The same shade as my mother’s.
Goose bumps crawl up my skin, pulling it tight and cold. This conversation can only be headed one way, and it’s a dangerous one.
“Closer.” He waves his hand at me. “Come closer.”
He reaches in, and it’s not the hair he pulls from his box, but a piece of paper. It’s a charcoal drawing. Of Janet. She’s young—younger than I am now—and pretty. Innocently so.
My resentment wavers, unspooling into something unexpected. Seeing her like this—young, soft, uncertain—I realize Janet wasn’t always Janet. She had dreams once. Desires. Hopes that were stolen from her.
She may not have wanted this laird, but she’d wanted something, and I’ll bet it wasn’t a one-way trip to the future.
“You’ll recognize my Janet,” he says. “MacGregors stole her from me in the night. Those fools have always been their own worst enemies. Taking my bride added kindling to their own pyre.” His gaze flashes back to me, devouring me again. “I was beginning to lose hope. But the heavens sent you, a red-haired angel to grant me faith.” His voice drops to a whisper, as if afraid the spirits themselves might hear. “Because ohh, lass, the look of you. It’s uncanny. You’re the very image of her.” His fingers twitch toward his relics—the lock of hair, the drawing—as if they might vanish if he doesn’t keep them close.
Holy wow.This man obviously doesn’t suspect I have anything to do with anything. And why would he? As far as he knows, I’m some random, maybe-daft girl who’s the same age as his missing wife.
I’m certainly not going to be the one to let him in on the truth.
“Thank you,” I say, andfind the words are unexpectedly heartfelt. My mother was loved. Is loved. I’ve come to realize, she’s out of place in my world, not because she doesn’t care, but because it’s just notherworld.
For years, I’ve thought of myself as my mother’s keeper. But here, faced with evidence of her youth, I’m a child again. Her child.
How shocking and terrifying it must’ve been, finding herself in such a different era. It’s been shocking and terrifying for me too, sure, but I’ve studied history. I’ve watched movies and gone to museums. I know enough to make the unfamiliar recognizable.
But traveling so far into the future? Airplanes, cell phones, televisions—to a girl born in 1603, they must’ve seemed like instruments of the devil.
I clear my throat, tight with emotions that run deeper and more complicated than I realized. “She’s beautiful,” I say, choosing my words carefully.
He notes my use of present tense and looks grateful. “Aye, she is. The bonniest.”
He wells up then, and his tears aren’t those of a powerful laird. As his eyes go red and rheumy, like a trick of the light, he’s revealed to me for what he is in his heart: a sad, old man.
“So you see”—his expression shutters again—“sentimentality and superstition are what spared you.” He turns to his bowl of broth. “Now then. I’m told to take this right away, and I’d rather not dine in front of a servant.”
I’m thrown by his abruptness, and it takes a second to understand I’m dismissed. When I do, I scurry from the room before he has a chance to changehis mind.
I must have walked down those stairs and left the keep, but I don’t remember any of it. All I know is that I’m outside now. But I can still feel Campbell’s stare. Like he was looking at a ghost.
I need Callum.
I find him in a paddock, saddle training a new pony. It’s the same Highland breed as the others, but one whose size—not to mention the obvious dangling male bits—combine to make the creature look and act intimidating.
Callum spots me immediately, and his face breaks into a wide smile. “Rosie-love.” He winds the lead rope shorter and shorter, bringing the pony in from where he’d had him running circles. “You’re just in time for our break.”
“Are you sure?” I cast a skeptical look at what is a very angry looking ungelded pony. “You look busy.”
“Surer than sin.” Callum removes the rope from the animal’s halter and gives him a smack on the butt, sending him bolting and bucking circles in the paddock. “D’you see what I’m up against? The lad is fair killing me.” Callum smirks as he watches the display. “I require a moment without his company or ’twill be horse stew in Donag’s pot tonight.”
“Yuck.”
His head snaps up. “Yuck?” His eyes lock onto mine as he strides toward me with all-encompassing focus. “You say the strangest things, mo ghràidh.”
“Me? How about you? By the way, I found out when gorse blooms.” I give his chest a playful shove when he reaches me.
He laughs, hoisting himself over the fence in one fluid motion. “Gorse is always in bloom, Rosie-love.” He leansin, voice dropping low. “And it’s always a good time for kissing.” He dips down, trying to steal one.
But I duck away, looking around nervously. “We should be careful.”
The laird’s description of his son is fresh in my mind.He’ll find a way to have you one of these days.Hamish has a habit of slinking from the shadows at unexpected moments, and I’d like to avoid witnessing another alpha-male challenge.
