Page 33 of The Story of his Highland Bride
Eloise guessed it was supposed to be a joke, but as they continued to hold one another’s gaze, she saw her growing sadness reflected in his face. Surely, he already knew that, no matter where she was or how many years went by in her own century, she would never forget the night when she was young and falling in love with a Laird she had no right to be falling for. In fact, she had a suspicion that he might have just ruined her for all men, as who could ever match up to him—the one man it appeared she wasn’t allowed to have?
So, why send me here, only to break my heart all over again?Only the stones had the answers to that, and she doubted she’d ever be able to squeeze an explanation out of them.
“Hold me,” she urged.
Jackson did just that, lying flat on his back and wrapping his arms around her, pulling her to him. In the firelight, he stroked her hair and stared up at the ceiling, his brow furrowed in thought. Desperately, Eloise wanted to ask what was on his mind, but as she wasn’t sure she’d like the answer to that, either,she kept quiet, content to enjoy the safety of his embrace while she had it.
And as she closed her eyes, letting the balmy heat of the room coax her into sleep, she sent a prayer up to whichever Gods were listening—old or new—regardless of Lorraine’s warning.
Don’t let the snows melt tomorrow, or the day after, and maybe not the day after that, either. Give us a while, but keep the real wolves from our door.After all, the bubble would certainly burst if Father Hepburn came knocking, demanding a sacrifice of blood and fire.
18
For three peaceful, snowy days, Jackson enjoyed the particular pleasure—previously unknown to him—of spending his days and nights in the company of someone who had captured his heart. He had never awoken with a woman in his bed before, and he had certainly never spent the night holding a woman so tightly it was as if she was part of him. But now that he had experienced such things with Eloise, he was not sure how he would fare without them.
But as Jackson awoke on the fourth morning, with Eloise’s head resting on his chest, and her barely clothed body curled into him, he saw bright sunlight piercing the sky and knew that their time for pretending had come to a close. The snow would melt, and the roads would clear, leaving nothing to prevent them from venturing to Clava Cairns.
“Is it morning already?” Eloise murmured, peeking one eye open. “It can’t be. We only just fell asleep. Nope, I won’t believe it.” She squeezed the eye shut again, making Jackson laugh.
Although, she was somewhat right; theyhadnot long fallen asleep, after spending the night exploring one another. It had been quite the surprise, discovering that she was as dedicated to giving him pleasure as he was to conjuring hers. There had been a moment or two where jealousy had flared, wondering where she had learned such things, but they had quickly passed. Indeed, in the end, her talents had only made him more eager to do the only thing they had not, to satisfy one another.
I cannae rush her, but our time is runnin’ out, and if she leaves before… och, would that make it any easier?He doubted it. After three days at her side, imagining what it would be like if she was always there beside him, he knew that none of what was to come would be easy.
“Ye’ll have to stir, Lass,” he said softly. “We’ve to speak to Old Joan today.”
Eloise’s eyes flew open. “Today?”
“We shouldn’ae risk waitin’ longer,” he forced himself to reply, nodding toward the window. “That sunlight, if it stays, will melt the snow. If Father Hepburn intends to try and make an example of me, he’ll have an open road to do it. Nae that he’d get past the gates, mind ye.”
Eloise nuzzled into his shoulder. “Can we stay here for just a little while longer, just to make absolutely sure that it doesn’t start snowing again?”
“Aye, I cannae argue with that.” Jackson smiled and pressed a kiss to her silky hair, enveloping her in the tightest embrace he could manage without crushing her. And if he had had his way, they would have stayed that way for far longer than a little while.
Eloise and Jackson found Old Joan in the dungeons. Or, rather, in the stretch of old gaol cells that she’d turned into her very own sort of hospital. Open braziers, choking black smoke up toward the ceiling, kept the place warm, though Eloise wasn’t sure it was particularly good for the health of any of the healer’s patients.
“Has she smacked her head again?” the healer asked, without looking up from the cauldron she was in the middle of stirring. If anyone in the castle looked like a witch, Eloise would’ve been pointing a finger at her.
Jackson cleared his throat. “Actually, we’ve come to speak with ye on a more… discreet matter. Ye cannae breathe a word of it to anyone, else ye’ll be puttin’ this lass in grave danger.”
“Ye’re wantin’ to ken about the stones, are ye nae?” Old Joan finally raised her gaze to the pair, and there was a glint of amusement in her rheumy eyes that clearly saw more than she let on.
Eloise blinked in astonishment. “How did you know that?”
“Ye’re nae the first and ye willnae be the last, I expect, though I kenned ye might be one of ‘em when I saw yer scarce wee undergarments. Och, it almost blew me heart out of me chest with the shock of seein’ ‘em.” Old Joan replied with a shake of her head.
“You’ve seen someone like me before?”
The healer shrugged. “It’s been a fair while since one of ye tumbled out, ye see, and the first ofmeturn about this bonny Earth, but there are… discreet books,” she mocked Jackson’s turn of phrase, “that speak of it, that’ve been passed down through me line of healin’ women—more great-grandmaithers than I care to count.”
Somewhere in her mind, Eloise had assumed she couldn’t be the first, otherwise what purpose did the stones serve? It wasn’t like they’d been waiting since the 13thcentury for her—a writer of meager importance—to come waltzing along on a heartbroken whim. And she’d always rolled her eyes when she read a “Chosen One” trope.
“Does it happen often?” Eloise didn’t know what else to say, as she recovered from the surprise.
“Once or twice a century. Sometimes less, sometimes more, and nae always from those stones, neither. There are more of ‘em dotted around our fair country than anyone who kens of ‘em would ever admit,” Old Joan explained. “Daenae ask me if it’s chance when it comes to who gets spat out of which stones, as allI ken of it is what I’ve already said. I heal, I daenae deal in the magic of the old ways.”
Eloise wanted to ask,“Then, why are these occurrences written down in books that got passed down to you?”but she thought it best to keep on Old Joan’s good side. After all, there had to be a little of the witch about her, if she’d guessed what it was the pair were there to ask, and it wasn’t wise to annoy a witch.
So, instead, she said, “Do you know someone who might be able to help me… get spat back out to where I’m supposed to be?”
