Page 9 of The Story of his Highland Bride (Dancing Through Time #4)

9

A s it turned out, escaping the castle was even easier than entering it had been, and Eloise had been unconscious for the latter. She’d pretended to be asleep when Kaitlyn had come to bring supper, and when the maid departed, Eloise had made her exit. The lock had been the only real challenge, but nothing that a few hair grips from her bag and the memory of some old research for a Victorian crime novel couldn’t overcome.

From there, wearing her boots, with her bag slung over her shoulder and hidden underneath a heavy cloak, she’d stolen away from the bedroom. It pained her to have to leave behind her favorite jeans and sweater, but she figured that if she got burned at the stake, it wasn’t like she’d be able to enjoy them anyway. Still, she had taken the two halves of her phone with her, just in case there was a phone shop in 2016 that could put it back together again… or download her precious photos, at least.

So far, so good, she mused, closing the door behind her.

She’d expected there to be guards outside in the hallway, but, apparently, they’d assumed the lock would be enough to keep her from escaping. The hallway stood empty, devoid of anyone who might attempt to stop her. And as a chilly draft whistled between the damp stone walls, she was all the more grateful for the cloak, and the coat she wore underneath, but the flickering torches did nothing to settle her racing heart as she took off toward the nearest staircase.

Down an endless spiral, Eloise hurried as fast as her legs would carry her. Every so often, the staircase paused at a landing with a door, where dull voices could be heard chattering beyond, but she pressed on, ever downward, seeking the bite of the cold evening air. She couldn’t think about how cozy it would be, to be sitting at dinner with Lorraine and Jackson, repairing the rift he’d caused. In truth, she didn’t dare to think about him at all.

If he’d been gentler, it wouldn’t have taken much to sway me, she admitted wryly, imagining his strong arms slipping around her, pulling her into an apologetic hug. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged her properly or told her that everything was going to be okay. In fact, that had created this entire problem, in the first place. If someone had just shown her some kindness and understanding, maybe she wouldn’t have had to venture off to the Highlands of Scotland.

Still daydreaming about Jackson, trying to forget the fury in his eyes when she’d showed him her phone, she reached the end of the staircase. One door lay ahead of her, and, by her reckoning, it had to lead into the outside world. From there, though it wouldn’t be nearly as easy as picking a lock, all she had to do was find Clava Cairns and make those pesky stones do the reverse of what they’d already done to her.

“It was those bloody starlings,” she grumbled, as she turned the door’s iron ring and prayed it would budge.

Sure enough, the door swung open, an icy blast of wintry wind hitting Eloise squarely in the face. Her eyes began to stream as she bowed her head and strode out into the cold night, pulling her cloak tighter around herself.

She found herself in what appeared to be an inner courtyard. Cobbles prodded at the soles of her boots, while high walls surrounded her on every side. Up ahead, an archway revealed a second, larger courtyard. Beyond it, a portcullis, fortunately open, that yawned toward freedom.

Make yourself look as innocuous as possible, she told herself, as she struck out for the castle’s main entrance.

Putting on a slight limp, for no logical reason whatsoever, she made her way across the main courtyard, keeping her chin to her chest to avoid the prying eyes of anyone who might be watching. But with dinner taking place inside the castle, it seemed that everyone had gotten a little lax with their duties. No one else wandered the outer courtyard, and as she slyly glanced up at the battlements, she couldn’t count more than two or three soldiers standing guard. And even those guards weren’t too bothered about what was going on; they were huddled around a brazier, laughing at something that one of them had said.

Seizing her moment, Eloise shambled through the portcullis and out onto the main road. As she walked, she braced for the sound of someone calling out to stop her, but it didn’t come.

I’m going to get away with it! She cheered herself on. It’s not like Jackson will care—he wants me gone, anyway. I’m doing him a favor.

Satisfied, and just a tiny bit disappointed that she’d never set eyes on the handsome, medieval Laird again, she quickened her pace and all but sprinted down the slope of the road. But that was about as far as her planning could get her, since the Cairns’ location was a complete mystery, and it wasn’t like her phone could tell her where to go. Even if it had battery, it wouldn’t be able to pick up any satellite GPS.

