Choosing the Highlander (14 page)

As the vows came to an end, deep happiness swelled in her chest. Aifric and Terran were practically strangers to her, but their union felt like a family celebration. Aifric’s eyes shone with love when she gazed up at Terran. His eyes hooded with affection when he leaned in to kiss her, sealing their vows.

Anselm intoned a prayer, reverting again to Latin. Then Elias led them into a modest dining hall with a single long table running the length of the room. Several cooked birds dotted the top of the table, likely pheasants or some other small game. Two wooden bowls of steaming root vegetables occupied the center. Near the archway to the kitchen, a monk filled cups from a barrel. The drink looked like the weak beer she’d drunk at every meal she’d been served at the monastery.

They ate together, she beside Aifric and across the table from Wilhelm. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him, mainly because he seemed never to run out of amusing stories to tell about Terran, during which Aifric would laughed demurely behind her hand on cue.

Connie had a feeling her eyes would have been glued to Wilhelm even if he hadn’t been commanding attention with his stories. His very presence seemed to draw her notice regardless of where they were or who was with them. He was like a powerful magnet and she an object composed of ferrous metals.

As the meal wound down, Wilhelm and Terran fell into quiet conversation. Aifric invited Connie to the far end of the room, where a monk had just added new bricks of peat to the fire. Afric lowered herself to the floor and began to nurse Anice.

“Can I get you a blanket to sit on?” Connie asked.

It didn’t seem right that a woman who had given birth a day ago should have to sit on a stone hearth, but Sister Bethany, whose wrinkled face and general lack of teeth pointed to her advanced age, occupied the only chair at this end of the room. Until a few moments ago, the nun had been rocking near the fire. Now the rocker was still and Sister Bethany had her chin tucked to her chest, where her muffled snores reminded Connie of a purring cat.

Aifric waved aside Connie’s concern. “I’ll be all right.”

Her cheeks glowed with happiness. The shadows under her eyes were fading, and her bleeding was slowing. Before the ceremony, sister Bethany had given Aifric some dark liquid from a vial. Shortly after, Aifric’s color had returned to normal. Connie was beginning to see hints of who this vibrant young girl had been before Ruthven’s abuse and who she would be again with Terran at her side.

Connie knelt beside her, getting as comfortable as she could on the floor. The rushes didn’t provide much cushioning, but at least they smelled clean. She was learning that the monks worked hard at keeping their space spotless and well ordered. If it upset their routine to have guests, they didn’t show it. Several of them silently cleared the table, leaving their guests to their respective conversations. It reminded her of being a guest at a bed and breakfast, only her hosts here were far less chatty.

The delicious meal filled her pleasantly, and the fire warmed her. Her burns were almost completely healed, and her wrists had scabbed over. If not for the fact she didn’t belong here, she might actually feel content. Chicago’s rat race was a world away.

“Congratulations on your nuptials,” Connie said in her British accent. “You look quite happy.”

“Thank you.” Aifric blushed. “You look happy as well.” She grinned conspiratorially then lifted her chin in Wilhelm’s direction.

Connie felt her cheeks heat. “He’s nice,” she admitted. “But he’s not for me.”

Aifric gave her an incredulous look that reminded Connie that for everything the young woman had been through, she was still a teenager. “Not for you? Are you mad?” She gaped at Connie as if she was drowning and had just turned down a life preserver.

“Not mad, no.” She forced a smile and a casual shrug even though it grated to deny she wanted Wilhelm. The wanting was completely carnal, though, and she wasn’t about to have a conversation about lust versus love with Aifric. “He simply doesn’t fit with what I want out of life. I didn’t choose him. I know it’s hard to understand,” she said at the girl’s expression of disbelief. “But choice is important to me.”

Aifric frowned. After a moment, she regained her composure, showing she might be from a poor cottar’s family, but she had been raised to hold her own in polite company. “When I was a young lass, I dreamt of my wedding day.” She smiled into the fire and absently kissed Anice’s head. “I created an image in my mind of my future husband, painting each stroke with care from his toes all the way up to his head. I decided what qualities I would prize in him and which ones he might have that I would seek to change.” She huffed and met Connie’s eyes, looking abashed. “Silly of me, aye? You must think me very immature.”

