by Katy Baker
Irene shrugged. “Ye’d have gone back to yer lives having no memory that any of this had happened.”
Darcy wasn’t sure what to make of that. She shifted uncomfortably. “I need to ask you something. A favor.”
Irene MacAskill studied Darcy with a sharp gaze. “Asking favors of the fae can be a dangerous game, lass. Ye never know when that favor might be called in. Did ye know that?”
Darcy nodded. “So I’ve been told. But it’s important to me, Irene. Please?”
“What would ye ask?”
“I know you can travel through time. Could you go to my friend, Gretchen? Tell her I’m okay?”
“Gretchen Matthews? Mayhap she has her own part to play in this story, yet.”
“What does that mean?”
The old woman just shook her head. “That’s not for ye to ken. Very well. As you’re my favorite veterinarian I’ll do if for ye.”
“I’m the only veterinarian,” Darcy said dryly.
“Aye, that as well.”
“Darcy?” Quinn’s voice called from the bedroom. “What are ye doing on the balcony?”
“Looks like yer new husband is getting cold. Ye’d better go. I’ll do what I promised.”
Darcy was suddenly overcome with affection for this strange old woman. She leaned forward and wrapped her in a hug. “Thank you, Irene. Thank you for everything.”
Irene returned the hug then stepped back, smiling. “Go on lass, yer future is waiting for ye.”
Darcy glanced at the doorway. When she glanced back, Irene MacAskill was gone. “Goodbye,” Darcy whispered. “Until we meet again.”
Then she walked through the door to where her future waited.
THE END
Touch of a Highlander
Arch Through Time Book 2
Chapter 1
GRETCHEN MATTHEWS FLICKED a stray strand of hair from her face—getting flour in it in the process—and looked around with a sigh. Her kitchen was a mess. Pots and pans filled the sink. Jars of ingredients were strewn higgledy-piggledy across the worktops. A thin layer of flour covered the counter. To most people it would look chaotic.
To Gretchen, it looked wonderful.
All afternoon she'd been slaving over her latest culinary creation—an Italian chicken dish she'd wanted to try for a while. She'd followed the recipe to start with but, as she always seemed to do, she'd soon discarded it and began experimenting with her own flavors. Only when she was free to experiment did Gretchen really start enjoying herself.
She glanced at her watch. Perhaps half an hour more, then it would be ready. She checked the pans bubbling on the stove, added some more salt to one, then pulled the dish out of the oven and pricked it with a fork to check the chicken was cooking well. Great. It was all coming along nicely.
Gretchen leaned against the counter and took a sip of the wine she'd poured herself. As always, the chaos of her kitchen soothed her. The act of creating something from scratch was strangely fulfilling. When she was a child her mom employed a cook – Rita. She had been a large, flamboyant Spanish lady with a bellowing laugh and a hug that could crack ribs. Gretchen smiled at the memory. Oh, how she missed Rita. In truth, she'd been more of a mom to Gretchen than her mom had. She'd tended Gretchen's cuts and bruises. She'd cuddled her when she was frightened. She'd given her advice about boys.
But, perhaps her greatest gift to Gretchen was that she'd taught her how to cook.
And Gretchen had been cooking ever since, to the eternal disappointment of her mother. Maria Matthews wanted something grander for her daughter, something that fitted with her high profile lifestyle. That was why her mom spent so much money on Gretchen's boarding schools, all of which Gretchen hated, all of which had thrown her out for being so rebellious.
So, instead of becoming a lawyer or a hot-shot banker like her mom wanted, she'd secured herself a job in a restaurant kitchen downtown. She loved it. The hustle and bustle, the smells, the textures, the excitement. It was only during the evening though, so she also worked part-time on the reception desk of a local veterinary practice as well. She liked to keep busy.
Gretchen took another sip of her wine. With surprise she realized she'd drunk a whole glass already. She poured herself another. This was becoming a habit of late – a habit she ought to ditch. The wine, along with the cooking, had become Gretchen's way of dealing with things that upset her.
And right now she needed all the help she could get.
Why did she have to start thinking about work? That led her to thinking about Darcy Greenway, one of the vets at the practice and Gretchen's best friend.
