by Amy Jarecki
Eva reached for the musty smelling garment. “This will be fine. I can manage from here, thank you.” If Wynda got a peek at Eva’s bra and panties, she’d probably have a heart attack.
The old crow frowned and held out a linen apron. “Have ye anything to cover your head?”
Eva ran her hands over her hair and grimaced. “I’m afraid not.” Darn. The shoulder-length cut would also make her stand out—not only as a lowlife, but people would be suspicious that she’d received public punishment for some misdeed.
“How did your tresses end up shorn?” the servant asked.
Eva thought fast. “English soldiers took a knife to my hair in Dunbar. After serving Lady Comyn, I barely escaped with my life.”
“You attended Lady Comyn, the Countess of March?” she asked with a bit more respect in her tone.
“Aye,” Eva dabbed the corner of her eye for added effect. “After my father was killed fighting with the Hospitallers.”
Wynda patted her chest. “My heavens, why didna Willy tell me your da was a knight?” The serving maid grasped Eva by the elbow and led her to a rickety wooden chair. “It seems ye have been hard torn for luck, lass. Forgive me for being gruff. The news of Master…” Her eyes rimmed with tears.
Eva patted the maid’s hand, her stomach twisting from the lines of lies spewing from her mouth. “I know. I am so sorry to burden you at such a difficult time.”
Wynda shook her head and fanned her face. “’Tis to be endured.” She dug in the trunk and pulled out a blue linen veil and a cord. “This will hide your hair.”
Eva accepted it and sat. “Thank you ever so much. I cannot express how much I appreciate your kindness.”
“We’ll see ye set to rights.” She drew a white linen garment from one of the other trunks. “Ye’ll need a shift as well.”
“I suppose I will.” Leaning forward, Eva cradled her forehead in her hand. “I’ve no idea where I am.”
“Ye’re at Ellerslie, the family croft.” Wynda shook the shift like a rag rug.
Eva snapped upright. “The farm’s named Ellerslie?”
“Aye.”
That explains Blind Harry’s account. They hadn’t even ridden through a village—at least none she’d seen. “What’s the nearest town?”
“Kilmarnock is up the road and a bit to the east.”
Oh my goodness, that’s just north of Fail Monastery.
Wynda gave her the shift and patted her shoulder. “This isn’t much but it will see ye looking presentable.”
Eva looked at the bundle of clothing in her lap and tapped her foot. “Thank you for helping me.”
“’Tis no bother, lass.” Wynda walked toward the door. “Be mindful of the melancholy this day. The funeral will begin soon.”
Offering a thoughtful nod, Eva watched the woman leave.
Immediately, she dug into her inner vest pocket, pulled out her journal and recorded her conversation with the servant. Then she stared at the stone wall. This being the first time Eva had been alone since awaking to a madman with a sword, she breathed a heavy sigh. She’d just survived a night surrounded by men with swords. Come to think of it, she’d even slept soundly.
How did I get here?
A tingling sensation jittered inside her chest.
How do I get home?
She unzipped her vest and pulled out the medallion. Truth is like a beacon…but few choose to follow. What is Walter up to? Did he know I would meet Wallace? Probably. He’d even commented on the magic of the crumbling walls. Is this why he selected me for the dig team?
She shuddered. Lord knew how much she feared sharp objects. Undeniably, everyone in this century armed themselves to the teeth. But she wanted to stay—absolutely had to discover more. This is one chance in a billion. She looked closer at the medallion, hoping for some fine print with instructions on how to transport herself back to the twenty-first century.
Finding nothing, she groaned. Fail Monastery was her only clue. She must make it back there soon.
Right?
In a fluttering heartbeat, she stood and shook out the dress. I’m going to face my fears and stay. And this story’s too good to worry about how I’ll get home—yet. Besides, I can only agonize over one thing at a time.
