Some Like it Plaid

by Angela Quarles

  Aye, she darted a gaze there, and her tongue quickly licked her lips. She fooled no one.

  “Yes. I could have convinced one of the women to be saddled with the likes of me.” But then his good humor left him on his next words. “But all marriageable ones are gone.”

  “Gone?” Her forehead wrinkled. “All?”

  “Aye.” The fight went out of him. He rounded the table and collapsed onto the bench facing her, his elbows on his knees. The weight of all that he was responsible for, all that his tribe had suffered, pushed down on his shoulders. By the ancestors, he was tired. “About a lunar month ago, we were attacked while most of the warriors were away, including myself. The raiders carried off most of the women and many of the children. To sell them, no doubt.”

  A gasp cut through the room. She’d pulled her knees up to her chest, one arm wound tight around them and her other hand clasped to her mouth.

  Her hand lowered, though her eyes were still wide. “That’s horrible. Slavery exists here? In this time?”

  An old pain pinched his chest, and his voice choked out, “Aye.”

  “Can you get them back?”

  “We would if we knew who took them. Some of the men lost wives and children and wish for nothing more but to march on their stronghold to reclaim them.” They’d been returning from a successful hunt, joking and telling tales of their plans for when they reached home. They’d been absent five nights, leaving behind a small guard of younger men. As Connall and his companions crested the top of the last hill, though, all chatter died as angry smears of smoke spiraled upward from their stronghold. They’d kicked the sides of their mounts and raced to Dunadd, only to find most of their women and children stolen in a rare raid on their coast.

  Anger filled him anew. If his mother had been alive still, she’d have been gone as well. Unable to take the shock and empathy she directed at him, he focused on the door. “We’ve sent runners to neighboring tribes, but none are close. On one side is the sea, and on the other are lochs and nearly impenetrable mountain passes, especially in winter.”

  “What about survivors? Didn’t they see the raiders?”

  “Aye, but in all the chaos, all they could tell was that they were not from nearby—their clothes and language were not ours.”

  “Oh God.” Her choked words brought his attention back to her. She favored one god more than others? A nameless one, at that?

  She was still curled against herself, her face paling. “I…I can’t believe… I must have gone pretty far back for Scotland to still have slavery.” Her eyes found his. “What year is it?” she whispered.

  “Year?” The word sounded like one from her own tongue, not his, and he was unfamiliar with the meaning. Her tone indicated it was an important one, and he wished on all the gods that he could answer.

  “Yes. I come from 2019, so this is…”

  He frowned, still unsure of what she was asking.

  “A.D. Anno Domini?”

  “You speak the tongue of the Romans?” The rhythm sounded like the snatches he’d heard from local tribes who’d traded with them.

  She put her hands to her face and then dragged them down. “So the Romans are still running around here? That should be a big, fat clue as to when. God, why didn’t I pay attention in history classes?” She unfolded her legs and gripped her knees, staring at him. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened to your women, but I can’t be your wife. I have a life I need to get back to. As soon as that spellcaster returns, I’m having him send me home.”

  He nodded. “Well enough, but know that by then, you probably won’t wish to return.”

  Some of the spark returned to her face, her eyes. “Think that much of yourself, huh?”

  He shook his head. “The tether will weaken for you the longer you remain. If you truly accept where you are, you will eventually forget your other life and be happy.” While he’d not felt much weakening—for there was no chance he’d accept life there—just the small amount had spurred him to finish his mission, enlisting Norton to aid him in placing the notice on the list of Craig’s.

  She surged to her feet. “Wait. What? This magic will make me forget my former life by the next full moon?”

  “After two full moons pass, aye. And it won’t make you. It’s only if you truly belong here and accept this as your home.”

  “When is the second full moon?”

  “Forty-nine nights from now.”

