Twelve

M airead sat on a flat stone in one of her favorite high pastures and watched two men try to kill each other.

She rested her elbows on her knees and her chin on her fists and ignored the fact that all that clanging of swords and spewing of curses was leaving her sheep no peace for grazing, but she had to admit they'd been subjected to worse. At least for herself, the view was fine and the swearing entertaining.

Giles Cameron was, as any maid with two good eyes would have immediately conceded, very handsome, terribly fierce, and exceptionally charming. She'd known him almost all her life and wished more than once that she could have called him her brother instead of Tasgall. He was hopelessly enamored of her next youngest sister, though, which could have made him her brother had things in her own life been different. But his hopes of wedding her sister were very slim considering that any of the lads who'd come to see if she might suit had immediately dismissed her and thrust their wooing gifts at whichever of her sisters they'd clapped eyes on first.

Not like that other man out there who had given her a flower the day before.

She looked at one of his dirks that he'd stabbed into the ground at her feet, inviting her to use it if she needed to, then at the growing little pile of other things that he'd begun. If he'd nodded knowingly at her each time he'd called a halt to the wielding of swords long enough to fetch and add to his collection, all she could do was tell him he was ridiculous and advise him to concentrate on his present business whilst she sat there and tried not to blush.

He was, after all, picking flowers for her.

She watched Oliver sparring with Giles and attempted a bit of dispassionate observation. He wasn't Giles's equal with the blade, but few were. That he was even standing against him when Giles wasn't showing him any mercy spoke well of his skill. That he could wield a sword at all given where—or when , rather—he'd come from was very surprising. She wondered absently what it was he did to earn his bread. If he hailed from England, what was he doing in Scotland and how long would he stay?

She didn't want to think about that last bit, actually. The reason he'd come back to her time was a mystery she hadn't wanted to solve. It was enough to have him at least within view for however long he chose to remain.

She sat up as the lads put up their swords and came to cast themselves down on the soft grasses at her feet. Giles looked at Oliver's dagger, then at the wee pile of purple things he'd begun sitting next to it.

"You haven't a clue how to woo a woman, have you?" Giles remarked.

"Are you going to help me?" Oliver asked mildly.

Mairead snorted before she could help herself and found two pairs of eyes turned her way. "Dust," she said, waving her hand in front of her face.

"I think I probably should," Giles said. "I, as you might have noticed, am particularly skilled at letting a woman know she is the object of my affections."

She found Oliver looking at her.

"Is that true?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Grizel drops things when he's in the vicinity, so perhaps."

Oliver smiled and turned back to Giles. "Then what do you suggest?"

"You might start by informing the gel you fancy that she is the one being fancied."

Oliver looked at his pile of blooms, then back at Giles. "Is that not enough?"

Giles only rolled his eyes and flopped back on the ground to look up at the sky. "Absolutely hopeless."

Mairead suspected she might find herself in that same situation if she had to listen to them any longer, so she pushed herself to her feet and went off to see about her animals. The very idea that Oliver Phillips would be interested in her for anything past refilling his ale and dropping soup on his lap was laughable. That she would find herself losing sleep over that same man was beyond absurd.

Though she couldn't help but wish it weren't.

The day passed slowly until she realized with a start that the light was beginning to fade. Her two keepers—for that is what they called themselves—had managed to keep themselves entertained whilst she labored, but that had mostly consisted of driving off a selection of her cousins with threats of bodily harm if they didn't leave her in peace. She wasn't sure that would convince Kenneth and the others to behave better in the future, but she couldn't fault Giles and Oliver for trying.

Ambrose had joined them at some point during the afternoon, trailing after her keepers with Fiona trailing after him. Her nephew had peppered them both with endless questions about Edinburgh, and Fiona had listened, all ears, as Oliver and Giles discussed the delights to be found in various locales around the city. She was half tempted to ask Oliver how much the city had changed in four hundred years, but she suspected, given how easily he and Giles discussed the same sights, that it hadn't been all that much.

