Love in Ruins

by Erin Grace

But she didn't want to give her 'hosts' the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort or give them any reason to suspect she would leave the keep. Until she'd decided her next course of action, best to do what they asked for now and keep them placated.

  Brianna smiled and fussed around her before opening the heavy wooden door. The action attracted the room's attention. Ellie stood there, feeling like a Christian about to be thrown to the lions.

  Not knowing what to do, she approached the dais, lowered her head, and curtseyed. Laird MacPherson was there, as was Liam, but Lady MacPherson was nowhere in sight.

  No one spoke, so she glanced up and met the stern gaze of the old Laird. Great, what had she done now?

  "You are nae wearing our plaid, lass? I had one sent to your chamber."

  Taking in a deep breath, she stood tall, rested her hands together in front of her. It was true, Brianna had insisted she wear the beautiful weave, but as she considered herself Ewan's betrothed, it wouldn't be right.

  "Yes. Thank you, Laird. But I'm sure you will agree that it wouldn't be fitting for me to wear any but my husband's plaid."

  "And so you shall." Liam sipped the contents of a metal goblet, then sliced a piece off a joint of roasted meat sitting on a large trencher.

  The Laird nodded slowly, then glanced at Liam, whose expression could be considered stormy at best, though a gleam of satisfaction glinted in his eyes. Her throat tightened, pulse raced. Oh, Hell.

  The challenge. A decision had been made.

  "Da!"

  A young boy dashed past her and rushed up to the dais. Probably only seven or eight years old, his bright red hair stuck up in tuffs over his head. Smudges of dirt adorned his face and grubby clothes, evidence of some sort of mischief.

  The Laird grinned, remnants of bread littering his scruffy beard. "Rory, lad. Come. Sit by your father."

  Rory. He must be the Laird's son Brianna mentioned. Odd. Why had the girl sounded so forlorn at the mention of him, he seemed healthy enough? He was certainly lively enough.

  And loud.

  The young boy gave her a broad smile which revealed two missing front teeth, then proceeded to pick his nose.

  Charming. At least she knew where he got his manners.

  "Who is she, Da?"

  The Laird placed a huge chunk of cheese and bread in front of the boy, then glanced up at her. "That is lady Elspeth, lad."

  Lady?

  The young boy chewed open-mouthed and leaned in toward his father. "I heard her talking before. She sounds funny."

  The Laird scratched his head and chuckled. "Aye, lad. That's because she's English."

  The boy's eyes widened, and he put his food down.

  "I've never seen an English before."

  Liam laughed and nodded. "So, what do you think of her, lad?"

  The boy stared at her thoughtfully. "She's a fair lass, Liam. Bit on the scrawny side though, wouldn't you say?"

  Shocked by the remark, Ellie clenched her fists. Heat rose to her cheeks. They were treating her like some exhibit in a zoo. "If you have no further need of me, Laird, I shall return to my room now." And try to find a way out of here.

  "Nae, you will eat with us, lass." Liam gestured for her to sit beside him.

  She shook her head. "Thank you, but I'm not hungry. I would rather be excused."

  "You had better do what Liam says." Rory grinned at her over a piece of orange cheese. "He's a great warrior. You’re going to be his wife. You should do as you are told." The old Laird grunted his approval and proceeded to stuff a piece of roast chicken into his mouth.

  Gob smacked.

  Flabbergasted.

  That's what she was.

  Ire rose within her breast as she raised her hand and pointed a reprimanding finger at the unruly child. "And you, young man, should learn some manners."

  Damn her mouth. She was a dead woman.

  Chapter 16

  A tremendous roar of laughter greeted her stern reprimand.

  Christ. The Laird looked proud of his son as he ruffled the boy's matted hair. Even Liam grinned broadly and nodded his approval at the child's rude behavior.

  Suddenly, she was two inches tall.

  She kept forgetting this wasn't her world anymore, and that she was an alien here. To survive, she needed to concentrate and think back to all her knowledge of the time. But the theses she'd studied on ancient architecture and clan life were now redundant compared to the stark reality surrounding her.

