Love Across Time (24 page)

“Who be this Butcher?”

“William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland. After the slaughter at Culloden, history branded him ‘The Butcher.’”

She turned and headed for the horses. When he failed to follow, she whirled and came to stand in front of him, hands planted firmly on the flair of her hips.

“I know ye be skeptical.” Hurt glittered in the depths of her eyes. “Ye think I didnae see the wary look in yer eye when I told me story. Ye looked as if ye thought I possessed some mystical power, or the ability to foretell the future, someone to fear.” She placed her hands on his shoulders and stepped between his splayed thighs. “On this, please, Liam, dinnae argue. Believe me when I say ‘the Butcher’ will come on the morrow.”

His gaze probed her expression for the truth. She’d correctly predicted how Culloden ended. Could she be right about Cumberland’s arrival? George Murray had mentioned the butchery of the wounded as they lay upon the battlefield, and of how the English hunted down survivors and executed them. What would happen if the duke tracked Murray to the Menzies Castle’s doorstop?

Torn between Margaret’s insistence and his doubts, he found himself in a quandary. If he did as she requested, that would give credence to her story of being a time traveler, but if he didn’t prepare for such an event, it might put his clan in danger.

Running his fingers over the nape of his neck, he stared at her. Blue eyes pleaded with him to believe her. Air escaped his lungs in a sigh of resignation. He would accept her story one more time; he couldn’t gamble with his clan’s safety.

“Stay.”

He caught her firmly by the elbow, plopped her down on the log and stomped off, glancing over his shoulder once to be certain she hadn’t followed, then continued toward his men. Midway between his warriors and Margaret, he stopped.

“Rory, come.”

Rory handed the reins of his horse to one of the men-at-arms and trotted toward him.

“Nae ask me how I know, but The Duke of Cumberland will be here on the morrow. Take half the men and scour the woods. Cover any signs that George Murray passed this way: blood, hoof prints, anything.”

He draped his arm around Rory’s shoulders and walked half the distance toward his men.

“The abundance of food we gathered for Prince Charlie distribute among the villagers. We nae want anyone curious why we have large quantities of food after a hard winter. Warn everyone that if the Duke or his men ask questions to nae mention the prince’s visit. It could mean death to all me friend.”

“Aye, I understand.” Rory hurried toward the men at a brisk pace. When he reached them, he selected five. The men mounted and rode away.

Liam signaled for his and Margaret’s horses. He turned to fetch her and nearly knocked her off her feet. She stood directly behind him.

“I told ye to stay put, lass.” Margaret had the nasty habit of not staying where he put her.

“Aye. But we have many things to accomplish at the castle. It be best if we hurry.”

He grabbed Margaret around the waist, tossed her in the saddle, mounted then galloped toward home.

Maggie gave orders to the servants to sweep the castle clean of any previous visitors then she excused herself for the evening. The meal she requested brought to her bedchamber grew cold and the bread stale as she wandered restlessly around the room. Unable to reconcile a past she couldn’t remember, with the present she could recall, her head swirled with uncertainties.

She went to the window, leaned her forehead against the cool glass, and stared out at the night sky. Only a few stars twinkled between dark clouds that promised rain by the next day. A knot of apprehension coiled in her stomach. Would the Duke arrive as she claimed? Liam was preparing for Cumberland’s arrival, so he must give some credence to her story. Yet, his assertion that he’d given her the jewelry caused her to doubt herself.

Turning from the window to prowl the room once again, she struggled with the disquieting emotions that Liam’s claim he’d given her the jewelry rouse. The images of the Crosland Therapy Center were vivid in her mind. Mrs. Bixby and Abby were real, people she knew, spoke with, touched. Her operation and doctors were not figments of her imagination; she had scars to prove they existed.

Tears of confusion welled in her eyes. Liam had scars too, yet he didn’t declare himself a time traveler. Her fingers rubbed her aching temples to still the throbbing against her skull.

