By no means were the house and rooms as large as the castle in which she’d resided. Neither was this a cottage and she was suitably impressed, but how empty the rooms seemed. Ancestral portraits graced the walls, yet there were no people within them.
“What became of yer family?” she asked in hushed tones.
He gazed down at her, his eyes cloaked with the black look he’d worn ever since Fergus made that shocking revelation.
“War took many of the men. Disease and accidents account for the rest of the dwindling ranks.”
“Plague?”
“Might as well have been. We’re a sickly lot,” he said between tight lips.
“Nae, yer not. The MacKenzies are a brawny clan.”
“Were, you mean.”
She wanted to take his hand and try to soothe him, but hesitated. His true feelings for her were unfathomable. While he’d shown her affection and praised her beauty, he’d made no declaration of love, nor any vow of marriage as Niall had. And yet, it seemed Neil’s regard for her strengthened with each passing moment. If only he would speak his heart, if she could be certain. But he had so much else to occupy his thoughts.
“Back here, Neil!” a woman’s voice rang out.
He cupped a hand to his mouth. “What are you doing in the kitchen?”
“Come see.”
At least Mrs. Fergus was here and might be of some aid to them, Mora hoped. She instinctively warmed to her greeting.
An orange striped cat trotted up to Neil, mewing, its tail held high. A faint smile at his lips, he bent down to tickle the feline under its chin.
“Hello Sebastian,” he crooned. Glancing up, he said, “This is my family.”
She considered reminding him that he had abundant kin mourning his loss in the Hielans, but doubted he’d believe her. Nor did she want to darken his expression, momentarily lightened by the cat.
Was there any earthly way she could become his family, his wife? That seemed as unlikely as escaping this miry maze she—they—were trapped in. She didn’t belong here, but how could she prevail upon him to return with her to his rightful home? Even if they found a way.
****
Neil discovered the matronly figure bent over the oven, pot holder in hand, removing a tray. The spiciness of oatmeal raisin cookies washed over him in a wave of nostalgia. His mother, grandmother, and Mrs. Dannon had been avid bakers. He took in the brown mixing bowl on the counter with the scrapings of dough on the sides and the long handled wooden spoon that had stirred up countless batches of cookies.
Of all the rooms in the house, he liked the kitchen best. The cheery periwinkle tile floor and counters, yellow checked curtains at windows that looked out into the back garden bronzed with late mums…all left from happier days. The scarlet geraniums on the wide sills made a splash of color. Lovingly tended by Mrs. Dannon, these plants were his now, along with everything else.
Too much inheritance ached in his already battered heart. Maybe he should just sell up. And go where? Back to Scotland and rediscover his roots?
Betty Fergus dressed in a peach flowered skirt and blouse of the same hue, turned, and a smile creased her plump face. Graying, sandy hair cut in a bob only accentuated her round cheeks. A supporter of struggling artisans, she wore a beaded coral necklace and earrings made by Wrenie.
This congenial mother hen didn’t appear the least bit psychic. Not that Neil was certain what such a gifted being should look like. He supposed psychics, like anyone else, were not always as they seemed.
Placing the tray on the white stove top, she set the worn oven mitt aside and wiped her hands on a red checked tea towel. “Neil, so good to see you again.” She tilted her cheek for him to kiss.
He bent down and obliged her with a fond peck. She smelled of lilac talc powder. “Good of you to come, Mrs. F.”
She patted his arm. “Where else would I be?”
She turned to Mora and looked her in the eyes. “This lovely young lady must be Mora.”
It didn’t take a seer to discern that fact, but they both nodded. The rounded matron enfolded Mora in an embrace. “At last,” she said, leaving Neil to wonder what on earth she could be referring to.
Mora lifted startled eyes to his, but said nothing.
“Oh I knew you’d be along, dear girl, just not the exact time of your arrival,” their unusual hostess explained. Then, as if she’d merely commented on the weather, she went on, “I thought we’d have tea.”
