by Mariah Stone
Chapter 4
Angus knocked at the door to Father Nicholas’s chamber. When no one answered, he knocked again.
The image of the beautiful Lady Rogene was still bright in his mind, her scent still in his nostrils. By God’s bones, she was a delight. And if she was on her way north, she’d be gone soon.
The images of her half-naked chest, which he’d seen in the cellar, haunted him.
Aye, he’d seen breasts many times, but something about her allured him beyond words.
With his blood beginning to burn just from the thought of her, he shook his head to shake off the images and repeated the knock.
A low grunt came from behind the door.
Alarmed, he pushed the door open. Father Nicholas lay on his modest bed with his back to Angus. The room smelled of vomit. The tiny windows let a little light in, and under it stood his desk with a piece of vellum, a jar of ink, and a quill. Three small books lay on one of the chests along the wall.
“Father Nicholas?” Angus said.
Worry pinched Angus sharply in the gut.
“Are ye unwell, Father?” Angus insisted.
Father Nicholas turned his head to him. He was pale and had bloodshot eyes.
“Aye, son. I’m afraid some sort of pestilence is upon me.”
Angus looked around. “Do ye want some water? Mayhap, a stew?”
“Thank ye, son. Lady Rogene has attended to me, though I must confess, I couldna hold anything in my stomach.”
Lady Rogene… The thought of her warmed his whole body like sunlight.
“Aye, ’tis good…”
He shifted his weight, unsure if he should ask about her. He did want to know the priest’s opinion of her, if he believed her and why, but he thought he must believe her since he let her stay. On the other hand, Angus didn’t want to strain the priest any more than he needed to. Clearly, the man was very unwell.
“I’ll go and fetch the healer from the village, aye?”
“Ah, dinna ye fash, Lord Angus,” he said, but his voice was weak. “God wouldna have sent me anything I couldna take.”
But even though he’d said it, he didn’t sound very convinced. His voice was raspy and the area under his nose wet.
He sniffed.
“Do ye have fever?” Angus said.
“Ah, dinna matter. I’ll stay like this for a day or two and will be all right.”
As he said that, he shuddered.
“I will go and fetch the healer, and I dinna want to hear anything about ye fighting it off on yer own. The village needs ye strong and healthy. Now turn around and try to sleep. I will come back soon, aye?”
Father Nicholas nodded weakly and turned back to face the wall.
Angus shook his head once and left the building.
Poor Father Nicholas. As a priest, he’d always been the one who healed people, but he was also a human being and needed help.
As he passed by the market, he heard a hubbub by one of the booths. A small crowd of people had made a circle and were shouting something angrily.
“Who let ye speak—”
“How dare ye—”
“Ye need to be punished—”
As he elbowed past the people to see what was going on, he was surprised to see Lady Rogene in the middle of the circle. She was standing, shielding a woman from a man. Her arm was stretched out in front of her in a protective manner as she held the woman behind her. The man was as red as a crimson sunset, yelling, saliva flying, his shaggy beard wet with spittle.
“How dare ye!” he yelled. “She is my wife. I have the right to discipline her as I wish.”
“No! You can’t just beat a woman publicly like that… No, you cannot beat a woman, period.”
The woman in question was hiding her face in her hands and sobbing. The surrounding crowd was getting angrier. Food started flying at Rogene: pieces of bread, a few apple cores, fish bones.
Angus felt rooted to the spot as he watched the scene. Suddenly, he didn’t see Rogene shielding a woman from a man.
He saw himself.
He’d been the eternal shield to his siblings ever since he was twelve. Always a big, sturdy lad, even for his age, he knew he could take it better than any of his siblings or his ma.
Except, for him, it had always been just one opponent—his father.
For Rogene, a mob was quickly forming. There must be about two dozen people around her now, plus an angry husband, and if folk had already started throwing things at her, they were out for blood.
“Calm down, everyone!” he said loudly, but his words were swallowed by the screams and shouts.
Goddamn it.
