Some Like it Plaid

by Angela Quarles

  He found his father by the keep’s central fire, conferring with several of the older men.

  “How are the preparations?” his father asked.

  Connall settled on an adjacent bench and nodded to all assembled. “Well enough. We should be able to leave in two or three days’ time. However, I wished to broach an idea with you. My wife’s skills could prove useful.”

  “Other than in general?”

  “Aye, I’d like her to accompany us on this journey.”

  “Of course ye do,” one of the older men interjected, winking at Connall.

  Connall ignored him and concentrated on his father. The truth was, while he’d been impressed by his wife’s skill, he had to be honest with himself—this request was purely an excuse. A restlessness he hadn’t previously realized resided within him eased whenever she was near.

  His father sat back and narrowed his eyes, taking him in. “I need her skills here. She could warn us of coming attacks.”

  “What if she did a foretelling before we departed? We’ve never journeyed to the Roman outpost or dealt with them directly. Much could go awry.”

  He kept his features neutral, awaiting his father’s reply. Finally, his father nodded. “This sounds acceptable.” But before his father dismissed him, his gaze drifted to Connall’s leg and then back up to him with an eyebrow lifted.

  He’d kept his face neutral, but he’d forgotten about the rest of his body, for his leg had been bouncing. He immediately stilled it and drew himself straighter.

  “Bed her before ye leave, son. It’ll go better for ye.”

  By the ancestors, his father could always read his moods. And, by the ancestors, how did he know he hadn’t already?

  “I’m giving her time.”

  All three men looked upon him as if he were a stranger.

  “Whatever for?” asked his father. “You need to be producing sons and daughters for the tribe. If all goes well, Domnall will use the same magic to find his own wife at the Summer Equinox.”

  He crossed his arms. “Trust me. I know how to handle her.” She was in a new, strange land. She couldn’t be expected to accept her situation so readily, but his father would find that reasoning weak.

  Unbidden, thoughts of the time he’d pleaded as a child to allow his childhood playmate—a girl—to play and train with him and his older brothers crowded his thoughts. And of how disastrous that had ended.

  Never mind that he had a new plan to implement—entice her until she made a move. And this trip would help.

  “You’re being too soft on her. You haven’t much time. You know what Mungan said. She needs to be settled before two full moons pass.”

  “I’m not being soft.” Connall clenched his jaw and stood. He’d not show any weakness to his father or the other men. Sooner than he’d wish, he’d most likely be elected chief. And he needed to be worthy. If they viewed him as weak, he couldn’t lead properly. And a failure to lead properly could prove fatal to one or many.

  But a leaden feeling settled in his gut at the idea of manipulating Ashley. And instinct told him that bedding her by seduction was the wrong strategy if he wanted her to stay.

  Aye, I want her to stay.

  She needed to come to him.

  …

  Yesterday, it was a massive caffeine-withdrawal headache. Today, the shits.

  Literally.

  Holy-mother-effing-dang gazillion grain bread and wholesome-effing food.

  Ashley’s legs shook as she held her squat by the river. Cuz, yeah, her muscles were also sore and aching from all the climbing.

  Fuck my life.

  At least back home she’d be miserable on a toilet, not squatting behind some bush at a river in second-century Scotland.

  When she’d thrown up yesterday, she’d at first thought the nausea and ice-pick-through-the-head pain was from the shock, but as it persisted she’d realized—it was a friggin’ caffeine withdrawal.

  She brushed the tears off her cheeks and hugged her knees. This place is trying to kill me.

  Two days later, Ashley knelt outside the hut she shared with Connall. Her mornings were still rough, but each day the headaches were less intense and her digestive tract no longer mutinied.

  She tied off her braid, her hair still wet from her quick bath in the river. She might have only been able to afford cheap shampoo at Target, but that shit was better than the hunk of “soap” she’d been given. Her hair was starting to feel coarse.

  Lately, a new energy had suffused the courtyard, though her “husband” wouldn’t tell her what was happening. Well, she’d just find out on her own. A piece of leather stretched across the ground. Since her surroundings were rocky, a sackful of dirt sat alongside, ready for any divinings.

  She cast some dirt onto the leather. What do they have planned?

  Nothing. As in no answer—not that they weren’t planning anything. She sat back on her heels.

  She cast dirt again, asking the same question. Still no answer.

  After the fifth time, she sat and stared down the incline. A dog ran up in a rolling gait, a bone clutched in its jaws, tail wagging.

  It kind of made sense—Google didn’t know what everyone was doing everywhere all the time. It might be able to tell her the bigger events in this time, because either it was historical record, or it would be like Google traffic or Wayz that would give her a sense of some movements. It was the only explanation that made sense with the transference aspect of the druid’s magic.

  She folded her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms tight around her shins. She propped her chin on one knee and looked at her hut’s door. The door that led to the room she shared with Connall at night.

  She’d expected pushback on their agreement, but—thank God—every night he slept on his straw pallet while she took the bed along the opposite wall.

