“New tailor?” she asked, for his garb certainly wasn’t the typical Lowland dress she’d seen him in before. Or even the modern suit he’d worn the first time they’d met here at Dunskirk…five hundred years in the future.
Another glance over Donell’s companions pinpointed a more accurate time frame for her, for there was no mistaking the style despite the warm outerwear that covered their clothes.
“Late Victorian?” Scarlett questioned of the woman who still watched her with wide green eyes.
She blinked then smiled engagingly. “You know your history. Yes, of late.”
“And before that?” Scarlett pressed, eyeing the still silent Donell apprehensively. “If you know who I am, or rather was, that era couldn’t be your origination point.”
“No, it’s not. But do you mind if we come in before I explain? It’s rather cold out here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Please.” Scarlett nudged her husband, who stood legs braced and arms crossed over his broad chest, glowering at Donell. “Laird? Are we going to let them in? Or no?”
Laird’s jaw clenched and unclenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “I dinnae ken. Do ye mean to bring any harm upon us, Donell? Upon my family?”
Donell’s elfin face scrunched up. His already ruddy countenance darkened shades more up to the tips of his pointy ears. “Such mistrust. I brought ye nothing but happiness before, aye?”
“After a fashion,” Laird conceded. “And now?”
“I’ve but brought someone to help deliver your bairn.”
“You’re the one?” the blonde blurted out, her eyes dropping down. “Oh, holy sh…moly.”
Scarlett rested her hand on her distended belly with a smile then turned to Donell. “Kind of you, but I’m not due for quite some time. Oh, come in! We can at least offer you a hot drink.” She nudged Laird’s immovable shoulder. When that proved ineffective, she took his hand and gave it an insistent tug. “Let them in.”
Laird gripped her hand in warning, then relaxed and stepped to the side. “Verra well, but if anything goes awry…”
“I know. I know.” Scarlett shook her head in amusement as they led their guests through to the great room, where a roaring fire awaited in the massive fireplace dominating the end of the hall.
Waving a servant over, she helped her guests shed their outer layers and handed the garments to the maid. “Please send a messenger to Lord and Lady Tarly with a request to reschedule dinner.”
The servant bobbed a courtesy and dashed away.
“Did we interrupt your dinner plans?”
Her visitor’s query held a measure of regret but Scarlett discharged the remorse immediately. “It’s fine. I don’t like them much anyway. And so much for courtesy, I didn’t even get your names yet.”
“This is the Earl and Countess of Strathclyde,” Donell interjected before anyone could speak.
Laird looked like he’d rather pick the old man up by his scruff and shake him than afford them any hospitality. The other man, so huge and as yet silent, seemed just as wary. Shell-shocked, but protective of his wife, his chocolate brown eyes watchful. He was ready for a fight. Scarlett, used to protective men in this time, liked him immediately.
The woman bit her lip with a more tolerant amusement for the old man than anyone else had yet to display, and Scarlett felt an inkling of liking for her as well.
She thrust out her hand. “I’m Scarlett.”
“Emmy. I’m a big fan. Or was. Or is it will be?” She shook hands with strength and confidence. “I can never figure out the proper wording.”
“Me neither.”
“I loved you in Ventriloquist especially, though I’ll admit I wasn’t around by the time Broken Strings was released. I would’ve loved to have seen the series finale.” As if realizing she was gushing, Emmy gestured to the man beside her. “My husband, Connor.”
Scarlett extended her hand to him as well, rather than dropping into a proper curtsey. He took it without pause and expressed his pleasure at meeting her. For all his reined distrust, Emmy had clearly educated him on the ways of modern women.
“This is my husband, Laird.” She gave a light slap to his shoulder until with a grunt, he shook hands with their guests. A broad grin twitched her lips, but Scarlett couldn’t fully suppress it. Watching the two men size each other up was like watching the meeting of the bulls. “My apologies. I’m afraid you’ve thrown us for a bit of a loop.”
“Ye’re no’ the only ones.” Connor gazed around the room, intelligent eyes absorbing each detail. “As my wife once so quaintly put it, when are we?”
“The year of our Lord fifteen hundred and nineteen,” Laird supplied the date. “But I beg ye, dinnae reciprocate in kind. I dare say I’m no’ quite ready for any such knowledge just yet.”
“Do ye hae a wee dram of yer homegrown whiskey aboot, lass?” Donell asked abruptly.
Scarlett rolled her eyes but nodded. “I imagine you could all use a stiff drink…or two. Honestly, I could as well, but…” She patted her stomach.
Laird poured large drams of his finest Achenmeade Scotch into a foursome of silver goblets and passed them around to everyone but her with a shrug of apology. She didn’t take offence. She still had the glass of fresh milk she’d been working on when their unexpected guests arrived waiting for her by the fire.
“I don’t suppose many women in this…er, time know much about consuming alcohol during pregnancy?” Emmy probed with interest in her eyes.
Ah, Scarlett realized. It was she and not Connor who Donell had brought to help. She couldn’t wait to see what Laird thought of a female doctor. If he hadn’t yet braced himself to hear what year they’d come from, he wouldn’t appreciate anything more either.
“I’ve tried to educate,” was all she said and added a shrug. “It hasn’t taken yet.
