by Jackie Ivie
This could be the opportunity he’d been searching for! He needed to check the lay of the land. Scope out the financial landscape. Depending on the timeframe he’d landed in here, he could potentially get an energy-saving concept into the core of industry before it even became an environmental issue.
Save the planet.
Gain a legacy.
Add to his bank account.
The possibilities were mind-blowing. Sounded like he had an edge already with his social position. That was almost embarrassing. He’d heard that people who’d been regressed had never been menservants or laborers or slaves in their past lives. Oh, no. They’d always been an Egyptian pharaoh. Alexander the Great. A Roman conqueror. A king. Chieftain.
Or even a Scottish duke...
“Your grace?”
He turned back to Eric’s lookalike. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Rory, your grace. I work in your stables.”
“Rory. Of course. Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive, your grace. There are a lot of stable hands. It is na’ an easy thing to keep us straight. And you’ve but recent arrived.”
Neal pondered that for a moment. His lips twitched, but he somehow kept the amusement from showing. “I have?”
“From down London-town way. I’ve na’ been there me-self. I hear ’tis a verra...uh. Exciting place.”
“How...fortuitous for me.”
Holy shit!
The duke was new to the title? And new to the area? And had a name so close to his that he’d actually answer?
Neal couldn’t have set this up better.
“Your grace?”
Neal lifted his head tentatively. Nothing felt like it had before – as if a sledge hammer smashed into his skull with the motion. He sat next, using just as much caution. His head didn’t react to that, either. He hadn’t been mistaken about his physical age and condition. He had his sleeves rolled up. His forearms were bare. They looked a lot more muscled and firm than they had last night.
“What...day is it, Rory?”
“’Tis a Monday.”
Neal started. “Really?”
“Aye.”
“And the month?”
“June.”
The fellow’s confusion was obvious. Neal’s heart ticked up a notch. It was incredible. Impossible. And yet...
He’d left Aruba on a Thursday. In October. Because Lindsey had requested a vacation to escape the chill of fall. She hadn’t given a hint about the engagement ring she really wanted. Neal subconsciously tensed at the thought before he let it go. Lindsey was a blip in his past. Actually...she might not even be that.
“Year?” he pressed the groom.
“Year, your grace?”
“I have...suffered a head injury, Rory.”
“Aye. You took quite a spill. I told you Thundercloud was a mite spirited this morn.”
“You appear to have been correct. And I am still a bit nonplussed by my concussion.”
“Your grace?”
Crap. The kid didn’t know what that meant? Was the word concussion even in use? “I’m uncertain of...things. Like the year. Nudge my recollection. Remind me.”
“’Tis the year eighteen hundred and three, your grace.”
“1803? Holy hell. I’m at the very birth of the stock market!”
“Your grace?”
“Oh. Uh. Yeah. Never mind me, lad. It’s the...head injury talking.” Neal needed to get someplace and figure out logistics. Strategies. Decide what commodities to begin his investment portfolio with. Steel! That would be the first thing. No. Wait! It would be iron. Steel wasn’t available yet. He looked back at Rory. “We...need to get back to...um. Where do we live?”
“Castle Straith.”
“We live in a castle?”
“’Tis the Straith Clan ancestral home.”
Neal cleared his throat. “Well. Of course it is.” And probably archaic as all get-out. “Well, Rory. Is there a conveyance about for my use?”
“I’ve brought your horse.”
“The one that threw me?”
“He’s properly mollified, your grace.”
Neal cast a glance upward. The horse was an immense animal from this angle, young. Muscled. It wasn’t gelded, either. It was pulling against the rein Rory held, more than once showing the whites of his eyes. Neal didn’t know much about horses –buying stock in living things was a waste of money unless it was edible – but that horse didn’t look remotely mollified. Or calm. Or anything other than ready to bolt. Neal made a face. He liked his horsepower condensed into the cc kind. Apparently riding a motorcycle just became a nice memory. Motorized craft weren’t due for some decades yet.
Unless he started the industry.
Hmm. That was a thought with a lot of potential.
