PENETRATE (The Portals of Time Book 1)

by Jackie Ivie

He turned Thundercloud’s head forward, nudged the horse with his knees, and was rewarded with the horse’s immediate movement. He’d been apprehensive without reason. Riding a horse wasn’t all that difficult. Just took a little practice.

  Like riding a bike.

  Yeah. Right, Neal.

  His lips twisted at his foolishness. This didn’t remotely resemble being atop any of his bikes. There could be several reasons why he wasn’t having trouble with Thundercloud at the moment, none of them based on Neal’s proficiency. The horse was probably tired. Hungry. Or he could just be biding time...waiting for the opportune moment to unseat Neal again.

  The wall on the left rose higher as they progressed. The right side matched it, lifting upward to twenty feet. Twenty-five. Thirty. Thirty-five. Neal was approximating, but he didn’t think he was far off. It looked close to the size of a four story structure. If the sun was at its apex, the area was probably fully illuminated. Right now, the base of the passageway was beset with a lengthy shadow that swallowed them up. He was surrounded on both sides by what would be solid black rock, except for darker slits in the stone every twelve feet or so. They were at varying levels through the wall. Neal didn’t have to ask the purpose of this construction. It had been part of his summer of castle education. The slits were for archers. If he looked higher up, he’d probably spot openings called murder holes, used for raining boiling liquids down on intruders. Castles were defensive structures, and this passageway was one hell of an obstacle for an attacker.

  It was a massive display of power.

  Might.

  Authority.

  Despite everything, goosebumps lifted on his skin. He wasn’t claustrophobic, but this approach made his heart pound quicker. He might as well be entering the maw of a large black tunnel. Each breath came with a heavy sensation. The only thing that muted the effect was the width of the space. He’d gauge it at twenty feet wide, never narrower. The ground changed to what looked like cobblestone. Sounded like it, too, if the impression of hammers hitting on rock as shod horse hooves traversed it was an indicator. Neal couldn’t see much at the moment, either. There was a distinct curve coming up, leading to the left.

  The walls finally met high above his head, the mass of black stonework rising to form a Romanesque arch. This one had a woven-leather and iron-studded gate hanging down from it. Wow. He was looking over a portcullis. He’d seen ancient ones, while touring castles. Never like this. They hadn’t looked this nasty. The spikes were lifted just high enough a rider atop a horse could get beneath it. Neal ducked his head even though he had several inches leeway.

  And if he wasn’t already slack-jawed, that would have happened as the castle came into sight.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Coffee.

  That item went to the top of Neal’s mental list of investments. Steel, transportation, and men’s fashion took a backseat to coffee beans. Someone needed to make sure coffee beans were picked at the peak of ripeness. Slow-roasted. Ground evenly. Settled in a filtered well, so steamed water could be passed through them. None of which had been done to his pot of coffee before it got delivered. He was investing in a coffee plantation somewhere in South America and giving the instructions at his first opportunity. The world needed a decent cup of java, ASAP.

  That took care of his first fortune.

  Neal took one taste of the liquid in his cup and nearly spit it back out. It was a chore to swallow. For the first time in his life, he added sugar and copious amounts of cream. He made a face as he doctored the brew, but the one he made after downing the mixture was worse. He had a mirror that confirmed it.

  His reflection proved several things, actually. It was a long cheval-style affair, set on dowels so it could pivot up and down. It had been in the room between this one and the suite belonging to his duchess. He’d hauled it in here himself after three menservants had delivered three pails of heated water to this chamber. He’d wanted one for soaping, one for rinsing, and the third one just because he was annoyed.

  He hadn’t been when the groomsman, Rory, had deserted him at the front door. Or, rather, the lad had taken the mounts away after Neal dismounted and left him to face an array of uneven stone steps that led to the front door. At the second floor. Apparently, Straith Castle had been started as a tower house prior to being added and enhanced.

  Neal had recalled that lesson as he’d considered the mass of dark stone.

