by Bess McBride
“Please accept my apologies, lass. My sister’s tongue is sharp, but she is no always such a shrew. Something fashes her, and I will speak to her later.”
“Well, she seems alternately worried about you locking me in without food or drink,” I said in a dry tone, “and thinking I’m a spy for the English now, forget the Macleods. Which would be worse in your world? Spying for the English or the Macleods?”
“Both are no to be tolerated in these parts,” John said, his voice just as dry as mine.
“Then you’d better come up with a better story for my appearance, because I don’t really want to be hanged as a spy.”
“Hanged?” he said with a somber shake of his head. “Ye are fortunate that I have the custody of ye, lass. Had my father still been alive, hanging would have been an act of kindness that he would no have offered ye. Ye are right though. My sister saw through my attempt to lie. I must devise some other sort of explanation for yer arrival and presence. Come. Let us think on it while we eat some of Mary’s fine stew.”
Chapter Four
I joined John at the table, and while we ate, we theorized on an explanation for my presence. I learned some things about sixteenth-century Scotland from John in the next hour—that trials for witchcraft were alive and well, and burning was the favorite form of dealing with witches...after a wee bit of torture.
The food, some sort of delicious hot vegetable stew and brown bread, sat hard in my stomach, and I found myself swallowing repeatedly long after I had taken the last bite.
“Ye look fair green, lass. Perhaps we should no have discussed these matters while ye ate. I am no fond of the pain men inflict upon witches to produce a confession, but it is done. How are witches made to confess in yer time?”
I swallowed several more times. But my mouth was dry. I reached for a cup of ale and gulped half of it down before answering. John had seemed largely reasonable, even acknowledging the possibility of time travel with aplomb. Here, we diverged.
“We don’t make witches confess anymore, John, by torture or any other means. The last trial for witchcraft was in Virginia in 1706. Although we do have people who claim to be witches, there is no proof that they have special powers, so we generally leave them alone...unless they break the law by engaging in some of the darker aspects of witchcraft, like sacrifice.”
John, focused on my words, stopped eating and leaned his elbows on the table to study me. My face flamed at his intent gaze, and I dropped my eyes to my plate.
“But surely ye have failed crops, pestilence, disease, unnatural deaths, no? Do ye mean to say that folk dinna blame witches for such?”
I looked up and eyed John warily. Where was this going? I shook my head.
“No, they don’t, at least not in my country. I’m sure they still do in some more superstitious cultures. Failed crops, pestilence, disease and unnatural deaths all have very practical explanations, thanks to science.” I paused. “John, you don’t believe that I’m a witch, do you?”
Without answering, John dropped his eyes and reached for his spoon to dip into his stew. The knot in my stomach grew harder still.
“John?” I asked again.
Finally, he looked up and gave a slight shake of his head, but his words did not reassure me.
“I dinna ken whether ye are or no. Ye say that ye traveled through time and that ye used my dagger to do such. Is that no witchcraft?”
Oh, dear...
“No?” I offered with a helpless shrug of my shoulders. Of course, he would think it was.
“It is most unnatural,” he said. “I do believe ye come from another time, lass. Yer manner of dress, of speech, yer mannerisms would all suggest so. But ye must admit that some sort of spell must have been cast to make it so, either by ye or someone else.” He set his spoon down, reached behind him around his waist and retrieved the dagger that I longed to grab. “And this, ye claim, is the talisman that sent ye through time?”
“Yes, though I wouldn’t call it a talisman. It’s just a dagger.”
John studied the dirk before returning it to its hiding place behind his back. I had thought for a moment he was going to offer it to me to see how it worked. I would have been delighted to show him.
“So am I a witch or a spy?” My feeble attempt at humor did nothing but frighten me even worse than I already was.
John’s mouth curved into a smile.
“Aye, we have yet to devise a plausible story to explain yer presence here. Neither witch nor spy will do.” He pushed his plate away, seemingly finished.
