PENETRATE (The Portals of Time Book 1) (7 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Neal grimaced again at the bitter taste from the coffee he’d just swigged. Put the cup back onto its saucer. He rarely stopped at one cup. He did now. For self-preservation. He regarded the rest of his breakfast selection with an even more jaundiced eye. Most of it looked inedible. Maybe it was due to the distance from the kitchen. He couldn’t tell. But the meats were greasy and cold, the yolks of two fried eggs broken and congealed. There was a bowl of baked beans. Chunks of something black and sour-smelling. Thank goodness someone had included a small pot of oatmeal! And scones. Those were familiar. Hearty. Delicious. He wrapped a sausage link within a pancake that tasted of oats and potatoes and chomped on it as he considered the wicked-looking bruise at his temple in the mirror. Nasty-looking thing.

And he was running out of time.

Even when given an entire new adulthood to work with, time was still a priority.

He had about twenty minutes left, give-or-take. He needed to prepare and he didn’t have much help. The menservants hadn’t been any, but he hadn’t asked, either. None of them would meet his glance. Neal guessed it had something to do with the breakfast, and his requirement of it in his room, but he didn’t have anyone to verify it. Unless he considered the gent who’d arrived on the heels of his breakfast, and who hovered even now, beside the bed. Silently watching. Neal caught the fellow’s gaze in the mirror before the man also looked away from him.

The man had given his identity. He was the laird’s valet.

Another blasted Scotsman.

Neal wondered over trustworthiness, although he hadn’t sensed anything like the emotion he’d felt when in Garrick’s presence. Neal turned about. Approached the bed. He wore a floor-length robe, fashioned of some soft fiber he couldn’t identify at the moment. It was lined with satin and finished with a silver embroidered crest at his left chest area, directly above his heart. The emblem was so heavy with thread it weighed down the material.

His valet stood patiently, hovering beside a selection of Highland attire. There was a white linen shirt. A ruffled bit of material hung from the neck. It had buttonholes. He guessed it was a facsimile of a tie. Or...what had they called neckwear back then? Cravats.
Yeah
. That was it. Two circles of white linen fabric were resting above the shirt. They were mystifying. A short black jacket with embroidered epaulets came next. Looked like it had been fashioned from velvet. A length of red, white, and black plaid was spread out across the coverlet beside the jacket. Neal guessed it would become a kilt of some kind. A round purse-thing rested beside the plaid, made from some animal’s pelt. It was heavily embossed with silver. Tasseled plaid socks in the same color scheme of red, white, and black were beside it, followed by four silver-handled daggers. Two smaller knives came next. A large, jeweled and gilt-trimmed scabbard rested toward the foot of the bed, ready to hold the sword that lay beside it. That wicked-looking weapon graced the footboard, glinting with the amount of polishing it had been given. The last item looked like a bonnet for his head.

There wasn’t anything resembling underwear.

Anywhere.

Neal continued his inspection, moving his glance across from the sword. On the other side of the bed, the valet had set out a completely different set of clothing. Knee-high boots rested on the coverlet, so clean and shiny, they nearly matched the sheen coming from the sword. Little round straps came next. They probably held up the socks beside them. A dark blue coat was next. A pair of long trousers of a tan shade. Didn’t look like they had as much excess room in the seat as those he’d worn earlier.
Excellent.
Beside the pants was a length of starched white linen that would be wrapped about the throat in another choke-collar.
Ah
. That was a real cravat. Next to that was a white button-down shirt, and at the area just below his pillows were items even he recognized: knee-length, off-white drawers that buttoned to a like-material sleeveless shirt. Apparently, if he dressed in the attire of an English gentlemen, at least he’d have underwear.

This was getting complicated.

Neal looked at his valet, back down to the bed. He didn’t have to ask which outfit the valet favored. The man’s demeanor spoke for him. He supposed as chieftain of the Straith Clan, there was only one option.

Neal sighed heavily. “Your name’s Millbourne? Isn’t that what you said?” 

“Your grace?”

“What can you tell me of Miss...uh. Is it...MacAffrey?”

“Lileth?”

Oh good.
Neal smiled to himself as the fellow filled in one blank
.
The woman everyone expected him to ask for was named Lileth. “No. The other one. The one that begins with an ‘A’.”

The man jerked slightly, then frowned. “Ainslee…MacAffrey, your grace?”

“Yes. That’s it. Ainslee. You know anything of her?”

The man cleared his throat and then put a finger beneath his collar. Neal regarded him silently.

“I’m uncertain how to proceed with the answer, your grace.”

Neal leaned against the dresser behind him. It scudded along the stone floor before he realized his mistake. He was larger and heavier. The furniture wasn’t secured to the floor. He stood back up before something drastic happened, like the thing fell.

“Is there some secret I’m not privy to? Come on, my good fellow. Speak up.”

“I’m wondering…what your grace has heard.”

“Call me Neal, all right? I’m a bit...out-of-sorts here. I’ve but recently arrived. I just suffered some sort of head injury...that um...scrambled my brains a bit. I need help. Information. And I am not asking my steward for it. So. Are you going to assist me or not?”

The man lifted his head and met Neal’s gaze. Neal got an instant sensation of warmth. A sense of benevolence. The exact opposite of what he’d felt with Garrick. He instantly felt at-ease. As if he was around Eric again. That was curious.

“We’d have never allowed the lass the run of the estate if you’d been here.”

Neal’s eyebrows rose. “The run of the estate?” he echoed. “She lives here?”

“Oh. No. Nothing like that. But she visits. Oft. Mostly the stables.”

“The stables? A girl?”

“The lass has the touch of the fey to her fingers. All note it.”

“Fey?”  The word was harshly spoken. Neal couldn’t help it. He was not accepting fairy nonsense.
No way
. Not without a fight, anyway. He refused.

