My Laird's Castle by Bess McBride

though they are bored and restless in this poor weather.”
    He rose and bowed. I almost stood, for some reason, but stayed still, giving him a smile and a small wave. Colin ignored him. As soon as the door closed behind him, I started.
    “Well, what was that all about? Hey, listen, that little ‘talk’ we had last night. I almost fell for that, can you believe it? Nope, time travel doesn’t exist, it doesn’t happen, and I am smack dab in the middle of the twenty-first century. So, buckaroo, what’s the deal here anyway? And who is that guy?”
    Colin stared at me for a moment before dropping his elbows on the table as he leaned forward.
    “Are ye jesting wi me, lass? Yon Englishman is Captain Jones, right and true. The English think naethin of availing themselves of my hospitality should they travel through the area, which they do far too often.” He continued. “Time travel? Och, I surely do believe that time travel is possible and that ye have traveled through time. If no, then it is ye who are making a pretence, though yer English be peculiar enough to be from the New World.”
    “ My English!” I exclaimed. “ Your English is appalling!”
    “Well, I’m nae English now, am I, madam?” Colin emphasized his point by jabbing his chest with his thumb.
    “No, you’re not!” I instantly regretted my words. “I’m sorry,” I said, shamefaced. “I love the Scottish accent. It’s really quite charming.”
    Though Colin’s beard largely covered the lower half of his face, I could see redness creep onto his forehead, and I knew he blushed.  
    “That is quite a thick beard you have there. Makes it hard to read your expression.”
    “Do ye wish to ‘read’ my expression?” he asked, settling back into his chair.
    “Sometimes,” I said with a nod. I could feel my own face flaming. “Like right now. I can’t tell what you’re thinking.”
    “I am thinking that ye and I are in a predicament. One of us speaks the truth and one of us tells lies.”
    “I’m not lying,” I said. “I know when I was born. Oh, and Montana?” I couldn’t help but chuckle. “South of Boston? Really?”
    Colin’s teeth flashed charmingly, and his shoulders lifted in a shrug.
    “Montana is about as far from Boston as you can get,” I said. “You may not have studied American geography—why would you?—but it’s in the West. North and West. Below Alberta?” I thought he might at least recognize a Canadian province.
    “I dinna ken Alberta,” he said. “Wait here a moment.” He jumped up and left the room.
    I finished my lovely toast and waited. Colin returned with something that resembled a newspaper, which he set in front of me. The thick paper looked new, and I noted the name. The Caledonian Mercury from Edinburgh, Midlothian, Scotland. I squinted to read the year. The typeset was different than anything I’d ever seen.
    “July 21, 1746,” I read aloud. “Well, of course you’d have a mid-eighteenth-century newspaper in your house, Colin. I can’t imagine you’d have a current one. That would ruin the facade, wouldn’t it?”
    “Look at it closely,” he said. He put his finger on the top sheet and ran it along, holding his hand up to reveal ink.
    Ink? From a newspaper that was over two hundred and fifty years old? Cold sweat broke out on my forehead, and my stomach lurched.
    I picked up the paper, finding it shiny, thick and sturdy, with no evidence of yellowing, cracking or other signs of aging.  
    “Is this proof enough?” Colin asked. He hovered over me, and between the sense of the surreal and the presence of his long-fingered hand near mine, I wondered if I was about to faint.
    I fought the sensation.
    “No, this could just be a replica.”
    Colin threw himself in his chair with a frustrated expression. At least, I think it was frustration.
    “Woman! What will it take to convince ye?”
    I shrugged and attempted a grin.
    “I have no idea. Since you’re so deeply immersed in the