Everything In Its Time

by Dee Davis

  "Yes. Right as rain, except I've lost an entire week of my life." Katherine grinned ruefully. "Of course, if Jeff tells it right, it wasn't exactly the best week of my life anyway."

  "Well, at least you're safely back home." Mrs. Pettigrew was one of those women who seemed ageless. Somewhere between fifty and infinity, she was reed-thin and her dark hair was pulled into a sweeping chignon. She favored bright colors and always wore a number of bangles that tinkled musically when she moved.

  Katherine had discovered the little shop in grad school and had found a kindred spirit in Mrs. Pettigrew. They shared a great love for all things medieval, and over the years Katherine had come to depend on Mrs. Pettigrew's "finds" for her research.

  Mrs. Pettigrew turned the key in the lock and after opening the door immediately crossed to the far wall and the flashing red light that marked the security system. Katherine followed her, blinking a little to adjust to the dimness of the store after the bright September sunshine.

  The shop always reminded Katherine of something straight out of Dickens. It was dark and smelled of leather, furniture polish, and old paper. The walls were lined with shelves that disappeared upward into the shadows of the ceiling. Two huge, rolling ladders graced the walls, allowing the adventurous access to the topmost shelves and the treasures they hid from view. Because of her crippling fear of heights, Katherine had never actually been up the ladders, but she liked the look they added to the place.

  "There we are. The alarm is safely disarmed. I live in fear of accidentally setting the thing off. I only got it because Walter insisted I have it. You know, for the nights I work late."

  Walter was Mrs. Pettigrew's husband. Katherine had never met him, but over the years had formed a mental picture of him based on Mrs. Pettigrew's comments.

  "Come on back to the office. I'll get some coffee going. I've got your book back there."

  "Great." Katherine followed her through the shop into a small back office crammed from ceiling to floor with more books. She sat in a side chair by a rickety-looking desk and watched as Mrs. Pettigrew measured out coffee.

  "You'll have some?"

  Katherine nodded agreeably, thinking that a little caffeine high wouldn't hurt her. Finally finished with the coffee machine, Mrs. Pettigrew sat behind her desk, her bracelets tinkling merrily. She opened a drawer and pulled out a small bound manuscript and reached across the desk to hand it to Katherine.

  "What did I tell you. Perfect condition. When I saw it, I thought of you immediately."

  Katherine flipped through it, careful not to tear the pages. "It's wonderful. I've been trying to get my hands on a copy of this guy's work for over a year now." The book was a study of early medieval Norman agricultural practices, written sometime during the eighteenth century by a Scot. Probably not destined to be a best-seller, but Katherine was delighted with it.

  "I've never heard of this Colin Mackintosh fellow before. Is he well known?"

  Katherine looked up from her perusal of the book. "No. I don't think so, except maybe in university circles. He was a noted medieval historian of his time. What makes him important to me is that he was one of the few historians who wrote more about social customs than political history."

  "I see. Well, when I located this work, the seller also mentioned having another book by the same author, so I bought it, too, on the off chance that you would be interested."

  "Really? As far as I know there were only three—one on architecture, one on the practices of the church, and this one on agriculture. Is the second volume the treatise on architecture or the church?"

  Mrs. Pettigrew handed Katherine a cup of freshly brewed coffee, obviously enjoying herself immensely. Her eyes twinkled as she smiled at Katherine, then answered her question with a single word. "Neither."

  Katherine felt excitement begin to rise deep within her. "Neither?"

  Intrigued, Katherine took the cup and sipped absently, thinking about the book's possibilities and almost scalding her mouth in the process. Putting the coffee on the desk between them, she reached for the leather-bound book Mrs. Pettigrew held out to her. Carefully opening the flyleaf, she read the title:

  The Mackintoshes of Duncreag.

  A brief history

  by Colin Mackintosh.

  1784.

