A Slip In Time (15 page)

Dugal scrunched his brows. “Sae wha’
are ye sayin’?”

“Tha’ the crowberry is too convenient
a find. Someone wishes us tae think ‘twas Camerons.”

Iain took a step toward
Rae. “Ye’ve been lang from the Highlands,
bràthair.
Pretty words, but yer
instincts hae gone soft.”

Iain snatched the crowberry from
black-haired Lachlan’s grasp and waved it in Rae’s face.

“‘
Twas Camerons all right, and they
left their token in plain sight.” He flung the sprig down on the
table.

“Bluid o’ Christ, Iain! Hae some
respect,” Dugal barked, rising from his bench.

Rae stayed his cousin with a hand.

“Wha’ would ye hae me believe, Iain?
The shrub grows in the high areas near aboot. The cut is fresh and
unsoiled. No matter who left the piece, they did so after the
storm. Am I tae think one o’ Dunraven’s own did the
deed?”

Iain glared at him, silent, his eyes
burning. Meanwhile, a murmur rose among the men.

Ewen spoke up. “Perhaps, the MacLeans
swung through after raidin’ Stirling and lifted a few cattle, just
a little ‘hallo’ and ‘good-bye’ afore they returned tae the
Isles.”

Thoughtful, Donald added,
“It might hae been no more than a
creach
—
some
young men goin’ through the rite o’ manhood,
perhaps from the Murrays nearby.” The others gave him skeptical
looks.

Rae considered the
possibility, thinking it made as much sense as anything else.
A
creach
would
have been carried out on an impulse, the men taking just a few head
to prove they could.

“Bah! ‘Twill be the day a Murray lifts
a heifer from beneath my nose,” swore Lachlan.

“Well, someone did!” Ewen grinned wide
at Lachlan. “Ye were standin’ guard if I remember
rightly.”

With that, Lachlan floored Ewen with a
single punch, while the others roared with laughter.

Hours later, Rae presided over the
evening meal, eating roast haunch of venison while steeped in
conversation with various kinsmen and Dunraven’s guests. As the
evening wore on, to Rae’s surprise many approached him
individually, offering their suggestions and views on which clans
the Mackinnons might align themselves with, and which they should
not.

Malcolm MacChlerich, having earlier listened
to Rae from the threshold of the hall, seized the opportunity to
press for a match with his comely daughter, Moira.

“Join wi’ me, lad,” he’d
said. “Our lands run together. ‘Twill double our strength t’form a
strong defense. In time, they’ll come t’ye through Moira, ma
only
bairn.
‘Twill be hard t’find a bonnier lass t’warm yer bed and ease
yer needs.” He elbowed Rae in the ribs.

Julia flooded his mind while
MacChlerich continued to rattle in his ear. Rae’s heart quickened
as he savored the memory of her beauty and her warmth beneath his
hands.

He reined his thoughts back to his guest,
who once more spoke of joining their lands and now of bedeviling
neighbors. Rae reminded himself Malcolm MacChlerich was not without
enemies.

Iain was right. He had been long from
the Highlands, thirteen long years. He did not fully know what
rivalries had deepened or sprung up anew in his absence. He would
need to speak with his kinsmen in greater detail on the
matter.

To his knowledge, there
were branches of Clan MacChlerich attached to the Camerons and
others to Clan Chattan. He would need know of the alliances of
those of Glen Dol. Donald’s bride brought with her
tocher-land
of the
Macphersons, land his clan would now be committed to defend. Iain’s
earlier words spurred his concerns for ‘twas easy to imagine a
Cameron raid on the land, spiting their brother’s
marriage.

Marriage. Rae had entertained few
thoughts on that possibility for himself. Scarce returned from his
captivity, he savored each moment of his freedom. For four short
months, he’d awakened the mornings to the sweetness of Dunraven’s
clean, free air. Having immediately assumed the responsibilities of
lairdship on his arrival, he was committed to the needs of his
people with little time for aught else. But a wife? He would need
consider it sooner or later, he knew. And, in truth, ‘twas not an
unappealing thought with the right woman.

