so that she wasn’t coming home to an empty home. Mrs. Gibbs, her cook, would no doubt be watching TV in the private living room. She’d been part of the family for as long as Kenzie could remember and looked after the guests very well while she was away.
Coming into the foyer, she shouted out hello to Mrs. Gibbs who shouted back that her dinner was in the oven. “Thank you,” she said, heading toward the kitchen. Tomorrow, as planned, Mrs. Gibbs was taking a well-earned holiday. The guests would check out before ten o’clock, and with her mama in London, Kenzie would be free to go back to the year 1605.
She spooned the leek and potato soup into her mouth and daydreamed about medieval Scotland. What she would see and do. What would Gwendolyn think of her arrival? Shock, concern, or happiness? Kenzie would soon find out.
The following evening, alone in the house, Kenzie went to the library, over to an old tome that had all of her ancestor’s recipes for different ailments. The leather-bound book all but vibrated with history, and although Kenzie didn’t need to be anywhere specific to travel back to the seventeenth century, it seemed only right that she was near what was once her ancestor’s.
She collected the bags she’d packed a few days before, and she checked that everything that she needed for the trip was in them. She hadn’t left a stone unturned in planning this journey. Kenzie had scoured Scotland for clothing that would suit the early seventeenth century. The shoes were the only items that she’d struggled with and, finally, had gone with ankle high boots and a few slip-on shoes that resembled slippers, but were sturdier. No one would be looking at her feet in any case.
The gown she wore today was a beautiful piece of clothing, with its elbow length sleeves and corseted waist. It truly was a dress reminiscent of a time long gone. She’d hired a seamstress to make three of the gowns, and the brilliant woman had sewn the corset into the gown, eliminating the need for others to help her dress. It was a perfect solution for someone not of the time period.
Her hair already up in a messy bun, she wrapped a woolen shawl about her shoulders and deemed herself ready enough for the seventeenth century.
“Right then.” Kenzie picked up her bags, and taking a deep breath, she started to chant the Gaelic words that would take her back in time. The room spun, slow at first, before gaining speed to the point where her stomach churned. Voices and sounds shouted out around her, the layers of time that separated past and present thinned and allowed the past to intersect with the future.
Kenzie focused on the time and place that her ancestor Gwen MacLeod had lived in 1605 and ignored all the distractions until time morphed into alternate angles, before Kenzie collapsed on the ground and everything went black.
Chapter 2
Black Ben, formally known as the Laird of Ross, woke up in a tangle of blankets and straw. The pounding in his head caused vomit to rise in his throat, and he grappled for the cup beside the bed for relief. As the burning liquid of whisky slid down his throat, his body heaved and he cast up his innards onto the floor, ignoring the loathing he had for himself being in such a state.
Ben flopped back onto the pillow, some of the straw filling prickling the back of his head. One thing he hated about being away from home was the comforts of his bed, the soft linen and feathered mattress. Nothing like the hard boards that came up to greet his back, or the bugs that fed on his person at night—enough to make a man scratch his skin off.
He rolled over and groaned as the movement churned his stomach once again. Perhaps he would partake less of the fine ale and Scottish whisky tonight and concentrate on the pleasurable flesh about the place instead. Waking up in this condition would not do.
The sun moved out from beneath some clouds, and the room lightened considerably. Ben flung his arm over his eyes, not wanting another part of his body to hurt. Everything below his neckline was hurting enough.
The sound of the inn’s door slamming ricocheted through his brain, and he made a note to speak to the publican about his rowdy guests. As the Laird of Ross, his comfort while staying here should