Page 18 of The Story of his Highland Bride (Dancing Through Time #4)

18

F or three peaceful, snowy days, Jackson enjoyed the particular pleasure—previously unknown to him—of spending his days and nights in the company of someone who had captured his heart. He had never awoken with a woman in his bed before, and he had certainly never spent the night holding a woman so tightly it was as if she was part of him. But now that he had experienced such things with Eloise, he was not sure how he would fare without them.

But as Jackson awoke on the fourth morning, with Eloise’s head resting on his chest, and her barely clothed body curled into him, he saw bright sunlight piercing the sky and knew that their time for pretending had come to a close. The snow would melt, and the roads would clear, leaving nothing to prevent them from venturing to Clava Cairns.

“Is it morning already?” Eloise murmured, peeking one eye open. “It can’t be. We only just fell asleep. Nope, I won’t believe it.” She squeezed the eye shut again, making Jackson laugh.

Although, she was somewhat right; they had not long fallen asleep, after spending the night exploring one another. It had been quite the surprise, discovering that she was as dedicated to giving him pleasure as he was to conjuring hers. There had been a moment or two where jealousy had flared, wondering where she had learned such things, but they had quickly passed. Indeed, in the end, her talents had only made him more eager to do the only thing they had not, to satisfy one another.

I cannae rush her, but our time is runnin’ out, and if she leaves before… och, would that make it any easier? He doubted it. After three days at her side, imagining what it would be like if she was always there beside him, he knew that none of what was to come would be easy.

“Ye’ll have to stir, Lass,” he said softly. “We’ve to speak to Old Joan today.”

Eloise’s eyes flew open. “Today?”

“We shouldn’ae risk waitin’ longer,” he forced himself to reply, nodding toward the window. “That sunlight, if it stays, will melt the snow. If Father Hepburn intends to try and make an example of me, he’ll have an open road to do it. Nae that he’d get past the gates, mind ye.”

Eloise nuzzled into his shoulder. “Can we stay here for just a little while longer, just to make absolutely sure that it doesn’t start snowing again?”

“Aye, I cannae argue with that.” Jackson smiled and pressed a kiss to her silky hair, enveloping her in the tightest embrace he could manage without crushing her. And if he had had his way, they would have stayed that way for far longer than a little while.

Eloise and Jackson found Old Joan in the dungeons. Or, rather, in the stretch of old gaol cells that she’d turned into her very own sort of hospital. Open braziers, choking black smoke up toward the ceiling, kept the place warm, though Eloise wasn’t sure it was particularly good for the health of any of the healer’s patients.

“Has she smacked her head again?” the healer asked, without looking up from the cauldron she was in the middle of stirring. If anyone in the castle looked like a witch, Eloise would’ve been pointing a finger at her.

Jackson cleared his throat. “Actually, we’ve come to speak with ye on a more… discreet matter. Ye cannae breathe a word of it to anyone, else ye’ll be puttin’ this lass in grave danger.”

“Ye’re wantin’ to ken about the stones, are ye nae?” Old Joan finally raised her gaze to the pair, and there was a glint of amusement in her rheumy eyes that clearly saw more than she let on.

Eloise blinked in astonishment. “How did you know that?”

“Ye’re nae the first and ye willnae be the last, I expect, though I kenned ye might be one of ‘em when I saw yer scarce wee undergarments. Och, it almost blew me heart out of me chest with the shock of seein’ ‘em.” Old Joan replied with a shake of her head.

“You’ve seen someone like me before?”

The healer shrugged. “It’s been a fair while since one of ye tumbled out, ye see, and the first of me turn about this bonny Earth, but there are… discreet books,” she mocked Jackson’s turn of phrase, “that speak of it, that’ve been passed down through me line of healin’ women—more great-grandmaithers than I care to count.”

Somewhere in her mind, Eloise had assumed she couldn’t be the first, otherwise what purpose did the stones serve? It wasn’t like they’d been waiting since the 13 th century for her—a writer of meager importance—to come waltzing along on a heartbroken whim. And she’d always rolled her eyes when she read a “Chosen One” trope.