She turned her sheep over to one of her younger cousins whose task it was to see them put in a pen, then stopped and looked at the keep in front of her. It had been her home for the entirety of her life, but for some reason it didn't feel very welcoming at the moment. Normally she would have blamed that on either her brother or Kenneth, but they seemed to be simply players waiting for a storm to arrive that was far beyond their ability to control.

"Mairead?"

She pulled herself back from the gloomy place she'd been wandering in her head and looked at Oliver. "Sorry, what?"

"I was wondering if perhaps you might want to take your ease in the kitchens," he said carefully.

She looked at him in surprise. "Do you fear for me?"

He smiled. "Of course not. I just want you to have ample time to enjoy all the flowers I've picked for you." He held them out. "There are, if you'll notice, quite a few."

Giles clapped his hand to his head and groaned.

Mairead glared at him, accepted Oliver's offering, then looked at him. "Devil's-bit is what the witch up the way would have called these, but I think that's a terrible name."

He winced. "I didn't know."

"They're purple."

"I did know that." He smiled. "Your favorite color."

She blushed. She also had help moving out of his way so he could slap Giles on the back of the head. He turned to her, inclined his head politely, then gestured toward the hall.

"If milady will permit us to escort her inside?"

She nodded regally, tucked her blossoms inside her shawl where only she could enjoy them, then happily walked behind two men who made a handy barrier against madness. She kept Fiona close on her right and didn't argue with Ambrose when he took up a position on her left.

She'd hardly made it inside the hall before she found herself pressed back against the wall with men and children surrounding her. The shrieking was almost intolerable, but if there was one thing her brother's wife could manage on any day of the year, it was a decent bit of shouting.

"Let go of my children," she shouted, giving Oliver a shove. "You'll not take them from me."

He regained his balance and inclined his head slightly. "I wouldn't think to, Lady Deirdre."

"Then you ," Deirdre spat, whirling on Mairead. "You are forever wanting to take my bairns from me."

"Ach, Deirdre," Giles said, pointing behind her. "Your other wee ones are fleeing—"

Mairead found herself pulled behind Oliver with Giles making a bit more of a very handy barrier. She put her hand on Oliver's back to keep her balance, and realized that however much he presented an aura of carelessness, his body told a different tale. He was not at peace.

"Don't tell me she's a Cameron," he murmured to Giles.

"Fergusson," Mairead offered.

"At least she wasn't a McKinnon," Giles said, glancing over his shoulder. "It could have been worse."

Mairead conceded the point with a nod, then had help finding her way into the kitchens. The tenor of the chamber there was no better than the courtyard outside, but she at least had allies manning the stew pots and tending the fire. She watched Oliver and Cook exchange a handful of words, then found herself sitting in the corner with a pair of fiercer kitchen lads with very sharp knives seeing to chopping up bowls of vegetables in front of her. She looked at Oliver, had a grave smile from him before he left with Giles, then looked at her new keepers.

"Need help?" she offered.

"Nay, lady," one of them said. "You sit. We'll guard."

She found the entire idea of being watched over to be strange enough to leave her simply staring, bemused, at the flowers she held securely in one corner of her shawl.

She continued to be guarded in some form or fashion by either kitchen lads or a pair of men she'd spent the day with who seemed to take a fair amount of pleasure in mocking the other over ideas on the proper way to go about a successful wooing.

In time, Giles left the kitchens to seek out his own precarious spot in the great hall. She made herself comfortable in her usual place on the floor by the hearth, holding children that weren't hers, and wondering what her future held.

Only this time, she wasn't alone.

Oliver had already seen her uncle settled after a reasonable bit of conversation about inconsequential things, then drawn his sword, laid it on the floor, then sat down next to it. A pair of Tasgall's bairns immediately deserted her to swarm him like bees. He didn't seem to mind sharp little elbows and questing toes as the wee ones made themselves comfortable. She however was beginning to suspect that she preferred it when she had Oliver all to herself.

