by Jessi Gage
How brazen he was! Never before had he grown this heated with a lass. He prized his control as well as he prized his position as heir to his father’s seat. But this woman made him lust for indulgences he’d thought himself too disciplined for.
He stroked the corner of her mouth with his thumb, and to his astonishment, she flicked it with her tongue and parted her lips in an invitation he wasted no time accepting. It occurred to him she might think to manipulate him with her affections, but no. He sensed truth in her kiss. And he saw surprise in her eyes suggesting that like him she did not normally behave in this manner.
She would have him believe her to be from the south, from England, but he’d recognized the lie in an instant. Truth sense, his mother called it, a remnant of his fey ancestry like the battle lust, which she insisted made him a berserker like his father. Wilhelm tended to side with his father, who attributed their shared ability to discern truth from lies to good instincts. ’Twas no more than a family trait passed from generation to generation, laird to laird and mayhap, like his gift for battle, a blessing from the Lord.
Whatever the origin of his truth sense, he’d felt it powerfully when she’d been bound upon Ruthven’s pyre, proclaiming her innocence. He felt it just as powerfully now, as her body communicated to him more clearly than any words a truth growing between them: they were meant for each other.
Her eyes closed as their kiss deepened, but he kept his open. He would not waste a single moment of appreciating her novel beauty. Her hair ranged in shade from burned caramel to red rock, and when her eyes were open, he saw in them every earthy color under the sun, streaks of sea green, palest gold, rich loam, sky blue, and even fiery sienna. Hazel, the color was called. Too simple a word for the complexity he had never noticed until her. He could watch her for days, nay years, and still long to watch some more.
He didn’t even ken her name.
Terran would have no qualms about committing such an intimate act with a near stranger, but Wilhelm was not his cousin. Cursing himself for his lack of control, he lifted his face from hers. Just in time, too, as his father’s former schoolmate chose that moment to return with somat for her to eat.
She panted silently and touched trembling fingertips to her lips as he put a respectable distance between them. When she opened her eyes, her gaze lingered on him like a caress before acknowledging the abbot’s presence.
Aye. She felt it too, this connection between them.
Anselm deposited a tray on the table next to the candles and slipped out without comment, even though it had to be evident what Wilhelm had been about before he’d come in. He would not be surprised if the abbot chided him later. For now, he was content to give his full attention to his charge.
“Tell me your name,” he commanded.
Her eyes flashed in that way of hers that told him she didn’t make a habit of following orders.
Och, her brazen spirit drew him from the moment he first saw her, when she’d been demanding Ruthven let her go despite being nude, bound, gagged, and outnumbered. Such bravery! Such intrepid determination!
“You told me no questions tonight.” Her voice scratched like sun dried wool not yet tamed into softness. The damage to her tender throat and lungs made him lust to slay her abusers all over again. Noticeably absent was her feigned English speech.
He suppressed a grin, wondering if she’d done it intentionally. “Simply telling me your name would have required fewer words than the rebuke, my lady, if your throat pains thee.”
“It wasn’t a rebuke.” A look of affront tugged her eyebrows low over those captivating eyes.
How was it her every expression affected his viscera? With each change in her features, his stomach leapt and dove like a hawk in pursuit of prey.
“Only a reminder.” The briefest flicker of nervousness belied the stubborn lift of her chin.
The kiss had made her uncertain. Before, she’d approached him as an adversary, though why she should do so, he could not guess. Now, she recognized the connection between them, but, if he guessed correctly, she feared it.
The lass needed time. She needed food and rest. He would ask no more of her for now. Not even her name. It mattered not. His heart knew her regardless of what she called herself.
“Consider me reminded, sweet lady.” He inclined his head in farewell. “Good rest to you, then. Until later.” He brought the tray to her bed. The monks serving in the kitchen this morning had prepared parritch, buttered bread and ale. The pale color of the drink suggested it was the second brew from which the monks themselves partook rather than the stronger first brew they sold to fund their order.
