by Ruby Duvall
Rossalyn nearly cried with relief when he released her and took the knife away from her throat. Pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders, she reached up and delicately touched the tiny nick in the side of her neck. The little wound stung terribly. A fast-moving cloud revealed the moon for a few seconds, splashing the area with pale light. She looked over her shoulder at Craig.
When she had first encountered the MacGregor a few months ago, she had been alone outside the village, trying to snare a rabbit to prove to a rival that she could do it herself. The fright that had thrummed through her at the sight of a handsome but dangerous stranger became an instant obsession. Both of them had been curious about the other and by the time she had returned to the village much later that day, she was not only carrying a freshly killed rabbit but had also lain beneath the forbidden MacGregor. She grew to crave the danger of associating with him the way some men crave the taste of ale. For a time, their secret meetings brought a strange fulfillment to her life.
It seemed, though, that both of them were simply using each other.
Craig frowned at her. “Why do ye stare? Do ye think I’ll beg forgiveness?” He snorted. “What could a whore really expect, other than the usual?” His hand shot out and he grabbed her arm hard enough to bruise. She gasped, instinctively pulling away, but he dragged her toward a low boulder jutting out of the hillside. Shoving her in front of him, he grabbed the back of her head with one hand and bent her over the rock. Her palms smacked against the rock’s cold surface, stopping her body before her head could smash into the boulder.
The MacGregor then flipped up her skirt. The bottom of her stomach dropped out and she tried to look back over her shoulder at him. He gripped the back of her neck and kicked her feet farther apart. “This is going to hurt,” he warned with a smile.
Chapter Fifteen
Emma woke with a vague sense of déjà vu. The same aches and pains from her first morning in the forest were ghostly echoes throughout her body. She opened her eyes, taking a few moments to enjoy being alive. With each breath, the pressure inside her chest eased more and more, until at last she felt as though she had woken from a good night’s sleep.
The low brightness of the fire, the dark outline of the door and the hush of nature outside told her that it was nearing dawn. Any second, bird calls would usher in the new day. The lull was rather peaceful.
The taste in her mouth was awful though and her throat felt like she had tried to swallow sandpaper. She turned her head and found Iain sitting on a stool next to her. He lay half on the bed, his arms pillowing his head, and the tips of his left fingers were touching the side of her hand. He was asleep. She was very tempted to reach up and touch his face, to pull her fingers across the stubble on his cheek but she didn’t want to wake him.
Emma sat up slowly, still wary of injuries but she felt no pain. Pushing aside the woolen blanket, she discovered that she wore only her smock and looked beyond the foot of the bed to find her kirtle folded on the trunk. Cocking her head, she saw her shoes placed neatly on the ground nearby.
Careful not to jostle Iain, she scooted down the bed, slid her feet into her shoes and then tiptoed to fetch her kirtle. She shivered as she pulled the yellow dress over her head. The fire would need to be fed soon. Sneaking over to the table, she glanced back at Iain to make sure he was still asleep and gratefully poured a cup of water from the full jug sitting alone in the center of the table. The only other plate sitting out held half a loaf of bread.
She reached for the bread after swallowing some water and tore off a sizeable chunk. It went down well but the taste in her mouth was still terrible. She wished she had some toothpaste. The next best thing was a breath mint, so she finished her water, went back to the trunk and retrieved her bag. After chewing up a couple of mints, she closed her purse and placed it back inside the trunk, closing the lid gently.
She then sidled around the foot of the bed and sat down. Iain was still asleep but frowning. Watching him, she reached up and touched her necklace, carefully checking the hook and eye clasp that she was so sure had broken yesterday. She was tempted to open the locket and check the note inside but she didn’t want to see those frightening eyes again and couldn’t bring herself to do it.
All she wanted was to be normal again—or at least be as normal as possible—but in only a second, Rossalyn had shattered Emma’s fragile illusion that she might have a life with Iain. The locket was keeping her alive but what kind of life would it be? Would she be able to grow old with Iain? To give him the family he wanted? Would she ever be able to take the damn thing off? None of the locket’s clues had mentioned any specifics.
