by Jill Jones
Duncan did not reply immediately, and she thought at first he hadn’t heard her. Then he answered. “Around sixteen-fifty, I think.”
“Sixteen-fifty! No way! This is absurd.” The weight of the idea snapped her reason like a twig. With the strength of a sudden adrenaline rush, she tore free of his grasp and darted into the crowd. “What’s happening?” she cried. Fear and exhaustion pushed her into hysteria. “What is going on? Somebody, please! Explain yourselves.”
Chapter Eight
She was gone before Duncan could restrain her. He watched with sickening apprehension the expressions on the faces of the townspeople who grew quiet at this sudden intrusion. Surprise. Fear. Distrust. Even in his own time, Duncan’s small town was wary of newcomers, unless they were tourists and quite temporary. He doubted seriously if the Stonehaven he was beginning to believe he had stumbled upon, the Stonehaven of some long-ago day, knew what a tourist was. In this Stonehaven, strangers would be severely suspect, especially in dangerous times such as these appeared to be.
He didn’t wait to see what would happen next, but chased Taylor into the street, shoving his way through the crowd that was now encircling her. He grabbed her roughly by the arm. “Be still, woman,” he commanded in as strong a Scots accent as he could summon. He felt foolish and theatrical and was not at all certain she would react like a meek seventeenth century wife. His gaze took in the astonished faces of those who for the moment had forgotten their fear of Oliver Cromwell and had focused their attention instead on the mad woman in their midst. “Pray, forgive my wife, for she is distraught by all that has befallen us since Cromwell’s troops marched on Perth.”
Taylor stiffened at his reference to her as his wife, but he shot her a warning glance. Did she realize what danger she was in? Fortunately, she had the sense to remain silent, but her eyes were wide and wild, and Duncan was unsure for how long she would remain docile.
“Ye come from Perth?” asked one of the men in the crowd. “What did th’ bastards do?” His eyes glittered, hungry for lurid details.
Of which Duncan had none. “‘Twas a terrible day,” he improvised with a sad shake of his head. “Most all I knew fled when word reached us that the English were at the edge of town.” His mind was racing for his next tactic, because an historian he wasn’t, and it was but a matter of time until he made a mistake and his prefabricated story would fall apart.
If nothing else was familiar to him, he did recognize the old part of the village. This was Stonehaven. His family had lived here for generations. He straightened and looked through the crowd, catching the eyes of several men. “I am Duncan Fraser,” he said, drawing himself to his full six-foot-three. He towered over the other men. “Have I a kinsman in this town?”
The crowd murmured and several looked around as if searching for someone. After a long moment, a tall man stepped forward. “I am Kenneth Fraser,” he said. “Are ye my kinsman indeed? I know no Frasers in Perth.”
“I come originally from Aberdeen,” Duncan replied truthfully, since he had indeed been born in the hospital there, although that had been in the nineteen-fifties. In true Scottish tradition, his father had made sure he and his sisters knew of their ancestral lineage as they grew up, and it occurred to Duncan that possibly he was addressing one of his own forebears.
Now it was he who had gone mad!
Stay calm, he told himself, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. Next to him, his “wife” trembled, and he knew any wrong move could spell disaster for them both. “My father was Angus Fraser, and his father William Fraser.” Duncan silently thanked his grandmother and great-grandmother for choosing such common names for their sons and hoped like hell Kenneth Fraser might have heard of some kinsmen coincidentally of the same names.
The lanky Scotsman lifted his torch to look Duncan straight in the face. “I know of these Frasers,” he said at last. “Welcome, kinsman. Ye look weary from thy journey. Come t’ my house. Take food and rest. Then we can ken what step next t’ take.”
Duncan let out a deep breath, then turned to Taylor. “Are you all right?”
She raised her face to his. “Yes,” she said in a small voice. And then those luminous blue eyes filled with moisture. “No.” Duncan wanted to pull her against him again, to assure her he wasn’t going to let any harm befall her, but he felt the stares of the people around them.
