The man mutters something I don’t catch, and the older woman snorts.
“Catriona,” he says, firm and abrupt, as if speaking to a dog. “Open this door, or I will open it for you.”
“I am unwell, sir, and—”
The door flies open, knocking me forward as a man strides into the room. About thirty, he’s big and rough-hewn, with a lantern jaw and broad shoulders. He must work in the stables, judging by the dirt on his rumpled clothing. Tousled black hair. Dark beard shadow. Brown skin. A thunderous look on his face that has me locking my knees to keep from shrinking back.
He stalks across the room and yanks open heavy drapes, the gray light of a heavily clouded day filtering through. Then he turns on me.
“What the devil are you doing out of bed?” he says. “Get back in there now.”
“Like hell.” The words come before I can stop them, and his dark eyes widen.
I hesitate. I want to fight, to demand answers.Where am I? What’s going on?I know it isn’t what I thought at first. This is not the guy who attacked me, and this is not some sicko killer’s historical-fantasy game.
So what is it? I don’t know, but my gut says to play along. Roll with it. Get answers without making trouble.
“Apologies,” I say, in a tone that doesn’t sound very apologetic. “I appear to have been struck in the head, and I am not quite myself.” Understatement of thecentury.“Pray tell, who might you be?”
“Imightbe your employer, Catriona.”
“Name?”
A tiny gasp, and I look over to see the little girl—Alice—staring at me goggle-eyed.
“Your name, please, sir?” I say.
“Duncan Gray.”
“Dr.Gray to you,” the older woman says with a sniff. I glance at her. Her face says she isn’t over forty, but she’s steel-haired, with a glare to match.
“That is Mrs. Wallace,” Gray continues. “My housekeeper.”
“And I am?”
His thick brows knit. “You truly don’t remember?”
“I fear I do not, sir, due to the bump on my head. If you would pleasekindly assist me by answering my questions, I would very much appreciate it.”
“You’ll ask your questions of me,” Mrs. Wallace snaps. “The master has no time for your nonsense.”
Gray waves her off, his gaze still on me, peering, assessing. A medical doctor, then? I take a closer look at his shirt, and see that what I’d mistaken for dirt is ink stains. Also, possibly a smear of soot. Wait, is thatblood?
Gray eases back. “You are Catriona Mitchell. Nineteen years of age. Housemaid to myself and my widowed sister, who is currently abroad.”
“And this place? It is your house, I presume. But the city? Edinburgh, is it?”
Mrs. Wallace continues to glare, as Alice watches me with that mixture of horror and admiration. As interrogations go, mine is downright civil. Probably still not quite appropriate for a Victorian housemaid.
If Gray takes offense, though, he doesn’t show it. “Yes, it is my home. Yes, it is in Edinburgh.” The faintest twitch of the lips. “Scotland.”
“And the date, sir?”
“May 22.”
Before I can open my mouth, he adds, “Eighteen sixty-nine. Today is May 22, 1869.”