Perfect Timing (16 page)

Ceara clasped Quincy’s wrist. “’Tis too soon,” she said. “The marriage will break the curse. Please tell her Loni
will
get better. ’Tis only that we haven’t yet consummated the union.”

Quincy felt as if the slate floor under his boots turned to soup. His only ace in the hole—not consummating the marriage—had just flown out the proverbial window. His brain froze. His tongue wouldn’t work. All he could do was stare down into Ceara’s blue eyes.

“Well, for God’s sake, get the hell off the phone and consummate the damned marriage!” Aislinn cried. “Loni’s losing ground fast. You do know how, right, Quincy? You’re no untried lad.”

Quincy wasn’t about to honor that question with a response. “Aislinn, we just walked in the door. Ceara hasn’t eaten all day. She’s so exhausted, she’s weaving on her feet.”

“Stand her by the bed and let her fall on the mattress. She can eat something after you get this finished.”

The screen blinked out. Ceara stared, bewildered, at the bright little icons that popped back up. Then she bent slightly to peer at the back of the phone again. “Where did she go? This works verra different from me mum’s crystal ball.”

“She was never here. That was only a camera image of her. It comes through the air, transmitted on waves.” Quincy realized that sounded insane even to him. He’d never witnessed anyone using a crystal ball and wasn’t sure, even now, that he believed that they worked, but because that was Ceara’s only point of reference, he added, “It works sort of like a crystal ball, I guess—with images and the sound of voices coming to me through it.” Her bewildered expression made him sigh. “I’ll explain it better later. What would you like to eat? I have some low-fat cheese and whole-grain crackers. Does that sound good? With maybe a tall glass of skim milk?”

Ceara still gaped at the phone as he shoved it back in the carrying case. Then she jerked and refocused on his face. “There will be time fer eating later. Where is yer sleeping chamber? I shall go prepare meself and wait for ye there.”

Wait for him there? Quincy wanted to argue. Ceara was trembling like an aspen leaf in a brisk breeze, clearly scared half out of her wits about what lay ahead. And,
damn
it, he wasn’t exactly looking forward to it, either. But instead of objecting, Quincy envisioned Loni’s white face and clawlike hands, then directed Ceara to his bedroom.

Chapter Seven

C
eara located the sleeping chamber that was clearly used by her husband. It was a large room done in rich tones of amber and varying shades of brown. A pair of Sir Quincy’s boots lay in a corner of the sitting area, and a discarded red léine was draped over one of two dark umber chairs. The huge bed was rumpled, the blankets and spread pushed back to reveal a pillow enveloped in a crinkled tan case. The cool air was lightly perfumed with a rich masculine scent, a pleasant blend of evergreen and musk that Ceara had come to associate with Sir Quincy. She guessed he used some kind of scented water after bathing, much as she did at home.

Shivering with cold, she stared with yearning at the massive stone fireplace on the far wall. Near the hearth, a black metal rack held several log rounds and smaller kindling. She was sorely tempted to use her gift to start a roaring blaze, but after Quincy’s last unpleasant reaction, she decided to err on the side of caution and refrain. She had no time to light a fire the conventional way if she meant to be prepared for her husband before he joined her here.

With a quick glance around, she noted that there was no washstand visible. How was she to clean herself in preparation for her wedding night without a pitcher of water and bowl? Then she recalled her experience that morning at the jail when she’d been thrust naked into the shower room. It seemed to have happened a year ago. Perhaps Sir Quincy bathed in a similar fashion, standing under cold water that shot from a wall.

In addition to the entrance door, she saw three others. One stood ajar. She crossed the thick amber carpet to peer into the room. A long slate counter, topped by a horizontal mirror of equal length, sported two recessed porcelain washbowls. Between them, a basket held prettily folded brown towels similar to the white ones at the jail, only these were tiny. She also noticed a squat green bottle with a bright gold cap. Curiosity propelling her toward it, she grasped the strange container and exerted all her strength, which was still much diminished by the trials of her journey, to pull off the lid. By accident, she discovered that the cap had to be twisted off.
God’s teeth! No cork?
This new century had countless marvelous things to learn about. She sniffed the opening of the bottle and smiled as the familiar piney-musk smell assailed her nostrils. The men of her time rarely used perfume, yet Sir Quincy apparently did on a regular basis.

