Time of a Highlander (Arch Through Time, #12)

by Baker, Katy

Idiot, he chided himself. Ye just wanted a chance to show off.

  Which is what Brody obviously thought as well. The old man’s scowl didn’t change as Blair pulled on his shirt, belted his plaid over the top, and then slung his scabbard over his shoulder.

  Finally, Blair sighed, turning to his captain. “Go on, say it.”

  Brody’s eyebrows rose. “Say what? I dinna think I need to say aught. Ye know exactly what I’m thinking.”

  “All right!” Blair cried, throwing up his hands. “Maybe I shouldnae have done that. But what choice was there? If I hadnae calmed the beast, we would have had to put him down. I’d rather risk injury than that!”

  “Aye, and if it was an isolated incident, I wouldnae mind so much,” Brody replied. “But last week ye waded into that river to save that sheepdog and was nearly washed away, and then ye sneak out and go on a mission to Beaumont’s castle without even telling the rest of us! Lord knows ye have always been reckless, Blair, but I fear ye are getting worse.”

  An angry retort sprang onto Blair’s tongue. Who was Brody to lecture him like this? He was not his father! But one look at the concern shining in the old man’s eyes made the retort die on his tongue.

  And besides, Brody was right.

  He was the commander of an army. His people were fiercely loyal, and each one of them would lay down their lives for him. In return, he owed them more than this reckless death-wish that seemed to have taken up residence in his soul. But he couldn’t help it. That restless fire that always seemed to smolder in this heart, that rash streak that had got him into more scrapes than he could remember when he was younger, had flared into a bonfire and now sometimes he could barely think straight for the turmoil in his heart.

  Brody’s expression softened. “It’s all right, lad,” he said softly. “Ye have naught left to prove. It wasnae yer fault.”

  Blair looked at him sharply. Naught left to prove? he thought. I have everything left to prove. It was all my fault. All of it. Dear God, I have to put it right.

  Brody looked as though he would say more, so Blair quickly spun on his heel and began marching away. “Tell Malcolm to begin training that horse!” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll take him as my own steed. And call him Trouble. Fitting, dinna ye think?” He gave his friend a wide grin.

  Brody shook his head ruefully.

  Blair made his way into the keep but avoided the hall where there would be countless people clamoring for his attention. Brody’s words had unsettled him.

  Ye have naught left to prove. It wasnae yer fault.

  His hands clenched into fists. Brody didn’t understand. None of them did.

  He took the steps up to the second level two at a time and barged into the tiny room he’d taken for his own. It was sparse, with plaster crumbling from the walls and a dusty wooden floor. A pallet lay in one corner and a messy pile of clothes in the other. It was poor lodgings by the standards of Dun Ringill, his uncle’s castle where he’d grown up, but it was more than adequate for Blair. He’d never cared much for luxury.

  He closed the door behind him and stood leaning on it for a moment. Around him he could hear the sounds of the castle, but in the room all was still. He crossed to the pallet and knelt. Reaching underneath, he pulled out a small leather satchel.

  For a moment he just stared at it. Then he undid the clasps and opened it, pulling out a parchment that was faded with age. He hesitated, but then unrolled it. At some time in its history the parchment had been torn and now a ragged tear cut through the diagram filling the space. But Blair didn’t need the missing half to know what he was looking at. One upright column covered in strange designs filled the page, its top arching over and ending at the tear. Around the edges were other, smaller designs and radiating lines that would have suggested a map except that they didn’t seem to lead anywhere.

  He ran a hand over his face as he remembered the man who’d given him this map. Then, hot on the heels of this memory, came another. Screaming. The clash of weapons.

  His fingers curled into a fist, crumpling the parchment. I’m sorry, he thought. I failed ye. I failed all of ye.

  He shook his head, and his thoughts drifted to Georgie. Why had Irene MacAskill brought her here? And why was he constantly getting distracted by thoughts of her? The memory of her hand in his, of her weight pressing against his chest as they’d ridden here, was enough to send heat rushing straight to his groin.

