“I wish I had the answers you seek.”
“What would you like to know?” Aileen had arrived in her quiet way. A holly wreath adorned her silver head in the way of Druid women and she wore a white linen gown cinched at the waist with silver braid. Her silver eyes pierced him.
Caelan rose at her approach and inclined his head in respect. Ashley jumped up beside him.
“Durrell has spoken with you, Caelan Innes?” the light-bearer asked.
“He informed me of Ashley and my entwined destinies. Aye. But how can that be as I am a ghost and a living heart beats beneath her breast? There is no way for us to be together.”
“Since you stumbled into the Druid lovers’ garden, and here is where you undeservingly died, we grant you one chance to save your soul.”
“What is that? How is Ashley involved?”
“Yes, what does this have to do with me?” Ashley challenged.
“If you both agree, Caelan will be returned to the past, to the time before he was shot. He will unwittingly lean to the side and the resulting wound will be nonlife-threatening. You will also travel to the past, Ashley. To the moment after he falls unconscious from his horse. You will have the twelve nights of Yule to save his soul.”
“So, let’s pretend I believe what you’re saying about traveling through time being possible. How do I save his soul?”
“That is for you to figure out. Only you have the ability to save him.”
“That’s asking a lot. Don’t you think? What’s in this insanity for me? Why should I risk going back in time? If, in fact, we can actually travel through time.”
“Caelan is your destined mate.”
Ashley snorted in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding. He is a ghost. I’m not. And if I do save his soul, what happens then? He’s from the sixteenth century. I live in the twenty-first.”
“That depends on choices you both make. I should mention Caelan will not remember you, Ashley. He will have the twelve nights of Yule to gain your love.”
“I already love him.” Eyes wide, Ashley’s hand shot up to cover her mouth as if she wished to take back the words.
Too late. He’d heard. She loved him. The empty shell of his existence filled to the brim with joy.
“Not enough yet,” Aileen said. “Your love must be of the deepest form requiring great sacrifice.”
“Durrell said I must make a sacrifice, not Ashley.” Cael didn’t want her to have to sacrifice anything for him. He preferred to stay a ghost rather than cause her difficulty.
“Sacrifices will be required of both of you. Caelan, yours must be the ultimate sacrifice.”
“What if we don’t do this?” Ashley asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“Caelan will remain in the in-between for eternity.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“Life seldom is.”
“What of Ashley’s future?” Cael demanded.
“Her life will continue along its lonely path without any memory of meeting you.”
“Will I be safe in a time not my own?” Ashley asked.
“There are nae guarantees.”
Caelan stepped between the two women. “Then we will not—”
Ashley raised an arm as if to shove him aside. He moved out of her way, so she didn’t push straight through him. “All right. I’ll do it,” she said, chin raised, jaw firm.
Aileen grabbed hold of Ashley’s hand. “Once in the past, you must both stay there until the veil thins again on Twelfth Night. You will meet me there, but like Caelan, I will not yet know you. You will be on your own. You will have twelve nights to save his soul.”
Ashley frowned then nodded. “I will try my best.”
“Dinnae try, lass. Succeed.”
Caelan opened his mouth then shut it. He wanted to talk Ashley out of taking such a great risk. How could she possibly save his soul?
She raised a hand before he spoke as if she kenned his concerns. “I will do this for us.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, and he reached to grasp her hand. His fingers slipped through hers. Still, he sensed the clamminess of her flesh. Her nervousness. “Thank you for attempting this.”
“How could I not?”
“You could leave me to my fate. Run from this garden and never return.”
She shook her head, sadness evident in her beguiling amber gaze. He found himself lost in those eyes. “I would never leave you to an undeserved limbo.”
“If you plan to go. ’Tis time.” Aileen said, startling them.
“Are you ready?” he asked Ashley.
She nodded and half-smiled. He hung onto that wee smile, taking strength from its warmth, when his vision blurred and everything went gray then darkened to black.
