A Slip In Time (37 page)

“Its contents are an odd collection of
sundry things, but it includes bits and slices of his own clan’s
histories, that of the Macphersons, and tales that were passed down
to him through the clan. It was in these pages that I found
reference to Mairi Macpherson and her husband, and a story then
well known surrounding the couple’s marriage and the Mackinnons of
Glendar.”

Mr. Galbraith opened a large, green
leather binder that occupied the center of the table. It contained
loose sheaves of paper covered with small, neat writing.

“I have copied the relevant passages
of the manuscript, both in the Gaelic and the English. It is a
partial history of Rae Mackinnon and his brothers, the only record
to come down to us.” He met Julia’s gaze, gravity weighting his
eyes. “I am sorry, Miss Hargrove. The tale it bears is
grim.”

Julia looked to Lord Muir, who lifted
a shaky hand to wipe his eyes. Meanwhile, Mr. Thornsbury came to
stand at her side and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Dear God,” she whispered. “What does
it say?”

Mr. Galbraith removed his glasses. “On
the night Donald Mackinnon set out with his retinue to wed Mairi
and bring her to Glendar . . . I am sorry, Miss Hargrove, there is
no easy way to say this. That night, Rae Mackinnon perished in a
fire that swept Dunraven’s great hall.”

Julia shot to her feet. “No, no! This
cannot be so. Rae would have gone with Donald. Why would he remain
behind while his brother rode to his wedding? Niall MacMhuirich
must be mistaken.”

Mr. Thornsbury and Sir Henry sought to calm
her but she refused to be appeased, refused to accept the hearsay
of this faceless bard.

Mr. Armistead and Angus attended Lord
Muir, who had covered his eyes with his hands, tears streaming
down his cheeks. Seeing this, Julia looked to Mr. Galbraith, her
own eyes welling.

“Miss Hargrove, the wedding customs in
the fifteenth-century Highlands were quite different from ours
today. It would not be unusual, as laird, that he should await the
arrival of the wedding party, to formally greet the couple to his
keep and commence more celebrations there. Perhaps, in Rae
Mackinnon’s case, he had other reasons as well. Did you not learn
that his clan is — or rather, was — plagued with reivers at this
time?”

Julia wished to deny it,
but could not. “Surely if the hall caught fire, Rae would have
escaped. There is a single entrance door to the outside, true, but
there is also another that leads up into the main keep. The keep
still stands. We are standing in it now. Certainly, Rae could
escape. He
must have
escaped!”

Lord Muir spoke for the first time,
his voice wavering. “Julia, there is more.”

The knot in Julia’s stomach grew to a
massive fist, squeezing her very soul. She wished to throw her
hands over her ears and shut out what they would say. Instead, she
braced herself, scarcely breathing as Mr. Galbraith picked up the
grievous story once more.

“Iain Mackinnon, for whatever reason,
believed his brother’s death to be no accident and laid the blame
to Cameron treachery, contending they attacked the laird in his
very hall, after Donald and his escort had departed. The Camerons
vigorously denied this and claimed their innocence, insisting the
remains that had been recovered were of a man too small in stature
to have been Rae Mackinnon’s.”

“Then he didn’t die,” Julia cried.
“Niall was mistaken, as was Iain.”

“Nevertheless, Rae Mackinnon was never
seen again after that night. Nor was he ever heard of, or from,
again.”

Julia left the table and began to pace
the room, unable to remain still a moment longer. She wouldn’t
accept this, couldn’t accept this.

“Iain Mackinnon led an attack on the
Cameron stronghold.” Sir Henry picked up the story. “But the
Camerons anticipated Iain and armed themselves. When the fighting
had finished, more Mackinnons lay dead, including Iain, though not
a Cameron fell.”

“So Iain died, too,” Julia said,
barely above a whisper. “And what of Donald?”

“Donald became Fourth Laird of
Dunraven and averted a clan war. His brothers’ deaths must have
been a shattering blow, but curiously, Donald refused to take up
arms against the Camerons, as did his new kinsmen by marriage, the
Macphersons.”

