Perfect Timing by Catherine Anderson
Ceara’s cheeks lost their color. She glanced at Quincy, her eyes mirroring so many emotions that he couldn’t pinpoint them all. He did know she looked frightened. “’Tis why I came, Father, to end this terrible curse. Now that I am here, I must follow through. I will honor me vows to Sir Quincy and be a faithful wife. ’Tis not a game I came here to play.”
Father Mike rubbed his hands together. “Me vestments are over at the church.” He sighed and shook his head. “I could be defrocked for doing this.” He emitted another, lengthier sigh. “Ah, well, I’m fast approaching retirement, anyway. There are worse things than living out me final days with a fishing pole in me hand.”
Aislinn MacDuff sprang to her feet. “And hopefully with a nice, cold beer in the other, Father. Let’s get this done.”
Quincy stood with everyone else and followed the priest from the rectory.
* * *
All his life, Quincy had envisioned being married during a beautiful nuptial Mass. The reality fell far short. Father Mike emerged from the sacristy wearing his white collar and the appropriate vestments, but he smelled strongly of popcorn. Quincy, his bride to be, and all the family members present had gathered at one side of the altar.
Without any preamble, Father herded everyone into their appropriate positions, opened a book, and cleared his throat to begin. Every intonation of the priest’s voice bounced around inside Quincy’s head, sounding like gibberish. Even so, Quincy retained the presence of mind to say his vows when prompted, and so did Ceara. He knew she had to be just as drained as he was, if not more so. What a fine pair they were, parroting promises neither of them felt in their hearts.
Clint had done well picking Quincy’s wedding band, but Ceara’s was way too big. As Quincy slipped it on her tiny finger, he wondered if humans had doubled in size over the last five hundred years. He wasn’t a large man, but he dwarfed his bride. In that moment, Quincy knew that he had finally come to believe Ceara’s crazy story. In her large blue eyes, he saw nothing to indicate deception. What he did see was a bride with nervous jitters. How old was she, anyway? He’d been looking at her practically all day, noting the delicacy of her features and the glorious glint of her hair, but he’d been so busy trying to disprove everything she said that he hadn’t taken time to judge her age. Shit. She looked young, really young, early twenties, maybe. Maybe even younger. Hell. Quincy hadn’t dated a woman under thirty-five in more than three years.
He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t a cradle robber. Only even as the objection sprang to his lips, he heard Father Mike pronounce them man and wife. It was done. He was asked to kiss his bride. When he grasped Ceara’s shoulders, he felt the tremors that racked her slight frame. He bent his head and quickly grazed her quivering mouth with his. Double shit. Thank God he’d figured a way out of this sham of a marriage, and there would be no consummation. He wasn’t into deflowering virgins, willing or otherwise, and Ceara, for all her determination to carry through with this ceremony, was definitely otherwise.
Everything after that passed in a blur for Quincy. The handshakes and hugs. The whispered congratulations, which rang hollow. He and Ceara had to stay behind to sign documents, which Father Mike would date later. Everyone else dashed back home to be near Loni, elated because she would now supposedly be past the crisis and on the road to recovery.
Quincy had driven halfway home before he realized he was completely on autopilot, so lost to his troubled thoughts and physical exhaustion that he could barely make out the road signs. Ceara said nothing. She just huddled on her side of the seat, staring straight ahead, her face pale in the glow of the dash lights. Quincy couldn’t think of a single thing to say that might reassure her. Hell, he needed some reassurance himself. He’d married a stranger. And, hello, if he found that alarming, how in the hell was she feeling? She’d told him early this morning that she was a virgin—a virgin daughter of the O’Ceallaigh. She was probably expecting him to jump her bones the second they stepped into his house. He wouldn’t do that. He’d never do that to any woman. But how could he tell her that? If he brought it up, she’d be bound to think he was hoping to do that very thing.
When they reached his ranch, Quincy pulled the truck up in front of the house and turned off the ignition. The vehicle’s interior and exterior lights remained on for a few seconds, but the sudden silence after the diesel engine sputtered out was absolute, broken only by the pop of cooling metal under the truck hood.
“Well, we’re home.” It was all Quincy could think to say.
“Perhaps ye are home, Sir Quincy, but I am na and never shall be again.”
Quincy didn’t want to seem unfeeling, but the bottom line was, he had played no part in her departure from Ireland, and he couldn’t help but wish she hadn’t come. Thinking that way made him feel like a bastard. If he was coming to believe that Ceara was actually from another century, then he needed to wrap his mind around the fact that this marriage might be Loni’s only salvation, not to mention that of his other sisters-in-law.
“I know this must be—” Quincy broke off. He detested it when anyone patronized him. “Well, I don’t know how you feel. All I can really say is that somehow we have to make the best of this.”
Quincy exited the vehicle, slammed his door, and walked around the front bumper to help Ceara get out. To his surprise, she made no attempt to manage by herself this time, a telltale sign that she was even more exhausted than he was. As he opened her door and grasped her elbow, he made a mental note to get some food and drink into her. So far as he knew, all she’d eaten that day were a few bites of Polish sausage soup.
