She felt like that now, except this room didn’t look at all modern. An oil painting between two wooden bookcases on the wall behind the desk depicted a hunting scene with men in seventeenth-century dress, and the tapestry hung on the stone wall by the narrow window was positively medieval-looking. A substantial fire blazed from the open hearth opposite the desk, casting dancing shadows across the floor and over two comfortable-looking armchairs. The only other light source were two oil lamps in sconces and a candle burning on the desk a safe distance from the ledger that Niall was working on.
Uneasiness stirred in her stomach again. She obviously was in some sort of actual castle probably a couple of centuries old, but did they have to keep everything so authentic?
She cleared her throat and he looked up. For a moment he studied her, then he smiled, marked his spot in the ledger with a piece of paper, and shut it, then gestured her to enter.
“Please. Have a seat.”
Since he was sitting behind the desk, she sat down in one of straight-backs. At least Niall didn’t look like the old, bespectacled principal who never changed his expression.
“How are ye feeling this morning?” Niall asked.
“Better.” She didn’t really know if she was better or not since she must have had some kind of blackout. “I know this sounds silly, but where am I, exactly?”
He only inclined his head. “Ye are at Castle Dounie, near Beauly.”
Beauly. Vaguely, she recalled it was a village near Inverness. “How…How did I get here?”
He didn’t seem to think that an odd question either. “I brought ye here on my horse after ye swooned.”
Her fictional heroinesswooned. She had never fainted in her life. But there really wasn’t much point in saying that since she didn’t know exactly what had happened.
Somethinghad happened. “I’m afraid I don’t recall.”
This time he frowned. “Could ye have fallen and hit your head sometime yesterday?”
“No. I was perfectly fine.” That popped out before she had time to think on it. Maybe she should have said yes and claimed a concussion to give herself time to sort things out. Well, too late now. “Umm. I might have had a bit too much of your whisky. It’s very strong. Could you…could you enlighten me on what happened?”
“I saw ye at the revelry last eve. I joined ye in the dance.” He looked at her closely. “Do ye remember that?” When she nodded, he went on. “We introduced ourselves. And then, ye just swooned. I caught ye before ye could fall.”
“You didn’t kiss me?”
“Kiss ye?” He blinked. Then he grinned, the dimple showing in his cheek. “I think I would have remembered that, lass.”
So Niall didn’t kiss her? Had she dreamed it? She felt her face warm as he was now gazing at her with a look of intense interest. Better to change the subject. She looked around.
“This is your home?”
“Aye. ’Tis the seat of Clan Fraser of Lovat. My father’s the laird.”
Laird. She supposed maybe the Scottish equivalent to English aristocracy might still use the term. If she recalled, Frasers were the dominant clan in this area. “I think it’s wonderful that the clans still take so much pride in their ancestry.”
“Still?”
“Well…yes. I mean, Scotland is part of the United Kingdom—”
“United kingdom?” He snorted. “We may be under George’s sovereign rule at present, but that’s about to change.”
“George? Don’t you mean King Charles?”
“Well, aye. Good of ye to call him that, although he has nae been crowned yet.” Niall shrugged. “’Tis just a matter of time, though, before a Stuart king is on the throne again.”
AStuartking. Not Queen Elizabeth’s son, but Bonnie Prince Charlie—who would also have been Charles III. It couldn’t be. And then, as if to reinforce the impossible thought, she saw the date on the paper he’d used as a bookmark.
January 1, 1746.
1746. The year the battle of Culloden was fought. The year the Jacobites lost everything to the English. Her head began to spin again and she clutched the desk rim for balance as she started to sway.
Niall leapt up from behind the desk and was beside her, steadying her. She took a deep breath. At least, he wasreal. She wasn’t imagining his strong, warm hands on her arms or the way he was gently rubbing them. He wasreal. The year could not be 1746. It wasn’t possible to time-travel.
