The Perfect Ten Boxed Set

by Dianna Love

  His heart stuttered with understanding. “She hasna drowned.” His laird had somehow rescued her. Tom fingered the broach with shaking fingers. He listened. Hearing nothing, feeling nothing but a heavy stillness in the room, he took a shuddering breath. “It has begun.”

  Now, all he could do was he pray for Beth. His infant son’s future depended on it.

  Chapter 6

  Disappointed by Duncan’s anger and his resistance to helping her, Beth roamed from room to room thumping on panels, spying behind wall hangings, and looking under beds and rugs in the hopes of finding a secret passage that could take her back to her world. When none materialized, she, desperate, sought out mirrors thinking she might be able to pass through one like Alice in the Looking Glass. After hours of searching through the dusty keep and storage rooms, nothing had changed but the condition of her clothing.

  Her only consolation...her head felt better. Whatever Rachael had put in her tea had certainly taken care of her headache. Knowing such medicinal cures existed in this day and time improved her mood marginally.

  Bone weary, she sought refuge from the curious in an out-of-the way sitting room. She ran her fingers over the spines of the books on various tables around the room. Chartier’s Le Belle Dame sans Merci. “Humph, French.”

  Books had become an important part of her life over the years. They were her comfort and respite in an often cold and uncaring world. She desperately needed her copy of Lorraine Heath’s Parting Gifts. She reread the novel during bleak periods when she needed an excuse for a good cathartic cry and the reassurance that good times regularly followed times like these. Or Diana Gabaldon’s Highlander series. She sighed at the irony. Here she had her own flesh and blood Highland hunk—more glorious than she even imagined Gabaldon’s Jamie Frasier to be—-and she was hiding, because she refused to deal with the pain.

  During their discussion it become painfully apparent Duncan couldn’t abide the sight of her.

  She heaved a sigh and opened the elaborately decorated Abby of the Holy Grail and discovered—after much effort—the author wanted to teach her how to build a nunnery in her heart. She snorted. “Not likely.”

  She opened the little The Book of Hours, only to find awkward sounding prayers the author expected the reader to recite eight times a day. Like anyone in their right mind had that kind of time on their hands.

  She examined A Calendar of Saints, innumerable prayer sheets, lyrics sheets, poems, a volume containing recipes for curing bizarre sounding medical conditions, a volume of veterinary recommendations, and saints’ legends. The number of religious texts surprised her. Though Catholic, Duncan didn’t strike her as a particularly religious man, so why did he have so many? After a long hunt she finally found what she was hoping to find. With all the wives coming and going around Blackstone, she knew there had to be a few romances somewhere in the mix.

  “Let’s see. Lancelot, Tristen, Merlin, Sir Degrevant, whoever he is, and the Quest for the Holy Grail. I may not lose my mind after all.”

  She carried her prizes to a high, window seat and made herself comfortable. She open Lancelot and was disappointed to find it written in French, as were Tristen and Sir Degrevant. She opened Quest for the Holy Grail and sighed. It was written in English. Not hers, but close enough.

  Within minutes her gaze drifted from the awkward text to the widow, her thoughts again on escaping her nightmare. She studied the water lapping the rocks below. A black churning sea had been her last real memory. She’d tasted it even as she awoke trapped in the carriage. Her eyes widened, her heart thudded. That’s it!

  She had to get into the water to escape this time and re-enter her own.

  “Pardon, tres honoree dame, I did not mean to disturb ye.”

  She started and turned to find Rachael’s husband, Isaac Silverstein, standing in the doorway with his arms full of scrolls. She waved him in. “Please come. I didn’t know—-ken—- this room was being used.” Heart thudding, she started to rise.

  “Nay, please sit. Ye’ll not incomoder me.”

  Beth grinned at his mix of French and English, so like his wife’s. Her awe at meeting people she’d come to know only as historical figures through Tom’s stories and Duncan’s diary had yet to wane.

  Isaac, tall and thin, like his multi-great grandson Tom, walked toward her. “Why be ye not at Vespers?”

  “Vespers?”

