Wishing For a Highlander (23 page)

“I know,” she said past a tight throat. “He’s a stubborn idiot.” Turning to meet Wilhelm’s sympathetic eyes, she sniffed. “I don’t suppose you’d let me go after him.”

He smiled, but showed his teeth in warning. “Nay, lass. Ye’ll no’ be leaving. I have charge over you, and I intend to keep ye safe while your husband is away.”

She huffed, embracing her outrage rather than think about how alone she suddenly felt. “Well, what am I going to do with myself while he’s gone? Sit around and file my nails and be barefoot and pregnant?”

“Oh, no,” Constance said, breezing into the breakfast room.

Wilhelm wasted no time extricating himself from the critical, emotional-female situation, ducking out of the room.

Constance helped herself to the breakfast buffet. “I need help in my garden. And we need to find you a decent wardrobe. And there’s a ton you need to learn if you’re going to be hanging around in this century.”

“But I won’t be,” she protested, fighting the urge to start crying again–damn her hormones. “Not if Darcy has his way.” When did the idea of getting home to Charleston and the twenty-first century become a bad thing?

Constance threw a conspiratorial smile over her shoulder as she poured some tea and prepared a plate of bread, raisins, and cheese. “When a man acts rashly, say for example, galloping off at the crack of dawn on some cockamamie errand without so much as a goodbye, it doesn’t necessarily mean he knows what he’s doing. In fact,” she added, falling into an overstuffed chair and popping a raisin in her mouth, “it often means he’s running from something.”

“Yeah, from me,” she huffed. She felt too upset to eat, but her little one had other plans. She couldn’t stop herself from grabbing half a loaf of bread from the sideboard and tearing off a hefty bite. It was so good. Starchy and grainy and utterly healthy-tasting. She helped herself to the brie, spreading a generous glob over the bread before devouring more.

While she ate with Constance, she couldn’t help thinking about last night. Poor Darcy had never been with a woman before, and suddenly she was pawing him, throwing herself at him, demanding his compliance as she had her wicked way with him.

He’d shown absolutely no sign of distress–if he had, she would have backed off. But passion could mask deeper feelings. Maybe deep down, he’d been battling regrets, and when morning came and the passion had worn off, those regrets had shone as starkly as the sun.

He’d told her he never intended to remain married for long. He hadn’t intended to become intimate with her. Maybe now that he’d let her seduce him, he was more determined than ever to get her back to her time, before she could sink her claws into him any deeper. To Darcy, she must seem like a needy succubus of a woman, desperate for male attention–a wanton, he’d called her. Remembering the bite in the word as he’d spat it at her in the barn, she winced. He probably thought she was trying to seduce him into taking care of her and her baby, that she was using him.

No wonder he was in a hurry to ditch her. Her eyes burned with fresh tears.

Constance rolled her eyes as she set down her plate. “Honestly, dear, if you can’t tell that man is completely head over heels for you, you need your eyes checked. He’s not running from you. More likely, he’s afraid of what you make him feel. As a general rule, men don’t like to be out of control. That’s especially true for our rugged Highlanders. They are men of action.” Constance sipped her tea. “Hunt it, terrify it, dominate it, kill it. And if it can’t be hunted, terrified, dominated, or killed, than it’s best to leave it alone.”

“Wilhelm didn’t leave you alone,” she said, more than a little jealous of the woman for being happily married while her husband was miles away searching for a way to get rid of her.

“No, he most certainly didn’t. But he did try to terrify me. And when that didn’t work, he tried his hand at dominating me.” The defiant gleam in her eye spoke to the effectiveness of those attempts. “It wasn’t until the poor man realized he could dominate me through tenderness and that when a woman loves a man, she is innately terrified of losing him, that he finally began to trust what we had.”

“You’re saying Darcy’s just trying to make sense of what he feels for me, and he’s doing it by immersing himself in action. But what if he actually finds a way to return me to my time?”

“He might find your box maker. He might even learn the secret to returning you to your time. The question is, what will he do with the information?” Constance leaned forward, turning the full power of her shrewd gaze on her. “Perhaps a better question is, if he arrives at a decision you don’t like, will you roll over and accept it, or will you fight for what you really want?”

