Page 13 of The Story of his Highland Bride (Dancing Through Time #4)

13

T he next morning, Eloise awoke in an armchair that was no longer beside the fireplace, but angled at the end of the bed, facing the door. After all the spiced, sweet wine she’d enjoyed with dinner, and through the headache now throbbing in her skull, it took her a few minutes to remember the events of the night before.

“What an idiot,” she muttered, rubbing her temples.

She’d waited for Jackson to come, had dreamed of him striding through the door to finish what they’d started, but as she’d gotten sleepier, she’d made the tipsy decision to drag the armchair to the bed so she wouldn’t miss him when he arrived. Only, considering she’d woken up alone, she guessed he hadn’t. All she had were aching arms from hauling the armchair, and a searing memory of his kiss on her lips.

“Great plan, Longman.” She held her head in her hands, ranting at the hardwood floors. “Did you think he was going to waltz in and sweep you off your feet? Give you a reason to stay in the bloody past, huh? All the incredible kisses in the world aren’t going to make running water and electricity a thing here!”

But there’d been electricity in that hallway recess. Earth-shattering bolts of it, charging through her body, making her feel more alive than she’d done in years. It was, without doubt, the best kiss she’d ever had… though she didn’t have too much to compare it to, considering she’d been with Peter since university, and before that—nothing serious or memorable.

If Jackson had come to this room, it might’ve been the best night of my life, she mused, touching her fingertips to her lips, struggling to hold onto the clarity of every fiery detail.

It had almost gone further than a kiss in the hallway, and she smiled as she remembered his obvious confusion when he’d discovered her underwear. But the smile faded quickly, wondering if she’d dodged a bullet. After all, she didn’t want to be given a reason to stay; she had a life to get back to, such as it was. And though she was a hopeless romantic at heart, and always had been, falling for a brooding, 18 th century Laird who kissed like he’d wandered straight out of her wildest imagination wasn’t just hopeless, it was downright insane.

This is the heartbreak talking. If Peter hadn’t done what he did, and this had happened to me, I wouldn’t be looking twice at Jackson, she told herself, fully aware that it was a blatant lie. No one could meet Jackson and not take a second, third, fourth, thousandth look.

Heaving herself out of the armchair, she padded over to the window to admire the rising dawn. The world had turned white while she’d been sleeping, the forests and hills dozing underneath a crisp blanket of fresh-fallen snow that glittered in the faint, mauve light. By the looks of it, more snow was on the way, giving her aching mind second thoughts about striking out for the Clava Cairns as soon as the sun was fully up. In fact, the thick, bruised clouds seemed determined to keep the sun hidden, as if to say, Don’t go today. Take your time. See what happens.

Another blanket of white called to her, as she stood there by the window, taking in the majesty of the morning: the pile of paper on the writing desk. She’d struggled so far with the whole rigmarole of quills and ink, but something so painfully obvious that it hurt her brain sent her running to her handbag.

Sifting through the chaos of receipts, half-used lip balms and makeup, she raised up a ballpoint pen like it was a priceless artifact in a museum, and she’d been given the white gloves to hold it. It had been there all along, begging to be used. After all, a good writer never went anywhere without something to write with.

“You beauty,” she whispered, darting back to the writing desk.

If she wasn’t going to head to Clava Cairns, at least she could get started on some of the work that she owed her editor. With any luck, the reverse time-slip would function the same way as coming to the past, meaning she’d be able to take the pages back with her, like she’d brought her phone. Then, all she’d need to do was quickly type up what she’d written, and everyone would be happy.

“But where to start?” She tapped the end of the pen against her lip, thinking of where she’d left off with the story she was supposed to be writing.

The trouble was, she had another story brewing, and it refused to be pushed aside. With a smile, and inspiration that she’d lacked for longer than she cared to admit, she poured her heart out onto the page, spurred on by the current of electricity that Jackson had sparked inside her. In truth, she’d forgotten how easy her job could be when the story felt right, as she began to write… and write… and write.

“Ye’re certain she’s still in her chamber?” Jackson asked Kaitlyn, having halted her in the hallway. She was supposed to be tending to Eloise; helping her to dress before she joined everyone else for dinner.

Kaitlyn nodded. “It’s the queerest thing, M’Laird. She’s locked the door from the inside, and when I knocked to tell her I’d come to prepare her, she said she wasnae hungry and wouldn’ae be comin’ down to dinner. It was the same when I took luncheon to her. Well, nae the same, but she refused what I’d brought—left me standin’ outside with a full tray of food that had to go back to the kitchens.” She paused. “Do ye think she’s unwell again? Should I fetch Old Joan?”

