Lily figured she had no more than an hour. Although her hair was still damper than she would have liked for chilly night travel in the Highlands, the clothes that Kat had left for her were sturdy and thick. At that moment, however, she sure was missing good -old American fabrics. The tartan shawl that Kat had given her, though blessedly warm, was scratchy and held a smell that Lily hoped was just must.
She could hear distant bustling noises emanating from the floor below. As she cracked her door to check the hallway for people, the smell of some kind of roasting meat wafted into her room. She shut her eyes, feeling momentarily weak from hunger. Something about the fall that she took had left her famished, and she hadn’t exactly been sated after the Spartan lunch of brown bread and hard cheese that Kat had served earlier that afternoon.
From the commotion, she realized that there were far more people staying there than just Kat and the Cameron brothers. Looking up and down the cavernous hallway, she noted that she was indeed stranded in an antiquated castle. There was no electricity to be seen. Even though dusk had fallen, the hallway was only dimly lit by a series of torches. Her sense of inner calm wavered. She really did need to get out of here. Between the Camerons’ period dress, the rough accommodations, and the gamey smells rising up from the kitchen, Lily had no desire to see what other niceties these brothers had up their sleeves. For all she knew, there was a dungeon in this medieval pad of theirs.
Although her stomach disagreed, Lily knew that this was her only opportunity to make a run for it. She didn ’t have a plan but figured that if she could make it out, she’d be able to navigate her way back to her cottage. Tightening the shawl around her shoulders, Lily stifled a sneeze and stepped out into the dark hallway.
A dull ache crept along her shins, her bare feet revolting against the cold stone floor. She was immediately hit by a wave of uncertainty. These people, though odd, seemed kind and hospitable enough. And the strong aroma of roasting meat was becoming more appealing by the minute. What was she thinking to take on the Highland terrain, after dark, clad only in some sort of period costume that didn ’t even feature a decent pair of shoes? She fingered the coarse tan muslin of her skirt and thought the last time she wore something that fell to her ankles was at her senior prom, and she didn’t like it much then either. Her waist was already beginning to itch from the material. The clothes were clearly hand sewn, and the only way to approximate a suitable fit was to gather the skirt tightly at the waist with a cloth belt.
Lily thought of the warm room that awaited her at her cottage. The notion of a hot meal and a dram of whisky by the fireplace seemed nothing short of nirvana. All she needed was to make it out of the castle and to the main road. From there she could flag down a passing car. Someone might even be out looking for her.
She padded down the dimly lit hallway. Enormous oil paintings lined the corridor, barely illuminated by the flickering torches, giving Lily piecemeal glimpses of grave Scottish warriors. Stern faces glared down at her—each belonging to a man in tartan and bonnet, bearing sword and shield. Though she was certain they would appear benign enough in the daylight, the portraits were ominous, with eyes that seemed to follow her in the darkness. The effect overpowered any remaining uncertainty that she might have felt about getting the hell out of there. She chastised herself—there were no such things as ghosts—but the images of formidable warriors, presumably long dead, urged her along at a faster clip just the same.
She reached the top of a massive stairway. Although the stone steps were relatively rough -hewn compared to the majestic marble staircases that she ’d seen elsewhere in Europe, the grandeur took Lily’s breath away. The granite stairs swept around and down, disappearing into the shadows of the landing below. The walls were also stonework, dotted with small niches holding thick, cream-colored tapers. Faint light played along the surface of the pitted stones and shimmered off long, dense cords of cloudy wax that striped the walls, attesting to years of spent candles.
