by L. L. Muir
He just grunted and put her on the chaise with his daughter.
“Stay put, mind ye,” he said and headed for the hallway. Then he turned back, as if he couldn’t stand to leave. He looked embarrassed, but took a deep breath and asked, “Ye’ve nae come to...steal away the child, have ye?”
CHAPTER FIVE
The question was poor form, but Heathcliff could not seem to leave the room without being certain the wee bairn was safe with the strange woman. The incredulous look on her face was answer enough, though, so he turned on his heel and hurried away, to find something in the kitchens for the three of them. It was well past midnight, but it did not seem as though any of them were ready for sleep just yet. And in case the Man in the Moon decided to add another to their little gathering, they’d all need a bite or two to sustain them.
Man in the Moon, indeed.
After what he’d just learned, naught should surprise him. And fear of yet another surprise had led him to ask such a bold question. He could not bear to return to the parlor and find the pair of them gone. It might just lay him low.
The cheese was a bit dry, but the bread was fresh. And although the apple pie had been left for his Christmas supper, he imagined tonight would be a better time to celebrate. What was a holiday when compared with the wee lass being rescued from his neglect?
A shiver rolled through him when he remembered the feel of her cold hand in his. He’d never felt such on a person who yet lived. But perhaps children were different, turning cold as quickly as they warmed. He would just have to keep her with him at all times until she was big enough to make her own heat, that was all.
He prepared enough mulled wine for two, enough buttermilk for three, then put it all on a heavy tray with the food and hurried back to the parlor. He stopped short, however, when he realized he’d interrupted.
The woman was stripping off her clothes before the fire. The child watched in wonder, but he doubted the look on his face was quite the same.
Her coat was draped around the shoulders of a chair. Her strange red boots sat together on the floor, the firelight glancing across their surface made it appear as if they were made of glass. Upon the seat lay the neatly folded black tunic that sparkled as if covered in stars. What strange clothes they wore in America. The tartan gown she was currently lifting off her head was of poor quality; he could nearly see through the plaid material.
But alas, she was still wearing breeches beneath—not that he’d wished otherwise, of course. It would not do, after all, to have the younger lass believe that stripping oneself bare was appropriate behavior for the parlor.
He took a moment to be pleased over his new fatherly attitude. Perhaps he might be a passable guardian after all. If he could only keep the cherub alive. She was like some wee lamb that needed him to watch over her as she grew—and likely to keep the wolves away once she was full-grown.
He shook his head, disgusted with himself, standing there judging other wolves while he himself watched a woman remove her clothes.
There were a surprising lot of them and she was growing leaner by the moment. And younger as well.
He only watched with one eye as she removed one sweater, then another. A rather over-large shirt came off next. But when she bent to push a pair of odd gray breeches from her legs, he closed his eyes completely. Unfortunately, the hour had weakened his will and his eyes flew open again of their own accord, only to find she wore yet another pair of breeches. Only the last were cut off just at the knee. Between that point and the tops of her sadly short stockings, her legs were bare for all and sundry to see!
Finally, it looked as if she had removed all she was going to, though he waited a moment to be sure. Then he cleared his throat in case she meant to cover her legs before he walked fully into the room. Instead, she sat to one side of the cherub, which left room for him on the opposite side. At the moment, he thought it might be wiser to go sit outside in the snow than to sit so close to the pile of clothes so recently wrapped around the woman’s body. For she was, indeed a woman, though much younger and more fit than he could have imagined beneath all that cloth.
Indeed, since the distraction of her substantial girth had been removed, he was better able to appreciate how lovely was Miss Brianna Colby. Her expressive blue eyes caught him staring and she blushed. The fire had dried her hair to a fairy blond, which looked even whiter next to the pink of her skin.
Silently, he sent the Man in the Moon a begrudging thank you. Aloud, he asked, “Were ye wearing everything you have, lass?” He placed the tray on a small table and moved it all in front of the fire before taking the seat open to him.
She laughed. It was an honest laugh, not like the ladies at court who flirted freely with him and would wed his money and titles without a thought to his grandmother’s reputation. He wondered how much of this one’s story had been as honest as her laugh.
“I was wearing everything I could find in my suitcase, actually. If I could have figured out how to wear the suitcase, I probably would have tried that too.”
“A suit case? Some sort of luggage?”
She gave him a narrow look. “You’ve never heard of suitcases? I don’t think so.”
“I would like to see this thing.”
“Even if I believed you’ve never seen a suitcase, I don’t think the driver left it. I can’t believe he left me. I’m going to make sure he gets in trouble for screwing up so badly. If he had picked me up at the station, I would have never had to rent that car, so I wouldn’t have slid off the road into the water. I would have never...”
The woman paused as if suddenly mired in thought. But then her countenance changed. She looked down at the lassie and smiled.
“But then I would have never met this little pumpkin.”
His eyes met hers over the wee one’s head, but the woman quickly looked away. Would that she were as happy to have met him. But still, it was kind of her to consider how her little rant affected the child. A motherly instinct to be sure. And wouldn’t the cherub be needing a mother?
