Whenever-kobo (14 page)

The cold chill of realization and the physical chill of the room broke my absorption so I reached for the dark gown Rachael had laid out for me. The dress was heavy with embroidery and dragged the ground several inches. It had to be one of the Queen’s. I’d thought medieval people were supposed to be shorter. But maybe they had Viking ancestors. I tightened the laces, wishing for assistance now that I was clean and covered.

I blotted my hair with the linen towel and pulled the comb through the length. There was no mirror, but a polished silver plate on the wall gave me an idea of my reflection. I’d never before realized how much I depended on the use of a mirror until they didn’t exist. Even when we went camping as a family, there were always compacts and mirrors in the car. It was odd that the small things could be the most inconvenient.

I went into the hall, and though it was daylight here, the drugged sensation from being in the wrong time zone kicked in. I wished the time of day translated as well as the language. Using the Queen’s demeanor because I knew it got results, I stopped the nearest servant and said, “Show me to Prince Callum.” Then because I didn’t want to be like the Queen, I said, “Please.”

The servant tapped on another chamber door. From the other side, Callum said, “Come in.”

I shut the door behind me. Callum wore black trousers and no shirt. His shoulders were broad and he was well-muscled. Nice. Most of the time when the guys took their shirts off at practice or after a game, they appeared thinner. Callum looked larger, like someone who lifted swords and wore chainmail. He turned and when he saw me he started, reached for a shirt, and put it on. The hem fell over his hips but not before I noticed his scars.

“You have the same marks as me.” I hurried forward and raised the hem of his shirt. I touched a fingertip to his side. He had two scars: one blue and one new pink one.

Because I was wearing the linen undershorts, which were more covering than the sleep shorts, I raised the skirt of my dress, and the linen shift I wore underneath to show him.

Callum’s gaze glued to the motion of my hands raising the fabric. Half his morals from home must mix with the morals from this time; maybe it was part of the translation process. I hadn’t gained either sensibility. If I was covered as much as I was at home in shorts, that was modest enough for me.

When I uncovered my scars his intent stare changed, taking on a more scientific look. He tilted his head and touched a finger to the marks.

Sensation radiated from his touch. I jerked away, dropping my skirts. Wow. I cleared my throat and shook off the feeling. “Why are they blue? Is that the pain we felt? We look tattooed, like the pictures of those ancient warriors.”

“I know the myth,” Callum said.

I moved to the side of the bed. “Tell me.” I patted the blanket. “Come on.” I shrugged out of the overdress and let it fall to the floor, pulled back the covers, and crawled in.

Callum slid in beside me, using the headrest against his back. He took his shirt off with one of those one-handed guy gestures. I curled up beside him and laid my head on his shoulder, my arm over his chest. It was intimate, but felt right somehow. He stiffened but didn’t move me. I breathed in. “You smell like roses too. But it’s different on you.”

“I hope so.”

I drummed my fingers on his chest. “Tell me.”

Callum stared at my hand and then at the room as if he was seeing something else. He traced the back of my fingers. “I’ve heard stories.”

I wiggled my fingers under his touch. “Go on.”

“One common thread in the stories was these blue marks.” His hand slid to my waist, rubbing over the marked spot. “Wavy ones like ours and curlicue ones for quick, less substantial trips. The tales speak of moments in time and years out of time.”

I hoped our stay in the past would come to an end soon. But in this small moment, I felt content: as if I were right where I should be, when I should be. I grazed my fingertips over his heart.

Callum flattened my hand beneath his, dwarfing mine. Solid, warm, comforting. He rolled until he leaned over me and my hand dropped to the blanket. He threaded his fingers through my hair. “Silky.”

The pull felt wonderful and my heart thumped harder, waking me fully.

“You’re staying with me tonight?”

“I don’t like being away from you. Not here. Not where we are.”

He brushed his thumb over my bottom lip, sending a pulse of heat through me. “Soft.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth and my chest rose and fell, higher than normal. “My bed. That makes you mine.”

My eyelids drooped at his deep voice.

One inch. I wanted him to move his mouth over one inch.

Lower. I wanted him to drop lower against me.

He kissed the other corner of my mouth. “Mine.”

I pressed my lips together to temper the sensation. He eased my lower lip free with his thumb.

