Toren pushed her chin up with his finger until their eyes met. “A spirited clever lass comes up with a plausible lie when a queen shoots daggers from her eyes.”
Was he trying to cheer her up? Kat pulled her chin out of his fingers.
“I will have to call ye Kat the Pirate.”
“Better than Lady Wednesday.” Kat huffed and looked down the empty hall. “Are you really taking me to your sister?”
Toren’s smile faded and he grunted. “Not many other places to put a lady without quarters. I’d rather keep ye in mine, but that would ruin ye.”
“And what were you doing, giving her the necklace? You know Drakkina will come for it soon.”
Toren frowned. “I had no choice. I was holding a small fortune in jewels when the witch took me the first time five years ago. With my disappearance with the gift, my family suffered and died out as far as I could tell from the old records.”
“You looked up your family records in my century.” This was crazy, but the granite walls beneath her fingers felt very real.
“Aye, in Scotland. I went to where Castle MacCallum once stood. It was rubble.”
Kat placed her hand back on his arm. “You were in my time five years?”
He looked down the hall. “I’ll get the necklace back. Until then, we behave naturally.”
“Naturally? In the sixteenth-century? In Queen Elizabeth the First’s court? Ha!” Kat glanced around. The rock wall she leaned against poked through the damp jacket around her shoulders. The cold ached up through bare feet on the rock floor. The smell of oil burning in the lamps around them tickled her nose. This was as real as it got. “And I’m not going to wake up, am I?” she whispered.
Toren looked back to her. “Rocks yer world, doesn’t it.” The modern phrase sounded odd coming from him even though he was dressed like a drenched twentieth-century man. There had been so many little clues that he wasn’t from her world, but she’d had such limited time to notice them.
“Picked up some of our slang during your five years,” she murmured.
“A warrior absorbs everything about his environment if he wants to survive.” His gaze scanned the length of the corridor.
The sound of footsteps made Toren propel her down the stone hall. Kat had long legs, but still trotted to keep up. He had her elbow and she wasn’t about to let the stubborn man drag her. After more turns than Kat could count, Toren stopped before a heavy oak door that appeared to be just like all the other doors in the hall.
“How do you keep track of where your room is without numbers on the doors?”
“One must be more observant in this time. The sixteenth-century doesn’t have commercials yelling at ye nor signs in red telling ye what to do and what not to do.”
Was that an insult? Kat felt the need to defend her century leap up. “Perhaps another reason for the low life expectancy in your century,” she quipped.
Toren gave a slight grunt in response as he maneuvered her through the door.
The room was large and cold. The fire had burned down in the fireplace.
“This is your sister’s room?” Kat asked, running her hand along the rough stone wall and onto a colorful tapestry that she studied. Toren grunted a reply that she assumed was a “yes” or an “aye” as he started the kindling under the coals in the hearth.
Kat’s fingertip traced the colorful threads in the tapestry, relishing the fact that it didn’t stand behind glass and no guards were there to ask her to step away. She leaned into it, smelling the dyed wool. She leaned outward to study the scene that dripped with authentic historical accuracy. “Lovely,” Kat breathed and stepped to the small, raised bed. Her fingers walked along the soft curtains flanking it. “Although I don’t think your sister will want to share such a small bed with me.”
“Ye will sleep with me.” Toren glanced out the window.
“Uh, I believe that would ruin me,” Kat said mimicking his words from before as she tried to ignore the sudden thumping run of her heart. Her gaze roamed down the damp slacks that hugged Toren’s gorgeous butt.
“Ye will be safer there.”
Safer? Kat wasn’t so sure of that. “But your sister?”
“Brianag will say as I bid her to say.” A hint of disgust edged his words. “One thing we MacCallums are is obedient. All the way to our demise.”
“But what will she think of me?” Back in the sixteenth-century, that sin hit right up there with murder for a woman.
“As much as I admire Wednesday’s undergarments, it is time for ye to dress.” He ignored her worry.
