Timeless

by Teresa Reasor

  “No. Don’t leave me Quinn.”

  Regan’s shrill voice pierced his dream-like state. He glanced toward her. Her eyes looked wide and dark with fear, her skin bleached white by the glow projected between the stones.

  A movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. In the distance, from the loch, he saw a man approaching. The way he moved seemed familiar. As he drew closer, recognition rocked him. The sturdy knee high boots, the snug fit of his brays, the wide belt about his waist and the loose flow of his shirt were all details he’d seen, had felt first hand. The man looked up, his eyes narrowed against the sun. As he saw Quinn, his features grew pale and blank with shock. The odd shaped basket he carried dropped from his hand, spilling fish onto the ground. He swayed and leaned heavily on the wooden rod he gripped.

  Braden, it was Braden, but it was him as well.

  Regan’s fingers locking around his wrist dragged his attention back to her. Tethered to the stone by one hand, she’d plunged her other through the light and latched onto him. “You can’t live in his world any more than he can live in yours, Quinn.”

  So she saw him too. He wasn’t hallucinating.

  Her tone rose to a demand. “Come back to me. Step out of the light.” Her dark blue gaze held his as she pulled at his arm. “You’ll die, Quinn. I don’t want to lose you.” Her eyes brimmed with tears that spilled over and streamed down her face.

  Her pain cut across the numbing effect of the power cradling him.

  What was he doing? Bloody hell. A quick biting anger pushed his apathy away.

  Logan and Rob’s faces thrust their way into his mind. He had to stay with them. They needed him. Regan needed him.

  He took a staggering step toward her, the resistance similar to moving through water at depth. His knee and one calf thrust free of the light and the power slid like liquid down his body tugging at him. Regan’s grip tightened, and she fought against its force. Shoving through the blaze, he stumbled and fell to his knees upon the scaffolding. Regan caught him against her with one arm.

  The light shrank to a pinprick then died. With a gasp of pain, she jerked her hand free of the stone. Kneeling, she looped her arms around his neck and held him close. Her tears wet his cheek as she stroked his hair.

  Clumsy, Quinn’s arms closed about her. His muscles shook as though he’d spent too long in a Jacuzzi. “’Tis all right, lass. Just another stroll about the dig.”

  A sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob escaped her. Her arms tightened.

  For a long time they held each other.

  Quinn swore repeatedly as they staggered back to the boat. His legs shook, his balance was off, as though he’d drunk the bottle of wine he’d brought to share with her. He dropped into the passenger seat of the boat and laid his head back. The cool air cleared the cloudy haze from his mind and revived him.

  By the time Regan eased the skiff in against the dock at the cabins, he’d grown steadier. Afraid of putting too much pressure on Regan’s hurt leg, he forced his feet forward, one step after the other, until they reached his bungalow.

  At the door, she helped him remove his jacket. “Quinn—” Something in her voice, in the stillness of her posture, arrested his attention. Her gaze focused on his hand, the hand that an hour before had been bruised an ugly purple. He raised it so the dim overhead light fell across his fingers. The swelling was gone. The color looked normal. He made a fist then opened it. His hand was healed.

  *****

  Fear and concern continued to tighten like a knot beneath Regan’s ribs. Quinn continued to exhibit such weakness—“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the doctor?” she asked again.

  “Enough, lass.” Quinn threw up a hand brushing aside the question. “I’m fine. The experience just drained my strength for a time.”

  Regan tugged at the t-shirt Quinn had loaned her to wear, and nestled closer. She listened to the steady beat of his heart for several moments and allowed the sound to ease her anxiety.

  Her mind too active to rest, she asked, “How do you suppose Coira got the people she cured into the light without them knowing it? They couldn’t have known. They’d have spread the word far and wide.”

  “Perhaps some kind of concoction to put them to sleep.”

  “And she’d have to have some way of moving them in and out of the magnetic field. It has to be some kind of magnetic field.”

  “Aye. She’d use a platform of some kind on wheels?”

  “She’d have put it inside the chamber.”

  “Aye.” Quinn yawned.

  Her arms tightened around him. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  He fell silent for a moment. “For a time— It was a promise of more, but it was a lie.” He grasped the hand that lay on his chest and guided it to his lips.

  “How do you know?” Regan asked her voice dwindling as emotion clogged her throat.

  “There’s nothing more important than the people in my life, lass. The promise the light offers isn’t worth them.”

  Was he including her? Though the urge to ask had words hovering on the tip of her tongue, she remained silent. She couldn’t leave herself open to that yet. Things were too uncertain. And she still hadn’t been completely honest with him.

  He needed to sleep to recover. That same bone deep weariness had affected her after her first experience with the stones. She shuddered.

  “This power is too great for anyone, Regan. The stones should have never been recovered. They should have been left in the loch. I was a fool to even be tempted,” he said, his voice slurred. After a few moments his deep even breathing signaled he’d fallen asleep.

  Raising herself on an elbow, she studied his face. Even in sleep he looked compelling, masculine, and so vulnerable right now.

