by Beth Trissel
“Comforting thought. Thanks,” Neil muttered. “The downstairs wasn’t disturbed. Makes me think he’s after something in particular.”
“Or you returned before he could finish and scared him off.”
Neil envisioned an enraged kilt-clad Scotsman. “That’s what I thought. But he doesn’t seem the type to scare easy.”
“Give yourself some credit, dude. You’re super scary.”
“In my suit and tie, wielding that monkey headed cane?”
Fergus raised his shoulder and let it drop. “Maybe he couldn’t find what he was after and left. For now.”
“Again, thanks for the chins up.”
“I told you to get a taser.”
“Not everyone wants a stun gun for Christmas.”
Fergus quirked an eyebrow at him. “Speak for yourself—”
Mora’s howl broke into their conjecture. “Where are ye going with m’ cross?”
“Just getting it out of the wet,” Wrenie answered.
“I cannot lose it! ’Tis sacred to me.”
“I’ll put it safely on the dresser.”
The narrow space between Fergus’s eyebrows puckered. “She clings to that cross like the One Ring.”
“She’s deeply religious.”
“Or from Middle Earth. What exactly do we know about Mora?”
Neil swallowed his coffee. “I told you all I know.”
“There has to be more to her than that.”
“Should I phone Scotland Yard, ask them to investigate?” Neil quipped.
“They’d probably lock her away in an asylum guarded by dementors.”
“Or lock me away. I’m not out from under suspicion yet.”
At that disquieting thought, Neil took the red tin Fergus kept filled with chocolate covered espresso beans and shook a handful into his palm. “With all this caffeine I’ll be awake until dawn.”
“As though you’ll sleep anyway. Insomniac.”
Neil grunted in reply. He’d have to find something decent for Mora to eat and wondered if they drank coffee in the time period she thought she hailed from. Nix that, the doctor had ordered rest.
“Hey Fergus, you got any real food in this house?”
He looked askance. “I put hazelnut creamer in your coffee and gave you the rest of my fries and nuggets.”
“Ever the gracious host. I was thinking of Mora.”
“Maybe a Happy Meal would cheer her up.” Fergus collected all the toys from whatever movie was currently being promoted.
“I doubt an action figure would thrill her. Besides, I expect she’s accustomed to different fare.”
“Whip her up some haggis,” Fergus said.
Neil smiled faintly. “Fresh out of sheep’s stomach. Even if I could cook it.”
“Better make a run to the Scottish Quick Mart. Pick up some neeps and tatties to go with it. Oh, and a dram of whiskey,” Fergus added, “the only way to have haggis.”
“How do you remember all this stuff?”
Fergus tapped his forehead. “Backed up on my hard drive. Besides, I’m Scots too.”
“Right. The illustrious clan Fergus.”
“Short for Fergusson.”
“Lowlanders,” Neil sneered in mock derision.
“I’ll have you know the ‘Sons of Fergus’ are famous the world over. Show a little respect, particularly as you scarfed my fries,” Fergus said, then did what he always did and opened his laptop.
“You really believe the answer to all of this lies in Google?”
“Everything’s somewhere in here, if you know how to find it.” Fergus had the unwavering faith of a zealot. He waved an impatient hand at Neil. “I think better under the stars. Get the lights, will you?”
Neil stood and flipped off the overheads, leaving only the mood lamp with the iridescent jellies and the ambient orb. And the soft glow from the laptop, of course. Fergus was never without that.
Fergus reached over to the end table beside his recliner and snapped on the laser star projector, conveniently aimed at the ceiling. At his touch, a host of green and ultraviolet blue stars shone overhead among clouds all constantly moving in the virtual heavens.
“That’s better.” He peered back down at the computer screen.
Fergus didn’t actually step outdoors if he could avoid it. A regular workout at the gym wouldn’t kill him, even buff him up, but Fergus wasn’t into physical fitness. Not geek, and he was a trendsetter when it came to kewl, or thought he was.
Neil wasn’t entirely certain which of them was stranger, Fergus or Mora. To give Fergus his due, he knew which country and century he was in. Settling on Mora as the more peculiar of the two, he returned to the couch and sat in the surreal light.
