With a shriek of frustrated bloodlust, Duncan jerked to a
stop as the crossing signal turned red. The musket-
wielding French soldier he’d been chasing sprinted to the
safety of the opposite sidewalk, nearly knocking down two
young women carrying Macy’s bags in the process.

Och, Duncan thought with irritation. There’s only one
thing you can count on with a Frenchmen: they run better
than they fight.

One of the women looked at Duncan and grinned. At six
foot one with flaming red hair and a Scottish burr, he
was used to being noticed. However, the kilt—his grand-
da’s from the Korean War—inevitably turned the looks into
something more prurient. A gust of wind blew down
Pittsburgh’s Grant Street, and he palmed the wool against
his thighs. Sometimes he wished he lived in a world where
a man’s bare legs weren’t the object of such fascination.

“Reenactor?” the woman called.

He lifted his carved wooden sword and blank-filled pistol
and gave her a lopsided grin. “Battle of Fort Duquesne.”

A roiling gray now edged the blue sky. Duncan hoped the
storm they were predicting would hold off until after he
was in the air tonight. He hadn’t been home to Scotland
since Christmas, and by all rights he should have skipped
the reenactment since he could only spare a week of
holiday time. But there were so few battles in North
America in which the Highlanders had fought, he’d hated
to say no. His grand-da was his last immediate family
member still around, and the old guy was in his eighties.
Duncan knew a visit was in order, and he fought off a
wave of guilt he knew he deserved for putting the
reenactment first.

The walk light turned green just as a band of Seneca
warriors, bows drawn, emerged on Fourth Street. In this
particular battle, they were allied with the French and
therefore his enemy. Not only that, but their leader, a
blustery fellow named Dylan, had been a complete arse the
night before in a debate over rugby versus gridiron. The
Senecas spotted him and Duncan’s adrenaline surged. Time
to teach the old boy a lesson. With a nod to the women,
he lifted his sword and flew directly into the hail of
rubber-tipped arrows.

God, how he loved a battle.