Once Wilhelm cleared his name and could bring her to Dornoch, he would have a feast prepared for her at every meal. He would serve her fine French wine instead of weakened ale. He would dress her in gowns and drape her in gems. His father would marry them. Mayhap by this time next year, he’d have a bairn with her.
If he could clear his name. Otherwise, all his dreaming would be for naught.
“Wait.”
He paused at the door.
“Thank you,” she said. “For—” She cleared her throat. “Rescuing me.” The proud lass disliked the fact she’d needed rescuing. “And it’s Constance. My name is Constance.” Her gaze lowered before rising up to challenge him once more. Rosy color bloomed in her cheeks.
She’d given him a gift. Not just her gratitude and her name, but a wee bit of her trust and formidable will. If he lusted to subdue her entirely, he sensed he must be tender with her. The realization came as a shock. Never would he have imagined he would crave a willful woman at all, or that he would relish taming such a woman with gentleness.
Like a spirited filly.
“Constance,” he repeated, liking the sound of the syllables as well as the meaning, steadfast, permanent. His father’s favorite request from the bard came to mind. My Constant Rose.
Aye, she would be his steadfast lady, the permanent compliment to his life. But only if he could provide her with the security his position as heir to a barony and lairdship offered. As it stood, he would be accountable for killing Ruthven’s guards and executioner unless a magistrate ruled his actions had been justified. If he obtained no such ruling, he could lose far more than an act of parliament.
“Rest, now,” he told her, and he left to find Terran and check on the other woman. Every step away from Constance pulled taut places low inside him. His very bowels objected to his leaving her.
Och, he had better set things right in Inverness. Because it was just a matter of time before he took what he knew to be his, regardless of the consequences.
#
Connie had never been more grateful for bland oatmeal. She chewed the mixture, which was like grainy bread moistened with milk and washed it down with warm beer weak on the hops but strong on the malt. Not a bad meal all in all. It certainly did the trick of sating her hunger.
Testing her legs, she slipped out of bed to place the tray back on the dresser. Putting weight on her feet made them feel like sausages someone had forgotten to prick before cooking. The pain-pressure made her clench her teeth. She’d lain out in the sun too long one time at Lake Michigan with high school friends. The pain the next day had been similar to what she felt now. Maybe that meant her injuries were on par with a bad sunburn. One could hope, anyway.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in.” Her voice still rasped, but she could use it without coughing.
The monk Wilhelm had called Father Anselm entered, smiling kindly. “I’ve brought a salve for your burns,” he said, handing her a shallow jar.
The substance inside reminded her of the bacon fat she kept in a can under her kitchen sink.
“How are you feeling?” He spoke slowly enough that she could understand him despite his thick brogue. Did he wear his hair tonsured under that white handkerchief? What was it like to be a monk in Scotland in…whatever year this was?
She had better not ask any questi
ons if she wanted to fly under radar, so to speak.
“Better. Thank you, Father.” Instinct had her return to the English accent. For some reason, she only felt comfortable speaking naturally with Wilhelm, and only him because he somehow saw through this precaution.
Anselm seemed to accept her accent, so she carried on with it as she took the jar and unwrapped the linen cover. A round slab of cork served as the jar’s cover. There was a date written on the cork. “Fourteen eighty-two,” she read, stunned. She’d traveled almost exactly 500 years.
“It’s still good, I assure you. Five years is nothing for that salve. It lasts an eternity.”
She stared at the date, doing the math. If the salve was made five years ago, in 1482, that would make it 1487. Judging by the weather, it was wintertime. She wouldn’t press her luck by asking the month and day.
Blinking to focus on Father Anselm, she forced a smile. “I’m sure it’s perfectly fine. Thank you. For the salve and the meal and, well, everything.” She used a fingernail to lift the cork and sniffed the salve. “What is it made of?”
