Timeless

by Teresa Reasor

  She ran her hands over the broad width of his back, drawing him down. Her lips parted against the eager thrust of his tongue. One kiss fed off the other, growing deeper, more demanding. Beneath the heady rush of desire the taut muscles of her abdomen relaxed. Her limbs grew weak.

  Her fingers followed the hollow dip of his spine and traced the waistband of his pants.

  She cupped the tented front of his jeans and paused to caress the firm ridge beneath the fabric. But when she reached for the zipper, Quinn jerked the button free and tugged it open. He cast his jeans and underwear aside on the floor. The hard length of him jutted forward and she ran her fingertips along his erection, caressing him.

  Quinn’s lips found her ear, then the sensitive bend of her throat. His mouth came back to hers even as his hands were busy dragging her jeans down. Regan wiggled free of them and shivered with anticipation. The brush of his body ignited the need to get closer. The muscled plan of his stomach caressed hers. His arousal brushed against her, tempting, teasing.

  She bent one knee across his hip, guiding him to the opening of her body. His groan of pleasure vibrated beneath the tangled thrust of their tongues and fed the ache of need that writhed between her thighs.

  Quinn turned, bringing her beneath him. He entered her, his movements quick and compelling. With each hard thrust a drowning pleasure built within her.

  Quinn guided her bent legs upward tilting her pelvis and bringing the direction of his movements deeper. Pressed as tightly into her as possible, he rocked gently.

  Regan caught her breath at the intensity of the sensation, the depth of their intimacy.

  Skin to skin, physically as close as they could get, she focused on Quinn’s face, and was once again overwhelmed by fear. She would not lose him.

  Quinn rocked one more time and the intensity of her orgasm sent a wave of prickling heat racing down her body to her fingers and toes.

  “Quinn—” his name broke from her like a sob.

  She would not lose him.

  But even with the throb of his release echoing inside her, she couldn’t fight off the tormenting apprehension. Something was going to happen.

  *****

  Quinn tugged the covers down a few moments later, and they slid naked beneath. He drew Regan close against his side, and she rested her head within the hollow of his shoulder. Their physical intimacy had eased his anxiety for the moment. He ran his fingertips over her forearm.

  In response, Regan caressed his chest, her touch both soothing and sensual.

  “If we can help Coira and Braden, do you think they may be able to do the same for us?” he asked.

  “If we can figure out a way to communicate with them, maybe.”

  What if they repeated the mistakes of the past and they ended up being ripped apart as Coira and Braden had been? How were they supposed to know how to avoid them if they didn’t experience them in the past first? And how were they to learn about them?

  And who were the different players?

  Nathrach was Argus. His bird-like features and obsequious attitude had not changed in seven hundred years.

  But who was Nicodemus?

  And who the hell was Ross?

  If they could find out who Ross was, perhaps they’d have the key to everything.

  “We forgot to use a condom,” Regan’s voice, softened to a whisper dragged his attention back to the present.

  “Aye, I know.” Quinn turned his head to press his lips to her forehead. “I wanted no barriers between us.”

  Wetness trailed across his chest and he turned to find her eyes tear-drenched.

  “There aren’t, Quinn.”

  He dried her face with the sheet. His thoughts were full of things he wanted to say, but couldn’t. He read the same uncertainty in Regan’s expression. “Aye, I know, lass. I know.”

  *****

  With the British Airways engines humming outside the window beside her, Reagan studied Quinn’s features. Worry etched its lines across his forehead even in sleep. She resisted the temptation to rub a fingertip across and wipe the frown away. It would wake him and after a restless night, he needed to rest.

  An exhaustion-triggered tension headache beat at her temples, and she raised a hand to get a flight attendant’s attention. The woman sauntered down the aisle with practiced ease, even though the cabin bounced in a sudden patch of turbulence.

  “Could I have some Tylenol or aspirin, please?”

  “Of course.”

