Page 11 of Beyond Dreams

When he didn’t move, except to show a smirk that matched the leer of his gaze, Sidheag shocked more than only Wedast by smartly cracking him across the face with her bent fingers.

Holly gasped. Wedast startled, removing his lecherous gaze from Holly to pin the witch with a menacing glare. His lip curled and he fisted his hand but after Sidheag said something else to him in their language, he seemed to shrink a bit, abandoning any intention of returning her smack.

Holly didn’t suppose that striking a witch was something any person with half a brain would consider for more than a second or two.

Urged by an outraged Sidheag, and with scarcely another glance in Holly’s direction, Wedast was soon gone from the room.

Holly entertained a prolonged shiver, that look in his eyes unmistakable and alarming.

“What did he want anyway?” She huffed out after a moment.

“To remind ye of what I was only just saying,” Sidheag answered, turning to face Holly. As if she were whipped from that slight provocation and reaction, she leaned one hand on the post of the bed’s footboard. “Ye need to recall what I’ve drummed in ye since yesterday. Ye’re Ceri MacHeth. Yer brothers are Black Hugh, the dead Walter, and that idiot, Wedast. Yer father was Fearchar MacHeth—a better man than any living MacHeth, though that dinna say too much. He was nae saint, I can tell ye that.”

Holly sighed. “Yes, I remember all that. My mother died giving birth to me. I was at the nunnery in Dryburgh for many years. Except for answering the vows, I’m not to speak until after the wedding. The MacHeths came to—wait. WhywasCeri sent away to the convent?”

“Feral, she was,” Sidheag answered critically and without hesitation. “But now ye’re nae. A nice and biddable Ceri they have now, do they nae?”

Through gritted teeth, Holly once more reminded the old lady, “I am not Ceri.”

“But ye will be, will ye nae?” Asked Sidheag, tipping her head so that her stringy hair was lifted off one shoulder and stiffly connected with the other. “I’ve said to ye, wedding the MacQuillan is the only way out. Gone from here and these MacHeths ye’ll be and closer to returning home.” She held up her hand, always able to straighten her forefinger from all the crooked digits when she needed to make a point. “Remember though—dinna fall in love or ye can nae return.”

“Yes, I know,” Holly grumbled. “You’ve said that a million times. And I’ve told you, from what little I’ve seen, the chances of that happening are...whatever is less than inconceivable. Zero, zilch, nada.”

Half an hour later, dressed in a full-length cotton chemise, Holly was sitting on a small stool near the fire while her hair was being brushed out. This, she could definitely get used to. The two bath women had been at it for ten minutes, neither speaking at all and Holly unable to make conversation with them. She closed her eyes and basked in the once in a lifetime luxury. She wasn’t worried about the indecent neckline of this shift, since she knew it wouldn’t be visible beneath an outer gown she was sure to wear.

It was little things like this that made everything seem real. Her head was tugged gently left as one women ran the comb that looked as if it were made of bone through her long hair and then pulled lightly to the right when the other women combed. A tug near her nape, detangling a snarl, caused goosebumps to rise. Beneath her bare feet, she felt almost every speck of dust or bit of debris on this old wooden floor. She could still smell the lavender of the bath soap and oil, was warmed by the fire, and was aware of various sounds from outside the windows—the whinny of a horse, the creak of the castle’s gate, the distant rumble of thunder. This little vignette was so detailed, so real.

Two more women entered the room, one of them carrying some long garment, but with enough reverence and carefulness that Holly assumed this might be Ceri’s wedding gown. Hers now. The woman, who was the younger, long-faced one that had first been with her when she’d woken two days ago, smiled at Holly, as if she should feel some excitement. For the life of her, and despite the hopefulness etched into the woman’s face, Holly could not manage to return a smile.

Good Lord, is this really happening?

She swallowed down dread and turned a rising frantic gaze toward Sidheag.Oh God, this was beyond hope. And she was looking to a witch—the one who might be to blame for catapulting her back in time seven hundred years—for comfort and assurance.

Her panic intensified while her brain bombarded her with a dozen different things she hadn’t fully considered until this moment. Pitifully, from her perch on the stool, and with tears gathering in her eyes, she poured out her fears to Sidheag.

“What if he’s a wife-beater? What if I’m killed here? Oh, shit—am I going to have to sleep with him, like consummate the marriage or whatever? What if—” she broke off when Sidheag bore down on her, half expecting the old woman to smack her as she had Wedast.

She did not strike her, but she did firmly admonish her to pull herself together.

“Get hold, lass,” she said, her thin, never before noticed white eyebrows angling over her narrow eyes. “Get a guid hold on that shite and stomp it oot.” When Holly nodded vigorously, her lips clamped and her chest heaving, Sidheag asked, “Think ye can outrun any man, horse, or arrow shot from the bow? Nae, ye canna. So there’s nae getting away from it. Think ye can find yer own way back? Nae, nor that.” With a gentler tone, she added, “Fate does nae choose the fainthearted, nae the timid or weak-willed sort. Ye’re here for a reason and ye’ve been chosen because yecando this.”

“I-I don’t really have a choice at this point, do I?”

“There are always choices, Ceri,” Sidheag counseled. “Be wise enough to make the right one.”

This only added to her love/hate relationship with the old woman. She was advisor and tormenter, friend and foe, trusted and then not. She might be to blame for Holly’s plight, but she might be the only one who could foresee a way out.

“I hate everything about this,” Holly said, referencing more than only her dire and unbelievable situation.

“Aye, all the best medicine tastes most bitter,” said Sidheag, stepping backward, waving Holly to her feet. “Come. Time to dress.”

With a heavy sigh, her heart sick, Holly rose to her feet and allowed the women to dress her. All four maids aided in some way, covering her legs in creamy linen stockings and securing those above her knees with garters made of silk. Silken slippers with leather soles were slid onto her feet. Over the chemise she already wore was added another gown, this one of soft cobalt blue wool, close-fitting with a sweeping low neckline and long sleeves that hugged her arms tightly all the way down to her wrists where they loosened into a dainty ruffle around the top of her hands. And then came another gown, the one the long-faced woman had brought, a sleeveless and silken confection of ivory. At the narrow waistline and then again in the middle of the long skirt and once more at the hem was stitched a row of gold threads, the embroidery outlining a chain of roses and leaves.

Holly glanced down and instantly frowned, horrified to discover this neckline was as low and revealing as the first two. And the blue under gown was tight enough in the chest that her breasts were forced above it.

“Oh, hell no,” she muttered, trying to yank the thin fabric upward. When that didn’t work, she tried to push the bountiful flesh of her breasts back inside the bodice. Little improvement was noticed. Holly lifted her gaze to Sidheag. “I’m not wearing this. I look like a whore—a cheap one.”

“Ye will nae have yer face painted,” Sidheag countered, as if that should appease her.

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