Edge of Yesterday (Edge Series Book 1)

by Tarah Scott

  “What is amiss?” Julianna asked.

  “Nothing, lass. Just a little itch.” A little itch that suddenly felt like a case of chicken pox.

  “You have an itch?”

  Cailean looked up at her.

  She stared down at him, brow furrowed, eyes intense. A decided tug on his cock made him uncomfortably aware of another itch. “I brushed against the granddaddy of gorse bushes,” he said. “The sting eased, but now it itches.”

  A corner of her mouth twitched and he realized she was repressing a smile. She was damned beautiful. His cock began to lift. If brother Lennox continued to play his part, he would jump to his sister’s defense and knock Cailean onto his arse. He was already on his arse, which meant—well, trouble. A kiss or two might be worth the trouble.

  “Shall I look?” Julianna asked.

  Cailean repressed a groan. “If you’re so inclined.”

  She went to the corner cupboard and opened it again. “I have a jar of elderflower ointment,” she said, her back to him as she rummaged through her collection of jars. She returned, a small clay pot in hand. “Elderflower will soothe any itch or rash. Where are you itching?” She waited.

  “The thorns lashed my side.”

  “Lift your shirt.” She sat beside him on the mattress as he pulled his shirt free of his kilt. Her brow knit. “Did ye wrestle a wildcat in that gorse bush?”

  He laughed. “Damn close.”

  She dipped two fingers in the jar then patted the salve onto the scratches. The itch began to ease. She gently rubbed the salve in. He wished her brother was anywhere but there. The way her fingers felt on his skin, he wanted her to rub lower. She seemed oblivious to his attraction—which took a Herculean feat on his part to keep his cock from flying at full mast. By the time she finished, the itching had stopped altogether and he’d busied his thoughts with what Val had in mind by putting him here.

  “That’s amazing,” he said. “What’s in it?”

  “As I said, elderflower.”

  “No hydrocortisone?”

  She frowned. “Hydrocortisone?”

  “Hydrocortisone.” He laughed. “Never mind.”

  “You are a strange man, Cailean.”

  “You’re not the first woman to tell me that.”

  She shook her head and rose. Cailean watched as she put the salve back in its place, then set the dishes on the shelf. She turned to the cookfire and hung a kettle of water over the flame. She worked deftly, naturally, as if she’d done this every day of her life. Only moments ago, he’d thought the two people in the room with him guilty of overacting. Now, it seemed they were too good at playing their parts. Maybe that’s what bothered him. The depth of fanaticism it took to play a role to the degree of kidnapping a man— He broke off the thought. Things had turned extreme, but he wasn’t a hostage. If anything, they’d helped him.

  Even so, a strange sense of loss washed over him. All these years he’d dreamed of participating in the reenactment of Heatheredge’s atonement for the slaughter of Elizabeth Ross’ clan. A boy’s fantasy that had grown into a man’s dream. But last night the violence that began with Val and ended in this asylum made him feel as if a part of him had died. In a way, it probably had.

  A thought struck.

  Cailean looked at Lennox. “What about Elizabeth Ross?”

  “James Ross’ daughter?” he asked.

  Cailean nodded. “Are ye saying Patrick didn’t give her to his men to be abused?”

  Lennox’s expression clouded. “Our leaders were no’ blameless.”

  “Then he did?” Cailean persisted.

  “He did.”

  So not all of history had been twisted for this reenactment. Why?

  “Do you believe she deserved that fate?” Julianna asked.

  “No woman deserves abuse,” Cailean said.

  Relief shown on her face and Cailean was surprised to find he was glad. He threw back the plaid blanket and swung his feet over the side of the bed. The thudding of his head had subsided enough to where he could function. He spotted the window near the foot of the bed. This, he thought, ought to be good. He rose and took three paces to the window, then stopped and pulled aside the animal skin curtain. A latticed fence made of willow sticks—he squinted, was that wattle and daub woven into the fence that surrounded the small private garden? Cailean resisted a strange urge to laugh. The fence was a damn medieval fence. His gaze caught on the stone well in the far left hand corner of the garden. The quintessential medieval home. He’d never seen anything quite like it.

