G rant watched her curl into herself as she crouched in front of the fire like a homeless waif. Damn ye, Mairwen. What the devil had the old witch done to the lass? She’d not told her anything of her plans, of that, he was certain. But Miss Jessa Tamson had recognized him. How was that so? Had she dreamt of him as he had dreamt of her?
“Here, lass.” He held out one of the linens from the stand beside the pitcher and washbasin. “To dry with.”
She stared at it for a long moment, as if unsure whether or not to take it from him, then turned back to the fire as if he wasn’t even there.
He shook out the folded cloth and carefully squeezed the water from her hair as he’d seen women do. She smelled of roses and a fair amount of fear. “I willna hurt ye, lass. I swear it.”
“That’s good to know, since Mairwen dumped me into your bed at midnight.” She shied away from his help and ran her fingers through her hair, shaking and fluffing her luscious mane. “That’s fine, thank you. I just need to—” She cut herself off and clenched her teeth, making her lovely jaw flex with the hardness of her fears.
“Ye just need to return to yer folk at Seven Cairns?”
She barely shook her head. “No. I need to get back to New Jersey and forget all about Scotland.”
He had heard of a New Jersey over in the colonies, but couldn’t recall meeting anyone from there. With the beginning of the Highland clearances, the families forced from their lands and sent across the seas never returned to share what had awaited them. He draped a plaid around her shoulders and grew even more concerned when she didn’t move to hold it in place or cuddle deeper into its warmth. She had to be chilled after hanging out the window in the dead of the rainy night.
“How did ye come to be in Scotland?” He didn’t add that she didn’t seem to like it there. Or perhaps she had liked the place until old Mairwen had uprooted her and dropped her into his bed.
“An app,” she said, keeping her gaze locked on the flames. She resettled herself on the floor, pulled the plaid around her, and rested her chin on her knees.
“What did ye say brought ye to Scotland?” Had she meant that an apple brought her here? Was Mairwen taken to poisoning apples now?
“A tarot card dating app on my phone.”
Lore a’mighty, she might as well be speaking a different language. Frustration building, he resettled his stance, then backed up a step when he realized his towering over her might frighten her even more. Why the devil would Mairwen match him with a woman he couldn’t understand?
“I dinna ken of what ye speak. I have heard tell of the tarot, but the rest—” He shook his head.
“If I had my phone, I’d show you.” She twitched her shoulders in what was either a shrug or a shiver. “But I left it back in Mairwen’s massage room with my clothes.” She tipped her head, studying the burning logs from a different angle as if fighting to calm herself with the dance of the fire. “If you have your cell phone, I could probably find it in your app store and show you. Although what does it really matter? I’m here, and looking back won’t change that.” She huffed a soft laugh, sounding more upset than amused. “Take my advice—never listen to an app. It will only lead you to disaster.”
“I dinna ken what an app is, Miss Tamson.”
“You might as well call me Jessa. After all, I am here in your bedroom.” Sarcasm dripped from her every word, giving him hope that she hadn’t lost her will to fight. She closed her eyes and dropped her head into her hands. “And app is short for application. You download them onto your phone to do stuff with. Is that not what they call them here in Scotland?”
“I dinna ken what a phone might be, either.”
She lifted her head and glared at him. “You’re making fun of me? Really? After all—” She flipped her hand at the room in general. “—all this . Whatever this is?”
He settled into a nearby chair, since she seemed determined to sit her fine round arse on the floor. “If ye mean am I jesting or mocking ye, I would never do that to a woman as unsettled as ye appear to be.” Were she not the mysterious temptation that had haunted his dreams for weeks now, he’d do what he normally did when a comely lass found her way to his bed. But whilst he wanted this one with a fury, a worrisome gnawing in his chest warned that Miss Jessa Tamson would be no casual dalliance. He shook his head at the irony. A desirable woman in his bedchamber, and he was afraid to touch her. “Now tell me, what is a phone ?”
She rolled her eyes, ignoring him as she rubbed her knuckles against her temples. “Am I your captive?”
“Captive? Why would ye ask such a thing?”
“Oh, I don’t know—maybe because you told me you weren’t going to let me leave?” She paused in the massaging of her head and fixed him with a cutting glare. “Am I or not?”
