Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Now that Charlotte had a goal—or at least, a possible reason why she might have been transported through Time—she had planning to do.
Her mind had started spinning at dinner, much like it did when inspiration hit for a new novel, except this wasn’t a fictional story. This was real. With real consequences.
She pulled the soft woolen robe more closely around herself as she settled in the armchair near the brazier in her room, letting the heat warm her toes. She was going to have to be careful going about this, since women’s opinions in the eighteenth century weren’t necessarily valued. For that matter, she wasn’t sure how much they were valued in the twenty-first century either, given the global state of affairs. But no matter. In either century, it wouldn’t do to claim to know the future.
Especially a future that spelled the defeat of Scotland.
Her grasp of historical details was only fair, since she concentrated on dashing, kilted heroes more than their political times. Too bad she didn’t have her cell phone so she could Google what she needed to know. Not that there were any cell towers around. A somewhat hysterical giggle bubbled in her throat. What would Niall think if he saw her talking into a piece of plastic? Or—the giggle broke free—having that thing answer her.
Just as well, then, that her phone was lying in a Best Western hotel room 200-plus years in the future.
The giggle subsided. She needed to concentrate.
Fifteen hundred Scots had lost their lives at Culloden. She knew Clan Fraser had been one of the largest regiments in the battle, but that was probably to be expected since this area was their ancestral seat. Had—would—Niall be one of them? She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. No. Not if she could help it.
She opened her eyes and stared into the glow of the small fire by her feet. The flames sputtered, changing color from red to blue, a few of them reaching higher before subsiding. The writer in her couldn’t help the analogy of the English Redcoats and the Scottish blue flag, the rising and fall of the flames indicative of which battles each side had won. So far.
She sighed and rose, walking to the window to gaze out at the night. There was so much she needed to know. Who were the real men in charge? What kind of strategy were they planning to use? What were the actual plans? She couldn’t thwart anything if she only conjectured.
But what sources did she have? Niall’s father would certainly have historical background, given his age, but she recalled suddenly—why hadn’t she connected it before?—that the man had a shady past. She’d done research for a series on bustlers and hustlers of the past and the 11th Lord Lovat’s name had come up. He’d told the Jacobites—the first time around with the Old Pretender—that he sided with them, but had written a letter to Queen Anne saying he was pro-government. If she remembered correctly, he’d been outed and fled to France for awhile. One Internet article had called him the “most notorious double-agent of his time.” Probably not a good source to trust with questions.
Niall’s brother Simon was already suspicious of her. Not a good source for answers either. Greer wouldn’t be privy to war strategies or plans either because she was female. That left Niall.
She would have to be very, very careful in how she extracted information from him. She couldn’t afford to alienate him. Nor did she want to. She needed to earn his trust if she were going to have any chance of him believing her when the time came.
She had the queasy feeling that the ground was moving beneath her, much like the dangerous bogs surrounding Drummossie Moor where Culloden had been fought.
****
Shopping in the eighteenth century wasn’t so entirely different than in the twenty-first. That is, if one counted mortar-and-brick stores only, since there were no on-line options.
“I like that gown!” Greer pointed to a ready-made hanging in a shop window on one of Inverness’ side streets. “The color would be perfect for you. Let’s see if it fits.” Without waiting for an answer she flung the door open and went inside.
Charlotte exchanged glances with Niall, who had accompanied them. He wore the same stoic expression she’d seen on men sitting in the center of malls waiting for their wives to come back from wherever they were using their credit cards. She gave him a tentative smile as they followed Greer.
“We shouldn’t be long. Just one or two things.”
“Hmph. Ye doona ken my sister.”
She supposed he might have a point. Greer was something of a whirlwind, full of energy and not reticent at all. She offered her opinion freely and didn’t seem to notice Simon—or even their father—frowning at her. Or, more likely, she didn’t care. Vi would have liked her. A 1700s version of a women’s libber.
She had also arranged this shopping trip. When Charlotte had mentioned she couldn’t pay for anything—her “friends” must have picked up her bag along with theirs—Greer had given her a practical look. I doona mind sharing my clothes with ye, but ye should have some of your own. Then she’d smiled conspiratorially. Besides, if I divide my clothing with ye, I will just have to make up for it.
So, here they were. The dress—a soft woolen that felt like cashmere—fit.
“Excellent!” Greer exclaimed and turned to the proprietor. “We’ll take three more in different colors.”
The man nodded. “I’ll have to order the material, but—”
“That’s too much trouble,” Charlotte said. “This one will be fine.”