“Will you be needin’ an assist, your grace?”
“You could say that,” Neal replied.
“Do you need an assist, your grace?”
“What? Why did you re-ask that?”
“Because you said I could.”
Neal gave a heavy sigh. Being a duke in the early nineteenth century might be a bit taxing. He’d have to keep his own counsel about everything. He waved off Rory’s hand and stood, noting instantly that he wore trousers. They were fashioned strangely, with a bit more room in the seat than he liked, and a lot less negotiating room everywhere else, but familiar-feeling. He had a cloth cinched about his throat to the choking level. The jacket didn’t have much breathing room to it, either. He might as well have a girdle about his waist. Neal pulled at his throat covering until it gapped open and then started unfastening jacket buttons, starting at the bottom of the garment.
Well.
Appeared as if finding a decent tailor was going to be a prime objective in his new life. He decided to make a mental listing of what he needed to do. Draw it up on a chart later. He could jumpstart modern menswear, too.
That was before he discovered that the boots were even worse.
Some idiot had crafted them both identically, as if the left and right foot were alike. A shoemaker was going high on his list of requirements, too. He wore socks that were obviously woolen. He could feel the familiar itch of that fiber, but they were the only cushioning he could feel. There wasn’t any insole support. The boots were outsized to top it off, and they slanted downward due to the heels. He might as well be standing on slick boards atop a ski slope. His toes slid forward as he stood there, regarding his mount with the same expression of distaste the horse appeared to exhibit.
“What is my horse’s name, again?” he asked.
“Thundercloud.”
“Well. That’s apt.”
The horse’s head was level with Neal. Thundercloud didn’t look quite as intimidating from this angle, but he was still an animal that outweighed Neal by hundreds of pounds, possessed an agenda that differed from that of his owner, and he had the ability to put it into play. But things could be worse.
Neal could be wearing a kilt.
The groom sprang onto his own mount without much hint of effort, showing a lot of leg as his attire flapped about him. He settled into a section of leather that barely resembled a saddle, simultaneously shoving his boots into the stirrups. The kid hadn’t even used one. Neal considered his groom’s leg for a moment. It hadn’t looked hard, but he wasn’t trying it that way. He wasn’t entirely naïve of this. He’d seen this done more than once. Usually on film. By accomplished riders.
“You want the reins, your grace?”
“Uh. No. You better keep them. For now.”
“You certain-sure?”
“Oh. Yes.”
He’d seen horses mounted. He’d never tried it. Horses were mounted from the left. Neal moved a few paces to his right and faced the animal’s side. He put his left hand on the front part of his saddle. It had a raised area that lifted a lot higher than Rory’s saddle. That leather bit had a name, too...if he could just think...
Oh. Yes. It was a p
ommel.
His right hand gripped to the hunk of leather at the back of his saddle. Neal lifted his left foot toward the stirrup, but then had to use his left hand in order to wedge his boot into the damn thing. It was a tight fit. Completely unequal battle. Shoe leather against iron. The sides of his boot compacted slightly before he had his foot in, and then hopped about trying to grab the pommel again. Shoemaker moved above tailor in his mental list of requirements, while Rory sounded like he was trying not to laugh.
Finally!
Neal latched onto both ends of the saddle, heaved himself up. Lifted his right hand to toss his leg over the animal’s back, stretching out across the animal’s back, and that’s when the horse bucked. Neal promptly went flying off the far side of the animal, landing ignominiously on his butt as his foot slipped out of the boot.
The landing took his breath. Sent his vision swirling. A lot of horse was jumping around him, hooves flashing. He was rather grateful for Rory’s expertise as he brought Thundercloud back under control.
And that’s when he got angry.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Did he agree?”
Ainslee put a finger to her lips as Lileth’s maid, Elvie, finished shutting the door. Trust her sister not to know the slightest thing about subterfuge and secrecy. And it was her future at stake! Ainslee waited another moment before coming fully out from behind the tapestry, crossing to the chamber door, and then lowering the bolt, barring it.
