She hurried to the iron chest wherein lay the plain riding gown she’d worn for the journey. It reeked of leather after two days on horseback, but would have to suffice. It was the only garment she’d brought with her.
~~~
Callum’s head swam with so many conflicting emotions, he thought he was still in the grip of Corryvreckan’s awesome power.
His captors had left him in the tavern’s kitchen while they concluded their business, whatever it was. Obviously something clandestine. It seemed even in heaven there existed men who schemed and plotted.
A burly fellow guarded the door, arms folded across his beefy chest, several daggers tucked into his belt.
A sweating two-eyed Cyclops stirred a steaming pot suspended over a fire in a stone hearth. A wench who reminded him of one of Braden’s doxies chopped some sort of vegetable atop a deeply scarred trestle table. Delicious aromas teased his nostrils. He supposed angels too got hungry.
He took several deep breaths to calm his raging heart and sauntered to the servant, thinking to imitate his brother’s easy way with such women. “Good day to ye,” he began, effecting a courtly bow.
She looked up sharply, scowling. “My, what grand manners,” she scoffed. “Ye can forget it if ye think to get me into yer bed.” She cocked her head towards the giant. “My husband willna be pleased.”
“Nay,” he protested, taking a step back, one eye on the massive cook, “I merely seek information. The exact name of this tavern eludes me.”
She smirked, wiping the sharp knife on her filthy apron. “Too much strong liquor has dulled yer brain, eh? This ‘ere is Ainslie Tavern. ’Tis my establishment. Named for me.”
He had never heard of a woman owning a tavern. “And what be the name of this place, the environs?” he asked.
She shoved him, hard. “Ye dinna ken ye’re in Edinburgh?” she scoffed.
He gripped the edge of the trestle table, impressed by her strength. Not even Braden could knock Callum off his feet. But Edinburgh? His afterlife was more confusing by the moment. He rubbed his bicep, feigning discomfort. “That’s a powerful punch ye’ve got for a wee woman.”
A grin split her face, robbing her of any beauty Callum may have imagined she had when a mouthful of rotten teeth were revealed. For a second or two he believed he’d suddenly been carried off to Hell in the company of a witch. She brandished the wicked knife at him. “Enough with yer flattery. Ye’re underfoot. We’ve a supper to prepare.” She winked. “And I hear a wedding to celebrate.”
“Aye,” he replied. “I fear in my besottedness with my bride, I’ve forgotten the names of our guests.”
Ainslie eyed him suspiciously. “Dinna fret. They be men who prefer to remain nameless. They ken Ainslie can keep her mouth shut.”
He nudged her with his elbow, nodding to the Cyclops. “I ken their business is secret,” he whispered.
“Aye,” she whispered back, “they dinna worry about him. He’s mute. However, ’twill be known soon enough once they’ve signed their agreement and then I suspect there’ll be no doubt who’ll be our Queen’s next Consort.”
This was puzzling. James Stewart was King of Scotland. Who was this Queen she spoke of?
She retrieved a cracked wooden bowl and scooped the chopped carrots and parsnips into it, apparently warming to the conversation. “Aye, mark my words,” she whispered, “since ye’ll soon be counted among Bothwell’s kin when ye take his niece to wife, I wager the Earl will wed Queen Mary before the end of this year of Our Lord Fifteen Hundred and Sixty-Seven. My wee tavern will be famous.”
She shuffled off to dump the vegetables into the cook’s massive cauldron, leaving Callum dumbfounded. How had he’d ended up more than one hundred years in the future, betrothed to an Earl's niece, a lass whose name he didn’t know, but who made a man’s toes curl with her kiss.
DROWNING IS THIRSTY WORK
When Braden came to his wits slumped against the side wall of a building on a deserted street he recognised immediately he wasn’t in Inbhir Nis. He was heartsick that his plan to return to Charlotte had evidently gone awry. He felt immediately for the amber stone, relieved when his hand closed over the precious gem.
