Love Across Time by B. J. McMinn

had created the flower garden when she and his father had first married. Since their deaths, Ursula had tended the plants with tender care until they flourished with foliage and blooms in a variety of colors.
    Underneath the rowan tree, growing in the middle of the garden, a bed of Lady’s mantle encircled the base. Its cupped leaves glistened with dew in the morning sun as honey bees buzzed around gathering its sweet nectar. Passing the delicate flower, he marched past the stone bench, sheltered by the tree branches, and went deeper into the garden. Alongside the stone fence, shaded by the castle walls, he found what he sought.
    The soft-yellow primrose would brighten Margaret’s drab room until she moved into the Lady’s Chamber. Forced into isolation by illness could cause anyone’s mind to wander into flights of fancy.
    He fingered his groom gift. The dinner knife, with its intricately graved handle, hung at his side, his constant companion since his wife had presented it to him the morning of their marriage. With one slice through each green stem, he gathered a large bouquet.
    He stared at the delicate blossoms. Now what? He couldn’t just hand her a bunch of loose flowers. A search of the surrounding area produced nothing to secure the stems.
    Ribbon would hold the bouquet together. Using the servant’s entrance, he strode down the hall and peeked around the door of the sewing room. Empty. Good. The maids hadn’t returned from their noon meal.
    He scanned the work area. Bolts of cloth lined one wall. A loom sat in the middle of the room, a Menzies red and white tartan stretched in its wooden frame. Three spinning wheels and chairs for the skein winders were scattered around the large area. A basket sat beside one chair. On top of several pieces of lace, lay a length of silver silk ribbon. He sniped off a piece and hurried out the door. It wouldn’t do for the castle folk to see their laird, with a fistful of flowers, filching ribbon from what was essentially a woman’s domain. They’d think him a romantic milksop.
    Back against the closed door of his bedchamber, he sighed with relief that he hadn’t met anyone on his way up the stairs. Laying the blossoms on the bed, he arranged the flowers in a cluster and tied the ribbon around the stems. He held it out to admire his effort. The bow, lying limp and off center, dimmed his enthusiasm.
    Her ring! The ring he’d given her at their wedding hung around his neck and lay against his heart. Tugging the silver chain out from under his shirt, he slipped the ring off. He untied the bow and slid the ring onto the piece of silk then retied the ribbon. He opened the door and marched down the hall.
    With the bouquet behind his back, he entered Margaret’s room. Ursula sat in a chair in front of the fireplace, sewing.
    “I’ll give ye a rest for a while, Ursula.”
    “That be all right, me laird. I nae finished me mending.” Her gaze never lifted from the cloth in her lap.
    Not a man to demonstrate his amorous intentions in front of others he shifted from foot to foot and wondered how to get rid of Ursula.
    Inspiration struck.
    “I saw young Ewan trying to wheedle a kiss from young Sorcha a wee while ago. I cannae fault the boy as I ken how he feels. But now ye....”
    Ursula heaved herself from the chair and tossed her mending aside. “I’ll pin that lads ears behind his head if he be after a tumble or two with the castle maids.” She glared her outrage at him. “And ye ken I’ll do it.” As she bustled out, the closing door barely missed the hem of her skirt.
    He chuckled at his display of wisdom. Ewan won’t know what he’d done wrong, but Ursula would make sure he’d never try to lift Sorcha’s skirts.
    “Was Ewan truly trying to kiss Sorcha?”
    The question drew his attention to the bed. Margaret’s small form was nearly lost in a mound of soft pillows. Waves of her golden hair splayed over her shoulder. One fat curl lay nestled against her bosom.