Love Across Time (15 page)

What made her think the battle would go against the Scots? That many of them would die on the battlefield, or banished from their homeland, even slaughtered during surrender? He shook his head. What honorable soldier murdered a man as he yielded?

The lass had clung to his hand as if she believed he’d go hieing after them to win the war single handily. But, the responsibility he felt toward his clan ran stronger than the glories of war. He had seen how the common folk suffered during feuds. How babies howled with hunger and orphan children fought for scrapes of food flung to the carrion on the streets. The appalling sights had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he’d vowed never to put his clan through such misery if he could prevent it.

Times were difficult enough without kings squabbling over who ruled, making the lives of the peasants harder. Didn’t kings realize they gained little, the lairds forfeited some, but the peasants lost all?

Calloused fingers pricked his skin as he rubbed the ache above his eyes.

His attempt to placate both sides without joining either force had put him at odds with neighboring clans. It was difficult to stay neutral in Scotland’s political climate, yet he’d succeeded. Margaret’s father warned him he’d chosen a precarious path to trod, but trod it he would.

Ever since he’d become laird when he’d reached his majority at sixteen it had been his goal to put his clan first and king second. Not that he’d stated his view publically. The king would consider such an opinion treasonous.

He loved Margaret with every breath he took, but his marriage to her had benefitted him financially as well as politically. Since she was a Campbell, it provided him a foothold in both territories: him a faithful Scot and Margaret’s family true to the King of England. A fine line to walk, but he knew the name Campbell would help him maintain the fragile balance.

“Me Laird.”

He rolled his head to the side, opened his eyes, and stared at his Captain of the Guard.

“Aye, Rory.”

“Laird Campbell be at the door requesting entrance.”

He abruptly sat forward. His relief to be rid of guests so he could spend more time with Margaret was short lived. The headache throbbing in his temples worsened. Margaret’s family couldn’t have arrived at a worse time. Prince Charlie and his army weren’t gone from his door an hour, and the Campbell, a king’s man, had come knocking.

“Send him in, afore he be seen, and stable the horses.”

He hoped Prince Charlie hadn’t left a tail guard too far behind or they would spot the Campbell troops. He had worked hard to stabilize his clan between two opposing forces and didn’t want the clash of swords to erupt on his doorstep.

Swallowing his bitter disappointment that his attempt to woo of his wife was interrupted again, he rose from his chair to welcome Gowan Campbell. The tall robust man, with a sprinkle of gray in his dark hair, ushered his petite wife, Isobel, through the door and into the great hall. Their daughter, Morag, and son, Ian, followed.

“Welcome,” he said, hand extended toward Margaret’s father.

Without preamble, Isobel rushed forward and squeezed between him and her husband. “How be me daughter?”

“Can ye nae greet the man first, wife, afore ye hound him to death,” Gowan said, his deep-timbre patronizing voice no more than a whisper in her ear.

Isobel shot her husband a look of annoyance and ignored his softly spoken rebuke. By the twinkle in Gowan’s eye, Liam assumed he didn’t expect her to take the gentle scolding seriously.

“Well if ye men were nae trying to bandy yer swords about in a senseless war I could have been with me daughter all this time.”

“Now, Isobel, I told ye
—
”

Margaret had bristled many times at Liam’s same conciliatory tone, and he expected no less from Isobel.

“Aye, ye told me.” She glared her displeasure over her shoulder at Gowan then returned her attention to him. “Now I want to see me daughter.” The determination sparkling in her eyes suggested he’d be wise not to keep her waiting.

“She be in the lady’s chamber. Ursula can see if she be awak....”

Before he could say Margaret was napping, Isobel, Morag, and Ian were halfway up the stairs.

“Isobel, still be upset with me,” Gowan said. “She wanted to remain with Margaret the last time we perched on yer doorstep, but I refused her. ’Tis nae safe to linger outside the keep for too long.” Margaret’s father sent him a wary glance. “Nae that I think ye wouldn’t protect me family.”A flush stole over the man’s cheeks as if he realized he had just insulted his son-in-law and host.