“Nonsense.” Greer shook her head. “Ye cannae have just one.” She turned back to the shop owner. “Order enough material for four.”
Charlotte widened her eyes. “But—”
“Nae another word,” Greer said and moved to a table that had an assortment of scarves, stockings, and other accessories. She gathered up an armful and took them to the counter. “We’ll need some linen shifts, too.”
“Right over there.” He pointed.
Greer added several of those to her stack as well. “Ye can send the bill to my da at Castle Dounie.”
“Castle Dounie? Of course.” The man wrapped the purchases and handed them to Niall, who took them with a resigned look.
Once they were out on the street, Charlotte turned to Greer and Niall. “I cannot thank you enough for your generosity.”
“Oh, we are nae done yet,” Greer answered cheerfully. “ There are boots to buy, and slippers. And ye’ll need at least one bonnet.”
“No, really—”
“And a cloak as well,” Greer said. “Come on, then. I ken just the place.” She was off, leaving Charlotte and Niall to trail in her wake.
Charlotte slanted a look at Niall, expecting to see him scowling, but his face was impassive, so perhaps he was used to his sister’s tenaciousness. He had warned her earlier. He smiled slightly.
“She’s getting away from us, lass.”
Charlotte smiled back, appreciating his humor. Most of the men she knew wouldn’t have been so patient.
Still, a small sigh escaped him as they followed his sister’s trail.
****
Niall wasn’t quite sure if he considered himself Scotland’s biggest eejit or a valiant bodyguard. In either case, here he was escorting Charlotte and his sister while they shopped for gowns and slippers, bonnets, and other female paraphernalia.
He should be back at the castle conferring with his brother regarding the advance on Stirling. Instead, he was loaded down with an assortment of bags and boxes that contained purchases.
Maybe no one would spot him.
He should have known it would be bad luck to even think that thought. No sooner had he done so when he heard a hearty voice hale him. Slowly he turned—his vision was half-obscured—to see his friend Keir Gordon crossing the street. Keir’s sister, Fiona, was with him.
Double trouble.
“Madainn mhath,” he said.
“Mornin’ to ye too,” Keir answered, his lips quirking as he eyed the various packages Niall was toting. Then his gaze turned to Charlotte and his grin widened.
“Well, now, who be ye?”
“I’m Charlotte—”
“MacGregor,” Niall said before she could finish. “She’s visiting us.”
“MacGregor, is it?” Keir looked at him. “’Tis a bold lass who’ll admit to the name in these times.”
Better than telling you she’s a Campbell. But he didn’t say the words. “Her…da sent her this way.” He ignored the look Charlotte gave him. It was true, in a way. She was fleeing from her father, according to her.
“For safety,” Greer added quickly.
“There’s that.” Keir nodded. “Ye’ll be safe enough among us. We’ve nae liking for the English telling us what to do, particularly in wantin’ us to turn in our clansmen.”
Charlotte smiled weakly. “That’s good to know.”
“How long will ye be staying?” Fiona asked.
It sounded like an innocent enough question, but Fiona’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. What she really meant was When will Charlotte be leaving?
Niall tried to mask his own expression. He’d made the mistake of kissing Fiona under the mistletoe at Yule. Even though she had maneuvered him into position, he couldn’t say he hadn’t gone along with it. The lass was comely. The kiss had been…interesting. Not interesting enough that he wanted to indulge further, even if his father thought it would be a good pairing. Besides, Keir was his friend who’d probably kill him if he didn’t marry his sister. Unfortunately, Fiona was headstrong and had definitely let him know she was available for more sport. Her question was a loaded one.
“I’m not quite sure,” Charlotte said.
“For awhile though,” Greer said blithely, obviously unaware of the undercurrent. “There’s still a risk to MacGregor women closer to the border.”
Fiona smiled again, although to Niall it looked somewhat feral.
“Aye, I suppose ye wouldna want the mark on your face,” she said to Charlotte.
“Of course she wouldn’t!” Greer exclaimed. “What female would want to be branded because of her name?”
Niall thought Charlotte’s color faded at that remark, and he wondered if she didn’t know about the heinous procedure or if she had suddenly realized the danger of the name she’d assumed.
Keir was right, though. This far north, Scots weren’t about to turn in one of their own to the English. Charlotte would be safe here.
However, the hair at his nape prickled when he saw Fiona was still studying Charlotte with an analytical look in her eye.
It seemed he was to play the valiant bodyguard after all.