by Erin Grace
A tremor of uncertainty rippled through her and manifested into a nervous smile. "I see. So, wanting to marry me was just a joke then? Good. I guess perhaps then you shan't be needing me any longer, and I'll take my leave."
She bobbed a quick curtsey and turned to leave, when Liam's hand gripped her shoulder.
Crap.
Lead filled her legs and her stomach twisted.
"Now, Sassenach, I dinna say you could go. I told you I was going to keep you."
Heart racing, she swallowed hard and faced him. The laughter had disappeared from his eyes. Oh, Hell. This guy was serious.
"But…but you can't want to marry me. You're supposed to hate the Sassenachs."
The wretch of a man shrugged, grabbed her around the waist, pulled her hard up against him.
Shit!
"I'm already married!" The words gushed from her mouth before she could stop them.
Well, that was smooth. So much for being in control.
He clasped her left hand and held it up. "I dinna see any wedding band. In fact, what kind of husband would allow his wife to roam around the land without an escort? Nae. I think you’re spooling fables, lass."
"But you do have a point, Liam." The deep, gravelly voiced boomed from the dais. "I'm also wondering what a Sassenach woman would be doing so far into the Highlands . . . even with an escort. Perhaps she is a spy?"
Ice water trickled along her spine.
Great. In less than twenty four hours, she'd gone from being almost married twice to facing the possibility of execution for espionage.
She'd had better days.
She pushed against Liam's iron grip, but he didn't relent. "I am not a spy! And I'm telling you the truth when I say that I'm married."
Liam gripped her chin, forced her stare to meet his.
"Odd that you didn't say so sooner, lass?" His eyes narrowed, a suspicious gleam shone within. "Perhaps my uncle is right, and you are a spy sent to infiltrate the MacPherson Clan."
Her frustration mounted. "Are you listening to yourself? What kind of spy would a defenseless woman make? Some plan . . . send a Sassenach woman to marry into the MacPherson clan . . . then what? Force everyone to surrender due to her bad cooking?"
Liam's expression glowered at her reprimand. Very much like Ewan.
"Enough, Liam." A woman entered the room and approached the dais. Probably in her late forties, she had thick red hair streaked with gray. The stranger moved slowly, as though the weight of the world was upon her, her kind face aged with deep lines. "Husband. Why do you allow this woman to be badgered so?"
The Laird suddenly looked uncomfortable. Even though the woman hadn't raised her voice it was obvious she held great influence over him as his wife.
The Laird stood and helped his wife to the chair next to his, and the Laird and his Lady sat down.
Liam let Ellie's waist go, and she slumped, her legs unprepared for the sudden release.
The woman granted her a warm smile and beckoned her closer to the dais. "Don't be frightened, lass. What is your name?"
Relieved to have at last found someone sane, she bobbed a curtsey for the woman, then smiled in return. "Ellie . . . Elspeth, my lady. Elspeth Harper."
The woman's brow furrowed. "Harper? I've nae heard of such a clan?"
Oh, dear. "Well, it's a Sassenach, er, English name. We call ourselves English."
"English? I see. So your husband is English then?"
"No. He's Scots." Puzzled expressions adorned both the Laird and his wife.
With a soft sigh, the woman continued. "So why dinna you take your husband's name?"
Palms sweating, Ellie clutched her hands together in search of an answer. "I . . . I did. It's just that we haven't been married for very long." Less than two days, apparently. "I must have forgotten to say it, being used to my old name for so long."
The woman gave her a knowing smile and nodded. "And?"
"And?"
"His clan, lass. Surely you know your husband's clan."
She nodded and took a deep breath. "It's MacKinnon, my lady. My husband is Ewan MacKinnon."
As the smile left the woman's face, Ellie felt as though an icy fog had descended upon the room. Every hair on her body stood on end.
Quietly, she prayed that perhaps it was another joke. Only this time, no one was laughing.
Exhausted from another fruitless search for Ellie, Ewan stood at the doorway to his father's chamber and stared inside.