  But getting to those separate beds each night was another freaking matter—torture, pure torture. An awkward dance of let’s pretend we’re not completely conscious of the other’s every movement as they readied for bed. The stillness of the night punctuated by the trickle of water in the bucket as he cleaned himself with a cloth. The sound of clothes being discarded. The rush of vulnerability as she stepped behind the curtain she’d erected in the corner to hide their “bathroom.” Each time he brushed by her, a weird…tug would make her want to turn and lift a hand and say, wait, I...

  But what? What could she say? I want you?

  How could she even feel that way about him? With that sneaky hand of his, he’d pulled her from her own time to have her as his wife, for Pete’s sake. And she’d had enough of controlling men.

  Thank you for that lesson, you douche of an ex-husband. He better be miserable, wherever he’d scurried off to hide from those bookies.

  She snorted. Nothing would shock her less than to learn that he was living in the cottage on her parents’ ranch in Nebraska. Charles was probably sipping a beer with her dad, while they shook their heads over her. Her.

  Because, yep, that douche had not only ruined their marriage and her finances but also used his infinite charm to gaslight her parents into believing it was somehow her fault. And since that played into how they viewed her—immature baby of the family—they believed him. Believed him over their own flesh and blood.

  Oh, she’d tried to tell her side, but pushing against the quintessential Midwestern attitude of her traditional parents was already an uphill battle. Stick by your man, and all.

  In a way, it was her fault. Too eager to get out from under their controlling behavior, she’d hopped onto the first good thing to breeze into her life—Charles. And because she was unprepared for life on her own, she’d let him control everything about their marriage.

  And so much was out of her control right now, too.

  Since her relations with Connall were something
she could control, then dammit, she would. She’d also resist the urge she’d been feeling to learn more about him—what made him tick, what made him hurt. Oh boy, did she resist. Because the words he’d said—about her accepting her life here, and him—making her forget her old life? Yeah, not happening.

  Though, when she saw Eithne with her husband earlier, still affectionate and caring after all their years together, she did wonder what it would be like to find a relationship like that.

  Someone who looked out for you, instead of taking advantage. Someone with integrity. Someone who saw her as special, worthy of being treated as an equal.

  As if conjured by her thoughts, Connall’s tall form came into view from up slope, his strides long and sure. And angled right for her.

  She stood and brushed the dust off her butt. Then caught herself. The hell? I am not primping.

  She crossed her arms in front of her then let them fall to her sides. Then she put them behind her, grasping a wrist with the opposite hand, but that only made it look as if she were trying to show off her boobs, so she dropped them to her sides again.

  God, she was being ridiculous. She met him halfway, enduring his scrutiny.

  He rested a forearm on the top of his sword hanging by his side. That people just carried swords around like it was no biggie was one of the harder mental adjustments. “We’re departing for a long journey, and you will be accompanying us. We leave at first light on the morrow.”

  She stepped back. “Wait—what? Why?”

  “Other than I’d like you to accompany me?” He took a step, closing the distance between them again and touched the tip of her braid.

  Resist. He just ordered you around again.

  She flicked her head, swinging her braid away from his touch. She crossed her arms again, which she realized—too late—still emphasized her boobs as his gaze darted there and back. “Yes. Other than that,” she said crisply.

  His body straightened. “We will need your skills along our journey to ensure not only our safety but also our success.”

  A thrill shot through her. Well, when he put it like that… Life might suck major hairballs here, but at least she could be useful. And she had a unique skill this tribe apparently valued.

  She soaked that feeling up like a dried-out sponge. “How long will we be gone?” Because despite the thrill of being useful, she was not going to miss the spellcaster’s return.

  His full lips pressed into a thin line. “We’ll be back well before the full moon arrives,” he replied, correctly guessing her main concern.

  Her chest eased a little at that. Seventeen days left before the full moon and that sneaky druid was still nowhere to be seen. She’d been hoping he’d return before then, despite what he’d told the others, so she could jet on back home. Hot shower… Shampoo and conditioner.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the closest Roman outpost on the wall.”

  “Hadrian’s Wall? That wall?”

  He shook his head. “That would be an even longer sojourn. This new one is being called Antonine’s Wall. After their current emperor.”

  Huh. She hadn’t heard of that one. “Has Mungan returned early?”

  “He has not, but I did question my father as to his whereabouts and learned he plans to stop by that outpost as well in his wanderings. Something about needing to trade for rare metals and rocks for his healing magic.”

  Well then. Best-case scenario, they caught up to him and she got to return home early, before this mind-wiping business happened. Worst case? Well, nothing different than what her situation was when she woke up this morning, counting down the days until he got back.

  Connall put a hand on her shoulder. “Before we leave, my father wishes for you to perform a divining.”

  Oh jeez, while she liked the idea of being useful, a bout of performance anxiety smacked her. “But it doesn’t always work.”

  He squinted at the keep. “He’ll just have to accept that outcome.”

