PENETRATE (The Portals of Time Book 1) (8 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

For once, Ainslee did as she’d been ordered.

She stayed in her tower room.

It wasn’t an onerous chore, in the worst of times. She loved every inch of the old stone edifice, even if it was freezing cold in the winter and unbearably stuffy some nights in the summer. On those nights, she could always climb the ladder and sleep atop the highest part of the castle, watching the stars, secure atop the wooden latticework tower ceiling that an ancestor of hers had seen constructed.

She also loved the tower because it was an access point to the secret passages. She’d found it by trial and error one particularly severe winter when she couldn’t keep the fire going. One section of her room was so much colder than anywhere else, while it seemed to have a continual breeze. By standing on a chair and hanging on one heavy shield, she’d twisted the thing a half turn, and it had come away from the wall, opening right out like a door! That shield hid a crawlspace just large enough for her, and beyond that, all sorts of halls and steps that linked her to the entire castle.

That passageway meant freedom.

And nobody else knew about it.

This evening, however, she was obeying because she had preparations to attend to, and not because any chance encounter with Father might remind him of her promised punishment. It seemed ridiculous to think the Laird of MacAffrey might still be planning and devising a beating for his younger daughter. He sounded like he was in great spirits. His laughter rang out more than once since the Straith laird had arrived.

Ainslee hadn’t been able to see the official arrival, since her tower was on the opposite side of the entrance gate, but the walls weren’t high enough to completely obscure the Straith retinue as they’d approached on the road. The day had altered since this morn – a normal event – and the skies were now gray-cast, with low-hanging clouds that promised rain. She’d still been able to make out the duke, easily seen since he was the only mounted man. He’d been surrounded by a double row of clansmen that denoted his Honor Guard. Directly behind them would be the bard, an elder clansman who kept the oral history of clan. He was followed by pipers, blaring out the clan marching tune. Although she couldn’t see it, behind the pipers should be the clan spokesman known as a
bladier.
After him came an uncountable number of clansmen, all wearing the red, white, and black plaid denoting the Straith Clan. It looked extremely impressive. She almost gave into her curiosity and snuck down the passageway so she could watch their greeting. The only thing that stopped her was she didn’t wish to upset her appearance.

It had come at too great a price in time and effort already.

She’d drawn cans of peat-colored water from the pump and lugged them all the way to her room. Fourteen in all. Then, she’d dragged one of the small wash tubs up the steps, stopping to catch her breath more than once. It took most of the afternoon and was laborious, but she didn’t wish help, or notice, and she especially wished to avoid any curiosity. There hadn’t been enough water for a full bath, but it worked for washing her hair, and then the rest of her. She’d even purloined sweet-smelling soap bits from her stepmother’s closet to use.

The laird’s younger daughter had been sent to her room with an early sup. She was under orders to stay put throughout the Straith’s visit, no matter how long it should last. The new duke wasn’t to see her. He wasn’t to meet her. He wasn’t to know of her existence.

It was going to cause a small riot if he really did ask for her hand, rather than Lileth’s.

Ainslee spent a massive amount of time washing and rinsing her hair before she had it combed and pulled back to dry. That was just one punishment for being a lady. She’d much rather take a swim in the loch, but with all the clan gathering in the meadows, it was too risky. So, she’d bathed up here and didn’t even complain while toting the used water, can-by-can, to the window, climbing up into the alcove, and tossing it out.

Her tower was in the oldest section of the castle, the walls over ten feet thick even at this height. They were so wide she could sleep in the window’s well if she wanted. It was still a far cry from the wall thickness at castle’s base, however. Measurements down there stood at thirty-three feet.

Bathing and clean-up weren’t what took the longest, though. She’d spent hours twining her hair into long ropes of braids, winding and pinning them atop her head in all sorts of arrangements, trying for height and dignity.

And failing.

Nothing looked right. The mass of hair was too much.

She’d finally settled with wrapping two small braids at her temples, winding them about the crown of her head, pinning them together at the back, and then letting the rest fall free. Few knew her hair reached her knees, being even longer than Lileth’s. That was fine with her. But Ainslee was cheating. Lileth’s hair had a natural wave that thickened and shortened it, and Lileth stood a half-head taller than Ainslee.