  He started to turn and froze at sight of the edge of a castle visible through the woods. Cailean turned and strode to the door. He emerged from the cottage with Lennox and Julianna close behind. He reached the corner of the cottage and stopped short at the fence. Even at a distance of two hundred feet through thin mist, he recognized the castle as Raghnall. Set on a natural rocky outcrop at the top of a ridge, the stronghold looked as though it had grown upward from the stone and commanded sweeping views of the surrounding woods and hills. The unusually high gatehouse was taller and narrower than most castle entries.

  Equally startling, the drawbridge and portcullis stood intact and both looked fairly new, while the ditch beneath them appeared well-maintained. Not a water-filled moat, but deep and steep-sided enough to hamper an onslaught.

  He swallowed hard. This wasn’t possible. He’d visited these ruins on his drive to Heatheredge. They were little more than a crumbling façade, the drawbridge nothing more than a distant memory. What little remained of the portcullis, as a blue historical sign proclaimed, now graced a museum in Inverness. The ditch hadn’t been visible at all, being entirely filled in by weed-grown rubble, broken rock, and nettles. He stared. What the devil was going on?

  “What are ye doing?” Lennox demanded.

  “Ye have run pale,” Julianna said. “What is amiss?”

  Cailean couldn’t take his eyes off the massive building. “How did you do it?”

  “Do what?” Lennox said.

  The cottage, the fence, even the aggressive reenactment last night, as fantastical as they were, could be accounted for. But this… He’d glimpsed the castle last night, silhouetted against the moon, but upon waking, it had seemed like a dream. Cailean tracked his gaze up the right side to the five-story-high turret. He’d been in Heatheredge a week. How had he missed seeing that tower? Val must have taken him farther away than the surrounding area of Heatheredge that he’d investigated when he’d first arrived. But how far?

  And how was it he didn’t know of the castle’s existence? It wasn’t possible to keep such a splendid replica from leaking into the news. A place like this would be swamped with tourists. Yet, there it stood—colorful pennants snapping in the wind above the battlements. And mail-shirted, helmed spearmen strolling the ramparts.

  The bleat of sheep mingled with the unmistakable whinny of horses, the lowing of cows, and the loud, high-pitched chittering of hens. Smoke curled from the tower’s roof and, as he watched, someone reached through an open window arch and closed the shutters. He couldn’t be sure, but through the mist he’d almost swear he saw medieval run-rigs covering the hillside that dropped away from one side of the curtain wall. He’d never seen run-rigs, but if the narrow strips of side-by-side ploughed and cultivated farmland weren’t run-rigs, he was a virgin. But that slope should be choked by rock and heather.

  He shook his head. “I dinnae believe this.”

  Cailean started at the feel of cool fingers on his arm. Julianna stared up at him. “Come back inside. Please.”

  He looked at Lennox, who studied him with a wary gaze.

  Earlier, Cailean thought the acting too much. Now, Lennox’s reaction felt so genuine that Cailean thought Liam Neeson should take lessons from him. Cailean glanced at Julianna. She gazed at him with such sincere concern that he wondered about his sanity. They must have studied at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland. How far would they take the game?

  Too far.
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  But why—and how—had they managed to keep the castle restoration a secret?

  Cailean pinned Lennox with a stare. “What is this, some sort of living history? Why isn’t this part of the games?”

  Lennox frowned. “The games? If ye mean the chiefs’ trials of strength and such, they are no’ for some months yet.” Lennox sent a questioning look Julianna’s way, then added, “Did my sister no’ tell you? I know you asked her.” Cailean started past Lennox, but Lennox stepped in front of him. “Where are ye going?”

  “To get a look at Raghnall.”

  Julianna seized his arm. “Nae. No’ yet.”

  “Why no’?”

  She exchanged a look with her brother, then said, “Because our mother doesnae know you are a guest here at Haven Cottage.”

  Cailean looked at Lennox. “You mean, she won’t welcome a Ross.”

  “Nae,” Lennox said. “She will no’.”

  “And you, will you welcome a Ross?”

