Love Across Time (14 page)

Earlier, when he’d carried her downstairs, he had threatened to lock her in her room if she mentioned events that had happened in the past, yet to them, Scotland’s future. After one look at his harsh features, she knew if she hadn’t promised, he would have locked her in her chambers and left her there. At the time, she never realized her vow would put Liam and so many of his clan’s lives at risk.

Did Liam really expect her to ignore her knowledge of history and not save his clan from annihilation? He may not want her to inform the prince of his defeat, but she had to do something to save the Menzies. If it would prevent Liam from going to Culloden, she would ask the prince for a private audience and inform him of the tragedy that awaited him.

She would have to choose her words carefully. Hands clenched into fist, her nails scored her palms, as doubts and fears assailed her. Suddenly, she felt ill equipped to embark upon such a monumental task.

She scanned the room. The silence had become deafening.

Prince Charles cleared his throat. All eyes centered on him.

“Non, Liam, you misunderstand my request. Although you and your men would be a great asset, you will better serve me here. My army will need a place to camp and replenish our supplies when we return from Culloden. I expect you to have everything ready and waiting. We will require fresh meat, grain,” he grinned, “and plenty of ale.”

Men close enough to hear the comment lifted their mugs in the air and roared an enthusiastic ‘aye.’

“Aye, barrels of ale,” Prince Charlie said in a poor imitation of a Scottish brogue.

Men cheered their approval. The pain in her chest and the constriction in her throat eased. Her lungs deflated with a whoosh of air. She attempted to remove her nails from Liam’s thigh, but his hand slid under the table to cover hers. Color flooded her cheeks at the intimate position on his thigh where her hand gripped him.

Her admiration for Liam’s control amplified. Tension evaporated from his body with barely a sign. If she hadn’t been setting so close, touching him, she doubted she would have noticed.

“Besides, you should be at your lovely wife’s side during her recovery.” As the prince leaned close, she could smell the sour odor of ale on his breath, see the brightness in his eyes, and hear the slight slur in his speech. “Am I not correct, Madame Menzies? Would you not prefer a strong man to attend you during your long hours abed while you regained your strength?”

A lascivious smile creased the prince’s plump lips as he picked up her hand, and touched his lips to her palm. Liam’s hand on hers felt warm and strong. The prince’s hand felt cold, clammy. His lips against her flesh were squashy and moist.

Had his tongue just flicked the center of her palm? Startled, she jerked her hand from his grasp. His good humor vanished as anger flashed across his face. Eyes narrowed, he glared at her for a moment then shrugged. Turning his back on her, he began to speak to George Murray about the coming confrontation with the English army.

Aware of her precarious situation of where she nearly offended the prince
if his snub was any indication
she discreetly wiped her palm on her gown. A shudder rippled over her. The man’s touch made her skin crawl in revulsion.

“Margaret, ye be alright?” Liam’s softly spoken words tickled a wisp of hair behind her ear. Nervously she licked her dry lips and tilted her head to stare at him. His expression was one of warmth, desire, and longing. If only she didn’t have to return to the twenty-first century, and he wasn’t someone else’s husband.

“Aye, I be fine.” Could he tell the smile pasted on her face was as false as the mole on Eleanor’s cheek?

Her gaze sought out the prince who still had his back to her. If too upset with her, Prince Charles could change his mind and insist Liam join the other chieftains in his army. He could assign someone else the duty of gathering supplies. After the way she’d rebuffed him, the possibility was more than likely. Liam wouldn’t be safe until the dust had settled behind the Jacobite Army as they rode away.

The meal progressed with the prince studiously ignoring her. As soon as she could, she rose and excused herself to allow the men to finish their drinks and to resume their discussion of war. Liam escorted her from the room and held her elbow as they ascended the stairs. At her chamber door, he leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers.

“Oidche mhath, Margaret.”

“Goodnight, Liam.”

He watched her enter her chamber. She closed the door, leaned her back against it, and waited to hear his footsteps fade into the distance.

Her stomach still clenched into a tight knot from the raw emotions she’d experienced at dinner, Maggie paced the length of her bedchamber then back again. Once she kept Liam from leaving with the prince tomorrow, she could leave with no regrets. Except one: Liam. If only she could stay.

Quickly, she banished the thought. She needed to go home to find her family. All she needed was the brooch. Tonight, she’d begin her search in earnest. Liam hadn’t mentioned the piece of jewelry since he’d offered to help locate it. She couldn’t wait any longer. For all she knew, someone waited for her in Tulsa, Oklahoma; someone that loved her as much as Liam loved Margaret. The candle fluttered from the soft whiff of air she expelled as she marched by.

If she could regain her memory, she could discover why her unknown family hadn’t reported her missing. But first, she had to find the way back to the twenty-first century. Fingers massaged her temples trying to loosen the tight band squeezing her head.

As she paced near the door, a whispered conversation in French filtered through. Leaning forward, she placed her ear to the door. She assumed the voices belonged to Prince Charles and his personal guard since they were the only Frenchmen with rooms upstairs. Moments later, Liam, his uncle, and cousin tromped down the hall speaking Gaelic, their tone grim. Each group held their secrets close. This place was full of intrigue and conspiracies, and she didn’t want tangled in something that could trap her in this century.

Settled into a chair, she blew out the light. She curled her fingers around the pewter candleholder and began her vigil, waiting for everyone to fall asleep. An hour later, the castle had grown disturbingly silent. She relit the taper and eased the door open to peek both directions down the hallway. The hall was quiet, empty. Thankfully, men with a belly full of ale slept soundly.

Ursula mentioned a room in the old part of the castle, near the bedchamber where she’d first awakened that the steward utilized to store old furniture. What better location to hide a piece of jewelry than a place no one used. She’d search through each drawer and under every piece of furniture until she found the brooch.

