by C. A. Szarek
“Eoin?” she whispered.
He cleared his throat. “Ah, go on, lass. Ye can tell him tha truth.”
“I’m from the future.”
****
“I know tha’. Whereabou’s?” The elderly man’s demeanor was gentle.
But maybe Ashlyn needed kid-gloves at the moment. She blinked. He couldn’t have just—
Wasn’t he surprised? Eoin grandfather’s statement was the last thing she’d expected. “Uh…”
How to answer him? He might’ve heard of the US, considering the colonies, but he wouldn’t know what Texas was if she drew him a map.
Angus was looking at her expectantly. His eyes weren’t the least bit clouded with age.
Eoin nudged her shoulder with his and she jumped.
She should yell at him, but Ashlyn couldn’t muster anything intelligent. She hadn’t been a fan when he’d put his chair so close moments before—or more accurately, she’d disliked the awareness that’d shivered down her spine—but she couldn’t shift away without running into his grandfather’s rocker. She was trapped between the two men.
She should be furious with him. She was, right?
“Texas,” she whispered to Angus finally.
The old man leaned forward in his rocking chair and slapped his kilted thigh. “Texas?” he exclaimed.
“Texas mus’ be a popular place ta leave,” Eoin mumbled.
Ashlyn looked at her kidnapper, then at his grandfather and back. “What?”
The men exchanged a look, then the laird took an audible breath. “Ye…ye arena tha first lass ta come here from tha future.” He looked at his grandfather again, and the elderly man gave a nod.
I didn’t come here. You brought me here. But she couldn’t say that; she didn’t want to get snarky in front of Angus. For the sake of manners and all that. “Okay…and?” she pushed out instead.
“From Texas,” the laird said.
“What?” She cocked her head to one side, as if she had a hearing problem and the gesture would help. Wrong. Ashlyn gripped the arms of the chair and leaned forward.
As if it was possible, her current…situation…had just gotten more surreal.
They both started talking at once, but Eoin deferred to Angus, and the older man launched into a story full of magic, multiple instances of time travel, and the Fae—flippin’ fairies. There was also information about the Faery Stones, the portal they’d used to come here.
The Faery Stones were the stalagmites with the unusual crystals on top of them in that cave. They’d looked unnatural because they were. Fae-born, not from what the old man called, the Human Realm. Evidently, Eoin used the Stones a lot in fulfilling his duties as Guardian of the Faery Flag.
Her instinct was to say, ‘No freaking way,’ but she was sitting next to a big hearth where peat moss burned brightly, in a castle in Scotland, next to two oversized men wearing kilts. Then, there was also the 1755 part of her new reality.
Ashlyn’s head started spinning when Angus mentioned his aunt and her sister, and his wife all had been from the future—the first two specifically, from Texas. A few other MacLeods were either Fae, or were from centuries other than the seventeenth or eighteenth, as well.
Oh, then the part that his mother had been a Fae Princess.
Like, an actual fairy—or, faery, as it was in Scotland.
“So, you’re…not human?”
“I’m a halfling, as they say. My da, Alex, was human and the laird of Clan MacLeod for many years. Fae blood runs strong in my lad, here, too.” He gestured to Eoin, who only nodded.
What was she supposed to say? She took a breath. “Do you mean to tell me that not one, not two, but three or more women who married into your family were from the future? My century, for the most part, too?”
The old man nodded, and his smile widened.
He’d told her he was ninety-two years old, and while years were definitely present in the lines of his face, he didn’t look his age. Maybe seventy-five. Angus wasn’t ancient-looking, or decrepit like a person nearly a century old should look.
“Aye, my Lila, God rest her soul, came from tha early twenty-firs’ century,” the former laird said.
“So this is like…the MacLeod thing?”
Angus stared at her with Eoin’s eyes. If that wasn’t disconcerting enough, the poor man probably had no idea what she’d just asked.
He surprised her by nodding. “If ye mean, has it been common, aye, t’has.”
What the hell? floated around in her head again. It was becoming too common a recurring phrase, but she’d try to mind her manners and not say it aloud in front of Eoin’s grandfather.
