by Mariah Stone
Angus hated that there was a seed of truth in Raghnall’s words. And he would love nothing more than to marry Lady Rogene—had he not been betrothed to another, and had Rogene not betrayed his trust.
“There’s a woman I fancy, but ’tisna possible. Ye ken that.”
“Everything is possible.”
“She may be a thief and a spy.”
“I dinna think so.”
“How do ye ken? Ye’ve never even met her.”
“Ye wouldna fall in love with a thief or a spy.”
Angus scoffed. “I’m nae in love with her.”
Raghnall shook his head, smiling in his short beard. “Mayhap nae yet. But I’ve never seen ye so…so…” He waved his hand in search of a word.
“What?”
He sighed. “Like ye really want to grab a pastry and are ready to cut yer own hand off if ye do.”
Angus rubbed his left brow. “To hell ye with yer quick sightedness. I’ve never kent ye were so knowledgeable in love.”
“I’m knowledgeable in ye. If ye’re really so in love with that other woman, consider carefully if there might be another way to protect Kintail against clan Ross. I think ye’ve done yer duty enough for our family. ’Tis time to put yerself first. Because this time, ’tis for the rest of yer life.”
They arrived at the church. And as Angus opened the door to step inside, annoyingly, he thought that Raghnall may be right.
Before he could enter, a cry made him turn his head. “Lord Angus!” called Iòna. “Lord Angus!”
Angus froze. He’d asked Iòna to keep an eye on Rogene and come fetch him if she was in danger.
“What is it?”
With a tight knot in his gut, he watched Iòna run towards him. “’Tis Lady Rogene, Lord. Lady Euphemia came to take her.”
Chapter 17
Angus ran down the stairs into the dungeon, his fingers curling into a fist. About a dozen Ross warriors stood with somber faces, hands on the hilts of their swords. With his heart jumping as he heard angry screams and shouts from the dungeon cell, he shouldered his way into the fiery darkness.
God’s feet, Euphemia was relentless. What did she want now?
Looming over the entrance into the prison cell, Euphemia held a rod with one arm and was shouting at Rogene. Rogene, although still huddling into his cloak, glared back at her like a queen with her head high.
“…ye bitch, ye goddamn whore, get out of there, now!” Euphemia thundered.
“What’s going on?” Angus said as he came to the grating.
“I’m not going away with them,” Rogene said.
“Are ye mad?” Euphemia screamed. “The laird decided that ye must be punished! The laird is the law here. If ye dinna come out, I have ten men here who will take ye.”
Angus’s blood chilled. Laomann was looking straight at the floor in front of him with the air of someone who was trying to will himself to disappear.
“Laomann, what is she talking about?”
“I dinna ken, Angus,” he said. “Lady Euphemia made a good argument that I must, as laird, do justice and nae wait for ye. And I think she’s right. What’s the whole reason to wait? Justice must be done, or other thieves and spies will think that they can steal and spy with no consequences.”
It was as though a scalding wall of water hit Angus’s blood. He looked at Euphemia and at Rogene, who was wounded and abandoned, and he just couldn’t stand the thought of Rogene being hurt.
It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t anything he could explain. Mayhap it was his instinct as protector. Mayhap it was a part of him that finally believed her—against his logic and reason.
“Get away from her,” he growled.
Euphemia turned to him. “Angus,” she said in a voice that one uses with an unreasonable child who is about to hurt himself.
Angus drew his claymore and heard the swoosh of nearly a dozen swords being drawn from their sheaths. Laomann gaped at him. Euphemia paled and stared at him with her mouth open, then she grew livid. He’d never seen anyone with quite the same expression of pure menace on their face.
Pointing his sword at Euphemia, he cried, “Lady Rogene, come out of the chamber.”
“Ye’re nae serious,” Euphemia said as she watched Rogene pass by her and stand by Angus’s side.
He looked at Laomann. “I had already talked to her. She was looking for an example of a letter to find a good wording for the contract.”
