Beyond the Highland Mist
Page 10

“I don’t care if you’re mad,” he chuckled appreciatively. “Fact is, I rather relish the thought that you might have bats flapping in your belfry. God knows, my Janet did. ’Tis no more or less than he deserves.”
“Where am I?” she insisted.
“Janet had a difficult time remembering that, too.”
“So, where am I?”
The Comyn studied her, then shrugged. “Scotland. Comyn keep—my keep.”
Her heart stopped beating within her breast. It was not possible. Had she truly gone mad? Adrienne steeled her will to ask the next question—the obvious question, the terrifying question she’d been studiously avoiding since she’d first awoken. She’d learned that sometimes it was safer not to ask too many questions—the answers could be downright unnerving. Obtaining the answer to this question could tamper with her fragile grasp on reason; Adrienne had a suspicion that where she was wasn’t quite the only problem she had. Drawing a deep breath, she asked carefully, “What year is it?”
The Comyn guffawed. “You really are a wee bit daft, aren’t you lass?”
Adrienne glared at him in silence.
He shrugged again. “ ’Tis fifteen hundred and thirteen.”
“Oh,” Adrienne said faintly. Ohmygodohmygod, she wailed in the confines of her reeling mind. She took a deep, slow breath, and told herself to start at the beginning of this mystery; perhaps it could be unraveled. “And who exactly are you?”
“For all intents and purposes, I am your father, lass. That’s the first of many things you must never forget.”
A broken sob temporarily distracted Adrienne from her problems. Poor abused Bess; Adrienne could not bear a person in pain, not if she could do something about it. This man wanted something from her; maybe she could bargain for something in exchange. “Let Bess go,” she said.
“Do you pledge your fealty to me in this matter?” He had the flat eyes of a snake, Adrienne realized. Like the python in the Seattle zoo.
“Let her go from this keep. Give her her freedom,” she clarified.
“Nay, milady!” Bess shrieked, and the beast chuckled warmly.
His eyes were thoughtful as he stroked Bess’s leg. “Me-thinks, Janet Comyn, you don’t understand much of this world. Free her from me and you condemn her to death by starvation, rape, or worse. Free her from my ‘loving attentions’ and the next man may not be so loving. Your own husband may not be so loving.”
Adrienne shivered violently as she struggled to tear her gaze from the plump white hand stroking rhythmically. The source of Bess’s pain was the same hand that fed her. “Protected” her. Bile rose in Adrienne’s throat, almost choking her.
“Fortunately, he already thinks you’re mad, so you may talk as you will after this day. But for this day from dawn till dusk, you will swear that you are Janet Comyn, only blood daughter of the mighty Red Comyn, sworn bride of Sidheach Douglas. You will see this day through as I tell you—”
“But what of the real Janet?” she couldn’t help but ask.
Slap! How had the man managed to hit her before she could so much as blink? As he stood quivering with rage above her, he said, “The next blows won’t be to your face, bitch, for the gown won’t cover there. But there are ways to hit that hurt the most, and leave no mark. Don’t push me.”
Adrienne was silent and obedient through all the things he told her then. His message was plain. If she was silent and obedient, she would stay alive. Dream or no dream, the blows hurt here, and she had a feeling that dying might just hurt here too.
He told her things then. Hundreds of details he expected her to commit to memory. She did so with determination; it temporarily prevented her from contemplating the full extent of her apparent insanity. She repeated each detail, each name, each memory that was not hers. From careful observation of her “father,” she was able to guess at many of the memories that had belonged to the woman whose identity she was now to assume.
And all the while a soft mantra hummed through the back of her mind. This cannot be happening. This is not possible. This cannot be happening. Yet in the forefront of her mind, realist that she was, she understood that the words can’t and impossible had no bearing when the impossible was indeed happening.
Unless she woke up soon from a nightmarish and vivid dream, she was in Scotland, the was year 1513, and she was indeed getting married.
CHAPTER 4
“SHE’S TALL AS JANET.”
“Not many as tall as she.”