Women swearing wasn’t a common thing in…these days… and Ashlyn didn’t want him to think she was rude. Fiona’s warning was there, too, and she didn’t want to offend him, either. The older man had a kind face, and like the women who’d bathed her, as well as Eoin’s little sister, had been welcoming.
His hair was white and on the unkempt side—in need of a good cut, but she’d bet it’d been sable like Eoin’s when he was a younger man. She could see the MacLeod resemblance, too.
Ashlyn’s hands opened and closed on the arms of the chair of their own accord as her mind went in circles, trying to make sense of all the information Angus had thrown at her. Would make a damn good book—or three. She cleared her throat, but nothing surfaced to speak aloud.
Eoin shifting his big body on the chair next to hers caught her eye, and she spared him a glance. Even uncomfortable, he was breathtaking.
He’d put on a shirt—and wasn’t that a shame?
She should be angry as hell at him for all of this, but she couldn’t muster anything past attraction and fascination. Apprehension had subsided, partly because she didn’t fear for her safety. Like in the bath earlier, she was confident no one would hurt her here.
Ashlyn should roll her eyes at herself—feeling secure with her kidnapper and his family was crazy, but she did.
Hopefully that’s not misplaced positive thinking.
“Are ye well, lass? I know this is much ta take in,” Angus said, again with that quiet and even tone that just washed more calm over her body.
She nodded. “I think so.”
Eoin made a noise in his throat, but didn’t speak.
“Tell me abou’ ye, lass,” the elderly man said. His smile was open and encouraging, and somehow made Ashlyn want to give the information he sought.
“I’m a writer. I…write books.” How would he take that, in an age when most women couldn’t read, let alone write?
“Go on,” he said, his expression sincere, like he was genuinely interested. Angus actually wanted to know more. And it was as if he’d completely understood what she’d meant.
She confessed her love of history, and Scotland particularly, and gave him the elevator pitch of her two completed trilogies that took place in the Highlands. Ashlyn explained she was currently working on the third book of her third trilogy, also about Scotland, but one hundred years after the first two sets of books.
His delight was evident in his posture as she talked about her stories, the ones inspired by Clan MacLeod specifically. Angus inclined his body forward, soaking up her every word. “Yer lass is a seanchaí, Eoin-lad!” He slapped his thigh again and rocked forward in his chair.
Ashlyn’s body flushed with heat, the corset constricted her breathing, and she tried not to wince when her heart skipped. The protest was born in her head, I’m not his lass, but she didn’t verbalize. She could feel Eoin’s uneasiness as he fidgeted on his chair again, but the laird didn’t open his mouth, either. She avoided looking at him, and met Angus’s gaze. “Well, not really…I mean, kinda, I guess. I’m a storyteller, but I tell love stories. Romance; happily ever afters. I think that Gaelic term…means more.”
Both men froze.
“Ye speak Gaelic?” Eoin asked.
Ashlyn shook her head. “No, but I understand some things. Endearments, and some…” Her ch
eeks heated and she rubbed the back of her neck. She’d had to do research for books. Didn’t exactly want to admit that.
The laird’s gaze locked with hers, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as if he’d swallowed. “Some, what?” he whispered.
No way was she revealing she knew how to say, I love you, in Gaelic. The words floated into her head unbidden. Tha gaol agam ort. She’d watched a YouTube video about a hundred times in order to understand the pronunciation. Learning Gaelic had always been on her bucket list, too.
What would he say to that, anyway? It wasn’t like it mattered. Shouldn’t bother her, either.
She cleared her throat again and looked back at Angus. “That’s why I was in Scotland in the first place. A writer inspiration trip.”
“Ah.”
They probably wouldn’t understand the concept of vacation, so Ashlyn didn’t go there.
“‘Tis a lovely paintin’ of my lad, ye found.” He reached for the canvas from a small table beside him. Unrolled it and studied the image of his grandson. “Glad ta see it survived tha years.”
