“I told him ye’d say that,” Connor assured him. “As Emmy said, ‘tis an odd circumstance, but he insisted he knows ye but wouldnae explain how. He said if ye had any reservations aboot receiving him, to gi’ ye this.”
All eyes in the room darted to the gold chain he held out, the burnished medallion on the end gleaming as it danced and swayed hypnotically in the light. But Scarlett’s immediately went from there to Laird, who stood clutching his chest.
Emmy’s eyes widened in alarm. “God, are you okay?”
Laird
Laird clutched the pendant he wore beneath his shirt, staring at the one dangling before him as if someone had carved out a piece of his soul and brandished the trophy. Leaving him naked and vulnerable with its removal. Secure in the knowledge his own piece was safely in place, Laird snatched the undulating necklace from Connor’s hand. After a thorough inspection of the pendant, he closed his eyes.
“How is this possible?”
“Let me see,” Rhys demanded and looked the disk over, though Laird held tight to the chain. “Where would someone get this? Ye ne’er remove it.”
“Let’s ask him, shall we?”
“Laird,” Scarlett warned. “He could be a charlatan, someone who saw you on TV. You shouldn’t just let him in.”
Of all the things Laird imagined if he were to see the future world his wife had been born in, discovering his medallion anywhere but around his own neck had been the last of them. Mayhap the greatest blow as yet among the maelstrom of painful revelations. If the pendant were a fake, it was a clever one. The embossed image on the front, a rampant lion with the Latin phraseNobilis est ira leonisaround the perimeter,was identical to his own. The weight in his hand, the feel…it was the same if somewhat worn. Aye, he was cautious about allowing new people into this room and their lives. Especially after meeting his mother-in-law. But he could not simply turn away from learning where the last five hundred years had taken his one true legacy.
“They’re decent people, Scarlett. They mean no harm,” Emmy assured them, sealing his decision.
“Send him in.”
Rampant curiosity couldn’t entirely quash wariness and good sense, so Laird was on guard when Connor opened the door to admit not just a man but a tall, willowy redhead as well. The woman smiled, bonny and friendly. The man, however, wasn’t as confident of a welcome reception.
Wise of him, because however interested Laird was in the person who possessed his keepsake, the welfare of his family came first. One wrong move and Laird would have his sword drawn and at the man’s throat before he could blink.
Laird strode the space between them with slow steps, taking the measure of the man. Tall as he, the stranger was. Near as braw, but not quite. Dark hair cut short. Unarmed, his hands were open at his sides where Laird could see them. Clearly no numptie then. Laird came to a stop before the man, aware Rhys stood at guard at his back. The stranger’s vivid blue eyes, however, never veered in Rhys’s direction, remaining on Laird.
“Who are ye?”
“My name is Hugh Urquhart,” the visitor answered, his eyes studying Laird with unwavering interest. As if he were searching for something in turn. “This is my wife, Claire. Or Sorcha, if ye will.”
Laird spared her a nod but not the more courtly bow he would normally have given a lady. This was no ballroom, unless he wanted to compare his ill ease to the backbiting throngs of King James’s court. Keeping his eyes on this Urquhart, anticipating any attack, he held up the pendant. “Where did ye get this medallion?”
When the stranger reached for the necklace, Laird drew it back. There would be no returning it until he had answers.
“I am happy to explain,” Hugh replied, “but might I hae yer name first? I’ve already met Connor and Emmy. My wife is familiar with Miss Thomas.”
“She is nae Miss Thomas to ye, but my wife,” Laird told them, earning a little gasp from Sorcha. He shot her a dark look meant to threaten and subdue and the woman shrank back into the man’s protective embrace. “Dinnae think to be selling information to one of those prattling scandalmongers we’ve seen upon that blasted box.” He gestured to the television mounted to the corner of the room.
“I would never. I swear.”
Reading the truth in her unusual periwinkle eyes, Laird nodded tightly. “My name is…” Scarlett cleared her throat and the litany of reprimand and cautionary advice only a wife could infuse into such a tiny sound reminded him of where he was. “Most call me Laird.”
Hugh nodded stiffly. “Aye, I was told as much, but may I ask yer true name?”
A feral growl deep in his throat heralded Laird’s impatience, but the stranger neither cowered nor looked askance as any God-fearing man might. He but met Laird’s stare evenly. Waiting patiently. Laird’s respect for their visitor notched up ever so slightly. Behind him, he felt Rhys relax, but suspicion kept Laird tense.
However, he wanted answers far more than he wanted to cow the man, so truth down to the bare bones accompanied his answer. “My name is Lord James Stewart Patrick Hepburn, Laird and Earl of Achenmeade. This medallion was a gift to me from my mother, Lady Elizabeth Stewart, as it was gifted to her by her father, James Stewart the Auld King.”
“Laird!” Scarlett cried out, but Laird ignored her protest. ‘Twas the time for truth. Not prevarication.
“Now tell me ‘ere I’m persuaded to violence, where did ye get it?” The man’s face paled, but not from fear. Laird could sense fright well, even from a distance. Instead, this Hugh Urquhart, though stricken by the news, did not appear as dubious of Laird’s lineage as he might expect. “Speak!”
“From my mother, as well. Given to her by hers when she married my father,” Hugh answered, recovering his composure. “To my knowledge, there has only been one Earl of Achenmeade. How is it that he is here before me?”
The disclosure stunned Laird into silence for a moment. What? No son to pass on his name? Or was it worse than that? Would he and Scarlett never return to his time so he could carry on his name? The idea struck him with dread, but he bore the blow well. “What ken ye of it?”