Reluctantly, she removed her NYU sweatshirt and donned the linen shift. True to its era, the underdress was no more than a loose-fitting smock with a corded tie to close the scooped neck. And as Wynda said, the gown fit well enough. A bit baggy, Eva was grateful for the loose fit rather than tight—and doubly grateful stays weren’t in style yet. She put on the apron and tied it around her waist. Not sexy, but at least it gave the dress a bit of shape.
She pointed her booted toe to the side. The gown hung about ten inches too short. With unknown danger lurking at every turn, Eva wasn’t about to discard her jeans. Besides, Wynda hadn’t offered any woolen stockings. Thank God. Wearing wool directly against her skin gave Eva a rash.
Without a mirror, she did her best to secure the veil atop her head. Though she could live without her NYU sweatshirt, she needed her vest with its pockets. Maybe she could find an old satchel in which to keep her things. She lifted the lid to one of the trunks and rummaged inside. No bag of any sort. Well, the vest would have to remain zipped atop her gown.
She stood in the middle of the room, smoothing her hands over the garments to ensure everything was in place. Lord, the musty smell hadn’t improved, and rather than feeling refreshed, her skin crawled. She even checked the weave for fleas.
Gross.
Sucking it up, Eva shook off her dread. Yes, she’d jump at her first opportunity to bathe, but if she wanted to stay—to get her story, she had to fit in.
Cementing her resolve, she opened the door and listened. Hushed voices came from the main chamber. Uneasy, as if she were crashing a funeral, she crept down the passageway and waited at the edge of the passageway.
Facing her, William kneeled over the body of his father with his head bowed and his eyes closed. Clutching a black book, his lips moved in silent prayer. A few other men encircled the table, but Eva studied only one. The anguish etched on Wallace’s rugged face was undeniable. Over the past year, she’d looked in the mirror enough times to be all too familiar with the pinch between the brows, the drawn mouth—a face in the depths of grief.
I should leave the family alone.
Eva tiptoed to the door. William looked up before she reached for the latch. Never in her life had she seen eyes so expressive. Yes, the misery she’d read in his features was there, but his eyes bore something far deeper. Honor, pride, courage were all conveyed in a look. The most alarming? Deadly determination.
Eva didn’t even want to consider what William Wallace was capable of. Goosebumps rose across her skin as she took in a stuttered breath. She bowed her head, curtseyed and hastened out the door.
***
As the mass ended, black clouds moved in from the west—just like the black mood hanging over the gathering of mourners at Da’s gravesite. William could have sworn iron rods drilled between his shoulders while he listened to his mother weep during Blair’s chanting of the Latin funeral mass. With his mother’s every tear, William’s gut twisted tighter. Blaming himself for his father’s death would never bring back Da, but he was to blame nonetheless. He hadn’t arrived in time, but by God he’d ensure the murderers would be punished. On that he made his silent vow.
William scooped a handful of earth into his palm and sprinkled it over Da’s white death linens. “I will vindicate your murder if it is the last thing I do on this earth.” Sloppy droplets of rain wet the newly turned soil as if the angels wept with him.
Uncle Reginald Crawford, the Sheriff of Ayr gave him a stern look as the funeral procession headed back down the hill. “You’d best leave it be, lad.”
It was a good thing William’s sword had been left with his saddle. In the past year, his uncle’s show of support for King Edward’s cause grew thin. To maintain his appointment as she
riff, Reginald needed to pay fealty to Edward, though William suspected the sheriff turned a blind eye to his small group of rebels. As long as William didn’t cause too much of a stir, his uncle demonstrated his true loyalty by keeping silent.
But now the English dog had dealt a blow directly to family. William stopped and glared down into his uncle’s face. “I will not kiss an English king’s arse. ’Tis time to make a stand.”
The rain pelted harder.
Uncle Reginald affected a cautionary arch to his brow. “Be mindful of your words. Men—Scottish lads have been hung for treason speaking as ye do.”
“How can it be treason to speak out against a foreign king?” William’s stomach clamped into a knot. “Do ye intend to turn your back to the tyranny spreading around us?”
Uncle’s eyes shifted. “A man must ken when to pick his battles, lad.”
William leaned in. “A man must also ken when ’tis time to strap on his sword and fight for freedom.”
