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He drew in a slow, noisy breath and stepped away from her. He walked to one of his chests and sank to his knees in front of it.
“Do ye still insist ye traveled in time?” he asked while rummaging.
She let out a long exhale, her lungs feeling like they were on fire. What should she say? Should she change her story and lie? No. She hated being dishonest with him. She wanted to tell him the whole truth, and she wanted him to believe her.
Her legs felt weak and wobbly. “I don’t insist,” she said as she walked to the bed and sat on the edge. “It’s the truth.”
“’Tis the truth ye believe.” He retrieved a clean cloth and a small clay jar of something, then put it on the bed by her side. Then he walked to the corner of the room where there was a jug of water and poured some into a clay bowl.
Watching him come closer again, she didn’t say anything. It was now up to him to believe her or not.
He crouched in front of her, and his eyes were now on the same level as hers.
“Lower yer dress,” he said.
Something squeezed in her, and blood rushed to the apex of her thighs. She knew he wanted to have access to her wound, but, dear Lord, she was ready to undress herself and let him do whatever he wanted.
His dark, penetrating glare was consuming her, commanding her. Her throat contracted and she gave a small whimper. She licked her suddenly dry lips, and as he watched her do that, his eyes darkened even more.
Get a grip of yourself, she commanded. He’ll never be yours.
She reached to the shoulder of her dress and pulled it down. Despite the cool air, her exposed skin felt hot under his gaze.
Reaching for a clean cloth that lay next to her on the bed, he accidentally brushed against her thigh. A jolt of electricity went up her hip and straight into her core. He froze and clenched his teeth like she’d hurt him.
If that was what it felt like when he touched her by accident, how would it feel if he was buried deep inside her, with no clothes between them? The images of their entwined bodies, the sounds of their combined breathing invaded her mind.
He took the cloth and dipped it into the bowl of water, then brought it to her chest and pressed it against the crust of blood. The cut burned and she sucked in air. He didn’t look up at her, all his concentration on the task.
“Suppose I believe ye,” he said. “Suppose ye tell the truth and time travel does happen… Tell me everything. About ye, about yer life. Clearly, ye lied when ye said ye were of clan Douglas. What clan do ye belong to?”
He wiped her wound with short, careful strokes, the cloth cooling the hot skin of her cut. Dark-red water dripped down her chest and wetted the edges of her dress.
“My name is Rogene Wakeley. I’m American. The United States doesn’t exist yet in your time, but my ancestors were Scottish, Irish, and English. Like I said, I study history and write articles and books. I’m conducting research about Robert the Bruce, and the letter that you have, it confirms my hypothesis, and it’s pretty revolutionary. We see Robert the Bruce as a strong king, a great warrior, and an iron-willed man. But seeing this, this small moment of weakness, it makes him more human somehow…and also gives clan Mackenzie a much clearer and more interesting role in the Wars of Scottish Independence. We hear all about clan Cambel, and James Douglas, and Sir Gilbert de la Hay, and Bruce’s brother Edward…others, too, but very little of clan Mackenzie. It’s wrong. And this letter would move your clan to a completely different position.”
Putting the wet, brownish cloth aside, Angus hemmed and met her gaze. He looked like a myth, like a dream—a hero from the legends, who came alive in front of her. And this hero looked very skeptical. The worm of uneasiness wriggled in her gut.
“Aye. Well, so ye keep saying,” he said. “I dinna give a shite about clan Mackenzie being important in the eyes of some historians from the future. There may nae be a clan Mackenzie or Scotland as a kingdom if Euphemia got a hold of this letter.”
She nodded. “I never meant to mess with the events of history. All I want is to prove my mom’s hypothesis. Besides, I do need to think of my brother. We have no one else.”
He opened a small clay jar, scooped some white salve onto his fingers, and spread it on her wound. It smelled like animal fat mixed with herbs.
“Tell me about yer family,” he said.
She swallowed. She almost never talked about the hardest day of her life, and she felt if she did now, she’d let him in…
Brushing against her wound through a thick layer of the salve, his fingers burned her. She had a sense they were digging deeper, deeper, under her skin, almost touching her heart.
“If I do, will you believe me?” she said, her voice coming out raspy and low.
He cocked his head a little. “I canna promise ye that.”
She bit her lip and considered it. It would mean letting him in deeper than she’d ever wanted to let anyone. She barely even talked to David about it.
But if hard facts couldn’t convince Angus, perhaps her raw and vulnerable heart could.
And so, she had to take the risk. For the first time in her life, she wanted to.
