A Time & Place for Every Laird (3 page)

So he had some brains, Claire thought.  He’
d been smart enough to glean information from what he saw and extrapolate that information into usable data.  Impressive.  But still …

“
I can’t believe you managed to get out of the building.”

“
’Twas simple enough,” he shrugged once again.  Clearly the gesture was a dismissive one, and Claire got the impression that he thought she was wasting his time.  Well, impatient or not, she wasn’t going any further without answers.

“T
here are guards everywhere in there,” she pointed out.  “How did you get past them all?”

“Past them?” he
laughed arrogantly.  “Ha!  They were but a wee annoyance.”

“But they had guns.  Firearms.”

“Those puny guards were nae match for us.”

Gripping the steering wheel tightly, Claire blinked at him in horror.  “Did you kill them?”

The Scot met her gaze, his humor waning.  “Nae, I dinnae.  It wisnae necessary tae do so in order tae overcome their petty resistance.”

“Thank God!”

“The Indian, however …” he added with another nonchalant shrug.  “I fear he dinnae feel the same moral obligation tae the sanctity of life.”

“Oh, God!” Claire moaned, resting her forehead against the steering wheel.

“Ye think they wouldnae hae done the same tae either of us if they had the opportunity?”

Claire rocked her head against the upper curve of the wheel. 
“I think they won’t hesitate when they find you now.”

“Then I shall
hae tae assure that they dinnae.”

She looked up doubtfully. 
“Should I even ask how do you plan to do that?”

“Wi’
yer assistance.”

Rolling her eyes, Claire laughed
disbelievingly.  Regardless of the effort she had put forth so far in his favor, she would be a fool to continue with this madness.  She had put herself at quite a risk already.  “You expect me to help you?”

“Ye
already hae.”

“Because I felt sorry for you,” she told him
, and the Scot bristled at the words.

“I dinnae need ye
r pity.  I dinnae need anyone’s pity!”

“Then get out and start walking!” she shot back.

He was scowling at her once more, but Claire could see the respect growing again in his eyes. He probably wasn’t used to women talking back to him.  Given his attire, he was probably more used to damsels in distress and wilting maidens.  Or … Claire raised a brow.  Perhaps he was just used to clubbing them over the head and dragging them off if they misbehaved.

“I shall accept ye
r assistance,” he said in magnanimous tones.

“I haven’t offered it,” she pointed out, amazed at his arrogance.
  “And every bit of logic in me argues against doing so.”

“But ye
will,” he responded with astounding certainty.

Was she that easy to read?  Could he see so readily that what her mind knew and what her humanity insisted on were at odds? 
“What makes you so certain?”

He met her gaze steadily then
, and Claire could see the crinkle of the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes as if they were smiling at her.  “Ye hae a soft heart.”

Claire just stared at him
, wide-eyed.  “That’s what you’re going with?” she snorted, shaking her head.  Cautious Claire.  The one who never did anything stupid.  Damn it but she was going to get the World Cup of awards for Most Momentous Mistake Ever Made after this.  “What is your name?  I might as well know it if I’m going to help you.”

“Hugh,” he said, the name surrounded by the soft roll of his brogue.  “Hugh Urquhart.”

Claire humphed and jerked the gearshift back into drive.

“And ye
rs?” he asked.  “I might as well know it if ye’re going tae be my savior.”

Twisting her lips to keep from smiling, Claire looked
away so that he wouldn’t see the reluctant humor.  “Claire Manning.”

“My pleasure, Miss Manning,” Hugh said with unexpected gallantry that had Claire shaking her head once again
.

“Oh, it’s all mine, you know,” she murmured a little sarcastically. 
“Just so we’re clear … I’ll help you and in return you promise you won’t kill me.  Deal?”

“Ye
hae my word,” he said solemnly, holding out his hand, and Claire daringly slid hers into his roughened palm, intent on giving it a firm shake. 

But then the strangest thing happened.  His hands – dirty
and bloody as they were – engulfed hers.  They were strong, warm, and rough, and just the feel of them made her shiver.  It was not a shiver of fear. 

It was something else.  Something more.

And apparently he felt it as well.  His eyes widened as they both stared down at their clasped hands, his so large and dark surrounding hers.

A metallic bang and a shout sounded
nearby and jolted them both. A busboy from a restaurant in the mini mall was tossing garbage into a dumpster behind the building.  Hugh moved away and turned in his seat until he was facing forward, but Claire could almost see the questions bursting from his mind.

She had questions as well.

The biggest one was, which of them held more answers?

Shaking her misgivings away,
she pulled back into traffic. “Oh, and it’s Mrs., not Miss.  Just so you know.”

Surely
this Hugh Urquhart’s eyes could not get any rounder, Claire thought as she pushed the button on the ceiling of her car to open the door of the garage attached to her townhouse.  As it went up, his eyes widened, much as they had repeatedly during the short ride there.  Once the anxiety of their escape had passed, Hugh had begun to look around, seeing perhaps for the first time the world outside the lab if her theory of time travel was correct.

