For all her protests on feminism and independence, there’d still been a part of her thinking she lacked some achievement in her life because she hadn’t married. Didn’t have a man of her own. Even in her time, society viewed her lack as some sort of failure. A pie missing a piece. Perhaps she had as well.
But she had her own achievements to be proud of. She was a whole pie. She really didn’t need a man to complete her.
Tossing her head, she met his gaze straight on. “No, Keir, some women dream bigger than that. Maybe not yet. But they will.”
“For what purpose?” he baited her. “Ye’re a woman. Ye’ve naught more tae wish for in this world we live in now.”
“Then I will change it.”
He displayed none of the confusion Artair had. Or even the amusement she expected to see. No, his blue eyes shined with pride.
For her.
“Aye, I wager ye will, Big Al. I wager ye will.”
He tilted up her chin, his thumb tracing her lower lip. As always, his touch brought out feelings in her which aroused not feminism but feminine delight.
“Come here, lass.”
With a sigh, she leaned into him. His arms closed around her, drawing her close. She could feel the heat of his body radiating through his shirt and the tartan thrown over his shoulder, hear his heart beating strongly beneath her cheek. Smell the masculine combination of sweat, sunshine and him.
It was at once comforting and exciting. Even knowing whatever was growing between them couldn’t last forever, she hoped to stay there for a good long time.
Not because she needed a man to complete her but because a scoop of ice cream was always nice with pie. Everyone knew that.
Her lips curved up in a smile. No, there was nothing wrong with a little dessert.
He brushed her hair from her temple and pressed a light kiss there. “Ye quite impressed me. I’m glad ye dinnae accept Artair’s proposal.”
Why, she wanted to ask? But she didn’t. Instead, she sighed and snuggled deeper into his strong arms.
“Of course, I didn’t. How could I?”
How could she, indeed. She could never think of marrying another man when it was Keir who held her heart.
Chapter 26
It wasn’t only his brother who’d come down from Dingwall. Ceana had joined Artair on his journey.
Both joined them for dinner.
Cook, determined to lay a table worthy of a duke whether he be a night or two late in finding his way to it or not, had outdone herself. Seven courses in the French style—something she knew he and Hugh had enjoyed while abroad—from l’entrée (which he’d had to explain to Al didn’t mean main dish but appetizer) to le digestif (a healthy dose of cognac he was in desperate need of by the end of the meal). All of it served with the pomp and plodding speed typical of the French court by his new, liveried footman.
He’d far preferred the seven sensual courses he’d enjoyed privately with Al the other night. Each one more delightful than the last.
None of them involving the unwelcome company of his family. He’d come to Rosebraugh not only because his new duty to the title and clan demanded it, but simply because he wanted to have Al for himself. Away from them.
He’d not have an evening alone in any case. Somehow it’d slipped his mind that a fair portion of Hugh’s clan lived at Rosebraugh. His mother’s sister, cousins both close and distant. Having kept to his rooms the previous day and night, he had forgotten all about them. Where they’d hidden themselves all day, he had no idea.
Sharing every meal with every one of them in the days and years to come, made him cringe. He wanted Al all for himself.
At least someone had warned her to dress for dinner. The first time she’d done so since being set free of his dungeons. Her maid would gain an extra sterling in her pay for this. He’d have hated for his bonny lass to be uncomfortable if she weren’t dressed for the event.
Instead she outshone them all, looking as resplendent as any lady in the courts of Europe. Dressed in silk and lace, her glorious bosom straining above the low, square neckline. Though he preferred her blonde locks loose and long, they were upswept into a high, elegant twist with the same curls that had so tormented him before bouncing once more against the swell of her breasts like the sweetest caress.
She was splendid. He doubted after witnessing her set down of Artair that afternoon she’d ever not stand tall again, in any situation. Despite her self-doubt, she was as brave and bold as any person – man or woman – he’d ever known.
How far she’d come from the stuttering lass he’d chained in a prison cell. From mouse to lioness. From shy to siren. From waiting for his kiss to seducing him in his own study.
She continued to astonish him.
She might always astonish him.
* * *
There might have been a lot of things Al could say to Ceana but that night there was only one.
Surprisingly, it was thank you.
Ceana had saved her from making an utter disgrace of herself. Impossible as it seemed. She’d brought a fancy silk gown of sage green with a large print of flora and fauna to her room earlier. A robe à l’anglaise, she’d called it, with wide panniers holding it and a fine ivory silk damask under skirt out to the sides. She’d demanded Peigi help Al into it for dinner. At first, she’d been sure the woman was playing some joke on her but when she entered the dining room to find it filled with a half-dozen women dressed as over-the-top as Ceana tended to be and men in all their complementary formal jackets, she’d about hugged the woman.
Odd enough. But when Keir—though still in his linen shirt and kilt—looked her up and down slowly, his eyes blazing with open admiration, she’d almost been tempted to kiss Ceana, too.
He’d seated her at his right hand, taking the opportunity—she was sure—to peer down her daring décolleté as he pushed her in.