“Does it happen often?” Eloise didn’t know what else to say, as she recovered from the surprise.

“Once or twice a century. Sometimes less, sometimes more, and nae always from those stones, neither. There are more of ‘em dotted around our fair country than anyone who kens of ‘em would ever admit,” Old Joan explained. “Daenae ask me if it’s chance when it comes to who gets spat out of which stones, as all I ken of it is what I’ve already said. I heal, I daenae deal in the magic of the old ways.”

Eloise wanted to ask, “Then, why are these occurrences written down in books that got passed down to you?” but she thought it best to keep on Old Joan’s good side. After all, there had to be a little of the witch about her, if she’d guessed what it was the pair were there to ask, and it wasn’t wise to annoy a witch.

So, instead, she said, “Do you know someone who might be able to help me… get spat back out to where I’m supposed to be?”

She didn’t dare to look at Jackson, in case it shattered her resolve. She had to keep reminding herself that there wasn’t another option, and that he’d surely prefer her to be alive and well, hundreds of years away, than dead in his century. Even if it was going to hurt like crazy.

“There’s an auld goat like me who lives just outside Wishaw,” Old Joan said in a low voice. “When ye come to the crossroads for Falkernside, Wishaw, Castleton, and Longbeck, ye follow the path to Longbeck until ye come to a small bridge over a stream. Daenae take the road onward but turn left into the woods and follow the stream until ye come to her cottage. Irene is her name. Tell her Old Joan sent ye, though she’ll likely ken ye’re comin’. She always does. Anyway, she’s the only one still livin’ who can help ye, thanks to that beaky auld priest.” She crinkled her nose in disgust, stirring her pot with a renewed vengeance.

Jackson glanced around the dank dungeons, before looking back at Old Joan and whispering, “Is she a—”

“Witch, aye, but nae this devil-worshipin’ sort that the wretched priest seems to think is rife around here,” Old Joan interrupted, with the blunt tone of a woman who’d seen too much to ever be shocked. “She’s the old kind. The good kind. Just daenae go shoutin’ it aloud, else that priest might finally catch up to her. She’s been weaselin’ in and out of his net for years, and she’ll curse the both of ye if it’s because of ye she gets captured.”

Jackson pretended to lock his mouth. “We willnae breathe a word, so long as ye daenae.”

Old Joan cast him a withering look. “Do ye think that if I’d wanted to crow about there bein’ a strange lass in the castle, who’d been hoyed out of some stones by the Old Gods, the priest wouldn’ae have been clatterin’ at our door already? Och, what sort of gossipin’ magpie do ye take me for?” She tutted loudly, wagging her stirring spoon at him. “I’m ashamed of ye for thinkin’ me capable.”

“I was just makin’ certain,” Jackson insisted, running a hand through his untamed locks as though he truly felt bad for saying such a thing.

Old Joan snorted. “Well, be off with ye, and with any luck, I’ll nae see ye here again, Lass.” She gave Eloise a nod that wasn’t exactly unfeeling. “Nay offense to ye, Lass, but I’ll be hopin’ they spit out a lad or a lass who kens about healin’, the next time.”

“If I hadn’t had the last of my paracetamol, you could’ve had it,” Eloise replied, offering her hand to the healer.

Old Joan eyed the proffered hand, before reaching out to give it a vigorous shake. “I daenae ken what that is, but perhaps that’s for the best. I might nae be a witch meself, but I ken ye cannae go meddlin’ with time.”

“Thank you for all that you did for me. I won’t forget it. See, I might not be a doctor, but I can write, and I’ll make sure your legacy lives on,” Eloise promised, as the healer released her hand.

“Och, daenae bother with all that, just get back to where ye came from safely and soon,” Old Joan urged, in a softer tone. “I might nae be a gossip, but there are lasses in this castle who cannae keep their mouths shut. If the priest hasnae already heard about ye, he soon will, so… aye, get yer arse back to where ye came from and stay there. Nay offense to ye.”

Eloise dipped her head in a nod. “None taken.”

