“Imagine that,” she muttered sarcastically only to hear aclickwhen the door suddenly unlocked.
“Ha!” She grinned, awed at her accomplishment. “Go, Chloe!”
Excited, she yanked the door open only to stop short, disappointed but careful not to show it.
Magic had not, in fact, unlocked the door. A man had.
“I thought I heard someone trying to get out,” he said in greeting. Shorter and narrower in the shoulders than Aidan, he was somewhere in his early thirties and handsome with dark hair and watchful blue-green eyes. His gaze swept over her before his brows shot up, his demeanor charming. “’Tis not often I find such a lovely lass locked in a chamber.”
“Hello.” She smiled, determined to act like she belonged there. As if she had not been locked in the room on purpose. “I asked my...” Servant? Chaperone? She had no idea what made sense. “Husband...”
Hell,husband? Where had that come from?
“You asked your husband what?” he prompted when she hesitated.
“I...uh...my husband locked the door on my request.”
“I see.” He narrowed his eyes. “Ye have a verra unusual accent, lass.”
Right. Damn. What to say to that?
“Or so I thought initially,” he corrected, surprising her. His eyes narrowed further as if he were trying to remember what he’d just been thinking. “But ‘tis gone now.” He blinked several times, confused. “If, indeed, it had been there to begin with.”
According to Aidan, Julie had sounded like she was from Medieval Scotland, too, because of her magical ley-lines. So that must be what was happening.
Best to move things along.
She offered her elbow. “Perhaps you can show me around?”
“Do ye not want to wait for yer husband to return?”
“No, he won’t be back for hours.” She offered a winning smile, determined to see the courtyard up close. “So how about it?”
When his appreciative gaze raked over her again, and he met her smile, she realized how forward she sounded.Again. In Aidan’s case, she couldn’t help herself. He was through-the-roof, panty-soaking hot, and she hadn’t been with a guy in a painfully long time. So who could blame her? Right now, however, was different. She needed to watch herself. Women supposedly weren’t so blunt in this era.
“Come then, lass.” The man slipped his elbow into hers and led her along. “I am Laird Robert Bruce. Have ye a name?”
She nearly tripped. Robert Bruce?Seriously? How was that possible? They were in the right era, weren't they? If so, he should be dead. Hence his son becoming king.
“Son,” she whispered before it dawned on her. “You’re his son too.”
He eyed her for a moment before he seemed to understand.
“Aye, I’m former King Robert’s son,” he confirmed, shrugging. “The illegitimate son that is.”
She wished she knew more about Scottish history. Yet even as she thought it, a strange sensation washed over her. One that seemed to originate from her ring.
“You’re the Lord of Liddesdale,” she murmured, mortified when she rambled on. Her tongue seemed to have a mind of its own. “Sired by King Robert the Bruce when he was in his teens.”
“Aye, ‘twas how it went,” he agreed, not put off by the random statement. They headed downstairs. “And yer name, lass?”
“Chloe,” she said absently, trying her darndest not to marvel at everything.
Though priceless furnishings were scarce because the castle sat fairly close to the English border and was subject to raids, torches illuminated plenty of handmade tapestries and stunning weaponry. Fresh rushes were laid closer to the front door in the great hall. Merry pipe music drifted in through the windows. People spoke a mixture of Scottish Gaelic and English. Some were in a rush to get wherever they were going. Others stood in groups gossiping. Then there were warring men, with weapons strapped here and there, their interested gazes turning her way.
“Chloe is an unusual name.” Robert pondered it as they stepped outside, his warm smile charming once again. “But verra bonny.” He slanted another appreciative look her way. “It suits ye.”
“Thank you.” She returned his smile, soon ensnared by everything around her. Not just the carts from which people sold wares but the warriors passing on horseback. The air smelled of baked bread and sweat along with a variety of other pungent aromas.
