Her eyes widened. “Wrong place?”
“Tell Rheade Robertson to search near Loch Bhac.”
“Loch Bhac?”
“Aye. He’ll ken where it is. There’s a burn, on the west side of the loch. The man they seek is hiding under a giant rock, sort of a cave. In the future they refer to it as Graham’s Rock, and the burn is known as Graham’s Burn.”
She looked overwhelmed. “I dinna ken where Rheade is.”
“He’s at Blair.”
“But I canna—”
“Send Joss.”
“Joss,” she murmured.
“Aye,” a female voice declared. “’Twas that great lump carried ye in here.”
She opened her eyes, but he suspected she no longer saw him, only the Infirmirian who stood by her bed.
His heart was at peace as he watched her drift back to sleep. But there was one more thing he’d learned. She ought to know. “In a few years, ye’ll birth twins,” he whispered in her ear. “My nephews.”
THE RETURN JOURNEY
Satisfied he’d accomplished his mission, Braden sensed that if he walked north, he would sooner or later reach the River Forth. There was no point lingering in the fifteenth century. His brothers had died with him, and according to John Reade, Margaret had journeyed to meet her betrothed after the deaths of their parents in Argyll. It was his fault they’d likely died of grief after the loss of three sons.
Incredible as it seemed, his destiny lay with Charlotte, more than three hundred years in the future. He only hoped drowning in the Forth would bring him back to her. The plan had succeeded when he’d drowned in Linne Fharair. The Forth was a saltwater tidal river. He’d survived two drownings but fear churned in his gut at the prospect of undergoing the terrifying experience again. How often should a man tempt fate?
Determined to believe all would be well, he reminded himself as he walked that he simply had to repeat the appropriate mantra as the waters claimed him.
Charlotte Ogilvie, Inbhir Nis, 1746.
He chanted the words over and over until he came to the banks of the Forth. He glanced up at the rising moon, wondering if Charlotte was gazing at it too. He hoped she was in good health. Mayhap they’d conceived a child in their brief time together. He gathered the auld plaid around him, made sure there was no one nearby who might rush to his aid, and strode into the cold river. By the time the frigid water reached his male parts, he’d muttered a thousand curses. Scottish seas must be the coldest in the entire world. But he chanted his mantra through chattering teeth.
Charlotte Ogilvie, Inbhir Nis, 1746.
Up to his neck in water he closed his eyes, but kept chanting.
Charlotte Ogilvie, Inbhir Nis, 1746.
Instinctively he held his breath when his feet no longer touched bottom and he went under, but the chant went on in his mind.
Charlotte Ogilvie, Inbhir Nis, 1746.
As the water filled his lungs and panic gripped his heart he chanted.
Charlotte Ogilvie, Inbhir Nis, 1746.
When blackness overtook him his last thought was that if he’d listened to Callum’s warnings, none of this would have happened.
KNIGHT OF INBHIR NIS
Edinburgh, Scotland, 1750
Wearing her signature blue bonnet, Charlotte completed the reading of the first chapter of her latest novel, closed the book with trembling hands and looked up nervously at her audience. She hoped her voice had carried to the people at the rear of the crowd. The only thing she’d been able to hear was the thudding of her heart in her ears.
She hadn’t known what to expect when she’d given in to insistent demands she appear at John’s Coffee House in Edinburgh’s Parliament Close in order to offer a reading from her acclaimed novel, Time Travels of a Golden God.
After two long years of praying for Braden’s return, she’d finally accepted he wasn’t coming back. She’d poured her grief into her writing and taken Braden’s advice to reveal her identity to her publisher. As he’d predicted, instead of shock and outrage, the news had resulted in instant fame and popularity. For a man of the fourteen hundreds, her husband had shown remarkably good instincts about her century.
She still missed him keenly, but she had Fraser James Stewart Ogilvie, her three year old son who was a replica of his father and the apple of his Aunt Augusta’s eye. It was nothing short of miraculous; the birth of her child had turned a mean spirited sister into a doting maiden aunt.
