Chapter Five
After a restless night spent tossing and turning on the lumpy, sagging mattress, Emmy woke groggy and disoriented. It took her a moment to gauge the time—morning, she guessed, judging by the pale light streaming in through the shuttered window, and her own certainty that she’d spent at least some of the night sleeping.
She propped herself up on her elbows, frowning across the room. There had been no fire in the hearth yesterday, but now there was a soft glow of dying embers. Someone must have come in overnight and lit a fire for her.
She stared blankly at her surroundings, fragments of memories revisiting her. The pub. That strange old woman—with whom all this troubling nonsense started, in Emmy’s mind. Fainting. Waking up here in this fortress-like place, greeted by a brooding man and some well-intentioned but unhelpful women who offered no answers.
Sitting up, Emmy pressed her hands to her temples. Her phone was gone, and with it any chance of contacting her friends or figuring out where she was, let alone what had happened. The thought sent a fresh ripple of anxiety through her chest.
Something needed to be done, though. Yesterday, she’d been in a bit of a daze, overwhelmed by her disconcerting circumstance. But enough of that. Today, she needed answers and solutions.
She threw back the covers and was summarily greeted by a blast of chilly air, which caused her to shiver. Glancing down, she saw that having slept in the borrowed clothes—of a dead woman! another shudder—had done the outfit no favors. Now she would look like a rumpled milkmaid.
As she stood, she realized that at this point, she really had no choice but to use the disgusting pot under the bed. Along with there being no electricity, she’d not seen any evidence of running water; there had been no sink in the kitchen. Emmy danced around, her need to pee growing, until she worked up the courage to drag out the crude matte-finished porcelain pot. She closed her eyes and scrunched up her face with distaste the entire time, more so as she squatted over it, but she did feel so much better having relieved herself.
When she was done, she slid the thing back under the bed with her foot, making another face, and then tidied the bed, pretending a bowl of pee didn’t sit underneath it.
Her stomach growled as she sat and slid her feet back into her boots. The memory of the hearty stew from the day before surfaced, and with it a faint flicker of warmth. The kitchen. The women there had been wary, had offered her no help, but they hadn’t been unkind.
Having several times been up and down the spiral stairs, Emmy easily found her way to the kitchen.
Which smelled like death.
Not the subtle, something’s-gone-bad-in-the-fridge kind of smell Emmy vaguely recalled from her dorm room days. No, this was a full, unrelenting punch of blood, guts, and rot, and it hit her square in the face the second she stepped inside.
She froze in the doorway, her eyes widening as she took in the scene before her.
Maud stood at the center worktable, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, hacking away at a sizable fish with a frighteningly large knife. Scales and flesh splattered as she chopped, some landing on her person, others on the work counter and floor, which Emmy realized now for the first time seemed to be just hard-packed earth. A pile of fish heads sat off to the side, their glassy eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
Ailis was further down the table, her hands buried deep in the cavity of some bird, pulling out what Emmy could only assume were its internal organs.
Emmy swallowed hard, pressing a hand over her mouth, her appetite dwindling.
Maud glanced up, lifting a brow at her. "Ye’re back," she said, the knife arrested mid-swing. "Thought ye might sleep the day away."
"What time is it?" Emmy asked, unsure now if she actually wanted to eat.
“Getting on noon,” said Agnes, who sat near the hearth on a super short stool, straining some lumpy milk-like stuff through cheesecloth into a crock that, ew, looked to be the same color and not so different in shape from the chamber pot Emmy had just used.
Note to self: Do not eat anything Agnes offers today.
Edited to add: Or ever.
Maud gestured toward the stool in which Emmy had sat yesterday. "Sit, lass. I’ll get ye some pottage and bread.”
“Oh, I couldn’t...” Emmy began, staring at the fish eyes again. She grimaced and continued, “I couldn’t eat there, with them...staring at me.”
The kitchen fell silent for a beat, Maud pausing mid-step, her brows drawing together in a deep furrow. Ailis, who was now peeling away the skin from the game bird, paused and stared. Agnes merely blinked, her lips parting as though Emmy had just confessed that she knew one of the unfortunate fish.
"Ye canna eat... because of the fish eyes?" Maud asked, her tone a mix of disbelief and bemusement.
