RESCUED BY THE HIGHLANDER

by Preston, Rebecca

“You don’t need to be useful. Just focus on getting well.”

  Maeve said goodnight and left her to rest. She didn’t bother mentioning that the reason she wanted to get well wasn’t so that she could be useful to the castle — it was so that she could sneak out into the castle and get hold of a weapon. Any weapon. She felt naked without one. Even in her little apartment, she’d had an enormous broadsword on the wall… not to mention the rest of the collection. And the sword had come in handy even in the twenty-first century! And now she was in the sixteenth, which was arguably even more dangerous for women, and she was expected to just lie here, unarmed and unguarded? When there were evil faerie creatures creeping around as well? She felt a little delirious as she imagined a malevolent dark-winged faerie fluttering through the window in her wall and plaguing her in her sleep. For all she knew, the faeries had given her this horrible cold. That made sense, didn’t it? Faeries were always being blamed for things like illness and plague.

  It was more likely, of course, that the rational explanation was the best one — that she’d simply caught a cold, a combination of her exertions in the freezing cold, her lack of sleep, and probably her immune system’s failure to adapt immediately to a whole bunch of cold bugs and diseases that were probably common around these parts. But that was a rational answer, Anna thought irritably, and if she’d learned anything so far, it was that rational explanations were less useful than she’d thought they were. Why not just blame faeries for everything? What was the point of trying to be scientific when there were faeries about? Seemed a lot simpler to just blame all their problems on the faeries.

  Feeling resentful, Anna turned over, not willing to try the strange, smelly herb-soaked cloths on her body. She’d rather just lay here and suffer. She wanted a weapon so badly she could almost weep — a sword on the wall, a dagger under her pillow, hell, even a knitting needle would be better than the nothing she currently had. She scanned the room in search of something to do violence with. There was a poker by the fire, she supposed that would do in a pinch… or of course she could beat an attacker to death with the teapot. Even Maggie’s stinking wraps could be weaponized — she imagined if she threw them at an attacker’s face, they’d certainly slow them down a little. Giggling to herself a little deliriously, she settled deeper into her bed. Once she was well, she was going to go and get hold of a weapon. And then she was going to think about how she was going to get home.

  She didn’t want to stay here, that was for sure. That much had become clear in the process of finding out that magic was real, and faeries were behind everything that happened. Everyone had been incredibly kind to her, of course, and that was fine — but she didn’t want to stay here. Not if her strengths weren’t going to be respected — not if she was going to have to constantly be fighting to prove herself to a Laird who thought women weren’t capable of more than parenthood. Whatever the Sidhe might have had in mind when they sent her here — if they sent her here for a reason, and not just to be contrary — they could find another way to achieve it. She was done. She was going home as soon as she was better. She was stealing a weapon she could use to fight off any and all faeries that might try to cross her. She’d dive to the bottom of the lake if she had to. Maybe conscript the Loch Ness Monster into helping her. There had to be a way.

  She’d find it once she was well, she promised herself, drifting off into an uneasy sleep. But this time, her dreams were downright frightening. She clutched a sword in her hand, but it was rusted through, unusable and fragile. And what was worse, she was underwater, unable to breathe, desperately swimming deeper and deeper in the water… and all the while, strange, malevolent creatures with webbed hands and feet and slimy, amphibious skin swam closer and closer to her, their red eyes gleaming…

  She sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath, shivering with fever despite the stuffy heat of the little room. It was just before dawn — she could tell by the gray light that was creeping into her room — and to her dismay, her cold was even worse than it had been the night before. Her head was pounding, she could hardly see with the dizziness, and her nose was completely blocked. Maybe that had been why she dreamed of drowning, she thought, breathing through her mouth — in her sleep, it had felt like she couldn’t breathe at all. And what was worse — as she inhaled, she coughed, feeling a horrible, wrenching pain deep in her lungs. The cold had spread into her chest. And Anna knew from her studies how serious a chest infection could be in the sixteenth century, before penicillin or antibiotics had been invented to fight off infections.

