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“To the castle.”
“But—”
He sighed. “Look, Lady Rogene, if I say ye’re a guest of the clan, then ye’re a guest of the clan and should be in the castle. People in the village will remember ye, so ’tisna safe for ye to walk around the village alone, anyway. Besides”—he eyed her—“my betrothed may arrive at any moment.” A small feeling of satisfaction warmed up his chest as an unhappy frown crossed her face. “If Father Nicholas is so ill that he canna write…” He shrugged. “We need a scribe who can write down the contract that we negotiate with the Earl of Ross.”
Suddenly, her face went limp and expressionless. “The Earl of Ross? Right! You’re marrying Euphemia of Ross, aren’t you?”
He cocked his head. “How do ye ken?”
She glanced back at the village and licked her lips. “I heard in the village. They’re baking pies and cleaning houses to accommodate the Ross men if needed, and washing the bed linens, and there’s more ale that’s been brewed.”
“Aye.”
He looked her over as she shook her head. “What?” he asked.
“Nothing. Well…” She cleared her throat. “Angus Mackenzie would marry Euphemia of Ross. I was just thinking how funny it is that a Highland faerie can be both right and wrong at the same time.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Nothing. Just a story I heard in the village. Turns out, the time-travel legend is real. But the matchmaking is wrong.”
Chapter 5
The next day…
“Ba-ba-ba-ba!” announced a baby somewhere behind Rogene, and she turned her head.
She was leaning over the Bible that Catrìona had given her, which lay on one of the tables in the great hall. Barely touching the smooth parchment, she trailed her finger over a line. Even in the little light coming from the slit windows and the tallow candles—which smelled like old, burning fat—she could see the indents of the thin lines the letters were written on.
Once she’d accepted that there was no other explanation than time travel for the medieval world around her, it had occurred to her that this was the opportunity she shouldn’t miss. Books like the one she was studying, documents, letters that didn’t make it to the twenty-first century, lost church registries…somewhere here must be the proof for her thesis. She just had to find it. There must be something in the castle, and she could ask Angus, Laomann, or Catrìona. She had her phone, so she could take pictures, and she had switched it off to save the battery.
The baby’s voice brought her back to the gray walls of rough stone, the scent of stale beer coming from the tabletops, and the quiet crackling of wood burning in the fireplace.
A male servant carried a heap of wood towards the hearth, but she could see no baby. Something about an infant in these harsh times sounded wrong—which was ridiculous, of course.
“Da-da-da-da!” The voice was closer now.
A female voice cooed at the baby, and Rogene’s stomach squeezed. She liked babies. Back in her aunt and uncle’s house, she’d helped with her youngest cousin, Deborah, who was born a month after Rogene and David had moved in with them. And although she didn’t have many friends with children, something ached in Rogene’s heart every time she saw a baby. Perhaps it was the realization she might never have one of her own—she couldn’t imagine ever being able to trust someone and be happy in a committed relationship.
Angus came through the arched doorway, and her heart leaped. Big, tall, and broad-shouldered, he held a bundle in his arms…
A baby.
The baby was probably eight or nine months old and was happily sitting on Angus’s hip, nestled in the crease of his elbow. Wearing a coif-style hat with ties under his chin and a long, straight shirt, the baby waved one chubby little arm excitedly and kept blabbering. Angus was cooing to it with the most love-struck expression on his face.
Rogene didn’t know what was cuter—the baby or the giant, battle-clad warrior who was carrying it like it was the dearest treasure in the world.
She went completely still.
Was that… That couldn’t be his baby, could it?
But then a woman Rogene’s age walked from behind him, smiling and babbling together with the baby. Dark-haired and curvy, she was short and sweet, in a yellow dress. Judging by the air of a mother hen around her, she must be the baby’s mom.
“Go, Mairead,” Angus said. “My nephew and I will be all right. Isna it true, my lad?”
This must be Laomann’s wife. Mairead glanced at Rogene and her face relaxed with relief. “Ah. I see ye have a woman here who might help ye. Good.”
Angus’s eyes met Rogene’s, and suddenly her lungs were robbed of air. His gaze darkened and his Adam’s apple bobbed under his short beard. Gosh, he had such a handsome face. Thick, black eyebrows, long, curled eyelashes, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw. He had that rough beauty with an aura of masculine power that accelerated every woman’s breath.
