PENETRATE (The Portals of Time Book 1)

by Jackie Ivie

  This was where he’d had his ‘accident’! Been spit out of a time portal. Jettisoned into a new life. And met the love of his. He probably glowed at the recollection. He kept his gaze on the ground while he tempered his heartbeats back to normal.

  “We ready?” Garrick asked at his side.

  “Oh. Sure. Why not?” Neal cleared his throat to speak loudly. “Gentlemen?”

  “I say, Barristers Kingston? Bon? We ready?”

  Garrick called out to the Englishmen. Dogs were set loose, baying almost the instant they started running through the grass, leaving a myriad of trails. Dark spots flew up from the grass before them. Perhaps twenty feet in distance. They rose ten feet. Fifteen. Twenty feet. Neal swung his blunderbuss upward. Fired. Beside him Garrick did the same. Several birds dropped.

  Neal held out the spent rifle without looking. Cedric took it and handed him a loaded weapon. On his left side, Neal felt Garrick and his man doing the same.

  “You aim appears to be much improved, cousin,” Garrick remarked.

  “Yeah. Go figure,” Neal relied.

  “Go...figure?”

  “It’s an expression. It means—”

  Something glinted on the flattened trail of grass before him. Neal’s glance dropped. He focused. It looked like...gold. He knelt to check it out, heard the sound of a rifle blast, followed instantly by a close thud. Then Garrick cried out, but his voice was lost amidst the noise of every gun in the area responding. There was a series of loud bursts that sounded like a Revolutionary War battlefield reenactment. Neal spun and brought his blunderbuss to bear on Garrick. It wouldn’t have mattered. The man was reeling backward, his mouth wide while his hands clasped to his chest, attempting to stop a dark spot that just kept growing in the center of his vest. It was akin to watching a movie in slow motion. Garrick staggered another step. Fell. First to his knees. And then onto his face.

  Cedric was on his knees beside Garrick, rolling him over. Neal could hear each gurgled breath the man took. He moved to crawl toward him, but the bit of gold he’d glimpsed bit into his knee. Neal lifted his leg, scraped mud and grass off the spot, and pulled his signet ring from the mess.

  His spiral signet ring. The one he’d been wearing in the Cessna Citation X when this had all started. He stared at it uncomprehendingly. The ring shouldn’t even exist in this dimension. But it did. And that bit of gold had just saved his life. He tucked it into a vest pocket and lunged toward Garrick.

  “Chest shot,” Cedric said.

  “Yeah. Sounds like lung.” Neal replied.

  “Do na’ so much as twitch.”

  The man sounded deadly serious. Neal stood. Looked about. A haze of smoke now added to the general melee. It was difficult to see anything with clarity. Men loomed out of the dimness as they approached. The Honor Guardsman who’d been watching Garrick’s gamekeeper was the speaker. He had his dragon out and held within an inch or two of Garrick’s man. The fellow dropped the pistol he’d been holding. Neal didn’t need to ask where it had been aimed. He could guess. A man reached them. Another. Dogs were still baying in the distance. The sound of flapping feathers as grouse took wing could be heard if he chose to listen for them.

  He didn’t.

  Neal turned his attention to Garrick, and the man’s fight for air. More men arrived. Cedric stood and started shouting orders that Neal probably should have given. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Everything felt surreal, as if someone else was standing here. Neal was just observing. His every breath was loud in his ears. He had the same issue with each heartbeat. It was difficult to hear over them.

  “Somebody send to the castle for a litter! You, there! Take a horse and ride! And you! Go get the dogs!”

  “What the devil just happened?”

  The barristers arrived. One went to a knee beside Garrick. The other one looked from Neal to his cousin and back. Neal didn’t know which one had spoken or who to address. Cedric answered.

  “’Tis clear. We have a hunting accident on our hands.”

  “A hunting accident?”

  “Aye. Garrick Straith’s been shot.”

  “By who? You?”

  One of the barristers pointed at Neal. Cedric answered again.

  “Na’ him. His weapon has na’ been fired. Here. Check it yourself.”

