But the man’s face was hard and frozen, no trace of the softness she’d gotten used to that morning and the night before. He was staring at her hard, but he wasn’t looking at her — she could see that his mind was a thousand miles away, twenty years ago, thinking of Morag. Her heart began to sink into her toes — was this really happening? Was he really about to say what she thought he was going to say?
“I can’t,” he breathed, then stumbled backwards, away from her, away from the Laird, who was looking after him with an expression of great concern. “I just can’t. I’m so sorry.”
And the sound of the door slamming felt like it shattered every bone in Delilah’s body.
Chapter 25
She had no idea what to do. She felt like she was standing on a stage in front of thousands of people with no idea what her first line was. She felt like she was being asked to sit an exam on a subject she’d never studied. She felt like those dreams people talked about, where they were giving a talk only to realize they were standing there in their underwear. She’d never had one like that, so she’d never known what they meant — but now she could feel it, in all its agonizing glory. She’d just basically proposed to a man — and been rejected, publicly, in front of not only her only friends who lived in this time and place, but the Laird of the castle.
Donal, to his credit, looked even more embarrassed than she felt — though that would be difficult, she thought numbly as she turned to meet Marianne’s horrified gaze. The Laird cleared his throat and took a few aimless shuffling steps on the platform, looking after Gavin hopelessly as if hoping against hope he might come back and say ‘just kidding, let’s get married!’ and ease all this chaos.
Instead, he looked at Delilah, who wished very fiercely that the ground would open up and swallow her. She had no idea what her facial expression must look like, but it certainly drew a sympathetic, pitying look from Donal when he looked at her — which, if anything, made her feel worse.
“Give him a minute or two to think about it, hey?” he prompted softly, shrugging. “If he knows it’s the only way to break the curse, I’m sure he’ll marry ye—”
“Donal, you’re a bloody idiot,” Fiona said flatly. “She doesn’t want him to marry her because he wants to break the curse, he wants her to marry her because he wants to marry her.”
“I’m sure he does!” Donal attempted to backpedal.
Delilah felt like burying her head in her hands. It was almost comical, how desperately he was trying to sound supportive, and she’d have laughed if it didn’t feel like her whole chest had been shattered with the blow of a great axe.
“Any man would be delighted to marry you, Delilah, you’re —”
“I’m going to go, I think,” she forced herself to say, faintly. Whatever happened, she didn’t want to cry in front of the Laird. She didn’t want to cry in front of the women, either, actually — and thank God, the majority of them seemed to sense it. Marianne gave her a pat on the arm as she passed through the group on the way to the door to the kitchen — she knew the path from there to her room. Her little room with its narrow bed. To think just that morning she was more or less planning to move in with Gavin — and now, well. Clearly she’d been an idiot. So she was good enough to have sex with, but not good enough to marry — even to break a curse? Great. She dashed through the kitchen, tears building in her eyes, grateful that it was more or less empty save for a couple of curious servants who watched her go through the door at the back. She slammed it behind her, getting some satisfaction from the loud sound that immediately gave way to misery again. How was she going to show her face in the castle ever again? The gossip was bound to spread, if it hadn’t already — the story of the reincarnated witch who got turned down by her old lover, what a great story it was too.
She hurled herself into her bed and allowed herself a good ten minutes to cry. By the time she’d caught her breath, the pillow was soaked through with tears, and she felt a little better — in the sense that she’d moved from the depths of misery to a curious, numb, suspended feeling that she recognized instinctively as a kind of defense mechanism provided by her body and mind to keep her safe in times like these. Muttering a dull thanks to her own psyche, she dropped her head onto the pillow and drifted into a troubled, twilight sleep, half awake and half asleep, willing herself deeper and deeper into unconsciousness every time she became aware that she was waking up again.
