Love Across Time (6 page)

When Ursula had finished setting Margaret’s leg and bandaging the gash on her head, he’d gently lifted her into his arms and brought her to this empty chamber.

Once he had Margaret abed, Ursula had lifted her gown to examine for further injuries. He had watched in horror as the blue bruise on her side and stomach grew darker and larger. A definite sign of internal injuries. His thoughts scrambled to make sense of why she would be the one injured when he had had several narrow escapes, yet remain unharmed.

Panic had gripped him when Ursula lifted her sympathetic gaze to him and had shaken her head.

“No!” The deep agonizing groan had escaped as a heart-sinking grief gripped him. Margaret was his soul mate. He couldn’t lose her. Since then he’d nursed her day and night. Slept little, ate less, and prayed insistently. Picking up her delicate hand, he placed a kiss in the palm then tucked it under the covers. How had the lass survived such a fall? Slight of built, she weighed no more than seven stones. Yet, her generous curves were all a man could ask for.

Slightly bent over her still small form, he studied her delicate features. He had fallen in love with her at first sight. It hadn’t taken long for the sweet biddable lass to worm her way into his heart. He chuckled. The Campbell hadn’t realized it, but he would have accepted Margaret without the more than generous dowry.

His calloused finger tenderly traced the smooth line of her cheekbone. Even after weeks abed, her beauty still had the power to twist his stomach into knots. When she’d mentioned other men with such familiarity, jealousy had driven him to speak harshly.

“How be the lassie me fine laird.”

Ursula peeked over his shoulder. Engrossed in his wife, he hadn’t heard her enter the room.

“Yer wee chat be o’er. ‘Er did she fall asleep afore ye finished?”

“Weel...uh, she fainted,” he stammered. The heat of embarrassment crawled up his neck.

She straightened and shoved him aside. “What did ye do to the poor lass?”

Why did she always think him at fault? Of course, Ursula had raised him since his parents had died when he’d turned six and she knew him well, including his temper. She was more mother than servant and had the ability to make him feel like a young bairn, not a knight of three and twenty and chieftain of his clan.

The accusation made him feel ashamed of the way he’d spoken to Margaret. The lass had been very ill. But when she mentioned the other men’s names, when she claimed not to remember his, it had set his temper into a hot cauldron of fury.

“What I did, doesnae matter. How do we wake her?”

“Step back ye young fool,” she scolded.

Ursula took a cloth from the bowl, rung it out, then gently patted Margaret’s cheeks and forehead. The tiny pink scar that peeked from beneath stray wisps of hair at her temple didn’t distract from her beauty.

He reached up to trail his finger down the jagged ridge on his face. He’d received the wound his fifteenth summer in mock battle. Conner’s wooden lace had slipped past his face shield and had pierced his flesh. Ursula had been gone, tending to ailments in another town, and Eleanor had refused to treat the ugly gash. The skin had grown back in a malformed shape by the time Ursula had returned.

Margaret had told him his disfigurement gave him character, which was one of the reasons he’d found her so appealing. Other women had taken one look at his face, and regardless of his vast holdings, they had searched for a comelier mate.

Her exact words, spoken in her sweet voice, echoed in his mind: “Yer mark dinnae bother me. It gives ye character. Some men wear a tattoo to prove their manliness. Ye have this.” She had reached up, ran her finger down the length of his scar, as she had earlier, then kissed the puckered skin. He’d wanted to prolong the gentle touch on his face, but her younger brother had interrupted the moment.

She’d made him feel as if she saw the man beneath the scar. Her act of kindness had tugged at a need he’d buried deep inside him. That part of him that had longed for someone to love him, to share his life. He had been wary at first, but her persistence that his scar mattered little had won his trust, and with his trust, went his heart. His blemished face still didn’t appear to affect her, but something had changed since her accident.

“Ursula, have ye found anything peculiar about Margaret since she awoke?”

Hazel eyes peered over her gray, wool-covered shoulder, and a frown creased her brow. “Aye, the lass speaks like a Sassenach.”