Chapter 16

Darcy glared at the stenciled sign for MacLeod’s Fine Furniture. He’d half hoped to nay find any hint of Malina’s box maker. She would have been distraught, but he would have comforted her with kisses and the touches that brought her so much pleasure. He’d hold her through her grieving and stroke her hair and tell her how sorry he was. But inside, he’d be joyful at the prospect of keeping her with him as they searched for another way to return her to her home.

But the first bloody man he’d asked once he’d arrived in Inverness had kent of MacLeod and directed him to the cobbled close in which he currently stood. Beyond the wide archway he’d ridden Rand under minutes ago, the street stunk of refuse and garbage as the streets in larger towns tended to, but once in the sunny courtyard, away from the rattling pony carts and crippled beggars, he smelled only the clean straw and animal scent of the stable where he’d stored Rand for the day, and fresh-cut timber.

While he glowered at the stone and mortar furniture shop, a patron pushed out the front door, tucking his purse in his sporran. The man started when he noticed his height, but he quickly recovered and gave a cordial nod before continuing on his way. He wouldn’t be doing himself any favors by blocking the entrance to MacLeod’s shop all day. Blowing out a resigned breath, he pulled open the door and went inside.

The centerpiece of the shop was a grand dining table the likes of which Steafan had up at Ackergill Keep. It had ten matching chairs, each with intricately worked arms and legs. Darcy didn’t much care for finery, but even he could tell the set was well made and expensive. A dozen or so patrons ran their hands over the table and chairs as well as the other wares lining the walls, a chest of drawers, two armchairs with matching footstools, smaller chests and tables, and slabs of stained wood that might serve as mantles for fireplaces in well-to-do homes. At the back of the shop was a shelf covered with smaller items, candlesticks, carved children’s trinkets, shaving kits, and–he gulped–boxes.

A white-haired man, far along in age but agile and strong of build, gestured as he spoke with a smartly-dressed man and woman eyeing a chest of drawers.

He moved close to listen, pretending to study a circular table with spindly legs.

“Och, ’tis a fine piece,” the white-haired man was saying. “Worked it last winter. Notice the inlaid foils of cherry wood about the edge. ’Tis a technique you’ll nay find used elsewhere in Scotia.”

After bending their heads together for a conference, the man and woman agreed to the high price, and the white-haired man led them to a counter where they made arrangements for payment and delivery of the item. At a sharp call from the white-haired man, another white-haired man hurried to the counter from a door tucked away behind the shelf at the rear of the shop. He moved with such haste that Darcy missed the man’s face and saw only his back. It was a strong and straight back, too fit to match the hair atop the man’s head. He couldn’t look away, struck by the contrast between the man’s auld hair and youthful movements.

The new man bobbed his head earnestly at the various commands issued by the first white-haired man. “Yes, Mr. MacLeod,” he said in the squeaky voice of a lad not quite settled into manhood. He turned and rushed back to the hidden door, and Darcy saw the man’s face. He had to stifle a startled intake of breath at the sight of pink eyes and skin whiter than a cloud. ’Twas no second auld man, but a young man with the coloring of a pail of milk.

The young man kept his eyes downcast as he rushed back to the hidden door. Except for his face and neck, he kept the rest of his skin covered. He even wore trews in place of a plaid so no skin on his legs showed. With gloved hands, the lad pushed through the door and disappeared into what must be MacLeod’s workroom. He must be MacLeod’s apprentice.

Returning his attention to MacLeod, he watched the finely-dressed couple exit to the courtyard. Before he could step in and meet the furniture maker, a plump woman in a peacock-blue dress too fine for day wear in his opinion tugged on the man’s elbow. “A moment of your time, sir,” she said, dragging him away with a string of questions about an upholstered armchair near the front of the shop.

He sighed. It might take some time to meet the man. Mayhap he should return at the close of business. In the mean time, he perused the items on the shelf, eyeing the boxes in particular. They didn’t look unlike Malina’s box, but none were quite the same as hers, either. Some were rosewood, some maple, some cherry. Most had inlaid bits of different colored wood or carvings in lovely patterns, but none had patterns done in metal of any kind.

