Edge of Yesterday (Edge Series Book 1)

by Tarah Scott

  “In truth, Sir Lawren, I wished to avoid encountering someone who would tell my mother I left my bedchambers.”

  As hoped, amusement appeared in his eyes. He, of all people, understood her desire to keep a secret from her mother. Julianna’s pride still stung from her mother’s recriminations, and Sir Lawren understood all too well Lady Ravenstone’s displeasure with Julianna yesterday when she’d caught them in an erotic embrace inside the cellar. A lady used discretion, her mother had remonstrated.

  Two years had passed since Julianna’s husband died and she expected to enjoy the same privileges and freedoms of any young widow. But her mother had other plans. Sir Lawren was twenty years younger than Julianna’s deceased husband and he had never married. A man such as him wanted a wife who appeared pure. None of this would be an issue if Julianna had given her husband a son. If she had, her husband’s lands would have gone to the lad—which meant their family—and not to the brother who inherited the title and land.

  “Our meeting shall be our secret,” Sir Lawren said. Julianna suppressed the urge to correct him—this was no meeting—and gave a nod of acknowledgement when he added, “But I must insist you return to your bedchambers now.”

  He stepped aside in an unspoken command for her to precede him, and Julianna realized she was glimpsing what life would be like with this man. Not so different from her husband, in truth. What cruel fate had prevented her from giving Walter a son? That would have allowed her to remain a widow. If only things were as simple as her wanting to keep her freedom.

  Sir Lawren waited, and Julianna started up the stairs. He followed while she prayed he didn’t notice anything amiss with her dress. When they stopped in front of her room, Julianna kept her left side angled toward the door.

  “Thank you,” she said, and pushed open the door.

  He grasped her arm. “We are alone, my lady.”

  He pulled her close and she resisted the urge to push him away. The woman who had kissed him yesterday had been eager, encouraging, even. This was not the time to tell him that only moments ago her desire had cooled.

  He pressed his mouth against hers, then boldly thrust his tongue between her lips. Yesterday, his kiss had thrilled her. His willingness to brave her mother’s anger should she learn of their encounter had made her feel almost wicked. Something she’d never felt with Walter. Walter had cared for her, but his passion hadn’t been that of a young man. The possibility of passion—of children—had excited her. Now, she felt little more than she had in Walter’s arms.

  Lawren’s hold tightened and Julianna relaxed in his embrace. She was being unfair. His dominance was no more than any other man’s, and less than many. He would protect her, care for her, and provide for her and their children—if there were any. He released her and she dropped her gaze for fear he would read the disappointment that made her want to weep. Perhaps tomorrow she would feel different.

  “Thank you, sir,” she murmured. To her relief, he didn’t stop her when she entered her room.

  *

  Cailean opened his eyes. Then grimaced at the fierce spike of pain that pounded in his head. What had happened? Whatever it was, he needed to sleep it off. The murmur of a voice penetrated the haze, but he couldn’t discern the speaker or their location. Slowly, his surroundings came into better focus and he realized he lay on a bed in a modest room. Nae. A cottage, he amended when he caught sight of the low-burning cookfire in the middle of the room. A very old cottage, if the thud in his head wasn’t distorting his vision. He shifted and his left arm grumbled with pain. Cailean turned his gaze to the arm and frowned. A bandage was wrapped above his elbow. A second bandage covered the cut on his right arm.

  “This is your doing,” a man said.

  The voice came from the shadows.

  “He saved me,” a woman said as he shifted attention in her direction. She sat with a man at a small table located against the wall a few feet from the head of his bed. “Unless our mother taught you differently than me, we do no’ leave behind men who have given us aid,” she said.

  Julianna. Last night, her soft fair hair had come free of its tie in unruly ringlets. Today, however, she looked every inch the lady she portrayed with her hair nestled against the back of her neck inside a pearl-studded netting.

  “Our mother didnae intend for us to become fugitives,” the man said.

  Julianna sniffed. “You are being difficult. We are no’ fugitives.”

  “A dozen men chased us last night.”

  “Chased me,” she corrected. “And, as I told you, they have no idea who spied on them.”

