He pushed to his feet. "I shall, m'lady Julia."
Later that night, with the men seated around the cozy ingle in his cottage, the Bruce retold the story of Witness, in its entirety, to the other lairds. When he'd finished, they sat back in wonder and satisfaction.
"Who'd have known wee Julia would have such a tale in her head?" Ross said.
"I would," said Gordon. "She's no' exactly the most ordinary maid ever to wear skirts. When she does wear 'em, o' course."
"She said they called these tales movees, did she, Your Highness?" asked Liam. "I've ne'er come across such a word. Must be an outland term."
"Wonder if she has more to tell." Tommy's eyes were bright. "Though I think the lass in the tale should hae gone wi' Harrison. But then, he was an outlander."
After that, Julia was engaged every night. The lairds took to staying in the great hall after the evening meal and while they contributed their own stories, the highlight of the evening was the time when Julia would tell them another "movee."
She was glad of all those nights she'd spent at home while she was in school, watching video after video, as well as all the movies she'd seen in theaters. She didn't know what she'd do when her store of films was exhaustedwould she be forced to resort to reruns? Or trot out old plots from TV dramas?
Darach seemed as entertained by her tales as the rest of the men. He still stayed aloof from her, taking a seat in the shadows of the hall as he listened and sipped his ale. She seldom saw him in the day, except at meals. He was always hunting or herding, she was told. She wondered if he was so reluctant to be near her, why wouldn't he let her go?
But there it was. She was still a captive. And she'd have to make the best of it until she could make her escape or Himself the MacStruan decided what he wanted to do with her. She could guess which would come first.
The days spent with the lairds were delightful. When she found Tommy practicing the Heimlich maneuver on Big Dog, she took the boy under her wing and began to tutor him in safety and sanitary practices. He came eagerly to the kitchen when it was his turn to help, and his ability and the deftness of his hands made Julia proud. "You should think about medical school," she told him one afternoon, after he'd snapped into action and successfully treated a minor burn to Liam's hand.
He colored. "Nay. I'm no' the one to be in school. I couldna leave the clachan."
"Oh, I'm sure they'd let you out if you wanted to go. I know they're kind of tough on the whole clan business, but if you wanted to go, I think they'd let you."
He smiled. "It's no' that. It's me. I wouldna want to leave home and travel to Edinburgh or some big place like that. I have my house here, and my people. Market days in Kinloch once a year are enough for me."
She didn't argue with him. The summer was coming on and the Highlands put on their best show. Flowers of all kinds cropped up here and there, even in the rockiest places. The sheep had lambed and the wobbly legged babies leapt and tumbled about on the meadows. Julia spent more and more time outside with the lairds, in all weather, savoring all the new scents and sights and sounds.
Darach threw the paper on the table. "What the devil do they take me for?" he growled at Niall. "Do they think they can spit on my father's name?"
Niall crossed his powerful arms over his chest. "The Moreston's been a busy wee man."
Darach paced about the library. "He's been that and more. He can't shake us off our land, so he's gone to the earl and asked for the boundaries to be drawn again, just to be certain there's been no mistake made." He returned to the table and pounded his fist upon the offending letter, bearing the seal of the Earl of Atholl. "And if they canna find a mistake in his favor straightaway, I'll eat my saddle."
"Ye'll have to go to the earl," Ross said. "It's been said his ears are not open only to the chink of coins."
"Aye, but he's a man and an earl. If there's more money to be made with the Moreston, he'll side wi' Craigen. It's only practical," said Gordon.
"Still and all, he may lend Darach an ear. He knew your father, lad. The earl will no' forget Alec MacStruan's aid when he was in a bind." Bruce stood by the fire, his staff held straight before him.
Darach stopped his pacing by the Bruce's side. "Think ye he will? Even after Craigen's been sending him cattle and all?"
Niall snorted. "Our cattle, he sends."
Darach acknowledged this with a nod, but he waited for Bruce to reply.
