PENETRATE (The Portals of Time Book 1) (15 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Precisely twenty-five minutes later, Neal jogged the wide set of stone steps from the chieftain’s chambers to the great hall, a kilt swishing against his thighs, knives throughout his belt and socks, a sporran at his groin, his small sword and claymore bouncing. The sensation of air down below was still weird. At least Mason had let him out of the chamber without a tam. He wore his head uncovered. His hair back in a tail. None of that was his reason for lateness. It was because he’d refused to attend without shaving first.

And that was that.

The great hall had a couple of servants in it. Dusting. Humming. Both women looked up as he stepped from the stairs and approached the door beneath them. His steps echoed. The attire rattled. Neal actually heard a very feminine sigh from one of the maids. That was flattering.

Neal found himself in a foyer area with three halls leading from it. Mason was a font of information once Neal had acquiesced.
Good thing
. The castle was a maze of interconnected halls lined with tapestries with an occasional window on one side, and a lot of stonework on the other. Mason had informed him to go right a fair distance until he reached a short set of steps. At the top, the passage would branch off yet again. He needed to take the hall on his right again. In the event he was worried, there would be a tapestry portraying the castle, rendered in dark blue on the wall of the correct passage. He needed to walk another fair piece. Reach another set of descending set of steps. The blue salon was at the base of them.

Blue salon.

Neal peeked into rooms as he passed. More than one of them had a blue color scheme. Mason told him he’d reach the correct one if the walls were a light blue shade, with a gallery worth of large paintings adorning them. The room didn’t have any windows. For a reason. It had been a lady’s solar back in medieval times, its fireplace backing to one in the Great Hall.

Neal didn’t get lost. He could tell which room before he got there from the laughter. The intermittent buzz of conversation. Someone spoke, louder than the others. Neal immediately recognized Garrick, and whatever he said brought on another bout of laughter.

That was disconcerting.

Garrick wasn’t that amusing.  

A man stood to one side of the door. Neal recognized him instantly. It was the stable hand, Rory. Eric’s doppelganger looked a lot more like Eric with his hair pulled back and secured. Rory straightened at Neal’s approach, and took a step toward the door in order to push it open for him. Neal stopped him with a finger to his lips.

“Good day...um, Rory, isn’t it?”

The kid grinned. “You recognize me?”

“Sure. But...aren’t you a stable hand?”

“The steward had me promoted.”

“Garrick?”

“Aye.”

Neal grunted. “When did this happen?”

“This morn.”

“Well. That’s an...interesting development.”

“’Tis a big step up. Every mon in the stable was shocked when they heard.”

“Really?”

“Aye.”

“Well. My cousin obviously recognizes a good man when he sees him.” 

Neal smiled. The kid’s grin widened and then moved his head toward Neal. The next words were barely above a whisper.

“Na’ to worry, your grace. I did na’ tell him a word a-boot yester-morn.”

“Yester-morn?”

“He is verra interested in the accident. But I would never betray you. Or Ains—I mean, her grace.”

Well. Well. Well.

The plot thickens.

This answered the question behind Garrick’s untimely departure from the fest last night. The fellow had obviously worked on his next bit of strategy. Neal had known Garrick was trouble. He hadn’t realized the extent of it, nor did he know how many were involved. Perhaps that was the reason for Neal’s continued presence here at Straith Castle. He couldn’t leave. Not yet, anyway. Ainslee needed a champion to secure her position first.

Well.

Her husband certainly looked the part.

Even Neal had to admit, when faced with his reflection in the chamber mirror, that he might feel archaic. But he looked pretty damned regal in this get-up. There was something more, too.

He looked dangerous.

Perhaps that had been Mason’s point.

Neal patted the hilt of the claymore at his hip. Mason had been pleased when the sword had been strapped into place. So was Neal. On the two previous dukes, this sword had scraped the floor if worn at the hip. Most Straithcairn dukes wore it strapped to their back. Neal’s height made that a non-issue. He had a much shorter sword hanging from his left side, along with four silver-handled daggers sticking out of his belt.

He heard a bit of clattering within the blue salon that was probably crockery, and then his wife said something. Neal’s heart jerked within his chest. He stood there beside Rory in semi-shock, his mind revolting against a tremor that scored his frame.

Shit.

He’d been borderline afraid of this. Being in her proximity. Listening to her. Looking at her. And it just didn’t make sense. He’d just met her! She was a teenager. It wasn’t possible to have feelings like this.

It just wasn’t and he didn’t.

And that was that.  

Neal peeked into the room. Ainslee was perched atop a chair that appeared to be a bit higher than the others in attendance. Neal stooped down to check. Stood back up.

Yep
.

It had been done on purpose. Her chair was set atop a block. Her feet weren’t even touching the floor. The servants had probably had a hand in her positioning, although it didn’t help much. She was still a tiny thing. Excruciatingly young.

And entirely perfect.

Neal’s heart stuttered again. He sucked in a breath. Held it to a slow count of ten. Exhaled.

Damn it.

He’d checked the room for a reason. He needed the ‘lay of the land’. Questions answered. Who sat where? What was the potential ranking? Where did he need to direct his attention? Who should he speak with first? And with what volume and tone? That was of prime importance before girding any group of people – especially if they were hostile board members enraged at a possible takeover. Neal never approached without a strategy. He was an expert at setting things up. So, why – the moment he saw his wife – must he lose even that ability?

Despite everything, his gaze went to her.

And stayed there.

Ainslee sat at the back of the room. A fireplace framed her position. This particular fireplace appeared to be constructed from an assortment of light-gray-colored stones and topped with a thick-cut wooden mantle. It wasn’t lit at the moment. The fire-screen held flowers. Bouquets of them. So many, he couldn’t see the black void behind them.