“She’s had naught to eat all day?” Jackson frowned, perturbed by the thought. Was her refusal to eat some kind of protest toward him?

Kaitlyn unleashed a sigh. “I took her breakfast to her, but she chased me out like a rat in the laundry. Dove onto somethin’ on her writin’ desk first, like she dinnae want me to see what she was doin’, and then shooed me away. I assume that’s when she locked the door on me.”

“Did ye see anythin’ of what she was doin’?” Curiosity thrummed in Jackson’s head, but it was barbed with caution.

He had done his best to avoid encountering Eloise since the previous evening. More times than he cared to count, he had considered stealing away from his bedchamber to hers, to feel the press of her lips and body against him once more. He had even contemplated lashing himself to his bedposts, for fear that he might find his way to her, even after he fell asleep. His desire for that beautiful, strange woman was unlike anything he had ever experienced; it consumed him, making him fill his day with every mundane task he could think of, just to stop his mind from dwelling constantly upon her.

The one thing he had not mustered the strength to do, however, was venture to Clava Cairns. For though he still could not fully believe Eloise’s wild tale, there was a tiny part of him that wondered if it was true, and if it was, he did not want to be the one who found her way home. Not yet.

“I dinnae,” Kaitlyn replied, reluctantly. “It just… looked like she was writin’, which isnae so strange, considerin’ she said that’s what she does. What was strange was the thing she was holdin’ to do it—it dinnae resemble any quill I’ve ever seen.”

Jackson rubbed his short beard, pondering what he should do. To be near her was to risk losing his resolve to never kiss her again, but to not be near her was to risk madness. Besides, if she had brought another bewitched, dangerous object into the castle, was it not his duty as Laird to investigate?

“Ye go on with what ye ought to be doin’,” he told Kaitlyn. “I’ll see to this meself.”

Kaitlyn dipped into a quick curtsy. “As ye prefer, M’Laird.”

He waited until the maid was out of sight before hurrying toward the kitchens, his mind set on quelling her protest before she starved to death. On his way, he had to wonder why Eloise had not yet left the castle all together, as she had threatened to. His thoughts turned back to the night before, and the heated kiss they had shared.

Is that why she hasnae fled? His heart squeezed strangely, his breath quickening as if he were in a panic. Could it be that she’s seen a reason to stay a while?

“Daenae be so daft,” he growled at himself. Whether she’s a witch or she really is a lass from the future, it’s one and the same—she’ll never belong with ye.

And, maybe, helping her to find her way home, wherever that was, would be the kindest thing he could do for her now. The safest thing, before they did something that they would not be able to undo, for that kiss had already begun to tie a knot between them.

To Jackson’s surprise, he was invited into Eloise’s bedchamber without any protest at all. Indeed, she practically ignored him, doing no more than opening the door for him before rushing back to the writing desk.

“You didn’t have to bring me any dinner,” she said, picking up that unusual quill that Kaitlyn had mentioned and starting a new sentence on the page. “I’d have grabbed something later, but… I suppose I am quite hungry. I always forget to eat when I’m working, fueled solely on coffee.”

“We daenae have coffee here.” He set the tray down, watching the quill move. There was no scratching sound from the nib, and no feather. On closer inspection, it did not appear to be made from a feather at all.

Eloise did not look up. “No, I’m painfully aware of that.” She chuckled. “After my usual seven cups a day, you wouldn’t recognize me. I’d be jittering around this room like a puppy, bouncing off the walls. I’m shocked I can still get anything done, to be honest, but it’s nice to know the noggin still works without it.”

“I still daenae understand half the things ye say,” he said, amused.

She laughed, not breaking her concentration for a moment. “Even if you were from my time, you’d struggle. I’m a better writer than I am a speaker. Always have been. When anyone asks me to describe my novel, I get all tongue-tied and don’t know what to say beyond, “Uh… it’s a book.” The publicity team must roll their eyes when they see one of my titles is coming out.”

He observed her from behind as she worked. She had gathered her hair up on top of her head, revealing the elegant curve of her neck, and the smooth, fair skin of her shoulders. His gaze trailed down the back of her neck, daring his lips to kiss that tempting flesh, his tongue to taste her.

“Read me some of yer work, then,” he half-demanded, edging closer to the delicious danger of her.

“Not if you’re going to stand over me like a teacher keeping an eye on the naughty kid,” she told him, gesturing absently to the small stool, tucked against the wall beside the writing desk.

