A Love Through Time

by TERRI BRISBIN

  * * *

  The next day, after the bus passed through Dalmally, rattling noises interrupted the usually tranquil ride. Stopping in the center of a small town, the travelers eavesdropped on a heated discussion between Ms. Buchanan, the extremely efficient tour guide, and Mr. MacTavish, the driver. Then Ms. Buchanan's voice came over the speaker.

  "I'm afraid there's a problem with the motorcoach that needs the attention of a professional repairman." After the groans of dismay died down, she continued. "We're near a small village that is hosting a clan gathering, which you may enjoy while we"—her sharp glance landed on the driver—"take care of the problem. We will drop you off here at the edge of the gathering and we will pick you up"—again her eyes turned accusingly to Mr. MacTavish—"at half past six. I'll see to arrangements for this evening, and we'll make it to Glasgow almost on schedule. Thank you for your cooperation."

  The microphone clicked off, and the passengers started talking. The chattering grew as the tourists gathered their belongings. Maggie sorted quickly through her bag and threw anything she might need for a long day of sightseeing into her backpack. Her carry-on bag would be secured with the other luggage until they reboarded the bus at the end of the day.

  "Are you sure you need all of that?" Mrs. Ludlam waved her hand at the growing pile on Maggie's lap.

  Maggie scooped the various bottles, containers, and packages into her bag and zipped it up.

  "Well, Mrs. L., ye never know when ye might need something ye do not have." She laid the brogue on thick, and Mrs. Ludlam laughed.

  "By the time we leave here, you'll be sounding just like the natives. Come to think of it, you do already!"

  The day that looked so threatening a while before had turned into a glorious one. Sunshine poured from a near cloudless sky onto the fields surrounding the ruins of the old castle belonging to the Clan MacKendimen. The touring group was enjoying a clan gathering that was held every five years and drew family back from all parts of the world. As Maggie made her way through the tents and pavilions, she also heard that the "true but dispossessed" heir of the clan was here. Drawn by the scrumptious aromas of food and promises of a story yet to be told, she found a food counter nearby and purchased a hot meat pie and beverage. Glancing around the tent, she found a place filled with tables and benches and sat by a crowded one to try to find out more. She didn't wait long.

  "Have ye seen him yet, Cora?"

  "Nay, Alison, I've not. How about ye? Do ye know what he looks like?"

  "Nay, only that he's from America and his name is Alex."

  "Does he carry his faither's looks?"

  "Aye, he does!" A new voice entered the conversation. "Tall and handsome with the MacKendimen blue eyes, too."

  "Ye saw him, Rose? Did ye meet him as weel?"

  Maggie watched as the young woman named Rose preened in the attention her boast had gained her.

  "He was much more polite than I expected of a foreigner, ye know? He took my hand, even kissed it, he did."

  Rose held out her hand as though remnants of the kiss could be seen by all.

  "Sounds as though he haes his faither's charm as well."

  A dreamy sigh followed that comment, but Maggie shifted on her bench. Charming. A shiver, like icy fingers, skimmed up her spine. That's how everyone described Don. That's how she described Don before she knew his charm was just a diversion to keep you from seeing the real manipulator underneath.

  The mouthful of rich, well-seasoned meat pie that moments ago stirred up her appetite now turned dry as dust in her mouth. She forced the food down in a convulsive swallow. Don followed her even to Scotland. She shook her head, clearing the negative memories. He would not ruin this vacation. Maggie focused back on the lively conversation still going on at the next table.

  "Weel, let's look about. He carries the clan sword, which should be hard to miss, even in this crowd."

  The women stood, and Rose obligingly pointed in the direction where she had last seen the "heir o' the clan."

  They separated and headed off in different directions on a mission to seek out the rightful laird. This could be interesting, after all, Maggie thought. A clan festival and the makings of a scandal. The Scots loved a good scandal. She made a mental note to try to see this pretender to the clan's seat sometime during this day.

