Chapter Twelve
“Aye, it was fine having guests,” Maud said, wiping her hands on her apron. “But I’ll nae lie—I’m glad they’re gone. The hall’s peaceful again.”
“And quiet,” Agnes added. “Too much excitement is nae guid for the soul.”
Emmy’s lips curved in a wry smile. “Yeah, don’t I know it,” she said, her tone light but edged with inescapable irony.
The MacBains had left just after dawn, eager to take advantage of the clear skies and get a full day’s travel behind them. Brody had been up early to see them off, exchanging brief words with Hugh while Ross had lingered just a moment longer, offering Emmy another too-charming smile.
Standing on the steps outside the hall, Emmy had watched as the MacBains rode away, their figures soon swallowed by the mist rising off the hills. Maeve had waved until the very last moment, her face half-hidden by her hood. Emmy had given her a small, wistful smile in return.
“Nae guid for the feet,” Maud muttered, leaning against the counter with a dramatic sigh while she plucked feathers from a brown bird that Emmy couldn’t identify. “Havenae run so much in years. My knees might never forgive me.”
“Aye, back to real life now,” Agnes agreed.
I wish, thought Emmy, grimacing as she watched Maud strip the game bird with nearly brutal force. At least half a dozen other birds lay dead, waiting to be made naked, and then into a meal. Emmy’s stomach turned over.
The morning sun streamed through the small kitchen windows, turning the fresh snow outside into a blindingly bright blanket. After days of gloom, and then last night’s relentless rain, and biting wind, the clear sky made everything feel fresh and new—if bitterly cold. The bitter draft seeping through the doorframe reminded her of that.
“Where’s Ailis today?” she asked, glancing around.
“The poor dear’s still abed,” Agnes said with a sigh, standing where Ailis sometimes did, at the opposite end of the work counter from Maud, pulling brown leaves off an old cabbage. “Shivering one minute, sweating the next. Looks like she’s been dragged through the hedge backwards.”
“Damp as a bog up there on the third floor,” Maud added grimly, her mouth compressed into a thin line. “The rain comes straight down the inside wall in the far corner—been that way since I’ve been here, twenty-seven years now.”
Emmy frowned, her stirring slowing. “And you all sleep up there?”
“Aye,” Agnes confirmed. “That draughty old dormitory never dries out proper in the winter.”
“And what do you do for fevers?” Emmy asked, concern rising in her chest. “You’ve got no Tylenol—I mean, medicine—or something like that?”
“Tylenol?” Maud repeated, puzzled. “Is that a charm? A tonic?”
“Not quite,” Emmy said. “Just a modern-day miracle. Brings down fever in no time.”
“We’ve nae such miracle,” Maud muttered. “We’ll keep her warm, give her willow-bark tea, and hope the fever breaks on its own. But...” Her expression darkened. “Fevers can turn cruel, especially in the cold months.”
Emmy paused with consternation. In her time, a fever was barely cause for concern—a couple of pills and a nap, and you were back on your feet. She supposed it made sense that a fever might be far more dangerous in this time.
“I might go sit with her,” Emmy said, a question in her tone, asking permission. “Keep her company for a bit.”
Maud shook her head. “Ye canna, lass. Nae until the fever’s gone. We canna have it spreadin’.”
Emmy supposed that made sense also, but felt bad for Ailis alone in a damp chamber.
“She’ll be fine in a day or two,” Maud said with a note of authority, apparently meaning to ease Emmy’s concern. “Until then, we’ll make do.”
“And Donal makes a fine scullion,” Agnes added with a wry smile, glancing at the young boy standing near a small counter against the wall, scrubbing pots with more enthusiasm than skill.
“Scullion?” Emmy questioned, arching a brow. “What’s that?”
“It’s nae guid, mistress,” Donal called back without looking up. “And these days, it’s nae only pot-scrubbin’—wood-haulin’, fire-tendin’, egg-fetchin’, and next, ye ken, I’ll be emptying chamber pots.”
Emmy wrinkled her nose. The kid’s disgruntlement was reasonable.
Maud snorted with a bit of humor. “Aye, and that’ll teach ye to linger too long in the kitchen, lad. Should’ve made yer escape soon as yer gullet was filled.”
Donal defended over his shoulder, “I was naught but trying to stay warm.”
“Warm ye are now, eh?” Agnes sang out with a laugh.
