THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

hand away and straightened. “Naught is wrong. Rest ye now. Rachael will come for ye at sup.”
    She tried to press her hand to his forehead again.
    “ Nay .” He dodged to her right. He just needed to rest, to shake off the lassitude and fever that continued to confound him but he was not ill. He forced a smile. His confused bride could probably do with a little rest, as well. The bruising on her forehead had deepened in hue. Only heaven and Rachael knew what other damage hid beneath his bride’s borrowed gown.
    Standing in the solar doorway, looking at his befuddle wife, he silently cursed. Once he felt more himself, the Bruce would pay dearly for this insult. Albany’s insult couldn’t be dealt with swiftly or as obviously, but in due course he, too, would feel the wrath of the MacDougall. He studied the confusion and hurt in Beth’s eyes. God’s teeth! His revenge would suit the crime.
    He was being deprived of the possibility for having a healthy and competent heir.
    ~#~
     
    Beth, standing before the solar window, pinched her arm one more time. “Ouch!”
    Spending the day in hiding, telling herself she was caught in some macabre dream had accomplished nothing. The sun had risen to its zenith and the village of Drasmoor had remained as she’d found it at dawn, just a scattering of little thatched huts. Many of the boats had returned with the day’s catch and at least fifty people now milled around the shoreline. 
    How on earth had this happened? Had she brought it on herself?
    She’d been a secret Anglophile for years. She consumed historical romances—-particularly those with a swatch of tartan or thistle on their covers—-like they were made of air. She’d frequently wished she could live in the past with a dark, handsome hero, but good Lord, she’d never expected it to happen!
    Or had her wishing for Duncan to be flesh and blood been the cause? Whoever said, “Be careful what you wish for,” hadn’t known the half of it. And here she was in the early fifteenth century—the age of chivalry and romance with a Highland hunk having claimed her—without so much as a mascara wand. How cruel can life get? She heaved a sigh.
    “Wishful thinking has never gotten you anywhere but here, Beth, so you’d best do something or you’ll never get back to your own world.”
    Her stomach growled in earnest making her decision on where to start simple. After eating, she would search out her husband.
    Husband .
    She looked down at the gold and ruby ring she now wore. She didn’t remember Duncan placing it on her finger, but then she couldn’t remember much more than leaning into his side as she wavered before the priest. Apparently, in this day and age, brides needn’t consent—let alone be lucid—to wed. But why had he agreed to their marriage? They’d only shared a week together, and had only spoken once. She shook her head and spun the ring on her finger.
    Years ago she’d reconciled herself to the fact that she’d never wear such a ring, that love wasn’t something she would ever experience. Had he fallen in love with her? Was that why she’d shifted in time? More importantly, was she capable of falling in love in return?
    She grunted, unable to lie to herself. Her simple fascination with her handsome spirit had converted to something more meaningful, deeper, days ago. Hadn’t she dreamt of him? Hadn’t she pictured him sitting across from her chatting the nights away? Of course she’d pictured them together in the twenty first century...
    Her stomach growled again. Out of habit she looked for a mirror to check her make-up. “Oh, God.” The thought of mingling with the people downstairs with her face as bare as a baby’s bottom twice in one day made her hands shake.
    She’d been too confused and upset when Rachael had helped her dress this morning to worry, but not now.
    Her hands traveled from her lips to the beautiful brocade gown she wore, across the rich peacock colors to the thick pearl beading on the bodice. The gown’s beauty had distracted her this morning. That, and battling Rachael’s attempts to beautify her. The Frenchwoman, to Beth’s horror, wanted to pluck Beth’s eyebrows off and raise her forehead by plucking out her natural hairline to create the same high-domed look Rachael, herself, sported. Rachael, having lost that battle, decreed Beth would wear a headdress, the woman’s personal favorite being an over-sized, over-starched nun-like affair of white linen.