A Slip In Time (8 page)

He abandoned his companions and began
toward her, riveting her with his piercing blue gaze. His
companions fell silent around him and turned to see what so
captured his interest. They stared in Julia’s direction but finding
nothing remarkable, returned to their cups.

The tall Scotsman continued across the
hall, his long strides rapidly closing the space. A movement caught
the corner of Julia’s vision and the blonde in the moss green gown
stepped into view. She raised her hand toward the man, but he paid
her no heed, continuing straight toward Julia.

Julia’s pulses spun. How
strikingly handsome he was, his features regular and pleasing — the
nose straight, the lips well defined, the jaw square-cut. His
shoulders were broader than she first had realized and as he strode
forward, she could
well envision his powerful body
moving beneath his garments.

Julia felt boneless under the intensity of
his gaze. He closed the distance between them and reached for her.
In that same instant, a wave of dizziness assaulted her, the air
compressing and crushing down on her. The room, and the Scotsman,
swam before her eyes and she feared she would faint.

As her knees dissolved beneath her, Julia
put out her hand to break her fall. The stone floor rushed up in a
blur. But, seconds later, as she crumpled completely, it was not
stone that met her hands, but grass.

Opening her eyes, Julia discovered herself
sprawled on the grounds outside the castle, looking back up at the
ancient keep.

Julia rose on quivery legs. What
madness was this? Some demented dream? A hallucination? Yet here
she stood, outside Dunraven’s ancient keep.

She eyed the tower’s solid stone face.
Was she to believe she had passed through rock?

Julia examined the ground about her, a
tangle of weeds where the hall and the Scotsman had stood moments
before. Still she could feel the touch of his hand, his fingers
encircling her arm even as he disappeared.

Julia massaged her forehead. Perhaps
she was deranged, the strain of this past year snapping her sanity.
Certainly, should she tell anyone of these occurrences, they would
believe it to be so and commit her straight away.

Julia paced the ground, her nerves in a
boil. Spying fragments of a low wall nearby, she went to examine
it. The ruin ran in a straight line, perpendicular to one side of
the tower, sheltering a small explosion of rich pink primroses.

A shiver tingled through Julia as she
realized the wall’s location approximated that of the chimerical
hall. Crouching down, she traced her hand over the stonework, the
surfaces dressed and regular, the stones of a size similar to those
in the tower. A foundation perhaps, or remnants of a larger
structure?

Julia drew back the border of dainty
primroses and yellow-green foliage to better examine the wall.
Curiously, the lower, more protected surfaces appeared blackened in
areas.

Julia rose to her feet with more
questions than before. She took several steps toward the tower and
tipped back her head, her gaze scaling its height. Narrow slit-like
windows punctuated the wall, rising in a pattern that would match
the remembered stairwell.

Roaming the keep’s southward side, she
spied the windows to her room, their glass flashing with sunlight.
But another pair likewise glinted some yards higher, betraying a
room directly above her own. Had the stairwell spiraled upward, she
wondered uneasily? She could not remember, though it seemed likely
and the slitted windows indicated as much, reaching nearly to the
roof.

Julia continued to inspect the tower
grounds until young Tom appeared, leading a sturdy Scots pony,
saddled and ready for her to ride. When she informed him she no
longer wished to join the other ladies but requested sketching
materials instead, he looked visibly disappointed. It could not be
helped, and she apologized for his troubles. Good fellow that he
was, Tom uttered no complaint but led the pony away, fetched the
requested supplies, and returned to his chores.

Plucking up her nerve and her spirit,
Julia set out. The same insatiable curiosity that first had
prompted her to investigate the tower stairwell now drove her over
Dunraven’s grounds to find the answers she required. She’d make her
own sketches, she decided. She’d record her findings and compare
them with the etchings in the breakfast parlor.

