by Beth Trissel
Fergus considered, briefly. “How indeed?” He eyed Neil for an explanation he was unable to provide.
However, Mora appeared satisfied with Fergus’s response, at least as much as one who thought she’d fallen down a rabbit hole could. “If ye would be so good as to make provision for us this night, Mr. Fergus, and might I trouble ye for a ladies’ maid?”
“Sure,” he stuttered, regarding her as though she’d requested a meeting with a deceased saint. He signaled Neil in a silent request for suggestions.
He had none.
Unfailingly, Fergus managed to contrive something, and didn’t fail Neil now. Fishing around in that quick mind of his, he came up with, “I’ll call my cousin, Wrenie. She’s kind of a maid. Waitress, anyway. I’ll see if she’s free.”
“Is the poor lass imprisoned?”
Fergus rubbed his fingers over his chin. “Uh, not the last time I checked. Although the fashion police have a warrant out for her.”
Before Mora reacted to this wisecrack, a large plasma screen TV snarled at them in surround sound and reverberated off the walls. She startled against Neil and raised a trembling finger. For a moment she stared mutely, and then said, “A murderous beast! There—in that box.”
Neil glimpsed the polar bear from a popular TV series. “It’s just the television. Telly,” he amended, in hopes of sparking a glimmer of recognition.
Nothing. So much for Mora having watched nature shows, or anything else for that matter. Had she been totally cut off from civilization? How’d she make it through life without ever seeing a television?
He tried a different track. “Only a picture.”
“But it moves. ’Tis haunted, that portrait.”
Fergus hit the off button on the remote. “Dude, she’s better than the sci-fi channel.”
She is the sci-fi channel, Neil thought.
“Why does The Fergus address you as duke?”
How could Neil explain slang, he pondered, enjoying her spin on Fergus’ name. “It’s only an honorary title.”
“Yer friend must respect ye greatly.”
Fergus swept his thin arm down across a t-shirt that read, Go ahead, make my data, with a courtly flourish. “Inestimably. Come on, Neil. You two are in a play, right? Some community theater thing?”
Neil shook his head. “I’ll fill you in later.” He would rather not explain acting to Mora. At this point, he wasn’t sure if she even knew what a play was, though Shakespeare was penning them in 1602.
Fergus ran his fingers over his punk hair. “So she’s for real?”
Mora looked indignant. “Do I not stand before ye in flesh and blood?”
Giving a low whistle, Fergus snapped on the overhead light and gestured toward the hall. “If you will be so good as to follow me, my lady, I shall show you and his lordship to your chamber.”
Mora lifted bewildered eyes to Neil. “We cannot yet share a bed. Can we?”
The idea of sleeping with this utterly unique and desirable woman left Neil momentarily at a loss for words. What a turn this bizarre day had taken.
Mora surveyed him through a fringe of lashes. “We gave each other our pledge, and then I was promised to yer brother…”
Fergus dropped his jaw, not a good look for someone invested in kewl. “Neil has a brother?”
Mora angled her head toward Fergus. “He has forgotten.”
“Quite a lot, it would seem.”
Waving his friend’s comments aside, Neil said, “Don’t worry about the sleeping arrangements, Mora. You can have the bed to yourself. I’ll sleep out here on the couch and keep watch.”
Red hair flaming in the light, she returned her focus to Neil. “Has Mr. Fergus a claymore ye can wield if the worst should come?”
“One of those Scottish broad swords?” Fergus quirked a grin. “I lost mine on the battlefield, but my nunchucks are at the ready.”
Before Fergus went off on his imitation of the quintessential nerd, Napoleon Dynamite, Neil said, “Put your mind at ease, Mora. You’re safe now.”
“But The MacDonald—”
“Doesn’t know this place.”
She gave a guarded nod. “’Tis the enchantment perhaps.”
“Right. That’ll be it.” Fergus arched his brows at Neil.
He shrugged and shot Fergus a get on with it look.