CHAPTER SIX
Caelan woke buried beneath a heavy shroud of swirling mist. A sweet voice murmured his name. He labored to move up through the layers of silky web to find the one who summoned. He swatted at the encumbering weave, tore it asunder, strand by tacky strand. Surfacing, he inhaled sharply. Life-giving air expanded his lungs. Eyes popped wide, he shot upright on another shocked breath. The bullet wound on his chest pinched. Dizziness nearly laid him flat, but he clenched his jaw and fought the wave.
“Are you an angel?” An amber gaze met his and held. Something in his gut lurched. Brown hair and the purest ivory skin pricked a fleeting memory. A sense of familiarity.
Foolish. He’d never before seen the comely lass with the furrowed brow. What had her so concerned?
“I’m Ashley. Don’t you remember me?” Pearly white teeth nipped a luscious rosy lip. “I guess not. Aileen mentioned you might not.”
“Dinnae ken an Aileen, but I am happy to make your acquaintance.”
“You’re bleeding!”
“Naught but a scratch.”
She tugged his plaide aside before he could shoo her hands away. “You need help!”
“There are nae healers nearby. The closest castle went ablaze under the torch a few days ago. Not much remains but a sooty shell. I will tend to myself.” He rose and swayed. She jumped to his aid, lending a shoulder on which to lean. Though it galled his pride to be so needy.
“Here. Sit on this downed log. I will tend to your injury.” She helped him drop to the rough bark. “I’ll need a cloth and boiling water to clean the wound and...” Her frown deepened. “Wish I had some antiseptic.”
He glanced around, catching sight of his horse grazing near an icy pond, where the lad had hoofed the snow to find sparse grass. The bandits hadn’t stolen the beast. More proof the shooter was likely kin. His fingers curled into fists, and he had to force them lax. “You will find a spare leine in my saddle bag and a water pouch hangs from a strap on the side. There is also a wee pot, and I have flint and char cloth in my sporran to start a fire. I dinnae ken the meaning of antiseptic.”
She shrugged and turned away. Why hadn’t he noticed the lass wore trews? Her rounded buttocks swayed as she walked to the horse, inciting an arousal, giving him something else to contemplate besides the pain in his chest, retaliating kin, and his guilt.
“Nae. Not that one. That is whisky,” he called when she removed the wrong pouch. “The other is water, but bring them both.”
She—Ashley—returned with the leine, pot, water, and whisky. She left the provisions beside him and went about gathering loose twigs and downed branches from the dry ground beneath nearby evergreens.
He took a swig of whisky. Its fire burned down his throat, warmed his belly.
When Ashley dumped the gathered wood at his feet, he offered the whisky pouch. She shook her head and started stacking the kindling.
“Nae, lass, over here.” He pointed to the lee side of the log where there would be enough air flow to start a fire, but no wind to hinder its flame. She earnestly moved the material to the other side of the log and created a pile.
He removed an old file, flint, and char cloth from his sporran. Taking a deep breath, ignoring th
e resulting discomfort, he leaned over and hollowed the center of the stack, placing the char cloth in the recess. Using the file, supported against a rock, he angled the edge of the flint toward the tinder and struck the steel, creating sparks that ignited the cloth. He quickly covered the cloth with the most wee of the dry material from the edges of the stack and blew on the tinder.
A sharp pain pinched, and he jolted upright. Coughed.
“You’re quite handy.” Ashley said. “But, here, let me do that.” She squatted next to the pile, rounded her lips and blew.
My good Lord, the twinge within his trews made him forget the pain in his chest. Who was this woman who so inspired him?
“Where do you hail from? How did you happen to be in this”—he waved the arm on his unwounded side—“out of the way place? Are you a Druid?” That might explain her odd manner of dress. Perhaps… “Do you ken the old oak tree?”
She blinked as he shot each question at her. “No, I’m not a Druid. I met you under the oak tree of which you speak in a future time. I am your destiny.”
