by Jill Jones
Duncan was familiar with the structure of the quadrangle, although in his time, it had been nothing but a ruin. In his own time, these tiny rooms were but bare stone walls with both the second floor and the roof missing, exposing what was left, little more than a pile of rocks, to the further erosion of the elements. But in Ogilvy’s time, the space was cozy if not luxurious, certainly preferable to the miserable crofter’s hut or Kenneth Fraser’s hovel.
“We thank ye, Governor,” he said, meaning it sincerely. “This shall serve us well.”
Duncan hadn’t expected to be lodged in so fine a manner, and certainly not with Taylor, but then, the governor believed her to be his wife. No matter what age they were in, husbands and wives were expected to share a room.
And a bed…
He just wondered what “Janet” would think about the arrangement.
Three months later
Outside, the wind whipped fiercely around the buildings of the quadrangle, and a heavy rain battered against the door. Inside the small quarters, Taylor and Pauley huddled in front of the fire, and Duncan paced behind them like a tiger in a zoo.
“I’d rather be us than them,” Taylor commented, speaking of the battalion of Cromwellian soldiers who were likely getting drenched in their encampment which surrounded Dunnottar Castle on three sides. “At least we’re warm and dry,” she added with forced optimism.
“And facing winter with no food,” Duncan replied with equal pessimism. He was in an ugly mood, and Taylor was afraid to ask why. She put her arm around Pauley, who shivered beneath the blanket that was wrapped around him. She drew him closer. Although the boy had gained a few pounds through the efforts of Taylor and Elizabeth Ogilvy, he was still thin and frail, his body seemingly unable to avoid sickness. He was a walking winter cold, and Taylor was frustrated that there was nothing much she could do to relieve his symptoms. No aspirin, no nose drops. No Kleenex even. The best she could do was keep a supply of clean rags available to him and try to keep him nourished. At the moment, she suspected he was running a slight fever, and she was seriously worried that Greta’s prophesy that he would not last the winter would come true.
Duncan’s own gloomy forecast did nothing to lift her spirits. They had known from the outset that food might be scarce but had held out hope that the promised supplies would arrive before Cromwell’s soldiers. But all their hope hadn’t changed history. The provisions never came. The castle gardens had produced some fall vegetables, which stretched their supplies somewhat, but the small contingent inside the walls of Dunnottar Castle faced a winter diet of little more than thin gruel and bread. Taylor remembered November in New York, with the promise of the holidays putting an extra bounce in the step of shoppers, who thought nothing of the abundance that surrounded them. She would never take that for granted, she promised, providing of course, she survived and managed to see New York again.
She was disappointed, too, that after three months in this virtual prison, she had laid eyes on neither the Honours of Scotland nor the Scottish Rose. Elizabeth, in fact, had never once mentioned the treasures, and Taylor was beginning to believe the letter and the diary were indeed a hoax. Taylor had been tempted to ask her employer about the rose chalice, but reminded herself that she was not supposed to know of its existence.
She had not told Duncan of her intent to document this journey into the past for future use either, for she sensed he would deem it too big a risk. He had purposely left any connection to the 21st century aboard the Intrepid, including, much to Taylor’s chagrin, the first aid kit that contained medicines that could have eased Pauley’s discomforts this winter. “It’s better that we don’t bring things with us that would support their superstitions,” he’d told her. Good thing he didn’t know about the camera in the zippered pouch, or the flashlight that she’d filched from the boat when his back was turned. He also didn’t know about the Scottish Rose, nor the photocopied letter. Maybe she’d tell him about them in time, when and if she found out the chalice did indeed exist.
“Would you stop pacing?” she demanded of Duncan at last. His restlessness was getting on her nerves. “What’s wrong with you tonight?”
