by Tamara Gill
Now it seemed his brothers and sister were lost to him regardless.
Toren stepped away from the quilted bed like a boy afraid his clumsiness might break something important. He turned glossy eyes to Charity. “Can ye...?”
“Of course.” She crossed the room to him and squeezed his arm. She felt like she'd run a marathon, legs were rubber, back unbendable, but she wanted Edeen well and whole as much as Toren did. “I'll do what I can.”
She sat on the side of the bed, taking in the girl's still features, the slow rise and fall of her chest and pushed her fear over what happened to Shaw and Col to the back of her heart so that she could concentrate solely on helping Edeen.
Placing a palm over Edeen's sternum, Charity pulled from her own essence and allowed the energy to heal flow outward.
The familiar light sparkled at her fingertips, comforting and warm and sank into the girl, seeking injury, something out of the ordinary.
She searched long and hard, exhaustion trying to pull her back, which only made her press harder to find something, any trace of magic that was neither Edeen's or her own, any hint to why she remained unconscious, to what had happened between Edeen and the witch on that damn hill.
As an empath, there should be myriad traces of magic to sift through...yet, there was none.
What had happened when Edeen had latched onto Aldreth's magic in full swing? It was as though the witch's force had backlashed into Edeen and shorted her out.
Charity felt herself drifting out of the girl’s essence. She fell into strong arms.
A handsome anxious face blurred into her vision. “Are ye unharmed? Charity, look at me.”
Pressing a hand to her rioting head, she nodded. “I'm okay.”
Toren held her up off the rush-covered floor where she must have sloshed over. Edeen remained still and unmoving on the bed.
Charity met Toren's pain-filled gaze. She could tell he was afraid to ask what she'd learned. She brought her hands up to cup his face. “She merely sleeps, Toren.” She wanted so badly to comfort him. “She has not been harmed. Not in any way that I can tell. She's okay...just asleep.”
“Then why will she not awaken?”
“I don't know.” Charity shook her head. “She's deep.” She wasn't sure exactly how to explain what she'd felt. “Edeen's personality, her essence, who she is, has sunk way down deep where—”
“Where ye cannot reach her.” The Adam's apple in Toren's throat column bounced.
“No. I can't,” she whispered. “But I will. I'll figure out a way. I won't stop trying. We'll get her back, Toren. I’m not going back home until we figure out how to help Edeen.”
Toren stared at her for a long while until something indefinable about his expression changed. She couldn't quite place what, for his features were still etched with worry, yet hope had somehow seeped into his being. She felt it radiating off of him. “You’re willing to stay?”
She nodded, the weight of what she was doing falling like raindrops around her, soaking into the hardened ground. “Edeen is my friend. I won’t abandon her.”
“As ye would not abandon me.” The pads of his fingers traced along her cheek, trailing warmth. “You said ye would save me. And ye did. I believe you, Charity Healer Enchantress beyond Time. I believe you. Ye say we will save my sister, I believe you.”
Several emotions spread through Charity's breast, too many to sort through. She stared into Toren's eyes, held captive by the full strength of his trust and hope and belief. Belief in her. That connection, that truly knowing and understand another, was back and streaming powerfully between them. Her heart pulled, thumping heavily against her ribs in rhythm with his. Goddess, she loved him.
His trust in her made her believe it herself. They could help Edeen. After all, they had already conquered time together. And they’d broken the witch’s bands. Together they could do anything.
Charity smiled, hope blossoming warmth throughout her essence. “We'll get her back, Toren. We'll get them all back.”
Toren nodded, a tear spilled down his cheek. “I believe you. We will. Together. We’ll awaken Edeen and we will discover where time has swept Col. We will find him and bring him back to us.” He kissed Charity's forehead. “Charity, I...” His face filled with wonder. “I remember. I do not know how ‘tis possible, but I remember two events one upon the other.”
She felt tears wet her cheeks. “I know. I felt it.”