“Fine,” Fergus mouthed, and led the way to the spare room he kept in a respectable state for visits from his mother.
His social life was mostly virtual and other guests rare, particularly of the female persuasion. Neil’s wasn’t much better, the bulk of his so-called friends having fallen away after his divorce.
“Why is The Fergus’s hair sech a peculiar color?” Mora whispered, the word hair escaping her lips sounding like heir.
“Everything about Fergus is peculiar. But he’s possibly the most brilliant man you will ever meet.”
“Aye. He is most brightly colored.”
Chapter Six
Relief.
The modest sized bedchamber held furnishings Mora understood. Perhaps the enchantment she’d sensed at that wretched hospitale and the Fergus’s front chamber lessened in here. She prayed so.
It seemed safe enough. A carved bed stood in the center of the room with a large headboard and four posts at each corner. On either side of the bed were wooden stands with a brass lamp, books, and wee portraits of agreeable looking people crowded on the top. A grand portrait of a benevolent matron smiled down on them from the wall in seeming blessing, an ancestor mayhap.
Much of the floorboards were covered in a carpet woven in a colorful design of exotic flowers. A chest of drawers, a beautifully carved oak cupboard, and a low table with a mirror jostled each other for space. A silver comb, brush, perfume bottles, and vessels that must hold substances for enhancing one’s appearance covered the top of the dressing table. Framed paintings hung so closely on the walls that scarcely an empty space remained.
The white bed coverlet embroidered with roses complimented the lace-edged curtains hanging at the windows. A tiny room, its door slightly ajar, offered a glimpse of women’s gowns hanging inside. The entire chamber overflowed with an air of femininity.
And yet, “He has no wife?” she asked Neil.
“No. His mother decorated this room.”
“‘Tis lovely.”
“Unlike the rest of the house?” Neil finished for her. “Mrs. Fergus often visits. She owns an art gallery downtown and a second store in Winchester.”
“I’m told the city has a beautiful cathedral I should delight to see.”
Neil’s lips curved in a half smile. “I was speaking of Winchester, Virginia, not England. Many towns here have English names.”
Mora should have paid more attention to geography lessons, but she’d preferred to learn to read and study English, Latin, and French along with her older brothers.
Neil gestured at the paintings on the walls. “Mrs. Fergus collected these.” He pointed to a magnificent portrait of mountains rich with colors that reminded her of the Hielans in autumn. “I painted that one.”
Now she was even more perplexed. The Niall she’d known was a warrior forever feuding with rival clans, not a man given to peaceful pursuits. He took pleasure in hunting with his favorite deerhound, a bloody affair in her opinion, but one at which he excelled.
This new Neil was different, fascinatingly so. “Ye are an artist?”
He gave a nod. “Also a graphic designer, but I’ll wager you don’t know what that is, right?”
She shook her head, wondering why he would wager on her ignorance. Most men laid bets on duels, horse races, or how far they could toss a stone.
He cleared his throat. “Would you like to freshen up before retiring for the night? I’d be glad to assist you until the maid comes.”
What a preposterous notion.
“At least as much as I’m able to without it being improper,” he added.
Just being alone in a bedchamber with Niall or N
eil MacKenzie was scandalous. But he was to be her husband, wasn’t he, even though he didn’t remember?
Mora struggled to think past the mist clouding her mind. Feeling somewhat like an uprooted plant, she gave a nod.
“Mrs. Fergus keeps extra clothes in here. She’s much larger than you, but I’m sure we can find a nightgown and whatever else you may need. I’m surprised she hasn’t moved in with Fergus altogether.”
“Why should she not?” Mora was accustomed to family caring for older relations.
“She would drive him insane.”
The Fergus didn’t seem entirely in his right mind as it was.
“Besides, she divides her time between Staunton and Winchester,” Neil added.
Mystified by the unfamiliar practices, Mora followed him toward an adjoining chamber. He paused in the doorway. “The bathroom’s clean. Fergus never comes in here and his mother keeps it spotless.”
