by Mariah Stone
“Please, I want to ken…” Catrìona spread a single thread between the woolen cords lined vertically. The stones tied to the ends of the cords clunked softly against each other as she worked. “Ye’re a guest, an outsider. Mayhap ye see something I dinna.”
Watching the servant leave from the room, Rogene bit her lip and returned to her writing. She dipped the pen into the jar and touched the edge of the vessel to remove the extra ink. She dragged the pen against the parchment and drew an A.
“Um,” she said. She had to be careful. “She’s beautiful.”
Catrìona sighed. “Aye, she’s bonnie, isna she? But do ye think she suits Angus?”
Rogene’s pen slipped and fell out of her fingers, and the tail of the A jumped too high.
“I didn’t think that was the point of their marriage.” She looked at Catrìona, who met her gaze.
Catrìona winced thoughtfully as she considered her words. “Aye. I suppose nae. I ken I’ll never get marrit. Nae after I lost Taog.”
Catrìona’s voice jumped as she said the name, and Rogene frowned. She considered asking who that was and what had happened, but the pain in Catrìona’s eyes made her swallow her words.
Catrìona put the giant spindle on her lap. “But I do think that people should be at least compatible, should they nae? Or, at least, decent people. I grew up seeing my da being terrible to my ma and to us. Angus was always protecting us from him—he took our beatings. He even provoked Father sometimes so that he’d snap on him. And she…”
Rogene’s stomach churned. Angus, the protector. Angus, who looked as dependable and strong as a mountain to her. Angus, who’d made her steam inside and want to curl up on his lap and purr against him like a kitten.
Catrìona shook her head and pressed out a smile. Then she returned to her work and pulled the horizontal thread between the two rows of taut thread. “Please, tell me, what do ye think of her? I’m asking ye as a friend.”
“I…” Rogene returned to her writing. “I don’t think she’s right for him.”
There, she’d said it, impartiality be damned.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Catrìona drop the spindle, on which the thread was twisted, and catch it again in midair.
Catrìona met her gaze, her face frowning. “I didna think ye’d say that. Why?”
Because a man like him doesn’t deserve a rotten woman like her.
Because I like him.
Because hundreds of years between us be damned, I can’t stop thinking about him.
“Because she won’t make him happy,” she said finally, suppressing the dark, burning feeling of jealousy that stabbed at her like a red-hot knife.
“Aye. I dinna think she would.” Catrìona sighed and resumed weaving. “He does deserve to be happy. After all he’s done for us. He fought and protected us with no regard for himself. And he’s doing it again by marrying her…” She said “her” with the same intonation as “that awful woman.” “If there’s another way to resolve our debt and at least marry him to someone decent, nae someone who wants to either kill him or his family, that would make me very happy.”
Rogene stopped writing. Yes, there were so many things she wished were different. Like her parents being alive. Like not having grown up with an aunt and uncle who didn’t want to be bothered with her or her brother. Like her developing feelings for a man who could never be hers.
But history was cruel and unforgiving. Angus was supposed to marry a sociopath who would give birth to someone important. Someone who’d help protect the line of Scottish kings and queens for the next several hundred years.
Catrìona kept chatting about marriage, and how she didn’t see the use for herself, and Rogene kept thinking of Angus as she wrote. God, she’d already learned so much about medieval times—enough to start three more PhD dissertations.
She glanced at the chest that held all the letters and contracts with longing. Her purse was securely inside a leather pouch that the priest had given her, and she kept it on her belt. There, in the purse, was her phone. She hoped there was enough power left. Once she had photos of something useful, she’d be on her way.
Though she knew she’d never meet a man like Angus in the twenty-first century.
And even if she did, it wouldn’t change the fact that love didn’t exist for her. Marriage and love were about trust, about relying on someone. She did wish she could bring herself to trust someone and rely on them. But she couldn’t bring herself to, even though she knew this problem was messing up her life.
