Page 7 of The Story of his Highland Bride (Dancing Through Time #4)

7

J ackson waited patiently for Eloise to speak, though she had been silent for a rather long time. Her brow kept furrowing and relaxing, her mouth moving as if she was practicing what she was about to say before she said it. Indeed, none of her actions sparked any hope of him being able to trust what came out of her mouth next.

“I would never hurt anyone or curse anyone,” she told him evenly, a short while later. “I wouldn’t even know how, as I’m not a witch. I’m just… an author—a writer, if that makes more sense to you. I went on a last-minute trip to clear my mind after my fiancé broke up with me, two months before—”

“What’s a fiancé?” Jackson interrupted, that word intriguing him for reasons he could not explain.

Eloise tilted her head to one side, lengthening her neck in a way that stirred him. His lips burned to kiss that smooth, soft skin, though he knew it was only an enchantment. A test that had to be endured.

“Sorry, I keep muddling my words.” She paused, rubbing her temples like her head ached. “My… betrothed broke our betrothal two months before the wedding. He was… um… making love to someone else, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he marries her on our wedding day, so he gets to save the deposits that he didn’t pay a penny toward. It was too late for me to get them back, you see… though I suppose none of that makes any sense to you, huh?”

She spoke so fast that Jackson had to lean closer to take in everything she said, searching for the context in her speech. Clearly, she was nervous around him, and though he would neither admit it in words or expression, the fear in her voice secretly pleased him. He enjoyed that he intimidated her somewhat, but what he enjoyed far more was the knowledge that he would never harm her, and she did not yet understand that.

Fitting the clumsy pieces of her language together in a way that he could understand, he finally nodded. “I think I ken what ye’re sayin’. Ye were jilted.”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

“Why would it be in a nutshell?”

Eloise groaned. “It means, “to put it simply.” Yes, I was jilted. Thanks for the reminder.”

“Did ye curse the lad who jilted ye? Is that why ye were runnin’? Are his family seekin’ vengeance on ye?” It appeared to be the most obvious explanation, though Eloise had said she was not a witch. Then again, who would admit to it in such perilous times?

She snorted, as if he had said something hilarious. “Now, I wish I did know how to curse someone, for that reason alone. I would turn him into a dung beetle if I could, or just have his body covered in unsightly blisters and rashes. Although, the way he’s going, he’ll probably do that by himself.” She paused, her eyes widening in fright once more. “I’m really not a witch, Jackson. I know I speak strangely, and I’ve been doing weird things, but there’s a very simple explanation—it’s just an outlandish one.”

“In a nutshell?”

“Oh, you’d need a massive nutshell to explain this,” she replied, sweeping a hand over her curly dark hair.

“So, this… betrothed isnae cursed or dead?”

Eloise shook her head. “Unfortunately not. We were together for almost seven years, after we met at university, and now he’s moved on. I was trying to get away from it all—I didn’t come from the Isle of Man. I came from London, but just not the London that you might know.” She dropped her head into her hands. “This is only going to make you think I’m stranger than you already do.”

“Then explain it all to me, slowly,” he encouraged, secretly eager to hear more, though he did not much like the mentions of her betrothed. Indeed, he rather wanted to punch the fellow. Nor did he understand how she could have been betrothed for seven years without a wedding.

“Fine, but don’t say you weren’t warned,” she muttered, straightening up and taking a breath. “I was born in 1989, to John and Maria Longman, in a little town in the Peak District. Had a lovely childhood—we’d always come up to Scotland for holidays, though I don’t think I appreciated them enough back then. I never thought I’d lose them, you know, but… I did. I was twenty-two when they died—was around this time of year, actually, just before the holidays. They got lost hiking in the mountains, and died of hypothermia—I mean, they died because they got too cold. Worst Christmas of my life, and there hasn’t been a good one since.”

“I suppose I clung to Peter—my betrothed—because he was the one familiar thing I had left. That’s when I started writing properly. I’d written things before and they’d sold pretty well, but it was the book I wrote with my grief as inspiration that was my first bestseller,” she went on, at a breakneck pace. “Now, I’m twenty-seven, with no betrothed, no parents, and a book that’s way past due, and instead of handing in my pages, I’m stuck here in 1701 with no idea how to get back to my time. The Clava Cairns sucked me into a… time hole of some kind, which sounds mad, but I can’t explain it any other way, since it really does seem to be 1701. Of course, there’s a chance I hit my head way harder than I thought, and I’m unconscious in a hospital bed somewhere, dreaming all of this, but… everything feels pretty real.”

Jackson gave her a moment or two to calm down, for it appeared like she needed to remember to breathe. As she panted, clasping a hand to the swell of the most perfect bosom, he also needed a moment to catch his breath. A great deal of her speech had sounded like nonsense—the sort of thing that his mother and grandmother would have conjured to amuse him when he was a boy. Yet, the panic and distress in her demeanor and in the strain of her voice had been all too real. Palpable, in truth.