  Anna was determined to leave this place as soon as she was well. But at this rate, was she ever going to get well at all?

  Chapter 24

  Anna settled back against the pillows, too weak to try much else. There was still some cold tea on the bedside table, and she sipped it, wincing at how much her throat hurt even with the soothing honey tea moving over it. She was definitely getting worse — but it was important to keep her fluids up, so she kept drinking. What else could she do? It wasn’t like she could call a doctor and get a script of antibiotics to clear up the worst of the infection… was there some kind of herbal equivalent? She tried again to breathe through her nose, sniffing pathetically — and as she did, she caught a whiff of camphor.

  There was the basket of herb-soaked strips, sitting on her bedside table where Maeve had left them the night before. Anna felt a pang of guilt that she hadn’t put them on her chest like Maeve had told her to. They had been sent in the interests of helping her get better, and it would be rude to reject that offer. Still, she hesitated, thinking of how Maggie’s strange ointment had healed the nasty scrapes and bruises on Donal’s muscular arm overnight. She remembered what Maeve had said — that Maggie was half-Fae herself, her mother having been some kind of Fey creature who’d fallen in love with a human man. Was this more magic? If she applied these wraps… and they cured her as quickly as they’d cured Donal… she’d have to accept, once and for all, that magic was real.

  And she wasn’t sure that she could cope with that.

  Well, Anna, she told herself as the sun crept over the horizon, warming and brightening the light in the room. You’ve got a decision to make. Do you let yourself develop double pneumonia, which is woefully difficult to treat in sixteenth-century Scotland? Do you risk dying of an illness like that, aged thirty? Or do you put the gross camphor-scented rags on your body and get over yourself?

  It was a pretty obvious choice, when she thought about it like that. Smiling a little ruefully, she sat up in bed, pulling her shirt off over her head — Maggie’s shirt, she remembered with a smile. The little old woman had been good to her. She regretted being so initially distrustful of her gift. Carefully, as Maeve had instructed, she lifted one of the rags — it was still wet with the herbs it was soaked in, and she laid it flat across her skin, shivering a little at the cold contact of the cloth with her chest. It felt gross, but she continued to wrap herself in the cloths, covering her whole chest and even her throat. Then she lay back in bed, wrinkling her nose as she felt the herbal ointment soaking into the bedsheets. They’d have to be changed.

  How long am I meant to lie here with weird cloth wrapped around me? she wondered/ It didn’t feel especially magical. It mostly felt cold and unpleasant. Perhaps it needed to warm up before it would start to tingle and burn with magic? It felt a little tingly, she acknowledged — but no more tingly than any regular cold remedy she’d ever rubbed on her chest. Nowhere near as spectacular as the light that Maeve had summoned to show her — but then again, this was the kind of magic that was meant to do something, not just show off. What had Maeve said — she’d only learned enough magic to entertain children? Maggie could do that too, presumably. Anna wondered briefly if the lanterns in her house were lit with gas … or with something more supernatural. Well, she was resigned to the fact that she’d need to change her bedding, if she ever got better from this illness… so she braced herself and pulled the blankets back over her wet, rag-drap
ed body.

  The residual body heat settled into her skin, making her feel less miserable straight away — though she did wonder how unpleasant the rags were going to smell once they heated up with her body heat. With nothing else to do but lie there and wait, Anna finished her tea, then settled back against the pillow. To her surprise, some of her anxiety about magic and the Fae felt like it had abated. The psychological effect of having committed to a course of action, maybe? For better or for worse, she’d put the rags on… and before long, she felt her eyelids fluttering shut. It was very unlike her to be able to nap during the morning, she thought drowsily… but before she could give it much thought, she was asleep, a dreamless, healing sleep that felt like sinking into a hot bath.

