Page 25 of Edge of Yesterday

He remembered the tremendous lightning flash, then ramming into another damn gorse bush before he hit the ground. Cailean braced one foot on the ground, shifted weight, and pushed to his feet. Only a slight unsteadiness remained. He could live with that. His head still throbbed, but he counted himself lucky he hadn’t landed face down. He’d broken his nose three times in his youth, and the pain of breaking a nose that had already been broken surely rivaled giving birth.

A sliver of full moon broke through a gap in the clouds. Cailean turned a slow circle. In the five days he’d been at the festival he thought he’d walked the entire village, but he didn’t recognize this lane. No straw covered the road. In fact, this area didn’t appear ‘dressed’ at all. Both muddy and stony, the lane bore deep ruts as if frequently traversed by heavy carts. At the far end of the road, where it curved and dropped steeply down the shoulder of a hill, sat a cluster of thatched stone huts more fit for housing animals than people. They appeared deserted.

Slats of light leaked through the shuttered windows of the nearest cottages. The thatched cottages were whitewashed and in far better condition than the hovels. His gaze caught on—was that really a ‘warding pole’ guarding the road several cottages down? More a bundle of branches than a true pole, in the dark, the objects hanging from the ward looked like rags, bones, and a collection of indefinable charms. Magic safeguards used by medievals to prevent evil spirits from passing along the road. He shouldn’t be surprised, given Heatheredge’s obsession with historical accuracy. Still, the archaic touch gave him the willies.

Cailean shifted his gaze to the roof of the nearest cottage. He drew in a deep breath and his nostrils filled with the peaty smell of the smoke that rose from the chimney. The cottage beside that one, the next and the next all chugged the wispy smoke. Fog hung in the air as a thin mist. Had they circled back to the village without him knowing? His sense of direction was usually impeccable. Where were his fellow reenactors, Rathais and Dunnett? Val? All the spectators and the Edgers?

Running footfalls approached somewhere behind Cailean. He whirled. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a small figure shoot from the alley to his right. He started to sidestep, but they collided. As he fell, he seized the person and clenched his jaw in anticipation of another teeth-jarring fall. His mind registered the feminine form he hugged and twisted at the last instant so that she fell on top of him.

“Bastard,” she hissed, and grabbed the hilt of his sword.

Cailean rolled on top of her. This, he had to admit, was far more pleasant than his first fall. Wherever Val had dumped him, at least he’d been a sport to include a beautiful woman in the reenactment.

“How dare ye attack me,” she hissed.

“You ploughed into me,” he replied. “Then you tried to take my sword.”

She grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked. Cailean seized her arm and shoved it against the ground. His head still throbbed, he was pretty sure both cuts to his arm were leaking blood, and his side blazed.

“Get off me, ye bastard.”

He froze. The fear in her voice sounded real. Then the truth hit him. She was part of Heatheredge, but not part of the reenactments.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and she stiffened. “Nae, that’s no’ what I meant.” Dammit, he’d made a mess of things. He pushed off her, and pulled her up with him. She bolted, but he held fast to her wrist. “Hold on, lass. You don’t have to run. I didn’t mean anything. I thought this was part of the reenactment.”

She kicked his knee. Pain splintered through his kneecap. He released her and she shot away.

“Hey!”

She veered right, between two cottages. Cailean stared in the direction she’d disappeared. The constable would be at his door tomorrow. How was he going to explain—

A woman’s scream caused him to straighten. What the bloody hell? That had to be the same woman. He started after her. She sounded like a wounded tiger. He reached the small alley and discerned her small form being held by one of three larger forms. This had to be part of the reenactment. But if so, then that meant her role involved whatever was happening to him. Another chilling scream.

“Who are ye?” The larger of the two ruffians started toward Cailean.

A slap sounded and the woman cried out. Cailean yanked his gaze onto her. She struggled against her captor.

“Ye had best leave,” the big man growled.

Cailean hesitated. This seemed so damned real. But wasn’t that the point?

“Leave now, while you can,” the smaller man to his left hissed.

Cailean shrugged. When in Rome…

He drew Triumph and said in his best Highland brogue, “Nae, I dinnae think so.”

“Kill him,” the one holding the woman ordered.

The cravens drew their swords. Cailean grinned. This was why he’d come to Heatheredge. He’d never fought in an alley at night but, once they began fighting, faint lights were sure to turn on just as they had when Valdar made his way to Lady Elizabeth’s cottage.

Cailean gripped his sword tighter. “Come on, laddies.” He cut the air with his blade. “Triumph hasn’t tasted blood today.”

The smaller man edged right while the other advanced. So they thought they would press him back against the wall. The man on his right lunged. Cailean sidestepped the clumsy attack and whacked the man’s arse with the flat of his sword. The oaf stumbled into the wall, shoulder first. Cailean spun in time to block a blow from the second man. The impact vibrated clear to his elbow.

Cailean swung in an arc, using momentum to force his opponent’s sword skyward. In midair, he yanked back his blade and jabbed as close as he dared to the man’s belly. The man jumped back and muttered something under his breath. Cailean didn’t blame him. He glanced around. Where were the damned lights—and the spectators? He wouldn’t have thought the committee would be so irresponsible. If his judgment was off by a centimeter, he could hurt the guy. Big-bearded, bare-shanked, and clad in ragged plaids, the men were far too scruffy to have main roles in the festival. They’d surely participated as ‘background fillers’ for true medieval Highland flair. Every century had ruffians. And these took their parts seriously. The man who had banged into the wall approached warily and Cailean turned to face both of them.

“God’s Teeth, Davis, what are you waiting for?” The man holding the struggling woman jerked a look at his friend. “Kill him.”