by Beth Trissel
The narrow striped scarf he wore at his neck was most peculiar. What purpose did it serve? And the cane he held in bloodstained fingers had the oddest face.
Frightening even. If he were an Englisher, he had a style all his own. Even for one of them.
Intent gray eyes searching hers, he laid the cane down. “Who struck you?”
The force of his gaze held her. “The MacDonald, the divil. Where’s he gotten to?”
Her apparent champion narrowed his gaze. “I don’t know.”
Lifting one hand, he lightly touched the tender lump on her forehead. His scent wafted around her, masculine and clean, like fresh wind on a braw day. She breathed it in, savoring his essence.
“You’ll need a Cat Scan,” he continued, “and the police will be here any moment.”
She had no notion what service this cat he spoke of might render her or what these police were, but she liked the gentle feel of his fingers and the way tufts of hair curled at his strong neck like tendrils of ivy on a stone wall. She wanted to smooth his hair with her fingers…stroke the line of his neck.
“Who are you? Why are you here?”
His query disrupted her musing in a low tone pleasing to her ears. Though his voice lacked any recognizable accent, she’d swear she knew it in her very being.
“I am Mora, daughter of Artair Campbell of Loch Awe,” she answered, glad for the English tutor her canny father had employed from Edinburg. The learned man’s tolerance of her presence at her brothers’ lessons had been most welcome by Mora.
As to the young chieftain’s second query, she lifted her uncertain gaze past him to the unfamiliar hall and white plastered ceiling. She gestured behind her. “I hid in the passageway beneath the stairs to the keep. Only The MacDonald saw me. Chasing at m’ heels, the auld hellhound. I opened a door at the other end. After that…”
Wincing at the ache, she turned her head to take a better look at her surroundings. She ran her incredulous gaze down the hall papered in a gold print. Where had the stone passage gone?
She no longer seemed to be in any portion of Donhowel Castle at all. How was this possible?
At the end of the passage before her was an intricately carved oak door, the hue darkened with age. Panes of stained glass set in the archway above it fanned out in a half circle of saffron, red, and gold, like the entry to a chapel. Burnished light from the glass slanted into the hall, so it must still be day outside. Yet she could swear the sun had set not two minutes ago over the loch.
All this passed through her muddled senses in a moment. Of one thing she was certain. The nut-brown door, shut tight now, had been ajar before. She couldn’t explain how, but that door was the way.
She pointed shakily. “I came through thair.”
He shook his head. “You can’t have. That’s the door to nowhere.”
Clearly, she’d come from somewhere. And why would a craftsman fashion a door with ornate carving and colored glass, if it was a useless entry?
“It used to lead out onto a balcony, but that fell into disrepair and was torn down years ago,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “The door is kept locked now. I don’t even remember where the key is.”
Mora returned her gaze to his perplexed scrutiny. “Someone must have taken it.”
“Maybe. But he’d have to scale the house like a spider to gain entrance. Or pull a Houdini.”
She grew increasingly puzzled. “What speak ye of?”
“Never mind that now. Who is this MacDonald?”
“Why, chieftain of the Glengarry MacDonald’s, of course. The whole clan is bent on stamping out the MacKenzies in a blood feud.”
The nobleman’s brow furrowed. “Have you any idea where you are?”
“None. Who might ye be, sir?”
“Neil MacKenzie.”
His name tolled on a great bell of hope. A man’s face flashed across her mind, the man before her now, only different. The man she yearned after. The one she sought.
Here? He was here! Joy pulsed in her soul. “Ah. I knew ye yet lived.”
If possible, he stared at her even harder. “I didn’t realize anyone thought I had died.”
“Oh, aye. The holy Virgin be praised, Niall.”
“Neil.”
He was mighty particular as to pronunciation. And not a glimmer of recognition shone in his eyes.
Mora was beyond confused and more than a little awed by this Niall, or Neil, as he insisted on being addressed. She braved another try, “I’m a welcome guest of the MacKenzies, sent to wed ye.”
