He stood over her like an avenging angel. She tried to speak. “I-I…”
“I don’t want to hear yer selfish excuses. Are ye hurt?”
Stupid question. Does anyone fall off a horse without getting hurt? Ah, well, perhaps huge men who appeared to be hewn from granite did. “I don’t think so.”
“Get up then. We’ll have to walk back to the keep. Yer beast is winded and terrified.”
Maggie was terrified too. Who was this man? Cellphone, cellphone, just say it. The old woman wasn’t delusional. Maggie had no idea where, or perhaps more importantly, when she was. Things were happening too fast for her to process much, and yet she had registered the fact that he had said keep. That was part of a castle. She could stay long enough to see a real castle before she went home. How could she miss that? And walking was good. She wouldn’t care if she never rode a horse again.
“I said get up. Is something the matter with ye?”
“N-nay.”
“Then do it.” As irritated as he sounded, he offered her a hand.
Accepting his help, she stood and was nearly overcome by dizziness. She put her head in her hands and groaned.
“Ye said ye weren’t injured.” He said.
As furious as he was, and it sounded as if he had every right to be furious with her, she was touched that he showed her any concern at all. “I must have hit my head. It doesn’t hurt,” much, “I just got a bit dizzy standing. I’ll be fine.” Because as soon as I see the castle, I will cellphone-home.
His brows drew together.
“Really. I’ll be fine.”
He gave a single nod. “Then we’ll go.” Without another word, he turned and walked away, leading both horses and leaving her to follow.
As she walked, she tried to process her surroundings. He wasn’t actually wearing a dress, it was a full-sleeved, dark brown linen tunic, which was belted at the waist. It stopped at his knees, exposing his muscular calves. His shoes were leather but were open over the top of his foot and held on with laces.
She wore a similar garment but hers was white and reached the ground. She had another sleeveless garment over it that fit snugly to her waist before flaring out. It was a rosy color with elaborate embroidery at the neck and hem. The undergarment next to her skin felt like silk. She lifted her skirts to see her shoes. They were a buttery soft leather with pointy toes, held on with a lace at the ankles. She smiled, remembering how her mother hated wearing “pointy toes” because she believed life was too short to wear uncomfortable shoes. These shoes however were soft and didn’t hurt her feet.
She had the sense of weight pulling on her aching head. Rubbing the spot that hurt, she realized she had an exceeding long braid down her back. She’d always wanted long hair like this but she had no idea how heavy it would feel.
Back to the problem at hand, based on their clothing she guessed she was somewhere in Europe in the middle ages. Her clothes suggested that she was from the upper classes. Gertrude had said she would go back at least a hundred years but Maggie was fairly sure she was five hundred years or more in the past.
The sky was a mass of gray clouds. Not the kind that signaled a coming storm, just a dull day. They walked up a long, gently sloping hill, the land around them lushly green between the rocky areas. The topography told her she was probably in northern or Western Europe as opposed to the Mediterranean region.
Very soon Maggie found herself breathless and struggling to keep up. She was reasonably fit and normally this wouldn’t have been a difficult walk for her. Again she had to remind herself that this wasn’t her body. Perhaps the person she had become was not used to exercise. Then again, she had been thrown from a horse minutes ago. It didn’t help that the man’s strides were long while Maggie herself was at least five inches shorter than she had been in the twenty-first century. Whatever the reason was, she couldn’t maintain this pace. She had a stitch in her side and breathing deeply hurt—definitely a cracked rib. She stopped to catch her breath. Her companion, whoever he was, didn’t seem to notice immediately.
Yeah, you go on. I’ll get there…someday. If I can figure out where “there” is.
As if he had heard her imagined sarcastic quip he stopped, turned around and glared at her. “Is there a problem, Margaret?”
Ah, her name was Margaret. Nice to know. “Nay, no problem.”
“Then why did ye stop?”
