by Tamara Gill
“I fear you’ll be a curiosity for the next few weeks until the staff get to know ye. Ye are staying for a few weeks, are ye not?”
“I hope to if you’ll have me.”
Braxton laughed. “If we’ll have ye? Of course, we’ll have ye,” he said, finally closing the distance between them and hugging her soundly. “I can see my mama in yer eyes. ’Tis extraordinary.”
“I look like your mother?” Kenzie’s eyes smarted. “That’s so lovely to hear.”
“But ye sound slightly English for a Scottish lass. Why is that?”
Gwen ushered her to a chair, and they all sat while Gwen poured her a cup of mead.
“Mama divorced Papa; the marriage was anything but a love match. They hated each other in the end, and because Father refused to leave the estate, Mama took me to England and raised me in London. Mama is still in London, but Father passed away last year.”
Braxton made what sounded like a growl.
“Life happens, people make mistakes, but I didn’t come here to make you upset. I came to meet ye. And, I gather, from seeing a little girl race off toward the beach and a woman madly chasing after her, that was Madeline? Can I ask who the other children are?”
Gwen laughed, her eyes lighting up with the mention of her babe. “Aye, Madeline is the most precious doll. She’s almost two now, and no doubt, she’s busy with Nurse collecting shells. The other children you saw are Nurse’s babes. She’s a widower ye see, and while caring for Madeline, she’s also able to care for and educate her own.”
“She sounds adorable, and in my time, there’s a painting that hangs in this very room, of her as a young lady. I do believe I should warn you she’s a beauty, and very much sought after, if history has any truth in it.”
Braxton growled again, and Gwen beamed. “It’s so lovely to hear that. Although, by the reaction of Braxton here, he wishes her to grow into a haggard, old woman.”
“You do realize, my love, that children grow up and marry their own loves. As will Madeline, and eventually, as will our Kenzie.”
Kenzie shook her head. “I’m never marrying. Ever.”
Gwen frowned. “But ye must. How will ye have children and ensure the estate stays in the family for generations to come?”
Kenzie could think of a few ways that would be possible. “That is a conversation for another day. For now, let us just enjoy each other, but there is probably one thing we must discuss before my stay here goes any further.”
“Of course, what is it, my dear?”
“What do you wish for me to call you? Somehow, I don’t believe grandmamma or grandpapa would be suitable.”
Braxton came and sat on the table, laughter in his gaze. “I think Braxton and Gwen would suit just fine, and we shall call you Kenzie. A distant relative of Gwen’s will suffice and allow the staff not to be suspicious of ye. What say you?”
“I say, yes.” Kenzie took in their features and could see a resemblance to herself in Gwen’s high cheekbones and full lips.
Gwen ran a hand over her cheek almost as if Kenzie’s own thoughts brought forth the action. “How old are ye, Kenzie? If ye don’t mind me asking.”
“I just turned twenty-five last month.” Braxton’s burst of laughter startled her. “What is it?” she asked, not sure why her age was so amusing.
“You’re older than we are now,” Braxton said, his smile warm and full of mirth.
“Ye are, lass. We’re not far off ye in age, but certainly not yet twenty-five.” Gwen smiled, before pulling her to stand. “Now come, my dear. I want to show ye to your room and get ye settled. Would you like a bath brought up before we sup tonight? Even though we’re only moving in today, some staff have been here for a week or more, and we’re perfectly able to attend to any wish ye may have.”
The thought of a bath seemed heavenly, and Kenzie was tired after her travel. “I would love one, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“’Tis no trouble at all, lass.”
They walked from the room and headed up the familiar staircase. To know that her ancestor really had lived in and enjoyed a house that she now called her own was truly an amazing, wonderful thing. So many great memories, of family, children, births, and unfortunately, even deaths had happened under this roof. Life can’t get much better than it is now.
Her room was inlaid with the same dark wood that the staircase was made of, and funny enough, it was the room Kenzie had used as a child, before her mother had packed them up and left for London.
