"But before I sent you back, using the stones in some pagan fashion"—he scoffed, not about to admit to such a thing—"I took your maidenhead, eh?" he said dryly. "I must confess, you've chosen a most unique way to try to trap a man into a wedding. Choose one about whom strange rumors abound. Claim he took your virginity in the future, thus, he can never argue conclusively against it." He shook his head and smiled faintly. "I give you credit for your imagination and audacity, lass."
Gwen glared at him. "For the last time, I am not trying to marry you, you overbearing slack-jawed troglodyte."
"Slack-jawed—" He shook his head and blinked. "Good, because I can't. I'm betrothed," he said flatly. That would put an end to her crazed claims.
"Betrothed?" she echoed, stunned.
His eyes narrowed. "'Tis plain that doesn't please you. Careful lest you further betray yourself."
"But that doesn't make sense. You told me you weren't…" She trailed off, eyes wide.
Yet another hole in her story, he mused darkly. He'd been betrothed for over half a year. Near all of Alba knew of his upcoming nuptials and were, like as not, watching with bated breath to see if he actually succeeded this time. And he would succeed. "I am. The match was agreed upon last Yuletide. Anya Elliott is due to arrive within the fortnight for our wedding."
"Elliott?" she breathed.
"Aye, Dageus is going to fetch her and bring her here for the wedding."
Gwen turned her back to him, to conceal the shock and pain she knew must be etched all over her face. Betrothed? Her soul mate was going to marry someone else?
He'd told her Dageus had been killed coming back from the Elliott's. He'd told her that he'd been betrothed, but she'd died. But he hadn't bothered to tell her they'd both been killed at the same time!
Why? Had he loved his fiancée so much, then? Had it been too painful for him to speak of?
Her heart sank to her toes. Not fair, not fair, she wailed silently.
If she saved Dageus, she would be saving Drustan's future wife. The woman he wanted to marry.
Gwen drew a shaky breath, hating her choices. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. She was supposed to tell him her story, together they would unmask the villain, get married, and live happily ever after. She'd planned it all out this afternoon, even down to the details of her medieval wedding dress. She wouldn't mind staying in the sixteenth century for him; willingly she'd forfeit her Starbucks, tampons, and hot showers. So what if she couldn't shave her legs? He had sharp daggers, and eventually she'd quit nicking herself. Yes, it might be a bit rustic, but on the other hand, what did she have to go back to?
Nothing. Not a damn thing.
Empty, lonely life.
Tears pressed at the backs of her eyes. She dropped her head, hiding behind her fringed bangs, reminding herself that she hadn't cried since she was nine and crying wouldn't help now. "This is so not happening," she muttered dismally.
You can't let his clan be destroyed, no matter the price, her heart said softly.
After a time she turned around and looked at him, swallowing the lump in her throat, acknowledging that there was no way she could stand by and watch him be abducted and his family be destroyed. So what that it might rip her to pieces in the process?
So much for falling in love, she thought dismally.
"Drustan," she said, striving for the calmest tone of voice she could muster, when inside she was unraveling at every seam, "in the future, the last thing you said was for me to tell the past you the whole story and to show you something. The something I was supposed to show you was my backpack, because it had things in it from my century that would have convinced you—"
"Show me this pack," he demanded.
"I can't," she said helplessly. "It disappeared."
"Why does that not surprise me?"
She bit her lip to keep from screaming with frustration. "The future you seemed to think you would be smart enough to believe me, but I'm beginning to realize the future you gave you a whole lot more credit than you deserve."
"Cease and desist with your insults, lass. You provoke the very laird upon whom your shelter depends."
God, that was true, she realized. She was dependent upon him for her shelter. Although she was a smart woman, she suffered more than a few concerns about how a misplaced physicist might fend for herself in medieval Scotland. What if he never believed her? "I know you don't believe me, but there is something you must do, whether you believe me or not," she said desperately. "You can't let Dageus go get your fiancée yet. Please, I'm begging you, postpone the wedding."
He arched one dark brow. "Och, have out with it, lass. Ask me to marry you. I'll say nay, then you can hie yourself back whence you came."