A few gentle taps on the door woke her from time to time — she ignored them, or told them in a hoarse voice that didn’t sound at all like hers that she’d like to be left alone, if that was okay. She may have been heartbroken, but there was no need not to be polite. But God — how was she ever going to leave this room again? How was she meant to look anyone in the castle in the eye? Was she just meant to continue about her life as though nothing had happened, as though a man had not just chosen to continue living in a cursed castle over simply marrying her?
She kept hoping that he’d come to her door, declare his sincerest apologies — but as time marched on and the only taps on her door came from her worried friends, offering to bring her food and drink, she became grimly certain that she had never meant anything to Gavin MacClaran in the first place. Just a poor copy of his true love. That was all she was. Well, to hell with him, and to hell with this castle. She’d wasted enough of her life thinking about these walls, these people and their stories. They deserved the curse that was upon their walls, if Gavin MacClaran was anything to go on.
When the sky outside her window started to turn dark she sat up, resolute that she wasn’t going to spend any more time in this castle than she needed to. She grabbed the little book out of her pocket and wrote a letter, furious and angry, to the only friend she had outside of the castle — Baldric, the knight she’d had a pleasant afternoon with earlier. Hey, maybe he’d marry her, she thought with a crazy little laugh. It was a silly idea — she had no interest in him, and besides, marriage sounded like the worst prospect in the world at the moment. But at the very least, she hoped he’d be able to offer her a place to stay that wasn’t Clan MacClaran’s bloody castle.
The witch hunters were a consideration, of course, but even in the depths of her grief she knew better than to put a caution in the letter about them — she simply made it clear that she had been greatly wronged in love, and that she needed a place to stay. If she indicated any suspicion or fear of the witch hunters, she knew, the letter may be intercepted, and her written wariness could be used as evidence of her guilt. Hopefully Baldric would figure it out, and let her know in his reply whether or not the hunters were still there.
The question, of course, was how to get the letter sent. She had a little handful of coins, given to her by various residents of the castle when they realized that she had no currency — but she had no idea what any of them were worth. Frustrated, she folded her letter — stained a little with a rogue tear or two that had slipped loose, to her chagrin — and stole out into the corridors. It was proper dark now, night having gathered in, and the halls were conveniently quiet. Everyone must be at dinner. Good thing she’d never felt less like eating in her life. She slipped down the stairs and out into the courtyard, where she found the groom in the stables who she’d helped out a few days ago with looking after the stalls. He looked surprised to see her.
“Would you be able to deliver a letter for me?” she asked quietly, gesturing with the piece of paper gripped tightly in her fist. The man hesitated.
“Laird’s orders say not to leave the castle…”
“Except in emergencies, right? This is an emergency,” Delilah said flatly. “Ride fast, and you’ll be back by morning before anyone knows you’re gone. Who knows which horses are the fastest besides you, right? And I’ll make it worth your while.”
She knew it was a gamble — she may well be holding out the equivalent of a nickel and a dime — but she offered the young man her fistful of coins regardless. The way his eyes widened told her that she’d done well — he
took them with a cautious look toward the castle, then took the letter from her and grabbed a saddle from the wall. While he tacked up a sleek brown horse, she explained who the letter was for and how to recognize him — then slipped away to the castle before dinner had ended, the better to sneak up to her room.
Now, there was nothing to do but to wait. When she got to her room, someone had come in and lit a fire there — the warmth was a little comforting, at least. She sat for a long time staring into the flames, hearing a few soft sounds in the hallways, but it seemed as though people had learned their lesson about disturbing her. An hour or so later, she opened the door to discover a little plate of food had been left by the door for her. Probably Dolores, she thought with a smile — or one of the women. They did care about her. It was a shame they were the only ones. Perhaps she’d write to them once she’d reached Lord Weatherby’s lodgings — let them know that she was okay, but that she’d needed some time away from the castle. And who could blame her? After the public humiliation she’d suffered, anyone would need a break.
