Page 3 of The Story of his Highland Bride (Dancing Through Time #4)

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T he strange woman swayed unsteadily, and though the lantern did not offer much light, Jackson Buchanan saw the color drain from her face. A moment later, she was laughing wildly, clasping a hand to her peculiar tunic as she bent double, spilling her laughter onto the ground.

“Are you in cahoots with the folks who did this to me?” she wheezed, reeling back as more of that uneasy laughter pealed from unnaturally red lips.

Jackson squinted, trying to make sense of the words coming out of her mouth. They sounded like English, but he could barely understand half. Still, there was no denying her accent: she was from south of the border somewhere, and a long way from home. It roused his suspicions, for why would an Englishwoman wander all the way up to the Highlands alone, wearing such blinding, unusual garments?

She’s a witch who wants to be caught, I reckon. A witch who’s puttin’ on a performance. He glanced at the black, shiny, rectangular stone she had picked up off the ground, now gripped tightly in her hand. He had never seen anything like it before, but then there was a great deal about the laughing woman that he had never seen before.

Just then, Eloise Longman began to choke and splutter, her laughter transforming into great, heaving sobs that racked her body. “I just… want to… go home!” she cried, her legs buckling. “I don’t understand… what’s happening!”

Before Jackson or Lennox—his loyal Man-at-Arms—could do a thing to stop it, Eloise collapsed. Sprawled out on her back, her arms and legs splayed, it was clear that she had fainted. Another witchy trick? Jackson could not be sure, but it warranted a closer inspection.

“I daenae think ye should go near her,” Lennox warned, as Jackson slipped down from the saddle to approach the woman. “I’ve heard that’s how the witches snare ye. They make ‘emselves look like damsels in distress, and then, when ye’re too close, they snatch ye around the neck and choke ye to death, to use yer blood and bits for their curses and spells.”

Jackson cast his friend a withering look. “And where did ye hear that nonsense, eh? Ye been listenin’ to Father Hepburn’s sermons again?”

“He wouldn’ae just make it all up,” Lennox insisted. “He’s a man of the cloth, M’Laird. He cannae lie, else he’ll burn in Hell.”

Jackson sniffed. “That’s what he’d like ye to believe.”

“M’Laird, ye cannae say things like that!” Lennox urged in a hushed whisper. “Ye might burn in Hell, too.”

Jackson waved the concern away. “I’m protected by me old gods, and I ken where I’m goin’ when I die. I daenae need any priest tellin’ me otherwise…” he paused, “though, aye, I wouldn’ae say that to anyone but ye. Now, are ye goin’ to help me get this lass on the horse or are ye goin’ to sit up there in the saddle, crossin’ yerself and prayin’ for me redemption?”

“Are we takin’ her to Father Hepburn?” Lennox got down, landing on the dirt with a thud.

“Ye’re as mad as the lass if ye think I’d do that,” Jackson retorted, striding right up to the fallen woman and crouching at her side.

He checked for the pulse of life in her neck, the way the castle healer had taught him, and put his fingers under her nose to make sure there was still breath puffing out. Lastly, he pried open her eyelids to search her eyes, for even the best pretender could not hide the consciousness in their gaze. Hers was blank, her eyes partially rolled back. Satisfied that it was not the trick he had suspected, he scooped her up into his arms.

“M'Laird, ye have to take her to Father Hepburn,” Lennox protested. “If she’s a witch, then—"

“If she’s a witch, then she willnae burn by that wretch’s hand,” Jackson interrupted. “Nay witches will burn under me command, neither. Everythin’ has its place, Lennox, and as long as the witches are nae cursin’ me, I’ll let them be. They’re part of the old ways, after all.”

Lennox looked like he wanted to continue arguing, but he knew better and closed his mouth. In the silence, Jackson carried Eloise toward his horse, taking a closer look at her face.

She has to be a witch. Nay ordinary lass could be so beautiful. He had beheld and enjoyed his fair share of women, but none were so dangerously captivating as the woman in his arms.

She had smooth, pale skin, flushed pink at her plump cheeks, with a dusting of freckles that reminded him of the constellations. A dainty chin and a small, upturned nose made her look like one of the porcelain dolls that wealthy Lairds gave to their daughters, trying to imitate the behaviors of their English counterparts. And the tousled mane of brown, curly hair, so shiny and thick that it did not look like it could be real, only added to his impression of her being otherworldly.

He wished he could see her eyes, for he had not been able to gauge their color when they were open. Yet, her eyelashes were thick and dark, and there was a strange, bronze shadow over her lids that glistened and sparkled like magic in the lantern light. A similar sheen glowed from the apples of her cheeks, though his gaze kept returning to her full, dark red lips. How could a mouth be such a color? Was it a berry stain—a mark of the coven she hailed from?

With some difficulty, considering her limp body, he managed to sit her in the saddle and climb up behind her. Slipping his arm around her waist to hold her to him, he was suddenly hit with the most delicious scent—sweet and powerful, and like nothing his nose could recognize.

I might be savin’ ye from gettin’ trampled on the road, Lass, but ye willnae bewitch me, he told himself, though he did not know how he was supposed to ignore that potent aroma, all the way to the castle. No matter how he turned or lifted his head, he could not escape it.

