Page 24 of The Finest Scottish Fate

As soon as she unwound herself from Drummond’s wool cloak, she missed its warmth and protection from the driving rain. But she didn’t want to pee on it. “Here.” She pushed it into his arms and hurried over to the outcropping of boulders that turned out to be a lot larger than she realized.

Peeling off wet jeans and underwear was easier in theory than in practice, but she finally achieved the objective and relieved herself. Getting her clothes back in place proved just as challenging, but at least she no longer felt as though she were about to explode. It was amazing how much a comfortable bladder helped a person’s frame of mind. She rejoined the men and reached for the woolly plaid.

“Allow me, lass.” Drummond shook it out, then wrapped it around her, hooding it to shield her head as much as possible from the weather. “We’ll soon be in front of a roaring fire and a good meal,” he promised as he lifted her back into the saddle and settled in behind her.

She gathered the folds of the damp wool blanket closer. Well, she supposed it wasn’t really a blanket, because he’d removed it from around his shoulders. It was some sort of wrap that kept her amazingly shielded from the weather, considering the steadiness of the downpour. It smelled all outdoorsy, a combination of pine trees, grassy meadows, and fresh rain, kind of like Granddaddy’s chore jacket. She’d loved breathing in Granddaddy’s scent during hugs whenever he’d come for a visit to the city. Of course, Granddaddy’s jacket had also possessed the pungent stench of cigarette smoke, but it was Granddaddy’s smell, so she hadn’t cared.

Tears stung her eyes, and she hated it because she never cried. She had to get back to Nashville. She might not have any close family left alive, but she had friends. A life. She had her identity.

She tried to commit the landscape to memory, picking out rocky crags for landmarks, so she could find her way back to the forest and the fairy hill. Everything was gray and hazy in the driving rain. It all looked the same. Wherever they were, the wind blew harder here, howling even louder than before. If not for Drummond’s arms around her, it surely would’ve gusted her off the horse’s back by now.

A towering black mountain rose in the distance straight ahead. Tall and jagged, it came to a point like a church spire, but it was thick and somehow layered around the base. The longer she studied it, the more she realized it wasn’t a mountain at all. It was a building. No, not a building. That thing was a fortress built into the side of a cliff, the sort of castle you’d expect to see while watching an epic fantasy movie.

“Dubh Tower,” Drummond shouted over the storm. Pride rang in his voice, and why wouldn’t it? The place was impressive—and chilling, considering it would be full of people wondering where she came from and why she was dressed the way she was.

“It’s amazing,” she shouted back, not wanting to hurt his feelings. After all, he’d been pretty nice, all things considered. She hadn’t appreciated the fireman’s carry over his shoulder or being thrown over the horse like a carcass, but even so, she’d not sensed any malicious intent behind it.

Drummond MacMuirrow came from a different time and place than the males she was accustomed to. Granddaddy would’ve loved him. Grandmama would’ve loved him, too. Even on her deathbed, Grandmama had an eye for a good-looking man, flirting unapologetically with the young preacher who’d come to offer her comfort.

As they rode across an honest-to-goodness drawbridge that looked like it came straight off a movie set, men, young boys, and even a few women, all of them oblivious to the rain and mud, gathered closer, eyeing her as if she were some sort of prized game for their supper.

She sank deeper into the cloak and shrank against Drummond. His hard, muscular warmth comforted her until she remembered these were his people, and he’d probably be more inclined to take care of them than her. She was a stranger. An outsider. No matter what he’d said about swearing to protect her, politics were politics. She’d seen enough period movies to know that since he was the leader, he’d do whatever was best for himself and his people. She had to get back to that fairy hill as soon as possible.

But even so, the thought of leaving unsettled her. Made her unreasonably sad. Why? Because there would be no him in her future. She huffed at that ridiculous thought. They’d just met. Love at first sight in movies and books might be believable, but in real life? Not so much. And this real life was already unbelievable.

Halting close to a set of massive, arched doors that looked like they belonged in a cathedral, Drummond dismounted and helped her down. “Keep the brat fast about ye until we get to our private chambers, aye?” He helped her pull it more snugly around her shoulders, ensuring the large wool covering completely cloaked her. The caution in his eyes wasn’t lost on her.

She clutched the blanket at her throat and waist to make sure it didn’t flap open and reveal her favorite pair of jeans.

As they crossed the muddy area, a pair of burly guards stared at her. She bowed her head and avoided making eye contact. Usually good at reading the room, she wasn’t sure if she’d be as good at reading the fourteenth century. She’d better get good at it, though. Here, her survival depended on it.

The guards opened both the double doors and held them as if she and Drummond were royalty or honored guests. Stands to reason, she reminded herself. Drummond was an earl and the next chief.

She halted in the entryway and glanced down. She needed to wipe her muddy feet before she went any farther. But the impressive gray flagstones, which fit together like a jigsaw puzzle to create the floor, appeared to be covered in either hay or straw. Was she supposed to clean her feet somewhere or just walk on top of the grass and let the mud fall wherever?

“What is it, lass?” With a curt nod, Drummond dismissed the guards. The men went back outside and closed the heavy wooden doors fortified with thick iron bands and hammered hardware. The deep thud upon their closing echoed through the high-ceilinged chamber. “Now, lass. What troubles ye?”

After another glance around assured her it was only them and Murdoch in the narrow anteroom, she stuck one of her feet out from under the cloak. “My boots are filthy. I don’t want to track up your floor.”

“Dinna worry about soiling the rushes. That is what they are there for.”

“The what?” She shuffled her feet back and forth in the grassy covering that was still a little green. It must’ve been cut only a few days ago. If she could get most of the mud off here in the entryway grass, maybe it wouldn’t look so bad. “What did you call the hay?”

“Rushes. They’re used to keep the floors clean. When the proper time comes, the servants sweep out the old and replace them with fresh. Is that not what ye do in yer Nashville?”

Only in the barn stalls. But she didn’t say that out loud. “We cover our floors with cloth or sometimes just leave them bare. It depends on the room and how we want to keep it clean—either by sweeping or—” She clenched her teeth, cutting herself off.

He arched a brow, obviously waiting for her to finish. “Or?”

She couldn’t very well say, vacuuming. “Sweeping or mopping,” she said. Surely they called it mopping in this century.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, rubbing the inner corners of her eyes and wishing she’d stuffed a bottle of aspirin in her pocket before leaving the cottage this morning. That strange, drumming pressure, that sickening shift in the very feel of the air, had returned, making it hard to concentrate on choosing her words carefully. Pain shot through her head.

Without a word, Drummond swept her up into his arms and settled her against his chest, carrying her like a baby as he crossed the cavernous room filled with long trestle tables.

“What are you doing?” She caught the stares of the young women and men who’d paused in putting out fresh candles, stoking the roaring fire in the enormous hearth, and wiping down the tables and benches. They all watched her with open-mouthed interest. “People are staring,” she said, cringing at the panic that made her whisper sound like a hissing snake.

“I am lord and soon-to-be chief here,” he said without slowing. “I do as I will.” He gave her a smug grin that warmed her faster than that hot sip of whisky. “And seeing to yer comfort is my will.”