Page 90 of The Winter Laird

“So I really am somewhere in the future?” Aidan asked.

“Yes,” Brianagh exclaimed. “You could believe it when we were in the fifteenth century just fine, why not now?”

“It’s hard for a mind to wrap itself around,” Reilly said in understanding. “Perhaps you can see me as less of an enemy and more of an ally, now that you know the full truth of it?”

Aidan snorted. “I still think you’re an arse.”

“So do I,” Brianagh confessed, “but he’s the best kind of arse.”

Aidan let out a sigh. “Do you swear to me that your healer won’t attempt to poison me?”

Brianagh clasped his hand in her own. “Aidan, I vow it.” She looked into his eyes. “I love your brother, more than anything or anyone. I need you to help me save him. Please.”

“Aye,” Aidan grumbled, giving in. “Let your healer at me. But no devil sticks. And no leeches.”

“We don’t do leeches anymore,” James said in broken Gaelic, from the doorway where he’d been waiting during the exchange. “They’ve been proven ineffective.”

“Aye, and your devil sticks are effective?”

“It’s just a tiny needle,” Reilly scoffed. “A warrior such as yourself, afraid of the tiniest stitching needle known to mankind?”

Aidan glared at him. “I don’t know why anyone likes you.”

“I’m a paragon of human empathy,” Reilly extolled. “A giver to mankind. I save people from themselves, and—”

“You forgot ‘arse,’” Brianagh cut in. “James, please make him better.”

“Sure thing, boss.” He walked up to Aidan and held out his hand. “I’m James, Brianagh’s…well, grandson, many generations removed.”

“Weird,” Brianagh muttered.

“Very,” James agreed. “I’m going to explain everything as I go along, all right? Let me know if you can’t understand me, and I’ll have Brianagh translate.”

“Your Gaelic is very poor,” Aidan agreed.

“And your English sucks,” James replied pleasantly. “Perhaps we can teach each other. As you can see, I’ve stitched up your wound…”

* * *

“Well, someone should tell her…”Reilly looked to Colin.

“Oh, hell no,” Colin replied, holding his hands up and backing away. “No way.”

“Well, don’t look at me.” Reilly shook his head. “I want nothing to do with it.”

Aidan finished his beer and made a face. “This is the worst ale I’ve ever had the misfortune to drink.”

“Try a Guinness,” Reilly suggested. “You’d like that. In fact, I’ll get you one. You can take it with you when you tell Brianagh her news.”

“What news?” Brianagh asked as she walked in the front door. All four men were sitting in the living room, holding a beer—or, in Aidan’s case, an empty bottle. Brianagh placed her grocery bags down and threw her hands on her hips. “You sent me out for groceries so you could figure out who would be telling me something?” she accused. “Spill.” When no one made eye contact with her, Brianagh tapped her foot.

“James is the doctor. He should be the one,” Colin offered helpfully.

“Oh, aye,” Aidan and Reilly agreed quickly, nodding.

“You three are pathetic,” she snapped. “James. Just tell me already.”

He shrugged. “Okay. You’re pregnant. And Aidan, you should ease up on the alcohol, I don’t want any interactions with the medications.”

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