The few bedraggled men who ambled by gave him a wide berth. Their mode of dress confirmed his suspicions he hadn’t made it to the year 1746. The odors were different too. He got to his feet and wandered to the front of the dilapidated structure. A roughly made sign clinging to a strip of wood over the door proclaimed it as Ainslie’s Tavern. No wonder folks were anxious to avoid him. They thought he was a drunkard.
The name struck a cord. Something Charlotte had told him concerning one of the Stewart monarchs. But which one? Her love of history had shone through in their many conversations. He missed his wife keenly and wondered how she fared. She’d be distraught he hadn’t returned.
He tried the door, disappointed when it failed to open. A draught of fine ale wouldn’t go amiss. This drowning business was thirsty work. He was on the point of wandering off down the street when the door creaked open and two men emerged. Hats pulled down over their faces, they soon disappeared into the maze of dusty alleyways beyond where Braden stood. Their clothing and bearing indicated they were noblemen. He was pondering what such men were doing in a seedy part of whatever town he’d landed in, when two more similarly clad gentlemen emerged and strode off in the opposite direction. Something was afoot within the tavern. If only he could remember what Charlotte had said. Half the time his attention had been on her tempting breasts and not on what she was telling him. Mayhap more than half.
When a high ranking cleric emerged, perhaps a bishop judging by his garb, a pulse started its throb, throbbing in his throat. A foreboding he’d not ended up in this place by accident crept up his spine.
He tried the door again, filled with mixed feelings of relief and apprehension when it opened. Cautiously, he stepped into the dark interior, colliding with the ample bosom of a wench who reminded him of a girl he’d known in Oban, before he’d drowned. He regretted those philandering days now, thanking God and his saints for a wife like his beloved Charlotte.
“Private party,” she said huskily, shoving him back towards the door. “’Tis a wedding and the likes o’ ye are nay invited.”
If it was a wedding, why had some of the guests left in a hurry? He was on the point of asking when a mountain of a man appeared behind her, mopping his sweaty brow with a filthy rag. Perhaps retreat was the best idea in the circumstances.
He turned and was about to leave when someone shouted his name.
“Braden, by the saints, am I glad to see ye.”
HERE COMES THE BRIDE
As Callum was hustled to his fate by the burly guard, noise of an argument at the front door drew his attention. In the dim light he scarcely believed it was Braden he beheld. Hope rose in his pounding heart. Mayhap all was not lost. “Braden,” he yelled, praying fervently his brother’s well-loved face wasn’t an apparition. “By the saints I’m glad to see ye.”
To his delight, a broad smile split Braden’s face; how he had missed that grin. But Mistress Ainslie seemed determined to block his way.
“’Tis my brother, Callum,” Braden explained.
She turned to the guard, her worried face betraying her uncertainty.
The fellow shrugged. “Let him pass. I s’pose he’ll need someone to stand up wi’ ‘im.”
His fear Braden might turn out to be a phantom disappeared when his brother enfolded him in a hug that threatened to squeeze the life out of his lungs. He pounded Braden’s back, emotion choking his words.
“What’s this about a wedding?” Braden rasped in his ear.
“Aye,” he replied. “I tell ye, I dinna ken what’s happened. I woke up in a bed, but there was a woman in it and—”
The guard prodded him. “Get a move on. My master’s anxious for this to be over and done.”
To Callum’s surprise, Braden lay a hand on the man’s arm. “My friend, can a fellow nay
have a few private moments to apprise his younger brother of what to expect from marriage?” He winked at the gaping guard. “Do ye take my meaning?”
The man cast an anxious glance over his shoulder then grinned. “A moment then. The bride has yet to appear anyway.”
Braden drew Callum aside. “Listen,” he whispered. “We have but a moment and I have much to tell ye.”
“Can ye no get me out o’ this marriage?” Callum pleaded. “There’s a lot going on here I dinna understand. Mistress Ainslie says this is the year 1567 and there’s an Earl, Bothwell I think, who insists I marry—”
Braden slapped his forehead. “Of course. Mary, Queen of Scots. The Ainslie Tavern Bond.”
Callum’s heart fell. Now his brother was speaking in riddles. “What?”
