by Baker, Katy
The guard glared at Blair as he marched past. “One of these days, MacAuley,” he growled. “One of these days.”
“I look forward to it,” Blair replied with a grin. “And tell Beaumont I’m still waiting!” he yelled as they tromped down the corridor and through the door, pulling it shut.
Their footsteps receded and Blair turned his attention to the woman. She sat in the middle of her cell, hugging her knees, hair long auburn hair falling over her shoulders in tangled waves, her brown eyes round with fright. Her lips were colorless, and she was trembling.
Blair frowned. He knew the beginnings of shock when he saw it. He’d seen it many times after a battle when the survivors began to process what had just happened to them.
Who was she? Some thief who’d been caught stealing from the lord’s table? A whore who’d managed to get on his bad side? Or just some poor unfortunate who was in the wrong place and wrong time when Charles Beaumont went into one of his famous rages?
“Lass,” he said, pressing his face against the bars. “Lass. Are ye well?”
Her wide, fearful eyes flicked to him but didn’t seem to register his presence. Her mouth moved, but no words came out.
“Lass,” he tried again. “What’s yer name?”
She looked up. “My name?”
“Aye, yer name,” he said, eager to keep her talking. “I’m Blair. Blair MacAuley.”
She said nothing for so long that he suspected she wouldn’t answer. Then, in a faint, trembling voice, she whispered. “Georgina Smyth. Although everyone calls me Georgie. What is this place? Where am I?”
Blair raised an eyebrow. “What does it look like?” He spread his hands wide. “These are Lord Charles Beaumont’s sumptuous guest quarters. Or, as it’s more commonly known, his jail. The place he puts people to forget about them.”
His attempt at humor did not go down well. She went even paler, if that was possible.
“Jail? But I’ve done nothing wrong!” she cried. “Oh holy shit, what is happening? I’m losing my mind. I must be.” She jumped to her feet suddenly and gripped the bars. “Guards!” she yelled. “Let me out! There’s been a mistake! I demand my right to a phone call and a solicitor!”
A what and a what? Blair didn’t recognize either of those words. Now that she was standing he realized she wore very strange clothing: a thick shirt and trews like a man along with stout boots. An apron was tied over the top, dusty and stained, with two large pockets on the front.
She spoke strangely too, with an accent that definitely wasn’t Scottish. Although the inflection sounded different, it reminded him of the way his mother, Bethany, spoke.
“Let me out! Are you listening!” she bellowed at the top of her voice. “You can’t just lock me up like this without charging me for something! It’s against the law!”
“They willnae come,” he said. “All ye are doing is wasting yer energy and giving yerself a sore throat.”
“Of course they’ll come,” she replied. “They can’t imprison me like this! It’s illegal!”
He snorted. “These are Charles Beaumont’s lands and here he can do whatever he wants. Only the king has the power to order him to release ye and unless ye are some mystery princess or noblewoman I canna see him doing that, can ye?”
“King?” she asked, her nose scrunching up in confusion. “What do you mean? Scotland hasn’t got a king. It has a queen.”
“Queen Mary?” he replied. “She is a prisoner in England and I dinna think she will be too interested in yer plight either. King James rules now.”
Her puzzled frown deepened. “Queen Mary? King James? Surely you mean Queen Elizabeth? She reigns in this country.”
“I mean naught of the sort!” he said indignantly. “This is Scotland. The English queen has no sovereignty here!”
The lass stared at him as though he’d said something preposterous. “Of course she does. She’s queen over the British Isles and the Commonwealth.”
The what? He was starting to lose the thread of this conversation. “Who exactly are ye talking about?”
“Queen Elizabeth II of course!”
He stared at her. “Ye are mistaken. Elizabeth Tudor, the first of her name, rules in England. She is cousin to our King James.”
“Very funny. Let’s make fun of the American, eh? You think I don’t know British history? Elizabeth I ruled over four hundred years ago!”
Blair went very still. There was something wrong here. Either the woman was delusional or—
No. He pushed that thought away. He refused to think about it.
“Why did Beaumont bring ye here?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” she breathed, pressing her forehead against the bars. “He was angry at me but I don’t know why. I think he thought I was someone else. But before I could explain anything he had me dragged in here. Oh God! What is going on?”
Blair said nothing. He watched her, taking in her odd way of talking, her strange attire. The way she talked about an English monarch who didn’t exist, at least didn’t exist yet. He drew in a deep breath.
“I’m going to ask ye something. It may sound like a strange question but it’s important. What century do ye think this is?”
She stared at him as if he’d sprouted horns and a tail. “I beg your pardon? What kind of a question is that?”
“An important one. Answer me. What century do ye think this is?”
She laughed shrilly, a note of hysteria in the sound. “The twenty-first of course!”
Blair’s stomach dropped. Oh Lord, he was right. He felt as if the ground was suddenly shifting under his feet. Irene MacAskill pays him a visit and now this?
No, he thought, closing his eyes. This canna be happening to me.
He opened his eyes and met her panicked gaze. “Nay, lass,” he said softly. “This isnae the twenty-first century. It’s the sixteenth, and ye’ve traveled through time.”
