A Slip In Time (11 page)

Julia thought to hear Lord Muir issue
a grunt of assent. Her head began to throb. If she didn’t leave
soon, she would truly need a doctor to treat her for a splitting
headache.

Julia took another swallow of tea,
noticing Lady Charles had engaged Lord Muir in conversation, though
in truth, it was entirely one-sided. Julia continued to sip her
tea, listening as Lady Charles spoke of her late husband once
hunting at Dunraven.

“Lord Muir, what a handsome tartan,”
Lady Charles said, changing subjects with ease. “Nigel told me you
claim descent from Clan . . . Oh dear, was it Mackenzie? Macintosh?
Macpherson — ?”

“Mackinnon,” he said
gruffly.

Julia shot to her feet, the tea
spilling down the front of her gown. “How clumsy of me.” She
snatched up the napkin from Mr. Dilcox’s place and wiped furiously
at her skirt.

Mackinnon. Lord Muir was
a
Mackinnon.
Julia’s mind reeled. What had Betty said — the marquis
“brought Dunraven back into the family,” that it had been lost in
the previous century? But Betty had neglected to mention the clan
by name. Even when Rae Mackinnon had identified himself, it hadn’t
occurred to her that he and Lord Muir might claim a common
lineage. Regardless that both bore the title of laird, the land
and castle could easily have changed owners any number of times
throughout the centuries.

And yet, if Dunraven had remained in
the clan’s possession until the time of the Jacobite Rebellion,
that would mean the portraits in the gallery would be
overwhelmingly . . . Mackinnons. Julia groaned. Did Rae Mackinnon’s
likeness watch from the wall there, too?

“Your beautiful silk will be ruined if
you don’t set it to soaking,” Lady Charles fretted.

“No need.” Julia forced a smile. “It
is only a little tea and see, it is coming clean.”

“But it must dry,” Lady Charles
persisted. “You might even lie down for a time in your room
and—”

“No! I mean, no. The fabric will dry
quickly enough, and, besides, I must begin a letter to my
grandmother. It is long overdue.”

Julia lowered herself to her chair, fearing
she had made a spectacle and had further affronted Lord Muir. But
when she dared a glimpse of him, she saw his expression had changed
from one of displeasure to pensive thoughtfulness.

Of a sudden, he became animated and gestured
over Mrs. McGinty.

“Some hot porridge will help put this
young woman to rights. See what else Cook might offer her. Some
kippers, perhaps, or cold grouse and scones with
marmalade.”

Julia drew more than a few envious looks, in
particular from Lady Downs. At the same time, Lord Muir fixed his
attention on the men.

“I suppose you are all itching to get
off for some sport. Can’t join you myself, too old for the rigors
of stalking. But I’d suggest you try the hills south and east of
Dunraven. Angus knows the spot and will lead you out. Oh, Mrs.
McGinty, see Cook sends the men out with something other than those
cold porridge bars of hers. I’m sure they’ll find a sandwich more
agreeable after hiking and crawling about the day
long.”

Jaws sagged around the table as Lord Muir
excused himself and, after another penetrating look to Julia, left
the dining room.

“Extraordinary!” muttered Lady
Charles.

The next hour saw Julia in the breakfast
parlor, sitting before the bay window, penning a brief note to
Lady Arabella on thistle-embossed stationery.

Frustratingly, Aunt Sybil
had slipped away with Rokeby before she could speak with her.
Lilith, too, had disappeared, but with the Reynolds twins.
Presumably they searched for Lord Eaton. Emmaline, bless the girl,
kept her company, relaxing on one of the chintz-covered sofas,
reading Scott’s
Bride of
Lammermour.

Despite the marquis’s arrival, Julia
remained undeterred in her course. She would leave Dunraven and
flee the rugged Highlander who continued to invade her life. Ghost
or fantasy, Rae Mackinnon stirred in her feelings that were
disconcertingly physical and seemingly beyond her control. Yes, she
must leave before he returned.

“Pardon me, Miss Hargrove.”