Donal groaned theatrically, wringing a laugh from both Emmy and Agnes.
She felt bad for the boy, but there was no way she was going to volunteer to fill Ailis’s place. Sorry, not in her time-traveler’s description, not as far as she was concerned.
She glanced around the kitchen, taking in the familiar bustle, the warmth, and the comforting rhythm of everyday life at Dunmara. She felt very comfortable here, even as she didn’t truly have a role.
And yet, she was reminded—by her own anxiety and partly because of Brody’s harsh words the other night to Laird MacBain—she didn’t belong here.
Dunmara was fascinating, in its way. Maybe if it were spring or summer, she would want to investigate it and everything in and around it more thoroughly. She was, unsurprisingly, in awe of the castle, life within it, and by the very fact that she was presently living in a century seven hundred years before her time. She was also, admittedly and despite her wish to the contrary, intrigued more so with Dunmara’s laird. Brody MacIntyre was brooding, handsome beyond belief, and stirred something in her that she hadn’t felt for any guy in a long, long time.
And yet...
She wanted to go home.
She needed to go home.
"Maud, Agnes—you must know someone who can help me," she said suddenly, leaning against the worktable, halfway between both women. "This is medieval Scotland. You said yourselves it’s full of magic and strange happenings. There has to be someone—a witch, a wise woman, anyone with knowledge about... my situation,” she finished vaguely, in light of the fact that she wasn’t sure how much Donal might know or have been told about Emmy’s true origins.
Maud’s knife paused mid-stroke, halfway through the backbone of the dead bird. She exchanged a quick glance with Agnes, then resumed sawing with just a bit too much focus. Agnes kept her eyes on the cabbage she was hand-spooning into a wooden bowl.
"Magic’s nae something ye go looking for, lass," Maud said at last, her voice carefully measured. "Best to let it find ye."
“If it’s meant to,” Agnes added, nodding for good measure.
"Oh, come on," Emmy pressed. "There has to be someone. I... I need someone to guide me, at the very least. And you can’t convince me that a place as full of mystery as this doesn’t have at least one person who dabbles in... unusual things.”
The women remained stubbornly silent. Even Agnes, who rarely shied away from giving her opinion, suddenly seemed deeply invested in needlessly arranging cabbage in the bowl.
“I’m not asking for much," Emmy said, her fingers curled desperately into her palms. “And I’m not asking for anything more than a name, and maybe just a little nudge in the right direction.”
Directly across from her, Donal turned and met Emmy’s gaze over his narrow shoulder.
"Old Fenella," he said, his voice low. "She kens things.”
While Emmy perked up, Agnes gasped and Maud sent Donal a reproving look that would have shriveled most people.
"Donal!” Maud scolded, her eyes blazing. “Ye’ll hush that tongue of yours before it gets ye into trouble."
"What?" Donal said, his face all innocence. "She asked. I’m just sayin’. If she wants answers, Old Fenella’ll have them. Everyone kens she’s got the Sight."
Emmy’s pulse quickened. "Old Fenella? Who’s she? Where can I find her?”
"Forget ye heard that name," Maud said firmly, pointing the long blade at Emmy. "Fenella’s nae one ye need to meet. Old and half-mad, she is, living on the edge of the woods, she and her strange ways—and we leave her there. Nae guid will come from seeking her out.”
"But if she knows about things like this—about magic—" Emmy began, but Agnes cut her off with a sharp shake of her head.
"She kens trouble, that’s what she kens," Agnes muttered.
It was the first time Agnes’s countenance matched Maud’s generally stricter vibe.
Agnes leaned in, her voice taking on an ominous sound. "Turned a man into a stoat for crossing her once—aye, a stoat! He was seen scurrying about the village for days after, bushy, black-tipped tail waving out from his cloak, until he vanished altogether.”
“What is a stoat?” Emmy had to ask.
Agnes frowned at her. “A stoat, lass.” She waved her hand airily, as if searching for another word to help define it. “Stoat, a weasel.”
“Oh,” Emmy said. “Well, that seems...improbable.” Turning a human into a weasel? Really?
Maud huffed. "Says the lass come from—” she stopped herself and glanced at Donal’s back. “A lass in your circumstance. And that’s the least of it. Ye can blame her for crops failing, hens refusing to lay, and a dozen other misfortunes. If a goat stops giving milk, like as nae Fenella cursed it.”