Emmy crinkled the neckline of her milkmaid’s get-up with nervous fingers, shifting uncomfortably under their collective stares. "Well, yeah... I mean, they’re watching me." And ew, the blood and guts, just sitting there.
Maud snorted. "Watching ye? They’re dead, lass. They’ve nae care for what ye’re eating—or if ye eat at all, for that matter."
Agnes clucked her tongue. "Of all the things to worry about... Fish eyes? Saints preserve us." She shook her head, muttering something under her breath about "fragile ladies" and turned back to the hearth.
Ailis tried—and failed—to hide her grin as she ducked her head.
“Wait till ye see how we deal with the sheep’s head,” Agnes said, snorting a laugh. “Those eyes follow ye everywhere."
Emmy’s eyes widened in horror. "A sheep’s head?”
Agnes grinned wickedly. "Aye. Makes a fine stew, it does."
"You’re kidding," Emmy said, her voice faint.
"Nae I am and why would I?" Agnes questioned. “Powsowdie, it is. Aye, but we clean the head, and sometimes we skin it. Cheeks are the best part—tender and fatty.”
"Please stop talking," Emmy blurted before she could catch herself. The words hung in the air for a heartbeat before she slapped her hands over her cheeks, heat rushing to her face. Oh God, that was rude.
But the three women in the kitchen only laughed. Agnes tossed her head back while she chortled. Maud shook her head, smiling, and Ailis’s cheeks turned pink as she revealed a set of very crowded but not unattractive teeth.
Emmy dropped her hands, her shoulders relaxing just a little. Apparently, Scottish women had much thicker skin than most people of her acquaintance.
"Och, ye’ll toughen up soon enough," Agnes said with a wink. "Give it time, lass."
"Or nae," Maud added, wiping at one eye with the back of her hand. "It’s more fun to watch ye squirm."
More of the tightness in Emmy’s chest eased. They were strange and blunt, sure, but maybe that wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
Maud wiped her hands thoroughly on her apron, which did the fabric no favors. “C’mon, then. I’ve nae all day to wait on ye.”
Emmy came into the kitchen and sat gingerly on the stool, having moved it toward the middle of the counter, not too close to either the butchered fish or the poor bird.
Maud set a bowl in front of her. “Here ye go. This’ll set ye right.”
“Thank you, Maud.”
A moment later, Maud returned again, setting down two fist-sized chunks of bread.
Emmy surreptitiously checked them for any signs of blood or scales but then decided simply to strip the bread of its crust. Just in case.
The stew, if that’s what it was, was not the same as yesterday. This one was thick and brown with chunks of onions and carrots floating on top. It smelled pretty good, earthy and savory.
After a few bites, spooned up by pieces of bread, and having encountered some meat she could not identify, she forced herself to ask, “What’s...what is this meat in here?”
“Rabbit, a nice fat one,” Maud answered.
Ugh. Why did I ask?
“Ye have me wonderin’, lass,” Agnes called out behind her, “what ye’re eatin’ there in...where’d ye say? Am-Americ?”
“America. Beef and chicken, mostly,” Emmy answered automatically. “We do eat fish, of course,” she added, sending a skittish glance toward those in front of Maud, “but I haven’t ever seen it being prepared.”
“Ah,” Maud and Agnes sang as one.
“ Ah , what?” Emmy wondered, frowning.
“Ye’re nae of the servant class, then,” Maud clarified. “We kent as much. Nae a servant, nae a slave, but ye said also ye’re nae a noble.”
Emmy’s eyes widened. A slave?
“Nae business being here in the kitchen, after all,” Agnes decided.
Maud nodded, her lips thin. “Nae place for a lady, unless she’s giving orders.”
Patiently, Emmy reminded them, “As I said yesterday, I’m not a lady. I mean, I am. Obviously. But I’m not a noble lady. I don’t have a title or anything. We don’t have those in America.”
“Seems like there’s quite a bit lackin’ in yer America,” Agnes alleged.
Though mildly offended, Emmy made no reply. At least we have electricity and running water.
After another minute or so, where the only sound was Maud’s knife slashing and hacking, and while Emmy stirred a piece of bread around in the stew, making sure there was no more rabbit, she asked, "This place—Dunmara— it’s been here a long time?"