Julia started, then looked
up to find Mrs.
McGinty, unsmiling as
ever.

“His lordship, the marquis, requests
your presence in the library. He is waiting there now.”

»«

Mrs. McGinty ushered Julia into a handsome
room with a high, barrel-vaulted ceiling and book-lined walls.
Marble busts topped the bookcases while a large painting of a lady
and her two tartan-clad children hung above the fireplace.

Lord Muir sat at his desk, rapidly
scratching out a missive on cream-colored paper. At Julia’s
entrance, he set aside his pen and rose.

“You may leave Mrs. McGinty. See we
are left undisturbed.”

Julia tensed, uncertain what the marquis was
about, and further flustered that he should put her reputation at
risk. Was he so angered by her occupancy in the tower? She watched
with dismay as the housekeeper withdrew, stone-faced.

“Your lordship, this is far from
proper.” She stood her place at the door.

“At seventy-three years of age, I am
done with ‘proper,’ Miss Hargrove. Please, be seated.”

Wary, Julia crossed to the tapestry-covered
chair facing his desk and lowered herself onto its edge. With hands
folded, she worried her ring around her finger and braced herself
for a scathing reprimand.

“I shall be direct, Miss Hargrove.”
Lord Muir fixed her with an incisive gaze as he reseated himself.
“Do you know why my nephew chose to lodge you in the
tower?”

Julia’s heart sank. Had Mr. McNab
apprised the marquis of his own conjectures on that subject? Did
Lord Muir now seek to wrest some sordid confession of midnight
trysts with Lord Eaton? She lifted her chin and strove to meet the
marquis’s eyes with a clear, unfaltering gaze.

“I was among the last of the guests to
arrive at Dunraven, indeed the lattermost to be accommodated. To
my understanding, the other rooms were already occupied or somehow
unusable. Lord Eaton recalled the tower chamber and thought it
would be suitable.”

“I see.” Lord Muir fell silent though
his eyes remained boring into hers. He drummed his fingers lightly
on the arm of his chair. “Your sleep, you say, has been disturbed?
Is there a problem with the room?”

Julia found it curious that, unlike Lady
Charles, he should suggest the room, rather than her health, to be
the source of her troubles.

“Dreams, your lordship, I only suffer
dreams.”

“Nightmares, I believe you called
them.”

“Nightmares, dreams, they have robbed
me of my sleep since my arrival.”

Lord Muir studied her a long moment.
Self-conscious, Julia shifted in her seat. Did she appear so
ghastly with the smudges darkening her eyes?

“Would you characterize
these as
sleeping
dreams or
waking
dreams?” he asked after another
moment.

“I—I don’t understand.”

“The keep is ancient and has certain
peculiarities. Is it possible, Miss Hargrove, what you experienced
was no dream at all, but something of a wholly different
nature?”

“Different nature?” Her hand floated
to her throat. “H-how do you mean?”

He leaned forward, his eyes afire
beneath his snowy brows. “Is it possible the room changed before
your eyes? That you found yourself suddenly looking in upon another
age, though you felt certain you had never moved from your
own?”

Julia rose on unsteady feet, her
breath wedged in her throat. “You know. You know about the room. It
is why you closed Dunraven to visitors so many years ago, is it
not? You met him, too.”

“Him?”

“Rae Mackinnon, the Third Laird of
Dunraven Castle.”

“The
Third
Laird. How do you know his
name and title?”

“He told me so himself.”

Shock washed over Lord Muir’s
features. His mouth dropped open and he fell back in his
chair.

“Your lordship! Are you all right?”
Julia quickened around the desk, fearing her bluntness had caused
him some harm. She reached to test his forehead and cheek, but he
seized her hand in his.

“The laird spoke with you?
The two of you
conversed?”

Julia nodded and the marquis looked
even more astonished. She feared he would suffer a fit of apoplexy
if he did not calm himself. Instead, his beard split wide with a
grin. Leaping spryly to his feet, he grabbed Julia by the waist and
whirled her around.

