by Mariah Stone
She sighed and returned the photo to the screen. There he was, overexposed by the flash against the dark background of the underground room. His beard, the small scars on his face, the black eye and the wound from Euphemia’s whip, the clothes, the sword…all authentic. All real. A sconce with a torch was visible on the wall, too.
“He looks like he has a cool costume,” David said.
“That’s not a costume,” she mumbled.
“So, a guy kidnapped you and drugged you and pretended he was Angus Mackenzie. That’s fucked up. You should show this face to the police.”
“I will,” she lied. “Now let’s go.”
“Rory—”
She quickly wiped away the rest of her smudged black mascara and stood up.
“Enough about that. Are you coming or not?”
David pulled her into a big hug, then stood back and looked at her dubiously. “Are you okay? Is it something I said? I’m really worried you were abused, and I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I wasn’t abused. I’m fine. I made my choice, and now I have to live with it. Now, come on. I need a big glass of wine. After all, I did get everything I wanted.”
And as they walked towards the bike parking area, she tried to ignore the fact that she was already regretting the choice she’d made. Because now that she had gotten what she wanted, the emptiness within her only felt wider.
And deeper.
And all she wanted now was to return to Eilean Donan and go back in time to Angus.
Chapter 32
Delny Castle, June 10, 1310
“Angus Mackenzie?” cried the guard from the gatehouse.
There was a sudden clatter of several armed men running along the curtain wall.
Angus stared at the gate as if it were made of poisonous snakes. Was he seriously doing this? Going to talk to Euphemia felt like putting his bare hand into hot coals and expecting it to feel cool.
“Aye, I’m Angus Mackenzie,” he said. “I came to talk to Lady Euphemia. I’m alone. Go get her this minute.”
One of the guards left the wall and disappeared. After a while, the portcullis was lifted and he rode in, feeling the heavy glances of his men and Raghnall on his back.
He rode in under the scowling glances of the Ross men. The damned castle felt like a cage—one he’d never imagined walking into willingly again.
A man took his horse’s reins, and when Angus descended, another one came to him and pointed a spear at him.
“Is this necessary?” Angus said.
“Aye,” William said as he appeared from the door to the keep. “My orders. What do ye want?”
Angus sighed. “Nothing bad. If I wanted to hurt her, I wouldn’t have come alone.”
William had just opened his mouth to say something when another man-at-arms appeared from the keep. “Mistress says to let him in.”
William glared at Angus for a few moments, then shrugged and nodded curtly. “Whatever the mistress wants. If he kills her, well, that’ll be her fault.”
The man-at-arms touched Angus on the shoulder with the tip of the spear.
“Move,” the man said, and Angus walked.
He thought he’d be led to the great hall, but the guard told him to climb the stairs. On the first floor, he was ordered to go down the hall and enter one of the rooms.
When he did, he froze and closed his eyes, nausea rising in his stomach. On a large canopy bed was Euphemia, with her legs spread, and a man positioned with his head between her thighs.
Her eyes were half closed, her back was arched, and her mouth opened as she moaned sounds of pleasure that made bile rise in Angus’s stomach.
For Scotland, he thought. For hundreds of thousands of people. For Rogene.
“Forgive me, Lady Euphemia,” he said, shielding his face with his palm and looking down at the floor. “I have ye at a disadvantage. I’ll come back later.”
“Nae,” she moaned. “Nae. Stay.”
Surprised, he glanced at her. Her face was in complete ecstasy, and she was looking right at him. He realized she must be imagining him instead of that man.
By God’s blood, he wasn’t going to be part of that. Without another word, he pushed the astonished guard back into the corridor and shut the door after him.
The guard frowned and exchanged a puzzled look with Angus. Angus crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. She was sending him a message. She didn’t need him, and she could have any man she wanted. He had refused her, but she wouldn’t wait for him.
