Love Across Time (9 page)

Something indefinable darkened his uncle’s eyes. He blinked and the expression dissipated as quickly as it had appeared.

“Nae one with something to gain.” Dugan shook his shaggy head and turned to replace both arrows in the trunk.

Liam puzzled over the two arrows as they descended the stairs. The first arrow shot at him had been on Campbell land, a full day’s ride from here. That is why he had thought it a careless huntsman. But it appeared that whoever was aiming for him had either followed him to the Campbell’s or had followed him home.

“Liam, the men willnae ken where to search for the intruder if I nae ride with them.” Conner interrupted him contemplation.

“Go ahead.”

“Me thinks I’ll join them,” Dugan said.

“Aye. See ye later.”

The door closed behind the two men and Liam strolled over to sit in his favorite chair. He hoped they captured whoever wanted him dead. If his incidents and Margaret’s accident were connected, her life could be in danger.

He raked his fingers through his hair. Now what to do about his wife’s foolish notion that she wasn’t his wife.

Slumped in a chair before the fireplace Liam waved a maid to his side. “Bring a tankard of ale.”

The young girl rushed to do his bidding. Through half-closed lids, he stared after her. Over the years, the older servants had become accustom to his disfigured face. It was the revulsion on the younger ones that bothered him. He often wondered if someone filled their heads with gruesome tales about how he’d received the scar that dissected his cheek. Disgust had never marred Margaret’s face. It was the first thing that had drawn him to her.

His gaze drifted up the staircase to her chamber door. He regretted leaving Ursula alone to deal with his wife’s tears. The brand of coward didn’t set well on his shoulders.

He remembered Margaret’s earnest expression when she explained who she thought she was. A time traveler? Where had the lass come up with such a hare-brained idea? Aye, she be young, but before her accident she seemed a sensible lass. Three hundred years was a long way to travel, then back again. He shook his head. If it weren’t so sad, he could see humor in her story. The lass had a grand imagination.

The servant returned and sat a mug on the table at his elbow then scurried away. He picked up the brew, took a long swig, and pondered the importance of the Campbell’s visit. Would Margaret’s parents insist she return with them so they could care for her until she regained her wits? Aunt Eleanor was correct in thinking that without the consummation of their marriage, Margaret’s father would be within his rights to demand her and her dowry returned. At the accursed thought, his grip tightened on the tankard. No. He would return the dowry but not Margaret. She was his wife and could warm his bed and bear his bairns with or without her memory.

His shoulders sagged. But would she allow him to make love to her? In her mind, a mere stranger.

Threading his fingers through his hair, he ached to know how she could have forgotten the days they’d spent together talking, laughing, falling in love.

That’s it. Seduce the lass into falling in love with him again. Then they could seal their marriage contract in his bed. Time had prevented him from wooing her the first time, yet they had fallen in love. It shouldn’t be hard to woo her into loving him again; he’d bring her flowers, write songs to her beauty, create poems in honor of their love. He’d court her until she couldn’t resist him.

Aye, a braw plan.

He sagged against the back of the chair and slapped the heel of his hand against the side of his head. What could he be thinking? He wasn’t a courtier or a musician. Couldn’t even carry a tune. Ursula declared him tone deaf and refused to allow him near a musical instrument.

Poems. He spirits lifted along with his shoulders. Surely, it wouldn’t be difficult to put words to rhyme. But the more he concentrated, the more he realized he had no idea how to compose a verse: words to describe her soft skin, as delicate as the morning dew on a newly bloomed rose petal. Nor the sweet lilt of her voice, sweeter than a linnet’s melodious song that drifted across the moors at eventide. Nor the way the sun frolicked in the shades of gold in her long, silken hair, nor the perfection of her graceful form.

Nae. He shook his head. Sweet words to move a lasses heart escaped him. He wasn’t glib of tongue to spout poetry to his lady.

Flowers. Women loved flowers. Convinced his plan would work, he headed for the garden outside the castle. His mother had created the flower garden when she and his father had first married. Since their deaths, Ursula had tended the plants with tender care until they flourished with foliage and blooms in a variety of colors.

