by Mariah Stone
A drop of sweat snaked down her spine and chilled her as an icy gust of wind slammed into her. The old man helped her get out, and, by a sheer habit, she opened her clutch to pay him. There was her phone, and a tiny, elegant wallet with a couple of banknotes and credit cards. She licked her lips.
He didn’t look like he accepted credit cards.
She removed a twenty-pound banknote. That was probably much more than the fare was worth, but he had helped her get away from that would-be rapist. Besides, if generosity would make a difference in a dream, it was well worth it.
She held out the banknote, and he took it. He turned it in his hands as though he’d never seen anything like it in his life.
“Thank you,” she said.
He blinked and nodded, still looking baffled. She made her way down the jetty towards the village.
“Didna ye say ye were robbed?” the man mumbled after her, but she didn’t look back.
She wasn’t a great liar, that was for sure.
Her heels, which now had clumps of mud sticking to them, knocked against the wood as she walked. Fishermen stared at her and followed her with puzzled expressions and frowns, and she had an urge to put on a burlap sack that would cover her head to toe.
As she entered the village, the ground was even muddier, and she now was sinking into cold, soft muck. Her dressed was torn and stained with dank water and covered in mud—completely ruined. She sighed.
What was she going to do? If this was a dream, she needed to will herself to wake up now.
Come on, Rogene, wake up!
But she still saw the same gray stone houses with thatched roofs, the same people dressed in tunics and long, baggy dresses. She looked back. The castle on the island was still the same, too, and now she saw several birlinns—boats from the Western Islands of Scotland—at the water gate on the other end of the island, too.
’Tis a Pictish carving that opens a tunnel through time.
Oh, puh-lease.
She’d never heard or read about any myths like that. And her mom would have known.
Rogene was making her way through the busy streets. The mostly windowless houses were separated by small fences. Everywhere, people followed her with heavy, puzzled, and even antagonistic gazes.
But despite her skepticism, the farther she went, the more this felt like reality and not like a dream. There were too many details, too many things happening at once. And things were logical, whereas her dreams were often pure emotion with little coherence.
She made her way towards the church and discovered that it had a small marketplace. There stood carts and booths with vegetables; bread; candles; textiles; fresh, smoked, and salted fish; baked pastries; and even silver and iron jewelry. This must have been a rather big village, then. It did look bigger than the current Dornie.
Next to the church stood a priest dressed in a long black robe, with a simple rope belt around his waist and a coif of the same color. He was a man of fifty or so, with an almost bald head and a grayish beard. He was talking to a woman, but when his glance fell on Rogene, his eyes widened and he hurried to her.
“Child, my dear lass,” he said. “Are ye well?”
Rogene felt a sudden sense of relief that someone was taking a more caring interest in her.
“I’m fine. A bit lost.”
“Did someone harm ye? I ken the women of yer trade get harmed so often.”
Her trade? Another reference to her clothes? That was enough. This dream had to end, but she didn’t seem able to wake up.
“I was robbed on my way to Caithness,” she said. “That’s all.”
His soft brown eyes widened in astonishment, and she almost swallowed her tongue, suddenly aware that robbery wasn’t something one referred to as “that’s all.”
Part of her knew that—as crazy as it sounded—if she had indeed traveled in time, she had to be very careful and come up with something believable.
She knew she needed to present herself as a noble lady to be taken seriously. She heard that she had an accent when she spoke Gaelic, and she wondered if she could pass as a Lowlander.
Yes, maybe she could be a lady of middle gentry or something from one of the Borderland clans. If, as Sìneag had said, she was destined for Angus Mackenzie—and the man she’d met in the basement was who he claimed to be—he’d lived during the Wars of Scottish Independence, so that must be the era in which she’d arrived. The south was pretty much occupied by the English, so she could say she was from one of the clans that had been hit hard.
And one of them was Douglas.
Yes. Douglas was perfect. Not only was Black Douglas one of Robert the Bruce’s most important lieutenants, but also his father had been beheaded by the English, and his home had been taken from him. Yes, that was before 1306, so before the Bruce had made his comeback, but James Douglas had ransacked a lot of his own lands that had been taken away from him.
The idea began forming in her head.
“I’m James Douglas’s cousin and there’s been much unrest down in South Lanarkshire. My home has been burned and I’m on my way up north to clan Sinclair, who are my mother’s family. I was robbed on my way here. All my bodyguards were killed as well as my maid. I barely escaped with my life.”
The priest’s eyes clouded with pity. “Ah. Did they take yer clothes, too, child?”
“Yes. They did.”
He sighed. “Come with me, I’ll give ye shelter. If nae Holy Church, then who? My name is Father Nicholas. Mayhap Lord Laomann could spare a few men to escort ye. I’ll send him word.”
Lord Laomann?
Father Nicholas gestured to the church, and she went to where he pointed. She was a little stunned as she moved.
“Uhm. Do you mean Laomann, chief of clan Mackenzie?” she asked.
She passed through the doors and into the church where it was as cold as it was outside and dark.
“Aye, aye, of course I do.”
