The Laird

by Sandy Blair

  Duncan had to make Katherine LeBeau Demont his bride before sunset. He had no choice.

  Their regent, the Duke of Albany, was determined to control Katherine’s dowered lands through Duncan’s loyalty. The man had made it abundantly clear this distant niece of his was to be Duncan’s bride by this date or Duncan would lose all his holdings, no doubt, to the Bruce.

  Just the thought of his clan—-ever loyal to him--being turned out upon this brutal land without food or shelter, without his strong arm to protect them, was intolerable. He shook the priest again. “Do we ken one another?”

  The priest reluctantly nodded and raced through the remainder of the ceremony. When the priest finally mumbled “Amen”, Duncan uttered a satisfied grunt.

  At his side, Angus slapped him on the back in congratulations causing Duncan to growl, “Damn, man!”

  “Augh, Duncan, I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  “If ‘twas yer bloody back, I doubt ye would.”

  His last wife Eleanor had done her evil well. She’d been dead a fortnight and his shoulder was still a ragged, inflamed mess after her assault. Had he not been made wary by finding her traitorous missive to her lover, she might well have succeeded in killing him. When she fell on her own blade during their struggle and died, she’d done him a favor. He’d never liked her, but having to kill her--a woman—wouldn’t have set well on his conscience.

  He’d sworn then never to marry again. Having pledged his fidelity thrice to keep his clan secure and suffered the consequences, one would have thought thrice enough to please God and king. But nay. Before Eleanor’s grave had had a chance to sprout grass or his shoulder to heal, Albany’s edict--King’s seal and all--had arrived.

  He looked down at the drenched bride in his arms. Her eyes were ringed with soot and her cheeks streaked black and bloody. A mottled bruise the size of a goose egg marred her high forehead. No wonder the woman had fainted.

  He looked at his friend. “While I carry her to the solar, order the food served.”

  “I’ll take her,” Angus offered.

  “Nay. She’s mine now, for better or worse.”

  ~#~

  Beth opened her eyes to find familiar bedposts and an equally familiar board and beamed ceiling. She was in her bed, in Blackstone’s solar. She sighed. It had all been a dreadful dream. Thank heaven.

  She stretched and nearly screamed. Good Lord, what had happened to her legs and back?

  The storm. She remembered struggling to get onto the capsized boat. She must have wrenched a muscle or three. Cautiously, she rolled onto her side and saw heavy drapes hanging where only her sparkling mullion windows should be. Her brain then filled with flashes of being trapped in a box with two dead women, of Duncan, of severed limbs and bleeding men, and then the priest.

  Her gaze flew around the room. Oh, God! The tapestries, the gilt mirror, the brass and-irons in the fireplace were all gone. Seeing that the dresser with her prized make-up collection had also disappeared while she slept brought her straight to her feet. The room spun and she reached for a bed poster. She was still trapped in her nightmare. She took several deep breaths and pinched her wrist. Hard. Nothing changed.

  “Just calm down, Beth. This is only a dream. A bad dream, but nothing more. Just wash your face and you’ll see.” Head aching and heart pounding, she walked into the bathroom.

  She stifled a scream with her hands.

  Where her tub should have been hung odd, long-sleeved gowns. Where her sink should have been sat large chests. Where the toilet should have been sat nothing. She felt an overwhelming urge to scream yet again.

  “This can’t be happening.” She spun and raced to the east facing windows and threw back a covering. Her beautiful mullion windows were gone. Only soft lavender light and a gentle sea breeze greeted her.

  It was dawn; the sun was just starting to gild the hills across the bay. She couldn’t have lost a whole day, could she? Panicked, she searched the shore for the familiar, white stucco buildings of Drasmoor, for the church steeple and flower-lined streets. She found only fine spirals of smoke rising from a myriad of squat thatched buildings scattered near the beach and into the hills. The boats lining the beach were small with reefed sails. There wasn’t an outboard motor in sight.

  “Where the hell am I?” She pushed an agitated hand through her hair, winced then tentatively explored the lump on her forehead.

