by L. L. Muir
The mountains to either side were close enough that she and her escorts could no longer ride three abreast through the pass. So, one at a time, they moved onto the next glen. Harris went first. He was hyper-alert, his head was always turning one way or another like they were in real danger. And though she knew it was just an act, she could tell he was listening closely. And his improvised tension made her tense, too.
Peg brought up the rear. She wasn’t quite as tense as her husband, but she wasn’t out for a relaxing ride, either. Maybe they were watching for wild animals…
She wished she had a weapon, even if it was one of those fake swords like the one clanging against Harris’ saddle.
When the path widened, they entered a flat valley between three large hills that created a sort of triangle. Harris led them to the right, but off to the left, another rider entered the picture. A big man on a big horse, and if she could trust her eyesight, he was wearing chainmail.
Peg gasped beside her. “Oh, look there, my lady. Here comes your lord husband now.”
Sophie sucked in a breath. “My. What?”
~ ~ ~
The hair on the back of Bram’s neck rose as he entered the glen, and the sensation so distracted him, he failed to notice the other riders off to his right. Lord help him, but he might have been set upon and killed as easily as a blind coney, hopping about in the bright sun with no notice of the hawks circling above.
Two days he’d been given? How tragic it would be if those two days were cut short by his own inattention?
He slowed and turned his horse in a circle to see what else might have gone unnoticed, but the only other souls in the glen were the three riders who now rode toward the center of the field that likely filled with water in the spring. They’d seen him. They kept their attention upon him still. And though it was a new and exhilarating sensation—to be seen after three centuries of invisibility—he would not let down his guard just to revel in it.
He nudged his beast onward, veering slightly right in order to intercept the others. Two women, obviously, led by a gentleman of ancient fashion. Once he was in their path, he stopped and waited for them to reach him, and while he waited, he examined the females.
Bonnie creatures, to be sure, though there was something about the one in the green dress that drew his eye, something more interesting than simply the color of her gown. Though it might be the way she sat her horse, like she might tumble off at any moment. Perhaps that was what he watched for.
Was he expected to come to the aid of one woman? Or both? And what, pray tell, would be his reward?
The other man hailed him. “Lord Ogilvy!”
Lord? Well, it was a start. At least Soncerae had granted him some form of position. But many men were addressed as lords.
The man was off his horse before it came to a full stop. With his bow, he offered a flourish of his cape. “My name is Owen Harris, yer lairdship. I am to escort ye and yer lady wife,” he gestured toward the woman in green, “to yer new home at Inverbrae.”
The woman in question shook her head as if she disagreed, though what she had to complain about was a mystery to him. What woman would not wish to be given the privilege of being his companion, if only for a pair of days?
He was not an ugly man. There were many less desirable mugs among his 78 comrades. He had an imposing form—a man who could well protect her from any and all dangers. And, for the moment, he was both nobleman and warrior. What else, pray tell, could a woman of any century want?
Surely, she’d come around. It wasn’t as if she were an American…
“Um, yeah. Could I talk to you for a second?”
“God’s blood, ye’re an American!”
Harris and the other woman exchanged a worried glance. “We’ll just ride ahead a wee. Shall we?” Since he seemed to be waiting for permission, Bram nodded, and the pair headed off toward the far end of the glen.
He turned back to his so-called wife. “Speak.”
She lowered her chin and lifted her brows simultaneously. “Excuse me?”
Oh. One of those. A prickly pear that would need careful handling.
He offered a patient smile. “Ye wished to talk to me. Now is the time.”
Her mouth contorted half a dozen times while she tried on different demeanors, alternately biting her tongue, showing her teeth, biting her lips together, then separately. Finally, she took a deep breath and cleared emotion from her face all together.
“Look. I didn’t sign up to be anyone’s wife.” She worried at her bottom lip again. “At least I don’t think I did.” She reached into a pocket in her skirt, then blushed for some reason. When her hand reemerged, it was empty. “I just don’t have a copy of the contract on me. So… I think it’s better if we just get that out of the way right now.”
“Out of the way.”
“Yes.”
“I agree wholeheartedly.”
She smiled, surprised. “You do?”
“I do. I understand your thoughts on the matter, and you may consider them out of the way.”
He turned his horse and urged it onward, pretending not to hear the sputtering and spitting she did in his wake. It was best she couldn’t see his face and his ear-to-ear grin. He quickly sobered, however, when her horse galloped up from behind. In all innocence, he turned to face her.
She narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth, no doubt to flay him to the bone with her sharp words, but she squealed instead when they both realized she was slipping off her saddle. Unfortunately, her horse moved her just beyond his reach as she fell out of sight.
He jumped from his horse and the movement spooked her own animal away, leaving a clear view. A heap of green shone in the afternoon sun. Still. Unmoving.
“Lass!” He pushed one arm out of the way and knelt beside her shoulders. Her other arm was flung across her face, but he dared not untwist her body for fear of causing her pain. “Speak to me, lass. Are ye hurt?”
She spoke, but it was barely a whisper.