Duncan went to the door and leaned against it with both arms, as if to keep the world barricaded safely away. “Sorry,” he gritted, his jaw tight. “I’m just fed up with the dissention around here. Governor Ogilvy is the only one with any backbone. He’s standing firm, as he’s been ordered to, refusing to surrender the castle. But you should have seen our esteemed Colonel Leighton when the summons to capitulate came today from General Overton. He was ready to dance to any tune the English wanted to play. And as second in command, Leighton carries a lot of weight with the garrison. He’s stirred up trouble already.”
“Duncan, these people are frightened and they’re hungry. You can’t really blame them…”
“They chose to come here,” he barked at her. “They knew the circumstances in advance. And by God they should stick by the commitment they made to Ogilvy.”
“You’re forgetting one thing,” Taylor replied quietly, summoning patience.
“What?”
“You know the outcome of this siege. They don’t.”
This gave Duncan pause, and Taylor saw him relax a little, but she could tell he was still cross. “Is Pauley asleep?” he asked after a long silence.
Taylor shifted her weight to peer beneath the blanket into the small face. “Out cold.”
Duncan lifted the slight form and moved him to the double bed the child had shared with Taylor since their makeshift “family” had moved in together for the duration of the siege. The big man tucked the blanket carefully around the boy. “And that’s another thing,” he growled as if looking for additional fuel for his anger. He pulled a second chair to the fire, opposite Taylor, and sat down, leaning toward the warmth, his arms resting on his muscular legs. “I’m tired of having to hide little Pauley away from those idiots from the village who continue to carry on against him with their bogey man stories.”
Greta and her gaggle of cronies had launched a verbal campaign against both Pauley and Taylor the day they arrived. Taylor was tired of it, too, but she had ignored it as much as she could and carefully stayed out of their way. “I know,” she murmured, heartsick for the little boy. “But what else can we do? Until we have a chance to go home again…”
Duncan shot her a quick glance, then looked away, and Taylor knew what he was thinking. She continued to be haunted by the same doubt…
What if they couldn’t go home again?
A long silence fell between them, filled only by the sound of the storm’s unabated fury. At last Duncan spoke. “Taylor,” he said, “there’s something else.” He let out an audible breath. “Ogilvy has called on me as his ship’s captain to take John Keith to France with a letter asking for help from the king.”
Taylor sat very still, stunned by the unexpected news. Her blood ran cold at the thought of Duncan setting out on an extended journey in that leaky tub Ogilvy called a sailing ship, and she had no desire to be left alone on this godforsaken rock. She knew she could get along without his help, but she’d become accustomed to it, and to the companionship of a fellow traveler from a future she wasn’t sure she’d ever see again. “Is this part of the script, Duncan?” she almost shrilled at him. “You never said anything about sailing off to France…”
“It’s…a part of the story I didn’t know,” Duncan answered.
Taylor wanted to choke him. “Will it accomplish anything?” she asked, doubting it very much. John Keith was the Earl’s younger brother who had stayed in the castle as part of its tiny garrison of defense, but from what Taylor had seen of him, he had none of the courage of Governor Ogilvy. She wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t just run away as soon as his feet hit dry land and the safety of the Continent.
Duncan’s knowledge of what had taken place here, read from history books some three hundred and fifty years in the future, until now had assuaged her fear that they would
die in this siege. He’d told her that for the most part, things had resolved themselves without a lot of bloodshed. But history, she had learned, did not record the daily incidents that filled her with apprehension. Like the threats against Pauley. And the danger that Duncan now faced. “Did…or does…the king send help?”
Duncan sat back in the chair and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t remember for sure,” he said wearily. “I don’t think so.”
“Then don’t go,” she implored. Taylor was surprised by the acute sense of loss she felt at the prospect of Duncan’s departure. She knew she could cope on her own. But she was well aware that Duncan’s presence had kept Kenneth and Greta effectively at bay. With him gone, would she and Pauley be safe? And what of his safety? She sensed the mission he’d been given was fraught with far more danger than any modern power boat rescue. If he sailed for France, Taylor believed it likely he would never return.