A dozen times he had lifted his hand
– the one that wasn’t clinging to the armrest – to point out this or that, his lips parting with the questions forming on them, but inquiries had never come.  Whether he was too shocked or simply too proud to ask, she had no idea, though there was a part of her that leaned toward the latter.  If she hadn’t been so worried, it might have been amusing.

Sadly, she had rounded the bend from worried to pure agitation.
 

The garage door closed
behind them, leaving them in semi-darkness, and Claire breathed a sigh of relief, knowing the world and its prying eyes were blinded to them at least for the time being.  Perhaps now she could relax a little.  Getting out of the car, she scooped up her purse and went inside, leaving Hugh to follow as he would.

Claire was
flipping on the lights in her living room when he appeared at the door.  Thankfully, she kept her blinds closed while she was at work, so there was no need to race around, closing them.  “I don’t think anyone saw us.”

Hugh only snorted.  “Ye
r people are about as stealthy as a startled stag.  Anyone could hae heard ye a league away.”

Claire just shook her head
. “You’re welcome.”  Tossing her purse and keys on the kitchen counter, she began to search the cushions of her couch for the television remote.  Maybe there would be something on about Hugh’s escape.

“Yer
nae frightened of me any longer, Mistress Manning,” he said with some amusement, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“I told you my name is Claire,” she said absently
.  “Would being afraid of you do me any good?  Would you like me to cower before you?”  The urge to do so had certainly been there more than once.  She found the remote and pointed it at the flat-screen TV mounted over the fireplace and pushed the power button.  Any response Hugh might have made was immediately sidetracked.

“Good Lord Almighty!” Hugh swore in disbelief
as the picture came on and sound filled the room.

Claire raised a brow.  “I thought you said you saw the monitors at the lab?”

“I did indeed. However …” Hugh waved a hand at the TV.  “What images does it capture?  Where are those people?”

“Probably on a soundstage in Los Angeles,” she said, flipping the channel away from the Ellen
DeGeneres show and exploring the other local channels with dread icily gripping her heart.  Nothing. 

Yet. 

With a sigh of relief, Claire turned it off again and turned back to Hugh, who was still staring at the blank TV screen in horror. It was almost a pleasure to see that look on his face, to see some small vulnerability in him.  To see him looking as anxious as she had been.  He was right.  She wasn’t afraid of him any longer.  Or at least not as afraid, though she was still troubled by what she had done.  Still, she would be an even greater fool to throw her wariness to the wind along with caution. “I’ll explain the TV later.  I just wanted to make sure there were no reports of your escape or mentions of the authorities out looking for you, publicly at least.”

Hugh ran his hands over his face with a groan.  “I’m sure they will do so.”

“I’m sure they will, too,” Claire nodded grimly, once again inwardly questioning her choices.

“So, what shall we do,
Mistress Manning?”

“Claire,” she corrected
again.  “I guess you can call me by my first name, if mistress is my only other option.”

“Claire, Clara,” he said with
clear disdain.  “A Sassenach name.  An English name, just as is yer surname, Manning. In Gaelic, Clara is Sorcha.  After my recent dealings wi’ the English, I prefer the latter.”

“Recent dealings?”
Claire asked curiously.

“England wants
tae rule Scotland.  They want tae take the lands of my clansmen, take our freedoms, and strip the lairds of their power.  And so we fight.  ’Tis what I was in the midst of doing when I came tae be here.”  He looked so pensive that Claire dared not
ask any of the many questions she had for him. 

“If they are in t
he same shape you are, I guess I should be thankful I’m not English,” she said instead.

That made
him lift his head.  “Yer nae English?”

Claire shook her head.  “No
, and since you hate them so much, that’s probably a good thing for me.”

Hugh cocked his head
, clearly sidetracked by her words; his blue eyes alight with curiosity.  “Wi’ a name such as Manning, I had assumed … What nationality are ye, then?”

“I’m an American.”

“American?” he repeated interestedly.

Holding up a hand, Claire shook her head
to forestall any further questions on his part.  “I think there’s a lot we need to cover before we go there.”

He nodded
grimly, setting the momentary diversion aside.  “Aye, I hae many questions as well.”

“Why don’t we start with the most basi
c one then,” Claire said matter-of-factly as she studied him.  The kilt was a crumpled blue-and-green plaid with a thin crossing of red that was a few shades lighter than the darkened bloodstains all over it.  A blue vest hung open over a linen shirt, which wasn’t tan, as she had thought, but simply that dirty and stained.  Above his plaid stockings, his blood-encrusted knee looked in need of medical attention.  “Do any of those wounds need stitches?”

Hugh looked
down at the multitude of crusted wounds covering his arms, shrugging them away as insignificant.  “Ye asked me before if I was hurt. I can only say that I shall be well only when I return to my home.  This is one question I need hae the answer tae now.  Who can return me there?”

“
I don’t know,” Claire told him with an apologetic wince at his palpable frustration with her answer.  “Dr. Fielding might, maybe, but since he’s the guy who locked you up, I wouldn’t think that he would help.  And I don’t know what brought you here other than there had been some issues with Dr. Fielding’s project so there’s nothing I can do to get you home.  I assume Scotland is home?”