He stood in front of Rogene, shielding her. Bones and peels and even a stone landed on his chest, his shoulders, and his face. But folk knew him.
He was one of their lords, and very quickly, the shouts died out. Nothing flew, and only a few angry yells sounded around him.
“There will be nae more disturbance,” he said. “’Tis enough.”
“Lord, this woman, whoever she is, interfered in my business with my wife.”
Angus nodded. “Aye, so I hear. What is yer name, good man?”
“Gill-Eathain, Lord,” the man said. “My wife’s name is Sorcha.”
“Gill-Eathain, are ye nae one of the guards in the castle?”
“I am, Lord.”
“Good. Then ye ken ’tis nae a matter for public uproar. ’Tis for the lord to judge upon and decide. Take the matter to Laomann if ye wish during a regular gathering. But Lady Rogene is guest of the clan.” He looked back at her and she met his gaze with wide eyes, breathing heavily. “So ye shouldna offend any member of clan Douglas, who are loyal friends of the King of Scotland. For now, I do understand yer wrath, but it must wait. Please take yer wife home and do with her as ye please, as any good husband would.”
Rogene gasped in indignation. “Take her home? He’ll beat her! Just as he did—”
“Lady Rogene, while I am protecting ye, this man is right. ’Tis his right to do as he pleases with his wife. I must insist that ye shut yer mouth and dinna say another word until I get ye into the church.”
Lady Rogene stared at him with indignation. Did she not know how much danger she was in? Even he might not be able to shield her from the wrath of the crowd. And what in the world had possessed her to rise up against a man like that, as though it was wrong that a man punished his wife? He hated it, personally, and would never raise a hand against a woman or a child, but he was one of the rare ones. And it was certainly accepted that if a woman did something wrong or behaved badly—which women sometimes did, nothing to do about that—then a man would need to show her what is wrong and what is right.
The angry husband shook his head, clearly dissatisfied. But there was something else that stopped Angus cold. The man eyed Rogene with some sort of lust.
“I say, Lord, she needs to be punished, too. If her da failed to teach her nae to get into other peoples’ business, then ’tis another man’s task to do so. If other women see her going unpunished, they will get ideas. And what then?”
Rogene shook her head and muttered something. Angus thought it might have been “Damned Middle Ages…” though he didn’t know what that meant. Some sort of curse?
“Look, Gill-Eathain,” he said, “nae harm has been done. Ye still get to go and teach Sorcha a lesson at home. I canna allow ye to do anything about a noblewoman as she’s under my protection. And if she’s under my protection, she’s under the chief’s. So I suggest we all go home.”
The man folded his arms over his chest. “She’s nae noblewoman. Look at her.”
A murmur went through the crowd.
“All right, all right, everyone…” Angus said and stretched out his hand with an open palm to Rogene.
But she still refused to look at him or follow him. “I can’t leave her, Angus,” she whispered, panting.
“Ye dinna have a choice,” he said. “Ye must come with me to the castle, ’tis the safes
t place.”
“Ah Jesus Christ,” she said.
He stared at her, horrified that she would use the Lord’s name so.
“Lord…” The man still wasn’t giving up.
“’Tis enough. If ye try to assault a woman of clan Douglas, ye may as well leave clan Mackenzie because James Douglas fights for yer freedom and for yer king, as well as I did and my brother Raghnall.”
Gill-Eathain gave Angus a long, heavy stare, then walked to his wife, took her by the elbow, and dragged her, whimpering, away.
Despite the people staring, Angus took Lady Rogene by her elbow, too, and led her away towards the small port where his boat waited for him.
He saw a wee lad playing and stopped him, gave him a coin, and told him to ask the healer to go look in on Father Nicholas.
“Where are you taking me?” Rogene said as they stood on the jetty and he offered her his hand to help her get into the boat.
“To the castle.”