At last, her
coiffure
was finished, and then she had a real issue:  proper attire.

What should one wear when meeting a betrothed, supposedly for the first time? And why would she think she had an option? Everything she owned was thread-bare, or torn, or stained, or in need of altering. And they were all in pastel colors that brought out Lileth’s beauty. Hideous shades on her. They made Ainslee look washed-out and ill. It couldn’t be helped, however. They were all she had.

And then she remembered. She did own a yellow dress, with little gathers at the bodice to create an illusion of fullness for the twelve-year-old girl it had been designed for. Lileth had hated it on sight and banished it to Ainslee’s wardrobe closet, where it had had been hanging amidst wildflower sachets for years, forgotten.

Ainslee rushed to her wardrobe. Tossed open the door. The dress was just as she remembered, dusty, but new-looking. The color was vivid. The fit was acceptable, too, although she looked like a child. That was hardly her fault. She didn’t have another option. She never did. She didn’t care, either. Ainslee had long ago decided she hated everything about being female. Her gender was a handicap. A bore. A burden. A decided curse. She’d have given anything to be down in the great hall right now, at the chieftain table, discussing terms...knowing what was happening, rather than banished to her tower, and left guessing.

But, if she had been born a boy, she’d be the MacAffrey Clan heir. Life would be so much different!

She wouldn’t think about it. She’d spent enough time hating her gender.

There was nothing left to do now except wait. Pray. And hope.

CHAPTER NINE

Well.

This was borderline educational, but that was about it.

Neal stopped trying to move the conversation into his reason for being there after the fifth attempt, this time by the presentation of huge platters containing meats. He hadn’t planned on staying past sundown, but the decision was taken from him by the length of the proceedings.

He’d been met at the gate and escorted inside, noted that the room wasn’t nearly as large or impressive as the one at Castle Straith, and then they’d moved on. He’d been led to an alcove area, something they called a chieftain room. Garrick had followed at Neal’s heels. Behind him were the clansmen denoting his Honor Guard.

Neal hadn’t known what an Honor Guard was, or that he had one. The thought still gave him a rush of pleasure. They were a commanding sight. Imposing. They were all massive men, as tall, or taller, than either him or Garrick. They were physically fit. Identically arrayed in Straith colors. They were also all sporting full beards.

As if it was part of the attire.

Neal glanced about and got that answered. Aside from him, every man in the assemblage – with the exception of MacAffrey’s heir, who was too young yet – had facial hair. Perhaps Neal shouldn’t have shaved earlier. Even five o’clock shadow would have sufficed.

Discard it, Neal.

Not your issue.

He was here for one reason. Circumvent Garrick’s claim. Get the betrothal portion of the will handled. Nothing in the will said he had to wed with anyone. All he had to do was get the engagement portion taken care of. After that, he could do as he liked. Wed if – and when – he so wished. Or not at all. He’d still be Duke of Straithcairn.

For life.

Mason had even winked at him while speaking of it.

So. Neal had one mission tonight, arrange an engagement. It couldn’t be hard. He’d been running from one for years. And, as soon as this was accomplished, he could move onto what really mattered. All he had to do was get through what amounted to an oddball bit of protocol.

Easy
.

He just needed to use patience. Bring out his negotiating skills. Neal snuck a hand beneath his sporran and scratched surreptitiously at his groin. He also needed to ignore the continual scrape of a woolen garment against bare skin, as well as the sensation of air. The day had turned into a storm-filled one, with a lot of accompanying wind gusts. He hadn’t even noted them until dismounting the horse. Garrick, and everyone in his Honor Guard got an eyeful then, which wasn’t all that embarrassing. Neal wasn’t a small man. But nobody else seemed to have this trouble. Then again, he
had
just returned from London. He wasn’t used to wearing what amounted to a knee-length skirt with attached, one-shoulder shawl. Why, he was so accustomed to wearing trousers his own valet had set them out today.

Twice since then, Neal had smacked a hand to the back of his left thigh, certain his ass was on display. He didn’t have that problem on his right side. The claymore in its scabbard hung from the belt at his waist. That kept the plaid secured on that side. It felt like the material was continually slipping though, despite the four daggers stabbed through it from behind his belt. The two smaller knives were labeled as
skean-dhu.
Mason had tucked them into Neal’s socks, one per foot, where they rubbed occasionally against his ankles in case he needed a reminder of their presence. It was a lot of weaponry. The men about him looked similarly armed. Neal wondered if this was how one dressed for a ceremony at the neighbor’s, what must they take into battle?