  Katherine felt her heart accelerate with something more than academic curiosity. Why did the name Duncreag sound so familiar? She shrugged mentally, turning the page. A large sketch of a clan crest filled the next page. It was vaguely familiar. There was the requisite drawing of a belt surrounding the emblem, which in this case resembled a mountain cat of some sort. The cat was standing on its hind legs, its front paws extended in front of it. It was turned sideways like an Egyptian figure with its head facing the reader, a small object dangling from its paw. Katherine bent closer. It looked like jewelry of some kind. Maybe a stone of some kind; it was hard to tell. There was a motto printed around the outside of the belt.

  "The past, present, and future shall always be intertwined."

  An alarm bell began to sound deep in her mind. Katherine read the entry below the crest, a sense of urgency growing stronger inside her with each passing second. The caption identified the crest as belonging to a sept of the great Clan Chattan, the Mackintoshes of Duncreag. The emblem was similar to that of the Mackintoshes of Moy, with the exception of the addition of a small gold-set stone. Katherine's breathing increased and her head began to pound. The modification was made, according to the book, sometime in the late fifteenth century by the second Laird of the clan, Iain Mackintosh.

  Iain.

  At the name, Katherine felt a strange surge of powerful longing.

  She focused her mind on the next line of the text. The clan badge was changed at that time too: The cairngorm, a gem native to the Scottish Highlands, had replaced the traditional red whortleberry. Katherine dropped the book from sweating palms, her hand reaching reflexively for her earlobe. Bits of memory swirled in her head, trying to break free of the bonds that had held them silent all these months.

  "Katherine, are you all right?" Mrs. Pettigrew had come around the desk and now looped her arm around Katherine. "You look pale. Here, drink this." She handed Katherine a glass of water.

  Katherine gulped down the water, then smiled weakly at her friend. "I'm fine, really, just a little wave of dizziness. Probably just a combination of too much caffeine and the excitement of your find." She swallowed, trying to gather her fragmented thoughts. She needed to be alone. The memories were pounding at her now. And she knew it was just a matter of time before they exploded into her brain. "I still get a little tired, I'm afraid. The books are marvelous. Both of them. Tell me what I owe you."

  Still looking concerned, Mrs. Pettigrew sat back behind her desk and handed Katherine an invoice. "The old geezer wanted quite a bit more, but I held out and he finally gave in."

  Katherine quickly wrote a check and handed it to Mrs. Pettigrew. "This should cover it." Rising, she swayed a little, but found her balance and picked up the two books. "I think I'll just head home now."

  "Yes. I'm sure a little rest will do you a world of good."

  They walked back through the store. Mrs. Pettigrew unlocked the door and Katherine stepped outside, squinting into the morning sunlight.

  "Thanks again for the books."

  "Oh, it's my pleasure. I so enjoy the challenge of finding them. I'll give you a call if I come across anything else."

  Katherine smiled and waved, already walking away, her mind working feverishly to put her thoughts into some kind of rational order.

  *****

  Two hours later, Katherine sat in her apartment in stunned silence, clutching the little manuscript. Her hand rubbed over the page with the crest as though she was trying to absorb it.

  He hadn't forgotten.

  The book listed him as the second Laird of Duncreag. The book said that little was known about him. He had married, but she died young and there were no children. The Lairdship
had passed to a cousin. The change in the clan motto and crest were credited to him—to Iain. The author could find no documentation, but legend had it that the changes were made as a memorial to his wife, Katherine. Iain Mackintosh had never loved another.

  Memories washed over her in great waves, threatening to overbalance her tenuous hold on reality. She drew in a great cleansing breath and, with a shaking hand, automatically reached to smooth her braid, surprised to find it wasn't there. They had cut her hair in the hospital. It had simply been too much trouble for the attendants. It reached just below her shoulders now. She tucked the errant strands behind her ears and carefully placed the book on the counter.

  She remembered everything. The cairngorm earrings. Her trips to Duncreag. The kidnapping.

  Iain.

  With a rush of emotion, she felt tears trembling on her lashes. Feeling almost weak from the release, she let the tears fall, her first good cry since waking to find a part of her life missing. No, not simply a part of her life—a part of her soul, her husband. Iain.