  Too long since I’ve had a woman, he told himself.

  He replaced the parchment, then pushed the satchel back under his pallet before climbing to his feet. From down in the bailey he could hear the sounds of Brody putting his men through their paces and the clink of hammers where Aibne and his helpers were busy trying to repair the walls. Soon his warriors’ training and his castle’s defenses would be put to the ultimate test.

  How long? he thought. How long till Campbell and Beaumont are successful with the arch? How long before we have an army at our gates?

  And how many of his men would survive such an encounter?

  He blew out his cheeks. It was time to get some answers, and the place to start was with Georgina Smyth.

  GEORGIE SAT BY THE window, staring out at the landscape beyond. She was going over everything that had happened since Irene MacAskill had turned up in her workshop, trying to remember something, anything, that would help her figure out exactly what had happened to her.

  It was a hopeless task. Every time she stopped for a second, she found herself thinking of Blair MacAuley. And each time a whole host of confusing sensations arose inside her. She remembered the feel of his skin when he’d held her hand and the way his infectious grin made her heart lift a little. But she also remembered the wild, half-crazy light that had filled his eyes when he’d jumped on that horse earlier, and the hard, ruthless expression on his features as he’d mercilessly killed Beaumont’s guards.

  Damn it all, she needed information. How was she supposed to figure out what was going on—and if she could trust Blair—if nobody would tell her anything? Even Clara kept secrets—as evidenced by that door that led to the forbidden east wing.

  She thought about the symbol carved into the door. It had looked familiar. It nagged at her, like a dream she couldn’t quite remember on waking.

  Then it hit her. She sat bolt upright, looked around, and then sprang to her feet with a cry of triumph. Her clothes were folded neatly on the chair by the fireplace, so she grabbed the apron, fumbled around in the front pocket, and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment.

  It was the blueprints for the arch that Adaira Campbell had given her. She’d been so pre-occupied with everything else that she’d forgotten she’d stuffed it in her apron right before she’d completed the arch.

  She rolled the parchment out on the floor, pinning down the sides with candlesticks. Sure enough, the sketches she’d worked from filled the page, but it wasn’t these that her eyes were drawn to—it was the symbol in the top right-hand corner.

  A burning torch—exactly the same as the symbol carved on that forbidden door.

  She rocked back on her heels. Coincidence? Hardly. It had to be connected. But how? Why would Adaira Campbell’s parchment bear the same markings as a locked room in Blair’s castle?

  Georgie had no idea. But she had to find out.

  She rolled up the parchment, took her chisel and hammer out of her apron, and crept to the door. Carefully, she cracked it open and peeked out. She was not a prisoner here and therefore free to roam around the castle, but she suspected that this invitation did not extend to those areas that were forbidden.

  She was in luck. There was nobody in sight. Stepping out into the corridor, Georgie pulled the door shut behind her and set out.

  BLAIR HAD GIVEN INSTRUCTIONS that Georgie be quartered in the best room in the castle—the only room that could really be called a bedroom since the rest were little more than bare cells like his own. He guessed that the room had once been a lady’s chamber, and it had weathered the de
cay of time better than the rest of the keep.

  He strode down the long, winding corridor until he came to her door. He hesitated. Would it be considered unseemly to be seen going into her bedchamber? He didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, and his warriors liked to gossip worse than any farmwives. Maybe it would be better to interview her in the hall.

  He tossed the notion aside. The truth was, he wanted to talk to her alone, without the prying eyes of everyone watching. That way she would be more likely to let her guard down, tell him what he needed to know.

  Aye, that was it. It wasn’t that he liked being near her. It wasn’t that he wanted to feel that intimacy they’d shared during the ride here. Definitely not.

  He knocked on the door. No answer.

  “Georgie?” he called. “It’s Blair. May I come in?”