He leaned closer. “Say it again. Where are ye hurt?”
“Just my pride!” Her voice was strong and clear and he laughed in relief.
“Yer backside, is it?”
She screeched as that arm came flying in his direction, but he caught her fist mid-flight. Their gazes locked as they both fought to catch their breath. The pounding of horses’ hooves and shouting threatened to invade their private moment and he was eager to say something witty before he lost her attention again.
When no words came, he released her fist and took hold of her shoulders. Instead of pulling her to her feet, he lifted her against his chest and gently pressed his lips to hers. Though Harris and Peg had arrived, he took his time pulling away.
His so-called wife had her breath back.
“What was that for?”
“Yer reward.”
“Reward?”
“For not breaking yer neck.” He let go of her shoulders, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet. Then he bent to sling her over his shoulder. “My lady wife is not hurt, praise God,” he told Peg. “Since I dare not trust her to keep her seat, she will ride with me.”
Once again, he ignored the sputtering and spitting at his back. As long as she didn’t bite him, she was no threat at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sophie sat as still as she could—which wasn’t saying much considering the slick cloth of her dress and the fact that her butt shifted with every step. Every time she started sliding, the ogre behind her would use it as an excuse to pull her tighter against him.
The fear of another fall was the only thing that kept her from complaining—or so she told herself. But the truth was, she wanted her own horse so she could watch Lord Ogilvy from a short distance. With him sitting behind her, she felt like she was the one being watched.
After he’d pitched her over his saddle, she’d struggled to sit upright again and nearly missed his transformation. The knight in shining armor had stripped off his armor, with Harris
’ help, and revealed another dreamy Highlander in a kilt. He was even taller than Wickham, and though his features were much less polished than Ivy’s husband, he was just as handsome.
A barbaric kind of handsome.
Whoever had hired the cast for this little play had really outdone themselves.
The arm that held her across the waist had loosened again. And even though she was holding steady at the moment, she couldn’t resist shifting in her seat, to see what he’d do.
He pulled her closer, as she’d hoped, but he chuckled to tell her he knew she’d done it on purpose.
She gasped. “My butt was going numb, okay?”
“Allow me to remedy that.” He reached his left arm in front of her, dragged her right knee up, and got her turned sideways in a matter of seconds. He lifted her up, and when he lowered her again, she was seated across his thighs. Not as hard as a leather saddle, but still.
“You cannot expect me to sit here—”
“I do not expect anything from ye, lass. Wife or no. I have not come to this place, or this time, in order to woo an American or anyone else. When my duty is finished, so must I be…”
She had the impression that, with every sentence, he’d forgotten she was listening, that maybe he was just thinking out loud.
They went on in silence for about five minutes while she tried to keep from leaning against him. He surprised her then, pulling her shoulder against his chest and holding her there. Her screaming stomach muscles were finally able to relax.
“Lass?”
“Hmn?”
“If ye’re to be my wife…”
Her heart started racing and she hoped he couldn’t feel it.
“Do ye suppose ye could tell me yer name?”
“Sophie Pennel, from Oregon.”
“Pleased to meet ye.” He reached around with his right hand and shook one of her fingers. “I am Bram Ogilvy, from Alyth in Angus. And to side with safety, Sophie, I suggest ye allow these people to believe that Alyth is yer home as well.”
She laughed. “Alyth in Angus. Is that a real place?”
“Auch, aye. Much more real a place than Oregon and America. At least to them.”
She straightened away from him so she could catch him smiling. The skies had grown cloudy, and though it couldn’t be evening yet, the curtain of his long hair cast his face in shadows. He wasn’t smiling.
“Bram.”
“Aye?”
“I know we’re supposed to play along with this whole Historic Scotland weekend, but do you really think Peg will freak out if I tell her I’m from Oregon? She already heard you call me an American.”
“She’ll have no ken what that means.”
She laughed, but when he didn’t laugh along, she stopped. “That’s not funny.”
“I regret to tell ye, Sophie, but it seems as though the joke has been played on us.”
The bottom dropped out of her stomach. And even though she felt like she had an ally in Bram, she really didn’t want to spend the weekend in the Twilight Zone.
“So what’s the joke?”
He looked into her eyes and stroked the side of her face, pushing her hair away from her cheek. “I cannot be certain, mind.”
“Yeah?”
“But I would not be surprised if we find ourselves…deep in the past. I know not when.”
“Seventeenth century… Wickham said the people of Inverbrae pretended they were in the seventeenth century.”
“Wickham? Did ye say Wickham?” He shook his head. “Wickham Muir?”
“Yes. He brought me here, left me with these two.” She nodded toward their escorts. “You know him?”
“Vaguely. But I am beginning to think he can be in two places at the same time. For it was Wickham who set me on this road to Inverbrae.”
“Again, not funny. But at least we’re talking about the same guy, right?”
“I suppose.” He nudged her chin around so she was looking right at him. “And though Wickham might live in the present day…I fear we no longer do.”
