Timeless

by Teresa Reasor

  Quinn shook his head. How could he even give the ramblings of an obviously disturbed woman credence? He had just been moved by her words, her voice.

  That was all.

  CHAPTER 9

  The song played over and over in his head. The Gaelic words sounded so familiar. Had he heard them before?

  The brogue that had flavored her voice had sounded different, thicker and more lilting than the regional dialect. And her voice—he remembered it. How was that possible?

  And why had she run when everyone had thought the tune beautiful and touching? Her behavior had been strange. What was she up to?

  With her brains and drive she would make a good partner. But she couldn’t be controlled. She was too impulsive, too driven. But he needed someone like her to get things done. Yet, if she got too close, he’d have to—end her involvement. And that would be both a pity and a relief.

  The growing attraction between her and Quinn was interesting and could be used as leverage later. But as angry as Quinn had seemed at the dock, perhaps that attraction would end before it began. But if she were distracted by a relationship with Quinn—

  HE would get his chance.

  Or would he? Like overheated air, anger filled his chest and tightened his throat. Blood pulsed at his temples. His face grew hot.

  She was always one step ahead, or in the right place at the right time. It was as though she had some sixth sense guiding her when on a dig.

  He needed to get a look at her research and see where she was going with her notes. That would be easy enough. The cabins had little security.

  This was his dig, these were his stones. He had discovered them, and he meant to discover their secrets himself. And if he used the others to do that—so be it.

  He’d do whatever it took.

  CHAPTER 10

  Regan knelt on the scaffolding. A brush, a bucket of soapy water, one of clear water, and a sponge sat close beside her. She studied the dried flaky algae on the side of the stone. The sun had bleached it to a gray-blue, where it had been a slimy dark green while wet. She remembered her fingertips sliding in the slick surface as she rubbed through it to the carvings beneath and how pinpricks of energy had run from her palm across her chest. Would it happen again when she touched this one? Would her ears be filled with the crackle of static electricity? Would she be sucked into this stone as she had the other?

  She looked down the wooden scaffold to where Hannah sat working on a small section at the base of the next stone. Sunlight glinted off her glasses, obscuring her eyes, but she seemed focused on the task at hand. Would she notice if something happened? Would anyone?

  Regan’s heart beat in her ears, her breathing growing labored. Fear trickled along her nerve endings, making her limbs weak and her face numb. She knew she was hyperventilating and tried to slow her breathing. It had all been a nitrogen-induced hallucination. She had to believe that. Otherwise, she’d have to pack up and go home, because she’d be useless to herself, and to the dig.

  Clenching her eyes shut, she slapped her hand palm first against the stone. Her skin stung and curling dried bits of algae flaked away from the force of the blow. No buzzing. No prickles. She opened her eyes. The scaffolding was still there. Regan drew a shaky, relieved breath. Tears stung her eyes.

  As she picked up the four inch wide brush, her hand shook so the tool felt clumsy in her grip. She focused on the small section of stone before her and brushed on the non-ionic soap solution in slow circular movements saturating the algae. Bits of greenish debris tore away with the soft bristles and she rinsed the brush, and then using a sponge, rinsed the soap from the stone.

  The notches and grooves carved into the rock looked as familiar as her own writing. She ran a fingertip over the edge of the hieroglyph. Believe. The word popped into her head. She jerked her hand back.

  God, it was happening again, only this time she was reading ancient Celtic symbols only an epigrapher should be able to decipher. She closed her eyes and debated what to do. How was she to know she was truly reading the hieroglyphs or just imagining it all? Just as she had imagined Coira and Braden. Just as she had imagined the lyrics to a song she had never heard.

  Regan sat back on the wooden decking and studied the carvings. Believe. The word filled her mind. She pressed the heel of her hands to her temples and squeezed. She wasn’t crazy. She was caught up in some kind of strange, bizarre—occurrence, more powerful than anything she had ever experienced, but she wasn’t crazy. And if she were?

  To hell with it! She’d probably be leaving before sunset anyway. After her exchange with Quinn the night before, she’d been expecting Fergus Fraser to call her into his office and tell her to pack her bags. She might as well get down to it and work as long as she could.

  Regan scrambled to her feet.

  Hannah leaned back on her heels and straightened as she passed. “Are you taking a break already then?”

  “No. I’ll be right back.”

  It took only a few minutes to get a drawing pad, pencil, and measuring tape from one of the labs. She returned to the stone, and measured and drew its surface area. Tomorrow she would do a laser survey and record the stones position in reference to the dam and the altar stone.

  Sweat ran in rivulets between her breasts and down her sides, as she soaped and rinsed, measured and drew the symbols she uncovered. At the back of the pad, she recorded the words she sensed each time she touched the surface of the stone. By noon, she had to stretch to reach the area over her head.

  “You’re already farther along than I am, and sketching them as you go, too.”

  Regan started at Hannah’s voice and glanced down at the pad at her feet, making sure her translations were not evident. “I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. I need to rinse this entire area more thoroughly.”

  “I’ll get the water hose, and we can give them both a thorough rinsing before we go to lunch.” Hannah strode down the scaffold to where the hose lay coiled.