“And ye vow ye are neither?”
“I vow,” I said, with the random thought that I had never actually said those words in my life.
I tried to mold my features into my best expression of honesty and trustworthiness, but I failed in my attempts to meet John’s gaze. Blue eyes bored into mine, and I balked at the intimacy. I dropped my eyes to my plate.
“Then why are ye here?” he asked quietly.
I drew in a sharp breath. “I told you—I don’t know. But if you let me go, you won’t have to worry about it again.”
He shook his head.
“Nay, we have spoken of this already. I think ye must stay for a time.”
My frustration spilled over, and I raised my voice.
“Well, what do you plan to tell your sister? The rest of the people who are wondering about me?”
“I dinna ken at the moment.” John drank a cup of ale and rose as if to head for the door.
“Wait! Is that it? You’re leaving?”
John looked over his shoulder. “I shall give ye privacy to don the clothing my sister brought.”
I hurried to the door, but John blocked any efforts at escape, all the while keeping his back from me, keeping the dagger from me.
“Do ye have a sister?” he asked.
The question caught me off guard, and I stopped trying to push past him.
“What?”
“A sister. Do ye have a sister?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m an only child.”
“Well, ye do now! I shall tell any who may inquire that ye are come from England to find yer sister, who eloped with a Morrison, that ye attempted to disguise yerself dressed as a man to get onto Dun Eistean, but that the Morrison ye seek is from another branch of the clan, no the Morrisons of Lewis.”
John positively beamed, obviously pleased with his resourceful explanation.
“How on earth did you come up with that?”
“Years ago, we once lived peacefully with the Macleods, serving as brieves to the Western Islands and enforcing the laws. But my foolish uncle, Maurice Morrison, besotted with the Macleod chieftain’s young wife, committed adultery with her, after which he took her from her husband’s home. Fortunately, she was his second wife, else the paternity of his son and heir, Hamish, would have been in doubt.”
“Oh!”
John shrugged. “Ye see then that it is no unheard of that a Morrison might take a woman who is no his to take.”
“Take?” I repeated with a gulp. Wait! He didn’t mean...
“Nay, no to violate!” John choked out. “Morrison men dinna stoop to such behavior.” He pulled back his shoulders for emphasis.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Don yer clothing,” he said. “I will return.” He slipped through the door and shut it behind him. I heard a heavy thud from the other side, and when I pulled at the handle, I wasn’t surprised to find it didn’t budge. John must have dropped a latch across the door.
I turned around and stared at the tiny room. It should have seemed larger without his presence, but it didn’t. The narrow stone walls closed in on me. To distract myself from screaming out with claustrophobia, I returned to the bed and fingered the clothing Mary had brought.
I contemplated the garments, similar in design and color to what Mary wore. Hesitant to undress, I regretted the need to don historical costume, preferring the comfort of my jeans and hooded sweat jacket, but I under
stood the necessity of blending in. I’d worn similarly heavy skirts and a tight corset when I worked several summers in downtown colonial Williamsburg, and the novelty of wearing historical garb had soon worn off.
I supposed I could simply refuse to change into the clothing, but I suspected that John would keep me confined to the small room in the keep if I didn’t try to blend in. With a heavy sigh, I shed my clothing and slipped the white linen shift over my head. I laced up the corset, also of linen, loosely, and wriggled a petticoat over my head to settle on my waist. After tying the petticoat strings, I thrust my arms through the waist of the muted-red tartan skirt and secured it at the waist. A forest-green bodice completed the ensemble. I had no mirror, but I knew that particular shade of green complemented my hazel eyes and my hair, a shade my mother often used to describe as gingerbread brown.
I wondered what she would have thought of my circumstances. Widowed when I was only two, she had been my best friend, and I missed her terribly. I swallowed hard as I caught myself feeling almost thankful that she had died two years before of cancer. I couldn’t have borne the thought of her terror if I’d disappeared, never to be seen again.