Proceeds from the novels had provided her little family with a comfortable lifestyle. The elegant Edinburgh townhouse wasn’t opulent, but it was located in Dean Village, a good neighborhood a world away from the turmoil still plaguing the Highlands. She’d worried Braden might not find her if she moved to Edinburgh, but her uncle’s reassignment to Fort William made the decision easier. She was respected in society as a widowed Scottish author whose husband had tragically disappeared in the Highlands, like too many others after the Rebellion.
John Reade had taken up residence in the city. She saw him frequently. He made no secret of his deep regard for her, but she’d told him she would never love another. Braden held her heart.
John was in the process of establishing a school of music at the university of Edinburgh and, to his credit, spent a great deal of his spare time perusing old documents for any clue as to what might have happened to Braden after he’d appeared to Margaret. For they had no doubt he had done so. History bore it out.
It was John who had urged her to accept the persistent invitations from the coffee house.
Upon first entering she’d been surprised to see a number of women in attendance. “Lawyers and judges,” John had said sarcastically, “there for consultations and their twelve o’clock dram.”
Emboldened by the spicy aroma of coffee, she’d embarked on her reading.
Now, mouths fell open as she closed the book.
Then the applause began. Then the cheering. Then the foot stomping as men rose to their feet.
From the back of the packed room, John beamed, nodding and clapping.
~~~
After what seemed like hours of signing copies of her book and accepting congratulations, Charlotte made her way to John’s side. She was light-headed, having consumed several cups of coffee pressed on her by well-wishers.
He kissed her cheek. “Brava!” he chortled.
“My hand aches,” she complained. “I’m ready to be taken home.”
In truth, she was rarely apart from her son and already missed him.
John’s shoulders stiffened. “There’s something you should see first,” he said.
She knitted her brows. Normally compliant with whatever he suggested, the coffee had emboldened her. “No. I insist. Home.”
He grasped her hand and the look in his eyes told her he’d discovered a clue. “Braden?” she asked, her throat suddenly dry as dust.
“Maybe,” he replied.
He led her from the coffee house. “We’ll walk,” he insisted.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To the university library,” he replied. “The walk will do you good.”
She filled her lungs. Edinburgh didn’t boast the fresh air of the open country, but she felt better. If he’d discovered something about Braden he could easily have kept it hidden. Being the noble man he was, he’d chosen to share it with her. A headache throbbed at the base of her skull. She resolved never to drink coffee again. It seemed to have made her heart beat too fast.
They were the recipients of indignant stares when they rushed into the library, she breathless and panting, he still dragging her by the hand, finally settling her in a hard wooden chair next to a large table. “Wait here,” he said before striding off.
She studied the swirls of the wood grain, hands clasped in her lap, determined not to let hope creep into her heart, until John returned with a large bound folio and opened it in front of her. She wrinkled her nose at the musty odor and gazed in puzzlement at the indecipherable medieval scri
pt on parchment. It was an official document judging by the heavy beribboned seal.
“Look at the date,” John said. “Near the two signatures under the main paragraph.”
She peered closely. “Maria R,” she read, “et Jacobus, anno domini One Thousand, Five Hundred and Sixty-Seven, Holyrood.”
“R stands for Regina, Latin for Queen,” John explained. “It’s the marriage of Mary, Queen of Scots and James Hepburn, Earl Bothwell.”
She searched the recesses of her mind. The confusing story of the life and death of the ill-fated, thrice-wed Scottish queen were beyond her grasp at this moment. “But what has this to do with Braden?”
“Look at the list below of people who were in attendance.”
She squinted at the extravagant brown curlicues. “There must be at least two hundred names,” she complained.
John moved a hovering finger down the list. It came to rest near the bottom. “There.”
She stared at the parchment, slowly deciphering the archaic script. “Callum Ogilvie. Gentleman of Oban,” she whispered, her heart thudding in her ears.
But she couldn’t give voice to the name written below it.