Laomann Mackenzie had lived between 1275 and 1330. Was it really possible that she had indeed traveled back in time?
“Father, forgive me,” she said. “All this stress is playing tricks with my tired mind. What year is it?”
“Nae matter at all, child. ’Tis the year of our Lord 1310.”
Chapter 3
Two days later…
“What do ye think, brother?” Angus said. “This?”
Raghnall sighed. “By God’s arse, Angus, I am nae the person to ask. Why didna ye take Catrìona with ye?”
Angus studied the red cloth lying on a market booth. It was decent-looking cloth, well made and, he supposed, beautiful; though, he didn’t see the need to spend silver or any other resources on his wedding attire.
But he had to. To show his respect and appreciation for the bride and her clan.
He sighed and turned to his younger brother, who stared at the cloth with the same puzzled expression.
“She has enough to do in the castle. And I didna ask ye to meet me here to pick the fabrics. I merely heard that ye were in the village and wanted to see ye.”
Raghnall looked at the stand with swords, shields, and daggers.
“If ye ask my advice on weapons, I’m happy to help.”
“I dinna need anyone’s advice on weapons.”
Raghnall hemmed and moved to the stall with smoked fish. He stared at it with hunger. Angus followed him and gave the seller a penny. Raghnall took a smoked herring and a piece of bread and bit into it.
“Thanks, man,” he said through a full mouth. “Is it nae a wee bit late to get yer wedding attire done? Two sennights till the wedding, is it nae?”
They walked away from the booth and towards the church.
“Aye. They’re due to arrive soon to negotiate the contract, so I must ask Father Nicholas if he needs anything prepared for that. Will ye come to talk to Laomann soon?”
Raghnall sighed and looked around. “Aye. I must, hey?”
“Aye. Ye still want him to give ye yer lands back?”
“I do.”
“Mayhap the wedding would be a good point to do that. All goes well, God willing, and we will have a powerful family ally in the Rosses. He may feel forgiving.”
Raghnall chewed the herring as they walked. “Aye. But ’tis nae his place to forgive me. My disagreement was with our father, who disinherited me and chased me away from the clan. Nae Laomann.”
Angus’s fists clenched. He wanted to help his brother. He did think that he’d redeemed himself and deserved the land. He’d fought greatly for Robert the Bruce and had grown since his rebellious youth. All the siblings had dealt with their father’s terrible wrath in different ways.
And that would be what he’d do for Raghnall. “I’ll back ye up when ye talk to Laomann. Make sure to call me for the talk.”
Raghnall squeezed Angus’s shoulder. “Thanks, brother. I must take my leave now. Someone is looking for a sword for hire, and I’m meeting them to talk.”
“Aye. God be with ye, brother.”
As Raghnall’s tall and muscled figure walked away, Angus wondered at how much his brother reminded him of a lean wolf, used to running and hunting long distances.
He entered the church, the scent of dust and incense reaching his nostrils. How many times had he been here for the communion and service? He looked around the dark building, illuminated dimly by the light coming from the small windows near the ceiling. The floor before the altar was swept and clean, the space feeling empty without the usual crowd who came to Mass.
And then, in the shadows by the altar, he noticed a female figure leaning over the wooden pulpit with the open Bible on it. Behind her, a large wooden cross hung on the wall, and between her and the cross was a simple stone altar with candles on both sides. Carved wooden icons hung on the wall.
It was strange to see a female leaning over the Bible in this familiar, calming room. Was she reading? Or just looking?
He’d rarely seen a woman interested in letters and science, apart from Catrìona. Mostly, they were busy with the womanly tasks of weaving, embroidering, rearing the children, and running the household.
His own father hadn’t cared about teaching his children to read, calculate, and write. And as a result, only Laomann, who’d always been an arse-licker, got some sort of education. He could write a letter or read slowly, but he wasn’t a great scribe, either.
Angus, Catrìona, and Raghnall had never learned letters. Something Angus had always deeply regretted, as he did have interest towards the written word and wished he could read the Holy Bible for himself, as well as the important letters and messages that came from the king, allies, and others.
But the task of recording the chronicles of events and wars, births and deaths and marriages, as well as writing letters, was most often given to priests and monks anyway, as the most educated people.
So seeing a woman studying the book with such concentration was surprising. Something told him she didn’t want to be disturbed, but he wanted to find out who she was. Perhaps she knew where Father Nicholas could be. Soundlessly, he moved through the empty space towards her.
Lord, she was pretty. The light from the window high above fell on her profile, leaving her dark hair in the shadows. He admired her high cheekbones and straight nose, her lips, with her lower lip fuller than the upper one. Her dark eyelashes concealed the color of her eyes… Her hair was done in a simple style, with the upper part held with a leather string and the long, wavy strands cascading over her shoulders and back. She wore an old wool dress with patches and seams. It didna exactly fit her slender frame, which was obvious from the baggy parts that hung around the belt.
She looked familiar, he thought distantly.
And then it struck him. It was her! The woman he’d found in the cellar of the keep.
The woman who—as her slap had taught him—was not a whore, even though her attire showed more than any decent woman would want to show in public.
