The Trouble With Scots: Body of Knowledge, #3

Chapter One

At thirty-three years of age, Eadan MacMurrough was still looking for the woman who would be his wife—the woman who had been troubling him.

Of course he had seen her. He’d had recurring visions of the bonnie lass over the past ten years but he did not know her name or the circumstances under which they would meet.

Peers of the realm, even Scottish ones, were introduced to every available young woman, propelled by parental dreams of a possible match. Even an English girl would have been happy married to the Earl of Dunbar. A Scottish girl, more so.

Yet he had never been introduced to his mysterious lover.

One thing had made him very hopeful. This woman, this Eurydice, was a passionate and caring woman, full of laughter and outward happiness. With each vision of her, he feared it might be the last, such was his disquiet about their eventual meeting.

The future was like that—cloudy with sudden bright, shining moments of clarity.

Seeing his future usually involved intense megrims before the actual vision appeared.

Seeing the future of others came more subtly, usually while he mingled with them. The troubling came unawares and made him seem slightly drunk as he lost track of the conversation in which he was involved or miscued a billiards ball or stepped on a partner’s toes.

The members of the Society for the Advancement of Science had concluded their meeting at St. Albans a week ago. He’d had a very enlightening conversation with Isadora Chapman while at the meeting. His gift was familiar and his family accepted it. To have such a woman as Miss Chapman then be able to read his thoughts and question his futuristic vision had left him disquieted.

And he’d invited her to Dunbar Castle at month’s end, along with Gregory Beckwith, the Earl of Lattham. Gifts were a burden—neither he nor Miss Chapman had a confidant with whom they might share the trouble and weight their gifts brought.

The troubling, when it occurred, didn’t always come true though.

With members of the Society, he felt it necessary to explain his visions. The group members were sharply intelligent yet curious enough to determine their own fates and had been willing to reshape his visions. If his visions helped chart their course, so be it. They had been able to steer their ships around certain impediments that might interrupt their work. Or end their lives.

At St. Albans he’d had to inform D that a terrible fate would befall him around Christmastide. Eadan, however, knew that D—Lord Dawlish—would do all he could to avoid such an untimely death. Well, Eadan thought, in Dawlish’s profession it was no wonder he could be in such jeopardy. He hunted specters—the dark legends and animals of myths. Vampires, ghouls, witches. Eadan shivered a little at the thought of their existence.

His visions were best kept within the small circle and he only infrequently visited to partake of London’s entertainment for a reason. Ten years ago, he’d had a vision of the assassination of the Prime Minister, Spencer Perceval. No one in authority had acted on his premonition and as a result Perceval had been killed. Eadan’s knowledge had only raised questions about him and, as a Scot, he preferred to remain distantly disinterested in England’s politics.

While at St. Albans, he convinced Isadora Chapman that her future was closely linked to her secret lover. Such things were not always so secret and she was of a good character. Thwarted in his own quest for love, he hated to see such a woman alone and for all the wrong reasons.

Eadan knew foreknowledge and fate could be misconstrued. Anymore, he weighed revelations with care.

He was anxious to return home to Scotland but he could feel the nauseating beginnings of a murderous headache. At first it was a dull pressure. Now the pounding thrummed through his brain with ferocity.

The coming vision would be about his future.

He rapped on the ceiling of his conveyance and then instructed his man to stop at the next posting inn. At least they had made it to the outskirts of Newcastle upon Tyne.

The carriage lurched as it came to a stop and Eadan bent forward. He clenched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth against the consuming pain. He held the leather strap near the door, fearful he would convulse and land on the floor.

Debilitating pain shot through his temples, worse than anything he had ever experienced. He fell forward, his knees hitting the floor of the carriage. The grinding sound of wheels against rock, the rattle of chains and the roar of building pressure knocked him forward.

And just as quickly, the pain was gone and the vision of her appeared.

She was a laughing beauty, her auburn hair piled high in a manner that confused men with its severity, yet teased them with subtle tendrils, beckoning kisses and begging ravishment.

And for the first time he was with her.

Normally his visions were through his eyes. This one as if he looked on outside himself at the events unfolding.

Eadan fought to keep the vision alive. For once he did not want the vision to end.

One thing stood out besides the beautiful, laughing woman. He was wearing his clan blue-and-black kilt and a white linen shirt covered by his black jacket and waistcoat with silver buttons and buckles. His sporran was about his waist. The clothes were distinctive because they were the clothes he wore now, including the new broach he had just purchased in London.

When the carriage came to a stop, Eadan glanced out the window. A flash of lightning pierced the sky but it was a storm without rain—the kind one expects to produce a deluge but expends itself in the drama of threatening thunder and perilous streaks of blue-white light.

The inn yard was busy. Several carriages filled the space as the inn filled for the night, all worried about the hazard of road travel when the ground beneath the wheels would be unsteady. The noise was deafening and would have been crippling if his headache had remained.

But a certain excitement stirred in his heart and in his loins, for it couldn’t be denied the visionary miss had held his interest for far too long and without relief. He could almost believe she was a ghost, a figment of his imagination, except his visions were specific. He had watched her mature into a woman—a disturbing, uncomfortable result at times.

He strolled through the courtyard, entered the inn and made arrangements for a room. Glancing about, he was supremely disappointed to see there wasn’t a single woman in the main hall, only several boisterous men well into their cups.

His valet, a proper stiff who made sure Eadan was turned out appropriately when he was on English soil, also made sure his luggage was carried in. Eadan requested a room at the back of the inn where, he hoped, the cacophony would be minimized.

Would you like me to arrange supper in a private room, my lord?

Have the food sent up, Mr. Terry. I believe I will turn in after.

An early start in the morning?

Ten should be soon enough.

Headache, sir?

Remnants. Nothing a good meal and good sleep won’t cure. If ye could arrange for a bath also.

As you wish. Mr. Terry gathered Eadan’s belongings and headed to the assigned room.

Eadan worked a coin from his pocket and tapped it on the wooden counter.

My lord. The chubby woman working at the inn rubbed her hands on a dirty apron, glancing only at the coin she was about to earn.

Is there a woman here, about so high? He held his hand to his shoulder. Auburn hair.

Her name, my lord?

He