“Ah…well…that. I suppose there is a wee problem. Ye walk very fast. And I—” She coughed, unable to suppress a grimace of pain. Even though the accident wasn’t her fault, strictly speaking, she still felt responsible and didn’t want to complain. “—I’m sorry. I can’t quite keep up. I know this is my fault, but would it be possible to—” He scowled at her, clearly still angry, “Never mind. I’ll try harder.”
The look of shock on his face caught Maggie off guard. “I-I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”
He frowned at her, for the first time looking more confused than angry. “Nay.” After considering her for a long moment he said, “I’ll walk more slowly.”
She gave him a weak smile, “Thank ye.”
He looked confused but continued at a significantly slower pace.
Maggie still found it hard going, but she would not complain again. It wasn’t in her nature. So she did her best not to fall behind. To get her mind off the pain in her ribs, she tried to puzzle out her next steps.
She supposed she should have feigned amnesia immediately, but things happened so fast, and her companion’s anger had taken her so off guard, she forgot to. Hah. She forgot to have amnesia. Paige would laugh at that. Still, she had already learned a bit by simply paying attention. Her name was Margaret, she was somewhere in medieval Europe, and the man with her didn’t like her. He would have mourned the loss of the horse more than her. She figured that was probably a good thing because if Gertrude was right, Margaret’s life was already over.
Given that she didn’t plan to stay long, it might be possible to simply listen and figure out enough to get by—although she would play the amnesia card if she had to.
When they reached the top of the hill, the vista was breathtaking. The land sloped down towards a village before rising again, even higher. Halfway up the next rise was…a castle. She stopped and stared, in awe.
The man stopped too. “What’s wrong now?”
“Nothing. It’s just very beautiful.” I wish I had my cellphone, was on the tip of her tongue but she stopped herself.
He gave her another confused frown. “What’s gotten into ye?”
“N-nothing.” What did he mean by that? “Don’t ye think it is beautiful?”
“Aye, of course I do, but ye never have. Since ye arrived, I’ve heard nothing but complaints about how ugly and unpleasant ye find Castle Carr and how everything is so much better at yer home.”
“Ye must have misunderstood me.” How could anyone think that castle was ugly? But really, in Maggie’s opinion, how could anyone find any castle ugly? Castles were…well, castles. This was square with towers on each corner and a wall encircled everything. It looked exactly like the kind of castle she would have built in sand, except without a moat or driftwood drawbridge.
“Margaret, ye have done nothing but complain since ye arrived. Ye’ve made it painfully clear that ye would prefer to have nothing to do with Clan Carr in general, and me specifically. Ye have shown us nothing but disdain. I didn’t misunderstand ye.”
Maggie was taken aback. One more piece of information—clearly Margaret was exceedingly ill-mannered. She was embarrassed just knowing the woman had been so unkind. “I’m sorry. I…I may have made a mistake.”
“Ye may have,” was all he said before continuing down the hill.
She could only follow. He had increased the pace again, probably without realizing it because they were going downhill now. She hurried, trying to keep up but in her haste and unaccustomed to the long skirts and funny shoes, she tripped and fell. Although she caught herself with
her hands, the hard jolt sent waves of pain through her ribs, causing her eyes to water. She bit her lower lip to keep from crying out. As soon as the worst pain had passed, she looked up to see him staring at her.
“Damnation, Margaret. What’s the matter?”
“I’m fine. I just tripped.”
“Ye aren’t fine. Something is wrong; ye’re pale as a wraith.”
“I’m sorry, I just…I might have cracked some ribs when I fell off the horse. It hurts a little to breathe.” And that might have been an understatement.
“It hurts to breathe? God’s blessed bones, I asked ye if ye were injured right after ye fell. Why didn’t ye tell me it hurt to breathe? Ye said ye would be fine.”
“I will be fine. Cracked ribs heal.”
“By the Almighty, woman, I would never have made ye walk if I had known ye were hurt. Come here, ye can ride the rest of the way on Micah.”
“Nay, I’ll be alright. I don’t want to ride.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He walked toward her.
