Spirit of a Highlander: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Arch Through Time Book 7)

by Katy Baker

  Rhodry snorted. “Ye really think our laird would lend such aid to the likes of me?”

  Logan was surprised by the bitterness in Rhodry’s tone. When he’d been the laird, he wouldn’t have thought twice about such a thing. Every seventh day, together with his brothers, Camdan and Finlay, he’d held an audience where any of his tenants could bring their difficulties before him. After all, wasn’t it the duty of a laird to do all he could to help his people? Logan was sure his cousin Eoin, the new laird of the MacAuley, would be just the same.

  Before he could say as much, Mary, Ailsa’s mother, looked up from her needlework and tutted. “Our new laird is far too busy to worry about the likes of us, what with trying to find a wife and all.”

  Logan looked up sharply at that. “Eoin—I mean Laird MacAuley—plans to wed?”

  “Aye,” Mary replied. “It’s the talk of the valley. Although he hasnae arranged a match yet.” She fixed him with a penetrating gaze. “And ye might have heard it yerself if ye spent a bit more time around people instead of alone on that croft of yers. Mayhap ye should follow our laird’s example and find a wife of yer own.”

  “Mother!” Ailsa said from where she was stirring the pot by the fire. “Logan didnae come here to be lectured by ye!”

  Mary was undeterred by her daughter’s rebuke. She set her needlework down and narrowed her eyes at Logan. “I only speak the truth. It isnae right a strapping young man like ye living all alone out here. Ye should have a woman by yer side and bairns sitting by yer feet. Ye would make a fine husband and I know many a young lass who would agree.”

  Not if they knew the truth, Logan thought. If they knew the truth they would run as far and as fast as they could. And they would be right to do so.

  He shifted awkwardly under Mary’s stern gaze. This was the last topic he wanted to talk about—it came too close to secrets he needed to keep hidden.

  “Leave the poor man be, Mother,” Ailsa said, coming to Logan’s rescue.

  She handed out bowls of stew and Logan tucked in eagerly, grateful for the diversion.

  ***

  The GPS on Thea's phone beeped. Thea pulled up, turned off the engine, and got out of the hire car. It was a fine, bright day with a stiff breeze that tugged at Thea's hair and clothes, sending it streaming out behind her as she surveyed the landscape.

  She was literally in the middle of nowhere. Inland, the Scottish Highlands rose in a series of hills towards snow-capped mountains and in the other direction scrubby fields gave way to rocky inlets being lashed by the Atlantic. Thea squinted at her cell. According to the display she was about half a mile from where she needed to be.

  Moving to the trunk of the car, she got out her backpack. This was a recce trip, so she was only carrying the basics: her hand-held camera, the map emailed to her by her contact at World Wanderer Europe and a flask of coffee. If she found some good photo opportunities, she’d return with her full gear later. Hefting the backpack she set out, holding her cell out in front of her so she could follow the GPS signal. The trail led her over the scrubby fields towards the coast and she soon found herself walking between two sand-dunes and stepping out onto a rocky shore stretching down to the roiling gray ocean.

  Thea stopped and looked around. Sea birds were circling in the sky and she picked out cormorants, kittiwakes and gannets. She snapped a few shots and then carried on walking. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for. Her instructions were a little vague.

  We’re after something unique, the email had said. Something that evokes the essence of the Highlands. There’s a place on the coast that’s rumored to have just that.

  There’d been the GPS coordinates and nothing else. No mention of exactly what kind of wildlife she was supposed to snap. Thea wondered whether there might be golden eagles here, or even better, the elusive Scottish wildcat. So far she’d seen evidence of neither.

  She continued walking and suddenly something up ahead caught her eye—something sticking up from the water line. Intrigued, Thea hurried closer and found to her surprise a ring of standing stones rising out of the waves like jagged teeth. She counted five in all, but one had fallen against its fellows to form a triangular archway through which Thea could see the waves stretching out to the horizon.

  Thea walked down to the water's edge and peered at the stones. She took out her camera, kicked off her boots, rolled up the legs of her jeans, and waded into the water. It was cold enough to make her gasp but didn't reach much past her ankles. Carefully she edged closer to the stones, feeling slimy sea weed squelch between her toes.