“It’s the middle of the night, ye’re wearing nothing but yer shift, and ye’ve no idea where ye are, and I’d also wager, ye dinna ken the danger of a woman wandering alone in the Highlands.” He leaned toward her and fixed her with a sneer just as cutting as her glare. “I am protecting ye, lass. Ye should be thanking me.”
She narrowed her eyes, transforming her expression to anything but one of thankfulness. “Do you have anything for a headache? Aspirin? Ibuprofen? Acetaminophen?”
“I dinna ken what any of those things are, but I can rouse Mrs. Robeson and have her steep ye some tea. She uses willow bark and yarrow, among other things. Whatever else she brews always helps Henry with the aches he gets from that scar on his head.”
She stared at him, blinking slowly as if waking from a daze. “Willow bark and yarrow tea,” she repeated so softly he almost didn’t catch it. “You only use natural remedies here?”
“I dinna ken about them being natural. Herbs and Mrs. Robeson’s tisanes are the only remedies in this keep.” He rose, went to the door, and yanked on the bellpull. It might take longer this time of night, but one of the servants would heed his call, eventually. A troubling suspicion filled him. If she was a slave to what had eventually killed his first wife, he’d put her out into the night and send her on her way at once. Never would he go through that misery again. “Were ye looking for laudanum?”
“What is that?”
“Tincture of opium.”
Her mouth fell open, and her cheeks flared to an angry red. “Opium? I am not a druggie and do not appreciate that insinuation.”
Her reaction enabled him to unclench his fists and call upon what little calm he had left under the circumstances. “It was nay an accusation. Merely a question. I dinna allow that vileness in my keep.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” she said. “It’s illegal—or at least it is where I come from. Is it not illegal here?”
“No. Not illegal in Scotland.” The things she said befuddled him completely, but he shook it off. After all, she was from the colonies.
A knock on the door pulled him from his churning thoughts. He yanked it open just enough to see into the hallway and found Sawny, the kitchen lad, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Rouse Mrs. Robeson and have her brew a tea for an ache in the head. A strong one, mind ye.”
The boy straightened, immediately more alert, then bobbed a quick bow. “Aye, m’laird. ’Tis sorry I am that ye’re feeling poorly. I’ll make haste.”
“Good lad.” Grant shut the door before Sawny caught sight of Jessa, or she revealed herself by speaking. He wasn’t ready to share her with everyone in the keep just yet, and especially not in her current state. That time would come soon enough. He turned back and motioned to one of the two wingback chairs angled in front of the hearth. “Would ye nay be more comfortable in the chair?”
With her bottom lip caught between her teeth, she hugged her knees tighter and barely rocked in place. She remained silent, looking distressed and fraught with worry.
“Lass? Miss Jessa?”
“If you don’t know what a phone is, how do you communicate with anyone who doesn’t live here at the keep?” she blurted out.
The phone thing seemed to mean so much to her. It must carry messages somehow. He joined her at the hearth but didn’t sit. “I send a runner to places within a few hours’ ride, and if the distance is greater, I send letters by coach or rider.”
She stared up at him from her spot on the floor, then bent her head and rubbed her forehead between her eyebrows. Her pain must be worsening. “What about mail? The postal system?” Her voice was strained, vibrating with fear. The woman was on the verge of panic. “I think they call it the Royal Mail here.”
“My runners and messengers are faster and more reliable than the king’s, but I’ve been known to use the service when pushed to do so by the destination.” He crouched in front of her and risked touching her arm. “Sit in the chair, lass, and I’ll fetch ye more cushions. ’Tis much softer than the floor. Ye canna be comfortable here.”
Tears welled, deepening the already vibrant green of her eyes. The fullness of her bottom lip quivered the slightest bit. Lore a’mighty, dinna let her cry , he silently prayed to any power that might be listening. He couldn’t bear the vulnerability of a weeping lass. He scooped her up from the floor and gently deposited her into the chair, then tucked the plaid around her. “It will be all right, Jessa. Dinna fash yerself. Everything will be all right.”