  Her attention turned to the cheering crowds close by, and Maggie finished her pie and followed the shouts to the next clearing where huge men tossed even bigger cabers through the air like they were twigs. She found a place to sit and enjoyed watching the muscle-bound men throwing telephone pole-length trees. Their physiques were amazing, from their arms and shoulders all the way down to their... feet!

  * * *

  "You make a fine Scotsman, Alex. Your father would be proud."

  "Would he, Aunt Jean?" Guileless blue eyes turned up to look at him as Alex MacKendimen waited for her answer.

  "Your father chose to leave his clan and heritage behind him when he came to America. That's no reason for you to ignore your family background, lad." Her words carried a hint of bitterness.

  He knew his father's reasons for leaving. Better opportunities awaited in America for him. His father was willing to give up all he held dear to move to the land of opportunity. His future family deserved a chance for the good life in the United States.

  Unlike Aunt Jean, who held onto her heritage, Gordon MacKendimen left it all behind. He refused to speak Gaelic or wear the clan colors. He refused to return to his homeland. Then his death made a return impossible. Aunt Jean didn't understand these things, but Alex did. His own success in life, bought by his father's separation from all he knew, was the only thing important in his life. Alex being made the youngest partner in his firm would have made his father proud and that meant more to Alex than anything he might have missed in his pursuit of success.

  More than anything.

  He had jeopardized his career once, when Nancy's father found out about their breakup. In spite of her insistence that it had been her idea to end their engagement, her father, a senior partner in the firm, seemed reluctant to consider Alex's bid for a partnership position after the split. Many months of "kissing up" and getting back in good graces had put him in line for the next opening. It would finally be his—providing he made an attempt to reconcile with Nancy.

  Attempt being the key word here for him. And not too big a price to pay for finally fulfilling his father's dream.

  Alex shrugged and looked at the traditional Scottish costume he wore and the clan sword he carried in a scabbard on the heavy leather belt. Aunt Jean made sure one and all knew of his relationship to the present laird. Actually, his uncle Calum had taken Aunt Jean's announcement of the presence of the real heir to the clan, pretty well. Of course, that was after he stopped choking and coughing on the whisky he had sipped just as Aunt Jean spoke. And, after half the people in the room had slapped him on the back to clear his throat. And... well, maybe he had not taken it so well, after all.

  Alex strolled through the festival grounds with Aunt Jean, smiling at all who greeted him. Thank God for his corporate schmoozing experience—he'd have been lost in this situation without it. He now knew how beauty pageant contestants must feel: always on, always smiling and gracious. He relaxed his facial muscles and pulled his aunt to a stop beneath some shady trees.

  "You enjoyed seeing Uncle Calum suffer, didn't you?"

  "Me? Your poor, defenseless aunt?" His sixty-years-young aunt had the nerve to bat her eyelashes at him like a teenager.

  "Ha! He never stood a chance against you, and you know it! He and Dad teased you unmercifully when you were young, didn't they? So, this is your revenge?"

  Aunt Jean gasped loudly at his assessment of the sibling relationship. "How did you know?"

  "You weren't the only one who told stories about the good old days."

  "Your father?" Her voice lowered to a whisper.

  "Yes, Dad told me how much of a trial you were to your older brothers f
rom the day you were born. Now, I'm your target."

  "Not my target, Alex," She looked horrified at the thought. "I just wanted you to see the real Scotland and the rest"—she gestured at the people attending the gathering—"the rest of your family, before it's too late."

  "Too late? Don't give me that 'I'm not going to live much longer' routine. You'll probably outlive all of us."

  Alex leaned down to her and touched his lips to her cheek. They began walking again. "Well, who else do you want to show me off to?" He joined his favorite relative in some hearty laughter as they explored the clan festivities, his cell phone packed securely in his sporran. Only in Scotland could men wear skirts and pocketbooks and get away with it.

  * * *

  "Come in, lass. Come inside and sit for a wee bit."

