A Slip In Time (33 page)

Julia shook her head, smiling. “Is
that not a cumbersome way to dress?” She pulled on her stockings,
combination, camisole and petticoats, foregoing her
corset.

“Isna tha’?” Rae nodded at
her layers of undergarments, returning her smile. “The
feileadh mor
is a simple
but most serviceable garment as ye might recall.”

“Indeed, very serviceable.” She
smiled, remembering its use and versatility the times they’d made
love in the heather.

Turning back to the armoire, she choose a
simple shirtwaist and skirt to wear. When she glanced at Rae, she
found him fully dressed, having secured the surplus material under
his belt and over his shoulders. He was just now finishing with the
lacing on his brogues.

As Julia slipped into her own garments, Rae
began to roam the room, clearly fascinated by all he saw.

“I dinna see the logic in laying
costly tapestries on the floors instead o’ rushes. ‘Tis sore
wasteful.”

“Those are Persian carpets and they
are made to cover the floor. They help keep the heat in the room,
besides being beautiful to look upon.”

He moved to the huge armoire, studying
its dark wood and carvings. Peering inside the open doors, he
plucked out something white. Her corset. Julia snatched it away,
causing Rae to chuckle. He next gave his attention to the
blue-and-white china jars atop the armoire.

“What guid are these for?”

“To look at. I believe they are very
expensive.”

He grunted, clearly unimpressed, and put
them back.

Rae moved off, peering into the tiny
octagonal mirror beside the fireplace.

“People o’ the nineteenth century hae
a lot o’ things tha’ are no’ verra useful.”

“There is glass in the windows. That’s
much more useful at keeping out the cold than mere
shutters.”

He turned his attention to
the windows.
Good
, Julia thought, hoping that would occupy him a moment while
she hunted in the armoire for her shoes.

“And wha’ is this for?”

Julia straightened, one shoe in her
hand, and saw he held up a hefty key, obviously having found it
where she’d left it on the table.

“It’s to the door, that door.” She
pointed across the room to the modern one. “Remember? I locked it
so we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

Julia stuck her head back in the
armoire, seeking her matching shoe. “This room doesn’t have much
privacy, in any time.” She smiled.

Hearing metal on metal and a distinctive
click, she came out of the wardrobe, grasping the found shoe. The
door stood ajar with Rae nowhere in sight.

This is going to be more challenging
than keeping up with a child, she thought, hurrying after
him.

She found him moments later, in the
long gallery, gazing at the triple row of portraits on the wall one
by one as he moved slowly down the gallery.

Julia joined him, hopping as she fit
her shoe onto her foot, then nearly colliding with him when he
halted abruptly. He stared at the likeness of one of the
sixteenth-century lairds. A flicker of recognition crossed his
eyes, or so she believed. Just then, Tom appeared at the end of the
gallery near her room, holding a blackened bucket.

“Afternoon, miss.” He nodded
respectfully to Julia, and then, if she were not imagining it, he
looked to where Rae stood and then to the portraits on the wall.
His gaze returned to Julia.

“I’ll be cleaning the ashes from your
fireplace now, if that is agreeable, miss.”

“Yes. Yes, of course, Tom.”

When Julia turned back to Rae, she
found he’d moved further down the hall, still examining the
paintings.

“That was Cook’s son, Tom.” She came
to his side. “He’s a young man of few words.”

“Tom, aye.”

“Rae, you could see him, could you
not?”

“Aye. He’s a muckle lad, though
somewha’ like a broomstick, spare as a pole wi’ hair the color o’
oats.”

“Muckle?”

“Large.”

“Yes, large, and like a broomstick.
That’s Tom.”

Julia read some perplexity congesting
Rae’s eye, unrelated to Cook’s son, but something inside cautioned
her not to press him.

“Perhaps, you would care to meet your
descendant, Lord Muir? I suspect he and his colleagues are above in
the tower library. They rarely leave it.”

Rae nodded, still given to his thoughts as
he accompanied her to the carved staircase just outside the
gallery.

“I suppose
meet
is not an accurate
word,” Julia offered conversationally as they climbed the stairs,
Rae remaining silent. “It’s a pity Lord Muir will be unable to see
you. Perhaps, I should allow him the use of my ring so he truly can
meet you at least once. It would mean so much to him, I
know.”

“Tha’ would be verra gracious of ye,”
Rae spoke at last. “‘Twould mean much tae me as well.”

Reaching the upper floor, they traveled the
gallery and converged on the library door. They found it standing
ajar, the men inside deep in their discussions.

As Julia attuned her ear to their
conversation, she realized with a start they were debating, of all
things, her corset — the corset Rae had taken with him into the
past, and which she’d subsequently found during a time slip. Julia
instantly regretted having disclosed how, when she’d become trapped
in the stairwell, she’d found the bones and disintegrated remains
of her corset, the garment having not survived the next shift
through time.

The technicalities obviously bothered
these men of science since, they propounded, if the corset had been
touching her in the past, it should have traveled forward in time
without corruption. Mr. Thornsbury currently addressed the others,
theorizing the corset did not contact Julia directly but only
peripherally, touching perhaps only the hem of her skirt. Thus it
advanced through the years with her but without the full protection
of her stone.

Julia deemed that explanation as
plausible as any, and took advantage of the men’s collective pause
as they considered Mr. Thornsbury’s premise.

“A-hem.” She cleared her throat loudly
from where she stood on the threshold.

The men’s gazes drew to Julia as she
stepped inside the library chamber. Rae followed and came to her
side.

To her astonishment, the
men remained silent, their eyes shifting to the space beside her,
or rather to Rae. Warmth rippled through her when still they did
not speak. If she was not losing her mind, they appeared to be
staring with great curiosity at Rae’s ancient-style kilt, or
rather his
feileadh-mor
.”

