Somewhere My Lass (Somewhere In Time)

by Beth Trissel

  At least the incense hadn’t pervaded the mustiness up here as it had the rest of the house, and the cracked window let in some fresh air. Neil didn’t know if Betty Fergus still remained indoors, but he’d bet she was down there waiting to dispense more tidbits when they finally dragged back downstairs. A fat lot of good it had done bringing her into this baffling mystery.

  “Wish I had a clue what we were looking for. Why is it that wise people never give you a simple answer, but make you scrap and struggle for every single thing?”

  “Maybe so when ye find it, ye will be mightily glad.”

  He supposed there was much truth in Mora’s astute observation. She sagged onto the large wooden trunk with metal bands and leather handles parked in the center of the room.

  “That particular trunk has been to China and back with the scant worldly goods of my missionary ancestor.”

  “Scant?” She brushed a cobweb from her nose. “I know not of yer ancestor, but ye have a storehouse of goods to search through.”

  Neil almost said aye and caught himself. “From a host of MacKenzies.”

  Worry clouded her eyes. “A daunting task. The day fast slips away.”

  “Too soon this time of year.”

  Dust motes drifted in the late afternoon sun streaming through the dormer window and spilled gold light across Mora. Her cheeks were smudged, hands grubby, and more lengths of hair had slipped loose from the curls pinned on her head. This expedition was especially ludicrous with her in that poufy party gown. All the heat she’d worked up during their search had coaxed the arisaid from around her shoulders, and she’d draped the tartan wrap over a broken chair.

  He admired the smoothness of her arms. The scooped neckline drew his appreciative gaze to the curve of her breasts beneath the green sequin fabric. Like her nose and cheeks, her chest was sprinkled with freckles, adorable and sexy all in one.

  More so than ever. Those rounded breasts would be the perfect place to bury his lips—

  Focus, he commanded himself. Blowing out his breath, he sat down next to her.

  “What are we to do, Neil?” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

  Almost without realizing what he did, he closed his arms around her and pulled her against his chest. Her hair smelled good despite all the spray, or maybe because of it, to give Max his due, and her head fit into the hollow of his shoulder as if he were carved for that very purpose. Neil didn’t ever want to let her go.

  “We’ll find our way,” he encouraged her with far more confidence than he possessed.

  She loosed a small contented sigh. Neil savored the sound and the warmth of her breath penetrating his shirt.

  “Ye said we.”

  Her emphasis on their unity caught him. “Did I fail to make that clear? I’m sorry. Come what may, we’re in this together.”

  Could Mora truly be destined to become his ancestor, and if she veered from that course, like a river altered, would she channel a new one that didn’t ultimately include him? If he failed to return her to 1602 in time for her to wed Calum on November 5th would the Neil MacKenzie from the future vanish?

  The idea of another man wedding and bedding Mora made Neil ill. Not only did his gut writhe, but jealousy assailed him with windswept fury. He forced himself to gentle his hold on her and not allow his grip to reflect his seething emotion.

  Fighting past the red haze clouding his mind, he strove to consider. If somehow Mora did return to 1602 Scotland, and he even went with her, and she married him instead of Calum, what then? Would he still cease to be because he’d disrupted family history? He already resented this brother he’d never met, at least, not in this lifetime. And he’d thought he was an only child. The height of irony.

  Divergent thoughts and desires churned inside Neil. Survival was basic, as was his mounting desire for Mora. Had their inherent bond brought her to him in the first place?

  Was he crazy even to consider this strangest of all possible dilemmas? Would Betty Fergus know the answer? She’d sensed Mora’s coming. Did he really want to hear what their psychic had to say? Likely only more riddles.

  Either they were on a wild goose chase, or she’d sent them up here for a purpose. Besides, what was time, a veiled circle, a doorway wreathed in mist? What if, as crazy as it seemed, everything Mora had said was true and he applied that as the basis for their off-the-wall circumstances? It might lead him to what they sought.

  “Mora,” he summoned, voicing his thoughts. “If I gave the cross to you and the key it holds, it only stands to reason that I ought to know what it’s for.”