It’s really happening. I’m really going to go home. She’d thought she’d be elated by the prospect, raring to get back to luxuries and comforts and running water and proper toilets and her beloved laptop and TV shows and books, but Old Joan had made it all too real, and the truth was, Eloise wasn’t ready.

She’d started to like it at the castle, and not just because of Jackson and the earth-shattering things he could do with his tongue. Being around Lorraine reminded her of being a child, hanging out with her grandma on a Sunday afternoon. Then, there was Kaitlyn, who felt like more of a friend to Eloise than anyone back home. After all, no one had called after her engagement fell apart, and no one had come round with chocolates and wine of commiseration, to let her rant about Peter to her heart’s content.

If there hadn’t been a threat of death hanging over her, Eloise had to wonder what she’d do. Would she choose to stay, even if it was just for a few months to begin with? Would she try and arrange a Persephone sort of deal with the stones, so she could spend a few months in 2016 and a few months in 1701?

Would that be possible? Her heart leaped with sudden hope. If the stones successfully sent her back to her time, maybe she could come back again, with era-appropriate clothes and no gadgets or gizmos on her that anyone could call witchy. Maybe, this didn’t have to be the end at all, just a brief departure while the storm of Father Hepburn blew over.

“We should hurry up,” she said, flashing a conspiratorial look at Jackson.

He frowned, almost wounded by her words, as he replied, “Aye, I suppose we must.”

Leading the way back out of the dungeons, Jackson took hold of her hand once they were out of sight of Old Joan. But it wasn’t until they reached the light and comfort of the main body of the castle that he finally spoke.

“Are ye really so eager to leave? I ken ye have to, and I cannae change it, but ye daenae need to sound so… keen.”

Eloise grinned. “I have a plan, or part of one, but it all rests on what this Irene woman has to say about the stones. I’d rather find out if we have a plan sooner rather than later.”

“A plan? What do ye mean?” His frown transformed into a tilted head of curiosity.

“I’ll explain it all after we’ve spoken with her,” she replied. “Now, how do we get there? Do I have to ride a horse, or can we walk? I’ve never been too fond of horses, and they’re never too fond of me. Have no idea why. Dogs love me, so I know it’s not all animals.”

He chuckled, scooping her into his arms and pressing her back against the nearest wall. “We’ll have to ride, Lass. It’s too far on foot, but I’ll make it comfortable for ye, I promise. I willnae have to throw ye over the saddle like I did before.”

“You didn’t?” She gaped at him.

“Nay, I dinnae, but I thought about it.” He dipped his head and kissed her, pushing his body against hers, rolling his hips with every undulation of their mouths. It didn’t seem to matter anymore if they were caught, or maybe Jackson didn’t care.

At least, that was what she hoped, but as footsteps echoed along the hallway, he pulled away from her sharply. As she stood, gasping to catch her breath, Lennox appeared. He’d changed in the days since the two men had returned from the village; he looked more ashen, with dark rings underneath his eyes where he hadn’t slept. Eloise had asked Jackson to tell her the details of what had happened that night, but she suspected he’d left a few things out.

“Ye’re needed, M’Laird,” Lennox said, in a weary voice. “There’s skirmishin’ afoot in the north, nae far from the border. A rider just arrived, pleadin’ for aid. I’ve rallied a group of lads, but they’ll be wantin’ their Laird to lead them.” He paused, bowing his head to Eloise. “Sorry, Miss Eloise. I wouldn’ae steal him from ye if I dinnae have to. Wouldn’ae leave the castle at all, in truth.”

Eloise put on a smile, her heart still racing. “Don’t let me stop you. You boys do what you have to.” She glanced at Jackson. “Just make it back safely, okay?”

“I will,” Jackson promised, reaching out to give her hand a gentle squeeze before he raced off down the hallway with Lennox at his side.

As Eloise watched them go, she folded her arms across her chest and pondered what she ought to do with herself, since Jackson would probably be away for some time.

I know where to go, so why not surprise him with potentially happy news when he gets back? she mused, a thrill running through her.

Of course, there could always be bad news, too, but she chose not to think about that as she hurried along under her own steam, silently repeating the directions that Old Joan had given to reach the witch’s cottage.