Everything In Its Time

by Dee Davis

  That was why he had pretended to sleep, allowing her to leave. He had wanted to give her time to adjust to their joining. With a groan, he realized that perhaps he had been wrong. Now was not the time to be apart. Last night had been more than a bedding; it had been a pledge. They belonged to each other as surely as if they were wed. He smiled a little at the turn of his thoughts. He had not considered himself a romantic man. Experience had left him wary and cynical. Suddenly, he knew that he must not lose what he had found last night. He could not let her go.

  His mind made up, he rose from the bed and hurried to the connecting door. It swung open on quiet hinges as he strode into the chamber. The light was brighter now, the first pale rays of sunshine washing over the empty bed. He stood there, unable to move. Empty ... it was empty. He quickly scanned the chamber. Where was she? He tried to pull open the door leading from the chamber into the passageway. It held fast. His brain finally registered the fact that the bar on the inside of the door was firmly locked in place. Frustrated and strangely alarmed, he returned to his chamber. Was it a dream then? His heart slammed painfully in his chest and he felt his body tighten in fear. Surely not. It had felt real. No—it was real.

  He frantically pulled the bed coverings aside. In the center of the mattress he saw a small brownish stain. Blood—it must be her blood. She had been a maiden. He felt a rush of triumph and an overwhelming sense of tenderness. But the feelings faded as he thought about the bolted door. There was no other way to leave the chamber, and real people didn't disappear into thin air.

  With a frustrated gesture, he pushed his hair out of his face. She had to be real. He couldn't begin to believe otherwise. He didn't know where she had gone, but that no longer mattered. He would find her. He had to. In one night, with one act, she had irrevocably become his world. He sat on the bed, running his hands over the mattress, searching for an indentation, traces of her warmth, something that proved she was real.

  His hand stopped, closing around something small and cold. He held it up, turning it in the strengthening light. It was a stone of some kind, hanging on a small golden circle. The smoky amber crystal glimmered in a shaft of sunlight. He examined it closely. The workmanship was fine. He flicked the fine gold loop with his finger and was surprised when it opened. He smiled with recognition. An earring. Her earring.

  She was real.

  *****

  The sunlight danced upon the counterpane as it filtered in through the bedroom window. Katherine woke groggily, turning to shut off the incessant buzzing of her travel alarm. She lay for a moment in sleepy silence. She felt stiff and a little sore and for a moment wondered why. Then, with a rush, memory flooded back. The other room. The stranger. No, she thought, hardly a stranger. She had never known anyone more intimately. She was and always would be a part of him. She had given him something she would never, could never, give again.

  She marveled at the realization that she wasn't sorry. She should have been, but she wasn't. Even now, safely ensconced in her own room, she had to admit there was a rightness about it that couldn't be denied. It struck her that she was ashamed of her hasty exit from his room. She owed him and herself more than that. She got out of bed, marched resolutely to the connecting door, and before she had time to chicken out, pushed it open and walked into his room. She stopped, confused. It wasn't his room at all. It wasn't even a bedroom. It was a bathroom, and a small one at that. With a frown, she walked back into her bedroom, forcing herself to take a good look at it.

  The window was deep, but the glass was plain and it was definitely not set in an arch. Against the adjacent wall, in the corner, there was a battered wingback chair and a rusty radiator. The plastered wall behind them showed no signs of ever having held a fireplace. The bed was tiny, about the same size as an American twin bed. Katherine sank to the floor, her hands absently closing into the nap of the carpet.

  Carpet.

  Her head whirled. She looked frantically for another door. There were only two. One she recognized immediately as the door to the hallway, as it sported the expected sheet of paper enumerating check-in and checkout times, along with various other hotel policies. The other, the one she had just opened, was small and unadorned. And it was flush to the wall, not set in an archway.

  A dream. It had all been a dream. The most wonderful moment of her life was an illusion. Pain seared through her. No. Impossible. It had been so real. She felt bereft, as if someone she loved deeply had died.