  Her head still resting on his shoulder, she finally answered. “Unless ye never knew. Another may have given it into yer keeping.”

  “Who?”

  “Yer father, before he died.”

  An unaccountable sadness accompanied this revelation. “You never told me he passed away.”

  “He fell ill after ye disappeared. Fever took him. I loathe being the bearer of bad tidings.”

  “And I thought you said we were a hardy clan.”

  “There’s no accounting for the wounds of a broken heart.”

  “No. Yet you remained strong.”

  “I never gave up hope.”

  He brushed his lips to her hair. “What do you think the key may unlock?”

  “A wondrous reliquary that holds the finger of Saint Peter or a bit of the shroud that wrapped our Lord, or the Holy Grail, as ye suggested.” Awe tinged her voice.

  “Your expectations are high.”

  “We are sorely in want of a miracle.”

  He couldn’t argue that point. “What have I overlooked?” Muting a groan against her soft cheek, he scanned the attic again. Familiar enough, he’d played here as a child. And yet, alien in its way. Was he really seeing it?

  Lengthening shadows hid part of the room. Wooden beams supported the slanted ceiling and formed dusky recesses where they crisscrossed. He’d also sought an ornate box of some sort. But it occurred to him that something so fragile might be difficult to transport and would easily break.

  “Maybe we’re seeking the wrong thing.”

  She lifted her head. “What else other than a reliquary holds a sacred relic?”

  “Maybe that’s what we’re meant to discover.”

  Getting to his feet, Neil righted a battered stool and climbed onto its shaky support. Mora steadied the rickety stand while he reached overhead and ran his hands along the beams, especially mindful of the dark nooks. Every few feet, he got off, moved the stool, and resumed the search.

  She looked on while keeping his support from giving way. “Do ye spy anything?”

  “Not yet. And I probably won’t.”

  “Do not give up, Neil.”

  “Never give up, never surrender. That’s my motto,” he grunted, groping in the darkness above. him, hoping not to encounter a coiled snake or suspended bat.

  Then, unbelievably, he closed his fingers around something—not alive, to his relief, and not a box. There wasn’t room to tuck that into this confined space, but what felt like a pouch. With a sense of unreality, he pulled what appeared to be a small bag from its hiding place.

  He glanced down at Mora and extended his dusty, unimpressive discovery.

  Her brow drawn, she asked, “Is that it, then? What we’ve sought?”

  “There’s only one way to tell.” Clutching the bag, Neil climbed down from the stool.

  Together, they sank onto the trunk. The pouch wasn’t quite as long as his hand. The circular cord at the top indicated it was meant to be worn around the neck. He brushed away the thick layer of dust, possibly centuries’ old, accumulated on its surface.

  From under his fingers, a head emerged on the front of the pouch, embossed in the leather, its features unclear. The leather needed a thorough cleaning, but he’d have to use whatever he could find for a hasty polish.

  “Wait a moment.” He leapt up, rummaged in the boxes and snatched a cloth then returned to the trunk and sat
down again beside Mora. She watched in rapt silence as he wiped.

  The face took form, with fiendish eyes, fangs, and a protruding tongue. Coils snaked around its face like hair made of serpents. Grotesque. But what a find.

  He gave a low whistle. “I don’t believe it.”

  Mora shrank back. “A fearsome sight. What is this hideous creature?”

  “A Gorgon, a powerful deity in Greek mythology. This one is Medusa, the only one thought to be immortal. Anyone who looked on her face was said to turn to stone.”

  Mora clutched his arm. “The blessed saints preserve us. Have we not seen her wicked face full on?”

  “It’s all right. The image was often placed on objects for protection from evil. Didn’t your tutor mention Medusa?”

  “Not as I remember, though he spoke of Greek gods.” Mora relaxed her grip on Neil’s arm. As if drawn despite herself, she reached out a tentative finger to the ancient leather. “What of the pouch?”

  “This is a Roman bulla once belonging to a child and the Gorgon was added to insure their safety.”

  “But ye said Medusa was Greek.”

  “Yes, well, the Greeks greatly influenced Roman culture. Some gladiators even used Gorgons on their armor.”