  For some reason, Maggie did just as the old woman asked. Usually cautious about strangers, she surprised herself by feeling so comfortable here at this fair. She had even traded her street clothes at one of the tents that rented authentic costumes for the gathering participants. What would Pat have to say about this?

  Now, dressed in the garb of a medieval peasant—plain woven skirt, matching bodice and a linen chemise underneath, with only her modern backpack out of sync—she accepted the stranger's invitation. As she entered the small tent, the hubbub behind her faded and a quiet calmness surrounded her.

  The old woman was wearing a shawl of the blue, red, white, and deep green plaid the MacKendimens now called their own. The gray hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck and the wrinkled skin on her face, neck, and hands showed her many years. The twinkling, deep-set blue eyes bespoke of wisdom and kindness.

  "I am said to have two sights, lass. And my second sight tells me you are here to meet yer destiny."

  "Second sight?" Maggie asked, raising an eyebrow. She ignored the unexpected tingle that shot through her at the woman's words.

  "No need to be afraid, lass. I do not see that yours is a bad future. Nay. I see one filled wi' good fortune and love."

  "Don't you have to read my palm or something?" Maggie held out her hand, but the woman shook her head.

  "I've waited for ye, lass. I dreamed of ye and yer ties to the clan MacKendimen."

  Curiosity overcoming her natural caution, Maggie crossed to the table and dropped onto the small bench. "Who are you?"

  "I am called Mairi."

  "Well, Mairi, I hate to disappoint you, but I have no connection to this clan." Maggie shook her head for emphasis. Mairi only nodded serenely, looking as if she'd chosen to ignore Maggie's words. "Maybe you were dreaming about someone who looked like me," Maggie finally suggested when the woman made no further response.

  "Nay, you are the right one." Mairi took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Maggie held her own breath, waiting. "Ye teach the wee ones and ye've been sent to teach one of our own."

  Maggie's lungs refused to obey her command to breathe. How did this woman know she was a teacher? She had not mentioned her profession to anyone at this gathering. And who was she supposed to teach in Scotland? She tried to laugh to show her disbelief, but the laughter died in her throat when her eyes met Mairi's intense, enigmatic gaze.

  "Relax, lass. Breathe nice and slowly." Mairi took Maggie's hand in hers and massaged her palm with a soft, almost hypnotic stroke. "Ye have nothing to fear from me." Another shiver crept along Maggie's spine.

  "What do you want from me?" Maggie looked around at the tent, and everything appeared hazy. A buzzing sound invaded the quiet of the tent, and Maggie cocked her head, trying to locate the source of it. She realized the sound came from inside her head, and she shook it, trying to clear her vision and her hearing.

  "Nothing, lass. I ask nothing of ye except that ye be ready to teach a MacKendimen when the time comes." Mairi rose from her seat and, firmly but gently, led Maggie to the opening of her tent. As Maggie stepped over the threshold of the enclosure, Mairi continued to speak.

  "A MacKendimen needs to learn about the power of true love, Maggie, and you are to be his teacher."

  Maggie, surprised that the woman knew her name, tripped over the canvas lip of the tent and stumbled forward. She turned back to ask a question, but the tent was empty.

  Completely empty.

  Chapter 2

  Alex first noticed the ruins while he escorted Aunt Jean through the festival. They caught his eye again later when he was going to the food tents for some lunch. And now, he felt their pull even more strongly as he walked toward the field where the contests of strength were held. Alex decided that now was as good a time as any to explore the oldest part of the MacKendimen property.

  Tugging on the kilt as he walked, Alex also rearranged the sporran and thick leather belt around his waist. He could never get used to wearing one of these... plaids. He kept it on only for Aunt Jean and the look of love and longing on her face when he entered the room wearing it. When she saw him, her eyes filled with tears and she whispered his father's name. The family resemblance was strong, he knew, but the emotion on her face and in her voice made it seem more real to him.

  Pride swelled in his soul when his uncle handed him the clan sword to complete his dress. Uncle Calum told him, as he hooked the heavy belt and scabbard around his waist, that this sword was presented to the laird of the Clan MacKendimen by none other than the Bruce himself.