“With talk like that...” Uncle held up a finger. “I’m afraid ye will end up in a grave beside your da.”
Wallace narrowed his gaze. “My death is an absolute certainty. The only question is when.” It was all William could do not to wrap his fingers around the sheriff’s neck—even if he was kin.
“But—”
“No. There will be no more talk. Now is a time for action.” William turned to leave, but first regarded his uncle over his shoulder. “Do what ye must to protect your lands. I’ll not take an honest living away from any man.” Then he strode away.
By the time William made it down the hill, the squall had passed, dusk had settled and his men had set to turning a pig on a spit.
Blair handed him a tankard. “A bit of whisky ought to take that scowl off your face.”
Grasping the handle, William held it up, the amber liquid sloshing in the bottom of the cup. “My thanks, though I doubt my spirits would rise even if I drowned myself in a barrel full.”
Together they sat against a log near the fire—something they’d done often in happier times.
“Ye’ll feel a bit better once we’ve found the culprits who did this.” Blair sipped from his own tankard. “I ken I will.”
William joined him, the fiery spirit warming his insides. When he looked up, he met Eva’s stare from across the fire. The burning from whisky on an empty stomach kindled a raging fire that spread through his chest. Now she’d donned a proper dress, she looked ever so bonny.
“I kent that lad was a lass,” Blair said.
Willy took a longer draw from his cup. “’Tis a shame ye’ve taken up the cloth and I’ve this miserable band of patriots to lead. Someone should court such a delectable morsel.”
“Bah.” Blair swiped his hand through the air. “Women only bring misery. We’re both better off without them—or her, bonny or nay.”
William licked lips and smirked. “Ever the practical one.”
“Ye’d best believe it. I wouldna have taken my sacred vows had I wanted a wife. And after we’ve driven the English out of Scotland, I suggest ye return to Dundee and take yours.”
“Perhaps I will.” William sipped, watching Eva over the rim of his tankard. But this bloody war may never end.
Sitting beside Robbie Boyd, Eva easily chatted with the lad. Robbie’s face was aglow as he spread his arms wide, spinning some ridiculous yarn, no doubt. How a lad of two and ten could enrapture a grown woman, William had no idea. He himself had never been particularly comfortable around lassies. They were inordinately frail creatures and always looked at him as if he were some sort of monstrous Goliath.
Eva listened to the lad intently like she set his every word to memory. William picked up a stick and threw it into the fire. Ballocks, the wet-eared lad will be proposing marriage by the eve’s end.
Having the woman consorting with his men went against William’s every grain. He hadn’t ruled out the possibility that she could be a spy. Bloody oath, in the blink of an eye, she could turn backstabber.
Narrowing his eyes, William studied her. How could a woman concoct such an outlandish tale as hers? And her speech was nothing like he’d ever heard.
William was a stalwart representative of the common good. He may not have taken up the cloth like Blair, but he would protect every living Scottish soul and fight for their liberty. Born to hearty, common stock, God had given William gifts most men only hoped for. Educated in languages and the art of war, he aimed to use everything in his power to help unshackle the commoners—the people who comprised the heartbeat of a nation.
If Eva, with her broad tongue, truly was Scottish born, then he would care for her just as he would any other subject of the Scottish crown. That she honored William’s father by attending the funeral and remained prayerful whilst standing at a respectful distance spoke volumes about her character.
I doubt she’s a spy.
Perhaps she could remain at Ellerslie whilst she awaited suitable employment? He might even see the lass from time to time. She certainly was pleasant to look upon. With Ellerslie under Uncle Reginald’s watch, she would be as safe there as anywhere.
Robbie draped his arm around Eva’s shoulders and leaned in to her with a hearty laugh.
William sprang to his feet, marched around the fire pit and glared at the lad. “Go fashion a pallet in a horse stall for Miss Eva and find her some bedclothes.” He panned his gaze across the faces of his men. “The lass is under my protection. If anyone dare lay a hand on her, he’ll answer to me.”