  She paced to the far wall then back again, her gait jerky and stiff with tension. “Well, then, even more reason for me to not get all comfortable with you.” She gave a choked laugh, though it was still tinged with the heat of her anger. “This is not the job I signed up for.”

  “It’s not a job. I’m not sure why you keep insisting this. Regardless, I told you what you could expect before you left.”

  “When?”

  “At the coffee shop, just before you agreed to return here with me.”

  Her gaze went unfocused and then pink tinged her cheeks. “I, um…I didn’t quite hear all that.”

  “I said them plainly in your tongue.”

  She flapped her hands. “I was under the spell of your biceps, okay?”

  “Biceps? That sounds like a word in your tongue not mine.”

  She marched back to him. And pointed. At his upper arm muscles. “Those. Happy now?”

  A surprising burst of pleasure filled his chest, but he kept very, very still.

  Then she folded her arms and lifted her chin. “Anyway, I can’t stay here. This is not where I belong.”

  He held his tongue. She was wrong. He was sure of it. She only needed time to adjust. She’d come around.

  But having confirmation of her attraction gave him a new idea. He’d been mulling over the druid’s explanation of the magic. If he teased her, drew this attraction out longer, she’d eventually give in to her desire and join with him.

  The way he saw it, if she initiated, she was telling the magic she belonged here.

  He would simply have to exercise restraint. Somehow.

  “I’m assuming we’re too far back for a shower?” she said.

  “Shower?” This word was also in her tongue, as if the magic didn’t have an equivalent.

  “A bath? Where’s the bathroom?”

  He frowned, which made her eyes get rounder.

  “Oh shit. Don’t tell me.” She flapped her hands around. “Where am I supposed to pee?”

  That he understood. He pointed to a bucket in the corner.

  She turned slowly back to him. “You have got to be kidding.”

  “Why would I jest about such matters?” At the horror dawning across her features, another stab of uncertainty hit him as to whether his land was a better alternative. Of a certainty, they had a more efficient method for such matters.

  “Why, indeed,” she whispered. She turned pleading eyes to him. “I can’t pee in a bucket. Not with you watching. What am I supposed to do with it after?”

  “Throw it over into the south ravine like everyone else.”

  She pointed to herself, then waved a hand around. “Me. Not where I belong.”

  He sighed, stepped into the crisp night air, and closed the door behind him, giving her the privacy she required. Her adjustment might be harder than he figured.

  Chapter Five

  The elderly woman, Eithne, pushed open a quaint wooden door at the end of a stone-lined tunnel, her wiry body hiding her strength. She reminded Ashley of one of those older women who looked all innocent—fluffy white hair, pillow-soft cheeks, wide blue eyes—but could throw down if you crossed her in a bridge tournament. It was Ashley’s first full day at Dunadd, and Connall had left her with Eithne—she had her new duties as washer woman and kitchen aid to learn. When Connall had woken her up that morning, she’d asked for coffee, but right when the word came out i
n English instead of his language she knew her answer.

  Morning with no coffee?

  Yesterday had been so overwhelming, there’d been no time to ask. Now she was struggling to be something other than a useless, coffee-less slug. It had been bad enough to pee into a bucket last night, but to also do it with morning brain fog? And then lug it outside again?

  Ah, fun times.

  The Bridge Battle Axe stuck a torch into the room beyond, the light flickering against stacks of barrels and leather sacks. “And here’s the storage room,” Eithne said. “It’s full now, aye, as we laid in a fine stock of supplies to carry us through the winter. Even more so now that…” Her voice trailed off with resignation and sadness.

  She seemed to shake herself and then winked at Ashley, fine lines radiating across her face with the movement. “It’s nice to have some younger people to help me again. My joints are stiff.” She ducked into the storage room, and Ashley followed. This room must be under the main floor of the keep, accessible from a tunnel that led from the detached kitchen.

  “It grieves me to ask you to do such manual labor as the wife of the chief’s son,” Eithne continued, “but you have to understand, the raid left us shorthanded.”