  “Crowe doesnae know who ye are only because we killed the men who caught you.” She opened her mouth to reply, but he shook his head. “Ye are no’ to leave Raghnall alone like that again, Julianna,” he said, and Cailean placed the voice. Lennox, Julianna’s brother.

  “Lennox—” she began.

  “Nae,” he cut in. “I dinnae care if you see the devil leading his entire bloody army, you are to shut yourself up in your room.”

  “We now know that Crowe is up to no good,” she said.

  “We knew that before last night. You could have been killed, and for nothing.”

  “But—”

  “Did you recognize any of the men?” Lennox demanded.

  “You know I did not.”

  “Then it doesnae matter if they were calling Beelzebub from the underworld. We can do nothing. We killed at least four men to protect you. The sheriff will come looking for their murderers and Crowe will be one step ahead of him.”

  “Who is going to tell them it was us?” She didn’t sound concerned. “You? Me? Gregory? The dead men?”

  “They know the spy is a woman—and, please,” he held up a hand, palm out, when she opened her mouth to reply, “do not argue that he cannae know who you are from among the two hundred women in Heatheredge. You know as well as I that he can whittle it down to a quarter of that, and it will take little more to figure out you were there.”

  She shrugged. “In time, perhaps. But so long as we go about our business as usual, he will do nothing.”

  “Julianna,” he said in a gentler voice, “he doesnae have to know. Suspicion alone is enough for him to drag you away in the dark of night and bury your body where we will never find you—and the fact he wants to marry you will no’ stop him.” He shook his head. “Christ, I dinnae want to think about what might have happened had ye not found me at Alan’s home.”

  She released a sigh. “I know. But before we condemn Cailean, let us be sure we are no’ doing him the same injustice that Crowe would do us.”

  Cailean pushed up on his arm. “Who is Crowe?”

  Her eyes swung onto him and Lennox shifted to look at him.

  Julianna arched a brow. “It seems our guest is awake.”

  Cailean grinned. His throbbing head flared. “That cider is dangerous,” he muttered. “Who wounded me?” He should be angry, but the haze that blanketed his brain was evaporating only slowly, and he couldn’t muster any real fury. Later, he told himself. When you’re able to think straight.

  “Your attacker didnae give his name,” Lennox said.

  Julianna rose. “Now that you are awake, I will look at the wound.”

  “You’re an able medic, Lady Julianna. But I should at least make one office visit.” He gritted his teeth, pushed into a sitting position, and scooted back until he could prop himself against the wall. “If I recall correctly” —and there was every chance he couldn’t— “the wound is severe enough that a few stitches might be in order.”

  “If so, I can tend to that,” Julianna said. “If you mean a visit to a physician besides our own healer, the nearest monastery is many miles away.”

  “A monastery, as in monks and priests?” Cailean asked.

  Her eyes shifted onto him. “Of course.” Shaking her head, she crossed to a shelf on the opposite wall, reached for a knife lying there, then returned. She extended it toward him, hilt first. He looked quest
ioningly at her, and she said, “Last night you were afraid I would cut you.”

  He nodded. “Aye, but today I trust you.”

  Her gaze sharpened and he knew she thought him fickle. Still, she sat on the mattress beside him and he remained still as she slid the knife between the bandage and the knot, then slit the fabric in a quick cut. She set the knife on the small table beside the bed and began unwrapping the bandage.

  “Who are ye?” Lennox’s gaze flicked over him. “The colors of your plaid are strange. Whose banner do you ride under?”

  Cailean snorted. “My own.”

  “You are no laird,” Lennox said.

  Cailean’s head had cleared enough for him to notice that the ache in his arm had worsened. He should have gone back to sleep. “Laird Cailean Ross,” he quipped.

  Julianna looked sharply at him.

  “What is it?” Cailean asked.

  She exchanged a look with her brother, then said, “No Ross has set foot on Mackay land since the slaughter of Heatheredge.”

  Cailean frowned. “The slaughter of Heatheredge? What are you talking about?”

  Lennox locked gazes with him. “He is daft, Julianna. Or mayhap he simply thinks we are stupid enough to believe a Ross doesnae know his own clan’s history.”

