Chapter Seven

The sun’s morning rays skipped along the waters of Loch Garry, infusing the air with that sparkling feeling of newness, of starting fresh, of weighty potential for all that’s to be accomplished and unsullied by reality’s details. The ferry holding Fiona and several of the ladies accompanying her glided across those gleaming waters, the sun embracing her, telling her you got this, girl.

She gripped her sack of belongings and resisted the urge to rub her hand at her waist and check for the umpteenth time that her small pouch of medical supplies was still there—powdered aspirin, alcohol wipes, and, most importantly, her birth control. Finding a way to take them every morning would be more challenging now, but she knew the risks she took in this time and there was no way she’d allow herself to become pregnant if the worst happened.

The boat’s wooden side bumped against the pilings of the much smaller dock lining the northern shore. Fiona braced her legs and waited while the ferryman tied the boat secure and those in front disembarked. The morning air was crisp and cool, and a wispy fog hugged crevices along the shoreline.

A black blur caught her attention, and she watched in awe as an osprey dived more than a hundred feet toward the loch’s waters. At the last second, he pushed his legs forward and disappeared with barely a splash. Seconds passed and then—splash—his wings pushed him above the water and into the air, a fish struggling in his talons. The bird of prey arced eastward and rose, heading to its nest.

A strong hand gripped hers, and she startled, trying not to let her smile wobble at seeing Malcolm and not Duncan helping her reach the higher level of the dock.

“Our mounts await.” His voice, rich and melodious, right by her ear should have sent shivers down her spine. Come on—hot Highland warrior, tall, brawny, and yummy in a kilt, looking deep into her eyes with heat while he uttered words in a voice whose lilting cadence would buckle most single ladies’ knees but…nada.

“Already?”

“Aye. They were ferried across earlier.” With that, his hands gripped her waist, and he lifted her clear of the boat, settling her onto the worn planks of the dock.

Up ahead, gobs of dark green fern feathered the bank. Thin white trunks of aspen rose skyward, their canopy of leaves obscuring the rolling mountains she knew lay beyond.

Duncan stood guard at the foot path cutting through the rock and fern, leading up to level ground, a scowl marring his handsome features. She didn’t exactly flaunt past him, but she kinda felt as if it were a bit of a fuck-it walk. What right did he have to be upset? He didn’t care about her.

She flicked her gaze up to Malcolm, who kept pace with her up the trail. He held aside an overhanging branch and smiled down at her as she passed. Fiona didn’t fool herself—there was nothing special about her that attracted Malcolm either. Purely politics. Fiona was uninteresting—she had no delusions.

One time when she and a friend passed a landscape painting in the lobby of her dorm—one she’d seen every day and had always thought a charming painting of an English village—her friend had stopped. And then said, “Wow.”

Fiona had been about to say, Nice painting, isn’t it? when her friend had thankfully said, “Gives me the chills.”

Fiona bit back a huh? in the nick of time and stared at the painting, trying to see it. Chills? It was a quaint, quiet English village, with colorful cottages lining a street.

Her friend waved at it. “Looks so idyllic. But that looming shadow there in the lower corner? Something bad is about to happen to the people in that village.”

And Fiona stared, feeling so, so inadequate. How had she never seen? Now that it was pointed out, yeah, it was friggin’ ominous. Ever since that day, she’d seen that moment as a good illustration of the difference between herself and others—she was unremarkable, unable to see deeply like that. Unable to see past surface-level stuff. She’d resigned herself to being one-dimensional.

Fiona made her way over to the milling members of their traveling party, already feeling a little like an outsider. Leather creaked, and the ponies stamped and neighed, the sounds crisper somehow in the early dawn air. Wives and sweethearts gripped their men’s faces and kissed them goodbye. One little boy tugged on his father’s kilt, his face stained with fat tears as he begged him not to go.

While similar to a send-off in her own time, an edge of fear rode the air which she could almost taste on her tongue—their trip held a lot more dangers.