The fiercest Highland warrior he'd ever known lay helpless and dying on the bed before him. Once tall and powerful, his father's massive frame had dwindled away to a fragile husk.
The tragic scene made his stomach turn.
This was no way for such a man to die. Yet no matter what they tried, nothing helped. Within weeks of falling ill, his father had become bedridden and unable to keep most food down.
Ewan had exhausted every resource at his command, sent for healers from every clan he knew, and even prayed that the once mighty Laird would recover.
Going to the chapel had been difficult for Ewan, not having been on speaking terms with the church since his mother died. The priest, Gregory, was a young man who'd not long arrived as replacement for the aging Father Martin.
Though he'd known Father Martin all his life, he'd never forgiven the man for his blasphemous remarks about his mother and her apparent connection with the heretic priests so long ago. On more than one occasion he'd suffered heavy penances for refuting the wild accusations made against his mother's honor. The old priest had even claimed his mother's soul wouldn't be allowed into Heaven, because she'd been part of an evil act and didn't receive the sacrament.
He'd also been angered by his father's reluctance to silence the outspoken priest. Instead, the Laird had become steadily consumed by guilt and remorse. Father Martin had convinced his father that it had been his duty to save his wife from the pagan ritual that soiled her soul, but he'd failed—not only as a husband, but as a Laird. Since he'd also killed the heretics, the other clans claimed he was responsible for the curse that had since plagued theirs and the surrounding lands.
Animals began dying, crops failed, and tension grew between all the clans. Gossip spread like winter sleet, and it hadn't taken very long before many of the other lairds started to believe that his father was to blame for their misfortunes. It seemed nothing his father tried would appease the ghosts of the dead. Eighteen years of misery had taken their toll.
Damn his mother.
Anger and resentment welled inside him, his fists balled at his sides.
And now, it seemed the ailing Laird was to pay the ultimate price for a woman not yet dead.
In a small chilly room, Ellie sat on the edge of a wooden bed pallet topped with furs, stared at the small tallow candle on the chair next to her. After her announcement that she was married to a MacKinnon, the situation in the hall had rapidly declined. Liam became agitated, demanding to know if the union had been blessed officially by a priest.
Hell. She should have lied.
She groaned and rested her forehead down against her hand.
The moment she'd said her marriage hadn't been blessed, Liam immediately requested his Laird to allow him to challenge for her hand.
Something she'd tried desperately to avoid.
Knowing the bad blood between the two countries, she thought just being English would be enough to make Liam lose interest in having anything to do with her.
So much for her plan.
She resisted letting on she was 'married' because it was more an honorary situation than anything . . . a sort of sanctified engagement to keep lusty, possessive men happy and innocent women honorable, until the union could be made legal.
Liam knew he had the right to challenge Ewan and forced the issue with Laird MacPherson, despite Ellie's insistence she didn't want him; she was happy with her husband. Though, at that point, it seemed no one was listening to her anymore. Even Lady MacPherson had quietly left the hall, lea
ving Ellie to face shouting men on her own.
But it had been the look of sadness on the woman's face that made her curious more than anything. It was as if the mere mention of Ewan's name had caused her great pain.
Lord knew what may have happened here in the years before she arrived.
And what was to become of her?
The creak of door hinges made her look up.
A young woman with golden brown hair and hazel eyes stepped into the room. The girl seemed nervous and began talking at a rapid rate.
"What? Dress . . . clean . . . no, wash…" Ellie stood and sighed with frustration as she tried to make out the serving girl's words. "Sorry, friend. Please speak slower. My Gaelic isn't that good."
Blushing, the woman nodded and came closer. "I am Brianna. Can you understand me, English?"
"Yes, Brianna, no need to shout. I'm not deaf, just don't talk too fast. And my name isn't English; it's Ellie."
Brianna's poor face was now well and truly aflame, and it was all Ellie's fault. Hell. She didn't mean to sound so gruff. This girl was no doubt just a servant doing her duty.
