My Laird's Castle (8 page)

“Do ye see anything inconsistent with the eighteenth century?” Colin asked in a soft voice near my ear. I jumped at his nearness and took a step sideways.
 

“No!” I said hastily. “Not yet.”

He sighed. “I have barely enough servants to run this auld place. Tenants have been leaving Scotland for a chance to own land in America since the ’15, and my father couldna do anything to stop them. Still others moved to Glasgow and Edinburgh after Culloden. I havena the heart to coax people back to the Highlands now to work in the castle. With no one to work the fields, soon I must turn the land over to the grazing of sheep.”

“The clearances,” I said. Admittedly, sometimes I fell for his act.

“Clearances?” Colin repeated as if he wasn’t familiar with the word. “I have read that some landlords wish to clear their land of crofters and turn it over to the grazing of sheep, but I willna willingly force anyone off the land. I have grass enough up in the hills and on the estate for my sheep right now,” he said with a nod, turning to watch the cook and her granddaughter. “I have only a few tenants and families left now, and I hear rumblings that they may wish to emigrate to America as well. Everybody wants his own land. The village has been dying some time for lack of people. Soon, it will be nae more than a collection of empty cottages and shops. Even the tartan weavers have left for the cities, and I must buy my cloth from Glasgow.”

Man, he was good! My heart ached at the misery in his eyes. He shook his head as if to dispel the awful thoughts and turned to me.

“Do ye wish to see the auld dungeons? That is where the soldiers are bedding down.”

“Dungeons?” I squeaked. I shivered, despite the kitchen’s warmth.

“Aye! This is a castle. My forbearers had need of such, if only to secure unruly clansmen and English soldiers. Captain Jones does not like that I put the soldiers in there, but there are some things—a few still—about which the English have no say.”

Colin grinned, and his face lightened.
 

“No, I don’t think I need to see the dungeons, unless you’ve wired them for electricity but left your cook struggling with organic power.”

He tilted his head, and I knew he pretended not to understand my words.
 

“Come then. We shall go upstairs.”

I followed him up the narrow stone steps leading back to the center of the castle. We paused in the great room, where we had eaten. I’d already searched that room for wiring and had found none.

“What else is on this floor?”

“The library, a drawing room my mother used, the hall of paintings.”
 

“I’d love to see them,” I said, and it was true. The castle was magnificent, probably smaller than some of the more well-known fortresses, like Stirling Castle, but infinitely more beautiful for its relatively petite size. It seemed to be a cross between a mansion and a turreted castle, and I realized that I loved it, cold and hard as the stone walls were.

The library surprised me. Massive oak bookcases covered much of the stone walls, automatically warming the vaulted room. Tartan rugs covered the floor, and a fire burned cheerily in the center of one wall. Olive green curtains were closed against the gloomy weather, and several candles in sconces lit the room.

The bookcases were filled with books and rolled scrolls of various shapes and sizes. A heavy oak desk dominated one end of the room. Straight-backed chairs and side tables dotted throughout.
 

“Why do they burn a fire in the library if no one is in here?”

“It is a great waste of wood, I ken. But the castle needs warming, and I was just in the library, writing in my journal, when Mrs. Agnew warned me ye had decided to take breakfast in the great room with Captain Jones.”

“Warned you?” I asked as I moved over to the bookshelf to stare at the bound books. There had to be a fortune in antique books here, and yet they looked to be in great shape. Some certainly appeared old, but others seemed relatively new...if that were possible. Though the ornate gold lettering was difficult to decipher, I pulled down one book that I was sure said Shakespeare. If Colin was speaking, I didn’t hear him. Volume one of a set of six, the publishing date was 1709, the collection put together by a man named Nicholas Rowe. There was no mention of first printing or reprinting. A beautiful engraving fronted the first play. The book was in excellent shape, sturdy, durable, and I knew it was the real thing.
 

I swallowed hard and put a hand out toward the bookcase to steady myself. My knees wobbled, and I felt distinctly lightheaded. I breathed in and breathed out. I felt a strong hand come around my waist, and Colin spoke near my ear.

“Come, lass. Come sit. Ye are fair faint. What ails ye?”

I shook my head wordlessly, still clutching the book as he led me to a chair near the fire.

“I give up,” I whispered, hanging my head, my shoulders slumped. “I give up. I really am in the eighteenth century, aren’t I? I give up.”

Colin went down on one knee in front of me and lifted my chin, forcing me to look at him.

“Aye, lass, that ye are. I thought we had settled that last night, but ye are a stubborn woman. I might be as well had I awakened in yer time.”

I listened to his rolling
r
’s and resisted the urge to pour myself into his arms and cry, or at least to make him whisper in my ear with his Scottish burr.

To my embarrassment, tears poured down my face, and I got what I wanted. Colin pulled me off the chair and into his arms and cradled me while I sobbed against his chest. We rested on the floor, and yet the position was not uncomfortable, even given my hooped petticoat. I cried for some time—for my small house in Whitefish, Montana, for my future, for my unexciting job at the local library, for my luggage, for the fear of dying at forty—or even younger, without antibiotics—for the fact that I might never see a plane, train or automobile again.

When I was well and truly dehydrated, I quit, and I hiccupped.

“Are ye done, lass? I never saw a woman with so many tears.”

“That’s a little over two hundred and fifty years worth of tears,” I said on another hiccup.
 

“Aye,” Colin said with a chuckle. “Surely it is so.”

“Is there any way to get back? I love your castle, and Scotland is awesome, but I don’t think I can live here.” I averted my eyes, keeping them fixed on the book still cradled in my hand. Somehow, it seemed sort of rude to tell someone I couldn’t live in his time.
 

“I dinna ken, Beth. If there is a way, we shall discover it, but at the moment, I dinna ken.”