  Had she washed-up on some distant beach where there just happened to be another castle? Given the ferocity of the storm, it was altogether possible. Yes, that’s what happened. She hadn’t lost her mind. The rest was simply a nightmare.

  She heaved a sigh and wondered where her rescuer hid. Probably still asleep given the hour. When her stomach growled, she muttered, “No wonder you have a headache.” She’d missed two meals on top of being knocked unconscious. But more pressing than hunger was her need to find a bathroom.

  Since she couldn’t wander the halls in the tissue thin nightgown someone--she hoped it had been a woman--put on her, she looked for her clothes. Not finding her jeans or sweater, she donned a green silk sleeveless cloak.

  She peeked into the hall and heard someone stirring below.

  Her unease only grew as she reached the third level. The floor plan of this keep was identical to hers, but the décor wasn’t.

  This castle hadn’t been modernized. Oil sconces lined the walls and brittle rushes crunched under foot. The owner had to be a purest. Wondering if the owner had opened his home to tourists—-which would explain why the place looked like an armory—-she turned a corner and collided with a small, dark-haired woman of about thirty years dressed in a period costume.

  “I’m so sorry.” Beth steadied the startled woman carrying a mountain of cloth. “I was just looking for the bathroom.”

  “Um..., “ The woman, her dark eyes growing round, looked about helplessly.

  Beth, deciding the woman had to be new here as well, gave the petite woman’s arm a pat. “Never mind. I’ll find it myself.” As she turned to go, the woman tugged Beth’s sleeve and pointed in the direction she’d just come from. Great. She’d managed to pass the bathroom.

  Following the woman, Beth wondered how far from home she’d landed. Would someone be available to give her a lift back to Drasmoor right away? The Silversteins were probably having a fit thinking she’d drowned. She needed to call them. Surely her host had a phone for emergencies, if nothing else.

  Arriving back in the solar, Beth groaned. If she didn’t find the bathroom soon, she’d explode.

  The woman, murmuring in French, held out the bundle of clothing. Beth smiled as best she could. “Miss, I need to find a bathroom. Now.” She placed a hand on her lower belly and started to jig. The woman’s face lit with understanding.

  The lady laughed. “Ah, oui, oui, madame.”

  “Yes, I have to wee wee, as soon as humanely possible, if you don’t mind.”

  To Beth’s astonishment, the woman reached under the bed and pulled out a chamber pot.

  “Ah.” Apparently, her host not only turned his back on electricity but on indoor plumbing, as well. Perhaps this castle was a museum. There were a plethora of them listed on maps and in tourist guidebooks. She took the crazed pot from her hostess’s hand. When in Rome…

  ~#~

  Duncan, having no appetite, pushed his still full trencher away. He’d not slept, being sore and fevered, and now felt far worse. Adding to his misery, he’d peaked into the solar late last night to be sure his bride still breathed and been shocked by her state. Not only was the woman bruised and battered, she was as plain as porridge. How he would garner the enthusiasm to bed the woman was beyond knowing. But it had to be done--and soon--if he wanted to keep all he’d slaved over.

  “Duncan, why so glum?”

  He looked up to find Flora Campbell, his first wife’s sister, at his elbow. As usual she looked the vision of womanhood draped in a vivid blue damask cotehardie that enhanced the tone of her milk white skin. Her deep
chestnut eyes laughed at him--danced above a perfectly bowed grin. “Where is thy fair new lady?”

  Flora had no doubt heard all that had transpired last night, right down to the finest details about his new wife’s appearance. Having little patience for Flora’s taunting humor on the best of days, he felt the sudden urge to wipe the smug expression from her face with the back of his hand. “Good morn, Flora.”

  “Can I offer ye something else?” She leaned forward--giving him a clear view down her décolleté--and tipped his trencher. “Ye apparently have no appetite for what ye’ve been given.”

  As always, Flora wielded her tongue like a double-edged claymore. If ye took offense, she’d claim ye’d misconstrued her meaning. And if a willing man waylaid her after she’d flirted outrageously, she acted the wounded party. Lord knew he’d broken up many a fight after a night’s mead had loosened his men’s inhibitions--and her tongue--to pay any heed to her beauty. Which, according to Angus, was reason enough for her taunting him.