With that, Mrs. Fergus motioned them to the round kitchen table set with the green cloth covered in tiny chickadees favored by Mrs. Dannon. The white porcelain teapot with ivy swirling over its handle and spout sat in the center, ringed with matching plates, cups and saucers.
Neil had psyched himself up to wage some sort of battle against the dark side, and now, he was having tea. He just stopped from smacking himself on the forehead for a wakeup call, in the event he was asleep. “You shouldn’t have troubled.”
Mrs. Fergus met his downcast glance with empathy in her pale blue eyes, so like Fergus’s but with more depth. It was here, in her far-reaching gaze, that the seer shone forth.
“There’s nothing like a dose of old-fashioned comfort after the frightful shock you’ve both had. And me, as well. A dear woman was Margaret Dannon. Tea will do us all good.”
She brushed aside his protest and ushered Mora into a red cushioned chair on one side of the cozy table and Neil into the chair across from her. She sat at the end. Steam rose from the spout as she poured an amber stream into their cups. The genteel clink of spoons followed while they stirred in the cream and sugar she offered. He sipped and ate the warm cookie while wondering, what next?
“Delicious.” Hardly aware of what he said, he murmured small talk.
Mrs. Fergus kept up her end of the polite exchange, her watchful gaze on them all the while.
Looking dazed, Mora sipped and nibbled.
After their hostess apparently deemed them suitably refreshed, she leaned on her elbows, a cup of tea in hand. “What you seek lies in this house. I’ve sensed it.”
Neil pressed his palms on the edge of the table and bent forward. “Have you any idea what it is?”
“Some things are meant for you to discover.”
Frustration churned in him along with his tea. “Can’t you give us a tiny hint where to search?”
“Oh, yes. It’s hidden among the eaves.”
Mora clattered her spoon on her saucer. “Is Neil to climb up upon the roof?”
“Only if his grandfather would have done so. I find it more likely the relic is hidden on this side of the eves.”
A thought struck Neil. “The attic.”
“I should think that an excellent place to begin.”
But where would all of this end?
****
More than an hour later, Neil and Mora still hadn’t located the much sought-after antiquity. Their hands and clothes were grimy from searching every trunk, box, and battered suitcase in the clutter accumulated over several centuries. Nothing was in any particular order and everything dusty and disarrayed. He should have cleaned out this jumble years ago. But it was a large attic and filled with enough memories to drown several generations of MacKenzies. He felt engulfed in the tide.
At least the incense hadn’t pervaded the mustiness up here as it had the rest of the house, and the cracked window let in some fresh air. Neil didn’t know if Betty Fergus still remained indoors, but he’d bet she was down there waiting to dispense more tidbits when they finally dragged back downstairs. A fat lot of good it had done bringing her into this baffling mystery.
“Wish I had a clue what we were looking for. Why is it that wise people never give you a simple answer, but make you scrap and struggle for every single thing?”
“Maybe so when ye find it, ye will be mightily glad.”
He supposed there was much truth in Mora’s astute observation. She sagged onto the large wooden trunk with metal bands and leather handles parked in t
he center of the room.
“That particular trunk has been to China and back with the scant worldly goods of my missionary ancestor.”
“Scant?” She brushed a cobweb from her nose. “I know not of yer ancestor, but ye have a storehouse of goods to search through.”
Neil almost said aye and caught himself. “From a host of MacKenzies.”
Worry clouded her eyes. “A daunting task. The day fast slips away.”
“Too soon this time of year.”
Dust motes drifted in the late afternoon sun streaming through the dormer window and spilled gold light across Mora. Her cheeks were smudged, hands grubby, and more lengths of hair had slipped loose from the curls pinned on her head. This expedition was especially ludicrous with her in that poufy party gown. All the heat she’d worked up during their search had coaxed the arisaid from around her shoulders, and she’d draped the tartan wrap over a broken chair.