A knock sounded at the door. Her skin prickled, her pulse pounded. No one disturbed her in her bedchamber. It couldn’t be Liam. He had the infuriating habit of just barging in. Nor Ursula, she had taken a basket of herbs and gone to the village to aid an ailing woman. Her gaze fell to the tray of her uneaten meal. Her trepidation eased. It must be a servant come to collect the tray.

“Come in,” she called.

Only it wasn’t a servant who strolled into the room like an imperious queen, but Eleanor. A large key ring dangled from her hand. Apprehension rippled over her. Goose bumps rose on her arms and the hair on the nape of her neck bristled.

Why should she have such a strong aversion to Eleanor’s presence? Maggie’s gaze raked the woman trying to understand her reaction. Eleanor’s face held that pinched expression she always wore when she felt it necessary to converse with those she believed beneath her.

Shoulders straight, she turned to face Liam’s aunt. A trickle of unease grew as she watched Eleanor come closer.

“May I help you?”

The temptation to flee edged closer to the surface. Not wanting to appear a coward, she tamped it down and locked her knees. She doubted her legs would have obeyed a command to run. She would have falling on her face before she took two steps.

“I have brought you the castle chatelaine’s keys. A position that I have held since Liam’s parents died in that horrible accident. I hope your mother has trained you well in supervising a large and vast household. Being a proper wife to a clan chieftain is a great responsibility for one so young.” Spine stiff, her voice dipped with sarcasm as she held out the large ring with several keys.

Her forefinger curled inside the circle, and Eleanor released her hold. Keys jangled, and the metal felt cold when she clutched the ring to her breast.

“I know perfectly well the task before me.” Angered by the smirk that twitched at the side of Eleanor’s lips, she continued. “Sheep will be brought down from the hill country when the shearers have readied the sheds. Then I will order the fleece cleaned, picked, and carded. The weaver’s spinning wheels and looms are already prepared to produce cloth. The fabric will then be stored with sprigs of lavender and
”

“Yes. I see you are well versed in reciting your duties.” With a swish of her skirts, Eleanor exited the bedchamber.

Maggie stood in the center of the room and stared at the closed portal. Waves of shock rippled over her. Fists clenched, eyes closed, she willed her heart to cease its frantic pounding. How had she known about sheep, wool, and cloth making? She had spoken as if she had some skill at such things.

Everyone here accepted her as Margaret. Margaret’s parents hadn’t noticed the difference. Even Margaret’s husband insisted Maggie was his wife. This incident only added to the mystery of her existence.

If she was Margaret, how did she know about Abby and the therapy center, or Mrs. Bixby’s fascination with the Menzies Clan and about Culloden?

But if she was Maggie and not Margaret, how had Liam known the design of the brooch or the date inside the ring that came from the twenty-first century?

Tormented by confusing thoughts, she whirled around and collapsed into a chair. She cradled her aching head in her hands and tried to recall the gypsy’s exact words. Nadiya said Maggie had done something no one thought possible. What could she have meant except that she had traveled through time?

Tears formed in her eyes. Hands covering her face, she allowed the salty liquid to flow. Who was she? Where did she belong? She felt lost, alone, with no anchor to stabilize her life that had spun out of control. Her shoulders shook as sobs racked her body.

A hand gently touched her shoulder.

“Margaret? What be wrong,
gaol
?” The sound of his voice, tenderly laced with concern, only compounded her misery.

“Oh, Liam.” She jumped up and locked her arms around his waist. “Hold me. Hold me tight.”

Strong arms encircled her and crushed her against his hard chest.

“Promise me ye’ll nae offer any resistance when Cumberland arrives tomorrow.” If Cumberland found traces of the prince’s visit, the English could find Liam guilty of treason and execute him.

“Margaret
”

“Promise. I’ll nae see ye and yer clan butchered afore me eyes.” Even if she wasn’t Margaret, she’d come to care deeply for Liam.

His large hands cupped her face. “Aye, I promise,” he whispered against her lips before claiming them in a heated kiss.