  The next thing she knew was the gentle sound of a voice, calling her awake. She came to slowly, feeling her fingers and toes, her limbs cloaked in the comforting warmth of the bed… then opened one eye to see Maeve, standing over her with a bowl of porridge in her hands. A rush of affection for the strange silver-eyed woman suffused her. After a long lifetime of self-reliance, it felt so good to have someone in her corner… someone who was caring for her.

  “Anna? How are you feeling?”

  “Not great,” she murmured — but to her surprise, her throat didn’t stab with pain as it had done the last few times she’d spoken aloud. Surprised, she swallowed a few times, amazed to discover that her throat was better. But that wasn’t all. As she woke up, began to sit up in bed, she realized her head was clear. There was no mucus, no horrible swollen feeling in her sinuses, no dizziness in her head. Maeve’s hand was against her forehead, and it felt warm to the touch.

  “Your fever’s broken,” Maeve said with some relief. “That’s a mercy.”

  “I feel —” She blinked a few times, shook her head as if to try to encourage the headache to come out of hiding. Nothing happened. She cleared her throat, then tried a cough, bracing herself for the phlegmy rattle she’d experienced the last time she coughed — but nothing happened. Just a regular, throat-clearing cough. “I feel better.”

  “Good news,” Maeve said happily.

  “No — no — I feel completely better. Like I’d never been sick at all.” She stared up at Maeve, her heart pounding. “What time is it?”

  “A little after nine, I think?”

  “And I haven’t been unconscious for — days on end?”

  “Of course not!” Maeve laughed.

  “It can’t have been more than a few hours, then,” Anna said, staring into the fire. “When I woke up, I felt — horrible. Worse than I’ve ever felt. Like the illness was moving into my chest. And now…” She flung back the covers — and sure enough, there were the herbal wraps, clinging to her chest. A little dried out now with the heat of her body, but still there, still drawing the illness out of her…

  “Ah, that explains it,” Maeve said, her eyes twinkling. “A little more scientific evidence for you.”

  “That’s impossible,” Anna breathed, staring down at the wraps as though they were snakes. “That can’t be —”

  “It can, and it is,” Maeve said simply. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Anna. I’ll leave you to your breakfast.”

  And with that, she left the porridge on Anna’s bedside table and left the room. But Anna had never felt less like eating in her life. She pulled the rags from her body as though they were poisonous, her hands shaking a little with her shock and disbelief. How could this have happened? Only hours ago, she’d been horribly ill — and now she was as fit as a fiddle. Two hours, maybe three. She threw her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, almost wanting the cold symptoms to come back — even a trace of them would be enough to make her feel less insane. But no — she felt as strong as she ever had. She piled the rags in the little basket, grimacing down at the residue they’d left on her skin. She wanted a bath — wanted to clean off the remnants of what she now had to admit, without qualification, without a doubt … was magic.

  A bath, then, she decided, fighting against vertigo that had nothing to do with her sickness. She’d take a bath. Then she’d steal a weapon, then she’d break into the occultists’ quarters and find out how to get back into the realm of the Sidhe, then she’d find her way home to her own little apartment, with her own things, and her own bed, and her own complete lack of magic and faeries, and she’d get so drunk on the bottle of vodka she kept in her cupboard that she’d come up on Sunday morning believing she’d dreamed every single minute of this whole terrifying ordeal.

  But first… she’d eat breakfast. For all that her stomach was full of nerves, she knew better than to skip a meal unless she absolutely had to. Besides, the porridge was rapidly becoming one of her favourite meals — so warm and filling, so delicately sweet and tasty with honey and seeds laced throughout it. Maybe I’ll learn how to cook it when I get back home, she thought, gritting her teeth. Do a bit of Googling of medieval cooking.

  She took her empty bowl downstairs with her, heading for the kitchens. Now that she was set on a course of action, she felt a lot better — still somewhat manic, but focused, at least, and very grateful not to be feeling so wretchedly ill as she had for the last two days. She put her bowl with the dishes that still remained from breakfast, then found a servant she could ask to organize a bath for her. There was a tub in the little bathroom attached to the guest quarters she was using, but she wasn’t quite sure of the etiquette of just helping herself to hot water for it. The servant nodded, scurrying off to set about the task, and by the time Anna was back up the stairs, there was a hot, steaming bath waiting for her.

