Page 11 of Dorchad

“You’ll get used to that,” the laird’s wife told her. “Just let me know if you see anyone wearing manky clothes, scratching themselves in unmentionable places, or looking like they haven’t had a bathe in months.”

So far everyone she’d seen had been neatly dressed and clean. “Isn’t personal hygiene a priority in this time?”

“It is until an outsider comes to the island.” The laird’s wife rolled her eyes. “It’s a long story.”

“You’ll have to tell it to me some time.” Rebecca chuckled. “At the moment I have nothing to do but listen.”

Passing by the guards posted at every entry to the stronghold made it clear that the clan maintained a state of constant readiness. Oddly all the MacRune men had black hair, big builds and strongly resembled each other.

“They all have the same father,” Lucy said when she asked her about it. “An immortal dark Fae assassin named Rune, who served as the queen’s chief tracker and killer. While he was here hunting the mortal who stole the cluet from her, he spent time with lots of ladies. Evidently all Fae are extremely fertile with humans, because one night with the guy resulted in the clan.”

That explained why the MacRune had so many common characteristics; they shared the same parent. At the same time that seemed impossible.

“The entire clan?” When Lucy nodded she asked, “How many MacRune are there?”

“I don’t think anyone has counted, but I’d guess at least six or seven hundred,” the other woman said. “It isn’t all wonderful, being half human and half Fae, either. Their hybrid blood gave all of them odd weaknesses. My guy’s emotions affect the weather, for example. We also have a chief who is blinded by the sun, and can only see at night. The Fae half of their blood rendered all the MacRune sterile as well as immortal, and they each have a little wickedness to their personalities, for which I also blame their dad.”

“A little is fine,” Rebecca said, experiencing a pang of sympathy for Dorchad. Had his own mother resented him for being born? Was that why he didn’t like women? “Do the clansmen’s human families live here with them?”

The laird’s wife shook her head. “The clan has been around for a while, so their mothers all died a long time ago. At some point the boys decided to cut ties with their descendants. It’s easier for their mortal cousins not to know about them, and also protects the clan against unscrupulous humans who might otherwise take advantage.”

“So they only have each other.” A wrenching sadness seized her for the chieftain’s sake. Of course he was unfriendly; he was all alone in the world. “Well, of course, the laird has you, too.”

“Some days he wishes that he didn’t,” Lucy said, giving her a wink.

They reached the entry to the great hall, where guards stood at every arch leading into the huge room filled with picnic-style tables. Hundreds of big, dark-eyed, black-haired men sat at them eating from giant platters of food, but none of them were Dorchad. She suspected if she asked about him she’d turn red and start stuttering, so she focused on her current predicament.

“I never imagined facing this sort of situation,” she told Lucy. “It’s beyond surreal.”

“I remember how mad this all seemed to me when I first got here.” Her new friend gave her a sympathetic look as she led her through the tables. “It’s okay to be overwhelmed, you know.”

“I suppose I am. I never imagined my life taking this sort of turn,” Rebecca admitted, trying to ignore the men staring at her. “I thought my next big move would be relocating to Florida, to look after my grandparents in their final years.” Her throat hurt a little as she realized that Jack and Bess would never know what had happened to her. “Do you think in our time we died anyway? I mean, could the cluet do something to make everyone think we’re dead?”

“It’s a good question, one I’ll have to ask it when we find the sodding thing.” Lucy grimaced. “Sorry. We’ve still about eight months before the winter solstice, but this bloody rag can move about, change its appearance and hop through time. We’ll be lucky to notice it, much less grab it. Let’s sit here,” she added, pointing to a table that had been placed on a higher platform.

The other woman seemed so accepting of the situation, which made Rebecca a little envious. She seemed perfectly at home in a time and place completely foreign to what she’d known all her life. Sitting down on a heavy plank bench at an even heavier table held up by A-shaped supports provided another jolt of reality; she could see a few rough tool marks left by whoever had cut and fit the wood pieces together. Nothing would be manufactured for centuries beyond this time. Yet the wood had been smoothed where people would touch it to avoid leaving splinters in their skin, a tribute to the craftsmen of this era.

Everything people need has to be made, so they think about things like that.

“How long was it before you accepted that the cluet actually brought you to the fourteenth century?” she asked Lucy.

“For a while I told myself all sorts of excuses for what I was experiencing, but deep down I knew everything happening to me was genuine. I had several conversations with the cluet up here.” The blonde woman tapped her temple. “The thing spoke to you in your head, too, didn’t it?”

She nodded. “For a moment I thought I was hallucinating. Then it showed me everything about this evil queen and the clan here, and then the consequences of the shooting at my hospital.” She told Lucy about what the cluet had shown her, adding, “I couldn’t have stayed in my time. Georgia and her son would have died—unless it was lying to me.”

Lucy went still. “Blimey, I never considered that. What if it lied to both of us?”

“The cluet cannae deceive those it wishes use to fulfill a wish.” A man who looked like Dorchad but with blue eyes and a cleft chin stopped by the table. “Like the Fae that created the thing, ’tis unable to wield falsehoods. Mistress McIan may lie as much as she chooses.”

Rebecca frowned. Why was this man acting so hostile to her? Hadn’t he been told to forget about the scare-the-outsider business? And why was he looking over her like that, as if inspecting livestock?

“This is Sgathan, the clan’s seneschal and most devoted curtain twitcher,” Lucy said, glaring at Dorchad’s double. “He’s also Dorchad’s twin but not as frightening as our Chieftain.”

“Hello.” Rebecca didn’t know what a curtain twitcher was, but as the seneschal stared at her she sensed a hint of the same deep-seated rage as the hospital shooter had demonstrated. He just might be scarier than Dorchad.

“I reckon the Gods created the cluet,” a lanky, heavily tattooed man said as he appeared by the laird’s wife. “Fair day, Lady Lucy. You’ve made a pretty new friend.”

“Aye, she’ll make a fine bed wench.” Sgathan suddenly leaned down until his nose nearly bumped into Rebecca’s. “Shall I show you round the stronghold, Mistress? You might find my bed chamber most intriguing.”