As she approached the storeroom, hushed voices echoed down the empty hallway. She backed up against the wall, and a rough protrusion snagged her skirt. A sharp tug loosened the material. She blew out the candle and crept closer, wanting to know what she faced in this strange place. Under the cloak of darkness, she could more readily discover the castle’s secrets. Castle, she still couldn’t believe she’d awakened to find herself thrust into an age when one depended on their wits and strength to survive. And in some cases, like now, stealth.

The name Margaret spoken with contempt drew her closer. The heavy door, not completely closed allowed her to hear part of the conversation.

“I tell you Margaret knows something and may recall what happened. She must be eliminated.” The whispered words were so low she couldn’t tell if a man or a woman spoke. The cold, chilly voice that suggested they rid the world of Margret sent shards of fear racing down her spine.

“From what I’ve heard, the lass dinnae remember anything.” A man’s voice she didn’t recognize claimed. “Now enough of yer complaints. Ye did what ye could and botched the attempt to satisfy yer ambition. Ye’ve paid me well for me part in this nasty business. If I think of something else to help ye achieve yer goal, I’ll get word to ye. I be warning ye,” the voice turned low and menacing, “don’t be bandying me name aboot or I’ll be back to give ye what ye tried to do to the lassie. Now get ye gone.”

Maggie looked frantically down the hallway. The door to her room was too far away to reach before they ended their rendezvous and discovered her.

Frightened, she pressed harder into the wall behind her. Her hand brushed against a loose stone. The solid mass moved as quietly as if on well-oiled hinges. She slipped inside the small gap, and the wall shifted back into place. A black wall of darkness engulfed her. Trapped. Like a mouse with a cat’s paw on his tail.

Her breathing stilled, and she choked back a cry of fright as footsteps paused on the other side of the wall where she hid. Had someone seen the wall move? Afraid they would hear her heartbeat echo in the hollow chamber, she folding her hands over her breasts and waited.

Discovery loomed.

What felt like hours later, but could only have been minutes, the footsteps faded away. Only then did she become aware of the musty smell of her sanctuary. Cobwebs floated across her cheek, and she frantically swiped at the gossamer mesh. How to get out? The fear inside her scratched and clawed to get free. In frenzied movements, her hands groped the wall until she found a loose stone. She twisted it back and forth, up and down. Panic rose each time the stone failed to work. Her fragile control nearly shattered before her wild gyrations triggered the mechanism that released the door. The second the opening provided sufficient space, she squeezed out of the dark cavern and gasped for a breath of fresh air. After a quick glance to make sure the hallway remained empty, she made a hasty retreat to her room, stumbling in the dark as she went.

After she removed the spider webs from her hair and washed away the dust, she slid into bed. She hadn’t found the brooch, but she wasn’t ready to give up, either.

Huddled under the covers, she wondered whom to trust with the information that her life
that is
Margaret’s life
was in danger? Liam? No! If he believed her in danger, he would guard her so closely she’d never be able to search for the brooch. She would keep the knowledge to herself because she planned to be gone before anyone could harm her.

The burden of knowing the fate of Culloden kept her tossing and turning most of the night. But she dragged herself from bed the next morning and stood beside Liam on the highest step of the castle. She watched each clan chieftain mount his horse and line up beside the prince. The men’s high spirits made her knowledge, and her silence of their fate, hard to endure. They expected to ride toward victory at Culloden. Her heart twisted with the knowledge of the truth. How could she tell them their battle for the crown would end in bitter defeat? Worse, how could she explain how she knew that clans would be annihilated, the wounded hunted down and slaughtered, that there would be no honorable surrender, only death.

If she dared tell the prince what fate awaited his army, he might believe Liam had betrayed them. Then death would stalk Liam and shame his clan.

Her gaze wandered past them to the green fields. Soldiers broke camp. Smoke from doused campfires hovered close to the ground and reminded her of fog that covered the moors in the early morning mist. Bagpipes keened in the distance. The mournful sound echoed the grief trapped deep in her heart. She gazed into Liam’s face, thankful he didn’t ride to his death as so many of these men did.

She reached out and laced her fingers with his. “I hope you said your goodbyes.”

Her solemn words brought his intense gaze to rest on her face. For a moment, she stared at him then turned her attention back to the men riding from the courtyard. She felt his
eyes
linger, as if he waited for an explanation for her cryptic remark.

“Most of them will be killed on the battlefield, or murdered when they surrender. Some will prefer banishment from Scotland rather than face the King of England’s wrath.”

His dark eyes glowered with resentment, and the clasp on her hand tightened until it became painful. She wiggled her numb fingers. His hold loosened, but he still gripped her hand as he
watched
men file out of the green pastures to the skirl of bagpipes. Clans grouped together, their regiment banners flying high overhead.

“Ye dinna know that.” Liam stared at her with a tight-lipped glare.

She understood being left behind went against his pride. The sympathetic smile she gave him appeared to anger him more. At least he would live to insure the line of the Menzies in the annals of history. Eventually, Mrs. Bixby would read about her favorite clan and know they had survived the rigors of war and avoided banishment.

The rattle of horse tack and wagons drew Liam’s attention to the troops as they rode off into the distance. The last troop disappeared over the rise, and still they stood there.

Afraid he’d go bounding after the prince she stayed by his side and clutched his hand. When the mournful sound of bagpipes no longer echoed through the valley, she said, “Come.”

Seated in a chair before the small peat fire a servant had built to take the chill from the room, Liam leaned his head back against the soft, velvet cushion and closed his eyes.

Since it had been early when Prince Charles and his soldiers left, he’d sent Margaret back to bed to rest. The lass had insisted she be there to bid them farewell.

He raked his fingers through his hair. Now he knew why.