Free Love Across Time by B. J. McMinn Page B

interrupted him contemplation.
    “Go ahead.”
    “Me thinks I’ll join them,” Dugan said.
    “Aye. See ye later.”
    The door closed behind the two men and Liam strolled over to sit in his favorite chair. He hoped they captured whoever wanted him dead. If his incidents and Margaret’s accident were connected, her life could be in danger.
    He raked his fingers through his hair. Now what to do about his wife’s foolish notion that she wasn’t his wife.
    Slumped in a chair before the fireplace Liam waved a maid to his side. “Bring a tankard of ale.”
    The young girl rushed to do his bidding. Through half-closed lids, he stared after her. Over the years, the older servants had become accustom to his disfigured face. It was the revulsion on the younger ones that bothered him. He often wondered if someone filled their heads with gruesome tales about how he’d received the scar that dissected his cheek. Disgust had never marred Margaret’s face. It was the first thing that had drawn him to her.
    His gaze drifted up the staircase to her chamber door. He regretted leaving Ursula alone to deal with his wife’s tears. The brand of coward didn’t set well on his shoulders.
    He remembered Margaret’s earnest expression when she explained who she thought she was. A time traveler? Where had the lass come up with such a hare-brained idea? Aye, she be young, but before her accident she seemed a sensible lass. Three hundred years was a long way to travel, then back again. He shook his head. If it weren’t so sad, he could see humor in her story. The lass had a grand imagination.
    The servant returned and sat a mug on the table at his elbow then scurried away. He picked up the brew, took a long swig, and pondered the importance of the Campbell’s visit. Would Margaret’s parents insist she return with them so they could care for her until she regained her wits? Aunt Eleanor was correct in thinking that without the consummation of their marriage, Margaret’s father would be within his rights to demand her and her dowry returned. At the accursed thought, his grip tightened on the tankard. No. He would return the dowry but not Margaret. She was his wife and could warm his bed and bear his bairns with or without her memory.
    His shoulders sagged. But would she allow him to make love to her? In her mind, a mere stranger.
    Threading his fingers through his hair, he ached to know how she could have forgotten the days they’d spent together talking, laughing, falling in love.
    That’s it. Seduce the lass into falling in love with him again. Then they could seal their marriage contract in his bed. Time had prevented him from wooing her the first time, yet they had fallen in love. It shouldn’t be hard to woo her into loving him again; he’d bring her flowers, write songs to her beauty, create poems in honor of their love. He’d court her until she couldn’t resist him.
    Aye, a braw plan.
    He sagged against the back of the chair and slapped the heel of his hand against the side of his head. What could he be thinking? He wasn’t a courtier or a musician. Couldn’t even carry a tune. Ursula declared him tone deaf and refused to allow him near a musical instrument.
    Poems. He spirits lifted along with his shoulders. Surely, it wouldn’t be difficult to put words to rhyme. But the more he concentrated, the more he realized he had no idea how to compose a verse: words to describe her soft skin, as delicate as the morning dew on a newly bloomed rose petal. Nor the sweet lilt of her voice, sweeter than a linnet’s melodious song that drifted across the moors at eventide. Nor the way the sun frolicked in the shades of gold in her long, silken hair, nor the perfection of her graceful form.
    Nae. He shook his head. Sweet words to move a lasses heart escaped him. He wasn’t glib of tongue to spout poetry to his lady.
    Flowers. Women loved flowers. Convinced his plan would work, he headed for the garden outside the castle. His mother