  Her first reaction was anger. Anger at Jeff for bringing her back. Anger at Iain for letting her go. She wondered who knew the entire truth. Jeff certainly; he had been lying to her from the minute she'd awakened. Elaine? How much did she know? Surely most, if not all of it, since she and Jeff were thick as thieves these days.

  Did her doctor know? Katherine quickly decided he didn't. He was, after all, a man of science. In his mind, time travel would be deemed the stuff of fantasy, a grand delusion of those a little out of touch with reality. No, Jeff would never risk sharing their secret with a doctor.

  Katherine felt her anger abate. She knew Jeff almost as well as herself, and she had no doubt that he had done what he thought was best for her. He would never intentionally harm her. And Iain ... well, she simply had to believe that he, too, had acted with her best interests at heart. But the fact remained that she had a husband she loved with all her heart, alive and presumably well, living in another century. And she was perfectly healthy now. There was absolutely no reason she could think of to stay here. It was time to go home.

  She cringed as the thought that had been hovering at the back of her mind since her memory had returned finally forced its way into the forefront.

  What if she couldn't get back?

  Katherine angrily pushed the thought aside. Impossible. She had fought her way back to reality bit by agonizing bit. She had survived the horror of Alasdair Davidson's assault and Sorcha's death. Traveling back to the fifteenth century again should be a piece of cake in comparison.

  She squared her shoulders resolutely. She would get back to her husband. She needed him. He needed her. Her eyes widened with another thought. She carefully massaged her abdomen, feeling its smooth curve. Was there a slight swelling? She had assumed that her cycle was screwed up because of all that she'd been through. But what if there was another explanation? Suddenly, the urge to reach Iain became almost unbearable. She saw him in her mind's eye, tall and strong. Her warrior. She could see the deep green of his eyes and feel the caress of his strong hands.

  She opened the phone book and then, armed with the number of a transatlantic airline, dialed. She sent up a small prayer asking for quick service. It seemed someone had heard her—the operator answered on the first ring.

  "Hello? ... Yes, I need to book a flight to Scotland ... Right. As soon as possible." She listened as the woman rambled on about connections and departure times. She absently gave credit card information when it was requested and then, after a few more minutes, the flight arranged satisfactorily, she hung up.

  Dashing around her apartment, giddy with excitement, she started throwing things into her suitcase. Not sure of exactly what to take, or even if she could take it, she crammed pretty much everything she came across into her suitcase. Clothes, medicine, soaps and perfumes, matches, toothpaste, shampoo, and even a tinsel-wrapped box of Russell Stover chocolates she'd gotten while in the hospital. Finally, satisfied that she had everything she could possibly want, she closed her suitcase.

  She picked up the phone to call Jeff, only to replace the receiver without dialing. He'd only try to persuade her to stay here. Maybe even take drastic measures and have her committed or something. No, she couldn't tell him. At least not until she was sure he couldn't stop her. She picked up the oval frame by her bed, looking at the picture it held. She and Jeff, together at his college graduation. The two St. Claires, out to take on the world. She pushed the frame into a pocket of her suitcase. And with tears in her eyes, sat down to write her brother a letter ... to say good-bye.

  Chapter 27

  "YOU SIMPLY CANNA go on like this. You dinna eat. You dinna sleep." Ranald shot a frustrated glance at his cousin.

  Iain hoisted a large stone onto the wall they were working to shore up, then began tilting it to find the right fit. "I eat."

  "No' enough that anyone would notice." Ranald put a hand on Iain's shoulder, forcing him to turn and face him. "Look, Iain, 'tis no' that I'm trying to get you to forget Katherine. I know you canna do that. I'm only asking that you come out of the dark place where you are and resume some form o' your life."

  Iain grunted as he bent for another stone.

  "God's blood, man, you're as stubborn as your father ever was," Ranald said while helping to steady the rock as Iain jimmied it into place.