Poor, heart-smitten fool that she was.

"Mairead."

She looked at him and had a faint smile as her reward.

"You think too much."

"You do, too."

"I do," he agreed. "Why don't we save ourselves from ourselves and talk about something far removed from where we are. What shall we discuss?"

"Where were you weaned?" she asked, latching onto the first thing that came to mind.

"Stafford," he said easily, then he shot her a look. "It's a bit north of Birmingham."

She scowled at him, had another smile for her trouble, then shifted her youngest nephew more comfortably on her lap. "And then?"

"I was sent to—well, you could term it fostering, I suppose," he said with a shrug. "In Edinburgh."

"Which makes you a Lowlander of sorts, then," she conceded. "How long were you there in Edinburgh, then?"

"Until I was released. I never returned home."

"Were your parents gone, then?" she asked in surprise.

He smiled faintly and shook his head. "They're still alive. They just have several other children and once I was released, I was a man and there was no need to go home."

There were details enough there, she suspected, but she also sensed he might be as reluctant to discuss his family as she was to speak of hers. She was heartily sorry she'd asked, so she quickly cast about for something lighter to discuss.

"Tell me more about your friends sending you to Scotland, then," she said quietly. "We might speak in French, if you'd rather."

"That might be safer for the moment," he agreed in that tongue. He considered, then moved a bit closer to her. "We call it a holiday. That horrible thing they sent me on, that is."

"A holiday," she repeated slowly. "And what does that mean?"

"It's when you take time away from your normal labors and go amuse yourself."

She frowned. "That is a horrifying thought."

He smiled. "I agree."

"I suspect the only amusement anyone is having, I don't mind telling you yet again, is your lads at your expense."

"I definitely agree with that."

She would have snorted, but she feared to draw any attention to herself or wake children she could feel had drifted into their usual boneless slumber. She envied them, truly she did, that bit of sleep where they knew no harm would befall them.

"Mairead."

She liked very much the way he said her name. "Aye?"

"You're safe right now," he said quietly. "You could sleep, if you like."

"I'm fine," she said, "but I thank you—"

She jumped a little at the sound of shouting coming from the great hall, but it subsided almost immediately. She looked at Oliver.

"That happens often."

"I imagine it does," he said very quietly. "Your brother has quite a temper."

"He does," she agreed, then she cast about desperately for a distraction. "Do you think James and his bride went to—well, you know where—through the little croft in the forest?"

"I think there is a spot in the forest behind the hall," he said carefully. "I haven't had time to investigate it. What do you think?"

She wondered if she would ever become accustomed to anyone asking for her thoughts on anything. Hard on the heels of that thought came the one that she wished it could be that man there asking for her thoughts far into their future.

"My uncle advises against it," she said. "My father was wounded by a boar inside it, and you've seen what that left of him. No one goes there without very good reason."

"I'm sorry about your father."

"He was a very good man. Patrick is very much like him, if I can make that comparison, though the thought that he could have traveled from a past time to..." She shook her head. "Difficult to believe."

He smiled briefly. "I understand, believe me. I'm not sure I would have believed it if I hadn't lived it." He studied her with a faint smile. "Were there no numbers in your book that left you wondering about impossible things?"

"There were the numbers 1823 written on one page," she conceded.

"What did you think they meant?"

"I assumed they were the tally of scorching looks the duke had sent the kitchen maid."

He laughed, then clamped his lips shut as Fiona stirred in his arms, lifted her head and glared at him, then fell back asleep with her head thumping on his shoulder. Oliver huffed out another faint laugh, then looked at her with a smile.

"You're very funny," he said.

She supposed that if she'd been a kitchen maid with an equally full tally of experiences with men and their mores, she might have taken his look for one of affection. His smile didn't fade, but he tilted his head toward his shoulder.

