Page 44 of Sinful Scot
Sleep was tugging at him. He’d had very little of it lately, as had she, but he also didn’t want to waste a moment of this night. He opened his mouth to ask her about her family, but she spoke first.
“Tell me what the world is like in yer time,” she said, sounding fearful and eager at once. He knew accepting the truth must be frightening for her. It had scared the hell out of him—and still did. He swallowed his own questions for her and took a deep breath, trying to decide where to start. There was so much to tell, so he began with things that would surprise her the most. He told her about airplanes, which she refused to believe could possibly be real, and about cars.
“How do ye know how to ride a horse if everyone drives those… What were they? Cars?” she asked, raising herself on one elbow, her breast showing enticingly and her auburn hair billowing down the side of her face.
He reached over and tucked a silky lock behind her ear. “My mother insisted I learn. Knowing what I do now, I imagine she simply wanted us to know some things from her time—this time.” He told Maggie of restaurants, of his company, his home, how he’d gone away to study at college, how women were doctors and nurses, lawyers and astronauts. He spoke until his voice became hoarse, and he could barely keep his eyes open.
Maggie had long since lain her head on his chest and thrown her leg over his, and her hand had stopped moving a while ago. Her fingers were curled into him, as if she wanted to hold onto him even in sleep, and he felt the same way. He struggled to stay awake for her and started to tell her of the ships and his family yacht, thinking about how much ships had changed over the years. But when she started to breathe very deeply against him, he fell silent.
“Maggie,” he whispered to confirm she’d fallen asleep, and when she didn’t answer, he smiled at the top of her head and tightened his arms around her.
He lay there, listening to the fire still crackling and the wind whistling outside the window. Tomorrow, they’d leave early to head to Perthshire. Would his mom be there? Would she want to return to their time? Or ratherhis time, he guessed. He couldn’t imagine that she wouldn’t, given how she had loved his dad.
Maggie stirred a bit, then settled, and he considered her—them—this night. They were tangled like a knot, and his gut told him that even if he did go home, as long as they both lived they would be tethered to each other, no good for anyone else. And the harsh reality for her was that she’d be forced to wed another, no matter her feelings. The thought of it left him cold. He would live his life alone without her, which seemed preferable to trying to fill an unfillable void. Or could he go home, explain things to his brothers—assuming they were indeed there and not in this time—see to his dad, and come back to her? Was it even possible? There were so many unanswered questions, and he wasn’t sure his mom, if he found her, would even have the answers. His life had been dedicated to his family and their company, to keeping things in order. He felt the weight of that responsibility just as heavily as before, but there was a new weight now, and she was snuggled against him. And damn if she didn’t seem to be the most important of them all.
Guilt stabbed at him. How could he reconcile it all? There had to be a way.
Rhys had told her to wait in the common area as he secured them a couple of horses from the innkeeper, but she was restless. She needed air. Ever since she’d woken in Rhys’s arms that morning with their bodies tangled together, her heart had ached, knowing he would be leaving her soon. She found herself hoping it wasn’t possible for him to return to his home, and for that, she felt horrible.
But what if he stayed? Would she wed him if he asked? Her sister and brother would be livid if she wed a man who would not bring them a better future. He was a McCaim, of course, yet while they were a powerful clan, the McCaims did not know him. And he was a MacKinnish, also a powerful clan, but that tie could not be used, not now, anyway. All Rhys would bring to their marriage was himself, and the certainty that he was more than enough for her struck her hard.
She loved him. It was no longer a burgeoning feeling. It was a complete, impossible love that filled her with happiness and anguish. Anguish was the victor in that very moment, and her eyes filled with tears yearning to be shed. Blurry eyed, she pushed her way through the throng and toward the door to exit the inn. She was elbowed and jostled as she went, very aware that Rhys would not only be vexed but worried if he could not find her where he had left her. She’d get some fresh air, take a minute to calm herself, and return quickly. He would be none the wiser.
She burst outside, shocked at how crowded it was. Men and women filled the square, some hocking wares, others talking in groups, still others laughing, bickering, and gossiping. Horses pranced and neighed, and dogs barked. She looked around, desperate to be alone. It was still cold, but the temperature had risen. She supposed that was what had driven people outside. There was nowhere to have a moment of privacy! But then she remembered the side of the building where she and Rhys had shared their first kiss the night before.
She scurried down the stairs, her feet sinking into the thawing snow, and she weaved in and out of people as she raced toward the spot. She kept her gaze down, aware of the unshed tears in her eyes, but it was in looking down that she bumped into someone and staggered backward into someone else.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said, turning to apologize. She looked up and froze, her heart plummeting to her feet.
“That’s quite all right, Lady Margaret,” Baron Bellecote said coolly, his eyes hard upon her. “I’ve been searching for you.” He grabbed her arm.
“Let me go!” Maggie cried out, not caring if she drew attention, which she did.
“Ye there!” a man close to the baron said. “The lady wishes ye to leave her be.”
The three men behind the baron drew their swords, and Baron Bellecote’s grip increased on her arm. “This woman is my intended. I am Baron Bellecote, one of King Edward’s advisors and now advisor to your appointed guardians. My intended has been bewitched by a servant of the Devil.”
An outcry went up around her, which did not surprise her. Any mention of the Devil struck fear in people. Maggie groaned. The lie she had uttered was returning to haunt her now, and excited chatter started all around her as calls to hang the Devil’s hand were made.
“It’s a lie!” she shouted, but no one paid her any heed over the baron, who was giving Rhys’s description to the almost frenzied crowd of men.
“Find the Devil’s hand!” the baron roared, and the men cheered their assent.
Sheer black fright swept over her, she prayed Rhys would not come outside looking for her. She tugged on her arm, only to be roughly pulled to the baron, both his hands gripping her now. Hatred filled his narrow gaze as he stared at her while the mob of men moved around them toward the inn entrance. “You freed him,” the baron accused, and she knew it was pointless to deny it.
“Because he’s innocent,” she said, craning her neck to look toward the door, where the men were filing into the inn.
The baron gripped her chin cruelly and jerked her face back toward him. “Did you give him your innocence?”
The question gave her pause. She had, in a sense, but not in the way she knew the baron meant. Still, she clenched her teeth on answering, hoping the baron would never wish to wed her now. His face grew dark, and a chill skittered down her spine. “You damn whore,” he spat, his fingers digging into her flesh so hard that she yelped.
“Let me go,” she demanded again, gathering her courage. “I consider our betrothal over.”
“You consider it over, do you?” He sneered and gripped her by her wrist to yank her across the now mostly empty courtyard. She glanced over her shoulder as she stumbled behind him, being half dragged toward the horses she assumed were his. Shouting came from the inn, and she could hear the chant, “Hang him! Hang him!” drifting out through its doors.
“My brother will nae force me to wed ye,” she said, praying it was true.
The baron swung toward her, pulling her toward him so that their faces were only a hairsbreadth apart. “Your brother,” the baron said, spittle coming from his mouth, “would wed you to the Devil himself to get your family’s land, coin, and position returned to him.”
