The men were some distance away when I saw them. Two or three, dressed in kilts, running like the dickens across a small clearing.
There was a far-off banging noise that I rather dazedly identified as gunshots.
I was quite sure I was still hallucinating when the sound of shots was followed by the appearance of five or six men dressed in red coats and knee breeches, waving muskets.
I blinked and stared. I moved my hand before my face and held up two fingers. I saw two fingers, all present and correct.
No blurring of vision. I sniffed the air cautiously. The pungent odor of trees in spring and a faint whiff of clover from a clump near my feet. No olfactory delusions.
I felt my head. No soreness anywhere. Concussion unlikely then. Pulse a little fast, but steady.
The sound of distant yelling changed abruptly. There was a thunder of hooves, and several horses came charging in my direction, kilted Scots atop them, yodeling in Gaelic.
I dodged out of the way with an agility that seemed to prove I had not been physically damaged, whatever my mental state.
And then it came to me, as one of the redcoats, knocked flat by a fleeing Scot, rose and shook his fist theatrically after the horses.
Of course. A film! I shook my head at my own slowness. They were shooting a costume drama of some sort, that was all. One of those Bonnie-Prince-in-the-heather sorts of things, no doubt.
Well. Regardless of artistic merit, the film crew wouldn't thank me for introducing a note of historic inauthenticity into their shots.
I doubled back into the wood, meaning to make a wide circle around the clearing and come out on the road where I had left the car.
The going was more difficult than I had expected, though. The wood was a young one, and dense with underbrush that snagged my clothes. I had to go carefully through the spindly saplings, disentangling my skirts from the brambles as I went.
Had he been a snake, I would have stepped on him. He stood so quietly among the saplings as almost to have been one of them, and I did not see him until a hand shot out and gripped me by the arm.
Its companion clapped over my mouth as I was dragged backward into the oak grove, thrashing wildly in panic. My captor, whoever he was, seemed not much taller than I, but rather noticeably strong in the forearms.
I smelled a faint flowery scent, as of lavender water, and something more spicy, mingled with the sharper reek of male perspiration.
As the leaves whipped back into place in the path of our passage, though, I noticed something familiar about the hand and forearm clasped about my waist.
I shook my head free of the restraint over my mouth.
"Douglas!" I burst out.
"What in heaven's name are you playing at?"
I was torn between relief at finding him here and irritation at the horseplay. Unsettled as I was by my experience among the stones, I was in no mood for rough games.
The hands released me, but even as I turned to him, I sensed something wrong. It was not only the unfamiliar cologne, but something more subtle. I stood stock-still, feeling the hair prickle on my neck.
"You aren't Douglas," I whispered.
"I am not," he agreed, surveying me with considerable interest.
"Though I've a cousin of that name. I doubt, though, that it's he you have confused me with, madam. We do not resemble one another greatly."
Whatever this man's cousin looked like, the man himself might have been Douglas's brother. There was the same lithe, spare build and fine-drawn bones; the same chiseled lines of the face; the level brows and wide hazel eyes; and the same dark hair, curved smooth across the brow.
But this man's hair was long, tied back from his face with a leather thong. And the gypsy skin showed the deep-baked tan of months, no, years, of exposure to the weather, not the light golden colour Douglas's had attained during our Scottish holiday.
"Just who are you?" I demanded, feeling most uneasy.
While Douglas had numerous relatives and connections, I thought I knew all the British branch of the family. Certainly, there was no one who looked like this man among them.
And surely Douglas would have mentioned any near relative living in the Uplands? Not only mentioned him but insisted upon visiting him as well, armed with the usual collection of genealogical charts and notebooks, eager for any tidbits of family history about the famous Black Jackie Affleck.
The stranger raised his brows at my question.
"Who am I? I might ask the same question, madam, and with considerably more justification."
His eyes raked me slowly from head to toe, traveling with a sort of insolent appreciation over the thin peony-sprigged cotton dress I wore, and lingering with an odd look of amusement on my legs.
I did not at all understand the look, but it made me extremely nervous, and I backed up a step or two, until I was brought up sharp by bumping into a tree.
The man finally removed his gaze and turned aside. It was as though he had taken a constraining hand off me, and I let out my breath in relief, not realizing until then that I had been holding it.
He had turned to pick up his coat, thrown across the lowest branch of an oak sapling. He brushed some scattered leaves from it and began to put it on.
I must have gasped, because he looked up again. The coat was a deep scarlet, long-tailed and without lapels, frogged down the front.
The buff linings of the turned-back cuffs extended a good six inches up the sleeve, and a small coil of gold braid gleamed from one epaulet. It was a dragoon's coat, an officer's coat.
Then it occurred to me—of course, he was an actor, from the company I had seen on the other side of the wood. Though the short sword he proceeded to strap on seemed remarkably more realistic than any prop I had ever seen.