Chapter 10 #2
I let myself relax against him and draw in a shuddering breath. “So, okay. You say it’s 1622. But I saw you in my time. How is that possible? Are all times happening all at once? Because you’re not a ghost. I don’t understand.”
“Nor I.” He sounds muted, thoughtful. Not at all the person who’d threatened a man with a knife just a few minutes ago. “Barely a month has passed since your mother disappeared. And yet here you are—her daughter—a woman full-grown.”
A woman full-grown.
Something about the way he says it sends a ripple through me. Like he sees something in me I haven’t yet noticed myself.
I clear my throat and try to focus my thoughts back to what he’s just said. “You’re telling me my mother left Scotland just weeks ago?”
“Indeed.” His arm settles onto my shoulders as he begins to relax.
“Donag claims time is not our prison. That she can summon people back or send them forth again.” There’s awe in his voice as he adds, “I didnae know she could do it. Until you appeared, I suspected she was mad. I thought perhaps she’d killed your mother.
I imagined Janet lying dead somewhere, beneath a cairn of rubble. ”
The idea of my mother gone. Buried. I don’t respond. Can’t.
Sitting in this pitch-black closet warps everything, turning it unreal. All I can do is stare into the darkness and keep breathing…in, out.
“I’m rabbitting on,” he says, almost abashed. Like he’s uncomfortable in his own skin.
It’s so strangely modern. For a second, I see him clearly. Not a boy. Not yet a man.
That thought feels too intimate. Too dangerous. I shove it away. What am I doing, getting comfortable with him? All I know about Callum is that he basically held me hostage in a shack.
I mean, time travel? It’s impossible. There’s no such thing.
I have to get out of here. I need help.
I scoot back, but there’s nowhere to go. “Look, I’m sure you’re not a bad person.”
Why am I even sitting here with him? Is it because he saved me from some pervert? Ludicrous. As ludicrous as the idea that people can travel back and forth through time.
This pantry is too small. Too tight. I squirm for room, but he’s too close. “I’d really like to leave now.”
I picture Callum’s broken nose. The knife scars. The way he exploded at the man from the stables, as if prepared to kill him.
What could a guy like that do to me?
The thought is a match to gasoline. Bile rises in my throat. Too close. Too trapped. I can’t get any space. Something inside me detonates.
“I have to go.” I clamber over him. He grunts as my elbows and knees dig into him. I fling myself at the door. Shove it open.
If this Campbell person is so rich and important, he’ll have a cell phone. I’ll bet he can get me to the airport. Get me out of here.
“Wait.” I feel Callum’s hand graze my ankle, but I startled him. I’m moving too quickly, and I slide through his fingers, scrambling out of the pantry.
I bound to my feet and take off down the hall, sprinting into the pub.
As I skid to a stop, all eyes snap to me. None land as heavily as the gaze of one man. I know him at once. Arrogant, angry, entitled. The only person in the room who could be the Campbell.
Our eyes meet.
I’ve made a huge mistake.
He’s older, about Poppa’s age, but there’s nothing grandfatherly about him.
He’s clearly the richest man here. Like the others, he wears a kilt, but his is clean and crisp, the plaid wool sweeping over his shoulder and fastened with a silver crest—big, gaudy, studded with green stones that look alarmingly real.
His shirt is worse. Blindingly white, with ridiculous flouncy bits at the neck and sleeves.
But it’s the people around me that give him away. Every single one of them looks afraid.
And with good reason.
He looks pissed. At me.
He’s not just staring—he’s glaring. His mouth moves, his voice booming, but I can’t make sense of the words.
I throw up my hands. Stammer an apology. Start to back away.
“Stop.”
Just one word, spoken in English, humming with fury.
“Who are you?”
I open my mouth, but only a squeak comes out.
He strides toward me, terrifying in his deliberate calm. His thick, white brows furrow low, casting his small, dark eyes into shadow as they rake over me, head to toe and back again, like he’s memorizing every inch.
Then he stops, leaning in. His gaze locks onto mine. “Such blue.”
He reels back as if struck, his expression closing in on itself. “Where have you come from?”
I’m queasy with regret. With fear. I step back, but before I can move more than an inch, he flicks a glance behind me.
Men materialize at my sides and grab my arms.
“Who knows this person?” he bellows.
A dozen faces stare back, but no one speaks.
I pull back my shoulders. I refuse to be cowed. I’m a Campbell almost as much as he is. And besides, he wouldn’t dare do anything in front of a room full of people…right?
“Mister Campbell, my name—”
His head snaps toward me.
“Master. Nae Mister.” His eyes narrow, his voice turning sharp as steel. “Laird.”
The word rolls off his tongue, thick and Scottish. I flash back to Donag’s cottage. A new plaything will make the laird forget Janet soon enough.
A sickening weight drops in my gut.
I force a smile, but it feels more like baring my teeth. Maybe if he knows we share a last name—maybe if we’re even related—he’ll back off. My throat is too dry to speak, and it takes a couple swallows before I manage: “I’m Rose Campbell.”
Instead of softening, he barks out a humorless laugh.
“Rose!”
A disturbing look twists his face.
“You dare.”
He drags a rough finger down my cheek. I force myself not to flinch.
“Playing the na?f, are you?” His expression hardens. He seizes my chin.
His grip is like steel, fingers biting into my jaw. I try to jerk away, but his hold is unshakable. My eyes dart from side to side, searching for help, but the crowd only watches, rapt and silent, sipping their drinks as if I’m entertainment.
He releases me with a sharp flick of his wrist.
In my peripheral vision, a shadow shifts.
Callum.
He’s in the hallway beyond, half hidden, watching, listening.
He tried to help. I didn’t believe him. Now I’m alone.
Laird Campbell circles me, slow and proprietary, his gaze crawling over me like Poppa sizing up cattle at auction. The sheer audacity of his raw, assessing stare sends shame burning through me.
As he completes the loop, he looms over me, voice thick with disdain.
“Nobody is this innocent. You’re either a bratty upstart or a MacGregor spy.”
His lips curl in a knowing smirk.
“Either way, you’re coming with me.”