Or, she had been at least, right up until she'd disappeared six months ago. Her worry over Darcy was the reason she'd buried herself in cooking this afternoon—anything to take her mind off her friend.
"Dammit!" Gretchen cried. She put the wine glass down, rolled up her sleeves, and spun towards the sink full of pans, scrubbing them furiously.
Why did she have to start thinking about Darcy? It always upset her. It always made her feel sick with guilt. It was her fault. Her fault that her best friend had gone missing.
Six months ago Darcy had flown over to Scotland for a conference. Darcy was a bit of a workaholic and wanted to come straight home but Gretchen convinced her to take a bit of a vacation whilst she was there.
Gretchen still remembered their last conversation over the phone.
Sure, the conference was okay but a bit boring, Darcy said. I'll be on the plane home tomorrow. How did Rex do after the operation?
Rex is fine, Gretchen had replied. Doctor Carter is covering your caseload, remember? And he's covering it for the next two weeks so you can take that vacation we talked about! You work too hard, Darcy. You need a break.
Darcy sighed. Yeah, I guess you're right. Fine. You win. I'll take a few days off to see some of Scotland. Happy?
And that was that. Gretchen hadn't seen or heard from her since. The police found her hire car abandoned in the Scottish Highlands but of Darcy there had been no sign.
If only I hadn't convinced her to stay on, Gretchen thought. Then she would have made it home, instead of...
Gretchen pulled in a deep breath, refusing to continue that thought. She finished washing the dishes and stacked them neatly on the draining board.
Gretchen frowned. She'd tried to distract herself with her cooking but it wasn't working. Whenever she wasn't active—like now—her thoughts drifted to her missing friend. Almost every waking minute she wondered what happened to her.
The doorbell rang and Gretchen jumped. She hurried to the door. On pulling it wide, she was surprised to find a small, elderly woman standing there. She had iron-gray hair caught in a bun at the back of her head and her hands clasped in front of her. She smiled up at Gretchen.
"Gretchen Matthews?" she said in a thick Scottish accent. "My name's Irene MacAskill. I'm here about Darcy Greenway. Ye know her, I believe?"
Gretchen's heart skipped. Finally!
"You must be the liaison I've been requesting from the Scottish police!" Gretchen said. "Come in, come in!" She took the woman's hand and all but dragged her into the living room. "Well?" she blurted. "Have you found Darcy?"
Irene MacAskill turned a solemn gaze on Gretchen. "Aye. It turns out she was never lost. Yer friend Darcy is safe and well, lass. Ye need not worry over her anymore."
Gretchen's legs turned weak with relief and she collapsed onto the sofa. She pressed a trembling hand to her chest. "Thank God," she whispered. "Thank God. So where is she? Is she coming home?"
Irene's gaze softened as she shook her head. "I'm afraid not, lass. Yer friend found her heart's desire and is living a new life now. She asked me to tell ye she's well."
Gretchen didn't reply. What the hell did that mean? Why wouldn't she come herself? And why, by all that's holy, would she not let Gretchen know she was all right?
She passed a shaky hand over her face. The details didn't matter. All that mattered was that Darcy was okay. A wei
ght lifted off Gretchen's shoulders. She closed her eyes, counted three long breaths to steady herself and then opened them again. She still had a million questions but she couldn't process them right now.
"Can I get you a drink?" she asked Irene. "Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?"
"Thank ye, lass. A drop of tea would be most welcome."
Gretchen hurried into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. While it boiled she checked on her cooking. She took everything out of the oven and switched off the stove. She'd not expected company but as usual, she'd made enough to feed an army.
"Would you like something to eat?" she called to Irene. "I’ve made plenty!"
"That's a most generous offer," Irene said from beside her.
Gretchen jumped. She hadn't heard the old woman move. She looked around the kitchen and nodded approvingly. "Ye enjoy yer cooking, lass?"
"It's my therapy," Gretchen said, pouring water into the teapot. "Hey, it's cheaper than a doctor!"
Irene watched her, a small smile on her face as Gretchen dished out the food. She knew she ought to be asking the woman a hundred different questions rather than making her dinner but Gretchen found she couldn’t face them right now.