Maud had finished chopping and was now scraping the wooden counter with the blade of the knife, dropping all the gunk into a bowl she held under the edge. Emmy hoped to God there would be some bleach coming out to clean that surface.
“Aye,” said Maud. “Dunmara’s stood for many generations. Built by the MacIntyre clan long before any of us were born. Built in the early days, before even the Normans set their boots on Scottish soil. The first MacIntyre—Colban, they called him—came here in the late 10th century. Built the first tower with his own hands. Strong, stubborn man, he was. His sons expanded it, turning it into a proper stronghold.”
“Tenth century?” Emmy mused “Wow. This place is a thousand years old.”
“Nae a thousand, lass,” Agnes responded, “but aye, hundreds to be sure.”
How was that not a thousand years? Emmy wondered. Or close to a thousand years?
“Mostly peaceful, all those years,” Maud continued. “Until this war, ye ken. Isnae brought right to our door, but aye, it’s left its mark.”
Emmy was confused by her phrasing. This war. Is , not was. By Emmy’s reckoning, there hadn’t been war in Scotland for hundreds of years. Honestly, the more they talked, the more she felt as if she were in the twilight zone.
Ignoring what remained of her meal, she cleared her throat and changed the subject. "So, um, Mr. MacIntyre, he seems...intense.”
Agnes chuckled. "Aye, and that’s the right of it, but ye ken, he wasnae always that way.”
"What happened?" Emmy asked, swiveling on the stool to face Agnes near the hearth.
"War," Agnes said quietly. “And loss. Lost his da and then his mam ten moons ago now. Sister locked down south, canna travel now, ye ken. And Jesu , his brother gone now, too, about this time last winter—that one nearly did him in. And he come back all mangled like. Do I lie, Maud?”
Maud shook her head, looking briefly like she was far away, her thoughts elsewhere.
“That’s awful,” Emmy crooned, putting her hand to her heart. But something was confusing her. “That’s twice now you’ve mentioned war. What war?”
“ This war, lass,” Maud barked impatiently, as if offended Emmy had to ask. “Killed at Rosslin, James was,” She added through clenched teeth. “Slain by Edward’s own man, de Valence.”
Emmy sat, as slack-jawed as those fish, her mind spinning. War? Edward? What...?
“Edward... Longshanks?" she dared to ask, her voice barely above a whisper.
Agnes nodded, her jaw tightening. "Aye and who else? The Hammer of the Scots. The devil, to be sure."
Emmy swallowed hard. Her mind raced, trying to process what she was hearing. This had to be some elaborate joke, she told herself, though the very idea seemed absurd, pointless.
They went on about the war—this battle, that battle, and something about the Guardians of Scotland. Lost in her own mystified thoughts, Emmy barely registered what was being said until mention of a certain name drew her attention.
“Did you say William Wallace?” She interjected, cutting off Maud’s tirade about how horrible the English were.
“Aye, and thank God for him,” Maud replied tersely. “For when he was with us anyhow—I hope he’s deep inside England as we speak, putting his—”
“William Wallace?” Emmy questioned again, laying her palm flat on the counter. “ As we speak ? He’s been dead for seven hundred years.”
Maud’s eyes flashed open wide. She hastily crossed herself and scolded Emmy. “The devil take ye, with such blasphemy.”
Emmy’s skin prickled, a sudden surge of anxiety welling up in her chest. She forced a small laugh. "Stop. Wait.” Her other hand joined the first one on the wooden counter, trying to get a grip on something, since reality was out of her reach apparently. Staring at the half-eaten pottage in front of her, she asked very succinctly, “What year do you think it is?”
"What year?" Agnes sounded as suspicious as Emmy felt.
"Yeah," Emmy said, her voice light but trembling at the edges. "You know, just out of curiosity. Humor me."
Ailis answered. "It’s the year of our Lord, thirteen hundred and four."
Emmy stared at the fat congealing in the bowl. Her lips parted and remained that way. Time seemed to freeze. The words echoed in her head, surreal and impossible. "Thirteen... hundred... and four?" she repeated, her voice barely audible. Her pulse thundered in her ears. "You’re joking."
"I assure ye, I am nae."
The room tilted. Emmy gripped the edge of the table, her breaths coming faster, each one more shallow than the last. Her thoughts raced, colliding and fragmenting in a chaotic swirl. They’re lying. They have to be lying. Why would they lie?