  There were reasons why living areas began with the second floor. The first floor was dark and cool, both necessities for food storage. There was a problem with pests, rats in particular. They also liked cool, dark places. There was always a risk of drunken clansmen riding into the place while still on horseback – a feat more than one nobleman had attempted in the past. This design was also a defense mechanism against a horde of invaders, assuming they survived a pelting of arrows and boiling oil during their approach. Having to mount a massive set of steps to accomplish a takeover would be an additional hurdle.

  All of which went through Neal’s head before he’d shrugged it off. What did it matter how the castle had been constructed? By whom? And when? He needed to start discounting things. Financial world domination was the objective. Everything else was ancillary.

  Everything.

  Neal had started up the steps at a jog, taking them two-at-a-time, barely winded as he reached the top. The extra room in his trouser seats for such an exercise was a decided plus point. Perhaps he’d best rethink altering menswear too much. His new body was another bonus to his new reality, too. He was the same height – six feet, four inches – but he was several pounds heavier. The additional weight wasn’t flab. Neal had been in great shape in his thirties, but he didn’t recall possessing this much muscle. Strength. Or energy.

  He reached the stoop. The castle had a large, iron-studded, wooden door. It was propped open, held that way with an iron statue in the shape of a reclining dog. Neal bounded onto a raised entrance stone. Dropped down onto a wooden floor with a thud that echoed. And then he’d entered a span of room large enough to hold a stockholder meeting. With all of his companies. At once.

  And then he’d just stood there, absorbing the space, while working to keep his jaw from dropping.

  The room was dim and carried a distinct chill, even for a sunny morning in June. Nobody was about. An arrangement of long, heavy-looking, wooden picnic tables and benches graced one side of the room. Hotel-sized rugs were scattered about the floor, looking like pools of color amidst all the dark wood. They each held a smattering of furniture. Couches. Chairs. Tables. Lamps. The amount of space was mind-numbing. He couldn’t imagine what energy it must take to keep this area at a comfortable temperature, or if that was even possible.

  The ceiling was a good span above him. He couldn’t tell the construction material, but the support beams spanning the width were wood. Each one looked like it had been hewn from a single immense tree. There were windows in the highest level, sending sunlight down in multi-hued spears of illumination. The light touched on what they had displayed up there. Neal had lost the battle against his jaw. It had dropped. He’d spent years amassing a weapons collection. It was rarely seen outside of his vault. But he’d never seen the amount of weaponry he was looking at now.

  The entire back wall held spiral displays created from taking hundreds of swords, placing their tips together, and fanning them outward, using the hilts as the circle’s circumference. Large spiral displays were at both ends of the wall, interspersed with smaller ones, presumably fashioned from a like amount of daggers. He couldn’t tell in the lighting and from this distance, but that’s exactly what it looked like.

  Eight.

  Nine.

  No.

  They had thirteen of the displays up there.

  Someone had taken flintlock rifles and done the same thing along the walls on both sides of the room, alternating them with smaller spirals made from smaller weapons – he’d guess pistols. A glance over his shoulder showed that the wall behind him
was almost entirely taken up with a collection of shields. All kinds of shapes. Several different materials. This was unbelievable. Stunning.

  Neal was looking at an array of armament that would shame the acquisitions department of any institution he could name. There was an incalculable amount of wealth and power on the walls about him. The impression was of dominance. Command. Supremacy. It left the viewer with an uneasy feeling. As if they’d lost significance.

  He felt it.

  He knew it was intentional.

  And he owned all of this?

  No. Wait.

  It didn’t matter who was the Duke of Straith-whatever. Who owned the castle. How they acquired it. Neal didn’t care about people. Their machinations. Petty problems. Human failings. He needed to remember his goals.

  Market takeover.

  Save the planet.

  Period.

  He lowered his head. There were four massive stone fireplaces along each wall. Eight in all. That was probably an attempt to warm the place, as well as provide light. He wondered if they burned wood. And from where would they get it? The waste was incalculable. It was beyond wasteful. Those fireplaces probably didn’t even work well. Neal couldn’t imagine how dark and cold this place was at night. He could guess.

  But...wait. Wasn’t Benjamin Franklin around doing the kite and key and lightning experiment about now? Hmm. Electricity was a viable stock option. If Neal lived long enough to see it offered. Or maybe he could manage to jumpstart that industry, too. He had another item for his portfolio.

