Page 23 of The Story of his Highland Bride
Heaving herself out of the armchair, she padded over to the window to admire the rising dawn. The world had turned white while she’d been sleeping, the forests and hills dozing underneath a crisp blanket of fresh-fallen snow that glittered in the faint, mauve light. By the looks of it, more snow was on the way, giving her aching mind second thoughts about striking out for the Clava Cairns as soon as the sun was fully up. In fact, the thick, bruised clouds seemed determined to keep the sun hidden, as if to say,Don’t go today. Take your time. See what happens.
Another blanket of white called to her, as she stood there by the window, taking in the majesty of the morning: the pile of paper on the writing desk. She’d struggled so far with the whole rigmarole of quills and ink, but something so painfully obvious that it hurt her brain sent her running to her handbag.
Sifting through the chaos of receipts, half-used lip balms and makeup, she raised up a ballpoint pen like it was a priceless artifact in a museum, and she’d been given the white gloves to hold it. It had been there all along, begging to be used. After all, a good writer never went anywhere without something to write with.
“You beauty,” she whispered, darting back to the writing desk.
If she wasn’t going to head to Clava Cairns, at least she could get started on some of the work that she owed her editor. With any luck, the reverse time-slip would function the same way as coming to the past, meaning she’d be able to take the pages back with her, like she’d brought her phone. Then, all she’d need to dowas quickly type up what she’d written, and everyone would be happy.
“But where to start?” She tapped the end of the pen against her lip, thinking of where she’d left off with the story she was supposed to be writing.
The trouble was, she had another story brewing, and it refused to be pushed aside. With a smile, and inspiration that she’d lacked for longer than she cared to admit, she poured her heart out onto the page, spurred on by the current of electricity that Jackson had sparked inside her. In truth, she’d forgotten how easy her job could be when the story felt right, as she began to write… and write… and write.
“Ye’re certain she’s still in her chamber?” Jackson asked Kaitlyn, having halted her in the hallway. She was supposed to be tending to Eloise; helping her to dress before she joined everyone else for dinner.
Kaitlyn nodded. “It’s the queerest thing, M’Laird. She’s locked the door from the inside, and when I knocked to tell her I’d come to prepare her, she said she wasnae hungry and wouldn’ae be comin’ down to dinner. It was the same when I took luncheon to her. Well, nae the same, but she refused what I’d brought—left me standin’ outside with a full tray of food that had to go back to the kitchens.” She paused. “Do ye think she’s unwell again? Should I fetch Old Joan?”
“She’s had naught to eat all day?” Jackson frowned, perturbed by the thought. Was her refusal to eat some kind of protest toward him?
Kaitlyn unleashed a sigh. “I took her breakfast to her, but she chased me out like a rat in the laundry. Dove onto somethin’ on her writin’ desk first, like she dinnae want me to see what she was doin’, and then shooed me away. I assume that’s when she locked the door on me.”
“Did ye see anythin’ of what she was doin’?” Curiosity thrummed in Jackson’s head, but it was barbed with caution.
He had done his best to avoid encountering Eloise since the previous evening. More times than he cared to count, he had considered stealing away from his bedchamber to hers, to feel the press of her lips and body against him once more. He had even contemplated lashing himself to his bedposts, for fear that he might find his way to her, even after he fell asleep. His desire for that beautiful, strange woman was unlike anything he had ever experienced; it consumed him, making him fill his day with every mundane task he could think of, just to stop his mind from dwelling constantly upon her.
The one thing he had not mustered the strength to do, however, was venture to Clava Cairns. For though he still could not fully believe Eloise’s wild tale, there was a tiny part of him that wondered if it was true, and if it was, he did not want to be the one who found her way home. Not yet.
“I dinnae,” Kaitlyn replied, reluctantly. “It just… looked like she was writin’, which isnae so strange, considerin’ she said that’s what she does. Whatwasstrange was the thing she was holdin’ to do it—it dinnae resemble any quill I’ve ever seen.”
Jackson rubbed his short beard, pondering what he should do. To be near her was to risk losing his resolve to never kiss her again, but to not be near her was to risk madness. Besides, if she had brought another bewitched, dangerous object into the castle, was it not his duty as Laird to investigate?
“Ye go on with what ye ought to be doin’,” he told Kaitlyn. “I’ll see to this meself.”
Kaitlyn dipped into a quick curtsy. “As ye prefer, M’Laird.”
He waited until the maid was out of sight before hurrying toward the kitchens, his mind set on quelling her protest before she starved to death. On his way, he had to wonder why Eloise had not yet left the castle all together, as she had threatened to. His thoughts turned back to the night before, and the heated kiss they had shared.
Is that why she hasnae fled?His heart squeezed strangely, his breath quickening as if he were in a panic.Could it be that she’s seen a reason to stay a while?
“Daenae be so daft,” he growled at himself.Whether she’s a witch or she really is a lass from the future, it’s one and the same—she’ll never belong with ye.
And, maybe, helping her to find her way home, wherever that was, would be the kindest thing he could do for her now. The safest thing, before they did something that they would not be able to undo, for that kiss had already begun to tie a knot between them.
To Jackson’s surprise, he was invited into Eloise’s bedchamber without any protest at all. Indeed, she practically ignored him, doing no more than opening the door for him before rushing back to the writing desk.
“You didn’t have to bring me any dinner,” she said, picking up that unusual quill that Kaitlyn had mentioned and starting a new sentence on the page. “I’d have grabbed something later, but… I suppose I am quite hungry. I always forget to eat when I’m working, fueled solely on coffee.”
“We daenae have coffee here.” He set the tray down, watching the quill move. There was no scratching sound from the nib, and no feather. On closer inspection, it did not appear to be made from a feather at all.
Eloise did not look up. “No, I’m painfully aware of that.” She chuckled. “After my usual seven cups a day, you wouldn’t recognize me. I’d be jittering around this room like a puppy, bouncing off the walls. I’m shocked I can still get anything done, to be honest, but it’s nice to know the noggin still works without it.”
“I still daenae understand half the things ye say,” he said, amused.
She laughed, not breaking her concentration for a moment. “Even if you were from my time, you’d struggle. I’m a better writer than I am a speaker. Always have been. When anyone asks me to describe my novel, I get all tongue-tied and don’t know what to say beyond, “Uh… it’s a book.” The publicity team must roll their eyes when they see one of my titles is coming out.”
He observed her from behind as she worked. She had gathered her hair up on top of her head, revealing the elegant curve of her neck, and the smooth, fair skin of her shoulders. His gaze trailed down the back of her neck, daring his lips to kiss that tempting flesh, his tongue to taste her.
“Read me some of yer work, then,” he half-demanded, edging closer to the delicious danger of her.