SHE HEARD THE WORDS that left his lips but she didn’t understand them. They made no sense.
Just like everything else that’s happened in the last few hours, she thought. Think, Georgie, think.
But try as she might, she could not get her thoughts to settle. She was too frightened, too confused, too disorientated to figure this out.
She’d jumped through the arch to escape Adaira Campbell and...
And what? she thought. Traveled back in time like he claims? Don’t be stupid. What a ridiculous idea.
She would soon have this sorted out. The thugs that had dragged her in here hadn’t bothered to frisk her and had therefore left her with her cell phone. She would call the police and get this crazy mess sorted out.
She pulled her cell from her pocket and flicked it on. The man—Blair?—said nothing, just watched her steadily. She dialed 999 for the emergency services and waited for it to connect. It didn’t. There was silence for a long moment and then a continuous beep so loud that she snatched the phone away from her ear.
“It willnae work,” the man said.
“I’ve got no signal, that’s all,” she replied. “I’ll call the police just as soon as I get one.”
“It willnae work because ye are no longer in yer time,” he said. “As I’ve told ye.”
She studied the man. He had hair the color of ripe wheat that fell to his shoulders and piercing ice-blue eyes. He watched her with a steady, unblinking gaze. Was he trying to play some sort of trick on her? Who was he anyway? A criminal, obviously, if being locked up in here was anything to go by.
“This is all some misunderstanding,” she muttered, almost to herself. “I must have whacked my head when I fell through. That’s it. I’m having amnesia. I’ve wandered into the countryside and these people have mistaken me for somebody else. Yes. That makes sense.”
She sucked several deep breaths through her nose, trying to calm herself. It didn’t work. Despite her logical reasoning, she was verging on the edge of panic. Her pulse raced, and she was so terrified she felt dizzy. She stumbled sud
denly and caught herself against the bars of her cell, leaning on them heavily.
“Whoa! Easy, lass,” the man said. “Ye will hurt yerself.”
The cell was starting to spin. She slid down the bars and sat in a heap, afraid she was going to pass out.
“Look at me, lass,” the man said, his voice full of command. She turned her head to see that he had his face pressed against the bars. Concern flared in his eyes. He reached through the bars of his cell, stretching his arm across the gap that separated them.
“Take my hand, lass,” he commanded.
Georgie blinked.
“Take my hand.”
Georgie pushed her hand through the bars and stretched out her arm. Her fingers brushed his, and he grabbed them firmly. His skin was warm and rough and she could feel the strength in his arm.
“This must be mighty strange for ye, lass,” he said softly. “But ye will be all right.”
His words had a strange soothing effect. His grip seemed to anchor her in place, gave her something to cling onto in this suddenly shaky world. She found her panic receding a little.
She curled her fingers around his and grasped his hand tightly, clinging on as though his grip was the only thing keeping her from being washed away. Her pulse steadied. Her thoughts slowly began to calm until she could think again.
“I’m okay,” she breathed. “I’m okay.”
He did not let go. “I’ve seen the fear take many people—usually on the battlefield—and it can be a greater enemy than aught else.”
He released her, and she withdrew her hand. The battlefield? Was he a soldier? He wasn’t dressed like any soldier Georgie had ever seen.
“Who are you?” she asked. “Why are you in here?”
He gave a wry smile. “My name is Blair as I’ve already told ye. Blair MacAuley. And as to why I’m in here? That is a long, long story.”
She narrowed her eyes as she studied him. “What makes you say I’ve traveled through time?”
He shrugged. “It’s an easy deduction to make. How many sixteenth century lasses do ye know who wear clothes like ye do and carry cell phones?”
Ha! She had him. She jumped on his slip-up immediately. “How would you know about cell phones if this really is the sixteenth century? You’re lying.”
His expression darkened. Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. “I dinna like being called a liar, lass. A MacAuley’s word is his bond. I recognize that as a cell phone because...let’s just say that my family has some experience with time travel.”
If he was lying, she could find no hint of it. And why would he bother? What did he gain from making up such a ridiculous story?
She glanced up at the ceiling. It had a barrel vault design with thick pillars and the blocks were held together with lime mortar. It was no modern-day building technique. And then she thought back to everything she’d seen since she’d come through the arch. She’d been so disorientated at the time that she’d paid little attention but she remembered that everyone had been wearing the traditional Scottish plaid—just like Blair—and that the building she’d been hustled into had been a castle. Not a ruin or a folly, but a real, living, breathing castle, complete with guards patrolling the battlements.
Her heartbeat quickened again. Her breathing began to turn ragged as panic welled in her chest. No. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t.
“Talk, lass,” Blair said. “Tell me what happened. How did you come to be here?”
He was distracting her, she realized, trying to focus her mind on anything other than her situation. She tried to think.
“I was repairing a doorway,” she said. “I’d just put the last stone into the arch and then everything went weird. Adaira came. She started shouting. She was really angry. And the arch...the arch...”
Blair suddenly sat bolt upright. “An arch? What arch?”
“The one on the building site. The one Adaira was paying me to restore. I jumped through it and then everything went crazy.”