  He really needed to get this written down!

  Neal moved his attention to the staircase gracing the back wall. It had been constructed using more of the dark stones. There were two lengths of steps rising in tandem along the side walls. They curved inward, and met at a large landing that looked capable of holding members of an entire board of any of his companies. It was well above the floor. Ten feet or so beneath the lowest display of swords.

  Those must be a pain in the ass to dust.

  He’d smiled at the instant thought. Then realized, the estate must have an army of employees. He wondered what that must cost. In 1803 terms.

  And then he ignored it.

  Who cared?

  He had larger plans.

  There was a shadowy space beneath the landing. Neal could just make out a set of doors. Massive, carved wooden affairs, containing long handles fashioned of antlers. The entire room was medieval. Masculine-themed. The ladies of the house must not have exercised much influence. But, that might have been normal for the area and time period. What did he know?

  One door opened.

  And Garrick Straith walked into the room.

  Neal didn’t need to ask the fellow’s identity. He just knew. His steward had dark hair. It was pulled back into a pony-tail, exactly like the one Neal sported. Garrick was fit. Not unattractive. Save for the dark beard he wore, Garrick was close to Neal in size and appearance. He rapidly closed the distance between them, his strides making a thumping sound that turned into a mass of noise resembling a band of drummers without much rhythm. Garrick had been pretty damned impressive as he’d neared, his kilt flapping along his thighs. Neal got a sensation of something malevolent. That was highly unlikely. He didn’t believe in emotions. That didn’t stop the goose bumps from lifting along his skin. Even if he hadn’t been warned by Rory, he’d have still known not to trust the man. Neal was instantly on edge. And extremely wary.

  “So! You’ve finally returned, have ye?”

  The steward hailed him loudly, using a Scottish brogue Neal didn’t think he’d ever achieve, even if he wanted to.

  “Good morning, Garrick,” Neal had answered.

  Garrick had frowned. “Yer voice has changed.”

  “Really?”

  “Aye.”

  “That’s...odd.”

  They’d looked each other over. His steward hadn’t said anything for several seconds. If Neal had a timepiece he’d have heard it ticking away as the time passed. He’d tensed without conscious volition.

  “The clan’s gathered. Prepared. Ye’ve na’ got much time.”

  “Before what?”

  “Did ye forget yer meetin’ today? With the MacAffrey laird?”

  “Oh. That.”

  Neal’s voice had lowered on the last word, clearly demonstrating his distaste. It had been at the periphery of his thought process to simply forego the coming event. Run away. Snatch a berth on the nearest ship going west. Disappear. Just let things happen here in the wilds of Scotland as they might. It was at that moment, standing beside Garrick, that Neal decided otherwise.

  “Aye. That. Ye’ve got two hours. Mayhap less.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “There’s some-what powerful strange aboot you, mon. Be ye serious?”

  Neal had lifted an eyebrow. The man’s speech was thick enough to render it a foreign tongue. “I took a spill from my horse. Hit my head.” He lifted a lock of hair from his forehead to display it. Winced as his fingers touched the spot.

  “I warned ye that horse was too much fer ye.”

  “Yes. Well. Apparently, you weren’t the lone one with that advice. Is that the way to my chamber?”

  Neal pointed to the portal Garrick had come through and started walking that direction. His steward fell into step with him.

  “Of course na’.”

  “I took a nasty spill, Garrick. Didn’t you hear? I seem to have lost a good bit of memory because of it. Most of it...of recent origin.”

  “Truly?”

  The hope in the man’s voice was grating.

  “It comes and goes. So. If that isn’t the direction to my room, what is?”

  The man pointed up to the landing. “Chieftain’s rooms are oop there. Where they’ve always been.”

  Well, of course the duke would have the most regal path to his chamber. Neal should have figured that out. He selected the staircase on the right, jogged to it, and was halfway up when he noticed Garrick was directly behind him. Neal had stopped. Turned around. Regarded his steward for long moments. He was one step above the man. He could tell the additional height bothered Garrick. That was pleasurable. Neal had been hard-pressed not to show it.