Sir Braden Ogilvie. Knight of Inbhir Nis.
She traced a finger over his name. “Braden, what on earth are ye doing in 1567?” she croaked.
Her outburst garnered indignant stares from people sitting nearby. John put his hands on her shoulders. “Wait outside for me while I return this before we are ejected for causing a disturbance. I sense you’ll want to cry.”
He gathered up the binder and strode away as she slowly came to her feet and dragged her numbed body to the busy street where she leaned her forehead against a stone pillar. “Knight of Inbhir Nis,” she whispered, unable to stem the choking tears. John was right again, except she didn’t simply want to cry. She wanted to howl, scream, tear out her hair.
He had tried to return but ended up in the wrong century, apparently with one of his brothers. And he hadn’t forgotten her. He’d been in Holyrood Palace, in this very city two hundred years before, calling himself a Knight of Inbhir Nis. At the wedding of a Queen!
She looked up at the overcast sky. “And ye have a son, sweet knight.”
“And a famous wife,” John whispered, linking arms with her.
She leaned against him. “Do you believe he’ll ever make it back to us?”
John patted her hand. “I’m confident he’ll try.”
PART TWO
CALLUM
A HEAVENLY BED
Callum awoke in a very comfortable bed. He stretched, luxuriating in the softness of the mattress, inhaling the clean scent of the linens. Was it lavender? He must have gone straight to heaven after drowning in Corryvreckan, which was only fitting. Unlike his philandering older brother he’d remained chaste throughout his youth, intending to save himself for his bride. It was typical of Braden that he hadn’t listened to Callum’s warnings about the flood tide. Now look where they were—both dead, along with their younger brother, Donal.
The chamber was windowless, but he assumed day had dawned since grey light showed ‘neath the sill of the door. The heavenly bed was enough to give a man a morning erection. He cupped his balls to ease the pleasant ache at his groin.
His eyes blinked open. First off, he doubted angels had erections, and secondly, why was he still clothed in the garments he’d died in? He’d expected white robes. This was a strange sort of heaven.
He wiggled his shoulders, then chuckled. No wings.
His amusement was short-lived when a piercing scream next to his ear nigh on deafened him. He catapulted from ‘twixt the linens. Heart beating too fast, he scrambled to his feet, perplexed to see a young lassie sitting bolt upright in the same bed he’d occupied moments before, clutching the linens to her chin.
Try as he might, not a single word emerged from his dry throat. It was difficult to see the girl’s face for the masses of curly red hair, but she was clearly terrified. He’d believed heaven was a place without fear of any sort.
She stopped screaming, inhaled deeply, then screamed again, never taking her wide eyes off him.
He tried desperately to think of a way to stop the noise. If The Almighty believed he’d frightened a virgin, he might lose his place in heaven. Without a second thought, he lunged onto the bed, cupped her face in his hands and clamped his mouth over hers.
He wasn’t sure if it was the inexplicable notion she was a virgin, or the startled squeal that emanated from her throat, but suddenly he wanted to deepen the kiss. To his surprise, after a brief struggle, her lips opened to his coaxing tongue and her body relaxed. Her moist lips and the warmth of her mouth teased his arousal.
If this was heaven, he liked it. But his euphoria came to an abrupt end when the door crashed open and armed men rushed in. “Seize him,” one of them cried.
AINSLIE TAVERN
Ainslie Tavern, Edinburgh, Scotland, April 19th 1567
Lexi Hepburn trembled, uncertain as to who terrified her more, the intruder or her uncle James who’d burst into the chamber, sword drawn.
“Seize him,” her uncle thundered, his freckled face turning orange. “What the fyke is going on here?”
It galled Lexi when he seemed to direct his anger at her rather than at the interloper now on his knees with a dagger at his throat, his long hair held fast in the meaty fist of the Earl of Huntly. Did her guardian believe she’d invited the youth into her chamber?
