THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

had somehow rescued her. Tom fingered the broach with shaking fingers. He listened. Hearing nothing, feeling nothing but a heavy stillness in the room, he took a shuddering breath. “It has begun.”
      Now, all he could do was he pray for Beth. His infant son’s future depended on it.
     
     
     
    Chapter 6
     
    Disappointed by Duncan’s anger and his resistance to helping her, Beth roamed from room to room thumping on panels, spying behind wall hangings, and looking under beds and rugs in the hopes of finding a secret passage that could take her back to her world. When none materialized, she, desperate, sought out mirrors thinking she might be able to pass through one like Alice in the Looking Glass . After hours of searching through the dusty keep and storage rooms, nothing had changed but the condition of her clothing.
    Her only consolation...her head felt better. Whatever Rachael had put in her tea had certainly taken care of her headache. Knowing such medicinal cures existed in this day and time improved her mood marginally.
    Bone weary, she sought refuge from the curious in an out-of-the way sitting room. She ran her fingers over the spines of the books on various tables around the room. Chartier’s Le Belle Dame sans Merci . “Humph, French.”
    Books had become an important part of her life over the years. They were her comfort and respite in an often cold and uncaring world. She desperately needed her copy of Lorraine Heath’s Parting Gifts. She reread the novel during bleak periods when she needed an excuse for a good cathartic cry and the reassurance that good times regularly followed times like these. Or Diana Gabaldon’s Highlander series. She sighed at the irony. Here she had her own flesh and blood Highland hunk—more glorious than she even imagined Gabaldon’s Jamie Frasier to be—-and she was hiding, because she refused to deal with the pain.
    During their discussion it become painfully apparent Duncan couldn’t abide the sight of her.
    She heaved a sigh and opened the elaborately decorated Abby of the Holy Grail and discovered—after much effort—the author wanted to teach her how to build a nunnery in her heart. She snorted. “Not likely.”
    She opened the little The Book of Hours , only to find awkward sounding prayers the author expected the reader to recite eight times a day. Like anyone in their right mind had that kind of time on their hands.
    She examined A Calendar of Saints , innumerable prayer sheets, lyrics sheets, poems, a volume containing recipes for curing bizarre sounding medical conditions, a volume of veterinary recommendations, and saints’ legends. The number of religious texts surprised her. Though Catholic, Duncan didn’t strike her as a particularly religious man, so why did he have so many? After a long hunt she finally found what she was hoping to find. With all the wives coming and going around Blackstone, she knew there had to be a few romances somewhere in the mix.
    “Let’s see. Lancelot , Tristen , Merlin , Sir Degrevant , whoever he is, and the Quest for the Holy Grail . I may not lose my mind after all.”
    She carried her prizes to a high, window seat and made herself comfortable. She open Lancelot and was disappointed to find it written in French, as were Tristen and Sir Degrevant . She opened Quest for the Holy Grail and sighed. It was written in English. Not hers, but close enough.
    Within minutes her gaze drifted from the awkward text to the widow, her thoughts again on escaping her nightmare. She studied the water lapping the rocks below. A black churning sea had been her last real memory. She’d tasted it even as she awoke trapped in the carriage. Her eyes widened, her heart thudded. That’s it !
    She had to get into the water to escape this time and re-enter her own.
    “Pardon, tres honoree dame , I did not mean to disturb ye.”
    She started and turned to find Rachael’s husband, Isaac Silverstein, standing in the doorway with his arms full of scrolls. She waved him in. “Please come. I didn’t know—-ken—- this room was being used.” Heart thudding, she started to rise.
    “Nay, please sit. Ye’ll not incomoder me.”
    Beth grinned at his mix of French and English, so like his wife’s. Her awe at meeting people she’d come to know only as historical figures through Tom’s stories and Duncan’s diary had yet to wane.
    Isaac, tall and thin, like his multi-great grandson Tom, walked toward her. “Why be ye not at