  As she reached the circle, she realized the stones were each made from solid granite and must be incredibly heavy. What ancient people had gone to the trouble of erecting them here? she wondered. And what did they use them for?

  Perhaps the coastline used to be further out, she thought. And the stones used to be on dry land.

  Squinting through the viewfinder, she snapped photos of each of the stones in turn, carefully documenting them just as she'd been taught. Then, on impulse, she reached out and pressed a hand against one of them. For a moment she felt nothing but its warm, coarse surface under her palm but then something like electricity shot right up her arm and she yanked her hand back with a cry.

  What the hell was that? Thea stared in surprise as a design began to spill across the surface of the stone like spilt ink—a design she was damned sure hadn’t been there a moment ago. The pattern was a series of interlocking coils, reminding Thea of the Celtic knot work decorating all the tourist junk she’d seen since she’d arrived in Scotland.

  She blinked. Was she imagining things? Reaching out, she ran her fingers softly over the design, feeling the bumps and indentations of the ancient carving. A tingle walked up her fingers and something stirred within her. It was a feeling she couldn’t quite describe, like a memory floating just out of reach. Lifting her camera, she snapped photos of the pattern.

  “I knew ye were the right one,” said a voice behind her. “It doesnae reveal itself to just anyone.”

  Thea spun, her heart leaping into her mouth. Irene MacAskill stood behind her, hands clasped, a smile on her wrinkled face.

  Thea pressed her hand to her chest. “Jeez! You scared me half to death!”

  “My apologies, lass. I did call yer name but ye were so engrossed with yer work ye didnae hear me.” She didn’t sound apologetic at all.

  “What are you doing here?” Thea asked, a little rattled by the woman’s sudden appearance. “You didn’t tell me you’d be here. I assumed you were staying in the US.”

  “Didnae I?” Irene replied, her eyebrows rising. “Silly me, must have slipped my mind. I had urgent business calling me home, and it seemed the right time to come find ye—seeing as ye’ve begun yer quest and all. And look, ye have already found yer first clue.”

  Thea frowned. Irene was making about as much sense as the last time they’d spoken. “What is this place? I’ve not seen it marked on any map.”

  “Ye willnae find it on any map,” the old woman replied. “They’re called the stones of Druach and are old beyond memory. They’ve stood here, guarding the Highlands, since the hills themselves were young. It’s said they’re a place of power. A place of endings.” Her eyes met Thea’s and they were as dark as pools of ink. “And of new beginnings.”

  Thea shivered suddenly. She pulled her coat closer and looked around. She couldn’t see a car or any indication of how Irene had got here. Surely the old woman hadn’t hiked all this way?

  “I...um...I guess I should thank you,” she said. “For getting me this job. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  Irene smiled. “I said ye had a choice coming. It is here, lass. What will ye do?”

  “Do? What do you mean? I’ll do what you paid me to do: take some pictures.”

  Irene nodded. “Aye that is one of yer choices. Complete yer assignment. A permanent job offer will follow and ye’ll soon have everything ye ever wanted: a career, an apartment, money.” H
er gaze sharpened as she watched Thea. “But what then? When ye have everything ye want and yet still find yerself adrift and unsure of yer place in the world, what will ye do?”

  Irene took a step towards her and Thea found herself involuntarily taking a step back.

  “There is a second choice, a different fork in yer road,” the old woman said with a smile. “It isnae an easy choice. Ye could risk everything, throw yerself into unspeakable danger to help me avert a disaster and break a curse that is throwing the future out of balance. And in so doing, mayhap ye will find the thing ye’ve been searching for all yer life. All ye have to do is step through the arch.”

  Irene pointed and Thea turned to see movement through the arch formed by the fallen stone. At first she thought it was just the waves but as she looked more closely, she saw images: a tall man carrying a laughing child on his shoulders, a gray castle with pennants snapping in the wind, two armies facing each other at the mouth of a pass.

  “What is this?” she whispered.

  “Yer destiny,” Irene replied. “And the chance to restore balance to the world. If ye so choose it.”

  A strange feeling formed in the pit of Thea’s stomach. What are you looking for? the waves seemed to whisper. Your destiny awaits, the wind seemed to call. The archway seemed to pull her closer. Before she knew it she'd taken a step forward and another.