  “Prayers.”

  “Ah. I’m not Catholic.”

  He frowned then tipped up the book in her hands to read the cover. “A good tale.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Ye dinna choose a religious tomb?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I prefer escapism.” When his frown deepened, she clarified, “I like legends and tales. Love stories with happy endings.”

  “Ah. And yer first husband, dame? His passion?”

  She felt a blush rise. “I’ve never been married.” Seeing his eyes widen, she added, “Until now...to Duncan.”

  “But non, madame. You were married in France, oui?”

  “No. I’ve never been to France, and I’ve certainly never been married before.” She spun the gold band on her finger. How could something so beautiful—that should hold such promise—make her feel so empty? “This is the very first time.”

  Scowling, he studied her for a moment then asked, “Madame, may I ask ye full Christian name?”

  “Katherine Elizabeth MacDougall Pudding...ah, MacDougall.” She grinned. “Hmmm, I have two MacDougall’s now.”

  “Hmm, indeed.” He chewed his lower lip for a moment. “Excusez moi, madame, I have something I must attend.”

  She stood. “It was a pleasure speaking with you. Rachael has been such ...”

  Isaac raced out the door like the hounds of hell were on his tail, which left her saying, “...a big help,” to an empty room.

  ~#~

  “Dearest, we must talk.” Isaac put his hand on Rachael’s bottom and pushed her into the distillery and closed the door.

  “Husband, as much as I’d like to play, I’m much too busy for nonsense right now.”

  “Hush!” He quickly scanned the small room to be sure a lad wasn’t napping beneath a bench. “I just had a most distressing conversation with the MacDougall’s new wife.”

  “And?”

  “I can not take the time to explain now, but trust I’m asking this boon with purpose. I need you to find out all you can about our new lady’s past.”

  “Ask her yourself. I have wool to dye, clothing to mend—”

  “Rachael, I fear our Duncan has married an imposter.”

  She blanched. “But this can not be! If this is so, we loose everything.”

  Isaac, sweating profusely, nodded.

  ~#~

  Duncan glanced over the parapet to see Beth, her skirts tucked up between her exposed legs, crawling in crab fashion across the boulders at the keep’s footing. “What in the name of all ‘tis holy is she doing now?”

  Angus looked down. “I hazard to guess, my friend, but we’d best capture her before she slides into the sea.”

  Duncan tore down the stairs. “She’s daft, I tell ye.” He shouldered his way past two men entering the keep’s doorway. ‘Twas a damn shame, too. She had lovely legs. “I would most willingly let her drown but for fashing over Albany’s retribution should she, too, die under my protection.”

  “Aye,” Angus agreed, “there is that.” They jogged across the bailey and through the arched portcullis. “Think drowning be her intent?”

  “I neither ken nor care, just so long as she doesna succeed.”

  They raced around the castle’s rocky face, repeatedly slipping on the jagged boulders, only to find the area they had last spotted Lady Beth now empty of all but lichen and barnacles.

  “Do ye think she fell?” Angus scanned the water for her body.

  “Nay. Look.” Duncan jumped a puddle and pointed to wet footprints just above the waterline heading toward the opposite side of the keep.
Heart bounding with relief, he said, “Come.”

  They circumnavigated the entire keep without catching site of his wode wife. Going through the portcullis, Duncan growled to the guard, “Have ye seen Lady Beth?”

  “Aye, my lord. She just entered the keep looking like a drown cat whilst carrying kelp.”

  “Kelp?” He stormed across the bailey, rubbing blood from the stinging cuts on his palms. “I tell ye, Angus, the woman will be the death of me.”

  He strode into the great hall, ready to breathe fire. “Where is she?” he demanded of everyone in the room.

  Flora cocked her head to the side. “By she, do ye mean your bonnie wife, my lord?”

  Only haste kept a civil tongue in his head. “Aye.”

  Flora’s pouty lips curled at the corners as she pointed to the stairs. “She passed just a moment ago.”

  He stomped across the hall.

  At his heels, Angus asked, “What will ye do when ye find her?”

