Her eyes met the laird’s. He smirk was obvious as he descended the stairs pointing at the other woman. “That’s what.”
Emmy followed the men into the sitting room nearby as the one named Ian carried the woman over to a small sofa and laid her gently down. Emmy stared in amazement. She had always heard that everyone had a doppelganger somewhere in the world. Here was hers. She could tell no physical difference between their two faces. She almost wanted to reach out and touch her to make sure she was real. Weird. A shudder passed through her that she couldn’t identify…trepidation? Fascination? Fear?
The man called Ian took a small vial from a maid who scurried in after them and waved it under the woman’s nose until she started and began to revive.
When she opened her eyes, the woman examined Emmy suspiciously for a long moment before summoning a small smile as she struggled to sit up. “Heather, we thought you’d never come back. Tell me, where have you been all this time?”
Emmy sighed, unsure of where to go next in this tangled mess. “Listen, uhh ma’am, I’m afraid we have a bit of a misunderstanding in the works here…”
“Come, Heather, you’re not going to pretend that you don’t recognize your own sister?” the laird taunted as they helped the other woman into a sitting position.
“Sister?” Emmy’s eyes locked with blue eyes that looked so much like her own and shivered. The light brown hair, much like her original color…before she had it highlighted, of course. They could have been twins, that much was true, except the woman was obviously well along in her pregnancy maybe the end of her second trimester.
When Emmy remained stiff, the other woman’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Oh, poor dear…you don’t remember, do you? It’s me, Dorcas, your sister. Remember?”
Disarmed by the unusual name, Emmy snorted in surprise. “Really? You’re kidding, right? Dorcas?” Emmy couldn’t contain her amusement, chuckled out loud drawing puzzled stares from all the room’s occupants. “Listen, Dorc..Dorc...I’m sorry, I can’t say it. Is there something else I can call you?” Emmy shook her head again with a snort. “Just can’t do it with a straight face.”
Dorcas and the men continued to look puzzled, but the woman finally sighed. “You may call me Dory, of course…as you always did,” she added with a curious frown. “What is it about my name you seem to find so amusing, if I may ask?”
Emmy sat down on a nearby chair tucking one leg beneath as was her habit. Slouching back in the seat, she waved her hand casually. “You know? Dork?” she waited expectantly but all three faces remained blank. “I guess it’s an American thing.” She shrugged. “Let’s move on, shall we, and get back to the issues here. This assumption that I am your sister,” she jabbed a finger in the laird’s direction, “and his wife.”
The laird stepped forward pointing a finger right back at her and opening his mouth to speak when Dorcas…no, Dory, held a calm palm out and urged him to sit as well. “Come, Ian and I were just going to pour some tea. Join us. We’ll work through this.”
Emmy stared at the laird, Connor, as he sat and stared at her until, in short order, she found herself being handed a cup of hot tea. She frowned down into the cup. Hot tea. Of course they drank tea in Great Britain but…yuck! At least in London she had managed to find a Starbucks or two. She set the cup and saucer down on the table in front of her.
“That’s an interesting, ummm, ensemble you have on, Heather,” Dory sniffed with just a bit of an edge as she poured tea for the men. A nudge from Ian stopped her as they took glasses of some sort of liquor from an attending servant. “Is it the latest style in traveling apparel?” Dorcas poured her own cup and took a sip analyzing Emmy over the rim.
Emmy looked down at the “ensemble” that she had recently bought just for this trip. She wore a nicer pair of dark wash skinny jeans tucked into knee-high black suede boots for warmth and comfort in the cool fall of Scotland. Her white silk blouse was topped with a short, black velvet jacket and silver scarf with long tassels. Maybe not as comfortable for travel as just jeans and a t-shirt, but that wasn’t what she was going for. She hadn’t wanted to give the impression of a sloppy American tourist for the locals to poke fun at. “I think it was designed more for style than travel. Don’t you like it?” she asked the room in general only now noting the disconcerted looks of the two men as they looked her over. Emmy had long been considered and treated as a fairly attractive woman. While she wasn’t exceedingly vain about her looks, Emmy certainly wasn’t accustomed to men looking at her as these two were…as if she were distasteful in some way.