Her first question couldn’t be answered easily—only time would tell. As for her second question, there was no easy way to know if she could ever have children. She hadn’t even given motherhood much thought before meeting Iain. The thought of it now was enough to flush her cheeks. As to whether she would someday be free of the locket, she had little hope.
Iain woke with a start and lifted his head with a deep breath. He first noticed the empty space in front of him but then found her farther down the bed. His deep voice was husky from sleeping. “There ye are.” He pushed himself to his feet and, in only a step, he turned to sit next to her. “Ye should be resting.”
“No, I—” She cleared her throat, looking away from his concerned expression to stare at her lap. “I think I’ve slept enough.”
He said nothing more, didn’t even move and Emma realized with a tired sort of dread that he was preparing to say something important, that the time had come to tell him the truth.
She had always wanted to tell him, she never doubted that but what she feared was his reaction. The tension began building, growing more agitating as the silence stretched out. Her hands began to fidget but she couldn’t bring herself to speak first.
“Emma—” Iain hesitated. She looked up and something in his eyes pulled at her, something ardent. “I deserve some answers. I had been so certain that ye were simply lost or abandoned when ye came to us but yesterday… Ye almost died. Ye should have died but ye didna. How is that possible?”
She nodded with resignation, tired of dodging his questions, of the guilt she felt. Keeping him in the dark about something as important as where she came from was cruel. Would she be able to trust someone who wouldn’t talk about his past? Perhaps that was why he wouldn’t kiss her.
Emma took a deep breath.
“I’m neither Scottish nor English and I was not born on the continent. Far across the ocean to the west is,” she paused to find the right word, “another land mass—two continents, actually. The northern one is where I was born but not for another several hundred years.”
As the words came out, Iain’s gaze grew incredibly intense and she found it difficult to maintain eye contact. He didn’t move except to breathe, though she could see his breaths coming faster. The muscles in his face were tight, his lips slightly ajar.
“Aili told me that it’s the year one thousand three hundred and fifty-one but I was born in the year one thousand nine hundred and eighty. On Friday, October 27, 2000, I was in an accident. I was wearing this locket.” She touched the book suspended from her neck. “And when I woke up, I was here in Scotland. I don’t know who brought me here or why. All I know is what the note inside the locket said.”
She recited the poem she had read under the tree by the stream but she didn’t like the way Iain’s expression gradually changed the longer she spoke. His eyebrows slowly pinched together but rather than widening, his eyes became narrower. Her words sped up as she tried to convince him that she was telling him the truth.
“That first night when we ate dinner, Kenneth called you a stag. The blackened arrows are The Black Death, which killed your mother, your sister and…and your lover. The locket wanted me to find you—”
Iain stood up abruptly, shaking his head. Her eyes stung with salty tears but a deep breath kept them at bay for a few seconds more. It was as clear
as day that he was rejecting her story. Iain wasn’t like Kenneth or Aili, who had both much more easily accepted that there was something unnatural—or at least unusual—about her. Iain, though, was hopelessly cynical.
“Such things are merely stories for children. They’re nae real.” He began to back up.
She stood, calling his name and stepping toward him but he only backed away faster. A painful sob became lodged at the top of her throat but she swallowed it down.
“Why me? Tell me why the locket chose me,” he said, stopping at the table on the other side of the room.
“I-I don’t know why. I already told you.” She took small, slow steps toward him, her hands wringing.
“Then why do ye think it chose me?” he yelled.
His shouting elicited two hot tears that rolled down her cheeks. “I think we are meant to be together,” she said. “We’re a perfect pair.”