Coffee, he needed more coffee, and espresso beans. Sip, crunch, sounded against the commotion emanating from the bathroom.
“You want me to shave where?” A flood of water drowned out Mora’s latest outcry.
Neil and Fergus exchanged looks. “Whatever you’re paying Wrenie for this maid gig, it’s not enough,” Fergus said.
“Fifty bucks. Besides, she owes me.”
Fergus rolled his eyes behind the thick black frames. “Those cards you designed for her business aren’t worth wrestling an infuriated Scotswoman.”
“I thought Mora was too giddy to manage on her own for a while.”
“She sounds pretty lively to me.”
Neil blew out his breath. “Well, it’s not my fault Wrenie can’t sell her beadwork. It’s this blasted economy. Not that I give a damn about that right now.”
Fergus squinted at him. “Or much else, I’d say, except Mora.”
“Everything changed with her coming,” Neil admitted.
“And through the door to nowhere, no less.”
As if Neil needed reminding of the sheer impossibility of her assertion. Knocking back another handful of espresso beans, he chewed while searching his brain for an answer.
Nothing. At least, nothing that made any sense.
“Help me out here, Fergus. Put that brilliant madness of yours to work.”
“All right. I’ll research the MacKenzies. See what happened to your tribe way back when.”
Neal gave him a dry look. “You can’t seriously mean to suggest she’s from 1602?”
Fergus glanced back down at the screen. “Maybe she’s picked up on some psychic vibrations or—”
“Come on,” Neil broke in. “Not that psychic phenomena stuff your mom goes on about? Thought you said it was weird?”
“Yeah, well, I’m reconsidering. Mora raised the bar on weird to whole new heights. And you’re hitching a ride on the tail of her comet.”
“All right, I get it.”
Fingers flying, Fergus ventured into the cyber world.
“Can’t you ever just think without your laptop?”
“No.”
Neil took a strengthening swallow of coffee. “Surf away, then.” He had no better ideas.
Fergus brightened as he did when entering a trove of information, like a treasure seeker spying pirate gold. “Hey, it says here that a feud broke out between Lord MacKenzie of Kintail and the Laird MacDonnell.”
“Who?”
“The head dude of the Glengarry MacDonalds, another name for MacDonnell.”
“So?” Neil challenged, suspecting this exchange wasn’t going anywhere he wanted to go.
“So it took place in 1602, the same year Mora’s supposedly from.”
A shiver darted down Neil’s spine. “Probably nothing. Rival clans feuded all the time.”
“Still, it’s right much of a coincidence.” Fergus scanned the virtual page. “And the feud led to the MacDonalds being attacked by the MacKenzies.”
“Figures. Make my clan out to be the bad guys.”
“Wait. There’s more.”
Neil bore with his eccentric friend knowing how intent he was when embarked on a quest.
“A few MacDonalds were killed.”
“What d
id you expect? A party?”
Fergus gave him his I’m speaking to an idiot look. “The MacKenzies wanted the MacDonald Laird to appear before the court at Edinburgh for previous crimes against them.”
“So they mixed the law in with their own brand of justice?”
“Seems the usual practice.” Fergus was intent on the screen. “And then two more MacDonalds were killed.”
“I’m surprised they kept track what with murder and mayhem being the order of the day.” Neil tossed a few more Chocó beans into his mouth and crunched.
“It’s recorded in some sort of annals.” Absorbed in his research, Fergus continued. “Seems the Glengarry MacDonald didn’t appear in court on the arranged date but went about with his own hand to revenge the slaughter of his clansmen.”
“What else?” Neil said dryly.
“You’re a cold SOB, Neil.”
“Okay, so there was a feud, one of about a zillion.”
“At exactly the same time and with the same clans as the ones Mora’s yammering about?”
“Coincidence,” Neil insisted.
Fergus skimmed his eyes ahead and gulped, “Good lord.”
“What now?”
“When the MacDonald didn’t appear in court the MacKenzies wasted the MacDonald country.”
“But of course. Only stands to reason,” Neil tossed back.
