Page 8 of The Story of his Highland Bride (Dancing Through Time #4)

8

“ Y ou bloody idiot!” Eloise howled, battering Jackson’s chest with her fists.

If he felt it, he didn’t show it. But Eloise certainly felt every blow; the sides of her hands bruising with each frantic hit. He really hadn’t listened to a word she’d said. He’d already made up his mind about what she was; she could’ve told him that she was a queen in disguise, and he’d still have labeled her a witch. Or, maybe, he’d have guzzled down a story like that like a pill coated in syrup, accepting it readily.

“That was expensive!” she continued to rage, desperately trying to scratch and claw the two halves of her phone out of his grasp. “That had all of my photos and messages on it! It had the last photos of my mum and dad on it, you stupid, stupid little man!”

Her heart shattered as she realized it was true; she’d always meant to save the old photos onto her laptop or get them printed, but she’d never gotten around to it. Peter used to tease her mercilessly when she’d run to the phone shop every time her phone had a glitch or the port wouldn’t charge, asking her why she didn’t just buy a new one. He didn’t understand, and nor did Jackson.

“Ye imprisoned souls in there!” Jackson snapped in reply, catching hold of her wrist as he stood to his full height. He barely had to move his arm to divert her away from him, though that wouldn’t stop her trying to beat seven shades of heartbreak out of him.

“I didn’t imprison anyone in there, you idiot!” she shrieked. “It’s a phone. It’s a thing we use in 2016 to speak to people! It had… everything on it, and you’ve just bloody snapped it like a twig! What the Hell, Jackson? I know you’re medieval, but why didn’t you ask what it was before breaking it?”

“What is the meanin’ of this, eh?” A sharp, shrill voice pierced the conflict, prompting Jackson to lower his guard for half a second.

Using that half a second to her advantage, Eloise wrenched the two halves of her phone out of Jackson’s hands and hurried to the far side of the room—as far away from him as possible. There, with her back pressed to the wall, her breaths shallow and heavy with sobs, she slid down the cold stone until she sat crouched, resting her forehead on her knees. She held the link to her past and the future against her chest, wishing she’d never shown it to Jackson, wishing she’d never gone to the Cairns, wishing she’d just stayed in London and endured her heartache in her office, hunched over her laptop like any good writer would.

“She’s a witch, Nan,” Jackson hissed, as the bedroom door closed and softer, slower footsteps shuffled across the flagstones. “I dinnae want to believe it, but she is. She’s a threat to our people, and she needs to be sent away as soon as possible.”

The newcomer tutted loudly, the footsteps drawing closer to where Eloise was crouched. “I ken ye’re a wary man, Jackson, but I never thought ye could be cruel.” Two kneecaps cracked as someone kneeled beside Eloise and fished her hands out from where she’d been hiding them. “Get out of here before ye cause her any more distress, eh?”

“Nay, Nan, ye’re the one who must leave,” Jackson replied hurriedly. “And daenae touch her! Ye daenae ken what she’s capable of!”

The woman, Nan presumably, sighed as if a pesky flea had just bitten her. “Ye daenae order me around, Jackson. I’ve seventy winters to yer one-and-thirty, Lad. I willnae be told,” she said tersely. “So, get yer arse away from this bedchamber before I hoof ye out meself. I’ll tend to the lass, see if I cannae undo all the woe ye’ve weaved here.”

Eloise finally allowed herself to take a peek at the woman who had come to her rescue. In front of her kneeled an elderly lady who could’ve been her grandmother—wizened, with a mass of gray curls piled high atop her head, and a fierce fire behind her rheumy eyes. No one would’ve dared to mess with Eloise’s grandmother when she was alive, and she doubted anyone would’ve dared to mess with this woman, either. Not even Jackson.

“Ye stay away from her!” Jackson tried to argue, but the old woman just rolled her eyes and cast him a sour glance.

“Leave this room at once, Jackson. I mean it. This lass isnae a witch of any sort. I’ve a feelin’ for these things, and she’s nae one.” The old woman flashed a mischievous wink at Eloise. “It takes one to ken one, and she’s… just a lass that ye’ve terrified out of her skin. Poor bairn is shakin’ like a leaf.”

Jackson moved as if he meant to physically separate the two women, but must’ve thought better of it as his grandmother shot him another death glare. With some huffing and puffing that highlighted the majesty of his powerful chest, he turned on his heel and slammed out of the door, tossing one final remark back over his shoulder: “Daenae make me regret this, Nan. I swear, if she causes trouble because ye’ve done this, ye’ll find yerself with only yer own company for as long as I see fit.”

The old woman waited for a couple of minutes after the door had slammed back into the jamb before making her introductions. She had a sweet, soothing voice that made Eloise think of Sunday afternoons at her grandmother’s cottage in Wales, sipping sugary tea and eating whatever delicacy her grandmother had baked for that weekend.