He drew his sword back, acutely aware of the ten blade tips still pointed at him.
“A misunderstanding. Lady Euphemia didn’t believe her, but I do. I drop all charges and demand that ye do the same, Laomann.” He looked straight at Euphemia, who had bared her teeth. “’Tis nae yer business, Lady Euphemia, because ye were nae affected. It was my bedchamber and my belongings, so ’tis nae up to ye to demand any sort of punishment. Am I clear?”
She drew her head back and sucked in a breath. When she didn’t say anything, Angus put his hand on Rogene’s shoulder and led her out of the dungeon and up the stairs. He felt her shaking under his palm and ached to take her into his arms and calm her down.
While they climbed the stairs towards his bedchamber, his mind raced. What had he gotten himself into by so openly defying his future wife and his laird? He’d lied to them. He’d lied for her, for a madwoman who’d assured him she was from the future.
What was wrong with him? He should have just let Laomann do whatever Euphemia was insisting. But he knew he couldn’t live with himself if he let them harm Rogene. Shutting the door to his chamber behind him, he looked at her standing in the middle of his room.
Her eyes were wide and shining from fear, no doubt, and yet she still held her head high as she met his eyes.
“Angus, you’re going to be in big trouble,” she said. “You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have lied for me.”
He chuckled and walked farther into the room. He put more wood on the dying fire in the fireplace and warmed his hands. Looking over his shoulder, he studied her. Her hair was in disarray, her skin translucent, and dark circles shadowed her eyes. He couldn’t see her wound, which was under his cloak.
“’Tis done now. Ye didna do what she’s accusing ye of, so I couldna let her harm ye.”
Her eyes warmed and glistened.
“Thank you,” she said. “I know I didn’t particularly deserve it, given that I broke your trust.”
He stood up. “Let me take a look at yer wound.”
She watched him approach, and their eyes locked. Desire stirred in him, deep and hot and urgent. They were alone, and he was about to touch her. And he saw in the way her eyes darkened that she’d just realized that, too.
Angus stood before her, as big as a mountain. He brought his hands to the base of her neck and slowly undid the brooch that fastened the sides of his cloak together. Her breath caught as the warmth of his fingers reached her chin. The cloak fell on the floor with a soft thud, and the chill of the cool air grasped her bare back. The wound on her chest throbbed and ached, although right now, she wasn’t aware of much else besides the ragged beating of her heart against her ribs.
The night she’d spent in the dungeon had left her freezing cold and aching all over. Catrìona had brought her water and porridge last night, and another portion this morning. She hadn’t slept last night at all, too anxious and worried and regretting she’d said a word to Angus about time travel. Of course he didn’t believe her. He was a rational man.
She’d spent the night on a cold, hard bench—her only luxury being a night pot for her to relieve herself—thinking of how different the medieval reality was compared to what she’d read in the books. Or rather, it was one thing to read about flogging, and torture, and beheading in books. It was quite another to know they were a possibility in her own life.
What was so romantic about the Middle Ages? All her life she spent dreaming of the past, wishing she’d experienced it. And now that she had, she wished she hadn’t.
Except for one thing.
Angus.
The man who made her heart ache and her body feel as if she were next to an electric field.
She met his gaze. His eyes were dark and penetrating, and he was looking at her the way a bomb disposal officer might look at an explosive device wrapped in the most beautiful packaging he’d ever seen.
“Why are you helping me?” she asked. “Do you believe me?”
“Mayhap,” he said.
He lowered his gaze to her mouth and swallowed. Heat rushed through her, and she felt like her body swayed towards him once, as though he were a giant magnet and she were made of iron.
He drew in a slow, noisy breath and stepped away from her. He walked to one of his chests and sank to his knees in front of it.
“Do ye still insist ye traveled in time?” he asked while rummaging.