  Most of the people around were men and elderly women. Very few children, and only a few women her age. Her throat clogged—what they must be going through. How awful. And that people throughout history had dealt with similar heartache—having their loved ones stolen. There one day, gone the next.

  She leaned against the door opening and peered inside. No bigger than a streetcar, the room looked as if it were straight out of some fairy-tale dungeon with its low ceiling, tight confines, and a tiny slit up high letting in just a squeak of light.

  She stepped inside and pulled her mantle tighter around her neck, shivering from the room’s cooler air. The smell of dank earth and stone was richer in here, along with the deep tones of aged wooden barrels and supple leather. Soft clouds of her breath floated into the space.

  “First, can ye fill that leather sack with grain from this barrel?” Eithne shuffled to one along the left wall and pointed. “We’ll be needing it for today’s baking.”

  Easy enough. Ashley rubbed her cold nose with the cuff of her mantle, a low-grade headache scouring her skull. She set the sack on the floor and tugged the barrel lid off as the other woman held the torch high for her to see. Inside lay a wooden scoop, its edges lighter from repeated use. Digging it in deep, she used it to transfer the contents to the sack, which Eithne now held open for her.

  God, she ached from having barely slept last night, and most of it spent with her body drawn up tight and tense. Oddly, it wasn’t Connall’s presence, asleep on a makeshift pallet on the other side of their hut, which had her mind spinning out of control, unable to relax into sleep. She felt safe around him. Safe enough to let her mind latch onto all her other worries and how she was going to handle it. In the early hours before finally slipping into sleep, she’d realized—it would have been New Year’s Eve back in her time.

  Happy New Years to me.

  At least everyone’s been nice so far.

  Last night, she decided that, to stay sane, she had to accept Connall’s explanation for how she found herself back in time, even though she’d never believed in magic.

  When Ashley poured the last scoop into the sack, the woman tied the top off with twine. They headed back to the kitchen. The magic “translated” her knowledge and possessions, he’d said. If true, most of her odd abilities could be explained, like being able to speak their language and read the runes.

  But what could have allowed her to do that foretelling yesterday?

  Because if she’d had that skill back home she’d have for damn sure asked it things, like was her ex-husband a slime-ball-douche-canoe before she’d married him? Though Google might have done the trick. The right search term… Then she snorted. Ha. As if. She’d have never found out that way because it would never occur to her not to trust him.

  So, so naïve.

  Then she stumbled. Good Lord. Google? Could that be it? She’d had her laptop with her when she whirled through time, and it was no longer in her “translated” messenger bag.

  She drew in a shaky breath and continued following behind Eithne, who now opened the kitchen door.

  “Affraic, have ye met Connall’s clever new wife?” Eithne stepped up to another older woman, this one as thin as a pogo stick and crumbling herbs into an iron pot hanging by a hook before a hearth fire.

  She smiled, her eyes warm and welcoming. “And glad we are to have ye.” A bit of tension eased around Ashley’s chest, though her headache grew. The woman nodded to a knife-scarred table nearby, one end filled with wooden vessels and leather bags of various sizes, and the other side bare. “You can set your burden there, I thank ye.”

  Ashley carried it to the indicated spot and gently set it down, her muscles giving an oh-thank-the-Lord sigh. The kitchen was blessedly warm, almost to the point of stifling, but she relished the feeling, for a chill had settled into her bones. And a heavenly smell permeated the air—cooking meat sizzled on a spit as plops of fat dripped onto the hearth stone, the scent overlaid with fragrant herbs and yeast baking and blooming.

  That same memory tugged—the one when she’d eaten the grain-heavy bread—but with her brain fog and mounting headache it quickly sank.

  Eithne smiled at her. “You look worn out. Why don’t we walk about, and I’ll give ye a tour of the buildings until we’re needed back here?”

  Ashley nodded, relieved, because yay, no more carrying today, but jeez, more walking?

