“Her hair, short a few days ago, is longer, leading many to believe her short hairstyle was nothing more than a wig, calling her out for a shameless publicity stunt,” the female reporter went on. “But there is no denying the other obvious changes. I’m not one for fat shaming, of course, but she seems to have gained a radical amount of weight in such a short time. So much so, some gossip columnists are speculating Ms. Thomas was attempting to disguise a secret pregnancy beneath her slouchy, over-sized—wait, wait.”
The woman touched her ear, listening. When her eyes returned to the camera, malicious glee burned bright in them. “We have gotten word that Scarlett Thomas has just been admitted at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary Emergency Department. Let’s take a look at the newest video coming…”
“What nonsense,” he murmured, shaking his head as the still photos were replaced by a grainy cell phone video showing the woman tucked protectively against the side of a braw man in a full kilt while two other men tried to push back the crush of the gathered crowd.
Sorcha sighed. “I know you hate it. I should have turned the TV off the minute you returned. But I just love Scarlett Thomas. Terrible of them to pick on her. Not fat shaming? That’s exactly what they’re doing.”
“She’s the actress in those dragon movies ye made me watch, is she no’?” he asked. “The ones that made nae sense?”
“They weren’t dragons, they were aliens,” his wife clarified sternly, though her lips twisted with suppressed humor. She never tired of taking a measure of wicked pleasure when he was taken aback by some element of this time period. “You simply haven’t come to appreciate the finer nuances of fantasy and science fiction yet, but I have faith.” She glanced back at the screen, her expression somber. “I do hope she’ll be okay, though. Something unusual must be going on for her to be dressed like that.”
Hugh directed his attention to the telly once again, studying the woman as the Scotsman persisted, forcing his way through the throng of onlookers. She wore a full-skirted blue gown with what appeared to be a darker-blue woolen plaid wrapped around her shoulders. The same patterned tartan as the kilt of the man who had his arm around her, her face buried in his shoulder as she clung to him.
“Dressed like what?”
“Not exactly the current fashion, even in modern Scotland. Maybe it’s for a play or a movie…?” She caught the roll of his eyes. “Fine, I’ll turn it off.”
Sorcha reached for the remote control just as one of the kilted men swung a sword at the crowd. They all leapt back in fear, and the first man swept the actress into his arms and surged forward. Something on the screen caught Hugh’s eye.
“Nay, wait. Stop. Can ye… bluidy hell, can ye reverse it?”
“What?”
“Go back. Back…There. Stop.”
Hugh stared at the paused image, his body just as immobile. A curl of dread—no, fascination, stilled his breathing. His blood pounded in his ears.
“What is it?” Sorcha shifted her gaze between him and the screen with a frown. “Hugh?”
“Look.” The word was a nothing more than a croak, a gasp of sound that managed to escape the knot in his throat. His entire being denied function in its shock. He cleared his throat. “Look there and tell me what ye see, lass.”
“A mad man swinging a sword? The entertainment show you make fun of me for watching?” she asked, the questions wry but curious. “What?”
“Just there.” He stepped forward and pointed out a spot in the background behind the blurred arc of the silver blade. “Tell me what ye see.”
The actress’s fisted hand clenched the man’s shirt, pulling the white linen taut across his shoulder and baring a portion of his chest.
Revealing a chain and the golden disk hanging from it.
Hugh touched the vague outline in the center of the circle as if he could trace the raised image. Feel it.
“That’s…” Sorcha trailed off with a whisper.
“We need to go to Edinburgh.”
“What?”
“Now.”
“And do what?” she argued, though she was already in motion. “It’s not like you can just stroll in there asking questions and expect to get in to see them, you know? She’s a celebrity. There will be guards.”
“Still giving me lessons, lass? I’ve been in this time for many months.”
A trace of amusement lifted the corner of her mouth. “Well, I guess that makes you an expert, doesn’t it? So how do you expect to get in there?”
“I dinnae ken yet, but I guarantee nothing will stop me.”
Emmy
Achenmeade, Scotland
March 1896
“I don’t like this,” Connor MacLean, Earl of Strathclyde, murmured under his breath as his wary gaze swept the surrounding area.
He helped his bride of just a few months down from the carriage, keeping a secure hold on her hand. Emmy was thankful for the assistance. She’d gotten much better at dealing with long skirts and limited mobility over the last couple months, but still occasionally tripped over them now and then when she was distracted.
As she was at the moment. As they both were.
The queasiness of the motion sickness from the extended carriage ride took a back seat to the uneasiness their journey incited. From Duart Castle on the Isle of Mull to Dunskirk Castle outside the small hamlet of Achenmeade, the mystery of why they were there and what awaited them weighed on their thoughts.
“Well, we’re here.” Emmy pursed her lips and stared up at the looming