Inside the small room, Mora saw a blue tub she assumed was for bathing, though it was unlike any such vessel in existence. Colorful bottles lined every surface, and a sweet odor perfumed the room. Yet there were no flowers.
She sniffed. Incense, or more perfume? “I’ve never seen the like of this.”
Neil cleared his throat. “You’re not familiar with these fixtures?”
Mora hadn’t the faintest idea, but suspected their use would be extremely personal. “Nae.”
He fingered his chin with a hurried swipe. “I had better show you.” His manner grew brisk and he strode inside. Bending over the spacious tub, he turned a silver handle. Water gushed forth.
She startled, gasping. “Is a spring hid beneath the floor?”
Neil cast a disbelieving look at her. “No. Pipes.”
“Sae clever.”
“Yeah. Amazing.” He turned the second handle. More water streamed out and steam clouded the room.
“Do ye not heat it over the hearth first in a kettle?”
“No need. One faucet is for hot water, one for cold. I’ll adjust the temperature for you.”
Did he expect her to climb in there?
“You can have a nice warm bath. Just the thing.”
Apparently Neil thought so.
He nodded at the basin, fitted with two handles. “Not sure what sort of sink you’re accustomed to.”
She wasn’t.
He left the water flowing in the tub and walked to a most singular chair. “This is the toilet. What do you call it? A water closet, maybe? This one has a power flush.”
He pressed down on the handle at the side and a loud whoosh sent Mora leaping into the air.
Hand to her heart, she stood shakily, recovering her breath. “The Lord save us.”
“It’s all right.” He smiled. “You won’t go down with the flush, but wait until you have finished using it and are back on your feet before you press the handle.”
Then it dawned on her that this must be the Garderobe or privy. Her face heated in a flush of embarrassment. Why couldn’t he just have a chamber pot discreetly tucked under the bed?
She’d dreamed of being alone with Neil, of basking in the dizzying warmth of his smile, savoring his tender embrace, and far far more. But never under these disgraceful circumstances!
He gestured at shelves stacked with white linens and the collection of bottles. “Mrs. Fergus has a supply of towels and washcloths, shampoos, gels, lotions…you name it.”
Mora couldn’t.
He walked to the mirror over the sink and opened it. Behind the glass were shelves crowded with all manner of vials and strange objects. It seemed enough for many a woman.
“She keeps razors and cream in here if you want to shave,” he said.
Now Mora was at an utter loss and more than a little offended. “Why in God’s name should I wish to do that?”
His lips twitched and he clamped them shut.
“Why sech mirth?”
He parted his mouth enough to offer, “Sorry,” but still seemed vastly amused, to her total bewilderment.
“Do ye think me a man in disguise?”
“Not in the least. There’s no disguise in the world that good.”
“Then why—”
“Maybe I’ll just go and see if that maid has come yet,” he interjected, failing to repress a smile.
She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a sharp look. “Mayhap ye had better.”
He turned away. “I’ll let Wrenie clear up this little misunderstanding.”
“Yer insult to me is no wee matter!”
He whipped back around and clasped her by the shoulders. “I would never insult you, Mora.”
Before she replied, he silenced her with a gaze that sent a quiver from her midriff to her toes. Her arms dropped to her sides. For a long moment, he held her eyes. Penetrating, searching, he seemed to explore inside her very heart.
Was he seeking for her, or his true self, or both? Could she lead him back to that vital memory, help him recall all that he was, and consequently, all that she meant to him?
Sweet Mary, he was everything to her.
Lifting his hand, he lightly smoothed her cheek. Prickles ran over her skin and down her throat. If his slightest touch rendered her flushed and trembling, what would more do?
He appeared on the verge of doing more. Would he settle his sublime mouth over hers? She waited in tremulous expectation, hardly daring to breathe.