His cock jerked. He’d not been with a woman since before the fateful night of his abduction from university. Prior to that, as a young lad, he’d only bedded whores. Although Ashley’s garments were strange, the fabrics were of a fine quality. She was either a well-paid whore or of noble birth. He’d bet upon the latter.
An ancient Druid garden remains hidden due north of here. ’Tis said if you visit the place on the twelfth night of Yule, when magic is at its strongest, you will find your one true love standing below the old oak tree.
Was it possible? Or might Ashley be a hired assassin sent to ensure his death?
What had possessed her to blurt out the truth? Cael’s expression had turned sour. Of course, he didn’t believe her. Ashley inhaled a sharp breath. Why should he? She spouted nonsense.
“Do you travel alone?” he asked.
“Yes.” She kept her gaze lowered and filled the small pot with water then set it on the fire. She’d read in a romance novel whisky could be used as a disinfectant. She hoped in this case fiction and truth merged. “May I tend your wound?”
Cael gave an abrupt nod, and she reached for the hem of his shirt. His stomach quivered at her touch against his skin. Her fingers tingled. Oh, she liked the solid man much better than the ghost. She tried to ease the fabric from the wound, but the linen stuck on the dried blood.
He yipped. “Your hands are cold, lass.”
“Sorry.” Ashley bit back a smile, allowing Cael his pride, and pulled the shirt over his washboard abs, slipped it across solid pecs, and tugged it over his head. Wow. She moistened her lips and stared at his chest. When she raised her gaze to his eyes, humor sparkled in the emerald depths.
“Like what you see?” he chuckled.
“No. Your injury is ragged and bloody.”
“Uh-huh.”
She turned away, wanting to fan herself, hoping he hadn’t noticed the flush flaming over her neck and face. Tearing a clean section of his damaged shirt, she wet the cloth in the now boiling water and cleaned the wound as well as possible, basing her actions on research she’d done for one of the library’s patrons. An historical romance author.
“Looks like the shot went clean through so there’s no need to probe the wound.” Good thing she had a strong stomach. She retrieved the whisky.
“Wish I kenned whether you are friend or foe.” Cael mused.
Ashley jerked her gaze back to him. “What on earth would make you think I’m your enemy? Why would I tend your injury if I wanted to harm you?”
“Good questions. And you are a mere slip of a lass so I dinnae feel threatened. Yet it seems odd to find you alone in this glen, without a horse, claiming to be my destiny.”
“Perhaps you should believe this mere slip of a lass.” Maybe the man wasn’t better than the ghost after all. “Or maybe this mere slip of a lass should leave you to your fate.”
“Dinnae fash, lass. I mean nae insult.”
“Of course not.” She doused the wound with whisky, and he hissed. Ha! Anger fading, she examined the cleaned wound. “I think you need stitches.”
“Aye.” He withdrew a needle and thread from the pouch around his waist.
She poured some of the whisky over the needle and stared at the wound. Unsure. A tad queasy.
“You have never stitched a man before?”
“No, but I’ve done research on it. Read about it on the internet.”
“I dinnae understand.”
“I’ve read about the process in a book.”
“’Twill be a wee awkward, but I can stitch myself. Give me the needle and thread.”
“No. I’ll do it.” Swallowing uneasily, she threaded the needle and began the gruesome, yet somewhat intimate task of sewing the ragged skin. When finished, she tore more of the shirt into shreds, and managed to bandage and bind the injury despite her inexperience.
He remained quiet, features unreadable. What would happen when she finished? Would he depart, leaving her behind? She worried her bottom lip.
“You look a wee bit green. Mayhap you should sit beside me on this log and tell me more about our destiny.”
Did she dare? Would he believe her?
“All right.” She lowered to the log a short distance away and began the story of their first meeting and finished with…
“You have twelve nights to gain my love. I have twelve nights to save your soul.”