To her left, an arm’s length above the floor, was a huge porcelain depression enclosed by slate. With a graze of her fingertips over the cream-colored surface of the porcelain, she concluded that it was a bathing tub, though dissimilar from those at home, and so gigantic that it would take three strong men and a boy to carry it. And it appeared to be immovable.
Strange
. How did one dump the water out after bathing? ’Twas yet another mystery akin to electricity that Quincy would no doubt explain later.

She returned her attention to the tiny towels, deciding one of them would serve well enough to cleanse herself. She needed only to figure out how to get water. She stepped closer to the right-hand washbowl, eyeing the bronze fixture at the back edge. It wasn’t in the shape of a cross like those at the jail, but instead had a leverlike handle. She pulled up on it, and water gushed out. She expected it to be cold and was pleasantly surprised by the warmth when she put her fingers in the stream.
Amazing
. At home, they filled buckets at the well and heated water over the fire.

Reluctant to waste a single drop, Ceara turned the fixture off. She had no idea where the warm water came from, but such a miracle surely must be in limited supply. She opened the cupboards underneath, searching for a bucket or vat.
Nothing
. Mayhap, in this modern day, water vessels were hidden in the walls.

Refusing to think about the ordeal ahead of her, Ceara quickly undressed, dampened a tiny towel from the basket, and made fast work of washing herself. Behind her, a large glass door led into a slate enclosure. High on the wall she saw a bronze, bell-shaped object and realized it must be a shower spout, similar to those at the jail. Two gigantic brown towels hung on a hook just outside the bronze-framed door. She confiscated one to cover herself and returned to the sink to scrub her teeth with her finger. Her toothbrush, along with everything else she owned, must still be where she’d left it in the straw of the stable.

Oh, how she wished for her satchel and the small bottle of rose water she’d brought from home. A bride was supposed to smell nice when her husband joined her in the marriage bed. Ceara’s mum had stressed the importance of that. Sadly, it was about the only thing Ceara knew for certain. She studied her reflection, finding fault with everything. Her hair needed a good wash, but drying it would take hours, and her brush was in her satchel. She pinched her cheeks, nibbled on her lips to bring some color to them, and, after quickly using the toilet, following the lead of women at the jail to flush it, she forced herself to exit the bathing chamber.

As she approached the bed, her stomach clenched and her heart did a jig. She couldn’t help but recall the few times she’d been unfortunate enough to glimpse her father’s stock animals mating. The mares had screamed and tried to evade the stallions. The boars had mercilessly accosted the much smaller sows. Even the hens had flapped their clipped wings to get away from an amorous rooster. In Ceara’s estimation, procreation seemed to be a base and unpleasant experience for females of all species. She had no idea why men found it so enjoyable.

She drew the covers back on the unused side of the bed, dropped the towel, and slipped between the bedsheets to lie on her back. With the coverlet drawn to her chin, she lay motionless with her arms stiff at her sides, stared at the ceiling, and waited, her ears pricked for the sound of Sir Quincy’s boots on the stairs. Aside from being a wee bit gruff, he seemed to be a nice enough man. She tried to tell herself that she needn’t dread what was to come, but it didn’t work. She closed her eyes and prayed that he would make fast work of his business. A stab of longing for her mother swept over her as she realized she didn’t even know how long it would take.

* * *

Quincy hadn’t dated much over the last few months. He’d grown weary of the getting-acquainted rituals, and he had definitely given up on finding the woman of his dreams. Even so, he wasn’t a nervous bridegroom by any stretch of the imagination . . . until he entered the master suite and found Ceara lying naked in his bed with her eyes squeezed shut. He could almost feel her trembling.

Shit
. She really
was
a virgin. And a frightened one.

Apparently she heard him enter, because she started and cracked open one peeper as he approached the bed. When she saw that he was still fully clothed, she frowned and said, “’Tis me understanding that this deed is accomplished without garments, but I am new at this, so perhaps I have it wrong. Shall I fetch me gown?”