  Regan looked down the ramp and realized the rest of the workers had already gone. She walked down to the next stone and lifted the aluminum ladder left there lying on its side. She carried it back and set it up. Perching on the top, Regan took the nozzle Hannah offered her. She held the hose high over the cleaned area and allowed the water to run from the top down over the entire span.

  “Henry didn’t know you spoke Gaelic,” Hannah said from below her.

  She’d wondered when someone would ask her about what had happened at the pub. “I don’t. Well only a few phrases.”

  “You did very well singin’ it last night.”

  “Thanks, but anyone can learn a song. I imagine it’s easier to sing languages than it is to speak them.”

  “Perhaps so. Why did you rush away afterward? The locals wanted to offer a word of praise for the performance.”

  “I’m not a singer, and to be truthful, Quinn was a bit angry at me for singing it. It’s his song.”

  “Was that the reason now, or somethin’ else?” Hannah teased.

  “It wasn’t the something you’re thinking. Mr. Douglas isn’t interested in me. Far from it. He thinks I’m an irresponsible ninny because of the diving accident I had the other day.”

  “I wonder what business he has to talk with you about right now, then. He’s headed this way, and I doubt it’s me he’s here to speak to.”

  Regan looked up and swore beneath her breath. After their run in the night before, she could almost lay odds he thought her crazy. He probably hadn’t kept the belief to himself either. The closer he got, the harsher his frown appeared. Her stomach muscles tightened as anxiety settled like a stone inside her chest. She looked down at Hannah. “Whatever it is he’s going to say, it can’t be anything good.”

  * * * *

  Quinn studied Regan’s wary expression as he stood beside the ladder. He stuffed his hands in his back pockets. “May I speak with you?”

  She continued spraying the stone as she looked down at him. Her gaz
e shifted to Hannah. The woman raised her brows and lifted one shoulder. “I can finish this.”

  Regan climbed down the ladder, handed the hose to Hannah, and dried her hands on a rag.

  Quinn walked down the scaffold as it curved around the stones and she fell into step beside him. “Does this place make you feel uneasy?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  Her choice of words had him studying her.

  She turned away to survey the circle. “They look like old men.”

  His lips quirked upward. “Not women?”

  “No, old men with gray beards.”

  He scanned the stones and nodded. “Aye, they do. But they have the feel of something else, as well. We’ll start recovery of the other two tomorrow. Search for more bones has been delayed until we raise the stones.”

  As she looked up, once again, he read wariness in her expression. “Is there something I can do to help with that?”

  He shook his head and came to a stop. He fought the urge to touch her, to cup her face in his hands and kiss her and find out what the connection he felt was all about. He clenched his hands. It was hard for him to resist the connection. Harder still for him not to act on it.

  She was so driven. The signs were in the way she stood her ground, the quick way her mind worked. She’d put her wants, her desires, ahead of everything else. She’d as much as said so that first day on Grannos when they’d gotten into the scrimmage over her tanks.

  He’d had enough of driven, selfish women.

  Then why was he bargaining with her? He drew a deep breath and reached into his pocket. “One of the lads found this today. I thought you were the person to give it to.”

  She held out her hand and he dropped the coin into her palm. Her eyes widened and her mouth flew open. “My god, it’s a Roman coin.”

  “Aye. Gordon Murdock, one of the divers, recovered it. It was just lying on the bottom close to the cofferdam. He’s marked the area and written up a report so it can be explored further.”

  “Do you know how rare this is? This is—“ She shook her head as though stunned. “There have only been a very few coins found here in Scotland.”

  “Aye, I know. They thought us savages, because of our custom of painting our faces blue before battle. We had them afraid for their lives if they crossed over onto our land. Kept the buggers out, it did.”

  Regan laughed aloud and an answering smile tugged at Quinn’s lips.

  “Sometimes I think the Scots as a people think the past isn’t the past at all, but today.

  “Look about you, lass. Doesn’t it feel as though it is?

  She looked around the henge that surrounded them. “Yes, it does.”

  Would she be more receptive to answering his questions now? “How do you know the song, Regan?”

  She turned to focus on him, her blue eyes dark. “I don’t know how I know it, Quinn. If I knew, I’d tell you.”

  “There’s a music publisher interested in the tune. But I can’t sign a contract if there’s any question as to the composer.”

  A frown drew her dark brows together. “Perhaps it’s never been written down. Would there be a conflict then?”

  “I can’t take credit for something that isn’t my own.” His pride alone would keep him from doing that.

  She bit her lip and looked away. “Is your family from around here?”

  “No not here, but close by. We moved to the coast years ago, where my Da could find work as a salvager. Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered. Could Braden be one of your ancestors?”

  So they were back to that again. “This is Scotland, lass. Most of us can trace our family back hundreds of years. I dinna ken of anyone named Braden swinging about in the family tree.” Hearing the edge of impatience that had crept into his tone, Quinn drew a deep breath. Why did she try his patience so easily? Why did he feel like shaking her one minute and kissing her the next?

