James

by L. L. Muir

  Change her life completely? Yeah—like even her bathing habits.

  “Water is not a new invention,” said Lorraine.

  Her sister nodded. “Neither is love.”

  Water. Love. What else did she need? “Hah!”

  Oh, yeah. Antibiotics, food, clothing, shelter...

  Loretta choked on a laugh. “Phoebe dear, you won’t be hiding from dinosaurs, you know.”

  The three of them laughed, but there was a split second when the sisters looked at Wickham and he shook his head the tiniest bit. Then they all laughed harder. It was enough to convince her that the sisters didn’t know a thing about where she was headed. Only their brother did. So, when Lorraine had used the example of the Viking pirate sailing around, howling in frustration, she hadn’t really been talking about the guy Phoebe was hoping for.

  Just to be sure, though, she asked. The sisters insisted that whatever pirate she’d been picturing was definitely not her soulmate.

  Still…

  She turned to Wickham, and this time, she grabbed his hands and leaned close. “Antibiotics are a recent development. You have to admit that.”

  He sucked a loud breath into his lungs and nodded as he let it out.

  “So, we’re not talking about the ninetieth or twentieth century, right?”

  He shook his head. She felt like it was a death sentence. And in a way, it was. If she did agree to go back in time, she had already lived her life. She was already dust. It shouldn’t matter how she died—but it bloody well did.

  “If I do this...”

  “Aye?”

  “Do you already know what will happen?”

  He smiled and shook his head again. “Too many decisions are yers to make. And since ye’ve yet to make them, I cannot predict anything beyond yer soulmate’s position in time.”

  “What time period are we talking about?”

  He swung his head from side to side and pulled his hands away. “No. I will not give ye that. After trying to help many others, I have learned that no one chooses to go if they are told.”

  “No one?”

  “Not a one.”

  “I will tell ye only that the water is deep—more motivation to learn how to swim. But all life’s lessons are hard ones, aye?” He squeezed her hands firmly. “The decision is now, lass. Do ye wish to seek out this mate of yers, or no?”

  She was relatively sure that the bubbling in her chest wasn’t whisky, but adrenaline. She wanted this. She wanted him, whomever he was, wherever he was. If she was going to be insanely happy with a man, did it really matter where they were? Whether or not they had to grow their own food?

  Leaving town, making new starts. She’d done it before. She could do it again. Only this time, in costume.

  “There is still one thing you haven’t told me. If things don’t work out—if something goes horribly wrong, how will I contact you? Will you come and get me? I mean, you said an extended vacation. I assumed, at some point, I’d be coming back.”

  “Not to worry,” Lorraine said, grinning like she thought Phoebe had already decided. “We’ll know the same way we know everything.”

  Mind-reading—maybe the distance of time didn’t affect such supernatural gifts.

  “Shall we go, then?” Wickham got to his feet and held out his hands to her. He looked like a Scottish fantasy no woman in their right mind would refuse, but then again, he wasn’t the prize.

  Who was she kidding? She’d already decided. So she forced herself to stand up and lay her hands once again in his. “You’re coming with me?”

  He shrugged a plaid-covered shoulder. “I’ll deliver ye, is all.”

  “Good. You know, in case a dinosaur is waiting.”

  He chuckled, let her hands go, and gripped her forearms for some reason. She did the same and held tight.

  “What, now? We’re going now?”

  “Aye, lass. Is there a problem?”

  “I just... I don’t want to give a bad first impression, you know?”

  “Why would ye think that?”

  “Um, because I think I’m drunk.”

  Chapter Ten

  James was fit to be tied by the fifth day. He’d found no trace of the woman, so he’d lost his last source of amusement. He’d tried to enjoy a play in the city, one last film, one last supper at Howe’s on Victoria Street. There was literally nothing left for him to do “one final time,” and he certainly didn’t plan to spend another five days drinking himself into a stupor.

