Page 8 of The Story of his Highland Bride
“Pardon?”
“The lass. She’s very pretty. Spied her from me window, wonderin’ what could have kept me grandson out until all hours of the night. Once I saw her, I needed nay explanation,” his grandmother explained, with a mischievous grin creasing the wrinkles of her wise face. “Och, and Lennox couldn’ae keep hismouth shut. Told me ye’d found her on the road with a nasty blow to the head, and that she’d fainted from the fright of havin’ a sword to her neck. Ye ken what I’ve told ye about pokin’ with yer blade first, Jackson! Poor lass must’ve been terrified out of her wits.”
Jackson went to sit in the spare armchair, though he doubted he would be able to stay still for long. “If ye’d been there, ye would’ve drawn yer sword first and asked questions second.”
“I wouldn’ae. I could never grip a sword right,” his grandmother replied, pouring more of the spiced plum tea from the cast iron kettle on the table beside her. “It’s a queer time for a lass like that to stumble into yer path, though, is it nae?”
Jackson concentrated on his own tea, fixing his gaze out the window, where a light rain had begun to spit from the morning’s stampede of bruised clouds. “Why do ye say that?”
“Ye ken why,” his grandmother replied, in a softer voice. “The anniversary is drawin’ near, and usually, by this time in the season, ye’ve retreated into yerself like a snail into its shell. Ye were on yer way to withdrawin’ when I saw ye yesterday but, today, ye’ve… purpose in yer stride and life in yer eyes.”
Jackson frowned at the raindrops that chased one another down the windowpane, wondering if that could be true. His grandmother was right in that he usually spent the month of December in a hermit-like seclusion, while she took care of the festive gatherings and feasts in his absence, but after meetingEloise upon the road, his mind had filled with her instead of his seasonal grief.
It'll come, though, once she’s gone,he told himself.And she needs to be gone soon.
“If I were a religious woman, and ye ken I pick and choose when there’s nay priest around to call me a heretic, I’d say that lass was sent to ye by the Lord Himself,” his grandmother declared, with a triumphant sip of her tea. “Or the Old Gods. Now,theyhave always worked in mysterious ways. It’s why I like ‘em so much. Ye never ken what they’ll do next.”
Jackson snorted into his tea. “Aye, it’s more likely to be the devil.”
“Wisht, ye’ve men in black garb all across this country that would tell ye, with all the strength of their self-importance, that our Old Gods are the devil,” his grandmother shot back, with a sour expression upon her face. “But, let me tell ye, nay one has ever burned a pretty young lass at the stake in the name of our Old Gods, just because she has a way with healin’ or a keen intelligence or she saved a bairn from dyin’ or someone happened to take ill while she was walkin’ by. Most of the time, there’s nothin’ witchy about the lasses—it’s just the spite of a spurned man.”
A light of worrying possibility flared in Jackson’s mind, as he thought of the Old Gods, and the tales that his mother and grandmother used to weave for him when he was a child. They always spoke of theAos-sídhe—the Fairies of Scotland,otherwise considered the divinities of the country before Christianity swept through.
Is that what Eloise’s ‘A’ represents?His heart lurched into his throat, for if she belonged to those who still worshipped the old ways in secret, bad fortune would befall him if he did not protect her. Perhaps, that was why she had been wandering in such garish attire, not to hide but so shewouldbe seen. A test of sorts, like those that his mother and grandmother told him of in the old myths and legends of Scotland.
And she said she came from Clava Cairns…that site, even now, was known to harbor the magic of the old ways. So much so, that Father Hepburn had long hoped to destroy it, and would have done, if the people had not insisted that it was not Christian to raze a burial ground to dust. Even an unhallowed one.
“What happens if ye daenae offer guest rites to one of theAos-sídhe,or a disciple of theirs?” he asked absently, more to himself than to his grandmother, as he tried to remember his childhood stories. Some had been grislier than others.
His grandmother gave a low whistle. “A bad harvest, a plague, the crumbling of castles, war—ye name it, those vengeful spirits will do it if they’re nae satisfied with the rites they’ve been offered. I still leave out a saucer of milk and a nip of somethin’ strong for the wee creatures, just in case they pass by.” She tapped the side of her nose. “But if Father Hepburn ever asks, it’s for the cats. What made ye ask that, all of a sudden?”
“Nothin’,” Jackson lied, knowing his grandmother could see right through him.
Still, she did not press him for an answer; she merely returned to sipping her tea and said, “If ye think one has wandered into this castle, ye’d best treat her like the goddess she might well be workin’ for. Or on yer own head, and ours, be it.”
5
Sunlight teased open Eloise’s reluctant eyes. Her eyelids felt swollen, her limbs heavy as lead, her head aching like there was a tiny person inside her skull, banging relentlessly on the bone, and her mouth had never been more parched, not even after the launch party for her first novel, and that had been a messy affair.
“I hope there’s toast, and lots of it,” she mumbled, stretching out like a cat.
Rubbing her tired eyes, she fully expected to see the dated drapes and silky duvet that she’d woken up to the previous morning. As she waited for her vision to focus, she sniffed for the familiar smell of coffee, rising up from the “dining room” of the Bed & Breakfast, which was just a couple of tables stuffed in the corner of the proprietor’s kitchen… but it didn’t come. Instead, she smelled woodsmoke and a damp, metallic kind of scent, like rocks at the beach.
“I didn’t… tell me I didn’t.” Blinking furiously, her eyes crunched and stung, letting her know that she had, indeed, left her contact lenses in.
Livid with herself, and wondering what could’ve made her forget, she plucked out the shriveled-up lenses and prayed that she wouldn’t need a trip to the eye doctor. Holding the offending items in her palm, she fumbled for the case and the drops that she kept on her nightstand, even when she was away from home.
Her hand knocked something hard. It teetered for a moment, before tipping off the edge of the bedside table. A loud smash followed; her insides wincing at the sound.
“I hope it wasn’t a priceless heirloom,” she grumbled, letting her eyes adjust. Her vision wasn’t too bad, but she liked the help of lenses, especially when she was working.
Slowly, the room came into focus, but she had to rub her eyes again to make sure she was seeing what she was seeing. She seemed to be in a grand bedroom of some kind, with a four-poster bed, draped with a gauzy fabric. Instead of a duvet, about ten layers of coarse tartan blankets and furs that looked worryingly real covered her half-naked body. Across the room, a fire blazed in an enormous fireplace, heating up the cold, damp stone that the chamber was built from, while more real-looking furs littered the floor, and something that alarmingly resembled a chamber pot sat up on a low stand next to the bed.
“What the—?” She closed her eyes and took a breath, certain that she was lucid dreaming or something. But when she opened her eyes, nothing had changed.
Why am I half-naked?Glancing down, she realized, for the first time, that she was only wearing her underwear, and she definitely didn’t remember stripping offorgetting into bed in a strange bedroom, in a strange place that looked like something from a movie set.
“Those actors!” she gasped, as memories trickled back into her throbbing head. “They must’ve brought me here, and the… producers or whatever mustn’t have had anywhere else to put me.”