“Then ye know the depth of my feelings for you.” His voice came out strong like the force of the tide that pulled Charity under with it. “I do not wish for you to get over me,” he repeated the words she had thrown at him.
Her heart swelled with love for the lug, her Highlander that she’d risk traveling through time to save. “I—” But she didn't get to answer, because Toren's mouth pressed over hers, showing exactly what he felt, leaving no room for doubt. Heat buzzed through her. Her senses exploded with it. Their magic flared, tangling together with an ebb and flow uniquely their own, together as though their very souls, their essences demanded to be forever entwined.
Toren pulled back, leaving her lungs pulling in shallow breaths. Her lips felt swollen, thoroughly kissed and yearning for more of the same.
He set her back, seeming unnerved as though to kiss her again just now would take away all reason and he needed to remain in control. They had work to do.
He shook his head and pushed back his hair, his face ruddy with need, his eyes darker somehow and Charity’s stomach took an oh-so-slow little somersault. Damn.
The throat muscles in Toren’s neck bounced. And bounced again. “We will find Col, get him back,” he resumed. “And Shaw...”
Shaw was much more complicated. They'd seen the broken defeat in his expression. With the clan gone and the darkness inside him...Charity feared the young man may have already lost the will to resist Aldreth.
The fragile hope between them plummeted. Charity lowered her head, once again giving into fear and worry.
It was Toren who bolstered her courage this time. He lifted her chin to meet his gaze.
“I will not leave my brother to the witch.” An unspoken question burned in his eyes. Was she with him in this also? Going against the witch again would not be easy. Especially not that she knew what power lay between them.
Charity smiled grimly and took his hand. “Nor will I, Toren. Nor will I.”
***
Months later
Toren climbed the stone carved steps up into the descending light of dusk out upon the top of the cliffs. The winds coming up from the sea pushed against him, pulling at his clothes and hair. He was utterly spent, both in emotion and magic.
Waiting, Charity turned and ran into his arms, pressing her cheek upon his chest and the hurt of what he’d just done eased somewhat. Down below within a wind-carved cavern few knew about, he’d laid Edeen upon an altar of stone and summoned a spell that had taken every last reserve of magic both he and Charity had together. He had only enough left for one more task, then ‘twould likely take several fortnights to replenish even a fraction of what they once had. They were both as vulnerable as any human now, yet for his sister, her safety, he would give everything.
They’d consulted every magical wielder left upon the land. None could help. None had the magical prowess of the clan of Limont that had disappeared. There were no spells, no potions, no amount of healing would awaken the lass. Edeen simply slept on. Finally they came upon a seer—or rather the seer came to them—with foresight of Edeen’s awakening. She spoke of patience and a powerful slumbering spell and of another magical wielder, who alone had the ability to awaken the lass. But they must be patient, they must not seek the wielder out, but let fate draw him to Edeen’s hidden cavern.
Toren pulled Charity closer. Patience. They had to wait. Possibly for years. Years. So Toren had created a spell of protection and sustaining to envelop Edeen while she slept. He created another to keep her well hidden from any who might mean her harm, and placed
all his hope and trust into the seer’s vision. For what else could he do?
He had to leave Edeen safe and hidden here in order to discover where in time Col had been flung to, and rescue Shaw from the witch.
Charity’s palm lifted to his cheek. “Are you going to be all right?”
Nodding, he grasped her hand, staring down at her in relief and gratitude. He could not have borne this heartache alone. That this beautiful spirited woman choose to share this burden with him was humbling. He lowered his forehead to rest upon hers and just held her, letting her compassion, her strength soothe him. He’d never loved anyone as completely. His entire heart belonged to her.
“She’ll be all right here, Toren. You’ve done everything you could.”
Not everything.