“Well?”
She crossed quickly to the bed, opened her shawl, and dumped all sorts of breakfast goodies onto the coverlet beside Lileth. She’d brought crisped bacon strips, lightly browned scones with butter dripping from them, and even a portion of salmon – fresh-caught that morn, before being filleted, breaded, and then grilled to mouth-watering perfection. Although the feast had been crushed in her shawl, it looked immeasurably more appetizing than the crusts of bread and tureen of water Elvie had just delivered.
Lileth gasped. “How did you steal so much?”
“Nobody notices anything I do. You ken as much. And they already claim I eat like a horse, so who’s to note?”
“With na’ an ounce of extra to show for it. Still.”
Ainslee grinned, bounced onto the bed, and then sobered as her sister’s eyes filled with tears.
“So, tell me! Please? I’ve been awake all morn, fretting. I won’t be able to eat a bite.”
“I told you to rest. Worry will na’ help. Here. I even put honey on your scones.” Not very much, though. Her shawl was already sticky. She’d have to dip it in the loch at the first opportunity.
Her sister took a dainty bite, looking lovely and feminine and exactly what the Duke of Straithcairn should receive in a wife. Lileth was a full-blooded Scot, a product of the Sinclair and MacAffrey clans. She claimed vivid green eyes, red-gold hair that rippled to her waist, and womanly curves that promised healthy bairns.
Ainslee had suspected Father let her sister’s majority pass without accepting any of the offers he received because he was holding out for a prize catch, but even she couldn’t have guessed he’d set his sights on the Duke of Straithcairn! Their antecedents went back the Robert the Bruce! Why...the Laird of MacAffrey wouldn’t even have been allowed to sit at the same table with the Straithcairn laird in the past. And yet Father had managed to arrange a union between the two clans. It was still unbelievable, akin to attaining the moon. She eyed her sister worriedly.
“Are you certain...you do na’ wish to wed with him? I mean…truly certain?”
Lileth dropped the scone, her eyes immediately welled with tears that only made her more beautiful, and then she covered her face with her hands. That got followed by her wailing again, exactly as she’d already done for two days since this had started.
“Why are you crying now?”
Ainslee reached for the handkerchief in her pocket, pulled it out and then shoved it back before Lileth noted it. She’d forgotten. It was worse stained than before. And crusty with the duke’s dried blood now. She lifted a napkin instead. “Stop, Lileth. Please? You ken it breaks my heart.”
“But…you failed!”
“I did na’ say that.”
Her sister looked up, her lashes spiked together with moisture. When Ainslee cried, she looked like a bedraggled street urchin, not someone that should be immortalized in a painting. She sighed and looked away, toward the headboard, not really seeing the MacAffrey clan emblem that had been painstakingly carved into it.
Lileth was the beauty of the family. It seemed unnecessary that she also possessed a large dowry, settled upon her second birthday with the death of her mother. The MacAffrey laird had been inconsolable, everyone said. Until his trip abroad. When he’d returned with an Irishwoman for his second wife, it had surprised everyone. They’d called it a love match. That didn’t seem possible. She didn’t think Father knew the meaning of the word. Regardless, the Laird of MacAffrey welcomed a second daughter within a year of his return, but one who didn’t look remotely Scottish. Ainslee had hair as dark as the night and deep, sapphire blue eyes. She’d also inherited black, lush lashes, giving her a look some called ‘eyes put in by the devil’s smudged fingers’.
The combination of pink and white porcelain fine skin, dark hair, and black, thick lashes, should have rendered her with the moniker of pretty. And it might have, if she wore something besides her older sister’s cast-offs, ever gained enough weight to fill any of the clothing out, and stopped fidgeting long enough for anyone to notice.
Ainslee wasn’t even a year old when the laird’s second wife passed away, a still-birthed daughter with her. The laird hadn’t mourned her demise for any length of time or with any dignity. The gossips made certain Ainslee heard the story of how he’d up and wed the youngest daughter of the MacHugh clan within two weeks of the tragic deaths.