“About the Wednesday thing,” she started, and stopped when Toren opened the wardrobe containing his sister’s gowns. All thoughts of her near naked and exposed self fled as Kat leaped toward the authentic court costumes. “Holy Mother of Jesus,” rushed out of her as she made the sign of the cross before her chest. “Look at these gowns.” She whirled to Toren, pure excitement shone in her eyes. “What I wouldn’t give to wear one.”
His frown faded, replaced by a thoughtful grin. “What exactly would ye give me to divest my sister of one or two of her ensembles?” His low voice tickled shivers along Kat’s skin.
The blush that always stood ready flooded her. She threw her magic naturally into her skin to shield it.
Toren’s hand moved to her left cheek. “She dances through a ballroom in nothing more than scraps of cloth and doesn’t blush. But a few words…”
“Oooo!” She pivoted back to the wardrobe. “I was invisible then.”
“Not to me,” he reminded, and Kat could feel his hand as it skimmed the length of her wild curling hair.
Was that his breath she felt? Kat took a shallow inhale that hitched in time with her heartbeat. Adrenaline rushed as if the most wonderful thing was about to happen.
“It’s not fair that you can see through my magic,” she murmured, and ran a hand down a velvet cloak.
Toren stepped back. “I won’t apologize for being able to see through the tricks of a woman.” Toren’s cold tone sucked away the warmth Kat felt.
Her fingers bit into the soft material. She took a full breath and forced her attention on the glorious fabrics. Slender fingers paused on a deep blue. She pressed the neighboring gown back to look down the length. It was velvet and looked warm.
“Perhaps this one?” she asked, and drew it out. “Would she mind if I borrowed it?”
“Ye are a thief, yet ye worry about someone’s feelings over taking a gown?”
Kat turned, her gaze slicing through him. “Robin Hood lived a couple hundred years before now. Rob from the rich and give to the poor.”
Toren still looked skeptical.
“Perhaps he wasn’t romanticized until my century. Anyway, he was justified and therefore not a thief and neither am I. And yes, I’d worry about your sister recognizing her dress and accusing me of stealing.”
“I will speak with her.” He stepped away. “Pick one or two more. I will have ye fitted for a wardrobe tomorrow.”
A wardrobe? “Just how long do you think we will be here?”
“Ye may leave as soon as the crone shows up. I plan to stay here. This is my time, my life.”
Fine, then! I’ll leave you here, Kat thought and spun back to the court costumes. Why then did his words twist in her stomach?
The door latch rattled.
“Where are you going?” Kat’s heart jumped at the thought of being alone in this time where court was much more intriguing when viewed at a safe distance across a page of history text. How many people had she read about just disappearing? And how in Holy Mary’s name would she be able to dress by herself? Might as well have him dress her. “How will I get this gown on?”
Toren glanced back over his shoulder, eyes raking her nearly nude body. “I think I would just hinder yer efforts, milady.”
Kat felt a blush. She automatically threw up a shield to hide it. She frowned.
“I’ll find my sister and send her to help ye.”
&
nbsp; His sister? “What…what do I tell her?”
“Ye’re quite good at hiding, lass,” he said, his voice neutral now. “Go with the pirate tale ye started with Elizabeth.”
“Right.” Kat’s mind whirled. What exactly had she said? She had been in shock. “Pirate tale,” she murmured, as the door shut soundly behind Toren.
****
“A second claim, Laird MacCallum,” Elizabeth drawled. “Any other women tucked away, panting for the chance to wed with you?” Elizabeth reclined before a well stoked fire. It didn’t bode well for Toren that she was calling him by his formal title.
“Since I wasn’t aware of the first claim, I am unable to say for certainty, Yer Majesty.”
She stared at him for a moment and tapped a slender finger against ruby lips. She chuckled and pushed upright. She looked to her trusted advisor, Lord Cecil. “I will deal with this matter myself as it is a delicate situation needing the heart of a woman. I trust that you can enact my orders from earlier today regarding our fleet. I believe Spain is planning something. It’s a woman’s intuition perhaps.” She flipped her hand in the air. “Or a king’s intuition. Both have served me well.”