“We have to talk about your sense of entitlement.”

“There’s no
sense of
. I’m a prince. I am entitled.”

“No. You’re not.” I turned my face to the side because looking at him in the darkness, lit only by the flames, messed with my willpower. “You can’t even date an American.” My whisper sounded loud in the quiet. I had to believe modern concerns would be an issue because it meant we’d return home.

“Aye, I’ll do as I like.”

“I’m not like the bluebonnet. You can’t just transplant me to Ireland.”

“Ooh, I don’t know. I saw you and transplanted you fairly quick.”

I brushed my fingers along his jaw, feeling the stubble and he turned his cheek into my hand. “Yeah. No. I live in Texas. Like the bluebonnet.” He needed to know that. His knowing that was a part of his agreeing we’d make it back.

His mouth dropped onto mine, centering for a perfect kiss. What a rush. His tongue touched the inner edge of my lips. Sensation flickered under my skin. I wrapped my arms around his waist, tugging him closer.

Callum groaned and sank into me, his weight heaven. His mouth lowered to my neck and I gasped.

He groaned in response to the sound and released me, rolling onto his back. He sucked in several deep breaths, his chest rising and falling, his body almost shaking.

“Callum?”

He laced my fingers with his, raised my hand to his mouth, and kissed the middle of my palm. Sparks ran up my forearm. He lowered our hands to his chest and flattened my palm over the hard thump of his heart. “Whenever I kiss you it’s almost too much.”

I knew what he meant. Kissing him wasn’t a pleasant pastime or a nice feeling even. It was shocking. Tingling. Aching. Satisfying and unsatisfying. Too much. Not enough. Too fast. We had to stop.

I leaned over, kissed the side of his shoulder and closed my eyes.

I fell asleep like that, with my hand over Callum’s heart.

Callum was gone when I awakened. I got dressed and wandered into the hallway. He was coming up the passage. Seeing him, stunning and familiar, made my heart jolt but also centered me. “How’s the King?”

Callum shook his head. “Walk with me?”

I took his hand, and we went out to the grounds at the back of the castle. “Today’s weird. We were just here yesterday and the estate’s so different.”

We paused at a low wall. “Even the herb garden. It’s half the size of King Mael’s.”

Callum leaned over and pinched off a leaf, crushing the end between his fingers. Mint wafted out. “I spoke with the Queen this morning while you slept, about expanding it. Importing plants. Getting more samples from far away. Build a green house. Improving their quality of life. Hoping I’d hit on the thing we’re supposed to fix.” He pointed to a plant with a purple thistle on top. “That’s Saw-wort. They used it to help the wound, but it’s still infected. Saw-wort doesn’t exist in Ireland anymore.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Over-picked?”

“Agricultural practices and pesticides.” He smiled and touched the corner of my mouth. “Your bluebonnets are not over-picked.”

The nerve endings jumped in response and I felt his touch even after he withdrew his finger. I pressed my lips together. “Hmm.” Bluebonnets shouldn’t be picked. I sank onto the wall and leaned over to brush my finger over the purple thistle.

“Saw-wort makes a yellow dye too,” Callum said.

“You’d think it would be purple.” I let my finger fall away. “When we get home, I bet you major in science. You could work on finding new medicines. You like plants so much.”

“I’m interested in food production too. The history and suffering of my country is entwined with it. A lack of access. A lack of imports. Burned crops. Failed crops.” Callum looked away as if he’d revealed more than he’d intended.

I asked him what I’d asked before, “Do you like being a prince?”

“Being royal is not something to like or dislike. It just is.”

I curled my arms around my legs and looked up at the castle, where the fate of a people balanced on a king’s ill health. “If we were home, we’d go to the doctor, and pick up an antibiotic. I don’t even know where antibiotics come from. Are they plants, synthesized in labs? What?”

“Mold. Fleming grew penicillin out of mold.”

“Hmm. And before labs, what did they use?”

“Russian sailors used moldy bread on wounds.” His voice took on a tone of excitement.

I rubbed my hand on the low rough wall. “There was an article online about honey being used on modern British soldiers. Did the doctor try that?”

He squeezed my hand. “We’ll try both. Come on.”

We ran to the Queen and Callum told her everything he knew, which was basically to throw honey and moldy bread on the wound.

