The Laird (8 page)

  ~ # ~

Duncan ran an agitated hand through his hair as he stood in the bailey and studied the shafts of papers Isaac Silverstein had compiled.

“Have we enough to finish the kirk
and
get through the winter?”

Isaac rolled a shoulder, “
Oui
, but only if ye dinna have the brass effigy made. Simply carve Mary’s name into the stone, and forego the elaborate woodwork.”

No effigy
. As he buried her, he’d
promised
Mary she’d be memorialized in bronze. His second and third wives he’d made no such promise to, but Mary had been a good woman and deserved the honor. Too, her sister Flora and her father, the Campbell, would expect it.

He looked about the bailey, his gaze settling on the blacksmith pounding out hinges for doors he’d yet to find enough wood to make. Perhaps he’d been foolish in not taking up the Duke of Albany’s offer. ‘Twas not too late. He could don his armor and once again sell his soul and arm, becoming a mercenary fighting in Normandy for the French King against Henry IV of England. The thought of maiming and killing men he held no personal grudge against yet again he found distressing. As much as leaving Blackstone unfinished and in the hands of untried warriors, for he knew Angus and Douglas would insist on following him. But if it has to be done. . .

Damn his hapless sire.

“Halt fashing, Duncan,” Isaac murmured. ‘Tis making ye ill. We must simply be prudent. All will be well.”

“We lost half of our wee kine in that late snowstorm, Isaac. Ye ken we must now barter or buy meat if we don’t want to butcher our breeders.”

“True, but the fishing is going well,
non
? The women are drying flakes in salt as we speak, and the crops look promising, so we willna starve.”

“Looking promising and being harvested are not the same thing.”

“Duncan, do ye not trust me?”

He looked at his advisor, the man who not ten years ago had been sentenced by the villagers of Ballimoor to cumburenda—-burning at the stake--and sighed. “Aye, I trust ye. Ye’ve kept me afloat with ye wee trading all these years with naught but a few marks of silver.”

“And will continue to do so. Here.” He handed Duncan an invitation bearing the King’s seal. “The tournament is to be held in honor of His Majesty’s birthday in two months time. No man can beat ye at the lists or at jousting, so yer fears are for naught,
mon ami
.” Isaac gave him a slap on the shoulder as he walked away.

Duncan hissed as his back muscles knotted like the tarred shrouds on a ship. Pain radiated down his spine and left arm. “Merciful mother of God, why will I not heal?”

He felt a tap on his good arm.

“We need to talk.” His wode new ladywife stood at his side with her hands on her hips.

He frowned seeing her for the first time in the harsh light of day. God’s Breath! Save for the bruising and the silver flashing from her gray eyes, she had to be the plainest female he’d ever beheld. His gaze instinctively traveled downward. A good foot taller than she, he had no difficulty looking into the gaping bodice of her gown. He seriously doubted she could nourish a babe with what little she had to offer, let alone keep a man like himself—-one with a preference for heavy-breasted women—-satisfied. The thought of breeding prompted him to ask, “How many years be ye?”

She clutched the top of her gown and frowned at him. “Twenty-four. Why?”

The answer surprised him. He’d been told she was just sixteen. Did Albany think he’d not ask, or had His Conniving Highness merely assumed she’d have a strong enough sense of self-preservation to lie?  And what other lies has Albany foisted upon him?

“Duncan, we need to talk. I need to know how I came to be here, and I
really
need to go back. And why did you marry me? We certainly don’t know each other well enough.” She heaved an exasperated sigh as he stared at her. “I know. I probably brought this about with my foolish daydreams, but all this...” Her arms waved about. “In truth, this is nothing like I imagined. Not with men urinating off the battlements into the ocean, food being thrown to the floor, my being dressed in wife number three’s clothes---which don’t fit as you’ve already noticed--and my not being able to drink the damn water.”

What the hell was she ranting about in her odd English? Why would she want to drink water? And what gave her the impression he’d tolerate that tone of voice from her? “Wife, I dinna like ye speech nor ken yer aggravations.” Seeing the men stopping their work to stare, he grabbed her arm.

