Timeless

by Teresa Reasor

  A sweet rush of love and tenderness crashed over him like nothing he had ever experienced. His mouth slanted across hers, and his tongue delved into her mouth reaching for hers. It had been so long since he’d had this, an eternity.

  Regan’s hands beneath his sweater against his back helped him shake free of the memories. He needed to stop, to get away from her, but his feet seemed planted into the wood of the floor. A compulsive need urged him to mold her closer, to hold on tight. He broke the kiss. ”Regan—”

  Her eyes looked large and drowsy with desire, her lips berry red. He slipped his hands beneath her sweater to stroke and caress the bare width of her back. She was warm and real. Memory and reality clashed and fought in his head. “We shouldn’t do this, lass.”

  Her hands cupped his face. “Just one more, and we won’t.” She drew his lips back and her tongue tangled with his. He groaned as she rose on tiptoe again to fit herself against him more fully.

  The intrusive feelings and thoughts receded and it was Regan, all Regan. Relief had him tightening his arms, molding her closer. The kiss went on and on.

  His breathing ragged, he turned his face against her throat to nibble the tender skin and trace, with his lips, the edge of her jaw to her ear. She shuddered as he nipped the tender lobe and drew it into his mouth.

  “Quinn—” Her soft, husky tone did things to him he couldn’t control or resist.

  “Just one more, eh?” he murmured and drew back to look down at her, his lips twitching with sudden humor.

  Her flushed cheeks, darkened to a deeper pink. “I didn’t want to regret missing out on something I’ve been curious about.”

  He raised one brow as he studied her face. “And did I satisfy your curiosity?”

  “Yes.” She shifted to rest her head against his chest.

  He tightened his arms about her. “And what would you have been curious about?” He cupped the back of her head, holding her close.

  “If you kiss as well in person, as you do in my dreams.”

  “I kissed you on the dock once before.”

  “Yes, but not like this.”

  “You’ve been dreaming about me?”

  “You, or an identical facsimile.”

  Her answer had his muscles tensing for it brought the experience he’d just had back to the forefront. God, he had no business getting involved with her. If there wasn’t a conflict of interest professionally, there was conflict of a different kind brewing. This was just asking for trouble—for them both.

  The way she fit against him felt all too right. But she was eccentric, if not daft. Twice already she had proven that, hadn’t she? He didn’t need to become involved with a mad American woman destined to return to her own country after a few months.

  But was she truly unbalanced? The clash between reality and memory he had just fought pointed out to him there was truly something unusual happening. And not just that.

  What about the voice he’d heard calling his name?

  With reluctance he said, “You asked me how I came to write the song.”

  She drew back to look up at him. “You said it came to you in a dream.”

  “Aye, it was a dream, but—” How could he explain? He drew a deep breath. “I was outside, surrounded by woods. And there were men about me. Some of them were hurt and lay on the ground. There were wrappings tied about their arms, legs, their heads, red with blood. A man moved from one to another offering them water.”

  He looked out at the loch. Even now, just remembering inspired feelings of grief so strong it lay like stone in his chest. “There was a lad there, no more than twelve or thirteen. He had a terrible gash down the side of his face. He yelled in pain every time a man pushed a heavy needle through his skin to close the wound.” He clenched his eyes shut against the memory.

  “I felt tired. More weary than I had ever felt. And I wanted to go home. Prayed to go home with ever’thin’ that was in me.”

  Quinn swallowed against the knot of emotion that rose in his throat. “That’s when I heard the music. At first it was just a hum inside my head but it grew stronger. I retrieved a flute from a bundle close to the fire and began to play the tune. It seemed to soothe the men and eased the hurt inside me.”

  He opened his eyes to find her watching him with a frown.

  “When I woke, I wrote down the tune so I wouldn’t lose it.”

  “There were no lyrics to the music?” she asked.

  “No. Not until you sang them the other night.”

  “I didn’t steal your song and write lyrics to it, Quinn. I swear it. The only areas of the ship I had access to were the head, the galley, and my cabin. I didn’t go into your cabin.”

  “I know.”

  He smiled wryly at her look of surprise. “I’ve had some time to stew about it.” He stepped back from her.

  Her brows rose. “What about the lyrics?”

  He remained silent debating. “I don’t know, lass.”

  Her features grew tight. Fear pinched her lips at the corners. Her voice sounded breathy and weak when she said, “Something is happening to us, Quinn.”

  He rubbed a hand over his jaw and shook his head. Was he just buying into a fantasy she had somehow created?

  But she hadn’t caused his dreams. And what of the memories he had just experienced of making love with her?

  And what about the voice that had called to him when she was in trouble? He raked both hands through his hair as anger tightened his chest and heated his skin. “I don’t like being driven in the direction someone else has chosen for me.”

  “And just who do you think might be driving you? Me?”

  Quinn dropped his hands and faced her. Not her, but who?

  Her throat worked as she swallowed. “I need your help, Quinn. I don’t have much time.”

  Something in her tone made him wary. He wasn’t going to be used again. He didn’t have time for this. He needed to get the bloody stones raised and move on. “I’m not playing about with you, lass.”