  “I know my clan’s history quite well,” he said as Julianna unwrapped the last of the bandage. She rose, crossed to the ledge on the other side of the room and began placing herbs into a passel. Cailean returned his attention to Lennox. “What’s this about the slaughter of Heatheredge?”

  The warrior studied him for a moment, then said, “Twenty-four years ago, our laird betrothed his son Patrick Mackay to the Ross laird’s daughter Lady Elizabeth. But when they arrived, the Ross warriors slaughtered most of Heatheredge. With our laird dead, the Ross chief, James Ross, intended to seize Mackay land and rule both clans. With territory stretching from the west to the east coast, he would have been one of the most powerful lairds in all of Scotland. He might have succeeded if not for Broc Mackay.” Lennox’s mouth thinned. “Broc found the bastard in the trees beyond the chapel, waiting with half a dozen men like a coward. Broc killed James, along with his men.”

  “Wait—Broc Mackay, Mackay the Bear?” Cailean sat forward.

  Lennox nodded. “Aye.”

  Cailean’s mind raced. His mother had been a Mackay, a direct descendant of Patrick Mackay. Years before the slaughter at Heatheredge, Patrick fathered a bastard son who went on to become a knight—Broc Mackay, known as Mackay the Bear. He would have been twenty-one when Elizabeth Ross arrived in Heatheredge. Broc didn’t reach lofty heights like Robert the Bruce or Rob Roy. Cailean had spent days searching for information on Broc, but little was known about him other than the fact he’d been in—Cailean’s thoughts came to a screeching halt. Broc had been in the service of Sir Grray, Julianna and Lennox’s father.

  What the hell kind of game was Val playing? He proudly proclaimed to the world that his Ross line reached clear back to Lady Elizabeth’s clan. That’s why Cailean made a point of telling him that his father’s line also went as far back as the conflict between the two clans in Heatheredge. Cailean felt certain that because they shared an ancient past Val had given him preferential treatment.

  A memory niggled. “It was not his clan that attacked,” Lady Elizabeth had said in last night’s play. “My future husband was innocent.” Her future husband had been the Mackay chieftain’s son, Patrick Mackay. It was a well-known historical fact that Patrick’s father, Eric Mackay, slaughtered the Ross wedding party when they arrived in Heatheredge. Cailean had wondered how Val could make such a huge historical blunder in this—whatever it was. Now these two actors were saying what Elizabeth had implied, that the Rosses attacked Heatheredge. Was this some sort of twisted reenactment?

  And why had Val included Cailean’s ancestor Mackay the Bear in this fictional history? How had he known the Bear was Cailean’s ancestor? Cailean hadn’t told Val about his Mackay connection. Could it be a coincidence that Val chose the Bear as a character? And why make him a hero? To stroke Cailean’s ego? The Bear hadn’t killed clan leader James Ross. James had fallen in battle defending his daughter Elizabeth Ross against the Mackay attack.

  “You’re saying the Mackays didn’t attack the Ross wedding party?” Cailean asked.

  “Our clan?” Julianna cut in sharply. “Is that the tale the Ross clan tells its children?”

  Yes, he thought, but the anger in her voice made him think twice about a reply.

  “Our mother still suffers from nightmares.” Julianna stood, her profile facing him as she ground herbs in the mortar. “Lennox was four years old. Our mother fled with him into the woods and hid inside a hollow tree.” She paused. “But they found her.”

  Lennox came to his feet. “Julianna.”

  “Sit down, Lennox. I am well.” She waved him away, but Cailean was startled at the pain in her voice.

  What happened? Then he knew. Cailean shifted his gaze to her brother, the dark-haired warrior who had been a boy when terrible men found and assaulted his mother. He stood now, a fierce determination etched on his face. Cailean returned his gaze to Julianna, fair haired, with alabaster skin. The men found their mother, and Julianna arrived nine months later.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Sorry?” Lennox repeated in a voice that made Cailean wonder if the man intended to draw his sword and quarter him.

  “Hush, Lennox.” Julianna went to him, placed a hand on his arm. “Like you, Cailean would have been a boy when his clan attacked Heatheredge. He may no’ truly understand the horror.”

  “Horror?” Lennox gave a snort of derision. “Evil is what it was—the devil’s own.”