At the first touch of his lips, desire stirred to life inside her. Passion rose hot and wicked, licking the flames higher with each caress. Calloused fingers skimmed down her back to squeeze her backside and pressed her woman’s mound fully against his arousal. She didn’t think it possible, but the heat inside her grew hotter, more intense until she felt herself consumed by his desire.

Out of desperation, her mouth clung to his lips. Trailing her hand down his taut stomach, her fingers stroked his manhood. Growing bolder, she tugged at his lacings.

Liam’s breath came in labored gasps. His lips left hers to suck in air, and then he trailed heated kisses down her throat. Shock waves of longing coursed through her and sent warm shivers over her flesh.

“Tha gaol agam ort.”

His words of love made her heart pound. Eyes closed, she forced herself not to think about her doubts: past, or future. She wanted nothing to steal the joy she found in his arms. Lost in a vortex of passion they frantically tore the clothing from their bodies. When they were naked, she explored every inch of his flesh as thoroughly as he explored hers. Other than the scar across his face, his body was perfect. Wide shoulders tapered to narrow hips. Strong thighs and muscled calves ended at his large feet with long toes, a sprinkle of hair on each one. The pelt on his chest thinned to encircle his navel then flared around his manhood which stood proud and strong.

She felt his palm drift over the scar on her stomach. Did he find her scars repulsive?

“Liam, me scars ’er
”

“Nae talking, just let me love ye,” he whispered against her cheek.

He whisked her off her feet and carried her to the bed, spread himself over her, and loved her insecurities and doubts away. Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with thoughts of Cumberland. Tonight she just wanted to lose herself in Liam’s arms.

He prowled the room while Margaret sat in a chair before the cold hearth, seemingly content to flip the pages of the book in her lap. Yet he knew she hadn’t read one sentence. She continually peered up at him then averted her gaze when she saw he watched her. Ever since she came downstairs, she had given him nervous glances as if she felt as unsure of her prediction as he was. The tension stretched tighter between them as time passed.

With a glance out the window, he estimated the time to be late afternoon. Raking loose strands of hair back from his face he continued to peer out the window. He had anticipated the Duke’s arrival before now.

The rustle of paper indicated Margaret had turned another unread page. He gazed at the stray tendrils that framed her pale cheeks and wondered if Cumberland failed to show, if she would be convinced that she hadn’t come from the future. A cold hard knot formed in his gut as he massaged the nape of his neck. If Cumberland
did
arrive, would he be convinced that she had traveled back through time?

No. Time travel was impossible. There had to be another explanation for her knowledge of events yet to happen. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and tried not to let his thoughts dwell on this waiting game.

With the advance notice of the duke’s arrival, his men had worked hard to erase all traces of George Murray and his men’s late night visit. He only hoped their effort was for naught.

The heavy entrance door swung inward. His gaze flew toward the open portal. A chill of foreboding swept over him when Rory rushed in to stand before him.

“Me, Laird.” Rory cast a wary look in Margaret’s direction.

“’Tis fine, you may speak.”

“The king’s standard be spotted o’er the rise. The sentry caught a glimpse of the Duke of Cumberland at the forefront.”

Liam flashed Margaret a disbelieving glance and saw her face had turned from pale to the color of newly washed wool. Rory turned to stare a Margaret, a curious expression on his face.

“Has everything been arranged?” he asked, his voice firm, his gaze steady to draw Rory’s attention away from Margaret.

“Aye.”

“Then stand alert, but nae offer any resistance. We must prove our loyalty to the crown.” He moved beside Margaret’s chair and held out his arm.

“Come, we will meet our guests.”

She set aside her book, rose, and placed an unsteady hand on his proffered arm. Rory exited with them and took the position to his left. Margaret stood beside him the same way she had the day Bonny Prince Charles rode off to what everyone assumed would be victory for the Stuarts: body erect, hand tucked securely in his, chin raised, her gaze fixed straight ahead.