PENETRATE (The Portals of Time Book 1)

by Jackie Ivie

  To kiss them.

  “Your grace! Straith? Can you hear me?”

  She left off ministering to the cut. It didn’t look fatal and she mustn’t forget the reason for her appearance this morning. Her reaction to him didn’t matter. Nor did his appearance. Conduct. Or anything other than her mission. She hadn’t had much time to start with. Now, she had less.

  If Father knew where she was. And what she was doing. And who she spoke with...!

  Ainslee trembled. She couldn’t continue the thought. She didn’t dare. She shook the duke before she lost her nerve completely. “Your grace! Wake up! Please? You must wake up! Come along, your grace. Please?”

  He definitely did more than kiss a lady’s hand. She didn’t imagine the strength that seized her wrist and yanked her almost atop him. The only thing preventing it was her other arm as it stopped the fall. Her hand hit the ground on his far side, propping her up. He wasn’t touching anything except her wrist, but near-contact sent heat through her. It penetrated the wet skirts. Warming. Steadying. Bolstering.

  “We’ve little time. You hear?”

  Her lips were near his ear, framed by strands of hair that had escaped a queue. And that meant he hadn’t cut his hair. He’d tied it back and tucked the length beneath his collar. Ainslee tried to discount it. She pursed her lips. Cleared her throat. Moved her eyes. She’d believed the rumor that he’d dispensed with his hair. She’d listened and secretly mourned it. Straith lairds claimed the most glorious, thick hair. The new duke was no exception. It had been striking when he was young. It was said to be even more so now that it had darkened to the color of roasted chestnuts. He was also said to possess such handsomeness he set all the lasses in his vicinity to sighing. Ainslee looked him over. The last hadn’t been a lie. Ainslee’s heart stuttered. She almost sighed before catching it.

  “What? The hell?”

  Oh. My.

  She hadn’t known his voice had changed. Not this much. He had a strange accent, but he’d been away, visiting foreign ports. And in London-town. That might explain it. But nothing explained the depth of it. Nor her reaction. Bass tones rumbled through the air, lifting shivers along her skin. They affected her words as she stumbled through them.

  “Ain...slee! You have to...uh. No! You must ask for Ainslee today! You just have to!”

  “I need. A drink,” he replied.

  “Aren’t you listening?”

  He groaned again.

  “Today! When you visit MacAffrey, you have to ask for Ainslee! You ken?”

  “Ken?” he asked.

  She pushed up, gained her knees beside him, and pulled at her captured hand. He released it.

  “You’ve an appointment with the MacAffrey laird this afternoon! You’re asking for his daughter’s hand! Make certain to ask for Ainslee!”

  “All right. That’s it. Where’s Eric?”

  He opened his eyes and settled his penetrating gaze on her. Ainslee’s heart stopped and then the darn thing felt like it swelled. Each beat almost pained. She’d forgotten he had stunning eyes. Gray-toned. Mercurial. It was akin to looking at hammered silver. This time when she swallowed, it was more of a gulp.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “I do na’ ken...anyone of that name.”

  He frowned, put a hand to his wound, lifted her linen and then stared at it uncomprehendingly. His nose pinched up, as if in distaste. Ainslee looked from the cloth to him. Back at her cloth. It was a scrap of old linen, frayed at the edges. Despite continual washing and letting it bleach dry in bright sunlight, it had been stained before she’d used it on him. Now it was streaked with blood from his wound. But if she’d known she’d be proffering her handkerchief to him, she’d have brought one of Lileth’s lace-bedecked ones.

  “What? Is this?”

  He had a strange way of breaking sentences, pausing distinctly between the words. It was already difficult to keep his gaze. With his voice and the way he spoke, it was even more so.

  “My...handkerchief?” she offered.

  He moved the cloth toward her, holding it with his forefinger and thumb as if that was too much contact. She took it, and despite her best effort, her hand visibly trembled as she tucked it back into her pocket. This was not going well. He wasn’t listening. Or he didn’t understand. And it had taken every bit of bravery she possessed to accost him this morn. She glanced toward him. Looked away. Struggled against the instant sting of tears again.