He shook his head. The woman was clearly not meant for him. He was appalled he’d even imagined such a thing. It would be foolish to harbor more such thoughts until he’d had a few hours’ sleep.
He pulled the small table closer and began serving. The child looked at the pie and wrinkled her nose, but took a large piece of cheese and a slice of bread. The way she relished her food, for the third time that day, made him wonder if she’d ever had much to eat before arriving on his stoop. He tried to coax her into eating just a bite of pie, then lifted the fork to the woman’s mouth, giving her no choice but to take what he offered. She choked, but whether she choked on the pie or the rush of blood to her face, he could not tell.
He was surprised when he felt that same rush. He’d clearly gone mad.
“Look, lassie,” he said. “Miss Colby likes the pie. If ye want to grow up to be as pretty, ye must eat more than just cheese and bread.
Too late, he heard the words he’d allowed out of his mouth. Good lord! But his madness was forgotten when the wee lassie dropped open her gob eager for a bite of pie. Perhaps he would make a right clever father after all. After she swallowed, she jumped up to look at her face in a small mirror set low on the wall, and he and Miss Colby burst into laughter.
“She must think the pie works right quickly,” he whispered.
“Magic pie,” the woman whispered back. “Or else she’s never seen her face in a mirror before. How old is she?”
It was a simple question, but he was afraid to tell her the truth, afraid he’d be found lacking and the child would be taken away. For some reason, he felt this stranger had the power to hurt him that much, even if she had not the inclination. And if he’d learned anything at all from his oddly talented grandmother, it was to be mindful of forebodings.
“What is it?” she asked and placed a hand on his forearm. “Maybe you would rather I mind my own business, but there might be some way for me to help you. For some reaso
n I landed on your doorstep tonight. And if it happened for a reason, then I want to help you.”
He searched her eyes and found only honesty looking back at him. Well, honesty, and perhaps a little interest. Her gaze kept dropping to his neck for some reason. Had he lost a button?
“I surrender,” he said, and sat back with a sigh. “A woman brought her to my door only this morning. She claimed the child was mine now, and that the girl did not speak. I was so surprised. Mind ye, the child canna be mine in truth, but while I crouched to take a good look at her and to assure her she was safe here, the nurse slipped away. I could not run after her without leaving the child on her own.” He explained how he’d sent the servants off to their families for the holidays. He and the child had been quite alone and unable to carry on much of a conversation, until Brianna Colby had pushed her way into the castle.
“You’re not married then? No Mrs... Uh...”
“Heathcliff, Laird McKinnon, at your service. There is no Lady McKinnon.” It may have been the first time in his adult life when the confession sounded like good news to his ears.
“Heathcliff? That’s your first name?” She looked as if she might burst out laughing. At least she’d gotten used to looking at him without blushing—for the most part. He had that effect on many a lass, for all the good it did him once they discovered who he was.
“My given name, yes. You find it amusing for some reason?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sure you get teased all the time about Wuthering Heights. It’s just that my middle name is Catherine.”
He felt as though he’d been saying as much all the long day, but he said it again. “I doona understand.”
She rolled her lovely eyes. “You don’t know Wuthering Heights? I thought every British kid had to know the classics.”
“Classics?”
She gave him a kindly smile that made him feel like a simple child. Though he liked the smile, he cared not for the feeling.
“Books. Wuthering Heights is my favorite, written by Emily Bronte. Published in 1847, I think. Maybe ‘48. I’ve read it dozens of times.”
His blood ran cold, pushing a chill to every extreme of his body. His grandmother’s voice rang in his ears. When a Muir gets a feeling, everyone best keep on their toes. Though he was only one quarter Muir, there was enough in his blood to make the townsfolk leery of him. Perhaps they were justified in their suspicions after all. For his chill tasted of something else as well and whispered in his head...
Something wicked this way comes.
“Do you have this book with ye, lass?” He tried his damnedest to appear casual.
She frowned and rolled those eyes once again. “It’s not like I carry a copy with me when I go on vacation. But I can tell you the story.”
“I’d rather ye tell me that date again. When did ye say it was published?”
“1847. I think. I could be wrong, but it’s somewhere around there.”
“Nay, lass. Ye’re mistaken. Surely ye meant to say 1747.”
She shook her head. “No. I’m sure it was mid-nineteenth century. Victorian era.”
“Victorian era? Mid-nineteenth century? Just what year do ye suppose it is now?”
“Uh, twenty twelve.”
She gave him that indulgent smile again and he most definitely did not like it. In fact, it was best he not appreciate anything about the woman since she was obviously mad. No matter what she’d said about wearing her underthings to protect her hair, the woman was not right in the head. And if his doorstep continued to be as busy on the morrow, his family castle would be a lunatic asylum by New Year’s Day.
No matter how she might help him learn to speak with the child, he would get the daft young woman on her way in the morning, to get her good and far from his young charge. God, or Fate, had gotten it wrong. Sending Brianna Colby to his door was not going to solve his problems. And since even the bloody Man in the Moon hadn’t come to his aid, it might be best if he stopped answering his door altogether.
