Page 9 of The Story of his Highland Bride
She breathed a small sigh of relief, though it still didn’t explain why she was wearing nothing but her underwear. Peeling away the layers of blankets, which smelled authentically musty, she took a closer look. Bandages were wrapped tightly around her legs, from her calves to the middle of her thighs, releasing a fragrant aroma that stung her nostrils.
The woods… the thorns… they must’ve had to take my clothes off to treat my injuries,she realized, as there were a few more bandages around her forearms, too. And, reaching up, she found a final bandage encircling her head.Clava Cairns. I hit my head. I must’ve been delirious, after all.
Satisfied with her logic, she cast another glance over the bedroom, admiring the attention to detail. When she was younger, putting her first books out to agents and independentpublishers, she’d written a sweeping romance set in medieval England, so she knew a thing or two about authenticity. The book hadn’t sold or gained any interest, but the research had stuck with her, and whoever had “dressed” the bedroom knew their stuff, too. Even the pattern and the glazing on the chamber pot was accurate.
“Harriet…” Eloise smacked her forehead lightly, “she’s never going to believe me. Might as well tell her that my dog ate my pages.”
Searching for her phone, she found it on the sturdy, 17thcentury nightstand. As she picked it up, she peered down to find out what she’d knocked off earlier. Glass shards glinted on the hardwood floor, while liquid spread toward a dull deer hide that, thankfully, didn’t still have its head attached. And from the pooling liquid, that same fragrant aroma wafted up.
“Antiseptic cream gone out of fashion?” she muttered, shuffling into a sitting position so she could check her phone.
The screen stared blackly back at her, no matter how many times she tapped it. Pressing the power button gave no joy, either, just the symbol of a battery with a lightning bolt through it.
“Great. That’s just great.” She tilted her head back and sent a sigh up to the ceiling, where dusty old cobwebs fluttered in a draft.
Rubbing her eyes some more and stretching her mouth in a yawn, she crawled across the bed, phone in hand, and began a fruitless search for an outlet. She’d stayed in stately homes and castles before, on writing retreats and holidays, and even the oldest of them had kept up with modern times, wiring in some outlets and some half-decent plumbing.
They must’ve taken the lights out so no eagle-eyed viewers could make a comment,she mused, casting a wary glance up at the antler chandelier that hung between the bed and the fireplace. Real candles were wedged into holders, unlit, with not a bulb in sight. No outlets anywhere, either.
Resting her phone’s cool screen against her feverish forehead, she took a moment to think about how she’d gotten there. She remembered the two actors on horses, and one of them drawing his prop sword on her, and then… and then—
“1701,” she whispered, smirking. “He said it was 1701.”
Chuckling, she wondered if that insanely handsome man was always insufferable with his method acting, or if he ever took a day off. If he did do the latter, she wouldn’t have minded getting to know him better. Even then, thinking about him, part of her was certain that she’d dreamed him up; no man had any right to be that good-looking. It wasn’t fair on the other men in the world, raising a bar that high.
Just then, she heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. Her gaze darted toward the medieval door, and watched the iron ring of the handle turn, prompting her to dive back under the covers.
She pulled the blankets and furs up to her chin, peering anxiously over the top as someone entered.
“Och, ye’re awake!” A young woman, dressed in a brown, woolen dress, worn over the top of a beige-colored leine, jolted in fright.
Relieved, and just a tiny bit disappointed that it wasn’t one of the two handsome men, Eloise emerged from the covers once more. “I seem to be, though some painkillers wouldn’t go amiss. I guess you’ve got to make sure I’m not allergic or something, right, before you give them to me. Lucky for you, and for me, the only thing I’m allergic to is raw onion.”
The woman blinked slowly. “Pardon, Miss?”
“I need painkillers and an outlet to charge my phone,” Eloise replied. “Just the outlet will do, if you can’t work around the health and safety thing.”
The poor girl looked like she’d just been asked to fulfil a billionaire’s list of demands, her mouth opening and closing like a beached fish, while her fingertips fidgeted with the front of her dress, picking off a loose strand of wool.
“I’m sorry, Miss, but I daenae understand what ye’re askin’ me for,” the woman said, at last. “I can get ye a tonic to kill the pain, but… I daenae ken what an… um… phone is.” She struggled with the word, like it was unfamiliar in her mouth. “As for an outlet—were ye lookin’ for somewhere to swim? Is “phone” somethin’ to do with swimmin’? I cannae swim, so I wouldn’ae ken, but…well, there’s nay river mouth near here, but there are a few streams and a loch if that would please ye?”
Eloise stared hard at the girl, seeking a flicker of trickery or a smirk that might betray the joke that was being played on her. But, unless the nervous woman was averygood actor, she seemed to be serious. Even the way she’d fumbled over the word “phone” sounded natural, like she was really trying to pronounce something she’d never heard before.
“What year is it?” Eloise asked, her heart in her throat.
The woman tilted her head to one side. “Pardon, Miss?”
“What year is it?” Eloise repeated, as her stomach began to churn.
None of this could be real. It was ridiculous to even consider what she was considering, but between the stones whispering to her, the boom, the parking lot of Clava Cairns and the road leading to it disappearing; the “actors” holding her at sword-point, waking up in a room whereeverythingwas authentic, down to the lack of outlets, and this young woman’s obvious confusion, she had to contemplate the laws of probability. An Occam’s razor type scenario, in which the simplest explanation was often the right one.
“It’s the year of our Lord, 1701,” the woman replied, as if Eloise was the one who was mad.
A wave of nausea punched Eloise right under her ribs, dropping her chin to her chest as she fought to breathe through it. She gripped handfuls of the blankets to try and anchor herself to a world that didn’t feel possible, though she stopped short of pinching herself. The pain in her head was enough to let her know that she wasn’t dreaming, she wasn’t unconscious, and she likely wasn’t in 2016 anymore.
I nearly wrote this story,her brain mocked her.I had a couple of chapters, but then I thought… this doesn’t make any sense. Still doesn’t, apparently.
“Did ye want me to arrange for ye to swim?” the woman, presumably the maid if they were truly at the turn of the 18thcentury, asked. “His Lairdship has said that ye’re to have anythin’ that ye ask for.”
