Page 28 of Darach

“It’s all right. I can’t forget that the only thing waiting for me in our future is a horrible death. It makes staying in this time very easy.” Charlotte leaned against the stone wall. “Once I’ve paid my debt to the Fire sword, I’ll look for work and a place to live somewhere else.”

“Now I’m a huge jerk.” Emery reached out and touched her arm. “Listen, I may be little, but I’m still the gal in charge around here. You’ll always have a home at Dun Lasair. If you don’t want to stay with the clan, we’ve got farms and the village and friends all over the highlands. When it’s time we’ll find a safe place for you to start over and make a happy life for yourself, okay?”

After the laird’s wife left, Charlotte pulled back the blanket on the bed and wrapped herself in it before she sat on the floor in front of the hearth.

You really like Darach, don’t you?

How could she answer that, even just to herself? ‘Like’ seemed such a lukewarm word; she liked French coffee and arugula salads and dark chocolate, all of which she’d never taste again because she’d decided to stay in this time period. Her skills as an artist might translate into some kind of decorative trade––she’d taken classes in weaving and pottery in art school––but she’d never again see her paintings hung in a gallery or published in a book. All the conveniences and technology she’d enjoyed in the twenty-first century were likewise lost to her.

Like any of that really matters.

Her emotions had been frozen since Zoey’s murder, but from the moment she’d fallen into the spring everything inside her had thawed out and come back to life. Darach was her ideal man, and not just physically. He embodied everything she had wished she could find in modern men and never had. But although he was attracted to her, he was keeping something from her. It had to be related to serving as Luthias’s second-in-command. Maybe he didn’t want to tell her that the MacRoss would always be first in his life, and she’d never be as important to him as his clan.

Men lie and call it love, but it is only desire, Leona had told her when she’d given her the talk. Sex is the only thing they want from you, and the only power you will ever have over them. Never mistake what they do as love. Only you can love yourself.

As much as she hated her mother’s pitiless logic, Charlotte knew in this situation she happened to be right. I’m just here to save his clan, and he’s the one who has to protect me until I do. That’s all we can ever have together.

Chapter Seven

In the slightly musty confines of the MacRoss enclave’s scriptorium, Master Sage Duine sat and patiently listened to his apprentices’ reports. They eagerly recounted every detail of the outing that resulted in recovering Mistress Walsh’s bag, and all the items they had found inside it. To them it had been a treasure chest of magic wonders that included small windows into other worlds and brushes so fine they might have belonged to a master illuminator.

“The blocks of thin brick wrapped in wee flat tartans smelled so good, Master,” one of the apprentices said. “Like burnt cream and honey, but sweeter.” He held up a hand. “I vow we didnae unwrap them.”

“Very good. You put back all that you removed from this bag?” Duine noted the uneasy glances between them and held out his hand. “Mayhap you forgot something you’ve brought to me with your apologies. A thing you should give me now, before ’tis missed.”

The boys shuffled their feet and looked at the eldest among them. He grimaced as he took from his belt pouch a slim oval made of a dark polished shell, which he opened before handing it to Duine.

“’Tis a mirror, Master,” the lad said reverently. “Made of flawless glass, and we reckon backed by pure silver. ’Tis wondrous clear.”

Duine flinched as he saw his own reflection in the glass circle. He had never before beheld his own face with such detail, and reached up to touch his rather bulbous nose, which appeared to be covered with freckles. Why had no one ever mentioned he had so many?

“As you say.” He made himself close the two halves again and then examined the outside. “I shall return the mirror to Mistress Walsh with apologies.” He gave them all a stern look. “And tell her we reckon the thing fell from the bag as you put back her possessions, and only now discovered such. Do you agree?”

The boys ducked their heads and murmured “Aye.”

“Now go and attend to Elder Sgur for the remainder of the day.” As the apprentices groaned over the prospect of looking after the oldest and most troublesome member of the enclave, Duine hid a smile. “Do you wish instead I should send you aid the gong-scourer?”

After the threat of having to clean out the stronghold’s privies sent the apprentices hurrying from his chamber, Duine opened the mirror and took a longer look at himself. As a young lad he had been among those considered handsomest by the stronghold’s maids and village women, but for the first time he realized just how much time and troubles had aged him. He had never realized how heavy the burdens of his position would weigh on him, either. The many silver hairs gleaming in the dark brown of his cropped fringe, and the deep frown lines around his nose and mouth attested to that. He looked so much like his sire now it dismayed him.

You must protect every sage under your charge, my son. Whatever that requires, see such done.

Remembering those long evenings of instruction with his sire always made Duine bilious, but it was thanks to the elder master sage that he had carried on his order’s sacred duty to protect life with his own. He’d also disappointed his sire time and again when he’d failed to meet his stern expectations. Each night after finishing his work he would go to the laboratorium to recount his efforts as an apprentice. He never received praise for his successes, but for every misstep his sire would cane his palms. The greater his failures, the harder the caning. Some nights he had left with hands so swollen and bloody he could hardly use them the next day.

Now he looked at the old scars that crossed his palms before he curled his fingers over them to hide the reminders of his unpleasant, painful boyhood. If nothing else his sire had taught him what never to do with the lads in his charge. They were not his sons, of course, but because of his own suffering Duine would never raise a hand to hurt any of them. He had told his sire as much as the old master sage lay in his deathbed.

I shall protect all life, Father. Whatever I must do, I ken ’tis my true calling.

He splashed cold water on his face and changed his robe to a finer one before he left his chamber and went down to the great hall, where Lady Emery sat with the seamstress and a mound of linen.

“As tall as Charlotte is, stable lad trews will look like capris on her. Ah, I mean they’ll be too short for her long legs.” Emery pursed her lips. “Do we have someone in the clan who is tall but slender?”

“Nearly all the MacRoss, they’re giants, my lady,” the seamstress said, and puffed out her cheeks. “Aye, and they’re strapping to a one, particularly the senior clansmen. I yet must let out the seams in Armorer Camdyn’s sleeves each time I sew a new tunic for him. You’ll no’ find what you seek among the clan.”

“Is there such a thing as too strapping? I’m thinking no.” Emery chuckled, and then noticed him. “Fair day, Master Duine. Do sages wear trews?”

“Only in winter, and then under our robes, my lady. Fair day, Mistress.” Duine bowed to them. “Forgive me for intruding, but my lads found something by the bathing spring that belongs to Mistress Walsh. May I meet with her, my lady?”

“Sure. I was just going up to her room to get some measurements for clothes.” She picked up some strips of linen and said to the seamstress, “You know, I think one of the gardeners is kind of a beanpole––the one who’s always tending the vines near the back of the garden. Would you ask the groundskeeper if he’s around, and if we might borrow a pair of his trews? I’ll be right back.”