"Why don't you sleep for a bit on that bit of good humor," he said with another smile. "I'll watch over you."

She didn't imagine she would sleep, but she did as he bid and at least closed her eyes. She supposed it would be a very bad habit to become accustomed to, so she finally lifted her head and looked at him. He was simply sitting there, looking at nothing.

Only she realized he wasn't doing that, he was watching very carefully.

"You need to sleep," she said quietly.

"I'm fine."

She straightened and shook her head sharply to clear it. "I'll keep watch."

"My chivalry will suffer."

"Better that than your gut from Giles's sword."

"There is that," he agreed. He considered, then nodded. "For an hour, perhaps. Wake me sooner if anything changes."

She nodded her assent, though she imagined he wouldn't sleep through it if her brother went on a rampage. She did, however, shift a bit so she could watch him at least pretend to sleep, braw, chivalrous lad that he was.

In time, she decided that he had managed to fall asleep in truth. She might have been tempted to join him, but there were voices coming from the great hall that sounded as if they were discussing things that were… unpleasant. She managed to put sleeping children down on scraps of marginally clean rushes pushed up against the wall, then rose soundlessly to her feet and walked across the kitchens to discover what she could about the goings on in the keep.

Her brother was sitting with Master James in front of the hearth on the far side of the hall. She could hear their whispers slipping along the wall like shadows, whispers of things she imagined weren't entirely sane.

She felt hands come to rest on her shoulders, but she didn't jump because she knew whose hands they were.

"They're just words," he murmured.

"I don't like them."

"I don't like him ."

"I don't think a churched lad should be doing the things he's speaking about."

"Maybe he stole the clothes."

She would have smiled, but she was too unnerved to. She felt Oliver take her hand and pull her back toward the hearth in the kitchens. She allowed him to help her sit on the floor, then looked at him as he sat down next to her.

"Stay far away from him," he said simply.

He looked as if he might have liked to have said other things, but she knew he wouldn't. Her acquaintance with Oliver Phillips might have been brief, but she knew he tended to speak less than he thought

"Perhaps he'll go soon," she murmured.

He only closed his eyes briefly, then nodded.

She woke to absolute chaos.

She found herself pulled to her feet and tucked back into the corner by the hearth.

"I'll be back," Oliver said, strapping his sword to his back. "Stay here with the bairns."

Well, that was very sensible advice, true, but she couldn't just sit there in the kitchens and hide when there might be something she could do to calm what her brother only seemed to inflame. That she had been doing the same thing for most of her life was likely not a useful thing to dwell on.

"Ambrose—"

"I will, Auntie."

She listened to him gather up his siblings and herd them into the place where Oliver had left her, made certain her knife was down the back of her belt, then strode across the kitchens to see if there might be something for her to do.

Half the clan was already pouring out the front door, dragging none other than Deirdre Fergusson with them. She yanked her arm away from someone's hand only to find it was Oliver who had caught her by the elbow. Gently, if that mattered to anyone but her, but firmly.

"You should—"

"I cannot."

He closed his eyes briefly, then nodded. "Stay behind me, then. I have the feeling this will go badly."

She had the feeling it was going to be Hell arriving on their doorstep, but she imagined that didn't need to be said. She followed him across the hall out the door with the rest of her clan. She was absolutely certain the scene there in front of her was one she would never forget.

Master James had apparently woken that morning convinced that his duty lay in ridding the clan of the witch that was bringing them such bad luck. She couldn't see that exactly as they seemed to be faring well enough at the moment. They had sufficient cattle, enough mutton for even the most hearty appetites, and warm things to wear thanks to her own industry. Her father's condition was unfortunate, true, but that had been something that could have happened to any man brave enough to walk into the forest behind the… hall…

She looked quickly for her uncle, but he was well away from Master James and he never would have given voice to any of his more fanciful thoughts in the presence of that madman. She was certain of it.