  Before they went outside, though, she placed a halting hand on Eithne’s bony shoulder. “Can we visit the person who was dressing the leather?”

  Eithne’s white brows rose. “You want to do another foretelling?”

  “I…just want to see if it was a fluke.” She swallowed, her heart kicking up a bit. She needed to test her theory.

  “Aye, we can’t be calling you a Diviner if that was the only one in your hand, now can we?” She winked and led the way down to the second terrace.

  Ugh. I’ll have to come back up this dang slope when we’re done.

  “Eithne, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Aye.”

  “Where do you bathe?”

  “Why, at the river. Didn’t your husband show you?”

  She pursed her lips. “No. Can you show me after?”

  “Of a certainty, I can.”

  Soon they were at the hut from yesterday, where a man was stretching and dressing hides. Like most she’d seen who weren’t warriors, he was elderly—thin but fit. Eithne explained her request, and Ashley scooped up a fistful of dirt then squatted in front of a stretched hide, the cool earth in her palm growing warmer as she stared at the leather.

  Holy shit. Am I really about to do this?

  First question—where the hell was she? Dunadd, Scotland didn’t exactly narrow it down. She flung the dirt toward the browned leather, the wind whisking some of the tiny kernels downslope. Most swooshed across the hide, though, and settled into a pattern. Ashley went still. Again, the answer formed in her mind. Dunadd, on an Argyll peninsula between the Sound of Jura and Loch Fyne.

  Damn—it was her very own Google.

  Heart pounding, the beats echoing now with the aching throb spreading in her head, she cast another scoop and learned that the Argyll region was on the western side of Scotland and part of an ancient kingdom called Dal Riata, the origin of the Scottish-Gaelic language. Later a stronghold of the Campbell clan.

  A shadow cast over the leather and she glanced up. An elderly man with a lantern jaw and sharp green eyes had joined them to watch. “What is it telling ye?”

  “Where we are.”

  He frowned at her. “We already know that.”

  “But I didn�
�t.”

  She brought the fist holding her dirt to her lips and kissed it. Okay, let’s do this. What year is it?

  She tossed the handful of dirt, and a pattern took shape.

  156 AD.

  She fell back onto her butt. Holy shitballs.

  Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck. 156 friggin’ A.D.? For real?

  Her whole body flushed cold and then hot, goose bumps breaking out on her skin, followed by a cold, cloying sweat. Oh God, she needed to lie down. This couldn’t be… Oh, Jesus. She knew she was back in time, but that far back? Unbelievable.

  Despite her already-sore muscles and now shakiness, she pushed herself to a stand. Her knees buckled, but she caught herself against the smooth stone of the leather-worker’s hut. Fuzzy white spots filled her vision. The three Scots watched her with curious expressions. Their rough clothing dyed in simple colors… The primitive stone huts… The mention of Romans from her earlier telling when she’d wondered about dangers…

  Every single friggin’ tiny-ass hair on her body popped up stiff, and the contents of her stomach acted like they were on a damn trampoline.

  Oh God.

  She stumbled over to the terrace wall and draped her arms over it. Vast, empty land stretched toward the horizon. Wind whipped across her sweaty skin, chilling her.

  And then she puked over the side.

  …

  Connall stepped away from the warriors. “And make sure ye have enough dried meat this time, will ye?” Their journey over the lochs to the Roman outpost would be a long one.

  To the north, clouds, bruised purple and heavy with moisture, crowded the horizon, foretelling an evening rain. He sent a quick prayer to Add, their local god, that on their journey’s start, the weather would be clear. He’d find time today, though, to venture to the river they’d be traveling and make an offering to Danu, the goddess residing in, and presiding over, its depths. Perhaps he could bring his new wife along and show her their ways.

  He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and strode through the courtyard to the keep. Ever since his father had explained the mission this morning, an idea had formed in his mind and kept prodding.