  Liam cleared his throat, wiped his hands on a cloth beside him, then winked at her.

  "I'm sure the lass will learn her place before long, Uncle." His assessing glance raked her over, making her uneasy. "Besides, I look forward to the challenge."

  The Laird nodded and resumed eating his meal. "Aye, she's more feisty than you'd expect for an English woman. You have a task ahead of you, Liam. Hah! Ah, If I were only ten years younger." The Laird glanced down at Rory. "And, er, unmarried of course."

  Hello? Didn't anyone care she was still in the room?

  "Fine!" Her roar drew both men's attention. "It's obviously a waste of precious breath trying to talk to either one of you. Think whatever you want to, but I'll not stay around and listen to it. You can both go to the devil for all I care."

  Shaking with anger, she didn't give either man time to reply, but instead turned and strode from the hall. She had to get out of there—now. Plan or no plan, all she wanted to do was gather her clothes back and head toward Ewan's keep.

  Regardless of the dangers of travelling alone, the way she was feeling now, no robber or bandit in their right mind would mess with her.

  Damn, bloody ignorant men. Shit.

  After twice taking the wrong passageway, she finally found the stairs leading to her room. Conscious someone might have followed her after her outburst, she glanced over her shoulder as she climbed the rustic staircase.

  "She'll learn her place in time.” She mocked their words as she left the hall. Like hell she will. Liam could drop dead. And so could Laird MacPherson for that matter. What ever happened to the legends of proud, honorable Highlanders who treated their women folk well?

  Hah. Maybe that's just what they were—legends.

  Ewan wouldn't be so rude and expect her to be subservient…would he? Well, he could try it, but she wasn't about to cave in at the first harsh word.

  She pushed open the door to her room and peered inside. A wash of relief flowed through her. Brianna wasn't there. The girl was sweet but shadowed her incessantly. The young woman had also talked as if becoming Liam's wife was a forgone conclusion.

  A knot twisted in her stomach.

  She'd almost forgotten. Liam was going to challenge Ewan for her.

  No. She had to reach Ewan first. Warn him. Hell. Why were two men fighting over her anyway? It wasn't as if she was any great prize.

  She searched the room but couldn't find her modern clothes. Frustrated, she sat down on the bed, ran a hand through her hair, and gazed into the glowing hearth.

  Her eyes widened.

  "What in the Hell—" She stood, dashed to the fireplace, grabbed a poker, and dragged the smoldering remains of what looked like her favorite jogging shoes.

  No wonder she'd thought she smelled burning rubber.

  She shook her head in disbelief. Bastards. Why did they have to burn her clothes?

  The sound of men shouting drew her attention to the window. She put down the iron and glanced down at the bailey below. Several soldiers were preparing horses, Liam walked amongst them.

  Her frantic heartbeat pounded in her ears.

  This could be her opportunity. If Liam was leaving, she might be able to dodge Brianna as well and escape from the keep. After all, the old Laird seemed to do nothing but stuff his face. Though she had to admit, she had no idea where Lady MacPherson might be. Oh, to hell with it. She had to try.

  The sudden notion of seeing Ewan again filled her body with familiar warmth. She didn't realize just how much she missed the man. But, boy
, were they going to have a long talk when they caught up.

  If they caught up.

  A renewed surge of determination pushed her into action. With no jacket to keep out the coming Highland night, she grabbed the MacPherson plaid that Brianna had laid out on the bed with care.

  Although she didn't want to wear the Macpherson colors, the plaid was thick and would serve to keep her warm—a smile curled to the edge of her mouth. It might also help to disguise her as she left the keep. All the MacPherson's wore the same plaid.

  With any luck, she'd go unnoticed.

  Panting, Ellie crouched down behind several thick shrubs not far from the keep's main entrance and tried to catch her breath.

  She'd managed to avoid Brianna when leaving her room and encountered no one as she passed the main hall. Liam and his men were still within the bailey. The sound of her beating heart as she waited for them to leave was so loud she feared someone would hear it and she would be discovered.

