by Beth Trissel
The word played in his mind like the reedy thread of a distant flute. Haver meant nonsense, though how he knew that he couldn’t say.
Mora thrashed from side to side, cringing as the IV line pulled at the needle in her vein. “Owwww.”
“Stop that.” Neil bent lower and gently gripped her shoulders. “You’ll only do yourself more harm.”
She glared up at him through the gleam of unshed tears. “More than they? Will the leech bleed me dry—poison me?”
“No.”
“I shall niver leave here alive if ye do not bear me away!”
She had strident issues with the medical community, or maybe her tutor instilled the fear within her. “Where on earth are you from?”
“I already told ye and ye dinna listen.” She clamped her lips shut.
A pretty mouth, pink and puckered, Neil noticed. Whatever this amnesia was, it had engulfed her mind. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, it’s just—” he broke off uncertain what to offer by way of an explanation.
She twisted in his grasp, opening her lips long enough to demand, “Ye think me tetched?”
He recognized the Scot’s term for crazy and couldn’t deny the thought had crossed his mind, but hastened to say, “Of course not.”
She grew more incensed. “Then free me from this torment as befits a true Hieland chieftain!”
When had he declared himself a true Highland chieftain?
“And your father, a knight!” she flung at him.
“What?”
Jerking against his restraint, she cried, “Do ye not ken? I’m yer ain Mora. Will ye let strangers molest me?”
She was a raging, red-haired fury. It was all Neil could do to hold her down. But he hated to call the nurse, though no one within hearing distance could possibly miss her ranting.
The door opened. A thin man in blue scrubs strode in, looking at the chart in his hand. He ran his fingers over sparse gray hair. “Sorry. We’re shorthanded this evening. Doctor Marston’s on another case. I’m Doctor Paul.”
His tag said head of neurology. So, they’d called in the big guns.
Dr. Paul glanced down at Mora struggling in Neil’s grip. “I see this young woman’s suffered a head injury. Combative, is she?”
“Very, but not from the trauma,” Neil grunted. “I suspect it’s her nature.”
The physician shifted his focus from Mora to Neil. “It says here you’re her fiancé. Don’t you know?”
He answered between exhalations of air. “Our engagement is recent. She’s only just come from Scotland. We haven’t seen each other for a while.”
Ever, he thought, fighting to retain the upper hand over this she-devil.
Why then was there something familiar about her face and those glistening eyes? The reproach in her expression was new, though. She hadn’t glared at him as though he’d let her down before.
He caught himself. Before? What was he thinking? Everything about her was uncharted territory, wasn’t it?
The responsive chord deep in his gut argued with logic.
Chapter Four
“The Cat Scan didn’t reveal any injury beyond a mild concussion.”
There they went again, blethering on about some invisible cat, but the words floated above Mora like vaporous mist on the Hielans.
“How long until she comes round?” Neil’s low voice emanated from her side.
“We administered a short acting anesthetic to keep her still for the procedure, but she should regain consciousness soon and be ready to go.”
“Where?” Neil sounded taken aback.
“Into your care. You are engaged, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” A trace of uncertainty lingered in Neil’s tone. “Will she remain long in this confused state, do you think?”
“It’s difficult to say. Even mild head injuries can sometimes have pronounced effects on people. Give her time to rest, Mr. MacKenzie.”
“I will. I’ve seen the effects of concussion before, just not anything like this.”
Doctor Paul dropped his voice. “If need be, you might take her to visit a psychiatrist.”
Mora cringed. Witchcraft cloaked the very name. The awful flames reserved for heretics flared in her mind’s eye. Surely one who visited such a being was condemned to burn for the cleansing of their immortal soul.
Thankfully, Neil didn’t pounce on the wicked suggestion. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. A good rest, as you said. I appreciate all your help, doctor.”
“Certainly.” A cool hand dipped to Mora’s forehead. “I’ll leave orders for Miss Campbell to be discharged.”
Like a musket blast? This learned doctor was a sinister man indeed.
A soft tread indicated he’d gone.