  “I’m trussing her for now, and then—as soon as I am able—I am placing her under lock and key in the west wing.”

  After his and his ladywife’s wee talk in the solar, he had ordered the mason to break through two of the storage room walls to make a reasonably spacious prison apartment for her. He wasn’t, after all, an uncaring man. She would live in relative comfort until she or he passed to their heavenly reward. The last one to survive would be declared the winner.

  ~#~

  Beth heaved a sigh staring at the wilting kelp she’d wrapped in bits of twine and hung from the east wing’s storage room rafters. Her foray into the sea—her hope of escaping this archaic world—had been a freezing disaster. Nothing had changed except her body temperature and the condition of her gown. She had to escape. Her ego couldn’t take much more.

  Unlike the compassionate tease Duncan had been in her time, the real Duncan remained distant, as if she were unfit for decent company. Nor could she take much more of Miss “I’m Too Sexy for My Clothes” Flora Campbell hovering about. It hurt for some inexplicable reason seeing Duncan’s gaze rake over the pretty woman. Beth stared again at her kelp.

  Once dried and ground into a fine powder, the kelp—with the aid of oatmeal and a few egg whites—should make a passable face wash. She hoped. She couldn’t continue using the butter and rose petal concoction Rachael had loaned her much longer. Her face would turn into zit-central by week’s end and without make-up...

  She shuddered and headed toward the great hall in search of Rachael.

  Isaac’s petite wife had offered to help her alter the third wife’s gowns. The project held little appeal—-no one in their right mind wanted to wear a dead madwoman’s castoffs, but she needed clothing and wife number three’s gowns were the only ones that came close to fitting.

  Beth found the hall crowded with anxious, milling clansmen. Finally finding Rachael among the throng, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Tis the Laird. He collapsed in the bailey.”

  Fear churned in Beth’s belly as she glanced at the clansmen, from one concerned expression to another. “Where is he? I want to see him.”

  Rachael patted Beth’s arm. “Nay to fash, madame.”

  “I want to see Duncan, now.”

  Rachael heaved a sigh. “As ye luste.”

  On the third floor, Rachael led Beth to a familiar looking, barrel-chested man standing before a closed door. He’d been introduced to her as Duncan’s second in command. Rachael whispered to him and he shook his head.

  He bowed toward Beth. “My lady.”

  “Good day. I would like to see my husband.”

  He crossed his arms. “Nay, my lady, ye canna.” What followed she could only guess at, but his meaning was clear; he wasn’t about to move aside.

  She’d dealt with his kind in the past at the St. Regis and assumed a haughty stance and tone. “What is your name?”

  His face flushed and his scowled deepened. The first time she’d seen him—-the night Duncan had pulled her from the coach—his hands and clothing had been covered in blood. It was painfully apparent the man was not used to being challenged. Particularly, by a woman.

  “Angus MacDougall, my lady.”

  “Step aside, Mr. MacDougall. I will see my husband. Now.”

  “Nay. Ye are not welcome, so sayith yer husband and yon doctor.”

  Doctor? Beth’s heart tripped with foreboding. Men of Duncan’s ilk only resorted to doctors when facing death’s door. She glared at Angus and reached for the door latch.

  His bulk shifted to block her way and his right hand settled on the hilt of his dirk. “Nay, lady. I luste ye take leave with Rachael. The MacDougall will spake with ye when he is wont.”

  So, the man wanted her gone. Rachael apparently did, too. She kept tugging at Beth’s arm. Well, she had news for both of them. She was going in. The man lying on the other side of the door Angus so effectively blocked was her damn husband!

  Beth jerked her arm free of Rachael and stared at the burly Scot. Since anger and haughtiness hadn’t worked, she had to change tactics.

  She stepped closer and patted the Angus’s massive chest. “We both want what is best for Duncan, don’t we?” She spoke slowly, enunciating each word. He nodded. “Good. I’m Duncan’s wife and I’m worried. In order to help him, I must know what ails him. And I can’t do that from this side of the door.” She absently brushed a few crumbs from his tunic. “Do you understand?” He nodded. “Grand, then please step aside."

