“Yet you don’t complain, you don’t demand anything, and you’ve given this clan your all. You gave me your trust, and I did nothing to earn it.” He took her hand in his, inspecting it, noting each scrape, each smudge of dirt, each pinprick. Bringing it to his lips, he gently kissed each fingertip. “Why?” he whispered, bringing his eyes back to hers.
She couldn’t answer. She was drowning in his words, in the feel of his lips on her fingers. He saw her face soften, her breathing hitch, and he knew he’d be a fool to let her out of his life.
He had to figure out what she thought she wanted.
He had to figure out what he wanted her to want, and then he had to convince her to stay.
• • •
Brianagh didn’t expect it.
Nioclas’s kiss was the same kind of kiss he’d given her by the battlements when he’d begun his questions. His lips were cool but his tongue was hot, and the myriad of sensations skittering across her skin recognized the polar opposites and clung to them. He took the hand he was holding and placed it around his neck, then drew her other hand up to join it. He wrapped his own around her waist and pulled her body flush with his own.
When he pulled back and placed his forehead against hers, his breathing was ragged. “I missed you, Brianagh.”
Her brain could not compute what he was about—every time she thought she’d figured him out, he kissed her as though he meant it. And there wasn’t anyone in the room to act for.
She couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
“I don’t understand what you’re doing,” she finally replied once she caught her breath.
He closed his eyes. “Nor do I, yet I find I cannot stop.”
“You’re confusing me,” she admitted, stepping out of his embrace. She needed to get some space between them, otherwise she’d give in to the almost mistake she made earlier, when he all but dragged her into his chamber. “This isn’t real, Nioclas.”
He looked closely at her. “You still believe you’re from the future.”
She nodded.
“And you’re willing to give up the protection of my name to return to it.” A statement, not a question.
She nodded again.
“Tell me truly,” Nioclas said. “Is it because of the Frenchman?”
Bri wanted to say yes. It’d be easiest for them both if it were true. But Nioclas had done more for her in the last month than anyone. He’d not only rescued her from a medieval dungeon, but he hadn’t readied the fire for her witch-burning after her confession of when she was from. He also gave her food, clothing, and as he said, protection.
And in return, she knew she owed him the truth.
“Nay,” she said softly. “It is not.”
He stared at her silently for a moment, then gave a slight bow. “That’s a balm to my poor self, I suppose. If we’re to be serious, I need to know how you expect to return,” Nioclas said. “Perhaps you’d best tell me how you…arrived here.”
“You still believe I’m daft.”
“Perhaps a bit touched in the head, but nothing that would encourage me to share your secret.”
“Comforting,” she replied dryly. Bri didn’t mind that he thought she was slightly off her rocker. The fact was, if the roles were reversed, she would believe he was insane. She didn’t think she’d offer him free use of her brownstone, but she’d probably buy him something to eat on the way to the mental hospital.
“It’s best if you start from the beginning,” Nioclas said. “Start with your childhood.”
“You want my life story?” she asked dubiously. Absentmindedly, she rubbed her fingers against her gown, still feeling the after effects of his kisses. Keeping up with his mind was draining her.
“We have all night.” He shrugged. “And seeing as how you don’t want to do what I want to do—” He cast a swift glance at the bed, heating her blood. “—it’s best if we talk about your situation.”
“Sensible,” she murmured. “I do, however, need to change out of this gown. It’s a mess.”
“What were you doing? Moving a table cannot be so dirty,” Nioclas asked as she opened her trunk. She pulled out a long white linen nightgown.
“Do you mind if I wear this? My other two gowns must not be washed yet,” she said with a frown, peering into the empty trunk.
“You only have three dresses?”
She blinked at him. “Well, yes. I burned the one I came in—it was covered with whatever was in that awful dungeon.” She shuddered at the memory of the moving floor.
“I’ll order you more. As the laird’s wife, you should have more than three dresses,” Nioclas replied, surprised she hadn’t ordered them herself.