She stepped back. “Nay, please don’t make me ride.” She wasn’t sure which she feared more, riding again or the pain he would cause by lifting her onto the horse’s back.
Chapter 3
The Central Highlands
June 1270
Logan had never been so shocked and confused. He had been betrothed to Margaret Grant for several years, but she had only recently come to Castle Carr. It was ostensibly so they could get to know each other before the wedding. But Logan secretly believed even her own father wanted rid of her. She was lovely to look at but the most insensitive, thoughtless, selfish woman he had ever encountered. He dreaded marrying her but he had no choice.
At his mother’s request, he had made every effort to court Margaret. His mother thought maybe Margaret’s behavior would change if she were treated with kindness and tolerance until she became more comfortable with them all. For that reason he tried to be gentle and patient with the unpleasant woman.
Nothing Logan did met with Margaret’s approval. However, she did enjoy going riding, so he made the effort to take her occasionally. But even then, she was sharp-tongued and treated him with scorn. He had finally given up all pretense, at least when they were alone. He endeavored not to be discourteous, preferring to simply treat her with indifference. But today, he had reached his limit.
When they had come to the gently sloping heath, she asked, “Are we going to ride like old crones again today?”
He shrugged. “We can pick up the pace a little if ye wish.”
“We can pick up the pace a little,” she mocked him. “Yer docile bag-of-bones may be satisfied plodding along, but Robin needs a run.”
“Margaret, ye have to be careful—” He had started to caution her about the rocky places hidden in the grass as well as the precipitous drop on the far side of the opposite hill.
But before he could finish she had kicked her horse into a gallop, calling over her shoulder, “I am an excellent rider and I don’t need the likes of ye telling me what to do.”
He tried to catch up to her, risking his own mount’s safety in the process. He needed to stop her before she met with disaster, but she intentionally eluded him. He simply couldn’t reach her. He bellowed for her to stop but she kept right on. If she hadn’t reined in when she did…he didn’t like to think about it. Even though, in his anger, he told her she would be no loss, that wasn’t precisely true. If Laird Grant’s only daughter was killed while in the care of the Carrs, it would destroy the already strained relationship that this betrothal was meant to repair.
When she was thrown, his heart nearly stopped. She landed on her back and lay still. She didn’t roll away from Robin’s deadly hooves. His one goal became ensuring the distressed gelding didn’t trample her. When he finally was able to turn his attention to Margaret, she was moving to stand. The relief he felt was as profound as his anger. Over the last few weeks he had struggled to keep his temper under control, and he could do it no longer.
However, when he yelled at her, calling her out for her reckless actions, she said I’m sorry. It was so unexpected, he believed she was mocking him and continued to berate her.
When he told her she would have to walk back to the keep she didn’t turn into the screeching harpy he expected. She followed him silently. It was such unpredictable behavior, he thought perhaps her brush with death had cowed her. Logan surreptitiously glanced back at her occasionally, expecting to see her ire rising as they walked, but it didn’t. She seemed inordinately preoccupied with the surroundings, as if seeing them for the first time. Well she was seeing them for the first time. She couldn’t have taken in much earlier as she was flying past it at breakneck speed.
Then she stopped. He had been certain her vitriol would finally spew forth. He had steeled himself before turning around. Again, she did the unexpected. She was polite. She apologized for not being able to keep up, accepted responsibility for her actions, and although he was certain she wanted to ask him to slow down, instead she said she would try harder. What the hell was she up to? It had to be some attempt to manipulate him.
Finally, when Castle Carr came into view, a place she had professed to despise only the day before, she stopped as if in awe, remarking on its beauty. This convinced him it had all been some sort of a performance, to what end, he knew not.
Now as he stared at the woman who had silently born the pain of injury as they walked, he was beginning to think it might not be an act. On the contrary, something was dreadfully wrong. The spoiled, self-pitying shrew to whom he was betrothed wouldn’t have suffered walking with a bruised elbow, much less broken ribs. Now she backed away from him, begging him not to make her ride.
