Love in the Time of a Highland Laird (A Laird for All Time Book 3) by Angeline Fortin (whitelam books .TXT) 📗

you know in yours, right? There’s almost three hundred years of discoveries between us.”

“What else will we find out there? Tell me.”

“Well, there’s another planet beyond Neptune called Pluto. Some say it isn’t really a planet though. There’s some debate on that. Then there are galaxies, nebulae.”

“I ken these things.”

“Black holes…?”

“What are they?”

Obligingly, Al launched into a lecture on black holes which led to a lively debate on gravitational pull and Newtonian physics. Whether his contemporary John Michell’s gravitational research was truly describing black holes or not. For an outdated, mid-eighteenth century man, Keir had some surprising challenges to even twenty-first century ways of thinking.

They talked far into the early morning hours. Hours she thoroughly enjoyed both as a scientist and as a woman. There was something intoxicating about having the complete attention of an attractive man who wanted to climb into her head rather than just into bed, but in the back of her mind she was troubled.

There was something wrong here.

Chapter 16

Al slammed the thick text book shut, wrinkling her nose. She’d been through a dozen books already searching for… she wasn’t sure what exactly.

Something in what Keir had said the previous night was sitting ill, though she wasn’t entirely certain why. However, there was no chance of finding the answers in books leading up to this point. What she was searching for hadn’t even been written yet.

Or maybe it was all in her imagination.

A byproduct of her general distress in this time. There were so many dreadful things about being stranded in the past, though most revolved around personal hygiene. Poor excuses for soap, shampoo, and toothpaste. The labor intensity of getting a bath. And she dared not dwell too long on the more sanitary issues.

The clothes were cumbersome and uncomfortable as the days grew warmer. She envied Keir his lightweight shirt and kilt so much, she’d been tempted to tear them from his back.

She laughed inwardly. Yeah, that was why she wanted to tear off his clothes.

She couldn’t understand what he was waiting for.

With a sigh, she picked up another thick tome and read the spine. De Philosophia Cartesiana by Balthasar Bekker. With a grimace, she flipped it open to find that it wasn’t written in English, which was just as well. She doubted any philosophical writings beyond those of Confucious perhaps were going to provide tolerance for the lack of innovation here.

Only time could do that.

Time for invention but also time to acclimate to it all.

In some ways, she already had. The lack of technology didn’t hurt at all, much to her surprise. No phones, no alarm clocks. No TV or computers to mindlessly suck her into hours of wasted time. No social media to show her just how screwed up the world at large was. Or to body shame her into denying herself a cookie, or compel her to spend even more hours online searching for ways to exercise better and lose weight.

She liked the peace and quiet, the serene beauty of the Highlands. And the time to enjoy it.

She liked the food. The variety and freshness of the fish and gamey meats brought to the table even if they had unappetizing names like cullen skink, finnan haddie, and forfar bridie. Even haggis. The desserts were especially delightful. Fatty cutties, cranachan, and blueberry pie. Keir encouraged her to try them all without ever once implying her full curves couldn’t bear an additional pound or two.

She liked spending long days among books and in actual conversation with another person without a machine or screen between them. Without a smartphone to constantly distract them.

She liked not multi-tasking and just focusing on one thing at a time. Giving it her full attention.

Most of all, she simply liked Keir. Spinning the fantasy of days like these into a life and future was dangerous business. She wasn’t looking forward to the end.

So perhaps she was subconsciously searching for something else to rankle. Something to draw her from her growing comfort. To keep her uneasy, on her toes. So that when the time came to leave, she’d have a reason to go without hesitation.

“What are ye looking for?”

Al closed her eyes and prayed for strength. There was at least one part of Dingwall she’d be eager to walk away from without regret.

Maeve.

There’d been a dead sparrow on her pillow last night when she’d returned to her room. A curse, Peigi told her, that her cow’s milk be turned to blood. Since she didn’t own a cow, Al wasn’t as worried about that as she was about how Maeve had gotten into her room.

For it had to be Maeve. The most hostile element in a house or castle inhabited by those with hostile and semi-hostile inclinations. If she could get into her room, what was to stop her from smothering her in her sleep?

“Are ye spying? Hoping tae find some way tae do more harm tae this family than ye already hae?” Maeve snatched the book out of her hands as if it held national intelligence. “I willnae let ye do it.”

Al didn’t even try to defend herself. It was useless. Whether it was depression and grief over losing her only child that drove her, or she’d truly had been touched by madness as Keir believed, Maeve was wholly unwilling to listen to reason.

She moved closer and Al instinctively shied to the side, eyeballing the door as if it were her salvation. Either as an escape or as a entry point for deliverance. Unfortunately, it remained vacant and the woman stood between her and a way out.

“I don’t want to fight with you, Maeve,” she said slowly. “Or hurt you or your family. I would never do that. You’ve all been very good to me.”

“Aye, ye’ve cast a spell o’er them all. Especially Keir. He cannae see ye for what ye are, but I can.”

It was just too exhausting. Helplessly, she tried once more.

“What do you see, Maeve? What am I? I’ll tell you, I’m a woman