Page 25 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)

Chapter

Eighteen

H arper wriggled her toes and shifted her aching feet as the mist rose off Loch Eil, shrouding the shoreline in ghostly white.

She had darned her expensive moisture-wicking socks twice since falling through time.

Back when she bought them, she’d been horrified at the expense, but now?

Now, she was glad she’d spent the money, they’d been worth every cent.

Thinking about her socks made her remember a woman in the store the day she’d bought them.

The lady was on her phone with a friend, and Harper overheard the conversation.

The woman talked about getting her hair and nails done.

She had dark hair with blonde highlights and her nails?

There were hot pink with little crystals embedded in them.

A small laugh escaped as Harper thought about the reactions of William and his men if they’d seen her with painted nails or toenails, or if her hair had changed color as it grew out.

But she’d always been low maintenance, had to be, being out in the field most of the time.

Every once in a while, she thought it would have been nice to sit in a chair and have someone fuss over her, do her hair and nails.

This time, a small sigh escaped as she thought about makeup and modern conveniences. Oh well, guess that ship had sailed.

The Jacobite army was a living, breathing thing that morning as men rolled blankets and doused fires, the sounds comforting, if only because she’d become accustomed to them like she had with the traffic outside her Boston apartment whenever she was between projects.

Ahead of the column, Prince Charles Edward Stuart paused by a wild rosebush, its white blooms stark against the green foliage. With deliberate grace, he leaned over and plucked a single flower, pinning it to his blue bonnet.

Harper watched, transfixed, as a few other men followed suit, picking roses and affixing them to their bonnets.

History unfolded before her eyes, not dry words in a textbook but real people creating symbols future generations would study.

The white cockade would become a symbol of the cause, and she’d watched it happen.

She tugged at her new dress, the fabric softer than the rough wool she’d grown accustomed to.

The fabric was midnight blue with a tiny print.

William had purchased it from a sailor at their last encampment along with a navy blue wool dress that she’d need as the weather turned to fall.

The new shift was a light cream color and was soft against her skin.

And the best part? He’d presented her with two bars of French rose soap.

After inhaling the scent, she’d thrown her arms around him and kissed him soundly, making him laugh and say if he’d known it would only take a fine bar of soap to get a kiss he’d have bought her a dozen which made her laugh.

That night, he’d also arranged for her to bathe in a wooden tub.

The tub belonged to an officer who was going to be out for the evening and had offered it to William after he’d helped the man with his horse.

The hot water eased her sore muscles, and the scent of roses filled the air as she soaked until her fingers wrinkled.

A bath instead of washing with a cloth and basin of water, or in a stream, talk about the height of luxury.

She’d scrubbed her hair with the precious soap, and took her time combing it out with the comb Moira had given her back on Eriskay.

The sound of someone laughing pulled her back to the scene around her as she touched her side.

Her small leather journal pressed against her from its hiding place inside the dress.

She’d sewn a pocket inside the dress that buttoned and kept it safe.

The journal was her one indulgence, so she could record events as they happened, trying to make sense of her place here in the past, and wondering if she’d ever encounter the old woman who’d sent her here again.

“The color suits ye,” William said, appearing beside her with two cups of steaming tea. “Like the sky just before the stars appear.”

Harper accepted the cup, grateful for its warmth. “Thank you. For the tea and the dresses. And especially the soap and the bath.” She smoothed a hand over the fabric. “I still can’t believe you traded a dirk and a pearl for them.”

“We didn’t need the pearl I won at cards, and the dirk can be replaced,” he said, his eyes lingering on her face. “Your comfort cannot.”

She blamed the tea for the heat rising through her chest to her cheeks.

“Ye look bonny,” he said quietly. “Though I still dinna understand your refusal of proper boots.” His gaze dropped to where her hiking boots peeked out from beneath the hem of the dress.

“These have gotten me through Arctic expeditions and Himalayan passes,” she said, tapping one sturdy sole against a rock. “They’ll get me through Scotland.”

“Arctic?” His eyebrow rose.

She swallowed, cursing her slip. “Everyone in Boston wears them,” she said with a practiced shrug. “Practical people, Bostonians.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but his smile remained.

