Love Across Time (12 page)

“She be busy. Get on yer knees and lean forward. I’ll rinse yer hair. Ye cannae do it yerself and there be no one else to assist ye.”

Struggling to cover her breast with her arms, she knelt with only her back exposed. She could feel his hot gaze travel down the curve of her spine, almost as if he’d touched her. Goose bumps raised along her bare flesh.

Water cascaded over her scalp. With trembling fingers, she worked the soap from her hair with one hand then squeezed out the access water. She looped the wet mass on top of her head and held the coiled heap in place as she glared over her shoulder at Liam.

He stood immobile. His heated gaze traced a path down her raised arm, over her shoulders to where the murky water barely covered her breasts. Her gaze flicked down the length of his body, and her woman’s core responded to the bulge in his trousers. The place between her thighs swelled, liquefied, and yearned for his touch.

He’s Margaret’s husband not yours,
she scolded herself and flinched from the truth of that statement. She must keep a distance between them. Otherwise, she may never want to leave.

“Thank you, Liam. I can manage from here.”

“Aye. I... I’ll...ah...see ye tonight.”

Liam whirled on his heel and rushed out the door.

The empty doorway was a sobering reminder that she didn’t belong to him, nor apparently did she belong to anyone in the twenty-first century since no one had come forward to identify her.

She felt more alone at this moment than at any time since she’d awakened. Yet her heart swelled at the niggling thought that kept echoing in her mind. Liam had claimed her when no one else had.

Liam propped his elbow on the fireplace mantel and sipped a glass of wine. Soon it would be time to fetch Margaret down for the evening meal. Thoughts of her in her bath had plagued him all day. He could still visualize the frothy bubbles as they wormed their way down her knobby spine.

His fingers lightly stroked the glass he held. The shape reminded him of the curve of Margaret’s waist and the flare of her hips that he longed to caress with the same thoroughness as he did the long stem glassware.

When she’d raised her hands to rinse her hair, the fullness of her breasts, clearly visible under her arms, had aroused him. Even now, heat crawled up his neck as he remembered how the longer he’d stared at her half-naked body, the harder he grew, and when she’d noticed, he’d stood there like a babbling idiot while desire surged through him.

What few women he’d bedded wanted to hear the clink of his coin first. So, when Margaret had flinched from the sight of his growing staff all the insecurities he’d felt in the past with women who had averted their faces from his disfigurement had swamped him. He thought back on it now and realized Margaret’s innocence was what had caused her to shy away, not revulsion.

He could understand her apprehension over the changes in a man’s body, when he became aroused. If he took precautions to prevent her from getting a glimpse of his engorged staff until after her first initiation into lovemaking she’d be more at ease.

With the thought planted firmly in his mind, he plotted his next step to woo Margaret into his bed. After the evening meal, he’d take her for a short stroll through the gardens, sit on the bench and kiss her in the moonlight. With her pliant in his arms and breathless with anticipation, he’d take her upstairs and make love to her. The long wait for his wedding night would be over.

He glanced around to see if he was alone, adjusted himself in his trousers, and headed for Margaret’s bedchamber.

Anxious to have Margaret in his arms as he carried her to the evening meal, Liam took the stairs two at a time. Halfway up the staircase, someone called his name. He paused, turned, and saw Rory rushing across the great hall.

“Me, Laird. A runner has come from Bonny Prince Charles.”

“The prince?”

Rumors had drifted to Castle Menzies the last few months about the Young Pretenders attempt to return the Stuarts to the Scottish throne. Liam’s attempt not to align himself with either king in the coming battle was tenuous at best.

“Aye.” Rory threw a nervous glance over his shoulder.

One of the prince’s personnel entourage followed in Rory’s wake. Two others stood guard at the entrance. The Hussar, his shako clutched in the curve of his arm, its plume bobbing in the air, gave a curt bow when he reached Rory’s side.

Wary of the quagmire he could find himself buried in, he descended to the bottom step to speak with the Frenchman.

“A mug of ale sir, to refresh yerself?” He motioned for a serving maid to bring a tankard.

“Non. I am to deliver the prince’s message and return immediately to his side.”

Liam nodded and waved the servant away. “Yer message?”

“Prince Charles requests that you allow the Jacobite Army to camp outside on your grounds and that you personally receive the prince and the Scottish chieftains.”

“We be honored.” The clans with Prince Charlie could consider a refusal as a betrayal, and if he wasn’t careful, he could find himself at odds with his neighbors after the battle was over.

“And his arrival?”

“Prince Charles and his army are an hour’s ride behind me.”

The man’s gaze darted around the room as if he thought danger lurked in every shadow.

“Assure the prince we await his arrival.”

“Very good, sir.” The man clicked his heels and turned to leave. Rory escorted him and the other two men out the door.

A disturbing flicker of apprehension coursed through him. Why did Bonny Prince Charles desire an audience with him? He’d tried to remain neutral through the squabble over who occupied the throne, just as his father had when James Stuart had fought the English one and thirty years earlier. Now the Stuart Prince sat on his threshold endangering the precarious position he’d managed to cling to.

“Ursula. Ursula.” She’d need to see to the preparations for the prince and his men: food, drink, bedchambers.

“Aye.”

Hand on the knife at his waist, he whirled. The woman had an uncanny way of sneaking up behind him. He suspected her stealth was how she discovered the mischief he and Connor had gotten into as lads.

“Inform cook that Prince Charles and his Scottish chieftains will arrive within the hour. I’ll send out hunters for fresh game.”

Ursula hurried away in her uneven gait. “Tell the maids to prepare rooms and have someone bring up a keg of ale,” he called after her.

She acknowledged his request with a bob of her head then disappeared down the hall. He went in search of his steward. An hour wasn’t enough time to prepare for a royal visit.