It was true his unexpected kiss had roused strange feelings, but her determination to answer the call to the religious life remained intact. Did her fearsome uncle know so little about her he doubted the sincerity of that vocation? She had to atone for the deaths of her parents. Surely James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell understood. She wanted to deploy these objections, but indignation and fear stoppered them in her throat. She drew her knees closer to her chest, balled her fists into the linens and chewed her knuckles.
Her uncle turned his glowering gaze to the criminal. “Ye’d best tell me who ye are and what ye’re doing in my niece’s bedchamber,” he said in a low menacing voice, “‘afore I let Huntly slice off yer head.”
For some reason beyond her reasoning, an urge to beg the miscreant’s forgiveness surged up her constricted throat. If she hadn’t screamed he wouldn’t now be in peril of his life. “He didna hurt me, uncle,” she murmured.
The youth turned his head as far as his captor’s grip would allow, but only confusion darkened his eyes. Heartsick, she blinked away tears. Why was she forever driven to seek absolution where there was never a chance of it?
“I’m Callum Ogilvie,” the wretch rasped. “Late of Oban.”
His deep, lilting accent echoed in her bones, making her toes curl.
“Ye’re a long way from home, laddie,” Huntly growled, pressing his knee into his spine.
“Aye,” Ogilvie replied sadly.
The despair in his voice touched her heart. It struck her that his resignation had naught to do with the prospect of his imminent execution.
She was startled when a man she recognised as the Earl of Moray stepped out of the shadows near the doorway. “Ye canna kill him here, James,” he said to her uncle. “We dinna need unwanted attention.”
Lexi swiped the linens across her watery eyes. What were these powerful men doing in this tavern, together, evidently concerned with secrecy? Her uncle had undertaken to deliver her to the nunnery after his acquittal on murder charges, but mentioned nothing about meeting fellow earls.
A portly cleric she didn’t recognise entered the conversation. “I canna condone bloodshed,” he declared. “We must conclude our business with haste and go our separate ways. I suggest a quick marriage to preserve your niece’s honor.”
Lexi gasped. “But uncle, my vocation.”
“Ye should have considered that before,” he replied gruffly. “Get him to his feet,” he told Huntly. “My lord Bishop of Ross, ye can do the honors.”
SWIRLING EMOTIONS
&nbs
p; Lexi had never liked her uncle. He’d been acquitted of complicity in the murder of Queen Mary’s husband, Lord Darnley, but she believed him responsible for the explosion that had levelled Kirk o’ Field two months before. She often wondered if her own dear departed father was in truth James Hepburn’s brother or if there’d been some inexplicable mix up at birth. Mayhap if she’d confided her suspicions concerning her uncle’s character, her parents might still be alive.
He grasped her hand and pulled her none too gently from the bed, exposing her state of undress to the noblemen who seemed suddenly to have forgotten the need for a hasty departure. She knew in her heart it would be useless to protest and resolved to hate James Hepburn until her dying day for this travesty.
“I canna be wed in my nightgown,” she whimpered, despising the weakness in her voice and the flimsiness of her excuse. Her betrothed must think her a simpering ninny.
But this intolerable predicament was his fault, not hers. How had he come to be in her locked chamber?
Surprisingly, her uncle relented. “Ye can prepare yerself while we conclude our business below stairs,” he conceded.
Ogilvie still stood as if in a stupor, until he was shoved out the door. His stricken backward glance convinced her he didn’t want this marriage any more than she did. Left alone in the silent chamber, she wondered who he was he and why he’d chosen her bed. Had her uncle put him up to it?
She frantically sought a means of escape. To her recollection there was only one large room downstairs where the Earl and his cronies must have gathered. The stairs led right by it. Had they taken Ogilvie there? It seemed doubtful, given their need for secrecy. However, it was unlikely they’d left him unguarded.
Her vocation to the religious life after the murder of her parents had replaced the girlish dreams of marriage, but she had never dreamt she’d be marrying a reluctant stranger in a tavern. And she was expected to prepare without the aid of a maidservant. Her sainted mother must be turning over in her tomb.
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