Page 58 of Beyond Dreams

Holly sighed and wilted against him, briefly hugging him tight before she released him completely. She glanced upward at Thallane and the battlements. “We probably just had an audience, didn’t we?”

Aye, they probably had. “Like as nae, the most action they’ve seen on the beach in a while.”

Holly covered her face with her hands but not before he saw the smile that curved her lips.

***

By the time darknessfell and Holly found her bedroom, she was satisfied that if she’d had a day like today when first she’d been tossed into the fourteenth century, she’d not once have thought of leaving. Honest to God, she enjoyed every minute with Duncan this morning, had been so girlishly pleased to have his attention and his company—and of course, his kiss. Though she hadn’t seen him since they’d left the beach late in the morning, and though so much had happened between then and now, it remained her favorite part of the day, one which she’d relived several times despite the busy afternoon she’d had.

Recalling Graeme’s earlier advice, when she’d parted company with Duncan, she’d made her way directly to the kitchens, and had introduced herself properly to Red Moll. Though she knew she wouldn’t be long at Thallane—a fact she didn’t wish to dwell upon, since it had been so dramatically complicated by sleeping with and thoroughly enjoying her husband—she knew that she would go nuts if she didn’t have something to occupy her time. And then, any idea that shewouldn’t be longat Thallane was only supposition, which she sometimes imagined was fruitless. She knew nothing of time-travel, how it worked, who was in charge, when she might be rescued—everything she thought she understood or believed was only her guessing.

This time when she’d stepped into the kitchen, she’d marched straight up to Red Moll while all around the room went still and silent again. When that large woman turned with a heavy scowl, Holly smile brightly at her.

“I am the laird’s wife, Holly—Ceri—Mac...MacQuillan,” she began, stumbling already. “You are Moll, I understand?” The woman nodded, slowly and with a narrowing of her eyes. “I hope you speak English because I do not speak Gaelic.”

The woman shrugged, her face softening ever-so-slightly. “Some.”

“Perfect. Do you have time to walk me through your day? I understand I’m supposed to learn how to take care of Thallane. I figured if I want to know everything I can and should about Thallane, then I should come toyou, who likely knowseverything.”

And that was how easy it had been to win over Red Moll, and subsequently, all the young women in the kitchen. Not that her day had been easy. Good grief, but there were certainly no breaks, no idle time among any of the household staff. Still, her day was one full of constant discovery, about which she could not complain.

Language seldom proved a barrier between her and Moll, since more than one of the kitchen servers spoke some English as well. When first Holly had asked Moll exactly what her role as wife of the laird would encompass, Moll had smacked her cheeks with her hands and then spread her arms wide. One of the younger maids, Johnna by name, had translated Moll’s long-winded answer, which began with, basically, “What doesn’t the lady do?” What followed was a crash course in the outlying basics. The steward, Roland, the cook, Moll, the game keeper, the chief sewer, the milkmaids, the scullery lasses, and a dozen others looked to her for direction, she was told. Moll spent a good hour showing Holly all the textiles of the house, impressing upon her how important it was to care for them, to make repairs to them, to oversee the work of Thallane’s spinners, weavers, and embroiderers.

She was instructed in what seemed a million other things on her first day in Moll’s company, most of which she’d already forgotten, and much of which would require hands-on training to fully understand. Thankfully, Moll loved to talk and at no time was Holly forced to confess either that she didn’t know what something was, assuming she’d eventually find out, or that she didn’t know how to do something, expecting that she might learn as she went.

But oh, she was bone weary by the time she found her chamber at the end of the day. Supper had been quiet, Duncan and Graeme and most of the army gone—to where and for what, no one seemed to have an answer to. Holly was left with some impression that it was not unusual, the laird and his army being absent from the last meal. On the other hand, Doirin and Moire being absent from the hall at supper had not displeased her in the least.

She’d begged prettily of Moll to have a bath arranged, but expressed a want of privacy, wanting to soak and revel in the bath and not be manhandled by attendants, including the silent and brooding Marta.

Having no need to wash her hair again, she’d twisted it into a knot, but it was falling out from the lazy bun she’d tried to make, difficult to accomplish without a scrunchie or a hair tie. She let the falling parts hang over the edge of the tub, laying her head back and relaxing for a moment. The fire blazed near the tub, the water was scented and warm, her aching body soothed. Holly thought all she needed was a glass of good wine, not much impressed with what she’d sampled here in the fourteenth century, to have accomplished the perfect end to her day.

She closed her eyes, reflecting on the satisfaction gleaned from the day, between her time spent with Duncan and the hard day’s work she’d put in with Red Moll. Funny, she mused, how little thought she’d given to her predicament, having not once visited any of the previously constant fear that she would never get back to the twenty-first century.

Her eyes opened when the door did, only briefly startled until she saw that it was Duncan who’d come to her chamber. She wasn’t so much unnerved as she was immediately elated by the sight of him. He closed the door and set the latch in place and strode forward into the better light near her and the bath and the fire.

He paused, fully five feet away, and for a moment they were happy to stare at each other, his gaze raking over her shoulders and arms and the rounded tops of her breasts, all that was visible above the water. He must have bathed as well; his hair was wet, and he wore a fresh tunic and breeches though no hose or boots or plaid.

“I missed you at dinner,” she said, curiously not shy at all to have been walked-in during her bath. Certainly, his bold and admiring gaze helped with that.

He nodded and surprised her by sitting on the foot of the bed, crossing his very white feet at the ankles. He curled his fingers around the edge of the footboard at both sides of his hips. “Aye. I saw Graeme and a unit off to Newburn.”

“What is Newburn?”

“The stronghold of Lucas Thain,” he said, his glittering blue eyes resting on some spot on her neck. “Further inland, a dozen leagues from here. We rode with them halfway.”

“Saw him off? Is Graeme coming back?” She’d made fine progress with the household today but counted Graeme as one of the few people she could turn to if needed and would have been sad to know him no more.

“Aye. He’ll nae be gone long. The Thain was most recently with Wallace and would have news to impart. ’Tis dangerous to put pen to parchment with matters of that significance.”

All very fantastic when she realized he was speaking again about William Wallace and what she knew as the First War of Scottish Independence. Freedom from the English they would have, but not forever. Another irksome contemplation: was she either obligated or forbidden from sharing any or all of her historical knowledge?

“You look tired, Duncan,” she observed. “Did you eat?”

“Aye, I had a tray with my bath,” he said. “I ken you might be abed already.”

She liked very much that he’d decided to join her anyway.

“I took Graeme’s advice, Duncan,” she told him, “and spent the day with Red Moll. I don’t know how much more of that I can handle.” She smiled to show him she wasn’t entirely serious. “She’s a slavedriver, Duncan. But I’ll have you know, your wife—should the need arise—could probably make a passable—edible even—loaf of medieval bread. And my new favorite vegetable is the cabbage, the way she prepares it with the bacon and onions. That’s for tomorrow’s dinner, by the way—the flavors are marrying in the pot, high above the coals overnight, says Moll.”

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