  She searched his face and her chin went up. “Do you really think that’s what I’m doing, playing about?” Her eyes grew glassy as though she might cry. She looked away.

  Though the desire was strong, he stifled the urge to soften toward her.

  “I’ll not be used to further your career, Regan. I’ve been about the block with that one before, and once was enough.”

  She turned back to him. “I’m sure it’s going to further my career to admit— ” She broke off and moved her hand in a cutting action. “I’ve worked hard to get here. I’ve worked harder to earn my colleagues’ respect. Just what could I hope to gain by making claims no one’s going to believe? Nothing. In fact, I’ll lose all credibility if anyone finds out about this.”

  What she said was true but still—no matter how much he wanted her, he didn’t want to be drawn into this. “It’s too much to expect, Regan. Whatever is at work here, I don’t want any part of it.”

  Her expression reflected disappointment before her lips compressed. She ran her fingers through the curling bangs that grazed her forehead. “Fine, I’ll figure things out by myself. Go back to Grannos where you belong. I’ll walk back to the site on my own when I’m finished here. After all, just in case someone gets wind of my crazy notions, you won’t want anyone thinking you associate with such a nutcase.”

  Anger had his jaw tightening and he kept his tone even with an effort. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “That isn’t really any of your concern anymore is it? You don’t want any part of it.”

  With a murmured oath, Quinn swung around and headed for the door.

  Before he opened it she said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep all this to yourself. After all, I do have my career to think about.”

  Quinn slammed out of the house. He made it almost to the skiff before guilt crashed through the anger, and his pace slowed.

  “Bugger,” he breathed. If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself.<
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  CHAPTER 14

  “Damn stubborn Scotsman,” Regan murmured beneath her breath as she scrubbed the mud from the floor just inside the front door. The physical labor helped her work off some of her anger, but not the disappointment that ached beneath her ribs.

  The washer finished filling, and she rose to add detergent and the rag to the load. Once it had rotated and circulated the soap, she pushed the button to stop it and allow the clothes to soak.

  She dropped into a chair to put on clean tennis shoes and sat staring at her sock covered feet. She needed someone to talk to about the situation. To share everything the stones were saying to her. She needed someone to believe in her.

  “Damn him.” He didn’t want to accept what was happening.

  Then why had she so easily done so when only a few hours before she’d been uncertain?

  She had to believe, because the alternative was just too painful to face.

  She touched her wrist. Because she had physical proof. Because she felt Coira’s belief every time she dreamed about her. She had to figure out what time frame the couple had lived. When she traveled to Edinburgh she needed some idea of what to look for.

  And how was she to read the documents if they were written in Gaelic? She had a working knowledge of the language, but she certainly wasn’t an expert.

  Regan thrust her fingers through her hair and pulled at the soft cap of curls in frustration. Hannah might be of help. But could she trust the woman with—no. She could create some excuse for them to do the research, a hunch or something.

  She glanced at her watch. She had to get back to the site. She slipped on her shoes and retrieved her keys.

  As she strode down the hill to the site, several of the other workers called out greetings, and asked how she felt. She called back a brief answer and moved on, eager to get back to work.

  Reaching the row of buckets used to clean the stones, she stopped before the hose and twisted the metal knob to turn on the water. As the bucket filled, she added a squirt of cleaner from a bottle, and swished a brush around to mix it. A shadow fell across her and she looked up.

  “Are you all right, Regan?” Henry asked his thin face set in a frown. He tugged at his baseball cap in a nervous gesture.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” She nodded toward the bright yellow sawhorses placed around the hole into which she had fallen. “I see they’ve marked the opening. Has anyone said when or how they’ll be proceeding?”

  “No. Stephen and I put the sawhorses around them to keep everyone away, just in case someone gets curious.”

  Regan nodded.

  “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”

  Shocked by the suddenness of his censure, she stared at him. She grasped the handle of the bucket and rose to her feet. “Like what, Henry?” She kept her voice under tight control.

  “You know what I’m talking about, Regan. You’re impulsive and sometimes over enthusiastic. You’re going to screw things up for the rest of us.”

  “Thus far all I’ve done is clean the stones and fall into a hole. How does that screw things up for you?”

  Color stormed his face, turning his pale freckled complexion a dull red. “You forgot the diving accident.”

  Her control slipped. “How are my mistakes, my accidents screwing things up for you, Henry?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You know what I mean, Regan. You should have never been out there at the altar.”

  “Henry.” She drew a deep calming breath, forcing her anger down. “You’re not my keeper. And it isn’t for you to tell me where I should be or shouldn’t. But if it makes you feel any better, Dr. Fraser will probably get around to reaming me out soon enough.”

  He opened his mouth to say something else and she threw up a hand. “Thus far, you’ve not said anything that would screw up our friendship. If you say anything else, you just may get there. I’d hate for us to have to avoid one another the entire summer. It wouldn’t make for a very good working relationship. And I’d hate losing your friendship.”

  His angry expression grew sulky. With an oath, he turned and stomped down the scaffold.