“It will not,” she snapped, smacking him away as if he’d pinched her. She curled into a ball of misery, and her tears spilled over. “Everything is so effed up. So un-freakin’-believably effed up. I can’t take it anymore.” She shattered into a storm of uncontrollable sobs. “I don’t know where the hell I am, can’t call Emily for help, and you don’t seem to understand anything I say.” She paused long enough to suck in a deep breath, then unleashed a long, keening wail. “I’m jobless, broke, and tired of being a burden to my friends.” Pounding her fist on the arm of the chair and kicking like a bairn having a tantrum, she screeched even louder. “And no matter what I do or what I try, things just get worse. I’m sick of this shit. Absolutely sick of it, and I never curse!”
Heaven help him, he couldn’t bear her suffering. He yanked her up into his arms, sat in the chair, and settled her into his lap. “Shh…now. Ye’re not alone, sionnach beag. I’m here, and I’ll not let anything harm ye.”
“What is a shun-ukh beg ?” she asked, gasping through her tears. “Did you just call me an ugly name?”
Even though she sounded insulted, he noticed she curled tighter against him and tucked her head under his chin. He also noticed how very fine her soft, warm weight fit so perfectly in his lap. “ Sionnach beag is Scots for little fox . Ye’re as fearless and wily as those wee creatures, and yer red mane reminds me of their coloring.”
“If I was wily, I wouldn’t be here.” She shuddered with another series of snuffling sobs, then fisted her hand in his shirt and pitifully tried to shake him. “I hate this,” she said, hissing the words like an angry kitten. “Not knowing how I got here. You making fun of me by acting like you’ve never heard of a phone, a bathroom, or anything normal for a headache. How remote a place is this? The Highlands have paved roads, surely indoor plumbing and cell phone towers are here too. Or do you expect me to believe that civilization hasn’t made it this far north in Great Britain?”
Paved roads ? Was she speaking of the military roads constructed by General Wade? Indoor plumbing ? There was the well house with the pumps that the servants used to draw water. Was that what she meant? And there was that phone word again. “What the bloody hell is a cell phone tower ?” he asked. “The only towers we have are those at the corners of the skirting wall. I have watchmen there for security.”
She pushed herself upright and stared at him. Fire flashed in her emerald eyes, and she looked ready to slap him. “Are you freaking serious?”
He slowly shook his head, hating that everything he said upset her even more. “Forgive me, lass. I dinna understand half of what ye say. Bathroom. Phone. Those words ye used when ye asked for something for yer head. This is the first time I have ever heard anyone say such things, and I speak French, Portuguese, English, and Scots.” A groaning sigh escaped him. There went her lip again, quivering like a bairn about to squall to be fed. He touched her cheek. “Jessa?—”
She slapped at his hand, fumbled out of his lap, and backed up one slow step at a time. Her finger shaking, she pointed at him, motioning up and down from his boots to his kilt to his shirt while opening and closing her mouth, but no sounds came out. Then she looked around the room, pointing at the candles and oil lamps. With a pitiful squeak, she covered her face with her hands and took refuge in the corner against the stonework of the hearth.
“Is this a reenactment?” Her desperation filled the air as she peeped at him through her fingers.
“A reenactment?” What the bloody hell was she asking him now?
She jerked with a quick nod, terror and confusion in her eyes. “Like a historical movie. Or a play or something. Or a really bad joke at my expense.”
“This is no play or something , lass, and I dinna ken what a movie is either.” His heart broke for her pain, for her fears, and for the sense of loss in her eyes. He held out a hand. “Come here, lass. Come and rest. Things will be better once ye’ve rested. Yer tea will be here soon, and then ye can lie down and have yerself a good long sleep.”
She hugged herself tighter into the corner. Her stillness concerned him, and she’d gone so pale that her dusting of freckles had most nigh disappeared.
“What day is it?” she asked in a dull, hopeless whisper.
“Since we’re well past midnight now, this is the summer solstice. June twenty-first.”
“The year.” She shuddered and touched the stonework of the hearth as if needing the support of something solid. “June twenty-first, what year?”
“1785.”
She slumped to the floor and huddled in the corner like a wounded animal. “You lie.”
“Why would I lie about what year it is?”