  “Where did you get the idea for the song?” she asked.

  He frowned, debated. Would she read too much into his answer? “From a dream.”

  “When was it you dreamed about it?”

  “’Twas the first night I spent on Grannos.”

  She turned to look up at him. “Was there anything strange about the dream?”

  So real. Too real. Quinn jerked away from the thought. “All dreams are strange, lass.”

  “Was it as though you were there, yet you were someone else?”

  Her description triggered memories he wasn’t yet ready to acknowledge, memories that continued to make him uneasy. “You’re not going to trick me into buying into your—fantasy, Regan.”

  She flinched, and her dark eyes held a look of reproach before her expression went blank with control.

  She stepped away from him and he grasped her arm. “If I’m able to clear the tune, would you be open to having the lyrics published as well?”

  She jerked free. “They aren’t my lyrics, so you can do whatever you like.” She looked down at the coin she still held clasped in her hand. “I’ll turn the coin in to the preservation lab.” As she looked up at him, her expression held more hurt than anger. “Just stay away from me. I’m through with this.”

  Quinn swore beneath his breath as he watched her walk away, her back stiff, her hands fisted at her sides. He’d blown any chance at gaining her cooperation. He found he wasn’t nearly as upset by that as he should be. Regan’s hurt expression stung worse. That, and the knowledge he hadn’t been completely honest with her, or himself.

  “Think about it,” he yelled after her.

  She didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER 11

  Regan sat down at the end of the small dock and watched as the sun slowly sank behind the gray brown peaks down the loch. She drew her bulky sweater around her to ward off the chill. From the cabin behind her, high-pitched laughter tinkled like wind chimes across the compound. The sound abruptly ended as one of the girls closed the door. Regan breathed in the marshy smell of the water with relief. She needed some time alone to think, and her roommates’ constant chatter wasn’t conducive to that.

  Drawing her feet up on the dock, she looped her arms around her knees. She should have never tried to talk to Quinn. He didn’t believe her. And that was his prerogative. But his hard-assed condescension still stung like a slap.

  Part of the problem was her own. She was seeing him through Coira’s eyes. She was seeing him as Braden, not Quinn, and was expecting him to be—different. She had to put aside her feelings, instincts, whatever it was that drove her to feel a connection to him, and move on. But it was difficult.

  Experiencing the acceptance, the unconditional love Coira so easily gave Braden had opened her eyes to something missing in her own life, and shown her possibilities she hadn’t allowed herself to believe in. Recognizing the same thing in the way Braden had looked and responded to Coira had driven it home.

  How could she envy a couple who had possibly been dead for hundreds of years? But she did.

  The idea that something lacking in her had prevented all the foster families she’d lived with in her first ten years from loving her had sunk its roots deep. Her biological mother had loved drugs more than she’d loved her. She had’nt even loved her enough to pass her on to responsible people either. She’d been trapped in limbo waiting to belong but never free to be adopted.

  After adopting her, her parents had worked hard to make her feel confident in their love. And still she had doubted her own worthiness of their affection. Why couldn’t she put those feelings of worthlessness behind her?

  Tears burned her eyes. She was worthy of love. She deserved to be loved just as much as anyone.

  Perhaps she was experiencing these visions for a purpose. They had already opened her eyes to this major chink in her feelings. Maybe she could learn something more from them, from the people in them.

  She would look at the schedule, and the first two or three consecutive days she had off, she’d go to Edinburgh
to the National Library of Scotland and the National Archives building to do some research. They were both primarily research facilities, and she might be able to find some reference to Coira and Braden in one of the rare manuscripts. The library housed a music library of every song published in Britain, as well. If Quinn’s-Coira’s song was there, she’d find it. And prove to Quinn they’d existed.

  Her decision made, her tension eased. She looked out over the dancing play of failing light reflected on the water. Coira and Braden had seen this every day. They had looked at those huge barren mountains that seemed to slide right down into the loch and called them home.

  “’Ey, Regan.” A voice called to her from the cabin door. “We’ve popped in a movie. Do you want to watch the telly with us?”

  Regan turned to look over her shoulder at Hannah. The light behind her silhouetted the woman’s figure. She might get Hannah to go with her. She was probably familiar with the library and its facilities. They’d have fun wandering about and exploring the city together.

  “Aye, what kind of movie?” she asked in her best Scottish accent as she scrambled to her feet.

  “In honor of the coin found today, we chose one about Roman Gladiators.”

  “That’s my kind of movie, to be sure. I love checking out the men’s muscular legs in those short Roman skirts,” Regan said.

  “Aye. I’ve noticed how you prefer those manly men with the creases in their cheeks and bulging biceps,” Hannah said, her tone dry. “You don’t seem to be able to resist the challenge they represent.”

  Regan paused at the bottom of the steps. “I’ve found a cure for that by the name of Quinn Douglas,” she said, dropping the accent.

  Hannah frowned. “I’m sorry, Regan, I was only teasing.”

  Regan forced a smile to her lips. “We’ll watch these bonny Romans, and depending on how many clothes they have on, we’ll see how many other body parts they have bulging besides their biceps.”