"But," Agnes said, drawing out the word, tipping her head a bit, "there are others who claim she’s helped barren women conceive and healed wounds that should’ve killed a man." She added, almost as an afterthought. “For a price, of course."
Emmy blinked, torn between skepticism and curiosity. "So, is she a healer or a troublemaker?”
"Depends on who ye ask," Maud replied, slicing the air again with her knife for emphasis. "But ye’ll keep yer distance, if ye’ve any sense."
“Say ye will, lass, “Agnes implored. “Keep yer distance.”
“Put yourself in my shoes, Agnes,” Emmy countered, without making any promises. “Would you?”
Both Agnes and Maud’s faces tightened with displeasure at Emmy’s stubbornness.
Shortly after Donal had abandoned the kitchen, Emmy followed, searching high and low for the kid since he hadn’t mentioned where he was going. While she saw a group of soldiers involved in some mock sword fight just outside the gates, she didn’t see Donal. Thankfully, she also saw no sign of Brody MacIntyre.
Emmy checked the hen house and dovecote, to no avail, and then crossed the yard, stepping into the stables when she caught sight of movement in there, shadowy under the low roof. She moved cautiously across the straw-covered floor while sunlight filtered through the gaps in the wooden walls, casting slanted beams of light that danced with dust motes.
It was Donal, pitchfork in hand, working about as slow as a ninety-year old as he mucked out one of the stalls.
"Donal," she called softly, stepping closer.
He looked up, brushing a mop of red hair out of his eyes, his freckled face flushed from the cold. "Mistress?”
Emmy leaned lightly against the stall door, after first making sure it wasn’t too dirty. “Donal, would you be able to take me to that woman you mentioned? Fenella?”
The grin slipped from Donal’s face, replaced by a cautious frown. He glanced around the stables as if afraid someone might be lurking nearby. “Nae, mistress. Maud would have my head if I did.”
“How far is it?” Emmy pushed. “Fenella’s place?”
“More’n an hour through the woods, even longer with all the snow.” Donal answered, shaking his head. “Maud’s probably right, Mistress. Ye dinna want to go there. It’s nae an easy walk, anyway," he said, scratching the back of his head as he glanced down at Emmy’s heeled boots.
"I can handle a long walk," Emmy assured him. “If you’re only worried about getting in trouble, I can take the blame. I’ll say I forced you or guilted you into it, or...or maybe no one has to know, actually.”
Donal shifted uncomfortably. “I canna just leave. I’d have to get permission from the laird first. He won’t like it if I just take off, leave my chores undone...”
Emmy thought frantically. "Donal, this is really important. I need to see Fenella.”
"Old Fenella’s... she’s strange,” Donal mused. “Talks to things that are nae there sometimes. Aye, she kens things most folk dinna, but Mistress, she’s...powerful.”
Emmy’s heart skipped a beat. “Actually, Donal, that’s exactly what I need.” When the kid seemed yet unconvinced, not about to put himself on the wrong side of his laird’s ire, Emmy shrugged and grinned. “Where I come from, we have a saying: better to ask forgiveness than permission.”
That didn’t do anything to sway Donal toward a yes .
Emmy heaved a large sigh. “I applaud your integrity, Donal. So how about this? Can you maybe walk with me, say halfway there, and then simply point me in the direction?”
For a heartbeat, Donal stared at her, considering this option. He frowned then. “What do ye need to see Ol’ Fenella about anyway.”
Emmy had briefly wondered if he might ask, had considered while looking for him, that she would owe him something as close to the truth as she would dare. “Donal, I don’t belong here. I...I need to be someplace far away—like, far enough away that maybe only someone with, er, superpowers, would be able to get me there.”
Donal sighed now, clearly dissatisfied with her extremely vague answer.
Emmy tried again. “Just walk with me, halfway there, and point me in the right direction. Please.”
Possibly the pleading tone shifted his stance.
Seeming suddenly older than his years—Emmy didn’t think he could be more than ten or eleven—Donal shook his head, as if utterly disappointed in her.
But he finally agreed.
“Aye, I’ll walk ye out,” he stated, but then qualified sharply, “but only to the pass that leads to the yew. Then ye’re on yer own. Ye’re kind’n all, Mistress, but nae worth being having a switch taken to my hide.”
Emmy gasped. “A switch! Who would do that?”
Donal shuffled his feet a bit. “Mayhap nae one, but still....”
