The Laird (7 page)

Beth’s breath caught. Duncan’s calloused hands felt not warm but hot as they swallowed hers.

And it was true.

Her ghost was now flesh and blood, tall and gloriously handsome despite his high flush. But how could this be? And who were all these people staring at her? She knew she looked frightful without make-up, but staring bordered on rude. And why were they all dressed for a costume party at dawn?

With a hand at her waist, Duncan guided her through the throng to the opposite end of the hall. He pulled out a chair and motioned for her to take a seat. With effort, she tore her gaze from the women in their odd headdresses and the bearded men wearing broadswords only to see the very falcon chairs she’d retrieved from the storeroom. Her heart slammed into her ribs.

She grasped Duncan’s hot hands with her now frigid ones. Shaking, fearing the answer, she asked, “Where the hell am I?”

A
nger roiled in Duncan’s belly. He’d suffered through three loveless political marriages and now the house of Stewart had foisted a raving lunatic on him.

Mutely, he watched as his new wife, muttering and wringing her hands, pace the solar. He understood only a scattering of words, for she spoke her English quickly and with an unfamiliar accent. His efforts to calm her using French and Gael had been for naught. She only shook her head as she continued her frantic muttering and pacing.

Feeling a strong kinship with the biblical Job and annoyed beyond endurance, he finally bellowed, “Katherine, sit ye!”

She jumped, blanched, and with mouth agape stared at him. She then took a deep breath and glared back. “I’m Beth.” She tapped her chest. “Beth.”

“Beth?”

“Aye.” She crossed the room and tapped his chest. “Duncan.” She tapped her own. “Beth.”

Ah, she wanted him to call her Beth. Fine, he’d call her rhubarb if would stop her damn muttering and pacing. “Beth.”

She waved her hands about asking another rapid question, and he shook his head in confusion. Sighing in apparent exasperation, she took his hand and pulled him to the window.

“Where am I?” She asked the question very slowly--as if she spoke to a bairn--and pointed to the village.

“Drasmoor.”

“And this?” She waved a fluttering hand around the room and to the floor.

They were finally making progress. Perhaps she was not wode—-mad--but merely simple. He could only pray. “Blackstone. I am the MacDougall, yer laird and husband.”

When her eyes grew huge, he stood straighter. She was obviously impressed, as well she should be. She then mewed, “
ooh
,” in what could only be described as agony and crossed the room. She sat on the bed and buried her face in her hands. Confused, he went to her side and lifted her chin to find a disturbing flood of tears. “What ails ye, lass?”

“What year is this?”

“Doth not ye ken?” When she shook her head, he sighed. Slowly he told her, “‘Tis the year of our Lord one thousand, four hundred and eight.”

“How?”

Aye, how indeed, had life passed so quickly? Not knowing the answer himself, he merely opened his hands and shrugged.

The simple gesture nearly brought him to his knees. He grabbed the bedpost for support as beads of sweat erupted across his face and icy chills swept his limbs. His innards started to churn.
Damn Eleanor and her blade
.

“Duncan?” His new bride’s shaking hand flew to his forehead. “My Lord! What’s wrong?”

He pushed her hand away and straightened. “Naught is wrong. Rest ye now. Rachael will come for ye at sup.”

She tried to press her hand to his forehead again.

“
Nay
.” He dodged to her right. He just needed to rest, to shake off the lassitude and fever that continued to confound him but he was not ill. He forced a smile. His confused bride could probably do with a little rest, as well. The bruising on her forehead had deepened in hue. Only heaven and Rachael knew what other damage hid beneath his bride’s borrowed gown.

Standing in the solar doorway, looking at his befuddle wife, he silently cursed. Once he felt more himself, the Bruce would pay dearly for this insult. Albany’s insult couldn’t be dealt with swiftly or as obviously, but in due course he, too, would feel the wrath of the MacDougall. He studied the confusion and hurt in Beth’s eyes. God’s teeth! His revenge would suit the crime.

He was being deprived of the possibility for having a healthy and competent heir.

 ~#~

Beth, standing before the solar window, pinched her arm one more time. “Ouch!”

