Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Ipeer at Donag through the shadows. She’s been sitting for hours, muttering to herself and glaring at the door like she’s expecting an invasion.
I’m waiting her out. She has to sleep sometime. And when she does, I’ll make my move.
I study the door, careful not to be obvious. Is there another lock besides that crossbar? In the dim, flickering firelight, it’s impossible to tell.
I throw my voice her way. “Can we turn on a light?”
Silence.
“Surely you’ve got a little TV stashed somewhere. Something.”
Nothing. Just the slow, rhythmic creak of her rocker.
The more she ignores me, the more I refuse to be ignored.
“Actually, you must have a computer.”
The thought clicks, and relief washes through me. Callum wasn’t the one stalking me—it was her.
I shift in my chair. “I bet you’re the one who set up whatever that was in my hotel room. Were you trying to spy on Janet?”
I glance at Callum. He’s watching me intently. When I raise a brow in question, he just flicks his gaze back to the soup he’s been making, which, as far as I can tell, consists only of water and a couple of potatoes.
He hangs the stockpot in the hearth and stokes the flames.
I frown. This can’t be a real cottage. A dirt floor, no electricity, no running water. Apart from the fireplace, there’s just a table, some chairs, two cots, a few shelves, and one trunk.
Then I notice the alarming array of metal tools.
A slow, sick horror blooms in my chest. I’ve seen enough movies to know what happens in freaky, dirt-floor cabins full of metal tools.
My fingers curl around the arms of my chair, gripping so hard my knuckles ache.
“People are looking for me right now. The American embassy. Scotland Yard. Interpol. All of them.” My voice is steady, but my pulse hammers in my throat.
“But,” I continue, forcing a casual shrug, “if you let me go—”
“Wheesht,” she grumbles from her rocker. “Shut yer geggy or I’ll shut it for you.”
Callum ladles soup into a bowl and kneels beside me. Up close, he’s all shadows and sharp angles, firelight glinting off his cheekbones.
I lean toward him, lowering my voice. “What’s going on? Why don’t you do something?”
He cuts a quick glance at Donag, who’s begun to snore softly. His jaw tightens. “I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
But he doesn’t answer. Just drops his gaze, pressing his lips together like he’s said too much already.
Why does it feel like he wants to help, but won’t?
Finally, he glances up, and our eyes meet. A connection arcs between us, charged like the air before a storm. I can tell he feels it, too.
It’s too much. He’s too much.
It’s not that he’s handsome. But he’s not not handsome, either. It’s more that he’s just so…intense.
This close, I see the bump on his nose where he’s probably broken it. The thin, jagged scar just below his lower lip.
Then there are his eyes. Those strange, stormy eyes.
I have to look away. My gaze snags on the bowl he’s extending. He jiggles it in invitation. “Have some tattie broth. ’Twill help.”
I realize I’m shivering. Not just from the cold.
This isn’t some random guy. This person watched me in my hotel room. I force a breezy smile. “No thanks.”
“You need something warm.”
“Hey,” I say lightly, “you never explained who you are. And I don’t just mean your name.”
He exhales heavily, then shrugs and places the bowl on the stool beside me. As he pulls back, his arm brushes my thigh. I startle at his touch.
At the memory of all the touches.
“A little space, please.”
He pulls back like I burned him.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.
It’s the same husky, almost-seductive tone he’s been using since I woke up in this place.
“Stop it,” I snap.
His brows draw together, puzzled.
I point at his roaming elbow. “Whatever you’ve been doing, just stop.”
For a moment, he looks so utterly lost it almost unsettles me.
Almost.
I roll my eyes. “Spare me the pathetic act. What’s this about? Is it to get back at my mother? Do you think if you keep me here, she’ll start to worry?” I bark out a short, humorless laugh. “Newsflash: I’m sure she doesn’t even know I’m gone. And even if she did, I doubt she’d care.”
I swallow hard against the unexpected tightness in my throat.
“Hey, are you listening?” I poke his shoulder to make my point, but his solid warmth catches me off guard. Heat rises from his shirt, and I can almost feel the blood pumping through him. Steady, strong. Alive.
At my touch, he straightens, sucking in a sharp breath.
I flush with triumph. It appears I’m not completely without weapons.
Leaning close, I let my lips brush his ear as I whisper, “The people at the inn know where I am. They’ll come looking for me.”
Callum jerks away like I’m more dangerous than the cook fire.
As he stands, I raise my voice. “This is kidnapping.”
Donag wakes with a snort and a phlegmy cough. “What’s this about?”
“Great question. I was just asking Callum the same thing.” I fix her with a hard stare. “Why am I here? Apparently, you know my mother. But if you think locking me up will bring her running, think again. She’ll only see this as a chance to spend another night at the pub.”
I slump back with a sigh, because I know it’s true.
“She’ll care,” Donag says. “She’ll know. Even though she’s far. On that, you can trust.”
She stands and starts prowling toward me. I rise to meet her halfway, my heart steadying into a strangely calm rhythm.
A switch flips. I’m ready. If it comes to a fight, so be it.
Donag is quick, but I bet I’m stronger. I’ve been hauling bales of hay since elementary school.
I tilt my head. “Let me get this straight. Janet’s from here, and for some reason you hate that she’s a Campbell. Time to get over it. That was—what?—almost twenty years ago?”
“Aye, this war began in 1603, in Glen Fruin. When the Campbells sold us to the King.”
Okay, someone needs a hobby. I switch to my calm voice, hoping it’s not too late to talk my way out of this. “I hear you. You hate the Campbells. That’s fine—I’m sensing a theme around here. But whatever they did, they did it centuries ago.”
“What they did, they do now.” She steps closer. “Now you’re in our time.”
I wait for her to finish. When she doesn’t, I prompt, “In time for what?”
Rage distorts her features. “You’ve traveled, girl. That time is now. And now it’s happening to you.”
I nod, keeping my voice calm, non-confrontational. “Look, Janet left before I was born. Nineteen years ago. You know, in the twenty-first century,” I add under my breath.
“No.” Stabbing a finger at me, Donag growls, “For you, it’s the seventeenth.”
“Wow, you are super misunderstanding my accent.” I slow my speech. “I said I’m nineteen.”
Donag swats the air impatiently. “I’m nae deaf. I heard what you said.” She steps closer, eyes burning.
“The year is 1622. This year. Today.”