  At last the soldiers decided to ride.

  Rather than waiting until everything was quiet, she picked up a basket of bread that a maid had left on a bench, placed it on her shoulder, and joined in the bustle of people moving about the bailey.

  As she tried to slip past several soldiers on horseback, one of them grasped the basket and helped himself to a few of the warm loaves. Keeping her head low and covered, she prayed the idiot would hurry up and let her go. After a few tense moments, the soldier set her free with his thanks, along with a few lewd promises he vowed to make good on with her when he got back.

  Her body shuddered at the thought.

  Stepping past the gate keepers, she sucked in a deep breath and headed toward the safety of the trees.

  The idea worked. No one had seemed to see her leave. Or, more likely, hadn’t cared.

  Pondering her next move, she stuffed several of the bread loaves down the front of her plaid, then looked up into the sky to find the direction of the sun.

  North, Brianna had said.

  Ewan's keep was a day's ride north of there. She stared at the dark hills toward which Brianna had pointed from her window and considered what would be the less conspicuous route to take—follow the safety of the road or cut through the brush The road, at first glance, appeared busy with traffic. She decided she would have to stay off the path and stick to the scrub until she was a little farther out. Trouble was, a large lake sat in the middle of this route. She would have to skirt around it. The detour would mean a longer, slower escape, but it was necessary. She couldn't risk being seen due to her own impatience. No. She'd come this far, an hour or two more wouldn't matter.

  Taking a deep breath, she tightened the plaid around her and began to make her way down a gentle slope toward the lake. The soft, leather moccasin-style shoes she'd been given weren't cut-out for walking over rough terrain and caused her to feel every stone and twig she trod on.

  A disheartened sigh escaped her as she thought about the charred remains of her two-hundred dollar running shoes. She'd only bought them three weeks before. Such a waste.

  As she made her way to the rise of a small hill, the sound of children's laughter rung out from the lake. Worried she may be seen, she stepped farther into the trees and stopped a moment to survey the activity.

  Women and children gathered by the water's edge and were engaged in a variety of tasks. Some of the women were washing clothes, others were just sitting on the grass talking.

  One of them she recognized as Rory's mother was sewing what looked to be a patch on a shirt. Such a simple task, yet the woman was smiling.

  Children laughed and squealed as they hurled handfuls of thick, black mud at each other, while others flicked stones across the ground with long twigs.

  Hah. Not exactly golf, but it looked like great fun. She sighed.

  Time to go.

  She turned away and continued through the lines of trees along the edge of the small valley. She calculated it would probably take her at least an hour to get around the group this way. Every now and then, she glanced toward the children playing and saw young Rory chasing one of the little girls with what looked like a dead rabbit in his hands.

  Demon child.

  She hoped she'd never have a kid like that. A strange feeling welled inside her. Would she ever have children? Ewan would probably want to, but she'd never given the matter much thought. No. She always thought she'd have plenty of time to start a family after her career had been established.

  But there she was, twenty five years old, career in ruins, no money, a husband who had no clue where she was, and she was lost back in time—yeah, like she was mother material. Besides, she knew the risks with childbirth, and epidurals wouldn't be invented for another seven hundred years.

  A low branch slapped her on the cheek. Ouch. Great. Now her feet were getting blisters—

  The blood-curdling scream set every hair on her body on end.

  She turned her attention toward the lake. Frantic women and children scurried along the muddy bank, waving and calling out across the water.

  "Rory!"

  The gut-wrenching anguish in Lady MacPherson's voice said it all.

  Her child was drowning.

  Shit.

  Ellie lifted her skirt, dashed from her cover within the trees, and headed for the lake. As she stumbled down the slope toward the water, she saw a small hand breach the surface, clasp at thin air, then disappear back under the murky depths.

  Oh, God.

  Without breaking her stride, she slipped off her shoes, shed her plaid, hoisted the woolen gown up and over her head, then dove from bank into the heart-stopping icy water.