For hours, Julia explored the
surrounding property, rendering views of the castle, primarily
those nearest the keep. On one, she roughed in the placement of the
alcove’s portal where it had opened onto the hall. She also
sketched the hall’s interior as she remembered it, detailing the
people at their activities and capturing the essence of their
dated garments. Though Julia considered herself less than gifted at
rendering people, there could be no mistaking the tall Scotsman
staring out from the heart of her drawing.

The hours slipped past. Even when the
women returned from their excursion, and later still when Betty
appeared and announced tea, Julia remained out-of-doors with her
papers and pencil. She made her excuses and lingered for a time,
walking restlessly over the grounds, having little desire to enter
a castle which might cough her back out at any given
moment.

“Little wonder no one has hunted here
for twenty years,” Julia mumbled to herself as she trod on. Had not
Lord Withrington claimed there to be something “hidden” about
Dunraven?

“Hidden indeed.” She blew a wisp of
hair from her eyes. “Hidden in my bedchamber!”

Julia’s thoughts turned to Lord Eaton
and the querulous butler, Angus McNab. Where the one had insisted
on lodging her in the tower, the other had opposed it, each with
matching vigor.

Whatever their motives —
whatever they knew or did not know of the tower’s irregularities —
they’d best agree upon other quarters for her, preferably on the
furthermost end of the castle complex. She simply could not,
would
not stay another
night in the ancient keep!

The sun slung low over the mountains.
As the temperature dropped, Julia’s constant motion warmed her but
marginally. The cold nipped at her nose, stiffened her cheeks, and
numbed her fingers and toes. Still, she found the clean Highland
air marvelously invigorating.

Julia tarried as long as she might,
intent on intercepting Lord Eaton on his arrival. But when dusk
gathered and still the men did not return, she relented. Teeth
chattering, she headed for the front of the castle and its main
entrance, unable to endure the falling temperatures a moment
longer.

No sooner did she round the west end, than
the hunting party appeared amid a frenzy of excitement. Shouts rang
out, clamoring for the servants to fetch a physician. Julia rushed
forward as several men lifted Lord Eaton down from his horse, his
face grimaced in pain. A commotion surrounded Lord Withrington as
well, and she spied blood smearing his jacket.

Julia followed the troupe into the
entrance hall where Lord Eaton’s bearers eased him onto a chair.
Simultaneously, the ladies poured forth from a side parlor and
besieged the men with their attentions and concern.

When one of the men attempted to
remove Lord Eaton’s boot, he bellowed in pain. Lilith, Aunt Sybil,
and a half dozen other ladies moved immediately to console
him.

“Don’t worry overmuch,” Julia heard
Sir Robert to say as she joined Emmaline. “It’s no more than a
twisted ankle. He’ll recover after a hot soak and a night’s
rest.”

Was there a tinge of annoyance in his tone?
Julia looked again to where the women hovered over Lord Eaton. He
groaned full-throated as Mr. McNab now pried the boot from his
foot. The ladies sent up small gasps, fluttering about him like a
cloud of anxious butterflies. His mask of pain slackened ever so
briefly as he slid an appreciative glance over the swell of bosoms
poised above him

Julia’s sympathies withered. “What of
Lord Withrington, is he hurt?” she asked of Sir Robert, turning
toward the older man and noting that he garnered far less concern
though his clothes were bloodied.

“Quite sound, quite sound,” chirped
Mr. Sampson Dilcox at her elbow, one of their company from Braxton,
an energetic little man of great charm and little hair. “But he
and Sir Robert are quite the heroes of the day. They captured the
day’s take after it ran off, don’t you know? The ponies, that is —
they ran off with the deer carcasses strapped to them.” He stopped
himself with a twittery laugh. “Forgive me, Miss Hargrove. I do
get ahead of myself.”

“Damned fool!” Lord Withrington
groused to Lady Charles as Julia and her companions joined them.
“Eaton nearly took off my head.”

Julia and Emmaline turned rounded eyes to
Sir Robert, who nodded grimly.

“Our host was handing off his
gun—”

“Handed it off pointed and loaded,
without a gnat’s sense of safety,” grumbled Lord
Withrington.