“There’s no need.” She twirled her finger in midair to indicate he turn around. “Three is plenty. And I was changing the rushes on the floor of the great hall.”
He turned his back to her and said through clenched teeth, “Do I not have an entire garrison of men living in this castle?”
“Yes,” she replied, taken aback at his change of tone.
“And pray tell, why could you not have them clear the rushes out of the hall?”
“You can turn around now,” she said. “Your garrison is training in the lists all day. Your blacksmith works in his building, creating swords and whatever else it is that he creates. Your stable master works with the horses all day. Your pages are out in the lists with your garrison, trying to earn your respect and, I suspect, a place in your garrison once they are old enough. And the elders are rarely in residence, but when they are, I do not want them doing this kind of work. They’ve earned a bit of freedom from manual labor, if even half their battle stories are true. I think that covers just about all the men here at the castle.”
He just stared at her, his mouth slightly open.
“That left the women and me. Seeing as I’d already tasked all available people to do various things around the castle, it was up to me. And the rushes were disgusting.” Brianagh wrinkled her nose. “They smelled quite awful. They needed to be changed, and Bernie gave me the fresh hay to lay down.”
“Bernie?” Nioclas repeated.
“The stable master.”
“You called him Bernie?” He laughed in amazement. Bernard, his crusty old stable master who was notorious for calming horses with just a touch and scaring children with just a look, did not fit with that name.
“He told me to call him that,” she replied defensively. “He’s so lonely out there that I insisted he start coming to the castle proper for his meals. He can eat with the garrison in the great hall.” He stared at her until she squirmed. “What?”
He grinned. “Impressive, my lady. Bernard is not known for his linguistic skill.”
“Oh, he’s fine,” she replied with a wave. “Anyway, that’s how I got so dirty.”
“I wonder how you became so good with people,” Nioclas mused. “Please. Start at the beginning, and don’t leave anything out. I feel as though I’m in for an entertaining evening.”
Bri took a deep breath. She really had nothing to lose, so she started at the beginning.
Chapter 20
Early the following morning, Nioclas silently dressed so as to not disturb his sleeping wife. He was determined to find out if her words were true. The tales she’d told him had him fascinated into the wee hours of the morning.
She painted a colorful portrait of her life before him. If she were to be believed, Brianagh was even more educated than he. For every question he asked, she had an answer—one she didn’t stop to think about—and the answers were cohesive, never contradicting, despite his attempts to get her to misstep. He couldn’t find a single loophole in her confessions last night.
But the most convincing—and frightening—evidence she provided were the items she pulled from the trunk.
He felt ill just looking at them.
The first was a satchel. White leather, whiter than any satchel his eyes ever set upon, with blue leather trim. Nioclas knew the w
orld was large, but he never had seen an animal with such pure white skin, or skin of such a distinct shade of sky blue.
“We call it a purse,” she explained. “This one is Coach, but there are lots of different ones.”
The satchel’s clasp made a horrid noise, and though he didn’t admit it, the silver teeth tested his bravery. More than once, he reached for his sword, only to be given a sweet look by his wife.
He kept the sword nearby, just in case.
If the satchel hadn’t already given him pause, the smaller satchel certainly did. She called it a wristlet, and it was made of a fabric far finer than any he’d encountered from merchants, with the same razor teeth as the larger one.
Once she pulled out its contents, Nioclas nearly forgot about their containers.
“It’s a license,” Brianagh said softly, holding it out to him. The parchment was stiff, unlike anything he’d ever felt, and had an unnatural shine to it. He carefully rubbed his finger over the portrait of Brianagh. The likeness was more exact than any artist he’d known. The words on the parchment—the license—didn’t look like the hand of a person. When he held it in the firelight, an unholy image of sorts flashed across the front, causing him to fling it away, pull a dirk from his boot, and cross himself with alacrity.