Fifteen minutes later found me sitting on the edge of the mattress, downing the rest of the ale and contemplating the dusty tips of my dark-brown hiking boots beneath the hem of the skirts. Mary hadn’t provided any footwear, and for that I was grateful. I suspected that, given her height, her feet were larger than mine. So I tapped my shoes on the plain tartan carpet covering the floor, drank some more ale and waited, studying the dirt under my fingernails.
A small sideboard with several small drawers hugged one wall, upon which rested a porcelain basin, which appeared to be dry. A small towel and soap accompanied the basin. I longed for water with which to wash my hands and face, if nothing else.
A sharp rap on the door and the sound of the latch brought me to my feet. Mary entered. Alone with her for the first time, I swallowed hard and smoothed my skirts as Mary inspected me critically.
“Aye, as I suspected, the skirts are much too long for ye, but they are all I had to spare. They look well enough though. I have come to pick up yer tray. Did the food satisfy ye?”
“Oh, yes, it was lovely,” I said. “Thank you!”
“Och, I am pleased to hear it.” She favored me with a rare smile, which softened her expression. “John told me of yer quest to find yer sister. I am sorry to hear she ran off with a kinsman. We dinna ken who the lad is, for we have no heard of this elopement, but I am sorry for yer family.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling uncomfortable with my dishonesty in the face of such genuine sympathy.
“Do ye have need of anything? John said to tell ye he would return soon, but he wishes ye to stay in the keep for yer safety.”
“Well, I...” I pressed a hand to my stomach.
Mary nodded wisely. “Under the bed.”
Unable to bend easily in the snug corset, I backed up and looked under the bed. Yes, a ceramic chamber pot awaited me. I wasn’t surprised. We’d had them on display in Williamsburg, but no one had used one, that I knew of.
“Thank you.”
She turned to go.
“Did John say how long I had to stay here?”
Mary spun with a frown. “Nay. I asked him what his intentions with ye were, but he told me to mind my own business. He is a fair man. I dinna think he will keep ye long. Perhaps he still wishes to assure himself that ye are no a spy for the English or the Macleods. I canna blame him. These are troubled times, and treachery abounds.”
I nodded.
She opened the door but paused and looked over her shoulder at me.
“Dinna fear my brother, lass. He is honorable. The Morrisons dinna treat women unkindly.”
She slipped through the door, and I heard the latch drop. I let out some pent-up air and reached up to rub my forehead. Was I going to spend all my time in the sixteenth century locked up in a tower? Really? When I returned to the twenty-first century—not if, but when—what would I have to report? That the keep was much taller than we had previously thought? That the Morrisons were a handsome group of people? That a drawbridge of some kind did not exist to facilitate entry onto the tidal island?
Because I certainly wasn’t learning much else on my “adventure,” not while locked up in the keep.
I made use of the chamber pot, not something I had ever done in real life, but which I was familiar with, given my time as a Colonial-era interpreter in Williamsburg. Not only had I never actually used one of the many chamber pots I had seen in Williamsburg, but I had never tried to squat over one with full skirts. I managed and hurriedly pushed the pot out of sight under the bed, vowing to empty it sometime.
I ventured over to the sideboard again and peered into the basin one more time. No water. The towel appeared clean, the soap of fragrant heather, but none of them did me any good without water. I had to remember to ask for water the next time someone came by.
At loose ends, I eyed the door, wondering if Mary had truly secured the latch. I walked over to it, dragging my overly long skirts behind me. I pulled and pushed at the handle, but the heavy wooden door didn’t budge. I studied the timber, wondering how far they’d had to transport the material. I had seen no forests on the windswept Isle of Lewis, not in the twenty-first century and not from the little I’d seen of the mainland in the sixteenth century.
Suddenly, I heard the sound of the latch lifting, and the door swung open. I barely had time to jump back at the sight of John in the doorway. He raised a questioning eyebrow at me, and I blinked and waited for his words. Clearly, he knew that I had been standing at the door.