Gretchen carried the plates into the dining room and set them down on the table. The table, like everything in Gretchen's apartment, was too big for one person. Her mother seemed to think that drowning her daughter in opulence would make up for her absence. It didn't, but Gretchen had long ago stopped trying to explain this.
"Please, sit down," Gretchen said.
With a smile Irene pulled back her chair. "Yer hospitality is humbling, lass."
Gretchen shrugged, taking her own seat. "Eating by yourself is never much fun. Besides, it's not every day somebody brings such good news."
Irene nodded. "Darcy knew ye'd be worried, lass. That's why she asked me to speak to ye. She misses ye."
"She does?" Gretchen said, taking a bite of the chicken and swallowing. "Then how come she's not answered any of my emails or phone calls? The least she could have done is let me know she's okay!"
Gretchen was surprised by the strength of her anger. Now that the fear about Darcy's safety had abated she felt betrayed instead. Why had her friend let her worry like that?
"I ken yer frustration, lass," Irene said soothingly. "I do. But things aren’t that simple. Darcy didnae contact ye because she canna, not where she is now."
Gretchen snorted. "Yeah, right. Because they don't have cell phones or the Internet in Scotland? Is that what you're saying?"
Irene MacAskill’s eyes were hard and bright as she stared straight at Gretchen. "Aye, lass. That's exactly what I'm saying. Darcy is well, she's safe and living a new life. But she's a long, long way away, beyond the reach of yer modern day technology."
Gretchen swallowed. The old woman's words sent a chill down her spine. Who was she? She was unlike any police liaison officer Gretchen had ever heard of. There was something about her...something Gretchen couldn't quite put her finger on. Despite her benign appearance the woman seemed as hard and ancient as an old oak tree.
Irene MacAskill sipped from her tea, watching Gretchen over the rim of her cup. "Ye have a lovely home," she said at last.
"Lovely?" Gretchen asked, leaning back in her chair and looking around the dining room. "Do you think? I'd call it soulless myself. Most of this stuff isn't mine. It's what my mom brought to decorate the apartment. She employed an interior designer to come round and decide how it should look. I didn't get a say in the matter."
Gretchen knew she sounded bitter but couldn't help it. She ought to be grateful that she came from a wealthy family. She ought to be pleased that her mom lavished so much cash on her. But that didn't stop Gretchen from wishing things were different.
"Ye do sound unhappy, lass," Irene MacAskill observed. "Do ye not have everything ye could wish for? Money. Comfort. All the latest gadgets that folk in this time seem to need to make them happy?"
Gretchen looked at Irene sharply. That was an odd turn of phrase. Folk in this time? What did she mean by that?
To cover her discomfort, Gretchen took another mouthful of food. She couldn't even remember when she’d last seen her mom. It had probably been between meetings. Gretchen's mom spent her life jetting around the world attending meetings and making money. There was little time left in her schedule for her daughter.
Everything in Gretchen's life was superficial. Her apartment, her relationship with her mother. Hell, even the men she dated normally only turned out to be after her money. She worked at the restaurant and the veterinary practice not because she really needed the money but because it kept her from an existence of wealthy dreariness. It made her feel like she was actually doing something with her life.
Only Rita and Darcy had ever understood that. Although Gretchen had a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, only Darcy ever really got her. Maybe that's why she'd missed her friend so much when she'd gone to Scotland. Maybe that's why she was so pissed that Darcy hadn't bothered to get in touch.
"It's not easy, is it?" Irene MacAskill said suddenly.
"What isn't?"
"Pretending."
Gretchen frowned. "What do you mean?"
The old woman smiled. "I can see it in yer face, lass. Ye yearn for something else. Something more. Well, mayhap I can show ye how to get it."
Gretchen’s frown deepened. What on Earth was she talking about? This woman was getting stranger by the minute. Was she really from the police? Maybe it was time she asked for some ID.