  It had been three days since she’d had a shower — and that was back in her own little apartment. She had been starting to feel a bit grimy, and it felt unbelievably good to sink into the hot water and give herself a good scrub. The residue of the herbs came off easily in the hot water, and she took a deep breath as the scent of the soap filled her nostrils, banishing the camphor. Good. She was grateful for her healing. Now it was time to get the hell out of here. Step one — stay in the bath a little longer, because this was delightful. Step two — a weapon. She’d borrow one of the iron dirks that she’d found in the armory, that Maeve had explained were anti-Fae weapons. They were small enough to hide about her person, and lethal enough to do a lot of damage if she was challenged — besides, as much as she loved broadswords, she’d actually spent more time training with short blades and daggers like the dirks. Step three — find a way into the Sidhe’s timeless world. Diving to the bottom of Loch Ness might be a steep ask, but surely there were other ways into the Land of the Unaging? That would involve going through the occultists’ stuff. She considered simply asking them for help but reconsidered — that would involve cluing them in that she wanted to leave, and they might be against that.

  Anna got out of the bath, dried herself off, and dressed in her borrowed clothes, her jaw set and a light burning behind her eyes. It felt good to have a purpose. And that purpose was getting the hell out of Dodge… regardless of how many handsome Scottish men she might be leaving behind.

  Chapter 25

  After a pause, Anna revised step one. The clothes she was wearing, while warm and comfortable, were starting to feel a little bit lived-in. Besides, part of her plan involved sneaking around the castle, and she was too recognizable in these clothes. It was a shame she wasn’t a man, she thought, not for the first time. The guard uniforms were fantastically anonymous. In one of those, she’d be almost invisible — and for good measure she could even wear a helmet over her face. After all, though she’d spent plenty of time wandering the castle, she’d not actually had many actual conversations with people. Brendan and Malcolm would recognize her, sure, as would Maeve and Donal… and probably Emily, the servant she’d met on her first day, she thought with a smile. But aside from those five… well, nobody really knew her by sight. It was unfortunate that Donal had taken it upon himself to introduce her to the whole castle at dinner the other night, she thought with a frown. Tha
t was going to threaten her anonymity. But hopefully everyone had been too tired from a long day to pay much heed to some strange visitor in their midst.

  And for once, her height was going to play to her advantage. At five foot nothing, she was below eye level for the majority of the people at the castle… if she could get hold of some servant attire, nobody was going to look twice at her. She’d already noticed the way the people of the castle tended to glance over and around servants, as though they weren’t there. She’d even been guilty of it herself once or twice, especially when she was sitting in the kitchen with Maeve — but in her defense, she’d had a lot on her mind at that time. Yes — some servant clothes would be good. Clean ones, ideally. Now that she’d given herself a good scrub in the bath, she was eager for her clothes to be as clean as the rest of her body. It just felt wrong wearing grimy clothes over a freshly scrubbed body, and though Anna was no stranger to a bit of dust and dirt, if she could choose to be clean, she was going to take that option every time. She’d had more than enough of being covered in filth during basic training, she thought with a grin. At least that had been good, honest dirt — but she wouldn’t go back there for a million dollars.

  Her wanderings of the castle set her in good stead for tracking down the enormous laundry rooms, down on the second floor of the castle. She made her way there now, ducking out of the way of servants moving back and forth with arms full of bedding and clothing. It seemed to be a big day for laundry — were the bedsheets on a weekly or a fortnightly cleaning schedule? She had been pleased and surprised to note the castle’s strict dedication to cleanliness. Perhaps it had something to do with all the herbalists and occultists around… they must have noticed the correlation between hygiene and health. Some medieval folk did, and some didn’t. At least Anna wasn’t going to have to try to introduce that concept to these people.