Spending the day in hiding, telling herself she was caught in some macabre dream had accomplished nothing. The sun had risen to its zenith and the village of Drasmoor had remained as she’d found it at dawn, just a scattering of little thatched huts. Many of the boats had returned with the day’s catch and at least fifty people now milled around the shoreline.

How on earth had this happened? Had she brought it on herself?

She’d been a secret Anglophile for years. She consumed historical romances—-particularly those with a swatch of tartan or thistle on their covers—-like they were made of air. She’d frequently wished she could live in the past with a dark, handsome hero, but good Lord, she’d never expected it to happen!

Or had her wishing for Duncan to be flesh and blood been the cause? Whoever said, “Be careful what you wish for,” hadn’t known the half of it. And here she was in the early fifteenth century--the age of chivalry and romance with a Highland hunk having claimed her--without so much as a mascara wand. How cruel can life get? She heaved a sigh.

“Wishful thinking has never gotten you anywhere but here, Beth, so you’d best
do
something or you’ll never get back to your own world.”

Her stomach growled in earnest making her decision on where to start simple. After eating, she would search out her husband.

Husband
.

She looked down at the gold and ruby ring she now wore. She didn’t remember Duncan placing it on her finger, but then she couldn’t remember much more than leaning into his side as she wavered before the priest. Apparently, in this day and age, brides needn’t consent--let alone be lucid--to wed. But why had he agreed to their marriage? They’d only shared a week together, and had only spoken once. She shook her head and spun the ring on her finger.

Years ago she’d reconciled herself to the fact that she’d never wear such a ring, that love wasn’t something she would ever experience. Had he fallen in love with her? Was that why she’d shifted in time? More importantly, was she capable of falling in love in return?

She grunted, unable to lie to herself. Her simple fascination with her handsome spirit had converted to something more meaningful, deeper, days ago. Hadn’t she dreamt of him? Hadn’t she pictured him sitting across from her chatting the nights away? Of course she’d pictured them together in the twenty first century...

Her stomach growled again. Out of habit she looked for a mirror to check her make-up. “Oh, God.” The thought of mingling with the people downstairs with her face as bare as a baby’s bottom twice in one day made her hands shake.

She’d been too confused and upset when Rachael had helped her dress this morning to worry, but not now.

Her hands traveled from her lips to the beautiful brocade gown she wore, across the rich peacock colors to the thick pearl beading on the bodice. The gown’s beauty had distracted her this morning. That, and battling Rachael’s attempts to beautify her. The Frenchwoman, to Beth’s horror, wanted to pluck Beth’s eyebrows off and raise her forehead by plucking out her natural hairline to create the same high-domed look Rachael, herself, sported. Rachael, having lost that battle, decreed Beth
would
wear a headdress, the woman’s personal favorite being an over-sized, over-starched nun-like affair of white linen. After another half hour argument filled with hand gestures and wretched eye rolling, Beth reluctantly consented to having her hair braided and tucked into two golden snoods that covered her ears and was secured to her head by a smooth brass ringlet.

Her hands shifted to the narrow, jeweled belt at her waist. She fingered one of the smooth purple stones and sighed. She only had two choices, starve to death in her room or face her demons sans make-up but in a beautiful dress. Neither held any appeal, but her head ached and her gut burned. Resigned to the inevitable, she pinched her cheeks, licked her lips and headed for the door.

In the great hall she found a half dozen men sitting at long tables. Some nodded as they stood. When Rachael entered, Beth hurried over to her.

“Where is Duncan?” Hoping to ease the pounding in her head, she reached for an untouched loaf of dark bread on the table. She broke off a piece and found it dry and gritty. Hoping to soften it enough to swallow, she peeked into a nearby pitcher and sniffed. Ale. Yuk!

“The MacDougall ‘tis with my husband,
tres honoree dame.
”

“Where?”

“In yon bailey.” Rachael waved toward the east facing windows.

Beth smiled. She’d not had to repeat her words to be understood.
Keep it short and sweet, Beth, and you might just survive until you can find your way out of this nightmare.

“May I have some water, please?”

“Of course,
madame
.” Rachael scanned the room and muttered, “Zee lazy lass. ‘Twill be brought to yer solar forthwith.”

“Thank you, but I’ll just have a glass here.”

Rachael frowned at her for a moment, shrugged, then turned away.

