Wishing For a Highlander (18 page)

“No. I’ve asked for his help,” Darcy said. “This is what he wants in return.”

“He wants you? He wants you to forsake your home, your family? For what? Will he protect us from Steafan’s bounty hunters? If so, for how long? Are we supposed to live here in Dornoch forever? I don’t understand. If you put that on, does it mean you can never go back to your mill? To Edmund and Fran?”

“We can ne’er go back, as it is.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I refuse to believe that. There must be a way.” She yanked the plaid from his hand and tossed it on the bed. “It’s your home. And Steafan is being completely irrational. Won’t he come around? Eventually?” She winced, suspecting she already knew the answer.

Darcy’s droll look confirmed her suspicion. Steafan was not the kind of man to “come around” merely because a little time had passed.

“You can’t just give up on Ackergill. It seems impossible now, but maybe after a while we can write to Steafan and explain things. Or maybe there can be a trial or something. Isn’t there a judicial system for clan disputes? A third party who can examine our case and make Steafan take us back?”

“The laird is the only judge a clan needs.”

“But he’s being unfair.” Her grandmother’s voice echoed in her head,
“Life isna fair, child. If ye go about expecting fairness from all and sundry, ye shall be a disappointed soul, indeed.”

“Aye, but he doesna see it that way. And offering my sword and strength for the Murray can ensure that Steafan willna get his hands on ye. He wouldna cross the Murray.”

“Those are facts, Darcy. What does your heart say?” She moved close to him, her face in line with the organ in question. She placed her hand over his breastbone and gazed up at him. “How do you feel about this?”

His lips pursed. “’Tis no’ important how I feel. ’Tis my duty to protect ye. And the Murray are a large clan. ’Twould be a fine place to live, Dornoch. And not far from Inverness. I can still find your MacLeod for you.”

“Never mind about the box. And never mind about me. This is about you. Dornoch might be a nice place to live, but it’s not Ackergill. Don’t do this if your heart tells you not to. We can find another way to stay safe.”

His gaze pierced hers. “We would have to keep running. ’Tis no life for a woman, especially a woman with child.”

She didn’t particularly want to keep running either, but she didn’t want Darcy to lose even more for her sake. An idea struck her. “Maybe we can meet Wilhelm half-way.”

* * * *

Malina looked like a dream of cream and silk in the dress Wilhelm had sent for her. Darcy’s chest puffed with pride as he escorted her to the laird’s private dining room, even as his stomach churned with unease at how Wilhelm would take his appearance. He had put on the new shirt but had left the burgundy plaid folded on the bed, wearing instead his plain brown one. Instead of offering his fealty this night, he and his bride had talked about what else he might offer. He had to admit, she had a fine mind on her. If they were lucky, Wilhelm would be too intrigued to take offense.

As they approached the dark-wood door, guarded by a barrel-chested, freckled man with forearms the size of clubs, the savory scents of
collops
and roasted grouse, the briny bite of salted herring, and the sweetly-flavored air that spoke of apple
frushie
for dessert had his mouth watering despite his nerves. If he angered the Murray and went to the gallows for it, at least he’d go with a happy stomach.

The guard flicked his eyes up to Darcy’s in a look that passed quickly from surprise at his height to cautious respect. He inclined his head and pushed open the door to the dining room while Darcy schooled his features into the relaxed smile he always wore when hoping to put Steafan at ease. He didn’t ken if Wilhelm was as prone to tempers as his uncle, but it wouldn’t hurt to start things off with a disarming countenance.

The table was set with porcelain trenchers, silver utensils, simply-adorned wooden mazers, goblets of pewter, and lace-trimmed linens of the kind that would have pleased his mother. Wilhelm broke off his whispered conversation with his wife and rose from the head of the six-seater table. The laird’s expression was unreadable as he took in Darcy’s dress, but a slight smile curved the lips of the laird’s wife. Her eyes were unsurprised. Mayhap even a little pleased.