“Clan feuds began over much less in
the Highlands,” Mr. Galbraith explained further. “So, this is
rather strange. The Macphersons had no love for the Camerons and
had warred against them in the past, standing with Clan Macintosh,
the Camerons’ foremost rival. One would have thought that, with
Donald’s wedding, Clan Chattan itself would have stood with the
Mackinnons.

“How can I explain it? The MacIntosh
held the chieftainship of the confederation and were always ready
for a fray with the Camerons. The Macphersons remained a leading
clan, though they no longer held the chieftainship as in Mhuirich’s
day. One would think both clans would have stood with Donald and
called out the other clans of the confederation. The Mackinnons
were too small to take on the Camerons alone, and yet the laird and
his brother lay dead by Cameron hands — if Iain had the right of it
to begin with.

“Without the support of the
Macphersons or anyone else, Donald was probably wise to follow the
course he did and avoid war. But bad blood remained between the
Mackinnons of Glendar and the Camerons for decades.”

Julia took a hard swallow. “Is that
all?”

By their looks, she could tell it was
not.

“What then?” she demanded of Mr.
Galbraith. Was it not enough that he had plunged a knife through
her heart with his words? Was he now to rip it out all together?
“What?” she cried again, her throat aching and raw, great tears
tumbling down her cheeks.

“Niall has provided us with the exact
date Donald rode to his wedding — the same night Dunraven’s hall
burned and Rae Mackinnon lost his life. We’ve made the appropriate
calendar adjustments to our own and—”

Julia began to shake her head, not wishing
to hear what he would say.

“Julia.”

Lord Muir’s voice drew her gaze, and
she found a fierce pain lancing his pale eyes.

“Julia. We are fast closing upon that
date once more, both in our time and Rae’s. It coincides with the
night of the next New Moon. Then the door between our times will
surely close forever. For on that night, Rae—” His voice broke,
tears flooding his eyes. “Rae Mackinnon will die.”

Blackness swept over Julia, swallowing her
as she dropped to the floor.

Something was wrong. He could sense
it. More, he could see it in Julia’s eyes, hear it in her voice. He
could feel the tension coiled in her body even when they made love.
As they had just a short while ago.

Rae gazed upon his golden love. She rested
beside him in a light sleep. Even now, her cares weighed upon her
brows.

What disturbed her so? Their hours together
dwindled each day, in proportion to the waning of the moon. Did
Julia dread the coming New Moon, fearing the uncertainty of their
future and whether the door of time would reverse itself again, or
remain closed?

He sensed ‘twas something deeper,
mayhap, dire.

Rae scanned the blue canopy stretched above
them, and sifted the past days through his mind, those since his
return.

Several times, he’d caught
Julia staring at him, her
look etched with
pain. If ‘twas true one’s eyes reflected one’s
soul, then the pain he saw in hers stabbed soul-deep.

And what of Lord Muir and the others,
whose cheer seemed forced of late? When first he’d met his
descendant, James Edwin, he had been struck by his fitness and
vigor for a man his age. Yet, Rae had been equally struck, stunned
actually, to find on his return, that James Edwin’s health had
visibly deteriorated. Was this the source of Julia’s distress? Of
the other men’s, as well?

Rae turned his thoughts in
his mind. These last days, he’d spent what time could be spared
with the men in the upper chamber, relating tales of his father and
of his own youth. He’d also perused a book containing Mackinnon
clan history — that occurring
before
his own day — and surprised
them all with his ability to read. Gaelic posed no difficulty,
though the later-day English offered a definite
challenge.

Still, during those hours in the
library, the men oft times found difficulty meeting his eyes
directly, something shielded in their eyes. Did their concerns
embrace more than James Edwin’s sudden decline of health? What
then? What had transpired since the night of the grand
gathering?

Rae bent his thoughts to Mr. Galbraith. The
man had arrived during his own absence. Might he have brought news
of some import?