  Though he’d spent all morning watching the entrance to The Enchanted Tea Cup, the American hadn’t returned. She said she would be seeing the sisters again, but either he’d missed her, or she’d left town and only planned to see them once she returned. So, whatever their fortune-telling had led her to do, she hadn’t come back to complain. At least, not yet.

  He had no intention of asking the witches if they knew where he might find her. The quest had been called on account of time constraints. He would be leaving that day if he had his way, so there was nothing left on his agenda but to see if the Muirs were in.

  He tested the handle to see if the now-familiar green door was locked. It wasn’t. Since the closed sign hung in the window, he knocked loudly as he pushed the door open. The bell rang, but no one came to greet him, so he called out. “Ladies?”

  “Hiya, James. Come away in,” a shaky voice called from the tea room. “The kettle’s hot. Please, join us.”

  He pushed through the heavy drapes that held the lingering smells of a dozen different flavors of tea. He intended to speak his mind with enough conviction that they could not refuse him, but the sisters were not alone. A dark-headed bloke, with hair nearly as long as his own, sat at the table between the sisters, sporting a great kilt of blue, crossed with numerous colors. There was something familiar about the guy that screamed they’d met before. Or he might have been involved in any of hundreds of investigations James had conducted in the capitol city. He would need to see the man walk in order to access the rest of his memory.

  But the displeased look in the other man’s eye said that he knew James well enough not to like him.

  “Pardon me,” James said. “I did not mean to interrupt.”

  “James, this is our brother, Wickham.”

  “Wickham?” If the man was a brother to the ageless women, there was no telling how old he might be.

  One of the sisters pointed to the fourth seat at their table. “Sit down, James. He won’t bite you, even if he wants to.” The bossy one. Had to be Lorraine.

  Considering the warning look she gave him, he knew he was right. Then his memory unfolded like a tulip on a hot day. “I just remembered where I’ve seen you, Wickham.”

  “Oh?”

  “Spend much time at Culloden Moor, do you?”

  Wickham’s expression never changed. “Some.” His eyes were dark, blank pools over the rim of his cup as he took a long pull. And if James’ nose didn’t deceive him, it wasn’t tea the man was drinking.

  “Irish coffee?” He looked hopefully at Loretta, who reached for one of two pots on the center tray.

  She rolled her eyes and nodded. “I hadn’t forgotten the last time you were here, dear.” She poured coffee into a cup, added a healthy dose of Dalmore, then spooned a bit of clotted cream on top. When she lifted the cup and saucer to hand it over to him, he realized it was the same cup he’d selected the last time he’d visited, the same cup the American had chosen. Loretta seemed pleased he’d noticed.

  “Has she been back then,” he asked casually, “the American?”

  She nodded. “Been and gone.”

  “I don’t suppose ye ken to where?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not aware, no.”

  “Just as well,” he muttered. “Now. Any particular reason why yer brother wants to bite me, then?”

  Her lips came to a point over the rim of her cup, and she looked almost bird-like as she sipped her tea. “Like us,” she said, “our brother is extraordinarily pr
otective of our great-niece—the one you threatened.”

  The flare of Wickham’s nostrils suggested that the lass who frequented the battlefield in the middle of the night was best forgotten. And rather than deny that he’d actually threatened her, James thought it best to apologize and promise never to speak of her again, which he did.

  “Wise man,” Wickham said, though he didn’t appear to like James any better for it.

  And just like that, his leverage was gone.

  Not one to let a good Irish coffee go to waste, he tested the temperature, then sucked down half the drink. It burned in all the right ways. His gaze lifted to the man across the table. He wasn’t usually intimidated by anyone, but then again, the Muir brother had him at a disadvantage. And the sooner they parted company, the sooner James could relax.

  He downed the rest of the coffee and set the cup away from him, giving it a parting stroke with his finger in honor of the memory he would leave behind with it. Then he forced a smile. “I’ll get to it then, shall I?” He pretended they didn’t already know why he’d come. “I would like to leave right away.”

  “The sooner the better,” Wickham said.

  “Just a moment,” Lorraine said. “There are things that must be said.”