“Yer grandmaither is goin’ to box yer ears, M’Laird,” Lennox muttered, climbing back into the saddle. “What did she tell ye about bringin’ waifs and strays into the castle?”

Jackson smiled. “She was talkin’ about animals.”

“And what is a witch but a beast in disguise, eh?”

Inhaling the sugary scent of Eloise, Jackson could not believe there was anything beastly about her at all, and that made her a danger of a different kind. A witch could steal a man’s soul if he was not careful, and this witch already had his curiosity.

“Well, she’s nae pretendin’. I ken that for certain,” Jackson said, watching the sleeping woman from near the fireplace of his finest guest bedchamber.

Lennox sniffed. “A lass can pretend she’s dead if she doesnae want to speak with ye. I’ve seen it with me own eyes.”

“Were ye tryin’ to flirt with some poor lass?” Jackson teased.

His Man-at-Arms blushed slightly. “The flirtin’ had already been done, among other things. Och, I nearly sent for the priest, but then she opened her eyes and told me to get out. Nae me finest hour.”

Jackson chuckled, grateful that he rarely dabbled in such things. But as he looked back toward the bed, Eloise stirred in her sleep, causing her woolen blankets and thick furs to slip down. His eyes widened as the traitorous fur revealed a delicate collarbone; some part of him willing the blanket to slide further down. It obeyed, exposing the strangest garment of them all: a curious sling of sorts, that cupped her pert breasts, pushing them together and forging a deep, tempting valley.

He tore his eyes away, concerned by the throb of heat that pulsed in his loins. Another enchantment, no doubt.

“What do ye make of the things the lass was sayin’?” he asked, concentrating on Lennox.

“I reckon she’s either a witch, like I told ye, or she’s a madwoman,” Lennox replied, still staring at the peculiar, fleshy slingshot. “It’s nae just the things she was sayin’, either. What of the things she was wearin’ and that stone she was carryin’ with her, eh?”

The healer, known only as Old Joan, had been and gone, tending to the jagged scratches that marked Eloise’s legs and the nasty cut to the back of her head. Jackson had been present during the healer’s diligent care, and, as such, he had seen every last one of the increasingly odd garments being removed by Old Joan… though she had sniped at him to avert his eyes when Eloise was all but naked.

“Ritual garb of some kind, perhaps?” Jackson mused, trying not to think of Eloise’s slender limbs and taut stomach—lean with just enough softness for a man to grasp and savor.

Lennox raised an eyebrow. “She was wearin’ trews, M’Laird! What manner of lass wears trews? And weird ones, at that.” He tutted. “Old Joan was squawkin’ outside that she thought she was goin’ to have to cut them off the lass, they were that tight. “Like a second skin,” she said.”

Draped over a chair, close to the fireplace, were the trews in question. Made of a stiff, grayish-black material, they fastened at the hips with a metal button and a curious, long contraption that resembled jaws gnashing together when another metal piece was pulled. He eyed the button, noting the faded imprint. It said: Levi Strauss Kaitlyn was his most trusted maid because she had never attempted to flirt with him or sneak into his bedchamber in the middle of the night, and every task he set her was done without complaint.

Kaitlyn thumbed toward the bedchamber. “Is it to do with the strange lass that Lennox was just screechin’ about?”

“In a way, aye.” Jackson made a note in his mind to ask Lennox to be more discreet. The last thing they needed was Father Hepburn actually paying the castle a visit. “Might ye fetch appropriate garments for the lass? What she has with her will cause trouble, and I’d like matters to be dealt with as quietly as possible.”

Kaitlyn smirked. “Have ye told Lennox that?”

“Nae yet. Foolish of me, but I dinnae think I’d have to tell him.”

Kaitlyn dipped her head in a sort of bow. “I’ll fetch garments, though Old Joan sent me to add some tincture to the lass’ bandages first.”

“Well, daenae touch anythin’ that ye see in there,” Jackson instructed. “Nae the lass’ bag, or attire, or the strange stone that’s on the writin’ desk.”

Kaitlyn narrowed her eyes. “Is there somethin’ more I should ken, M’Laird? Is she—” The maid trailed off, but her expression asked the same question that kept racing through Jackson’s mind: was the strange lass really a witch? And, if so, how dangerous?

“Even I daenae ken that,” he answered. “For now, we’re to be… cautious.”

The maid nodded. “Always, M’Laird, though I’ll be scared of goin’ near the lass now.”

“Daenae be scared,” Jackson assured, “just… cautious, as I said.”

He watched Kaitlyn enter the bedchamber, catching another glimpse of Eloise, who had shifted once again in her sleep. Now, she lay on her side, the blankets all the way down to her hip, revealing milky, smooth skin and the dip of a curved waist… and something else that made his heart jolt in alarm. On the rise of her hip, a red letter ‘A’ surrounded by coiling vines stood in stark, angry contrast to the white of her skin: a mark, clearly inked by evil hands.

In that moment, he knew what he had to do—he had to be rid of her the moment she awoke, for if word of that mark reached anyone beyond Faulkner Castle, there would be nothing he could do to stop a burning.