“I’ve been a witness to it, your grace. Near all she touches heals. She’s a wonder with horses. She’s the reason your stable is as healthy as it is when hoof-rot decimated most others. There’s nae horse born she canna’ calm.”

“Oh.
That
kind of fey.”

“Check with MacCreary, our head groomsman. Actually, you could check with all the stable hands. You’ll hear the same. But, afore you do, your grace, I wish to take full responsibility.”

“For what? And really. You can call me Neal.”

“I allowed her to visit the estate while the auld laird, your uncle, was ill. But I also allowed it to continue afore your arrival. I’ll see it stopped immediately-like.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Millbourne. No harm, no foul. Right?”

“Your grace?”

Neal unfastened his robe tie. “It’s Neal. And I’m going to need your help with this, as well.”

“With what?”

“My...uh. Attire. I wouldn’t wish to reflect poorly on the Straith Clan, and I’m a mite...uncertain as to the wearing of...um. This.”  Neal motioned to the length of plaid.

“You’ll wear the
feile-breacan
today?”

“Uh. Yeah. If that’s what it’s called.”

“Oh, your grace! Aye! It will be an honor to assist you.”

“What would it take to get you to call me Neal?”

“’Twould be a mistake, your grace.”

Neal sighed again. “Why?”

“It is na’ my place. Your cousin looks for any reason to negate yer claim. Ye mustn’t give him one.”

“Garrick?”

“Aye.”

“He’s my cousin? Buggers.”

“His mother is the late duke’s younger sister. As well as your father’s, I should add.” 

“I take it she’s still alive?”

“She resides in the east wing along with your other cousin.”

Other cousin? Crap. There was another one like Garrick?
That was an unpleasant turn of events. “Why is he a Straith, then? Isn’t his mother wed?”

“Of course! She’s been widowed. Garrick’s father was a Blair. But, since the duke’s left no son, the duchy of Straithcairn could easily have gone to your cousin. I believe that...to be the prime reason he assumed the Straith surname.”

“And that took place recently, I take it?”

“Upon your uncle’s death.”

“I see. So. I was difficult to locate, harder to persuade, and Garrick was thinking he had a lock on the duchy until I showed up. Is that my situation?”

“None said you were difficult to locate, your grace.”

“Really? I must have been having a
very
good time in London.”

“So I have been told.”

“But...my uncle stuck a fly in the ointment, didn’t he? In order to assume the inheritance, I’ve got to wed a MacAffrey lass. Sight unseen. How am I doing? Is that my situation? In a nutshell?”

“Nutshell?”

“You know...take the major facts of an issue. Condense them. Quick and dirty. Wrap them up. Tie them in ribbons. I’m speaking metaphorically, of course. Nothing concrete. Oh! That reminds me. I’m going to need paper. My list is getting larger by the moment. I need paper to get this down. Lots of it. Rolls, if we have it. Is that possible?”

“Rolls of paper?”

“Well, yeah. Newspapers have them. We should be able to get them. And pens! No! Markers. Big ones. In every color. I work better when I have lots of space to make visuals.”

“Markers, your grace?”

The man’s eyebrows were lifted.
Damn it.
Neal had been on a roll. Thinking aloud. He’d have to keep a better watch on his tongue.

“How about we discuss it later? After my meeting? And, come on Millbourne. Isn’t there any way I can get you to call me Neal? When we’re alone? And nobody is around to hear?”

The valet considered him for a long moment. And then the man smiled. “And you must call me Mason, your gra—I mean, Neal.”

“Mason. Got it. So. You ready for our next hurdle?”

“Your
feile-brecan?
”

“That, and the will. Sounds as if you’ve got real knowledge of it. Am I right?”

“I was one of the witnesses to the signing. I actually have a copy.”

“A copy?”

“Signed by all involved.”

“Excellent!” 

Neal shrugged out of his robe, was startled again at the view of unblemished skin where he’d sported a spiral tattoo, then turned to eye the attire on the bed. The valet lifted the shirt and assisted him into it. Neal started buttoning. A lot of pearl buttons had been stitched onto the fabric, in series of two. They were going to be hidden by the ruffles. What a waste. Sewing machines hadn’t been invented yet. Some poor woman had put every one of these pearls in place. Or, maybe it had been a child. For all he knew, child labor laws hadn’t been enacted yet, either. It was 1803. A lot of work needed to be done on the social level still...

What the hell?

This thought process was perplexing, as well as disconcerting. What was it to him who sewed his clothing? And under what circumstances? Neal had seen all kinds of human conditions in his travels. Viewed economic situations that shouldn’t support a dog. After a span, he’d learned to ignore them. He rarely even noticed. Such travails were part of life. He didn’t allow it to become his issue.

Not then.

And he wasn’t about to start now.

He finished the buttons. Started attaching the ruffled front piece. “I need to know about the will, Mason. Refresh my memory.”

“What do you recollect?”

“Parts. But I’m a bit...uh...vague on the betrothal stuff. Give me the exact wording, and—now, wait...just a minute here.” 

The shirt was finished. He’d watched Mason wrap the coils of linen at Neal’s wrists and slide little chains through them, making a cuff and link affair, securing the sleeves in place. Menswear really needed to get updated. And then the valet had approached and tossed a hank of the plaid over his Neal’s shoulder.

“You need to hold still, your—I mean, Neal.”

The man circled behind him, came back around to the front, wrapping material as he moved.

“Come on. You’re not joking? This is it? I don’t get anything else? No underwear? Nothing? Doesn’t the wool...um. You know? Itch?”

“Well. That’s one of the uses of the sporran, Neal.”

Mason Millbourne pointed to the purse-thing. He was chuckling. And it wasn’t all that funny.