10 Timeless Heroes; A Time Travel Romance Boxed Set Read online

  “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “Well, I used lemons and vanilla in it.”

  “That could be the reason. What’s it supposed to do?”

  “It softens your hands and helps reduce the cuticles, and it smells really good.”

  She tested some on her hands. “Yeah, it does smell good. Feels kind of sticky though.”

  “Well, it’s still in the early stages. Maybe I used too much honey,” Maeve said as she took the jar away. “Why do you always have to be so critical?”

  “I wasn’t being critical. I was just commenting.”

  “Well, stop commenting and help me. I need to get this banner up higher or no one will know we’re here. I wouldn’t have come if I had known my booth would be so far out of the center of traffic.” Maeve stood on a chair and hoisted the banner higher. “Grab that pole and hand it to me.”

  She handed Maeve the object and secured the banner. “There, that should do it. Lots of people here today, and if we can get their attention, we should make some good sales.”

  Fiona moved to the back of the booth and began unpacking and placing jars, boxes and candles on the shelving. Though she wouldn’t admit it, she loved the smell of Mom’s concoctions. They were great reminders of her childhood. Mom had been dragging her to these festivals from time beginning and she thought having Fiona with her brought in more customers. She firmly believed that her remedies kept Fiona healthy―and Fiona had been a disgustingly healthy child―a wonderful testament to Maeve’s profession.

  Mom’s booth was a testament to her profession, which she claimed was a Druidic healer. In reality, she was a naturopath, and a good one, too! There wasn’t much about herbs and natural remedies Maeve didn’t know and some of that had rubbed off on Fiona. Besides her hair, another of Fiona’s really good features was her skin and Maeve always claimed that her potions were the reason. Good skin, healthy hair and nice teeth. That’s me!

  As she unpacked, she noticed several small clay pots with lids. “These are cute,” she said. “Where’d you get them?”

  “I bought a bunch of them from the Potters Guild on Hill Street. They look good, don’t they?”

  Yes, they did. She swiped a small pot of lip gloss and slipped it in her pocket.

  Mom grinned. “You don’t have to steal it.”

  “I wasn’t stealing. I was borrowing it for Meagan.”

  “Athelred’s son is coming today,” Maeve mentioned casually.

  “Mom,” she groaned. “You haven’t set me up again, have you?”

  “Set you up! When have I ever set you up?”

  “Only about forever! Last year, it was that Joe something, you know, the baldheaded one.”

  “He isn’t baldheaded He shaves his head. There’s a difference.”

  “What difference? Bald is bald. I like men with a little bit of hair. Besides, he didn’t like me either.”

  “You should’ve tried harder. I think you scared him. By the way, I forgot to drop your headdress off yesterday. Put this on.” Maeve handed her a length of green embroidered cloth.

  “I don’t want anything on my head. I have enough itchy spots as it is,” she grumbled.

  “This won’t itch. If you’d quit complaining and try it on, you’d notice I lined the inside with cotton.”

  She took the headband and pulled her hair back.

  “You should braid your hair,” Maeve commented, smoothing Fiona’s tresses. “You have the loveliest hair. Not many blondes have hair as long or as light as yours, not the true ones anyway.”

  “Try keeping care of it on a day-to-day basis, maybe you wouldn’t be as fond of it as you are.” She grabbed a mirror from of her purse and held it up. The headpiece was the perfect compliment. I’ll wear it! Not to please Mom of course, but because it’s flattering.

  She eyed her mother. Maeve’s costume was an off-white tunic, secured at the shoulders with two large bronze pins and the fabric to her inexperienced eyes appeared to be linen.

  “Why do I seem to be the only person in this booth wearing wool?”

  “I’m the Celtic priestess. Priestesses get to wear linen,” Maeve replied with casual nonchalance.

  “Linen! You get to wear linen and I have to wear wool?”

  “You’re the Celtic virgin. Virgins wear wool. It’s common knowledge.”

  “Common knowledge according to whom? If there’s a book on Celtic virgins, I want to read it.”