His jaw dropped, and he regarded her as he might a mad woman. His hands fell to his side. “Indeed?”
“Our fathers arranged the match,” she continued at his blank expression. “We met. Ye welcomed the troth.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Really?”
“God’s blood, I swear it. And then ye were gone.”
“To where?”
“None can say. All of the MacKenzies feared ye were killed in the battle over Strathmore castle and consumed by the fire. ’Tis terribly grieved we—they—are. Now I’m promised to Calum, yer younger brother,” she added at the complete lack of comprehension in his face, “but as ye live and breathe…”
How could she bind herself to Calum now, assuming she even found her way back to the MacKenzie home place, the massive castle of Donhowel.
At first sight of Niall, her heart inextricably knitted to him. The meeting between them was brief, but she’d not forgotten the tingle shimmering through her at the touch of his hand on hers, or the heat of his eyes. Infinitely much had changed between them since that initial childhood encounter, she but a lass and Niall not yet grown. Though she’d loved him even then.
“I gave ye my pledge,” she reminded him. Although, it pained her that she must do so.
He arched one dark brow at her. “So you are my betrothed?”
“Aye. Chosen to bear the next Mackenzie. Ye said.” She could still hear his husky whisper in her ear.
Another unholy tremor darted through her. Surely, she’d not gone mad with the wanting of this man.
Yet, he certainly regarded her as if she’d taken leave of her senses.
“What year is this, Miss Campbell?”
She looked at him in amazement. Surely ‘twas he who was daft. Forgetting the placement of a key was understandable, but this, “Why, ‘tis the year of our Lord, Sixteen hundred and two.”
His eyebrows rose even higher.
“The reign of the English Queen Elizabeth,” she prompted, but nothing she said seemed to shed any illumination.
His eyes held pity not recognition, preferable to scorn but it cut her beyond endurance.
What happened to the Niall who was to be her husband and where in God’s name was she? England, mayhap, carried witless from the Hielans down across the lowlands to that distant realm. But such a journey would take days and she’d only been gone moments.
The new Neil broke into her addled thoughts. “Poor lady. You must have been struck harder than I realized.”
Truly, she agreed, or he had. What on earth ailed the man, she wondered, startled by the ungodly din blaring from outside the house. “The blessed saints preserve us!”
“Sirens,” he said offhandedly. “Don’t be alarmed.”
Before the banshees were upon them, she braved a plea. If she had indeed been stricken, as he suggested, she’d need all the aid she could muster. How would she even find her way without assistance?
Reaching out chilled fingers, she seized his warm hand. “Help me, sir, I pray ye. For ‘tis a most peculiar dream I’ve awakened to.”
He pressed her fingers with the compassion she’d sensed in his gentle grasp. “You must be Mrs. Dannon’s niece. She said you’d be arriving this month from Scotland. I lost track of the exact date and wasn’t prepared for your visit. I’m terribly sorry you’ve been the victim of this dreadful attack and promise to give you my full support.”
A rap at the front d
oor interrupted them before Mora could explain she didn’t have an aunt with that name. Then a voice barked, “Staunton P.D.”
Chapter Three
What on earth had possessed him? Neil only knew he was a man on a mission. Inexplicably compelled not to leave Mora’s side, he tailed the ambulance in his red Mini Cooper.
He’d contended with the police first, briefly, and vouched for Mora, asserting she was the victim’s niece, even though she had no memory of arriving at his house. More questions would follow, and Lieutenant Hale had asked him not to leave town. A shadow darkened Neil’s already troubled spirit at the unspoken order behind that request.
Surely the culprit would soon be caught and the suspicion lifted from him, and Mora, although she didn’t appear to be the one under scrutiny.
Why was he? His devotion to Mrs. Dannon was well-known in the community, and he had no criminal record. But the police always interviewed those closest to the victim and the first one on the scene, he reminded himself, their curiosity especially aroused as this case was unusual, and Mora somehow involved.