“Mostly beeswax and honey from the abbey’s hives.” He leaned back on his heels and folded his hands in front. A casual pose, likely meant to put her at ease along with his gentle manner.
She remained wary, however. Wilhelm treated this man with respect, as if he were in authority. She would follow suit.
“Also aloe for its soothing properties,” he went on, conversationally, “comfrey for reduction of swelling, and root of burdock to speed the healing and prevent infection. I placed a bit of burdock infusion in your ale as well. Did you taste it too strongly?” He wrinkled his nose.
The ale had tasted bitter, but not the way a hoppy brew should. She’d drunk it anyway, figuring Wilhelm wouldn’t poison her after going to so much trouble to rescue her. Besides, she’d been hungry enough to eat and drink just about anything.
“It was fine. Thank you.” She had never heard of most of the ingredients he’d mentioned, except aloe, but she wouldn’t risk offending him by asking more questions. As soon as he left, she would put the mixture on a small patch of healthy skin to test it before using it on her burns.
“’Tis an honor to serve a charge of the Murray.” Anselm said with a bow of his head. “If all is well, I shall return to my other duties.”
“Of course. But please, tell me, how is the other woman?”
A pleat formed between his brows. “I am afraid she is unwell. I have sent for a sister of the faith who performs midwife duties on occasion. But she shan’t arrive until tonight at the earliest.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Mayhap the lass would like some company. She sleeps fitfully and suffers from stomach pains when she tries to eat. But use the salve and rest for a while first. Your feet are in wont of mending.”
Rest sounded good, but her heart went out to the poor girl. From her condition, it seemed she had been through harder times than Connie. She resolved to check on her first thing after a good, long sleep.
After Anselm left, a test of the salve produced no ill effects, so she liberally applied it to her reddened skin. The aloe produced a cool tingling, and whatever else was in the greasy substance smelled nice. Getting up one last time before her nap, she blew out the candles.
Darkness closed around her. As she felt her way back to the bed, a low moan met her ears. It came from somewhere nearby. Oh no. What if the girl was in labor?
Connie put one foot in front of the other and made her painful way to the door. Cracking it open, she listened. She heard a man’s voice. Down the hall a streak of light shone across the floor, showing the door to the room beside hers was open.
“Easy, lass. Breathe through it. Aye. Like that.” The voice sounded similar to Wilhelm’s when he was being gentle with her. But it wasn’t him. Could it be the cousin he’d mentioned?
“Och, are you a midwife now?” A feminine voice, soft and thready, but laced with humor.
A soft chuckle. “Nay, but I remember when my youngest brother was born. My da was away, so it was up to me to fetch the midwife and help my mother.”
“Mmm—ohhh. ’Tis a queer feeling. Not quite pain, but not nice either. I doona wish for it to grow worse.”
“Shhh. Think of somat else. Think of a happy memory.”
Whoever the man was, he clearly cared for the girl. Furthermore, it sounded as if he had things under control. Connie didn’t know much about giving birth, having never done it before, but she knew labor tended to go on for hours.
The bed beckoned her back. She tucked herself in, hoping for bit of rest…and that the midwife nun would arrive before the birth. Thoughts of kissing Wilhelm filled her head as she drifted off. She knew when she was asleep because she began dreaming.
A field of wildflowers spread out before her. Rays of pink, lilac, and gold reached skyward from the horizon, heralding sunrise. A figure, slender and still, sat a few paces away. Connie saw only the person’s back. Dark waves of hair shifted with a faint breeze.
“Leslie?” she asked.
The figure didn’t acknowledge her. All was eerily silent. No birds sang from hidden burns. Grass stalks didn’t rustle as she stepped through them toward the other person. She felt no texture of plant life beneath her feet.
Sensation was muted, like the colors of an old photograph.
The figure had hair similar to Leslie’s, but absent was the prickle of awareness she always felt when she saw her twin after a time apart. “Hello? Can you hear me?”