She forced herself to eat the food, even though her stomach still felt like it was full of lead and there was nothing less appetizing in the world than the roast meat on the plate. It felt a little better once she’d forced it down, and she recognized that her body might well have been hungry. At least she’d managed to nourish herself, she thought dully, hoping that Baldric would reply quickly. And with her thoughts on the English knight, she drifted off to sleep again, a sleep plagued by troublesome dreams about being dangled over a cliff with Gavin refusing to help her up.
There was no reason to get up in the morning, so she didn’t — just lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, not quite asleep but not quite awake, either. She wished she had a book to read, or something — anything at all to distract her from the tedium of waiting for Baldric’s reply. That was something she missed about the twenty-first century — besides Gavin MacClaran having been dead for hundreds of years, she thought moodily. It was so much easier to kill time. God, she’d kill for a phone to play with.
To her surprise, a reply to her letter came around midday. It was pushed under the door by some well-meaning servant, who also tapped gently on the door to alert her to the letter’s presence. She snatched it up, having a quick look at the seal before she did — and was gratified to see that it wasn’t loose like the last one had been. Perhaps the witch hunters had given up? That would certainly be one less thing to worry about. She didn’t want her friends to be picked up and questioned, even if she didn’t much care what happened to her own safety at the moment.
It was Baldric, sounding sympathetic, though she had to squint to make out his handwriting — it was terrible, miles away from the neat, professional script that his first letter had been written in. Very odd — well, maybe he’d been in a hurry to reassure her, she thought vaguely, dismissing the problem. According to the letter, the witch hunters had decided to go home — they would be sending their best wishes to Donal as well by letter. That meant, he continued, that there were more than enough spare rooms, and she was more than welcome to come and stay to clear her head after her terrible shock. She smiled gratefully at the letter, clutching it to her chest as though she could somehow hug her thanks through to Baldric. It would be so good to be somewhere else for a few days — a few weeks, a few months… however long they’d have her, really. She could earn her keep, after all. Maybe she could join the stable staff — would her friend from the MacClaran stables give her a reference? She snorted bitter laughter to herself, then climbed back into her bed to doze away the daytime. She’d need to leave by night. Nobody would let her go in broad daylight — not with Laird Donal’s orders still in place. Maybe he’d lift them once he received word of the witch hunters’ retreat, but she still didn’t want to have to answer any unwanted questions from Marianne or any of the other women.
So she slept, and when she opened her eyes, the sky was dark and full of stars. Perfect. She dressed quickly, pulling on her preferred pair of riding boots and a thick, warm jacket that had been given to her by Marianne. She felt a little guilty to be absconding with her friend’s clothing — but she resolved to return the items once she’d managed to acquire a few of her own. What did a groom get paid? Enough to afford a few sets of clothes at least, she hoped. Maybe Baldric would put in a good word for her and she could get an advance on her salary.
Packed and ready, she waited until she couldn’t hear any more footsteps in the hallway — then she slipped out of her room and, for the third time in as many days, moved silently through the corridors to the secret pathway through the kitchens she’d found. It let her out in the vegetable gardens, where it was pitch dark behind the castle, and she moved around to the stables, letting herself in through the gate and picking a horse at random. Good thing she knew how to tack up a horse, she thought — and very good of Baldric to include directions to the Weatherby household, something she’d neglected to ask for in her letter to him.
She swung onboard the horse and urged it out the gates, which she noticed to her pleasure were open again. Good timing — she supposed the news of the witch hunters’ withdrawal had reached the castle at the same time it had reached her. Same messenger, perhaps. At any rate, all that was required was a brief wave to the guards up on the wall, and she was away. Why would they interrogate someone for riding away, after all? Their concern was unauthorized entrances, not exits— and she had no intention of coming back to the castle any time soon.
She didn’t notice, as she urged her horse on down the dark road, a set of hoof beats take up behind her, or the familiar green eyes of the hooded figure following her at a safe distance.