Traci and Iain approached, their faces grave, and it was Fiona’s turn for goodbyes. She hugged her sister tight, and her heart pounded a holy-crap-this-is-it at the prospect of this trip. The first step into fulfilling the legend. She could feel it in her bones.

The legend.

The thought of that alone had the thud of her heart morphing into excitement.

“Be safe,” Traci whispered, gripping her shoulders as she pulled away. “When you get back, we’ll plan a visit with our parents.” She smiled. When her parents visited, they were going to positively flip when they realized her role in the legend.

“Okay.” Fiona’s excitement nearly bubbled up into words. But there were others around, so she couldn’t exactly squeal, prance in place, and say, I’m about to fulfill the family legend! Instead, she managed to say only, “See ya soon, all right?” squeezing her shoulders in return. “The case safe?”

Traci nodded. “Hidden in the castle.”

Yeah, it would not be good for the time-traveling calling card case to fall into the wrong hands.

She turned to Iain and hugged him, which seemed to startle him. “Be good to my sister.” He was so tall, and she so puny, that she just ended up hugging his midsection. God, he was huge. Like Duncan.

“Always,” he said with awkward pats on her back.

With Malcolm’s aid, she mounted her pony. Actually, her sister’s pony, Glenfiddich.

Kinda weird, but having something living from her own time on this trip gave her a smidgeon of solace. Traci had brought this pony with her when she’d gone back in time. It had been through so much with her. Fiona smoothed a hand along its strong neck, its fluffy hairs tickling her palm. The warm scent of pony calmed her—she was glad to have the trusted mare with her now, for this new adventure.

Fiona peered past everyone, down to the loch bathed in a pink glow from the early morning sun, fishing boats scattered across slate blue water.

Rising above the water’s surface, the castle stretched across three rocky islands. It was an impressive site from this angle—two stone buildings jutting up from two of the islands, and a stone wall around the third which enclosed their courtyard and practice grounds.

Closer to the opposite shore, a wooden palisade encircled the end of a stone causeway. No one had said so, but Fiona would bet that tiny fishing settlement had prehistoric origins. Especially from this angle, it was clear it started life as a crannog—an ancient defensive fort.

No one else was within earshot, but she leaned down to Traci and Iain to be safe, the leather of her saddle creaking. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”

Each day that passed, her sister looked more and more like someone from this time. Today, she even wore the traditional kertch married women wore—though the white linen square covered most of her head, two tendrils of red hair peeked out. Her petticoat was dark blue, with a pale-striped earasaid pinned at her chest with a silver brooch Fiona hadn’t seen before.

Traci cocked her head.

Fiona waved to Dungarbh behind them. “Seeing all this, in this time.”

It was so strange a juxtaposition. And ironic. In her own time, the bustling castle below her was in ruins, forgotten. In this time, life burst from the seams but was also built upon a long-forgotten structure—the crannog.

Traci shrugged. “I guess.”

Fiona suppressed an eye roll. Of course Traci didn’t understand. Iain just looked at her with an indulgent smile.

Finally their party set off, and Fiona soaked in the abso-friggin-awesome rugged landscape as they threaded westward along the northern shore of Loch Garry. Gently rolling pasture and hills stretched northward, covered in gorse and other low vegetation. She and Traci had driven through this area in their own time, and the difference was striking—way fewer trees and sheep, more shaggy cattle dotting the hills. Which made sense as they needed the wood for building and fuel.

Her sightseeing caused her to drift slower until she was nearer to the end of the line. Angling her head over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Duncan, who stared at her unblinking. No expression whatsoever on his face. But dammit, just seeing him—tall and proud in his saddle—caused a lick of desire to tease her, heat her. Startling in its intensity.

She whipped forward and kicked Glenfiddich’s sides, and she dutifully trotted forward. She edged her way into the next clump of their party and settled in for their day’s trek.

Duncan, Duncan, Duncan.

Gah. Her heart got all stupid-giddy whenever she saw him. This trip was going to be a friggin’ challenge for sure. At the castle, she could avoid him. After all, she only needed to know when he left the castle.