But he didn’t care if she wanted to sleep with the whole army. If he was to have a son with her, he had to make sure the boy was his. If anything, what she did gave him an advantage in negotiations because she was impure, and before the wedding, he needed to make sure she was not with child.
After a while, the man left the room, and Angus entered. Euphemia was dressed and tying up a long, golden braid before a large mirror. Mirrors were a luxury he hadn’t seen often.
“Lord Angus,” she said, looking at his reflection. “Too bad ye didna stay. I did have a large appetite, enough for two men.”
“I never share my woman.”
As he said “my woman,” she threw a sad, longing glance at him, and her expression changed from a sly, smug mask into the face of someone who’d lost something important.
“I’m nae yer woman nae more,” she said. “Is that what ye’re implying?”
He slowly walked farther into the room. It was richly decorated, and he’d never seen one quite like it. Large, with a big canopy bed with beautifully carved poles and a rich blanket with gold-and-silver threads. A bearskin lay by the fireplace. Beautiful tapestries hung from the wall, showing women gathering herbs and flowers, a hunt, and the image of the crucified Christ. Several carved chests lined the wall. Two chairs flanked the mirror, again with masterfully carved arms.
The room smelled of the expensive rose water she preferred. The scent made him sick as it brought back memories of him handcuffed in her possession.
“Ye’re nae my woman,” he said. “But I came here to renegotiate our marriage.”
As he said the words, something hung heavily in his chest, sucking all the life out of him.
Euphemia turned to him, her eyes wide, frowning.
“Dinna jest with me, Lord Angus,” she hissed.
“I dinna jest.”
She stared at him, her cheeks flushing. “Why did ye change yer mind?”
He couldn’t tell her exactly what Rogene had told him, but he could give a version of that. One that would likely make her accept his terms, because there was something she equally wanted.
A son.
“Someone who kens the future told me that we’re destined to be marrit. That we’ll have a son who will one day save the life of a Scottish king.”
Her lips parted in surprise, her eyes shining in delight. “A son…”
“Aye.”
“But…what about what I did to ye? Are you ready to forgive me?”
Angus frowned at the change in her. Where was the arrogant, self-righteous woman who was so sure in her power and her beauty? She stood looking at him almost sheepishly. Was it an act? Or was she revealing a side of herself he hadn’t known she had?
“I will have to, wilna I?” he said.
She came to him in three large steps and took his hand. Her hands were small and pale and cold, and unlike Rogene’s touch, they caused an urge to pull away.
But he didn’t. If Euphemia could be humble, if she could open up to him and be more human, he could imagine their marriage to be functional in some way.
A deep, aching, sucking wound opened in his gut. The longing for Rogene that he knew would never go away as long as he lived.
“Lord Angus, I was desperate. I…I wanted ye, and I hated that ye took a lover, and that ye didna want to bed me. I always get what I want. I’m of a strong mind, and even my brother is afraid of me. But ye’re the first man who showed me ye can be my ma
ster.”
To his surprise, she dropped to her knees, still holding his hand and looking up at him.
“Only ye. And I didna ken how to behave. What to do. And still ye didna want to bed me, even though I forced ye.”
Uncomfortable, he pulled her up so that she stood. “Please, Lady Euphemia. There’s truly nae need for that. I will bed ye of my own will. Ye’re right that ye canna force me. Especially if ye want my respect and my…”
He trailed off. He couldn’t say love, because as long as he lived, he’d never love a woman who wasn’t Rogene.
“Love?” Euphemia finished.
With reluctance, he squeezed her hand back. “I will promise that as long as I’m yer husband, ye will be the only woman for me. I wilna have a mistress and I wilna bed servants. ’Tis nae in my nature to do that. And I must insist that ye do the same.”
Her blue eyes sparkled, and she beamed. “Of course.”
She looked pretty.
Almost.
“Before we marry, I must make sure ye’re nae pregnant from another man. The lad will be my son. Mine.”
“Aye. I’m nae pregnant. I was angry at ye, and I did bed one man, but I took precautions.”