"'Tis worthy of the attempt," Bruce said. "I dunna how it can hurt. And if ye succeed in pleadin' our case to the earl, ye'll have saved us a fight."
"Are ye sayin' we shouldna fight for what's ours?" Gordon rose from his seat, eyes flashing.
"Whisht, o'course I'm no' sayin' that." Bruce drew himself up. "Ye forget who ye're addressin', oganach. Ye'll no' take that tone with yer sovereign."
Gordon looked at Darach. Darach flicked an eyelid at him. He made his obeisance and apology at once.
"Right." Darach looked around at his men. "Ye know what to do in my absence. I'll be back as soon as I may."
"What of Julia?" Bruce asked.
Darach frowned. "What of her?"
"Ye're no' goin' to take her wi' ye?"
Darach wanted to demand if the old man had lost his wits. But something in the Bruce's voice told him that their local sovereign was quite serious.
"Nay," Darach replied. "I'll take Alasdair wi' me. He's spoilin' to be off. Julia will stay here, under the care and guard of all of ye. She's to be treated as well as ever, but she's no' to be allowed to leave the clachan or wander about unattended."
Bruce gave him a look that told him he disapproved but would hold his tongue out of respect for his chief. What was the fellow on about? Darach wondered.
He understood some of Bruce's motives when he went to tell Julia of his plans. She was in the hall, supervising Tommy in the setting of places for the midday meal.
"You're going away? For how long?" she asked, her dark eyes searching his.
"I canna say. I have to speak to the Earl o' Atholl. It's three days ridin' there and back, and no tellin' how lang he may keep us waitin'." She looked worried as she turned away from him. "Ye'll be cared for here, same as always," he added.
She turned back to him. Tommy had gone to the kitchen. She lowered her voice. "Do you have to go?"
"Aye, I do. I'm sorry, lass. What would the lairds do of an evenin' if ye were no' there to tell them a movee tale?"
"Will Alasdair be here?"
He felt his heart contract with anger and jealousy. "Alasdair rides wi' me," he said tersely. "Ye'll be fine here on your ain."
"But"
"I must go and pack. It's a lang ride." He swung about and strode from the room.
Alasdair again! He slammed open the clothes chest in his chamber and began tossing things onto the bed. He might have known. Alasdair was all the things he, Darach, was not. Tall and slim, yet strong, his brother moved with such easy grace that all female eyes were upon him wherever he went. Alasdair's manners were far more courtly and pleasing to a maid. No saucy maid would ever call him an ogre. And men were drawn to Alasdair's quick wit and unparalleled skill with a sword. It was no wonder Julia preferred he stayed here with her while his beast of an older brother rode away for days at a time.
But she had kissed the ogre. He sat on the bed, his best shirt in his hands. She had kissed him, not Alasdair.
The memory of that kiss in her room had sustained and tormented him for days. In an instant, he could conjure up the feel and taste of Julia, the sound of her, the sight of her, her special scent of minted water. It had been so fine to him that he'd been unable to resist kissing her again, despite her anger and mistrust of him.
How could he be so besotted with a woman he hardly knew, a woman who was most likely his enemy? And how could he be so base as to be jealous of his own brother? He and Alasdair had their differences, but it wasn't right for a man to permit a woman to come between him and his own flesh and blood.
"Bah," he sa
id and returned to his packing.
Rain fell in torrents the next morning. How appropriate, Julia thought. Saying good-bye to Darach fit in perfectly with the cold rain dripping from her nose and running in rivulets down her back.
"If you happen to see any pepper or sugar in one of the markets where you're headed, you might pick it up." She felt like an idiot. She was making stupid small talk when she really wanted to beg him to stay or, at the very least, take her with him. She felt ashamed and annoyed at her weakness for the man, but she simply couldn't help herself.
"I'll see what I can manage," he said, tightening the strap on his saddle pack. ''Ye might look in upon the Bruce," he said. "He's hale but I know the rains bother him more than he'll ever confess."
"I will. I'll bake him some scones. They're his favorite."
"Well." He turned from his horse. Alasdair stood nearby, making his last preparations.