  Neal probably should be embarrassed. With the exception of the barristers, his was probably the only weapon that hadn’t been fired. Cedric gestured for the blunderbuss. Neal gave it to him. Cedric handed it to Barrister Kingston. The man sniffed the barrel. Handed it back to Cedric.

  “Then who is the shooter?”

  More men arrived, adding hulking masses to the scene. All kinds of shuffling noises. Low-toned words. Garrick was struggling for each breath now. His body arched upward with each effort.

  “He’s suffering shock. We need a blanket.”

  Neal’s voice worked although it sounded like he was chewing gravel. Someone handed him a plaid. Neal bent to place it carefully about Garrick. The fellow looked almost as ashen as his vest. There wasn’t anything anyone could do. Even if this was the twenty-first century, and Garrick had access to the most advanced trauma care, his injury would have been fatal. Neal stood back up.

  “’Tis Lachlan!”

  Someone shouted it from the tree stand, across the field.

  “Lachlan!” Someone else reiterated it.

  “What?”

  A chorus of deep voices asked it. Neal’s head felt pressurized. His ears filled with his own respiration. Heartbeat. And his voice as he added it to the mix.

  “The bastard shot his own brother?”

  “What?” The blend of voices asked again.

  “’Tis a foul morn!”

  “Nae! ’Tis murder! Of the most wicked! Brother against brother!”

  “Murder!”

  “No!”

  Neal yelled it, using his largest voice. Everyone quieted almost instantly. He didn’t have to raise his voice to be heard. He raised it anyway.

  “Listen to me! Everyone. This is not murder. This is a hunting accident.”

  “A hunting accident? Are you daft?” Barrister Kingston asked.

  “Think, men! Who among us wishes to walk into my aunt’s rooms with the news that her eldest son was just murdered by her youngest? Well? Who?”

  Grumbling could be heard from the crowd. A lot of whispers. A cough. Neal went down on a knee beside Garrick. Gestured for Kingston to join him, so both barristers could hear. He bent close to Garrick’s ear.

  “Garrick! Garrick!”

  The man shuddered and then spoke. “Aye?”

  A froth of bloody foam accompanied the word. Neal pulled the handkerchief from his sporran and wiped at Garrick’s lips.

  “Was this murder?”

  “I—”

  More bloody foam spewed from the man’s mouth. Neal sopped at it, too.

  “Do we tell your mother it was murder?” he asked in a loud voice.

  The man jerked. Did it again. And finally answered.

  “No.”

  “Well. There you have it. Barristers Kingston and Bon. What say you? Was this a hunting accident or not?”

  “Where is Lachlan?” someone asked.

  “Uh. We will need a bag or two to fetch him.”

  “What? Why?” Neal asked.

  “He was in the trees, yer grace. The men are verra good shots. The smoke gave away his position...and that means there is na’ much left o’ him.”

  “Oh.”

  Neal didn’t know what else to say. He placed his handkerchief beneath Garrick’s chin and rose to his feet again. Barrister Kingston followed him. Barrister Bon stayed beside Garrick. And then, they all heard the sound of Ainslee, calling his name.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Lady Iliff’s wardrobe had included more than one riding habit. Ainslee had fallen for this one the moment she’d spied it. Crafted of a sapphire blue satin with black velvet piping, it was extraordinarily luxurious for the Hi
ghlands. The satin exactly matched her eyes, according to her maids. Beth, Mira, and even Doreen had voiced the same opinion. The seamstress, Mistress Aggie had let out seams in the back and sides to give Ainslee breathing room, but the jacket was still a tight fit. The skirt had the opposite issue. Beyond voluminous, it was meant to worn with no fewer than eight petticoats and a set of ruffled drawers. Ainslee had opted out of most of that. It was a good choice. The excess width gave her the ability to ride astride without violating too much decorum.

  She hadn’t slept in. She hadn’t known why. Something had awakened her earlier than usual. She’d rung the servant bell. She had a day planned of touring the first floor, checking stores and whatever else was down in the windowless bowels of the original tower. She was the chatelaine of Castle Straith now. She wasn’t looking to Lady Blair for help, nor would she accept any. Ainslee had been debating between a light-blue day-gown and the tan one, neither of which should show much dust, when Beth and Mira had arrived, alert as if it was broad daylight and not pre-dawn.