Rae now recalled two occasions when
he’d entered the library unannounced. The men quickly assembled
the papers they were discussing and closed them in a green leather
binder which they then hastily shelved. Had their looks contained a
measure of guilt? Or something other? Had that been tears
glistening in James Edwin’s eyes?

What did they know that he did not? What
were they keeping from him?

Rae eased from Julia’s side and
dressed, leaving his brogues so he could pass noiselessly through
the castle, barefooted. Retrieving the key from beneath the
pillow, he unlocked the door and stole silently from the
room.

Faint light streamed through the tall
windows of the Long Gallery, a reminder the moon was in its wane.
Rae passed beneath the mindful eyes of the Mackinnons vigilant
upon the wall and ascended the stairs to the upper gallery.

Proceeding to the library, he
discovered the door ajar, golden light spilling into the passage.
Rae edged the door open and stood framed by the portal. Lamplight
bathed the chamber’s interior with an unnatural yellow glow,
pooling over the table in the center of the room. There, Mr.
Galbraith snored softly, slumped in one of the large leather
chairs. Before him lay the green binder, open with its papers lying
askew.

Crossing silently to the table, Rae eased
himself into a chair beside the slumbering man and slid over the
binder and papers.

Putting order to the pages, he scanned
their small, neat script, some of the writing being in English,
some in Gaelic. Comparing them, he determined both related the
same story — a story that contained his name and those of his
brothers.

Choosing the pages written in Gaelic, Rae
placed them before him, and began to read.

»«

Julia awoke with a start, her dream
tormenting her, the great hall ablaze and Rae not to be found.

Her heart still pounded as she glanced to
the space beside her and found Rae gone. Dimly, she recalled
sensing his leaving. But how could she have fallen asleep yet
again? One would think she was the one still traveling across time.
Rae seemed unaffected by the time shifts, confessing to no more
than occasional headaches. She, on the other hand, had begun to
feel enormously fatigued, more so than before, and, at times,
dizzy.

Julia spied Rae’s brogues on the floor
near the wall. Time had not slipped back to its normal state after
all. By reflex, she looked under the pillow. Not finding the key,
she directed her gaze to the door and spied it in the
lock.

Julia threw back the covers and swung her
legs out of bed. The thought of Rae roaming the castle sent bolts
of fear straight through her. What if he went in search of Lord
Eaton to confront him and avenge her honor? Her gaze flew about
the chamber. Not surprisingly, his dirk was not in sight.

Pulling on her nightgown and stuffing her
arms into her robe, she hurried to the door and hauled it open,
heading out into the Long Gallery.

She halted at once. Rae stood halfway
down the gallery’s length, gazing up at the triple row of Mackinnon
portraits.

As she continued toward him, he caught
sight of her and turned. Turmoil darkened his eyes, stealing their
blue. In that single moment, Julia realized he knew of his coming
fate.

As she came to his side, he directed
his gaze back to a painting in the center row, the same painting
of a sixteenth-century laird in which he’d taken such interest
before.

“I suspected the truth when first I
saw this portrait and those there and there.” He pointed to several
others. “See the straight brows that wing upward and the strong,
clefted square chin. ‘Tis Mairi Macpherson’s brows and Mairi
Macpherson’s chin. I saw the likeness again in the painting of
James Edwin’s grandmother and the children at her skirts. I suspect
he himself possesses the same chin beneath his beard.”

Rae turned to Julia. “I know ye wished
tae spare me, but yer heart is in yer eyes. The others, too. They
couldna hide the secret they held inside. I hae read the words for
myself just now, twice over, in Gaelic and English.” He expelled a
heavy breath. “These paintings bear out Niall MacMhuirich’s words.
Donald, Fourth Laird o’ Dunraven — o’ whom ye spoke, and whose
deeds are renowned and many — he is no’ my son. ‘Tis my brother, he
is. And these faces here are his descendants, his and his Mairi’s.
‘Tis she they favor in their looks sae strongly.”