Chapter 30
Patrick
sat against the wall of the hut that was only just a hut by the skin of its teeth, and looked at the woman curled up in front of him.
He held her feet, her poor filthy, cracked feet, in his hands.
It would take more than just the heat from his body to warm her abused flesh.
What he needed was a fire, and that was just precisely what he didn’t dare build.
He could stand against many, but an entire army of Fergussons might overwhelm even him.
Then again, with the reputation that their hiding place seemed to have, perhaps he could consider a fire after all.
Mayhap on the morrow. He would take some time tonight and see if there were any hardy souls who were undaunted by the hut’s reputation.
If there were none braving the bogles and ghosties, he would risk making Madelyn something to warm herself by.
Perhaps he would be fortunate enough to find wood dry enough that the smoke would be, for the most part, unnoticeable.
And he would have to find something better for holding water than two pieces of bark nestled together.
That left still his horse to be seen to.
It was, he decided wryly, a good deal more trouble to stable a horse than to just park a car in the garage.
And they would have to have decent food, and the sooner the better.
He’d eaten all manner of animal life in his youth, often without benefit of a fire, but he wasn’t sure Madelyn could manage it.
Roots, herbs, tree bark could be ingested if necessary.
With any luck, she would regain her strength quickly, and they could be on their way.
Though, he supposed he really had no idea how long it would take her to recover. He’d been in a dungeon a time or two, but never for more than a pair of days. He was, quite frankly, amazed Madelyn was even able to sit up at all given what she’d gone through.
So, once she was healed, they would make the attempt. He didn’t want to think about what might happen if it didn’t work at all.
It was definitely a possibility. It wasn’t like the forest’s portal was an iron-gated affair that swung to and fro at a man’s command.
Jamie and Elizabeth, in the days before they’d begun their family, had found themselves quite stuck for several months waiting for particularly stubborn bits of earth to take them back home to the twentieth century.
Well, for him, that was something to worry about in the future. With any luck, things would go according to plan. Madelyn would wake, begin to heal, and they would take up their journey in a few days.
For the moment, however, he had a very long list of tasks to see to.
He rubbed a hand over his face. By the saints, he’d made a great hash of things.
He should have told Gilbert McGhee to go to hell.
He should have pulled Madelyn into his arms, kissed her senseless, and told her he was quite certain he thought they could pass the rest of their lives quite happily together, and if she wanted to continue her career in the States, well, he wasn’t sure what he would have said about that, but he should have at least been willing to discuss it.
Maybe a miracle would have happened, and she would have been content to stay in Scotland.
Now, it looked as if she might not have a choice. He wondered how medieval Scotland would suit her.
He shifted, his leg brushing his sword lying next to him on the floor. He looked down at his blade. It wasn’t as if he didn’t train with it regularly. He supposed he did that partially because it was a fine way to keep his form in passing good shape.
It was also, he had to admit, a link to his past he hadn’t been willing to let go of.
He put his hand on the cold hilt. It was odd to be centuries away from the life he knew, centuries away from his comforts of speed and flight. It was almost as momentous as it had been when he’d left his own time and stepped into the future.
Only this time the change seemed more drastic.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done it a handful of times before—that travel through time.
Once to return to his father’s hall and give tidings to his brother.
Once more to rescue Jamie—and that one after Lisa had died.
But he hadn’t done it since. Indeed, there was a part of him that had begun to wonder if his past had been nothing but a dream, a fanciful, impossible dream, the clarity of which faded with each passing year.
And by the time he’d wed with Lisa, he’d all but had a lobotomy to rid himself of his memories.
To be sure, she hadn’t wanted to hear any of it.
Looking back now, he could scarce believe he’d wed the woman with only one tentative attempt to give her the truth.
When he’d been about it, she’d cut him off, telling him she understood about the lack of sophistication a lad from the deep Highlands might feel in her Swiss-finishing-school-graduate presence, so would he please not bring it up again?
He hadn’t.
Except when he’d tried the portal in the forest and seen his brother one last time.
He’d told Lisa he’d gone home to see to business.