"Yes. Well, you'd better get started." She smiled, feeling as if her mouth were being worked by thick, resistant rubber bands.
"Aye. Ye should"
"Well, wee Julia! We're off!" Alasdair swept around from behind her and grabbed her up in his embrace. "And what would it cost a man to get a wee kiss for the road?" he asked, his smile flashing.
"Put me down, you idiot!" She punched him on the shoulder playfully. She couldn't help smiling back at him. At least someone was glad about this journey.
Alasdair put her down but not before he'd planted a loud, smacking kiss on her cheek. "There!" he said cheerily. He swung her around to face Darach. "She's a' yours, big brothair."
Darach's face was darker than the rain clouds over their heads. Julia cringed inwardly. She would have kissed him willingly, if he'd asked. But this way
Darach snatched her to him. His mouth was upon hers at once, cool and wet with the rain running down his face. She wanted to beg him to stop and she wanted him to go on and on, kissing her for days on end.
She pulled away, the impulse to stop winning out. She didn't want to be kissed because of some unspoken dare between Darach and his brother. She wanted Darach to want her for herself alone. He let her go and she stepped back, her hand clutching at the collar of her gown.
Alasdair gave a long, low whistle and mounted up. He raised his hand to her and smiled. She could only stare at him, surprise and hurt rendering her silent. His smile faded, replaced by a look of sincere contrition. He waved again and moved off, heading toward the northern mists.
Darach swung up onto his horse. "Keep well, Julia," he said softly.
"I will." She could scarcely squeeze the words out around the lump in her throat.
He gave her a nod and then he, too, rode away, the mists swallowing him up in a matter of moments. Julia stood gazing at the spot where his big form had disappeared, the rain sliding over her cheeks and into the corners of her mouth. It was odd, she thought. Somehow the rain tasted salty.
Darach's absence had its compensations. Ross and the other lairds relaxed their watch of her and she was able to scout around the edges of the village and identify paths that might lead her back to the world outside of Clan MacStruan. But she had also begun to worry about her plans to leave. If she had indeed managed to land in the middle ages, it definitely put a kink in her escape plans, she thought to herself as she rambled about the gardens one morning, choosing the freshest produce of the day. Where would she even begin to rediscover the wormhole or time wrinkle that had carried her here? And was it even possible to repeat the process?
Another problem she faced was the clan itself. She'd grown so fond of them so quickly. She'd made a place for herself in their midst and, however tenuous their acceptance of her might be, she enjoyed it. She wanted to know the whole story of their lives, how it all turned out. And she didn't want to read it in a history book, if such a thing could be found.
She bent to select a few tender young onions. She didn't want to think about the other, large, blue-eyed, well-muscled reason for her concern about leaving the clachan. But she had to face it, she told herself, shaking the dirt from the bulbs. She was falling in deeper every day. Leaving Darach would only get harder the longer she remained. Besides, she had absolutely no shred of evidence that he wanted her to stay, even if it were possible. He'd made it clear that she was a prisoner, not a guest.
She tossed the onions into her basket. Whether she was in the fifteenth century or the twentieth, she still had no idea if she could make a relationship with Darach even if he freed her: He was undeniably attractive to her, so much so that his very presence some days made her feel slightly weak-kneed. She'd dreamed of him many nights, especially since the night they'd spent in the old hut on the mountain, dreams that would have received an emphatic X-rating, had they been films. The tension of holding back her desires was increasing with each passing day.
But she was attracted by more than his physical form. She admired his easy command of his men, which, despite her jibes, was respectful and never petty. She appreciated his plainspoken honesty, his passionate care for his people, his acceptance of his odd little clan with all their foibles. She even enjoyed his thundering temper and was beginning to understand some of the difficulties he had with Alasdair. Her mind held a thousand questions she wanted to ask him. Her body longed for a thousand ways to explore his. Her heart knew a yearning that could only be fulfilled by him and the outpourings of his heart. For the first time since her mother had died, she felt truly connected with another human being.
