by Annis Reid
“Yes!” The fierceness in that single word took his breath away. “Now that I’ve met her? God, she’s the worst! She makes my skin crawl.”
“Ye see it, as well? For a time, I believed t’was only myself who saw her true nature.”
She shook her head, pushing herself up on one elbow. “She’s creepy. She’s the sort of person who you just know is thinking all sorts of terrible things. She can smile all she wants, there’s nothing behind her eyes. She is empty.”
“If not empty, full of her schemes and plans.”
“And could you believe that nonsense about men knowing better than women?” She rolled her eyes, scoffing openly, and the bed shook with his laughter.
“Ye dinna agree with her, then?”
“It’s not even that I don’t agree—which I don’t—but she doesn’t believe it, either. She has very strong opinions about this, but she doesn’t want to be the bad guy. She knows what her father thinks about it, so she’s leaving it up to him. I bet if he didn’t stand up for her, she would make her opinions known real quick.”
“No doubt. However, of course he took her part.” He flopped down on his back again, no longer caring as much whether he brushed against Melissa in passing. “He wishes for his daughter to marry the future laird. Tis all he cares for. Little wonder she is the way she is, with a father such as himself.”
“What’s her mother like?”
He shrugged. “I have never met the woman, though I have heard tales of the grandmother. She is a difficult piece of work, the sort whose servants shudder when she enters a room. I suspect ‘tis herself Flora takes after most.” A shudder of his own ran through him.
Melissa’s sigh was soft, sad. “I keep thinking about what that pamphlet said. About the clans uniting and defeating those who wanted to take the lands away.”
“As do I,” he admitted. “Ye need not remind me of how much hangs on this.”
“I’m not trying to make things more difficult, I swear.”
“I know it.” He turned his head toward her, finding her nestled into her pillow again. Oh, how he would have liked to find her this way at any other time, in any other keep. A woman like her to warm his bed, to understand him, to listen to his thoughts and even his fears. One with whom he might share the entirety of himself.
His hands tightened into fists lest he do something foolish, like reaching out to brush a stray bit of hair away from her face or pulling the blanket up around her shoulders. Stroking her velvet cheek.
Her eyes shone in the darkness. “We can run away, you know. We don’t have to stay here, waiting for the priest.”
Even as he rejoiced at her voicing a whim which he did not dare speak aloud or even acknowledge existing in his heart, he groaned at the foolishness of the notion. “Lass…”
“Hear me out, please. Niall is never going to be reasonable about this. Either you marry Flora, or you don’t. He won’t accept Fiona and Malcolm as an alternative. You don’t have a choice but to marry her if you stay. So don’t stay. We can go. We could go right now, I bet.”
“I will not run.”
“I’m not trying to insult you.”
“I am not insulted.” Once again, he turned to her, and this time he dared cover the hand she rested on her pillow with his own. “And it means a great deal to me, lass, that ye care as ye do. Ye dinna need to care. I know it. I could not do this without ye by my side, that much is for certain.”
“I won’t always be by your side, Leith.”
If she wielded a sword, she could not have cut him more deeply. It surprised him that his blood did not soak into the bedding, for he felt the blow most acutely. No, she would not always be with him.
And the very notion struck him as appalling. Unthinkable, even. How could that be so? How could he need her this way when he barely knew her?
“I know, Melissa. I know it well.” Yet he could not bring himself to release the hand he held. “And if ‘tis yourself ye are concerned for, fear not. I will see to it ye have what ye need, whatever that may be. I will take ye back to the castle myself, if ye wish. Just because this has not worked as I had planned does not mean I will abandon ye.”
She chuckled softly, darkness concealing her full expression from him. He did wish he could see her better, if only to understand what she was thinking. “I’m not even worried about that,” she whispered.
“I feel as though that is not the truth.”
“It is, really. I haven’t given myself much thought. Isn’t that weird? Shouldn’t I be scared? Shouldn’t I be desperate to get home?”
“Ye aren’t?”
“Not really. I’ve been too worried about you, I guess.”
“Forgive me,” he murmured, pained at the thought.
“There’s nothing to forgive. That wasn’t criticism, just a fact. I haven’t thought much about myself or getting home at all. And it isn’t like I have anybody to get back to.”
“What of your parents?”
“Sure, that’s true. But it’s not like they need me to survive. I don’t have kids or even cats who need tending to. It’s just me.”
“Be that as it may, I would think that is reason enough. I will do everything I can to get ye back to your own time. I promise ye that.”
Even though he knew not what he might be able to do, whether it would be possible to send her back through time. Perhaps he was lying to himself and to the lass when he spoke so, but he felt he must say something. Anything, so long as she understood his intentions.
She turned her hand beneath this, so their palms met. Closing her fingers over his, she murmured, “I don’t doubt you. There’s a lot of things I don’t know about this time or this place, but I have faith in you. You don’t have to convince me.”
Somehow, her words lifted him.
Sometimes, all it took was knowing there was someone who believed, who had faith.
He raised her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles, wishing he might do more.
“I guess we’d better get some sleep,” she breathed, squeezing his hand once more before withdrawing hers from his grip. That was as it should be, for she was not his. Nor would she ever be, not so long as there was a life waiting for her.