“I don’t know—some twisted reason to make me think I’m crazy?” She was shaking, shaking so hard her teeth chattered. “It’s 2025, and you know it. I don’t know what’s going on here or why, but I’ve had enough. If you don’t take me back to Seven Cairns, I swear I’ll make your life a living hell.”
He sagged forward in the chair and dropped his head into his hands. That damned witch had pulled this poor unsuspecting woman back in time to be his wife. The legends had spoken of that happening before. Some such nonsense about joining fated mates across time so their love could maintain the strength of the barrier that protected the worlds. The Defenders had mentioned the practice as well. Some even said it would be an honor to support the Highland Veil in such a manner. Well, they could all feckin’ go to the devil. The sheer terror in Jessa's eyes was pure torture, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. All he could do was tell her the truth and pray she possessed the strength to come to terms with it.
“Mairwen is a witch of sorts. She brought ye back in time to be my wife.”
* * *
With her head now pounding so hard that her heartbeat echoed in her ears, Jessa winced against the throbbing pain and pushed back tighter into the corner. Mr. MacSexy, aka Grant MacAlester, had to be nuts. And Mairwen must be crazy too, because she appeared to be helping him. The two of them must’ve somehow drugged her in the massage room, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember drinking anything while there. Whatever they’d used must have thrown her into that awful hallucination, and then he’d kidnapped her and brought her here. She almost laughed at that. Why in the world would anybody kidnap her? That explanation for this strange situation was ludicrous, but at the moment, it was the only logical explanation she could come up with.
She had to stop panicking, get a grip on reality, and figure out a way out of here. With a strength she never realized she had, she choked down her hysteria and swallowed hard. It was time to woman up, and woman up, she would.
Staring at Grant, she kept her gaze locked with his. He seemed so serious about everything. But then, he would. A crazy person believed their delusions were reality. But if this was a delusion, the guy must be rich, because he had fully bought into the wardrobe and location. His soft linen shirt was one laundering shy of being realistically threadbare. His kilt wasn’t one of those neatly pleated styles she had seen in Inverness. It was belted and draped around him as if it were made of one large yardage of cloth he’d wrapped and folded into a garment. And the castle. No, he had called it a keep, not a castle. But from what she’d seen while hanging out the window, this stone structure was a freaking castle.
“Lass, did ye hear me?”
She swallowed hard again, trying to ignore the nausea sending the burn of bile to the back of her throat. “I am sitting three feet away. Why would I not hear you?”
His scowl darkened. He pulled in a deep breath and slowly released it, then dropped his head back into his hands. Jessa wondered if the man ever smiled. Maybe he should switch delusions because this one didn’t seem to be making him very happy.
He lifted his head and eyed her as if trying to decide what to do with her. She took a little pride in that. At least she had succeeded in confusing him.
“Did Mairwen tell ye nothing of the Highland Veil or fated mates?” he asked with a weariness she completely felt, too.
“All Mairwen told me was how much her cottage cost for a month and that a massage and the healing springs would make me feel worlds better. Since she already hit mine and Emily’s credit cards, I know the first part to be true. But so far, she lied about the massage and Seven Cairns’ magical waters, because I do not feel better at all.” Jessa rubbed her puffy eyes and vowed not to cry anymore. And her nose was running. She pinched the end of it and glared at him. “I don’t suppose you know what a tissue is, either?”
He rose from the chair, strode over to a gorgeous antique dresser, and retrieved a handkerchief from the top drawer. His expression still grim, he returned and held it out to her. “Here—and no, I dinna ken what a feckin’ tissue is, either.”
“Thank you.” She blew her nose and fisted the cloth to her chest, holding onto it as if it were a lifeline in this sea of madness.
“This is Mairwen’s doing, lass. The legends say that she and her kind track down fated mates and unite them. The bond between two souls fated to be one is rumored to be the strongest love of all, and that love strengthens the weave of the Highland Veil that keeps the worlds and planes of time separated as they should be. If the Veil ever weakens or tears, chaos would rule, and entire worlds would be lost to the darkness.”
“Chaos already rules this world. Have you not listened to the news or been on social media lately?”
“’Tis my understanding that if the Veil falls, the resulting chaos would be far worse than that which we have already experienced.”