Did he believe her? His face remained impassive.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gloaming is near upon us. Mother Night has passed. The holly god is at his strongest and will attempt to take the ivy goddess as mate. I guess I am responsible for you until Twelfth Night,” Cael said. Could he trust her?
“Then I have no way to return to my time through the garden?”
“Not until Twelfth Night, if you believe the tale you spun for me.”
“You mentioned Mother Night and the holly god and ivy goddess. Are you a Druid? Do you practice the pagan ways? The old religion?”
“Nae.” He chuckled. “I am Christian. But with the mingling of religious and political intrigue plaguing our land, I will refrain from saying more.”
“I’m Catholic. We celebrate Christmas in my time not Yule.”
“Best keep that to yourself, lass. The celebration of Christ mass has been outlawed and bears a heavy fine.” She shivered, and her shoulders rounded. “You are cold. Where are your provisions, your cloak?”
“I told you how I came to be here. All I have is what I wore when we were tossed back through time.”
With a furrowed brow, he removed his plaide and draped the wool over her shoulders. “I have another in my saddlebag.”
She jumped up from the log. “I’ll get it for you.”
“Nae, you have done enough. Besides it would be best I move around some.” He rose and swayed, but regained his balance and hobbled to the horse. He glanced back at the lass. Shadows lengthened, casting her face in darkness.
Might the lass be a wee mad in the head and mean no harm? She seemed to believe her outrageous tale. Or was she a good actress? Or a seanchaidh, a storyteller with the ability to draw others into tales and make them believe?
Where would his kin have found such a lass? ’Twas obvious by her speech she wasn’t of Scottish birth. Which brought up the question, again, as to how she came to be here on this ancient Druid land. His mind reeled with the questions.
He’d need to search her person for weapons. He kept a smile to himself. He’d enjoy searching her from toe to head.
Cael returned to the log with a sack of oatcakes from his bags. “Do you carry weapons, lass?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Have you nae need of protection where you come from?”
“Not normally.” Her eyes narrowed. “Wait. You’re asking because you don’t trust me. You think I mean you harm.”
“Trust must be earned, lass.”
“That goes both ways.�
�
“Aye, it does.”
She raised her chin, cheeks aflame. “By the way, my name is Ashley. Use it.”
“As you wish, Ashley.”
He held her angry gaze for several heartbeats. Feisty wench. He would give her that. “You must be hungry.” He handed over an oatcake. After she accepted it without questioning if the food were tainted, he offered the whisky. She shook her head. “Take it. Uisge-beatha—water of life—will warm your innards on this cold night.”
She accepted the pouch and took a deep swig then choked. She tried to pass the skin back. He shooed her away. “Drink some more. The next swallow will go down easier.” And would help later when he need search her for weapons.
The drink loosened her tongue, and she mesmerized him with fanciful tales of knights and dragons. As gloaming progressed into darkness and stars and the moon filled the sky and Ashley drank more whisky, the tales became sagas of magic-spelled crafts made from metal hurling through the sky of a place called Universe to do battle with some race of man by the name of Aliens. He couldn’t fathom any such thing.
Aye. A talented seanchaidh.
“Lass, ’tis late. We should be for bed going.”
“Assshley.” The reminder of her name slurred and she wobbled slightly as she stood. “I need to. You know. Use the…”
Face flushed crimson, she weaved deep into the trees. He chuckled. The search for weapons would be an easy task when she returned and they lay together. He rolled the bedding over the dry pine needles within a copse of evergreens, whistling a merry tune. Seemed a fitting place to sleep with a comely lass—alas a slightly tipsy lass—during Yule.
When she returned, he patted the wool bedding beside him, signaling for her to sit. She joined him without a fuss. Good. Before he made another move, she grasped both of his cheeks, leaned in, and kissed him hard on the mouth. He inhaled her sweet breath on a shocked gasp. Most definitely a spirited lass. She licked his lips, and he eagerly opened to the invasion. His cock throbbed in rhythm to her thrusting tongue.
Twelvetide: Twelve Nights of Highland Magic Page 4