The thought devastated her, more than she could have imagined.
During the three months they had been together, she and Duncan had become good friends, cohabiting like brother and sister while presenting themselves as husband and wife to the outside world. To Pauley, they became like adoptive parents.
But never had they been lovers.
Not once had Duncan approached her again the way he had the night they’d spent in the crofter’s lodge. Not once had he attempted to cross that boundary between platonic and passionate. And Taylor had purposefully kept her distance. She could not deny that she was sexually attracted to the robust Scotsman, and she’d caught him with a certain look from time to time that revealed his own desire plainly enough. But they seemed to have an unspoken agreement on the matter.
He had at last told her about the tragic accident that took away his family, and Taylor knew that although she cared deeply about Duncan, he was clearly emotionally unavailable to her, and she had warned herself not to let her feelings go any further. At the moment, however, she wasn’t sure she had heeded that warning.
Duncan, who had remained silent for a long while, spoke again at last, his voice interrupting her disturbing thoughts, bringing her back to the issue at hand, his trip to France.
“It’s not that simple, Taylor,” he said. “If I don’t follow Ogilvy’s orders, then I’m no better than Leighton. We don’t sail until late December. Maybe the governor will change his mind by then, or,” he added irritably, “maybe we’ll wake up and find out this was all just a bloody nightmare.”
Jedburgh, Scotland
October 16, 1566
We are feeling unwell this evening, having returned from a hard ride to Hermitage Castle where we visited Lord Bothwell, our Lieutenant of the Borders. We learned earlier in the week that he had been injured in an ambush, and since we were in this nearby village holding a justice eyre, we thought to make a quick visit to ascertain his condition for ourself. We were assured it was but a half day’s ride, and it being dangerously close to the English border, we had no wish to stay overnight there. We left at dawn, stayed but a short while, and returned, arriving back at the bastel-house after sunset. It was a torturous ride over the treacherous, boggy Liddesdale moors, and we are paying for it now. The ache in our side is burning, and we feel feverish all over. Perhaps we should have listened to James, who tried to dissuade us from making the trip. However, even though we have reconciled him into our court again after the Riccio affair, we have little ear for his counsel.
The trip is behind us now, at any rate, and we are gratified that even though Bothwell appeared to have sustained serious wounds, he did not seem as if he were approaching death. He has been a good and loyal servant, both to our mother and ourself, and we pray for his speedy recovery.
It was all unfolding just as history had recorded it. Riccio’s murder. The Chaseabout Raid. The birth of King James VI. And now enters Bothwell. Robert Gordon picked up the diary again in excited anticipation of what was to come. He could hardly wait to hear what Mary had to say about the events at Kirk O’ Field.
Chapter Sixteen
A bloody nightmare, Duncan thought. That’s exactly what this was. In fact, it seemed for the last several years his life had been just one bloody nightmare. Marital problems. The accident. His guilt and loneliness. Then this bizarre journey through time into the harshest conditions he had ever experienced. And added to all that, his struggle to keep a distance between himself and Taylor Kincaid.
The latter was becoming the hardest part of this particular nightmare. Being thrown into her intimate presence every night, he was finding it next to impossible to conquer his growing attraction to her. Taylor was brave and beautiful and compassionate and resourceful, and when he was around her, Duncan was tempted to relent of his determination to avoid another serious relationship. Except for one thing. Taylor had told him she’d never been married and had no children. She was several years younger than he, and he suspected she was a woman whose biological clock was ticking. As attracted to her as he was, Duncan had no interest in starting another family.
Especially in 1651.
So, with the exception of his one slip-up the night in the crofter’s lodge, he had carefully kept their relationship strictly as that of two survivors thrown together by a monumental accident. He would not allow his sexual desire to cause another accident, a biological one. There was no machine on the wall in the men’s room to provide protection, and if he lost control and followed where his instincts wanted to lead him, she could become pregnant.