Praise the blessed saints. Now Mora could breathe a bit easier. What a struggle to open her eyes. That must have been a potent sleeping draught they’d given her. She didn’t even remember drinking anything. Blurred images gradually came into focus as if in the clearing haze on a cloudy day, but drowsiness pulled at her. She might easily slip back into a dream.
Smothering a yawn, she surveyed the small chamber. She’d prefer the dream. So cold and metallic. She almost expected to see a rack for stretching hapless victims or chains for suspending them upside down. That would help explain the cries emanating from further away. Poor souls. The ministrations of a priest were sorely wanted here. Wherever here was.
Her first thought—she was back in that hated cell with its odd assortment of torture devices, and the second—Neil MacKenzie had much to answer for.
A third thought occurred in rapid succession; where had that thieving Englisher gotten to? She needed the chamber pot, and she’d rather die than petition Neil to fetch it for her.
Not only was she loath for him to witness her using it, God forbid, but he might have to help her rise. Given her unsteady state, she might well have need of his aid. She doubted she could stand alone yet and envisioned his strong arms encircling her.
As much as she longed for his embrace, this wasn’t the moment. And he wasn’t yet his true self. Just now, she clung to her indignation. Rightly deserved and preferable to feeling utterly lost.
If she could just struggle to her feet…heavy eyes drifted shut.
“Mora?” Neil’s hand was warm on her shoulder. “The sooner you wake up, the sooner we can go.”
She blinked at his handsome face, but her eyes refused to stay open. Haze swirled back, carrying her to a soft place. Coming toward her through the mist was Niall clothed in his red and green plaid, sae glad to see her. Joy imbued her soul. His strong arms enfolded her as they once had, his fingers stroking her hair.
He whispered in her ear, “Mora, m’ love, m’ own.”
She shivered at his husky endearment.
“Mora?”
A sigh escaped her. She roused again to find the new Neil eyeing her with a quizzical expression and something more. Not the tender gaze Niall had bestowed on her, but a hint of it. Compassion, mayhap.
Oh, but his pity was the last thing she desired. If only she didn’t ache to her very marrow for him to hold her close even if it was only in pity.
Would she ever see her home again? More urgent, would Neil find a way to return with her to Donhowel, ever remember it was his home too, and he to be her wedded husband?
Ah Niall, m’ dearest love, return to me. Swiftly, as if borne on the wings of an eagle.
Chapter Five
Night wind ruffling his hair, Neil bent down and took Mora’s smaller hand in his to help her out of the car. By the glow of the streetlight, he detected the curvature of her mouth, the narrow set of her eyes. Nor did she grasp his hand with any relish. He understood she held him accountable for his part in her hospital ordeal, but he couldn’t neglect having her properly examined by a physician.
As to the rest of her annoyance with him, he wasn’t entirely clear how he’d erred. No doubt, she’d let him know. Meanwhile, she had no viable option other than to go where h
e took her.
It crossed his mind that she might attempt some unviable avenue, like running away from him as soon as she was able; that, he was determined to prevent. The thought of her off on her own in this manic state was alarming in the extreme.
He’d better keep a close eye on her. It was bizarre having to watch Mrs. Dannon’s niece like an escapee from a psych ward but what choice did he have? Never for a single moment would he consider having Mora committed.
When Mrs. Dannon mentioned a visit from this particular relative, Neil had anticipated an amiable middle-aged Scotswoman with a thick brogue, round face, and equally thick figure. He’d expected her to arrive outfitted in tweeds and sensible shoes, her knitting in one hand and binoculars for bird watching in the other.
Likely she’d bake scones, too, he’d thought, make pots of tea, and be a whiz at Scrabble. He’d pictured her cozened up by the fireplace with Mrs. Dannon, working the crossword. Then maybe the companionable pair would take in a nature show on the telly, as the Brits called it, or a leisurely stroll.
Mora was none of that. She couldn’t have been more opposite if he’d dreamed her up. Exasperating and explosive, breathtaking and bemusing, she fascinated and baffled him, and could be more than a little aggravating.