She let out a long exhale, her lungs feeling like they were on fire. What should she say? Should she change her story and lie? No. She hated being dishonest with him. She wanted to tell him the whole truth, and she wanted him to believe her.
Her legs felt weak and wobbly. “I don’t insist,” she said as she walked to the bed and sat on the edge. “It’s the truth.”
“’Tis the truth ye believe.” He retrieved a clean cloth and a small clay jar of something, then put it on the bed by her side. Then he walked to the corner of the room where there was a jug of water and poured some into a clay bowl.
Watching him come closer again, she didn’t say anything. It was now up to him to believe her or not.
He crouched in front of her, and his eyes were now on the same level as hers.
“Lower yer dress,” he said.
Something squeezed in her, and blood rushed to the apex of her thighs. She knew he wanted to have access to her wound, but, dear Lord, she was ready to undress herself and let him do whatever he wanted.
His dark, penetrating glare was consuming her, commanding her. Her throat contracted and she gave a small whimper. She licked her suddenly dry lips, and as he watched her do that, his eyes darkened even more.
Get a grip of yourself, she commanded. He’ll never be yours.
She reached to the shoulder of her dress and pulled it down. Despite the cool air, her exposed skin felt hot under his gaze.
Reaching for a clean cloth that lay next to her on the bed, he accidentally brushed against her thigh. A jolt of electricity went up her hip and straight into her core. He froze and clenched his teeth like she’d hurt him.
If that was what it felt like when he touched her by accident, how would it feel if he was buried deep inside her, with no clothes between them? The images of their entwined bodies, the sounds of their combined breathing invaded her mind.
He took the cloth and dipped it into the bowl of water, then brought it to her chest and pressed it against the crust of blood. The cut burned and she sucked in air. He didn’t look up at her, all his concentration on the task.
“Suppose I believe ye,” he said. “Suppose ye tell the truth and time travel does happen… Tell me everything. About ye, about yer life. Clearly, ye lied when ye said ye were of clan Douglas. What clan do ye belong to?”
He wiped her wound with short, careful strokes, the cloth cooling the hot skin of her cut. Dark-red water dripped down her chest and wetted the edges of her dress.
“My name is Rogene Wakeley. I’m American. The United States doesn’t exist yet in your time, but my ancestors were Scottish, Irish, and English. Like I said, I study history and write articles and books. I’m conducting research about Robert the Bruce, and the letter that you have, it confirms my hypothesis, and it’s pretty revolutionary. We see Robert the Bruce as a strong king, a great warrior, and an iron-willed man. But seeing this, this small moment of weakness, it makes him more human somehow…and also gives clan Mackenzie a much clearer and more interesting role in the Wars of Scottish Independence. We hear all about clan Cambel, and James Douglas, and Sir Gilbert de la Hay, and Bruce’s brother Edward…others, too, but very little of clan Mackenzie. It’s wrong. And this letter would move your clan to a completely different position.”
Putting the wet, brownish cloth aside, Angus hemmed and met her gaze. He looked like a myth, like a dream—a hero from the legends, who came alive in front of her. And this hero looked very skeptical. The worm of uneasiness wriggled in her gut.
“Aye. Well, so ye keep saying,” he said. “I dinna give a shite about clan Mackenzie being important in the eyes of some historians from the future. There may nae be a clan Mackenzie or Scotland as a kingdom if Euphemia got a hold of this letter.”
She nodded. “I never meant to mess with the events of history. All I want is to prove my mom’s hypothesis. Besides, I do need to think of my brother. We have no one else.”
He opened a small clay jar, scooped some white salve onto his fingers, and spread it on her wound. It smelled like animal fat mixed with herbs.
“Tell me about yer family,” he said.
She swallowed. She almost never talked about the hardest day of her life, and she felt if she did now, she’d let him in…
Brushing against her wound through a thick layer of the salve, his fingers burned her. She had a sense they were digging deeper, deeper, under her skin, almost touching her heart.
“If I do, will you believe me?” she said, her voice coming out raspy and low.