“But—”
He sighed. “Look, Lady Rogene, if I say ye’re a guest of the clan, then ye’re a guest of the clan and should be in the castle. People in the village will remember ye, so ’tisna safe for ye to walk around the village alone, anyway. Besides”—he eyed her—“my betrothed may arrive at any moment.” A small feeling of satisfaction warmed up his chest as an unhappy frown crossed her face. “If Father Nicholas is so ill that he canna write…” He shrugged. “We need a scribe who can write down the contract that we negotiate with the Earl of Ross.”
Suddenly, her face went limp and expressionless. “The Earl of Ross? Right! You’re marrying Euphemia of Ross, aren’t you?”
He cocked his head. “How do ye ken?”
She glanced back at the village and licked her lips. “I heard in the village. They’re baking pies and cleaning houses to accommodate the Ross men if needed, and washing the bed linens, and there’s more ale that’s been brewed.”
“Aye.”
He looked her over as she shook her head. “What?” he asked.
“Nothing. Well…” She cleared her throat. “Angus Mackenzie would marry Euphemia of Ross. I was just thinking how funny it is that a Highland faerie can be both right and wrong at the same time.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Nothing. Just a story I heard in the village. Turns out, the time-travel legend is real. But the matchmaking is wrong.”
Chapter 5
The next day…
“Ba-ba-ba-ba!” announced a baby somewhere behind Rogene, and she turned her head.
She was leaning over the Bible that Catrìona had given her, which lay on one of the tables in the great hall. Barely touching the smooth parchment, she trailed her finger over a line. Even in the little light coming from the slit windows and the tallow candles—which smelled like old, burning fat—she could see the indents of the thin lines the letters were written on.
Once she’d accepted that there was no other explanation than time travel for the medieval world around her, it had occurred to her that this was the opportunity she shouldn’t miss. Books like the one she was studying, documents, letters that didn’t make it to the twenty-first century, lost church registries…somewhere here must be the proof for her thesis. She just had to find it. There must be something in the castle, and she could ask Angus, Laomann, or Catrìona. She had her phone, so she could take pictures, and she had switched it off to save the battery.
The baby’s voice brought her back to the gray walls of rough stone, the scent of stale beer coming from the tabletops, and the quiet crackling of wood burning in the fireplace.
A male servant carried a heap of wood towards the hearth, but she could see no baby. Something about an infant in these harsh times sounded wrong—which was ridiculous, of course.
“Da-da-da-da!” The voice was closer now.
A female voice cooed at the baby, and Rogene’s stomach squeezed. She liked babies. Back in her aunt and uncle’s house, she’d helped with her youngest cousin, Deborah, who was born a month after Rogene and David had moved in with them. And although she didn’t have many friends with children, something ached in Rogene’s heart every time she saw a baby. Perhaps it was the realization she might never have one of her own—she couldn’t imagine ever being able to trust someone and be happy in a committed relationship.
Angus came through the arched doorway, and her heart leaped. Big, tall, and broad-shouldered, he held a bundle in his arms…
A baby.
The baby was probably eight or nine months old and was happily sitting on Angus’s hip, nestled in the crease of his elbow. Wearing a coif-style hat with ties under his chin and a long, straight shirt, the baby waved one chubby little arm excitedly and kept blabbering. Angus was cooing to it with the most love-struck expression on his face.
Rogene didn’t know what was cuter—the baby or the giant, battle-clad warrior who was carrying it like it was the dearest treasure in the world.
She went completely still.
Was that… That couldn’t be his baby, could it?
But then a woman Rogene’s age walked from behind him, smiling and babbling together with the baby. Dark-haired and curvy, she was short and sweet, in a yellow dress. Judging by the air of a mother hen around her, she must be the baby’s mom.
“Go, Mairead,” Angus said. “My nephew and I will be all right. Isna it true, my lad?”
This must be Laomann’s wife. Mairead glanced at Rogene and her face relaxed with relief. “Ah. I see ye have a woman here who might help ye. Good.”