She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with firelight—yet they expressed undue sadness—the same grief clamping his heart like a vise. “Thank you.”
Blast it. Why does she have to be so damned bonny? “Ye should have gone on posing as a lad. Now ye’ll have half the men wanting to court ye.”
She brushed her hands over her skirts. “As I recall, it was you who insisted I don a gown.”
“Aye, but ye didna tell me how fetching ye’d look.”
She drew a hand over her mouth as if stifling a grin. “I could use a bath, a comb and something with which to clean my teeth. Only then will I be somewhat presentable.”
“Bah.” William sat in Robbie’s place. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh?” Those damnable red eyebrows arched.
He’d started, so he might as well blurt out what he’d come over to say. “Ye should remain at Ellerslie until I can find a place for ye. Ye’ll have Uncle Reginald’s protection—and ye’ll not starve.”
She looked at him with a pointed stare. “Are you staying?”
“Nay, lass. Not while my father’s murderer runs free.”
“But I’m here to write your story.” She crossed her defiant arms—far too self-assured for a woman. “I’m certain of it. How can I observe if I am tucked away on a croft?”
Oh no, he wasn’t about to let a wench gain the upper hand. “As I said afore, no woman should be riding with a mob of rebels.”
She had the gall to raise her chin and look him in the eye. “What about a lad?”
“Och, ye dunna make a convincing lad, especially with the way ye squeal.” He leaned in to her and lowered his voice. “If the times were different, I’d court ye myself.”
Eva’s gaze softened and drifted down his body, the tip of her tongue moistening the corner of her mouth. “If only we weren’t worlds apart.”
Chapter Seven
Eva awoke with a start. Chilled to the bone, her hip had pushed a hole through the straw and ground into the packed earth beneath the pallet Robbie had fashioned. Positive she had a bruise, she rubbed the sore spot and sat up. Shrouded in midnight hues, she could barely see the stall gate. Of all the conveniences in the modern world, she missed electricity the most—then running water, a mattress, her car, men without knives and swords strapped to their bodies…the list went on.
The blanket dropped to her waist and she added central heating to the litany.
She pulled a bit of straw from her hair and sti
fled a sneeze. Lord, she thought she’d had it rough living in a caravan at the dig site? What she wouldn’t give for a night on that foam mattress without barn smells tickling her nose.
She startled when a lamenting noise came from near the stall’s gate. Initially, it didn’t sound human. But gradually the deep wail grew louder. Eva leaned toward it. Someone’s trying not to cry.
Crawling to the gate, she unfastened the hook. The blasted thing swung back. Before she could skitter aside, a man fell into her, so large Eva crashed to her back, sprawling on the dirt floor.
“Jeez.”
An eerie ray of light shone into the stall.
“William?”
He quickly sat up and swiped his hand across his eyes. “Forgive me. I did not intend to wake ye.” Ever the guardian, he’d been watching her door.
“No, I was awake.” Eva kneeled beside him. “I have nightmares and wake up in a sweat nearly every night.” Rocking forward, she peered down the corridor. Good, no one had seen them.
He squared his shoulders. “Ye as well?”
“Aye,” she said, settling more into her native brogue, which was still a far cry from Auld Scots. “I’m haunted by knives and swords.”
He dragged his fingers through his hair. “And I am haunted by all the faces of the weak and dying.”
She shuddered. “I don’t know which is worse.”
He took in a breath and scrubbed his hands over face. “I’m so driven to fight. ’Tis as if Longshanks himself is calling me out. And now the bastard has struck my own kin.”
Her heart twisting into a knot, Eva slid an arm around his shoulder. “I’m so sorry your father fell victim to this mess.”
“Too many Scotsmen and women have lost their lives for naught.” He leaned away from her and glanced over his shoulder. “Ye should go back to your pallet.”
“I will,” she whispered, resting her head against him and smoothing her hand over his back. The loneliness night brought was palpable. No one knew that better than Eva—and all too often there was nowhere to turn for comfort. “But not yet.”
William didn’t respond—only bowed his head and coughed.