“And,” Fergus bore on, like a soldier under siege. “The two sides met and a battle took place with great slaughter on both sides. The MacKenzies, assisted by their allies the Clan Matheson, also took Strome Castle from the MacDonalds.”
Tiny pinpricks scurried over the back of Neil’s neck. “But Mora called it Strathmore.”
“Maybe they changed the name over time, or this is wrong.”
“Google, wrong?” Neil hid the sudden palpitations of his heart behind sarcasm.
Fergus squared his jaw. “I’m in the Library of Congress now.”
Considering Fergus was smart enough to hack into a high security Government facility, Neil couldn’t just discount what he said and sat coiled in tension.
Fergus returned his focus to the laptop. “Mora’s the one with the blow to the head. Maybe she misremembered.”
“Maybe.” Neil was attributing a heck of a lot to that bump on the head.
“Holy moley.” Fergus looked up, squinty eyes bulging behind his glasses.
“Now what?” Neil was almost afraid to ask, yet undeniably intrigued.
“The castle burned. Just like she told you.”
Goosebumps scattered down Neil’s arms beneath his sleeves. “So she knows a lot about the clans. They probably teach that stuff in Scottish schools.”
“She had a tutor,” Fergus reminded him.
“One clearly obsessed with Highland history.”
“She said he’s from the Lowlands. Edinburgh to be precise.” Fergus had a comeback for everything it seemed.
Neil blew out his breath in exasperation, but an insidious dread knotted in his gut.
“And it’s not just what she knows, it’s the way she knows it,” Fergus added.
Neil understood exactly what he meant, though he felt strongly inclined to disagree.
Lowering his voice, Fergus said, “Maybe she’s in tune with the spirit of some Scottish lady who lived back then.”
Neil eyed him sharply. “Is that a screwy way of saying Mora’s possessed?”
“The thought has occurred to me.”
“Your weird mother again.”
Fergus sat up straighter. “Just because Mom’s into spiritualism and you’re Episcopalian.”
“Mora’s Catholic, but I’m not carting her off to a priest to be exorcized. She’s already afraid of being burnt at the stake.”
“Exactly.” Fergus waved one hand at the star filled ceiling. “Who on earth worries about that now days? Besides, I didn’t suggest you should take her to a priest. Mom has this cleansing thing she does.”
“Stuff it,” Neil growled.
Fergus scanned the screen. “Cripes!” he startled, using one of his comic book idioms. “The MacKenzies took some relics from a chapel belonging to the MacDonalds.” He stared at Neil. “Maybe that demon dude wants his stuff back.”
“You think a ghost trashed my room and murdered my housekeeper?”
“Maybe he was looking for you.”
Chilled fingers twisted Neil’s insides. “Are you gonna suggest Mora is a ghost too?”
“Give me back m’ cross ye harpy!” she cried.
Fergus grimaced. “I don’t know what she is.”
Wrenie appeared in the hallway, her sopping blue and white waitress uniform clinging to ample curves, short black hair pasted to her forehead, black lipstick smeared. Her heavily made up eyes were even further encircled with black liner that stood out in her white face, her gothic look awash from the wetting she’d received.
Neil made a mental note to offer Wrenie a bit more compensation for her services, but it wasn’t her soggy state that caught his eye. In her pale hand, shining against her black fingernails, hung the silver cross. The antique relic was suspended from a short chain attached to a pearl necklace.
Hard on Wrenie’s heels, wrapped in a white towel, red hair spilling over her, was Mora. Even in the low light, the fury in her eyes was evident. Neil looked from the shaken women to the enraged one.
“What in the world?” he said.
Wrenie held out the crucifix to Neil. In a halting voice, she asked, “Do you know where Mora says she got this?”
The cross was vaguely familiar, but there must be more than one of them in the world. “Should I?”
“Apparently.”
Mora quivered beneath the towel. “Ye gave it to me yerself, Neil, on our betrothal. Told me never to part wie it,” she said, a catch in her voice.
“Good God.”
Fergus directed his attention to Mora. “Why, Mora? Why did he say that?”