“Aye.”

Then Claire asked the question that had been eating at her since she first walked into that lab.  Since she had first seen that kilt.  “I need to ask this, Hugh, and there’s really no way to cushion it at all.  What year is it?”

Hugh
’s brows knit in confusion.  “What madness prompts such a question?”

Claire waited as his eyes searched the room
, seeking answers, and saw the anxiety in his eyes become denial before slowly despondency shadowed it all.  “My God!” he moaned, dropping onto his haunches.  “What hell is this?  What world hae I been sent tae?”

Claire didn’t answer.  There was no good response to a person who
se only hope had been destroyed.  Hugh rocked back on his heels, burying his face in his hands. A moment later he rubbed his hands over his face again and again, as if doing so could erase everything he had seen, and Claire felt another tug of sympathy.

Life was so unfair, she thought.  It gave the highest of highs only to follow them with the lowest of lows.  She knew from personal experience how it could throw a knockout punch.  She knew denial.  She knew despair.

She had just never seen them on the face of another person before, had never seen that hollow, haunted look anywhere other than in a mirror.

An insane urge to hug Hugh nearly overwhelmed Claire before she pushed the impulse away.  He would only rebuff her as she had rebuffed so many
, once upon a time.  Now finally she understood how helpless those on the other side felt, but she had to do something.

“Hugh?” she whispered and waited until he met her gaze.  “I know
… Damn.”  Pause.  “How about a shower and we can talk later?”

“Shower?” he repeated numbly.

“Come on,” she said, jerking her head toward the staircase.  “Let’s get you cleaned up.  We can talk more later.”

Claire showed Hugh the shower and towels and promised to find him something clean to wear before leaving the Scot alone.  Returning to the living room, Claire dropped into an armchair and took her turn rubbing her hands over her face.  What was she doing? 
She should find the guards who were probably even now searching for this man.  But somehow she couldn’t.  They would only lock him up again.  God help her, but for some reason she couldn’t let that happen.

He could make the water as hot as he wanted.  With the turn of a handle he could make it so hot that he could hardly stand it
, and Hugh did, hoping to scald the misery right off his skin.  Raking his nails through his hair and beard, he let the water pelt his face and scalp, the scorching water beating on him until he was almost numb.

And he wanted to be.

The water could not be fiery enough to match this hell.  From the moment he’d arrived, he had been treated and caged like an animal.  His attempts to question his captors had been ignored.  When Sorcha had met his eye that morning in the lab, it had been the first time in a long while that Hugh felt he had been seen as a human being.

Escaping the lab due
to one guard’s lax negligence had been miraculous. Squashing the feeble resistance of the guards he had encountered upon his flight had not proven much of a challenge, but in all honesty he had savored those moments of retribution for all that had been done to him.  He had exited the building to the blinding light of sunshine, savoring the feel of its meager heat on his face and the fresh air that filled his lungs.

Then his eyes had adjusted to the bright light and Hugh had stood frozen in his tracks at the sight that awaited him. Hugh knew he would forever remember the shock and dread that had seized him in that moment.  Fields and fields of what he
now knew were “cars” had spread before him.  Alien shapes in a variety of colors and sizes.  He had crept between them, searching for an avenue to his liberation, fascinated almost to distraction by the smooth, glossy shells.  Of course he had recognized them as bizarre conveyances of some sort – the wheels told him that much – and had contemplated taking one, but their operation had been puzzling.

Then the lanterns
on another car nearby had flashed and a horn sounded, startling him.  Hugh had watched with astonishment as a man had gotten into one of the cars and somehow sent it roaring to life.  Then another person had come out and merely pointed her hand at one of the cars to set off the flash of lights and the horn that accompanied them.

In his world, such trickery might have been seen as witchcraft
, though no one had been accused of such in nearly a century.  Nevertheless, it had startled the bloody hell out of him.  And then he had seen them drive away with no identifiable power source, and Hugh had admittedly been petrified.  That was when he had seen his savior wading through the field of cars and followed her, determined to force her assistance in freeing him from this strange land. 

Hugh had never dreamed she would voluntarily help him when no one else had ever truly looked at him.  He owed her his life
, a debt that honor demanded he repay, but what could he offer a woman in this world?  Whatever this world was.

It was a
world with plain-faced buildings with little ornamentation but extraordinarily large windows set apart from one another only by the large placards that named them.  A world with streets of solid black stone to carry the cars that traveled them.  A world where women wore clothes like men, clothes that seemed to deny their very gender.

A world where the push of a button was the equivalent of the wave of a wand.

A world where he owed his life to a woman.

Raising his face to the water’s spray, Hugh pushed the questions crowding his mind aside. 
He could not think about Sorcha’s question.  He would not.  Hugh slammed his fist against the smooth white tiles.  The pain matched his frustration and he did it again with growl deep in his throat.  The minutes slipped by as he let the water wash over him, ridding his body of the blood of battle and the stink of imprisonment.  He soaped his body and hair, chafing away bits of dried blood and grime until they disappeared down the drain along with his reason and sanity.