Two, short weeks!
But who could blame him? The Laird of MacAffrey wanted sons. That’s all anyone seemed to care about. And nobody found fault with that.
His third choice of wife was a woman of lusty size and a boisterous nature. She’d given the laird not one son, but five of them, and another due this fall; all of them red-cheeked and red-haired, raw-boned, and supremely healthy. But not one of them possessed much handsomeness. Even with red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, the oldest daughter, Lileth, was the beauty in the family. She reigned supreme in that regard.
Always had.
Always would.
“Then, you succeeded?”
“I...did na’ say that, either.”
Lileth’s eyes filled with tears again. Ainslee almost swore aloud.
“If I can na’ be with Robert…I’ll die!”
“I just need to make certain you are certain. I mean, Robert has little to recommend him, and—”
“I don’t care!”
Lileth glared at her. The expression was better than tears. Ainslee regarded her for a moment.
“I just want you to be sure. Straith is a duke! He is rich. He’s got a fine castle and a matchless stable. You should’ve seen the horse he rode today! Thundercloud is his name and—”
“I don’t care about horses, Ainslee. I’m not like you.”
Lileth was right there. For sisters, they were as different as night to day. Lileth didn’t spend a moment of thought on horses, while they were Ainslee’s life. That was one thing that reassured her over this plot. Although, secretly. The duke’s stable was part of the compensation package for taking Lileth’s place. She was giving up any chance for love in exchange for access to his horses.
And an escape from here.
Such thoughts were grim and did nothing. Ainslee stood. Looked down at her sister. Tried to smile reassuringly. “Stay in your rooms today. Use any excuse.”
“Why?”
“What man would ask for me if he sees you first? Unless, of course, you’re determined to ruin your looks by more sobbing.”
The flattery worked. Lileth straightened and immediately
started dabbing at her tear-soaked cheeks. “But…I’m under orders from Father.”
“Be ill. Have a feminine complaint. Do whatever you have to! But don’t be seen.”
“What if…Straith asks for me?”
“Then we’ll know I failed, and you’ll have to elope. Father will be verra angry. You might be disowned. But that could happen anyway. You ken as much.”
“Robert says he doesn’t care! Besides, I have my dowry. Father can’t take that from me. No one can!”
That was true. Lileth had a large dowry from her mother. She was a beauty. Her father was a laird. The Duke of Straithcairn was a stellar match. But her heart had been taken by a music tutor who was a second son of a second son of some obscure baronetcy in Cornwall somewhere. If Ainslee hadn’t seen them together, she’d have assumed the worst. But she knew the truth. When Robert was with Lileth, it seemed like a light enveloped them. Nobody else got to enjoin it. Both of them radiated such happiness, it was a crime to separate them.
Ainslee had never known love, but it looked like a truly wondrous event. Magical. Amazing. It should be in everyone’s future. But for her? If the duke did as she’d begged?
That would be never.
She cleared her throat. “You see? You have nothing to cry over and everything to look forward to. So, finish your breakfast and do na’ leave any crumbs! You ken how Elvie is. She’ll tell.”
“Ainslee!”
Her father’s booming voice penetrated the halls. It throbbed through the chamber door, rattling the bolt. It matched his size, and his emotions. He was a large man with an even larger temper. Ainslee was at the tapestry that hid the secret opening before the sound finished vibrating through the room.
“I must go.”
“What have you done now?” Lileth asked.
Ainslee waved a hand in response and disappeared into the black void that was the crawlspace. It didn’t take much to set her father’s ire against her. It was better to stay out of sight. Ainslee didn’t waste any time. She knew the hidden passages that honeycombed the castle almost as well as she knew the stables. If this were a normal day, she’d be running the narrow flight of steps to her tower room. That wasn’t feasible now. Father had probably already sent someone to check for her there. They might even be there waiting. She headed instead to the passage that connected to the second floor rooms, and the library. If she wasn’t in the stables, she was in the library. And there were lots of alcoves and niches to hide within. She could pretend she hadn’t heard Father calling.