All through the interminable meal, his hungry eyes had been fixed on her. Mostly on her eyes but often enough on her bosoms being practically thrust right out of the low-cut bodice to feel hot anticipation rolling over her like lapping waves through the whole meal.
He liked it. As ridiculous as she’d felt when she’d looked into the mirror, she felt like a freaking goddess under the promise in that burning gaze.
She couldn’t wait for the meal to end.
“Miss Maines?”
Someone nudged her from the other side and she tore her eyes from Keir and turned to the woman beside her who immediately pointed across the table. An older gentleman, some sort of uncle or cousin’s uncle to Hugh, was regarding her expectantly. He was portly with white hair, a drooping white mustache, and a florid face. But he had kindly eyes that sort of reminded her of a benevolent St. Nick.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said, I hear ye’re a colonist, lass. I served there with Saunderson’s 1st Marines on the attempt to take Quebec back in ’12,” he said.
“Take it from whom?”
“The French, lass. The French!” he blustered. “I take it ye’re nae from the northern colonies then?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah, makes sense,” he said. “Plus a wee lass like yerself probably disnae worry her head o’er history and such.”
Keir’s hand covered hers and the knife she held in her hand. “I wasn’t going to stab him,” she whispered.
His eyes danced. “Just making sure. I’m rather fond of Uncle Ranulf.”
“Where do ye hail from then?” Uncle Ranulf asked, demanding her attention.
“Maryland originally, sir,” she answered politely. “Though I… er, traveled far to the west as I grew older.”
“Maryland?” he frowned. “Can’t say I’ve heard of it. Is it far tae the south then? Tomas!” he called down the table. “Ye e’er heard of a colony called Mary-land?”
Both men frowned. Tomas scratched his head. They turned back to her expectantly.
She didn’t know what to say. She’d never heard of a battle fought thr
ee hundred years before her time, it made some sense that the names for all the colonies might not be exactly as she knew them. But the revolution was only thirty years away.
“It’s just north of Virginia.”
“Virginia?” Keir repeated and she turned to look at him. He was frowning. A chill washed over her. There it was again. That sense that something wasn’t quite right here.
“Yes. The colony named after Queen Elizabeth.”
“Auld King Henry’s queen?”
“No, his daughter.”
It shouldn’t be that hard. It was Virginia. The largest British colony in America. She glanced around the table. Everyone was staring at her curiously. Even Ceana’s eyes were glittering with interest.
“Lass, Auld Henry had no daughters named Elizabeth, certainly none who became queen,” he told her, his frown deepening.
Dread prickled at her flesh. A terrible foreboding. First his discovery of planets that shouldn’t have been able to be seen for almost a century more. Then the references to Culloden as a religious war.
“Henry the Eighth,” she said, almost desperately. “His daughter. Elizabeth.”
“Bah, his bastard, ye mean.” Ranulf chuckled.
The room spun around her. Or was it her head that was spinning? She stood, pushing her chair back until it tumbled backward. A strong male arm reached out to steady her. Not Keir but one of the footman. But then he was there, concern in his eyes, leading her from the room.
“A map,” she gasped. “Let me see a map.”
“Mo ghrá…?”
“Please, Keir.”
With a terse nod, he changed directions. Taking her up a flight of stairs and down a hall, before he opened the door to his study. Leaving her by the door, he walked to a set of shelves and contemplated the spines before selecting a thick tome more than a foot across and two feet in length.
As the sun was beginning to set, he carried it over to a table near the window and opened it. She trailed behind numbly, reaching his side just as he laid the book flat.
“The American Colonies,” he said, pointing at the page.
Steeling herself with a deep breath, she looked down at the page.
Oh, Dr. Fielding was going to be so disappointed when he finally figured it out.
Chapter 27
She began to laugh. A little hiccup of a giggle at first that worried him beyond measure.
“Lass?”
“Oh, this is fantastic.” There was an edge to her voice. Pitched high somewhere between excitement and hysteria. “I mean, I knew we’d failed in executing our goals, but this…”
She studied the atlas, running her fingertips over the scrolling print of the Kingsland colony.
“What? What is it?”
“Who ruled England after Henry the Eighth?”
“I’m sure ye ken it well enough, lass.” He caught her hand, stroking her fingers lightly. “What is it? Ye ken ye can tell me anything.”
She couldn’t tell him this. Without a doubt, no matter how openminded he was, he’d never understand. Hell, there were people in her own time who wouldn’t understand. Who would freak out if they thought such a thing were possible beyond the realm of science fiction.
She should have known, of course, what was happening. Looking back, there’d been signs enough. Animals coming through the portal none of them could identify. An odd bear. That cute little monkey as tiny as the palm of her hand she’d assumed must have been a lost species from Madagascar or something.
To her, it was a thrilling discovery even if it did herald the end of Fielding’s success for all time.
In Quantum Mechanics, it was called the many-worlds interpretation. In sci-fi, it was called an alternate reality. The birth of a new dimension for every yes or no, success or failure in the history of the planet. Another reality existed for each scenario. Millions and millions of versions of history coinciding in the same space, but veiled from each other.