At last, he was ready to go up and bring Margaret downstairs. He had one foot on the bottom step when the horn blew, announcing the prince’s arrival. It had been his intention to inform her of their visitor’s identity, but time had slipped away as he sorted through various problems.

He stepped outside just as a small contingent of men rode into the castle’s bailey. Bonny Prince Charles rode a magnificent white horse. The chieftains, mounted on sturdy Scottish ponies, rode at his side. Grooms rushed forward to gain control over the most spirited horses, while the riders dismounted.

When the prince dismounted, Liam bowed before the man who
although not born and raised in Scotland
some clans supported as the rightful Heir Apparent. Several men, Tartans draped over their shoulders to signify which clan they belonged to, surrounded the prince.

Liam’s glance swept over the man who supported his father’s aspiration to rule Scotland. He’d heard the prince described as handsome. He clenched his jaw to suppress the urge to grin. Perhaps to the fairer sex the man held some appeal, but Liam found him somewhat lacking in manly attributes. The prince lacked the bulkiness of his constituents, the Scotts, and he considered his pointed chin, weak. His full lips would have served better on a buxom maid and his over-large eyes were bloodshot from what appeared a fondness for drink.

“Prince Charles. ’Tis a pleasure to welcome ye to me home.”

“
Merci
, Lord Menzies.”

“Ye have a splendid mount, yer Grace.” Liam allowed the beast to nuzzle his hand before a groom led him away.

“
Merci
. A gift from your relation.”

“Ah. Menzies have ’ere had a good eye for superior horse flesh.”

“
Oui
, and I have found it holds true in their women, also.”

The prince slapped him on the back and grinned. In Liam’s mind, the full-lipped smile resembled a lascivious leer. Margaret’s innocence would draw the lecherous prince like a honeybee to the sweet nectar of a newly bloomed rose.

“Come, Laird Menzies, let me introduce James Drummon, 4
^th
Duke of Perth, and his brother John, Duke of Melfort. Of course, you are acquainted with Donald Cameron of Lochiel.”

“Aye.” He shook the three men’s hands and turned to wait for the rest of the small group to join them.

“Tis Simon Fraser if I nae be mistaken.” Liam clasped the elderly man’s hand.

“Ye have the right of it me laird.”

The last man said, “I be George Murray.”

“Pleased to meet ye.” After giving the man a firm handshake, he led them into the great hall.

Conner and Dugan descended the stairs and joined them. With tankards of his finest ale served, the men sat before the fire and discussed battle plans. While they drank, he explained Margaret’s accident.

“Although, she’s been very ill, she be recovering, and I will fetch the lass down for the evening meal. A maid will show ye to yer rooms that ye may refresh yerself.”

He excused himself and took the stairs two at a time. Without a knock, he burst into the room. Margaret sat on a stool, her newly assigned maid stood behind her fussing with her hair. Una had plaited the long golden mass and pinned it on top of her head. His gaze traveled over the blue dress she’d donned for the evening. The rich blue deepened the color of her eyes to the shade of a Scottish summer sky. It never ceased to amaze him how beautiful she was or that she had fallen in love and married him, when others, with lesser prospects, had snarled their pretty-little noses up at him.

“I came to carry ye downstairs to dine. Ursula said ye be strong enough if ye don’t overtire yerself.” One flick of his hand sent Una scurrying from the room. He waited until the door closed before he continued. “We have visitors. ’Tis Bonny Prince Charles Stuart and his Scottish chieftain supporters.”

“Here?” she squeaked, her excitement evident.

“Aye.” The radiant smile that swept over Margaret’s face caused his heart to thump hard in his chest.

“Oh, Liam, this is exciting. Wait until I see Mrs. Bixby and tell her I met Prince Charles Stuart. There are so many things I can tell him, things he could do different if he knew the outcome.”

His nerves tensed immediately. Margaret still believed herself a time traveler. No matter what evidence he presented to her, she refused to accept the fact that she belonged here, in this time, in his arms.

The bed sagged under his weight. He whirled her around on the stool, gripped her shoulders, and drew her face so close their noses nearly touched. He had to make her understand people wouldn’t accept her talk of time travel lightly. Silence, as thick as the morning fog covering the moors, enveloped them as they stare into each other’s eyes. Fear for her safety caused his fingers to pinch into her soft flesh.

He gave her a tiny shake. “Yer nae to tell him anything.”

Her gaze settled on the left side of his face. Anger always puckered his scar and turned it a hideous shade of purple. Still he had to make her see the danger she would place herself in with such revelations.

“What ye told me about where ye think ye’re from must stay between us. Others would cry ye a witch.”

“But....” Anger sparkled in her eyes. The way she ground her teeth and tightened her jaw, he knew she was prepared to argue.

Gripping her arms, he stood, and dragged her from the stool to stand in front of him.

“Promise me, ’ere I lock ye in this room ’til the prince departs.” He hardened his voice to emphasize the seriousness of the situation.

One wrong word could result in her being torn from him and burned at the stake. Icy chills raked his spine at the image of her screaming in agony as flames leap up to burn her tender flesh. If the Church cried her a heretic, he could do nothing to save her. It was a rare occasion that the church listened to such matters, but with the prince involved, the church would have no choice but to intervene. And with the Catholics and Protestants up in arms against each other, it would be hard to predict which way a verdict would fall.

One look at her defiant expression and he knew she would have trouble making a promise she’d find difficult, if not impossible, to keep. Her mouth opened several times before she spoke the words.

“All right, I promise.”

“I mean it, Margaret.” Fear drove him to tighten his grip.

“I said I promised, did I not?” She shot him a cold look.

He heaved a sigh of relief knowing she would keep her word. A glance at the window showed daylight had faded. They had guests waiting.