  She lifted wondering eyes. “How do ye know so much?”

  “Art history classes and an anal—I mean, passionate—curiosity about the past.”

  “Not yer ain past.”

  “No. Darkness shrouds that. But I’ve delved into ancient Rome.” He felt carefully along the bag. “Bullas held an amulet or charm significant to the wearer. There’s something inside this.”

  “As dreadful as the outside is, I shudder to think what it holds. Surely no sacred relic.”

  “You might be surprised.” Nothing that had happened over the past twenty-four hours ceased to astonish Neil.

  Stilling the quiver in his hand as another ran down his spine, he lifted the opening of the pouch and slid his fingers inside. What he expected to find, he couldn’t have said, but when he circled his fingers around a tiny vase, he was completely taken aback.

  “What on earth?” He drew out a blue green glass vial, between three and four inches long, with an iridescent sheen. A piece of cork and candle wax sealed the circular rim.

  Mora stoked the smooth glass with light fingertips. “A scent bottle?”

  “No. Perfume flasks from that period are larger.” He gently tilted the vial on its side and saw one word etched into the bottom. The letters were unfamiliar. “I can’t make it out. Can you?”

  She studied the markings. “Aye. ‘Tis Latin for Mary.”

  Another holy shiver ran through Neil, and he knew. “This is a tear vial or tear bottle, called Lachrymatory, used by mourners to collect their tears. A fairly common practice in Biblical times.”

  “Why did mourners do sech a peculiar thing?”

  “The ritual stems from a verse in the Old Testament where King David spoke of putting his tears in a bottle. By the looks of it, this vial is ancient.”

  Mora gazed from the name on the bottom of the glass, back to him. The shine of emotion welled in the depths of her eyes. “Might it hold the tears of the blessed Virgin?”

  “Or Mary Magdalene. She was also among the mourners of Jesus.”

  “Mayhap. Yet I think ’tis for the blessed Virgin.”

  “Yes, probably so. See here’s a tiny rose etched alongside the name and roses are a long held symbol for Our Lady. The Mystic Rose, I believe it’s called.”

  Mora gave a nod, her demeanor one of reverence. “And Heaven’s Rose, colored like the rosy dawn.” Her brow furrowed with the question still in her eyes. “But if this vessel is as ye think, how did it come to be in Roman possession?”

  “Christ was crucified by the Romans, but not all of them were against him. He had some followers.”

  “The Roman centurion spoken of in the Holy Scriptures,” Mora offered.

  “And many others. Don’t forget all those poor souls fed to the lions in the Coliseum. To preserve this vial, one of the early Christians hid it in a child’s bulla, and there it must have remained until the Crusaders carried away relics from the Holy Land. Possibly even the Knights Templar who had charge of many sacred treasures. Some Templars are thought to have evaded the terrible annihilation that befell their order in the early fourteenth century and fled to Scotland.”

  Mora gazed at him. “And took refuge with The Bruce, whom they served.”

  “Yes.” Neil drew on the knowledge gained from his studies, coupled with an inherent knowing. “From the Crusaders, it passed into the hands of the MacDonalds and was kept in their chapel until that raid by the MacKenzies.” He shrugged in bemusement. “If my guess is on the mark.”

  “’Tis a marvelous guess. But…” Her face creased in concentration, she fingered the cross at her neck. “If The MacDonald seeks this tear vial, then what does the key in m’ cross open?”

  “We don’t know that yet. But whatever it unlocks, must also be of great importance.”

  Eyes distant, she slowly nodded. “Perhaps a chamber in the chapel itself. Long has there been talk of a door hidden in the depths of the crypt.”

  “What lies behind that door?”

  “You, Neil,” Mrs. Fergus said from behind them.

  He sucked in his breath and Mora startled beside him. So intent were they on their find that neither had noticed the psychic’s appearance in the attic. They swiveled their heads and stared at her.

  Neil demanded, “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “I sense the Neil MacKenzie from 1602 is still alive in the past, a captive of the MacDonald and being held where no one would think to search. What better place than a secret chamber in the very chapel his clan raided?”