If those sentiments were immature, then Connie would have to think of herself as such because she’d done the exact same thing. Milt had been the closest she’d found to the picture-perfect man she had designed for herself. “Not at all. I suspect many girls do just the same.”

“I suppose.” Aifric faced the fire again. “But the reality is that we can’t choose. At least, not usually. I always thought it the greatest of privileges to be given a choice in the matter. But now I ken the truth of it.”

“What’s that?”

Aifric leveled a gaze at her. “’Tis much better to be chosen than to do the choosing, especially if the man is a fine one.”

Maybe in this time, that was true. But Connie was a modern day woman with a modern outlook. She had always lived her life believing she deserved to make her own choices. What good was choice if one couldn’t wield it to control the most important aspects of life, like career, lifestyle, and marriage?

Aifric’s gaze darted over Connie’s shoulder.

Connie turned to find Wilhelm striding their way. When he reached them, he squatted down and laid a hand on her shoulder. His touch felt natural and comfortable. They could never be lovers, but she would enjoy his friendship while she had it.

“Time to say your farewell’s, lass,” he said to her. To Aifric, he said, “Take care of him, aye?” and he inclined his head toward where Terran spoke with Anselm.

“I will,” Aifric promised.

Wilhelm kissed her forehead. He kissed the top of Anice’s head next. Connie couldn’t help wishing he would bestow a kiss on her head too. Or on her mouth. But she shouldn’t think about him that way when they were about to leave for Inverness and their separate futures.

Wilhelm left, and she took in the sweet image of mother and infant before her. A sharp pain accompanied the thought that this really was goodbye. She would never see this sweet young woman again. She wouldn’t get to see Anice grow. Overcome, she pulled Aifric, baby and all, into her arms. “I will miss you.”

Aifric hugged her with surprising strength. She would be fine. Terran and Wilhelm would take care of her. They were family. They belonged together.

She kissed Aifric’s temple and gave her the goodbye she wished she had been able to give Leslie. But then, she would find her way back to Leslie, making the point moot.

“He will be laird one day,” Aifric said. “He may not always have the ability to choose. If you doona have him, another will, and soon.”

The warning hit Connie like a wrecking ball. Imagining Wilhelm standing before a religious official with another woman at his side caused an ache in her stomach.

 “Remember what would have become of us without our men,” Aifric said. “I have vowed to take care of mine. Will you do the same?”

She should have said, “He’s not mine,” but what came out instead was, “I will.”

Whatever she felt for Wilhelm, whatever happened after Inverness, she would do everything she could to clear his name. That was how she would care for him. He’d risked much to save her life. She would repay that kindness if it was the last thing she did.

Chapter 12

“Here we are.” Anselm used a cast iron pull to open the door to a room he called the buttery.

Inside, shelves lined the walls. Sacks, buckets, and crates crammed the small space. She couldn’t even begin to guess at what filled them all, but she got the feeling this space was akin to a modern-day pantry.

Anselm shuffled to a shelf that held folded fabrics, all darkly colored. He lifted a few items and thrust them into her arms. “Try these on.”

At the top of the pile were a pair of thickly felted boots. They fell to the floor with a muted thud as she shook out the next item, a brown cloak with a hood. She wrapped it around her shoulders and fastened it then slipped her stocking feet into the boots. They were warm and heavy enough to protect her feet over rough terrain.

“Night boots,” Anselm said. “We keep them on hand lest we freeze our toes off during the midnight prayers.”

“Thank you,” she told Anselm, using the British accent she was beginning to feel at home with. “I wish I had something to offer in exchange. You’ve been so generous.”

She was going to miss him and the monastery. He’d been so kind and thorough in his care. At least when she returned home, she would have the memories.

Anselm waved away her thanks. “’Tis the brothers’ honor to offer aid where needed. God bless you, my lady.”