  She curled on the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks. No, no, no. She huddled there for what seemed an eternity, until there were no more tears. A dream, all a dream. Her heart still cried no, but her mind, searching for a logical conclusion had already accepted it. There was no other explanation.

  Katherine sucked in a ragged breath and wiped angrily at her tears. She was behaving like a fool. There was no sense in crying over a fantasy. She stood up, automatically beginning to braid her heavy hair. She frowned, instinctively recognizing that something felt wrong. She raised both hands to her ears, checking for her earrings. One was missing. With a sigh, she headed to the bed to look for it. As she moved to pull back the covers, her nightgown slid off her shoulder, the silky blue fabric dropping almost to her elbow.

  With a mumbled curse, she reached for the recalcitrant gown, then stopped short, sinking down onto the bed, staring down at herself. She sucked in a breath and held it. Stunned, her eyes traced the line of her shoulder to the curve of her bare breast. There, on the soft peak, was a small reddish mark, a mark that surely had been left by a lover.

  Chapter 1

  SCOTLAND. 1467

  IAIN MACKINTOSH LOOKED down into the valley. It was narrow, winding its way between rocky cliffs. At its head, almost hidden in the craggy outcrops, sat a fortress. Duncreag. From this distance, the stone walls looked silvery white, mere extensions of the rock surrounding them.

  "So, at last we come to your holding. 'Tis a verra fine place, Iain. A home a man can be proud of." Ranald Macqueen turned away from the valley and glanced at the men behind him. "But enough looking for now. 'Tis a meal and a bed these men will be wanting. And not on the side of the hill, I'd wager."

  "Aye. Let us be off."

  A faint trail meandered through the broom and gorse to the valley floor. With a nudge, Iain turned his horse, Sian, toward the path and began the rocky descent. Glancing back over his shoulder, he watched as Ranald began to make his way down the steep embankment, the others following close behind. With a smile, Iain faced forward again, relaxing back into the saddle, allowing his horse to choose the best way down. In no time at all he'd be home.

  Two hours later, they were deep in the trees lining the river, the path twisting and turning as they headed for Duncreag.

  "Will they have buried your father, do you think?"

  "Aye, they'll no' have waited. The message from Auntie Sorcha was o'er a fortnight old when I received it, and we've taken a long time to get here." Iain pulled back on the reins, waiting for his cousin.

  Ranald maneuvered his horse so that they rode side by side. "So, that makes you the Mackintosh of Duncreag."

  "Aye, I'll be named Laird, and you'll be my captain. What say you to that?"

  The corners of Ranald's mouth lifted in a wry grin. " 'Tis a far sight better than my situation at home. Being third son leaves me fit for no' much but the priesthood, and you know well enough that is no' my way."

  " 'Tis the truth. I canna see you as a priest, particularly in light of that evening in Inverness."

  "You speak of the tavern wench, Morag?"

  "Aye, she was a comely woman."

  "With eyes for only you at first, if I remember."

  "Nay, 'twas always you she was wanting. I was simply a diversion."

  "You had but to crook your finger and she would have been yours. But as I recall, your mind and heart were elsewhere. With the fairies, perhaps, or the fey ones?"

  "Ach, you know well enough that she was real." Iain reached automatically fo
r the earring hanging from his left earlobe. The cairngorm felt smooth and warm against his fingers.

  "I know nothing o' the sort, cousin. Only that you've given your heart to a creature of the mist. And that I've benefited greatly because of it. The fair Morag was mine only because of your preoccupation with a comely lass of your dreams." Ranald smiled at his cousin, his expression thoughtful. "But tavern wenches aside, I think 'tis time for you to consider the maids o' this world. As Laird of Duncreag, 'tis your duty to produce heirs. And to do that, cousin o' mine, you need to marry a lass made of flesh and blood."

  Iain looked sharply at his cousin. "I've already met the woman who will bear my sons. If I canna find her, I willna marry. If it means the last of the Mackintoshes of Duncreag, then so be it."

