Page 5 of The Story of his Highland Bride
The dangerous-looking rider eyed her curiously for a few moments, before withdrawing his sword for the second time. “What’s yer name?”
“Why do you want to know?” she wheezed in reply, feeling dizzy.
“The healer at the castle always asks questions when someone has hit their head, to see if they’re thinkin’ right,” the man explained, rather reasonably.
Eloise frowned. “Oh, I see. Well then, I’m Eloise Longman, I’m twenty-seven, I’m a Virgo, and my birthday is September 2nd.”
“Ye bein’ a virgin is of nay relevance,” the man replied.
Embarrassment burned in Eloise’s cheeks, as she glared up at the ridiculously good-looking man. She was getting a little frustrated by his oblivious act. As if he didn’t know what a Virgo was. He clearly just wanted to wind her up, and she wasn’t exactly in the mood.
Thankfully, the man moved on with his next question. “What day is it?”
“Um… Wednesday.”
The man nodded. “What’s the year of our Lord?”
“What year is it?” She snorted. “It’s 2016.”
The man’s brow creased as he shook his head. “Nay, Lass, it’s the year of our Lord, 1701.”
3
The strange woman swayed unsteadily, and though the lantern did not offer much light, Jackson Buchanan saw the color drain from her face. A moment later, she was laughing wildly, clasping a hand to her peculiar tunic as she bent double, spilling her laughter onto the ground.
“Are you in cahoots with the folks who did this to me?” she wheezed, reeling back as more of that uneasy laughter pealed from unnaturally red lips.
Jackson squinted, trying to make sense of the words coming out of her mouth. They sounded like English, but he could barely understand half. Still, there was no denying her accent: she was from south of the border somewhere, and a long way from home. It roused his suspicions, for why would an Englishwoman wander all the way up to the Highlands alone, wearing such blinding, unusual garments?
She’s a witch who wants to be caught, I reckon. A witch who’s puttin’ on a performance.He glanced at the black, shiny, rectangular stone she had picked up off the ground, now gripped tightly in her hand. He had never seen anything like it before, but then there was a great deal about the laughing woman that he had never seen before.
Just then, Eloise Longman began to choke and splutter, her laughter transforming into great, heaving sobs that racked her body. “I just… want to… go home!” she cried, her legs buckling. “I don’t understand… what’s happening!”
Before Jackson or Lennox—his loyal Man-at-Arms—could do a thing to stop it, Eloise collapsed. Sprawled out on her back, her arms and legs splayed, it was clear that she had fainted. Another witchy trick? Jackson could not be sure, but it warranted a closer inspection.
“I daenae think ye should go near her,” Lennox warned, as Jackson slipped down from the saddle to approach the woman. “I’ve heard that’s how the witches snare ye. They make ‘emselves look like damsels in distress, and then, when ye’re too close, they snatch ye around the neck and choke ye to death, to use yer blood and bits for their curses and spells.”
Jackson cast his friend a withering look. “And where did ye hear that nonsense, eh? Ye been listenin’ to Father Hepburn’s sermons again?”
“He wouldn’ae just make it all up,” Lennox insisted. “He’s a man of the cloth, M’Laird. He cannae lie, else he’ll burn in Hell.”
Jackson sniffed. “That’s what he’d like ye to believe.”
“M’Laird, ye cannae say things like that!” Lennox urged in a hushed whisper. “Ye might burn in Hell, too.”
Jackson waved the concern away. “I’m protected by me old gods, and I ken where I’m goin’ when I die. I daenae need any priest tellin’ me otherwise…” he paused, “though, aye, I wouldn’ae say that to anyone but ye. Now, are ye goin’ to help me get this lass on the horse or are ye goin’ to sit up there in the saddle, crossin’ yerself and prayin’ for me redemption?”
“Are we takin’ her to Father Hepburn?” Lennox got down, landing on the dirt with a thud.
“Ye’re as mad as the lass if ye think I’d do that,” Jackson retorted, striding right up to the fallen woman and crouching at her side.
He checked for the pulse of life in her neck, the way the castle healer had taught him, and put his fingers under her nose to make sure there was still breath puffing out. Lastly, he pried open her eyelids to search her eyes, for even the best pretender could not hide the consciousness in their gaze. Hers was blank, her eyes partially rolled back. Satisfied that it was not the trick he had suspected, he scooped her up into his arms.
“M'Laird, ye have to take her to Father Hepburn,” Lennox protested. “If she’s a witch, then—"
“If she’s a witch, then she willnae burn by that wretch’s hand,” Jackson interrupted. “Nay witches will burn under me command, neither. Everythin’ has its place, Lennox, and as long as the witches are nae cursin’ me, I’ll let them be. They’re part of the old ways, after all.”
Lennox looked like he wanted to continue arguing, but he knew better and closed his mouth. In the silence, Jackson carried Eloise toward his horse, taking a closer look at her face.