I noted that he had smoothed back his hair, tying the top half at the back of his neck and letting the rest of his golden-highlighted waves drape across his shoulders. The half-pony revealed a widow’s peak and high cheekbones. The feminine style made him look more masculine than ever.
“Ye look bonny in Mary’s gown. Wee but bonny.”
To my surprise, John said nothing about me standing at the door. His gaze focused on the hemline of the skirt. I picked up a handful of skirt and shrugged.
“Yes, Mary is a good deal taller than I.”
“Aye,” he agreed.
“So you told her the story about my sister running off with a Morrison man.”
“Aye. Did she query ye about it?”
I shook my head. “No, she just expressed her sympathy.”
“If Mary believes that fable, then I suppose most will believe it. As ye already ken, she has a suspicious nature.”
“She’s not the only one.” I jumped on the opportunity. “So now can I get out of here?” I gestured to the walls of the tiny room.
“Do ye mean the keep?”
I nodded. I had no doubt that once I got outside, I would probably mumble some words to see if I could travel back in time, since I couldn’t get hold of the dagger. Just in case the catalyst hadn’t been the knife after all.
“What assurance do I have that ye will no attempt to escape again, lass?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. Even under the white shirt, I could see the rounded curves of well-developed triceps. A pulse ticked at his throat, and I found myself staring at him.
“Lass? Yer promise?”
“What?” I asked, returning my attention to his handsome face. Blue eyes watched me carefully.
“Yer assurance ye will no try to escape,” he repeated.
I had to be honest—with him.
“Look, what good is a promise from me? Of course I’m going to try to escape, one way or the other. I was just thinking that if I could get outside, I would see if I could just chant something to return to my own time.” I looked up at the stone walls again. “I doubt if I can get any reception in here, you know?”
John’s look of confusion might have made me laugh, but I didn’t.
“Reception?” he repeated.
I shook my head. “No, forget that. It was a silly com
ment. There are no satellites.”
“I dinna ken yer words, lass. Do ye mock me? I will no be mocked, no by man or woman.”
John’s beautiful eyes darkened. Deep furrows on his brow showed strong displeasure, possibly anger, something far more intense than the irritation he had shown earlier with his sister. The intensity of his emotion surpassed anything he had exhibited when I tried to escape earlier.
I backed away, though he made no move toward me.
“Ye have as good said that ye will attempt to escape again. Therefore, nay, I will no release ye from the keep. I shall see that Mary brings ye yer dinner.”
Before I could say a word, John swung around and strode from the room, dropping the latch with a loud thud.
My throat tightened, and tears sprung from my eyes to burn their way down my cheeks. I rubbed at them with the palms of my hands and dropped down to sit on the edge of the bed forlornly.
I started chatting to thin air, negotiating, persuading.
“Look, if I could just get out of here, if I knew that I could get out of here when I wanted, I’d be all right, you know?” I didn’t know to whom I was talking, but whoever it was probably wasn’t listening. “I’m not even sure I need to get out of the sixteenth century so much as I need to get out of this room. I feel so trapped in here.” I snorted. “Well, I am trapped in here, actually.”
Dejectedly, I studied the walls, wondering if I should start counting the stones. A sound just outside the door caught my attention, and I jumped up to face the door. Was John coming back? I waited, holding my breath, but the sound was not repeated. Feeling suddenly tired, I lowered myself to the bed, slipped out of my shoes and lay down.
I wondered what people would think when they found out that I had disappeared. Would they call the police? Search the island to see if I’d accidentally fallen into the sea? They would know I hadn’t simply packed my bags and left, because my bags were still in the bedroom of the MacIvers’ croft.
Drowsily, I contemplated Mary’s return to the keep to bring me dinner. Tall and determined, could she block me from an escape attempt? I imagined she could. I was going to try it anyway. The worst they could do was drag me back into the keep, right? That was the worst they would do, right?