Their project hadn’t only cast her through space and time, but had also pierced a dimension she hadn’t considered when explaining them to Keir. The portal had crossed the plane of reality, sending her to a version of history where Elizabeth the First had never ruled.
A part of her wanted to share the excitement with Keir, see his eyes light up with discovery as they invariably did, but she was fearful this one might go too far afield for him.
The idea that there were other realities happening, multiplying and existing where one was standing, was too much for the people she knew to accept. Scientists who rejected the idea, unable to take a theory like that as fact.
It would be worse than telling him about time travel or ships flying into space. There was a colossal chance he wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around the idea that other realities coexisted along side his own. That if the veil were to be pierced now, a dozen more versions of him might be pacing the room as he was at the moment. Or Hugh would be, having never left. He might be gone instead.
Al might never have come.
Such a shocking revelation might alienate him completely, no matter how progressive he thought he was.
She didn’t dare tell him.
But she had to tell him something.
He was gawking at her as if she’d grown two heads. She couldn’t have him think she was growing a third. Become inhuman in some way.
“I-I’ve just never realized before how utterly uneducated I am in the history of the world,” she said, once more glancing down at the map where the French colony of Quebec extended all the way down to New York… or New Amsterdam as the map said. The English only had the central Atlantic coast and the Spanish still held the Caribbean coastline.
Was all of that because Elizabeth hadn’t ruled? Or had it been something else?
“Ye’re lying tae me,” he said flatly. “Why?”
“I’m not,” she insisted. “I just never knew what a dunce I am in the liberal arts. It’s… embarrassing.”
God, she hoped he bought it. She didn’t. “I must have been thinking of a different country, I suppose. Who… um, who succeeded Henry the Eighth as king?”
“Al…”
“No, truly. I’m curious.” She turned to him, curling her fingers around the open collar of his shirt with a smile. A very forced smile. “Maybe it’s time for a little more quid pro quo. Your turn to become the teacher.”
He studied her silently for a long while. She was certain he was going to reject her explanation and demanded a better, more truthful response. Then much to her relief, he sighed and stepped away. Drawing her along with him, he sat in one of the wingback chairs and pulled her into his lap.
“Henry the Ninth, the son of Henry and Catherine of Aragon,” he said at last.
“Didn’t they have a daughter, too?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“Aye, Princess Mary,” he nodded. “There were other children as well. Many stillborn, a few who died in infancy. Henry had many mistresses, ‘tis nae rumor but fact. And a number of bastards including another Henry and the Elizabeth I believe ye were referring tae.”
“There weren’t… uh, I thought I read something about Henry the Eighth divorcing Catherine of Aragon.”
His blue eyes were sharp, piercing. “What is amiss, mo ghrá? ‘Tis nae like ye tae disremember anything ye’ve read.”
“We all have our failings,” she shrugged, “but being here now, I really feel as if I should know more about the recent history of the area.”
He knew she was lying. He knew she knew that he knew it too. Still, he gave her what she wanted, detailing the succession of the English crown from Henry IX down to the current George I. Not the second but the first. The Stuarts hadn’t claimed the crown until just fifty years past when King Charles III died without an heir just before the turn of the century. Scottish king at the time, James VII, had succeeded becoming James I of England more than a hundred years after the one she knew about.
It was a tumultuous time in the nation’s history. With Catherine
of Aragon alive at the time of Henry VIII’s death—from a peptic ulcer in his leg caused by an injury he’d taken years before (some things didn’t change)—the Catholic queen regent had raised her son and daughter in her faith. There was no Church of England, just the growing discontent always broadening the gap between the Catholics and Protestants. Rather than accept the Catholic King James VII of Scotland to the throne, many had lobbied for George of Hanover to take the throne. It had been a civil war of sorts, lasting as Keir had said, more than the whole of his life.
Culloden had only been the last in the bid to return the Stuart line to the throne.
No Virginia. No Maryland. Or Annapolis. Charlottesville. Williamsburg or William and Mary. The entire history of her country had changed. Given the path it was following in this reality, it might never become the future she knew.
She was well and truly lost here without even a future she could count on to comfort her. She’d lost everything.
Still she wasn’t sorry for it.
She’d had him.
“I hope that someday ye might tell me what ye’re hiding from me, lass,” he said as the early morning hours gonged on the mantel clock.
There was hurt in this voice. Hurt she had put there. But she couldn’t risk alienating him entirely. Couldn’t risk losing the one good thing she had here any quicker than she already would.
He was hers. For at least a little longer and she meant to make the most of it.
* * *
“You know we’ve been down here for hours, talking away.” She stroked his hair back, curling it around her fingers. “Have you forgotten all the lovely things you promised to do to me tonight? Though your legs are probably asleep from me sitting here so long. In fact, all of you is probably completely numb.” She brushed her lips along the shell of his ear before whispering in what she hoped was a seductive voice. “Is that why you haven’t taken me to bed yet?”
“Ne’er tell me Allorah Maines is a prude who only does it in a bed.” He raked his teeth down her neck, chuckling at her mock outrage.
Love in the Time of a Highland Laird (A Laird for All Time Book 3) Page 18