Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
“Up! Up!” Donag’s voice startles me awake with a heart-slamming jolt.
I cling to the dream I was having—was Poppa in it? Were we at home?—but Donag flings off my covers and shakes me hard, robbing me of warmth, Poppa, and any happy thoughts.
“Useless girl, lazing away the morning staring at the coo’s tail.”
“Coo—cows?” I prop onto my elbow and scowl up at her.
I’ve traveled back in time. I’m in the past. And it’s this woman’s fault.
Her glare sharpens. “Do you mock me?”
I quickly mumble, “Forget it.” I’m in no rush to parse what her curses might mean, or be capable of.
“’Tis you who’s forgotten. You’ve a day of work ahead.”
“Chill, lady.” I swing my legs out of bed, but cramps shoot up my calves the moment my feet touch the bitterly cold floor. “Jesus! How the hell do you manage to make this place both stuffy and freezing?”
“Mind your tongue. Blaspheming sluts dinnae get to stay under my protection.”
“I am so not a slut.” I stand tall, trying to conceal my shivering. I refuse to let this woman get the best of me. “And you have some strange ideas about protection.”
“Back-talkers don’t stay under my protection neither.”
Like I’d trust her to protect me.
There’s no way I’m spending a whole year here. I quickly scan the room. I bet she’s got a book of spells hidden somewhere. I can learn a few chants. I’m just as smart and capable as Donag.
And there’s a new moon every month, though I don’t know the timing of black moons. How I regret ever rolling my eyes at Poppa’s beloved Farmer’s Almanac.
She slams a large, chipped bowl onto the table beside me, and I jump. Murky water sloshes over the sides.
“What’s that for?”
“Time to wash. You smell like a goat.”
The water is even colder than the floor, and by the time I’m done splashing my face and armpits, the joints in my hands ache. There’s no towel in sight, so I dab my face on the hem of my dress, grimacing because I do smell pretty goaty.
I stand and face her. Face this. “I need clothes. And shoes.”
She’s stirring a pot over the fire, and she pauses to give me a bemused stare. “You demand from me?”
This woman loves Callum. She’s fierce about kin and clan. Protecting him would be her number one priority.
I take a gamble. “I could wear this dress every day, no problem. But people in the castle might notice. You said that’s where I’m working today, right?
” I pinch the fabric. “Wait till they see this. It’s incredibly soft.
Softer, I bet, than anything you’ve got.
With thousands of these perfectly even, teensy-tiny stitches.
They might wonder where I got it. Where I came from and who brought me here.
” I give a careless shrug. “I thought witches used to be burned at the stake. But maybe witchcraft is cool in, what year did you say it was, 1622?”
I’ve struck a nerve.
She makes a hissing-spitting sound as she storms to her shelf. She snatches a threadbare dress the color of dirt and tosses it to me. “If you cannae remember the year, you’ll be the one strung up for your simple mind.”
She sizes up my larger-than-average feet with disdain, muttering, “Not about to blow over in a stiff wind, are you?” then rifles through the trunk in the corner, pulling out a pair of boots. “The lad outgrew these before he’d a chance to break them in. Should work for your muckle feet.”
Donag doesn’t move. So I huddle in the corner and change as fast as I can, pleasantly surprised she got my size right. Maybe it’s a witch thing.
When I turn back around, a bowl of pale mush is waiting for me, a small fabric-wrapped bundle by its side.
“Eat.” She shoves a spoon in the bowl. Nudges the satchel. “Then take this to Callum on your way to the castle.”
Hearing his name makes me strangely nervous. “To Callum?” Will he be angry that I’ve taken over his bed? I like hanging out in barns, but I’m not sure I’d want to sleep in one.
“You ken fine who I’m talking aboot. I seen how you ogle the lad. Inherited Janet’s indecent ways, you did.”
“I do not ogle.”
She sniffs. “As you say. He was just here, but didnae stay to eat. He didn’t care to speak to you. Lad lost his bed because of you.”
It stings.
“Well, it’s because of you that I’m here in the first place.” I cringe at my lame reply and turn my attention to the porridge. It’s tepid and lumpy, but I choke it down. I’ll need all the energy I can get to face this day.
Despite a full belly, I feel no less dejected as I make my way to the barn.
I’m completely alone in this country. In this century. Sharing a cottage with a woman who, for all I know, could turn me into a toad.
When Callum tried to help, I ignored him. I smacked him, shouted at him, then got him beaten and relegated to a barn.
I falter when I spot the barn roof. The satchel of food is heavy in my palm.
Maybe he won’t be there. I could just leave it and go.
But if he is there, I could apologize again. I should apologize. If I’m ever going to get out of this place, I’ll need to rely on his help.
