by L. L. Muir
Holding her dress in front of her, Phoebe felt the absurd urge to curtsy, and did so without falling over. Of course, it had been quick. She waited for the woman to speak. Maybe she was going to ask where her pink underwear had gone off to. Wouldn’t they all be shocked to know who had taken it?
The gnarled woman leaned forward and hovered. “What would you say, lassie, if I told ye I was a witch?”
When she pulled back, Phoebe sensed she was being tested, so she took a turn leaning forward. “I wouldn’t believe you.”
The woman’s laughter sounded like someone grating a corn cob. But at least the other women lightened up and laughed along. Phoebe didn’t see why they thought it was so funny, but she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Maybe she should jump in the tub while everyone was distracted.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You are the moon, the bright one.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your name. Phoebe. It is Greek.”
“I didn’t know that. Thank you.” She pointed over her shoulder. “I’m getting a little cold here. I need to get in the water.”
“You will have many children, Phoebe of the moon.” She narrowed her eyes again like she was trying to see secrets behind her eyes. It was like having the Muir twins reading her mind all over again.
“Look—”
“And they will be tall.” She turned abruptly and nodded at the others. “Tall. Yes. But will their heads be red or white? I cannot say.” She glanced at Phoebe over her shoulder, winked, then swayed from side to side as she headed for the rear door.
Phoebe figured she’d done all the exhibitionism required for one lifetime and climbed into the tub, holding her gown up for modesty no matter what they might believe she was hiding.
Burned at the stake? “Bullshit, Charlie,” she muttered. If they didn’t persecute an old woman who flat out confesses, they wouldn’t have done anything about her pink underwear. And if he hadn’t burned them yet, she was going to demand James give them back.
A strange thing happened as soon as her butt hit the bottom of the wooden tub. All the women lined up on the far side of the largest fire pit where black cauldrons hung over a still-hot fire. They all held some sort of vessel, from drinking cups to large ladles. The keeper of the spoon stood at the head of the line, dipped her small pan in the barrel of water outside the fire pit, and brought it to the tub. Instead of offering her the water to drink, the woman dumped it into the bath water. The chilly water instantly reached Phoebe’s legs and brought down the temperature of her already cold bath.
“Hey!” Now the woman had two insults to answer for.
Close on her heals was another woman with round rosy cheeks and a grin. She lifted her eyebrows like she knew a big secret, then emptied her large mug slowly. She leaned over the tub and laughed in Phoebe’s face, but the water she added had been nice and hot.
The next three in line brought cold. All in a row. Their descendants would be mean high school girls, Phoebe just knew it. Thankfully, a long stretch of sympathetic women made up for it with large containers of steaming water, and it was then Phoebe realized why she’d been given such a shallow bath to start with.
She also realized something else...
The younger ones weren’t happy with her because they thought she was after Flanders. And she only learned it because they mouthed his name while they poured in their offerings.
Since her water still wasn’t as hot as she wanted it, she thought an announcement was in order. There were only a dozen women left, many of them young, so she held up both hands and waved.
“Um. Just so you know, I have no interest in Flanders!” She watched, and when their expressions didn’t change much, she waved again. “And I won’t be marrying James, either!”
The last of the women hurried along with a spring in their steps and wide-eyed grins on their faces. Her water got hotter, the tub was plenty full. And she was thinking she was pretty clever—though a little bit slow—until a deluge of cold water was dumped on her head like Gatorade at a football game.
Her head went numb. She gasped for air and turned, ready to rip Mrs. Spoon a new one. But the one standing with an empty bucket in their hands was much taller than Mrs. Spoon. Much more attractive, and much blonder.
Flanders looked down his nose at her, daring her to complain. Then he leaned to the side to peek at all the skin on display, gave her a farewell glower, and headed back out the door. At the last second, he held out the bucket and released it, like a mic drop—a move he had to have learned from James.
She swam around in the barrel until she felt as clean as cold water could get her, then she hopped out and reached for an offered sheet, too cold for modesty.
Once her teeth stopped chattering and her bones stopped shaking, she admitted that she could have found a kinder way to reject the man. A private conversation, for example. But how was she to know he was still interested in her, when his earlier performance that morning had been so odd?
What happened to the old days when a girl could know who liked her by who was tugging on her ponytail?
She spent the next hour in a rocking chair scooted close to the fire in the empty hall. It took a while for her hair to dry and her feet to warm, and no one had been by to remind her that everyone works. Until they did, she didn’t plan to move a muscle.
The cold water had shocked her system and shocked her brain. She felt wider awake than she’d been since she’d arrived with Wickham. Maybe it was Gerts’ sleeping potion that hadn’t worn off yet, or maybe it was just the sur-reality of the experience. But the cold bath had washed all that away.
The truth was clear, even if she’d been avoiding it.