Though he would not sleep, and he knew it. Not for quite some time, at least. Not until she was asleep. And even then, his unhappy thoughts and the notion of the future spent with Flora MacNeill—who would certainly consider herself victorious now and would undoubtedly hold her victory over his head—would keep him awake for hours.
16
“I shall meet ye outside the great hall,” Leith reminded her as he belted his tunic. He had the decency to keep his back turned, even though they’d spent the night in the same bed.
Both the most and least restful night she’d ever had. Strange, but true. The entire time, all she wanted to do was roll over into his arms. It would’ve been easy, too, she might even have pretended to be asleep and not aware of what she was doing if he reacted badly. Once or twice, she had come close to doing just that.
But she’d stopped herself. It wasn’t fair to either of them to start anything when it couldn’t possibly end well. They had no future, it was a simple as that. There was no future for people from two different times.
Especially when one of them was doomed to be locked into a marriage with somebody as loathsome as Flora.
And her heart broke for him, taking the weight of the world on his broad shoulders. He was doing everything in his power to bear up under his responsibility, and she couldn’t have been prouder of him if she tried. She had never known men like him actually existed. Men who valued things like honor, and keeping their word.
Even if their word had been given on their behalf by somebody else, when they were way too young to have made a decision on their own.
She almost wished she hadn’t read that passage in the pamphlet, about marriage uniting the clans. He took it to heart, the way a man like him would just because that was the sort of person he was. N
ow he felt like the entire future of his people depended on whether he went through with this sham of a marriage.
And there she was, thinking only women had to suffer under arrangements like this one. Never thinking before that men might not like it any more than the women they were forced to wed.
“Can ye manage to dress yourself?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder. He was so handsome, sometimes she forgot to breathe. Like right then, at that very moment, with the morning sun turning his hair to fire and lighting up his green eyes. He was like a god wandering among mere men.
She rolled away, hoping to hide the flush he sent crawling up her neck. “I’ve been dressing myself my whole life, or most of it.”
“Aye, but this is not the same. Perhaps I ought to send a lass up to help ye.” He looked over at her silk dress, bought just for the occasion. “Have ye ever worn…” He motioned around his midsection.
“Stays?” she asked before pressing her lips together to hold back a giggle at his embarrassment. Here he was, this hulking beast of a man who’d slid his knife into another man without blinking, and he couldn’t bring himself to talk about a woman’s undergarments.
“Aye,” he grunted. “Have ye?”
“No,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about lacing them up, either.”
“A lass will assist ye. I shall find one.” He was in an awful hurry to get out of the room, and she was able to laugh to herself over his discomfort once she was alone. Though her laughter died when she looked at the dress again.
Why she cared either way about making a good impression on these people, she had no idea. It seemed like a waste of time, trying to curry favor. At the same time, she wanted to show them she wasn’t who they thought she was. She wasn’t just some street urchin, or a tavern wench the way Niall assumed.
On her own, she attended to the less dignified parts of life in the mid-eighteenth century. Now she could say she had squatted over a chamber pot. It wasn’t much fun, though she hadn’t expected it to be.
Neither was settling for washing from the basin and a picture of water. She did as best she could, wishing for a hot shower or at least a bath. Days of grime had settled into her skin, and she would have given anything for a long soak in a hot tub.
The face reflected in the foggy looking glass barely bore a resemblance to the face she was so used to seeing. Worry lines grew between her brows, creases at the corners of her downturned mouth. Her complexion was gray, sickly, even after spending the better part of two days outside.
She was worried. So tired. And lost, especially without Leith to center her. She wasn’t as afraid when he was with her, guiding her through this strange world with its customs and manners and odd ways.
A knock at the door made her jump, her heart racing like an out of control train. The thought that no one around her would understand that reference brought a giggle up from her chest—and even she could hear the panic in it. It would be a miracle if she made it out of this with her sanity.
And to think, Jimmy’s betrayal had seemed like the worst thing to ever happen to her. What a laugh.
“Aye?” she called out, going to the door and reminding herself to change her way of speaking. She was going to screw this up, she knew it. “Who is it?”
“Gwynna. Mistress Flora asked me to attend to ye.”
Flora? A pit lodged itself in Melissa’s stomach. No way would Flora send someone to attend to her out of the goodness of her non-existent heart. There had to be another reason for this.
She couldn’t leave the girl outside forever, though, so she opened the door to find a freckled, shy girl of no more than fifteen or sixteen standing with her hands folded in front of her. Wisps of fine, gingery hair had fallen from her braid. But her blue eyes were kind when she smiled.
“Good morning to ye,” she curtsied.
“And to ye.” Melissa did her best to curtsy back though she knew she probably shouldn’t. This was a servant girl, and she was supposed to be the wife to the next laird of Clan MacManus.
To cover up for what was probably a mistake, she chuckled. “I am unaccustomed to the ways I ought to behave now that I am my husband’s wife,” she admitted with a shrug, then opened the door wider so Gwynna could come into the room.
The girl had sharp eyes, no doubt. She looked at the bed, taking in the state of the blankets and pillows. Flora had probably told her to keep a watch out for certain things. Melissa wished they’d made a mess of it just to get tongues wagging.