Sighing, he turned to finished it, but Charity held him fast. Her hands held his face and drew him closer until their lips met. It was a kiss of understanding, of shared grief, and also more, a kiss of love and hope and determination...and magic. A soul-blending magical giving as Charity poured her entire heart and essence into him, giving him the last of her own reserves so he’d have the strength to complete his final service for Edeen.
He felt like openly weeping, stalwart warrior that he was. No one had given him so much as freely. Charity Greves was a blessing, his salvation, and his reason for going on. He’d already decided to seek her hand in earnest once his family was reunited, but at this moment, at how right it was that they persevere together, centuries between their lives or nay, Charity would be his wife.
He pulled back and his heart took another sudden stumble, once again struck by her beauty, enhanced tenfold in her disheveled appearance, swollen thoroughly kissed lips and slightly dazed eyes. The maleness in him surged to life.
He squeezed her hand. “Together then?”
“Together.”
He let the magic build within him and then shot it out toward the steps cut deep into the earth that led to Edeen’s cavernous haven. The earth shook, the walls of the hole fell inward, piling stone and dirt over the entrance, leaving no easy way in or out to reach the cavern except through the opening carved with the side of the cliff face that was hidden beneath layers of spells.
Until she was awakened by another, Edeen would remain safe in her slumber.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“Clover Autrey's books are perfect for the time-constrained reader. They are a quick read jam-packed with action, adventure and emotion.” ...from a reader in Utah.
Clover Autrey writes the kind of stories she loves to read, high fantasy and time travels with Scottish Highlanders or magical mermen and shapeshifters, with powerful elements of romance, where the hero and heroine must each make sacrifices to gain something even stronger. She is the author of the HIGHLAND SORCERY series and the ANOINTED series.
Clover serves as the current president of the North Texas Romance Writers of America and is the vice president for the Keller Writers Association. She is a frequent speaker at conferences and workshops.
Be the first to know when a new book is out: Sign up for Clover’s newsletter.
FACEBOOK
BLOG
TWITTER
GOODREADS
PINTEREST
SMOOCH
Laura Marie Altom
Once upon a time in the not-too-distant future...
A maiden who believed herself quite plain went in search of her very own species of frog—not to kiss—but to make her father proud. For in this time of increased planetary awareness, man has been forced by past environmental sins to focus on the well-being not of himself, but of frogs. In short, if frogs with their permeable skin are healthy, so are we.
In this state of frog consciousness, a new breed of superstar has been born. Biologists now grace the covers of major magazines. As popular as the Academy Awards once were, the World Biological Conference held annually in London is now the hot ticket. For it is here humans receive their annual report card. Is the world better or worse off? And what are we supposed to do about it?
Mobs crush the doors of this event, but only a select few are allowed inside. The pinnacle of the weeklong affair is the time when new species of frogs are presented. A very rare thing indeed. Most years, this moment passes with somber respect. But this year—oh, this year, Lucy Gordon, daughter of the most revered biologist of all, plans to set the conference—maybe even the whole world—on fire!
PROLOGUE
“In conclusion...” Hand trembling, Lucy Gordon lifted the glass of ice water sweating alongside her on the podium. Somehow, she managed a sip. So much—literally, her whole life—depended on this presentation. Freeze-framing the moment to forever carry in her heart, she breathed deeply of the sweet gardenias gracing the tables. Outside, a crowd chanted—Lucy! Lucy! Inside, all was quiet save for dignified punctuations of clearing throats, rustling papers and coughs.
This was it.
She’d arrived.
After ten years’ thankless trekking through steamy New Guinea jungles, here she was—star speaker of this year’s London World Biological Conference. Living proof that dreams really do come true.
She forced a deep breath. “In conclusion, I’m sure you all agree that the specimen I’ve presented today—the one I’ve taken the liberty of naming Helena’s Dream in honor of my deceased mother—is an entirely new species of frog that must be studied further, not only to prevent extinction but to learn of its importance to our world.” She cleared her throat before adding, “Um, thank you.”