Quincy sat on his side of the mattress and cast her a look over his shoulder. Was that how wedding nights went in her time? The husband walked in stark naked, deflowered his bride, and then rolled off of her to fall asleep? It sounded barbaric.

“You don’t have to get dressed again,” he told her softly. “Unless you’d like to, of course.” He let that hang there for a moment. “How old are you, Ceara?”

“Six and twenty. I ken that I’m quite long in the tooth for a bride, but me intended, a young man I adored, was killed in a riding accident when I was young, and afterward, I ne’er met anyone else I could accept, and me sire, being the O’Ceallaigh, dinna press me. His coffers were full, and he had no need of a strong alliance with another clan, so he allowed me to remain a spinster.” She drew the covers close under her chin. “’Twas only over the last year that I began thinking about breaking the curse, and once me father agreed to let me come forward, it took a goodly amount of effort to find ye Harrigans. Me mum was using the name O’Hourigan in her chants.”

Quincy recognized nervous chatter when he heard it and decided to go with it. Perhaps an exchange—the longer the better—would help her relax. He couldn’t resist asking, “Why did you volunteer to come, Ceara? You must have known it would be dangerous.”

She nibbled her soft bottom lip as she considered her answer. “’Twas mostly fer me father. He nears the end of his life, and the curse, cast upon innocent women by someone in his line, has long been a great burden on his conscience.” She shrugged. “It troubled me as well. Those who ride under the O’Ceallaigh colors commit no violence against women and children, and yet a vengeful O’Ceallaigh ancestress cursed countless women of the future, not because she bore them any personal animosity, but because she wanted to punish the O’Hourigan man who humiliated her at the altar. ’Tis not our way to wreak vengeance on the innocent—nor is it a proud and just way to right a wrong. ’Tis a black mark on our name, and only a virgin daughter of the O’Ceallaigh can lift the curse. Me sister, Brigid, is too young to marry in this century.”

“So the job of coming fell to you?” For Quincy it really wasn’t a question, and he hadn’t missed the sadness in Ceara’s voice when she’d said her sister’s name. “How old is Brigid?”

“Two and ten,” she said with a slight smile. “’Tis glad ye should be that ’twas not she who came. Me father says she will drive him deep into his cups before he can get her married off.” Her smile widened. “He jokes, of course. The O’Ceallaigh scorns the practice of forcing daughters into loveless marriages.”

“And yet he sent you here, knowing you’d be forced into the same?”

Her blue eyes widened on Quincy’s. “Nay! ’Twas na the way of it. At first he forbade me to come. ’Twas only because I kept pestering him that he finally relented, and even then, he worried that something might go wrong.”

Quincy had never had children, but he knew he wouldn’t hesitate for an instant to put his life on the line to protect his nieces and nephews from harm. “What did your father fear might go wrong?”

“’Twas uncertain—all of it. Druids have traveled forward, but none have been able to return to report on their journeys. Me father was terrified I might leave Ireland and land in the wrong place. ’Tis a very big land, yer country.”

“Weren’t you afraid, too?” Quincy asked.

She nodded. “But me life there had no real purpose, so I chose to take the risks. To me, it was the one gift I could give me father to ease his heart before he passes on. Me sire is a fearless warrior, and so are me brothers. I’ve ne’er done anything brave fer the good of others, so here I am.”

According to Quincy’s calculations, her father had already passed away more than four hundred years ago, but to Ceara, that time in history was still as real and immediate as this moment. “So you came forward not only to ease your father’s conscience but also to save the lives of others.” Quincy mulled that over for a moment. “In that case, when you volunteered to come forward, why didn’t you choose to come earlier in time, say two or three centuries ago, to save even more Harrigan women from the curse?”

Her expression turned bewildered. “’Twas impossible,” she said with a lift of one slender shoulder. “I canna clearly explain why, but a druid can come forward only to a future that he or she can see in a crystal ball. I’ve no idea why so many years had to pass and so many other lives had to be lost.” A crease formed between her brows. “All I know is that me mum could call up only this time, and no other choices were left to me.”

Quincy muddled his way through the tangle of possibilities and finally gave up on making sense of it. Her brow creased again, more deeply this time. “’Tis all verra confusing. I canna figure out time and how it works. How can me time and yer time exist at the same moment?”