  “Quickly, then.” Her brother folded his arms and leaned back in his seat like a petulant teenager refusing to listen to his teacher—or older sister, and James resisted the urge to laugh aloud.

  “James… Dear…” Lorraine frowned at his hand while she patted it. When she looked up, her eyes were filled with pity. “You do not need to do this. It is a long, long way to go just to recover from a broken heart, when all you need is time—”

  “Ye’re mistaken. My heart is not broken.” He got to his feet, done with holding hands and listening to their theories.

  “James…”

  “Perhaps ye’ve misunderstood. I am disheartened, to be sure. Disappointed? Aye. But that woman has naught to do with my reasons for going.”

  Wickham grinned wide. “Tell us, James dear, just what are those reasons.”

  He was so close. Moments away, perhaps. So he wouldn’t risk it all by planting his fist in the center of Wickham’s face—though he wanted to, and badly.

  “My reasons are my own. May I please go now?”

  Wickham got eagerly to his feet. “Ye heard the man.”

  Loretta caught James’ hand. “You must be committed to stay for the rest of your life, James Ferguson. You must be absolutely sure.”

  He lifted her hand and bent to kiss the back of her fingers. “Thank ye for yer concern, madam. I am committed. I am certain. And I am determined.”

  After a nod of acceptance, she took a small parchment-colored envelope from the tea tray and slid it into his hand. “Do you remember the village of Muirsglen?”

  “I do.”

  “It is rather timeless too, you know.” She patted his hand that held the envelope. “If you have real trouble, take this to Muirsglen. Our kinsmen will help you if they can.”

  “Timeless? I dinna ken what ye mean. Why should it matter if I am returning to the fifteenth century, as I did last time? Will the village not still be there?”

  Her penciled eyebrows shot up and she turned to look at her brother. Her obvious panic made James instantly ill.

  “Mr. Ferguson,” the man said. “Ye cannot return to that where, that when. The risk is too great that ye may stir in matters that cannot be disturbed again. Now, I found what I believed was the perfect place for a man like ye, but if there is some particular lass ye wish to find, we may have misunderstood—”

  “Nay,” James fought to stay calm. “No one in particular. I simply wished to return to a Scotland of simpler times, dangerous though they may be. Certainly, I would rather avoid the plague…like the plague…”

  Wickham and his sisters seemed greatly relieved, and hope flooded back to fill James’ chest like a balloon.

  “Ye’ll let me go, then?”

  “Aye, ye can go,” Wickham said, “and good rid… That is, Godspeed.”

  James rolled his eyes, then thanked both sisters. A thought popped into his head and he tapped the envelope on the table. “I assume, if I have to use this, it will work out better for me than it did for Rosencrantz and Gildenstern?”

  The sisters laughed. “Hamlet’s friends should have opened the letter,” said Loretta. “But you should not.” Then she and her sister innocently wished him Godspeed as well.

  Grinning once more, Wickham picked a ragged sack off the floor and threw it at James’ chest. “Sling that over yer shoulder, Jamie boy, and let me rid this place of yer stench.”

  “Happy to oblige,” he said, then struck Wickham’s nose without wasting time wondering about it, to ensure the man wouldn’t be smelling James or anything else for a wee while. And he didn’t know which was more satisfying—the stolid crunch against his knuckles, or the wearisome man’s wide-eyed surprise.

  Either way, it was James wearing the grin when they faced each again, twenty minutes later. Blood covered Wickham’s shirtfront, his nose was stuffed with cotton. James’ knuckles were smeared with ointment and wrapped in gauze.

  Wickham showed him how best to hold on—bracing for what, he didn’t know. It seemed as if they were preparing to wrestle, but James was braced for any possibility. The other man smiled slyly as the floor beneath them shifted. “I certainly hope I remember where I’m supposed to deposit ye. Of course, I might get the year entirely wrong…”

  Chapter Eleven

  There are places in Scotland where a body could complete a 360° turn and see no sign that man had ever set foot there. James made that same full circle and recognized Loch Tay, his childhood stomping ground, lay before him. However, finding the place stripped bare of all structures, all roads, all sign of civilization, made James’ stomach rebel. It was as if the world had been tipped upside down and all traces of humankind shaken off its surface and out of its pockets.

