Page 6 of The Story of his Highland Bride (Dancing Through Time #4)

6

“ T here,” Kaitlyn announced proudly, pushing Eloise toward the looking glass in the corner of the room.

Dragging her heels, Eloise didn’t know if she was ready to face her own reflection. She assumed she looked the same, but the uncomfortable clothes that Kaitlyn had manhandled her into weren’t her sort of thing at all, and she had a feeling that the looking glass would prove as much.

“Is it always so itchy?” Eloise asked, buying time.

Kaitlyn chuckled. “Aye, if ye keep twistin’ and wrigglin’ in it like a polecat in a sack.”

“Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I wore a dress.” Eloise finally looked at herself… and found that her reflection wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d expected.

The dress was similar to the one that Kaitlyn wore, though in a bottle green shade. The leine beneath—a long shift with flowing sleeves—was a muted shade of yellow, and the belt around her waist might’ve been the most beautiful belt she’d ever seen. It was thick, brown leather, embroidered with flowers and vines and seashells, giving her a waist that she’d forgotten she had. At home, she lived in skinny jeans and baggy tops and sweaters, when she deigned to get out of her pajamas. Occasionally, she’d wear a nice blouse, like the one she’d worn to the Cairns, but writing called for comfort, and nice clothes tended to be suffocating.

“I like yer trews,” Kaitlyn said shyly. “I’ve often thought I’d prefer to wander around in trews, and I’d wager it’s far easier to ride a horse when ye daenae have to fret about yer skirts tanglin’ around yer legs, but they’d burn ye at the stake for it.”

Eloise gulped. “Do they do that often here?”

“Och, aye. A terrible thing, if ye ask me.” Kaitlyn tutted and peered over Eloise’s shoulder, admiring the latter’s reflection. “Can I ask ye somethin’?”

“Of course.”

Kaitlyn seemed to hesitate. “What are ye wearin’… underneath, if it’s nae too improper of a question? Only, I noticed yer… um… undergarments, and I cannae say I’ve ever seen aught like ‘em before. Is that what ye Manx wear?”

“My br—” Eloise stopped abruptly, remembering where she was. “They’re traditional undergarments on the Isle of Man, yes. The… uh… lower part is pretty comfortable, but there’s nothing like taking the upper part off at the end of the day. I imagine it’s the same with the stays you wear.”

Kaitlyn erupted into raucous laughter, smacking Eloise lightly on the back. “Och, I like ye, Eloise! Ye’re right—there’s nay relief like it! It’s like ye can breathe again.” She paused. “I suppose that’s why I asked, as yer stays or whatever it is doesnae look like it hinders ye.”

“If I had a spare, I’d give it to you, though I think it would be a little tight.” Eloise cast a pointed look at Kaitlyn’s ample bosom, making the sweet maid collapse into an even louder fit of giggles.

Watching her laugh, enjoying the normalcy of two friends cackling about bras and bosoms and girly things, Eloise had a feeling that Kaitlyn would have made a great main character in one of her novels. The maid was the perfect mix of bubbly and blunt, with an interesting face that was beautiful without being unbelievably so. She had flaws and imperfections, but when she smiled, she was radiant in a way that Eloise had always longed to be.

“I thought there were two magpies caught in the rafters, the way the pair of ye are squawkin’,” a familiarly gruff voice put a pin to the good humor in the room.

Kaitlyn immediately stood bolt upright, her laughter dying. “Apologies, M’Laird. A jest, that’s all.”

“One ye’d mind sharin’?” Heavy footfalls pounded on the flagstones, but Eloise didn’t turn to face the man who’d put a blade to her neck. She didn’t need to; she could see him, clear as day, in the looking glass.

What expensive rock did they carve you from, eh? Eloise squinted to try and make him less handsome, but even in a blur, he was terrifyingly beautiful.

In all the years she’d spent writing and reading, making literature of all kinds of personalities, she’d heard male protagonists being described as a “beast of a man,” but she’d never seen one in real life until now. Somehow, he was far more intimidating in the unforgiving daylight than he’d been in the gloom of the previous night, even without a sword in his hand.