He had an answer for everything, but crazy people usually did. Or at least that’s what Emily’s mom had always said, and as a psychiatrist, she should know. “You said Mairwen and her kind . What kind is that? A witch? You’ve called her that a couple of times.”
He pushed up from the chair and went to a cabinet on the other side of the room. “Shall ye have a whisky until Sawny decides to move his arse and bring up yer tea?”
“Just water, thank you. I’m not much on alcohol.” Besides, she needed to keep a clear head. Everything was muddled enough without adding adult beverages to the mix. “Answer my question. What is Mairwen?”
“Henry calls her a Divine Weaver or some such nonsense.” He paused, appearing to struggle with keeping his delusional facts straight. Then he nodded. “Aye. A Weaver. Henry could tell ye more. He’s a sworn Defender. ’Tis his opinion that she is descended from the goddesses themselves.”
“Goddesses?” This fairy tale kept getting more complicated. Jessa wished she had her tablet so she could take notes and keep everything straight. “Which goddesses?”
“Bride and Cerridwen.” He handed her a glass of water before settling back into his chair with his whisky. “Benevolent goddesses until they decide to toy with ye, and then they can be a royal pain in the arse.”
“So Mairwen is a goddess?” The older woman had possessed an air of agelessness and wisdom, but a goddess? Really? Jessa shook her head to clear it. She had to stay sane. This was his delusion. Not hers.
Grant sipped the golden liquid in his glass. “Nay. Not a goddess. At least not according to Henry, but a daughter of theirs and just as powerful.”
“Of course.” Jessa didn’t attempt to veil her sarcasm. “She would have to be pretty powerful to rip me out of the twenty-first century and plop me into your time.”
“Ye dinna believe me.”
“I think you need help.” Maybe if she approached this situation from that angle, she could talk him off the proverbial ledge, and he would return her to Seven Cairns.
He gave her a somewhat lazy frown while slowly nodding. “I see.” After another sip, he asked, “And what sort of help might I be needing, lass?”
She wanted to say institutionalization, medication, and lots of therapy, but didn’t think that would go over well. “I think you need help in realizing that legends are just stories. They are not real.”
And then he finally smiled, making it impossible for her to breathe. How could something as simple as a smile completely transform a person? Her heart rate shifted into high gear, fluttering like the rapid beat of a hummingbird’s wings. Something deep inside her clicked, and then she bottomed out with sadness. Why did her Mr. MacSexy have to be insane? Her Mr. MacSexy? Something indefinable within her nodded. Yes, Grant MacAlester would have been hers if he had been right in the head. She forced that disturbing revelation aside.
“Why does that make you smile?” she asked, struggling to sound nonchalant.
“ Some legends are just stories, lass. Others are historical retellings, and a few are even warnings.” He set his glass on the table between the chairs and stretched, exhibiting a spectacular wingspan.
Jessa cleared her throat. “And you believe the stories about the Highland Veil to be true?”
“I once doubted them.”
“But not now?”
With a hint of amusement in his eyes, he slowly shook his head. “Here ye be, sionnach beag . A lass from the future. How can I deny them now?”
A knock on the door made her jump and shove as far back into the corner as she could get.
“Calm yerself. ’Tis more than likely yer tea.” He went to the door and barely opened it.
“Sawny said ye’re feeling poorly,” an older woman said as she widened the opening with a bump of her ample hip and blustered her way inside. “’Tis dangerous on this day. Summer solstice. Did ye anger the wise one again?” She shook her head, clucking her tongue like a fretting hen. “What have I told ye, m’laird? Ye canna go against her. ’Tis for yer own good and the sake of the clan, it is. Ye must not vex her.”
Jessa snapped her mouth shut after realizing she sat there with it hanging open. Had he gone to the trouble of hiring people to populate his delusion? His employee wore a period costume Jessa could only assume went with the year 1785. The elderly woman sported a full, long gray skirt, a white apron, and a white cap with wisps of her gray curls peeping out from under the ruffles. How much could all this be costing him? And why would he do it just to kidnap her? She was a penniless nobody. That was the troubling part and the glaring hole in her logic. There was no good reason for him to fake this being 1785. But if he wasn’t faking it, she shied away from that thought. No. That cannot be possible.