  Iain rode ahead. Ranald didn't know when to let well enough alone. He was a good man, but because they'd grown up together, he often thought he was in charge of Iain's life. Iain smiled at that thought. Sometimes Ranald was more like a mother hen than a warrior. Not that he'd share that thought with Ranald. Iain had fostered with his mother's brother—Ranald's father—at Corybrough, and when his mother died, Iain's father had left him there, too caught up in his grief to care about his son. So Ranald was not only his cousin—he was his closest friend.

  Still, that didn't give Ranald the right to meddle where he wasn't wanted. Iain knew how daft he sounded, talking about a woman materializing out of thin air, but in his heart, he knew she was real. All he had to do was find her.

  As much as he hated to admit it, Ranald was right about one thing. With his father gone, everyone at Duncreag would be pressuring him to marry. As Laird, it was his duty to provide heirs who could lead and protect the clan in the event of his death. Life in the wilds of the mountains was too precarious to take the risk of waiting overly long to produce offspring. But he couldn't imagine settling for anything less than the woman he had fallen in love with eight years ago. She was part of his soul. And even though he knew it was not completely rational, he believed in her existence as surely as he believed in Duncreag and all that it embodied.

  His mind turning away from his fanciful memories, Iain urged Sian onward, his eyes searching for the first signs of the pathway that lead up from the river. There were more pressing matters to deal with—his father's death topping the list. The message from his aunt had carried little in the way of information, only that Angus had died and that Iain must return home at once. When he had left six years ago, it had never occurred to him that he'd not see his father alive again.

  Spotting the trailhead, he turned Sian and wound his way through the brush, up the steep embankment. As they moved away from the nourishment of the river, the trees played out into the rocky outcrops of the mountains. Above him stood the cliffs that held Duncreag. This was not the homecoming he had envisioned, but it still felt good to see the familiar landmarks. It had been too long.

  The rocks narrowed into a natural gorge. The path veered upward sharply, barely wide enough for a single horse to pass. Iain looked back at his men. They were slowing to allow each man to pass single file between the rocks marking the opening. From there, the pathway wound around the stony outcrop, gradually climbing up the mountain. The riders circled upward, following the twists and turns, approaching the sturdy walls that protected Duncreag. Finally, coming around the last bend, they saw the gate tower looming out of the twilight mist. Iain raised a hand, signaling the men to halt.

  "Will they be expecting us, do you think?" Reaching Iain, Ranald reined in his horse, Beithir.

  "Aye, I'll wager they've been watching for our arrival." Iain's gaze rested on the tower, waiting for some sign of inhabitance. On the battlements, a dark figure emerged from the gathering gloom.

  "Who goes there?" a deep voice bellowed into the evening shadows.

  "Iain Mackintosh, Laird of Duncreag," Iain's answer rang out across the mist.

  "And how shall I know ye?" the voice responded, echoing over the rocks as though disembodied from the figure on the tower wall.

  "You'll know me, Fergus Mackintosh, because when I was but five summers you tanned my hide for walking the walls o' the battlements and scaring you near to death."

  The voice, now filled with amusement, boomed out of the hovering mist again. "Raise the gate, lads, 'tis the Laird."

  The great iron gateway groaned as it moved upward, leaving the yett a yawning black hole. Iain moved forward, impatient to be inside now that he was home. As he rode through the archway into the small courtyard, men of all ages and sizes gathered around him. Clansmen. Their roar of welcome was a sound of homecoming, bittersweet though it might be.

  "Iain, my boy, welcome home." Fergus Mackintosh moved through the crowd, his wizened old face alight with joy. He extended a hand, and Iain clasped it warmly. " 'Tis a sorry reason to bring you home, but 'tis glad we are to be seeing you."

  Iain slid off his horse and embraced the old warrior. His face was lined and his hair white with age, but he was still a big, strong man.

  He spoke in a voice meant only for Iain's ears. " 'Tis time you came home. Things are no' right here. Now that you've come maybe you can avenge your puir father."

  Iain met Fergus' concerned gaze. "We'll talk of it later. There is much I wish to know, but now isna the time nor the place."

  Fergus gave a terse nod. "You'll be needing a place for your men to bed down."