“Do you know what this
means? I have waited
twenty
years for this!”

“For what?” Julia panted as he set her
down.

“For time to slip.”

Julia wavered. She didn’t care for the
sound of that.

“We must celebrate. Yes, a wee dram,
that will do nicely. Then I must hear your account.”

Julia followed him across the room to a
walnut cabinet which he opened and retrieved two small glasses and
a crystal decanter.

“Your lordship? Lord Muir?”

“It is still morning, I know, but just
a drop. Or would you prefer sherry?”

Julia shook her head, having no desire
to emerge from the library smelling of alcohol. She followed him
back to the desk. “About the room’s being haunted—”

“No, not haunted. You saw no ghosts.
What you experienced is a most rare phenomenon but very real. How
shall I explain it?”

He pulled at his beard. “It is like a
window opening between two times, a doorway if you will. Those on
both sides are able to observe the other, sometimes even interact.
Yet, neither one feels they have left their own time, nor does the
‘window’ remain open for long. In scientific circles — those
devoted to the study of psychic occurrences — we call the
phenomenon a ‘slip in time.’“

“I think I should sit down.” Julia
groped for the arm of the chair and sank into its
support.

“Perhaps, a wee dram is in order after
all?”

Julia nodded but couldn’t find her
voice. She knew Rae Mackinnon was somehow real, or at least solid.
But she had not imagined, never conceived, that he had stepped
across time — a living, breathing Scotsman straight out of the
fifteenth century! Or had she crossed into his — a woman of the
future stepping into the past?

“How unsettling for you. Poor girl,
you must have thought you were going mad.” Lord Muir furnished her
with a small glass of amber liquid, then sat down with his own. “It
might help if I tell you of my own experience.”

Julia took a swallow of the whiskey
then grimaced, her throat burning. “Yes,” she rasped. “I would like
that.”

He smiled and took a sip of his glass.
“Thirty-five years ago, I purchased Dunraven Castle, restoring it
to Mackinnon hands. Being an admirer of all that is historic and
old, I claimed the ancient tower chamber for my own use.
Thereafter, over fifteen years, Dunraven hosted annual hunts. Then,
on one night seemingly no different from the rest, I experienced
the most amazing event of my life.”

Lord Muir’s eyes grew misty with
memory. “I went to bed at my normal hour but couldn’t sleep. Above
the fireplace hung a ceremonial sword. It had recently come into my
hands and once belonged to a Mackinnon ancestor, a Jacobite
intriguer of some renown. Taking the sword down from its place of
honor, I sat polishing it when the sound of weeping came to my
ears.

“When I looked up, I discovered the
room inexplicably filled with people — right and left, front and
back of me — the men all dressed in old-style kilts. The
furnishings in the room had changed as well, and there was a woman
lying abed, apparently dying. A lordly looking man, tall and
red-haired, held her hand, grief lashing his eyes, while three
young boys crowded beside him.

“As I watched, the woman took a chain
from her neck, bearing a pendant of some manner, and placed it
over the head of her eldest child. He was trying to be a brave lad
and not cry, but he couldn’t help himself. He was swiping away the
tears when he looked up and saw me. I turned to see if anyone else
noticed me as well, lest they not be a friendly sort and bare their
blades. But in that fraction of a second, the scene disassembled
and I found myself alone once more, the room returned to normal.
Since then, I have endeavored to learn all I can about what
happened that night and how to transcend time.”

“And so you closed Dunraven and
preserved the room as it was?” Julia guessed aloud.

Lord Muir nodded, then sighed heavily.
“But I must have disturbed or altered something when I moved my
personal belongings from the room. Either that, or other
conditions were at work that I have yet to understand. I kept watch
night after night, I and my colleagues of the Society.
Disappointingly, there have been no further time slips. Until
now.”

He lifted his eyes to hers. “So you
see, my dear Miss Hargrove, I am quite desperate to know what you
have witnessed and to know all the details, however trivial they
might seem.”