And yet, she drew him like no other, her pull on him more powerful than the full moon on a rushing tide. She was the sun, moon, and stars orbiting in a dizzying circle around him, and he had no idea what might happen next. Only that his feelings for her were fast growing and could spiral out of control.
Securing her elbow, he turned her toward the row of brick townhouses illuminated by the streetlights. He planned to seek sanctuary with Angus Fergus, the ultimate computer geek, and wanted to be certain if The MacDonald returned he wouldn’t find them. That deranged Scotsman sure as hell wouldn’t know to look here.
The chill breeze whipped Mora’s long hair, green skirts, and tartan plaid. She swayed, and Neil locked his arm around her waist. She fitted snugly against him, her head just reaching his shoulder. Perfect. He had the urge to keep her there forever.
“Still lightheaded? Don’t worry. I’ve got you." Resisting the temptation to do more, he held her only as much as was genuinely needed for support.
“I thank ye,” she murmured, looking around.
He preferred this subdued state to the spitfire he’d dealt with earlier in the ER. Though that hellion could reappear at any moment, he didn’t doubt.
“’Tisn’t yer home, Neil,” she observed.
He liked the way Neil rolled off her tongue. No one had ever spoken it with that pronounced accent. Or had they? Perhaps a Scottish cousin he’d lost touch with.
“I saw only a wee bit of yer house,” she continued, “yet this is different. Not fit for a laird.”
“No. Mine is far more grand.” He had the bills to prove it. “But we can’t go back there tonight. The police aren’t finished with their investigation.”
She leaned into his support. “These police, be they soldiers?”
“Yes, in a way.” What were police called in Scotland? Bobbies, or was that only England? Guards, maybe.
“Sassenach,” she hissed, a Scottish term he vaguely remembered as meaning outlander; one he hoped she wasn’t applying to him.
Through the wool plaid cloaking her, he felt the soft warmth of her body, marveling again that she was flesh and blood. She seemed to belong in another realm, an ephemeral being that might vanish with the dawn, though her anger at the hospital had been tangible enough.
Another gust of wind shook them both and Mora trembled in his arms. “We’ll soon have you out of the cold and you can lie down.”
She waved her hand at their surroundings. “‘Tisn’t the chill or m’ head that vexes me so much as all this.” She tilted her face up at him. “I do not ken,” she said, using the Scottish dialect for understand and do not sounding like doo na.
The perplexity in her eyes made Neil want to hold her all the more and sooth away her fear and confusion. If that were possible. He only just refrained from clutching her to his chest.
“I’m sorry. You’ll feel better after a rest.”
Even a small American town like Staunton must seem very strange in comparison to what she knew, or thought she did. Given her peculiar state, it was difficult to say.
“Let’s get you indoors.” He slowed his pace to accommodate her shorter stride.
Mora gazed up at the street lights. “Sech great torches. How do they light them, wie huge ladders?”
“Electricity.”
“What manner of fuel be this?”
How could she not know? “Perhaps you’re accustomed to gas?”
She eyed him as one trying to translate a foreign language. “Sum disorder of the stomak?”
“Uh, no.” Maybe she hailed from some relic of a manor house with oil lamps or actual torches like they used in medieval castles. “Never mind. I’ll explain later.”
Or not. He’d probably only cause her further confusion.
Fighting to maintain a confident air despite mounting qualms, Neil guided her up the paved walk and brick steps to the narrow landing. A potted chrysanthemum drooped beside the wizened pumpkin smiling in toothless welcome, leftover from Halloween. Fergus wasn’t much of a decorator.
“Fergus!” Neil banged the knocker on the olive colored door.
No answer.
Mora gripped the iron railing. “Be this an alehouse ye’ve brought me to?”
“Of sorts.” Neil hoped she liked coffee. “We’ll definitely be served refreshments. It’s a townhouse.”
What did they call townhouses in the British Isles, semidetached, or was it attached? Likely it didn’t apply in her case anyway. “My friend, Angus Fergus, lives here.”
“Ah. He’s the tavern keeper, is he?”
“And a great deal more.”