The kitchen smells that Lily had gotten a whiff of earlier were even stronger at the head of the stairs. She shut her eyes and inhaled deeply, now savoring the mingled aromas of stew and bread and ale that filled her senses. Once again she paused, uncertain that sneaking out was the right thing to do. The eerie feeling that Robert had been right flickered across her mind. Perhaps like the lad in Gram’s lullaby, Lily had somehow been whisked from the future, and Robert, Ewen, and the rest weren’t pretending. Her mind toyed with the possibility for a moment then dismissed it in favor of the most likely explanation, that the household was populated with Ren Faire types who, Lily knew, could sometimes take their roles reenacting history a little too seriously. She once knew an engineer at work who had a Renaissance-themed wedding. He wore a velvet doublet with slashed sleeves and put his bride in a brocaded gown, the corset of which was so tight it pushed the poor woman’s breasts up to her chin. It was actually quite a lovely dress, but Lily estimated the thing must have weighed in the neighborhood of thirty pounds.
Past or not, she mused, the whole situation gave her a bad feeling. Though, she supposed, she could at least get a good meal in her stomach before taking her leave. Lily turned and, looking back down the hallway, imagined how easy it would be to scamper back to her room, stoke the fire, and sit in relative peace and warmth, waiting for the hot dinner that Kat would surely bring to her.
Then she saw it on the wall, a forbidding image that froze Lily where she stood, renewed panic seizing her. She hiked up her skirt and raced down the shadowy stairs as quickly as she could, the grim visage of Ewen Cameron looking fiercely down on her from a massive portrait at the head of the stairs.
Ewen didn’t know what to make of the lass. Years had passed before he’d truly accepted Robert’s story as the truth. The MacMartin clan had found the young man, half-starved and freezing, on the banks of a small loch on their lands in Letterfinlay. Shortly before his death, Ewen ’s grandfather agreed to foster Robert. Despite being young himself, Ewen had been immersed in preparing for his role as laird. So occupied, he hadn’t been interested in the affairs of younger lads and had kept his distance from Robert. For all his tales of future wonders, the youth seemed more interested in books than battle, which was where Ewen’s head lay. The two young men forged a relationship akin to true blooded brothers, and though neither would call their bond affectionate, they held each other and their differing interests in high esteem.
And now it seemed another had passed through this labyrinth. A part of Ewen had never fully embraced Robert’s story. The lad had been prone to great fancies, and a garden maze with transportative powers seemed a childish fantasy. Ewen realized now how the nagging scientist in him had, in a small corner of his mind, held fast to the idea that Robert’s story was merely the caprice of a scared and runaway young man. But now the lass. There was no constructing such an easy explanation for her. Robert had shown him the fine weave of her sweater.
And there was her bizarre accent, and the fact that she had the same tale to tell as Robert—wandering through a labyrinth and taking a great fall.
There was something different about her as well. Something in her eyes that made her stand apart from other women he had known. Scottish lasses were strong-willed and strong-boned, but something about Lily spoke to a courageous self-reliance that he had never sensed in a woman before. First, there was the matter of her injury. Although having the shoulder knocked out wasn ’t a grave wound, it was a violently acute pain that pushed all other thoughts from your mind. Ewen was accustomed only to seeing men weather such a thing, with the lasses in his immediate experience suffering from no more than the occasional faint or heat spell. Yet Lily pushed the pain aside to deal with the situation at hand, just as his men put by their wounds on the battlefield. It was a thing he both recognized and could not help but respect.
Then there was the matter of her temperament. During their interview she was clearly afraid, and who wouldn ’t be, vulnerable and alone as she was. And yet, not only had she held her ground, but damn if the lass hadn’t shown some sparks of temper. He had to bite the inside of his cheek so as not to smile when he glimpsed such spirited outrage on her part. Women were generally biddable and agreeable creatures around the laird, and he didn ’t know just how bored he ’d been by them until he encountered this Lily and the fire crackling bright in her eyes.
As spirited as her temper was, there was something about the lass physically that made Ewen, generally wary of all strangers, feel compelled to protect her. Though a bit on the thin side for the laird’s tastes, she was radiant. He’d been struck by the creamy fineness of her skin and the roses that bloomed on her cheeks as if permanently flushed. Clearly her hands had never seen a day of real work in her life, delicate as they were, untouched by sun or labor. It was easy for him to imagine how those were indeed the hands of an artist, with a gentle touch, sensitive fingertips articulating the world around her with paint or clay. Ewen found he wanted to take those hands in his and hide her in his keep away from any who would hurt her. And the ethereal pale of her riotous hair—she was like a wild fey creature. Very few women of his acquaintance had hair that light, and fewer still wore their curls loose. Rather, they bound, braided, or bunched their hair into elaborate immovable styles. The laird got the sense that even had Lily tried to pull her hair back, just like her pe rsonality, some part of it would spring forth in challenge. He couldn’t help but imagine tangling himself in the thick white blonde mass.