They looked to Julia as one, but she could
not fathom their awkward hesitation.

Lord Muir came forward at last.
“Forgive me. You’ll believe we are without a dram of hospitality.
Angus didn’t tell me we had another guest. Welcome to Dunraven,
sir. Are you from hereabouts?” His gaze brushed over Rae’s
voluminous wrap. “Or further west, perhaps? Sunderland, or the
Isles?”

Rae had been eyeing Lord Muir with
equal curiosity, in particular his red, modern-style kilt and long
snowy beard. But when Lord Muir addressed him, acknowledging his
presence, a look of astonishment washed over Rae’s face.

“I hail from hereabouts, though the
Mackinnons are a Hebridean clan,” he replied in quiet, rich
tones.

“Mackinnon?” Lord Muir sent Julia a
questioning look. “My dear, are you going to introduce our
guest?”

Julia could scarce find her tongue.

“Oh dear.” She took a deep
breath. “I think you should sit down.
All
you gentlemen should sit
down.”

Seeing her tremble, Rae braced her elbow
with a hand. She found him smiling fully, enjoying this new twist
of fate.

Lord Muir eased himself into a nearby
chair, canting his head. “Is something wrong, Julia?”

“No, not wrong. Just . . .
extraordinary. Gentlemen, I am honored to present to you . . . oh
dear—”

She took a deep swallow then tried to
bring forth the words she must speak. Rae’s hand slipped around her
waist and he gave her a small, reassuring squeeze, then spoke for
her.

“I am Rae Mackinnon, Third Laird o’
Dunraven Castle. I bring you my greetings from the year o’ our
Lord, fourteen hundred and thirty-seven.”

The men appeared to have gone to
stone, not one eyelash did they move. Julia could not be sure if
they’d ceased to breathe altogether. She found difficulty with that
task herself. It was as if the air had just been sucked out of the
room.

Slowly, Lord Muir rose, shaken with
emotion. He came to stand before Rae, meeting Rae’s intense blue
gaze with his own of pale blue. Lord Muir then extended a shaky
hand, his eyes rimmed with tears.

“Welcome, sir. Welcome to Dunraven in
our day, eighteen hundred and ninety-three. I am James Edwin
Dunnington your descendant and twenty-seventh laird of Dunraven. I
have sought for two decades to find you again.” His beard parted
with a delighted smile. “You have grown since last I saw you as a
boy. I imagine I have aged considerably in your eyes as well. But
please come in. Come in.”

The men all rose from their places now and
welcomed Rae with utter awe and fascination. Introductions were
quickly made. Julia saw it required enormous strength of will on
their parts to withdraw intermittently to check their instruments
and record the information there.

“We must celebrate this moment
properly,” Lord Muir proclaimed and started toward the bookshelves
lining the back wall. “A drop of Glenlevit, perhaps?” He began to
remove several books on the right end of the shelf.

“Or Dimple Haig,” Sir Henry
suggested.

“Yes, excellent.” Lord
Muir replaced the books and moved further down the row to the left
and one shelf up. “Here we are, behind the tomes
on
Robert the Bruce.”

He withdrew two thick volumes and produced a
triangular-shaped bottle filled with amber liquid.

“I trust the Bruce to keep my Dimple
safe from Mrs. McGinty.” He winked as he set the bottle on the
large table occupying the center of the vaulted chamber. “She has
an irksome habit of hiding it from me.”

Retrieving several small glasses from
a file cabinet, he set them out and filled them to the rim. Julia
politely declined as Lord Muir offered her some of the potent
liquid. The men then raised their glasses in unison, toasting the
moment and Rae Mackinnon, and downed their portions in a single
swallow.

“‘
Dimple’ d’ ye call it?” Rae peered
at his empty glass with a look of approval.

“Dimple Haig. It is a deluxe brand of
whisky.”

“Whisky.”
Rae considered the word. “‘Tis no’ so strong
as
usige beatha
but verra, verra smooth, is it no’?”

“Dimple is one of the more
sophisticated blends. It has a mellow sweetness that is offset by a
smoky, peaty flavor.”

“There are others then?”

“A multitude, each with their own
distinguishing characteristics. You must sample more of them while
you are here in our time.”

Just when Julia feared the men were
going to spend the rest of their time together extolling the merits
of Scotland’s national drink and its many distilleries, Lord Muir
invited them to sit in the large leather chairs surrounding the
table.

At the marquis’s request, Rae
described for them how, while he waited in his bedchamber to see
whether time would shift, the scene before him melted away and he
next found himself in the future, surrounded by unfamiliar
furnishings.

“I could do naught but wait there.” He
sent a smile to Julia. “The door tae the hall in my own day had
disappeared.”

Lord Muir sat forward, templing his fingers.
His gaze traveled around the table.

“I believe we can presume the time
slips will continue for now, at least until the New Moon when the
lunar energies will again be in flux. It would seem the laws that
first governed the phenomenon are now working in reverse.” His pale
eyes drew to Rae. “Though, obviously, in new and most welcome ways.
Regrettably, there is no predicting what will occur at the next New
Moon, whether time will again shift to the past, or cease to shift
all together.”

Julia’s heart sank at that
pronouncement. Sensitive to her emotions, Rae reached over and
squeezed her hand, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by the
others.

“Time holds many mysteries, tae be
sure, but also as many possibilities, I am thinkin’.”

He gave her hand another squeeze of
encouragement, then transferred his attention to the other men in
the room.

“The moon has begun tae wane. I assume
the time shifts will also shorten each day, in like
measure.”

“That is true, sir,” Mr. Armistead
spoke up. “But we will continue to investigate the phenomenon and
strive to unravel its secrets before the New Moon. You may place
full confidence in us, Laird Mackinnon.”