She dipped the pen in the jar only to discover that there was no ink left. She still had so much more she could practice. She stood up and rummaged in the chest by the writing table where she’d written the contract yesterday, but the jars there were empty and dry.
“Oh, shoot,” she said. “I think I’m out of ink.”
Catrìona glanced at her. “Ye have such strange expressions, Lady Rogene. Shoot… Why would you say that? Is that how ye Lowlanders speak in Lanarkshire?”
Rogene hid a smile. Catrìona would probably have a meltdown if she learned what “shoot” really stood for.
“Yes, sweetie,” she said, “we do speak very strangely in Lanarkshire, I’m so sorry for confusing you.”
“Ah, ’tis all right. I’d like to travel more once I become a nun, help people around Scotland. So I’d like to learn different manners of speech.”
Aw, she was a sweetheart. “Do you know where I can get more ink?”
“Aye, ye need to look downstairs in the storeroom.”
“Thanks,” she said.
She descended the stairs and was looking through the boxes and jars of stuff. She heard some noise coming out the door to the left of the one she knew led to the time-travel rock. It was Angus’s voice, and he sounded like he was swearing. Something within her squeezed at the sound of his low boom. She should just find the ink and go back up. She had promised herself yesterday she would step away.
Something exploded from behind the door, and before she could stop herself, Rogene rushed to the door and opened it.
Illuminated by the fire of the torches, Angus stood surrounded by a giant puddle that reeked like fermented bread and stared at her with a face distorted by anger.
Chatper 12
“Goddamn it,” Angus growled.
“Let me help.” Rogene hurried, picking up heaps of rushes and hay that lay in one of the sacks in the storeroom she’d entered from.
The uisge brewery smelled strongly like alcohol and hops. It was as hot as the depths of hell here. He’d just been brewing the malt and had accidentally hit the cauldron as he thought about Euphemia. The uisge was supposed to be ready for the wedding. The heavy, sharp spirits of alcohol hung in the small cave-like room, and as he inhaled them, he felt drunk.
Nae.
That must be the sight of Rogene, who stood in the doorway like an apparition. Her cheeks were flushed, and her big, dark eyes rested on him in an amused yet serious expression.
There was no one bonnier than Lady Rogene.
His head spun and his body was light as he grabbed a cloth and began wiping malt from the ground.
“Too bad I destroyed a cask.”
Again they were alone, and that was very bad for him, though he couldn’t remember why at the moment.
She grabbed a cloth and began wiping the stone floor, as well. “Do you brew the moonshine yourself?”
“Aye. I do. One of the only useful things my father taught me is the recipe for good uisge.”
He suddenly became aware of a very delicious, round behind that was stuck in the air as she bent down. God’s arse, he thought with his breeches suddenly too tight for his cock and his balls aching.
“What else did your father teach you?” she asked.
Angus crouched on his heels, still watching her move despite his very logical reasoning not to.
“Um,” he mumbled, his mind swimming. Good Lord, why did he have to be alone with her again? “To fight
well.”
She straightened and turned to him with a cloth in her hands. A few locks of dark hair had come loose from the single braid that circled her head like a halo. Her lips were as flushed and red as her cheeks, and her eyes shone.
“Did you spend a lot of time fighting for the Bruce?”
“I fought for him since he came here in early 1307.”
At the mention of this, she completely changed. Gone was the sweet, relaxed lass. Her eyes sharpened, her mouth opened as though she wanted to absorb his every word.
“Robert the Bruce?” she said. “He was here in 1307?”
Angus frowned. “Aye. Dinna ye ken all that from yer cousin James Douglas?”
“James wasn’t with him yet, and you know it.”
He stood up and threw the cloth in the remaining puddle. “And why does that seem so important to ye?”
“I’m just curious,” she said. “I admire King Robert, and I wish I could meet him one day. I truly believe he’s good for Scotland, and I admire those who fought for him. Without him, without you and men like you, Scotland wouldn’t be independent.”