“I need to find a village,” she whispered, tucking her chin into her scarf and pulling the cloak’s hood up over her head as she pressed on down the road, searching for any of those white, stone way-markers she’d stumbled upon before.

It wasn’t too long before she found something better: a man and a woman, trundling along on a cart, pulled by two grumpy-looking donkeys.

They look like Jackson, she thought with a smile, as she waved for the oncoming cart to halt.

The man didn’t seem keen on pausing for a stranger at the side of the road, but the woman at his side gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs, prompting him to pull on the reins and bring the cart to a standstill.

“Are ye lost, Lass?” the woman asked, in a kindly voice.

Swallowing nervously, Eloise did her best impression of a Scottish accent as she replied, “Aye, Madame, I am a bit. I was on me way to me grandmaither’s bothy, but I think I took a wrong turnin’.”

“Och, I’m sorry to hear that! Where did ye lose yer way?” The woman seemed genuinely concerned, spiking Eloise’s guilt.

“A way back, down the road,” Eloise replied, aware of how ropey her accent was. “I came out at a way-marker that said “Wishaw Village,” and I kenned I’d gone awry. See, me grandmaither lives nae far from Clava Cairns, if ye ken them, which is in the opposite direction? Do ye happen to ken the way there?”

The woman frowned, as though Eloise had said something rude. “Ye daenae want to be goin’ near there of a night, Lass. Ye should come up to the castle with us, and we can set ye on the right path in the mornin’.”

The man, presumably her husband, nodded. “Nay one should be wanderin’ through them woods at night, especially nae a lass alone.”

“But I promised me grandmaither that I’d be there, and she’ll worry terribly if I daenae appear. Could ye just point me in the right direction? I’ve walked in the woods a thousand times before. I willnae come to any harm,” Eloise promised, but, if she was being honest, she had no idea what might be lurking in the forest at night. She hadn’t given it much thought the first time, with her head pounding and her confusion at a fever pitch.

The woman wrung her hands, clearly uncomfortable. But, in the end, she sighed and twisted around on the driver’s bench. “When ye get to that way-marker that says “Wishaw Village,” ye cut right, into the woods. There’s a path, though it’s overgrown. Follow it as far as it’ll go, and ye’ll come to the Cairns eventually. I assume ye ken how to reach yer grandmaither from there?”

“I do, thank ye.” Eloise set off before they could try to persuade her to join them again, as her resolve was already wavering when she thought of a blazing fire and a hot meal and sharing dinner with someone as pleasing to the eye as Jackson Buchanan.

Don’t forget that he evidently wants you dead, she reminded herself. It was too easy to ignore that part when she thought of his face and his height and his rippling muscles, and the way his rough palm had felt between her shoulder blades, when he’d rubbed those comforting circles against her back.

As she hurried along, she heard the man and woman on the cart arguing.

“What did ye tell her that for? She’ll never reach the Cairns, ye mark me words. Either a beast or a different manner of beast will get her!” the man complained.

“She said she’d walked in them woods a thousand times!” the woman replied indignantly. “And she looked a hardy sort of lass.”

That last sentence gave Eloise a strange thrill, putting a spring in her step as she kept her eyes peeled for the “Wishaw Village” way-marker. Back in London, even before she was “jilted,” she’d been made to feel small and feeble and weak, like she wasn’t even capable of walking to the corner shop without getting into some kind of trouble. Whenever she’d wanted to try something new, like rock climbing or a spin class or cooking lessons, Peter could always be relied upon to come up with a hundred reasons why it would be terrible for her.

“Rock climbing is dangerous. Your mum and dad wouldn’t want you doing something like that.”

“You’ll pass out if you do a spin class, and I might not be here to pick up the call if you end up in hospital.”

“You cook just fine. I’m not asking for gourmet dinners, so what’s the point in wasting good money?”

Yet, in one quick meeting, that woman had seen a strength in Eloise that Eloise often failed to see in herself. Strength enough to walk through a forest at night on her own, anyway.

“Did you hear that, Peter?” she muttered. “A hardy sort of lass, not the pathetic little pushover you liked to think I was.”