Chapter 26
It felt a little strange trying to travel without a GPS to guide her way. But she had Baldric’s letter, as bad as the handwriting may have been, and that was enough to keep her on the right roads. She rode down through the village, slowing her horse a little to avoid the clattering of hoof beats causing a stir, and then took an unfamiliar road that led south. It was very dark — she hadn’t realized how much she relied on things like streetlights until she’d come face to face with the reality of living without them. She kept her horse at a brisk walk, though, torn between wanting to get to the manor quickly, and not wanting the horse to stumble over some unseen obstacle in the dark and either injure itself, throw her off, or both.
She saw a light, glowing in the distance, a good few miles away from the manor proper. Delilah breathed a sigh of relief — she’d just started to worry that she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere, and was hopelessly lost in the countryside until the sun came up. But sure enough, Baldric’s directions had been accurate, and the huge manor he’d described was exactly as she’d pictured it. It was decidedly English in style, with fencing a lot less practical than Castle MacClaran’s matter-of-fact castle walls — these seemed to be decorative more than protective, and only one guard was posted. He nodded to her as he opened the gate, and she blinked. Baldric must have anticipated that she’d come this quickly — why else would the guard know to let a strange woman on a horse through the gate in the middle of the night? Bless him, she thought — but there was a slight unease prickling at the back of her mind that she did her best to ignore. Everything was fine. She was visiting a friend… the witch-hunters were gone, he’d said so in his letter… she reached into her pocket, touching the crumpled piece of paper to reassure herself.
There was nobody in the courtyard, which Delilah noticed with amusement was full of garden beds — not for vegetable gardens, but for a range of flowers, which she could tell by looking (by the dim glow of torches mounted on the manor walls) weren’t Scottish natives. The height of arrogance, bringing your own plants over to what was still a foreign country… she was beginning to see why Weatherby had such a poor reputation among the people of the castle, despite their apparent truce. Could there ever really be a truce between a colonizer and the people of the lands he was colonizing? Everything Delilah knew about
history begged to differ.
But of course, she wasn’t here to make sociopolitical commentary, she scolded herself now, she was here to prevail upon their hospitality and have somewhere safe to stay for a few days while she nursed the wounds of rejection. Hopefully Weatherby was willing to let her stay, as Baldric had implied. She’d find a way to earn her keep. For now, she satisfied herself with leading her horse into the stables, which weren’t locked, and untacking it with practiced movements, even in the gloom (though someone had set a torch for her — kind of Baldric to take such care, she thought with a smile.) There was only one free stall, which was curious — why were there so many horses here, if the manor’s guests had just left? Where had the witch hunters kept their horses? They’d have at least four between them, surely — one for each man, even if they didn’t have an extra horse for rotation or to carry their weapons and belongings. Maybe there was another stable around here somewhere, Delilah thought dismissively, leading her horse into the spare stall and checking that the water pail was full. She gave the animal a gentle pat on the neck, trying to dismiss the lingering feeling of suspicion in her mind. What was her problem? Probably just anxious still about everything that had happened. Best to take it one step at a time. The horse was cared for — next step was heading into the manor.
She tapped a little cautiously on the door, not quite sure of the protocol here — should she return to the gate and ask the guard to announce her? But within seconds, the ornate wooden doors swung open, and Delilah found herself face-to-face with a short woman who she assumed was a maid of some kind, based on the simple, practical clothing she was wearing. The woman didn’t seem surprised to see her — she sketched a polite little bow then gestured Delilah inside. For some reason, her eyes were fixed on the floor — she seemed almost desperate to avoid eye contact, even when Delilah greeted her and actively attempted to seek out her eyes. Was it a cultural thing, perhaps? All the servants at Castle MacClaran weren’t afraid of looking her in the eye, but perhaps the English did things differently. It wasn’t something she remembered especially well from the SCA — there were members of the club who specialized in etiquette between lower and upper classes, of course, but she’d always been more interested in the intricacies of combat. She regretted it now, of course, but how had she been expected to know that the training she was doing wasn’t just a hobby — it was practice for time travel?
Highlander Cursed: A Scottish Time Travel Romance Page 22