He admired the smoothness of her arms. The scooped neckline drew his appreciative gaze to the curve of her breasts beneath the green sequin fabric. Like her nose and cheeks, her chest was sprinkled with freckles, adorable and sexy all in one.
More so than ever. Those rounded breasts would be the perfect place to bury his lips—
Focus, he commanded himself. Blowing out his breath, he sat down next to her.
“What are we to do, Neil?” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
Almost without realizing what he did, he closed his arms around her and pulled her against his chest. Her hair smelled good despite all the spray, or maybe because of it, to give Max his due, and her head fit into the hollow of his shoulder as if he were carved for that very purpose. Neil didn’t ever want to let her go.
“We’ll find our way,” he encouraged her with far more confidence than he possessed.
She loosed a small contented sigh. Neil savored the sound and the warmth of her breath penetrating his shirt.
“Ye said we.”
Her emphasis on their unity caught him. “Did I fail to make that clear? I’m sorry. Come what may, we’re in this together.”
Could Mora truly be destined to become his ancestor, and if she veered from that course, like a river altered, would she channel a new one that didn’t ultimately include him? If he failed to return her to 1602 in time for her to wed Calum on November 5th would the Neil MacKenzie from the future vanish?
The idea of another man wedding and bedding Mora made Neil ill. Not only did his gut writhe, but jealousy assailed him with windswept fury. He forced himself to gentle his hold on her and not allow his grip to reflect his seething emotion.
Fighting past the red haze clouding his mind, he strove to consider. If somehow Mora did return to 1602 Scotland, and he even went with her, and she married him instead of Calum, what then? Would he still cease to be because he’d disrupted family history? He already resented this brother he’d never met, at least, not in this lifetime. And he’d thought he was an only child. The height of irony.
Divergent thoughts and desires churned inside Neil. Survival was basic, as was his mounting desire for Mora. Had their inherent bond brought her to him in the first place?
Was he crazy even to consider this strangest of all possible dilemmas? Would Betty Fergus know the answer? She’d sensed Mora’s coming. Did he really want to hear what their psychic had to say? Likely only more riddles.
Either they were on a wild goose chase, or she’d sent them up here for a purpose. Besides, what was time, a veiled circle, a doorway wreathed in mist? What if, as crazy as it seemed, everything Mora had said was true and he applied that as the basis for their off-the-wall circumstances? It might lead him to what they sought.
“Mora,” he summoned, voicing his thoughts. “If I gave the cross to you and the key it holds, it only stands to reason that I ought to know what it’s for.”
Her head still resting on his shoulder, she finally answered. “Unless ye never knew. Another may have given it into yer keeping.”
“Who?”
“Yer father, before he died.”
An unaccountable sadness accompanied this revelation. “You never told me he passed away.”
“He fell ill after ye disappeared. Fever took him. I loathe being the bearer of bad tidings.”
“And I thought you said we were a hardy clan.”
“There’s no accounting for the wounds of a broken heart.”
“No. Yet you remained strong.”
“I never gave up hope.”
He brushed his lips to her hair. “What do you think the key may unlock?”
“A wondrous reliquary that holds the finger of Saint Peter or a bit of the shroud that wrapped our Lord, or the Holy Grail, as ye suggested.” Awe tinged her voice.
“Your expectations are high.”
“We are sorely in want of a miracle.”
He couldn’t argue that point. “What have I overlooked?” Muting a groan against her soft cheek, he scanned the attic again. Familiar enough, he’d played here as a child. And yet, alien in its way. Was he really seeing it?
Lengthening shadows hid part of the room. Wooden beams supported the slanted ceiling and formed dusky recesses where they crisscrossed. He’d also sought an ornate box of some sort. But it occurred to him that something so fragile might be difficult to transport and would easily break.
“Maybe we’re seeking the wrong thing.”
She lifted her head. “What else other than a reliquary holds a sacred relic?”
