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For one brief second, Olivia expected to find her phone. Her grandmother hadn’t even been born yet. The thought made her sway.
Morag steadied her at the waist. “Too tight?”
Olivia looked at her and knew immediately that the older woman knew perfectly well the problem wasn’t the clothing.
“A little.”
Morag loosened one tie without comment. “There.”
“Better.”
Neither of them said anything more.
The gown and fitted jacket came last, followed by several minutes of learning that skirts required a slightly different stride and considerably more awareness of the furniture. Once Morag had pinned Olivia’s chestnut hair up, she turned toward the spotted mirror beside the door.
Nothing about the reflection looked like a costume. The dark blue wool belonged in this room, with its peat fire, rough stone, worn furniture, and gray Highland light. She looked like she belonged here in 1786, at least until she figured out how to get back to her own time.
When they returned to the main room, Jamie looked up from the hearth and stopped.
His gaze moved from Olivia’s face to the gown and back again, and for once no teasing remark appeared.
“What?” Olivia asked.
Jamie blinked. “What?”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m no’.”
Morag snorted behind her.
Olivia folded her arms, tapping one booted foot. She’d refused to give up her boots. “You are.”
Jamie appeared to consider several possible answers. “The gown is blue.”
Morag burst out laughing.
Olivia stared at him. “Blue?”
“Aye.”
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“It’s a verra fetching blue.”
By then Olivia was laughing too, which broke whatever strange tension had settled into the room.
Then Jamie noticed she was still wearing the boots.
Morag frowned. “She’ll need proper shoes.”
Jamie shook his head. “They stay.”
Morag leaned down and examined the stitching. “No cobbler in the glen made these.”
“Boston,” Olivia said.
Jamie’s expression brightened. “A remarkable city.”