Aside from his personal preferences concerning another family, Duncan would do nothing that might put Taylor’s life in jeopardy, and he believed a pregnancy in this era would be life-threatening. So he slept on a pallet by the fire every night, trying not to think about the beautiful woman who lay in the bed so close to him.
The enforced intimacy between them, necessitated by their masqueraded identities, was wearing on his nerves, however. Maybe it would be just as well for him to take off for France. But the thought of leaving Taylor and Pauley behind to fend for themselves amidst the growing animosity of the villagers went against every grain of his protective instincts.
They were not only endangered by the threat of the peasants, but if something should happen to him, he believed they stood little chance of turning through the Ladysgate, considering the conditions he believed awaited on the other side.
Altogether, his situation was aggravating enough to make him want to chew nails.
As if she were reading his thoughts, Taylor stood and moved behind his chair, and with cool, slender fingers began massaging the back of his neck. He was surprised, for she rarely made a move to touch him.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “We mustn’t get at each other’s throats.” She moved her fingers to his temples. “We have to stick together. We’re all we’ve got.”
Her words struck a chord deep in his heart. We’re all we’ve got. She’d said it as if they had very little in this brutally primitive time, but it occurred to him suddenly that he had far more here than in the life he’d left behind. All of a sudden, the emptiness of that life slammed into him.
Here, he had Taylor. And Pauley. A family…of sorts.
But he didn’t want a family, did he?
Duncan closed his eyes. He didn’t know what he wanted. Except he didn’t want to think any more. He breathed deeply and allowed Taylor’s fingers to ease the painful tension that seemed to pull his scalp down over his ears. She worked at the tightness at the back of his neck, the knotted muscles of his shoulders, along the tops of his arms. He felt his body begin to relax, and a warm glow crept through him. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
“My massage therapist. He’s the best in New York.”
He.
Duncan stiffened again, hating the idea of a man, even a professional therapist, massaging Taylor’s exquisite body.
“Relax,” she laughed, seeming to guess his thoughts again. “Ralph’s not interested in women. But he sure knows how to get the kinks out.”
&nb
sp; He tried to laugh with her and ease up once again, but her steady touch against his skin was beginning to speak to a need deeper than muscle relaxation. The warm glow was turning into a fever that spread from where her fingertips met his skin into the depths of his being. He emitted a low groan, trying—sort of—to fight the sensations that she was arousing in him. But the truth of the matter was that he wanted her. Painfully. Her touch, coupled with the pent-up desire he had stored away all the nights he’d observed her as she prepared for bed, added up to a craving he could not, nor any longer wished to, control.
Without thinking, he took Taylor’s hands and drew her into his lap. He encircled her with one arm and ran his free hand through her long, luxurious hair, bringing her lips close to his. “Tell me to stop,” he said raggedly. He closed his eyes and held her, waiting for her to save him.
But she didn’t. Instead, she brought her mouth to his, warm, open, ready.
When their lips met, passion shot through him like lightning, with voltage enough to ignite those fires of physical desire that had begun to smolder again since he’d been with Taylor. Fires that sparked the need for intimacy he had denied for so long.
He buried his fingers in locks of silken gold and crushed her against him in desperation, fearing she might pull away from his embrace. She smelled of the essence of lavender, tasted of the thin red wine that was one of their few remaining luxuries. Consumed by the driving demand for her that rushed through him, and with the permission of her own ardent response, Duncan began to satisfy his deep-seated longing for Taylor. His mouth trailed kisses from her lips, down the white skin of her throat, while his fingers worked awkwardly at releasing the tiny pearls that served as buttons along the front of her dress.
Pauley stirred on the bed, and they both froze, but the boy did not wake up. “Maybe we shouldn’t…” Taylor began, but her protest was quickly claimed by Duncan’s kiss. Maybe they shouldn’t, but they were going to…