It would make a man as large as him look foolish to sit on such a tiny chair, but he genuinely wanted to hear what she had been writing. In a way, he hoped it might offer him some clarity about the truth of her origins.

So, he perched on the stool, his knees bent almost to his chest. “Begin when ye please.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to concentrate, with you looking like you’re about to fold in half at any moment.” She laughed, and the sound of it stirred something greater than his loins. It stirred his heart. And as she gazed down at him, he found himself drawn into the excited gleam that had not been there before. She seemed… at ease, like he had not truly met her until that moment.

He smiled. “Ye told me nae to stand over ye, and if I sit on the bed, I’ll be too far away.”

And I’ll want ye to join me, and I willnae get to hear a word of what ye’ve written, as yer mouth will be pressed to mine, he added in secret, forcing himself to behave in case making a suggestion like that caused her to lose that glimmer in her eyes.

“This was me only choice, as if I sat up on the desk itself, me arse would cover most of what ye’ve been writin’,” he concluded, hoping to make her laugh again.

She did, a rich chuckle pealing from her full, teasing lips. “I wouldn’t want anything to smudge. Now, bear in mind that this is only a first draft, and I don’t really have everything plotted out yet, so it’s going to be a bit like a bomb went off in an idea factory.”

“Ye’re stallin’,” he said, with a raised eyebrow. “Ye have me full attention, Miss Eloise, and I’ll hold me judgment ‘til ye’re done. Ye willnae see anythin’ good nor bad on me face until then.”

Eloise took a short, sharp breath, as if she was scared. Then, she began: “Among twilight hills, like ogres sleeping, a woman picked her way through the slumbering souls, envious of their peace. Alone, but crowded with thoughts, there was nowhere she could run to escape their jeers. Not that it stopped her from trying, seeking quiet in a far-off place, where magic still whispered in the stones.”

She weaved a tale of wonder and woe, of a young woman so desperate to shuffle off the chains of her life that she had gone to the Highlands to pursue a legend: a legend that spoke of a gateway to another world, that could only be entered by those who had lost enough to be worthy.

“With no mother, no father, no brothers, no sisters, no friends, no husband, not even a distant cousin to call her family, Elizabeth knelt before the stones, her arms outstretched to embrace the only hope she had left of finding a life worth living,” Eloise went on quietly. “It was this or nothing, and if the stones forced her to trudge back through the sleeping ogres, alone on the night roads, she knew it would be the end of her story.”

Jackson closed his eyes, picturing the scene as she spoke of voices chanting through the air, and starlings watching her like feathered guardians, while “Elizabeth” begged and pleaded for salvation from the “Old Ones,” as she called them. If anyone else had heard her reciting from her pages, Eloise would have been marched to the nearest stake and burned for being a witch, for her words were all the things that godly, Christian men feared. The images were so visceral, so vivid, so… primeval that even he felt a little uneasy.

“She stirred to hoofbeats,” Eloise whispered, “like war drums, pounding the earth. Or like the drumroll of an executioner, seconds before the axe fell. Her eyes opened at the moment the hoofbeats halted, the whinny of a horse masking the stifled scream in the back of her throat as she looked upon two men, staring down at her with beetle black eyes, shrouded by shadow. Saviors or foes, she had no way of knowing.” She cleared her throat. “And… uh… that’s about it, for now.”

Jackson’s eyes opened to find Eloise shuffling the pages she had read from, hurriedly placing them on top of a similarly sized pile. But the pages below were not empty; there were words etched across them, which she seemed eager to hide.

“What about those?” He gestured to them.

She shook her head, shyly dipping her chin to her chest. “They’re not ready for reading out yet, and where I ended is my best cliffhanger so far. Always leave them wanting more, you know?”

“Will ye read them to me when ye’re happier with them?” He did not know what a “cliffhanger” was, but he could wager a guess in context. It was presumably a way to keep the reader hooked and, as she had said, wanting more. To his pleasant surprise, he did.

Her brow creased into a frown. “You liked it?”

“Ye… moved me, Eloise,” he admitted, his voice thick. “I cannae remember ever readin’ or hearin’ anythin’ that made me feel… so much before. Nae since I was a bairn, anyway, listenin’ to the stories me maither and grandmaither used to tell, but even they were naught in comparison. I could see everythin’ ye were sayin’, so clearly in me head that I thought I was livin’ it, for a moment. Indeed, if I daenae hear how the story ends, ye might drive me to madness. At the very least, I’d ken if those lads were friend or foe to the lass.”

Eloise swallowed, her gaze unsettled as her eyes met his, and she whispered, “That’s what I’m still trying to figure out.”