  He grinned without humor, displaying square, even teeth beneath a red mustache. Just as Angus again shook his head, a gut-wrenching moan—-sufficient to raise the hairs on Beth’s arms —emanated through the thick door at his back.

  Without giving it a second thought, Beth slammed her knee into the towering Scot’s groin.

  “Merde!” Rachael squealed as Angus, ashen faced, dropped to his knees, his hands cradling his testicles.

  As he rolled onto his side groaning, Beth hiked her skirts and stepped over him. “Sorry, Angus, but you gave me no choice.” She reached for the door latch. “Rachael, be a dear, and take care of Angus, si vous plait.” As the door swung open, Beth exhausted her limited high school French by adding, “Merci.”

  Beth found Duncan, ghost white, on a small cot, his left arm dangling over the edge. The old man at Duncan’s side scowled at her then turned his attention back to Duncan’s forearm where blood poured from a four-inch gash.

  She raced to Duncan’s side and asked, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  The old man ignored her as he scrambled to collect Duncan’s blood in a wooden bowl.

  Beth knocked the bowl from the man’s dirty hands and pushed him aside. She pressed on the wound to stem the flow and felt heat radiating off Duncan’s body. “My God, he’s burning up.”

  “Nay, my lady!” The doctor tried to push her away. “Ye must let the foul humors drain. ‘Tis the only way.”

  “Take your filthy hands off him!” She slammed an elbow into the old man’s ribs. The man’s body odor alone nearly took her breath away.

  She applied firm pressure to her husband’s wound and bellowed, “RACHAEL!”

  When the Frenchwoman poked her head through the doorway, Beth said, “Get this idiot out of here and find something to bind Duncan’s wound.”

  “Pardon, madame?”

  Beth took a deep breath, and tried again, this time at a much slower pace. “Please take the doctor away and find a dressing for this.” She moved her hand so Rachael could see the wound the fool had inflicted.

  “Oh! Oui, madame.” Rachael waved toward the door. “Doctor’, si vous plait.”

  “Rampe woman!” the doctor growled as he collected his questionable medical kit.

  Beth returned his glare. “What did you just say?”

  Rachael bit her lower lip. “He thinks ye rude, madame.”

  “I don’t care what he thinks so long as he gets the hell out of here.” Beth placed her free hand on Duncan’s fore
head. Her husband’s fever had to be one hundred and four degrees, at the very least. Did they have aspirin in the fifteenth century? And what on earth could cause such a fever?

  She bent over him. “Duncan? Can you hear me?” He hadn’t so much as blinked during her altercation with the doctor. “Can you open your eyes?” He didn’t respond and her worry escalated.

  She needed to undress him and needed two hands to do it. She looked about the monastic room for something to bind his wound. Finding nothing, she pulled at the left sleeve of her gown. It was fairly clean, unlike her skirt, which had been dragging over dusty stairwells and filthy rushes. Wrenching the sleeve free, she wrapped it around Duncan’s heavily muscled forearm. Having successfully stemmed the bleeding, she turned her attention to the difficulty of undressing her unconscious husband.

  Beth had managed to free one of Duncan’s arms from his jacket when Angus lunged through the doorway. He face was a mask of rage as he held himself upright on the door.

  “My lady,” he growled, “ye’d best—-“

  “Stop threatening, Angus, and get over here.” She pushed hair off her face with a shaking hand. Her throat burned, felt raw. She started wrestling Duncan’s left arm out of his shirt. “He’s burning up—fevered. Help me get him undressed.”

  Angus staggered toward the bed. “Move.” He pushed her aside. Not trusting him, Beth scooted to the opposite side of the bed.

  “Oh my God!” Her hand flew to her mouth as Angus rolled her husband and she could see the jagged wound stretching across Duncan’s left shoulder. Eight inches in length, it was a nauseating mass of mustard yellow, purple, and scarlet. Inflammation in the surrounding tissue looked like rays radiating off a setting sun. The few stitches that held it all together strained over the wound’s bulging, purulent core.