“Ah, thanks. I like it very much.” She could feel Eoin’s stare, but didn’t want to look at him. She’d probably light up, blushing to her ears—something that was way too common around the stupid man.
The Faery Flag sat folded on the corner of the tiny table, and she stared for a moment, wanting to explore it, but she didn’t have the guts to ask.
It meant so much to Clan MacLeod. A sacred relic. Ashlyn had been fascinated with the legend behind it for years, when she’d discovered the stories. She could ask Angus about it, if she ever got the guts to do so. Instinct told her he’d love to gush about it.
She wished she had a paper and pen. The man could be a walking, talking encyclopedia for her, if she’d let him.
“Where did ye come across tha paintin’ of my lad an’ our Flag, anaway?”
“At an antique shop in Inverness.”
Eoin jolted. “Enchanted Keepsakes, by chance?” His voice was just short of a demand.
She whipped around to meet his beckoning gaze, and her tummy fluttered at the intensity in her expression.
You really have to stop jumping when you just look at him. Focus on the whole kidnapping thing, dummy!
“How did you know?” she croaked.
“Was there a lass called Korinna?”
“I don’t know her name, but there was only one person in the shop.”
“Bonnie lass, wit’ flame-colored locks?” Eoin asked.
Ashlyn forced a nod, but she didn’t like him calling another woman pretty. Again, something that shouldn’t trouble her, but did. She tried not to frown.
He said something in Gaelic under his breath, and his grandfather frowned, but his mouth rippled, as if he was holding back amusement.
“Lad, doona say such things around a lady, even if she doesna understand ‘em. Besides, ye already suspected ’twas the witch, did ye no’?”
Eoin didn’t look like he appreciated the admonition, but he gave a curt nod.
“Witch?” Ashlyn asked.
“Ye tell her, I’m too angry.” He gestured for good measure.
“Doona fash yerself, lad. What’s done is done.” Angus nodded.
“I don’t know if I can handle magic, time travel, the Fae, and witches all being real,” she said.
The elderly man threw his head back and laughed. “Poor lass. ‘Tis all real; witches, too. I havena met her, but from wha’ I hear, Korinna is a powerful witch.”
Eoin nodded and sighed. He ran his hand through his hair, mussing his dark locks and making her want to slip her hand there instead.
Cursing herself didn’t dispel the urge. Ashlyn must be a fickle weakling if she could let her attraction to him override good sense. Kidnapping was illegal wasn’t it? At least in her time. She shouldn’t forgive him, right?
“Aye, she is,” the laird said. “She vowed I wouldna have ta run tha centuries chasin’ tha Faery Flag.” He launched into a story from three years before.
They’d met on one of his missions to retrieve the Flag. His frustration was evident when his broad shoulders tightened. He made a fist and pinned it to his lap as he spoke.
She couldn’t tear her eyes away. Ashlyn almost forgot Angus was in the room. Eoin’s brogue was thick, but his voice was smooth, and she caught herself leaning toward him sometime during the recital. She needed to get closer, but then caught herself, sitting taller and pressing into the back of her chair.
A part of her didn’t like the way he’d talked about the ethereal beauty she’d met in the shop. Especially when he explained how he’d learned all about technology and modern conveniences from the woman. All that stuff implied they’d spent a great deal of time together.
Had they been lovers?
She frowned.
Stop. It wouldn’t matter if they had.
But…Eoin had kissed her twice.
Ashlyn’s stomach flipped and she tried to banish the memories of his taste, the heat of his body and how his chest—and the rest of him—looked. How hard his muscles had felt against her. Especially that one part of him that’d been…well, hard.
Be mad at him, Ashlyn George. Stay mad at him!
“Tha witch put tha Flag wit’ yer paintin’ a’ purpose,” Angus said, tugging her from Forbidden Land.
She should thank him; thoughts of naked Eoin were useless. It wasn’t like she was going to sleep with him. It took her mind a second to catch up and process what older man had said.
“Aye, I’d gathered,” Eoin said.
“But why?” she blurted.
The laird and his grandfather exchanged a look she didn’t understand.