  Satisfied that the stone was properly situated, Iain dropped to the ground and leaned back against the wall, one knee bent, his hand resting on it. The autumn sun peeked out of the ever-present clouds, momentarily turning the landscape to gold, the gold of Katherine's hair. Iain blinked, trying to pull his thoughts back to the present.

  "I try, Ranald. But I see her everywhere. And I hurt—" He touched his chest. "—here." He continued to survey the countryside. The air was much colder now. In a fortnight or so the leaves would begin to change. Winter was coming.

  Ranald sat beside his cousin, idly chewing on a brown blade of grass. "I dinna pretend to comprehend what you're going through. But I think you must accept the fact that she isna coming back. 'Tis almost a full season since she left."

  "You're telling me naught I havena been telling myself. And still every night before I close my eyes and every morning at first light I go into that blasted chamber looking for her."

  "Perhaps 'twould have been better if she hadna come at all." Ranald spoke the words hesitantly.

  "Nay." Iain's answer was strong and steady. "A few days with Katherine was worth a lifetime with some other woman." With a groan, he pushed himself up. "Come now, I want to finish this wall before the day's end."

  Ranald flicked the grass stalk away and rose to help his cousin.

  *****

  Iain Mackintosh, Laird of Duncreag, stood on his battlement surveying his kingdom. Stars twinkled in the black velvet sky. The silvery moon illuminated the grounds of the tower, casting shifting patterns of shadows upon the earth.

  He pulled the blanket closer around his body, finding comfort in its warmth, the rough fabric against his bare skin. He hadn't gone into the adjoining chamber tonight. He'd come up here instead. It was a small step, but an important one. Even now, though, the desire to check, to see if just maybe... He shook his head. He was a man, not a lovesick lad. Ranald was right. Now was indeed the time to let go, to move on.

  Iain relaxed his tightly clenched fist, slowly opening his fingers. He looked at the little earrings glimmering in the pale light, then closed his eyes, remembering them lying discarded on the table by the bed. Even knowing that Jeff must have removed them from her ears, finding them there, like that, had felt like a betrayal. Without them surely she would not be able to return to him. His fingers closed around them again. He dropped the blanket, letting it fall to the stone floor. Standing naked on the parapet, he raised his hand over his shoulder, muscles contracting in preparation for throwing them over the wall and into the night, and thus forever severing the tie between them.

  "Don't."

  The single w
ord seemed to ring through the night. Iain froze, his hand suspended above his shoulder, his heart racing at the sound of the beloved voice.

  "Iain, those are my earrings and I'll thank you not to throw them over the wall."

  He turned slowly, afraid to look, afraid not to look. The arm holding the earrings dropped to his side as he pivoted around. At first the shadows hid her, and seeing nothing he felt his heart plummet into his belly. But then a slight movement caught his eyes and his gaze shifted to a shadowed figure standing close to the tower wall.

  With a slow, almost hesitant step, she moved into the moonlight. The moon silvered her hair. It was shorter than he remembered, flowing freely over her shoulders. She looked like an angel. He grimaced at the thought and found himself fervently offering a prayer that she was not.

  She smiled then, the curve of her lips at once tender and shy. He took a step toward her, wanting only to touch her, to hold her, to feel for himself that she was real. His hand opened, the earrings dropping to the ground, forgotten.

  "I'm..."

  "You're..."

  "... home." They finished the last word together. And with a soft tinkle of laughter, she catapulted herself into his arms.

  He breathed the sweet scent of her, glorying in the feel of her body against his. He tightened his embrace, lowering his head for a taste of her lips. Gently he traced her mouth with his tongue. Then pulled his head back to look into the soft gray of her eyes. The love he saw there made him catch his breath. With shaking fingers, he traced the curve of her cheek. She reached up to cover his hand with hers, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she looked deep into his eyes.

  "I won't break." She moved his hand from her face and with a slow graceful motion laid it on her breast, never for a moment breaking eye contact. He felt her nipple harden beneath his hand and his own body responding to the feel of her by tightening, hardening.