Ainslee must have found her way into a wardrobe from somewhere. She wore a sea-green colored gown with a cinched-in waist and yards of fabric below that. Her skirt looked wide enough to parachute with. Neal had attended several masquerade charity balls with women who seemed to ceaselessly enjoy dressing as Marie Antoinette. He recognized Ainslee’s fashion automatically. Her skirts had been crafted to wear the pontoon things beneath them. That dress was probably forty years out-of-date and absolutely stunning.

His new wife was a beauty. That dress didn’t hide one bit of it.  

It seemed to be fitted exactly to her, outlining a figure he’d already spent way too much thought on, mostly of an uncontrollable erotic nature. Her hair had been piled atop her head, although a long section slid over one shoulder, and snaked down the side of a breast before pooling in her lap. Neal had hoped his wife’s unearthly beauty was a product of his imagination. A trick of the candle light. Now, he knew the truth.

She was so blasted beautiful, it should be illegal.

Damn.

No. Double damn.

Neal pulled his head back so the groan wouldn’t announce him.

“’Tis na’ that bad, your grace.” 

Rory whispered it at his side. Neal looked sideways and down at the man. Rory was wrong. This set-up wasn’t just bad. It was horrid.

“I mean, she did na’ request the pipers to attend.”

Neal snorted, coughed with an attempt to stifle it, and that just got him announced. In the midst of a coughing fit. Without warning. And Rory proved to have a competent voice for it.

“His Grace, Laird Niall Alexander Straith, fifth Duke of Straithcairn!”

Neal smacked his chest and entered the room, and silently cursed how his heart stumbled. He knew the reason. His wife looked up, her lushly-lashed eyes widened slightly, and then a light blush shaded the tops of her cheeks. He’d never seen anything to compare her to. He didn’t try. He didn’t care who else was in the room. He didn’t see them or note them. He thumped once more on his chest with a sideways fist and walked right up to Ainslee, looked into perfect sapphire-shaded eyes, held out his hand, and somehow managed to nod his head and speak.

“Forgive my tardiness, love.”

She looked down quickly. Her lashes dusted her cheeks, while another blush stole across her skin. But he had what he wanted. She gave him her hand. Her fingers trembled slightly within his. An odd weakness hit him in the back of his knees. Neal lifted her fingers to his lips and touched a light kiss across her knuckles. She trembled again, his blasted heart stuttered again, and then somebody behind him had to go and move his attention.

“Greetings, your grace! Niall! You seem to be taking to the Scot life, just fine. Regardless of what Lachlan, here, has told us.”

Niall turned sideways toward the speaker. It was the bard. He’d forgotten Ainslee had invited him. Just his luck. And then he asked himself,
why not
? If they had to provide grist for the rumor mill, might as well do it all the way. He’d already portrayed a man struck with love at first sight. Might as well act the part of smitten swain, after-the-fact, too. And if he had to do that, who better to witness it than the man with the largest voice in the clan?

“I merely said he wasn’t long for the Scottish life. There are a lot of attractions in London-town. I’m sure he misses them.”

The man who’d spoken was a younger version of Garrick, giving Neal an instant identity. An arrival of dislike was just as rapid. Lachlan was sitting in the chair at Ainslee’s right. Neal motioned him to move and then glowered until Lachlan complied, shifting one seat over. Neal hooked one of the vacated chair’s legs, scooted it close to Ainslee and her tea setting, and managed to sit gracefully amid a rustle of plaid and a clink of weaponry. He was proud of the fact he hadn’t given up his hold on her fingers, either.

“Well, cousin?”

Neal turned to look at Lachlan. The fellow could have used a pedestal beneath his chair. He barely reached Neal’s shoulder while sitting down. Lachlan looked like he hadn’t inherited much of the Straith stature. He wasn’t very happy with that fact. It was readily apparent in his sneer as he looked up at the top of Neal’s head and then back down. Neal would have snickered except Ainslee’s hand moved slightly within his. He squeezed her fingers, just enough to keep them captured. She returned the gesture, the movement so slight, he almost missed it. Neal’s heart flipped again.

It was an energizing, enervating, exciting feeling. It was also wrong. On every level.

Neal. Neal. What are you doing, buddy?

He went over the litany of reasons why feeling anything for Ainslee was a bad idea. She deserved someone with a much different moral fiber than Neal Straithmore. She was so young. On the cusp of life.
Hell
. Neal was practically jaded. She exuded goodness. Light. Warmth. He was a heartless cold bastard. At least, that’s what he’d been called more than once. He hadn’t argued it. He hadn’t given it a second thought.

“London is an extraordinary city,” Neal finally answered. “If a man is unattached. You should try it, Lachlan, if you can spare the time.”

“Time? ’Tis funds we lack, na’ time. We’ve all the time in the world, do na’ we, Garrick?”

“Ah. Greetings, Garrick. I missed seeing you. Sitting there.”  Neal looked across the space toward his like-sized steward. Gave the man a slight smile. Garrick returned it.

“You act as though we have access to Straithcairn wealth like you.”

Lachlan complained from Neal’s side. Neal turned back to him. “Correct me if I’m wrong, someone. But I didn’t have access to much from Straithcairn, either. Until recently. Seems I managed well enough.”

“You were the heir. ’Tis different, I’m certain.”

It was turning into a pity-fest. Neal wasn’t interested in playing. He scanned the attendees. Frowned. “I don’t see your mother here today. Is she well?”

It was a safe comment. Everyone except Ainslee was male.

“She…uh. Well. Aye. That’s it. She is unwell. She’ll join us for sup. I’m certain.”

“Attractions, you say?” 

The man who spoke had an appetite for food and spirits. His girth and ruddiness betrayed it. He was probably the vicar. He wore a lot of brown-shaded attire. And a large cross. It was a safe assumption.