“Okay, whew,” Emmy said, grinning again now that she had his acquiescence. “All right, when? When can you take me?”
“Meet me here in the morning, Mistress,” Donal decided. “But show yer face in the kitchens so they dinna notice ye missing.”
Emmy nodded, but thought it needed some correction. “I won’t actually be missing. I’ll just be gone for a few hours, that’s all. I’ll be back by suppertime.” Unless, of course, Fenella was as... witch-like as they purported, and Emmy was so lucky as to be transported back through time. “Thank you, Donal. I really appreciate it.”
***
With little else to do, Emmy returned to the kitchen in the afternoon, supposing Maud and Agnes might need some help preparing supper.
They really didn’t—everything seemed to be under control, as always, even without Ailis there to help. Still, they put her to work, handing her a knife to slice two different kinds of cheese and arrange them on several platters. It was a simple task, and she had the impression they didn’t trust her with anything even remotely difficult.
She finished far more quickly than expected and found herself idling around the adjoining rooms.
“That’s the larder,” Agnes said, noticing Emmy peeking through the doorway. “Beyond it is the butlery, where we keep the wine and ale. Ye’ll nae find much these days—hardly enough for company.”
“And that?” Emmy asked, pointing toward another shadowy doorway.
“The pantry. Keeps what stores we’ve left.” Agnes wiped her hands on her apron. “Used to be, all these rooms were full to bursting. Back when Dunmara was teeming with folk, and we had hands enough to tend every task.”
Emmy wandered into the larder, breathing in the scent of smoked meat and dried herbs hanging from the rafters. Wooden shelves lined the walls, holding jars of preserves, sacks of grain, and half a wheel of another cheese, but little else. Honestly, if not for the meat and fish that were provided fresh, almost daily, Emmy wondered how they’d feed everyone at supper.
“Emmy, lass, would ye mind taking this up to the laird?” Agnes asked, approaching her with a tray laden with bread, cheese, and a pewter plate of roasted fowl. “Ailis would do it, but...”
Emmy had little choice but to accept the tray that was all but shoved into her hands. “Wait, won’t he be dining in the hall? Like last night?”
“Nae, lass,” Maud answered as Agnes had already turned her back on Emmy. “That was out of necessity. The laird prefers his own company most nights.” She shook her head. “He’ll nae be back in the hall for a meal unless there’s a reason to force him.”
“Ah.” Emmy glanced at the tray, her stomach flipping. The last thing she wanted was to face Brody—not after last night, not after that almost-kiss. She wasn’t sure what had embarrassed her more—storming off like a drama queen or the fact that part of her hadn’t wanted to leave at all. Only briefly had she seen him this morning when she’d said goodbye to the MacBains. While Emmy had remained near the door to the hall, Brody had gone out into the yard with his guests. She’d made her escape, ducking back inside, up to her chamber, while he’d still been near the gate.
“I can serve the hall instead,” Emmy offered quickly, hopefully, nodding at the larger trays Agnes was filling with platters. “You take this up to the laird, Agnes.”
Agnes chuckled, shaking her head. “Och, nae. Ye canna lift these big ones. The laird doesnae bite, lass—at least, nae hard.” She winked, ignoring Emmy’s pleading look. “Just a quick up and down, I promise ye,” she went on, eyes on her chore, trying to cram as much as she could on that larger tray, likely hoping to make fewer trips. “Hand him the tray, give him a ‘Guid evening, my laird,’ and be on yer way before he can growl at ye.” A hearty and well-pleased chuckle followed this. “Och, ye’ll be needing to ken: third door on the inside wall.”
Emmy didn’t need direction, she’d snooped in there on day one, she recalled.
Her face twisted in reluctant resignation, she adjusted the tray in her hands and muttered, “Fine. But if I’m not back in ten minutes, send a search party.”
A minute later, Emmy rapped twice on the heavy wooden door and upon hearing, “Come,” pushed open the door with her shoulder, hoping she didn’t spill the contents of the tray.
The room was warm but filled with shadows, though candles were lit as well as the fire in the hearth. Brody sat very comfortably at his desk, his booted feet propped upon one corner while he perused what looked like an unrolled piece of heavy paper in his hands. The fire behind him outlined his broad frame in gold, while the shifting light of the stubby candles made the hard lines of his face seem even sharper.