Underneath the rowan tree, growing in the middle of the garden, a bed of Lady’s mantle encircled the base. Its cupped leaves glistened with dew in the morning sun as honey bees buzzed around gathering its sweet nectar. Passing the delicate flower, he marched past the stone bench, sheltered by the tree branches, and went deeper into the garden. Alongside the stone fence, shaded by the castle walls, he found what he sought.

The soft-yellow primrose would brighten Margaret’s drab room until she moved into the Lady’s Chamber. Forced into isolation by illness could cause anyone’s mind to wander into flights of fancy.

He fingered his groom gift. The dinner knife, with its intricately graved handle, hung at his side, his constant companion since his wife had presented it to him the morning of their marriage. With one slice through each green stem, he gathered a large bouquet.

He stared at the delicate blossoms. Now what? He couldn’t just hand her a bunch of loose flowers. A search of the surrounding area produced nothing to secure the stems.

Ribbon would hold the bouquet together. Using the servant’s entrance, he strode down the hall and peeked around the door of the sewing room. Empty. Good. The maids hadn’t returned from their noon meal.

He scanned the work area. Bolts of cloth lined one wall. A loom sat in the middle of the room, a Menzies red and white tartan stretched in its wooden frame. Three spinning wheels and chairs for the skein winders were scattered around the large area. A basket sat beside one chair. On top of several pieces of lace, lay a length of silver silk ribbon. He sniped off a piece and hurried out the door. It wouldn’t do for the castle folk to see their laird, with a fistful of flowers, filching ribbon from what was essentially a woman’s domain. They’d think him a romantic milksop.

Back against the closed door of his bedchamber, he sighed with relief that he hadn’t met anyone on his way up the stairs. Laying the blossoms on the bed, he arranged the flowers in a cluster and tied the ribbon around the stems. He held it out to admire his effort. The bow, lying limp and off center, dimmed his enthusiasm.

Her ring! The ring he’d given her at their wedding hung around his neck and lay against his heart. Tugging the silver chain out from under his shirt, he slipped the ring off. He untied the bow and slid the ring onto the piece of silk then retied the ribbon. He opened the door and marched down the hall.

With the bouquet behind his back, he entered Margaret’s room. Ursula sat in a chair in front of the fireplace, sewing.

“I’ll give ye a rest for a while, Ursula.”

“That be all right, me laird. I nae finished me mending.” Her gaze never lifted from the cloth in her lap.

Not a man to demonstrate his amorous intentions in front of others he shifted from foot to foot and wondered how to get rid of Ursula.

Inspiration struck.

“I saw young Ewan trying to wheedle a kiss from young Sorcha a wee while ago. I cannae fault the boy as I ken how he feels. But now ye....”

Ursula heaved herself from the chair and tossed her mending aside. “I’ll pin that lads ears behind his head if he be after a tumble or two with the castle maids.” She glared her outrage at him. “And ye ken I’ll do it.” As she bustled out, the closing door barely missed the hem of her skirt.

He chuckled at his display of wisdom. Ewan won’t know what he’d done wrong, but Ursula would make sure he’d never try to lift Sorcha’s skirts.

“Was Ewan truly trying to kiss Sorcha?”

The question drew his attention to the bed. Margaret’s small form was nearly lost in a mound of soft pillows. Waves of her golden hair splayed over her shoulder. One fat curl lay nestled against her bosom. Desire for his wife clutched low in his gut. He hardened behind the placket of his trews, and he tugged his shirt down to cover the evidence of his arousal. Their wedding night, delayed by her accident, now postponed by her memory loss appeared a nonexistent event. But not for long, he vowed. She loved him once, and if he applied all his skills
meager though they were
she’d fall in love with him again. Then his bed wouldn’t be cold or empty. Margaret would again fill the hollow void in his life.

He grinned. “Nae, but the woman couldnae take a hint.”