  Duncan had put forth five good men--not close friends--in the hopes of marrying her off, but to no avail. Regrettably, Flora was not a domina--a wealthy widow entitled to one third of her husband’s estate, so he’d not been able tempt a greedy man with land. Nor was she religious enough to become a voweress, one of those mature women who chose to devote their lives to God in some distant nunnery. Flora was only a beautiful, poorly dowered woman who chose remain unmarried just to annoy him.

  About to tell her to leave him in peace, a murmur rose in the hall. He looked up to find his bruised bride standing in the doorway beside his advisor’s wife, Rachael. Studying his ladywife, he couldn’t help but wonder what he’d done that she should be foisted upon him. He shrugged. It didn’t matter at present, for his new ladywife appeared more than a wee bit frightened as her gaze swept the crowded hall.

  He made his way toward her. When her gaze made contact with his, she blanched then swayed. He was nay the bonniest of men to be sure, but that was ridiculous, definitely not a good sign that she was again ready to faint at the mere sight of him before one and all.

  “My lady.” He took her cold hand in his to steady her.

  Beth’s breath caught. Duncan’s calloused hands felt not warm but hot as they swallowed hers.

  And it was true.

  Her ghost was now flesh and blood, tall and gloriously handsome despite his high flush. But how could this be? And who were all these people staring at her? She knew she looked frightful without make-up, but staring bordered on rude. And why were they all dressed for a costume party at dawn?

  With a hand at her waist, Duncan guided her through the throng to the opposite end of the hall. He pulled out a chair and motioned for her to take a seat. With effort, she tore her gaze from the women in their odd headdresses and the bearded men wearing broadswords only to see the very falcon chairs she’d retrieved from the storeroom. Her heart slammed into her ribs.

  She grasped Duncan’s hot hands with her now frigid ones. Shaking, fearing the answer, she asked, “Where the hell am I?”

  Chapter 5

  Anger roiled in Duncan’s belly. He’d suffered through three loveless political marriages and now the house of Stewart had foisted a raving lunatic on him.

  Mutely, he watched as his new wife, muttering and wringing her hands, pace the solar. He understood only a scattering of words, for she spoke her English quickly and with an unfamiliar accent. His efforts to calm her using French and Gael had been for naught. She only shook her head as she continued her frantic muttering and pacing.

  Feeling a strong kinship with the biblical Job and annoyed beyond endurance, he finally bellowed, “Katherine, sit ye!”

  She jumped, blanched, and with mouth agape stared at him. She then took a deep breath and glared back. “I’m Beth.” She tapped her chest. “Beth.”

  “Beth?”

  “Aye.” She crossed the room and tapped his chest. “Duncan.” She tapped her own. “Beth.”

  Ah, she wanted him to call her Beth. Fine, he’d call her rhubarb if would stop her damn muttering and pacing. “Beth.”

  She waved her hands about asking another rapid question, and he shook his head in confusion. Sighing in apparent exasperation, she took his hand and pulled him to the window.

  “Where am I?” She asked the question very slowly--as if she spoke to a bairn--and pointed to the village.

  “Drasmoor.”

  “And this?” She waved a fluttering hand around the room and to the floor.

  They were finally making progress. Perhaps she was not wode—-mad--but merely simple. He could only pray. “Blackstone. I am the MacDougall, yer laird and husband.”

  When her eyes grew huge, he stood straighter. She was obviously impressed, as well she should be. She then mewed, “ooh,” in what could only be described as agony and crossed the room. She sat on the bed and buried her face in her hands. Confused, he went to her side and lifted her chin to find a disturbing flood of tears. “What ails ye, lass?”

  “What year is this?”

  “Doth not ye ken?” When she shook her head, he sighed. Slowly he told her, “‘Tis the year of our Lord one thousand, four hundred and eight.”

  “How?”

  Aye, how indeed, had life passed so quickly? Not knowing the answer himself, he merely opened his hands and shrugged.

  The simple gesture nearly brought him to his knees. He grabbed the bedpost for support as beads of sweat erupted across his face and icy chills swept his limbs. His innards started to churn. Damn Eleanor and her blade.