“He dinna tell me. And now he can’t even remember his ain name. It’s Niall!” she hurled at him then pointed at the ceiling alight with stars. “Black magic is strong in here. Ye’ll bring the divil himself on us next.”
Snatching the cross from Wrenie’s limp grasp, she turned and fled to the bedroom.
Neil stared after her as the door slammed. Where had he seen that crucifix and those luminous pearls before?
Chapter Eight
Nothing that had happened to Mora since her mysterious arrival in this dreamlike realm made any sense, particularly the goings on in The Fergus’s front room. Most unnatural. She was glad to be alone and tucked in bed wearing the borrowed shift with a lace edged neckline, long sleeves, and a hem reaching to her ankles. Generously cut to allow for Mrs. Fergus’s girth, the garment swallowed her.
No matter. Rosebuds sprinkled the soft white cloth, and the balm Wrenie called lotion soothed her from head to toe with the divine scent of a flower known as honeysuckle. Truly, perfume fit for a queen.
Propped up in Mrs. Fergus’s bed on down-filled pillows, snuggled under blue, flannel sheets, and the embroidered coverlet, Mora bit down on the unlikely food Neil had provided. The bedside lamp revealed a pale meat, turkey he’d said, and compared it to pheasant. She trusted the alien red fruit layered in with the game wasn’t poisonous. Abundant greens rested between slices of dark bread, also unheard of, and creamy paste called mayonnaise held the concoction together.
Ravenous, she chewed and swallowed, pleasantly surprised by the good flavor. She sipped the sweet, creamy infusion Neil had referred to as hot milky tea. “Just the way the British make it, the Scots too,” he’d assured her, though she didn’t know this brew. Despite everything she’d endured, Mora was unaccountably refreshed.
Accustomed to sponge baths and an occasional immersion in the brass tub her father had imported—the MacKenzies had a wooden tub she’d used as their guest—that wetting had been an ordeal with its noise, vapor, and the addled maid assisting.
Insisting, rather. The woman didn’t
know her place, and had the appearance of a nun gone badly awry with her chopped hair, painted face, and barbaric piercings. Even in her nose. And three on her ear! Heathen.
Mora had feared she might drown in all the water. In spite of that, she didn’t wish Wrenie ill and felt soothed to the bone now. She supposed the end justified the means, even if the demented creature was bent on Mora being nearly hairless.
Who on God’s earth would see her bare legs and underarms besides a maid?
She wasn’t in the habit of plunging naked into the loch like the men and blushed to imagine Neil spying out every last bit of her. Not that she need worry on that score after he’d broken their kiss and bolted from the room leaving her hurt and bewildered. Niall never would have done that.
As for Wrenie’s other shaving suggestion, Mora had adamantly refused and breathed a sigh of relief when that vexing woman had gone, though she’d left muttering something about waxing on the morrow.
What candles had to do with Wrenie’s hairless obsession, she shuddered to think. And what was a beauty salon? Hadn’t Mora been proclaimed bonnie since her earliest memories?
It seemed she wasn’t fair in this land without considerable alteration. More troubling than any of this, though, was Neil having forgotten her. What had happened to him, and why did he still have such a hold on her aching heart when he most certainly did not deserve such adoration.
Chewing while she considered these and other complexities, she made short work of her meal, turning her head at a rap on the door. It had better not be Wrenie again.
Warily, she asked, “Who knocks?”
“Neil.” The door cracked open and he poked his dark head inside. “May I come in?”
A flutter commenced in Mora’s innards like a host of black winged Hielan moths, and she wished he didn’t have this unsettling effect on her.
’Twas improper for him to be alone with her in her chamber at such an hour, and her father had tried to instill maidenly modesty in her. Her sainted mother too, God rest her soul. But little etiquette had been observed since Mora’s inexplicable arrival here. How could she refuse Neil’s request?
Setting her empty mug aside, she beckoned to him in the manner of a highborn lady receiving a courtier. And so she was in her way, only he didn’t realize it. Nor had he any notion of the importance he held in his own homeland. Even his enemies allotted him a grudging admiration.
