“Impossible,” James said. “Napier, my brother-in-law, took her back with him to Montrose.”
“No, the lass was taken from under his nose. Campbell has her,” MacColla said. "He was given a commission of fire and sword, and he rides south, killing every Royalist in his path. He burnt the House of Airlie to the ground, and last word is that he’s returned to his own castle.”
The amiable effects of the whisky bled from James’s eyes and voice. He edged forward in his seat, his features chill and focused. “Campbell took her to Inveraray?” he asked sharply.
“No, his other castle, Gloom. The bastard uses the old name.” MacColla shook his head in disgust. "He seeks to intimidate by any means. Despite the men at his back, the Campbell is a soft and weak lump of flesh, and it angers him.
“I am sorry, Graham,” he added. “If she’s lucky, your woman is already dead.”
They were to rest through the day, and travel by night. The sound of snoring filled the small room, but James lay sleepless, fingering the strip of blue cloth once torn from Magda’s dress. They’d shared just two kisses, and yet the thought of her seared him.
“You think of the lass.” Rollo spoke softly in the semidarkness. They’d pulled the shutters tight, but daylight snuck in through cracks, throwing haphazard blades of light around the room.
“No . . .” James hesitated, and could feel his friend’s stern look on his shoulders. “Aye,” he admitted, his voice tight with pain. “I think of the lass.”
The vividness of his memories shocked him. The silk of her heavy hair tangled in his hands, the flush of her wide, just-kissed mouth. Visceral images and sensations that sheared through James with a wanting and regret he hadn’t realized in himself.
“I was a fool,” he said in a tight whisper. “She came like a gift from the Fates, and I foolishly entrusted her safety to another.”
“Napier is not just any other person, James. You cannot blame yourself.”
James’s silent energy vibrated through the room, charging the air like lightning before a storm.
“She must be special indeed to have caught the eye of an inveterate bachelor like yourself,” Rollo attempted lightheartedly.
“Extraordinary,” James replied at once. After a pause, he repeated, “Magda is extraordinary.”
“And what does your family think of her?”
“Och, my family gets along with most. You know my sister. Margaret was thrilled to have another woman’s life with which to meddle.”
“And is Magda much like your sister?”
James laughed, quick and low. “Not that you could say, no. Do you know, the lass plays golf?” James sat up eagerly, tucking the blue strip of cloth into his breast pocket. “Aye, she truly can play. She gave old Tom Sydserf a thorough trouncing.” He chuckled quietly, a distant look in his eye. “And shooting from the rough? Magda . . . well, at first you’d think she was a starchy, queenly sort of lass. Very upright. But she got in it at Montrose.
You ken the gorse near the tenth hole? Well she got into trouble, and damned if the lass didn’t hunker down, waggling her haunches like a wee rabbit, and she took her shot and that ball sprang out like a rousted bird.”
James’s smile went slack. Hands restless, he once again took the cloth from his pocket and rubbed it idly between his fingers.
“I see we’ve a problem then,” Rollo said gravely.
“Aye,” he replied, knowing well what his friend referred to. To search for Magda now would be to waylay their current plans. They had a king’s commission, thousands of Irishmen, and the north full of Highlanders ready for battle. To chase after a woman who might already be dead was a potentially ruinous complication. And yet it was clear that James would choose no other path. “We’ve a problem indeed.”
They sat silent in the room’s gloomy half-light for some time, then a canny smile slowly spread across James’s face. "Although . . .”
“Tell it, James. What do you have us in for now?”
“Spiriting Magda out from under Campbell’s nose and the war we wage are not necessarily at cross-purposes. A mere minor detour on the way to Perth, aye? Not to mention a pleasant way to provoke the Campbell.”
"MacColla will be pleased, at least,” Rollo said. "We abscond with the lass, and Campbell has no choice but to follow us north.”
“One could even say it’s to our advantage.”
Rollo paused for a moment, then asked somberly, “But what if she’s dead, James?”
“She’s not dead,” he growled. “I feel . . . I feel I’d know it somehow. But if she is . . .” He inhaled sharply. “If he’s harmed Magda in any way, I swear I’ll take his life even if it means my own. Campbell’s house will crumble around him.”
At first Magda was frustrated and angered by Lonan’s unwillingness to discuss his painting, or anything having to do with her time travel. Her relentless questioning had only been met with amused silence, or the occasional “In time, child.” So she finally decided to just give in to the experience, trusting that the laconic brother really would tell her “in time.”
