Lord of the Black Isle (7 page)

“'Twas warmer then than now.”

Well, there was certainly nothing like hitting one in the solar plexus with an obvious answer. She clenched her jaw against a cleverly delivered retort and diverted her thoughts to the topic of the solar plexus, that large network of sympathetic nerves and ganglia located in the peritoneal cavity behind the stomach and having branching tracts that supply nerves to the abdominal viscera. And with a hint of feeling a supreme moment, she added a definition for him…
the
pit
of
the
stomach.

It was effective, but not so effective that she stopped wishing there was a hole somewhere that she could crawl into and pull the dirt over her head. She was through trying to engage in anything that resembled conversation with him. She would not utter a peep, unless she had a question, which was not bloody likely. So, she looked around as she munched on an oatcake that had as much flavor as a boiled sock. It amazed her that something that was almost pure oatmeal and probably recently made could taste like something her sister Isobella would have unearthed while digging in an ancient Celtic mound.

Forgetting her vow of silence, she asked, “Is there anything to drink, or do I grab a little ice floating down the burn and eat it?”

He seemed amused, which was about as sensual as any woman could handle without letting her mind wander off into imaginings of what it would be like to make love with him, which, to be honest, she had already considered. But instead of giving him a clever reply, he beat her to the punch by saying, “'Tis a pity for sure that there isna any ice in the burn, for I would enjoy watching ye eat it.”

She clasped her hands together and placed them between her knees as she looked around the glen. Her mind was exhausted and devoid of any clever thoughts or interesting topics for conversation, and not feeling particularly sleepy, she guessed looking around was about her only option. She noticed his saddle and plaid near what appeared to be a shallow cave. Nearby was an old wattle-and-daub hut with a partially collapsed roof of dingy thatch, which was exactly the kind of thing Isobella would have done cartwheels to inspect. It occurred to Elisabeth just how much she had learned about archaeology through her sister since coming to Scotland, for there was a time when she would have guessed wattle was a stepped-on duck.

She had to turn sideways a bit to see, off to one side, where the cold waters of the boulder-strewn burn flowed, and she was reminded of the icy effect of washing her hands and being harshly reminded of his wisdom in bathing beneath the warming rays of sunlight earlier in the day.

After he turned down her offer to help him build a fire, she entered the cave and found it to be larger than she expected. She could see the remains of older fires and some markings on the cave walls, but she had learned enough from helping Isobella in the caves she excavated on the Isle of Mull to know that these markings were not those of the ancient Celts or Picts. They were done much later. Farther over were some scattered bones, including a few at the back of the cave that she identified as human—two of which belonged to an infant. She wondered at the cause of death.

She heard a sound and turned to see him spreading his plaid just inside the cave, not far from the fire. She guessed she was going to sleep beside him, as Isobella said she had when Alysandir rescued her.

“Ye will have to share my plaid.”

Oh, gee, what a bummer… my having to share a plaid with a totally delectable man who could generate sexual tension picking his teeth.
She gave the plaid a resigned look and sighed woefully. “Well, I suppose it beats sleeping on a pile of dirty leaves.”

Standing at the mouth of the cave, highlighted by firelight, he seemed larger, darker, and fiercer than in daylight, to the point that she could almost believe he had morphed into some immortal being, an ancient Celt perhaps, angry at her intrusion to this place, or dressed in his knights regalia as he was, he could have been Thor, the god of thunder. Perhaps she should have accepted the ancient Celtic necklace that Alysandir Mackinnon had offered her, telling her how such a necklace was thought to ward off evil.

“You have yet to tell me who you are,” she said, her gaze on the plaid.

“Why do ye want to know?”

“I don't. I've changed my mind. Keep your identity to yourself.”

“Then why did ye ask?”

She was truly sorry that she had brought it up. But she was committed now so she replied, “It seemed proper to at least know the name of a man I would be sleeping beside, but I realize how foolish that is, since it is quite commonplace to sleep with no-name strangers. Faith! I do it all the time.”

He said nothing but continued to look at her, neither smiling nor saying anything. There was, however, the barest hint of amusement in his eyes. But his face was still stony and his features dramatized by the firelight. His eyes looked as black as pitch, and the dark blue surcoat he wore gave him a netherworld appearance that made her think she wouldn't have been surprised if he sprouted giant wings and flew right over her head. Then she wondered if this place was haunted, for it was certainly getting to her in a weird sort of way. She felt she was an outsider here, that somehow she was upsetting the balance of things ancient and probably causing a few rocks to hurl down the side of a crag somewhere nearby.

“David Murray, at yer service, mistress,” he said, then added, “Come, hie yersel' over here and sit doon while I retrieve something from my pouch.”

She watched David Murray At Yer Service as he walked toward his saddle. His horse was neither tied nor tethered, as was the way of many Highlanders, whose horses, miraculous as it seemed, would not stray. Perhaps Highlanders had the same effect upon women, for she was thinking along those same lines. She forced further thoughts away from him. Being quite knowledgeable about horses herself, she thought the Scots' hobblers were unbelievable horses, for they were small, active, and able to travel great distances over the most difficult and boggy countryside. What her father wouldn't give for a couple of hobbler studs to breed with mares on their ranch.

She suddenly felt a stab of loneliness for the world she had left behind… six hundred years into the future, but it wasn't the same kind of loneliness she felt when she was first yanked back in time. This had become her world now, and these Scots were her people, and she knew her skills as a physician were needed beyond anything she would have found in the twenty-first century. Only he did not seem the least interested in being one of her people. Still, it was the nature of humans to think upon their slippers when their feet began to hurt.