It was a farce. He felt like a complete fraud. This attire was more difficult to wear than any English gent’s could possibly be. But it would all be over soon. He could change back into clothing he recognized, even if it was poorly fitted. He just needed to get through the next hour or so.

The official introductions had turned into a long, incredibly drawn-out affair. Whiskey was brought out. A dram poured out and swigged by just about everyone. One thing was immediately clear. The Scots really did make great whiskey, and apparently, they always had.

From the chieftain room, the Laird of MacAffrey had moved the assemblage back into the great hall. Neal had been escorted to a dais, climbed onto it, and shuffled into position before one of two throne-like chairs at the center of the raised platform. He’d been accompanied by Garrick and the Honor Guard. Garrick was at Neal’s immediate left. Five men were on his left. They were the ones who’d be seated. Seven more clansmen stood behind.

Good thing everyone knew their place. Neal was clueless.

MacAffrey’s entourage had done pretty much the same maneuvering, except his heir sat at his far side, followed by an Honor Guard. The MacAffrey laird had said some more words of welcome, and they’d sat. Drunk more whiskey. Made more toasts. Someone in Neal’s camp had signaled the Straith
bladier
to present himself and bring up the reason for their meeting. The man had done his duty, assumed the orator spot before the dais and announced that the Duke of Straithcairn had come to speak about a matter of legal proceedings.

Their host – who requested to be called Dughall – had stalled the proceedings, by loudly thanking the man for the announcement. Dughall had then waved his arm, and called loudly for refreshments. Neal had lifted his brows and watched the table spread with platters of all kinds of unidentifiable things that turned out to be stuffed sheep tongue, blood puddings, haggis, flat oatcakes called bannock, and cold smoked salmon. All of it was accompanied with large tureens containing ale, while they continued to pour out raw whiskey.

Before partaking of anything on the platters, Niall had thanked the man for his generous repast and finished by remarking he’d come not on a neighborly visit, but to conduct business. That announcement didn’t get him any action. It merely got him toasted again. Nothing was said about a betrothal. Nothing about the purpose of his visit.

Nothing but stalling.

Neal wasn’t eating much. He nibbled and tasted, trying not to show that he had no idea what he was eating, or if it was even edible in its current state. Nothing had been refrigerated. Everything seemed to come with a lot of sauce around it. He was probably flirting with food poisoning. Or any number of digestive ailments.

And time kept passing.

They brought out torches. Stuck them in high holders that looked like lamp posts. Lit them. That added a lot of smoke to the gathering, but little light. Neal’s nose itched enough he had to dab at it occasionally using the cloth Mason had tucked into the sporran. Neal’s eyes stung. His belly roiled on him more than once. He was borderline inebriated. And they were no nearer his objective than when he’d first arrived.

This was truly great whiskey, though. He obviously needed to look into acquiring stock in it.
No
. Not just acquiring stock. He might as well own and operate a distillery. He’d need legal advice on how to trademark the operation here in the UK, but somebody needed to get this whiskey out to the rest of the world. Neal added it to his mental list. Right beneath coffee.

Wait a minute, Neal.

This was stupid. The amount of alcohol he’d consumed was fogging his thinking. There were too many variables when investing in grain-based products. It wouldn’t be a good idea until the government came up with crop insurance programs. Even then, it wouldn’t be a massive money-making machine like steel. He wished he’d been a little more interested in history. He’d know for certain what to invest in, and when.

Too bad it wasn’t closer to the twentieth century. He’d be first in line to purchase Bell Telephone stock.
No!
He needed to invest in Ford Motor Company. And make certain to back anything Nikolai Tesla was inventing. Neal was in a truly unique position. He actually had the ability to see that electricity was the energy source of an engine, and not fossil fuel! That hadn’t even occurred to him until right now.

Perhaps that was the rationale behind his teleportation to this exact year. Into this place. With his memory intact. There might be a higher power at work. It was possible...but he wouldn’t really know unless he succeeded. And then, it would be his future self that saw it.

Wait a minute.