What if he’s too angry and has changed his mind?
Bad scenarios ping through my brain, then it hits me. There’s a worst case: getting beaten for being late to the kitchen. Which is apparently where they’re expecting me.
I break into a jog. Donag told the cook I’d be there after breakfast, and I’m not entirely clear what time “after breakfast” is. How would I know, anyway, without a watch to tell me? Was there a rooster I missed this morning? Is that what had me dreaming of Poppa’s farm?
I’m deep in thought and practically flying past Callum when I hear him shout, “Where’s the fire?”
I stutter to a halt, speechless. Nothing about this is what I expected.
Callum is grinning like he might actually be happy to see me. Even with a face full of bruises, his smile is wide, the light crackling in his eyes as if I just told him he’s won a month’s vacation.
The depth of my relief surprises me. Warmth spreads through my chest, like a sip of hot chocolate after a morning of winter chores.
Then my smile falters as I realize what he’s wearing. Or rather, not wearing.
“Your shirt,” I mumble. “Is gone.”
An old leather apron is the only thing between my eyes and his upper body. He’s covered in sweat. His arms, shoulders, and chest glisten with it, like a cover model on some men’s health magazine.
I look down so fast, you’d think my retinas were getting burned by the sun.
Bad idea.
Because oh, wow, my eyes land on his kilt instead.
I don’t know what it is about that strip of wool, why it has this effect on me. The brown-and-yellow plaid skims his knees, and—wait. Can knees be muscular? Because his actually look strong.
The rest of him is leather. Low, worn-in boots. A scarred leather belt cinching the kilt at his hips. And from the side, I glimpse…
Oh no.
Is that the little pouch he carried yesterday? I can’t tell with the apron covering the front of him. Is he wearing that tiny man-purse now, slung from his hips to hang right there, where a girl is definitely not supposed to look?
Or is the belt meant to hold up his kilt? Because the way all that heavy fabric hangs from his waist is making me nervous. What if the kilt slides off? I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as seventeenth-century boxers. These guys almost definitely went commando. Which means…
Volcanic heat spreads from my chest, racing up my neck and burning my cheeks.
He cocks his head. “Are you all right?”
“You’re fine.” I go bug-eyed at the slip. “I mean I’m fine. It’s all fine. Everything’s fine.”
I never realized I had a pulse in my face. I must be the color of a tomato.
“Are you thirsty?”
Thirsty.
I chuckle like a middle-schooler at the modern innuendo. Callum doesn’t know how close to the truth he is. I rub my temples, trying not to cringe at myself. I need to be planning how to get home, not getting awkward with my one ally.
I shake my head. “Not thirsty.”
He looks a little confused but shrugs it off. “You’ve only to say the word. ’Tis hot as Hades here by the forge. When I’ve smithying to do, I try to do it first thing, when it’s coolest.”
That’s when I register the scene. He’s gripping a giant set of steel tongs in one hand and a hammer in the other. Beside him, an anvil. On top, a horseshoe glows orange, still smoldering.
“Oh, right,” I say, stating the obvious. “Smithy. You’re a blacksmith.”
“I’m many things.” He sets down his hammer and uses the tongs to pick up the horseshoe and slide it into a wide cauldron. Flames burst along the surface of the liquid.
“Wait, what’s in there?” I brave a step closer, momentarily forgetting the slick, sooty male bicep in my line of sight. “Is that water?”
“Och, no.” He tilts his body to give me a better look, turning the horseshoe left and right before pulling it out again. “Water would splinter the metal. Weaken it. You quench metal with oil.”
He twirls his hammer and offers it to me, handle out. “Fancy a go?”
“Uh, no thanks.”
“You certain?” A grin tugs the corner of his mouth. “No offense, Rosie, but you look like you might enjoy giving something a good wallop.”
A laugh bursts from me.
His comment, my laugh—it’s all such a strange surprise.
“So, Callum.” I say his name just to bring his eyes to me. It feels unexpectedly good on my tongue. “You’re not angry at me?”
“Angry?”
“Well, you didn’t stay at the cottage this morning. You didn’t even eat.”
“Ah, that.” He looks away, but there’s a smile in his eyes. “I knew if I left, Donag would pack me a wee sack and send you to deliver it. This is better, is it not?”
What is happening?
Is this…flirting?
With a seventeenth-century blacksmith?
Maybe this is just his normal self. I barely know him. Maybe this is just Callum being Callum, trying to put me at ease.
I thought he’d be mad at me. Mad is so much less complicated.
I try again. “I thought you hated me.”
“Only a fool would think that. And I didnae take you for a fool.”
I can’t help it. I push. “But I’m trapped here because of you two.”