“We shall see. With yer agreement, I’d like a healer to examine ye. Or we must wait for half a year to make sure.”
“I dinna mind if a healer examines me. I’m nae pregnant as I just had my course. Anything else?”
“Ye accept all the conditions we had tried to negotiate in the contract. Kintail stays with Mackenzie clan. The dowry. We live on my estate.”
She blinked and something dark flickered through her face but disappeared. “Aye.”
He nodded and still held her hand.
“Do ye forgive me now?” she said.
He inhaled deeply. “Aye.”
She smiled, then her face gained a more menacing expression, and his blood chilled.
“Good, because I do have one condition of my own.”
“What is it?”
“That Lady Rogene dies.”
He inhaled sharply, feeling as though a knife sliced his stomach. “Ye dinna need to worry about her. She’s gone. As good as dead.”
She frowned. “How?”
“She’s gone overseas. So far away, ye can never reach her. Forever. Ye may consider her dead.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How can I trust ye? Can ye swear?”
“I swear on God’s name, Lady Euphemia. She’s gone.”
She studied his face for a while, then relaxed and gave a satisfied nod. “I believe ye.” And then she beamed and laid her hand on his chest. “I didna think that ye’d come back to me. I thought I’d lost ye.”
She caught his eyes, and for the first time since he’d known her, he saw a human soul behind them. Her eyes watered. She was vulnerable, and open, and fragile before him. And he thought that if she could be like this, this marriage could go better than he’d ever thought it could. He could respect this woman and get to know her and mayhap even become friends with her.
“I’d like to see more of this side of ye,” he said.
She blinked. “No one ever does. I dinna let anyone so close to me because people have betrayed me in the past. My husbands cheated on me. My brother told my secrets to my da and he punished me. Even ye…” She shook her head. “But ye’ve come back to me and made the first step. I will do the same, Lord Angus. I already let ye in way too deep. I’ve fallen in love with ye…” She whispered the last words.
Angus swallowed. He’d never asked for her love, but he would accept it as a gift because love was not to be wasted. Unfortunately, he knew he’d never be able to reciprocate. But he’d give her the respect and appreciation that her love and openness deserved.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and she pressed her head to his chest. If he was right, she was trembling ever so slightly.
“But if ye ever betray me again,” she whispered, “I’ll give ye nae mercy. I will destroy everyone and everything that’s dear to ye.”
Chapter 33
Oxford, July 7, 2021
“Funny,” Anusua said without turning her head from the computer screen. “I’ve seen this document but never noticed this inscription before.”
“Which one?” Rogene asked as she continued looking at her own screen, scrolling through the archive’s scans of letters from the Wars of Scottish Independence.
She stopped scrolling at the Declaration of Arbroath, dated April 6, 1320, which was the letter of the Scottish parliament to the pope from fifty Scottish barons and leaders. They pleaded with the Pope to reconsider his support in the English-Scottish conflict. There were nineteen red and green wax seals attached to the document; the rest had been lost through the years.
“This record of the marriage of Angus Mackenzie and Euphemia of Ross…”
Rogene’s heart lurched. She spun on her chair so fast a vertebra in her neck clicked. The small office shrank around her, the paneled walls pressing in on her. Sounds intensified, and her back misted with sweat.
“What about it?” Rogene asked.
“Well…I’ve always thought it was in May 1310, but here it says July 14, 1310. I must have mixed up the dates.”
Rogene breathed out. That made sense because she had caused quite a hubbub and Angus had probably needed some time to renegotiate the contract and to convince the Earl of Ross and his sister to continue with the wedding.
“Oh. Yes. Well, we read so many documents it’s impossible to remember everything.”
“Yes, but that’s not the strange thing about it,” Anusua continued, zooming in. “I don’t remember this bit. And for the life of me, I have no idea what this means. Look.”