Something bloomed in Angus’s chest. She understood him. He fought not just for an ambitious nobleman, but for something bigger than himself, than Robert, and than even the King of England. He fought for Scotland and for freedom.
“So, he was here, right?” she pressed.
Angus’s throat suddenly went as dry as sand. The walls of the brewery pressed in on him, the vaulted ceiling like that of a tomb. He remembered Robert the Bruce right there, in that cold, bitter winter when everything seemed to be lost.
“Aye,” he said as memories took him. “He was.”
Angus remembered how the king had arrived in a birlinn with barely enough sailors to man it. The loch wasn’t yet frozen. He’d come from the Isle of Skye and clan Ruaidhrí, which had given him shelter from the English troops that were still on his tail. He’d arrived with his mighty shoulders lowered and his eyes sunken and shadowed. His beard had been shaggy, his dark hair dirty and smelly, his leine croich almost torn to pieces. Angus remembered Bruce’s red face, weathered from months spent outside. He hadn’t looked like a king, merely a beggar too proud to ask for alms.
“Laomann didn’t want to take him in,” Angus said. “He was afraid the Earl of Ross would find out.”
Angus knew his brother wanted to be a stronger leader, but it was hard to unlearn the coping strategies he’d developed to survive their father.
“Raghnall was gone,” Angus continued. “Had been ever since Father had cast him out of the clan. So it was me and Catrìona against Laomann. We swore to him Bruce wouldna be discovered. We hid him here, actually, because ’tis always warm here.”
“Was he recruiting men?” she asked. “Even though he was so distressed?”
Angus eyed her for a while. “No one kens this, Rogene, and ye must promise ye wilna tell a soul.”
He was probably drunk from the fumes, the way he always became if he spent too much time here, but he didn’t care. He trusted her. He looked into her big doe eyes, so pretty, surrounded by thick, curly eyelashes. And they seemed to drink in every single word.
And he wanted to tell her. And he knew he may be a little tipsy, but it wasn’t just that. He’d felt that something towards her from the moment he’d seen her. That pull. That connection that went deeper than the body.
“I promise,” she whispered.
“He’d just found out that the Earl of Ross had ambushed his wife, his daughters, and his sister. William had broken the sacred law of sanctuary and taken them from an abbey in Tain and held them prisoner in his castle at first, then sent them down to England. So his family were in enemy hands.”
She licked her fuller, lower lip and bit it in anticipation. Oh, how he wanted her to bite it from pleasure, from the sweet bliss he’d give her. How he wanted to let that raven hair spill on top of him, over his chest and stomach as he’d kiss the top of her head and inhale her magical scent that promised worlds and places he’d never known existed.
“Right,” Rogene said. “So he was upset?”
“He wasna just upset,” he said, and rose to his feet to distract himself from his blood boiling for her. “He was finished, Lady Rogene.” Angus took a big ladle and stirred the boiling liquid in a giant cauldron. “He’d written a letter to Edward I that he was surrendering and begging for him to release his women. As brave and strong a warrior as he was, he couldna risk the lives of his wife and his daughter. He gave up.”
Rogene’s skin prickled. Her mom had been right! Her mom had had this hypothesis that after his devastating defeat in 1306, Bruce had fled for his life and had no intention of coming back. Her mom couldn’t find evidence for that, but she’d gotten this idea based on the letter of Peter Ruaidhrí, a priest from the Isle of Skye, dated January 2, 1307, where he’d mentioned that hope for Scotland had died and would never shine again. That could be in reference to Bruce’s general defeat, but her mom had thought that Ruaidhrí referred to something more concrete. To Bruce giving up completely.
Unfortunately, the records of Bruce’s whereabouts around the winter of 1306–1307 were quite vague, and sources for that information were few, so it was very hard to prove.
Her mom had been right. Not only could Rogene prove that, but also defend her PhD dissertation. She could make a breakthrough in the field by supplying academic knowledge with the vast amount of information she now had about the Middle Ages.