“Your Majesty,” William Cecil murmured, and bowed. Several guards followed him out of the double oak doors leaving only two lady attendants and two male servants.
“Come closer, laird. Let me take a closer look at why these ladies fawn over you. It can’t all be from that devilish Highland brogue.”
Toren strode to the foot of her throne, close enough so that she had to tilt her head to see his face, but not so close as to seem looming. At least he hoped not. Patience, control, he needed both.
Elizabeth would not respond well to intimidation or threats. She was a fair and just monarch except when she felt cornered or bullied. Then she could turn ruthless, very much like her father.
“May I ask,” Toren said slowly, his flirtatious eyes finding hers. “Who is the other lady who has petitioned for my hand in marriage?”
Elizabeth’s brow rose. “You have no idea?”
“Nay, Yer Majesty. I was unaware of any other interest.”
A small frown creased her brow. “Do you lose track of those women you’ve bedded then?”
“Nay, Yer Majesty. I believe my duties to family have left me rather virtuous and chaste these days.”
“Ha, I smell a lie.” She smiled. “A man like you does not stay chaste for long.” Her smile turned bitter. “Lady Margaret Maxwell has brought evidence of your seduction.”
Lady Margaret Maxwell, the little mouse who skittered away every time he entered a room? “And what evidence could she possibly have since she has never been alone with me, Yer Majesty?”
“Her father said that you would deny stealing her virtue.”
“Her father.” That explained it all. Hughe Maxwell would use his only daughter for gain. “When did this supposed thievery occur?”
“Six years ago.”
Toren tried not to laugh. Six years ago, when he’d last been forced to attend the Maxwell’s low country Christmastide feasts with his family.
“And why would her father petition now for me to marry his daughter?”
“It seems she can no longer care for your child without your assistance.”
The words, spilled so casually, struck hard against Toren’s gut. Child? There was a child in that hell hole, being raised by the devil’s daughter.
“My child.” He repeated her words.
“Do you deny that the child is yours?”
“Do I deny the child?” Toren couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice. Trying to maintain his temper, he whispered deeply. “I doona ken the existence of a child, especially from my seed. I maintain that I have never compromised Lady Margaret. In fact I doona believe we have ever even shared but a few words.”
“I understand that the act of creation does not require the sharing of words,” Elizabeth said.
Toren frowned. “I haven’t shared anything with Hughe Maxwell’s daughter.”
“Ah, so we have your word against Maxwell’s.”
“A son or a daughter?”
“A daughter. A bit over five years old now.”
“And why can she not raise the child without me?”
“Apparently her father feels the child is touched by the devil and that if you take the sacrament of marriage with his daughter, the devil’s mark will go away. He’s giving his daughter one year to marry someone, preferably you, or else he will send them both from his home.”
“Devil’s mark?”
“Some sort of defect on the face, very red. I’ve seen it, quite unsightly. Unfortunately people like to label anything unusual as the devil’s work.”
Toren thought for a moment as he stared at the flames in the fire. “So I am the one to marry her and make everything proper and blessed.”
“Aye, the father of her child and the one who put her in this predicament.”
Toren chuckled deeply and cursed in Gaelic.
Elizabeth tisked. “You will do well to remember that I understand some of your language.”
“Forgive me, Yer Majesty, but I lose patience with the situation.”
“So you still deny that you had relations with Lady Maxwell.”
“Vehemently.”
“Well, we have a problem then.” Elizabeth indicated a chair before the fire. Toren sat down and she touched his arm. “I did not think you were such a lecher as to deflower a woman of stature and leave her encumbered, Toren.”
Toren relaxed as Elizabeth’s anger abated. But his worry for the child ached.
Elizabeth continued. “However, like I said, it is Maxwell’s word against yours and he’s been quite vocal about it, parading the child around.”
“Ye say Maxwell. What does Lady Margaret say about all this?”
“Not much. She’s…rather timid.”