  She’d almost lost him. Once again her curiosity, her drive, had nearly cost her someone dear. She smoothed the thick, coarse hair back from his forehead. When would she learn?

  For the first time she wished she could walk away from a project. If she walked away she’d be leaving Quinn behind. The thought twisted inside her mind and heart too painful to dwell on.

  Would her parents be disappointed in her if she left behind the opportunity? Probably. And what excuse could she make? Homesickness? The unexpected accidents she’d experienced on site?

  But these were not ordinary circumstances.

  And Quinn was more important than the dig.

  Had she not grabbed him, he would be dead.

  The physics of time travel, that the same person can’t occupy the same space without something terrible happening, had to be true. And though Quinn was his own person, he and Braden were too closely tied to try and become a part of the same reality.

  So, what could they do to ensure neither one of them was put at risk again? Figure out what Coira was trying to tell them. Help her resolve the conflict that had driven her to reach through one time period into another for an answer. Coira was the driving force. She was the key.

  Could they communicate in some way with her? Could the stones be used for more than just healing?

  A sudden thought occurred to her. “Oh my God!” She turned to Quinn and shook him. When he didn’t immediately respond fear thumped her heart and she swung her leg over his hip to straddle him.

  “Quinn.” She grasped his shoulders and shook. “Hum—”

  His response, though not completely coherent, eased the alarmed thundering of her pulse.

  “I know why Nicodemus is so interested in the stones.”

  Quinn raised his brows but didn’t open his eyes.

  “He’s ill. He wants a cure—but also, if you can cure any condition with the stones, how long could you live?”

  Quinn’s black lashes parted and his gaze grew progressively sharper as he looked up at her. “Forever. They’ve found the fucking fountain of youth.”

  “And imagine how that power could be perverted if you had control of it.”

  His thoughtful frown progressed into a sc
owl of open concern. “Imagine what could happen if that power became known across the world,” he replied. “My country could be destroyed.”

  *****

  Regan adjusted the pack that hung over her shoulder and limped up the stairs of the National Archives Building. Each step shot painful twinges through her bruised calf. She smiled when Quinn grasped her elbow offering support.

  “Now why is it you already have a pass and I had to apply for one?” she asked as he led her up the stairs.

  “Almost two years ago I was involved in another archaeological recovery. We were operating on a very limited budget, and I helped with the research.”

  She nodded. “Logan mentioned that the first night I met him. Hannah was busting his chops about being a treasure hunter.”

  “’Twasn’t a treasure hunt. We didn’t make enough money for that. And the ships cargo we recovered went directly to a museum.”

  “Is that how you got the job with Nicodemus?”

  “Aye. He heard about our involvement with the dig through the museum.”

  Regan paused at the top of the stairs to admire the statue of Wellington perched atop a tall, red, granite base in front of the building. A damp chill permeated the air, the early morning sun not having gained enough strength to burn away the dew yet. She looked past the statue to study the roadway and the buildings down Prince Street. The breadth and scale of the place was on a par with Washington D.C., with a difference. Nothing in America could equal the historic atmosphere that hung over the city. History here wasn’t just the past, but remained an intricate part of the present. She’d overheard the concierge at the hotel call Robert the Bruce “Rob” as though he were still alive. The hotel employee wasn’t the only one she’d run across who did so.

  Quinn opened the heavy wooden door for her and stood aside to allow her to enter the building. The wide entrance foyer stretched before them. Marble tile, polished to a sheen, reflected their progress as they walked to the information desk. On each side closed doors held safe the historical treasures housed there.

  “This building was once referred to as a grand pigeon-house,” Quinn said, “While building it, they ran short of funds and had to put the project aside. It became a hangout for thieves. Once the builders received more money from the crown, they finished it,” They stood at the help desk while the man there waited on another patron. “Not too shabby, eh?”

  “You Scotsmen have a knack for exaggerated understatement.” That had never been more apparent than when she’d held him after his sojourn into the light at the henge. His coolness under fire amazed her.

  Regan produced two forms of photo ID and picked up her entrance pass.

  “You’ll be able to use this for three years before you’ll have to renew it,” the man behind the desk explained, his Scottish accent less thick than the dialect to which she’d grown accustomed during the last month.

  Would she be back to use the pass before it expired? Her gaze fastened on Quinn’s face. What if she went home and never saw him again? Pain settled beneath her ribs. They were as perfect for one another as Coira and Braden. Could they make it as a couple after all this was over? With every experience, they grew closer. But their conversations focused on the present or the past not the future. Uncertainty held their tomorrows in limbo.

  Their steps echoed as they wandered down the hall to the viewing room where the materials she had requested would be delivered.

  “I’ve asked for documents that reference the monoliths in different areas of Scotland and any references to Roman Coins discovered in the Loch Maree area. I took a wild stab at some of the local clans indigenous to the area, as we talked about, and requested copies of some of the church registers. Based on their clothing styles, I guessed possibly the twelfth or thirteenth century might be the time frame.”

  “Coira and Braden weren’t members of any church,” Quinn said.

  “No, but the priest was there when the baby was born and might have entered Bryce’s birth into the church records.”

  Quinn nodded.