Connor looked her over. He had noticed as she slept upstairs that her clothes were more than unusual. Trousers! Unusual wear indeed for a lady. The tight pants accentuated her long legs and the short little jacket accented her tiny waist. The blouse beneath was surprisingly sheer. It was also abundantly clear she wore little beneath it. “Your shirt seems to be a bit on the thin side,” he offered at length still staring at her chest.
“Ye can see her legs,” Ian commented.
Emmy glanced down at her jeans. “You can’t see my legs. I’m covered to the ankle!”
“Can see yer shape,” he clarified as his eyes skimmed down her figure with appreciation drawing an unpleasant cluck from Dorcas.
Men have no appreciation for fashion, Emmy thought and asked directly of Dory. “Don’t you like it?” Surely, from a female view, her look was good. It might be a bit trendy for conservative Britain, but she wasn’t visiting the queen here.
That lady only pursed her lips in disapproval and commented changing the topic, “Maybe it would help us if we understood who you think you are.”
Emmy’s mind went blank and she stared at the dumbly for a moment before the light bulb went off. Oh! I know. “If you would simply check the visitor’s list, my name is Emily Rose MacKenzie.” The looks around here still looked skeptical, so she added, “Surely you have records of the guests you are expecting here? I am the American who was crazy enough to come over in the fall rather than the summer? On the last day the castle is open to tourists? I was told the laird and his family usually lived in Edinburgh for the summer and that’s why the house was open to visitors from May until October. I didn’t know the owners would be here…” she stopped suddenly aware that she was rambling while frowning confusion deepened on their faces.
“So you came back now because ye weren’t expecting any of us to be here then?” Connor misinterpreted.
“No I already told you I have never been here before!” she insisted. “I am a tourist…just visiting on vacation.”
“Vacation?” the three repeated blankly.
“Yes, vacation!” Emmy responded searching her mind. That’s right, the Brits called it, “Holiday! I am here in the UK on holiday. For ten days.”
“You returned here for a holiday?” Ian asked bewildered. “Why would you do that?”
Emmy screeched behind her teeth in frustration. “Not returned! Listen! I’m just a tourist! I am staying in Oban across the sound, I have a room there. I just got in yesterday and came straight here on the ferry today because you close tomorrow for the winter!
“I am an American! I live outside Baltimore. I’m originally from Richmond, Virginia.” The brows grew even more puckered. “I did my undergraduate at UVA and attended John Hopkins. I graduated at the top of my class, I did my residency at Hopkins…I’m a doctor, dammit! I know who I am. Why don’t you check my passport if you’re unsure?”
“Passport?” The word echoed around the room from three mouths, as if it were foreign to them.
“It’s in my large tote.”
Again, three mouths silently formed the word.
“The brown leather bag.” She spoke slowly with bemusement at their confusion. Undeniably, something was being lost in the translation.
“I’ll have one of the servants fetch it for you.” Ian offered.
Chapter 3
A serious headache throbbed at Emmy’s temples as they waited in sil
ence. Burying her face in her hands, she massaged them discreetly with her thumbs. This was all so unreal. Here were these strange people dressed ultra-conservatively, having no sense of fashion, questioning hers and insisting that she was someone they knew. The woman who looked just like her was wearing a long skirt and a blouse that buttoned up tightly to her chin. She looked horribly uncomfortable as she alternated between staring at Emmy as if she had seen a ghost and looking at her with suspicion.
Her head hurt, her eyes burned and she wanted nothing so much as to take a handful of Excedrin and sleep until this was all over.