  Stop! a voice screamed a warning in the back of her head. This is crazy. Irene MacAskill is crazy! Turn around!

  But she didn’t. Her fingers brushed the swirling pattern on the stones, feeling the little tingle that ran up her arm.

  Thea stepped through the arch.

  ***

  "That was grand," Logan said, handing his empty bowl to Ailsa. "I do declare ye are the best cook in all the Highlands."

  Ailsa accepted the bowl with a smile. "And I do declare ye are the biggest flatterer in all the Highlands, Logan MacAuley."

  Logan glanced through the window. It was dusk and night would soon be upon them. He shifted uneasily. He'd tarried too long.

  Standing abruptly, he said, "I will bid ye all good night."

  Rhodry glanced out the window. "It looks to me as though a storm is coming on. Will ye not stay? We could make up a bed in the barn for ye."

  "Aye! Stay, Uncle Logan!" Anna cried.

  But Logan shook his head. He dare not. He had already stayed too long, any longer and they would be in danger. He couldn’t stay near anyone for long without his doom falling upon them. "I canna. I must be getting back to my smithy."

  The children let out a chorus of disappointed noises and Rhodry climbed to his feet. "Aye. Well, I'll see ye out then."

  Logan bid good night to Ailsa, Mary and the children, and then followed Rhodry out into the yard. The wind had picked up and there was the smell of a storm on the air. If Logan guessed rightly, it would be a wild night. He hoped he could get home before it struck.

  Rhodry fetched Logan's horse, Stepper, from the stable. She was a handsome beast of fine stock and if anyone wondered why a humble blacksmith rode a horse fit for a nobleman, nobody commented. Stepper was one of the few reminders Logan kept of his old life. She pranced as Rhodry brought her out, eager for a run. Logan took hold of the bridle and clasped Rhodry's arm.

  "Send word if ye have any difficulties with the plow horse."

  "I will," Rhodry nodded. "Take care on the road, my friend. It looks as though it’s going to be a bad one."

  Logan nodded and swung up easily into Stepper's saddle. He bid Rhodry good night and then set his heels to his mount’s flank, sending her trotting down the lane. Out over the sea, a black bank of storm clouds swallowed the last of the sunlight. The wind howled into his face, plucking tears from his eyes and swirling his copper colored hair around his head. He gritted his teeth, a wild smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He welcomed the storm. The cold bite of the wind, the crash of the waves, the smell of brine in the air.

  It reminded him he was still alive.

  "Yah!"

  He gave Stepper her head and she sprang into motion, galloping along the trail with fierce joy, reveling in the sudden freedom. They moved north, away from Rhodry's croft, and towards the humble cottage Logan now called home. It lay many miles distant and as he rode the wind howled around him lashing the waves into a frenzy and sending leaves and small branches raining down.

  The storm suited his mood perfectly. His mind went blank, no thoughts, no worries, only this moment: the wind on his skin and the taste of sea-salt on his tongue. It was a blessed relief. Too often his thoughts ran in circles, chasing themselves through the myriad of possibilities that might have unfolded if he’d done things differently.

  If he and his brothers hadn’t made the bargain that damned them forever.

  He kicked Stepper to greater speed, mud flying from beneath her hooves and her mane flailing like a whipcord in the ever-increasing gale.

  He didn’t see the figure ahead until it was almost too late. It was the lantern that gave it away, glowing through the gloom like a firefly, almost swallowed by the stormy night. Its meager light lit a small figure struggling along the path in front of him. It was an old woman.

  “Ware!” he bellowed, certain Stepper would trample her.

  He yanked savagely on the reins, and the woman stepped deftly aside with an agility that belied her advancing years. Logan guided Stepper to a halt and then sprang from the saddle.

  “Lord, woman!” he shouted, advancing on her. “I could have trampled ye! What, by all that’s holy, are ye doing out in this?”

  The old woman seemed not in the least daunted by his outburst. She barely reached his chest and wrinkles creased her face. Nevertheless, the dark eyes that peered at him sparkled with either annoyance or amusement. Logan wasn’t sure which.