  The room they entered had a high decorative ceiling and warm wood paneled walls. Lights imbedded beneath a balcony that followed the length and breadth of the space cast a muted glow along the edges of the room. Regan turned to get a better view of the shelves filled with historic materials above them, and to admire the wide crown molding along the ceiling. Beneath the balcony, large, recessed windows allowed natural light to fall onto the row after row of tables that stretched from the wall to the wide central aisle. Two other researchers had already laid claim to a space in one corner and were studying documents or copies.

  A thin, dark haired man approached them. A dark sports coat hung on an angular frame, and the starched white collar of his shirt exaggerated his long neck. “May I help you?” he asked in a hushed tone.

  Regan offered him her badge. “I’ve reserved some materials in my name.”

  He eyed her badge then smiled. “We spoke on the phone, Miss Stanhope. My name is Geoffrey Morgan.”

  Regan offered her hand and introduced Quinn. “We’d like to review the church registries first, then the materials about the monoliths and coins.”

  “There were very few references to the latter, but the correspondence from some of the private collections mentioned quite a few sites. And I remembered a similar search someone else did early last year, and pulled some of those resources about which we spoke on the phone.”

  “I appreciate your directing me to the other materials. I’m working on an archaeological site and am interested in any early references to the monoliths we’re working on or the people I’m looking for.”

  “I’ve seen a number of news releases in the paper about the site and the progress you’re making. It’s all very interesting. We’ll one day house the writings about your discoveries here, most likely, so you’re both uncovering and making history. As for the people, I suppose that’s a more personal subject.”

  “Yes, it is. They may be family—ancestors.”

  “Well, I hope that we ‘ll be of help to you. Why don’t you set up over there by that window?” He pointed to a table to their left. “I’ll retrieve the documents for you.”

  Geoffrey returned a few moments later with a cart containing several cartridges of microfilm, stacks of papers, and two very large old books. Regan removed a pair of cotton gloves from her jacket pocket and donned them, while Quinn did the same.

  “Since you reserved the church registries, but didn’t know exactly what time period, only the area, I thought you’d want the microfilm copies as well. Some of the writing is quite difficult to decipher, but you can enlarge the microfilm image for closer study. The machines are right over there.” He pointed to an area in the corner of the room. “You may find names that may lead you to others. Searching for your ancestry is a bit like following the tributary of a river and suddenly coming across an unexpected waterfall of information. I hope you run into something you find useful. Just replace the books on the cart, and I’ll have them returned. I have three more reserved, and when you want them just let me know.”

  “Thank you very much for your help, Mr. Morgan.”

  “That must have been some telephone conversation,” Quinn said as the man walked away. “He’s smitten.”

  Regan looked at him. “He’s just trying to be helpful.”

  Quinn grinned. “Uh-huh.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Not yet.”

  Her brows rose at his quick response.

  He grinned deepening the creases in each cheek. “Let’s get started,” he said and lifted the two church registries onto the table. He braced his hands on either side of the books and eyed her from across the table. “You know there are currently about forty kirks in the Ross shire area alone? I don’t know how many there were back then, decidedly fewer I’d imagine, but the chances of our running across the right entry are slim.”

  “I know,” Regan said, dragging her eyes from his hand. Every time she loo
ked at it— the wonder of it—She jerked her thoughts back to the present. “But it doesn’t hurt to look. And there were only two in the Loch Maree area in the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth century.”

  She took a seat across from him and gently centered the book on the table before her. The binding felt soft and fragile around the edges. As she opened it, the pages had the worn look of old cloth. Row after row of names stretched across them. The ink in some areas appeared faded, in others nearly gone. She settled in to scan each page as closely as possible. The handwriting changed several times, but the clan names of the registry remained consistent. After almost an hour she closed the cover of the book and rose to return it to the help desk. She returned to her seat with another similar to the first. Midway through the book, she ran across a collection of deaths all entered with the same date. It couldn’t be that easy? Could it? Her heartbeat accelerated as she spied a familiar name and looked up. How many people do you think might have had the name Nathrach at that time?”

  Quinn looked up. “It’s an unusual name, not many I’d wager.” He rose to his feet to come around the table.

  “There’s a whole group of clansmen listed as dead on the same date. A man named Nathrach son of Liam of clan MacLeod is listed with them.”

  “What date?” he asked.

  “November fourteenth, thirteen-eighteen.”

  His black brows rose and he leaned over her shoulder to get a look at the listing. “There are thirteen other men listed,” he observed. All of them from clan MacDonnell.”

  “Yeah. But there wasn’t any listing for Ross or Coira.” She withdrew a notebook out of her pack.

  “But Bryce’s birth or death wasn’t listed before either?”

  “No, I didn’t see it. I’ll work backwards over the pages again and double check.”

  She wrote down the names and marked the page with one of the acid free bookmarks the facility provided. Starting over, she rescanned the pages she’d already viewed. Another hour had passed before she leaned back. “There was only one Bryce listed in the entire register. They don’t list parents, family members, cause of death, just the name, so it’s impossible to know if he’s the one we’re looking for.”