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“I’d like to see more of this side of ye,” he said.

She blinked. “No one ever does. I dinna let anyone so close to me because people have betrayed me in the past. My husbands cheated on me. My brother told my secrets to my da and he punished me. Even ye…” She shook her head. “But ye’ve come back to me and made the first step. I will do the same, Lord Angus. I already let ye in way too deep. I’ve fallen in love with ye…” She whispered the last words.

Angus swallowed. He’d never asked for her love, but he would accept it as a gift because love was not to be wasted. Unfortunately, he knew he’d never be able to reciprocate. But he’d give her the respect and appreciation that her love and openness deserved.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and she pressed her head to his chest. If he was right, she was trembling ever so slightly.

“But if ye ever betray me again,” she whispered, “I’ll give ye nae mercy. I will destroy everyone and everything that’s dear to ye.”

Chapter 33

Oxford, July 7, 2021

“Funny,” Anusua said without turning her head from the computer screen. “I’ve seen this document but never noticed this inscription before.”

“Which one?” Rogene asked as she continued looking at her own screen, scrolling through the archive’s scans of letters from the Wars of Scottish Independence.

She stopped scrolling at the Declaration of Arbroath, dated April 6, 1320, which was the letter of the Scottish parliament to the pope from fifty Scottish barons and leaders. They pleaded with the Pope to reconsider his support in the English-Scottish conflict. There were nineteen red and green wax seals attached to the document; the rest had been lost through the years.

“This record of the marriage of Angus Mackenzie and Euphemia of Ross…”

Rogene’s heart lurched. She spun on her chair so fast a vertebra in her neck clicked. The small office shrank around her, the paneled walls pressing in on her. Sounds intensified, and her back misted with sweat.

“What about it?” Rogene asked.

“Well…I’ve always thought it was in May 1310, but here it says July 14, 1310. I must have mixed up the dates.”

Rogene breathed out. That made sense because she had caused quite a hubbub and Angus had probably needed some time to renegotiate the contract and to convince the Earl of Ross and his sister to continue with the wedding.

“Oh. Yes. Well, we read so many documents it’s impossible to remember everything.”

“Yes, but that’s not the strange thing about it,” Anusua continued, zooming in. “I don’t remember this bit. And for the life of me, I have no idea what this means. Look.”

On shaking legs, Rogene stood and walked to stand behind Anusua’s chair. There, on a yellowy-beige page, was the church record of the marriage: Angus Mackenzie married Euphemia Ross on July 14, 1310. Both parties gave consensus, both parties were of age, and no blood kinship was found between them. All that was written in a typical, calligraphic script.

But then underneath was a different inscription, clearly from a different writer. One who wasn’t that experienced in calligraphy. The letters were different from each other, the tails of the letters too fat, or too thin, or too crooked.

Just like the letters of the contract she had been writing for Angus and Euphemia.

“Crikey,” Anusua said. “Does it seem like it resembles modern English to you? That’s so strange.”

With a horrific wave of cold tingling, Rogene read the inscription.

“He is not marrying her. He is marrying you.”

Feeling the ground slipping from under her feet, Rogene searched behind her with her hand until she found a chair, rolled it towards her, and plumped her behind into it.

Anusua chuckled. “It’s as though someone from our time traveled to 1310 and wrote it as a joke.” She looked at Rogene with a chuckle. “Sort of like ‘Peter was here.’” Her smile fell, and she narrowed her eyes. “Are you okay, hun?”

Rogene’s throat contracted as she swallowed. He is not marrying her. He is marrying you.

This sounded terribly like it was a message—for her. From her. From 1310. It sounded like Angus was marrying Rogene.

Rogene.

Not Euphemia.

Which meant…