"Your dinner," Emmy announced mildly, stepping inside.
His gaze jerked up at the sound of her voice.
Before he could ask, she explained, “Ailis is under the weather today, so, well, you’ve got me. Where do you want this?”
He straightened, pulling his feet off the desk and shifting in the wooden chair until he faced her squarely. With one hand, he shoved two half-melted candles off to the side. “There is fine.”
She stepped closer, setting the tray down carefully before beginning the slow process of unloading it. She placed each item onto his desk with deliberate care, aware of his watchful gaze, her pulse responding to it.
The silence stretched.
When everything had been arranged, Emmy stepped back. When he neither said anything nor dismissed her outright, she hesitated, tapping the back of the wooden tray idly against her thighs.
Brody reached for the pewter goblet and pulled the plate of meat closer to him, which she supposed she should take as a dismissal.
But then he didn’t begin to eat, didn’t take a sip of the mead.
Emmy swallowed, realizing something that had niggled a bit at the back of her mind in the last hour or so. If she had any luck with old Fenella tomorrow—if the strange woman at the edge of the woods truly knew anything—this might be the last time she ever saw Brody MacIntyre.
And that thought unsettled her more than it should, more than she was ready to admit.
She traced her gaze over every inch of his face, trying to commit it to memory. The sharp cut of his square jaw, the high cheekbones that gave him a perpetual look of quiet intensity, the way the firelight cast flickering shadows over the hard, chiseled planes of his face. His dark brows, always furrowed in some level of brooding thought, framed eyes so deep and dark a brown they nearly swallowed the fire’s glow.
He was, quite simply, the most devastatingly handsome man she’d ever seen.
If she were lucky enough to make it home, she knew without a doubt that her most fervent memories of this... adventure wouldn’t be filled with the impossible mechanics of time travel, or why she had been chosen for it, or the strangeness of medieval life. No, she would remember him —the quiet command in his presence, the rare moments when his features softened, when he wasn’t weighed down by his own brooding nature. She would remember the quiet strength in his gaze, the way he seemed to take in the world with a measured wariness, as if always bracing for the worst.
She would remember the broken man in the broken castle.
And, God help her, she would never forget his mouth—the firm, unforgiving line of it, the warmth of his breath when he stood too close, the way it had felt against hers in that reckless, stolen kiss.
Her throat tightened, her stomach twisting with something unfamiliar, something close to longing.
Inexplicably, she felt heat build behind her eyes, as if tears might form.
Clearing her throat, she shifted on her feet, heat rising in her cheeks under his stare, which might actually be wondering why she hadn’t simply dropped off his meal and left.
“I just—” She hesitated, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “I just wanted to thank you. For allowing me to stay here. I know my arrival was...unusual. Suspicious, even.” She huffed a quiet laugh. “Or outright bizarre, take your pick. But you’ve been... very good about it, all things considered. I don’t think I would’ve been as accommodating or as gracious if our situations were reversed.”
He looked as though he might say something—but he did not. He only inclined his head—the barest inclination—in receipt of her appreciation.
Emmy lingered, waiting. When he remained silent, she exhaled and gave a sharp nod before turning toward the door. After only three steps, she turned back.
“You should dine in the hall more often,” she said quickly, finding his gaze not removed from her yet. “I noticed the difference in Dunmara’s people between the first night and last night. I think they liked it.”
Brody’s brows pulled together slightly, and his lips parted as if to reply—but he did not.
Emmy swallowed, suddenly feeling foolish for saying anything at all. She lifted the tray, gripping the edges. “Enjoy your meal,” she murmured before turning once more toward the door.
“Emmy.”
She turned back to him at his quiet call.
Brody met her gaze and cleared his throat. “Emmy, what I said to Hugh about ye,” he said, “I...dinna mean anything by it. I only meant to dissuade him of—"
Emmy lifted her hand, holding her palm toward him, which effectively silenced him. She gave him a bittersweet smile. “Let’s...not go there. It’s fine. I get it. I am no one—I literally had to make up a story to explain who I might be. I take no offense. As strange as all this is to me, I’m sure it’s just as...unsettling for you.” Dragging in a steadying breath, she lifted her smile to suggest to him it really didn’t matter. Once more, she turned, and finally left, pulling the door closed behind her. She remained just outside his chamber for a moment, laying her hand against the smooth wood, a brief and useless, What if? wandering around her mind.