“T’was kind of your mistress to send ye to me,” she murmured, going to the chair where she’d draped her new dress to keep it from getting wrinkled any worse than it already had. “I admit, I am not prepared to tend to myself.”
“Ye need not fret.” Gwynna pulled a small wooden chair from against the wall and set it at the foot of the bed. “Where is your brush?”
Oops. “I must have lost it along the way,” she lied, thinking about the plastic brush in her purse.
“Dinna worry,” Gwynna assured her, already unwinding her braid and combing her fingers through Melissa’s locks. “Ye have lovely hair.”
“Thank ye.” And if it didn’t feel like she might make a fatal mistake at any moment, it would’ve been nice to feel somebody running their fingers through her hair and braiding it for her.
“Where are ye from, then?” Gwynna asked in a casual tone. Too casual. She might as well have been reading from a script.
“Outside of Edinburgh.” It was the first place that came to mind.
“What is your family’s name?”
The impulse to tell another lie struck her first, but she knew it would be a mistake. Too many lies and she would get all twisted up, until she forgot what she’d already said.
Instead, she sniffed. “I am unaccustomed to answering a great number of questions from a lady’s maid, if ye dinna mind.” There was just the right amount of imperiousness in her tone—at least she thought so.
Gwynna clearly shared her opinion. “Forgive me. Tis only that your arrival has caused such a stir. There are so many questions on everyone’s lips.”
“We did not intend to cause trouble.” Melissa looked up at the girl, who now went to the dress and started unfastening the many buttons which closed it up the back. “I want ye to know it, and if ye might, spread the word about the place. Truly, I mean no harm to your mistress or the clan. Neither does Leith. He has been most ill-used, as has Flora.”
“Tis not my place to speak of such matters,” Gwynna whispered, blushing.
Melissa doubted that. She had no trouble imagining the girl running around and spreading gossip the second they were out of each other’s presence.
“Even so, ye might speak up on my behalf with your mistress.” What was she saying? Her mouth was getting the better of her—not the first time that had happened, not even close, but there had never been as much riding on her not making a mistake. “Leith means her no harm, nor do I.”
“It will all be smoothed over soon, from what I gather.” Gwynna stepped back, an expectant look on her face. Melissa took this as a cue to get up and let the girl dress her.
Leith was right. She needed help.
Gwynna held up a set of stays which Melissa had never bothered trying to put on. The thought of Leith pulling the strings was too much to even consider. Though letting a strange girl do it for her wasn’t much better.
She held onto the bedpost while Gwynna worked her magic, pulling and yanking in turn, until she finally announced, “Breathe out.”
Breathe out? Melissa nodded, then forced every bit of air out of her lungs that she possibly could just before Gwynna pulled tight.
She groaned as the stays clenched around her like a hug she couldn’t free herself from, smooshing her lungs and stomach and pretty much everything else. Though they did give her chest an impressive boost.
“Ye have such a small waist,” Gwynna observed, looping the strings around Melissa before tying them in the back.
/> “Thank ye,” Melissa managed to choke. Breathing was going to be interesting. But she had to pretend she was used to wearing these things, didn’t she? So there wouldn’t be any complaining or groaning or threatening to faint, though she felt like doing all of those things.
Gwynna didn’t take notice of any of it, thank goodness, too busy getting the rest of her clothes ready. Melissa stepped into a full slip, like a crinoline, which Gwynna tied around her waist. Along with the shift she wore under the stays, this was layer number three.
Finally came the dress itself, pale grey silk cut low across her now impressive décolletage. It was almost embarrassing, walking around with so much of herself spilling out. She had the feeling she shouldn’t be wearing this dress so early in the day, but it was the only nice thing she owned, and she couldn’t very well walk around in what she’d arrived in when Flora flounced around the keep like a queen.
“Thank ye,” she murmured to Gwynna, who wound her braid around the back of her head before reaching into her apron for pins.
“Ye are verra welcome,” Gwynna assured her in a shy whisper. “And ye look bonny, if I might say.”
Did she? She studied herself in the looking glass, noticing the way she held her head, her upright posture now that half the life had been pressed out of her by those darned stays.
Maybe she did look bonny.
Would Leith think so? Her cheeks flushed when she imagined him seeing her like this. She bit down on her lip, wishing she didn’t want him to approve.
Though she did want his approval. Truly. She wanted it so much.
She wanted him to look at her the way Jimmy used to look at her. Only more so. Much more.
She barely noticed when Gwynna left the room and realized Leith had been waiting an awfully long time. He was probably impatient for her by now and might have already faced a lot of whispers and pointed looks. She had no choice but to join him, fast, if she wanted to spare him any worse.
How did anybody make it down the stairs in clothes like these? She held onto the heavy, wooden banister with her right hand while holding up the front of her skirt with her left, fearing for her life if she stepped on the hem. Wouldn’t that be a nice way to end her time in the past? By falling down the stairs and breaking her neck? They wouldn’t even have her full name to put on the headstone. Would they put Leith’s last name as hers? Would the stone read Beloved Wife?
