Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
A melia felt her heart pounding against her chest as she slowly made her way forward, ignoring the curious stares of the people gathered around her. Nobody had called her Amy since she was a child — as soon as she’d been old enough, she’d insisted people use her full name, not liking it to be shortened in any way, but especially not in the specific way her father had always shortened it. It felt strange, hearing that old name on this man’s lips. The Laird was looking at her closely with a look of recognition dawning on his face, and he cleared his throat before making a quick gesture that had the crowds around them quickly dispersing.
“Cousin, let me introduce a new arrival to the Keep,” Laird Donal said carefully. “Amelia Cosgrove, this is Sir Hamish MacClaran.”
“Oh, don’t,” the diplomat said, wrinkling his nose and holding up a hand. “Please.”
“Hamish MacClaran, then,” Laird Donal allowed with a roll of his eyes, “who doesn’t like being reminded of his well-earned knighthood, but has one nonetheless.”
“Amelia, was it?” Hamish still looked absolutely shell shocked, but she could almost see him reassembling the mask of politeness. “A pleasure. I — forgive me.” He glanced up at Laird Donal. “You — you look a great deal like someone I once knew.”
“She knows,” Donal said softly. “About the curse, about all of it. Delilah has filled her in on the aspects of it all.”
“I see.” Hamish returned those bewitching blue eyes to her face and uttered a forced little laugh. “In that case — well. I must beg your forgiveness again, I suppose. This must all seem terribly strange to you.”
“I think I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Donal said, clearing his throat slightly. “Hamish, we’re grateful to have you back here. You and I will discuss the situation a little later, once you’ve settled in. The staff have readied your usual room.”
And with that, the two of them were left alone. Amelia was surprised by how much her heart was pounding in her chest. Hamish was a stranger — meeting him wasn’t any stranger than meeting any of the other medieval Scotsmen she’d encountered during this strange, strange week. If anyone had the right to feel overwhelmed here, it was Hamish. She’d had the opportunity to hear everyone’s stories at this point — the arrival of all of the time travelers, how they’d encountered the MacClaran man whose lost love they so closely resembled. The women were all very different, that much was true — but what she had noticed about each and every one of them was that they’d all ended up marrying their MacClaran man.
It put a strange, heavy kind of pressure on this introduction that was certain. And from the look on Hamish’s face, she was sure he was thinking along the same lines… though with the added burden of grief.
“I’ll go out on a limb and guess that Amy was your wife?” Even as she spoke, she wondered if she was making a terrible mistake. But Hamish seemed to appreciate her broaching the awkward subject immediately — she saw his shoulders relax a little, noticed a slight unclenching of his jaw as he gave her a little nod.
“Aye, she was. The two of you could have been twins.” He looked at her closely, a thoughtful look in those blue eyes. “Though there’s something different about you, for certain.”
“I’m guessing the accent,” Amelia said. To her delight that won a soft chuckle from Hamish. He looked a great deal younger when he smiled.
“Of course, very different voices. You’re much louder than she was.”
Amelia tilted her head, wondering if it was a slam.
The diplomat hastened to add, “That’s a compliment. Amy was quiet as a mouse. Too quiet for her own good, she often said so herself.”
“Well,” was all Amelia could think of to say. The silence that fell between them wasn’t exactly awkward, but it did seem to crackle with a strange electricity. “How long ago did you lose her?” she asked, hating that she couldn’t think of any other way to break the silence. Was this really her best move? Interrogate the grieving widower about his lost wife?
“Four years ago now,” he said. “The curse, as you know.”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I guess that must be strange, coming from me, but — I’m sorry.”
There was that smile again — she felt a little guilty for the way her pulse accelerated at the sight of it, given the gloomy context.
“My thanks — that’s kind of you to say.” He hesitated for a brief moment before continuing: “I’d best get to my quarters, I think. But I’d like to speak with you more, if that would be alright. Perhaps dinner, tomorrow evening?”