Toren snorted. “And does she seem the type of lass I’d pursue?”
Elizabeth smiled and squinted, inspecting him, weighing his seduction tastes. “Nay,” she drawled out. “I do believe you would hunt down a little more headstrong prey.”
Toren nodded. He won that small battle and had Elizabeth thinking. But his mind quickly drifted back to his own upbringing in that house. His father sent him to live in the Maxwell’s Lowland Scottish barony as a lad of ten to learn culture and English etiquette in a more sophisticated household. Highlanders were required to send a son for mentoring. His father said it was to soften their hearts to the crown, but he had little choice. What Toren had learned instead was the world was a cold, lonely place where tragedy and blame could occur at any moment.
“If I do not marry her, what will happen to the child?”
“Exactly my thought.” Elizabeth glanced over at Toren. “You do not concern yourself with the lady’s welfare?”
Toren swore again in Gaelic. “She survived as her father’s daughter all these years. She is meek and respectful and has a lovely face without blemish. I believe the child is in jeopardy.”
Elizabeth watched the flames, suddenly melancholy. “ ‘Twould seem the plight of many children. ‘Tis the way of this world.” After a moment she seemed to shake herself mentally, then motioned to one of the attendants to bring forth a chess board with ivory and ebony pieces. Elizabeth moved her ivory pawn. “So then, tell me of your Lady Wednesday.”
“Di-Ciadaoin,” Toren corrected and moved his pawn out onto the board.
“Tis not a real name.”
Toren didn’t say anything but moved his knight to capture the queen’s pawn.
“Aggressive advancement can feel victorious,” she said. “But can prove foolish in the end.” Elizabeth moved her bishop into a threatening position against the daring knight.
“I find that it is often best to make the first move. I’d rather attack than be stalked.”
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and took a sip of wine. “That mouse that nearly fainted before me hardly looks like one you wou
ld attack.”
Toren moved his knight out of harm’s way by taking another of the queen’s pawns. “Looks can be deceiving,” he said, a smile in his voice.
The queen waved to another servant who brought Toren a goblet of wine. Then she casually stole his damaging knight with her queen.
“Errant knights should be wary of ivory queens,” she said, eyes glinting dangerously.
Toren leaned back in his chair and drank the mellow wine. He breathed deeply. Their conversation was every bit the chess game in front of them.
The queen had all the power and she could smell a lie as surely as she could steal his pieces. She practiced the art every day, all day. As a child she learned to use her wits and play the world’s game in order to survive. And now that she had the vast power to conquer any whom she saw as an enemy, she used those wits as any warrior would use his sword. Aye, she could smell a lie.
“She has no real name, no family. She is orphaned,” Toren supplied.
Elizabeth nodded and leaned back in her chair, moving a pawn to a vulnerable position. A gift? Toren took it.
“And you will rescue her,” she said.
Toren looked at her blankly.
The queen nodded. “Like you will rescue the child even though she isn’t of your blood. Like you rescued your brother from your father’s wrath.”
Toren raised an eyebrow.
“Of course I know of this. My counselors keep me abreast of all who enter my court.” She took a drink and moved her queen back into a non-threatening position. “I know that he planned to banish the lad from your clan because he refused the match he’d set.” The fire crackled, sending sparks up into the dark hearth. Toren watched the bits of fire stars dissolve into the darkness. “And that you challenged your father over his threat.”
Toren didn’t say anything, but moved a pawn forward where it would be trapped. His queen was now vulnerable to Elizabeth’s bishop.
Elizabeth watched the foolish move. “You would rather lose the game and end our conversation than discuss family matters.” She nodded. “I’m much the same.” Instead of stealing his queen, she moved her bishop and took another pawn.
“Will ye try to stop me from wedding Kat?” He didn’t really plan to marry Kat, but his proposed wedding to Kat gave him an excuse not to wed Margaret. And the idea of courting the beauty from the twenty-first century warmed his blood.
Masquerade (The Dragonfly Chronicles Book 3) Page 7