Mora…his thoughts flew back to her. The medical technicians wouldn’t allow him to ride in the back of the vehicle with her. Poor girl.
Her pale face remained fixed in his mind, those frightened eyes and trembling hands clutching at him as the EMT’s lifted her onto the gurney. Then they’d carried her out of the house and whisked her away in the ambulance. If Mora thought she lived in 1602, what in the world would she think of her ride to the emergency room?
Apart from her mental confusion, she must come from quite a provincial part of Scotland. Her naiveté struck him as much as her Highland dress. Who in God’s name were her family, apart from poor Mrs. Dannon? Why had she been raised so old fashioned? Her speech and manners singled her out to be someone wellborn and not from a backwoods family.
Could she possibly have attended some archaic girl’s boarding school with strict rules, classical studies, and long held medieval traditions? Did they even have schools like that in Scotland these days?
Neil had little time to conjecture. Lights flashing, the ambulance braked to a stop outside the hospital. He maneuvered his car into a spot at the back of the crowded parking lot.
He shot out of the car, slammed the door behind him, and ran to the entrance. Two EMTs rolled Mora through the emergency room doors as he sprinted up only a few yards behind them. Those early morning runs had paid off.
Dashing inside the ER, he scanned the jumble of people hunched in chairs or milling about the waiting room. His gaze fastened on the young woman who stood out like a visitor from another world. Mora lay on the gurney, her vivid eyes staring up at him with pleading in their depths.
A powerful urge welled up inside him, an urge to protect her. He nearly staggered under the surge.
Where had that flood of emotion come from? The deluge seemed to swirl him back to some distant place, but it was more instinct than something he could define. There was no rational explanation.
He’d ponder this disturbing development later. For now, he bent his will on helping Mora. He stepped toward her. “Hang in there. You’ll be all right.”
Clearly unconvinced, she reached out her hand. It shook. She shook beneath the white blanket. “Have I tumbled into purgatory?”
He wondered if they both had, but summoned an encouraging smile. Giving her chilled fingers a squeeze, he said, “No. Don’t be afraid.”
Lips quivering, she nodded, rather like one being asked to trust in deliverance while being led to the gallows.
Her dazed state might buy him some time, assuming he kept his own wits about him. He sensed hysteria brewing just beneath the surface of her numb demeanor that might erupt at any moment. Not an eruption he cared for the entire Emergency Room to witness.
A thoughtful EMT tucked another bland blanket around Mora. “I’ll handle this,” Neil said to the waiting man.
Striding to the admittance counter, he gripped the white Formica counter and spoke to the expressionless woman behind the desk. “Mora Campbell, my out of town guest.” Way out.
The usual questions followed. He gave his address and contact information.
The longsuffering clerk glanced up from typing and asked the inevitable, “Insurance?”
“I shall assume responsibility for Miss Campbell’s account.” That should put a halt to many of the questions.
The woman’s dark circled eyes widened slightly.
No doubt she thought him insane to assume the burden of medical expenses. Likely he was, but doubted Mora had insurance that would apply in the United States, particularly as she didn’t even know where she was.
It occurred to him that Mora wouldn’t bear much scrutiny from hospital bureaucrats or any other officials for that matter. Instinct told him the sooner he got her out of here, the better. He drummed his fingers on the counter while the clerk typed.
“Your relationship to the patient?” she asked.
“Fiancé.” Why not? It gave him ready access to Mora.
A penciled eyebrow lifted. Didn’t he look the part to wed Scottish lass?
Evidently, the woman didn’t care whom he wed and entered his response on her computer. He glanced over his shoulder. By now, Mora trembled violently from head to toe. All his desire to help had accomplished was to worsen her shock.
“Neil, is this some sort of prison?”
“A hospital,” he reminded her.
She stared at him.
Didn’t they have hospitals in Scotland? “Where they care for the sick and injured.”