The woman, thanks to whom he’d lost his grandmother’s wedding ring, which he wanted to give to Euphemia.
He’d lost his grip on it, thanks to her slap, and it had rolled away into the darkness. He hadn’t been able to find it despite a careful search with a torch.
He was now so close to her, her scent reached him. Yes, that was her. Even through the slightly sweet scent of old clothes, undoubtedly coming from the dress, he could still smell her own aroma of exotic fruit and herbs—something like meadowsweet, and perhaps, lilac.
He yearned to reach out, take a lock of her hair, and inhale her scent…
As if sensing this desire, she went completely still, whirled, and bumped into him. She seemed to lose her balance for a moment, and he took her by the shoulders to steady her.
Brown, he realized. Her eyes were brown. So dark, they seemed the color of twilight when a warm summer day changed into night, and it was time to let go of his worries and sit by the fire with his family.
Her lips were close to his, so pretty and pink and inviting.
She stared at him, their eyes connecting, and he saw her lips part just a little, and a tint of color brush over her cheeks.
The feel of her, warm and strong, and so feminine against him, in his arms, set a fire seething deep within him.
But her eyes widened in recognition, and the moment of heat between them was replaced by fear.
“Get off me!” she said through gritted teeth as she pushed him away. He let her go.
She breathed heavily, her chest rising and falling. He knew she was trapped between him and the pulpit, but he didn’t want her to run off before he could talk to her.
“Who are ye?” he asked.
She lifted her chin. “Not a prostitute.”
He frowned. “Who?”
She pursed her lips for a moment in an expression of a suppressed anger. “Not a whore,” she said through gritted teeth.
He remembered the sting of her slap and rubbed his cheek with a smile.
“Aye. Ye made that clear. But then, again, who are ye?”
She straightened her shoulders even more and clutched the base of her throat in a nervous gesture.
“My name is Rogene Douglas,” she said after she glanced down. “I am James Douglas’s distant cousin.”
He raised his brows. “James ‘Black’ Douglas?”
She nodded.
“I fought with him several times for the king, just last year, in the Battle of the Pass of Brander.”
Her eyes burned. “The Pass of Brander? That must have been quite a battle…”
Something was so different about her. “Why would a woman be so interested in a battle?” he asked.
She made her face appear impartial again. “You’re mistaken,” she said. “I was merely being polite.”
And that accent… He’d never heard anything like that.
“Do ye come from the Lowlands, then?”
She nodded. “Yes. My home was raided in the war, and I fled to clan Sinclair, who are my relatives on my mother’s side. On our way, we were robbed, and my bodyguards were killed as well as my maid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “How did ye end up in my cellar, then?”
She swallowed, and the blush deepened on her cheeks. “I don’t know. I was knocked unconscious. The next thing I knew, I opened my eyes and there you were, with a torch, staring at me.”
He narrowed his eyes, studying her face. She was knocked unconscious? Was it a band of Mackenzie men who attacked them? Surely not.
“And then you called me a whore,” she said. “I thought you wanted to rape me.”
He blinked. The woman certainly must be a highborn, talking to him like that.
“Suppose I believe ye, Lady Douglas. And I dinna say that I do. But suppose I do, why were ye so interested in the Bible? Can ye read?” He glanced at the book. There were no pictures, just letters. “Or were ye merely fascinated?”
Her face twitched, as though in uncertainty, then she cocked her head. “I can read. I know it’s un
usual for a woman, at least in this day and age, but I can. I also can write and calculate.”
“Do ye understand Latin, then?” he said.
“Yes.”
He sighed. “’Tis most unusual.”
Most unusual and most interesting. She fascinated him. Beautiful, educated, clearly having her own will.
“But there’s one problem with yer story,” he said. “I ken James Douglas. I ken other Lowlanders. Ye sound nothing like any of them. Ye talk very differently than anyone I’ve ever met. And that story of yers, implying that some of my men would attack a woman for robbery, then take her to my cellar—for what? ’Tis just very amusing to me.”
She fell speechless.
“So I wilna let ye go until ye tell me the truth,” he pressed.
“Or what?” she said.
“Or ye’ll get back into that cellar and wilna leave it until ye give me an answer I’ll be satisfied with.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “Then I’ll prove to you that no matter how strange I sound and no matter how strange it seems you found me in your cellar, I’m telling the truth. I’ll tell you things only Douglas would know.” She swallowed. “And you.”
He folded his arms over his chest, as well. “All right, lass. Try.”
She released a long breath. “James told me he’d heard from Robert the Bruce that he’d harbored in Eilean Donan to seek protection.”
How did she know that? He supposed people knew things or heard things four years after—rumors spread—but that was strangely specific.
“Oh, aye?”
“Aye. Yes.”
He watched her, stunned. Aye, she was probably telling the truth, but there was something about her that was strange in the most beautiful way.
“Father Nicholas offered me shelter and clothes until I can resume my way north,” she said.
He hemmed and, reluctantly, stepped back, showing her that she was free to go. But as she gave him a curt nod and walked past him and out of the church, he felt a pinch of regret that he wouldn’t be spending more time in her company.
