sight, see the sheep grazing in the pastures, and catch a glimpse of the rooftops of Weem, or the cottages below, perhaps she’d remember.
“Look out the window, lass. See that me words be true.”
She placed one hand on the stone wall and leaned forward. Her neck stretched out until the tendons grew taut as a rope. Her throat convulsed with a gasp. Fingernails dug tighter into his arms as seconds passed.
At last, her head slowly pivoted toward him. “What year is this?”
“It be the seventeenth-hundred-and-forty-sixth year of our Lord.”
CHAPTER 4
“Oh.... I’m really.... How did I…?”
Shock wedged her words in her throat. No wonder it had been so quiet Maggie thought as she scanned the vast green fields peppered with the plump, white bodies of grazing sheep. No major highways with bumper-to-bumper traffic and horns blaring ran through the small village. Smoke plumed skyward from squat, thatched-roofed cottages that had taken the place of high-rise apartments. A stable had replaced the Seven-Eleven on the corner.
“Take me back to bed, I must think.”
The minute he laid her down, she scooted under the covers and leaned against the mound of pillows. Her mind searched for a plausible explanation. Hallucinations? A relapse? If this wasn’t Abby’s idea of a prank, perhaps she had tumbled back in time. Was time travel possible? Had the conversation with Mrs. Bixby about Scottish Highlanders of old, become her reality? Under the cover, she pinched her thigh to make certain she wasn’t caught in the throes of her nightmare.
Ouch.
Hysterical laughter wormed up the back of her throat. A glance around the room had a sobering effect. The rough-hewn walls and antique furnishings added credibility to the illusion of ancient times. She choked back a bout of hysteria.
Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. What did he say his name was, Meister, Mitzner, Menzies? That’s it Menzies? Her breath hitched. The name of Mrs. Bixby’s favorite clan.
Visions of the weird mist that had surrounded her when she’d stood in front of the mirror, wearing the nightgown, crowded her mind. The arc of fire that had leaped between the brooch and ring was the last thing she remembered. She took a quick intake of breathe as shock pulsated through her body. Had she gone back to the eighteenth century to learn why the entries in Mrs. Bixby’s book had stopped?
Movement on her left dragged her attention back to the present or was that the past. She scanned the man’s muscular frame with a wary eye. The power coiled in him vibrated in the air as he stalked from one side of the room to the other like a caged animal. A frown deepened the creases in his forehead with each step. Perhaps if she told him the truth they could work together to send her home. The truth had always served her well in the past. Hadn’t it?
Stiff shoulders and a mouth clamped tight into a straight line indicated he might not be the most reasonable man. But she had to try. She had a life in the twenty-first century to discover.
“Liam. It is Liam, correct?”
He came to an abrupt halt before her. “Aye. That be me name.” His growled response sent shivers down her spine. Hand on his hips, he waited for her to continue. When she remained silent, he glared down at her then resumed his prowling.
Gathering her courage, she said, “We have a problem.”
He gave her a quick glance as he passed her on his journey around the room. “Aye. Ye dinnae ken who ye be.”
“Nae, it’s more than that,” she snapped.
A sparkle lit his dark eyes, and a quirk lifted the corner of his mouth. Did he find her dire situation amusing? Well she didn’t. He made it sound as if she were to blame for this hapless situation. The problem, she silently grumbled, was that she didn’t know him nor did she belong in the eighteenth century. She wanted to go home, to deep bubble baths, the buzz of traffic outside her window, and...and television.
To remain calm, she took a
“Look out the window, lass. See that me words be true.”
She placed one hand on the stone wall and leaned forward. Her neck stretched out until the tendons grew taut as a rope. Her throat convulsed with a gasp. Fingernails dug tighter into his arms as seconds passed.
At last, her head slowly pivoted toward him. “What year is this?”
“It be the seventeenth-hundred-and-forty-sixth year of our Lord.”
CHAPTER 4
“Oh.... I’m really.... How did I…?”
Shock wedged her words in her throat. No wonder it had been so quiet Maggie thought as she scanned the vast green fields peppered with the plump, white bodies of grazing sheep. No major highways with bumper-to-bumper traffic and horns blaring ran through the small village. Smoke plumed skyward from squat, thatched-roofed cottages that had taken the place of high-rise apartments. A stable had replaced the Seven-Eleven on the corner.
“Take me back to bed, I must think.”
The minute he laid her down, she scooted under the covers and leaned against the mound of pillows. Her mind searched for a plausible explanation. Hallucinations? A relapse? If this wasn’t Abby’s idea of a prank, perhaps she had tumbled back in time. Was time travel possible? Had the conversation with Mrs. Bixby about Scottish Highlanders of old, become her reality? Under the cover, she pinched her thigh to make certain she wasn’t caught in the throes of her nightmare.
Ouch.
Hysterical laughter wormed up the back of her throat. A glance around the room had a sobering effect. The rough-hewn walls and antique furnishings added credibility to the illusion of ancient times. She choked back a bout of hysteria.
Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. What did he say his name was, Meister, Mitzner, Menzies? That’s it Menzies? Her breath hitched. The name of Mrs. Bixby’s favorite clan.
Visions of the weird mist that had surrounded her when she’d stood in front of the mirror, wearing the nightgown, crowded her mind. The arc of fire that had leaped between the brooch and ring was the last thing she remembered. She took a quick intake of breathe as shock pulsated through her body. Had she gone back to the eighteenth century to learn why the entries in Mrs. Bixby’s book had stopped?
Movement on her left dragged her attention back to the present or was that the past. She scanned the man’s muscular frame with a wary eye. The power coiled in him vibrated in the air as he stalked from one side of the room to the other like a caged animal. A frown deepened the creases in his forehead with each step. Perhaps if she told him the truth they could work together to send her home. The truth had always served her well in the past. Hadn’t it?
Stiff shoulders and a mouth clamped tight into a straight line indicated he might not be the most reasonable man. But she had to try. She had a life in the twenty-first century to discover.
“Liam. It is Liam, correct?”
He came to an abrupt halt before her. “Aye. That be me name.” His growled response sent shivers down her spine. Hand on his hips, he waited for her to continue. When she remained silent, he glared down at her then resumed his prowling.
Gathering her courage, she said, “We have a problem.”
He gave her a quick glance as he passed her on his journey around the room. “Aye. Ye dinnae ken who ye be.”
“Nae, it’s more than that,” she snapped.
A sparkle lit his dark eyes, and a quirk lifted the corner of his mouth. Did he find her dire situation amusing? Well she didn’t. He made it sound as if she were to blame for this hapless situation. The problem, she silently grumbled, was that she didn’t know him nor did she belong in the eighteenth century. She wanted to go home, to deep bubble baths, the buzz of traffic outside her window, and...and television.
To remain calm, she took a
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