"I'm sorry for growling, Brianna. It's just that I'm very tired, and it's been a long and—" Weird? Freaky? Traumatic? "—trying day."
Very diplomatic.
It was then she noticed the tray the girl was holding. Cripes, the poor thing was trying to bring her food.
She smiled weakly and took the tray from the girl. "Thank you, it looks great." A bowl of steaming broth and a hunk of dark bread was the simple fare, but she wasn't hungry.
Jeez, as an archaeologist, she should be jumping at the chance to sample real food from her favorite period, but since she'd arrived in this time, her work had been the last thing on her mind.
What a change.
Once, her career had been her life. Now, just surviving seemed to have become priority.
She placed the wooden tray upon the bed and sat down. Perhaps she'd eat it later.
The sound of a dissatisfied sigh came from Brianna. "You really should eat something, ma lady. The Laird won't be too happy if you waste good food."
She grunted. "Yes. I'm sure my welfare is number one on the Laird's list of important things."
The girl gave her a quizzical look.
"Never mind, Bri. I am grateful for the Laird's hospitality." At least she wasn't dead yet. She glanced at the eager woman and patted a spot on the bed next to her. "Since you're here, why don't you sit and tell me a bit about this place. I'm new to these parts and would appreciate your knowledge."
Nodding, Brianna sat down and began with how big and impressive the MacPherson Clan was. She explained to Ellie the vast area of their lands and how fortunate they were to be living under the watchful eye of such a magnanimous Laird.
All very nice, but Ellie wanted to know more about the history of the family—anything to try and find out what had made Laird MacPherson solemn at the mention of Ewan's name.
She'd expected him to wholeheartedly agree to Liam's request for a challenge. Instead, Laird MacPherson sat in silence for several minutes before announcing he would consider the matter first. Liam had tried to force the issue, only to be reprimanded by the angry Laird.
She picked up the bread and tore off a small piece. "Brianna, you must know most of the clans in this area, yes?"
The girl beamed with pride. "Aye. 'Course I do."
Ellie chewed on a small bite of the malty crust, then swallowed. "So, you would have heard of the Clan MacKinnon?"
Clutching her hands, the woman glanced over her shoulder then leaned forward. It was obvious she was worried about being overheard.
"Aye, ma lady. I know them."
"I see. And do you know of Ewan Mackinnon?"
Brianna nodded.
"Okay, now we're getting somewhere. And of course that means Liam would know him as well."
"Aye." The girl smiled and lowered her voice. "They're first cousins."
Chapter 15
With eyes bleary from age and the elements, Father Martin gazed from the chapel doorway into the bailey beyond, the youthful voice of his replacement chirping all around him like some wretched sparrow.
Replacement indeed!
Once the old Laird MacKinnon became ill, his blasted son had taken over, doing his best to oust everything that caused him displeasure. Father Martin never doubted for a moment that he would be the first on Ewan MacKinnon's list to go.
Spawn of an English witch. That's what Ewan was.
Every time he beheld the young Laird's eyes, he could still see Margot MacKinnon's defiant stare gazing back at him.
Bah!
"After all these years, you must be looking forward to some rest at the abbey, Father Martin."
He glared at the youth, then narrowed his eyes. "Keen to be rid of me so soon, eh?"
Father Gregory's cheeks reddened.
"Nae . . . nae. Of course not, Father. You’re welcome to stay as long as you feel the need."
"Or, as long as the Laird allows me to, you mean."
Father Gregory fumbled with several candles. "I dinna know about that, Father. I'm sure Laird MacKinnon will allow . . . ."
He raised his hand to silence the foolish boy. "You needn't pretend. Besides, I shall leave after Sunday mass, as instructed by the Laird. I know when ma welcome here is done."
"Will you be returning to the abbey right away?"
He turned away from Gregory's inquisitive stare, hobbled over to the altar, examined a worn gold chalice. "Nae. I will be visiting all the other clans I've serviced over the years. Thought it only proper to pay ma respects one last time."