  “You won’t find it in any book. According to your father, ancient Celts didn’t have a written language. I just know from word of mouth. Besides, I wanted it to look authentic.” Maeve smiled looking a little too smug. “Just enjoy the dress and quit bitching.”

  “Well, if you plan on me helping you this summer, you’d better come up with something different. I refuse to be itchy and hot at the same time.”

  “I’m already working on it, something tunic-style out of lightweight linen. You’ll love it.”

  Fiona’s stomach grumbled hungrily. She reached for her bag and stepped out of the booth.

  “I’m going to go over to the food booths and grab something. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.”

  “Why don’t you go over to Meagan’s booth and grab one of her meat pasties. I hear they’re especially good this year.”

  She nodded and moved into the line of foot traffic.

  “And grab some of Mary’s homemade lemonade,” Maeve added.

  I’d better move quickly before Mom has a chance to order more! Sure enough, she was almost out of hearing range when Maeve whistled. “And get me a honey bun from Delia’s booth!”

  “Maybe I should stop and rent a trailer to haul it all back,” she grumbled to no one in particular.

  A clogging contest was in full swing in the center of the square. She stopped for a few minutes. Not many contenders for Lord of the Dance here. They were having a good time, though, and no one seemed to mind that talent wasn’t an issue. She cheered along with everyone else when the first group of dancers finished. Not wanting to keep her mother waiting too long, she reluctantly turned away.

  “Fiona,” a high pitched voice squealed. “I was hoping you’d come! You look absolutely terrific.” Meagan ran out of the booth and wrapped her arms around Fiona.

  “You look pretty good yourself,” she said, as she hugged back. They had been friends from the time they were little. Having mothers who frequented the same festivals, they’d developed a bond early on. Meagan was short and round, with red hair and lots of freckles. Everyone loved Meagan and Meagan loved everyone.

  “How long are you staying?”

  “I’m here for the weekend. I’m going home tonight, but I’ll be back tomorrow. I promised Mom I’d help in the booth.” She sniffed, eyeing the food display. “Something sure smells good. Did you make these yourself?”

  “Of course, what else? Do you want some?”

  “Sure, give me two, one chicken and one beef. Probably better make it three, another chicken. It’ll save me a trip back when Mom decides she needs another one.”

  Meagan wrapped up three pasties, put them in a bag. “Tell your mother ‘hi’ for me. Will you two be at the dance tonight?”

  She nodded. “I’ll be there, just look for the nearest dark corner and I’ll be the lump sitting on the chair.”

  “Why don’t you just get up and ask someone to dance—I do.”

  “I’d be too nervous, and if they told me ‘no,’ I’d be traumatized for the rest of the year and you’d have to bring pasties to me in my padded cell.”

  Meagan chuckled. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Fiona, everyone gets told ‘no’ once in a while.”

  “Maybe you get told ‘no’ once in a while. I get told ‘no’ on a regular basis.” Truthfully, she couldn’t remember Meagan ever being told “no”, and she never seemed to lack for dance partners. Compared to Meagan, she considered herself the proverbial wallflower, which wasn’t bad most of the time. She hadn’t met too many eligible men she’d give
two cents for anyway.

  “I think men are just nervous around you. I’ve noticed that really beautiful women scare men. Maybe you could try to be a little homelier.” Meagan giggled, dimples dancing in her plump cheeks.

  “Is that my fault?”

  “Just don’t give up. Keep asking and the right guy will say ‘yes’—I just know it.” Meagan’s warm brown eyes twinkled. “Somewhere out there, your Mr. Right is just waiting. How could he not be? You are just too wonderful to be by yourself for very long. Besides, we have lots of time and lots of men to go through before we end up with just one.” She gave Fiona another quick hug. “Well, I’d better get back to work. These pasties won’t sell themselves. Look for me tonight.” Meagan turned to help another customer and Fiona moved away, then stopped, turned, and pulled the lip salve from her pocket, “Meagan,” she said and flipped the little pot, “from Mom.” She chuckled as she walked away.

  “I love this stuff! Tell your mom ‘thanks’,” Meagan yelled.

  After a short stop at the lemonade stand and a longer stop at Delia’s for a honey bun and some quick conversation, Fiona made her way back to Maeve’s booth, carefully balancing the cups and food. Maeve was helping customers and heaved a sigh of relief as she stepped in.