He stood way over six-feet tall, with broad shoulders that were twice as wide as her own slender frame, and a wide chest that, even with the covering of his shirt, protruded with sculpted muscle. Meanwhile, his arms were so thick and powerful that he looked like he could squeeze blood from a stone. Or snap the neck of a witch.

His mane of hair, she discovered, was a rich red shade, gleaming with brighter strands of ginger and darker filaments of warm brown, depending on how the firelight hit the tousled locks. And as with many a redhead, he had a ruddy sort of complexion, with freckles that gave him the appearance of someone who spent a lot of time in the sun.

You’re stupidly hot; I’ll give you that. In fact, she was a little annoyed that she’d been unconscious when he must’ve picked her up and carried her back to this place. She couldn’t even imagine what it would feel like to be held in strong arms like his, though she would enjoy trying to picture it.

“Old Joan will be comin’ shortly. Ye can be on yer way,” the man—or, rather, the Laird—said curtly, dismissing Kaitlyn.

The maid curtsied and, flashing a sweet smile at Eloise, she hurried from the room.

“Are ye nae taught to turn and greet a Laird where ye come from?” the Laird asked stiffly, leaning against the mantelpiece.

Eloise took a moment to compose herself, hoping her knotted tongue would remember how to speak when she faced him properly. He wasn’t her usual type, back in her time, as she’d always favored men who were leaner and dark-haired, usually with glasses. If she’d seen someone with the Laird’s build walking down the street, she’d have rolled her eyes and wondered what kind of steroids he was on, but considering the era, she knew that every rippling muscle on his body had to be honed by his own hard work. Despite herself, the thought made her stomach flutter.

“We aren’t, actually,” she said, turning at last. “I think there are only a few people you’re supposed to bow and curtsy to, and I can’t say I’ve ever met one. I’m not sure I’d even know how. I’ve got two left feet when it comes to things like that.”

The Laird’s eyes widened in horror, and she realized her mistake.

“I don’t have two left feet,” she hastened to say. “I just move like I do. I’m clumsy, is what I’m trying to say. Zero grace and elegance.”

The Laird seemed to relax. “I see.”

She forced a smile, unnerved by the handsome, grumpy, borderline hostile man who was glaring at her like he wasn’t sure whether to toast her at the stake or draw his sword again.

“Are ye prepared to tell me who ye are now?” he said, after a moment or two. He hadn’t moved from his spot, showing a wariness that his face wouldn’t.

He thinks I’m a witch. I’d bet my next bestseller on it. Probably reckons I’m going to turn him into a toad or something. She desperately wanted to say as much, hoping he might laugh this time, but common sense held her tongue. After all, if he did think she was a witch, she didn’t want to make her situation any worse.

“I’ll go one better, and thank you for rescuing me from the road, and for giving me these clothes and a nice breakfast. Your porridge is infinitely tastier than any I’ve had, and there wasn’t even any sugar in it. Who’d have thought that berries were the healthy answer, hey?” She kept her tone light, her tongue trying to tie itself in knots every time she looked too long at his handsome face. She couldn’t even filter her words properly, removing any modernity; he was just too distracting.

He took a few steps forward and sat down at the chair in front of the writing desk, turning it so he was facing her, like he was about to begin an intense interrogation. “Ye’re welcome,” he said stiffly. “Guest rites are… necessary.”

“Guest rites, of course.” She nodded, and took herself to the end of the bed, where she perched awkwardly. “As the Laird, you oversee that kind of thing, right? You are the Laird, aren’t you? Or are you… um… the other one?”

The Laird sniffed. “I am the Laird, aye.”

Good looking, but stingy with his words. What a shame, she couldn’t help lamenting. He had a pleasant, deep voice that made her stomach feel funny, so maybe him not saying much was for the best.

“Do I call you “Laird” or “Jackson”? I think that’s what Kaitlyn said your name was,” she continued, fidgeting with her belt.

The man clenched his hands into fists, like she’d just heinously insulted him. “Whichever ye prefer,” he replied. “Jackson will do, though “M’Laird” is proper.”

“Names are easier,” she told him.