Hauling his agitated bride toward the keep, he whispered through clenched teeth, “Were ye not at meat, wife? Were ye not clothed? What do ye find so grievous?”

“Stop manhandling me!” She tried to pull from his grasp.

“Nay, not ‘til ye be calm and respond with thought.”

“Fine.” She sounded more dejected than angry as she tripped over her gown on the stairs to the solar. “I’ll answer anything you like, so long as you help me get back to where I belong.”

“Ye belong here and ye belong to me, woman.” He walked her across solar and pushed her into a chair before the cold fireplace. In the process, he felt another stitch tear in his shoulder. When the pain eased—-when he opened his eyes, he groaned seeing her expression.

“Bloody hell, woman, dinna start to greet.” He couldna abide a woman’s tears. They made him feel guilty, made something inside him want to run and hide. Or smash something.

She wiped the wetness from her cheeks and straightened. “I’m not
greeting
. I just want to go home; to my coffee, to my mullioned windows, to my make-up, and God help me, to my fu--screwed-up plumbing and kerosene stove.” Seeing his shock, she blanched white and fresh tears coursed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to swear.” She turned her face to the window and whispered. “It’s just that I don’t understand any of this, and I’m frightened.” She took a deep shuddering breath and murmured, “So very frightened.”

He had no idea what
caw fee
or
o seen stove
meant, but he did understand her terror.

He took a seat across from her and reached for her hands. “Lass, were ye a voweress?”

She’d come to him from a French nunnery where she’d been living since her husband’s death. Since only the most pious--the religiously zealous-—did this, her cursing not only came as a shock, it underscored the level of her distress.

He wanted to strangle Albany.

His second wife, unbeknownst to him, had been a religious fanatic and look how that ended? ‘Twas sad, that this woman should also be land rich and coin poor. Otherwise, she might have had the hundred pounds sterling per year needed to keep Albany from marrying her off, and they would have both been spared.

“Tis sorry I be, lass, but ye be my bride and here ye must remain.”

“
No.
I could lose my
home
.” She wrung her hands. “I need to get back to the twenty-first century where I belong.”

He blinked. He couldna possibly have heard her correctly. If he had, she was truly brain-coddled. But no matter, she had to remain at Blackstone if he and his clan were to keep
their
home.

They spoke
at
each other rather than
with
each other, for what felt like hours.

Beth finally gave up.

Now, she simply wanted to hide from his furious perusal. Her eyes felt blood-shot and her nose...she didn’t want to think about. It had the nasty habit of turning scarlet from bridge to tip whenever tears threatened and they’d done more than threaten in the last half-hour. She suspected she looked like a baboon’s ass, which, no doubt, did little to enhance her credibility.

She stood and walked to the window while Duncan, an obviously unhappy man, tried to digest what she’d told him.

“Ye be wode, woman, if ye truly believe yerself a spirit.”

Great. Not only did he have no memory of her, he still didn’t understand. To make matters worse, he had called her
wode
frequently enough for her to understand he thought her insane. “No, Duncan, I’m not a spirit. I do know—-ken—-I’m flesh and blood.”

She twisted the ring on her hand. Was she the first wife to wear it or the fourth? Thank heaven she’d found Duncan’s diary and had spoken to him before this nightmare began. If she hadn’t, she’d likely be jumping out the window after enduring his ceaseless ranting and glaring.

“Duncan, stop.” She held up her hands in defeat. “We’re not getting anywhere. You can’t or won’t help me, and I’m too tired right now to care.” The dull throb at her temples had converted to stabbing needles of pain behind her eyes. Her teeth were even beginning to ache. “I need something to eat.”

Obviously exasperated, Duncan threw up his hands. When he resumed his thick burred grumbling and huffing at a staccato pace before the fireplace, she walked out the door.

~#~

“She then turned her back to me and walked out!
On me, her laird!
” Parched, Duncan reached for the tankard on the hall table and took a deep swallow of ale. “I tell ye, Angus, this woman isna long for the grave. Had I not already lost three wives, I swear I would have smote her then and there, putting us both out of our miseries.” The utter gall of the wench!

“My lord?”