  Still no answer. Frowning, he pushed the door slowly open and peeked inside. The room was empty. Blair stepped all the way in, feeling a sudden stab of alarm. Where could she be? He knew Clara had taken her on a tour of the castle, but they’d returned some time ago and Clara was now down in the hall talking with her father. Georgie wouldn’t have gone out alone, would she? Unless...

  Unless she’s fled, the thought flowered in his mind.

  Lord, she’d been frightened enough to do such a thing when he’d first met her, but he thought she’d started to trust him—at least a little.

  There was nowhere to run out here, only wilderness that would leave her exposed to bandits and wolves, and Lord alone knew what other dangers. The stab of alarm turned into a sudden, cold fear. He could not let aught happen to her. Hadn’t he given his word that he would protect her?

  He bolted from the room, all but leaping down the stairs, and then burst into the hall. Its occupants looked up in surprise at his sudden appearance.

  “Clara!” he said sharply. “Where did ye last see Georgie?”

  Clara straightened from where she was talking with Brody. “I escorted her back to her room,” she replied, a puzzled look on her face “She said she was tired and wanted to rest. Why? Is something wrong?”

  “Damn it!” he growled. “She isnae in her room. Do ye have any idea where she might have gone?”

  Clara’s puzzlement turned into a look of concern. “I...no...I don’t think so. Oh, wait. She did show an interest in...um...”

  “What?” Blair demanded.

  Clara drew a breath. “She did show quite a bit of interest in the east wing.”

  A chill went down Blair’s spine.

  The east wing. Had he been a fool all this time? Had he made a terrible mistake after all?

  “Blair?” Clara asked. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Blair didn’t answer. He ran from the room.

  NOBODY PAID GEORGIE any mind as she made her way through the castle, following the route she and Clara had taken earlier. She was a guest of their lord and that was good enough for the warriors and workmen she passed as she navigated the bailey, the kitchen garden, and then the corridor that led to the older part of the ruins.

  As she made her way along the gloomy passage, the sounds of the castle receded. Maybe the stone was thicker here or maybe it was just a trick of the construction, but all sounds seemed to die away until she was left in silence. The sun was sinking lower in the sky outside and Georgie hadn’t thought to bring a torch, making the corridor dark and a little oppressive.

  This place stank of age and memory. How many people had walked this path before her? she wondered as she made her way carefully towards the door at the far end. What memories filled these stones?

  She reached the small flight of steps and halted. The door at the bottom stood closed, the wood so dark with age that it looked like a patch of shadow against the wall. The symbol carved into its surface stood out starkly against the wood, untouched by age or decay. Georgie couldn’t repress a shudder.

  She walked down the steps and set her ear to the wood. No sound came from beyond. Straightening, she glanced over her shoulder to check she was alone and then tried the door. It was locked, as she knew it would be.

  She reached into the pocket of her dress and took out her chisel and hammer. Like Beaumont’s men before him, Blair hadn’t bothered to confiscate her tools. Georgie wasn’t sure what to make of that. He either didn’t see her as a threat or he trusted her enough to leave them with her.

  That thought sent a pang right through her. He trusts me and here I am sneaking around his castle, about to break into somewhere I shouldn’t be, she thought.

  She almost changed her mind. She almost turned around and went back the way she’d come. Almost.

  But then she peered at that symbol again and thought about how it appeared on Adaira Campbell’s drawings, about how Blair and Adaira and Beaumont and Irene MacAskill were all connected somehow, about how she’d been dragged into something she did not understand, something that Blair would not explain.

  She needed answers and if breaking in here was the only way to get them, so be it.

  She set the chisel against the metal plate that held the lock and began tapping it with the hammer gently, so as not to make too much noise. It began to come away from the wood until finally it dropped off and she was able to reach into the hole with her finger and shift the metal rod inside to work the lock.

  Sure, she and her father might be stonemasons, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t taught her the odd trick or two.

