Page 10 of The Story of his Highland Bride
Eyes still closed, Eloise whispered, “His Lairdship?”
“Aye, Miss—the man that brought ye here last night. Well, one of them. Jackson Buchanan, Laird of Faulkner. Are ye nae familiar with him? I suppose ye wouldn’ae be, as ye daenae sound like ye’re from near to here,” the maid replied uneasily, still fidgeting with her dress.
“Oh no,” Eloise murmured, her head swimming, “I’m averylong way from home.”
The maid seemed to brighten. “Ye are? Where is it ye come from, then? His Lairdship and Lennox—that’s the other lad thatbrought ye here last night—I heard them sayin’ ye were Prussian. Now, I havenae the faintest notion of where Prussia is, but it sounds very excitin’. More excitin’ than Inverness, anyway.”
“I’m still close to Inverness?” Eloise’s head shot up, her eyes widening.
“Aye, Miss.”
Think about this logically for a moment,Eloise told herself.You touched that stone, there was a sound, and then you were sent flying backward into the middle of the cairn. You thought you just hit your head, but what if… what if it sent you flying even farther back, to the actual medieval age? What would people in that era think of you: the way you speak, the way you dress, the things you have with you?Ransacking the boxes of research in her mind, she settled on one chilling word: witch. And witches were burned alive in 1701.
She hurried to hide her phone under the covers. “Actually, I don’t think I’m in the mood for a swim this morning. Might I have something to eat and drink?” She chose her words carefully, making sure she didn’t say anything too modern.
“Of course, Miss.” The maid bobbed her head. “Och, if it’s nae rude of me to say, I’d have thought ye mad if ye’d wanted to swim!”
Eloise forced a laugh. “I would’ve been, wouldn’t I? It’s winter, after all.”
Isn’t it?
“Aye, that’s what had me thinkin’ ye’d knocked yer head a bit too hard. The loch would freeze the bollocks off a stallion!”
Eloise laughed again, more genuinely this time. “A charming image.”
“Apologies, Miss. Me coarse tongue often gets me into trouble.” The maid clamped a hand over her mouth, but Eloise shook her head.
“No, I like it. Be yourself around me. I’m not a Lady or a… um… noble or anything, so there’s no need for airs and graces.”
The maid visibly relaxed. “Nae Prussian, either?”
“Manx,” Eloise lied, going for the most obscure, but not improbable, location. “We’ve our own… uh… brogue there, so I’m sorry if I sometimes say things that are hard to understand. We have our own words, too, so you’ll have to forgive me if I forget to use… um… the Scots word.”
A light came on in the maid’s eyes; her eyebrows raising as she gave a small nod of understanding. “Manx, eh? That wee island?”
“The Isle of Man, yes.” If Eloise met anyone who happened to know anything about that island other than its name, she knewshe’d be in trouble. Then again, just speaking could get her into dire trouble, and she feared she’d already said too much.
“Well, Miss, I’ll fetch that drink and somethin’ to eat for ye. I trust ye daenae eat aught strange where ye hail from, as we might nae have it?” The maid appeared to have lost all of her former nerves, showing a cheerful smile that comforted Eloise.
“Whatever you have will be fine.”
The maid bobbed her head again and turned to leave. At the door, she twisted back around to say, “I’m Kaitlyn, by the way. Ye said ye dinnae want airs and graces, so ye ought to ken me name.”
“Eloise. That’s me.”
Kaitlyn grinned. “A pleasure to meet ye, Eloise.”
“Likewise.”
With that, the maid departed, leaving Eloise alone with the most dangerous thing of all: her thoughts. For if she really was a woman out of time, stranded in 1701, how was she supposed to make it out alive? In fact, how was she supposed to make it out at all?
6
“There,” Kaitlyn announced proudly, pushing Eloise toward the looking glass in the corner of the room.
Dragging her heels, Eloise didn’t know if she was ready to face her own reflection. She assumed she looked the same, but the uncomfortable clothes that Kaitlyn had manhandled her into weren’t her sort of thing at all, and she had a feeling that the looking glass would prove as much.
“Is it always so itchy?” Eloise asked, buying time.