To get her mind back on the current century, she studied the way he walked, with a certain fluid ease and long stride. She liked the long-shanked, muscled leanness of him, for he was well put together, tall and slender with just the right amount of strength in the legs and arms where it was needed. His walk was about as close to a cowboy swagger as one could get in Early Renaissance Scotland. She realized she truly liked his build, for it seemed much more masculine to her than that of the twenty-first-century males who hung out at the gym building body mass that they would never use.

She glanced at his sword, trying to remember what Isobella told her about the swords of this time period, but all she recalled was it was long, double handled, and very well kept, for it fairly gleamed. Because of the size and double handle, she thought a fair guess would be that it was a claymore, but she had been wrong before. She turned her attention back to David, thinking that she knew he was a man of honor, self-discipline, bravery, and strong mental bearing, for she had witnessed his calm demeanor, and knowing that he was a knight, she knew he would embody these traits. Simply said, he had that superior kind of manner that one would envy, and in many ways he reminded her of Alysandir, for they were both Highlanders of Celtic, or in David's case, Celtic-Flemish stock, and they both lived by the same code, that of a knight.

Her study was cut short when he returned with a small pouch and a silver cup, and she watched as he poured what she thought was probably mead or
uisge
beatha
, the ancestor of the Scots whisky of the twenty-first century.

He offered the cup to her. When she hesitated, he said, “Drink it doon, mistress. 'Twill ease the effects of travel and grant ye a peaceful sleep.”

She tilted her head to one side and gave him a serious stare, as if trying to see the inner workings of his mind. “I'm afraid I would have to have several of these in order to have a peaceful sleep with a total stranger.”

His comeback was quick, sharp, and to the point. “Then mayhap I shouldna remain a stranger.”

She gulped and almost choked, but recovered quickly enough that she hoped he did not see it. “Don't get your hopes up,” she said as she took the cup from him. She could tell by the fumes that it was whisky, and she felt the burn in her nose when she sipped it. She smiled, thinking back to another time, far, far away.

“What pleasures ye?”

“Nothing… it was just a memory.”

“Ye would prefer not to tell me of this memory?”

She took another sip. “I was remembering a time when my sister and I were much younger, and we drank some of our father's whisky… actually, a
lot
of our father's whisky, and we couldn't seem to stop talking and singing, and everything made us laugh… until the next day, when we thought we were dying.”

He almost smiled; in fact there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Aye, it robs the mind of wit.”

She finished the whisky and handed him the cup. “Your turn,” she said, and watched him fill the cup and take a few sips. Before he could say anything, she rose to her feet. “I think the whisky is having the desired effect, and I would like to lie down before I fall down, so if you would be so kind as to tell me if I am permitted to go to sleep now.”

“Aye,” he said in his usual reticent manner, and nodded toward his plaid.

“Thank you,” she said, and toddled off, feeling quite mellow, warm, and quite sleepy.

She had a vague memory of having lain down before she fell asleep. She wasn't certain how long she slept before she became vaguely aware of him lying down beside her, closer to the cave opening, which meant he would greet any wolves that stopped by for a visit. That bit of information warmed her to the core and with a sigh, and she smiled and felt her muscles relax.

As for him, David spent a great part of his time studying Elisabeth as a spectator would, for he quietly and carefully noted her behavior—quiet and careful observation being a valuable source of information. She was beautiful, but what intrigued him more was that there was something different, yet incomparably extraordinary about her. David was not the kind of man who was given to hasty assumptions about a woman who caught his eye or happened to stand out when compared to others. Yet this one was a strange sort, different from the multitudes, which made her quite unlike any woman he had met, and that went beyond the fact of her strange speech. He decided he would find out more about her before making his final decision on whether to believe or trust her.

He was also a man with a man's urgings and needs. He did have a good eye for beauty, and she definitely was a beauty who instantly caught his attention and held it. As he observed her, he found himself wondering if she was real or whether he was conjuring up a fantasy, for there was an almost ethereal quality about her that made him want to know more about her: who she was, and where she came from. And because he desired her, part of him wondered if she was truly a mortal or simply one who called home any place where the celestial spheres gathered. He found all of this a bit vexing because he could not find a place in his mind where she seemed to fit into his world.

There was much to like about the lass. He was captivated by her hands. They were graceful, pale, and slim, but they moved with such seemingly effortless beauty and charm of movement that he felt spellbound simply watching her perform simple tasks… the brushing away of an errant wisp of hair, the way she held the reins in her hand, the way her hands encircled the cup when she drank. They were not the hands of an ordinary woman, even one of great breeding, for he sensed they held a magical quality.

Her motions were deft and fluid, purposeful and yet full of grace. When she moved, he was reminded of the reeds at the loch, and the way they bent and danced at the water's edge. She was unusual and that captivated him; mysteriously elusive and that made him wary and cautious. He felt himself drawn to her, not only by his masculine attraction to her, but by some unknown, stronger force. All he had to do was to close his eyes and he could see her as she had looked when he caught his first glimpse of her with her face bathed in sunlight. She had exquisite skin, the color and texture of cream that rises to the top of milk.

Watching her when she was asleep was like studying a painting of the Madonna, for light played upon her heart-shaped face and lent a shimmering quality to the porcelainlike texture of her skin. All that was missing was a bowl of fruit on a table beside her. But the rest of her… his body stirred. She should be lying upon a tapestry heavily embroidered with red and gold thread. But it was the resplendent glow of her face that convinced him that something wholesome, pure, and giving dwelled within the heart and soul of her.

Was she simply a beautiful mortal that he happened upon, or was she an enchantress who bewitched him with a spell that rendered him unable to resist? When he first saw her, he was struck with the urge to capture her and toss her over his saddle and ride away with her, to find a place where he could place her that she would be his and his alone to enjoy. Even now, watching her sleep, he had visions of what she would look like lying there completely bare, and the thought of it stirred him.