She hadn’t asked what kind, hadn’t cared to know if his parents were alive or dead, had never asked aught about his brother.
And he, fool that he was, had gone along—nay, he’d more than gone along.
He’d eagerly put his past behind him and become as domesticated an animal as possible to please the woman he loved.
Love, if it is to endure, must be reciprocated.
Ian’s words came back to him. Aye, there was truth enough in them. Lisa had never loved him. Lusted after him, aye, been fascinated by his coarseness—her term not his—but she had never loved him. But that hadn’t stopped her from using him when it suited her.
The baby isn’t yours, but you’ll claim it just the same, won’t you?
There had never been any doubt of it. Even if the baby had been Robert Campbell’s, or any of the others she’d slept with behind both his and Robert’s back, he would have claimed it, and gladly. And he would have loved it, in a way he had never loved its mother.
Had he ever loved Lisa? Desired her, aye. Wanted her approval, definitely. But loved her? He’d thought so at the time.
He knew better now.
The other thing he knew now was that he hadn’t trusted her. Not truly. Not enough to give her the unvarnished truth about his past. Hers hadn’t been hands sturdy enough, strong enough to hold what he’d needed to tell her.
Now, her uncle, he was a different sort entirely.
Patrick had told a goodly bit of his own tale to Conal after Lisa’s death, during the final time he’d ever drunken himself into a stupor.
He’d poured out a good deal of his heart, divulged a goodly number of his secrets, and regretted none of it as he’d hung his head over the toilet and puked up most of the whiskey he’d drunk that night.
Because Conal had believed him.
What would Madelyn have done with the same tale? Without what she’d seen?
He suspected she might have believed him as well.
Which brought him full circle to sitting with his back against a marginally stable wall, looking at a woman sleeping on the floor in front of him and planning how best to care for her with only his sword and his wits at his disposal.
And wondering why it was he hadn’t allowed himself to contemplate the possibility of truly falling in love with her.
Desperately.
Without any reservations at all.
Falling in love with her as he was now.
His heart seemed to take a deep breath, then sigh out its assent.
He watched her idly, as a man might a great treasure that he was certain would still be his if he took his eyes off it for a brief moment.
Was it possible this was the same woman he’d first had a proper look at on Culloden’s field?
It seemed centuries ago. He wondered now what those feelings she’d stirred in him could be ascribed to.
Fate?
An incomprehensible weaving of the threads of time?
And then there was Robert the piper. He had to know, in the future, of their return to the past. Surely his ghostly memory stretched back that far.
Had he been waiting centuries for them to appear on the mortal scene, just so he could serenade them?
So he could stand on Patrick’s wall and play for Madelyn whilst she worked in the garden?
So he could play for Patrick himself whilst he argued with himself over what to do about a certain Colonist?
It was all possible, he supposed, but none of it mattered. He’d met Madelyn, come to know her, grown to love her, and almost lost her.
Through his own cowardice, no less.
Well, no more. Gilbert McGhee could be ignored. After all, most everyone whose opinion mattered to him knew the truth. The rest could go to hell and take Gilbert with them. So life would be uncomfortable now and then. Madelyn could endure that, couldn’t she?
Wouldn’t she want to?
The thought of having to risk the asking of her made him slightly queasy.
He shook his head. He could face a hall full of angry Highlanders, but he couldn’t face the woman he loved with a simple question about her stamina where he was concerned?
She shifted suddenly, stirred, then woke slowly. She looked at him and a look of relief crossed her features.
“I was dreaming,” she whispered.
“They’ll fade,” he promised.
“I hope so.” She closed her eyes and shivered. “I hope so.”
He smoothed a corner of his plaid over her feet, trying to warm them. “I need to go see to our horse. And find water and food, if possible. There are roots and berries about still, I’d imagine, if you can stomach that.”
“It sounds perfect. Anything’s a step up from Fergusson food.”
He smiled briefly. “I daresay it is. And if it eases your mind any, Simon’s fare is the worst I’ve ever had.”
She grimaced. “I’d rather not think about it.” She struggled to sit up.