They ascended the steps. Quincy unlocked the door and opened it, guiding his wife over the threshold in front of him. He reached to the right to flip the wall switch. Light bathed the kitchen. Ceara blinked owlishly.
“’Tis so bright.” She looked up at the lights embedded in the ash tongue-and-groove ceiling. “Do ye not worry about the candle flames setting fire to the wood?”
Quincy glanced up. “There aren’t any candles up there, Ceara, only bulbs powered by electricity.”
“Electricity?”
Quincy helped her out of the jacket and hung it on the coat tree. “Yeah, electricity. It’s sort of like lightning during a storm, only with modern technology we’ve learned how to harness it and feed it through wires for power.”
She frowned, clearly in over her head, which Quincy thought was understandable. He didn’t fully comprehend how electricity worked himself, and he’d been using it all his life. “We need to get something to eat.”
He no sooner spoke than his cell phone whinnied. He drew the apparatus from the case riding his belt and saw his own image on the screen. Clint, wanting to FaceTime. Quincy unlocked the phone and answered. Only it wasn’t his brother’s face that popped up. Aislinn MacDuff stared back at him. Ceara, still standing at his elbow, gasped when she saw the image.
Leaning close, she asked, “How did she get in there, pray? Is it a modern-day crystal ball, only shaped different?”
“I’ll explain later,” Quincy whispered. “Hi, Aislinn.”
Aislinn clearly meant to waste no time on pleasantries. “It didn’t work.”
“What didn’t work?” Quincy saw the buttons on the old lady’s blouse, then the top of Clint and Loni’s cooking range. “Aislinn, are you still there?”
“I’m here. And it’s the marriage that didn’t work! Loni’s as cold as death. I’m in the kitchen filling bottles with hot water. We need to get her body temp up.” Quincy glimpsed Aislinn’s face again and saw tears glistening in her eyes. “We’re losing her, Quincy. Clint is about to fall apart. He expected to see an improvement when we got back. Instead she’s worse.”
Ceara clasped Quincy’s wrist. “’Tis too soon,” she said. “The marriage will break the curse. Please tell her Loni will get better. ’Tis only that we haven’t yet consummated the union.”
Quincy felt as if the slate floor under his boots turned to soup. His only ace
“Well, for God’s sake, get the hell off the phone and consummate the damned marriage!” Aislinn cried. “Loni’s losing ground fast. You do know how, right, Quincy? You’re no untried lad.”
Quincy wasn’t about to honor that question with a response. “Aislinn, we just walked in the door. Ceara hasn’t eaten all day. She’s so exhausted, she’s weaving on her feet.”
“Stand her by the bed and let her fall on the mattress. She can eat something after you get this finished.”
The screen blinked out. Ceara stared, bewildered, at the bright little icons that popped back up. Then she bent slightly to peer at the back of the phone again. “Where did she go? This works verra different from me mum’s crystal ball.”
“She was never here. That was only a camera image of her. It comes through the air, transmitted on waves.” Quincy realized that sounded insane even to him. He’d never witnessed anyone using a crystal ball and wasn’t sure, even now, that he believed that they worked, but because that was Ceara’s only point of reference, he added, “It works sort of like a crystal ball, I guess—with images and the sound of voices coming to me through it.” Her bewildered expression made him sigh. “I’ll explain it better later. What would you like to eat? I have some low-fat cheese and whole-grain crackers. Does that sound good? With maybe a tall glass of skim milk?”
Ceara still gaped at the phone as he shoved it back in the carrying case. Then she jerked and refocused on his face. “There will be time fer eating later. Where is yer sleeping chamber? I shall go prepare meself and wait for ye there.”
Wait for him there? Quincy wanted to argue. Ceara was trembling like an aspen leaf in a brisk breeze, clearly scared half out of her wits about what lay ahead. And, damn it, he wasn’t exactly looking forward to it, either. But instead of objecting, Quincy envisioned Loni’s white face and clawlike hands, then directed Ceara to his bedroom.
Chapter Seven
Ceara located the sleeping chamber that was clearly used by her husband. It was a large room done in rich tones of amber and varying shades of brown. A pair of Sir Quincy’s boots lay in a corner of the sitting area, and a discarded red léine was draped over one of two dark umber chairs. The huge bed was rumpled, the blankets and spread pushed back to reveal a pillow enveloped in a crinkled tan case. The cool air was lightly perfumed with a rich masculine scent, a pleasant blend of evergreen and musk that Ceara had come to associate with Sir Quincy. She guessed he used some kind of scented water after bathing, much as she did at home.
Shivering with cold, she stared with yearning at the massive stone fireplace on the far wall. Near the hearth, a black metal rack held several log rounds and smaller kindling. She was sorely tempted to use her gift to start a roaring blaze, but after Quincy’s last unpleasant reaction, she decided to err on the side of caution and refrain. She had no time to light a fire the conventional way if she meant to be prepared for her husband before he joined her here.
With a quick glance around, she noted that there was no washstand visible. How was she to clean herself in preparation for her wedding night without a pitcher of water and bowl? Then she recalled her experience that morning at the jail when she’d been thrust naked into the shower room. It seemed to have happened a year ago. Perhaps Sir Quincy bathed in a similar fashion, standing under cold water that shot from a wall.