The Muirs were powerful witches, obviously. And if they believed James was her soulmate, they were probably right. But she suspected she would have figured that out on her own, eventually, and maybe without the journey through time. All he had to do was touch her and she felt...like she was different. Just seeing him sitting there on that ridiculous throne, she could have wept she’d been so happy to see him.
And it wasn’t because he was a sight for sore eyes—she’d seen him just two days before.
And it wasn’t because he was lovely—which he was.
And it wasn’t because she felt instantly safe in his presence—though she did, even when he was cursing her in Norse and running away.
It was the energy in the air when he was sitting on the opposite side of a tearoom. It was the sweet, exciting coincidence when he picked the same cup she had. The thrill she got when he climbed out of that van and marched toward her house. When she’d walked into a bank and come face to face with a heart-aching certainty that she could never take him home.
And very soon—and for the rest of her life—she would regret letting him go.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
James had awakened that morning with a clear head and a clear conscience. The first thing he’d done was let Flanders know that Stephan would not be collecting the Todlaw boon, that he would not offer marriage to Phoebe Jones. His friend had disappeared before James had a chance to tell him he wouldn’t be allowed to marry her either.
It was well after breakfast when his friend found him again, rebuilding an inferior section of the wall. The sand and small gravel they’d used for grout was failing, and James was determined that his wall would stand the test of time. A great deal of time.
After Flanders gave him an account of what happened in the kitchens, James thought he’d best go check on the woman. He couldn’t hide a smile as he headed up the stairs to the entrance, no longer dreading who was inside. He had to admit, though, what pleased him even more than the fact that she’d survived the women’s ritual without a tear shed, was that she’d rejected the Viking. Now, there would be no need to explain his reasons to Flanders.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want Flanders to be happy, or the woman for that matter. He just didn’t want them happy, together, and under his
roof. Even if they ended up in two different towers, it wouldn’t make a difference. He’d still see them together and wonder...
He couldn’t forget that she’d rejected him too. But he would be sure to let word spread that the reason they didn’t marry was because he wanted someone else, and not because she didn’t want him.
His pride smarted a bit, but it was a relief, truly, that Phoebe Jones was of the same mind, that they were never meant to be together. Until someone arrived to relieve him of her, however, it didn’t mean they couldn’t be cordial.
He found her in the hall, sitting alone by the fire, wearing a blue kirtle over her own brown dress. Caught by surprise, she glanced over her shoulder at him, then relaxed. It was flattering, that. But just because she was happy to see him, didn’t mean he had to keep her.
“Do you have time to join me?” The question was timid and addressed to the fire.
He’d intended to sit in his chair upon the dais—it was the only one big enough to accommodate his long legs, but he realized she meant to stay near the fire. Apparently, the cold from Flanders’ bucket of water was still doing its work. Maybe she’d had time to regret rejecting his friend, and if so, he was there to see she stuck to her guns.
He dragged a bench over to her chair and sat, facing the embers in case the conversation grew uncomfortable. Looking into her face might weaken his resolve, and he had to stick to his guns as well.
“I’ve decided,” she began, but he cut her off.
“Lass. Ye should know I was told everything that happened in the kitchens.”
She gave him a suspicious look. “Then you know Flanders—”
“Yes.” Though he tried, he couldn’t help laughing.
She smiled too. “Well, I can’t blame him. I can complain about being cold, but I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same thing myself.” She reached over and patted his knee. “I guess I shouldn’t have just announced that I wouldn’t be marrying you either, but I thought it would buy me some more hot water. And it did, by the way. I think there are a lot of women around here who still hope to catch your eye.
“Do ye think so?” He thought it best to play innocent. Of course he knew. He’d found them waiting in his bed often enough he’d had to make that silly announcement, and promise a rich reward, just to let the women of Todlaw ken that he was looking to hire outside, as it were. For the most part, they’d left him alone. However, after a steady parade of candidates through the keep, they’d grown a bit protective of him. She’d been lucky to have enjoyed any warm water at all.
By the look on Phoebe’s face, she’d seen right through the innocent act, but said nothing.
“I just wanted you to know,” she said, “I’m hoping Wickham will show up soon and take me back.”
His heart fell on her behalf. Poor lass. He reached over and took up her hand, then looked into her dark eyes. “Wickham won’t be coming back, lass. I’m sorry if ye’ve gotten yer hopes up—”
“He will,” she insisted. “Well, maybe not him, but the sisters will send someone for me. They promised.”
He held her hand a wee bit tighter, willing her to believe him. “I have no doubt it was just another lie the Muirs told along with the rest. But in my case, they insisted from the first that I had to be certain I wanted to come to the past because there would be no going back.”
She pulled her hand from his and jumped to her feet, then stepped away and shook her head obstinately. “They didn’t tell me that. My deal was different, I guess. Because they will come back for me, when I’m ready. And I’m ready.”
He decided to patronize her. “What did they say, exactly?”
She tried to remember word for word. “I asked them, if things didn’t work out, or something goes wrong, how would I contact them? And would they come and get me? From the beginning, they described it as an extended vacation, so I told them I was expecting to come back.”