  “So long as you do no’ give us reason not to,” Lennox said.

  “Lennox,” Julianna said, her voice harsh, “Cailean has committed no crime. And remember, he defended me.”

  “Mayhap,” Lennox said.

  Julianna faced him. “Cailean, we ask that you rest here today. Our mother has a celebration planned for her nephew tomorrow. You may attend as a warrior with one of the companies that will arrive.”

  “Tomorrow?” he said. “You want me to stay in this cottage for a day?”

  She placed a hand on his arm. “You are a stranger. Our mother doesnae easily welcome strangers, especially when our father is away, and you are…” she hesitated.

  “A Ross,” he ended for her.

  “You need to rest,” she said.

  Cailean glanced at the castle. He wanted like hell to investigate. And he would.

  He nodded. “As you say, Lady Julianna. I need some rest.”

  Chapter Eight

  Cailean knew he’d lost his mind. He’d slept most of the day and awoke to an even stronger sense of confusion than he’d experienced earlier that morning. This place was simply too strange. When he’d arrived in Heatheredge, he’d felt as if he’d truly gone back in time. But this cottage, the castle compound—Raghnall—made everything else seem like a movie set.

  He nearly laughed. The thing that came closest to pushing him over the edge was the medieval toilet. All the medieval buildings he’d entered while at Heatheredge included modern plumbing. Even he wasn’t such an enthusiast that he willingly gave up that modern convenience. He hadn’t noticed the toilet until the need to use it arose. The alcove that hid the toilet was located in the far left hand corner of the room, hidden by a rickety wooden screen. Little more than a bench with a hole cut into it, and appropriately placed over what he assumed was a cesspit, the toilet appeared seldom used. A blessing, that. He guessed the basket of straw was the medieval equivalent of toilet paper and the small cluster of dried heather, as the bowl of dried lavender and rose petals, must be an attempt at period air fresheners. Either way, he felt like he’d stumbled into an episode of Dr. Who.

  Who the bloody hell forced guests to use a medieval toilet? This was a bad joke. A bad joke delivered in a very pleasant package—if he ignored the toilet. That afternoon, Julianna tended to his arm once again. Gregory accompanied her this time and Cailean wasn’t fooled by his quiet demeanor. He sat at the table, head leaning against the wall, eyes closed, but Cailean recognized the coiled cat ready to strike should the need arise.

  So they didn’t want her alone with him and neither were they willing to let him leave. He hadn’t missed the men who sat beneath the oak tree near the cottage. They’d played dice all afternoon and into the evening as if they hadn’t a care in the world, but Cailean knew full well they were there to guard him.

  “Ye are healing well,” Julianna said.

  “I have a fine physician,” he replied.

  She nodded, but said no more.

  “Have I angered ye, my lady?”

  She paused as she picked up the used bandages. “Angered me? Nae. Why?”

  “You don’t seem much in the mood for talking.”

  She flushed. “I am sorry, Cailean. There is just much to do for the festivities tonight.”

  Cailean nodded.

  She smiled, then cleaned up her medical supplies and left with Gregory. He stared at the closed door for a long moment. Julianna certainly acted like a woman who had a lot on her mind. So did he.

  Lennox said it had been twenty-four years since the conflict in Heatheredge. The slaughter in Heatheredge took place in thirteen hundred and seventy one. That meant the year was approximately thirteen hundred and ninety-five. Why would Val have him reenact this year in particular? He could think of nothing special about the timing, nor could he come up with what his role was in this bizarre play. Hell, he couldn’t figure out what this play was. Heatheredge’s history. Their clans’ histories. Why switch the clans’ roles? He could just as easily have reenacted the history as written. And why keep him here in this cottage for a day?

  It seemed Val wanted Cailean to believe he’d actually gone back in time. Why go to so much trouble for him? Maybe it wasn’t only Cailean he wanted to convince. Were there other reenactors who had been thrown into this weird situation? Perhaps it was a new and bizarre reality television show. He had to find out.