Margaret’s laughter flowed over him in a warm, smooth ripple.

“I brought ye flowers.” He withdrew the bouquet from behind his back, shoved the flowers toward her, and felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.

“Oh, Liam, they are lovely.”

Her dazzling smile reminded him of the day they had taken an afternoon ride across the moors. They had stopped to quench their horses thirst. Raven, his mount, had playfully splashed water with his forefoot. Distracted by the woman at his side, Raven had caught him by surprise when he lay down in the cold stream. Margaret’s laughter, then as now, tugged at something deep and primitive within him.

“Ye like flowers, do ye?”

“Yes, and primrose are my favorite.”

She reached up, took the flowers he held out to her, and cradled them in the curve of her arm. Head bent to smell the flowers, she gasp then pulled back.

“Me ring! Ye’ve found me ring.”

He eyed her suspiciously. A slip of the tongue or did she make sport of him? No. He noticed when she became upset, or emotional, a brogue slipped into her speech. She sounded like a Sassenach only when she forced herself to speak slowly.

Her thumb and forefinger tugged the ribbon loose, and the ring fell into her palm. Her fist clinched around the small band, and she held it beneath her breast. Eyes closed, tears seeped out the corners to trickle down her face. She swiped her cheek on her shoulder. A deep breathe lifted her bosom and drew his attention to the creamy globes that peeked over the low neckline of her thin gown. The shadowy crevice above her folded hands sent his mind careening on a sensuous voyage: them lying in bed, her draped across his chest, naked. Him gasping for breath after he’d taken them to a lover’s ultimate goal.

“Thank ye, Liam.”

His gaze flew to her tear-laden eyes. “I dinnae mean to make ye sad.”

“You dinnae.”

She held out her hand to slide the ring on.

“Wait.” He grasped her fingers before she could don the ring. “Allow me.”

He held her hand while he hooked the toe of his boot under the chair rung and pulled it close then sat down. She uncurled her fist, and he took the ring from her palm. Her fingers, long and slender, extended for him to place the ring on.

“Tha goal agam ort, Margaret.”

With his words of love still echoing in the room, he slid the ring on her finger. The tip of the heart pointed toward her heart to indicate she was no longer available for courtship. Leaning forward, his lips claimed hers in a gentle kiss just as he had the day they married. Would his reenactment of that moment bring about some glimmer of memory? His heart pounded with anticipation of making love to his wife. He savored the sweet taste of her mouth then released her lips. Slow and easy would win him the ultimate prize.

She exhaled and he captured the slight puff of air into his mouth, his lungs, the very essence of his soul. He pulled back. Blue eyes, filled with regret and a splash of dampness, stared at him.

Soft fingers clasped his hand. “Oh, Liam, I am sure you loved your Margaret very deeply. But I am not she.”

How could she deny being his wife? Didn’t she realize she had understood him speak Gaelic. His heart ached that she could forget him so easily. He gave an imperceptible shake of his head. What had he expected, that she’d remember everything the moment he offered her flowers? She may not remember the love they’d shared, but he wouldn’t give up until she loved him again. It would take patience to woo the lass. Patience and time. The determination swelling inside him bolstered his deflated self-confidence.

He laid the hand, adorned with his wedding ring, back on the covers, and rose. A twinge of disappointment may have exposed a tiny crevice in his newfound confidence, but he refused to accept defeat. He couldn’t suppress the challenging smile creasing his lips. The battle for Margaret’s heart had just begun.

Voices pecked away at her sleep-shrouded mind like a squawking goose having its down plucked by a careless maid. Groggy, her eyelids fluttered open to a dimly lit room. Through squinted eyes, she saw Ursula by the door arguing with the woman she’d seen that morning. Light from the candle Ursula held shimmered over the dips and hollows of the woman’s sharp features. Pinched-faced was the only apt way to describe her. Eyes set close to her pencil-straight nose, thin lips, and a puckered mouth. The woman looked like she had a piece of sour fruit stuck in her mouth and refused to relinquish it.