She has lost so much and has come to this place at this exact time of year… when I, too, would be grievin’ my losses. Observing the way her brow creased as she tipped her head forward, rubbing her chest to try and ease every ragged inhale, he wondered if his grandmother had been right in some way. It did not appear as though she had come from the Old Gods, as one of their followers, but that did not mean the Old Gods had not sent her.

After all, as his grandmother had said, those ancient spirits worked in mysterious ways.

“Daenae be afraid of me,” he said, driven by a sudden impulse to walk to her.

She did not even look up as he sat beside her upon the edge of the bed and placed his hand between her shoulder blades. Her body stiffened slightly as he began to rub slow circles with his rough palm, echoing the comforting act that his mother had taught him. Sure enough, after a minute or two, she relaxed, tilting her head from side to side as he continued to soothe her distress.

“I trust that ye’re harmless,” he went on. “I did, even before ye told me of yerself. Otherwise, I wouldn’ae be inside this bedchamber with ye, all alone. I’d have had guards positioned, in case ye tried to curse me or kill me.”

She peered up at him. “But do you still think I’m a witch? Considering the year, that could be fatal for me.”

“I willnae lie—I daenae ken what ye are. There’s much of what ye said that just isnae possible, but I do think we ought to fetch Old Joan to look at yer head again.” He put on his softest voice, though it did not come easily to him. “I daenae think ye’re well, but ye wouldn’ae be the first person to be brought to the castle, speakin’ in riddles. There was a soldier, some years ago, who fell from his horse and thought it was 1534. He couldn’ae be convinced otherwise.”

It was a true enough tale, though Jackson refrained from mentioning the part where the soldier had eventually succumbed to his injuries, and was buried out in the meadow—unnamed, unknown, with no one but strangers to mourn him. Though he did not know Eloise, he did not want that fate for her if it could be helped.

She must be from a stronghold of the Old Gods, but the blow to her head has addled her mind. Soon enough, she’ll remember who she is and where I can return her to. His thoughts flitted to that secret mark; his fingertips longing to trace it, so he might feel for himself if there was any magic in the marking.

“You’re not listening,” she said quietly, shrugging away his comforting hand as she got to her feet and padded over to the fireplace. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. That’s why I wasn’t going to bother telling you the truth. Somehow, me admitting I’m some sorceress with the power to turn men into toads would be more plausible to you, but I guess that’s the 18 th century mentality I’m fighting against here.”

He hesitated, not knowing whether to follow her or stay where he was. “Come now, Lass. Even ye’ve said that what ye told me wasnae goin’ to sound possible. Why are ye so convinced that it is?” He drew in a breath, his palm feeling her absence. “Ye also think ye hit yer head hard. Could it nae be possible, also, that yer mind is playin’ tricks on ye?”

“If the Cairns hadn’t brought bits of the future back here with me, then sure,” she shot back, marching to the side table where that peculiar, rectangular stone sat glinting. “But this is my phone, and those are my jeans and my boots and my jumper and coat and hat, and I’m still wearing my bra and knickers. None of that exists in 1701. So, explain that, if you’re so sure I’m lying.”

She brought the offending stone over to him, and as her thumb pressed something on the side of the strange object, two images appeared: first, a picture of two people, so clear that he gasped and reeled back in alarm. Clearly, they were trapped within the stone that radiated evil. But before he could take a closer look, the image disappeared, replaced with a worrying symbol: some kind of canister, shot through with a lightning bolt. A curse, if ever he had seen one. Perhaps, the curse that was keeping those two people imprisoned inside the stone.

“I ken I said I wouldn’ae harm ye, but if ye try yer trickery on me, ye’ll leave me nay choice!” he barked in a throaty growl, his fear adding a tremor of menace to his voice.

His hand shot out, tearing the stone out of Eloise’s hand. He thought he heard her scream in horror as he gripped both ends and, with one mighty effort, broke the wretched thing in half. It snapped with a dull crack, raining a spray of black shards down onto the floor. Along the jagged line where the stone had been severed in two, more peculiarities emerged: little fragments of silver and tiny snakes that writhed. But the people who were trapped did not suddenly appear before him, as he had imagined they would.

“What the Hell have you done?” Eloise cried, with tears in her eyes, as she threw herself at him.

With surprising strength, she strove to wrestle the halves out of his hands, while wheezing sobs racked her chest. Her fingernails scratched like a feral cat, her face wild with fury, but he would not relinquish any part of her witchery. Not now he had seen what she was truly capable of. He had hoped to come away from the bedchamber with some trust in her, but seeing those two people, stuck inside the stone, he realized he had misplaced his faith. She was a witch, and there was no telling what vengeance she would wreak upon him and his people.

Perhaps, she would trap all of them inside a stone, too. Indeed, as he looked up into her maddened eyes, a shiver of true fear splintered through him. Just how powerful was this witch? What sort of devil, so beautiful and enchanting and ferocious, had he allowed past his battlements? He had thought he was inviting in a lost soul, but now, for the first time, he feared for his own.