Page 61 of Beyond Dreams
Duncan had wisely, to his benefit, ended that conversation with a stirring kiss that swept everything else from her brain. Since he wasn’t giving any credence to her argument, she let him have his way, which essentially pleased her as well.
Still, she was tempted to return there herself, to test out her own theory, and see if she did recall it properly, how she’d wedged the door open, how that rock was not too small or light to have served as a stopper, how the door couldn’t possibly have closed by itself. She would get back down there, she knew, but not yet when she was kept so busy, and not right now when she was still occasionally racked with shivers whenever she recalled those horrific eight hours locked down there.
As one day led to another, the extraordinary event that had brought her here seemed farther and farther away, its strangeness of lesser consideration. It wasn’t that she worried less and less about her circumstance, or even about the deceit she’d practiced against Duncan, except that she wasn’t really afforded so much time to dwell upon the issues. As the days went on and she and Duncan grew closer throughout each night, she began to believe that while the truth would certainly cause some ripples in their very new marriage, they would survive it. She felt oddly certain about that. True, their beginning had been rough, but they’d since found themselves on solid ground, she believed. Though no words or thoughts had been exchanged about feeling, she knew she was filled with quickly powerful emotions for her husband, and she liked to think his attention to her, which was not only practiced in their bedchamber at night, meant that he cared for her as well.
Once he knew the truth—as implausible and bizarre as it was—he would understand that she’d had no choice.
Ah, but that was where she wavered. Her own dilemma was broken in two parts. One, she was lost in time, and two, she’d deceived Duncan. The latter would be healed, mended, gotten over once he understood that she’d had no choice. The former was what tortured her most these days. She both prayed and feared that at any moment, she might be thrown back to the future.
She didn’t want to live in the fourteenth century forever? Did she?
But...she couldn’t survive being torn from Duncan. Could she?
***
He stood in the doorwayfor a few minutes, pleased to simply stand and watch his wife. Like as not, he would never grow tired of simply staring at her. Her hair was not loose today, but pulled back into what she called a ponytail, which was what it looked like, gathered tightly at her nape with a ribbon, the long tail of light brown strands falling down her back. Some of the shorter locks had contrived to escape the ribbon and hung loosely around her face. She sat with her head bent over a long white cloth, one that stretched end to end over the high table.
He hadn’t married her with any intent to dedicate his life to pleasing her but damn if he didn’t want to do just that—and not only in their bedchamber at night. In fact, he’d come now in search of her, his labors done for a while, until the blades of the axes and saws were sharpened and the tree-cutting in the eastern hills might continue. He wondered if she might have time to stroll upon the beach with him, for he had an hour or so to spare.
He deduced fairly quickly that she was adding her embroidery to the family cloth. While this pleased him immensely, he had to wonder at her feelings on the matter. For as long as he’d stood here watching her, her face had shown little pleasure in the task. Mostly she wore a grimace, sometimes lifting her head to consider her handiwork, which only seemed to increase her displeasure. Once he saw her teeth when she wrinkled her nose and winced at her own work.
The chuckle he could no longer contain finally alerted her to his presence.
“I dinna ken scaring the thread and needle into submission will make for bonnier stitches,” he teased as he strode now toward the table and his wife.
“Oh, Duncan,” she exclaimed, delighted to see him he surmised, but not for the most obvious reason. “Duncan, you have to talk some sense into Red Moll. She won’t let me out of this, and now look at the mess I’ve made. Oh, geez,” she cried, her inattention having caused her to prick her finger. She sucked on the digit and then grumbled in her curiously adorable way, “Crap. Now I’ll be dribbling blood all over it.”
Over the last week, he had not been ignorant of her efforts to step into the role of his wife and chatelaine to Thallane. Roland spoke in glowing terms about her, remarking upon her eagerness in his company and her quick mind. Duncan could not recall when last he’d seen the old steward so animated. He knew a sense of pride that his wife put forth so much effort and that he’d yet to hear anything but praise about her. However, a quick glance at her embroidery advised that this was simply not going to be one of the areas in which she excelled. He wouldn’t comment outright, but it appeared as if she were sewing a row of noses onto the fabric with green silk thread.
“Moll says that the lady of the keep is in charge of the linens, Duncan,” she went on, sounding a wee frantic, “and I tried to tell her that I didn’t know how to sew, and I certainly couldn’t embroider, but she insisted it had to be me, and now look at the mess I’ve made. Oh, God, you’re going to be humiliated now, because your wife can’t sew—”
From across the table, he laid his hand over hers and she quieted. “It’s a table linen, Holly, nae Wallace’s cloak nor the bishop’s vestments.”
Her horror was not lessened but intensified. “Sweet Jesus, please tell me I don’t have to sew a cloak for William Wallace.”
A grin tugged at his lips. “Nae, love. I’d rather keep my guid standing with him.”
Her pretty brown eyes widened briefly in dismay before a small giggle burst from her. “Very helpful. Thank you, Duncan.”
“Leave that now,” he said. “Come with me.”
“I can’t leave this here, Duncan,” she refused plaintively. “I’ll get in trouble.”
This only heightened his amusement. “And from whom will trouble come? ’Tis your laird who calls you away. They’ll have to bring their grievances to him.”
“Oh, well, in that case...” she began, an easy smile lighting her face now. She laid the needle and thread atop the cloth. “But I can’t be long, Duncan. I’ll have to return in time either to get this finished or to take it away from the hall to make way for supper.”
He met her at the end of the table, taking her hand and drawing her close. “One kiss now, my lady,” he said, “for you look quite fetching when you dinna ken what you’re about.”
Holly let loose a merry peal of laughter as she tipped her face up to him. “Good heavens, I must be gorgeous.”
Duncan kissed her nose first and then her lips. He’d yet to meet a kiss from Holly over which he didn’t want to linger or take further than merely touching lips. She gave everything, at all times. Presently, she wrapped her arms tight around his waist, possibly clasped her hands behind his back. She opened to him, and he was not prepared to resist, was not interested in doing so. He met her searching tongue with his own, cupping her sweet face in his hands, not caring what spectators they might make of Thallane’s servants or any other who happened upon them.
It was, in due course, his stepmother who came upon them.
“Forsooth!” Came her strident voice. “Pawing and groping just here in the hall! How dare you!”
Holly jerked at the shrill noise, Doirin’s native tongue, but Duncan purposefully reacted much slower. He straightened but kept one arm around Holly, a bit peeved when his wife wiped guiltily at her lips. He saw that Moire had come as well and stood in her mother’s shadow as she was known to do.