  “Why are you following me?”

  “I am yer steward, Niall. Ye’ve been away most of yer life. Yer not familiar with our coostoms...so ye said. You’ll be a-needin’ my advice.”

  “Oh. Not anymore.”

  “What?”

  The fellow was taken aback. His head went back along with his shoulders. Neal decided that reaction was even more pleasurable to observe. It took an act of will to hide that emotion, too.

  “Tell you what? Why don’t you leave me alone to shower and shave? Change my attire. Grab a bite to eat. And then...we can meet back here in...? How about an hour and a half? How does that sound?”

  “Shower?”

  Crap. They didn’t have showers, either? Neal was extremely grateful for his position above Garrick. It was easier to look and act condescending.

  “Just see that three large buckets of warmed water are delivered to my chamber. Oh! I’d also like breakfast. With coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.”

  “Ye want yer breakfast delivered? To yer rooms?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “But—”

  “You seem to possess excellent hearing, Garrick. Comprehension is another matter entirely. Sounds like it will take a bit of work, but we all have to start somewhere. Don’t we?”

  Garrick had narrowed his eyes and tightened something in his jaw, if the nerve twitching at one side was an indicator. Neal had waited. And then the man had spun around, gone back down the stairs, and his step when he reached the ground floor wasn’t near as jaunty as it had been.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Neal grimaced again at the bitter taste from the coffee he’d just swigged. Put the cup back onto its saucer. He rarely stopped at one cup. He did now. For self-preservation. He regarded the rest of his brea
kfast selection with an even more jaundiced eye. Most of it looked inedible. Maybe it was due to the distance from the kitchen. He couldn’t tell. But the meats were greasy and cold, the yolks of two fried eggs broken and congealed. There was a bowl of baked beans. Chunks of something black and sour-smelling. Thank goodness someone had included a small pot of oatmeal! And scones. Those were familiar. Hearty. Delicious. He wrapped a sausage link within a pancake that tasted of oats and potatoes and chomped on it as he considered the wicked-looking bruise at his temple in the mirror. Nasty-looking thing.

  And he was running out of time.

  Even when given an entire new adulthood to work with, time was still a priority.

  He had about twenty minutes left, give-or-take. He needed to prepare and he didn’t have much help. The menservants hadn’t been any, but he hadn’t asked, either. None of them would meet his glance. Neal guessed it had something to do with the breakfast, and his requirement of it in his room, but he didn’t have anyone to verify it. Unless he considered the gent who’d arrived on the heels of his breakfast, and who hovered even now, beside the bed. Silently watching. Neal caught the fellow’s gaze in the mirror before the man also looked away from him.

  The man had given his identity. He was the laird’s valet.

  Another blasted Scotsman.

  Neal wondered over trustworthiness, although he hadn’t sensed anything like the emotion he’d felt when in Garrick’s presence. Neal turned about. Approached the bed. He wore a floor-length robe, fashioned of some soft fiber he couldn’t identify at the moment. It was lined with satin and finished with a silver embroidered crest at his left chest area, directly above his heart. The emblem was so heavy with thread it weighed down the material.

  His valet stood patiently, hovering beside a selection of Highland attire. There was a white linen shirt. A ruffled bit of material hung from the neck. It had buttonholes. He guessed it was a facsimile of a tie. Or...what had they called neckwear back then? Cravats. Yeah. That was it. Two circles of white linen fabric were resting above the shirt. They were mystifying. A short black jacket with embroidered epaulets came next. Looked like it had been fashioned from velvet. A length of red, white, and black plaid was spread out across the coverlet beside the jacket. Neal guessed it would become a kilt of some kind. A round purse-thing rested beside the plaid, made from some animal’s pelt. It was heavily embossed with silver. Tasseled plaid socks in the same color scheme of red, white, and black were beside it, followed by four silver-handled daggers. Two smaller knives came next. A large, jeweled and gilt-trimmed scabbard rested toward the foot of the bed, ready to hold the sword that lay beside it. That wicked-looking weapon graced the footboard, glinting with the amount of polishing it had been given. The last item looked like a bonnet for his head.