He had good reason to observe the reactions of both his host and hostess, for it was not Wilhelm’s reputation for ruthlessness alone that had drawn him to Dornoch. Rather, it was the rumors of the cause of that ruthlessness, the Lady Constance Murray, whom Wilhelm was said to have rescued from a burning pyre down in Edinburgh thirty years ago, before he’d become laird. He hoped that mayhap he and Wilhelm shared a commonality that might sway the laird’s sympathy in his favor. They both cared for women who had been accused of witchcraft. And they’d both risked much to protect those women.

“Was there a problem with the fit of the plaid?” Wilhelm asked.

“I dinna ken,” he replied. “I didna try it, but I have other things to offer you in exchange for your hospitality.”

“Such as?” Wilhelm asked coolly.

Lady Constance rolled her eyes and nudged her husband’s hip with her elbow. The laird gave her his attention, and a single look from her had him glancing sheepishly back at Darcy. “Where are my manners,” he bit out. “Sit. Eat. And tell me what brings you to Dornoch.”

The laird sat down and he breathed a sigh of relief as he and Malina took their seats across from a wryly smiling Constance.

While they dined, he told Wilhelm about Hamish taking Malina away not twelve hours after Steafan had married them. Avoiding the detail of the box, he said simply that his paranoid uncle had found improper cause to accuse Malina of being a witch, and that he’d hastily given the order to have her burned.

“I wouldna stand by and let him take from me what he had just given. She is mine to protect, and protect her I will, even if it means ne’er returning to Ackergill.” He caught Malina’s approving eye. “Though, as Steafan’s heir, it is my hope that Ackergill willna be lost to me forever.” He didn’t expect to still be heir to the lairdship after fleeing the way he did, but it couldn’t hurt to mention his standing among the Keith to Wilhelm.

Back in the bedchamber, the sight of Murray plaid in his hand had made the hackles on his neck rise. He would join the Murray for the sake of Malina’s safety, but his very heart would break to turn his back on Ackergill forever. And his wife had kent it. She had convinced him not to disregard a possible return, and at her prodding, he’d permitted himself to imagine coming home to Fraineach with Steafan’s blessing.

There was but one way he thought it possible. If Malina was not with him.

He had vowed to return her to her home, and he meant to see it through. And with her safe in her own time, he would mayhap be permitted back, though he feared Fraineach wouldn’t feel like much of a home without her. Yet it was the only home he had, and Malina was right, he couldn’t leave it without first trying everything in his power to return.

“If ye grant us your protection,” he continued, “I will promise ye a fifth-share of my take at the mill once I return. And I will come to your hand and fight with the Murray whenever ye send for me, so long as I am able.”

Wilhelm leaned back in his chair and sipped his wine. “Ye plan a homecoming? Ye assume whatever offense your wife has done to your laird, he will eventually forgive her?”

Constance spoke for the first time. “No. He plans to return without her. Don’t you?” Her English was not accented with the brogue of Scotia, nor the softer, cultured strains of England. In fact, it wasn’t so very dissimilar from Malina’s. “You plan to send her back through time.”

Chapter 13

Melanie’s pulse picked up at Constance’s words. And her accent. She was from modern-day America, somewhere in the midwest. She knew about traveling through time.

But more importantly, Darcy didn’t deny what she’d just said. He planned to return to Ackergill alone. As in, without her!

“Darcy?” she asked, her delicious meal forgotten. She didn’t care that he’d advised her not to speak in front of Wilhelm. Keeping her accent a secret didn’t matter anymore. Not when it was so similar to Constance’s.

He turned to her with resigned eyes. “I gave ye my word. I intend to keep it. We may have lost your box, but I willna stop until I find the maker. If he could make one magic box, he can make another.”

A surge of hope at the thought of returning home warred with a pain in her chest at the thought of leaving Darcy. When she’d talked him out of putting on the Murray tartan, she’d thought they could find a way to get back to Ackergill together. It shocked her to realize she hadn’t thought of Charleston once during their strategizing session. How was that even possible?