He turned to find Flora at his elbow, grinning like a cat with a mouth full of feathers. “
What?
”

“Yer lady, sire. She’s not at Vespers. The priest is most anxious. He canna start without her and she canna be found.”

Duncan clamped down on an oath. “Start without her.”

“But--”

“Do as I say!” He waved her away. When she curtsied and slid away looking none to pleased, Duncan cursed.

Angus grinned. “Now what?”

Duncan took another swallow and came to his feet. “We find her, then haul her to the chapel, trussed if need be.”

~#~

When Beth’s capsized launch was discovered bobbing in the harbor, a hue and cry raced through Drasmoor. Women, keening, raced along the beaches and headlands in search of Beth. Men, swearing and praying, ran for their boats and grappling hooks. Tom Silverstein raced to his launch and headed for Blackstone.

The ride across the harbor felt like the longest of his life though he pushed the throttle to maximum speed. With his gaze raking the boulders at Blackstone’s base for Beth, he nearly collided with Blackstone’s quay. He threw the engine into reverse. As the engine choked and the sea churned, nearly swamping the stern, he threw a line around a cast iron pole and jumped.

Yelling Beth’s name at the top of his lungs, he tore through the bailey and into the keep. Heart pounding, palms sweating, he ran up the stairs and into the solar. The room stood empty. He sniffed the still air. Something had caught fire, but what? He bellowed for her again. Silence answered.

Shaken, fearing Beth had truly drowned and been washed out to sea, he walked to the rumpled bed and spied a bit of torn leather and a wink of gold. He moved the covers and couldn’t believe his eyes. He was staring at the famed Broach of Lorne—-the only tangible proof the MacDougall clan had defeated Robert the Bruce in battle--rested among the coverlet’s folds. His heart nearly stopped. No one had seen the Bruce’s bejeweled ornament in six centuries. He’d come to believe it a legend, just as his treacherous heart had begun to suspect the coming of
the one
had to be. He reached out a tentative hand to pick it up and realized the bedding was wet. He brought the damask to his nose and sniffed. There was no mistaking the clammy scent. Seawater.

His heart stuttered with understanding. “She hasna drowned.” His laird had somehow rescued her. Tom fingered the broach with shaking fingers. He listened. Hearing nothing, feeling nothing but a heavy stillness in the room, he took a shuddering breath. “It has begun.”

Now, all he could do was he pray for Beth. His infant son’s future depended on it.

D
isappointed by Duncan’s anger and his resistance to helping her, Beth roamed from room to room thumping on panels, spying behind wall hangings, and looking under beds and rugs in the hopes of finding a secret passage that could take her back to her world. When none materialized, she, desperate, sought out mirrors thinking she might be able to pass through one like
Alice in the Looking Glass
. After hours of searching through the dusty keep and storage rooms, nothing had changed but the condition of her clothing.

Her only consolation...her head felt better. Whatever Rachael had put in her tea had certainly taken care of her headache. Knowing such medicinal cures existed in this day and time improved her mood marginally.

Bone weary, she sought refuge from the curious in an out-of-the way sitting room. She ran her fingers over the spines of the books on various tables around the room. Chartier’s
Le Belle Dame sans Merci
. “Humph, French.”

Books had become an important part of her life over the years. They were her comfort and respite in an often cold and uncaring world. She desperately needed her copy of Lorraine Heath’s
Parting Gifts.
She reread the novel during bleak periods when she needed an excuse for a good cathartic cry and the reassurance that good times regularly followed times like these. Or Diana Gabaldon’s Highlander series. She sighed at the irony. Here she had her own flesh and blood Highland hunk--more glorious than she even imagined Gabaldon’s Jamie Frasier to be—-and she was hiding, because she refused to deal with the pain.

During their
discussion
it become painfully apparent Duncan couldn’t abide the sight of her.

She heaved a sigh and opened the elaborately decorated
Abby of the Holy Grail
and discovered--after much effort--the author wanted to teach her how to build a nunnery in her heart. She snorted. “Not likely.”

She opened the little
The Book of Hours
, only to find awkward sounding prayers the author expected the reader to recite eight times a day. Like anyone in their right mind had that kind of time on their hands.