There, she thought, straightening her inch-thick pile of supporting documents. That hadn’t been so bad. Now, all she had to do was sit back and wait for thunderous applause. Already ripples of low conversation rose and fell in animated waves.
Leaning toward the microphone in anticipation of wrapping this up—not to mention gathering all of her congratulations—she added, “Are there, um, any questions?”
Just past the stage lights’ glare, she made out her father’s imposing form. Was he frowning? Could the great man be a tad jealous of the fact that for once she was the one hogging the limelight?
For a split second, she closed her eyes—just long enough to catch a mind’s-eye glimpse of Slate Gordon’s Roman nose, high forehead and piercing grayish-green gaze that’d earned him his name. Time had on more than one occasion called him the most brilliant scientific mind of his time. Women loved what People dubbed his brainy sex appeal. Men loved him for his kamikaze field tactics that rode the thin line between scientific study and science fiction. Lucy loved him because he was everything she’d ever admired and hoped to be. Slate Gordon was the Indiana Jones of the biological world, having discovered dozens of new species and one entirely new subspecies.
Back when Slate earned his first million, folks still hadn’t thought biology was sexy, but then drug companies caught on and began seeing dollar signs in Slate’s studies as opposed to just slimy new creatures. For as long as Lucy could remember, she’d looked up to him, had never dreamt for anything more than to earn his respect and, just think, here, tonight—right now—that dream was finally coming true.
After tonight, she’d be exactly like him.
Well, maybe not exactly.
He was not only highly intelligent, but charismatic and good-looking. Tall, lean and tan. In place of good old Dad’s rock-hard bod, she’d gotten curves—which wouldn’t have been bad, if only they’d been in proportionately attractive places.
As it was, her boobs, butt and belly were a little too big, her legs a little too short and stubby, and her hair a cruel shade of red corkscrew that at Brennan’s Private Academy had earned her the nickname, Pubic Hair Patty.
Of course, on more than one occasion, she’d reminded the popular crowd that her name was Lucy—not, Patty—but did they care? Noooo. All they’d cared about were their footballs and basketballs and parties and—
“Miss Gordon?” The moderator beside her tapped her shoulder. “I believe the gentleman at table thirteen has a ques
tion.”
“Oh—oh, sorry.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Would you mind repeating?”
An impeccably dressed Asian man straightened his tie before standing. “Miss Gordon, while your presentation was intriguing, I feel I’d be remiss in failing to point out the fact that the species you claim to have discovered was actually found well over three decades ago by—”
“Excuse me?” Lucy grasped the front of her white blouse, tugging on it in a search for air. Poor guy. He’d probably eaten too much tofu lasagna for dinner. Must’ve addled his mind for him to make such a ludicrous suggestion.
A titter of laughter started in the vast ballroom’s back corner, rising into a tsunami of chuckles and chortles and downright brazen belly laughs. Even her father had gotten in on the act, leaning closer than necessary to the leggy blonde seated beside him who was evidently sharing his mirth.
Still, Lucy’s poor food-poisoned accuser stood his ground. Honestly, couldn’t he take a hint? He was lucky security hadn’t escorted him outside.
The moderator gently urged Lucy from the mic, then gave it a good hard tap that produced squealing feedback. “Ladies and gentleman,” he said with a wince, “might I suggest decorum.”
“I’ll second that,” Lucy mumbled under her breath. What was the matter with these people? How could they be so callus as to practically laugh that poor guy right out of the room? Granted, his suggestion was ridiculous, but still, they were all professionals.
Once the crowd calmed, Lucy returned to the mic. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’re mistaken. I assure you, while there have been similar subspecies documented, this one is entirely new. As I’m sure you’re aware, my father is one of the most respected biologists on the planet. Believe me, out of respect for him, I’ve crossed all my Ts and dotted my Is. My research is impeccable.”
The laughter started anew.
Boy, was this a rough crowd. The poor guy would never be able to set foot at another conference.
