bright morning light, I swallowed hard, wondering if I was dreaming. It seemed like it should be a dream since I had never seen so many fine men gathered in one place that wasn’t a gay bar, and I was lying on my back staring stupidly up at them….except, I wasn’t in my bed.

  A man to my left grunted and nudged my leg with the toe of his boot.

  ‡

  “Think ye, she is dead?” asked Callum, stroking his chin. He barely began growing hair on his face and tended to massage the area in hopes it would grow faster.

  “Are ye sure it’s a lass?” asked Muir, who stood a full head taller than Callum and had no such desires to have a beard since it would cover his handsome visage, or so he said often. “I have never seen a lass looking like that.”

  “Sure, it is,” said Callum, who was ten and seven and the current lairds third cousin removed. “Look at her long hair.”

  Muir snorted. “Callum, yer hair is down yer back and I wouldn’t mistake ye for a lass, even if the night was pitched in Dragoon’s blood and yer kilt was up exposing only yer hairless buttocks.”

  “Ye keep talking like that Muir and I may think ye want ta see me hairless buttocks more often.” He lifted his aforementioned kilt and bared his backside.

  “Why ye….”