Her vision blurred as panic surged through her chest. Oh God. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening.
No, of course not. It wasn’t possible. She was supposed to be in Scotland—modern Scotland. She was supposed to be laughing with her friends, sipping cocktails, not staring at dead fish eyes and hiding her pee under the bed.
Her breath stuttered, her chest tightening with panic. The women’s voices faded into the background, drowned out by the pounding of her heart. She tried to focus, tried to think logically, but the harder she tried, the more frantic her thoughts became.
This isn’t real. This isn’t real.
Her hands trembled violently. She gasped for air, but it felt like she couldn’t get enough, her lungs constricting as the walls of the kitchen seemed to close in around her. Her head spun, her body locked in place, frozen by the impossibility of what she’d just heard.
Agnes’s voice cut through the haze. "Lass, are ye all right?"
Emmy barely registered the question. Her peripheral vision darkened as she stumbled back from the table. She could hear her own ragged breaths, sharp and uneven, but it felt like they belonged to someone else. Hands clutched at her just as she began to fall.
***
The axe bit into the log with a satisfying thwack , sending a spray of wood chips into the frozen air. Brody yanked the axe free, his muscles tensing as he swung again. The repetitive motion caused him some pain, but he fought through it.
He didn’t want to be thinking of that woman who’d come to Dunmara, but he could hardly stop thoughts of her from intruding—the strange, soft-spoken creature who’d appeared out of nowhere. He hadn’t made any effort to seek her out. She was an anomaly, one he preferred to leave in the capable hands of Maud and the kitchen staff.
But damned if she hadn’t lingered in his mind anyway. He could swear he’d dreamed about shocking, pink-painted toenails and startling green eyes.
He’d sent Duncan off to the neighboring fortress just this morning to inquire about the place she’d mentioned, Pitlochry. Hopefully, he’d be able to deliver her there anon.
"Laird!" Ailis’s voice rang out from the direction of the keep, sharp with panic. "Laird, ye must come quick! The lady—she’s dying!"
Brody’s stomach dropped. He tossed the axe aside without hesitation, the handle clattering against the chopped wood as he sprinted toward the kitchen entrance.
"What happened?" he demanded well before he reached the doorway, his breath misting in the cold air.
Ailis’s cheeks were heightened with color. “She just... she couldnae breathe. We moved her to the floor but, Laird, I ken she’s dying right in front of us."
Brody pushed past her and turned into the kitchen, his eyes finding the huddled figure slumped against the stone wall, between two stacks of empty baskets. The lass’s face was ashen, her chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic gasps. Her lips quivered, her eyes wide and unfocused.
The women stood over her, watching her with equal parts fright and concern.
He crouched down in front of Emmy Carter, one knee pressing into the hard earth. For a moment, he hesitated, unsure of what to do. He lifted his hand and wrapped it around the trembling fingers of her left hand.
"Breathe," he said softly, his voice low and steady. "Just breathe. Ye’re safe."
Her green eyes flicked to his, wide with panic, and he recognized the look immediately. She wasn’t dying, thankfully, but this was the same fear he’d seen in soldiers caught off guard by an overwhelming enemy—a fear that stripped away all logic, leaving only raw, primal terror.
"Emmy," he said again, squeezing her hand gently. "All is well. Just breathe, lass. One breath at a time."
Her breathing seemed to stop, and for a terrible moment, he thought she might faint. But then she drew in a ragged breath, her fingers clenching around his like a lifeline. She raised her other hand and joined it to their clasped hands.
"Are they joking?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "About the year? Tell me they’re joking."
Brody frowned. "What do you mean?"
"They said it’s 1304," Emmy said, her voice cracking. "That’s impossible. I was having dinner in Pitlochry... in twenty-nineteen."
The words hung between them, heavy and bewildering.
The kitchen fell silent, the air thick with something unspoken. Brody’s grip on her hand tightened, his eyes narrowing as he studied her face.
High cheekbones framed a heart-shaped face, her features delicate but not fragile, though she appeared decidedly brittle right now. A smattering of freckles dusted the bridge of her nose, almost invisible until the firelight caught them. Her lips, parted as she gasped for air, were full and pink, though trembling slightly with whatever fright overtook her now.