  "Aye, they've been long on the road and are looking forward to a good meal and a warm bed."

  Fergus raised a hand, and a young man with fiery red hair broke away from the gathering. "Show the Laird's men where they can find a fire and fill their bellies."

  "Aye, that I will." The lad hurried forward, coming to a halt when he reached Iain.

  "And who might you be?" Iain asked.

  The boy grinned. "You willna remember me except as a bairn. My father is Duncan Macgowen, the smith. My mother is Bride Macbain. You taught me to fish when you were a young lad and I naught but a wee boy."

  Iain clapped the young man on the shoulder, recognition dawning. "William, you've grown into a fine man."

  The lad blushed a deep red, shuffling his feet in the dust of the courtyard. He raised an arm to motion Iain's men forward. "Come on, then, I'll show you the way."

  Leading their horses, the men followed William across the courtyard to the outbuildings that housed the stables and workhouses of the tower. With a shy smile, a pasty-faced man with a slight limp gathered Sian and Beithir's reins and led the horses after the others.

  Iain and Ranald walked with Fergus toward the steep, stone stairway that led into Duncreag.

  "So, how did my father die?" Iain spoke softly, but with undeniable authority.

  Mounting the stone steps, Fergus turned, looking uncomfortable. "I canna say for sure, but I'd say his death was no' natural. They found him at the bottom of a gorge. His neck was broken. They say he fell from his horse. But you and I both know he rode like the wind and knew these mountains like the back of his hand. If you ask me, there's more to it than that."

  Iain stopped on the stairs, his brow furrowed. "Fergus, who is this 'they' you speak of?"

  "Why, 'tis your auntie Sorcha and Alasdair Davidson."

  Iain's frown deepened. "Davidson is here? Why?"

  "Aye, he's here. Has been for more than a se'nnight. A guest he is, him and his sister, Ailis. And if you ask me, he's taking advantage of your auntie. She's been o'erwrought with grief, she has, and canna be expected to deal with the likes o' Davidson. He's got her convinced she canna get by without him and his sister here."

  "I see." Iain spoke through clenched teeth.

  "Who is Alasdair Davidson?" Ranald queried, his glance taking in his cousin's tightening countenance.

  "An old acquaintance."

  "No' a good one, I'll wager." Ranald looked at Iain, waiting for more.

  "Aye, well certainly no' a favorite. He grew up here, more or less. His lands border ours and he fostered here with my father. I dinna really know
what happened between them, but soon after I returned from my own fostering, he was sent back to Tùr nan Clach. I was happy to have him gone." Iain shrugged. "There are no open hostilities between us. He pledged loyalty first to my grandfather, Malcolm, and now to my uncle Duncan. As a member of Clan Chattan, he deserves my support. So, as neighbors and clansmen, we have a grudging truce— at best. But I tell you, I have never liked the man. And I've no liking for the fact that he's here now and was present when they found my father."

  Fergus nodded in grim satisfaction at the words. He pushed open the heavy wooden door and stood to the side, allowing Iain and Ranald to pass before him. "Welcome home, my Laird." He bent his grizzled old head in faint supplication.

  Iain looked at Ranald and suppressed a grin. "After you, cousin."

  *****

  Iain stood in the entrance passageway to the great hall. It had changed little in six years. Beside him, lining the corridor, were two wooden screens: A gift for his mother from his father, the carvings ornate, formal. At the center of each, curled into the design, was the Mackintosh crest, and below it, the intertwined initials of his parents. He ran a finger along the wood, stopping at a place where the pattern was marred. Squinting down at the screen, he smiled at the childish carving: I. M.—Iain Mackintosh. His father had beaten him to within an inch of his life for defacing his mother's prize possession, but his mother had come to his chamber later and hugged him tight, smiling, her eyes full of tears. "You're part o' this family, too, Iain, never forget that. And it's more than happy I am to have your initials up there with your father's and mine."

  "Are you going to stand here all night? I'm freezing my ballocks off here." Ranald's wry comment interrupted Iain's memories and he pulled himself back to the present.