  Cailean stared at them. What was Val trying to accomplish with this reversal of history? The strangeness began last night with Val leading him into the woods, then fighting as if he meant to kill him. The sudden storm… Then Cailean woke up here.

  Nae. No’ woke up exactly. Landed on the lane. A knot formed in the pit of his belly. Had Val and his men rendered him unconscious then thrown him onto the lane? He concentrated on remembering what exactly had happened. But try as he might, he remembered nothing more than the blinding flash of lightning before regaining consciousness when his head hit the ground.

  Then he’d been rammed by Julianna and had been wounded. Cailean lifted his arm and examined the cut. The four-inch slash on the outer part of his arm stopped half an inch above his elbow. He was damned lucky the blade hadn’t cut the triceps tendon. The anger he hadn’t felt a few minutes ago began to mount.

  “Is my attacker in jail?”

  “Jail?” Lennox blinked. “He is dead.”

  Cailean swung his gaze onto Lennox. “What? How?”

  “I killed him.”

  If not for his pounding head, Cailean would have laughed. His surroundings were as authentic as ever he’d seen—more so, in fact. But as Lady Julianna had pointed out, things had turned a bit melodramatic, which made Lennox’s acting a little over the top. Well, not everyone could be Liam Neeson. Including him. His left arm ached like hell, his thudding head warned of a whopper of a headache in the very near future, and his body hurt in places he hadn’t known existed. This last day had been a workout that had taxed even his high endurance.

  Julianna returned and set a small bowl of water and another bowl containing ground herbs on the table. He recognized the purple lavender buds in the ground concoction. She again intended to treat the wounds with medieval medicine.

  “I’m for natural healing, but proper medical care includes a bit more than lavender.” He grasped the bowl edge and tipped it, peering into its depths.

  “Yarrow, garlic, comfrey,” she said.

  “You might show some gratitude,” Lennox said. “Julianna is as proficient a physician as the Cistercian monks at Reay Abbey. Not to mention, if I had not intervened when I did, your attacker would have killed you.”

  Cailean righted the bowl. “That would ha
ve ruined your fun.”

  “A wee bit snappish, are we?” Julianna sat beside him. “Mayhap ye will no’ drink your cider quite so fast next time,” she said as she began to clean the wound.

  “I suspect the pounding in my head has more to do with fighting as if those men truly intended to kill me than it does with the cider.”

  She snorted and said as if talking to herself, “Men will tell themselves anything to save their pride.”

  Cailean stared at her, but she ignored him and went on cleaning and fingering the flesh around the cuts as if he weren’t present. He silently laughed. This one was a handful. He grimaced when she applied pressure to a sensitive spot. He jerked his attention onto the arm and, despite the discomfort, admitted the cuts were healing beautifully. Ten years ago, during a reenactment, he’d made an almost fatal mistake and twisted when he should have leapt aside, and been badly cut in his lower left ribs. He’d learned a firsthand lesson in how a nasty sword wound heals. He hadn’t truly believed that herbs had such tremendous healing powers. They didn’t, he realized. Lady Julianna mentioned only herbs but, of course, modern medicine had been added to the mix when he wasn’t looking. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about infection.

  “You still havenae said why a Ross would visit Heatheredge,” Lennox said.

  Cailean met his gaze. “You say that as if Rosses aren’t welcome.”

  “Depends on the Ross. For all I know, ye are James Ross’ son.

  Julianna patted the herbal paste onto the cuts on his left arm, and his gaze caught on the cut on his outer forearm. He could have done without Val nicking him the two times on his left arm. Cailean wouldn’t have guessed his fighting skills had dulled. Val had fought as well as any opponent he’d faced—maybe better. But the two accidental cuts indicated he was slipping.

  Julianna began binding his arm. Her medic training showed. She rose and he rested his head against the wall. This last day had been far more than he’d bargained for. If not for getting wounded, he would be having the time of his life. But he had been wounded, and the attitude of those around him bothered him not because it was cavalier, though it was, but because…because why? Because his life had been at risk due to the cut on his arm? In fact, he was healing as well as if he’d seen his own doctor. Though he was now conscious of an itch on his side. What—the damn gorse thorns. He scratched his ribs through his shirt.