Timeless Desire (24 page)

“Will he be glad to see you?”

Bridgewater’s hands tightened around the reins. “I don’t think so. Not with the request I’ll be delivering. And in any case I’m an outlander. So are you.”

“An ‘outlander’?”

“The borderlands are neatly divided. You’ve seen the wall. Either you’re a Scot or you’re not, and if you’re not, you’re an outlander, not to be trusted. Though, to be fair, the same is true for the English. Neither side sees any shades of gray. That is the essential problem.”

“But you
are
a Scot. Half Scot.”

He snorted. “I might as well be half Turk. If you cannot swear your allegiance, free and whole, especially if you will not also disavow the other half of your blood, you are worse than an outlander. You are an abomination. I am an abomination in both my countries.”

And in both his families. “I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged. “I hope that someday the things that make us different will not be as important as the things that make us the same.”

“You said your grandfather will not care for your request. I know it’s hard for anyone to change their mind, but once he hears—”

“Asking the clans to put down their weapons will be a personal embarrassment for him.”

“Why?”

“He considers himself to be a man who makes decisions with great care. If the clans have come together under his banner to attack Cumbria, reversing his orders will make him appear weak and erratic. And I’m sure if he’s made the decision to attack, he’s only done so after praying on the matter for many hours.”

The bitterness in Bridgewater’s words surprised her. “He is a devout man?”

“Tis his breath and blood. He wears his devotion like a courtesan wears her jewels, both as proof of his worthiness and an indication of what a rut with him will cost. I once saw him bring the charge of an English regiment to a full stop by ordering his clansman to fall into a circle and pray.”

“I should think you would approve.”

“I might,” he said with a growl, “if the same impulse hadn’t inspired him to tell my mother in the last letter he sent her that she had brought untold shame upon their family and that her child was an abomination.”

Panna winced. What would it be like for a ten- or fifteenyear-old boy to find such a letter among his mother’s possessions? She wanted to wrap her arms around him, tell him that he’d been a worthy child and had grown into an even worthier man, but she could tell by the rigidity of his posture that he would not appreciate her sympathy.

Instead, she laid her hands on his. “You lost so much. I cannot think how you survived it.”

For a moment, she was afraid even those words had offended him. But he squeezed her fingers and said in a voice ruffled with emotion, “You know what that means as much as anyone, I think.”

And she did. While she had the benefit of the support of family, the loss of Charlie had devastated her.

The press of his palm sent a warming vibration through her. She didn’t want him to let go. “One goes on because one has to. There’s no other choice.”

“Oh, there is always a choice,” he said, with more than a hint of sadness.

Panna thought of her brothers and nieces and nephews and of Marie, how she would worry. “It’s easier when you have people you can count on, who look out for you.”

“So I am discovering.”

A bubble of happiness rose through Panna’s chest. He relaxed his grip but left his hand on hers.

For several moments, neither said a word, but in the silence Panna could feel him wrestling with something, so she held her tongue.

“I have come to think of it as a campaign,” he said, and she knew without asking he meant more than the conflict with the Scots. “And I don’t mean in the sense of driving for a victory. Losing a husband as you have is a rushing, horrifying battle in which you witness the destruction of all hope as you slash vainly at a superior enemy. My life has been a campaign, I think. A campaign against the grinding sorrow and loneliness. Tis little in comparison to the blood you have seen spilled, but tis a wound that seems never to heal.”

He flicked the reins and made a clucking noise to the horse, evidently embarrassed at his admission.

“It’s not little. Your life has been torn apart as much as mine, if not more. We have a great saying in my time for what we’ve gone through: ‘It sucks.’”

He laughed. “Now
that
is a saying we do not have. Though I must admit, tis very descriptive.”

“And there’s another one: ‘Life is what’s ahead.’ And I didn’t know your mother, but I knew Charlie too well to think he wants anything for me but complete and utter happiness. That, I think, is the only gift worthy of those we’ve lost.”

Panna blinked. She’d heard it before many times over but had never found herself believing it—until now.

“Are all library keepers as wise as you?”