  “But Strome castle burned and with it, the chapel, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, Strome lies in ruins, but Domhnall castle stands. And that’s the chapel this relic was taken from.”

  A cold hand snaked through Neil’s gut at the name Domhnall. And a dark foreboding, like a black chasm, rushed at him. Everything he thought he knew fell into the void. He didn’t ask Mrs. Fergus if she was certain. The truth of her words resounded deep inside him.

  Steadying the tremor threatening his speech, he asked, “Why is Niall imprisoned and not dead?”

  “The MacDonalds badly want that relic back and wish to inflict as much torment on the MacKenzies as possible in the process. The pain of knowing your family and betrothed imagine you dead is far worse than being so.”

  Neil looked at the pain glistening in Mora’s eyes. “And do not doubt the MacDonalds will kill you, him, in time,” Mrs. Fergus continued. “After it’s too late and Mora is wed to Calum.”

  Neil steeled himself to the awful wrench in his middle. “Can the Neil from 1602 be recovered?”

  Perhaps, if the relic is returned and a trade made for his life without the MacDonalds first reclaiming it.”

  “Who would carry out the trade?”

  “Mora, possibly, with you watching her back. There can be no contact between the Neil of the past and the present. However, that Neil may be unconscious. I sense his life force dimming.”

  “What of the Neil in the future—me?” He hated to ask aloud.

  The corners of the older woman’s eyes crinkled with the sympathy he felt washing over him. “If Mora weds either Neil instead of Calum, you cease to be, unless…” She trailed off.

  “Unless?” He snatched at any glimmer of hope.

  “There’s a way to fuse the two of you together.” She pursed her lips for a pensive moment. “That lachrymatory vial you hold has tremendous power. Guard it well. Your life, your very soul, may depend upon it.”

  He cradled the priceless find. Was it possible? Could what she suggested actually transpire?

  Fixing her farsighted gaze on Mora, Mrs. Fergus continued, “Carry the key always at your throat. You will have need of it. And take heart, my dears. All is not yet lost.”

/>   Yet, it was far from won.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Here she comes, gentlemen.” Gowned in a black beaded dress, Mrs. Fergus ushered Mora ahead of her from the direction of her bedroom out into Fergus’s living room. Wrenie had gone home but Fergus sat waiting with Neil.

  He rose from the couch, his chest surging like a racehorse at the starting gate. It was all he could do not to stare slack-jawed in imitation of Fergus. Not that he blamed him. With all that makeup removed and only a touch of gloss on her lips, Mora was excruciatingly fresh and desirable. The dewy blush on her cheeks her natural hue.

  Shy, searching eyes sought Neil’s and shot a barb through his heart. Damn, she was lovely.

  Betty Fergus swept her arm at Mora, charm bracelets jangling. “Isn’t this gown perfect? It’s a Gunne Sax. I always say there’s nothing like the Sixties for true style.”

  Neil gave a nod. Again, Mora enchanted him in her second transformation of the day. The ankle-length dress, corset laced to her waist, accentuated her distracting curves. Layers on layers of gathered cloth comprised the skirt; the height of romantic, especially with her long, loose hair glinting in the light. But the filmy muslin dress trimmed in crochet was probably the last thing he’d expected her to appear in.

  Fergus recovered his wits. A smirk at his mouth, he said, “Are you referring to the Eighteen or Nineteen Sixties?”

  His mother waved him off. “The style is timeless.”

  “For a Renaissance fair, Mom.”

  “It’s vintage,” she said, while Mora looked on, her lips ajar.

  “Scarborough?” Mora asked.

  Neil smiled. Fergus snorted in amusement.

  Mrs. Fergus squeezed Mora’s hand. “Certainly, but not what I had in mind.”

  Neil wondered what that might be. Mrs. Fergus collected old clothes and jewelry. Mora could pass for an ultra-feminine flower child from bygone years, though not as bygone as the era she hailed from, or a faery bride. She had that otherworldly look.

  “Show them the boots I found,” Mrs. Fergus prompted. “Seems my feet used to be considerably smaller.”