Jamie was standing with her and his mouth opened into an “o” shape. Our suggestion must have sounded crazy to him.

The Queen frowned. “You’ve seen this?”

“That will cure my father?” Jamie asked.

The Queen stiffened and answered before we could. “Callum is a traveler, son of King of Ireland. Ireland in the far future, the start of the twenty-first century where such cures must surely be common.”

I thought I’d save it for later to explain it was more of an honorary title and that Ireland was a democracy and part of it belonged to Britain. And that antibiotics didn’t always work. Well, then again, maybe I’d keep that last bit to myself. Maybe I’d keep it all to myself.

The kid, Jamie, cleared his throat and my attention went to him.

Jamie. James. Such a cute kid. One of my brothers was named James. A wave of homesickness washed over me as I looked at him. He didn’t resemble either of my brothers, but he was a similar age and something in the childish roundness of his face reminded me of them, though he was a solemn little creature, unlike my wild barbarian brothers.

Jamie squared his shoulders but his eyes remained wary. “We’ll try it then.”

Callum held out his hand. Jamie hesitated and then shook it, his chin rising.

The Queen turned toward the stairwell, spotting the young servant. “Rachael, gather honey and molded bread.”

***

Twenty-four hours did it. Just like at home. You’re at death’s door one moment and a couple of antibiotic pills later, you’re looking around for ice cream. Though in this case, ice cream was a weak broth. The King even joined us at the table. He walked with a cane in deference to his injury and looked ashen beneath his shaggy grey-streaked beard, but pride carried him.

“Prince Callum and Princess Hayley saved you,” Jamie said, his eyes shining.

The King snorted. “Good ale and strong stock. That’s what made me recover.” He nodded at Callum. “It is grand to have you here, traveler. We were well-rewarded by our own sacrifices.” His big hand clamped on Jamie’s shoulder. “One day Jamie will have to go and learn of the world. One day soon, when he gains his height.”

Jamie was ten or so. That was crazy young to leave home. Though I’d read that noble houses sent their sons away as children to act as pages in other households. They built allegiances and learned of other ways of doing things. But still.

Jamie’s mouth pinched and for a moment he lost his carefree look. Then it returned double force.

“We’ll consider some of these agricultural ideas you’ve been hounding me with while I was bedridden,” the King said.

“I’ve seen them work,” Callum said.

The King didn’t respond. He turned to his bread bowl. “Gruel. I need meat. You boys should go hunt up something more filling for supper. A man could starve on this type of sick room pap.” Despite his words, he didn’t stay long before he headed back to bed.

After he left, Jamie peppered us with questions, leaning against Callum’s armrest. He waved off one of Callum’s descriptions of King Mael’s crops. “Music, tell me about the music. Tell me about the battles. Then, I’ll tell you about here. Then, after we’ve talked of everything else I can think of, that’s when you can tell me about dirt fields.”

Callum laughed and that’s when I broke out my choir training. I’d never win a reality show, but I could carry a tune. “I’ll give you a song.” I lifted from the bench and slid onto the tabletop so I was looking down on them. I sang a couple verses of a pop tune. I had missed music and couldn’t imagine a time when I couldn’t turn on the radio or computer to hear something. My friends and I liked to sing back home, so I had plenty of practice. The guys’ reactions made my voice dwindle off. Callum clapped, but Jamie was riveted. He took my hand. His big eyes stared at me. “Another.”

I laughed and shook my head. I took a sip of the cider, which tasted like apple juice with a kick, and slid back to the bench. Their faces dropped.

“Please,” Jamie said, half in a whisper.

His deprivation definitely lent my voice a talent I didn’t possess. “What kind of music do you like, Jamie? Happy, sad, funny?”

Jamie squeezed between me and Callum. “All of it.”

“Do you sing?”

He half-shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“I will love anything you sing.”

I sang a country tune this time, one with funny lyrics to make Jamie grin.

They made me sing until my voice grew hoarse, and then they sang rounds. Jamie had a pure, pitch-perfect voice. A number of people joined us, drawn by the music, and we moved to the fire. They had a harp and a fiddle and a whistle. I wished I knew how to play an instrument so I could truly play modern music. But it was great fun.