  While she waited for the attendant to return, Regan focused on the copies sitting on the tray before her. She scanned the pages marked with pencil and read the phrases she’d translated. She sighed. It was going to take a year to finish this.

  The flight attendant returned, and Regan murmured her thanks as she took the tablets and water bottle from her. She swallowed the pills and returned to her systematic search for any reference to Braden or Coira in the pages. The antiquated Latin often faded to chicken scratches. She caught herself nearly pressing her nose to the page and squinting to see the words. She needed to look at this on the computer, where she might be able to enhance the print.

  Quinn’s breathing hitched, snagging her attention. She laid a hand on his arm to soothe him. As soon as they were back at the site, they’d hide out and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with their extra day’s stay.

  She hoped.

  Just the thought triggered a tight, nauseous feeling in her stomach. Whatever repercussions they faced, they’d done the right thing staying the extra day. She would find the secrets the journal held. But it would take time. She suppressed a groan of frustration. The niggling feeling of time running out made her itchy all over.

  The aspirin took effect. The pain eased away, and with it the tension in her body. The monotone drone of the plane’s engines soothed her anxiety. With renewed determination, she leaned over the pages and continued to scan them for references to the henge or Coira and Braden.

  *****

  Water seeping into his clothing woke Quinn. The ground beneath him felt spongy with moisture. His jeans clung to his hip and thigh. His sweater wrapped around his arm and side like a wet towel. Panic shot a flood of adrenaline into his system, whipping his heart into wild beats. Had the plane crashed? Jesus, Regan! His ears buzzed. Her name tore from him as he lunged to his feet.

  And staggered to one knee as he looked down on the henge.

  A dream, it was only a dream. Thank God!

  No, not a dream.

  Blood rushed to his head, making him dizzy, and he braced his hands on the ground. Wheezing in air, he waited for his pulse to quiet and his ears to clear. Grief tumbled over him, paralyzing and painful.

  He hadn’t lost her. She was fine. He was sitting right beside her. If he opened his eyes, she’d be asleep, or sorting through the pages of the journal they’d copied. If he could open his eyes—but how?

  God, he was tired of being fucked with like this

  Anger thrust him to his feet. He took in his surroundings. Dusk touched Mt. Slioch’s peak, etching its profile with a corona of light. He looked down at the site. No, not the site, no scaffolding ringed the circle. A clammy mist rolling, spectral and dense, down the loch came aground in billowing loops, thickening the air. It swirled around the bases of the monoliths. The heavy gray stones appeared like sentinels standing guard. Was it the loch they protected? Or was it Coira? Braden?

  Damn it.

  Where was Coira? Was she here?

  Fuck this. Riding the crest of his anger, Quinn strode down the hill.

  As he reached the outer edge of the circle, a prickling heat raced along his skin. He stopped. He’d experienced the sensation before, when he’d been trapped inside the energy field. And though it had healed his hand, it had almost cost him his life.

  Wary, he eyed the posts and lintel closest to him. No light shone within the area they enclosed, no scene from another time transposed itself over the present.

  A smal
l glow from the center of the henge caught his attention as he edged closer.

  The underground chamber. Was Coira there?

  Every time he or Regan had a vision like this it revealed some small secret. But dream world or not, the journey was never without danger.

  Would it be worth the risk? And if he didn’t follow through, would he miss something important? Was Coira manipulating him as she did Regan?

  Thunder rumbled in the distance and his head jerked up. When the sound came again, anxiety lanced through him. What would his being here do to the plane? If his vision had the same strength as Regan’s—

  His heart drummed against his ribs as though trying to escape. Fuck! There was no way out but to play Coira’s bloody game.

  Every muscle tensed as he backed away to get a running start. As he broke into a run, lightning flashed overhead. He leapt between the stones.

  *****

  Finally, a reference to Braden and Coira. Excitement kicked her heart into a wild gallop. She leaned forward to reread the antiquated Latin and decipher its meaning. She swallowed to release the pressure in her ears.