  This was truly odd. Completely unlike her. She was known for stoicism. She rarely cried. The punishment was too severe.

  “Okay. Level with me. I crashed-landed. Right?”

  Ainslee watched the view blur into a wash of thistle amid heather, the color a mass of purple, green, and the dark brown of peat. She blinked rapidly and somehow conquered the urge to sob.

  “Speak up, girl.”

  “I do na’ ken your meaning,” she whispered.

  “Oh! For the love of—! Look. The one thing I detest is wasting time.”

  “Exactly! And that’s why you have to—!”

  “Don’t start the ‘ask for Ainslee’ spiel again. Just. Don’t. Oh! My head.”

  He’d tried to lift his head. Dropped it back to the sod. She watched him put a hand to his forehead and use a gingerly-looking motion to tap on his wound. He lifted his fingers away. Stared at them for a moment. Looked over at her.

  “What. The hell. Happened to me?”

  “You fell off your horse.”

  “Impossible.”

  “He reared. You fell. Your groom has gone to fetch him. I canna’ stay! But first say you’ll ask for Ainslee when you visit the MacAffrey laird. You must!”

  “Young woman. Please. Make some sense.”

  “You’ve an appointment today! ’Tis part of the Straith will! You have no choice! You have to ask for the hand of a MacAffrey lass. Everyone expects you to ask for Lileth. But you can na’! You just can na’!”

  “I have to do what?”

  “You can na’ ask for Lileth. Please? I’m begging you!”

  She’d never been this emotional. Ever. Ainslee’s eyes filled with stupid tears again. It was stupid. Irrational. She blinked and struggled, and was rewarded finally as his image cleared.

  “She’ll kill herself. She’s vowed it.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. The move highlighted and defined and put dawn glow on how many shades of gray his eyes contained. The cut at his forehead seeped again. He didn’t act like he felt it.

  “You’re making this up.”

  Ainslee shook her head.

  “You truly expect me to believe that a woman? This...Lileth? She’d kill herself? Rather than wed with me?”

  Ainslee nodded.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Ainslee nodded again.

  “Bullshit.”

  Ainslee’s eyes went wide at his crudity. “But, it’s true!”

  “Women hound me for a ring, young woman. You wouldn’t believe the plots they hatch. I’ve even had one post video online to force my hand.”

  “Vid...eo?” She stumbled over the unfamiliar word.

  “This is a set-up, isn’t it?” he interrupted. “Any moment now, news crews will be buzzing about, filming this. Am I right?”

  Ainslee frowned. He must have taken a terrible blow to his head. He was speaking gibberish. And she was out of time. The sun was burning away the concealment of mist with every passing second. She craned her neck and looked, not in the direction the groom should be appearing. She scanned the path she needed to take. She was going to be late. She’d have to run every step. She looked back at the duke. Sighed in resignation. “I...have to go.”

  “Just when we were having so much fun?”

  “Will you ask for Ainslee today?”

  He didn’t act like he heard her plea. He tried to sit. Crumpled back to the turf again with a groan.

  “Oh. Hell. My head.”

  “You mustn’t move. Your groom will be here soon with your horse.”r />
  “I don’t have a horse.”

  “But, you do. You own scores of them! Each more impressive than the next. Your stables are immense!”

  “No. I own bikes. Large ones. Powerful. Garages full.”

  “But...your grace!”

  “Can we dispense with the ‘your grace’ nonsense? It makes my head hurt worse.”

  “Forgive me, your grace.”

  “That’s it. Enough. Please. Cease calling me that. My name is Neal. Use it.”

  Ainslee couldn’t believe it. Her mouth dropped open. Her eyes had to be reflecting the shock. He said his name in an odd fashion, but he’d still said it. She’d heard him. She was having trouble with comprehension. It wasn’t possible. She was being allowed to address the Duke of Straithcairn by his given name?

  Her?

  Was this morning truly happening?