  That’s when Ainslee learned of the grouse hunt. It was all her maids could speak of. The castle was abuzz with it. The duke could be in danger. Storms filled the sky – an ill omen to be sure. The weather was dire. Danger imminent. The duke didn’t realize the extent of his aunt’s hatred. Or his cousin’s jealousy. Someone needed to do something.

  If the duke perished...?

  Beth hadn’t finished the words. She didn’t need to. But nothing they thought came close to Ainslee’s reaction. Her maids might think they knew what would ensue, but no one could guess the pain that had stabbed nearly through Ainslee at the thought of losing Neal. Her eyes blurred with tears she rapidly blinked from existence. That’s when she’d directed Mira to this riding habit. But everything took too long!

  She was the Duchess of Straithcairn. She stood at the head of a proud, Highland clan. She could no longer ride about the countryside willy-nilly. She had responsibilities. Duties. A position to uphold.

  Ainslee stood in shock as she realized it.

  How had she changed this much?

  In two days?

  She knew what had happened. She’d fallen in love. Completely. Totally. And she wanted him to be proud of her. So, she’d stood and worried, caught up in a personal purgatory of possibilities as her maids helped her don long stockings with bows at the thighs to hold them up. A set of bloomers. Two petticoats. She’d trembled while all the buttons were fastened up her back, but hadn’t betrayed her impatience or anxiety.

  Exactly as a duchess should.

  Ainslee had walked at a sedate pace down the chieftain’s stairs, carrying a cloak over one arm. She crossed the great hall, holding her skirts aloft. Listened to the heels of her riding boots as they clacked on the wooden floor. That seemed to take forever, too.

  As did the walk to the stables.

  One of Neal’s Honor Guardsmen met her at the front stoop. He nodded in greeting as she covered up with her cloak. The guardsman shadowed her all the way to the stables. His presence warmed Ainslee considerably. He stayed five paces behind her as she walked from stall to stall, greeting horses. MacCreary joined her at the second stall. They discussed a potential mount for a morning ride. A groom. The best place for a run. As if she had nothing better to do this morning.

  They’d reached Nightfall’s stall. He’d been brushed and groomed, and accepted her presence with a head toss in her direction. He ignored MacCreary and the guardsman. Just as he ignored the stable hands milling about. She talked over Nightfall’s recovery and how well he looked. Opened the stall to what sounded like a combined inhaled breath from those watching. Greeted the stallion with a rub along his blaze. He whickered in response.

  And then, her façade fell apart.

  Shouts sounded at the stable opening. The sound of thudding hooves came next as a rider arrived. Ainslee stood, listening intently, and that’s when she heard the words that sent her heart to the pit of her belly. The messenger had ridden hard. He spoke through gasps for breath.

  “There’s been...a hunting accident! Send...a litter! Huntsman’s Dale!”

  “A hunting accident?”

  “Hunting accident?”

  Hunting accident.The words kept repeating, accompanying each heartbeat. Ainslee didn’t think. She acted. She grabbed a handful of Nightfall’s mane, pulled him around, and launched off his water trough, straddling the stallion. He was wider than she’d expected. The skirts rode up her ankles with her move. He shook his head, loosening her grip, so she grabbed higher up his head with both hands. Scooted up to whisper toward his ear. He trembled but didn’t otherwise react. It’s all she had to go by.

  “It’s the duke! You must get me to him, my big handsome gaol. You must!”

  Nightfall started moving. Muscles rippled everywhere she touched as he trotted through the stables. Groomsmen jumped out of her way. Ainslee ducked to clear a beam. Another one. She heard MacCreary shouting orders behind her. Assumed he’d get someone up on horseback to accompany her. But Ainslee didn’t care a fig about a groom, or decorum at the moment. All she cared about was reaching Neal.

  The stallion broke into a canter when they cleared the portcullis. Ainslee lost the cloak as a spike grabbed her hood, yanking the cloak from her, as well as loosening some of her braids. She bent closer to Nightfall’s neck, matching to him, so that when the walls opened up she was securely attached. Even as he bucked twice before breaking into a ground-eating gallop.