  “Duncan?” His new bride’s shaking hand flew to his forehead. “My Lord! What’s wrong?”

  He pushed her hand away and straightened. “Naught is wrong. Rest ye now. Rachael will come for ye at sup.”

  She tried to press her hand to his forehead again.

  “Nay.” He dodged to her right. He just needed to rest, to shake off the lassitude and fever that continued to confound him but he was not ill. He forced a smile. His confused bride could probably do with a little rest, as well. The bruising on her forehead had deepened in hue. Only heaven and Rachael knew what other damage hid beneath his bride’s borrowed gown.

  Standing in the solar doorway, looking at his befuddle wife, he silently cursed. Once he felt more himself, the Bruce would pay dearly for this insult. Albany’s insult couldn’t be dealt with swiftly or as obviously, but in due course he, too, would feel the wrath of the MacDougall. He studied the confusion and hurt in Beth’s eyes. God’s teeth! His revenge would suit the crime.

  He was being deprived of the possibility for having a healthy and competent heir.

  ~#~

  Beth, standing before the solar window, pinched her arm one more time. “Ouch!”

  Spending the day in hiding, telling herself she was caught in some macabre dream had accomplished nothing. The sun had risen to its zenith and the village of Drasmoor had remained as she’d found it at dawn, just a scattering of little thatched huts. Many of the boats had returned with the day’s catch and at least fifty people now milled around the shoreline.

  How on earth had this happened? Had she brought it on herself?

  She’d been a secret Anglophile for years. She consumed historical romances—-particularly those with a swatch of tartan or thistle on their covers—-like they were made of air. She’d frequently wished she could live in the past with a dark, handsome hero, but good Lord, she’d never expected it to happen!

  Or had her wishing for Duncan to be flesh and blood been the cause? Whoever said, “Be careful what you wish for,” hadn’t known the half of it. And here she was in the early fifteenth century--the age of chivalry and romance with a Highland hunk having claimed her--without so much as a mascara wand. How cruel can life get? She heaved a sigh.

  “Wishful thinking has never gotten you anywhere but here, Beth, so you’d best do something or you’ll never get back to your own world.”

  Her stomach growled in earnest making her decision on where to start simple
. After eating, she would search out her husband.

  Husband.

  She looked down at the gold and ruby ring she now wore. She didn’t remember Duncan placing it on her finger, but then she couldn’t remember much more than leaning into his side as she wavered before the priest. Apparently, in this day and age, brides needn’t consent--let alone be lucid--to wed. But why had he agreed to their marriage? They’d only shared a week together, and had only spoken once. She shook her head and spun the ring on her finger.

  Years ago she’d reconciled herself to the fact that she’d never wear such a ring, that love wasn’t something she would ever experience. Had he fallen in love with her? Was that why she’d shifted in time? More importantly, was she capable of falling in love in return?

  She grunted, unable to lie to herself. Her simple fascination with her handsome spirit had converted to something more meaningful, deeper, days ago. Hadn’t she dreamt of him? Hadn’t she pictured him sitting across from her chatting the nights away? Of course she’d pictured them together in the twenty first century...

  Her stomach growled again. Out of habit she looked for a mirror to check her make-up. “Oh, God.” The thought of mingling with the people downstairs with her face as bare as a baby’s bottom twice in one day made her hands shake.

  She’d been too confused and upset when Rachael had helped her dress this morning to worry, but not now.

  Her hands traveled from her lips to the beautiful brocade gown she wore, across the rich peacock colors to the thick pearl beading on the bodice. The gown’s beauty had distracted her this morning. That, and battling Rachael’s attempts to beautify her. The Frenchwoman, to Beth’s horror, wanted to pluck Beth’s eyebrows off and raise her forehead by plucking out her natural hairline to create the same high-domed look Rachael, herself, sported. Rachael, having lost that battle, decreed Beth would wear a headdress, the woman’s personal favorite being an over-sized, over-starched nun-like affair of white linen. After another half hour argument filled with hand gestures and wretched eye rolling, Beth reluctantly consented to having her hair braided and tucked into two golden snoods that covered her ears and was secured to her head by a smooth brass ringlet.