“Mrs. Robeson,” Grant said, “forgive me for getting ye out of yer bed at this hour, but it is my guest who is troubled with a terrible ache in her head. Not myself.” He nodded at Jessa. “Allow me to introduce ye to Miss Jessa Tamson. Mairwen wished me to meet her, and it has not gone well at all.”
Mrs. Robeson whirled around and squinted at her, then turned back to Grant with a scolding look. “What did ye say to the poor wee lamb?” Before he could answer, she set the tray bearing a small teapot and cup on the dresser, hurried over to Jessa, and tugged her up from the floor. “He is not always such an arse, lass. While he can be rough as a cob most days, the man has himself a good heart. Just ye wait and see. Give him a chance. Some lasses like him well enough, and I’ve never known him to treat any woman cruelly.”
She herded Jessa over to the bed and had her propped against a pile of plumped pillows before she realized what was happening. “Here, ye poor lamb. Drink this. ’Twill stop that aching in yer pate. Ye must be jolted clear to the bone, what with the magic and all.”
“Thank you.” Jessa found herself at a loss for words in the whirlwind of the grandmotherly woman and the strange things she said. She sipped the tea and barely kept from spitting the bitter concoction back into the cup.
Grant rumbled with a low, deep laugh from where he stood at the foot of the bed. “Aye, the taste is wretched, but it will chase away the pain.”
She blinked against the sting of tears and stared down into the cup. Why did he have to be crazy? When he smiled, when he laughed, when he acted normal , her heart did a little happy dance as if she had finally found her way home and everyone there loved her.
“There, there now, lass,” Mrs. Robeson said softly. “’Twill be all right. Give it a bit of time. All will be well.”
The old woman’s gentle kindness made Jessa feel even worse. Before she lost control and started wailing again, she choked down more of the awful tea.
Mrs. Robeson ambled over to Grant. “Shall I have the maids sort the other room?”
“No,” he said, while settling a determined look on Jessa. “I shall sleep in here to ensure the lass is safe.”
“I’ll be fine,” Jessa said through clenched teeth. If he tried to get in this bed with her, he’d find himself neutered at her first opportunity.
“Safe?” Mrs. Robeson said to Grant. “How could she not be?—”
“Mrs. Robeson.”
The way his eyes narrowed on the old woman not only silenced her but made Jessa shiver. Neutering him might prove difficult.
“Hmpf.” The matron stiffened and rested her folded hands on the shelf of her thick middle. “Dinna dishonor yer clan, m’laird, and remember how the goddesses view the disrespectful treatment of women.” Then she threw her hands in the air and toddled out the door. “That’s all I’ll be saying about that,” she said before closing the door behind her with an opinionated thump.
“That is not all she’ll be saying about that. I guarantee it.” Grant fetched the small ceramic teapot sitting on the tray and refilled Jessa's cup. “Try to drink all of it, lass. ’Twill help ye rest.”
“Drugging me again?” She couldn’t help saying that, even though the pain in his eyes made her immediately regret it.
He bowed his head with a formal nod, then moved one of the chairs out from in front of the hearth and placed it against the bedroom door. “I have done nothing to harm ye, lass, and would never do so. I may be rough as a cob , as my housekeeper said, but I am neither a cruel man nor do I take advantage of those deserving of my protection.” He tipped her another nod. “And whether ye wish it or not, ye are deserving of my protection.” Then he settled down into the chair, stretched out his long legs, and crossed them at the ankles. “Sleep, lass. ’Twill do us both a world of good.”
“I want to go home,” she said, not caring that she sounded like the whiny, homesick kid at a sleepover.
He eyed her for a long moment, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest almost mesmerizing. “Ye are home, Jessa, and the sooner ye come to terms with that, the better off ye will be.”
She downed the rest of the horrid tea and curled into a tight ball under the blankets. This couldn’t be real. None of it. In the morning, she’d wake up back at the cottage and tell Emily all about this nightmare. She squinched her eyes shut, trying to shut off more tears, but they escaped and soon became a torrent. She wadded the handkerchief against the end of her drippy nose and willed herself to stop crying before she puked. This was all just a bad dream—and if it wasn’t, she would figure it out. Somehow.