Irene laughed lightly. "I've seen that look many a time, my dear. Ye think I'm a crackpot. Well, mayhap I am but that doesnae make my words any less true. I came here because yer friend Darcy asked me to tell ye she's well but that's nay the only reason. The truth is, I would have come anyway. Ye are the key to averting a disaster, Gretchen Matthews. Or at least, ye could be if ye so choose."
She pushed back her chair and came around the table to where Gretchen sat. She reached out a wrinkled hand and laid it over Gretchen's. "I have a choice for ye, lass. Ye can stay here, continue yer life as ye are, or ye can take a chance, go to my bonnie homeland and look for yer friend. If ye do, mayhap ye'll find yer heart's desire and help me avert a disaster in the process."
She took two steps back and Gretchen realized she'd deposited a book on the table. It was worn and dog-eared as though it had been read many times. On it the title said, A guide to the lochs of the Highlands. It was a guidebook, the sort a tourist might peruse whilst on holiday.
“Think on my words, lass. I’ll see myself out,” Irene said.
"Irene, what do you—?"
Gretchen's words stuttered to a halt and her mouth dropped open. Irene MacAskill was no longer standing there.
Gretchen pushed her chair back, rising to her feet. She made a circuit of her apartment but there was no sign of Irene MacAskill anywhere. She opened her front door and checked the corridor but it was empty. How could the old woman move so fast? A shiver walked down Gretchen's spine. What the hell was going on? She returned to the dining room and her eyes strayed to the table. The book Irene had left sat there.
Slowly, Gretchen reached out and picked it up. It was heavier than she'd expected. But for the evidence of the book, Gretchen could almost believe she'd imagined the whole encounter with Irene MacAskill.
What a crazy evening, she thought.
Gretchen ran her hand over the cover, questions whirling in her head. Who was Irene MacAskill? No police liaison officer, that much was clear. Had she been telling the truth about Darcy? Was she really living in Scotland? And what did Irene mean by Gretchen averting a disaster and 'finding her heart's desire'?
There was only one way to find out. As Gretchen looked down at the book, she felt conviction growing inside her. She knew she was crazy. She knew her mother would be horrified at her daughter being so impulsive but Gretchen didn't care. Somehow, she knew what she had to do.
She had to go to Scotland.
/> Chapter 2
EWAN MURRAY GRIPPED the hilt of his sword and faced down his attackers. There were two of them and they approached him warily, their weapons held in double-handed grips. They looked nervous, as well they should. Ewan's reputation as a fearsome warrior wasn't unearned.
They glanced at each other. Ewan didn't move. He just waited. Suddenly, one of the attackers ran at him, sword swinging at his neck. Ewan delayed until the very last minute, until he could see the whites of his opponent's eyes, then neatly ducked under the swing, pivoted on his heel and tripped his opponent into the dirt.
A moment later his sword point was pressed against the man's throat.
The man stared up at him, eyes wide in a mixture of fear and anger. Then his face split into a smile.
"Curse it all, Ewan. Ye could let me win sometimes ye know! I'm going to be laird one day. I have an ego to protect!"
Ewan snorted a laugh. He sheathed his wooden practise sword and reached out to pull Andrew Harris to his feet. "Yer father would skin my hide if I went easy on either of ye," he said. "It's my job to turn ye into warriors and I'll do that, nay matter how many times I must tip ye into the dirt!"
He turned to the second lad, Andrew's younger brother, Matthew. "What did yer brother do wrong, there?"
The young lad, not more than fourteen summers, sheathed his own practise sword and pursed his lips, thinking. Matthew was a quiet, thoughtful lad, different in temperament to his confident, outgoing elder brother. In Ewan's opinion he was more suited to a life of learning than soldiering but Ewan understood why Laird Gareth Harris wanted all his children to know how to swing a sword.
"He lost patience," Matthew said at last. "He ran at ye but he should have waited to see what ye'd do first."
"Correct," Ewan said, nodding. "There may be times when ye'll be faced with more than one opponent like I was just now. In these circumstances there is a choice. If ye have the element of surprise ye can attack quickly, hoping to take one out before they can coordinate. But if they come at ye together, ye should hold back, wait to see what they'll do. It's rare that they'll work together efficiently and ye'll need to exploit this if ye hope to prevail."