“What about the river? I swear I traveled through time when I splashed water from the river on my face. What if I do it again?”

“Is that what ye were doing when I found ye? Aye, it might work, but what if ye travel through time yet in the wrong direction? What if ye travel back to medieval times, or further still?”

I stiffened. “Oh, gosh, I hadn’t thought of that.” I wanted to start crying again, but I had no more tears. My throat ached. “I hadn’t even thought of that,” I repeated heavily.

 
“Would it be so bad here?” Colin asked. “If ye couldna go back? I ken ye will miss yer home and such, but would it truly be so bad here? I will take care of ye, Beth.”

I fought the urge to wrap my arms around his neck. That wasn’t what he meant.

“You may have to,” I said, trying to chuckle. “I don’t have any money, no family or friends, and no idea how to get around or fend for myself. Not right now anyway.” I eyed the book in my hand. Maybe I could write books for a living—sci-fi, futuristic fantasy about the twenty-first century. I almost smiled.

“And I will,” he said. He moved to stand and pulled me up with him, releasing me after he was sure I wasn’t going to topple. He took the book from my hands and looked at it.

“I bought these plays of Master Shakespeare some years ago. Do ye ken the playwright?”

I nodded. “Oh, yes, his works are still very popular into the future. Always will be, I imagine.”

Colin eyed the book again and nodded. “I am pleased to hear that some things last. Do ye ken, does my castle still stand?”

“I don’t know, Colin. I’ve never heard of it, but that doesn’t mean anything. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of castles and stately homes throughout the United Kingdom. I don’t know about most of them.”

Colin sighed heavily. “Aye, nor do I. My world is verra small. Other than university at St. George’s in London, I have lived in Scotland all my life.”

“University?” I asked. “In London?” The tour had already been to St. Andrews with its famous university, and I knew Scotland had eighteenth-century colleges. “Why did you go to England to school? Given how you feel about the English?”

Colin pursed his lips. “It was my father’s idea. He wasna fond of the English either, but he wanted me to have an English education. I was studying medicine but left university after Culloden. I couldna stay in England after that.”

I chewed my lip. I hoped I wasn’t about to put my foot in my mouth.

“Mrs. Agnew said that your father aligned himself with the English.”

Colin drew in a deep breath and dropped his eyes to his feet.

“Aye, he did. I was fair ashamed. He thought to hold on to his land by fighting wi the English, and he did. He kept the castle and his property, but he lost the respect and goodwill of many of the other clan chiefs. To my father’s credit, I think he also wanted to shield his men from dying in what he thought was a cause the Highlanders couldna win, but he didna manage to keep some of the men from fighting wi the Jacobites. I ken he died of a broken heart.”
 

I took Colin’s hand in my own.

“I’m so sorry,” I said softly. There was little else I could say. The tour guide had said that the Highlanders’ loss at Culloden effectively ended their way of life, the clan system. But I wasn’t knowledgeable enough about their history to offer even a few words of comfort.

Colin looked down at our hands and entwined his fingers in mine. He brought my hand to his lips, tickling me with his beard. My heart thumped so hard I wondered if he could see the thudding in my chest.

“Thank ye,” he said softly.

“Your beard tickles,” I said stupidly, trying to defuse what was rapidly becoming a very intimate situation. Intimacy with men scared me. I didn’t like to lose control. Not that I had any at the moment.

Colin released my hand and touched his beard.
 

“Does it now? Ye have commented on my beard before. Dinna ye like it?”

“Oh, no! It’s very handsome, thick,” I said. Actually, I didn’t really like beards, but I was in eighteenth-century Scotland. I’d better learn to like them.

Colin squinted at me, then nodded, and I relaxed.

“Shall we see the rest of the castle?”

I nodded. I didn’t need to look further for any signs of electricity, but I did want to see the rest of the castle, and I didn’t really want to let Colin out of my sight—the one and only person who knew who I was and where I came from. There was some comfort in that.

Many of the bedrooms on the next floor were luxuriously appointed in various color schemes. Others held no furnishings and appeared to be unused. I gave up looking for bathrooms. There were none. There was no running water and no electricity.
 

The attic—not your musty, dusty pitch-roofed wooden space but a stone-walled, flat-ceilinged space—housed the servants’ quarters, small as they were. Colin did not open the various rooms, and I didn’t expect him too.

Mrs. Renwick rang a bell before Colin could take me up through the towers to the turret, and he promised to take me another time. Given my awkwardness with my skirts, he helped me down the spiral stone staircase from the servants’ quarters to the first floor.

We headed to the dining area for lunch, though Colin called it dinner. I wore no watch, hadn’t worn one in years, and without my phone, I had no idea what the time was.
 

We entered the great room to find Captain Jones awaiting our arrival. He bowed and pulled out a chair for me. Colin, who appeared to have been on the point of doing so, dropped his hands and took his seat at the head of the table.
 

“Mistress Pratt,” Captain Jones said in greeting.

I looked at Captain Jones in a new light. No longer a modern-day actor, he really was an English officer in the eighteenth century, no doubt assigned to the Highlands to maintain the order, rules and restrictions enforced on the Highlanders following their defeat at Culloden. He seemed a kind and fair man, albeit a bit of a conqueror in forcing Colin to extend hospitality to himself and his men.

“We meet again, Captain Jones,” I said, taking the chair he offered at Colin’s right. “How did you pass the morning?” I heard my words and wondered at my old-fashioned phrasing. Next thing I knew, I’d be rolling my
r
’s and saying “do ye ken?”

“Tolerably well,” he said, taking the chair on Colin’s left. George brought a silver platter of food in and settled porcelain and pewter plates on the table in front of us.
 

“I settled the men, kept them out of Mrs. Renwick’s way and answered some correspondence. A dull morning. And you? How did you pass the morning?”