She blinked, caught a little off-guard by the formality of the invitation.
Hamish seemed to misinterpret her hesitation and hastened on with a note of apology. “I’d suggest tonight, of course, but I’ve promised my evening to Laird Donal — much to discuss regarding the diplomatic situation I’ve come home to resolve.”
“Tomorrow is fine,” she said quickly, feeling herself flush a little and hoping it wasn’t too obvious. “I’ll let you get to your room; I know you’ve had a long journey…”
Besides, she thought faintly as she watched him go, she could use a little bit of time to herself right now — time to get her idiotic urges under control, for a start, and to figure out exactly what she was going to do here. She wandered aimlessly around the courtyard for a few minutes before she hastened inside, hoping to find one of her new friends. Instead, she found herself drifting through the hallways toward her room… where, to her surprise, she saw a servant dragging a chest into the room beside hers.
“My apologies, Miss,” he said quickly when he saw her. “Sir Hamish brought quite a few things with him.”
That was just her luck, she thought drily as she let herself into her room and settled down on her bed. Of course he’d be in the room next to hers… and a guilty part of her was thrilled about it, already beginning to scheme accidental meetings and casual encounters in the hallways. It was completely insane, of course. He was a complete stranger, a man she’d just met at what was the most chaotic time of upheaval in her entire blasted life… and to make things worse, she was the spitting image of his wife, who’d died tragically young. Was she really going to just rush headlong into some kind of dalliance with this man?
Well, a treacherous voice whispered in the back of her mind, hasn’t it worked for all of the others?
Suddenly, she felt very tired and very sad, all at once. She’d been doing her best to get plenty of rest — the other women had all warned her that there was a curious physical weariness that came with the transition to a new time, and that if she wanted to avoid falling ill her best bet would be to get as much sleep as her body seemed to want. It was the middle of the day, but she found herself loosening her bodice and lying back against the pillows, grateful for the embrace of sleep to take her away from her racing thoughts.
When she woke again, it was dark, and she jolted to her feet, alarmed by how much of the day had slipped by without her notice. She was almost at the Dining Hall before she even remembered Hamish’s arrival, though it wasn’t long before that curious adrenaline he brought about in her came creeping back into her awareness. Firmly putting it out of her mind, she headed into the hall for dinner, looking forward to a heaping helping of the rather delicious fare in which the kitchens specialized. That was the way, she thought, her mouth full of meat and gravy. If she just kept distracting herself with food and rest, she wouldn’t have to worry about Hamish at all. Maybe she’d get back into training, too. She’d never really needed a fancy boxing gym to train — she’d never have gotten out of her amateur phase if that was the case, with only her backyard and driveway to practice her techniques in. There was plenty of space out in the courtyard for what she needed to do. And training had always been great for keeping her mind off her troubles… after all, it was how she’d survived her entire wretched childhood.
She stayed quiet that evening at dinner, letting the ladies chat and gossip about the newcomer in town — and if any of them wondered whether Hamish might have been the man who’d caused Amelia’s arrival here, they certainly didn’t mention it. She was grateful for that much, at least, though part of her wondered — as she headed back to her room that evening — whether it might have felt good to talk about it. Maybe, she thought. But as kind as her fellow travelers were, none of them were the woman she wanted to talk to right now.
Amelia slipped her phone out of the inside pocket that was sewn into the bodice of her dress. The battery had lasted rather well, but only a quarter remained. Knowing it was unreasonable, knowing there was no way anything was going to happen, she opened Carmen’s contact, feeling her heart break again at the silly photo of the two of them, their arms around each other’s shoulders. She could remember taking that photo — they’d both been trying to get the other one in a headlock, and the camera had gone off before either of them had actually triumphed. Both of their faces, frozen forever in a hysterical fit of laughter. Not forever, Amelia thought dully. Once her phone’s battery died, this photo would be lost forever.
And that thought was enough to unleash the flood of tears she’d been holding back since before she’d arrived.