He grinned at the way she spit the name out like the worst epithet. “Aye.”

“Weel, she dinnae speak like that afore. I barely kenned what she said,” Ursula groused as she continued to dip and ring the cloth then dab at Margaret’s forehead. “I still hear the sweet lilt in the lass’s voice, but the words come out all wrong. Perhaps the knock on her head scrambled her speech, and it’ll be awhile afore she talks right again.”

“Aye.” He nodded.

“Here.” She slapped the soggy rag into his palm and shuffled toward the door. “Rinse the cloth and keep it to her head. I’ll fetch a bowl of venison stew. The lass needs more than broth to rebuild her strength.”

Water dripped from his hand as he watched Ursula amble toward the door. A pitiful moan brought his attention back to his wife. Sitting on the bed’s edge, he rung the cloth out and gently patted Margaret’s cheeks and neck.

Lavender-blue eyes, the color of heather spread across the moors, opened.

“Tha mi dulich,” he whispered, his tone rueful.

“What.” Eyes scrunched as her pert nose curled upward. Had the lass forgotten how to speak and understand Gaelic?

“I be sorry. I dinnae mean to lose me temper. Me anger flames hot when prodded, but be short lived.”

“Apology accepted.”

He watched in fascination as her pearly-white teeth gnawed her lower lip. Her flare of temper from a few moments earlier had passed, but she appeared perplexed on what to say next.

“If ye wish to finish our talk, we can start anew.” He gave her a nod of encouragement then frowned. “Just nae mention a mon’s name.” Margaret’s virtue had been well protected, but the sting of an unfaithful lass, years ago, still had the power to fire the jealousy that burned low in his gut.

“Well...uh.... Where did you say I am?” She didn’t attempt to rise, but lay motionless in the bed, the covers held in a tight grip.

“Castle Menzies. Ye be Margaret Menzies, me wife.”

Color seeped from her face at the word wife.

“Dinnae swoon again.”

“No, I will not,” she promised, her eyes as round as one of Elizabeth’s fancy English teacups. “I cannot be in Scotland.”

Her luscious bottom lip trembled, making him want to still the slight quiver with his mouth. He dropped the cloth back into the water and moved to sit in the chair, hoping to make her feel more at ease. A sigh of what he supposed was relief escaped her.

“Go ahead lass, speak.” He cringed. Never glib of tongue, he hoped she didn’t think he spoke as if he were commanding a dog. She had often teased him over his lack of the use of flattery.

“I need ye to tell me if ye remember anything from the night ye fell. Did someone push ye? If so, do ye ken who it be?”

“I do not know anything about what you refer to. I only know my name is Maggie, short for Margaret. A car accident in Tulsa, Oklahoma left me with amnesia...ah with no memory,” she clarified.

She tugged her hair back to expose the wound that had taken seven of Ursula’s fine stitches to close. He’d seen the scar every time he bathed her forehead for a sennight during the worst of her fever. With Ursula’s help, he had nursed her for two months. Each day that she slept so soundly, his fear had grown.

“If you call Col...uh...your friend, I am sure he will tell you Abby never meant for the joke to go this far.”

The woman talked gibberish. A what accident? Tulsa, where? And who in the bloody hell was the man she kept blabbering about. He had never heard her speak of an Abby, either.

In battle, he’d seen men who had received head injuries that had only raised a wee bump on their hard heads, yet were senseless when they awoke. Some couldn’t remember the battle or even their names. Others never woke at all, but had wasted away until death finally claimed them. Could this be what Margaret suffered from? Why she didn’t remember him or where she lived? At first, he thought her confused by her long sleep, but with each word she spoke, it became clear the problem was more serious.

He gazed at her. Her slim body, nestled under the covers, trembled. Fingers held the edge of the blanket so tight her knuckles had turned white. Eyes round, lips parted, she waited for him to admit someone named Abby had played a cruel joke on her. Unless she referred to her family’s nanny Annabelle, as Abby, he didn’t know anyone by that name.