Angus’s eyes met Rogene’s, and suddenly her lungs were robbed of air. His gaze darkened and his Adam’s apple bobbed under his short beard. Gosh, he had such a handsome face. Thick, black eyebrows, long, curled eyelashes, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw. He had that rough beauty with an aura of masculine power that accelerated every woman’s breath.
“I can take care of Ualan by myself,” he said without looking away from Rogene.
Her heart beat in her throat.
“I suppose ye can,” Mairead said. “Ye’re so good with him. Better than his own da sometimes. Ye’ll be a wonderful father one day.”
Father to Paul Mackenzie, Rogene thought.
Mairead threw her hands in the air. “All right, then, I will go to get my dress altered in peace. Ye call for me if ye need something, aye?”
“Aye.”
She disappeared back through the doorway, and Angus walked with the babbling baby to the fireplace. There was a large, wooden cradle, where he set Ualan, arranging him among the pillows and linens. The boy grabbed a clay rattle shaped like a pig and began shaking it, his eyes widening and his smile broadening from the clanking he was making.
“Aye,” Angus cooed. “Good lad.”
Rogene came to sit on the bench by his side. It was warmer here, by the fireplace, but she was acutely aware of Angus’s strong body, as though he was the source of the heat. He was leaning over the cradle, and Ualan stopped shaking the rattle and reached to Angus’s face with his little hand. He grabbed his uncle by the nose and squeezed. He probably had sharp fingernails because Angus grimaced, his nose reddening.
“Strong lad,” he said, slowly twisting out of the grasp.
The baby squealed in delight as Angus escaped him, and went on with his business of shaking his toy, filling the room with loud, echoey clanking. Watching Angus massage his nose with an exaggerated frown, Rogene giggled.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Didna think the lad had nails like wee daggers.”
He caught Ualan’s hand and looked at his nails. They were long, though some of them were broken and had sharp edges. Glancing at the boy, Rogene noticed small scratches around his eyes and nose. He was probably hurting himself.
“Ye dinna give yer mother a chance to get rid of those, dinna ye, lad?” Angus said. “Lady Rogene, can ye please distract him? I’ll take care of this.”
Rogene frowned. She didn’t remember any baby nail clippers in the
Middle Ages, and scissors were too rough for such small fingers. “Distract him? How?”
He chuckled in his beard. “Sing to him, make faces, I dinna ken. Arenae women supposed to ken what to do with babies?”
Uneasiness churned in her stomach.
What if he hurt the boy? What if the child screamed? Did Angus know what he was doing?
“Come on, Lady Rogene!” he urged as Ualan was trying to free his little hand from Angus’s giant fist with whiny grunts.
“What are you going to do?” she said doubtfully.
“Why does every woman think I’m going to eat the baby?” he growled. “I’m going to bite his nails off, of course. How else do ye expect me to shorten them?”
She blinked. She was in the Middle Ages, she reminded herself. She looked at his lips and at the tiny pink fingers of Ualan. Could this giant be so gentle he was ready to give a baby a manicure without hurting him?
And if so, what else was his mouth capable of?
Heat rushed through her core and she felt her cheeks and neck burn.
“Um…” she said, looking down and wiping her suddenly sweaty palms on her knees. “Yes, of course.”
Baby books… In the twenty-first century, she’d pick a colorful baby book. The only book she had here was the Bible. She took it and found a big icon made with golden-and-red inks and showed it to Ualan.
“Here, Ualan, see, this is…”
The boy’s mouth fell open as he studied the picture with wide eyes, completely forgetting about Angus. Using the boy’s distraction, and with a concentrated look, Angus took Ualan’s fingers in his mouth. This was both disgusting and cute.
“Um…Virgin Mary with our Lord Jesus Christ,” she said as she watched Angus with horror.
To her surprise, the boy was watching her and the book with his jaw open in that sweet way very young children do.
Then, as if he realized something was going on with his hand, Ualan jerked it out of Angus’s mouth with an unhappy grunt.
“Can ye do something else, please?” Angus said. “I managed three fingers.”