“Aye, I would protect them with me life. Come in and join me in a tankard of ale.” He waved his hand toward a chair. “Be seated.”

Gowan wedged his body into the closest chair. A servant brought him a mug, refilled Liam’s empty one, and then left. He bent to brace his forearms on his thighs. Palms encircled his cup. “How be yer journey.”

The smile that split the older man’s face told him his politely phrased question hadn’t fooled him.

“Longer than it would have been if we nae had to avoid Stuart’s troops now and again.” Gowan’s large beefy hand slapped him on the shoulder. “Dinnae worry lad, we saw yer guest leave o’er an hour ago. Me man spotted them, and we’ve been cooling our heels over the last ridge until they past. I brought only a wee force.” He winked. “Dinnae want to scare The Young Pretender’s French soldiers and send them scurrying back across the channel.”

“Aye.” Liam laughed. “The Campbell banner alone would send the Jacobite army scampering through the heather.”

“That be me thinking.”

Gowan leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “How be Margaret. The last word we had about the lass she hadnae regained consciousness. She be awake now?”

“Aye.”

Margaret’s father reared back, palms on his thighs, and his shoulders squared. “Come mon, what ’ere ye nae telling me?”

Liam stood, braced his forearm on the mantle, and stared into the fire. How much should he tell him? The truth had always served him better than lies or half-told truths
. He found it
easier to keep a story straight than appearing the fool by tripping over his own lying tongue.

He turned to study the hard features of his father-in-law and tried to determine what reaction he might have to the news of Margaret’s memory loss. Gowan would fight to keep his family together, and he would expect no less from Liam. Margaret was his family, his future, his life. He would not relinquish his right to keep her at his side.

“Margaret has nae memory of her life. Nae me, nae her family, nothing.”

Gowan rubbed his chin then ran his blunt fingers through his hair. “Seen this in soldiers who received a vicious blow to the head in battle, but nae from a fall.”

“Aye, but her fall be very serious.”

“Does yer healing woman ken what to do for her?”

“Ursula said twill take time. But just like some warriors, she may ne’er remember.”

Gowan stood and took a bold stance beside him. “How do ye feel about that?”

He jerked his gaze up to stare at Margaret’s father. “What do ye mean?” The question caused his usual sharp wits to flounder in a whirlwind of possibilities.

“Ye didnae ken each other long. What if Margaret nae remember ye, ever? That wouldnae bode well for the intimate side of marriage. If she refused ye her bed, they’d be nae legitimate heirs. Ye be a young man with desires and a hearty appetite to appease them.” He stated in his typical blunt manner. “I’ll nae have me daughter shamed when ye take a leman because she denied ye her bed. Mayhap ye’ll want to send her home.”

“Nae.” The fierceness of his tone was unmistakable.

“The lass fell the night ye arrived home. Have ye consummated the marriage?”

Liam’s fists clenched at his sides. He remained silent.

Gowan’s gaze held his for a moment then he tilted his head back and downed the last of his ale. “I must go see me daughter. We leave early in the morn.” Abruptly, he turned on his heel, slammed the mug on the table with a thump, and headed for the upper chambers.

He watched Margaret’s father take the stairs two at a time. People underestimated the man. Although, the Campbell clan wasn’t popular among the Scots, they held a lot of power, and he depended on that power to help safeguard him from entanglements in the coming uprising. But he hadn’t mistaken the glint in the Campbell’s eyes. If he thought it crucial for his daughter’s welfare that she returned home with him, he’d take her. With or without a fight.

He flopped down in his chair, leaned over, and clasped his head between his hands. Tonight, he must make Margaret understand the necessity of consummating their marriage. If not, her father could take her away. And that he couldn’t allow. She made his life whole, and he wouldn’t part with her. Not her father, not her or her ideas of being a time traveler would separate them.