“Let’s go with my kinsman, wife,” he said quietly, smiling at her and brushing her hair from her face. She did not return the smile, but nodded and allowed him to place his hand at her waist. For all her strength and independence, Taylor Kincaid was still in shock, and Duncan hoped he merited the trust he knew she was placing in him. He would not let her see his own fear and confusion. He would instead do everything he could to protect her.
Kenneth Fraser’s house was a small, weathered abode that perched near the harbor, on the far side from where Duncan’s own house had stood—when?—several hundred years from now? Being a wooden structure, it was not one of those houses that had stood the test of time and remained in the Stonehaven Duncan knew. But in the bright moonlight, the two-basined harbor it overlooked was infinitely familiar. Except that it appeared full of debris. “Was a ship wrecked nearby?” Duncan asked before going into the house.
“Tha’ ‘twas part of Montrose’s evil,” Kenneth replied, his voice filled with resentment. “Not content t’ burn th’ town down, he sunk all th’ ships in th’ harbor as well. We’ve had th’ veery divil of a time araisin’ ‘em again. Ye’d have thought he was an Englishman, instead of a fellow Scot.”
“Perhaps I could help,” Duncan offered, watching as his host doused his torch in a bucket of water and placed it to dry into a holder fastened to the outside of the house. “My skill is as a seaman.”
Taylor, who had remained miraculously silent as they walked down the narrow streets to their host’s home, gave him a snide glance at his claim of seamanship. He supposed she didn’t think much of his seafaring skills, since he’d managed to land high and dry in the middle of this strange adventure. But he didn’t care what she thought. He was glad to see a return of her quick wit, even if it was aimed against him. It would serve to stabilize her emotions.
Duncan tried to tell himself that his protective feelings for her were simply those of a professional rescuer. But even as this flashed through his mind, he knew there was nothing simple about his feelings, or the woman toward whom they were directed. Taylor Kincaid had not yet stolen his heart, he decided, but she had most definitely laid siege to it. In spite of their strange circumstances, for the first time in years, Duncan felt alive, felt a purpose to his existence, more purpose than just to rescue Taylor, although he wished to God he knew what was going on and how to get them back to present day Stonehaven. There, he could explore his feelings for her further, see if they were real, or if they sprang only from their mutual distress of the moment.
But this was neither the time nor place for him to be thinking about his personal life.
Right now, he had to concentrate on a more important job.
Keeping them alive.
They entered the tiny house, stepping into a single room partitioned by a woolen blanket the color of mud and lit solely by a fire that burned in a small grate in one corner. A blackened cooking pot hung from an iron frame next to the fire. A rough-hewn wooden table with benches along both sides took up most of the room, and next to the table, a short, stocky woman stood anxiously wringing her hands, her dark eyes filled with questions, her weathered face lined with fear.
“My wife, Greta,” Kenneth nodded toward her. “Greta, ‘tis here we have a kinsman come directly from Perth. He is Duncan Fraser, and his wife…” He looked expectantly at Duncan, who realized he was to introduce his own “wife.” But “Taylor,” he suspected, was not a name that would set well with these folk. Even in his own time, most Scots gave their children more traditional names. So he improvised once again.
“This is…uh, Janet,” he said, and wasn’t s
urprised when Taylor’s head jerked toward him. Her mouth moved, but no words came out, and Duncan hurriedly continued. “She’s…she is in a strange state of mind, I ken, with all that has happened.” He brushed the bruise beneath her eye gently. “With some food and rest she will be as good as new. She’s a strong lass,” he added, giving Taylor a warning press with his hand on her shoulder. He felt her flinch, but she remained silent.
“Have ye some food left in th’ kettle, wife?” Kenneth went to peer into the pot.
“Aye,” Greta replied, prying her suspicious eyes away from the strangers and going for two crudely carved wooden bowls that stood on the table. She filled them from the pot and without a hospitable look of any kind, handed them both to Duncan. From the slimy texture and rich odor, Duncan guessed this was a poor man’s version of haggis. He knew Taylor would likely gag on it.
