A Time & Place for Every Laird

by Angeline Fortin

In his world, such trickery might have been seen as witchcraft, though no one had been accused of such in nearly a century. Nevertheless, it had startled the bloody hell out of him. And then he had seen them drive away with no identifiable power source, and Hugh had admittedly been petrified. That was when he had seen his savior wading through the field of cars and followed her, determined to force her assistance in freeing him from this strange land.

  Hugh had never dreamed she would voluntarily help him when no one else had ever truly looked at him. He owed her his life, a debt that honor demanded he repay, but what could he offer a woman in this world? Whatever this world was.

  It was a world with plain-faced buildings with little ornamentation but extraordinarily large windows set apart from one another only by the large placards that named them. A world with streets of solid black stone to carry the cars that traveled them. A world where women wore clothes like men, clothes that seemed to deny their very gender.

  A world where the push of a button was the equivalent of the wave of a wand.

  A world where he owed his life to a woman.

  Raising his face to the water’s spray, Hugh pushed the questions crowding his mind aside. He could not think about Sorcha’s question. He would not. Hugh slammed his fist against the smooth white tiles. The pain matched his frustration and he did it again with growl deep in his throat. The minutes slipped by as he let the water wash over him, ridding his body of the blood of battle and the stink of imprisonment. He soaped his body and hair, chafing away bits of dried blood and grime until they disappeared down the drain along with his reason and sanity.

  No hell could match this nightmare, he amended his earlier thought. For weeks, perhaps months, he had sat in that windowless cell, floundering amid the mire of questions to which there were no answers. Now he might find some, and Hugh wasn’t sure he wanted them at all.

  How long Hugh stood there in the shower, deliberating thinking of nothing, he had no idea. It wasn’t until the water grew cold that he turned the handle to stop the flow. Drying off with the toweling Sorcha had left him, he focused only on the soft cloth and the foggy steam of the bath chamber until there was nothing left for him but to open the door and face the strange world that waited.

  Hugh set a hand on the doorknob then pulled it away, fisting his hand. What cowardice was this? He who had faced foes armed with deadly blades, frightened by the unknown? Where was his vaunted bravery now?

  A humorless laugh broke the silence of the room, and Hugh doggedly gripped the doorknob once again and opened the door to a cold rush of air.

  Chapter 5

  His savior did not notice Hugh as he stood at the bottom of the stairs leading to her great room, such as it was. Though her home had two stories, he was surprised that it consisted of only two bedchambers, the bathing chamber, and this single space that housed not only her parlor but her kitchens as well. Though it was not large and was rather stark in comparison, many of the courts of Europe did not sport such extravagances as Sorcha’s residence. The bath chamber and privy were extraordinary, the carpet beneath his feet thick and luxurious. The walls were smoothly plastered, with lanterns set into the ceilings that lit with the flick of a switch. His prison had been similarly lit, and though Hugh had contemplated them for weeks, he could not fathom how they worked.

  Or how the monitors projected the images caught by the eye. Or how the cars worked.

  More than anything, he could not fathom what more might await him beyond these walls. A part of him did not truly want to know, but Sorcha’s question troubled him. The truth could not be ignored. Hugh knew nowhere in the world where such things were possible, and the answers – as difficult as they might be to hear – would have to come from her.

  It hadn’t been difficult to locate Sorcha – he refused to think of her any other way. She sat in a chair, staring into space, apparently oblivious to the constant hum of sound that seemed typical of this place. She was a lovely woman, he thought. He had noticed so before when she had come into his prison. Taller than most women he knew, Sorcha was willowy with bright auburn hair and large eyes so blue that they were almost violet. Rimmed in impossibly long, dark lashes and a modest application of kohl, her expressive eyes dominated her lovely, delicate face.

  He had to wonder at her age. She looked young in years. Her skin was unlined and luminous as a child’s, yet she spoke and moved with a confidence that belied youth. Of course, any man, anywhere knew better than to ask such a question. In any case, with her mannish garb, slouching posture, and unrefined accent, it was clear she was no lady by society’s standards, though she had earned his reluctant respect by standing her ground in the face of his anger. “My thanks, Sorcha,” Hugh said to garner her attention.

