Page 12 of The Story of his Highland Bride
He thinks I’m a witch. I’d bet my next bestseller on it. Probably reckons I’m going to turn him into a toad or something.She desperately wanted to say as much, hoping he might laugh this time, but common sense held her tongue. After all, if hedidthink she was a witch, she didn’t want to make her situation any worse.
“I’ll go one better, and thank you for rescuing me from the road, and for giving me these clothes and a nice breakfast. Your porridge is infinitely tastier than any I’ve had, and there wasn’t even any sugar in it. Who’d have thought that berries were the healthy answer, hey?” She kept her tone light, her tongue trying to tie itself in knots every time she looked too long athis handsome face. She couldn’t even filter her words properly, removing any modernity; he was just too distracting.
He took a few steps forward and sat down at the chair in front of the writing desk, turning it so he was facing her, like he was about to begin an intense interrogation. “Ye’re welcome,” he said stiffly. “Guest rites are… necessary.”
“Guest rites, of course.” She nodded, and took herself to the end of the bed, where she perched awkwardly. “As the Laird, you oversee that kind of thing, right? Youarethe Laird, aren’t you? Or are you… um… the other one?”
The Laird sniffed. “I am the Laird, aye.”
Good looking, but stingy with his words. What a shame,she couldn’t help lamenting. He had a pleasant, deep voice that made her stomach feel funny, so maybe him not saying much was for the best.
“Do I call you “Laird” or “Jackson”? I think that’s what Kaitlyn said your name was,” she continued, fidgeting with her belt.
The man clenched his hands into fists, like she’d just heinously insulted him. “Whichever ye prefer,” he replied. “Jackson will do, though “M’Laird” is proper.”
“Names are easier,” she told him.
“Well then, Eloise, what are ye doin’ here? What put ye in me path last night?” He met her anxious gaze. “Do ye belong to the people of the old ways? I noticed ye have a mark, and I cannae fathom why a lass like ye would have such a thing unless ye were a… priestess or somethin’ for the old spirits of this country.”
Eloise blinked at him, fumbling through his words to try and make sense of them. She’d expected an outright accusation of her being a witch, but a priestess of Scotland’s old spirits had come out of left field. In fact, it took her at least a minute to catch her mind up to the tattoo he’d spoken about. When her brain finally realized what he was talking about, a laugh spilled from her lips.
“It’s… from a book. One of my favorites, actually,” she explained, trying to lift up the silk shirt that wasn’t on her person anymore. “I got it done when I was eighteen, as a kind of ironic joke. An ex-boyfriend said some mean things, so I got myself a “scarlet letter” as a sort of middle finger to him and any other man who thought they could say that kind of thing to any woman.”
Wait, wait, wait… if it’s 1701, that book won’t come out for another 150 years.She cursed herself inwardly for mentioning it, instead of just saying that, yes, she was a mysterious priestess. That might’ve saved her from a burning, if he was a believer of such things. Although, there was another layer of irony to the fact that the tattoo might be the thing that got her burned as a witch.
“I daenae read much,” he admitted curtly. “But I’ve never heard of anyone wearin’ a mark from a book.”
Eloise cleared her throat. “We Manx people are an odd bunch.”
“Manx?” His eyebrows raised. “Is that where ye hail from?”
“It is, and I was… on a pilgrimage of sorts from the island when I encountered you. I was… um… sent to visit the Clava Cairns, as I think I told you, to pay homage to my… uh… ancestors.” Her insides cringed at the lie; she was far better at weaving a tall tale on a page than with her own voice.
A dark cloud descended across Jackson’s already grumpy demeanor. “Those stones are bewitched.”
“Tell me about it.” She chuckled, glancing down at her palm and noticing, for the first time, a faint redness.
“Are ye a witch? Is that why ye went there? Were ye on a pilgrimage from a Manx coven?” He shifted in his chair, like the thought made him uncomfortable.
Eloise tried to look anywhere else but at him, struggling to arrange her thoughts and lies in a way that he might believe. But as she hadn’t yet come to terms with the fact that she might actually be hundreds of years away from where she was supposed to be, it was hard to figure out what might keep her alive, much less what might get her back to her time. Part of her wanted to ask him to take her back to the cairns, so she could try her luck with the rocks, but if he thought Clava Cairns were bewitched, maybe he’d refuse.
“I’m… not what you think I am,” she said, at last. “I’m sure as heck not a witch, but what I am is something that you won’t believe. I don’t even believe it.”
For a long while, Jackson sat in silence, his brown eyes fixed upon a scratch in the floorboards. He seemed to be searching for answers in the imperfection, or maybe he was imagining a different plank of wood, arranged underneath a stake, which he’d willingly tie her to so she wouldn’t cast any curses or plagues on his people. From what Eloise could remember in her research, those in medieval times weren’t exactly easy to reason with when it came to things they couldn’t explain.
“Tell me what ye are,” he said with a sigh. “Nay matter what it is, ye’re safe to speak with me. I willnae burn ye. I willnae let anyone burn ye, neither. All I want is to ken what manner of… being ye are, so I can protect me people. I’ll protect ye too, if that’s what the old ways demand of me.”
Eloise’s heart leaped a little, hearing him say that he would protect her. Considering his muscles and intimidating presence, she didn’t doubt that he could. She almost wished she could drag him back to her time, march him up to Peter, and have the Laird beat her lying, traitorous ex to a pulp.Thatwould’ve been a nice twist of fate, for sure.
The trouble was, how could she tell this man, this Laird, that she was a woman from 2016 and that she had no idea how to get home again? She’d already told him the first part, and he hadn’t believed her. Nor could she blame him. But if she didn’t say something, and make it less impossible, it would only be amatter of time before something killed her: if not being burned at the stake, then a pathetic cold that these people didn’t have the medicine to cure.
And I never liked Dickens,she mused miserably, envisioning the flu carrying her off into the afterlife, while no one in 2016 would ever know what had become of her.
7
Jackson waited patiently for Eloise to speak, though she had been silent for a rather long time. Her brow kept furrowing and relaxing, her mouth moving as if she was practicing what she was about to say before she said it. Indeed, none of her actions sparked any hope of him being able to trust what came out of her mouth next.
“I would never hurt anyone or curse anyone,” she told him evenly, a short while later. “I wouldn’t even know how, as I’m not a witch. I’m just… an author—a writer, if that makes more sense to you. I went on a last-minute trip to clear my mind after my fiancé broke up with me, two months before—”