Her mouth too captivated him—he had never seen teeth so white. And with a single crooked front tooth. He imagined the feel of her bite on his skin and felt himself grow hard as he wondered what other marvels this woman held.
The Cameron laird shook his head, chiding himself. “What am I on about?” he grumbled to himself. “Carrying on like a schoolboy. And over such an excitable lass. ”
Since Mairi died, he had stayed clear of women. He should have known better than to let his traitorous mind wander, particularly over the curves of a hot-headed outsider—no matter how unusual her beauty.
Chapter 7
The bitter air was a slap in the face. The sun had set long ago, making way for a long and chill Highland night. There ’s no going back now, Lily thought, as she shut the heavy door behind her and ran down the wide path away from the Cameron estate. She was still amazed that she had managed to sneak out without drawing attention to herself and was thankful that most of the household had been occupied preparing for that evening’s supper.
Lily ran. She cursed herself for not keeping up with any kind of workout regimen as very quickly the crisp air began to sear her lungs. A dull ache set in her throat, her body fighting to get enough oxygen to her unfit muscles. Small rocks bit into her feet—she wasn’t used to going without shoes and the soles of her feet were already becoming raw. She tried to concentrate on the rhythm of her pumping legs, as they raced toward what she thought was the direction of the road.
Lily stumbled on a rut in the path. She struggled to regain her footing, her efforts in vain as she slipped on a patch of grass that was already glistening with dew in the moonlight. She landed hard on her hands and knees and pain shot up her arms, reigniting the searing agony in her shoulder that had only just subsided into a dull ache. Between enduring her fall, the fever, and all the panic and fear that she had been struggling to keep in check, Lily crumpled onto the ground in a flood of exhaustion and loneliness. Resting her head on the cool damp earth, Lily let the tears come.
She didn’t know how much time had passed when the crying finally started to feel like it had run its course. Between shuddering sobs, Lily caught a glimpse of a road ahead of her. Though unpaved, it appeared well traveled. She’d made it. It was surely just an easy, albeit long walk back to her cottage now. “Keep it together, you dope, ” she mumbled aloud, wiping her eyes and nose. “You ’re safe now, so stop feeling so sorry for yourself. ”
Disregarding the cold damp that seeped through the fabric of her skirt, Lily settled cross-legged in the rocky grass to spend a moment gathering her wits. “Drama queen,” Lily chided herself, as much to hear a voice in the silence as to bring her situation back to normal. Breathing deeply, she looked around, awed at the beauty around her—the sky was a velvety black, dotted with more stars than she had ever seen before. The moon hung low in the sky, a perfect crescent throwing soft light across the rough terrain. The night was gorgeous. It was brisk, but if she got going now, she could be back in time for a late, hot supper. One of those tasty Highland steaks and a tall pint of beer.
Roused by the thought, Lily stood. She shook the dirt and dampness from her skirt, and sniffling one last time, she looked to her right and left trying to decide which way to go. Not yet ready to part with the glorious moon in the sky, she took a left on the road and began to walk.
Ewen ignored the knock on his door. He despised interruptions. The hour before supper was always his time to steal some much needed solitude and Kat should have known better than to disrupt his thoughts.
While Ewen had been busy doing some verbal jousting with Monk that morning, his uncle Donald had somehow managed to discreetly pilfer a manuscript from the tent of the unctuous general. It turned out to be potential attack plans from Cromwell himself, and Ewen was finding it to be a real gem.
The knock sounded again. Ewen tore himself from his reading with a low growl. “What?”