She glanced at Blair and saw that he’d gone pale. Puzzled by this reaction, she said, “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Arch. Adaira,” he muttered to himself. “Tell me, what was this Adaira’s clan?”
“You mean her surname? Campbell. She’s called Adaira Campbell. Why? What’s she got to do with it?”
Blair closed his eyes. He took several deep breaths before opening them again. When he did, Georgie saw anger glinting in them.
“Adaira Campbell,” he breathed. “I should have known that’s who the bastard is in league with. Now it makes sense.”
“What does? It certainly makes no sense to me! Do you know Adaira?”
He didn’t answer. He began pacing up and down by the bars of his cell. He seemed suddenly like a caged animal.
Georgie pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. A headache was starting to throb behind her eyes. She longed to close her eyes, open them again and discover that this had all been a bad dream. But something told her that wasn’t going to happen.
She clenched her hands into fists and took a few deep breaths. There was clearly something going on here that she didn’t understand. Something that this man seemed to know more about than she did.
“Who is Charles Beaumont?” she asked Blair. “It sounds like you know him.”
He glanced at her, a steely look in his blue eyes. “Aye. I know him, unfortunately. The kind of man ye dinna want to get on the bad side of.”
“Like you did you mean?”
His gaze hardened. “Like I already told ye, that is a long story.”
He was being evasive. What wasn’t he telling her? He didn’t strike her as a criminal. He’d stuck up for her when that guard had threatened to hit her and then helped to calm her when she’d been panicking. Was that how a villain would behave? And besides, she thought ruefully, from her own experience she knew that being thrown in jail by Charles Beaumont didn’t mean you’d done anything wrong.
“So what happens now?” she asked in a small voice. “What will he do to me?”
Blair stopped pacing and turned to look at her. There was something like compassion in his eyes. “He will want information. Everything ye know about Adaira Campbell and how ye got here. And he’ll get it any way he can.”
Georgie went cold. Any way he can. She didn’t miss the implication in Blair’s tone. She wasn’t sure she could trust him but right now she had little choice. What was it they said? The enemy of my enemy is my friend?
“We have to get out of here.”
“I couldnae agree more,” Blair growled. He began prowling his cell again then threw his hands up in frustration. “I dinna suppose ye have aught that can spring a lock?”
Georgie hesitated. Then she stuck her hand in her pocket and took out her chisel and hammer.
“Will these do?”
Blair’s eyes widened in surprise. Then he grinned. “Aye, lass. They will do very nicely indeed.”
Chapter 4
Where the lass had got such tools from, Blair couldn’t imagine. What kind of woman went around carrying chisels and hammers? Clearly there was more to her than met the eye—her revelations about Adaira Campbell had already shown that much.
His lip curled in anger. Adaira Campbell. He recognized the name and had hoped not to hear it again.
No time to think about it now. Getting out of here was the priority. Everything else could be figured out later.
He reached through the bars and took the tools from her. They were made from copper rather than iron which was a little strange and it meant he had to work more carefully than normal in case he broke them, but Blair had been breaking into places since he was a lad. With a bit of careful use of the chisel, he’d soon snapped the padlock, tossed it to the floor, and pushed open the door of his cell.
It creaked alarmingly, and he froze, listening for any indication that the guards had heard the commotion. The lass watched him from her cell, her eyes wide. After a moment Blair relaxed, bro
ke the lock on her door, and opened it.
She stepped past him slowly, warily, as if unsure of his motives. He didn’t move. She was like a spooked animal that might bolt at any sudden movement. She looked around, her eyes taking in the corridor, the rows of cells, the damp dripping down the walls, the door at the far end.
Then she ran.
Before he could stop her, she’d sprinted down the corridor, yanked open the guard-room door and disappeared through it.
With a curse, he took off after her. What was she doing? Did she want them both to get caught?
He burst into the guard-room and skidded to a stop. The lass stood two paces ahead, staring at the three guards who’d jumped up from their seats, looking just as surprised as she did. For a heartbeat they all stood motionless, staring at each other.
But the guards’ surprise lasted only a moment.
One of them raised his sword and leapt at the woman. Her eyes widened as she watched the weapon swinging towards her throat but did not move.
Blair dived in front of her and went into a roll, taking the guard’s legs out from under him. The man went down with a curse and Blair hammered his fist into his temple, ripped the sword from his grasp, and rose to his feet to face the others.
They wasted no time. Two against one in a confined space? They were good odds. But not good enough.
Blair parried the first one’s swing and buried his sword in the man’s stomach. He spun away from the second’s attack—a stab to his kidney’s that would have killed him—and then ripped his blade across the man’s throat.
It was over in seconds. Two lay dead, the other unconscious.
He held out his hand to the lass. “Come on!”
She was staring in shock at the dead men. A thin sheen of sweat marred her brow.
“Hurry!” he growled.
He grabbed her hand and yanked her through the door.
Keeping one hand curled around the lass’s wrist and the other on the sword he’d taken from the guard, he jogged along a dank corridor to an open door, pressed his back against the wall and peeked out.