  His eyes narrowed as he watched her. They looked less like hammered silver and a lot more like lead. That was a disquieting thought.

  “This is some...uncharted island. Right?”

  “Island?”

  “It’s not Bermuda. Even I can tell that. But we have to be somewhere in the Atlantic. Someplace off the beaten path. Someplace...fairly uncivilized. Yes?”

  Uncivilized? Ainslee stiffened. Had he really just used that word and tone to describe his homeland? As if he was a Sassenach and not pure Highlander? And worse. Perhaps, he was including everything in it with his opinion.

  Like her.

  “Hail there!”

  They both turned at the voice, coming over the slight hill.

  “Oh, dear! ’Tis your groom! I must go.”

  Ainslee was on her feet. He forestalled her by grabbing her hand. And then he pulled, hunching her forward. She probably looked as awkward as she felt.

  “Your grace! Please?”

  “Neal.”

  “I canna’ be seen here with you! Na’ alone! You do na’ ken!”

  Of all the horrid consequences of this morning, what happened right now had to be the worst. She may have forestalled tears, but she hadn’t alleviated anything. Shortly, she’d be sobbing outright. The humiliation was beyond imagining. Ainslee swiped at her cheeks with her free hand. Sniffed loudly. And then – thankfully – he released her.

  “All right. You win! I’ll figure this out myself. Run along, little girl. Run. Far! And fast!”

  His taunt followed her, wafting on the wind with the volume of it. Tears blinded her flight through the swift scramble up the hill. A glance backward showed the groom just topping the next dale, riding his steed while leading the duke’s horse. He lifted his hand toward her. She ignored it and started running, unseeing of her every footstep. She had to get home. Hide. Somehow conceal the perfidy of this morning. It was inconceivable how massively she’d failed. She hadn’t received his promise. She hadn’t managed to get him to understand! She hadn’t even managed stealth.

  And she couldn’t seem to stop weeping.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Neal watched the waif scramble away from him, intent on escape. He couldn’t blame her. If his head didn’t feel like it was about to split, he might have been a little less insulting. And a lot more charming. He owned and operated various companies throughout the world, marketing Straith energy-conserving products in every country he could get a business licensed and operating. You didn’t get listed as one of the top five-hundred wealthiest men on the planet if you didn’t have global influence.

  That meant the last thing you did was go about insulting clients on their own turf.

  And then he placed her accent.

  She’d been speaking with a Scottish brogue. Thicker than the ones he’d dealt with before, but still. He’d swear the little urchin was Scottish. Which meant he’d somehow landed in Scotland.

  That was all well and good, and gave him a baseline for this experience.

  But little more.

  The how of his arrival escaped him. The why portion was an unfathomable realm. Figuring out what had happened was beyond imagination. But the where was clear. Real. And inescapable. He was in Scotland. Extremely rural Scotland, but nobody could call it uncivilized. And he’d just done so. To a native Scotswoman.

  Great.

  He’d been around all kinds of customs, endured every manner of hardship, learned and then achieved success at protocols regardless of their strangeness, without even raising one of his eyebrows. Neal Straithmore hadn’t achieved business success without possessing and using an ability to think quickly, keep up with internal and external events, accommodate as required. Fill in gaps if needed. Deal with unforeseen issues. Use his money and influence to advantage. Gain leverage. And then use it.

  But most of all, he knew to keep his counsel.

  Regardless of how confusing things appeared on the outset, he wasn’t a novice at much anymore. He was adept at handling crisis, soothing ruffled feelings, alleviating tension. He just needed to gather facts.

  If he could figure them out.

  It was still sharp in his mind. He’d been overly annoyed at Lindsey’s ploy to get him to the altar last night at his beachside bungalow. He’d reacted with his usual avoidance technique. He’d had a few stiff drinks in the interim, but hadn’t said a word to her after her little announcement, that had been given to him with all kinds of ultimatums and dramatics. After which, she’d let him be. Maybe she thought she’d delivered a coups-de-grace. He’d sat in his chair all night, brooding into his brandy snifter. She’d been sleeping with the slightest smile on her face when he left. He hadn’t packed a bag. Left a note. Alerted her to anything. He’d called for a meeting with his board while on the way to the airfield. Phoned Eric to join him. Minutes later, they’d left Aruba in his Cessna Citation X.