  “The minute you left, the booth filled up. Why were you gone so long?”

  “I was only gone ten minutes or so. I went as fast as I could.”

  “More like twenty—I should have told you to get me two pasties.”

  “I’m way ahead of you Mom. Two chicken pasties coming up.” Fiona set the food down and began unpacking the pasties.

  “Where’s my napkin?” Maeve asked.

  Crap! She had forgotten napkins. “I forgot, I’ll go back and get some.”

  “No, no, that’s okay. I have some paper towels back here. Never know when you’ll need some.” Maeve reached behind a stack of boxes and brought out the towels. “Let’s eat. I’m positively starving.”

  By seven-thirty, the strolling shoppers had thinned to the point they decided to close the booth for the night.

  Maeve secured the change box. “We did great today. I think this is the best sale day I’ve had so far. I’m going to take this over to the festival office and get it locked up. I’ll meet you in City Hall. I think the dance is on the lower level.”

  Fiona sat down and put her feet up, sighing in relief, “I don’t know, Mom, I’m pretty tired, maybe I’ll just call it a day and head home.”

  “Nonsense, you’re too young to be sitting at home by yourself on a Saturday night. Come on, it’s going to be fun.” Maeve turned and headed over to the festival headquarters, leaving Fiona to wander over to City Hall by herself.

  The sky had clouded up and a light rain was falling. She stood in the slight drizzle calculating the odds of leaving before Maeve noticed her absence. Nervousness set in and it was all she could do to step through the door. She drew a fortifying breath, lifted her chin and prepared to enter the lion’s den. As fortune would have it, just at that moment, Meagan walked up, grabbed her arm and pulled her through the doorway.

  The room was noisy and chaotic. Chairs and tables lined the walls and in the center, a tightly packed mass of people were attempting to dance on the crowded floor.

  “I don’t know how anyone will be able to do anything in here,” Meagan yelled over the din, “let alone dance.” She had hardly finished speaking when a young guy dressed in a kilt grabbed Meagan. He attacked the dance floor with gusto, stomping, twirling and adding a few high kicks. She grinned. The high kicks answered the centuries old question—what was he wearing underneath? In any event, she was alone again. She inched her way through the crowd to the beverage counter, paid for a beer and then pushed through to the nearest corner. She found an empty chair conveniently situated and sat down, which was where Maeve found her a short time later.

  “Why aren’t you up mingling?”

  Fiona shook her head, “I’m fine right here. I’m just enjoying watching everyone.” It was interesting, too. Such a diverse crowd! Clothing from every time period was represented, from ancient to modern, from leather and animal pelts—fake she hoped—to the more modern Highlander dress, if modern was the right word. Her costume was one of the older Irish Celtic styles and to her mind, one of the prettier ones.

  “I just spoke to Athelred. She’s going to bring Alfred over here in a few minutes. Maybe you can dance with him.”

  “Alfred? His name’s Alfred? Mom do you know how many men I have met with the name ‘Alfred’ who are even the tiniest bit interesting? None—that’s how many.”

  “Don’t judge him before you meet him. A name is only a name. Isn’t that what Juliet says of Romeo, or Romeo says of Juliet—or whatever? Anyway, Athelred said he is an accountant and owns his own business,” Maeve paused for a moment. “And I think she said he’s in his early thirties, or maybe mid-thirties.”

  “Mom! I am in my early twenties. Over thirty is too old.”

  “I’m not asking you to marry him. I am just trying to find you a dance partner.”

  “Never mind.” The night was deteriorating at a fast rate. “Just bring him over before I lose courage.”

  “You could try to be a little more receptive. Who knows? He might just end up being interesting!”

  “Give me a break, Mom. I can’t believe that Athelred’s son is going to be even vaguely interesting. If he looks anything like Athelred, I seriously have my doubts. And is Athelred her real name?”

  Athelred and Alfred—she guessed—took that moment to join them. Hopefully, they hadn’t heard what she’d said. She slanted a look at Maeve, eyebrows arched. Maeve stared back, a sickly smile pasted on her face.

