PENETRATE (The Portals of Time Book 1) (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

1803

Well, nobody could say she didn’t truly love her sister, Lileth.

Ainslee tensed slightly at the sound of horse hooves, alerting her to the duke’s approach.
Thank all the saints!
He hadn’t changed too much. He might have spent a good portion of time at sea in the ongoing war with Napoleon. Since the truce, the duke might have been down south in London-town, known as a den of iniquity. He might have altered to the point he no longer wore Highland dress, preferring the stovepipe trousers, tight jackets, and cravats of the English peerage.

Didn’t much matter.

Niall Straith was still out and riding in the pre-dawn mist, exactly as he’d done when she’d last seen him. Back then he’d been a gangly youth, astride a huge stallion, his hair a dark reddish shade worn long and straight, whipping about behind him, while his
feile-brecan
had done little to disguise a lean muscled frame. He’d had wide shoulders, a hint of shadowy whisker on his chin and upper lip, an angry expression.      

He’d ridden by her then. He hadn’t appeared to see her. But that was normal in her life. And necessary.

Ainslee slid her palms along her woolen skirts. The duke was probably astride his latest acquisition, the big gray stallion just arrived from some foreign breeder. The Arabian stud everyone in his stables spoke of, using awe-imbued tones.

Ainslee pushed closer to the stone slab that shielded her. Imagined the ground trembling as he neared. She crouched lower as he passed by her hiding spot...and then she jumped out.

The horse reacted poorly, rearing onto his hind legs. Ainslee dodged and ducked wicked-looking hooves, while Straith fell ignominiously right off the back of his steed. And worse. His foot was caught in a stirrup. His horse proved to be skittish and uncontrollable, and entirely dangerous. Before she could even react and grab the reins, the stupid thing took off, dragging the duke with him. They topped a slight dale, disappeared from view, and when the horse reappeared on the other side, it wasn’t dragging anything.  

Oh no!

This was not what she’d planned.

Not at all.  

A groom rounded the hill on his own horse, saw her, and stopped. He waved.

“Catch the horse!” 

Ainslee yelled and pointed to where the new equine acquisition was almost out of sight. Then she grabbed her skirts up, and started running toward where the duke had disappeared. This was bad. She hoped he wasn’t injured! And she doubly hoped he wouldn’t know this was her fault.

If Straith was hurt…

It didn’t bear thinking of. She didn’t have much time as it was. He had to listen to her. He couldn’t be injured. Or unconscious. Or anything other than awake and alert and able to understand. Anything else was dire.

Ainslee didn’t check to see if the groom obeyed her. She didn’t even consider the fact that he might not. But he’d already raced past, easily outdistancing her. She caught a glimpse of his horse’s rear as they cleared the far side of the vale intent on catching the Arabian horse. And then she saw the duke.

Her eyes went wide. Her heart stopped. Her breath caught. Ainslee smacked a hand to her mouth to prevent any sound from escaping. The duke was in a heap of body and clothing, and his head was planted beneath him.

Backward.

“Oh, dearest God! I’ve killed him!”

Tears stung her eyes as she whipped around. She slapped her other hand atop the first to hold back a shocked scream. Her knees trembled and then dropped her. Thistle-covered grass enwrapped her. Painfully sharp. Dew-kissed. Moist. Fragrant. Her belly roiled sickeningly. She swallowed continuously against any illness, and blinked rapidly until her vision cleared.

Her situation had just changed from ominous to absolute disaster. She had to think! Escape. She could manage it. She had time. She could run for home. Pretend this hadn’t happened. Maybe she’d be lucky...

No
.

It wouldn’t work. She was never lucky. Her shoulders sagged. Besides, she’d been spotted. It wasn’t a far stretch to piece together what had happened. The groom would return to Straith Castle. Gather clan to retrieve the duke’s body. Then they’d come for her. And even if they did believe her explanation, she wouldn’t survive the beating Father was certain to give. A tear dropped before she could stanch it. She whisked it away with a shaky hand, tightened her jaw, and forced any further ones away. She was grimacing as the meadow came back into focus.