His heart felt as heavy as the Stone of Destiny. It had been seven weeks and the hope that Margaret would awaken had shriveled within him. He’d prayed God would reward his efforts, and He had, but.... Liam shook his head. Now this.

By the earnest expression on her face, he didn’t doubt she believed her words. His fingers scraped the hair back from his face. How to convince Margaret she belonged here, with him, in his arms, and in his bed.

“Come.” Before she could refuse, he scooped her up and cradled her like a babe.

“What are you doing?” she squeaked. “I can walk.”

“Nae, ye havenae tested yer broken leg to make sure ’tis completely healed.”

With the blanket secure around her, he carried her to the window. If she could look out at the green fields she’d called a wondrous sight, see the sheep grazing in the pastures, and catch a glimpse of the rooftops of Weem, or the cottages below, perhaps she’d remember.

“Look out the window, lass. See that me words be true.”

She placed one hand on the stone wall and leaned forward. Her neck stretched out until the tendons grew taut as a rope. Her throat convulsed with a gasp. Fingernails dug tighter into his arms as seconds passed.

At last, her head slowly pivoted toward him. “What year is this?”

“It be the seventeenth-hundred-and-forty-sixth year of our Lord.”

“Oh.... I’m really.... How did I…?”

Shock wedged her words in her throat. No wonder it had been so quiet Maggie thought as she scanned the vast green fields peppered with the plump, white bodies of grazing sheep. No major highways with bumper-to-bumper traffic and horns blaring ran through the small village. Smoke plumed skyward from squat, thatched-roofed cottages that had taken the place of high-rise apartments. A stable had replaced the Seven-Eleven on the corner.

“Take me back to bed, I must think.”

The minute he laid her down, she scooted under the covers and leaned against the mound of pillows. Her mind searched for a plausible explanation. Hallucinations? A relapse? If this wasn’t Abby’s idea of a prank, perhaps she
had
tumbled back in time. Was time travel possible? Had the conversation with Mrs. Bixby about Scottish Highlanders of old, become her reality? Under the cover, she pinched her thigh to make certain she wasn’t caught in the throes of her nightmare.

Ouch.

Hysterical laughter wormed up the back of her throat. A glance around the room had a sobering effect. The rough-hewn walls and antique furnishings added credibility to the illusion of ancient times. She choked back a bout of hysteria.

Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. What did he say his name was, Meister, Mitzner, Menzies? That’s it Menzies? Her breath hitched. The name of Mrs. Bixby’s favorite clan.

Visions of the weird mist that had surrounded her when she’d stood in front of the mirror, wearing the nightgown, crowded her mind. The arc of fire that had leaped between the brooch and ring was the last thing she remembered. She took a quick intake of breathe as shock pulsated through her body. Had she gone back to the eighteenth century to learn why the entries in Mrs. Bixby’s book had stopped?

Movement on her left dragged her attention back to the present or was that the past. She scanned the man’s muscular frame with a wary eye. The power coiled in him vibrated in the air as he stalked from one side of the room to the other like a caged animal. A frown deepened the creases in his forehead with each step. Perhaps if she told him the truth they could work together to send her home. The truth had always served her well in the past. Hadn’t it?

Stiff shoulders and a mouth clamped tight into a straight line indicated he might not be the most reasonable man. But she had to try. She had a life in the twenty-first century to discover.

“Liam. It is Liam, correct?”

He came to an abrupt halt before her. “Aye. That be me name.” His growled response sent shivers down her spine. Hand on his hips, he waited for her to continue. When she remained silent, he glared down at her then resumed his prowling.

Gathering her courage, she said, “We have a problem.”

He gave her a quick glance as he passed her on his journey around the room. “Aye. Ye dinnae ken who ye be.”

“Nae, it’s more than that,” she snapped.

A sparkle lit his dark eyes, and a quirk lifted the corner of his mouth. Did he find her dire situation amusing? Well she didn’t. He made it sound as if she were to blame for this hapless situation. The problem, she silently grumbled, was that she didn’t know him nor did she belong in the eighteenth century. She wanted to go home, to deep bubble baths, the buzz of traffic outside her window, and...and television.