“A perfect pair? Ye call this perfect?” he said. “Ye keep secrets and dinna trust me to keep them. Always ye elude my questions!” His head tossed from side to side, as though he were wrestling for control. Her chest ached at the pain on his face. He took a breath, looking at the fire rather than at her, though he didn’t look any calmer. His jaw was tight. “Ye must be a MacGregor, playing some cruel game.”
“I’m not!” she insisted, stepping even closer “My family name is Campbell.” His eyes widened at her admission. “My father’s side was Scottish and my mother’s family was German and Irish. My ancestors had been living in America for over a hundred years when I died.”
His pointed gaze swung to her. “Ye speak Gaelic but yesterday ye spoke some kind of English. I’ve heard it spoken before. I know what it sounds like. Are ye some Englishman’s coddled daughter, run away from her idle, useless life?”
She reared back, feeling as though she had just been stabbed. The barb stung terribly but she pressed on.
“The locket is translating. I speak English because America was an English colony before it became independent.” She closed the distance between them, fisting her hands in his warm, rough tunic. Iain shifted as though uncomfortable with the contact, which hurt even more. “Iain, please! Did you think I was faking yesterday morning? That my pain and blood weren’t real? The locket is the only thing keeping me alive! You know I’m a terrible liar. Do you think I’m lying now?”
Iain’s face scrunched up and his wide mouth turned down into a deep frown. Lines appeared between his eyes as his hands compulsively grasped her elbows. She pressed close, fitting the length of her body against his.
“No,” he finally admitted. “I dinna believe ye’re lying.”
Relief made her tears come even faster and she silently berated herself for acting so weak. Needing comfort from Iain like she needed air, she rose up on tiptoe, sliding her body up against his. She wanted his arms around her so badly.
“Iain, please…”
She tugged on his tunic to pull him closer and slid her arms around his neck. Her eyelids drooped. Bringing her lips within a hand’s breadth of his, as close as she could stretch, she sighed when his hands cupped the backs of her shoulders.
“Iain,” she breathed. He leaned down. She could feel his breath against her mouth and nearly groaned.
“But I do believe ye’re mad,” he whispered. His hands slid up to pull her arms from him. Her eyes blinked open. He set her away from him, his expression very severe. Her vision shimmered and for a split second, she thought she was going to faint. A soft sound of disbelief left her throat.
Without looking back, Iain walked to the door and lifted the bar. She couldn’t let him leave though, not this time. “No, Iain, don’t—”
“Leave me be, woman!” he snapped, slamming the door shut behind him.
Emma stumbled to the table and shakily sat down on the bench. She closed her eyes, pressing her hands against the throbbing ache in her chest.
—
Iain’s stomach roiled as he stood at the edge of a paddock with Kenneth and watched the farmhands and dogs herd the sheep into another paddock with fresher grass. He hadn’t eaten yet, but it wasn’t hunger that pained him. Rather, he felt almost nauseous.
He had always prided himself on his honesty, loyalty and sincerity, though Kenneth would instead call him blunt, stubborn and suspicious. With Emma’s arrival, though, he could no longer believe himself to have any of the qualities he esteemed. He had lied to Rossalyn about Emma and had let Kenneth lie to the laird about her, both fellow clansmen to whom he owed his loyalty, fellow clansmen whom he had betrayed. Emma was an outsider, of that he was certain, and he had far too readily sided with her rather than his own people.
Even so, she had pleaded with him so sincerely that morning, begging him to believe her outlandish story. Moreover, her story had done well to explain some of the many strange things he had noticed about her. Her strange possessions were from a time that he wouldn’t fully understand—a country and a culture different from the one he knew. She hadn’t hesitated to explain her language or her heritage, yet she hadn’t been able to explain much else.
The reason for his nausea, though, was how badly he wanted to believe her, to throw away his loyalties despite all his misgivings. When she had pressed herself against him, her warm breath laced with mint, her lips flushed from her worried bites and her cheeks wet with tears, he had almost covered her lips with his, almost slid his tongue inside to taste her, almost plunged his hand into her hair to hold her still as he pillaged her mouth.