As usual, there wasn’t any way to change her fate.

She might as well just face it.

Ainslee took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and stood up. It wasn’t easy. Her legs shook, as did her arms when she clasped them about her. She was cold. And wet. Her skirts were stuck to her with the amount of moisture she’d soaked up. She was an abject failure. She ought to be used to it.

Ainslee was just pulling a hank of sodden material from her lower legs when the sky blazed into life about her. A massive shockwave penetrated the air, sending a blinding arc of multi-hued light with it. A boom of what had to be thunder happened. The force slammed her onto her back and then it locked her there.

Ainslee was stunned. Shocked. Absolutely and completely terrified.

She didn’t move for a very long time. The thunderous noise faded away. A gust of wind reached her, rustling meadow grass and thistle stalks. Another gust followed. Several more moments passed. Her heart slowed to normal. Her quaking calmed. She’d experienced lightning strikes, but never that closely. Strands of her hair were actually lifted from her head. She brushed them down with hands that shook.

And then, she heard a groan.

Ainslee sat, swiveled, and watched the duke roll over awkwardly. Onto his back. And then he lifted a leg, bending it.

Oh heavens!

Ainslee was on her feet and racing toward him a second later, tripping in her rush. She slid down the last bit of slope, landing in a mess of saturated skirts and petticoats directly beside Straith. Sod had been disrupted in the ground all about him, adding muck to her appearance. She didn’t care. It was a small thing next to the fact he wasn’t dead. He was
breathing
. He didn’t even look that injured.

Except for a nasty cut at his hairline.

Ainslee pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and pressed the fabric to his wound. He grunted and swatted at her hand, and when he missed, he just let his arm fall limply back at his side.

Well.

That answered some things. Gossip was that he’d gone soft. Effeminate. She hadn’t believed it, but the tales appeared to have some substance. His hands didn’t look like they did much work, if any. Then again, she’d been told his hands didn’t do more than lift a lady’s fingertips to his lips.

To kiss them.

“Your grace! Straith? Can you hear me?”

She left off ministering to the cut. It didn’t look fatal and she mustn’t forget the reason for her appearance this morning. Her reaction to him didn’t matter. Nor did his appearance. Conduct. Or anything other than her mission. She hadn’t had much time to start with. Now, she had less.

If Father knew where she was. And what she was doing. And who she spoke with...!

Ainslee trembled. She couldn’t continue the thought. She didn’t dare. She shook the duke before she lost her nerve completely. “Your grace! Wake up! Please? You must wake up! Come along, your grace. Please?”

He definitely did more than kiss a lady’s hand. She didn’t imagine the strength that seized her wrist and yanked her almost atop him. The only thing preventing it was her other arm as it stopped the fall. Her hand hit the ground on his far side, propping her up. He wasn’t touching anything except her wrist, but near-contact sent heat through her. It penetrated the wet skirts. Warming. Steadying. Bolstering.

“We’ve little time. You hear?” 

Her lips were near his ear, framed by strands of hair that had escaped a queue. And that meant he hadn’t cut his hair. He’d tied it back and tucked the length beneath his collar. Ainslee tried to discount it. She pursed her lips. Cleared her throat. Moved her eyes. She’d believed the rumor that he’d dispensed with his hair. She’d listened and secretly mourned it. Straith lairds claimed the most glorious, thick hair. The new duke was no exception. It had been striking when he was young. It was said to be even more so now that it had darkened to the color of roasted chestnuts. He was also said to possess such handsomeness he set all the lasses in his vicinity to sighing. Ainslee looked him over. The last hadn’t been a lie. Ainslee’s heart stuttered. She almost sighed before catching it.

“What? The hell?”

Oh. My
.

She hadn’t known his voice had changed. Not this much. He had a strange accent, but he’d been away, visiting foreign ports. And in London-town. That might explain it. But nothing explained the depth of it. Nor her reaction. Bass tones rumbled through the air, lifting shivers along her skin. They affected her words as she stumbled through them.