He afforded the woman a nod of thanks, then turned to her husband. “Kinsman, we thank ye for thy kindness in taking us in,” he said to Kenneth, hoping his language sounded appropriate. “I fear that my wife is too weary to eat. Is there a corner where we might rest for the night?”
With a glare, Greta took the bowls back and slopped the unwanted food into the pot again. “Ye shall have th’ best we have to offer, although ‘tis nothin’ royal,” she sniffed, not hiding her resentment that he had refused her food. She pulled back the curtain which separated the sleeping quarters from the main room. Rushes were strewn over the dirt floor, and along one wall lay a gray-brown pallet covered by a sheep’s hide.
“We’ll not take thy bed,” Duncan protested, but Greta shushed at him.
“Aye, ye will, and make no more talk about it,” she scowled. “We have another we can make down for ourselves before th’ fire,” she added as if proud of such wealth. “But my husband has much he must tell me first, before we sleep.”
Looking into Taylor’s tired face, Duncan made no further protest. His own fatigue washed over him in a huge, gray wave. “We thank ye then, kinswoman,” he replied.
Greta closed the curtain between them, and Duncan turned to face Taylor. Suddenly there was fire in those blue eyes, and a burnish on her cheeks. He could tell she was about to explode. But he put his finger to her lips and shook his head, warning her not to speak. He took her hand and drew her down onto the pallet beside him.
“Get some sleep,” he whispered, leaning back against the wall. Perhaps if she slept, she would awaken with a more rational mind, and a better attitude. He fought going to sleep until she was under control, but his own body screamed for rest. “We’ll sort this out in the morning.”
Exhausted, confused and frightened, Taylor was both astonished and appalled at the way Duncan seemed to be taking all this in stride. “Sort things out in the morning! You have got to be kidding,” she gritted, trying to keep her voice low. “How can you even think about sleeping? We have to get out of here!”
“And go where?” he growled.
Taylor backed off, since no answer came readily to her mind. “Well, you can at least quit playing your little games,” she said, nursing her anger, for it gave her a much-needed vent for all the rest of the chaotic emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. “Where do you get off giving me another name? And where in the hell did you come up with Janet? And about me being your ‘wife,’ excuse me, but…”
Duncan leaned forward, and Taylor shut up when she felt the big man’s powerful grip around her wrists. “Get hold of yourself,” he whispered urgently. “We’re strangers in a place and time that neither of us understands, and until we figure a way out, we had better behave like we belong here. Both of us.”
Taylor glared at him, ready to spit back an angry retort, but she saw the raw anxiety in his eyes and realized that he was taking their predicament seriously, even if he didn’t let it show. Somehow that reassured her, and she relaxed a little. She felt his grip loosen, although he did not let go of her, and a lopsided grin crossed his lips.
“Besides, Janet’s not such a bad name. It was my mother’s.”
She failed to see the point. “Well, it’s not mine, and I’d thank you to use the perfectly good one I was given.”
“It may be a perfectly good name for our times,” Duncan replied patiently, “but if we are indeed in some long-ago time in Scotland, a name like Taylor could get you into a lot of trouble.”
Taylor stared at him stubbornly. “Why?”
“It’s not…well, a…traditional name like they used to use in Scotland. It would likely sound alien to these people.” He let go of her altogether and leaned back, a scowl replacing his attempt at good humor. “Sorry if you don’t like it. But it was the first thing that popped into my head. The part about your being my wife, too. I doubt if single men and women traveling together would be welcomed in this time.”
“Welcomed? That woman didn’t seem very welcoming, for all of her offers of hospitality, even if she believes I’m your wife. And what the hell time is this, anyhow?” Taylor was denying with all her will that they had somehow transcended time and that even as they bickered here in this strange place, Cromwell’s army was advancing toward them.