“He did?” she said, her heart racing.
“Aye. He didna think he had it in him to resume the fight. He was devastated. All his forces, almost all his allies, were destroyed and forced to join the English side. He had very few friends left. The Cambels and us were among them. He came here to hide from the English.”
“Not to gather forces?”
Angus chuckled. “Nae.” He eyed her, clearly considering something. “He was so done, he was prepared to resign his crown to the English.”
The words slashed like a whip.
“Resign?” she said.
Her fingers tingled as though she were touching something alive. A mystery she couldn’t fathom.
History.
Time slowed down, seconds stretching into lifetimes. There was a whiff of air, the bubbling of the barley that smelled sharp and yeasty, and she thought that perhaps she heard the whisper of changing destinies.
Angus’s eyes shone in the semidarkness. He left the large ladle and put a cover over the huge cauldron. He came to her and stood right in front of her, just one step away. A few fine hairs showed from the edge of his dark-gray tunic, at the base of his neck. Heat radiated from him, and on top of the scent of fermented barley, she noted the earthy scent of a man: iron, leather, and polished wood.
Her body was filling with helium and about to float up and away. How strange, she thought. Here he was telling her the story that showed her mother was right. If there was any physical evidence, that would ensure the success of her PhD dissertation—and possibly her whole future. And yet, all that paled in comparison to how simply being in one room with Angus made her feel—all wobbly, and warm, and as light as a feather.
“Aye,” he said, his gaze taking in every detail of her face. “He wrote a letter to King Edward I where he was giving up the Scottish crown.”
The words registered weakly in the back of her mind, her senses overwhelmed by his sheer presence. Her heart pounded out a staccato beat, and heat crept to her cheeks. She swayed an inch, hopelessly drawn to him.
Oh, he was bad for her cognitive ability. She couldn’t think clearly. Had he really said Bruce wrote a letter?
A letter!
She blinked as her mind and body fought. Her body demanded she throw herself into his arms and kiss him, while her mind screamed for her to wake up and ask him more about that letter. If she found that letter, that would be her answer to everything.
As if hypnotized from his deep stare, she swallowed. “Why didn’t he send it?” she
asked.
He licked his lower lip. “Because I convinced him to change his mind.”
Tingles ran through her. “You convinced him?”
“Aye. It was right here. If ye kent him, ye wouldna have believed yer eyes. Such a strong, capable man, a mighty warrior, and he was ashen, sunken, like his soul was sucked out of him.”
Somehow, Angus looked even bigger—like the vaulted ceiling of the underground was too low for him, like the space was not wide enough for his strong shoulders. A man who’d convinced the king to change his mind, to keep fighting.
“What did you tell him?” she asked.
“I said that if he gave up, Scotland would never again get a chance to become free.”
He looked down at his shoes and then at her. There was steel in his voice. “I said to him, if he wouldna rise, no one would. And if no one would, it would be the end of Scotland. The end of dignity, and honor, and freedom. And I swore that if he could find it in him to stand and fight, clan Mackenzie would fight with him till our dying breath.
“‘But ye’re nae laird to make such promises,’ Bruce said.
“‘And yet, I swear to ye that if I call on them, they will listen to me and nae to Laomann,’ I told him.”
Angus paused as he took in a deep breath of air. Rogene ached to stretch her hand to him, to place it on his broad chest, to feel his heartbeat against her palm. Would it beat in the same violent rhythm as her own?
“Is Laomann not loved?” she asked.
Angus’s expression turned somber, and he went to sit on the bench by the wall. As Rogene walked to him, he watched her move with the eyes of a man who wanted a woman, and heat washed through her. Her skin became sensitive and her clothes scratchy.
“They ken that if worse comes to worst, ’tis me who’d die for them. So who do ye think they would follow?”
He was a natural leader. She could see that. Respect for him bloomed in her chest.