“Margaret, please.” He looked into her eyes and saw…unbridled fear.
“It’s all right. Really, I can walk.” She sidestepped him, starting to walk toward Castle Carr. “See? I’m fine.”
He was at her side in several long strides, taking her elbow to stop her. “Margaret, ye can’t walk the rest of the way. I’m sorry I didn’t realize ye were hurt so badly.”
“It isn’t yer fault. Truly it isn’t. I don’t want ye to lift me on that horse.”
“Are ye afraid of Micah?” The horse she had called docile earlier? He searched her face for some sign that she was dissembling but she appeared guileless.
“Well…yes.”
“Robin has settled, would ye prefer to ride him?”
Margaret shook her head, terrified. “Oh, nay, not him.”
By all that was holy, Robin was her horse, brought with her from Castle Grant. But here she stood, as spooked as the horse had been earlier. Logan realized he needed to handle her in the same way. He lowered his voice, softening his tone, and cupped her cheek gently with one hand. “Then ride Micah. I’ll ride behind ye.”
“I don’t mind if ye ride. I-I’ll be fine.”
Clearly she misunderstood his meaning. “Margaret, what scares ye?”
She looked into his eyes for a moment before answering. “I wasn’t completely honest about my ribs. They hurt quite a lot. On top of not wanting to get back on a horse, I am afraid of ye lifting me.”
Dear God. “Lass, I’ll be as gentle as I can be. Ye can’t walk any farther. Let me help ye.”
She sighed and nodded, still looking terrified.
Logan led her to where Micah stood. Putting his hands at her waist, well below her ribs, he lifted her easily onto the horse’s back. He heard her quick intake of air. She frowned and bit her lower lip, but again, uncharacteristically, said nothing. He left his hands on her waist. “Are ye all right?”
Nodding slightly she said, “Aye,” but her strained expression told him otherwise. “How do I…” She looked around, appearing confused, “How do I get my leg over?”
“Ye don’t need to, lass.”
Panic crossed her face. “I can’t ride sideways. I can’t ride at all.”
“I’ll ride behind ye. Ye’ll be fine.” He swung up
into the saddle, then pulled her gently onto his lap, putting his arms around her. “Are ye alright?” he asked again.
She nodded. “Aye.” He still didn’t believe her but he would sort it all out when they reached Castle Carr.
He maneuvered Micah close enough to Robin so as to grab the other horse’s reins, then urged Micah into a walk. “We’ll be home soon.”
~ * ~
Home. She had never been farther from home. The initial shock and wonder of her arrival into the distant past was wearing off, leaving her weary and aching. She didn’t know who this man was, but for the moment she liked the feeling of his arms around her. She rested her head against his chest.
Before long they rode into the village that surrounded the castle. A bit of the wonder returned as she took in the sights around them. None of the villagers met her eye. Perhaps that was the way of things, but it made her uncomfortable and she didn’t like it.
As they approached the gate in the wall, Maggie could barely contain her awe.
A man who appeared to be on guard duty at the gate called, “I was just about to send out men looking for ye, sir. I didn’t expect ye to be gone so long.”
“We had a little mishap. Lady Margaret was thrown from her horse.”
The guard lifted an eyebrow, looking almost pleased. “Was she? Is the beast injured?”
Maggie grimaced inwardly, remembering the things the man had said to her, Ye’ve made it painfully clear that ye would prefer to have nothing to do with Clan Carr in general, and me specifically. Ye have shown us nothing but disdain. Embarrassed, she avoided looking at the guard.
Her companion answered, “Nay, the horse is well but Lady Margaret was injured. Would ye send for Bearnas?”
“Certainly,” said the guard. He didn’t show the remotest bit of concern for her.
As they rode into the bailey, her companion called, “Broc, see to our mounts please.”
“Aye, sir.” Broc approached, taking Robin’s reins.
Her companion dismounted. He stood beside the horse, looking up at her. “I’m going to lift ye down now.”
The Pocket Watch Page 3