There was no way this could be happening. Time travel didn’t exist except in science fiction novels. It was right up there with UFO sightings and Bigfoot on her list of ridiculous phenomena that some people claimed for truth. And yet, what other explanation could there be for what was going on around them?
She saw Duncan’s eyes close, and she was incensed that he was ignoring her. And then she heard a low gurgling sound. He was snoring! The damned man was asleep!
Taylor crouched at the edge of the pallet and pulled her knees up, hugging them to her chin. She felt a hard knot at the back of her throat. Her muscles ached from the battering they’d taken in the ocean and from the long hike into town, and her eyes burned from forcing back tears. She was unnerved, emotionally drained, uncharacteristically afraid, and generally unhinged. And the only person available as a sounding board against which to express her frustrations had managed to slip easily into a sound asleep. Jerk!
But angry as she was, her own body was betraying its need for nourishment and rest. Why Duncan had refused the food offered by the woman named Greta was beyond her. Surely he was as hungry as she.
Taylor stood up and loosened her jacket, trying to get comfortable. She needed to go to the bathroom but suspected there wasn’t one, and she wasn’t about to interrupt the man and woman who spoke together in low tones just the other side of the curtain. She was so exasperated at Duncan she didn’t want to lie down next to him, but at the moment, she had no other options. She knelt on the sheepskin and as best she could in the semi-darkness, studied the sleeping form of the man who thought he was God.
But Duncan Fraser was only a man. A big, rugged man with an athletic body that would be more at home out-of-doors than in heaven, she decided. Clad as he was in dark clothing, his form melted into the shadows of the room, leaving only his face discernible in the low light. It was large as well, with handsome features—a wide brow, finely-shaped nose, and tanned cheeks just beginning to show the stubble of beard. His hair was the color of burnished copper. He was, she admitted, one altogether good looking Scotsman. And she remembered how safe she had felt in the shelter of his arms. Under other circumstances, Taylor reflected, she might be tempted to bend her rules concerning men just a little…
She drew in a tired, ragged breath and fell forward on her hands, then collapsed altogether, scarcely feeling the rough fleece graze the skin of her cheek before she slipped into a deep sleep.
It was past ten o’clock in the morning when Robert Gordon resumed his task. At dawn, he had run out of energy and gone to bed. He arose refreshed and eager to continue. He decided to remain at home where he would be uninterrupted by any business calls that might come into his office. Then he laughed at the notion. He had no business. His last real client had been Lady Agatha Keith. As a lawyer, he was washed up. A has-been. At this point in his life, and his career,
the only important business he must attend to was that which lay in front of him now. But though he was intrigued by each page, he felt an urgency to make his way through the diary by the end of the day, so he skipped several entries and continued his translation:
April 1565
Stirling Castle
Last month, the first of our lovely and loyal Maries was wed—Mary Livingston writes of her deep happiness as the bride of Lord Semphill’s son. Maitland is courting the belle Mary Fleming, and the others each have their own favorites. Their enthusiasm on the subject is beginning to turn our own thoughts to romance. Four years have passed since we were widowed, and we admit to these pages we are sorely inclined to find a husband soon.
Our good cousin, Elizabeth has sent a handsome choice northward to our dominion, Lord Darnley, the son of the Earl of Lennox. He has been in our presence here at Stirling since the winter, and although there are those in our court who dislike him, we have attended him personally during his protracted illnesses, and we find him not only handsome, but gay and charming, and in need of our succor. We tire of the daily diatribes of those who would make the choice of husband for us, for we know their choices are not in our best interest, but rather their own. We are, in fact, tempted to go against all their choices and marry to spite them. The thought lifts our spirits. Darnley would do nicely in this respect, although our own uncle has written that he disapproves of my attentions to the gentil huteaudeau, the agreeable nincompoop, as he calls him.
We tire of our uncle as well as our court. We tire of constantly being counselled, as if we had not a brain in our head. We tire of living this lonely existence without the comfort of a consort. Darnley even has his Catholicism to recommend him to us.