“Maybe that’s what we’re meant to discover.”
Getting to his feet, Neil righted a battered stool and climbed onto its shaky support. Mora steadied the rickety stand while he reached overhead and ran his hands along the beams, especially mindful of the dark nooks. Every few feet, he got off, moved the stool, and resumed the search.
She looked on while keeping his support from giving way. “Do ye spy anything?”
“Not yet. And I probably won’t.”
“Do not give up, Neil.”
“Never give up, never surrender. That’s my motto,” he grunted, groping in the darkness above. him, hoping not to encounter a coiled snake or suspended bat.
Then, unbelievably, he closed his fingers around something—not alive, to his relief, and not a box. There wasn’t room to tuck that into this confined space, but what felt like a pouch. With a sense of unreality, he pulled what appeared to be a small bag from its hiding place.
He glanced down at Mora and extended his dusty, unimpressive discovery.
Her brow drawn, she asked, “Is that it, then? What we’ve sought?”
“There’s only one way to tell.” Clutching the bag, Neil climbed down from the stool.
Together, they sank onto the trunk. The pouch wasn’t quite as long as his hand. The circular cord at the top indicated it was meant to be worn around the neck. He brushed away the thick layer of dust, possibly centuries’ old, accumulated on its surface.
From under his fingers, a head emerged on the front of the pouch, embossed in the leather, its features unclear. The leather needed a thorough cleaning, but he’d have to use whatever he could find for a hasty polish.
“Wait a moment.” He leapt up, rummaged in the boxes and snatched a cloth then returned to the trunk and sat down again beside Mora. She watched in rapt silence as he wiped.
The face took form, with fiendish eyes, fangs, and a protruding tongue. Coils snaked around its face like hair made of serpents. Grotesque. But what a find.
He gave a low whistle. “I don’t believe it.”
Mora shrank back. “A fearsome sight. What is this hideous creature?”
“A Gorgon, a powerful deity in Greek mythology. This one is Medusa, the only one thought to be immortal. Anyone who looked on her face was said to turn to stone.”
Mora clutched his arm. “The blessed saints preserve us. Have we not seen her wicked face full on?”
“It’s all right. The image was often placed on objects for protection from evil. Didn’t your tu
tor mention Medusa?”
“Not as I remember, though he spoke of Greek gods.” Mora relaxed her grip on Neil’s arm. As if drawn despite herself, she reached out a tentative finger to the ancient leather. “What of the pouch?”
“This is a Roman bulla once belonging to a child and the Gorgon was added to insure their safety.”
“But ye said Medusa was Greek.”
“Yes, well, the Greeks greatly influenced Roman culture. Some gladiators even used Gorgons on their armor.”
She lifted wondering eyes. “How do ye know so much?”
“Art history classes and an anal—I mean, passionate—curiosity about the past.”
“Not yer ain past.”
“No. Darkness shrouds that. But I’ve delved into ancient Rome.” He felt carefully along the bag. “Bullas held an amulet or charm significant to the wearer. There’s something inside this.”
“As dreadful as the outside is, I shudder to think what it holds. Surely no sacred relic.”
“You might be surprised.” Nothing that had happened over the past twenty-four hours ceased to astonish Neil.
Stilling the quiver in his hand as another ran down his spine, he lifted the opening of the pouch and slid his fingers inside. What he expected to find, he couldn’t have said, but when he circled his fingers around a tiny vase, he was completely taken aback.
“What on earth?” He drew out a blue green glass vial, between three and four inches long, with an iridescent sheen. A piece of cork and candle wax sealed the circular rim.
Mora stoked the smooth glass with light fingertips. “A scent bottle?”
“No. Perfume flasks from that period are larger.” He gently tilted the vial on its side and saw one word etched into the bottom. The letters were unfamiliar. “I can’t make it out. Can you?”
10 Timeless Heroes; A Time Travel Romance Boxed Set Page 39