  Claire started and turned to him, recovering her calm enough to offer casually, “You were in there a long time.”

  Hugh shifted, wishing for some way to avoid the conversation that he knew was looming before them. “The hot water is gone. My apologies.”

  She frowned. His brogue was really almost impossible to interpret. It was like nothing she’d ever heard on Downton Abbey or in the movies. His r’s rolled; “ing” did not seem to exist in his language at all; his vowels were exaggerated, the e’s becoming eh’s; multisyllabic words were compacted; and on top of that nearly every word was slurred into the next. With his voice already so deep and gruff, the combination was nearly incomprehensible. +

  Oddly enough, his words weren’t what distracted her the most. It was his hair. Now that it was clean, she realized it wasn’t black, as she had thought, but a rich brown threaded with golden highlights that even the best hairstylist couldn’t duplicate. The once stringy, crusty locks now looked soft and curled only a little before they reached his shoulders. Even the full, shaggy beard looked better on him. She could still see nothing of his face but for those blue eyes peering from beneath his thick brows, but Hugh looked infinitely more human, if not exactly civilized.

  But still impatient… particularly when she only looked at him blankly.

  “I’m sorry. I have a hard time understanding you,” Claire explained.

  Hugh repeated his words more slowly.

  “Oh,” she waved a hand. “There will be more later.”

  “And for the clothing,” he added. The shirt was simple and unadorned, snug but soft, and gave freely with his movements. The breeches were much the same, stretching to mold to his calves and thighs as comfortably as a second skin. “Hae I yer husband tae thank?”

  Her eyes shifted, running down his length with something akin to despondency. “Well, we couldn’t have you wearing those dirty clothes again, could we? I think they are beyond hope. We might have to just throw them away. Your necklace is on the counter though.”

  Unreasonably, Hugh’s heart clenched at the thought of losing any of his few personal belongings, but he nodded tightly, turning away to retrieve his medallion. He fingered the cool metal, thinking of the father he had hardly known, whose only legacy now rested worlds apart from where he should be. Slipping the heavy chain over his head, Hugh felt the now familiar anxiety welling up in him once more. What would happen to his home? His people? Hugh needed to return as soon as possible.

  If a return was even possible. Ruthlessly pushing the thought aside for a moment longer, Hugh moved deeper into the room, taking time to study the effects in Sorcha’s home he hadn’t noticed before. He ran his hand along the fine velvety fabric of Sorcha’s cushioned settee, felt the smooth wooden floors beneath his feet. A knitted blanket was thrown over another chair near the fireplace.

  Ignoring the horrifying device affixed to the wall above the fireplace, Hugh focused on the items on the mantle. A finely done portrait of a young man was propped there, leaning back against the wall. He was quite stern in appearance, clothed in what was obviously a military uniform of some sort. Other smaller portraits were propped nearby. Hugh picked up one of the man with Sorcha. The soldier was cradling Sorcha in his arms, and she was garbed i
n a white gown. She held a small bouquet of flowers in her hand. Both looked quite happy. Her wedding portrait, perhaps? Regardless, the detail in the paintings was phenomenal.

  Other objects crowded the wooden mantle as well. A piece of cloth folded into a triangle. Medals, some framed and others hanging by wide ribbons, were plentiful. There were flat pieces of wood with gold surfaces printed with words Hugh didn’t take the time to read except to make out a name. Captain Matthew Manning.

  Her husband. Where was he now? What would he think of his wife bringing a stranger into his home?

  “Here.” Hugh turned to find Sorcha holding a steaming mug out to him.

  “What is it?”

  “If we’re going to do this, you’ll have to learn to trust me.”