"You really are dedicated to doing the Lord's work, Father. I'm humbled to be taking your place. It seems I have a lot of work ahead of me. Have you any idea who'll you'll be visiting first?"
A crooked smile met his lips. "Aye, lad. Clan MacTavish."
Ellie tried to sit still as Brianna ploughed through her hair with a thick brush. It looked as though it was made from real horse hair. Smelled a bit like it too.
Lord, she felt as though she was on a movie set; she kept waiting for someone to yell 'cut'. But after using the rough-styled chamber pot through the night, she doubted there was some luxury trailer hidden out in the bailey where she could relax and grab a hot shower.
No. This is what she had spent her life digging up and trying to understand. She had always wished to know how the ancient Highlanders had live, imagined what keep life would be like.
Should've been careful what she wished for.
It was so different from just digging up cold artifacts. Here, she was plunged head-first into the pages of history, with all its sights and smells. What she wouldn't give to have her notebook on hand—and a can of air freshener.
She pinched her nose and grimaced. Ergh.
The air hung heavy with smoky tallow from burning candles, the stench of a freshly tanned fur, and the occasional whiff of boiled mutton from somewhere outside. Her room was also conveniently located right next to the bailey and stables. She was no stranger to farm life, still the tell-tale country aroma of fresh horse dung had not lost its gloss after the first few hours. Combined with the peat fire burning in the hearth, the medieval cocktail of odors made her feel ill; breakfast was the last thing on her mind.
But Brianna had arrived bright and early to wake her, not that she'd been able to sleep. Struggling to comprehend the events of the last twenty four hours, she kept wondering if she would suddenly wake up from it all. Perhaps that's why she didn't sleep, fearful that perhaps Ewan wouldn't be there when she woke up. For the first time, the thought of losing him clenched the pit of her stomach.
No. Be honest.
The moment she saw him kneeling in the mud before the cottage, waiting to be sent back without her—that was the first time she feared losing him. Christ. No use denying it. She had fallen for the man.
A smile crept to her lips. After her conversation with Brianna last night, she'd been relieved to discover E
wan was not only real, but a mere day's ride north from the MacPherson keep. No problem, as long as she had a horse to get there. Even better if she could actually ride.
Ewan.
A deep sigh of longing escaped her, as she clutched her hands in her lap and glanced toward the narrow window. Surely he'd be out looking for her. After all, she was his wife, or so he said. Hell, the wretched man had claimed her, so he'd better make good on his promises and find her soon. Suppressed fear and anxiety bubbled up from deep within her and began to pour through the cracks in her calm façade.
But what if, after the trip, he didn't remember her?
Tears welled behind her eyes.
Then she thought about Liam. No wonder he'd reminded her of Ewan. They were cousins. Scowls must run in the family. Apparently, Liam's mother was the sister of Lady MacPherson. Both women were the younger sisters of Laird Grant MacKinnon, Ewan's father.
But Liam's father, a MacGreggor, had died in battle when he was young, and his mother passed on two years ago this winter.
Last night, Brianna seemed happy enough to fill her in about the complicated clan, but when Ellie asked if Laird and Lady MacPherson had any children of their own, the young woman fell suddenly quiet.
A son, she'd said. Nothing more.
At the time Ellie felt it best not to press the subject, certain she'd find out about everything soon enough. In the meantime, she needed to find her way around the keep. Now that she had the bearings to Keep MacKinnon, when the time was right she would find her own way there. Yes, she had to escape—the sooner, the better.
A bold plan perhaps, with one possible drawback. She wasn't exactly sure how she was going to do it.
Ellie stood before the doors to the great hall. Her stomach twisted and gurgled with nervous tension. No longer wearing her beloved cargo pants and thermal jacket, Brianna had helped her change into a linen shift, thick leggings, and a beautiful cream woolen dress—that itched her skin everywhere the linen didn't cover.
Lord, what she wouldn't give to scratch.