“Well then, Eloise, what are ye doin’ here? What put ye in me path last night?” He met her anxious gaze. “Do ye belong to the people of the old ways? I noticed ye have a mark, and I cannae fathom why a lass like ye would have such a thing unless ye were a… priestess or somethin’ for the old spirits of this country.”

Eloise blinked at him, fumbling through his words to try and make sense of them. She’d expected an outright accusation of her being a witch, but a priestess of Scotland’s old spirits had come out of left field. In fact, it took her at least a minute to catch her mind up to the tattoo he’d spoken about. When her brain finally realized what he was talking about, a laugh spilled from her lips.

“It’s… from a book. One of my favorites, actually,” she explained, trying to lift up the silk shirt that wasn’t on her person anymore. “I got it done when I was eighteen, as a kind of ironic joke. An ex-boyfriend said some mean things, so I got myself a “scarlet letter” as a sort of middle finger to him and any other man who thought they could say that kind of thing to any woman.”

Wait, wait, wait… if it’s 1701, that book won’t come out for another 150 years. She cursed herself inwardly for mentioning it, instead of just saying that, yes, she was a mysterious priestess. That might’ve saved her from a burning, if he was a believer of such things. Although, there was another layer of irony to the fact that the tattoo might be the thing that got her burned as a witch.

“I daenae read much,” he admitted curtly. “But I’ve never heard of anyone wearin’ a mark from a book.”

Eloise cleared her throat. “We Manx people are an odd bunch.”

“Manx?” His eyebrows raised. “Is that where ye hail from?”

“It is, and I was… on a pilgrimage of sorts from the island when I encountered you. I was… um… sent to visit the Clava Cairns, as I think I told you, to pay homage to my… uh… ancestors.” Her insides cringed at the lie; she was far better at weaving a tall tale on a page than with her own voice.

A dark cloud descended across Jackson’s already grumpy demeanor. “Those stones are bewitched.”

“Tell me about it.” She chuckled, glancing down at her palm and noticing, for the first time, a faint redness.

“Are ye a witch? Is that why ye went there? Were ye on a pilgrimage from a Manx coven?” He shifted in his chair, like the thought made him uncomfortable.

Eloise tried to look anywhere else but at him, struggling to arrange her thoughts and lies in a way that he might believe. But as she hadn’t yet come to terms with the fact that she might actually be hundreds of years away from where she was supposed to be, it was hard to figure out what might keep her alive, much less what might get her back to her time. Part of her wanted to ask him to take her back to the cairns, so she could try her luck with the rocks, but if he thought Clava Cairns were bewitched, maybe he’d refuse.

“I’m… not what you think I am,” she said, at last. “I’m sure as heck not a witch, but what I am is something that you won’t believe. I don’t even believe it.”

For a long while, Jackson sat in silence, his brown eyes fixed upon a scratch in the floorboards. He seemed to be searching for answers in the imperfection, or maybe he was imagining a different plank of wood, arranged underneath a stake, which he’d willingly tie her to so she wouldn’t cast any curses or plagues on his people. From what Eloise could remember in her research, those in medieval times weren’t exactly easy to reason with when it came to things they couldn’t explain.

“Tell me what ye are,” he said with a sigh. “Nay matter what it is, ye’re safe to speak with me. I willnae burn ye. I willnae let anyone burn ye, neither. All I want is to ken what manner of… being ye are, so I can protect me people. I’ll protect ye too, if that’s what the old ways demand of me.”

Eloise’s heart leaped a little, hearing him say that he would protect her. Considering his muscles and intimidating presence, she didn’t doubt that he could. She almost wished she could drag him back to her time, march him up to Peter, and have the Laird beat her lying, traitorous ex to a pulp. That would’ve been a nice twist of fate, for sure.

The trouble was, how could she tell this man, this Laird, that she was a woman from 2016 and that she had no idea how to get home again? She’d already told him the first part, and he hadn’t believed her. Nor could she blame him. But if she didn’t say something, and make it less impossible, it would only be a matter of time before something killed her: if not being burned at the stake, then a pathetic cold that these people didn’t have the medicine to cure.

And I never liked Dickens, she mused miserably, envisioning the flu carrying her off into the afterlife, while no one in 2016 would ever know what had become of her.