Kenzie pulled out the few gowns she’d brought with her and hung them in the armoire before looking out the window, watching as day gave way to late afternoon. Gwen fussed about her room, making sure the maids understood their duties to her new guest and ensuring the bath and linens were brought up promptly. Kenzie smiled at Gwen’s fretting like an old mother hen about her chick.
“There we are, dear. I think the water is at the right temperature now.”
“Thank you, Gwen,” Kenzie said, sitting down and pulling off her shoes. “And thank you so much for making me welcome. I wasn’t sure how you’d take my arrival here. I’m so happy that you approve.”
“Well…” Gwen went to the dressing table and picked up a ribbon, coming over and tying Kenzie’s hair back to keep it from getting wet. “I canna lie, it does make me a little nervous that you’re here. This time is hard, and I certainly don’t want anything happening to ye, but it also fills my heart with joy, knowing my children, my lineage, survives through the next few centuries, right up to yer own time.”
Kenzie could see how such knowledge would be pleasing for someone who’d otherwise never know. “Do you think it’s possible for me to visit with Abby Cross, your brother’s wife? I should so like to see her again.”
“Oh aye, we’re due to travel there in a few weeks for the christening of their new bairn. I know Abby was so thankful to ye, and so I have no qualms with them seeing ye. And I would also think Aedan would love to thank the lass who secured his future happiness.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Gwen sighed. “Well, I’ll leave ye for now to have ye bath. Come downstairs when you’re ready, and we’ll have supper.”
Kenzie watched her go, grateful that Gwen was so loving. She looked around the room, the animal furs on her bed, the roaring fire next to the small wooden tub. She undressed quickly, wondering if, when they traveled to Druiminn Castle, the Laird of Ross would also be there to congratulate the couple on their new baby. Needing the ladies room, Kenzie looked behind the screen in the corner of her room. She had hoped against hope for a lovely flushable toilet, but no, there was none. Instead, a pretty pink bowl sat on the floor. How was she going to squat over that? There was also no sign of toilet paper either, merely some torn up pieces of cloth. Lovely…
Thankfully, she could bathe after relieving herself. Kenzie lowered herself into the tub, hoping the Laird of Ross would show his face at some point. She was in the seventeenth century after all, to see the man and possibly find out how and why he had disappeared without a trace.
Kenzie soaped her arms, liking the smell of lemon and trying to ignore the small amount of guilt that pressed on her conscience about not being totally honest with Gwen as to why she was here. It was probably best they didn’t know, for they’d probably try and keep her from meeting Black Ben, and then she’d never learn the truth behind the old Scottish mystery.
This was going to be a great trip. One she’d never forget.
…
Kenzie sat up in bed with a start at the sound of loud banging coming from below stairs. She fumbled about on her bed, trying to find the shawl that Gwen had given her to use and toppled off the bed when she reached into nothing but thin air.
Feeling her way toward the windows, she pulled the thick, heavy drapes aside, allowing the glow of the moon to light the room. The fire had long burned down to nothing but embers, and she tiptoed toward the door, hoping the house wasn’t under attack by some thieving, barbaric Sc
ots.
She opened up the door a slither, the sound of swords being drawn and whispers from the men below stairs making her pause. What was going on? Were they under attack? The pit of her stomach clenched, and Kenzie thought she might be sick. Gwen rushed past her, most decidedly rumpled, and looked over the balustrade, her long, red hair hanging down her back. She stayed frozen on the spot as the men downstairs opened the door and shouts rang out.
Gwen gasped and raced downstairs, and when she heard Gwen tell her men to lay down their weapons, Kenzie tiptoed to the banister and looked to see who was at the door.
Kenzie stifled a gasp of her own at viewing the man below. He was filthy and looked like he’d not bathed in weeks, not to mention…was that vomit on his shirt? Dark locks limply hung over his eyes, as dark as a Spaniard’s but clumping together due to its lack of wash. His cheekbones were sharp, his jaw strong and covered in dark facial hair.
Eww.
Braxton hoisted the man’s limp body from the front step of the door after he collapsed and carried him into the room where they’d earlier had bread and mead. Kenzie noted the guards dispersed after checking outside, some staying outdoors while others headed to their quarters near the rear of the house.