  Hugh took a step forward to take the cup, noting that Sorcha stepped away as she extended it even farther. Did she fear him? It was difficult to tell. He had frightened her at the lab, that much was certain, but their recent exchanges indicated that she was a bold and courageous lass. There were not many women who would dare argue with him when he was angry, and he admired her pluck. Hugh only hoped it would not fail her now. He needed her assistance. At least for the time being. If she became a wilting lily, Sorcha would be of no use to him. Watching her, Hugh took a sip from the mug. It was coffee. Not the strongest he’d ever tasted, but it was welcome, nonetheless.

  Sorcha sat down once again and leaned toward him with her elbows on her knees, cradling her own cup between her hands. “We need to talk.”

  Hugh didn’t argue. He needed answers as well. All he knew at this point was that she could not send him home again. That, as far as she knew, no one could. He knew nothing else, nothing at all. He didn’t even know where he was. “Aye, we do. Tell me, what is this world I am doomed tae inhabit? I ken that I am nae dead, so this cannae truly be hell.”

  However, Sorcha merely shook her head at his question, much to his annoyance. “Why don’t you tell me how you got here first? Then maybe I can figure it out.”

  Hugh’s hand fisted as he gritted his teeth, and her eyes widened in trepidation. Forcing himself to relax, to accept that the answers would come, Hugh told her, “I was fighting wi’ my clansmen against the Sassenach in a battle that was the gravest of mistakes.” He sighed and sat as well as he recalled where he had been weeks before. The blood. The battle. “Bonny Prince Charlie and his attempt tae retake Scotland an’ England for his own. He called on the Hielanders tae aid him, and my uncle called me home tae support him. Though I dinnae necessarily support the prince, I fought for my laird and my clan. Prince Charles called for an attack on the Sassenach though our troops were exhausted from travel and fighting. We had already seen many battles from York tae Inverness. No one wanted the fight, ye ken? Even the French envoy begged the Prince on his knees not tae continue. But the Prince was determined. He wouldnae even wi’draw tae Inverness or take the higher ground at the river Nairn. ’Twas over almost before it was begun.”

  “Where was this battle?”

  “On the Drummoisse Muir outside Culloden,” he told her. “It dinnae last long but ’twas the bloodiest battle I’d ever seen. We were called to retreat but I was in the heat of battle, in pursuit of my enemy. I was running after him when the ground opened up before us, swallowing us whole.”

  “Culloden? The Battle of Culloden?” Claire asked, trying to place the vaguely familiar term in history. It sounded like something from Braveheart, and Hugh looked decidedly like the Scots portrayed in the movie, so it must have been in the Middle Ages somewhere, right? Shaking her head at her own ignorance, Claire thought about firing up her laptop and Googling for information.

  “Ye’ve a name for it?”

  “Yes,” Claire said with a nod. “What year was that?”

  “The year of our Lord seventeen hundred and forty-six,” he answered. “So, yer turn, lass. Where am I now?”

  Claire met his bright blue eyes. There was as much dread in them for her answer as she felt at being the one to deliver the bad news, which was why she had been delaying the moment as long as she could even though she knew that her reluctance vexed him. “You are in the year two thousand and thirteen.”

  Hugh knew he was staring at Sorcha dumbly but he could not form any reasonable thought or response to her revelation. He had known he was in a different world. Whatever witchcraft had torn him from his home had transported him far away—he had known that. But, even with all the strange things he had seen, for some reason he had considered only distance. He had never considered time until she had asked him the year.

  Two thousand and thirteen. More than 250 years into his future. He couldn’t release the notion from his mind, and for several minutes he stood immobile, struggling with the knowledge and its implications. His family and his clan were all long gone. Nothing but dust in the sands of time. He felt numbed by the realization that he was alone. Alone in an alien land with no one but this single lass as his ally. “Am I even in Scotland?” he thought to ask.

  “No,” she told him with evident sympathy.

  Reluctantly, his lips formed the question he was oddly the most afraid to ask. “Does it still exist?”