Would he actually be re-born in the latter part of the twentieth century again? If so, would he be Neal Straithmore, CEO of Straithmore Enterprises? And, if that happened, what kind of stock would that Neal have in his portfolio? If energy conservation and environmental issues weren’t money-generating enterprises...just what would be?

The din ebbed and rose about him. Neal wasn’t paying much attention. Funds needed to be sent for his first acquisition. It wasn’t going to be coffee. Or whiskey. Or menswear. He’d been right the first time. He needed to corner the market in iron and then steel. That way, he’d have some sort of control when the automobile industry started.

He really needed to get this idea on paper, so even if he wasn’t around, a future Straith could see it to fruition.

Future Straith?

Neal jerked involuntarily. The move straightened his back. Bumped his shoulders against the back of the chair. Where in the hell had that thought come from? He’d never wanted kids. For a reason. As far as he could tell raising children was a complete crapshoot. You could have the same set of parents. Same parenting involved. Same schooling, education opportunities, financial resources. Get completely different outcomes. Children were a financial, emotional, and mental drain. And worse of all, was the time depletion involved.

But...if he didn’t have any...would that mean Garrick’s progeny would eventually inherit?

What a horrid thought.

Neal snuck a glance to his left. It was a chore to sit beside Garrick. Neal hadn’t been mistaken earlier when they’d first met. An unpleasant vibe really did emanate from the man. What if the man’s children took after their sire? Did Neal really want them having this information? The ability to corner the stock market? Gain unimaginable wealth? And with it, unmitigated dominance? And why did that thought make every muscle in his body tense up?

Damn everything.

It was his destiny to control the stock market, and in so doing, save the environment. The absolute last thing he wanted was this much knowledge and power in the hands of an evil son-of-a-bitch. This was getting more and more problematic by the moment. He needed to get it written down. Look it over. Connect the dots. Evaluate things.

And if they ever manage to finalize this betrothal nonsense, he would.

Another round of whiskey was poured. More toasts given. More stalling occurred. Neal accepted a drop or two more in his tankard. He’d given up trying to keep up with his host’s drinking, resorting to taking a slight sip for every toast. He’d never been a drinker, not even in his early twenties in college. He knew enough not to go head-to-head with a man who was.

All of which was getting him absolutely nowhere.

Neal dabbed at his nose, before turning to his right, and addressing his host. “MacAffrey! My good man! You do know that I am here on business? Yes?” 

He spoke loudly enough the man had to have heard. But MacAffrey ignored him, speared another joint of roast mutton onto the platter before him, split open a roll next, shoved a huge pat of butter within it, smashed it shut, and then,
finally
, the man answered.

“Aye. That I do.”

“Do you have a chamber for our use?”

“What the devil for?”

“It’s a private matter!”

“What you have to say can be heard by all.”

Neal raised his brows. “Very well. I’ll begin.”

“Grant! Start up a pipe!”

Strains of pipe music started infiltrating the scene, adding unnecessarily to the cacophony. Neal had to yell his next words.

“I’ve come to solidify a union with our clans!”

The man replied with his own yell. “Thought as much, your grace. So, we did.”

The lone piper had been joined by more of them, adding more sound to the din. Neal’s head started pounding. He put a hand to his forehead, only to connect with his wound. That smarted. He winced. This was ridiculous.

“I’m seeking a betrothal with your daughter!”

“Lileth, is prepared to receive you, too…just as soon as—. As soon as—well.” The man hiccoughed. “We need more to eat! And more whiskey, MacGruder! Bring out another keg! All around!”

Another keg? And more stalling?

“I am here about the betrothal, Dughall!” He had to speak over the din. He didn’t have much choice.

“And a fine duchess Lileth will make.”

“Lileth? Who said anything about Lileth? I’ve come to ask for your daughter, Ainslee!” 

Neal shouted it. His host looked stunned. Everything else seemed to stop. Movement. Sound. Everyone stopped talking. The pipers ceased playing, although wails of sound leaked out of their pipes as air got expelled. The Laird of MacAffrey’s mouth kept opening and closing, looking like a fish out of water. A big, loud, drunken, red-bearded fish.

“
Ainslee?
Did you say—? I thought I heard—? Surely, your grace is mistaken. Or...I heard you wrong?”