  She realized that the metal rod and plate weren’t iron, as she would expect. Instead, they were both made of copper, just like Adaira Campbell’s tools.

  A coincidence? Hardly.

  The lock came open with a ‘snick’ that sounded unnaturally loud in the thick silence. Georgie placed her palm flat against the door and pushed. It creaked open and Georgie stepped noiselessly through.

  She found herself in a small antechamber. It was hexagonal and empty, with only one exit leading to some steps that angled sharply downwards. The walls were plastered, although this was chipped and cracked. The air was thick and heavy, with a strange smell that Georgie couldn’t quite place. And it was cold, far colder than the rest of the castle, and she found herself hugging her arms around herself to keep warm.

  There was nothing here that might indicate why this place was off limits so Georgie crossed to the top of the steps then, before she could change her mind, hurried down them, coming out into another room.

  She stopped dead. Her heart leapt into her mouth, her pulse suddenly racing. This room was much larger than the first, perhaps as large as the hall of the keep. And was filled with tombs. Some were unadorned, others were carved with effigies of the occupants, lying forever in state on the lids of their resting places.

  The crypt! Georgie thought. It’s the crypt!

  Her skin crawled. Why did she have to poke her nose in where it wasn’t wanted? She should have just accepted Blair’s edict and stayed away.

  She backed off, ready to turn around and retrace her steps, when she noticed something else. On the far side of the crypt lay another arched doorway and through this, light was streaming. It was so bright she couldn’t see what lay inside.

  She hesitated. She ought to leave. She ought to turn around, go back to her room, and hope that Blair never found out she’d broken in here. But she didn’t.

  Instead, she began walking slowly towards that doorway, weaving her way through the tombs. She tried not to look at the stone coffins, but she found her eyes drawn to them anyway. The effigies carved on top were all warriors, she realized, wearing armor and holding swords against their chests. The hairs rose on the back of Georgie’s neck. She could swear she felt them watching her.

  She reached the doorway and paused on the threshold. She stepped through, and as she came inside, was able to finally see what lay within.

  In the exact center of the chamber rose a stone arch. Or rather, arches.

  There were two of them, one bisecting the other, so they formed an X. One of the arches was half ruined, with just
the stubs of its pillars left, but the apex of the other was sharply pointed—more pointed than the one she’d restored for Adaira Campbell and she couldn’t quite pin down the style. There was something alien about it, part gothic, part Norman, part something else she couldn’t put her finger on.

  The arches were large, if they were restored they would be wide and high enough for many people to walk through side by side. Unease made Georgie’s stomach flutter. What were a couple of random stone arches doing hidden down here? They didn’t form a window or a doorway. They led nowhere. Why would somebody build such a thing?

  She approached cautiously and walked in a circle around them, head craned back as she looked up. There was something about it that made a cold hard, lump of dread form in her stomach. Even though sunlight filled the room—from windows cut into the ceiling high above—the arches remained dark, as though they drank up the light. She couldn’t say what kind of stone the arches were made from. It was milky like marble but didn’t reflect any light.

  Sticking her hand into her pocket, Georgie pulled out Adaira Campbell’s parchment. She knelt in front of the huge arch and rolled the diagram out on the floor. Her eyes widened. Her pulse quickened. She glanced between the parchment and the arch several times, double checking she was seeing what she thought she was.

  Yes. There was no mistaking it. The diagram on the parchment, the arch divided by the tear right down the page, was the same as the one standing in front of her right now.

  The hairs rose on the back of her neck. Adaira Campbell was trying to find a way to open a portal through time. And she’d given Georgie a drawing of this exact arch. That meant that this must be...

  “Aye,” said a voice behind her. “It’s a doorway through time. Some might say the doorway through time. The one that the folk tales speak of. The one that will bring the Unseelie hordes through to rip the Highlands apart. But ye already knew that, didnae ye?”

  With a startled cry, Georgie jumped to her feet. Blair stood behind her. His face was white with fury, his shoulders hunched.