And then there were her eyes. Green, like spring leaves after a rainstorm, wide and glassy with panic, rimmed by thick lashes that looked too dark against her otherwise golden complexion. Her long, honey-blonde hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, the ends curling slightly where they brushed her breast.
She looked like no one he’d ever met before—certainly not like any woman from these lands. Her clothing had been strange enough, with its fine fabrics and peculiar cut, but her face was... otherworldly.
Beautiful. Too beautiful, in fact, for this world, had been his judgment yesterday and now again today.
Brody swallowed, trying to push aside the flicker of something dangerously close to awe.
"Twenty-nineteen," he repeated slowly, as if tasting the strange number. "What do ye...? I dinna ken what ye’re saying, lass.”
"I was at a restaurant with my friends," she insisted, tears welling in her eyes. “One minute I was there in twenty-nineteen, and the next... I woke up here. Please, tell me they’re lying. Tell me this is all some... elaborate joke."
“Lying about what?” He was still trying to catch up.
“They said the year was 1304,” she said, her voice even smaller now, tinged with what seemed a desperate plea for him to contradict what she’d been told.
"Nae, they dinna lie about the year," he said gently, his thumb brushing lightly over her fingers. "Aye, thirteen hundred and four.”
One tear spilled from her left then and half a second later from her right eye.
It took everything in him not to brush it away.
Emmy Carter pursed her lips and tried valiantly to steady her breathing. Her grip on his hand tightened as though anchoring herself to him.
"Thirteen hundred and four," she whispered again, as though saying it aloud might help her understand it. Her lips quivered again. She lifted her frantic gaze to Brody. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He shook his head. “I dinna, lass. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t...I don’t belong here. I live in...another century.” She jerked his hand. “I was having dinner with my friends in two thousand and nineteen, seven hundred years from now.”
Brody stared at her, his mind locking onto her words with a kind of grim disbelief. Two thousand and nineteen? Seven hundred years from now? For a moment, he thought he’d misheard her—or that she’d misspoken in her panic.
But the way her eyes searched his, desperate for understanding, made it clear she meant every word. His jaw clenched.
"Lass," he said, his voice rougher now, the soothing edge gone, replaced by something more wary. "Ye’ve had a shock, that much is clear. Mayhap ye’ve taken a knock to the head after all."
"I didn’t hit my head," Emmy insisted. "I swear to you, I was just in Pitlochry... in 2019. I don’t belong in this time—this century."
It had to be madness. Or else... something worse. His jaw tightened as he studied her.
"Lass," he said carefully, his voice calm but edged with steel. "Ye’re shaken, that much is plain. Folks say strange things when they’ve had a fright."
"I’m not confused," Emmy insisted, her eyes blazing with conviction. "I mean I am—I don’t know how this happened. But I was just in Pitlochry. In the twenty-first century. I know how crazy it sounds, but it’s true."
Brody’s pulse quickened, his instincts flaring with warning. This wasn’t the typical delirium of someone fevered or dazed from a fall. There was something else beneath her panic—something far too steady and deliberate. His gaze flicked to her strange, polished boots; he considered her speech that didn’t quite belong anywhere he knew.
She tugged at his hand.
"Please," she whispered. "Please help me."
Her voice cracked on the last word, and the raw desperation in her eyes made something twist uncomfortably in Brody’s chest. This wasn’t the wide-eyed hysteria of a liar or someone seeking attention. This was genuine terror.
And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Brody found himself nodding. "Aye," he said quietly. "We’ll see what can be done.”
He glanced at the women hovering nearby, their expressions ranging from confusion to suspicion. Maud stood with her arms crossed, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Mayhap a draught to help her sleep,” he suggested.
Emmy’s hand went limp in his.
“You think I’m crazy,” she assumed.
Brody hesitated. He didn’t know that she wasn’t.
"I ken we all need some time to digest what... what it is ye’re saying," he countered, his voice steady but cautious. "And ye need some time to rest. Ye’ve been through an ordeal, I ken, and it would do ye good to clear yer head."
Brody straightened, loosening his hand, rising to his full height above her. His eyes lock on hers for a heartbeat longer. "Rest now. We’ll talk again later." Then, with a curt nod to Maud, he turned and strode out of the kitchen.
"Come along, lass," he heard Agnes say, her tone gentle but leaving no room for argument. "Let’s get ye settled."