“There’s a famous movie about a library keeper—it doesn’t matter what movies are. Just think of them as books with pictures that move. It’s my absolute favorite. And in this movie a library keeper is in love with a man, but the idea scares her because she’s always been too busy doing the right thing to do the things that might make her happy. He tells her that if she keeps piling up tomorrows, all she’ll end up with is a lot of empty yesterdays.”

“Tell me, Panna, is that a fable for me or you?”

But she didn’t have a chance to answer, for they rounded another curve and Nunquam Castle—what could be seen of it in the dark—loomed before them. It was Elizabethan in style, with gables and bay widows, and the main part of the house was anchored on each side by ornate chimneys. It wasn’t truly a castle, lacking as it did ramparts, turrets, and towers. Nonetheless, it was of ample size to carry the name without question. The gatehouse that protected it was low and wide, like a face of a dog with its teeth bared. Gooseflesh ran across her arms. “Are you certain this is a good idea?”

“I’m fairly certain it’s
not
a good idea. The clan chiefs are unlikely to be open to the arguments of an English army captain, especially one not speaking under the authority of his superior officers. They may think it’s a trick. I wouldn’t blame them. But they
have
to change their minds. They’ll be sending a thousand men to their deaths if they don’t. If I can convince my grandfather, the rest will follow.”

“And if you can’t?” Panna wondered exactly how amenable Bridgewater’s grandfather would be to the pleas of a child he once called “an abomination.”

“Then I’ll have to create a division in their ranks. Convince one or two. Get them to delay. If I can’t convince them, or if they doubt my intentions, they’ll either hang me themselves or turn me over to the English army, which will come to the same thing in the end.”

“It’s not too late to turn around,” she said. “No one will have ever known you were here.”

“Stop where you are,” a guard called from the gatehouse.

“So much for that idea,” Bridgewater said.

The guard and his companion lifted guns to their shoulders.

Panna drew in closer to Bridgewater. “Not very welcoming, are they?” she said under her breath.

“We’ll be fine so long as we don’t alarm them.”

“I suppose that means refraining from mentioning I come from the future?”

“If you would.” He brought Romulus to a halt and let himself off, then caught her arm. Even in the dark, she could see the steely glint in his eye. “If anything happens to me, you are to tell them you are the earl’s niece and demand to be taken to him. Do you understand? He’ll be furious, but they won’t hurt you for fear of bringing the full power of the English army down on them.”

“I will, I promise, but please, let’s not have it come to that.”

He offered her his hand. Dismounting, she discovered, was a tricky thing, especially when one was straddling a saddle sans underpants. He caught her by the waist and set her on the ground.

Then he approached the guards with his hands in the air. “I’m James Bridgewater,” he called. “I’m here to see my grandfather. Tis a personal matter.”

The men looked at one another. The larger of the two said, “No weapons.”

Bridgewater opened his coat. “I left my pistols on the horse.”

“What about her?”

Panna’s heel had caught in the cobbles, and she was hopping in a circle to try to loosen it.

“I think you can see she poses little threat.”

“Hey.”

The larger man nodded and took Romulus’s lead. The other escorted Bridgewater and Panna at gunpoint through the gatehouse to the massive door of the house. Panna’s legs felt as if they were made of rubber, and she shook the dust and leaves off her skirt, hoping to make a decent first impression. It was still the middle of the night, and she had no idea what proper castle etiquette might be for such a late arrival.

The man with the raised gun stepped back

Bridgewater lifted the boar’s-head knocker, and the sound of brass thumping against brass rang out three times in the night.

He gave her a forced smile. “Let us hope the guards’ hospitality was not a just a trick to allow them to shoot us while we wait here.”

After what seemed like forever, a tiny eye-level panel in the door opened. It immediately shut, and for an instant Panna thought Bridgewater had been rejected yet again. But then the large door swung open, revealing a stout woman in her seventies in a dressing gown and cap and holding a candle.

“Master Jamie!” She laid a hand over her heart and instantly started to cry.

Bridgewater froze. He gave Panna a confused look.

The woman shook her head, repeating, “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.”