Braden gripped his forearm. “Listen. Trust what I say and dinna argue. We didna drown in Corryvreckan. ’Twas a portal to another time. I went to the future, to Seventeen Hundred and Forty-Six. It seems ye have landed in Fifteen Hundred and Sixty-Seven.”
Callum was certain then that drowning had addled his dear brother’s wits. “How is it you’re here now?” he asked softly.
“No time to explain,” Braden replied, looking towards the stairs. “Here comes yer beautiful bride.”
~~~
In ordinary circumstances Lexi considered she was passably winsome. Since making the decision to enter religious life, she hadn’t fussed over her appearance.
As she nervously descended the creaking stairs, she was overwhelmingly aware of her shortcomings as a bride. Her curly hair refused to respond to the coaxing of the brush. Her gown was creased and worn. She’d brought no creams or powders to freshen her body. A novice had no need of such things. Her uncle hadn’t offered to have a bath brought to her chamber.
As she cursed James Hepburn under her breath, he emerged from the large room, looking as angry and harried as ever. He eyed her up and down, no doubt thinking what a fright she looked. Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of her groom, but resolved not to look upon him. He’d ruined her life, and she vowed to make him pay for his unsettling kiss.
It came to her as she touched her fingertips to her lips that there was another man standing with him. Despite her resolve, her eyes wandered. She gasped at the resemblance the two men shared.
“Who is this?” her uncle demanded, his sword halfway out of its scabbard.
“I am Braden Ogilvie, my lord Earl,” the newcomer said with great deference and a courtly bow. “I am Callum’s brother and with yer permission I’ll act as his second.”
Callum eyed this Braden as if he’d lost his wits, but her uncle accepted the offer and sheathed his sword, much to her relief. She didn’t want to marry the ne’er-do-well but had no wish to see him butchered.
“So be it,” the Earl said, grasping Lexi’s hand and joining it with her groom’s. “Into the main room. Quickly. I’ve important matters to attend to.”
Lexi’s belief her only living relative had no love for her was confirmed. Power was his mistress and she feared his ambition would destroy him and their noble family name. Her heart broke. She had nothing left to live for.
As they entered the main room, Callum Ogilvie squeezed her hand and whispered. “Ye look beautiful. What’s yer name?”
FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE
Callum doubted any lovely young woman would wish to be married in such circumstances, and in a tavern to boot, especially to a stranger she had no wish to wed. He’d an urge to explain what he was doing in her bed, but what to say when he didn’t understand it.
He had intended to ease her pain by complimenting her beauty. For a moment he feared his bride might spit at him, but then she hissed, “Alexandra Elizabeth Mary Hepburn.”
Mayhap she didn’t appreciate how lovely she was, even in her anger. The dark green riding habit clung to her maiden’s breasts and shapely hips. He’d never seen such fiery hair, and the curls! Would she let him sift his fingers through them once they were abed together?
The prospect sent blood rushing to his groin, but also made his gut clench. He had no notion of what might happen after the ceremony. The Earl had made it clear he was anxious to be away and it seemed unlikely he would want them to accompany him. Callum had no coin to pay for the upstairs room.
The richly-robed cleric intoned the Latin rite as if the hounds of hell were in hot pursuit. Callum looked to Brandon for reassurance. His brother merely smiled, passing something metal into his hand.
He glanced down at his open palm. He’d never known his brother to wear a ring, but he was grateful to have something to offer his bride.
The weight of the gold, still holding the warmth from his brother’s finger, persuaded him he was indeed still alive. Was there truth in Braden’s incredible story?
He and his bride murmured their vows, pledging to each other. When the moment came for him to slip the ring on her finger, his hand trembled. It was far too big. She was a noblewoman who deserved better. He risked a glance, hoping she would see regret for the gaffe in his eyes. To his immense surprise she smiled. It was brief, and she didn’t smile again, but it was enough to lighten his heart and send pleasant stirrings up his thighs and into his shaft. Red hair and a stunning smile; what more could a man want!