He cocked his head a little. “I canna promise ye that.”
She bit her lip and considered it. It would mean letting him in deeper than she’d ever wanted to let anyone. She barely even talked to David about it.
But if hard facts couldn’t convince Angus, perhaps her raw and vulnerable heart could.
And so, she had to take the risk. For the first time in her life, she wanted to.
Chapter 18
“The day my parents died was the worst day of my whole life,” she said.
Every word scorched her throat like hot embers. Angus froze and pulled his fingers away from her, looking at her intently.
“I was twelve,” she said, her chest aching from the memories. “My brother, David, was only five, and we stayed with my aunt while our parents were away at a conference in Scotland.”
“Conference?” he said.
“Yes. They were both university professors. My mom was a historian and my dad a biologist. They worked at the same university, and my mom was the vice dean. Do you know what a university is?”
“I ken what a university is,” he said through gritted teeth. “If I canna read it doesna mean I’m a simpleton.”
Right…she remembered something about the first university in the world being established in the eleventh century in Bologna, and her own alma mater was next, just a few years later…
“Have you heard of Oxford University?” she said.
“Aye.”
“Right. So that’s the one I study at.”
He took another clean, dry cloth and covered her wound. It stuck to the fat salve and didn’t fall away. He stood. “Ye may dress yerself again.”
As she tugged the shoulder of her dress up, he walked around the post of the bed, then gathered his medical supplies and put them back into one of the chests. When he closed it, he sat on it, leaning with his elbows on his thighs.
“So, are ye saying Oxford University still exists in…what year?”
“Two thousand and twenty-one,” she said. “Yes, it does, and it’s one of the best schools in the world. There are thousands of universities in the twenty-first century.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “If that is true, it must be a world of knowledge.”
“It is.”
He nodded. “I like the sound of that. And yer mother—a woman—was a teacher in one of them?”
“Yes…and one of the most renowned in the world. She was a smart woman.”
“She has a smart daughter.”
Rogene smiled. “Well, I’d like to think so. But I also want to keep her memory alive and honor it by proving one of the
most outrageous theories that she had. And, thanks to you, I see that she was right.”
“How did she die?” he asked. “Them both, how did they die?”
Rogene swallowed a hard knot and looked at her hands. She was clutching the fabric of her dress without realizing. The salve was working its magic, and her wound was now itching more than hurting. She took a long breath in and allowed the memory to take her, with all the pain and horror of that day.
“They were in Scotland. My mom was a keynote speaker at a conference. My dad went along, to be with her.” She chuckled as tears burned her eyes. “They were so in love. I don’t remember them fighting, ever. Though I’m sure they did. Kisses, hugs, those special smiles people give each other when they share more than just private jokes but private thoughts and private memories…”
She threw a quick glance at him as she wiped away a tear.
“Now, thinking about it, I don’t know why I fought with David, you know, the way siblings do. Why I sometimes acted like my parents not letting me watch a late-night TV show was the worst thing in the world. Had I known that all those precious moments, those twelve years were everything we’d ever get, I’d—” Her voice broke and her vision blurred. “I would have never spent a minute arguing or acting out. I’d have kissed them and hugged them and asked them about their lives.”
She shook her head. “We never know how much time we have with our loved ones.” She looked at him. He was blurry, and she wiped her eyes. “Because they can be taken away at any moment.”
He blinked, the muscles over his cheekbones tightening. He stared at her with grave intensity, as though stopping himself from covering the distance between them and taking her into his arms.
She sniffed and sighed. “My mom told me about history, about the Middle Ages, about Scotland. She made me fall in love with it, too. The books I read—Ivanhoe by Walter Scott, Lancelot, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and other historical fiction… I dreamed I’d walk the dirt-packed streets and go to a medieval market and see noble knights and ladies and dance at a feast… I suppose I’m living that dream now. Though it’s not as romantic as I’d have thought.”