referred to Margaret in the third person, but she wasn’t going to admit to being someone she wasn’t, no matter how it displeased him.
“A sennight.”
A what? Oh yes, Mrs. Bixby used the word to signify one week. A week! No wonder it took only a few short sentences to explain his and Margaret’s acquaintance. They hadn’t known each other at all. This debacle could easily be construed as a case of mistaken identity.
“You knew Margaret for a week before you married her?” Curious, she wondered if his and Margaret’s marriage had been arranged.
“Aye.”
“So, you really do not know her?”
Dark eyebrows lowered, and the lines around his mouth deepened. Definitely not a man who took criticism well.
“I ken ye be her.”
A sigh of exasperation escaped her at his insistence that she was his wife. “I may resemble your Margaret, but I promise you I am not she.”
There was no way to prove it, but she doubted she’d ever been with a man sexually. At least she’d never had the desire to be with one since her accident, until nowexcept in her dreams and that wasn’t real.
Arms crossed over his chest, he looked down his off-kilter nose at her. “Who do ye think ye be?”
Shifting onto her side, she faced him and put as much confidence in her voice as she could. She knew she’d sound utterly ridiculous but she couldn’t think of another explanation. Looking him straight in the eye, she delivered the summation that had brought her to his century.
“I am a time traveler.”
“A what?” He reared back against the chair and uncrossed his arms. Hands braced on his thighs, his back stiff as a poker, he gaped at her.
“Yes. It is the only explanation. I lived in the twenty-first century, so I must have traveled back in time.”
His gaze darted around the room. “Ye’ll nae say that where someone could overhear ye. The village folk are superstitious, and I’ll nae have me wife gawked at and accused of witchery. Not many years ago, ye’d be burned at the stake for saying such.”
“But....”
The angry scowl that darkened his face and puckered the scar indicated he wouldn’t tolerate any arguments to his demand. Anxiety tightened her chest. Why wouldn’t he listen?
“All right, I promise, but only if you’ll listen to my story. Here, where there is no one else around.” With the cover tucked under her chin, she scooted further up on the pillows.
At her movement, he resembled a man on the verge of leaping from his chair and dashing toward the door. Was it her imagination or had he scooted the chair back several inches. Did he fear her, or think her crazy?
Did eighteenth century Scotland have a place where they kept people accused of insanity? If he put her in an institution for the insane, she’d never find her way home. Reason told her that if this was where she arrived, from here was where she would have to leave.
She held her breath for so long while he mulled over his decision dizziness swamped her.
At last, he nodded.
Her breath exhaled in a long sigh. “I told you how I lost my memory.”
“Aye.”
Couldn’t the man answer with more than “aye?” The habit was quiet annoying.
“I have lived in a therapy/rehab center in Tulsa, Oklahoma, since my accident. I had a broken leg” — he bobbed his head once in agreement — “and internal injuries. It took me nearly two months to recover. A therapist helped me overcome my speech problem.”
His brows scrunched into a frown. “Ye could nae speak?”
She glared her displeasure at him. “Yes, I spoke. I rolled my r’s, and I....”
No, no, that wasn’t right. Nurses claimed she garbled her words while under the affects of the anesthesia. They believed her head injury had caused the problem. A speech therapist had helped her speak slow and precise and instructed her how to stop using words like, I, you, and verbs incorrectly.
The mysterious grin lifted the uninjured side of his mouth.
“Anyway, I cannot be your wife
“A sennight.”
A what? Oh yes, Mrs. Bixby used the word to signify one week. A week! No wonder it took only a few short sentences to explain his and Margaret’s acquaintance. They hadn’t known each other at all. This debacle could easily be construed as a case of mistaken identity.
“You knew Margaret for a week before you married her?” Curious, she wondered if his and Margaret’s marriage had been arranged.
“Aye.”
“So, you really do not know her?”
Dark eyebrows lowered, and the lines around his mouth deepened. Definitely not a man who took criticism well.
“I ken ye be her.”
A sigh of exasperation escaped her at his insistence that she was his wife. “I may resemble your Margaret, but I promise you I am not she.”
There was no way to prove it, but she doubted she’d ever been with a man sexually. At least she’d never had the desire to be with one since her accident, until nowexcept in her dreams and that wasn’t real.
Arms crossed over his chest, he looked down his off-kilter nose at her. “Who do ye think ye be?”
Shifting onto her side, she faced him and put as much confidence in her voice as she could. She knew she’d sound utterly ridiculous but she couldn’t think of another explanation. Looking him straight in the eye, she delivered the summation that had brought her to his century.
“I am a time traveler.”
“A what?” He reared back against the chair and uncrossed his arms. Hands braced on his thighs, his back stiff as a poker, he gaped at her.
“Yes. It is the only explanation. I lived in the twenty-first century, so I must have traveled back in time.”
His gaze darted around the room. “Ye’ll nae say that where someone could overhear ye. The village folk are superstitious, and I’ll nae have me wife gawked at and accused of witchery. Not many years ago, ye’d be burned at the stake for saying such.”
“But....”
The angry scowl that darkened his face and puckered the scar indicated he wouldn’t tolerate any arguments to his demand. Anxiety tightened her chest. Why wouldn’t he listen?
“All right, I promise, but only if you’ll listen to my story. Here, where there is no one else around.” With the cover tucked under her chin, she scooted further up on the pillows.
At her movement, he resembled a man on the verge of leaping from his chair and dashing toward the door. Was it her imagination or had he scooted the chair back several inches. Did he fear her, or think her crazy?
Did eighteenth century Scotland have a place where they kept people accused of insanity? If he put her in an institution for the insane, she’d never find her way home. Reason told her that if this was where she arrived, from here was where she would have to leave.
She held her breath for so long while he mulled over his decision dizziness swamped her.
At last, he nodded.
Her breath exhaled in a long sigh. “I told you how I lost my memory.”
“Aye.”
Couldn’t the man answer with more than “aye?” The habit was quiet annoying.
“I have lived in a therapy/rehab center in Tulsa, Oklahoma, since my accident. I had a broken leg” — he bobbed his head once in agreement — “and internal injuries. It took me nearly two months to recover. A therapist helped me overcome my speech problem.”
His brows scrunched into a frown. “Ye could nae speak?”
She glared her displeasure at him. “Yes, I spoke. I rolled my r’s, and I....”
No, no, that wasn’t right. Nurses claimed she garbled her words while under the affects of the anesthesia. They believed her head injury had caused the problem. A speech therapist had helped her speak slow and precise and instructed her how to stop using words like, I, you, and verbs incorrectly.
The mysterious grin lifted the uninjured side of his mouth.
“Anyway, I cannot be your wife
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