by Tamara Gill
“Oh, Annette!” Catherine gave her friend a quick hug. “As if you haven't done enough already. Where is David?”
“He's over there, talking to a couple of college buddies. But come on! Open it before anyone else comes over to congratulate you.”
Catherine obediently tore off the gift wrap. “My diary! Oh, Annette, when . . . where did you find it?”
“Mrs. Jefferson, who lives two doors down from us on post, found my purse wedged way inside her hydrangea bushes last week. The purse snatcher must have thrown it there the same night he stole it. It was there all this time! The only thing missing was my wallet. The purse was pretty much ruined, from being out in the rain and all, but the stuff inside was fine. I guess vinyl is better than leather for some things!” She laughed. “I have to confess, I already peeked at the end—I didn't want to risk giving you bad news on your wedding day!”
Catherine forgave her with a smile. On this day of all days, she felt she could forgive anything.
“Let's go outside while you read it,” suggested Logan, putting an arm around her shoulders. “I don't think anyone else has gone out there yet.”
Catherine nodded and he led her out onto the wide terrace of the posh country club where the reception was being held. There was a redwood bench conveniently placed out of sight from the windows, and she sat down to open the little book while Logan kept a possessive arm around her waist. She flipped through her own entries and Kathryn's first passage, which she had already read on her first night in 2013—it seemed so long ago now! The next entry was the last in the diary, dated April 1,1827.
Ryan and I are back in Columbia, probably for the last time. We are in town for only a few days to wind up our affairs here. Ryan is selling Fair Fields, after holding off for a while on my advice. Whether he believed my story of coming from the future at first I don't know, though he said he did after seeing Catherine's note. But when the price of cotton soared to twenty-seven cents a pound, just as I said it would, he was convinced! He's investing his profits in Pennsylvania railroads, at my suggestion. We've been living in Philadelphia for the past year, and have been so happy there that we plan to make it our permanent home.
Mr. Allerby was persuaded to drop all charges against Ryan after receiving an “anonymous” letter, so we could come back here to live if we wanted to, but we don't. The people of Philadelphia are much more open-minded and we're both more comfortable there. I'm also anxious to get back to little Kathryn, whom I left in the care of her nurse rather than drag her along on this trip. She was one year old the week before we left, and is absolutely gorgeous!
I'm leaving the diary in the cubbyhole of the desk where I first found it, in hopes that you, Catherine, will be able to read it someday. Ryan and I are divinely happy and I pray that you and Logan will be likewise. I have no doubt that we exchanged places for exactly this reason. Ryan and I were obviously intended for each other, and I suspect that you and Logan were, too.
We plan to be active in the Underground Railroad that is developing in Philadelphia—ask Logan what that means, if you don't know. Give everyone in 2013 (or whenever you read this) my love, and tell Logan I said to treat you like the queen you are. Thank you, Catherine, for the gift of your spot in history. I truly belong here.
All wishes for a happy life, Kathryn Sykes-James
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brenda Hiatt is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of twenty novels (so far), including sweet and spicy historical romance, time travel romance, humorous mystery and a new young adult science fiction series. In addition to writing, Brenda is passionate about embracing life to the fullest, to include scuba diving (she has over 60 dives to her credit), Taekwondo (where she recently achieved her 2nd degree black belt), hiking, traveling, and pursuing new experiences and skills.
She is an active member of Romance Writers of America, the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators, and Novelists, Inc, an international organization of multipublished novelists, where she served as President in 2006. For the past dozen years, Brenda has also collected data on writers' earnings, which she shares at her website.
TWITTER
FACEBOOK
GOODREADS
NEWSLETTER
THE TARTAN MP3 PLAYER
Book One Highland Secrets Trilogy
C.A. Szarek
CHAPTER ONE
She was dreaming. Again.
Rock music blared from the earbuds in her ears, and Claire ran harder. Somehow the treadmill had more resistance than usual. Felt funny under her feet, too.
Bare feet?
No running shoes?
When she looked down, she paused. Shock washed over her. Brought her to a screeching halt from her dead run.
She wasn’t on a treadmill. And she was—
Naked?
Claire didn’t have on a stitch of clothing.
“What the hell?”
She wiggled her toes and damp, gritty sand squished between them.
“Where the hell am I?” Yanking the buds from her ears, she let them drape over her shoulders and searched her memory.
Nada.
Panic rose from her gut, and she started to shake all over. Claire sucked a breath and watched her bare breasts rise and fall.
Frigid sea mist kissed her skin and she shivered.
A beach? Seriously?
What an odd dream.
If she wasn’t naked and freezing, it might be pleasant to run on the beach...wherever the heck she was.
She approached the water, but the moment the cold liquid touched her toes, she jumped back. The scent of salt in the sea spray shook her again.
The ocean? Which one?
She’d never been to the ocean before, so it was a tossup.
Claire’s gaze shot skyward when two gulls called to each other. They flew overhead, crossed paths, and then one dove for the water.
Weird, everything’s so vivid.
No one was in sight, and neither was any sort of boat or shelter. But further from the water, the terrain became riddled with cliffs.
She couldn’t see over the closest ridge, which sat about six or seven feet high.