Her brother, however, was another tale entirely and he seemed perfectly happy to complain about the endless shrieking of his wife which might indeed indicate something amiss with her.

"Aye, aye, we'll see to her in a moment," Master James assured him. "But there are others in this gathering who must be examined. Perhaps that man who came from Edinburgh without friends or baggage—"

Mairead didn't hesitate. She walked forward and continued on until she was standing five paces away from the man who couldn't possibly have been a decent member of the church.

"'Twas a terrible misfortune," she agreed. "And yet he speaks so highly of you and your work in the city."

Master James looked at her narrowly. "And what would you know of any of it, wench?"

"Nothing, good sir," she said, bowing her head humbly. "I couldn't resist the chance to compliment you on your keen eye and compassion for those who've had misfortune befall them."

Master James pursed his lips. "Perhaps."

"Let us find a text to read together," she said, wondering if that sort of thing might distract him. "In Latin, which is too lofty for me, but for you—"

"You can read?" he asked, falling back with his hand at his throat.

"Of course not—"

It was at that moment that she began to have the smallest amount of sympathy for her brother. She had watched the souls around her from the time she'd become cognizant of them, separating them into groups of ones who were trustworthy and ones who needed to be humored so she might keep herself and those she loved safe. The latter group had been unpredictable, true, but always amenable either to food or compliments or even some sort of distraction in a direction where she was not so she could slip away, safely unnoticed.

Master James was, she could say without reservation, utterly mad.

She found herself pulled aside and expected to find Oliver there. Instead, she encountered her brother who looked just the slightest bit unsettled. Perhaps he realized too late that the flames he had been fanning the night before had gotten far beyond anything he could control.

She looked over her shoulder, away from the hall, toward what was left of a wall that had once surrounded the keep. She watched a Highlander vault easily over it and stride forward, keeping to a larger part of the crowd, but moving with a purpose. It occurred to her with a start that the man had to be James MacLeod himself. She watched him clap a hand on Oliver's shoulder and pull him away, back toward the wall, in a direction that would eventually allow them both to trot back up the meadow and return to Oliver's proper time.

Oliver argued with Jamie for a moment, then closed his eyes and nodded.

She found his gaze locked with hers and suspected that he might have uttered a pleasing sentiment or two if he'd been able.

"Where is that fair-haired Englishman!" Master James yelled suddenly.

Mairead exchanged another look with Oliver, then turned away and made her way forward to face the man behind the current madness. She had scarce begun to wonder what she might say when she found herself shoved so hard that she went down to her knees. She jumped back to her feet partly because her father had taught her to do so that she might either fight or run without delay and partly because her brother had just taken his wife by the arm and pushed her into a spot directly in front of Master James.

"Test her," Tasgall said, his chest heaving. "I cannot listen to another moment of her screeching."

Mairead felt the weight of the decision she knew she had no choice but to make fall upon her without mercy. Deirdre was unpleasant and shrill, but she was Ambrose's mother and the bairns needed her still. Mairead knew very well what it was like to lose a mother as a child. Her mother had been a cold, distant woman, even less affectionate than Deirdre, but the loss had still grieved her.

She couldn't let that happen to Ambrose and his siblings.

She caught sight of Oliver once more, wished him every happiness in his future, then turned back to the madness before her. She couldn't help but wonder how a stake had been found so quickly, who had cut it, and how many of her cousins had been willing to see one of their own sent to it. She could scarce believe that she was surrounded by people who had lost their wits entirely, but she had to admit that Master James had been persuasive.

She stepped forward through the insanity that surrounded her, pulled Deirdre out of the way, then stopped directly in front of Master James. She took a deep breath, then pushed her gown off the very top of her shoulder.

There was a mark there, not quite in the shape of a flower, but not quite a perfect circle either. She'd had it from the moment of her birth and thought nothing of it.

Master James didn't seem to share her indifference.

And she had thought Hell had already arrived.

She'd been wrong.