“Wh…what do you mean?”
“Yer bathwater is coolin’. I promise we’ll answer all yer questions once you have a chance to freshen up.”
“You know?”
“Aye, I ken what’s happened.” She nodded, sympathy in her gray-blue eyes. “I’ll help with the laird while you bathe, and then we’ll talk.”
Goose bumps rose along Ali’s arms and she shivered, noting the inviting warmth the steaming tub offered. “All right,” she agreed, “but I won’t be put off.”
The woman nodded, then headed out the door.
Unbuckling the belt, Ali laid it on the floor along with the length of plaid. Shrugging out of her T-shirt, she stepped into the tub and slid down. She grimaced when her right hand hit the water, and turned her palm up. The outline of the knife’s shaft was clearly visible. Slowly, she submerged it, sucking in a breath until the throbbing eased. She reached to take the bar of soap from the stool beside the tub and sniffed. Lavender—obviously Mrs. Mac thought the aromatic scent would calm her. Ali closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep through her knotted muscles and tried to do just that. But her thoughts were in turmoil. Rory MacLeod, the beautiful sixteenth-century laird, alive—at least she hoped he was—in the room next door.
It was unbelievable, inconceivable, and part of her refused to consider the possibility it was true, but the annoying little voice in her head kept flashing the evidence before her: the differences in the castle’s interior from when she’d first arrived, no Duncan, no electric lights, no doctors, no medicines. And the most damning evidence of all—Rory MacLeod himself.
Fergus’s words came to mind. That’s why the fairies brought you. You’re the only one who can save him.
Ali cursed and hopped out of the tub. Grabbing the towel off the stool, she rubbed herself vigorously. Fairy flag—it was that stupid fairy flag. Well, if the fairies had brought her here, they could damn well send her home.
She ran her fingers over the amethyst gown laid out on the bed, frowning when she lifted it to reveal what looked like a delicate white nightgown and a long ruffled skirt. She wondered which one Mrs. Mac wanted her to wear. Shoving them aside, she searched for a pair of panties and a bra.
There was a light tap on the connecting door, and Ali wrapped the towel around herself.
“’Tis only me, dear,” Mrs. Mac said, coming into the room. “I thought you might have need of me. Here.” The older woman held out the sheer, white nightgown. “The chemise goes on first.”
Ali ducked her head, lifting one arm and then the other to slip through the armholes before she released her grip on the towel.
Mrs. Mac tsked. “No need to be shy, lass.”
“Sorry. I’m not used to someone helping me dress.”
“Aye, well, there’d be a lot you’ll have to get used to,” the older woman chided, fastening the ruffled skirt at her waist.
Ali’s response was muffled as Mrs. Mac pulled the gown over her head.
“Ye look verra bonny, lass. I didna’ put out a corset fer you, but if you…” She prattled on, lacing the gown with brisk competence.
“Ahh, no, I’m fine.” She barely got the words out of her mouth before Mrs. Mac nudged her toward the bed.
“Here are yer stockings and slippers.”
“Are you sure whoever you got these from doesn’t mind?” Ali asked, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “They look like they’ve never been worn.”
“They havena’, the laird ordered them fer our lady. Spoiled her he did. Never wanted to give her father anythin’ to complain aboot. Not many have gowns such as these. They were a gift fer after the bairn was born.” She gave a sad sigh before she went on to explain, “’Tis why they’re long enough fer you. I didna’ have a chance to alter them fer her.”
Ali didn’t know what to say, so she concentrated on pulling up the stockings, wincing as the fabric scraped across her palm.
“What’s wrong, lass?” The woman reached for Ali’s hand. She tsked, and shook her head. “Fergus should have been the one to see to the wound, but I ken he couldna’ do it. No’ after the last time.”
“The last time?”
“Aye, he tried to help Dougal, you see, doin’ as you did fer our laird. Killed him instead,” she said as she bent to roll on the stockings for Ali.
Ali’s eyes widened. “Oh, ah…I’m sorry.”
“Aye, well, these things happen, but at least our laird had you to care fer him.” Stepping back she gave Ali the once-over. “Yer set now.”
Ali got up from the bed, anxious to check on her patient. Not sure she was ready to have her suspicions confirmed. “Did Rory wake up when you were in his room?”
“Nay, but he seems to be restin’ comfortably. Doona’ fash yerself, lass. You can see to him once we’ve had our wee chat.” Mrs. Mac opened the adjoining door and called out to Fergus and Iain, gesturing for them to come inside.
“I’d rather not leave him on his own. We can have this conversation in his room.”
“Nay, we canna’ do that. I have a lass sittin’ with him. If need be, she’ll call.”
Fergus and Iain came into the room, looking ill at ease, unable to meet her eyes. Mrs. Mac closed the door behind them. “Sit, lass,” she ordered.
Ali obeyed. The woman was bossy.
Iain rubbed the shadow along his jaw with the palm of his big hand, then lifted his eyes to hers. “Do you ken what happened?”
Ali chewed the inside of her lower lip, wondering if she dare risk the embarrassment of explaining exactly what it was she thought had happened. It was so far-fetched as to be laughable, but she wasn’t laughing, and she needed to know what was going on.
“When your brother was wounded you thought he was going to die, so you raised the fairy flag, and poof, here I am.” She tried to make light of it.
The three of them stared at her in stunned silence.
Oh, my God, they think I’m crazy.
Please, don’t let anyone be recording this. Surreptitiously, she searched for cameras in the crevices of the gray stone walls.
“How did you ken?” Iain asked.
“Duncan Macintosh, Dunvegan’s caretaker, he told me about the fairy flag when he took me on a tour of the castle this afternoon,” she said absently, until she realized what Iain had asked. “What do you mean, how did I know? Are you trying to tell me that’s what happened?”
“Aye.” Iain grimaced.
She jumped off the bed. “Well, wave it again and send me back.”
“We canna’ do that. There’s only one wish left,” he explained, backing away as she strode toward him.
“I’m telling you to do it, now.” She stabbed a finger into his broad chest.
“I’m sorry, lass, we canna’. We have to think of the clan,” Fergus said quietly.
“What about me? You expect me to stay here, stuck in the sixteenth century, never to go home?” She choked back a sob, determined not to cry.
“Ah, lass, I didna’ mean for this to happen. But I had no choice. I couldna’ let my brother die.”
“’Tis no’ the lad’s fault. He only raised the flag and the fairies did the rest.”