A screaming heavy metal song blared from her headphones, clashing with the peaceful morning around her.
At least she thought it was morning.
Clouds littered the sky, covering the sun, but it wasn’t dark out. Her gut said morning, even if she couldn’t tell what time it was.
“Okay, Claire. It’s cold. Wake up.” She backed even further from the water, shaking out her long blond hair.
Her hair tie was gone too.
Claire winced. When her fingertips passed over a tangle, and she had to work it free. Her scalp throbbed.
“Pain. Also feels real.”
She jumped up and down in place, trying to warm her chilled body. Her hair skimmed her shoulders and tickled her back, raising gooseflesh from biceps to wrist.
Nothing.
Only the beach. Not the blue walls of her bedroom or the high white ceilings of her little house.
“C’mon, Claire. Wake. Up. Now.” She pinched her own forearm. “Damn, ow.” Claire rubbed the pulsing spot and looked around. “What the—”
“Who goes there?” A deep, accented voice made her jump.
Her MP3 player crashed to the sand, the wires from her headphones ripping over her shoulders as they flew away from her body, but she didn’t go after the devices.
Claire’s heart kicked into overdrive, and she shot her arm across her naked breasts. Plastered her palm over her bare sex.
“Okay, don’t like this dream anymore.” Her voice jumped up an octave.
Why can’t I wake up?
Maybe a touch of fright would make her wake the hell up.
“Ummm....hello?” Claire ventured even though her pulse pounded in her temples. She didn’t see the voice’s owner, but she was stuck now.
Not like I can run and hide.
She wasn’t fond
of a stranger seeing her nude, even if gym time had given her a rockin’ body.
Claire smirked. Her sister would’ve declared her egotistical right then and there.
Three figures came into view, standing atop a grassy overhang and staring down at her. Two men and a boy.
“Lass?” One asked.
Lass?
Okay, no more Scottish Highlander romance novels before bed for you, Claire McGowan. But at least she’d placed the accent.
All three were dressed in period clothing. Like—seventeen hundreds or something. The tallest one had a tartan kilt on.
The man who’d spoken was older, wearing a thick grey beard he was currently scratching, as if he was trying to figure her out.
Well, duh. Naked girl on the beach at the ass crack of dawn should do it every time.
The boy looked about ten. He scrambled down the incline, stopping about three feet from her and staring. Wide blue eyes. Dark, messy hair that needed a good cut.
Claire backed up, squeezing her eyes shut. “Seriously, wake up.” Though she should pat herself on the back for the vivid imagination—if she didn’t have to cover her tender parts—she would’ve so been on that.
This place looked and felt real.
“Are ye Fae?” The kid’s brogue was thick, but his voice was high, making him sound younger than she’d guessed.
“Wh-what?” Claire asked, taking another step back.
“Angus, hush.” The last man admonished. His voice was familiar; he’d been the one who’d called out first.
He jumped down to the beach with little effort.
Claire almost forgot to cover herself as she gazed up at him.
Had to be about six-five or six-six.
Definitely had a foot on her, for sure.
Blue eyes, like the kid. Long black hair that flowed in the wind. He was wearing a kilt, and had the same tartan pattern strewn across his body, shoulder to waist and held down with a belt, but no shirt beneath. A huge, defined pec peeked out and her stomach fluttered.
Good job, Claire. At least you dreamt up someone yummy.
The model on the cover of the book she’d been reading before bed had nothing on this guy.
“Lass? Are ye all right?” His voice was concerned, as was his expression. He spoke gently.
“M-m-m-me?”
Way to go on the stutter, Clair-bear. Her sister’s nickname popped into her head with ease. It should’ve grounded her, but she still didn’t wake up.
“She talks funny, uncle!”
How can he tell?
She’d said two words, literally.
“Where am I?” Claire whispered. The sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach made her shift on her feet.
“Isle of Skye.” The boy jumped up and down. “We were supposed to go fishing. But I found ye, instead.”
“Hush, Angus MacLeod,” the man said, but there was amusement in his tone. However, he didn’t take his eyes off Claire.
A tremor slid down her spine when his gaze travelled her frame.
Still. Naked.
She wanted to sink into the sand, her earlier confidence about her body gone. Claire shivered, her teeth chattered.
“Jesu, lass. Yer freezin’.” The huge man unbelted the plaid from his waist and whipped it off his torso. It was a separate piece from his kilt, and now he stood before her bare chested. His accent was as thick as the boy’s, but she could make his words out clearer.
Sexy as hell.
“Yeah, kinda naked over here.” A nervous titter fell from her lips and made Claire wince.
“Is she Fae, uncle?” Angus asked.
“Ye’ve been spending too much time with my father. Da, stop clouding the lad’s head with faery tales,” the man called.
The old guy on the hill chuckled. “Och, then ye shouldna leave the lad with me when you go off.”
“Like I have a choice.”
Claire’s focus scattered when he threw his plaid over her shoulders. Warmth enveloped her as well as his clean masculine scent.
Sandalwood and fresh peat. Earthy, yet delicious.
Like he’d stepped out of her damn book.