  Nevertheless, the damn thing was heavy and cumbersome to someone unused to carrying its weight and length. Alex readjusted it for the umpteenth time and squinted into the bright afternoon as he walked steadily toward the ruins. He could gain some privacy there and call the office on the cell phone. Thank God for modern conveniences, he thought as he picked his way over the rocky path.

  * * *

  Maggie wended her way carefully through the tumbled and crumbled stones strewn across the field. These ruins were much older than the present castle, which was built in the 1600s. Several decaying archways stood in silent watch over their surroundings, but most lay in broken sections on the ground. Bits and pieces of a clan legend were talked about by the attendees at the festival, but Maggie didn't know the whole story.

  She approached one of the structures, closed her eyes, and placed her palm on the stones. The urge to actually touch history had grown in her as she toured England and Scotland. Every time Maggie entered a building or walked through a hallway, she felt this compulsion to absorb the history of the place, using all of her senses, especially touch. These ruins drew her to them like metal filings to a magnet.

  Maggie suddenly jumped, literally shocked, as a jolt traveled up her arms and through her body. It reminded her of an electric pulse, but there were no power lines here. She moved her hand to a different place on the arch, and still the unseen power surged. She stepped away from the arch and held her hand above her eyes to shade them from the sun so she could see the whole structure. Looking at the other arches, she realized that this was the only one still intact. Well, the frame was intact, but the stones and mortar inside its curve were gone, all but a short pile that formed a wall.

  Maggie sat back down and kept her hand in contact with the arch. The sensation, warm and tingling, was almost pleasant, once she got used to it. Almost as pleasant as watching the approaching Scot.

  Maggie slowly got to her feet as she realized the Scot was heading directly toward her.

  "Hello," he said as he came closer, "and which of my lovely Scottish cousins are you?"

  He stepped nearer and caught her hand, pressing it to his lips in a gallant gesture redolent of Old World charm. When she noticed his full clan dress but that no Scottish brogue enhanced his deep voice, she knew this must be the man so many spoke of at the festival. The "heir." Her gaze moved from his well-muscled thighs below the kilt up to his face and then his eyes. Ah, this must be the color they called "MacKendimen blue." How charming, she thought, feeling herself respond almost unconsciously to the warmth of his rakish smile and the appreciative glint in his eye.

  Horrified at her respon
se, she jerked her hand from his as memories of Don's empty charm rushed through her mind.

  "I'm afraid you're mistaken. I am not one of your 'lovely Scottish cousins,' as you put it." Maggie rubbed her hand on her skirt, anxious to remove the feel of his mouth from it. The last thing she needed or would allow was another charmer in her life.

  "You don't sound Scottish." He sounded confused as he pointed out the obvious to her. His forehead creased and he tilted his head to one side, studying her closely as though he found her intriguing. His voice was deep and purely masculine. She tried to ignore the almost instant physical reaction she was having to him.

  "Neither do you." Maggie realized her voice bordered on offensive. "I mean, I don't because I'm not—Scottish, that is." She forced a neutral tone into her words. He had not really done anything but remind her momentarily— and painfully—of Don. She told herself to be more pleasant, since it wasn't his fault that he raised difficult memories. Determined to make up for her rudeness, she offered him a tentative smile.

  He took a step back from her and held out his hand in a more recognizable gesture. She hesitated for a moment and then shook it—American-style.

  "I am Scottish but, as you can tell, I'm not from here. I'm Alex MacKendimen, from the States."

  "That answers my question of the day."

  "What question?"

  "What the real heir of the clan looks like. It's the topic of the gathering."

  He blushed. She didn't remember seeing a man blush before, but it looked so darn attractive, she hoped to see it again. The blush made his blue eyes look a shade lighter than they were. Ruggedly handsome features stood out on his tanned face. He wore his hair, a shade of dark auburn with red highlights that flashed in the strong sunlight, in a conservative cut above his ears and short all around. And the blush spread to the tips of his ears.