The figure turned, revealing an angled jaw and a proud nose. He exuded maleness the way the field exuded tranquility, yet he was beautiful in the way few men were, with the perfectly symmetrical features of a high-fashion model or a European stage actor.
“Greetings, mademoiselle.” He extended an elegant hand to her. Shirt sleeves of a light, shimmery material floated around an arm somehow both graceful and masculine. “Join me, if you will. I have been waiting for you.”
He’s French. Hadn’t Leslie mentioned a French shopkeeper in Inverness?
“Do you know who I am?” The question leapt from her lips as hope sparked to life in her chest. Could Leslie be trying to contact her right now? It seemed crazy, but then so did time travel.
“But of course. You are the one so blessed.” He still held out his hand.
Something about the twinkle in his onyx eyes hinted at trustworthiness.
Leslie claimed she could see auras around people sometimes. If there really were such a thing as auras, this man’s would radiate secret knowledge and mischief, but also kindness. A knot of tension in her stomach relaxed as she placed him decisively in the category of people she approved of.
Maybe he knew how she could get home.
She took his hand and let him draw her closer. It was only then she realized she was clothed in the same material as he. On him, it shaped to his body in shimmering trousers and a tunic with billowing sleeves. His cuffs were embroidered with gold. On her, it draped to her calves in a weightless toga with a knot work belt that reminded her of the Celtic relics she’d seen on the cover of a museum brochure in the bed and breakfast.
“One so blessed,” she stated, in no mood for riddles, if that’s what this guy had in mind. “Not exactly what I was hoping for. ‘One who is but a step away from returning to her own time’ would have been my preference.” She didn’t bother pretending she was English. In the dream, it seemed obvious this man had knowledge of her situation.
A pinch of his lips sufficed as an expression of humor as well as a kissing gesture that didn’t quite make a landing on the back of her hand. “Tell me, do you weary of fulfilling the wish of your heart so quickly?”
She sat beside him and hugged her shins, fingering the fabric of her toga. It was softer and thinner than silk. With such insignificant weight, it should have been transparent, but when she looked at it, it shimmered between dove gray and the pale blue of a wintery horizon. Like Wilhelm’s eyes.
“If you say so.”
She snorted. “I know so. So. How do I get back?”
“You must choose your way.”
She glared at him. Riddles. Figured.
The glare slid off him like eggs off Teflon. Despite her best effort, she found herself taking pleasure in the twinkle in his eye.
“So, I’ll have a choice, huh?”
“Oui.”
“When? How?”
He wagged a finger at her. “Do not be so impatient to leave, mademoiselle. How do you know you are not needed?”
She thought about the pregnant girl. “I don’t know how to deliver a baby. I can’t possibly be of help.” She was willing to do what she could, but if the girl or the baby’s chances depended on her, they were all going to be up a creek without a paddle.
The man’s only response was to shrug one elegant shoulder.
She tried a different tack. “Have you spoken with Leslie?”
“Oui. She paid a visit to my shop.”
Connie forgot he was a stranger and hugged his arm in her excitement. “How is she? Is she scared? Will she be able to bring me back? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You misunderstand, mademoiselle. I saw her but the one time, before the solstice. I am sorry. I have not been to Inverness again since then, though I do open my shop from…time to time.”
Great. He hadn’t spoken with Leslie since her one and only visit to his shop. Wait. He’d just admitted to having a shop in Inverness…and opening it from “time to time.” Did that mean she might be able to find him while awake if she went to Inverness?
“Who are you anyway? How are you in my dream? Or is this just some random concoction of my mind and I completely made you up?”
He laughed the way an aristocrat might laugh, making even that seem elegant. “Oh, my dear, no. Your imagination is far too grounded in sense and logic to create something like me.”
Her back straightened. “Hey. I can imagine just fine, thank you.” She’d imagined a satisfying future with Milt, rising up to management in her firm, having children one day.