  “A fine question, Logan MacAuley,” the woman said. “Have ye asked it of yerself?”

  Logan started. “How do ye know who I am?”

  The old woman raised an eyebrow. “And who else would ye be? Do ye know of another exiled laird who lives roundabout?”

  Logan froze. “I dinna know what ye are talking about, woman. I’m no laird. I’m only a simple blacksmith.”

  The woman poked him in the chest with a bony finger. “Oh, my boy. Ye are far, far more than that, despite attempts to make ye otherwise.”

  Logan stepped back a pace, suddenly uneasy. How did this woman know who he was? “Who are ye?”

  “My name is Irene MacAskill.”

  Her smile was kind but her eyes caught and held him so that Logan couldn’t look away. He seemed to see eons spinning in her gaze, the slow swirl of the stars in the sky and the passing of ages. He was reminded suddenly of another night, a stormy night just like this one, when he’d stood with his brothers in a circle of standing stones and made a desperate bargain that would seal their fates forever.

  “What do ye want with me?” Logan demanded, his voice harsh.

  “Only what ye want for yerself,” Irene replied. “A life. The life ye were meant to lead, not the one ye live now. Alone and forgotten.”

  Sudden anger flared inside Logan. Who was this woman? Why was she saying such things to him? “I dinna ken who ye think I am, woman, but ye are mistaken. I am a blacksmith. I have a life. It’s the only one I need.”

  He made to walk away but her hand snapped out and grabbed his wrist. Despite her advancing years, she had a grip like iron pincers.

  “Nay, lad,” she said, her voice soft, yet cutting easily through the storm. “It isnae. I know the bargain ye made and why ye did it. I know ye ache with loneliness and a nagging sense ye canna be rid of. A sense that this isnae the life ye were supposed to lead. A sense that ye have taken the wrong path.” Her grip on his arm tightened. Her eyes glinted like polished obsidian. “But there is always a way back. If ye have the courage to retrace yer steps.”

  Logan snatched his hand away. “There isnae,” he growled. “There is no way back for me. I made my choice. Now I live with it.”r />
  Irene smiled sadly. “We shall see. Yer choice is still to be made, lad, and it is coming. If ye have the courage to seize it, things may yet be different. There is always hope.”

  “Hope?” Logan snorted. “I abandoned that a long time ago. It is for fools.”

  Irene shook her head. “Nay, lad. Despair is for fools. Hope is sometimes the only thing we have.”

  Logan opened his mouth for a retort but a sudden crack of thunder sounded overhead and a flash of lightning lit the sky so brightly that for a moment Logan was blinded. He threw his arm in front of his face and when he lowered it, found only an empty road before him.

  Irene MacAskill had disappeared.

  Logan spun, eyes scanning the stormy landscape. Nothing. He dropped to one knee, searching for footprints in the mud, but found only his own and those of his horse. He shivered, and not from the cold wind.

  Mounting Stepper, he pulled her in a circle, taking one last look around, and then nudged her into a gallop for home.

  Chapter 3

  Thea stepped through the archway and stumbled. To her surprise, her foot came down, not on the ankle-deep sea water as she’d expected, but on solid land. The unexpected jolt sent her stumbling and she grabbed one of the upright stones for support. How the hell had that happened? Had the tide gone out even further?

  She turned to speak to Irene. She’d had enough of the old woman’s nonsense and it was about time she got to the bottom of what exactly she was up to. But as she opened her mouth to speak, the words died in Thea’s throat.

  Where the old woman had been standing was only an empty piece of grass, without even footprints to show she’d ever been there.

  Thea blinked rapidly and then shook her head to clear it. “Irene? Where are you?”

  She walked carefully around the stones of Druach but found no trace of the old woman. The stones hadn’t changed, they were still rising from the ground like teeth, still pitted and weathered by time. They hadn’t changed. But everything else had.

  She was no longer standing on the shoreline and her bare feet felt warm, dry grass under them rather than cold wet rocks. The sea lay over a hundred paces to her left, white waves pounding the shore and throwing up spray. The sky, which had been bright blue a moment ago had turned a dark purple, like a bruise, and filled with angry storm clouds. A last streak of sunlight along the horizon told her that the sun was setting behind those clouds.