  First, he would find a telephone in the castle’s administration office. A phone call to Ginny would set things right. In more ways than one. After he’d heard his down-to-earth, ever logical sister’s voice and assured himself he wasn’t crazy, he would have her start digging. The challenge would pale in comparison to her work as head of IT with Rylon Financial Corp, but when she learned that the Chairman of the Gathering Committee plucked people out of the festival and dropped them into bizarre fantasies, she would hack through their systems and ferret out the truth in half an hour.

  That’s when his fun would begin.

  Cailean went to the window and eased aside the animal skin. The moon hung just past its zenith in the west, which made the time about one a.m. Perfect. All but a skeleton crew should be abed by now. He drew in a breath. He would have to use the window to escape. When he’d last looked, the guards slept soundly in front of the tree where they’d been all day, but he felt certain they’d awaken if he walked out the front door. The opening was too small to straddle. He would have to go head first. He hoisted himself up, ducked through the opening and lowered his torso over the sill. His breath caught when his belly took all his weight in the seconds before he wiggled from the window. He hit the ground, shoulder first and stifled a groan. He really was going to make Val pay for this.

  Cailean slowly pushed to his feet, then crept to the corner of the cottage and peered around the edge at the two guards. They still slept, their plaid wrapped around their shoulders. Perfect. Earlier, he’d glimpsed what he figured was a damned good replica of Raghnall’s unusual gatehouse, the main entrance at the northeast side of the façade. That could mean that a scullery, pantry or maybe a bake house would be located on one of the other two sides. That’s where he might find the administrative office.

  He turned and crept along the cottage and through the trees toward the castle. Keeping to the shadows beneath the curtain wall, he edged forward. The wind kicked up a wisp of smoke that smelled heavily of aromatic herbs and, more telling, bog myrtle. He resisted the urge to rub his hands together. While hops were used for brewing on the Continent clear back to antiquity, they weren’t grown in England until the seventeenth century, even later in Scotland. True to form, Val made do with what was on hand, just as their ancestors would have. Cailean would guess there was broom and gorse in the brew, as well. He couldn’t have picked a more perfect spot to sneak into the castle.

  Whitewashed, the brew house gave off the fragrant smoke he’d smelled. Best of all, the only souls he saw were brawny lads, all heavily perspiring, and busy drawing water from a huge, deep well. They paid him no min
d, but trudged around a corner of the brew house with their sloshing buckets, heading, he imagined, to wherever the mash-tub awaited them. Only one lad shot him a look, nodding only when Cailean met his gaze.

  Cailean neared the brew house, prepared to be greeted with a customary ‘stirrup-cup,’ or drink at the door. But when he inched the door open, the wood creaked loudly on an empty, silent room. Even better. No one called out a warning, and Cailean released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. No welcome drink was better than being met and noticed.

  Bloody hell, he acted as if this was real. Still, he didn’t relish running into more zealots like last night’s opponents. He would rather avoid another swordfight.

  He slipped inside, closed the door, then faced the room. A cozy warmth blanketed his face and arms. Red hot coals glowed at the base of the banked fire in the large hearth directly ahead. To Cailean’s relief, no one slept on pallets near the fire. That surprised him, but he wouldn’t question his good luck.

  The roof trusses arched overhead, making the brew house seem larger than it was. More light fanned out across the stone-flagged floor through an arched opening across the room and easily illuminated the dozen massive oak casks that lined the left wall. Cailean took two paces to the first cask and laid a palm on the roughly hewn wood. Strange how the feel and smell of oak made a man feel as if he was home. He let his hand drop to his side. Medieval oak barrels were easily replicated. Their contents, however…

  Mugs and cups of various sizes cluttered a table in the right-hand corner of the room. He fetched one of the cups and filled it halfway with the frothy liquid that poured from the spout. Even before the cup reached his mouth, the pungent scent of bog myrtle filled his nostrils. A few other aromatic tones tickled his nose, as well, but bog myrtle was clearly the base brewing component. This ought to be as interesting as the cider. Cailean took a long draught. Thick, slightly sweet, and ‘herby,’ the rich brew went down smoothly. He suspected it would also prove strong, packing a punch if he drank too much. Smiling, he looked at the remaining ale. He was tempted to have a pint. Later.