And that man…unable to help herself she peeked up between her fingers at him. Oh, that man. The laird. He made her heart pound faster just looking at him. He had changed from the kilt into a pair of tight charcoal pants and white shirt. The shirt had been left open at the neck and had only a short collar on it. Odd style. European probably. His hair wasn’t actually black at all but rather a dark rich brown nearly mahogany with lighter variable streaks that could only be natural. He was well over six foot and she guessed about 255-260 full of muscle thick and heavy. Built like a right tackle football player she had known in college, but those weren’t the kind of muscles built in a gym but rather through heavy work. He was rugged and beautiful. And angry. She couldn’t help but wonder what he would look like if he were to smile.
He was staring at her as if he were trying to see right through her. As if he could see into her mind. If he were insane, it would be the greatest loss to womanhood she could imagine. He was otherwise the most compelling man she’d ever met.
“What did you say to me out front?” Emmy asked curiously.
Connor looked blankly back at her for a moment then shook his head remembering. “It was Gaelic. It meant welcome home.” Actually, he had said ‘welcome home, wife,’ but did not feel the need to clarify given the insanity of her refusal to admit her identity. God in Heaven, he did not remember her being so lovely even with Dory here as a daily reminder. It was bewildering and had a negative effect on his ability to maintain his anger toward her. It should not matter if Heather had suddenly become the most tempting woman on the face of the earth. He loathed her.
“Didn’t sound too welcoming,” she muttered and his gaze returned intensely to her face.
The heat in his dark brown eyes was deep and turbulent, unsettling and thrilling to Emmy at the same time. He was the stuff of fantasies, she thought. All of her fantasies. Years of imaginings since she was a teen had always placed a man such as this at their center. She almost wanted in that moment to be who he thought she was.
“Who do you think I am, exactly?” her husky voice questioned before the thought even formed her mind.
He let out a disbelieving snort.
“Humor me.”
“To humor you, my love.” His deep, intriguing brogue again brought Connery-esque fantasies to her mind. Fantasies, fantasies. “You are my wife, Emeline Heather Stuart MacLean, Countess of Stratheclyde. You left here, ran away to be more accurate, ten years ago today and no one has ever seen you since.”
His wife. What woman would want to run away from him? she asked herself. The thought of having all the benefits of marriage to him made her clench her knees together tightly. Remember, she reminded herself, he’s insane…mental. It didn’t matter, her knees quivered anyway. “And what exactly happened ten years ago today that I supposedly ran away from?”
“Our wedding night.” He stood turning his back on them and stared out the window. His arms crossed tightly over his chest.
It was a defensive posture Emmy recognized immediately. It was hurt. Pain of loss. Anger. All brushed away with harsh sarcasm. Unfortunately she wasn’t in much of a mood to cater to his male pride.
“Must not have been an experience worth repeating,” she muttered under her breath.
Unfortunately he heard.
His back stiffened as he whipped back to her. “You dare to mention such a thing?”
“Relax, big guy, I’m not here to bruise your tender male ego. If you have problems in the sack, not that I can imagine that,” she rolled her eyes sarcastically, “it’s none of my business.”
“The sack, as you so quaintly put it, was never reached as you well remember. You left before that.” His voice rose as he worked his temper back up.
She stood up facing him nose to nose. “It wasn’t me!” she yelled right back.
“I don’t remember you being so temperamental, my dear.”
”If you ‘my dear’ me one more time, I swear I’m going to…”
“You’ll what?” he sneered.
“Um, Connor?” Ian interrupted from the door.
“What?” they both snapped turning toward the door.
Ian held up her large tote in one hand, her purse in the other.
“Oh, thank God!!” Emmy huffed as she stalked over and snatched the bags from his hand. “Let’s get this over with so I can get the hell out of this looney bin. Real shame, too,” she muttered to herself as she rummaged through the larger bag. “Man, you finally meet a guy that curls your friggin’ toes and he ends up being some whacked out SOB who has nothing better to do than…Aha! Here you go, Laird MacLean. Read it and weep then call me a cab and get me the hell out of here!”