“That’s a hologram. It’s a drawing with a special ink, that appears when the light shines upon it.” Brianagh slowly retrieved the parchment, chewing her bottom lip. “I’m not a witch, Nioclas.”
“I don’t believe you to be,” Nioclas replied carefully. He preferred the term sorceress, but wisely held his tongue.
“Mmm hmm,” came the reply. She dug around in the satchel again, unaware of Nioclas’s grave fear that the teeth would chew her hand from her wrist, and extracted a tube, made of the same shiny material as the evil parchment. “Lip gloss,” she supplied. She twisted the top off and applied it to her lips.
Nioclas blinked in surprise. “You wear face paint?”
She rubbed her lips together, and Nioclas blinked again, this time because her eyes looked a little brighter, and her lips looked even more tempting than they had just a moment prior.
“Not here. But in 2015 I did.”
Nioclas resisted the urge to scoff at such an impossibly high number, and imperiously held his hand out. She dropped the tube into it, and he sniffed. “Do men wear such paint?”
She shrugged. “Some. Most don’t.”
He eyed it warily. “Its scent is not unwelcome.”
“It’s strawberry scented.”
He shook his head and handed it back to her. No strawberry he’d eaten smelled anything like that.
“Tissues, a pen, an appointment card… Oops. I had a dentist appointment. I hope they don’t charge me for a no-show,” she grumbled, pulling out more foreign items. Suddenly, she froze. “Oh boy.”
Nioclas hefted his sword, nearing the end of his limits. “My lady, perhaps we ought to consign these items to the fire. For our safety, and the safety of our clan.” And my reputation, he thought, swallowing past the fear at so many unfamiliar objects strewn about his chamber floor.
Brianagh’s eyes never left her hand, which remained inside the satchel.
Nioclas grew more alarmed. “Brianagh, are you entangled in the coach’s teeth?!”
She shook her head suddenly, as though clearing it, and let out a breath. “No. But this…If this doesn’t convince you that I’m not from this time, I don’t know what will.”
“Show me at once,” he demanded.
“Put the sword down, Nioclas,” she replied, exasperated. “None of these items will harm you. Unless you’re stabbed by the pen. But that would be merely a flesh wound. I don’t think anyone’s ever died of a pen attack.”
He eyed the quill warily.
“I’m not taking this out until you put the sword away.”
Nioclas did a swift, silent count. Two more dirks on his person, a sword strapped to the wall inside of the small alcove, a bow and arrow hidden in his trunk.
He reluctantly propped his sword against the wall.
“Come sit by me,” she said quietly. “I vow, this cannot hurt you. It isn’t alive.”
“What is it, then?”
Her blue eyes shone as she pulled it out. “It’s a tool I used every day. It’s called a phone.”
The black rectangle lay, unassuming, in her hand.
“Tell me of its purpose.”
Brianagh ran a finger over it. “When I press this button—” she pointed to a small piece, raised slightly above the smooth line of the tool “—the screen lights up.”
“It provides fire?” Nioclas asked skeptically.
She shook her head and thought for a moment before replying. “No. It provides light, which is very different. It also acts as my record keeper, as it holds information about other people, such as their castle location and ways to send missives. But most importantly, it holds portraits.”
Nioclas was helplessly confused. How could such a thing hold paintings?
“Nioclas? Are you all right?”
He settled his mouth into a firm line. “Aye, my lady, of course. I’ve seen much worse on the battlefield, as you well know.” If she fought a smile, Nioclas was grateful for her discretion.
“Ready?”
He nodded, his body coiled and tensed to spring into action, should they need his skills. A bead of sweat dripped between his shoulder blades, and his breathing shallowed.
Brianagh pushed the tool, and after a second, it began to glow. Nioclas gasped and leapt backwards.
“It’s the light I told you about.” Brianagh watched him nervously. “It cannot hurt us, Nioclas.”
He watched as it glowed, then dimmed, then glowed again…then color as he’d never seen filled her hand.