“Ain...slee! You have to...uh. No! You
must
ask for Ainslee today! You just have to!”

“I need. A drink,” he replied.

“Aren’t you listening?”

He groaned again.

“Today! When you visit MacAffrey, you have to ask for Ainslee! You ken?”

“Ken?” he asked.

She pushed up, gained her knees beside him, and pulled at her captured hand. He released it.

“You’ve an appointment with the MacAffrey laird this afternoon! You’re asking for his daughter’s hand! Make certain to ask for Ainslee!”

“All right. That’s it. Where’s Eric?”

He opened his eyes and settled his penetrating gaze on her. Ainslee’s heart stopped and then the darn thing felt like it swelled. Each beat almost pained. She’d forgotten he had stunning eyes. Gray-toned. Mercurial. It was akin to looking at hammered silver. This time when she swallowed, it was more of a gulp.

“Well?” he asked.

“I do na’ ken...anyone of that name.”

He frowned, put a hand to his wound, lifted her linen and then stared at it uncomprehendingly. His nose pinched up, as if in distaste. Ainslee looked from the cloth to him. Back at her cloth. It was a scrap of old linen, frayed at the edges. Despite continual washing and letting it bleach dry in bright sunlight, it had been stained before she’d used it on him. Now it was streaked with blood from his wound. But if she’d known she’d be proffering her handkerchief to him, she’d have brought one of Lileth’s lace-bedecked ones.

“What? Is this?”

He had a strange way of breaking sentences, pausing distinctly between the words. It was already difficult to keep his gaze. With his voice and the way he spoke, it was even more so.

“My...handkerchief?” she offered.

He moved the cloth toward her, holding it with his forefinger and thumb as if that was too much contact. She took it, and despite her best effort, her hand visibly trembled as she tucked it back into her pocket. This was not going well. He wasn’t listening. Or he didn’t understand. And it had taken every bit of bravery she possessed to accost him this morn. She glanced toward him. Looked away. Struggled against the instant sting of tears again.

This was truly odd. Completely unlike her. She was known for stoicism. She rarely cried. The punishment was too severe.

“Okay. Level with me. I crashed-landed. Right?”

Ainslee watched the view blur into a wash of thistle amid heather, the color a mass of purple, green, and the dark brown of peat. She blinked rapidly and somehow conquered the urge to sob.

“Speak up, girl.”

“I do na’ ken your meaning,” she whispered.

“Oh! For the love of—! Look. The one thing I detest is wasting time.”

“Exactly! And that’s why you have to—!”

“Don’t start the ‘ask for Ainslee’ spiel again. Just. Don’t. Oh! My head.”

He’d tried to lift his head. Dropped it back to the sod. She watched him put a hand to his forehead and use a gingerly-looking motion to tap on his wound. He lifted his fingers away. Stared at them for a moment. Looked over at her.

“What. The hell. Happened to me?”

“You fell off your horse.”

“Impossible.”

“He reared. You fell. Your groom has gone to fetch him. I canna’ stay! But first say you’ll ask for Ainslee when you visit the MacAffrey laird. You must!” 

“Young woman. Please. Make some sense.”

“You’ve an appointment today! ’Tis part of the Straith will! You have no choice! You have to ask for the hand of a MacAffrey lass. Everyone expects you to ask for Lileth. But you can na’! You just can na’!”

“I have to do what?”

“You can na’ ask for Lileth. Please? I’m begging you!”

She’d never been this emotional. Ever. Ainslee’s eyes filled with stupid tears again. It was stupid. Irrational. She blinked and struggled, and was rewarded finally as his image cleared.

“She’ll kill herself. She’s vowed it.”

He lifted an eyebrow. The move highlighted and defined and put dawn glow on how many shades of gray his eyes contained. The cut at his forehead seeped again. He didn’t act like he felt it.