He itched to peek at their bottoms to inspect the dates, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to touch them, afraid of what magicks they might possess.

But that was daft, wasn’t it? Surely MacLeod kent better than to keep nefarious objects that could send people hurtling through time just lying about his shop for anyone to touch. Reaching out, he stroked a finger over a box about the size of Malina’s. When it didn’t bite him or do aught else suspicious, he lifted it from the shelf to inspect it.

It was lighter than Malina’s box. A sturdy brass latch kept it shut. He worked it with a nudge of his finger and peered inside. The thing was lined with velvet. He closed it and turned it over. The date read 1517. The dark brown ink beneath the stain looked familiar, but the script that read
MacLeod
and listed Inverness as the place of manufacture was larger and more slanted, written in a different hand.

He put the box back and looked at the others, finding the writing and the date the same on them all, with the exception of a few 1516’s and one 1514. They were just ordinary boxes designed for keeping ladies’ jewelry or precious trinkets.

“Is it a gift ye’re looking for, for your wife, mayhap?”

He turned to find MacLeod at his side and realized with a flop of his stomach he had no idea what to say to the man. He couldn’t very well blurt out the question foremost in his mind: Do ye make magic boxes? At least, it wouldn’t be wise to do so where the other patrons might hear him.

“I was hoping to have a word with ye,” he settled on. “Mayhap after ye close for the day. At the pub down the way?”

MacLeod narrowed his eyes. “I dinna imbibe in spirits,” he said in a clipped tone. He passed his gaze over Darcy’s dull brown plaid, bare arms, and scuffed boots. Compared to the other patrons, he was woefully underdressed, but he hadn’t felt such until MacLeod looked at him that way. “If ye are nay here to browse my wares or purchase somat, I’ll be asking ye to leave. I am too busy for idle chit chat.”

The man turned to stalk away. To stop him, Darcy blurted, “Have ye ever put magic into one of your wares?”

MacLeod stopped mid-stride. His shoulders went tight. He slowly turned. His voice low so no one else could hear, he said, “I’ll nay have men speaking of heresy in my shop. Be gone with ye and your devil-talk, and let me see ye no more.”

The man hurried away to serve another patron, casting him sharp looks until he made his obedient way out into the courtyard. As he closed the door behind him, he wiped a hand over the back of his neck and cursed himself. If he couldn’t get MacLeod to talk with him, how would he find a way to help Malina?

“Sir?” A quiet voice pulled his head around. Pink eyes peered around the corner of the stone building. “A moment, sir?” the young man said.

Darcy followed him into a shadowed alley that stank of stagnant water. What could the lad possibly want with him? The alley opened into a smaller courtyard where stacks of fresh-cut beams, sawdust, and wood stain scented the air.

The workroom behind MacLeod’s shop opened to the outdoors with a door as big as the side of a barn propped in a horizontal position with poles. Three men in the workroom sawed and hammered and bantered and ignored him as he followed the white-haired lad into a narrow, leaning outbuilding. It was a neglected woodshed piled with mismatched scraps of materials. Dust motes floated above a bowed workbench in the meager light from a single grimy window.

The lad crouched at the workbench and pulled out a crate covered with a ratty cloth. He hugged it to his chest as he stood up. Darcy got an unhurried look at the lad as his gaze darted everywhere but his face. He wasn’t tall, but he had good, strong shoulders and a broad chest that would serve him well as apprentice to a wood-worker. But he appeared painfully shy.

Darcy waited for him to speak, afraid that if he spoke first, he might cause the lad to faint.

“P-pardon me, sir,” the lad said at last, “but I overheard ye asking Mr. MacLeod about magic, and–” His gaze cut to the door, which Darcy had left cracked open. At hearing the word
magic
, Darcy yanked the door shut, kenning a stray ear could spell danger for them both.

“Well, I suppose I was wondering what ye might have meant by it,” the lad went on. Those strange eyes turned up to him, and they were full of hope. “Have ye seen magic, sir? Do ye ken how it works? How to…control it?”