The grin that had been forming on Connor’s lips faded at this last. He was sure that she had no idea she’d been talking out loud throughout it all. It intrigued him that she said ‘he curled her toes’ though he had no ideas what ‘friggin’ was. Frowning, he took the dark little booklet she was waving at him and stared down at its cover. There in shining gold letters was that word. Passport. Below it was some sort of emblem of an eagle and shield with the ‘United States of America’ below.
It fell open to a colorful page of another eagle and flag. And there was her portrait as well. It was an excellent photograph, he thought. He had never seen one that sharp though there were lines all across it. To the right was printed her name, the one she had given him. Her nationality was listed as USA and her birthplace incredibly as Virginia, USA. She had gone to America? He had been there years ago looking for her. One of the hundreds of places it seemed he had searched for her until they had all assumed she was dead. But she had been there, near Baltimore, she had said. Then he saw her birth date. March 10, 1982.
“It seems that your forger wasn’t as good as you must have thought.” He tapped the booklet against his hand. “Your birth year is listed here as 1982.”
“Yes, I was born on March 10, 1982. What’s the problem with that?”
“Because that would be impossible considering that it is only 1895.”
“Get out! You think you can pull some prank like that on me?”
“Aye, lass,” Ian added. “October 18, 1895.”
Emmy’s head spun as she looked dizzily around the room, at the lovely antiques, the oil lamps, Dorcas in her high-necked white blouse and long skirt, the Gibson-girl hairdo. She turned about the room.
For the second time in her life she fainted.
Chapter 4
A horrible burning in her nose brought her sharply back to life. “What? What happened?” she asked as she slapped away the smelling salts beneath her nose.
“You fainted…again.” Ian remarked with some disgust.
“Well, my dear, those travelling papers were an excellent forgery. Impressive yet imperfect.” The laird had retreated and was now ensconced once more in his chair leisurely sipping upon his drink. “Are you ready to have your bluff called and explain to me why you’ve decided to return after all this time?”
Emmy looked into his chocolaty eyes and knew that there was no way to explain this; she didn’t have a clue herself. Sure there was proof in her bag of where, when she was from, but at this point they would probably just think her mad. Maybe a witch or something equally unacceptable. She wondered what they did to witches in 1895. Oh, why hadn’t she majored in history? She loved historic architecture, that was why she was here to begin with, but she ha
d never really studied history.
Maybe it was better to just play along for now. At least until she had a handle on what was going on. If she went along, faked her way through, she could work her way out. “Yes,” she lowered her eyes and tried to appear repentant. Ian helped her to the settee next to Dory but Emmy found she could do little more than stare at the man across from her.
Emmy slouched back with her arms crossed and considered her choices and him. What to say. What to do? Play along, she thought. But he hates his wife, a part of her mind argued. Emmy did not want him looking at her with hatred. No, there were other emotions she wanted to see in his eyes. The realization startled her.
“Heather, please sit up. Your posture is most atrocious,” the lady Dorcas chided handing her another cup of tea. “Here. This will make you feel just the thing.”
Again Emmy found herself staring down into another cup of tea with some disgust. “Could I get a large glass full of ice, please?” she asked Dorcas. Though her eyes showed curiosity, the woman nodded to a footman standing near the door who left the room immediately to do her bidding. Emmy swirled the cup idly as she waited for him to return staring down steadily into the liquid and making no move to look at or speak to any of the other three occupants of the room.
What to say? What to do? Questions again raged through her mind, but no alternatives presented themselves. She was in another time! Unbelievable! Things like this just did not happen to normal people, to anyone for that matter unless the government had come up with some portal through time and were covering it up? That had happened before, well not with time travel specifically, but it had happened in other scientific arenas. Wasn’t there some fuss in the 1950s though about some ship that was in Philadelphia and disappeared only to show up in Norfolk just moments later? Something like that? She couldn’t remember. But there were always all kinds of stories about government cover-ups and conspiracies. That could be the answer.
A Laird for All Time Page 2