“And what did they say to that?”
“Lorraine said not to worry, that they’d know the same way they know everything. I assumed they would just read my mind.”
“Across 700 years?”
She paled. “700? Really?”
“The year is 1322, Phoebe lass. 708 years, to be precise. Did the sisters say it was possible, from such a distance?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think the sisters knew where I’d be going.”
“But they said they’d collect ye after ye…what, fell in love?”
She bit her lower lip and shook her head. “I assumed.”
“It sounds like they were deliberately vague. No clear intentions at all. Ye were duped, just as I feared.”
Phoebe stepped around the chair and walked slowly toward the main entrance with one arm wrapped around her waist and her other hand rubbing her forehead, mumbling to herself all the while. Instead of leaving, however, she paced back to the fire, then paced the length of the hall three more times before coming back to him.
“I’ve decided,” she said. Though her voice was solid, her hands shook.
He pivoted on the bench and stood up to face her, then he took her hands firmly in his to help them settle. Consoling her after such a shock was the least he could do.
“I think... Well, first of all, I think I can’t stay here. I mean, I’m sure I can figure out something else... That is, I’m not giving up hope on the Muirs. It’s just that... I mean, what if I really am stuck here and you obviously don’t...” She looked up at his face, stricken, desperate.
He immediately thought about the battlements and the height of the keep, and instinctively, he pulled her against him. “Easy, lass. Easy. Ye’re obviously in shock. Didn’t I tell ye we’d figure it all out? And we will. Until we do, though, yer place is here. So I’ll have no more talk of ye making other arrangements. Is that clear?”
She nodded against him but he could feel her body jerk as she fought in vain not to weep.
Though her head only came as high as his chest, she was taller than he’d expected, pressed up against him like she was. And he indulged himself in the feel of having her in his arms, even though it was temporary. It was like hugging a piece of his past. Just a brief, sentimental moment, and then he’d return to the present.
The moment drew out so long, however, that he’d almost forgotten to let go. He credited the restorative power of physical connection, one human to another. But he couldn’t deny that their bodies lined up comfortably with each other. In fact, he could just as easily stand there all day as sit in his large chair…
His ego suggested that perhaps she only clung to him for his warmth, and he leaned back to look at her face. Once their eyes met, however, some madness possessed him and he could think of nothing but picking her up, moving to the wall, and pressing her against the stone while he devoured her mouth. And maybe none of that would have happened had he not read the same sudden hunger in her own eyes.
Luckily, the stones had set permanently in place more than a year before, or he might have created a Phoebe-sized hole in the wall while he answered two years’ worth of questions with one passionate kiss. And one might have been enough if he hadn’t noticed how her eyes had lost their focus, how her lips swelled from his first attack, or how she waited, silently for him to continue.
Another assault brought him screeching to the edge of his control and he stepped back, though he didn’t let go of her. She seemed slightly unstable on her feet, and he wanted to make sure she wouldn’t fall into a puddle if he let go too soon.
She wasn’t interested in eye contact as she covered his hands with hers and took a few deep breaths. A line along her neck jumped with the beat of her heart and he watched to see if it would slow.
“James,” she said, while looking off to the side.
“Mmm?”
“I want my pink underwear back.”
Someone choked and coughed from the doorway. He knew the voice, and he could guess what Flanders was thinking, seeing them together like that so soon after Phoebe ha
d rejected them both. James released his hold and allowed her to step out of his embrace, but he suspected the blush on her cheeks had more to do with the topic of pink things than being caught in his arms.
Flanders, however, would only see it one way, and James faced his friend, to take the brunt of his anger head on. But the Viking only grinned.
“We’ve all been wondering where the pink garment had disappeared to. Now we ken who has it.”
James leveled the man with a threatening stare. “I think it best if that wasn’t widely known.”
“I am certain ye do.”
James huffed out his breath. “What price will I pay if ye forget about it?”
Flanders’ grin widened. “Well, I don’t know. But I’m sure I will think of something.”
The big blond offered a mock bow, then disappeared again. A heartbeat later, Phoebe was pressed against him once more in that comfortable way she molded to him. His hands rested naturally on her shoulders. He couldn’t complain, however, because he wasn’t sure which of them had moved—perhaps both.
A small detail kept him from relaxing like he had before, however.
Would her feelings be hurt when Raulf returned with the cavalry?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
James rode to the shores of Loch Rannoch, and though it was the middle of the day, and a lot more work could have been done, his mind was not on the new construction. It was on the old.
In particular, he couldn’t stop seeing the stones in the wall of the great hall, Phoebe Jones pressed up against them, and she just as powerless to stop the madness of that first kiss. And the next.
It was easy to blame it on the inevitable emotions of their conversation. She was reeling from a terrible blow. He’d only wanted to help, and that would have been impossible from across the room. Touching her had been necessary. What happened after that was a natural progression. He should have anticipated it, but he hadn’t.