  Regan drew several deep breaths attempting to shake free of her anger. The grain of truth in everything he said only made it worse. Why was she willing to risk such censure? Why was Coira so driven to —? She cut off the thought. She was her own person. No one was making her pursue these things. Or was she?

  The thought shot a shiver through her.

  Holding the bucket as level as possible, she walked toward the stone she’d been cleaning the day before. She paused as she drew even with Hannah. “Thank you for saving my bacon, Hannah.”

  “’Twasn’t me. ‘Twas Quinn and the boys. They pulled like mad men to get you back up. You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine. Still a little freaked out and excited, but physically, I’m fine.”

  Hannah’s eyes shifted behind the lenses of her glasses searching Regan’s face. “Did you know something was there?”

  What was she to say? Wariness had her growing tense. “No. Why would you think that?”

  “Henry is speculating that you did.”

  “The historical research we were given before we arrived at the dig didn’t speculate that there might be a chamber or chambers beneath the henge. Though I’ve tried to do extra research on the structures of other similar sites, there’s never been anything like this one before. So how would I know there was something there?”

  Hannah shook her head. “You left this laying on the scaffold before you went out to the altar. I didn’t want it to get ruined or damaged, so I picked it up and put it in my pack. ” Hannah pulled Regan’s sketch pad from the backpack beside her.

  Regan dragged air into lungs. Had Hannah looked inside the pad? Had she seen the translations? Her steady gaze as Regan accepted the pad eased her sudden panic.

  Hannah shoved her glasses more firmly on her nose. “You’re still a wee bit pale. Are you sure you feel up to being here?”

  Hannah hadn’t seen her notes. She’d be asking questions otherwise.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” Jesus—she needed to be more careful.

  Regan settled to work on the partially cleaned stone she’d worked on the day before. She studied the hieroglyphs she uncovered, and traced them with her finger. No words or meanings came to her, and she didn’t know whether to be grateful or disappointed. Setting aside the brush and rag, she turned to a fresh page in the book, and sketched the markings and moved on.

  Arriving at a section too high to reach, she tossed her brush in the bucket and walked down the scaffold to get one of the ladders. A hand grasped her shoulder as she set it up and she looked up into Stephen’s face and smiled. ”One of my heroes.”

  An answering smile flickered across his features then faltered. “Dr. Fraser called down from the lab, Regan. He wants to speak to you in his office.”

  Anxiety weighted her stomach. Would Dr. Fraser just tear a strip off of her, as the English said? Or would he tell her to pack her bags? The real possibility of having to catch a plane and go home in disgrace had her growing nauseous. If she were kicked off the site, she might gain a reputation for being difficult, and it could follow her to other jobs. At least it would end all of Henry’s worries. She hated the possibility of his being proven right.

  “I’ve been summoned by Dr. Fraser,” she said as she stopped beside Hannah. She crammed the sketchbook into her own pack and looped it over her shoulder.

  “Good luck.” Hannah looked up her expression serious.

  “Thanks.”

  Regan climbed the hill to the survey team office and paused to catch her breath as she entered the building. The small reception area held a desk, a computer, a few chairs, and little else. A large window, opposite the desk, offered a stunning view of the site, with Loch Maree and Mt. Slioch behind it.

  A blond, raw-boned woman of perhaps forty, dressed in a skirt and blouse appeared from down the hall. “You must be Rega
n Stanhope.”

  She offered her hand and Regan grasped it for a brief shake.

  “I’m Caterina Bradley, Dr. Varick’s administrative assistant.” The woman’s upper-crust English accent fell lightly on her ears. “Congratulations on your find. I know it was more an accident, but still— Dr. Varick is very excited.”

  “Thanks. I’m here to see Dr. Fraser. He called down to the site for me.”

  “Mr. Argus, Mr. Nicodemus’s assistant, is with him. I’ll buzz his office and ask him if he wants you to wait.” She moved with the grace of a fashion model, each move careful and quiet, and sat down behind the desk to reach for the phone.

  “Mr. Argus has expressed an interest in speaking with you. Dr. Fraser asks that you please join them,” she said as she put the receiver in its cradle. “It’s down the hall, second door to the right.”

  Regan nodded. “Thanks for your help.”

  Her heart beat like a kettledrum as she wandered down the hallway. “By all means let’s draw out the torture before you fire my ass and send me to the airport,” she murmured. Nerves tightened her stomach muscles as she spied a black plaque that read, Dr. Fergus Fraser, Site Supervisor, mounted on one of the doors. Her hand shook as she tapped on it.

  His brief “come in” sounded impatient and Regan hastened to do just that.

  Dr. Fraser’s wiry build looked robust compared to Argus. Both men rose to their feet as she stepped into the room and closed the door. She nodded to the Argus and turned her attention to her boss. “You wanted to see me, sir.”

  “I hope you are none the worse for your scare,” he said.

  Regan offered him an uncertain smile. “No, sir. I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

  “Mr. Argus wanted to see for himself before he returned to the inn.”

  Her attention returned to the other man. His suit appeared tailored to his thin frame, and the immaculate white of his shirt emphasized the darkness of his complexion. Fancy duds for an archaeological dig site. How on earth did he stay clean?