She sucked in a quavering breath. “My tutor spoke of this place—where the poor go to die.” Only with her accent, poor sounded like porrr.
Neil stifled a snort. “No. No. The poor can’t afford to die here.”
Mora groaned.
The clerk gave him a dry look.
“The blow to her head. She’s confused,” he offered.
A tutor for her studies partly explained Mora’s total lack of worldliness. She’d been too much at home, hadn’t gotten out enough, if at all. Had she ever been away from her hometown, or the countryside where she lived before now? Maybe her parents were neurotically overprotective. It was remarkable she was here at all, when he thought about it.
“Neil!” An orderly wheeled her through the double doors into the inner sanctum. “He’s bearing me away!” Her panicked cry actually hurt his ears as well as his heart.
He fought the impulse to tear after her. “You’ll be all right!”
“The blessed Virgin preserve me!”
Maybe he should call on Mother Mary too, though it went against his Protestant upbringing. This bizarre day only grew stranger.
Neil finished up the paper work, or tried to. Half mad from wanting to be with Mora, he almost snarled. “Are we finished here?”
“Almost. Just one or two—”
Dodging yet more questions, he pleaded angst for Mora and fled through the doors at the back of the waiting room into the labyrinth of corridors. A kind eyed nurse, when he asked, directed him to one of the small patient annexes.
Bracing himself, he stepped inside the sterile little room. It looked white, smelled white, in that antiseptic way. How vulnerable Mora appeared lying on the examining table, her slender form outlined beneath the plain hospital blanket. She turned her head at his footfall.
Eyes blazing, she pointed at the cheery young nurse. “That Englisher took my garments and the holy crucifix from around m’ very throat. Heretic.”
Good lord. That word hailed from the age of the Holy Wars.
He glanced from the accusation aflame in Mora’s face to the Highland costume protruding from a plastic bag in one corner. Her relic was probably tucked in there.
“Calm down.” He covered the short distance to her side. “Your things are set aside for safekeeping.”
Her eyes flashed. “They were safe in m’ own care afore she snatched them!”
“We’ll give them back later, honey,
” said the plump brunette with Betty stamped on her nametag. The bold pink print on her uniform made a spot of color in the drab room, as did Mora’s brilliant hair and eyes.
“Neil! Stop her,” she pleaded, as if the nurse were stealing her newborn. “She made me wear this detestable short gown.”
Mora held up a creamy arm with the blood pressure cuff attached. “And this. ‘Tis squeezing me like a serpent’s coils.” An IV line extended from her other arm. “And she’s stuck me with a needle. The wicked shrew.”
He grasped Mora’s chill fingers. “Not for long,” he assured her, hoping that were true.
“Doctor Marston will be in shortly,” Betty told him, apparently seeing little point in addressing Mora. “He’s a neurologist,” she added with a significant glance.
Mora was not to be ignored. “Did ye say alchemist?”
“No, honey. I’ll be back soon to check on her, Mr. MacKenzie. Call me if she needs anything.”
“My garments and the silver cross ye thieving vixen!” Mora flung her words at the retreating figure. “This is no hospitale, Neil. ‘Tis a chamber of torment.”
Her pronunciation for hospital had an old French twist to it. Wondering at her language instruction and her vehemence, he bent nearer and spoke soothingly. “They’re only trying to help you.”
“The divil they are,” she spat out in true Scot’s temper. “Will ye take my part or no?”
“Of course I will.”
“Then steal me away from this vile place.”
He smoothed the fiery tendril at her cheek. Despite her volatile state and his bafflement, he delighted in the silken sensation. “First, let the doctor examine your head.”
Again the confusion in her face. “Who?”
“The physician.”
Concentration creased the corners of her eyes. “Physic?”
“Near enough, I suppose,” though no one used that term anymore.
She shook her head. “Foul leech.”
Who referred to doctors as leeches? He firmed his tone. “You are injured and need care.”
“Nae. ‘Tis naught but a bruise. No need for all this haver.”