She rolled her eyes and made sure he saw her do it. He needed to know, up front, that she might have come to the play, but she wasn’t getting up on stage with him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bram had clearly lost his senses.
It was his own fault. If he hadn’t goaded her, she wouldn’t have prodded her horse into a gallop. She wouldn’t have fallen, he wouldn’t have kissed her, and she wouldn’t be seated on his lap, shivering as if it were February.
They’d become too intimate too fast, and he wasn’t referring to their proximity. He’d encouraged her to lean upon him, to trust him. And though she was a proud lass, she’d done both. Obviously, she now regretted it.
What the devil had he been thinking? That they could play patty-cakes for the weekend?
Nay! He had a duty to see to, and she was obviously not some damsel in distress. Granted, she was distressed at the moment, but she was a brave lass to have held her own against him. She would be brave again. And he needed her to be able to fend for herself.
Babysitting an American was a deed not worthy enough to purchase his revenge nor his redemption. And since Wickham was not about, Bram could not ask why the lass had been sent to Inverbrae. Perhaps it had to do with Sophie Pennel’s redemption and naught to do with his own. Perhaps Wickham Muir had more business to attend to than the simple placement of resurrected ghosts…
Whatever the plan, one thing was clear. He had to get the lass off his lap and back onto her own horse. When they arrived at Inverbrae, she would need her game face. For, even if she didn’t yet believe him, that they were riding straight into Scotland’s past, she would know it soon enough.
He stopped his horse. Harris moved forward, juggling his discarded armor. Peg moved forward as well, carrying the lead of the painted horse.
“My lady wishes to ride on her own when we approach Inverbrae.” He avoided her searching eyes, but he knew the instant she understood, for her spine straightened away from him and she held onto the front of the saddle, and not him, as she slid off the horse. He gestured for Harris to help her mount the other horse, then moved on alone.
His chest felt unbearably tight, as if he wore his chain mail still, but eventually, the crisp Highland air washed the smell of Sophie’s hair out of his nose and he was able to breathe freely again.
Not that he deserved to.
~ ~ ~
Inverbrae
A reasonable man might worry over wee details such as how a man might be dropped onto a horse’s back with no warning to either him or the horse, or how his clothes could have been changed in an instant. But Bram was not a reasonable man; he was a ghost brought back to life by a sixteen-year-old lass. Soni’s only aid came from an uncle who appeared stronger and more capable than most, but there seemed nothing superhuman about Wickham.
The power, Bram had believed, lay within Soncerae. But now that he’d seen a modern American delivered into the past, along with himself, he began to wonder about the intrepid uncle.
For instance, now that he realized the shirt of mail and the armor had been a mere joke, he didn’t know if the prank had been Soni’s, or Wickham’s.
As Inverbrae came into view, he’d understood that his silver garb was only a jest, and not a funny one at that. So he was relieved he could blame it on the man and not the young witch whose devotion he held so close to his heart.
Even a poor-sighted man could tell how much work the castle needed. And unhappily, Bram was just the man for the job. His father had been a mason, and like all fathers, he had passed his craft along to his son. Whether or not Bram welcomed that instruction had little to do with it.
Yes, the chain mail and armor would only be a hindrance to him if he were to be any help to the people of Inverbrae. Power. Position. He only needed the power in his arms and the position of knowing his trade. Lord Ogilvy indeed.
From a quarter mile away, the castle appeared well over a hundred years old, and improp
erly maintained all the while. Whole chunks had fallen away from the topmost towers. The battlements were rows of bad teeth, and more stones were sure to follow.
It was a precarious situation all around. If he was any guess of numbers, there must be one or two thousand people living within the expansive curtain wall. And to have rocks shifting above so many heads was dangerous indeed.
There might as well have been a banner stretched above the main gates—Behold, thy noble deed.
As for the curtain wall, it ran in one ugly but continuous piece, no missing sections, so at least it had been maintained to some extent. But if Bram were a conqueror come to besiege the place, such a wall would not dissuade him.
He had a mere two days to do what he could to help these people. There would be no time or need for damsel rescues. His skills would save many more lives than a single American one. And it wouldn’t matter if they called him my lord or my king, the best he could do for the people of Inverbrae would be to secure the place.
But two days? He would need God’s help to achieve such a miracle, so he sent a quick, plaintive prayer toward the heavens while he waited for the rest of his party to catch up to him.
Attuned to her presence, he heard the shuffle of Sophie’s horse just behind him and to the right. Harris moved up beside him with his wife close behind. The breeze tossed their clothing about while they tried to remain dignified.
“Inverbrae, yer lairdship.”
“And who is lord here?”
“Why, you are, Sir Bram. Your cousin quit the place over two months ago. The citizens anxiously await his replacement, sir. Or do you prefer Lord Ogilvy?”
Sir Bram? Was that yet another joke? “Lord Ogilvy will do.”
His lady wife coughed. Even she thought it a punchline without even knowing the story behind it—that he’d never held a title of any kind. It was obvious she ignored him on purpose, which was for the best. He’d have no time to play patty-fingers with her, after all.