“Yes, well . . .” Sir Robert cleared
his throat. “As he handed it off, he tripped over an outcropping of
rock.”

“The lead shot right over my shoulder,
grazed my whiskers!” Lord Withrington declared while Lady Charles
patted him with a calming hand.

“Thankfully, no one was hurt.” Sampson
picked up the story. “But the blast startled the garrons — that’s
the Scots ponies —and they ran off, stags and all.”

“But what of the blood on your
jacket?” Julia looked to Lord Withrington.

“Deer blood. When we caught up with
the garrons, some of the stags had come loose. Had to secure them.
Fine job of catching the beasts — the garrons, that is.” He gave
an appreciative nod to Sir Robert. “And you, Sampson. Obliged for
what you did pacifying them and leading them back.”

He gave the smaller man’s back an
open-handed clout. Sampson flushed with pride and stole a nervous
glance toward Julia.

Lady Charles turned her attentions to
Julia. “My dear, you are positively waxen.” She felt Julia’s cheeks
and took her hands in her own. “You stayed out far too long, dear.
You’re like an icicle. Come along, we must thaw you out before you
catch your death. Perhaps Cook can prepare a Highland remedy to
ward off your chills.”

Mr. McNab, rather than Cook, prepared
his “antidote for all ills” before the fire, a steaming mixture of
sugar, lemon juice, boiling water and a double measure of whiskey
from Dunraven’s private stock. The “Highland toddy” instantly
diffused heat to Julia’s nether parts, warming her blood and
radiating a decided glow through her very being.

Cook held supper while the belated
hunters completed the day’s rituals, downing a bracing shot of
whiskey, followed by a long, soaking bath. The women likewise
retired to their rooms to dress and ornament themselves for
dinner.

Unable to avoid the
moment, Julia accompanied Betty to her bedchamber to exchange her
riding frock for more appropriate attire. Impatient to
leave
, her nerves a mass of knots,
she asked Betty to select something for her.

The maid chose a gown of pale peach
China satin trimmed with white lace and emerald green ribbons.
Julia recognized the dress to be one her Aunt Rachel had given her
before her departure, a castoff but lovely. Drawing it on, she
found its square neckline fell a trifle low, though not
objectionably so.

Julia tugged up the bodice, refusing to be
detained one second longer than required. Once cinched, hooked,
and buttoned, Julia whisked from the room, putting distance between
herself and the tower as rapidly as possible.

Dinner proved a wearisome affair, the
conversation revolving about the day’s near-tragic hunt, the
details recounted ad nauseam. Lord Eaton’s gaze strayed
periodically to Julia’s décolletage as did those of several other
gentlemen including Mr. Dilcox, who had skillfully maneuvered
himself into the seat beside her. With the men’s added height,
Julia realized too late, they could glimpse a tantalizing hint of
cleavage.

A pox on you, Aunt
Rachel,
Julia fumed silently as the
servants cleared away the soiled plates, replacing them with small
crystal bowls.

“I mean, do these Scots
eat nothing besides oats?” Lady Henrietta Downs complained several
seats away, drawing Julia’s attention back to the conversation
which had blessedly taken a new turn. “Cook has served little else
since our arrival — for breakfast, lunch, tea,
or
dinner.”

Lord Eaton turned to the butler, who
stood beside him, holding a silver bowl. “Lady Henrietta is quite
right, Angus. Cook even sent us into the field with cold bars of
porridge in our pockets instead of sandwiches.”

“Most traditional, m’lord.”

“And what of dinner just now? Oats in
the soup, the stuffing, the pud, even the fish was coated with
oats.”

“A tasty way it is to prepare fresh
fish, m’ lord.”

“Hmm, yes. What is that you have in
the bowl there?” Everyone’s eyes turned to the silver bowl and its
fluffy contents.

“Cranachan, m’ lord, a traditional
sweet.”

“And what, precisely,
is
cranachan
?