She rapidly dragged her finger across the colors, despite his warning not to touch the evil thing, and her face instantly softened when the tool changed images yet again. A portrait did indeed sit in her hand.
Nioclas wiped the sweat from his face. “By the saints…”
She met his bewildered eyes with her calm ones. “I’m not a witch, Nioclas. This is just an example of the amazing things man has created. Would you like to see what my family looks like?”
“By all that is holy, I don’t think I can,” he whispered. “If not a witch, are you a sorceress?”
She laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls, and lowered the tool to her lap. “No, Nioclas. I have no magical abilities. Reilly does, though. He’s the one who brought me here. He is the one who moved time. I’m just the person who got caught up in this family story that’s going around. I’m not the chosen daughter, or whatever the O’Rourkes claimed. I’m just a woman from the future, out of place, and not really sure how to get back.”
Nioclas heard the sadness, but her face remained impassive. He studied her. She didn’t look different, except that her lips shone more in the firelight because of her face paint. His instincts had never led him astray, and his gut wasn’t screaming at him to leave. Instead, a strong curiosity had him move closer to her, and lean in to view the object that was now fading slightly.
“Where’s it going?” he asked.
She touched it again, and the colors brightened.
“They dim, to save power. It’s complicated, and I’ll explain it later, if you truly care to hear it. What’s important is this. My family. See, here’s Colin—he’s not nearly this serious in person. James is right here; he’s a healer, and a really good one. We’re all proud of him. My aunt…”
Hours later, Nioclas watched Brianagh sleep peacefully. His mind attempted to absorb all he heard from her lips, and as dawn broke, he wondered if he’d imagined the night before.
He had to seek out the one person who could either confirm her stories…or deny them.
His wife was either completely daft with an incredible set of sorcery skills, or she was telling the truth—she truly was from a place where people traveled by metal birds in the sky, horses
were ridden for pleasure and not transportation, and women had the same rights as men.
Nioclas didn’t like that he had to rely on a man such as Reilly O’Malley to verify his wife’s tales, but as O’Malley figured prominently throughout them, he didn’t see any other option.
As quietly as possible, he slid the trundle under the main bed, then made his way to the wall outside O’Malley’s chamber.
No one would speak with Reilly until he did—Nioclas wasn’t taking any chances.
• • •
“Lovely to see you this morning, Laird MacWilliam. I wonder how long you’ve been waiting for me,” Reilly quipped when he swung open his chamber door. He bowed with a sardonic smile. “What an honor.”
“My solar.” Nioclas motioned for Reilly to precede him. When they entered, Nioclas shut and latched the door.
Reilly made himself comfortable. “This couldn’t wait until after I’d broken my fast?”
“You may eat food from my larder once you’ve answered my questions sufficiently,” Nioclas replied curtly. “Tell me of Brianagh’s sixteenth birthday.”
Reilly stared at him as though he’d lost his mind.
Nioclas sat opposite of him. “What color was her dress?”
“You expect me to remember the color of her dress? I couldn’t tell you the color of the dress she wore yesterday!”
Nioclas sat down, leaned back, and folded his arms silently.
After a charged moment, Reilly muttered, “Yellow.”
“What is the name of her university?”
“Which one?” Reilly asked.
Nioclas’s eyes narrowed. “All of them.”
“Boston University was undergrad. Tufts University was graduate. Bri also did a year at Trinity here in Ireland, on exchange.”
“What did she study?”
“Undergraduate degree is in business management, graduate degree in marketing of some sort.”
Nioclas let out a breath. “What is marketing?”
Reilly did pause then. “It’s the promotion of goods or services. More or less.”
The questions continued, hard and fast. Reilly answered all of them in much the same way Brianagh did—openly, without much hesitation, and continued clarification. At some point, Nioclas sent for food. They ate together as Nioclas relentlessly probed further into Brianagh’s tales.
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