  With a resigned sigh, she allowed him to lead, his hand now at the small of her back, its heat and subtle pressure both thrilling and annoying—another sign of not being in control of her life right now. Hey, at least she wasn’t getting as winded as before. A new feeling of ease and strength powered her thighs and calves.

  When they reached the keep, he held the door open. “Allow me to do most of the talking.”

  Not knowing much about his father, she decided to let him do just that.

  This was only the second time she’d been inside, and that was when she’d been freaking-the-eff out. Now she was able to take in the stone floor strewn with dried herbs and straw. Unlike their hut, a thin layer of plaster covered the walls, stretches of which were painted with colorful Celtic designs, while other parts had smoke-blackened smudges from the torches lighting the space.

  Their footsteps crunched across the floor, and all eyes were trained on their approach. His father gestured to the other men arrayed on either side. “Leave us.”

  Ashley tried to keep her steps steady, but man, it was difficult knowing that this was a guy who had full power to do anything he wanted to the people he ruled over. Though he had to be in his mid-to-late fifties, his body was still that of a warrior—powerful arms attached to an equally powerful chest from the looks of it. No Dad-bod for him. Traces of Connall’s strong jaw and brow were visible. A gold brooch on his shoulder held up the folds of his kilt. And instead of a silver torque on his neck like Connall’s, his was gold.

  She swallowed—he also had the same penetrating stare, as if he were assessing her.

  The departing men brushed past, all nodding to Connall, with a few also acknowledging her presence.

  The chief gestured to a bench before him. “Sit, please.”

  As she took her seat, Connall settling beside her, she caught sight of the stretched leather on a cleared surface of the floor, a wooden bucket of dirt beside it. Performance nerves kicked up a notch in her belly.

  “Has Connall told you of your journey?” He said the words with a brisk tone, all business.

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, he did.”

  “Well, before we let you leave, we’d like to ensure all is safe here.” He motioned to the stretched leather. “Can you divine that for me, lass?”

  “Father, she—”

  He held up a hand. “Allow her to speak for herself, if ye please.”

  Beside her, Connall stiffened but didn’t argue. Ashley took that as a sign to answer him. “Sir, I’d be happy to, but I can’t guarantee that it will work.”

  He frowned, leaning forward and placing an elbow on the arm of the chair. “What do you mean?”

  She looked off to the side. How to explain? “The, er, knowledge I had access to was limited. It doesn’t know all that happens. In fact, it can’t predict much, except the weather and other natural phenomenon.”

  He pursed his lips and studied her. She tried not to squirm under his penetrating stare. “Then how were you able to do a foretelling?”

  She straightened and gripped her knees. “I wondered that, too. I think it’s because it was also a record of earth’s past.”

  “Earth’s past?”

  “Yes, of history. The big events. And since a lot of that hasn’t actually happened yet in this time, it’s as if I can divine the future. But you need to know—the time you’re living in now is remote to us. I doubt we knew every battle.” She looked at Connall then back at the chief. “Or every raid.”

  The chief’s attention flicked from Connall to her. “So you guessed what has me worried.”

  “Yes.”

  He rubbed his chin. Then nodded. “Fair enough. Can you try, though?”

  She relaxed. “I can try.”

  She settled before the leather and scooped up a handful of the cool dirt and cast it, asking about poten
tial raids. She spoke the answer as the words came into her mind, a jolt of surprise hitting her that something was coming through.

  “The one who will be known as Saint Patrick will be taken in a raid by the Irish and made a slave.”

  Huh. Wow. Okay.

  “Saint Patrick?” Connall asked. “Never heard of either name. And certainly none named such here.”

  Either name? “You don’t know what a saint is?”

  “Is it not a name?”

  Whoa. Okay, so in 156, Christianity hadn’t yet made it here. “In a way.”

  “More importantly,” the chief said, “it sounds to me as if it’s not a raid we need to worry on if none have this name here.”

  She’d always associated Saint Patrick with Ireland, so this slave raiding by the Irish was news to her. She also had no clue where he’d been taken from, so she threw the dirt several times until she gained a clearer picture. “No, you don’t need to worry about that particular raid.” While one of the probable birthplaces on the western coast of Britain was nearby, it was still several hundred years from now.

  She tried again, narrowing it to the second century on the Argyll peninsula, but nothing specific emerged. Her shoulders slumped. “No. Sorry. I think it’s because Saint Patrick is pretty famous, so we know about that one.”

  And like with Google, she needed to properly phrase the question to get the desired answer. Google-fu still mattered.

  The chief sat back, but if he was disappointed, he hid it well. “I thank ye for trying. I won’t keep you any longer from your preparations.”

  Dawn seeped over the mountains to the east, casting pink shadows across the loch spread out before Ashley. White birds circled the water in the distance, their calls barely audible with the wind coming down from the north.

  She shivered and wrapped her mantle tighter around her as, once again, Connall held his hand out to help her step into a larger version of the kind of boat that brought them here. This time, they were leaving the stronghold, and this craft was one of a dozen or more bumping up against the dock. Warriors shouted and leaped onto two of them.