Page 66 of Beloved Enemy
Without waiting for his response, she walked around him and entered the cottage, leaving Reid standing in the path.
Chapter Eighteen
Charlotte tried to count how many nights it had been since she’d arrived in this century and to Kingswood that she’d actually managed a solid night’s sleep. She doubted it was more than three. Tonight, it seemed, wouldn’t be the fourth.
After tossing and turning for what felt like hours, she finally gave up, quietly slipping from her pallet. Careful not to wake Una or her children, she pulled on her sneakers and wrapped Reid’s plaid around her shoulders before stepping out of the cottage.
The evening was unusually warm, the air still. Not a single leaf stirred in the trees. The sky above was a deep, inky black, broken only by a faint shimmer of stars and the bare sliver of a moon, which cast a silvery glow over the landscape.
She knew the guards patrolled regularly around the keep and village, their protective presence a safety net cast wide enough that she didn’t feel it was dangerous to be wandering about after midnight. The candles and fires had long been snuffed out across the village, leaving it in peaceful silence. Turning left on the narrow lane, Charlotte walked away from the cottages and further from the keep, the plaid draped loosely over her shoulders, its weight oddly comforting.
Since the moment this unbelievable journey had begun—more so since her return from Ben Nevis days ago— Charlotte debated what she should, could, or must do. She wasn’t ready to give up hope of returning to her time, but she couldn’t stay forever with Una, crammed into the small cottage, sleeping on the floor. That much was clear.
But what could she do? Thinking realistically, if she never did get home, she would have to find some way to carve out a life here. She’d have to do a deep dive into learning how to survive,how to farm and cook, how to weave and comb wool, how to sew and make her own clothes, and so much more.
But here? At Kingswood?
She couldn’t imagine any other choice. The idea of being a young woman on her own in a war-torn country seemed impossible, if not downright dangerous. Here, at least, she was safe.
But even thinking about staying—accepting that she might remain in this time and place—felt too much like giving up. What surprised her most was how little that idea saddened her. Chewing the inside of her cheek, she supposed that had something to do with Reid Nicholson.
If she was being honest, she had a harder time accepting the impossibility of a relationship with Reid than she did coming to terms with never going home.
Hmph,she thought,what does that say about me?
Would he ever look at her with anything other than suspicion?
Her mind preoccupied with swirling thoughts, Charlotte barely noticed the path beneath her feet. She stayed on the familiar lane, instinctively following its gentle curve as it led her out of the village. The ground rose slightly, forming a low hill ahead, and the lane was loosely flanked by scattered trees. Their dark silhouettes stretched tall and imposing, casting long shadows that deepened the darkness of the path.
Charlotte marched on, moving almost on autopilot, subconsciously enamored with the stillness and the peacefulness of Kingswood after midnight. The world seemed to be asleep, and Kingswood, usually bustling with life during the day, now lay in a deep and peaceful slumber.
No sooner had she recognized this than the tranquility was interrupted by a faint, almost imperceptible sound. At first, Charlotte dismissed it as a trick of the night—perhaps therustling of an animal in the underbrush or the distant creak of a tree branch. But then, there it was again—this time clearer, more deliberate.
It wasn't the usual night sounds she might have expected. No owl hooting, no wind stirring through the trees. These were hushed voices, low and urgent, carried on the still, warm air. She slowed her pace, straining to listen, wondering if she might stumble upon another tryst between Lachlan and Fiona.
The voices were just beyond the rise in the lane, muffled by the darkness but unmistakably human. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone—hushed, secretive—set her on edge. There was something about it that didn’t belong in the quiet of the night, as though someone or something was hiding just out of sight. Feeling suddenly vulnerable standing on the road, she scooted to the left toward the cover of the trees, instinctively pulling Reid’s plaid tighter around her shoulders. She slowed her steps, more cautious now, and moved toward the sound, really hoping it was several members of the night patrol perhaps engaged in some debate and not anything nefarious.
Heart pounding in her chest, Charlotte stepped off the lane and into the cover of the trees, each movement deliberate. She placed each foot carefully, testing the ground before shifting her weight, determined to avoid the snap of twigs or the crunch of dry leaves beneath her sneakers. Her breath slowed, her ears attuned to the slightest sound, alert to anything that might give away her presence.
Her instincts told her to turn back, to leave whatever was happening unseen. But curiosity, mixed with unease, drove her forward. She crouched low as she crept closer, her fingertips brushing against the cool trunks of trees for balance. She shifted her weight from heel to toe with each step, trying to keep her body as light and quiet as possible.
When she moved as close as she dared, Charlotte froze, pressing herself against the rough bark of a tree, her eyes peering around the edge of a large oak.
Five figures stood in a small clearing, their forms silhouetted by the pale moonlight and more so by the foliage. They happened to be meeting under a broad willow tree, it’s limbs shrouding them in secrecy. Her pulse quickened as she caught snippets of their conversation, some of the words unmistakably English, spoken in low, clipped tones. One man, tall and broad-shouldered, gestured toward the village, his hand slicing through the air as he spoke with urgency. Another, smaller man with a hood pulled low over his face, muttered something in response, his accent thick.
Charlotte’s heart raced as she sought to recognize any one of them, though she was yet twenty or more yards away. She strained to hear more, catching bits of conversation.
“...won’t wait much longer...” one man muttered in English.
“...by the next full moon...” came another voice.
Her eyes widened. That old man, Angus, hadn’t been spinning wild tales. There was something going on here, something secret—and it felt distinctly evil.
Her heart raced, pounding in her ears as she clung to the shadows.
She had to tell Reid. But before Charlotte could slip away, the atmosphere changed.
Suddenly, the voices cut off, and an eerie stillness descended on the clearing. Her stomach lurched as the shadowy figures went rigid, their heads snapping in all directions. Something—or someone—had spooked them. She barely had a moment to react before they broke apart, scattering like startled deer.
