“Aye,” voices called out in unison.
Donal sat beside Iain, and Callum dragged a chair to the desk.
“Your lassie is a strange one,” Callum said.
“Aye,” Maeve said. “I have questions aboot that one.”
Iain raised his brows and shot a glance to Jannet. “Questions?”
“Aye. The servants are talking. They say she is like a witch.”
“She is not a witch. An angel, perhaps, but not a witch.”
“I said they say she is like a witch, but without a witch’s powers or standing.”
“Explain.”
“She speaks strangely.” At Iain’s opening of his mouth to say something, Maeve continued. “Yes, you said she was from the Americas, but I know people who have traveled there and back. They still speak as we speak mostly. I would not take them as not belonging in our world.”
“Our world?”
Donal coughed. “She means that if she were a witch, she would not be of our world but of some magical place.”
Smiling at Donal, Maeve placed her hand on Iain’s arm. “Aye. And she walks strangely. She looks like she has never worn skirts before. She is always hitching the hems up and letting her legs walk freely. She has a strange aspect. I don’t know what it is.” She tilted her head and thought for a moment. “Her skin is smooth, but there’s something aboot her eyes.” She let out an impatient huff. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“Aye,” Callum said. “It is her eyebrows. They are shaped strangely, are they not?”
“Aye,” Maeve said. “Callum has the right of it. They make her whole face, ah, not wrong . . . different.”
“Beautiful,” Donal said.
Callum nodded his head. “Aye.”
Iain let out a growl at their enraptured faces. “That is enough, ye two.” He rubbed his now clean-shaven chin, missing the feel of his beard’s bristles. Studying his sister and the two men he had known since they were all babes in arms—the two men he trusted above all others—he wondered if he should tell them. His gaze drifted to Jannet. She nodded in encouragement. Iain returned his attention to the three he loved above all else. Perhaps they could dispel the gossip.
Donal and Callum exchanged questioning glances over the rims of their cups.
Maeve narrowed her eyes. “What is it that is so secret you have to tell us behind closed doors?”
Iain steepled his hands under his chin. “What I am aboot to tell you will not leave this room.” Maeve bit her cheek, as she was wont to do when asked to do something she didn’t like. “You are not to tell a soul, Maeve, not even your maidservant.”
“But Leah and I are friends. We share all together.”
“Not this time, love. Please give me your word.”
She glanced at Donal, who gave a slight nod. Iain stopped the smile from forming on his lips. Donal had always been the eldest, the one Maeve would call if she couldn’t get her way with Iain. He would champion her side more times than not.
Plopping back on the settee, Maeve nodded. “Aye, you have my word.”
Iain stood up and walked around to the front of the table. “Abigail is not from our time. Wait. No talking until I am finished.” He waited until they had stopped gazing at one another with skeptical faces. “She is from the future. That is why she talks, walks, and appears different.”
Maeve folded her arms across her chest and humphed. “That is the silliest thing I have ever heard.”
Donal rose and placed his arm on Iain’s shoulder. “Ye really believe that?”
“Aye. I’ve been with her for weeks . . .” He frowned. “I am not sure, it could have been months. I was dying, and she saved my life. If it weren’t for her, I would still be on the battlefield, dead.”
He went on and explained about her time device. Fielding questions, he answered what he could about her time, but suggested if they had any questions, they should ask her themselves. “But make certain ye are no’ overheard,” he said.