  “Maeve, Fiona, this is my son Alfred.” Athelred waved a hand at the male trailing behind.

  Yes, just as I expected! Alfred lived up to his name. To compare him to the Pillsbury Doughboy was an insult to the Pillsbury Doughboy. His outfit, far from being Celtic or resembling anything even vaguely close, was the archetype in bondage attire. A black leather vest—open to the waist of course—tight fitting leather pants and lots of gold chains on his flabby chest left her breathless, and not in a good way! A spiky thing sprang up from his hat and the brim sat low on his forehead, forcing his ears out, or maybe they just stood out on their own. Make that a Pillsbury Doughboy in drag!

  Alfred posed. “Mom said we were supposed to wear costumes, but she didn’t indicate what kind. Guess I am a little overdressed or under-dressed, or something. Not that I care, a costume is a costume as far as I’m concerned.”

  Athelred’s eyes popped. “I told you to wear something Celtic.”

  “Like I would know what Celtic is. I thought that was a basketball team,” he said.

  “You should know, our family descended from Celts,” Athelred exclaimed.

  “Well, if it isn’t in an accounting book, I wouldn’t know.” Alfred reached out to shake Fiona’s hand with his short, fat sausage fingers—the kind she particularly hated! Trying to be gracious, she conjured up her best “I don’t want to know you” smile and returned the hand shake. It was as wonderful as she’d anticipated. The Pillsbury Doughboy had sweaty palms—another point in his disfavor.

  Maeve, dismay rampant in her blue eyes, piped in. “How nice to meet you. I was just telling Fiona about you and that you owned your own business.”

  “Well, I don’t own my own business,” he said. “Who told you that? I work for a small accounting firm in the north end.”

  “I didn’t mean to infer he owned his own business,” Athelred interjected. “I meant to say he would like to own his own business someday. Wouldn’t you, sweetie?”

  “Yup, some day soon, I’m going to own one of the most sought after accounting firms in the city. Then people will line up and beg for my services.”

  You can count me out on that one! Fiona grimaced. “I think I feel a headache coming on.” She rubbed her forehead. “I probably should head home soon.”

  It t
otally amazed her that her mother, of all people, actually thought that she might be interested in someone like Alfred. Of course Mom had never met him before, but that was no excuse. Another huge disappointment in a long line of blind date disappointments. Fortunately, she wasn’t actually out on a date with this one. She could exit when she wanted to—and now seemed a good time.

  Alfred stepped closer, almost chest to chest. Her nose crinkled. His breath smelled like he’d visited the beer garden one too many times, topped off with garlic-laden chorizos.

  He extended the pudgy hand again. “Well, it was really nice meeting you. Maybe we can get together soon.”

  Preferably after I’m dead! She stood up and edged towards Maeve. “I would really like to stay and visit, but I have to drive back to the city and get some rest so I can get here early tomorrow.” She draped the plaid shawl around her shoulders. “I really need to get going.”

  “Oh, stay for awhile,” Maeve pleaded. “The party’s just getting started.”

  “No, Mom, the party’s over for me. I’m tired and I need to go home.” Fiona glared at Maeve, hoping against hope that Maeve would get the message and help her ease out.

  Maeve picked up on the body language. “Well, okay, Honey, if you have to. Tomorrow comes early. I’ll walk you out.”

  “No, that’s fine, you stay here. There’s plenty of security around and no one will bother me. You have a good time and I’ll see you tomorrow.” She gave her a quick hug.

  “I’m sorry,” Maeve whispered. “I didn’t realize he’d be so…so disgusting.”

  At least Maeve was cognizant of the fact that she’d made an enormous mistake. Fiona would forgive her for this one.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she whispered back. “You’ll have a great time entertaining him.” She grinned at the parting shot.

  Maeve glared but patted her arm affectionately. “I really wish you’d stay. I don’t like you out on the roads after dark, especially when it’s raining.”

  “I’ll be okay, Mom.”

  “Well, call me when you get home. I’ll leave my cell phone on.”

  “Fine, but don’t get worried if you don’t hear from me right away.” She made her escape as quickly as she could.