On shaking legs, Rogene stood and walked to stand behind Anusua’s chair. There, on a yellowy-beige page, was the church record of the marriage: Angus Mackenzie married Euphemia Ross on July 14, 1310. Both parties gave consensus, both parties were of age, and no blood kinship was found between them. All that was written in a typical, calligraphic script.
But then underneath was a different inscription, clearly from a different writer. One who wasn’t that experienced in calligraphy. The letters were different from each other, the tails of the letters too fat, or too thin, or too crooked.
Just like the letters of the contract she had been writing for Angus and Euphemia.
“Crikey,” Anusua said. “Does it seem like it resembles modern English to you? That’s so strange.”
With a horrific wave of cold tingling, Rogene read the inscription.
“He is not marrying her. He is marrying you.”
Feeling the ground slipping from under her feet, Rogene searched behind her with her hand until she found a chair, rolled it towards her, and plumped her behind into it.
Anusua chuckled. “It’s as though someone from our time traveled to 1310 and wrote it as a joke.” She looked at Rogene with a chuckle. “Sort of like ‘Peter was here.’” Her smile fell, and she narrowed her eyes. “Are you okay, hun?”
Rogene’s throat contracted as she swallowed. He is not marrying her. He is marrying you.
This sounded terribly like it was a message—for her. From her. From 1310. It sounded like Angus was marrying Rogene.
Rogene.
Not Euphemia.
Which meant…
Her hand clasped around the blouse on her belly. She was still nauseated from time to time, and she had missed one period since she got back. They’d had unprotected sex, but she’d been on a pill—which, of course, she hadn’t taken with her to the Middle Ages…
So, of course, she could be pregnant. Why hadn’t she considered this before? She had thought of it, briefly, but always ignored it. Oh yes. She was in denial.
Another wave of cold tingles ran over her.
“Wh-when was Paul Mackenzie born?”
Anusua squinted at her. “Who?”
“Th-their son, Angus and Euphemia’s… When was he born?”
“Oh…the Paul Mackenzi
e who saved Robert III’s life. Why?”
She didn’t reply. She pushed off the desk and rolled to her computer. Her hands were so cold and shook so much that she was hitting the wrong keys as she typed “Paul Mackenzie wars of independence.” Wikipedia was not a reliable source, but it was a hell of a lot faster than searching through the archives. She could always confirm later.
Paul Mackenzie, born February 15, 1311 in Eilean Donan to Angus Mackenzie and a woman presumed to be Euphemia of Ross, though the identity of the mother is disputed by historians since there are other sources claiming Euphemia’s presence in Ross at the same time. Other sources claimed she had died, possibly of childbirth.
Rogene’s head spun, and the world darkened around her. Suddenly she lost the ability to move her limbs. She knew distantly she might be about to faint, but she held on to the handle of her chair and willed herself to stay alert.
“Can you please find the source…the church registry for Paul Mackenzie’s birth?”
“Why?” Anusua asked, but already she was typing the search into the archives database. “I think it’s correct. He was born in February; I have the same date in mind.”
“Just to check that Wikipedia has it right.”
Deep breath in and out. Needles prickled in her lower belly—it had been happening on and off for a couple of weeks, and she thought it must be from the shock of returning to her own time and adjusting to modern food. But could it be another symptom of pregnancy?
“Yes, Wikipedia is correct.” Anusua chuckled. “For once.”
“And the mother?”
Anusua peered at the screen. “Euphemia of Ross. Why?”
How could that be? Oh dear God. If Rogene had traveled in time and married Angus, and if she was pregnant now and Paul Mackenzie was indeed her son, why had she had the wrong mother written in the registry?
But if it wasn’t Rogene who’d traveled back in time, who would have written that message, and why? He is not marrying her. He is marrying you.
“Okay. Seriously. What’s going on?” Anusua said.
Rogene shook her head. “Can you please send the links to both documents to my email? I’m not feeling well. I need to go lie down but I’d like to take another look at them at home.”