The Earl shifted his feet constantly and left as Callum prepared to kiss his bride. The desolation on Alexandra’s face struck Callum full force. He itched to seize the arrogant nobleman by the shoulders and shake him. This was a marriage he hadn’t expected, nor wanted, but he swore a silent oath to honor the vows he’d made and protect her. It was evident her uncle didn’t care. He wondered what business was so urgent it compelled a man to abandon his flesh and blood.
If he had been given a second chance at life, for better or worse he and Alexandra were married and would have to make the best of it. His first kiss had been prompted by a need to silence a screeching woman. Now he longed to kiss away the hurt and resentment, to reassure his wife of his commitment, but he didn’t want to alarm her.
He took her cold hands in his. She held herself rigid, big green eyes staring at him like a frightened doe ready to bolt. He smiled and bent to touch his mouth to hers. Her lips remained firmly closed against any possibility of his tongue entering. Gently, he pulled on her bottom lip with his teeth, then withdrew. She swayed as some of the stiffness left her. He touched his hand to the small of her back, to let her know she had his support. “I won’t let you fall,” he whispered.
She frowned, eyeing him with distrust. “I’ve already fallen, thanks to ye, Callum Ogilvie,” she murmured.
~~~
Firmly convinced her new husband was a philanderer who’d somehow contrived to take advantage, Lexi’s anxiety subsided somewhat when his kiss wasn’t intrusive. But she was troubled. The kiss was chaste, yet the gentle tug on her bottom lip sent peculiar and not unpleasant sensations rushing up her thighs and into her most intimate place. His withdrawal left her strangely disappointed.
Callum Ogilvie was either a skilled lover, or a gentle soul who was as much a victim as she was. His kiss said the former, and the prospect had muscles clenching she didn’t know she had, much to her annoyance.
His brown eyes were filled with sincerity. Was he toying with her? Had this fiasco been his plan from the start? She knew nothing of this man she’d been forced to marry. How could he be a victim? A suspicion still lingered that her uncle had plotted the scheme in order to be rid of her. He was capable of much worse.
However, the marriage was an undeniable reality and she would remain faithful to her husband, though he would never hold her heart, despite the reassuring heat of his hand on her back.
She supposed she should be grateful she hadn’t wed a decrepit old man; at least Callum was young, and handsome, and well formed. Truth be told he was the kind of husband she’d dreamed of before her vocation.
Crivvens! Again with the tingling sensations and ridiculous notions!
She fisted the hand with the over
large ring, running her thumb over it. The token was much too big, but at least he’d given her something, and she didn’t want to lose it. A brief glimpse as he’d slipped it onto her finger led her to believe it was a beautifully designed piece of jewellery. She had a feeling his brother had lent it to him.
But where had this Braden Ogilvie appeared from? Surely his arrival confirmed a conspiracy? The resemblance they shared proved they were brothers, but he seemed more sure of himself than Callum, older certainly, but with a confidence born of experience. And evidently married, judging by the costly ring. What was his history? And where was his wife? Perhaps they would become friends.
She shoved the notion aside. She had no intention of exposing her emotions to Callum nor to any member of his family. Wifely duties were one thing, love and forgiveness quite another.
~~~
On the one hand, Braden was elated his brother had found a beautiful bride. He recalled his own confusion upon first awakening in the cells of Inbhir Nis. He had much to share that might be helpful to his sibling.
However, Alexandra Hepburn seemed deeply unhappy. She’d barely acknowledged Braden’s polite kiss of congratulations on the cheek.
And that uncle of hers. He’d have to warn her about his schemes for Queen Mary. He pitied the ill-fated queen.
From what he remembered of Charlotte’s tuition, Bothwell’s abduction of Queen Mary had taken place less than a sennight after the Ainslie Tavern Bond when a score of nobles and bishops had given written support for the Earl’s bid to marry the monarch. Braden was powerless to change those events, but he’d do whatever was necessary to protect Callum and his Hepburn bride who stood side by side, looking like two lost sheep. He recalled how difficult it had been for him and Charlotte to keep their hands off each other after the ceremony. Mayhap once they got to their chamber the newlyweds might warm to each other.
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