Angus sat taller and stilled his gentle movements of the rocking chair. He pinned them both with his very blue gaze.
A quiver went down Ashlyn’s spine before his lips even parted.
“Fate,” he whispered.
What the hell does that mean?
Chapter Eleven
Eoin puzzled over what his Grandfa had said about fate for hours. He hadn’t said much at evening meal down in the great hall.
The word reverberated in his head, in English and Gaelic.
Was Ashlyn his…fate?
He was well educated in the family legends regarding the women who’d married into his clan from other centuries, but had never considered them more than stories from the past. As much as he time traveled, he’d never contemplated a lass for himself being from the future. Hell, he hardly ever contemplated a lass for himself at all.
Being a man, he had needs, but he always found a woman to assuage them. Eoin was a considerate lover, making sure she had pleasure, too, but he never stayed beyond his purpose, and had never been tempted for more.
Marriage was always in the back of his mind, of course. He needed an heir, and would have to wed eventually, but Angus only mentioned it every so often, not really pressuring him.
He was only thirty. Eoin had time.
Ashlyn was seated next to him as an honored guest, and his lass hadn’t said much since they’d climbed up the dais to take their places, either. Perhaps she was contemplating what Angus had said as well, or mayhap she was still taking everything in.
She’d pushed the venison around on her plate, too, but Nessie had fussed her into eating a portion of it after a while.
Fiona laughed loudly at something someone said, and he shot his sister a look, but she flashed a grin, unrepentant as usual, with her dimple showing.
She hadn’t cornered him regarding the MacDonald lad, so the fact she was of a pleasant disposition could mean she was scheming, or that she felt their grandfather would help fulfil her wishes.
It wouldn’t work. He wouldn’t change his mind.
Eoin could feel someone watching him, and swung his eyes around until they collided with Angus’, as if the man had guessed he’d been thinking of him. Maybe he had. Grandfa had the uncanny ability to sense emotions, but he wasn’t quite the empath his mother was said
to have been.
At least he couldn’t read minds, like some of their cousins with Fae blood. That would’ve been disastrous.
He offered a nod and Eoin returned it, but the elderly man’s gaze didn’t waver. He was watching the lass next to Eoin, too.
Fate?
He shook the thought away. Was likely to drive him mad if he didn’t let it go.
Fiona was chatting with her—but at least Ashlyn was talking, then smiling. Even the occasional laugh.
His little pest had seemed to have charmed his honey-haired lass like she did everyone else. Maybe she had magic after all, and it lay with her interactions with others.
He didn’t like the feeling of jealousy that lingered. His sister had made her laugh, instead of him. Eoin tried to subtly watch her, but that melted into a full-out stare. Ashlyn was enchanting as she gestured and shared words with Fiona as well as his grandfather.
So beautiful he couldn’t breathe. She was still clad in the green gown, and sitting pressed her breasts higher, their perfection giving him more nourishment than the food he’d consumed.
“Eoin?”
He jumped when Angus called his name. From the concern on his grandfather’s face, it hadn’t been the first time.
“What?” He winced. He’d not meant to bark.
“Nessie has been tryin’ ta hand ye a plate, ye big oaf,” Fiona snapped.
Heat kissed the back of his neck. His cheeks burned and he wanted to curse. He was probably red. When was the last time he’d blushed? Eoin threw what he hoped was an apologetic look to the housekeeper. Wanted to rub his embarrassment away, but didn’t.
“Yer favorite, my laird.” The older woman lifted a trencher full of cakes, tarts and sweet breads to him.
He muttered thanks and returned her smile. Maybe it would help him feel less like he’d gone daft.
“Try these.” Fiona was bright again, as she reached and put two pieces of sweet bread on Ashlyn’s plate. “Apple is Eoin’s favorite, I prefer tha spiced.”
His lass turned a wide smile to his sister that again made him feel a stab in his gut. When would she give him a smile like that?
Eoin couldn’t tear his gaze away as Ashlyn brought the slice of bread to her lips and took a bite, then her little pink tongue darted out to catch a morsel at the corner of her mouth.