Heavy footsteps rushing up the stairwell roused her from a well-deserved nap. Afraid Liam would change his mind and leave with Prince Charles, she had gotten up early to say goodbye and to make certain the prince and the Scottish chieftains rode off alone. Covering a yawn with her hand, she propped her back on the mound of pillows behind her.

Voices sounded outside the door.

“Calm yerself, Morag.” A woman’s voice ordered. “Y’er sister may be asleep.”

“Mother, please hurry. Ursula said Margaret should be awake.” The reply came in the high pitch of an excited young girl.

“Stop!”

Before the word echoed into silence, the door burst open. A girl, twelve, or thirteen rushed across the room and threw herself into Maggie’s arms.

“Oh Margaret, I’ve missed ye. Mother refused to let me come when ye were injured, and I’ve been so worried.” The girl’s expression was one of utter misery.

Margaret’s family had arrived. These people had known Margaret all her life, they would realize Liam’s mistake and force him to admit she wasn’t his wife.

“Morag, release yer sister. She’s been ill.” The words were insistent, yet soothing.

Maggie peeked over the blond head nestled under her chin and gapped at a replica of the face she’d seen in the mirror at the therapy center. My goodness, if this was Margaret’s mother, no wonder Liam considered Maggie his wife. The resemblance suggested a strong family tie, yet three-hundred years separated their lives.

Tears trembled on the thick eyelashes that encircled periwinkle blue eyes that gazed down at her. The woman’s gaze made a thorough inspection of her, yet she didn’t cry out to proclaim Maggie an imposter.

Captivated by the sight of Margaret’s mother, she failed to notice the small boy, about six, until he slammed his sturdy body into the bed and wrapped his arms around her legs. He must be Ian, the kidnapped little boy whom Liam helped save. She glanced at him and encountered the clearest, blue eyes staring back at her. Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks. The wide toothless grin on his impish face made her smile. She reached out to ruffle his mussed hair.

“Oh!” Startled, she jerked her hand back when she encountered the wet swipe of a rough tongue on her fingers. Hand held to her chest, she gaped at the largest dog she’d ever seen. He’d nudged his way between her and Ian. Teeth bared, a low rumble emitted from the dog’s large mouth.

“Dinnae look so afeared. Mongrel be happy to see ye.” Ian stroked the dog’s massive back.

“He is? He looks ready to attack.”

She gazed at the people surrounding her bed and realized she must continue the ruse of using a brogue when she spoke
which to her amazement rolled off her tongue easier than the precise English the therapist had taught her.

“Nae. He smiles.”

“Yer dog smiles?” Lips curled back, teeth bared; the animal appeared ready to tear a person into tiny pieces with the least provocation.

“Aye, when he be happy. And he be yer Deerhound, nae mine.”

“How’s me lass?” A man’s deep voice vibrated off the walls of the bedchamber.

She peeked between Morag and Ian and saw a tall, burly man join the small group. Since he draped an arm around Margaret’s mother, she assumed he must be Margaret’s father.

Morag unwrapped her slender arms from around Maggie and sat on the edge of the bed. “Aye, tell us Margaret. How did ye fall? Did your broken leg hurt? I nae kenned someone with a broken limb. Has Liam taken good care of ye?”

Thankfully, her exuberance allowed Maggie time to adapt her emotions to this first meeting with her supposed parents.

“Morag, slow down and breathe.” The girl’s father scolded with a smile. “Ye nae give Margaret time to think with all yer questions, and Liam says she cannae remember so she dinnae ken the answers.”

She stared at the trio, their eyes round and mouths agape, and gave a silent thank you to Liam for explaining the situation to Margaret’s family, which prevented them from wondering about her inability to remember them.

“Truly?”

Maggie’s gaze swerved to the clearly intrigued, young girl. Liam had stressed the importance of people not knowing she was a time traveler
not that he believed her. But Margaret’s parents should know the difference between her and their daughter. Yet, neither they, nor Morag or Ian had cried out an alarm. Why? She gazed at each face trying desperately to grasp the reason. Digging her fingernails into her palms, she attempted to mask her inner turmoil with a veneer of deceptive calmness.