At supper’s end, the
tables were disassembled and the cups replenished. Moira,
encouraged by the others, seated herself behind the harp and filled
the hall with music. Tormod, the clan’s
seanachaidh,
soon joined her, and
against her softened notes, sang of the Mackinnon’s royal ancestry,
of the valorous deeds of King Alpin and of his noble, if tragic,
end.

Rae watched Moira’s long fingers
caress the strings and lost himself to the beauty of the music and
the bard’s tale. Lifting his eyes he found she watched. Their gazes
brushed and she sent a warm smile.

Rae settled back and
sipped his ale, the
seanachaidh
now singing of his kinsmen in the western isles,
who hid the Bruce on Arran and later stood with him at
Bannockburn.

His thoughts drifted to Julia, then back to
Moira. Mentally, he compared the two women. There was something
about Moira that reminded him of his late stepmother, an
extravagant woman who never could be satisfied.

Rae’s gaze skimmed over Moira’s blond
tresses. He wondered, when first he found Julia in his bed and
mistook her for Moira, why he hadn’t recognized the difference
between the color of their hair.

Julia. Now there was a
woman to get under a man’s skin,
sassenach
though she may
be.

Was Julia Hargrove real,
he wondered. Or was
he
delusional? Still, this business of being from a future
time, how could such be possible?

He pictured her delicate features, her
heart-shaped face, the slim nose and large green eyes. However she
appeared in his chamber, Rae could not deny his strong attraction
to her.

Och, but she was a fair maid to fill a
man’s bed in any age. He should have been less hasty in tossing her
out of his. He smiled at his folly, wishing she lay there awaiting
him now.

His mood dipped.

If Julia indeed was from another time, there
could be no future for them. Even now, he could not be sure he
would ever see her again.

Rae entered his bedchamber, instinctively
looked to the bed, then ran a searching glance around the room. The
chamber stood vacant. As it should.

Disappointment blossomed in his chest, a
part of him hoping to find the mysterious, captivating Julia.

Rae jerked his thoughts into line and
crossed to the fireplace. What was he thinking? ‘Twas not healthful
to dwell on a phantom woman with a quirky tendency to pop in and
out of his life. Had he not concerns enough with reivers and
weddings and the daily cares of his people?

He expelled a pent breath,
shoving his fingers through his hair. The golden
sassenach
was a part of
a waking dream somehow, real to the touch, yet as lasting and
vaporous as the morning mists.

Rae propped his foot on the stool by the
hearth and began to unlace his brogues. As he bent forward, the
charm stone about his neck came free of his shirt, and dangled on
its silver chain, glinting with firelight.

Catching the charm in his fingers, Rae
pondered its rose-hued crystal as he straightened, his mother’s
gift of long ago, given for healing and protection.

Rae’s thoughts skipped to more recent
times, to a day in early May when he journeyed homeward from
captivity. Rae’s father, having received word of Rae’s release,
sent Donald and a small escort to meet him at the border and see
him safely to Dunraven.

Och, how the lad had grown, Rae
recalled scarce recognizing his brother, now a man in his own
right, five-and-twenty years of age.

At the River Forth, they
stopped to bathe, the day bonnie and warm. Rae disrobed, removing
his clothes and talisman and placing them on the bank. After
enjoying a good soaking, he started for the shore, but as he strode
from the water, a
cailleach,
an old woman, appeared shrilling anxiously,
waving his charm stone and chain in her clawed fingers.

He didn’t ken her fuss or why the
sight of men bathing in the river should agitate her so. She rushed
forward, unheeding of the water or his nakedness and thrust the
stone and chain into his hands.

“Ne’er remove the charm. Ne’er!” she
scolded. “No blade o’ steel can save ye, only the stone, the stone
alone.”