  The couple had disappeared after the huge earthquake that had broken away the knoll of ground separating the stones from the loch. Several clansmen had been lost as well. The short passage was ended with a brief prayer for the dead.

  Shit! Why couldn’t Nathrach have expanded on the passage with a little more information? Braden would have never left Coira. He would have been searching for her. Had he been swept away during the earthquake, or had he been killed before?

  A short passage a few pages later captured her attention. Several graves were constructed on Isle Maree. Was it there Braden had been laid to rest? Or had he gone on alone?

  Regan braced a hand against the edge of her tray table to hold her computer in place as the plane hit a violent patch of turbulence. The angry sound of the building storm penetrated the aircraft. The seatbelt sign flashed on and a high-pitched tone sounded.

  The flight attendant paused on her way up the aisle.

  “Please secure all personal belongings until we get through the rough patch, Miss.”

  Regan nodded and closed her computer. She stowed it in her bag. She extracted the few pages of the journal with the information about Isle Maree and the loss of life to share with Quinn.

  Checking on Quinn, she found him still deep asleep. She wanted to wake him to tell him what she had discovered. But he had to be close to exhaustion to be sleeping so soundly. She rose to secure her laptop case in the overhead bin.

  The plane bucked and jerked. She grabbed the armrest to stay on her feet. The flight attendant rushed to help her. The woman made short work of shoving the bag in and closing the compartment.

  “Strap in please.” She rushed away to help a passenger with a seat belt issue.

  The plane shimmied. Regan yelped and braced a hand on Quinn’s wide shoulder, coming close to sitting in his lap. She tumbled into her seat and snapped her seat belt.

  Quinn didn’t stir. She studied him. Reading tension in his features, she gripped his arm and shook him. “Quinn—” She fought to keep her voice down. When he didn’t awaken, her heart thudded dully in her throat.

  Lightning cracked like a howitzer outside the window, and someone cried out. The plane dipped, and a collective gasp filled the cabin. How much stress could the wings take? Regan shook Quinn again. “You have to wake up, Quinn.”

  His head lolled to one side as the plane did a bump and grind that would have made a cha-cha dancer proud. Regan swallowed another yelp and gripped Quinn’s unresponsive hand tight in her own. She shook him hard. “Please wake up, Quinn.” Her voice sounded hoarse with stress. His body remained heavy and unresponsive.

  The plane fell in midair like an elevator that had broken its tethers, then leveled out. Pressing her hand to her stomach, Regan swallowed against the fear clogging her throat.

  If he didn’t come back now, they weren’t going to survive to return to the henge. She had to go after him and pull him out. She closed her eyes and forced her muscles to relax. She concentrated on Quinn, on the feel of his hand in her own. She took deep even breaths, easing the tension from her body. And reached for him.

  CHAPTER 35

  The rumble of thunder vibrated through his headphones. What the hell had gone on in that room? From where had the sound emanated?

  He hadn’t believed the wild tale the hypnotist had told him, but the session he’d listened to over and over didn’t make sense, either.

  Diagonally across the aisle from where he sat he caught glimpses of the couple. Quinn’s head lolled as the plane hit a patch of turbulence. Regan’s profile appeared now and then between the seats when she shifted position. She spent her time either hunched over her computer or studying the stack of papers she’d pulled from her backpack.

  What were the pages? Did they contain anything of importance?

  The real sound of thunder mirrored the noise on the MP3 player as he hit the play button again. Dr. Reinhart’s voice, high-pitched and frantic came once again, demanding what was going on.

  A crackling sound like static overwhelmed Quinn’s response. What kind of interference would cause that? He rewound and played the spot again and again, but still couldn’t hear him. They’d have to get someone to filter out the background noise and see what he’d said to the woman.

  Regan’s voice was clear. The accent she spoke with seemed so familiar chill bumps rose on his arms. Though he’d listened to it over and over, it had that effect each time.