  No cabins. No marina, no lovely boats! The favorite holiday destination for outdoorsmen looked as if God himself had only just put the finishing touches on the place and had yet to set Adam and Eve upon its shores.

  Bloody hell.

  Wickham released his hold on James’ arms, stepped to the side, and took in the view. “Simpler times, ye said. And simpler times ye shall have.” He pulled the cotton from his nose and tossed it into the water not ten feet away. “I certainly hope I didn’t get too off course, what with my head poundin’ to beat the band? But what will a year or two matter to ye now, aye?”

  He gave James a mock salute, a wink, then disappeared as if he’d been only an unpleasant dream brought on by an old bit of meat lodged in James’ wame. And in Wickham’s place, a pristine shoreline stretched away with nary a footprint on it.

  At least there were no apple trees about or he might have worried he was Adam himself, and with no Eve in sight. At the very least, Wickham Muir was not God Almighty.

  Surely.

  James shook his head and turned again. At least he knew which way was west, which then helped him know that it was late in the day, most likely summertime, or it would have been chilly.

  “Right, then.” He shrugged the strap off his shoulder, opened the bag, and took a peek inside. Then he found a dry spot in the grass and dumped out the contents. Since he could see in all directions, he didn’t worry anyone would sneak up on him, but he worked quickly, just in case. As soon as darkness fell, anything could crawl through the grass and surprise him, man or beast. But he wasn’t fool enough to remain visible for long, since visible meant vulnerable, and he could afford to be neither until he figured out the year and just how isolated he was.

  He chose to believe Wickham had been teasing about dropping him in the wrong place.

  A generously-sized length of brown plaid made up the bulk of the contents. The rough shirt of pale yellow would almost reach his knees despite his height, and the wide belt of strong leather was all he needed to fashion himself a great
kilt like the one Wickham had worn. The only weapon he’d been given was a dagger about fifteen inches long from pommel to tip, but thankfully it came with a sheath so he wasn’t in danger of cutting off his own… Well…

  Never one to ignore strong hints, he laid out the wool and pleated it, stripped out of his clothes and donned the yellow shirt, then he wrapped himself in the plaid. Thankfully, he finished before anyone came along.

  He stashed his own clothes in the bag, including underwear, and set it aside. Then he added the other accessories the Muirs had judged necessary to a Scotsman of yore. Although it was difficult to let them go, he tucked his Italian leather boots in the sack, but he just couldn’t force himself to trade his soft modern socks for the coarse, scratchy ones he’d been given.

  Instead, he stuffed the unpleasant things into his second-hand sporran and wrapped the ancient boots around his feet. They were more like women’s shoes with straps and laces that crossed and overlapped halfway up his calf. He was simply grateful they were large enough, and the straps covered up the majority of his futuristic stockings.

  Perhaps half an hour had passed before he surveyed the area again. The only thing left that was out of place in a bygone century was the bag itself. It and its contents were good for nothing other than proof that James was a sorcerer of some kind and needed executing.

  “Commit, James,” he said aloud for comfort alone.

  He walked away from the water, toward the nearest stand of trees, hiking through heather like he’d never seen before. Instead of tiny purple balls covering the branches, there were larger, bell-like blossoms that appeared slightly blue in the late afternoon light.

  Heaven help him, had he gone back so far in time that heather had not finished evolving? What was next, a dinosaur romping over the next hillock?

  He knelt beneath the trees and used a flat stone to loosen the earth. The grave, half a meter deep, was where he’d bury his past life. He rolled the sack up as small as it would go, pushed it down, then placed the rock on top to keep the thing from ever being washed away. Then he pushed the soil back in place before covering the mound with as many stones as he could find nearby. He dared pause for ten long seconds to mark the propitious moment, but that was all the time he could risk.