Likely his eccentric business partner and best friend was settled in his favorite recliner with his laptop, television remote in one hand and his caffeine molecule emblazoned mug in the other. Coffee was a food group to Fergus and one he took seriously. Even so, he might have dozed off in between caffeine highs or was preoccupied with one of his many gadgets.
Neil pressed the buzzer. “Fergus! Open up.”
“Not locked,” came the muffled reply.
Mora shook her head. “He leaves his door unbolted for all to enter at such a late hour. What of thieves? Every barrel of ale will be pilfered and all his cattle carried away by reivers.”
She made it sound like the old West. Scottish cattle rustlers were unlikely here, but, “I’ll caution him,” Neil assured her. As for the barrels, Fergus would probably fill them with his favorite specialty coffee.
“He ought to keep watch. No man stands guard,” Mora observed, clearly appalled by the lax security.
“Indeed.” Neil opened the door and ushered her into the living room, a catchall for his friend’s beloved electronics. Techie magazines, comics, and the remains of fast food meals littered the beige carpet.
As usual, Fergus was absorbed in his laptop. “Hail Caesar,” he said offhandedly, without looking up from the leather upholstery.
“Whyever does he call ye by sech a name?”
At Mora’s heavily accented query, Fergus arched his neck and peered up at them through the retro fifties glasses he didn’t really need. Fergus was all about Geek as the new kewl and more boyish looking than his actual age of twenty-four, further enhanced by his slender build. He had a quirky appeal, Neil supposed, but wasn’t exactly a babe magnet.
Fergus widened pale blue eyes and his reddish eyebrows rose above the thick black rims. “Who the—”
Neil could have said, “Mary Queen of Scots,” and Fergus wouldn’t have commented. Not the way he goggled at Mora.
The remote slipped from his usually nimble fingers. “Holy mother of—Neil what in the h—” Without finishing his exclamation, Fergus sat upright and straightened the recliner with a thump.
Mora mu
st think Fergus couldn’t complete a sentence, while nothing could be further from the truth. It amused Neil to see the normally articulate young man so at a loss. Come to think of it, Fergus was never at a loss. Until now.
He set the mug on the end table and his laptop on the coffee table stacked with Calvin and Hobbes and Far Side books. Alongside these, virtual jellyfish floated in a purplish mood lamp and an ambient orb device transitioned between a rainbow of hues to show changes in the weather, the time, and most anything else Fergus might want to check the status of.
An enormous fan of prime geek websites, Fergus stocked everything a computer nerd could want. But Neil might as well have taken Mora into outer space. She stared from the suspended jellies and the iridescent sphere back to Fergus.
“Magic?” she asked Neil in a whisper.
“Sort of.” Although highly creative, Neil wasn’t nearly as taken with techie gadgets as Fergus, preferring to lose himself in his art. But together, they made a great team. Fergus was even like a younger brother.
Neil swept his hand at their gaping host. “Fergus, meet Mora Campbell, recently arrived from Scotland.”
“Seriously?” Fergus got to his feet in Star Wars Jedi slippers.
“Seriously.” Neil was not yet certain how much information to give out about Mora and the old country of Scotland she seemed to hail from.
Eyes still dazed, Mora nodded. “Most serious. ‘Tis a grave matter that brings us to ye, sir. I am betrothed to Neil, son of Robert Mackenzie.”
Fergus combed his fingers through a thatch of orange hair, a not so subtle tribute to cartoon character Bart Simpson. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he worked his clean-shaven jaw. Bart had no stubble and Fergus was a purist.
“Dude! You’re engaged? Some online dating thing?”
“No. And it’s a long story.” Not one Neil was privy to the details of, which made sharing them a challenge. Not to mention Fergus would think he’d gone nuts.
“Mora’s suffered a concussion and needs to rest. My house is off limits just now,” he explained instead.
She crinkled that adorable nose dusted with freckles. “Sassenach are come. We only just escaped from a vile chamber called a hospitale. There were no holy men at their prayers,” she added in a shocked tone. “No sacred Communion dispensed. How could sech a place care for poor and dying wretches of this world?”