Yet, how could her story be true? She was either a liar or a madwoman but she seemed like neither. He frowned as his thoughts went around and around in circles, his frustration only building when no epiphanies came to him.
“Ye didna break your fast with us this morning,” Kenneth said, breaking into his thoughts. “I’ve never seen Emma so sad.” Saying nothing, Iain looked askance at his friend. The redhead was standing at ease with his arms crossed, watching the flock. “I tried to talk to her,” Kenneth continued, “but she didna answer. She could barely smile for Beth’s sake.” Iain looked across the paddock as the boys went after straggling sheep. “Aili talked with me though.”
“’Tis always Aili,” Iain ground out.
“My God, Iain.” Kenneth laughed lightly. “I already ken that ye’re a little hardhearted but never did I think ye were slow.” Iain turned to his brother-in-law with surprise. “I told ye that story of the fairy kiss only to caution ye. Those legends of the good folk and their like are meant to teach morals. They’re nae to be taken as truths.”
Iain was confused. “Then—then ye…”
“Do ye nae ken what lust does to men and indeed to women as well? Rossalyn knows how to use lust against the men of the village and in the story yer uncle once told me, the fairy finds a man well steeped in drink, seduces him and then robs him after he passes out. The first night she was with us, I worried that Emma was another Rossalyn.”
“Ye never believed that Emma was one of the good folk?” Iain asked.
Kenneth shook his head, his smile fading. “Not until yesterday.” Iain was about to interrupt but Kenneth held up his hand. “Ye saw as well as I did what powers that charm has. That blood was real. I dinna know what was said this morning but I do know that it is killing her.”
Iain frowned, his gaze sliding down to the ground as he recalled her tear-stained face for the hundredth time. “I asked her where she is from.”
Kenneth abruptly stepped forward, the toes of his leather shoes entering Iain’s vision. “And?” he asked with hushed excitement.
Recounting the story Emma had told him hours ago, Iain found it difficult to repeat some of the extraordinary things she had told him—that she was reborn in a new time and place, living only with the protection of a mysterious charm and guided by a strange rhyme.
Kenneth was quiet for a long moment and Iain eventually glanced up at his friend. The redhead’s expression looked almost frozen, eyebrows arched high on his forehead. “Ye believe her daft
, I take it,” Kenneth surmised.
“She spoke with honesty and without hesitating. If she isna lying, what else would be the reason for such a story?”
Kenneth made a thoughtful noise. “If she were truly mad, why did she hide this story? Why didna she offer it at once? The mad dinna try to hide their madness because…well, because they’re mad. If her story was true and it was me in her place, I would do aught to bury the truth. Anyone who knew would think my brain had curdled.”
The epiphany that Iain had been waiting for finally hit him. Emma’s many vague comments came rushing back. Her “ah-muh-let”, her unfamiliar jargon, the contents of her strange bag. All were little pieces that now fit into a complete whole.
“Will yer past come looking for ye?”
“I’m dead to them.”
“What is a woman with only twenty years doing in the middle of the Highlands with no kin or a home to call her own?”
“You’ll think I’m insane. You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Is that James?” Kenneth said, once again interrupting his thoughts. Iain looked over his shoulder at the path. Emerging from the trees on a horse was indeed the laird’s constable, followed by four men who surrounded a fifth.
“And the laird,” Iain said with surprise.
—
With her nose and mouth covered with her kerchief, Emma vigorously stretched and folded some fresh bread dough in a wide-mouthed bowl, her lips twisted into an angry frown. She stood at the end of the table near the door since the light was better and Aili sat with her back to the fire as she cut up leeks for the day’s pottage.
“Could it be Iain’s face ye’re imagining right now, dearie?” Aili asked.
“Rossalyn’s, actually,” she admitted as she mashed the sticky goop back together. She then gently dented the fluffy top to test it. It was ready, so she began forming the dough into a ball, stretching the sides down and under and pinching the folds together.