Maybe she had been too distracted by seeing Darcy’s full torso for the first time, as he’d slid down the wide swath of wool that usually covered most of his golden, muscled chest to put on the shirt. Or maybe it had been the look in his eyes, all at once heated and shy, when she’d dropped her ripped dress to the floor, leaving herself in nothing but the thin shift Fran had given her before finding her way into the intimidating tent of the Renaissance-style gown. They’d talked while they dressed, but their eyes had roved over each other as though talking were the only thing keeping them from more kissing.

Lust. It was only lust, she told herself. Of course she still wanted to go home. Of course she still wanted Darcy to help her.

Too bad the thought had the flavor of a lie.

She gave him a thin smile. She ought to thank him for his devotion to her cause, but her tight throat couldn’t form words.

Constance spoke, saving her. “So it was a magic box for you?”

“Aye,” Darcy answered for her, not bothering to deny her association with magic. Apparently, he knew Constance and Wilhelm weren’t strangers to this kind of thing. “But Steafan has the box now.”

“Which doesn’t matter,” Melanie piped in. “The box wouldn’t work for me again. We tried, but it didn’t work.” Her voice got small toward the end as Constance’s gaze met hers. Those eyes were a mite too shrewd for her liking, as if they might see all the way through to what she didn’t want to face. She looked at her plate and pushed some fish around with her spoon.

Wilhelm spoke. “So your laird married ye but then he found out about the box and decided your Malina was a witch and wouldna make a good Keith after all. And ye stole her before he could carry out her sentence.”

Darcy nodded.

Wilhelm scoffed a humorless laugh. “And ye think he’ll take ye back after you’ve helped your witch of a wife use her magic to travel through time?”

Darcy grimaced. “I dinna plan to tell my uncle I helped her use magic. I will simply go home once she is safe, tell Steafan my wife left me, and beg his forgiveness.”

Wilhelm arched an eyebrow in what might have been amusement.

Constance said, “I wonder what Malina thinks of all this. Or is it Melanie? Where are you from, dear?”

“Charleston,” she answered. “And yes. It’s Melanie. Melanie Burns.”

“Melanie Keith,” Darcy corrected, taking her hand. “Ye may always keep my name. ’Tis my gift to ye. If ye want it.”

She bit the inside of her lip to keep her rising emotion at bay. Melanie Keith. She liked hearing that way too much, and she liked the sentiment behind it even more.

How could she be having verklempt thoughts about last names when she was sitting at a dinner table with a woman who had traveled through time like she had? A woman who might know how she could get home.

A woman who hadn’t returned home, herself, and was looking at her with twinkling eyes.

“Come, Melanie,” Constance said, rising. “Let’s leave our husbands to hammer out their contract.”

She looked between Constance and Darcy, torn.

“Go,” Darcy said. “I’ll find ye later.”

She squeezed his shoulder in parting and left with Constance, who led her to an upper room lined with gilt mirrors and boasting a large marble tub that looked remarkably modern with its bronze faucet and heavy, lever-style handles.

“I missed hot baths the most,” she said with a flip of one of the handles. Water poured from the spout, and to Melanie’s astonished eyes, it began to steam. Constance draped her cloak over an overstuffed brocade chair and flipped the other handle up halfway. She gave Melanie a wink. “Wilhelm insists this room remain secret, especially from the staff who keep a raging fire going under a tank below stairs from dark to midnight every night. We’ve endlessly debated whether Scotland is ready for heated indoor plumbing. I vote yes. He thinks it could unravel the fabric of time or some nonsense and I might never come into existence as a consequence. Thinks I might evaporate into thin air if I let the wrong thing slip. He’s so dramatic. Well, what are you waiting for? Take off your dress.”

The woman tried to hide it, but the faint lines around her mouth suggested the Lady Murray took a great deal of pleasure in sharing her little haven with her guest.

She shucked her dress and shift, the hot water beckoning her past any issues she might have had about stripping in front of a stranger. “How?” she asked, dipping her fingers into the water. The temperature was perfect. She sank in with a sigh and let the tub fill up around her.

“I was a mechanical engineer. Before. 1981 is when I came through the stones. And Wilhelm is no slouch in the brains department. That, and he’s very wealthy and determined to give me anything I want.”