  Lightning flashed outside the plane window. The aircraft bobbed and weaved on the air currents like an out of control ice skater.

  With the next jolt, he grasped the seat arms. His Adam’s apple seemed to have swollen large enough to choke him. The headphones dropped down to rest on the bridge of his nose, and he jerked them off.

  Regan rose and stepped out into the aisle. He ducked down behind the seat in front of him, but remained able to see her and the flight attendant. They struggled with the backpack and stowed it in the overhead compartment.

  The plane dropped, then settled on the next pocket of stable air for just a minute. Regan staggered into her seat. Her hand on Quinn shoulder became visible between the seats. She shook him. Her eyes widened and her efforts to waken him grew more insistent.

  What was wrong with him? Had he taken something to put him to sleep? Jesus—how could he sleep through this?

  Regan grasped Quinn’s hand and leaned back into her seat cutting off his view of her face. What was she doing?

  The plane dropped like a puppet on strings, and a communal gasp filled the compartment.

  He could die in a plane crash before he knew the secret she had discovered. No, it wasn’t happening. The stones were his. He was going to know what she knew, use them as she had discovered they could be used. And if they made it on the ground in one piece he was going to beat the truth out of her, just as he had that old woman.

  He’d learned an immediate way of getting information, and it made him feel a hell of a lot more powerful than shadowing her every step and sneaking around to read her emails. Fuck that, he was in charge from now on.

  The plane shook as though the air outside the fuselage would rip it apart. High-pitched cries of alarm filled the third class compartment.

  He bit back the urge to scream—-in rage.

  CHAPTER 36

  Quinn strode toward the opening to the underground chamber. The ground fell away to reveal the stone steps leading down. A torch, mounted on the wall, burned at the bottom.

  He breathed in the smell of peat and wax as he descended the stairs. At the bottom, the chamber opened up before him. Wooden shelves lined two walls. Assorted crocks, sealed with fabric and twine, set in rows upon them. The smell of spices, herbs and tallow candles hung thick in the air. A wooden worktable stood in the center of the floor, a mortar, pestle and several batches of dried flowers lay sorted on its surface.

  A sound from the
back of the room drew his attention.

  “Can you help me?” a man’s voice penetrated the open doorway as Quinn walked toward it.

  “You canna trust him, Coira.”

  The second voice, the same tone and timber as his own, triggered a viral wave of chill bumps up his arms. It had to be Braden.

  “I can help you, but as Braden says, you havena shown you are trustworthy, Nathrach. You have spoken agin me to all who would listen. And would see me burnt as a witch if you could.”

  “Aye, I know I have wronged you.”

  “Then why would you have me trust you now?”

  “Because he is my nephew, my only living relative. And I would do whatever I must to see him whole again.”

  Quinn eased to the door and glanced into the room. Braden stood close by the door, his gaze focused right at him—or rather through him.

  Quinn drew in a harsh breath as shock raced along his nerve endings. They were mirror images—separated by nearly seven hundred years. The raw emotion on Braden’s face, worry, anger, distrust, all played across his features.

  “’Tis surprised I am you would find your way here,” Braden said, as he turned toward the priest. “Why are you not on your knees before your altar instead?”

  Nathrach looked away. “I have been.”

  Braden folded his arms. “Are you not afraid you may be laying your nephew’s soul upon the altar of a witch?”

  Nathrach shook his head. His gaze turned to Coira. “I have seen nothing but acts of kindness from you, despite my attempts to make you into something less.”

  Coira stepped forward between the two men. “’Twas it you who encouraged Ross to spy on me?”

  Nathrach shook his head, a frown digging ridges between his brows. “Nay, your brother’s reasons are his own. But it has been my ken that his works of kindness may be more motivated by what he may gain for himself than a desire to serve his people.”

  Quinn shook his head. Who was this Ross? What part had he played in the death of Coira’s baby? Had he been responsible for Coira’s death as well?