Eventually, the shock on Bridgewater’s face dissolved into compassion if not recognition. He patted the woman’s arm tentatively, and she fell against his shoulder.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she said, shoulders hitching. “Certainly not here. Oh, I wish your mother had lived to see this.”

Bridgewater extracted a handkerchief from his coat and handed it to her. He looked at Panna and shrugged.

The woman took the handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. “I’m sure you don’t remember me, Master Jamie. But I remember you. I’m Mrs. Brownlow, your mother’s nurse. Oh, dear,” she said, touching his cheek. “What happened to your eye? In a bit of a stramash, perhaps? Come in, come in. Your grand-da’s not due back until the morn—” She stopped. “You
have
come to see him, have you not?”

Bridgewater nodded.

“Come, then,” she said, urging them to enter. “Let me find you a place to lay your head. The castle’s quite full—one of your grand-da’s councils, you know—but there’s still a room or two to be had. Is this your wife?” She gave Panna a welcoming smile.

“Oh, no,” Panna said quickly. “I’m an acquaintance of Captain Bridgewater from Penn’s Woods—Panna Kennedy. It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Brownlow.”

Mrs. Brownlow gave her a dainty curtsy. “Welcome, Miss Kennedy.”

She led them up a flight of stairs and down a long hall. At the end, where the hallway formed a T, two well-armed men stood guard in the corridor to the right.

“The clan chiefs are down there,” Mrs. Brownlow explained. “No one is allowed in.”

“Who is here for the council?” Bridgewater asked casually.

“Och, the usual. All the chiefs except McCann. He’s taken to his bed, and his son attends for him, though what good that wee snip might do, I don’t know. MacDowell, of course. Maxwell, MacClelland, Little, Beattie, Moffatt, Johnstone. A handful more.”

The names meant little to Panna, but she could see the muscles tighten on Bridgewater’s face. She felt as if a month had passed since she’d awakened that morning at Clare’s house. She’d be asleep before her head hit the pillow. Fortunately for all concerned, she’d already had her bath.

To the left, the direction in which Mrs. Brownlow led them, stood an alcove where a large crucifix hung. The woman crossed herself and mouthed a prayer as they passed.

When they reached the end of this hallway, Mrs. Brownlow lifted a ring of keys from her pocket and unlocked the door. “I shouldn’t let you down here, Master Jamie. Tis the woman’s wing. But I suppose no one will be fashed so long as I’m with you.”

She led Panna into a small, clean room with a four-poster bed, two desks and chairs, a basket full of dolls, and a shelf upon which a few slim volumes stood next to an ark and a carved set of animals. “This is the nursery. MacIver’s grandnieces stay here when they visit. Twas your mother’s room, too, Master Jamie. The ark was hers.”

Jamie stared at the items with as much amazement as if the actual ark and animals had been placed before him. He took an unsteady step toward the shelf and picked up a wooden elephant. One of the tusks was broken and the grain, smooth with age, gleamed in the candlelight.

“This was my mother’s?”

“Aye. She called the elephant a clobber because your grandfather told her that an elephant could use its trunk to hit attackers.”

He murmured, “Clobber,” and shook his head with an amazed smile.

“Now, let’s get you settled,” Mrs. Brownlow said to him. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to put you in the servants’ wing. There is an open bed there. I hope you don’t mind. Miss Kennedy, the kneeler’s there for your prayers. I shall have a pitcher and ewer brought to you, and I will lock the door at the end of the hall so you may rest easy. My room’s right there if you need anything. Will you be wantin’ a lady’s maid?” She opened a drawer and withdrew a candle, which she lit from the one she carried. Then she placed it in a holder.

Panna tried to shake the fatigue away, but it hung on her like a heavy coat. “No, I won’t need a lady’s maid, nor a pitcher and ewer. I’ll be going right to bed.”

She looked at Bridgewater, who had reluctantly returned the elephant to the shelf. “Good night,” she said. She didn’t know what the morning would bring or what his plans were. She wished somehow he could stay by her side. She felt safer with him at hand, but there didn’t seem to be any way for that to happen here.

He gave her a reassuring look. “I shall see you in the morning.”

Then Bridgewater and Mrs. Brownlow left, and the door closed with a click.