Someone slammed the knocker on the front door. Then they slammed it again. And again. The sound resembled that of a blacksmith striking his anvil.
On another day it might have been amusing to have his thought interrupted by such banging. But not this day, for he was certain Something Wicked...
...had arrived.
CHAPTER SIX
As Heathcliff reached for the doorknob, hairs arose on the nape of his neck. But he was no coward. Not answering his door had been a silly notion. Of course he would open it and deal with whomever stood upon his stoop.
He ignored the fact that he was unable to breathe while he swung the door wide, but there was no one there. At his feet was a strange square box covered with green cloth. A missive was perched upon it, growing soggy under a covering of snowflakes that sparkled as they melted.
He place the missive between his teeth and lifted the box, nearly falling backward when it turned out to be so much lighter than expected—quite like his latest guest.
Was this her luggage? Had the coachman come again? He must still be lurking nearby since the knocking had stopped when he was but a few steps from the door.
A moment later, with a lantern in hand, Heathcliff ran out into the darkness, searching for the coachman’s footprints in the snow, or whatever person might have delivered the green box. He stomped to the steps that led to the ruins of the ancient wall walk and, holding his lantern high, looked over the road that led down the hill. Nothing. Not so much as a hoof print was visible.
A sudden wind pushed at him, sent snowflakes to dance around his lantern, urged him to retreat from the wall before he lost his balance.
“The snow has but drifted over the tracks, that is all,” he murmured and went back inside. By the time he stepped back inside, he believed it.
The wee lass was asleep with her head in the lap of the madwoman. The latter looked at him expectantly.
“Where did you go?” she asked.
“Someone left this box at the door. A rabbit, I would suspect, for as quickly as they got away. I caught sight of no one.” He came to stand before her and thanks to a small handle, he was able to pull the case from behind his back.
“My suitcase!” Her face lit with excitement, but she paused to move out from under the child and beckoned him away from the sleeping bairn. “It had to have been that man.”
“The coachman?”
“Yes. Who else would have it? Who else would know where I was?”
“I thought the same.” He thought some other things as well, but was not yet ready to share them.
She performed some strange ritual around the edges of the box and the top lifted away. She then showed him how she’d used the flap to keep her feet dry while she donned all her clothing. Heathcliff could not help but laugh.
How could this sharp-witted woman also be so daft?
“You stopped smiling. What’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “Ye puzzle me, is all. Ye seem so clever, and yet ye know not the current year. But I wonder, do ye measure the years differently in America?”
“What? I’m sorry. I don’t understand the question.” She collapsed onto one Queen Anne chair and he sank onto the other.
“I only know that today is the twenty third of December in the year eighteen hundred six, and ye claim the year is twenty-twelve.”
She laughed. “Very funny. Eighteen oh six. Is that supposed to explain why you don’t have a phone and you don’t know what a suitcase is? That I’ve somehow traveled through time to teach you and the girl how to use sign language?” She laughed again, but looked a mite worried.
His stomach lurched, but he ignored it and said lightly, “When one is rumored to have witches in the family, ‘tis fair foolish to speculate in such a way. To do so is to invite...mischief.”
“What? Wait. Witches? You have witches in your family?” She sat up a bit straighter and looked a bit too excited by the prospect for his liking.
“My grandmother was rumor
ed to be such. She merely had odd...talents.” And he missed her dearly.
“What kind of odd talents? Please tell me she didn’t have a talent for time travel.”
Truth be told, he might suspect as much, as his grandmother had claimed many a strange thing would happen in the future. He knew not how she acquired her knowledge, or if she merely suffered from wild imaginings.
He suddenly remembered the missive and retrieved it from the entryway. The envelope was quite soggy. He hoped the message was still legible.
“This was left with yer luggage.”
“Probably an apology for taking off with my bag in the first place. And he still has my purse, with my airline ticket, my credit cards, and my passport. But why give me back the suitcase and not my handbag? If he’s going to take off with my passport and airline ticket, why risk bringing me an empty suitcase? It just doesn’t make sense.”
“These are valuables he has taken?”
She sighed. “You’re kidding, right? I can’t get back home without them. I can’t fly. I can’t buy food. I can’t prove who I am.” She stood and began to pace, but stopped. “I can at least cancel my credit cards if you have the internet.”
He walked quietly to the other side of the room and sat the envelope on the little table before the fire for the time being, afraid it might fall apart in his hands if he tried to open it before it dried. Not wishing her to read too much on his face, he spoke to her while looking into the fire.
“I am truly sorry I do not have these things ye need. We shall just have to wait for the storm to end before we can do aught to solve yer dilemmas.”
Her gasp forced him to turn.
“It’s the twenty-first century, for hellsakes. They’re giving iPads to children in Africa, and you don’t even have the internet? This guy can take every penny I have if he knows what he’s doing. Holy crap! I’ll have to move back in with my mother!”