  Nightfall was amazing. Ainslee had never been so high. Nor moved so swiftly. He also seemed to know where she needed to go. He turned, leapt a section of the wall, and went through high meadow grass as if it were nothing.

  Wind lifted her hair into a veil. Ruffled her skirts along Nightfall’s sides. Lightning crashed in the distance. The rolling boom of thunder accompanied it. The horse surged forward with each one, but didn’t falter otherwise. They leapt a burn, running high with water. Started up a hill, covered in shale. Ainslee clung in place, tightening her thighs as he crested the hill and started sliding the other side, slipping occasionally on loose rock. Raindrops splashed her face, wetting her dress. They cooled. Raised goose bumps. But hampered her vision even more.

  Ainslee narrowed her eyes.

  The standing stones came into view.

  Moments later, Nightfall reached the arrangements of monolithic stones. Passed between them. Crested the next hill. Groups of men were standing in the bottom of the valley. Several more were near the trees. Some were walking between them. And she couldn’t see Neal.

  “Dear God! Not Neal. Please, God. Not Neal. Please? Please?”

  The litany didn’t stop. She kept repeating the prayer in time with Nightfall’s strides.

  “Please, God? Not Neal! Please?”

  Someone saw her. Shouted. Pointed. Nightfall bore down on them at full speed. Hooves thudding. Chunks of turf flying. She clung to him. Her hair was a loose mass that streamed behind her. It blended with Nightfall, and gave the horse the appearance of wings. The skirts of her dark habit rippled in waves along the stallion’s sides. She looked like a banshee.

  And none of that mattered.

  She started calling for him.

  “Neal! Neal!”

  One of the men waved. Another. Nightfall sped past anyone walking, bore down on the group. The stallion stopped just shy of blasting through the gathering. Without one hint of instruction from her. He stood there, sides heaving, breath fogging the air before his nose. Ainslee slid from his side. Stumbled.

  But she couldn’t see him!

  Ainslee scanned faces with rising anxiety. Most of the men were wide-eyed and slack-jawed with astonishment at her arrival. She didn’t care. She couldn’t spot Neal.

  “Ne-al!”

  She tried to shout it, but the name came out sobbed. Broken with fear. The gathering started moving back, parting for her. And in the midst of them she saw him.

  Alive.

  “Neal!”

  Her cry carried relief
. Absolute joy. He stood with his mouth also open at her appearance. Nothing had ever looked so wondrous. Ainslee didn’t know how she got there, but a moment later she was in his arms. Wrapped within them, and then lifted off the ground.

  And that’s when she burst into tears.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The day fulfilled its promise. The storm broke as the cart arrived. Everyone carried extra plaids in their packs. Ainslee sat atop Dragonbreath wrapped in one. She was completely covered. Impossible to verify identity.

  Her presence still affected him.

  Neal caught himself glancing more than once up to the lone figure sitting atop the large stallion. Dragonbreath was an impressive horse. He was eclipsed by the dark stallion that stood beside him. It was unbelievable that she’d ridden Nightfall. Even more so, since she’d done it without a saddle, reins, or even the bit thing in its mouth. Nightfall still hovered next to Ainslee as if she held an invisible rope connecting them. Neal hadn’t been the only one stunned as the big horse had borne down on them, and stopped dead. He’d been so amazed his voice hadn’t worked to answer her.

  He shook his head, spraying droplets. Swiped at his brow. There was no longer any rush to their movements, although they’d all be glad to reach shelter. There was nothing anyone could do. Garrick had breathed his last. The men were all solemn as Garrick’s body was draped across his saddle. The gamekeeper he’d had with him was trussed up and draped across another horse. He’d probably still be proclaiming innocence except for the gag Cedric had used on him. What remained of Lachlan rested in the cart, covered with at least two plaids.

  Neal approached Dragonbreath and eyed him for a moment. Ainslee caught his glance before shifting closer to the horse’s neck, giving Neal room. Nobody appeared to be looking. He’d just have to mount by himself. Neal gathered the reins in his left hand before holding to the pommel, stuck his left foot in the stirrup, and heaved up and into the saddle. He was fairly pleased with himself, too, except for the puddle of plaid material between his legs. That took a moment or two to adjust before he was situated.