  The muted sounds of gasps followed her under, but all that surrounded her now was the eerie silence of the deep.

  Cold. Cold. Always bloody cold.

  Fighting sudden muscle cramps from the frigid lake, she pushed onward, certain she mustn't be too far from the boy. Why couldn't he swim? Damn it. All children should know how to swim. She would give Laird MacPherson a piece of her mind when—her hand brush against something in the darkness, but seemed just beyond her grasp.

  Rory.

  Hell. Her mind was spinning, lungs ached. She needed air, but she couldn't risk leaving him. She may not get another chance.

  She forced her body down deeper, the sudden drop in temperature like icy needles piercing her skin.

  She touched something.

  Adrenaline pumped through her as she grasped out blindly and felt the shape of a hand. Her pounding heart leaped. She held the hand firmly and began to swim toward the surface.

  Stay awake.

  The muted patch of light above her seemed to stretch further into the distance. Her subdued fear turned into a panic that enveloped her.

  What if they didn't make it in time?

  Her legs cramped and faltered, arms ached in protest. By pure willpower, she urged her body onward and upward until the sudden rush of air upon her face forced her to gasp and suck in a mix of muddy water and oxygen.

  She choked and spat out the vile liquid, hoisted the boy's limp body up alongside her, rested his head upon her shoulder.

  Through her pain, she panted. "Hold on, sweetie. Hold on."

  The boy moved against her, then began to panic. He coughed and sputtered, then cried out, as she clutched around his chest and waded to the bank. Cries of horror and relief broke out across the water.

  A dozen hungry hands greeted her as her feet pushed against the muddy surface, the crying boy dragged from her arms and taken to his frantic mother.

  Left alone and covered in thick black mud, Ellie clawed her way onto the grass, toppled onto her back, and sucked in a lungful of frosty air. Though, compared to the lake, the temperature felt damn-right tropical. A weak smile came to her shivering lips.

  So much for Hawaii.

  Hell. So much for her grand escape.

  She closed her eyes, her lungs aching with the effort to breathe. Rest. She just needed to rest a few minutes. With every b
reath, overwhelming tiredness edged her closer to sleep.

  A nap. Yes. Why, she didn't even feel cold anymore.

  Chapter 17

  "And I said fetch the Laird McKinnon!"

  The booming voice echoed throughout the courtyard and into the great hall where Ewan sat talking with Hamish.

  After a week of fruitless searching, he'd reluctantly come to the conclusion that Ellie, the future, his mother . . . it had all been just a crazed dream. Aye. Someone must have found him dazed and wounded from the battle, sewed his wound and left him near the keep. A fever had caused his delusion.

  But Hell and the Devil if it hadn't all seemed real.

  The very thought of Ellie never having been alive had created a rift within his soul that made the pain of his mother's death pale in comparison.

  Bloody Hell. He was a warrior and wasn't supposed to feel such foolish emotion.

  A MacKinnon soldier approached him. "The MacPherson won't take no as an answer, sir. He demands to see the Laird."

  Damn it.

  He'd long avoided any confrontation with his northern neighbor, but with the man shouting down his doorstep, it made a fight inevitable.

  With Hamish in tow, Ewan grabbed his sword and strode out into the courtyard. Ready for any attack, he flexed his fingers around the hilt, opened the door to find the Laird MacPherson sitting atop his horse, flanked by only a handful of soldiers.

  If the man had come to start a fight, he'd been sorely prepared.

  "Ewan." The old man nodded at him. "I have need to see your father."

  "The Laird is nae taking any visitors, MacPherson. I suggest you return before ma patience runs thin."

  The Laird's face flushed red, but he held firm. "This business is between me and him. He will see me."

  Behind several of the MacPherson soldiers, he noticed the weathered face of a familiar woman.

  He hadn't seen his aunt since—since the accident.

  Laird MacPherson followed his gaze, then motioned for his wife to come forward. The soldiers parted, and she nudged her mount along. A young redheaded boy sat in front of her, his scrawny frame swathed in the MacPherson plaid.