Beth nibbled on her bread and studied her fellow diners and the room’s decor. Most of the men, huddled in groups, and the women, shuffling past with arms full of ale tankards, were fair and blue eyed. They ranged in age but not one--save the priest-- carried any spare fat, which she found surprising, given the volume of food they were consuming. After watching several men pitch bones to the floor, she cautiously peeked under her chair and immediately raised her feet.

An enterprising student could have re-created a dinosaur from the waste in the rushes. No wonder the room smelled rank. And all this time she’d been blaming the occupants’ lack of deodorant.

The bread continued to roll like pebbles in Beth’s mouth and she looked about for Rachael. Wondering what could be keeping her, Beth noticed a beautiful familiar looking woman studying her from a shadowed corner of the hall. Beth smiled tentatively. The woman rose. As she approached, Beth realized why the woman looked so familiar. The woman’s flawless skin, chocolate doe eyes, and mahogany hair made her the spitting image of Winona Ryder.
Oh, lordy, just what I need. Another naturally beautiful woman in my life.

“
Bon jour, tres honoree dame.
” The lovely woman curtsied. “
Je m’appelle Flora Campbell.
”

“Good morning.” Beth’s smile faltered. “I’m afraid I don’t speak French.”

“Nay? But ‘tis the tongue of all
gentils hommes
. Ye must speak.”

“No. I’m sorry.”

Her confusion evident,
Miss I’m Too Lovely for My Clothes
tried again. “I be Flora Campbell. I bid ye welcome.” To Beth, the woman didn’t look so much welcoming--weelcooming, as she pronounced it--as curious.

“Thank you.” Beth waved toward the empty place next to her. “Please sit.” As Flora made herself comfortable Beth assessed the lady with an expert eye. Yup, the woman’s full lips, kangaroo-long lashes, and flawless skin with its dusting of rose at the cheeks were all products of Mother Nature. Even her choice of a magenta gown was perfect. It enhanced her coloring and accentuated her perfect figure. Beth took a deep breath and swallowed her envy. Unfortunately, swallowing it couldn’t keep her from feeling like a warthog under the woman’s scrutiny.

“Ye spake oddly,” Flora told her. “Where from cometh ye?”

“America.” When her companion’s brow furrowed, Beth added, “From across the sea, far away.”

“Ah, and your dower?”

“Dower?”

“Ye hostile and lands.”

Ah, she means dowery.
Why else would a handsome man like Duncan MacDougall choose someone like her, huh? “I have a castle on an isle.”

“‘Tis as grand?” Flora’s wave encompassed the room.

“Absolutely identical.”

Apparently not pleased, Flora cast a critical eye over Beth’s costume. “If thou art well-dowered, why doth ye wear the gowns of the laird’s third wife?”

Did she just say third wife?
The wad of bread Beth had been chewing suddenly clotted her throat. How the hell many wives has Duncan had? She’d read about only one. Is this woman--now looking down her perfect little nose at her--implying she was number four? And where the hell is Rachael and the water? A body could die of thirst around here.

“Ye must ken ye uncle, the Duke of Albany well.”

“No...nay, I’ve never met him.” Beth missed whatever the woman said next as she continued to ruminate over Duncan’s other wives. Did they divorce during this time? She didn’t think so.

Flora tapped Beth’s arm to get her attention. “Why, then, dost Albany find ye digne to wed The MacDougall?”

Beth shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him, Flora. I haven’t a clue.”

“Clue?”

Beth didn’t get a chance to explain her American slang. Rachael, looking quite pleased, had arrived with a large pan of hot water, toweling, and a small mirror.

“Ye water and glass,
madame
.”

As the fourth Lady MacDougall groaned, Flora curtsied and backed away. She wove her way back through the cluttered hall and resumed her place in the far corner. She picked up her needlework and pretended to embroider as she studied Blackstone’s newest mistress through lowered lashes.

So this is the next wife Duncan the Black gets to torment. The new Lady MacDougall was certainly nothing to look at and as addled, poor thing, as rumor accounts. So how will he dispose of this one? Twill, no doubt, be the easiest to eliminate yet. For kill her he will, just as he killed her beloved sister. And if he dinna, she’d tend to it herself.