  And then things had taken a distinct turn downward.

  He’d been in the midst of a mini-stroke episode, or perhaps it had been the real thing. He’d taken one of his prescription pills. He’d never had a bad drug reaction, but there was always a first time. That could explain the weird spinning cloud that had appeared and sucked them into it, somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle area. He hadn’t died. He couldn’t have. He sure didn’t feel dead right now. And he wasn’t on an alien planet with large-eyed humanoid creatures he couldn’t communicate with. He wasn’t even in a strange place if he considered it. He’d somehow been regurgitated into the wilds of Scotland.

  There were worse circumstances.

  And much worse locales.

  He needed to consider another option, however. He could be unconscious. This could be a drug-induced delusion. Even now, he could be on an operating table, pumped full of morphine, while medical personnel worked at saving his life.

  But just then Eric came into view.

  The relief at seeing his protégé was palpable. Weakening. His voice even came out an octave higher than his normal range. “Eric! Oh! Thank God.”

  The fellow jumped from his horse and knelt at Neal’s side. The plaid kilt he wore spread onto the ground between them. An instant inspection revealed Neal’s mistake here. Where Eric’s hair had been slept-in and could have used a combing, this fellow’s head-full was long, shaggy, and needed a good barbering. But the two men could be twins. Except this lad was a good deal younger than his doppelganger.

  Speaking of which...

  Neal lifted his hand again, the one with fingers still smeared with blood from his wound. He’d noted an oddity the first time he’d looked at it, but he hadn’t assigned reason. Now he did. The hand was familiar, but looked like it had when he’d been younger. Before age spots appeared, his veins thickened, and the skin thinned. He was also missing the spiral signet ring from his little finger, too.

  Without one sign of a tan mark where it had been.

  It occurred to him that there was another option. Despite the implausibility of it. He needed to consider Quantum Physics. It was improbable, but potentially possible. He might actually have experienced Einstein’s theory of relativity first-hand. And, if he rea
lly stretched his imagination, he could add in an Einstein/Rosen bridge portion. That vortex he and Eric had flown into could have been a wormhole.

  Neal Alexander Straithmore might not just be on a different island entirely, he could be in a totally different time period, as well. He might even inhabit a different body.

  Oh, no. No. No way in hell.

  He needed to consider things. Draw it up and look it over. Visuals always helped. Hopefully he’d have some time before fate stuck him into another wedding noose situation. That was ironic. What were the odds he’d get sent back in time and have to avoid yet another woman wanting a ring?

  Neal frowned.

  “Be you all right, your grace?”

  Neal thinned his lips and looked away before he answered. The who portion of his new reality was rapidly starting to annoy. It could easily frustrate. He hadn’t liked being called ‘Mister’ even when it was correct protocol to do so. Assigning titles added an invisible layer of stratification in any situation. That usually went hand-in-hand with subordinate positioning. And that tended to stifle creativity.

  Since he dealt with innovative solutions to the planet’s diverse issues, he required creativity. His human resources departments actively sought out and hired people who spoke their minds, regardless of salary or position. His companies wanted the best. And they paid for it. Most of his employees were satisfied with the arrangement. Unless they decided they wanted to strike out on their own. Become a competitor. He had an entire legal firm to prevent that from happening. That’s why his employment contract read like it did. He had a lock on intellectual productivity, as well as future ideas that might be generated from working for him...or even construed as such.

  And that was just about everything.

  He was known as an employment shark in most business circles. Neal didn’t care what monikers got assigned to him. Some of his company’s most productive and lucrative ideas had come from an idea spouted out at a meeting, or in the elevator, or out in the parking lot...even the café. That’s how you grabbed at genius. You drew it up. Added and enhanced. Trademarked and patented.

  And Straithmore Enterprises owned a lot of trademarks and patents.