She had never been religious, but she accepted his blessing gratefully. She would need all the help she could get if she were going to find her way back to the present day. She’d spent the morning trying and failing to isolate the precise factors required for the magic to occur. Had it been Leslie’s wish, the solstice, Druid’s Temple, the witch’s stone or some combination? Possibly, the magic could be attributed to none of those things. She wouldn’t put it past the shopkeeper in her dream to have worked the magic himself to “complete a broken circle.” What if there was nothing she could do to replicate the magic?

She had to find the shopkeeper. He seemed like the key to all this. But if she couldn’t find his shop in Inverness, it left her with few options. It wasn’t as if she could go door to door asking if anyone knew a witch she could consult. She’d nearly been burned at the stake for supposedly being a witch. That had to mean witches weren’t popular among the general population.

Uncertainty and helplessness swirled around her. If she let them, they would drag her down in a whirlpool of doubt. This she couldn’t afford. She must be strong for Wilhelm and then for herself. First she would clear his name. Then she
would
find her way back. Once she made it home she could fall apart.

Anselm loaded her arms with supplies, including a basket of cracker-like wafers, a wheel of cheese, a jar of fig jam, and a bag of oats he told her could be used to make parritch. When he led her from the buttery, Terran met them and relieved her of her burden.

“I’ll take her to the stables, Father,” he said.

This was it. She was leaving. “Goodbye, Father,” she said, her heart heavy.

“Farewell, mistress Constance. Godspeed on your journey.”

When she was alone with Terran, she asked after Aifric.

He led her through the kitchens to the outdoors, holding the door for her. A cold drizzle made her glad for her cloak.

“She is resting,” he said, setting a slow pace as they followed the path to a big stone barn. “Your feet? Are they improved?”

“Yes, thank you.” Her toes were toasty warm in the boots Anselm had given her, but in a good way, not a burned way. “Congratulations on your marriage.”

Tiny raindrops made his thick mane of golden hair sparkle. He was handsome, but not quite as handsome as Wilhelm. He nodded, unsmiling.

Terran almost always had either a smile or a smirk on his face. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

He stopped midway down the trail.

To be polite, she stopped too. Up ahead, Wilhelm was putting the bridle on a horse. If she had to guess at the breed, she would say it was an Andalusian based on the grayish-white coloring and the sturdy neck and hindquarters. The mane and tail were dark gray as was the horse’s muzzle. It was a striking creature. A horse that fine must belong to Wilhelm. He would look amazing sitting atop that shiny black saddle.

Terran stared at his cousin, a look of dismay on his face.

Why had he stopped?

“Terran?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

“He has a gift, you know.” He inclined his head her way but kept his eyes on Wilhelm.

“I’m sure he has many.” Had she said that out loud?

Terran’s eyes crinkled at the corners for a brief second. But his overall tone was unusually serious as he said, “He can sense truth.”

She didn’t say anything. To say she’d noticed would be too much like admitting she had attempted to lie to him and been caught in the act. Did Terran know she wasn’t really English? But of course he did. He and Wilhelm were confidantes. That didn’t keep her from maintaining the accent, however. She only felt comfortable dropping it around Wilhelm.

“I know,” she said at last, because he seemed to be waiting for a response.

He cut his gaze to her. Normally, Terran provided the easy going counterpart to Wilhelm’s formal bearing. There was nothing easy going about him now.

If she were a lesser woman, she might be cowed by his stormy look.

“I have a gift too, lass.”

Here it came. He was going to tell her to drop the act. He was going to ask her where she’d come from and who she was. She’d avoided the questions long enough.

“Oh?” She braced herself.

“I can sense loyalty.” His gaze bored into hers.

He made her want to squirm, but she resisted.

“My loyalty is to him. My future laird. I am sworn to protect him and bring him home to his mother and father, my aunt and uncle. Yet he has asked me to remain behind while he goes to Inverness. You ken as much.”

She nodded. “It must be difficult, wanting to be two places.” She knew that feeling well.

Part of her enjoyed this time in the past. She didn’t have to constantly assert herself or risk being passed over for management of a new project. There was no pollution, at least not out here in the country. There was no traffic, no constant noise. When night fell, the darkness was complete in a way that made her feel at peace. The rat race of the city felt a million miles away.