Page 3 of Edge of Yesterday

“The Red Lion is popular. You’ll have to show your flags to get in.” He stepped back, not sure which annoyed him more, the press of her double D’s against his arm or her strong perfume.

Both women edged closer. “Will you be there?” Randi asked.

“I’ll be there around midnight,” he lied without a twinge of guilt. At that hour, he’d be asleep in his bed at Bain’s.

Randi glanced down the High Street. “I didn’t see a store to buy the flags.”

“That’s the charm of Heatheredge. If the town is to look truly medieval, there can be no visible modern shops.” He nodded down the lane. “At the far end of the High Street, there’s a stall where you can get the flags for free. Tell Harry I sent you. He’ll give you extras.”

He would give them more than flags if they were amenable. Harry was a good sort, but tupped anything.

Denise lifted her cell phone. “Is there a place to get a converter? This is our first time in Scotland and we didn’t know we needed a special plug for our phones.”

“Of course. There’s a shop down the lane, MacGowan’s Tapestries.”

Randi giggled. “Did you forget your converter, as well?”

Cailean kept the smile on his face. The woman must only look at his Facebook pictures. If she’d read the posts, she’d know he was Scottish. He didn’t need to convert his phone and tablet from 110 to 220 current.

“No. The vendors who sell modern supplies during the festival display a small plaque with the name of their modern shop on the lower right hand corner of the building. I just happened to notice the plaque.”

He’d noted several of the shops: a Highland soap and candle shop, a corner establishment offering locally-distilled whisky, a bookshop, and a ‘fudge den.’ He would nip behind the lines before leaving and pick up a gift for his sister. Ginny adored all things fudge.

Randi grasped his arm and, before he realized her intent, she rose on tiptoe and kissed him. Bloody hell. If the camera was still on him, they would have gotten the kiss on film. She ground her breasts against his mail-covered chest before he grasped her arms and stepped back. He bumped someone behind him.

The girls beamed. “We’ll see you tonight, Cailean.”

“Till then, lassies.”

“I could listen to your accent all day.” Denise gave an exaggerated shiver before they turned and left.

Cailean released a breath as they wriggled and bounced down the road, quickly disappearing into the throng. The crowd had grown. Already, locals costumed as pikemen were directing folk out of the lane and onto the narrow walkway in order to open a path for the noblemen and other dignitaries who would later march through town and out to Heatheredge Tower for the invitation-only dinner feast.

Cailean turned in the opposite direction the women had gone and glimpsed the TV camera still pointed his way. He whirled away from the jackals and stopped short at sight of the man striding down the walkway in his direction. Cailean would’ve recognized Val Ross anywhere. Festival Chairman and City Councilman, his headshot accompanied a myriad of news write-ups and every festival program.

The man who parted the throng as he strode toward Cailean looked every inch a medieval Highland warlord. The large two-handed sword strapped low on his hip weighed at least ten kilos. Celtic wristbands covered his forearms from wrist to elbow and—most striking—a large silver pendant in the shape of a giant bird talon hung from his neck. Dark, thick hair brushed his shoulders while his full beard boasted half a dozen hammered-silver beard rings. The distinctive circular scar on his left cheek gave him a dangerous look. Cailean often wondered how he’d gotten the scar. An intensely private man, little was known about him outside of his work as Festival Chairman.

Passersby jostled Cailean, but he didn’t take his eyes off Val Ross. Had the man just made eye contact with him? Yes, and he was definitely headed toward him. Cailean’s heart began to pound. Seconds later, the crowd parted for Lord Ross as he stopped in front of Cailean. Two other lords stepped up alongside him.

Words failed Cailean. The embodiment of his every boyhood dream stood before him. “Lord Ross, ‘tis an honor to meet you. I am—”

“Cailean Ross. Aye, lad, we know who ye are, and we are pleased to have you here.” Val smiled, and adjusted the flashy swath of red-based tartan that crossed his broad, mail-covered chest. “I see you are wearing that famous sword of yours.”

Cailean laughed. “I wouldn’t say famous but, aye, this is Triumph.”

“Well named,” Val said. “Cailean, meet Lord Rathais and Lord Dunnett.”

Cailean gave a slight bow. Both men, he realized, wore a talon necklace similar to Val’s, only smaller. Was the talon a specialty of Heatheredge? He would have to find out.

“My lords.” Cailean nodded to the men.

They canted their heads, but he suspected they weren’t as impressed with him as Val seemed to be.

“Where are ye staying?” Val asked.

“Bain’s Highland Farm,” Cailean replied.

Val nodded. “Donnie Bain, a good man. His wife is a damned fine cook.”