Yet she knew he considered her too strange, too foreign. He was bound up in his clan and his love of this land and with his struggle to be a good leader of his people. He had no room in his life for her.
She added some fresh lettuce to the basket and moved toward the garden gate, a heavy sigh trailing behind her on the breeze. It was a bitter knot she'd tied for herself. She lived in an impossible time. She loved an impossible man.
She shook her head. Her mind was starting to spin from trying to examine all the permutations of time travel, dreams, and love.
Not a good recipe, Addison, she told herself as she exited the garden and headed for the kitchen. It was a mix that was certain to produce nothing but mud. She needed clearer vision if she was going to cope with all of this.
Vision. The word brought a sudden shiver. The visions she'd been seeing in her mother's old mirror were not the sort she wanted. They were yet another ingredient tossed into the mix. Were they real? As real as traveling back in time, she supposed. What did they mean? Who was the woman who spoke to her through the glass, and why was she warning her against Darach?
She went inside and put her basket down on the table. Things were getting more and more weird, she thought. And when the going gets weird, the old saying went, the weird turn pro.
"Hell, girlfriend," she murmured to herself as she began to wash the greens. "That makes no sense."
Yet somehow it did. The face, the voice in the mirrorthat was a pro. She knew it as surely as she knew a paring knife from a pot roast. Everything was tied together somehow. And she would feel a whole lot better when that mystery was unraveled. Somehow she needed to know the truth. Without it she was lost.
Darach dove into the icy loch and came up sputtering. The ride had been muddy and wet, and though it was still misty, he needed to rid himself of the grime of travel before they arrived at the earl's home.
Alasdair, always restless, had gone ahead to secure lodging for them in the nearby town. He and Darach had had little to say to one another for most of the ride. Darach knew he was bearing a grudge for Alasdair's behavior on saying good-bye to Julia, but he couldn't bring himself to discuss it. His feelings were still too volatile, too new to bring out in the open, and the confusion they brought was difficult to credit, let alone express.
Julia. The name was everywhere in his mind, his blood, his body. She was his worst torment. She was his sweetest dream.
How had it happened? he asked himself once again. He'd known enough women in his time, but none of them had cr
awled into his soul and set up a home there. Yet here was this wee bit of a lass, with a tongue like a needle at times, and like the softness of a feather's touch at others, and he was captivated.
He dove again and surfaced, gasping. She infuriated him regularly. She drove him mad with desire and foolish with jealousy. He was perilously close to losing his head over the lass. For one thing, he was fairly certain that she was neither witch nor Moreston, but he clung to both those notions to defend his need to keep her near him and also to hold her at bay. She had him coming and going. He held her prisoner, and yet she was quickly turning into his jailer.
Dammit! He scrubbed at his hair. He was supposed to be in control! He was the one who was supposed to keep his head, lead his people, and not be led astray by a pair of luscious lips and a quick wit. He needed to make a decision about Julia Addison. He must either let her go and remove her confusing presence from his life forever, or he had to find a way to minimize the power of his feelings for her.
He waded to shore and dried himself off. A traitorous voice within him offered up yet another solution: he could also choose to make her his. So she was mad, maddening, and utterly foreignshe was still a woman and he was a man. Why shouldn't he have a chance to taste all those pleasures he'd been dreaming about for so long? Why shouldn't he enjoy her company, share her thoughts?
"Och, ye're sae lathered up about her, ye're talkin' nonsense," he scolded himself.
He pulled his best shirt and a fresh plaid from his pack. As he dressed, he recalled the task before him. He had come here to petition the earl not to grant any more boundary changes to the Morestons. He needed his wits about him. He couldn't afford any more mistakes like the one that had cost his people lives and land two years ago. He couldn't allow anyone else to be lost as Isobel was lost.
He belted on his sword and raked his fingers through his hair. He stared out over the loch, where mist was rising in tendrils from its surface. The glen beyond stretched green and lush between the hills. He heard birds calling in the woods behind him.
The Mirror & The Magic Page 14