In addition to the entrance door, she saw three others. One stood ajar. She crossed the thick amber carpet to peer into the room. A long slate counter, topped by a horizontal mirror of equal length, sported two recessed porcelain washbowls. Between them, a basket held prettily folded brown towels similar to the white ones at the jail, only these were tiny. She also noticed a squat green bottle with a bright gold cap. Curiosity propelling her toward it, she grasped the strange container and exerted all her strength, which was still much diminished by the trials of her journey, to pull off the lid. By accident, she discovered that the cap had to be twisted off. God’s teeth! No cork? This new century had countless marvelous things to learn about. She sniffed the opening of the bottle and smiled as the familiar piney-musk smell assailed her nostrils. The men of her time rarely used perfume, yet Sir Quincy apparently did on a regular basis.
To her left, an arm’s length above the floor, was a huge porcelain depression enclosed by slate. With a graze of her fingertips over the cream-colored surface of the porcelain, she concluded that it was a bathing tub, though dissimilar from those at home, and so gigantic that it would take three strong men and a boy to carry it. And it appeared to be immovable. Strange. How did one dump the water out after bathing? ’Twas yet another mystery akin to electricity that Quincy would no doubt explain later.
She returned her attention to the tiny towels, deciding one of them would serve well enough to cleanse herself. She needed only to figure out how to get water. She stepped closer to the right-hand washbowl, eyeing the bronze fixture at the back edge. It wasn’t in the shape of a cross like those at the jail, but instead had a leverlike handle. She pulled up on it, and water gushed out. She expected it to be cold and was pleasantly surprised by the warmth when she put her fingers in the stream. Amazing. At home, they filled buckets at the well and heated water over the fire.
Reluctant to waste a single drop, Ceara turned the fixture off. She had no idea where the warm water came from, but such a miracle surely must be in limited supply. She opened the cupboards underneath, searching for a bucket or vat. Nothing. Mayhap, in this modern day, water vessels were hidden in the walls.
Refusing to think about the ordeal ahead of her, Ceara quickly undressed, dampened a tiny towel from the basket, and made fast work of washing herself. Behind her, a large glass door led into a slate enclosure. High on the wall she saw a bronze, bell-shaped object and realized it must be a shower spout, similar to those at the jail. Two gigantic brown towels hung on a hook just outside the bronze-framed door. She confiscated one to cover herself and returned to the sink to scrub her teeth with her finger. Her toothbrush, along with everything else she owned, must still be where she’d left it in the straw of the stable.
Oh, how she wished for her satchel and the small bottle of rose water she’d brought from home. A bride was supposed to smell nice when her husband joined her in the marriage bed. Ceara’s mum had stressed the importance of that. Sadly, it was about the only thing Ceara knew for certain. She studied her reflection, finding fault with everything. Her hair needed a good wash, but drying it would take hours, and her brush was in her satchel. She pinched her cheeks, nibbled on her lips to bring some color to them, and, after quickly using the toilet, following the lead of women at the jail to flush it, she forced herself to exit the bathing chamber.
As she approached the bed, her stomach clenched and her heart did a jig. She couldn’t help but recall the few times she’d been unfortunate enough to glimpse her father’s stock animals mating. The mares had screamed and tried to evade the stallions. The boars had mercilessly accosted the much smaller sows. Even the hens had flapped their clipped wings to get away from an amorous rooster. In Ceara’s estimation, procreation seemed to be a base and unpleasant experience for females of all species. She had no idea why men found it so enjoyable.
She drew the covers back on the unused side of the bed, dropped the towel, and slipped between the bedsheets to lie on her back. With the coverlet drawn to her chin, she lay motionless with her arms stiff at her sides, stared at the ceiling, and waited, her ears pricked for the sound of Sir Quincy’s boots on the stairs. Aside from being a wee bit gruff, he seemed to be a nice enough man. She tried to tell herself that she needn’t dread what was to come, but it didn’t work. She closed her eyes and prayed that he would make fast work of his business. A stab of longing for her mother swept over her as she realized she didn’t even know how long it would take.
* * *
Quincy hadn’t dated much over the last few months. He’d grown weary of the getting-acquainted rituals, and he had definitely given up on finding the woman of his dreams. Even so, he wasn’t a nervous bridegroom by any stretch of the imagination . . . until he entered the master suite and found Ceara lying naked in his bed with her eyes squeezed shut. He could almost feel her trembling.
Shit. She really was a virgin. And a frightened one.
Apparently she heard him enter, because she started and cracked open one peeper as he approached the bed. When she saw that he was still fully clothed, she frowned and said, “’Tis me understanding that this deed is accomplished without garments, but I am new at this, so perhaps I have it wrong. Shall I fetch me gown?”
Quincy sat on his side of the mattress and cast her a look over his shoulder. Was that how wedding nights went in her time? The husband walked in stark naked, deflowered his bride, and then rolled off of her to fall asleep? It sounded barbaric.
“You don’t have to get dressed again,” he told her softly. “Unless you’d like to, of course.” He let that hang there for a moment. “How old are you, Ceara?”