Slowly, so slowly, he bent his head and brushed his lips to hers in the barest kiss…then deepened the rapturous pressure on her mouth. Only slightly, but her heart drummed wildly. Sanctified, holy, the scent of incense in the chamber seemed to lend sacred blessing to his seal on their love.
She slipped her arms around his neck and sighed against his mouth. “Niall.”
He stiffened and lifted his head. A frown creased his brow. “It’s Neil.”
Without another word, he pulled from her. Then turned and strode from the room.
How dare he leave her this way after such sweet promise!
Without a moment’s hesitation, Mora scooped up the bar of soap and hurled it after him. It struck the door closing behind his vanishing figure.
Chapter Seven
“Why are ye soaping my hair again, woman? I dinna tumble down in the mire!”
Every syllable of Mora’s protest carried beyond the bathroom where Fergus’s cousin Wrenie assisted the irate Scotswoman with her bath and out to Fergus and Neil seated in the living room.
Neil slouched amid the clutter on the leather couch. “Good lord.”
He rested his head in his hands. Undoubtedly his behavior had worsened the volatile situation. He shouldn’t have kissed Mora, even a little. But how could he resist? The soft press of her lips meant far more than a passionate kiss with any other woman.
Wrenie’s upraised voice carried equally well above the watery scuffle. “The bottle says to repeat.”
Mora sputtered, “The divil it does.”
“Read for yourself,” Wrenie shot back.
“With suds in m’ eyes and me winking like an owl?”
“You needn’t screech like one.”
Neil groaned and looked up.
“It’s like bathing Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady,” Fergus commented from his recliner. He cocked his head at Neil. “Is shampoo a scarce commodity in Scotland?”
“Not as far as I know. Maybe Mora’s from way out in the country and makes do with soap,” he offered, having no better explanation.
“Or a good brushing down, like a horse.”
“Fergus—”
Here’s a thought. Maybe she’s from a remote island in the Hebrides accessible only by fishing boats, where supplies run short and the islanders live in the manner of medieval peasants.”
“She’s not the earthy sort.”
“No. More the regal type with her imperious manner and expecting a maid.” Fergus snickered.
His mind spinning, Neil reached toward the coffee table for the caffeine molecule emblazoned
mug Fergus had provided. He took a sip of the steaming brew and tried to fathom the woman that was Mora, her fascinations, exasperations, and perplexities.
Fergus fingered his left earlobe as he did when thinking. “Did Mrs. Dannon mention anything unusual about her niece?”
“Nothing that I recall. Said she likes to knit and work puzzles.”
Fergus snorted. “Mora?”
“Maybe that was the old Mora, before the bump on her head.” But his words didn’t ring true even to Neil.
Fergus grimaced. “Well, you can hardly ask Mrs. D for the details now, poor woman. I’ll miss her scones.”
Neil still couldn’t believe that warmhearted soul was gone.
“What does this MacDonald character want?” Fergus asked.
“You make it sound like he’s in a film.”
Running pale fingers through his orange thatch, Fergus countered, “Your life has spiraled into a movie of the week.”
Neil offered no argument.
“Why was he in your house in the first place? More to the point, how did he get in?”
Neil shrugged. “The police aren’t sure, say the matter’s under investigation. Lieutenant Hale told me the master bedroom’s been ransacked. I didn’t even have the opportunity to look before I left for the hospital, so have no idea what’s missing.” He shifted uneasily. “That fiend is searching for something.”
Fergus pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “What?”
“My father has all those Scottish heirlooms stashed in there. Been in the MacKenzie family forever.”
“Valuable stuff,” Fergus said.
“Yeah. I’ll have to check everything against the list in the safe to see what’s been taken.”
Fergus’s keen expression reminded Neil of a fox on a scent.
“There are two other upstairs rooms. What about those?” Fergus asked.
“Untouched. But the master suite’s much larger since the renovation and has far more antiques.”
“That whole house is crammed full if someone wanted to steal them. They could load a semitrailer truck.” Fergus frowned.