All she could see in front of her was a wide expanse of naked, well-defined chest. His arms and pecs were huge.
She stopped counting abs, when she got to four on each side. There was a dark strip of hair dividing his eight-pack, and disappearing into that kilt.
Claire had to swallow hard.
Gorgeous didn’t even cover it. She forbade herself from wondering what he had under the tartan.
“There, lass. Better?” He rubbed her arms up and down on the outside of the fabric.
She clutched the wool closer, making sure the front of her body was covered and fought a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill of the beach.
Their eyes locked, and one corner of his mouth shot up.
“I’m good. Thanks.” She forced words out. Claire’s mouth went dry. Her tongue was thick.
He paused, as if he was trying to make sense of her words. Then he nodded. “Duncan MacLeod, by the way.” He inclined his head and smiled.
“Like the TV show from the nineties?” Claire blurted.
Way to be original in dreamland.
On the other hand, she’d loved that show.
“What, lass?” He cocked his head to one side, studying her like the kid standing beside him still was.
“Nothing.” Claire shook her head.
“She is Fae, uncle.”
Duncan MacLeod sighed and crossed his arms over his massive—bare—chest. “Angus, another word and I’m going to make ye join yer grandfa.”
The boy jumped up and down. “But Uncle, look at her. Fair of hair, like my—”
The man clamped a hand over the kid’s mouth. He grabbed him up against his broad chest. “Enough, lad.”
With a dramatic sigh, the kid deflated and nodded.
Duncan MacLeod set him to his feet, and Angus stared up at him. “Up on the hill with yer grandfather.”
Angus’s little shoulders slumped but he obeyed. He dashed to the overhang and scrambled up like a gold medal rock climber. “Sorry, Uncle,” he muttered as he went.
“I’m sorry, lass. He’s...”
“Fine.” Claire had to smile. The kid was cute. “A normal little boy.”
When Duncan MacLeod grinned, her heart stuttered. “Da, take Angus back to Dunvegan. Tell Janet to have a warm bath ready, and some clothing for the lass. A meal, too. We’ll join you shortly.”
“What? No...” Claire shook her head.
“No protests, lass.” Duncan looked up to the ridge.
She snapped her mouth shut. His tone brooked no argument.
Hey, is this my dream, or what? But she didn’t say the words.
This didn’t feel like a dream anymore.
Duncan’s father nodded, resting a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “See you, then.” The old man waved.
Claire shifted on her feet under the weight of Duncan’s gaze, when the others had left them.
“Now, lass. Ye and I needa talk. Who are ye, and where did ye come from?”
CHAPTER TWO
“This is a dream. This has to be a dream, right?”
Duncan MacLeod’s sapphire eyes searched her face, and he settled his large hands on her shoulders. “A dream?”
Even through the thick tartan, the heat of his grip sank into her body. Claire’s limbs tingled.
“The lad was right, ye do talk funny,” he muttered, but he was speaking more to himself than her.
Claire cleared her throat as panic started to rise from her belly. “This isn’t a dream. Oh my God. I’m in Scotland.” Her legs wobbled; her vision wavered.
“Aye, yer in Scotland. On my lands—lands of Clan MacLeod—Isle of Skye, in the Hebrides.”
Shit. I’m gonna pass out.
“Lass?” Duncan’s voice held concern, but his eyes, then his face blurred.
She couldn’t focus. Black crept up and
Claire’s muscles let go.
“Lass?”
Warmth enveloped her and she sucked in a breath. She was up against something—someone—solid. Claire sucked in air and moaned. Her temples throbbed.
Am I finally awake?
“Lass?”
Claire refused to open her eyes. She could hear the rush of water and whimpered.
The beach.
The man.
Duncan MacLeod.
“You keep calling me that.”
“Ye have yet to tell me yer name.” When the laugh rumbled against her body, as well as greeted her ears, her eyes flew open.
She was in his arms. Against his massive chest. Her belly warmed. Desire made her throb between the legs.
Desire?
You don’t even know this guy.
Yeah, but he’s holding me entirely off the ground. Strong arms. Muscles galore. Plus he’s hot as hell.
Talking to herself?
Answering herself?
Maybe Claire was in a coma.
In the mental institution.
She was going crazy.
“Are ye all right? Ye fainted.”
“I’m good. I’m okay. You can let go of me.” She met his blue eyes, read doubt there. “Promise. I’m good.”
“Where are ye from, lass? And what’s yer name?” Duncan put her to her feet, but didn’t take his large hands off her.
Claire didn’t pull away, either. She met his gaze and cleared her throat. “Texas. Claire. Claire McGowan.”
“Texas?” Duncan struggled with the word. “Where’s that?”
“Umm...you know, the US...United States of America?”
“America? The new world,” Duncan breathed.
A chill shot down her spine and Claire stared at his chest, his kilt, then the beach around them. She clutched Duncan’s plaid closer around her neck. “The new world?” she whispered.
“Ah. The English. They’ve colonies. I’ve heard of such a place. Never been. No desire to go away from Scotland.” He said the word English as if it was an insult.
Jesus, this isn’t a dream.
Claire’s head spun, and her heart kicked up a notch. “Oh. My. God.”