“Aye, practical indeed.” His fingers brushed hers as he took her empty cup, lingering a moment longer than necessary.

“Almost as practical as the woman wearing them.” Then, with a roguish grin, he leaned in and sniffed.

“Ye smell bonny, lass. Like a rose garden.”

She laughed as the army moved forward, the mist burning away to reveal a sky of mottled gray and blue.

As William was summoned by one of the officers, Harper fell into step beside a woman she recognized by the delicious soup she made.

And who had taken an inexplicable liking to her despite her culinary incompetence.

“Ye look peelie-wally this morn,” Fiona observed, her bun bobbing as she walked. “Did the dreams trouble ye again?”

She nodded, grateful for the explanation. The nightmares had become her excuse for fitful sleep, though the truth was far more complicated.

“I keep seeing snow,” she admitted quietly. “Blood on snow.”

Fiona’s face softened. “The sight runs strong in ye, though ye fight it. No shame in that.”

The fiction that Harper possessed “the sight” had emerged naturally after she’d inadvertently predicted a sudden storm. It explained her strange knowledge and occasional slips, though she discouraged the notion whenever possible.

Their path took them through glens still wet with morning dew, heather brushing against their legs. Mud sucked at Harper’s boots with each step, making the going treacherous. Twice she nearly fell, saved only by Fiona’s sturdy grip.

“Ye must learn to walk like a Highlander,” the older woman advised. “Light on yer feet, even in the bog.”

By midday, a fine drizzle had begun, turning the path slick and the mood somber. The column stretched out before and behind, a river of plaid and steel flowing through the landscape. Bagpipes wailed intermittently, their mournful sound carried away by the wind.

When they stopped to rest, William found her huddled under a rowan tree, writing furiously in her journal.

“What secrets do ye commit to paper?” he asked, startling her.

Harper snapped the small book shut, tucking it away. “Just thoughts. Memories I don’t want to lose.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat and handed her a piece of oatcake. “Not much, but it will keep ye going.”

“Thank you.” She broke off a small piece, savoring the nutty flavor.

The stew or soup she’d had was a luxury.

Food was scarce. Oatcakes, hard cheese, and the occasional bit of dried meat mostly.

Her stomach had finally adjusted to an eighteenth-century diet, though she still dreamed of coffee and pizza, and chocolate.

They shared a sip of whisky while they talked.

That was another thing. She’d never been much of a drinker, especially of the hard stuff, but now?

She found the warmth of the liquor helped fill her belly.

“Your plaid has come loose again.” His fingers brushed her shoulder as he adjusted the fabric. “Like this, see? Ye want it tight enough to keep the rain off but not so tight ye canna move.”

The casual touch sent warmth through her despite the chill from the rain.

His hands were calloused, his eyes intent on his task.

A lock of dark hair had escaped his queue, falling across his forehead, and he needed to shave.

Then again, he could shave twice a day and still have five o’clock shadow, which made him even more good-looking.

“Three months ago I couldn’t even wrap this properly,” she said, smiling at the memory of her first attempts after arriving in June that had left her tangled and frustrated. “Now I’m almost passable as a proper Highland woman.”

“Aye, ye looked like a caterpillar caught in a web.” William’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “We’ve made progress, you and I.”

The double meaning hung between them.

The march resumed, and with William called to attend to the prince, Harper found herself walking beside Callum, whose quiet, thoughtful nature made him easier company than Angus with his boisterous jests.

“Teach me a bit more Gaelic,” she requested. “I want to understand what everyone’s saying around the fires.”

Callum nodded, his face lighting up. “We’ll continue with useful phrases. ’Tha mi sgìth’ means ‘I am tired.’”

“Tha mi sgìth,” Harper repeated, struggling with the pronunciation.

“Better than yesterday,” Callum encouraged. “Now try ’Tha an t-acras orm’ —‘I am hungry.’”

They practiced as they walked, Harper repeating phrases until her tongue felt tied in knots. Occasionally other men would overhear and call out corrections or ribald phrases that made Callum flush to the roots of his dark curls.

“Don’t heed Angus,” Callum said after a particularly colorful suggestion from the redhead. “He speaks before he thinks.”

“I’ve noticed,” Harper replied dryly. “Is he always so...”