With a smile on her face, she had to wonder if coming to the turn of the 18 th century might’ve done her some good, after all. It might’ve only been a short stay, but thinking about the pile of work that lay ahead of her, and the memory of a ruined relationship she had to return to, it didn’t seem so intimidating anymore. If she could get through a day without modern bathrooms or modern medicine, she could get through an uncomfortable meeting with Harriet and then, perhaps, with a real estate agent.

Reaching the way-marker at last, Eloise turned right, as she’d been instructed, and headed cautiously into the shadow-soaked forest.

Though she’d staggered through it in the dark once before, nothing seemed familiar, but that might’ve had something to do with the fact that she no longer had her phone’s flashlight as a crutch. The trees seemed more intent on closing in around her, and in every direction, frightening sounds made her pause every couple of steps: rustling bushes, creaking boughs, screaming foxes, and the eerie coo of birds that she’d disturbed, among others.

“It’s just one stretch of discomfort, then home,” she told herself, over and over, as she trudged through the undergrowth.

However, the roots and thorns that had already left welts and scratches all over her legs had apparently decided they weren’t done inflicting injuries on her vulnerable skin. And without the limited protection of her jeans, her calves were left open to their biting assault; the thorns and jagged twigs sneaking under the hem of her dress to enjoy a nip.

Before long, she was in agony, her legs pulsing with the heat of fresh pain and old pain intertwining. She could barely see more than a couple of steps ahead of her, and the sounds were becoming infinitely scarier… and closer. A short while ago, she could’ve sworn she heard footsteps approaching, but when she’d whipped around to try and see who was coming at her, she’d seen only darkness.

So, this is my test, huh? I won’t get killed by Jackson, but something in this wood is going to get me—is that it? She had no choice but to carry on, following what she thought was the path that the woman on the cart had mentioned. Essentially, it was the part of the undergrowth that felt less dense against her boots than the rest, though she knew it wasn’t a good judge in terms of sticking to the route.

“Thank goodness,” she breathed, as the trees suddenly thinned, opening out onto a glade.

At first, she thought she’d found the Cairns, but the moonlight quickly chased away any such hope. It spilled silver light down onto the flat, oval patch of grass, dotted with snowdrops, but there were no ancient burial rocks to be seen. No starlings, either.

Still, it wasn’t a bad place to make camp until the sun came up. It wasn’t too cold, the ring of trees protected the glade from the biting wind, and it was unlikely that anyone would find her out there. Then, with the daylight, she’d continue on to Clava Cairns, following the actual path once it showed itself.

“Can’t be worse than waiting for the last train home on Christmas Eve,” she declared to the mocking rustle of the trees around her, as she picked a spot and laid down her cloak to sleep on.

Sitting on the thick wool, she hugged her knees and stared out across the glade, wishing she’d thought to bring kindling and one of the countless flickering torches she’d passed on her way out of the castle. A fire would’ve made the forest seem less terrifying, and it would certainly have chased away anything that might want to do her harm.

“One night of discomfort until freedom,” she whispered, forcing herself to lie down in the fetal position.

There was no way she was actually going to fall asleep, but the grass was soft beneath the cloak, and the wind had quietened, creating a mystical sense of peace that would definitely improve the next couple of chapters she’d had in mind for her book. If she could write about the forest, exactly as it was in that moment, she might just break out of her writer’s block and keep Harriet from pulling her hair out.

Closing her eyes, she began to map out what she would write and how she would write it, sifting through her mental thesaurus for the right words to express the eerie serenity. Would she mention Jackson? Her novel had been lacking in the compelling male protagonist stakes, but who would ever believe that such a man could be real? She’d never be able to do him justice, nor would he fit in the modern landscape of her book.

Would Harriet cut ties with me if I asked to change the entire concept? She’d just thought of a new opening line, when a sound drilled through her slowly gathering moment of calm.

It started as a low rumble, like someone clearing their throat, but it didn’t stop when the lump was dislodged. It rumbled on, transforming into a deep and dangerous growl.

Eloise’s eyelids shot open to discover three pairs of yellow eyes staring right back at her, while sharp fangs glistened in the moonlight. And her scream, when it came, only seemed to make the wolves more ravenous.