  “Yes,” she answered, then as if she could read his relief went on to reassure him, “Yes, yes, oh God, yes! I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

  Hugh felt the feeling return to his limbs. If nothing else, his homeland still existed. Rosebraugh, his home, was still out there somewhere. Perhaps, if he could find that then some sense might return to his existence. “Then I should like tae gae there,” he said. “If I cannae hae my family and my life, I can at least have my homeland. Take me there.”

  “I can’t just take you there, Hugh,” she sighed. She crossed the room and waved him over to a large globe in the corner. “Never thought I’d use this tacky thing for anything useful,” she muttered. It looked like other globes Hugh had seen before until Sorcha lifted the northern hemisphere, pointing to the glasses and bottles inside. “Matt’s mother got this for us. Classy, huh? Finally, I can get some use out of it.”

  She bent over and pointed at the side, motioning to him to join her. “Humor me. This thing doesn’t rotate. This is England and there’s Scotland.” She pointed out the easily recognizable landforms before straightening. “We are over here.” She pointed to the top of the globe and across the ocean from the British Isles.

  “Yer a colonist?” he asked in surprise as he recognized the general shape of the continent.

  “American now,” she corrected. “Our country is America, but I’m glad to know you’ve heard of us.”

  Hugh huffed with disgust. Did she truly think him so ignorant? Naturally, he’d heard of the colonies. He had even once thought to travel there, to explore the wilderness. He turned his eyes about the room, seeing the many things there that he did not recognize. He recalled her “car, ” the roads, and the prison where he had been held. This was what the colonies had become. What perhaps even his beloved Scotland had become. Shaking away a tremor of trepidation—Hugh refused to call it what he knew it really was—he fingered the globe instead, taking in the breadth of the nation marked in script as the United States of America. “Ye gained independence?”

  “Yes, in 1776 or thereabout.”

  Hugh nodded, remembering the articles he had read on the dissatisfaction some colonists had felt over the English rule and extrapolating them out over three decades past his time. It seemed few of England’s subjects appreciated being ruled by English law and monarchs. “Did Scotland win its freedom as well?”

  Sorcha frowned but remained silent and Hugh felt some irritation that she wasn’t providing him the answers he needed. “Do ye ken nothing of the world’s history, lass?”

  “About as much as you know about the future!” she retorted, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “Give me a minute, all right? I’m sure you’re a regular Einstein. Geez!”

  Hugh could feel the sarcasm in her words but he failed to grasp her innuendo.
He would again have to ask for a reference, but in that moment he refused to give her the satisfaction.

  At length, she dropped her hand and offered, “To answer your question, no, I don’t think so.”

  “Och and how is that an answer at all?”

  Sorcha scowled at him again. “Scotland is a part of Great Britain, so, no, I wouldn’t think that Scotland is ‘free’ of England.”

  “Great Britain?”

  “If you give me five minutes, I’ll Google the whole history of it for you.”

  “Google?”

  Sorcha rolled her eyes, clearly irritated now as well. “Listen, if we’re going to get along, I think we both need to practice a little patience here. Obviously I’ve never met a time-traveler before, so please allow me some leeway when I say things you don’t understand. Also, I am not a history teacher. The finer nuances of how Great Britain became so great were not a part of my education but I can and will find the answers you need. I will also try to explain things more clearly, okay? And first off, let me be as clear as possible in pointing out that America is way over here.” She stabbed a finger down at the far western end of the North American continent. “There are a few thousand miles and an ocean between us and Scotland.”

  The number was a daunting one, Hugh had to admit as the chill of despair once again sent its icy fingers down his spine. But what was a journey of several months’ time when his home—or as close as was available—awaited him at the end? “So?”

  “What do you mean ‘so’?” she asked in exasperation. “We can’t just drive there.”

  It was Hugh’s turn to feel some annoyance. Did she truly think him so dull that he couldn’t comprehend that her vehicle could not cross over water? “We shall simply charter a ship for the next voyage.”

  “Charter a ship?” she repeated mockingly, setting his teeth on edge. “Take a voyage across international waters? Not after 9/11.”