Wanting to help in any way she could, even if she could possibly catch lice from the dirty fellow, Kenzie headed downstairs to join her ancestors.
She found them both huddled over the stranger, Gwen’s brow furrowed in worry. Kenzie studied the man as she came closer. He didn’t look like any of her ancestors she’d seen in portraits and yet, she had the oddest feeling she’d seen him before.
Gwen called for cooling water and cloths, along with the request that a servant head below stairs to light the candles in her healer’s room. The man lay, without speaking, on the settee, every now and then moaning, coughing, and looking as if he had some sort of flu or pneumonia. Either way, he seemed very ill.
“What do you think is wrong with him?” Kenzie asked, coming a little closer.
“I’m not sure as yet, lass,” Gwen said, before thanking the maid as she brought in what she’d asked for. Gwen started to pat down his brow, cleaning away what looked like days of grime, sweat, and dried vomit. Yes, it was definitely vomit that soaked his shirt and parts of his chin. “He’s got the ague and is no very well at all.” She pushed the man’s hair back, long locks that were as dark as night itself. Kenzie’s mouth turned up at the sight of him up close.
The word eww again reverberated around in her brain.
“I must make up a tisane. I’ll be back forthwith.” Gwen met Kenzie’s gaze. “Come sit by Ben, and keep the cooling cloth on his brow. ’Twill help until I can give him some wormwood and mint elixir. If that doesn’t work, I’ll try some horehound syrup to bring down his fever.”
Ben… Could it be? “Gwen, this isn’t the Laird of Ross, is it? Also known as Black Ben?”
Gwen nodded as she strode toward the door. “Aye, the very same. His correct name is Abhainn, Laird of Ross, but Ben to his friends. I’ll be back right quick.”
“Of course.” Kenzie did as she was told. The laird was even more intimidating than he was at a distance or in any painting she’d ever beheld. Braxton looked in on her, and seeing all was well, left as soon as he arrived. Through the open doors, Kenzie could hear the men talking outside, a whisper of words all about the man lying unresponsive before her.
“Do not worry, sir, I’m sure you’ll be feeling a lot better soon enough.” Kenzie wiped his brow, bringing the cloth down his cheek and wiping away what was left of his vomit. “And with Gwen looking after you, a wonderful healer, I might add, you’ll be up and walking before you know it.”
He rasped something, and Kenzie leaned close to hear what he was saying. A putrid odor, more awful than she’d ever smelled before, wafted from his skin, and she pulled back, gasping for air. It was rude of her, but thankfully, the man was so out of his mind that he did not notice her reaction to his stench.
For that was exactly what it was, a smell that reminded her of sweat that was weeks old, along with teeth that were not much better. It was no wonder the man had caught some disease. If not from someone else, the air that hung about his head was enough to make anyone ill.
Kenzie wiped his chiseled cheek. Under all his filth, the laird was attractive, and should he eat a few meals, would probably look even more so, but now he looked like nothing but a drunk who’d made himself sick by lack of respect for himself. What had made him do this? He certainly didn’t resemble the man she’d seen in paintings—a tall, athletic, virile laird of his time.
“Did you wish for a drink, sir?” she asked, noting for the first time his eyes were open a little, showing off orbs that were nearly as dark as his hair.
“Aye. Whisky.”
She snorted, and he frowned a little. No way in hell was she going to give in to his request and supply him with more alcohol.
“Drink,” he repeated, and she poured a cup of ale from the pitcher on the table. Holding the cup to his lips, she helped him sit up a little as he had a small sip.
He swore, sputtered out the ale, and knocked the cup out of her hand. Kenzie stood as the man sat up, no longer so faint, but fully awake.
“What are ye trying to do, woman? Kill me? What was that vile concoction ye thought to give me?”
Kenzie picked up the cup, meeting his glare with one of her own. “Well, it’s the funniest thing, but I do believe it’s called beer. And even more fascinating, you should drink it, instead of the muck you’ve obviously been imbibing the past few days. Water would be better, but there doesn’t seem to be any on hand here.”