Wary of the woman, Rae
drew the chain over his neck then moved to take up his clothes and
don his shirt. The
cailleach
followed. She squinted up at him, tilting her
head from side to side, seeming to read something in his face or
bearing.

“Ye future doesna lie here,
son.”

Donald joined them hastily, dripping from
the river and clutching his plaid loosely about his waist.

“Ye hae the right o’ it,
old mother,” he called, breathless, an edginess in his voice.
“My
bràthair’s
future lies north in Glendar.” He cast a quick glance to
Rae. “‘Tis time we be away.”

The
cailleach
peered at Donald, a
needle-sharp gaze. “Glendar holds ye future,” she said, pointing a
gnarled finger at Donald, then turned her yellowed gaze to Rae.
“But for ye, it holds shadows. Dark shadows. Dangerous shadows,”
she hissed. “But wait, something more.”

She screwed her wrinkled face, eyeing him
more closely.

“‘
Tisna clear.” Her voice crackled
like dry parchment. “A veil . . . it covers the future . . . a rip
. . . a tear . . . e-e-e-ah!” She gave a keening wail, losing the
vision, then focused once more on Rae.

“Forces gather aboot ye.
Beware. Cross the Forth, and like the king, ye shall no’ return.
Yet something besides clings tae ye . . .” She stared at him,
glimpsing the illusion once more then clawed at the air, as if to
grasp it.
“Now
holds the future.
Future
holds the past,” she chanted. “A rip, there is a
rip in the veil o’ time.”

The
cailleach
sank to the ground and
held her head, swaying back and forth. “Seek the stone’s
protection. Dinna be withoot it. ‘Twill deliver ye from harm when
naught else can.”

Rae set aside his brogues, mulling the
old woman’s words. He would have given no credence to her
bletherings had it not been for Donald who had gone
ashen.

Later by the campfire,
Donald told him how at Christmastide past, King James was heading
north to keep Christmas with the Dominican friars at Perth. At the
Forth, he reputedly encountered a
cailleach,
such as this one, who
warned should he cross the Forth he would ne’er return
alive.

“James ignored her warnings and rode
on,” Donald continued the tale. “‘Twas said the old woman followed
and the night James Graham and his conspirators slipped into the
friary and murdered the king, the old woman sat withoot in the
cold, still echoing her warnings.”

Donald locked gazes with
Rae. “Dinna ye see,
bràthair?
‘Tis she, the
cailleach
who foretold the king’s
death, one and the same. She has the second sight. Do as she says.
Keep our
màthair’
s stone aboot yer neck. Even she gave it t’ye for a reason.
‘Tis said
màthair
hersel’ had the sight.”

“A ‘rip in time,’“ Rae
repeated the
cailleach’ s
words, now staring at the rose-tinted stone
wrapped in bands of silver. Had she foreseen Julia in his life? But
what of the “dark” and “dangerous” shadows? Was he to believe Julia
was part to that? He rejected the notion. He sensed no deception in
Julia. Confusion, mayhap, but no evil.

He continued to turn the matter in his mind
as he undressed. Laying his dirk aside, he unbelted and unpinned
his plaid, letting it fall to the floor as was his custom.
Gathering it up, he folded its great length into a neat, thick
square and stored it atop the iron-bound trunk that stood against
the wall. He stretched a moment and worked a kink from his
back.

“Ah, lass, where in time are ye?” he
murmured, expelling a long, wearied breath. Drawing up the bottom
of his shirt, he turned round, the fabric hiked waist-high, and
came face-to-face with Julia.

Rae’s heart near leapt from its cage,
while his hands froze in place. He gaped at her, round-eyed, then
remembering himself, he yanked down his shirt, covering his
vitals.

“Lass,” he gulped a breath, pulse
pounding. “I dinna expect ye. I mean, I hoped ye would come,
but—”

Rae halted his stream of words and darted a
glance over the chamber. He returned his full attention to Julia
and canted his head to one side.

“How d’ye do tha’, lass? Yer comin’
and goin’, tha’ is.”