Page 5 of Highlander Unraveled
“Mrs. Gordon!” An older woman pushed open the door of her tiny yellow house and waved at me. “Mrs. Lamb called. Come in!”
I didn’t even ask. I bolted inside, let her shut the door behind me and set the lock in place.
I leaned against the wall beside the door, panting, my head hitting and rocking a picture that hung there.
“Thank you,” I murmured, pressing my hand to my heart.
The woman nodded, her lips pursed. “Never ye mind that, dear. We need to get ye cleaned up.”
“I’m—”
“Emma.” She gripped my hand in hers, patted it. “I know, dearie. I’m Mrs. MacDonald. We’ve all been hearing about ye. Come now. I’ve a daughter about your size. We’ll get ye changed and then I’ll drive ye wherever ye need.”
I let myself breathe a small, hopeful, sigh of relief. “Edinburgh. I need to get to Edinburgh.”
“I’ll take ye there.”
“But it’s so far from here.” At least a four-hour drive. “Maybe just the train station.”
“Nonsense. No distance is too far.” She sounded like she wanted to add more, perhaps that she’d drive to Hell if needed to get me away from Steven.
We’ve all been hearing about ye.
Thank God for Mrs. Lamb. She was like my fairy grandmother in this world. I hadn’t the inclination to be annoyed that she’d been talking about me, for I was only grateful that she had, or else I’d not be here, dry and almost safe.
Mrs. MacDonald ushered me up a narrow staircase, the fact that her name was the same as Logan’s greatest enemy not lost on me.
She led me into a small bedroom, wallpapered in thistles, and looking as though it had been last decorated in 1968. A yellowed, crocheted blanket covered a twin bed pushed up against the wall. A tall, antique dresser stood stoically beside the window, with a basin and pitcher on top.
She flung open a closet, and the clothes inside also looked like they were from 1968. The woman looked to be in her seventies, making her daughter maybe in her forties or fifties at most.
“Claudia likes vintage, as ye can tell,” Mrs. MacDonald frowned, riffling through the clothes. “’Haps this will do.”
She tugged out a plain black, knee-length, cotton wrap dress. A thick black belt to tie in the middle. Two black, leather flats.
I worked to shuck myself from the wet linen and wool, the fabric sticking to my skin. But finally, I stood naked, arms crossed over my full breasts, dripping and achy.
Mrs. MacDonald looked me over, appraising me with a sorrowful eye.
“A bath first?”
“Is there time?” I glanced toward the window where the blinds were drawn.
“He’s not going to look for ye so close. And even if he comes knocking, I don’t have to answer.”
I nodded, a small weight lifting, and feeling grateful to have people on my side.
“Come along then.” She handed me a bathrobe, which I slipped on, the feel of the scratchy old terrycloth a reminder of the one my mother used to wear before she died.
“When did ye have your bairn?” she asked.
I swallowed hard, again touching the softness of my belly. “Saor was born six weeks ago.”
“Saor. I like that name. Seems fitting, given your situation.” She cocked her head, like she was going to say more but instead, said, “We’ll get ye back to Saor.”
I nodded, even though I was pretty certain Mrs. MacDonald had no idea how to get me back to my child. Or that I’d even time traveled in the first place.
2