I miss you so much, Eloise ached inwardly.

“Now that the storm has wafted itself out, we ought to have ourselves a cup of somethin’ warmin’ and have ourselves a discussion,” the old woman said. “I’m Lorraine, and ye must be this Eloise that I havenae stopped hearin’ about. Kaitlyn is already very fond of ye and, nay offense to me grandson, but I’ve always trusted that lass’ opinion more than his.”

Eloise swallowed thickly. “I’m fond of Kaitlyn, too. It’s… um… a pleasure to meet you, Lorraine.”

“Och, the pleasure’s mine.” The old woman helped Eloise to her feet, before guiding her to the armchairs by the fireplace.

A pot hung over the blazing fire, though Eloise hadn’t understood the purpose of it until that moment, when Lorraine removed it from its hook with a cloth around her hands and poured out two cups of steaming, fragrant liquid. She passed one to Eloise, and settled down into the deep, leathery give of the armchair.

“I’ve always believed that the women of these ancient households must’ve held the most power, just wielded more delicately,” Eloise said, taking a sip of her tea. It wasn’t the sugary, earthy kind she was used to, but a spicy, fruity concoction that tickled the back of her dry throat.

Lorraine chuckled. “Daenae tell the menfolk. They wouldn’ae like to hear it put so bluntly, whether or nae it’s true.” She took a pointed sip of her tea, and added, “But it is, so ye must have a wise head on yer shoulders. Either that, or ye’re of a noble family yerself.”

“I’m not. I’m just… a writer.” Eloise glanced toward the bedchamber door, terrified it would burst open again.

Lorraine must’ve followed Eloise’s line of sight, as she said, “Daenae fret, Lass. He willnae bother us again. He might be the Laird of this castle, but he’s a good lad—he’s always done what his grandmaither has told him to.”

“I thought he was going to hurt me. Throw me in a dungeon, at least,” Eloise murmured, warming her hands on the cup. “I knew he wouldn’t listen to what I had to say, but then… if I was the one listening, I don’t know if I’d believe it, either.”

Lorraine peered at her curiously. “Tell me, then. I’ve seen things ye wouldn’ae believe, but I trust in me eyes and me ears.”

“Another time,” Eloise replied, sighing wearily. “He’s just sapped whatever energy I had left, and I don’t think I can face another round of, “You’ve just hit your head and gone mad.” Honestly, I’m starting to wish it was as simple as that.”

The old woman nodded, surprisingly understanding. “Ye take all the time ye need, Lass. I willnae be sendin’ ye to nay dungeons and nor will me grandson. It’s an unsettlin’ month for him, and he’s never at his most sensible. Give him yer patience and, next time, I ken he’ll listen. Until then, me door is always open if ye need someone to talk to.”

“Thank you.” Eloise gulped down some of her tea, worried that if she didn’t distract herself, the tears would start falling again.

She’d left the broken parts of her phone in the corner of the room, and though she couldn’t bring herself to look over at the wrecked device, she felt the destruction keenly. But how could she blame Jackson for his outburst, when something like that would have seemed like witchcraft and wizardry to him?

I need to get out of here before he properly turns on me, she knew, focusing on Lorraine. One kind soul can’t keep me here, and I won’t be the danger he thinks I am.

“Would ye care to dine with us this evenin’?” Lorraine broke Eloise’s tense train of thought.

“Hmm?”

“Food, Lass. Would ye like to dine with us tonight? It’ll make ye feel better to be in good company, and I can promise ye that mine is the finest ye’ll find this side of the border. Och, when I’ve had a nip of spiced wine, there’s nae stoppin’ me from bein’ the merrymaker!”

Eloise laughed despite herself. “My grandma was the same. She’d be down at the pub… I mean, she’d be down at the inn on a Friday evening, drinking every man and woman under the table. Hollow legs—that’s what she used to say she had.”

“Hollow legs?” Lorraine erupted into bright, booming laughter. “Och, I’ll have to remember that one! So, will ye join us? Ye cannae let this unpleasantness fester, and I swear to ye, Jackson will have forgotten his ire by the time dinner comes around.”

Eloise wanted to; she really did. It would’ve been nice to get to know this funny woman better, and there was a part of her that remained curious about Jackson. There had to be a cheerier side to him, surely? He’d shown a softer side, at least, when he’d tried to comfort her. If they’d just stopped there, before the phone incident, maybe she’d have jumped at the chance to have dinner with him… but this wasn’t one of her novels, and a heartbroken writer didn’t fall madly in love with the ridiculously attractive, medieval Laird she’d been thrown into the path of.

In this tale, the medieval Laird was more likely to lock her up and throw away the key, leaving her to fade away in the 18 th century, never to put a single word of her fantastical experience to paper, for anyone in her time to read.

If I don’t leave now, she decided, I’ll die here, one way or another.

And that was something she simply could not do.