One brow rose before his eyes narrowed, pinning her to her spot. Kenzie swallowed, reminded herself that Gwen cared for this man in some small way, and surely, since she was a friend of the family, he’d not hurt her. She had nothing to fear. Nothing at all, and yet, her nerves kept jumping each time he moved or spoke. She had no idea why.
He sank back down on the settee, his burst of energy seemingly short-lived. “Who are ye? I’ve never see ye afore.”
Kenzie sat down on the chair once again, and rinsing the cloth, placed it on the Scotsman’s forehead. “I’m a distant relative of Gwen and Braxton’s.”
His contemplative gaze raked over her form, and she shivered. What was it about this man that made her react in such a way? For a start, he stank, seemed to be an alcoholic, and was nosy, to boot.
Dismissing her stupid reaction, Kenzie concentrated on rubbing the cloth over his temples and working her way down his neck. The scattering of hair peeking through the top of his shirt gave her pause, and she wondered if he was overly hairy or just a little as she preferred. No one wanted to sleep with a bear, after all.
“A relative of both of theirs, eh?” He groaned and rolled to his side, forcing her off the chair. “A bucket. Quickly, lass.”
“Oh my God, seriously?” Kenzie looked about the room, and spying a peat bucket beside the fire, she tipped the little bricks of peat onto the ground and raced back to his side.
Great heaving and the sound of a lot of whisky coming up filled the room for the next few minutes, along with a smell that Kenzie never wanted to experience again. Rinsing the cloth, she passed it to him when he seemed to be finished and watched as he wiped his mouth and chin.
“You’re very pretty lass, and very similar to my Gwen.”
The word “my” wasn’t lost on her, nor did she like hearing it. “Gwen isn’t yours, sir. And I don’t care if you find me pretty or I remind you of Gwen. You, sir, are a sickly drunk who doesn’t have any respect for his own wellbeing.”
It was his turn to look stunned. “Sickly drunk? I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but those two terms have never been two of them. Perhaps you ought—”
Kenzie held up her hand. “I don’t want to ‘ought’ anything. All I wish is to get you better so you may leave and get on with ruining your own life, which, if your appearance here this evening is any indication
, you’re quite on the road to doing. Laird indeed…”
The door opened, and Gwen walked into the room, a small bowl and spoon in her hand. “Ay, Ben, you’re awake.” She sat beside him, and Kenzie noted the subtle change in the man, a slight relaxing of muscles, his brow eased of tension, the glitter of triumph in his eyes when he caught Kenzie staring at him.
What a dick.
“The Laird of Ross, hey, Gwen?” Kenzie said, not bothering to hide her distaste.
“Aye, the very one. Although most folks like to call him Black Ben.”
What a waste… Disappointment stabbed at her. This was one of the most ferocious warriors Scotland had ever seen? This stinky drunk ass who seemed to think her married ancestor was his? He was who she had wanted to try and change history for? Or, at least, find out how and why he’d disappeared without a trace?
“I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, Laird Ross, but well, it’s not.” Kenzie caught Gwen’s gaze and said, “He vomited in your peat bucket, just so you know.”
Ben took a cup of ale that Gwen held out to him and without a word of complaint, sipped. “’Tis no trouble, I would like to stay for a time.” He turned a beguiling gaze onto Gwen, and she was pleased to see that, although Gwen looked at him with kindness, there was no affection other than a platonic one. “I’m sorry I’ve arrived so unwell, lass, but after ye invited me to visit, I could not return to Castle Ross without seeing ye all one last time. I’m not sure when I’ll be back in this part of Scotland again.”
“Of course, ye’re more than welcome to stay, and Braxton has ordered the staff to ready a room for ye, and a bath, which should help with bringing down ye fever. But my rule is that you’re to stay in bed until I say otherwise.”
The man took Gwen’s hand and kissed it. “Och, lass, ye’ve always been so kind to me. What a shame it is that ye didn’t marry me instead of Braxton. I could’ve had such caring from ye for all of my days.”