Now she was in a small, traveling party. Too much of an opportunity for her stupid heart to see, hear, and bump into him—and become unduly hopeful.

Duncan was not for her. He was her ancestor’s enemy.

These thoughts chased her as they wended along the River Garry to Loch Cuaich and the looming mountains cast their indigo shadows into its still waters.

Duncan nibbled on a bannock and shifted in his saddle, taking up the rear guard with Gavin. Already they had had to step aside as several drovers pushed a herd of cattle south to the nearest tryst.

His patience was stretched thin, but thankfully Gavin had no need for small talk.

Last night, all had been hectic as they rushed to be ready to leave with Dundee and the MacLeods. This morning had been no different. This ride through the glens to the coast, though, would aid in clearing his head. They followed the drovers’ road running along the north edge of Loch Cuaich. On the right loomed the craggy heights of Spidean Mialach and Gleouraich.

However, his enjoyment of the solitude was destroyed when Torquil slowed his pony’s steps and drew alongside him. Their mounts nickered softly in greeting and sidestepped away and back as they adjusted their gaits to each other.

This was the last man he wished to converse with. If he were in a mood to converse. Which he wasn’t.

“I’ve not had a chance to talk with you on this visit,” the man began.

“Not sure there’s anything to say that hasn’t been…said.”

Torquil kept his gaze fixed ahead, and the muscles in his jaw worked. “You should know, ’twas a lass,” he finally ground out.

A moment it took for Duncan to understand, given that he wasn’t actually the father of Margery’s babe.

He wasn’t at all sure how he should react. “Good to know.” Up ahead, that Malcolm bastard worked his way forward in the party. Duncan narrowed his eyes—Malcolm’s trajectory looked as if it had only one aim.

Torquil stroked his pony’s mane. “A beauty, she is. A little spitfire. Like her mother.”

Duncan looked sharply at Torquil. Criosd. The man was besotted with his wife. With Margery.

Poor fool.

Duncan could only pray that she had matured, but given the fact that she’d asked him for help, clearly she’d gotten herself into trouble. Again.

But he couldn’t worry about Torquil. Not when Malcolm had reached Fiona’s side and was busy ingratiating himself. Though Duncan was too far away to hear their conversation, the rumble of Malcolm’s laughter could occasionally be heard above the trod of their ponies and the conversations closer to hand.

Again, unreasonable jealousy spiked through him. That was annoying enough, but knowing it would be a good match grated further. Malcolm seemed like a decent man. He’d be kind to her and protect her.

And it would be a good alliance for the clan as well, ensuring the safety of their people in these troubled times.

Criosd.

Yes, it would be a good match.

But that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

Without a word to Torquil, Duncan spurred the sides of his pony until he closed the distance to Fiona and Malcolm and watched, mesmerized, as her backside eased and swayed in the saddle. Which…did not make his ride in his own saddle comfortable.

He cleared his throat but didn’t push his pony between them like he wished. Malcolm would understand the message well enough—Fiona was under his protection.

Their conversation faltered. Silence. Sputtered back to life. Only to stretch thin again. At each awkward pause, a strange lightness tripped through him. He caught himself smiling. Good God. He was feeling…gleeful.

Soon, but not soon enough for Duncan’s liking, Malcolm mentioned his need to take his turn watching their perimeter and broke away from her side.

Without thinking, Duncan drew alongside her, taking Malcolm’s place. However, he had enough presence of mind to keep his mouth closed, letting the sounds of their traveling party rise up between them.

Something inside him eased, however, having her so near. He was content to experience this limited interaction—after all, it was all he could expect and he must accustom himself to that fact.

They reached an escarpment, and their ponies picked their way down the rock-strewn trail. These ponies were bred for this terrain, so it surprised him when hers stumbled. He whipped his hand out and grasped her saddle’s pommel, steadying the pony. The action bumped their hips and upper thighs together, and desire—hot and sharp—gripped his loins. The air between them grew weighty with anticipation, as if potential for more lay like a gift, waiting for one of them to act. He eased away from her, covering his confusion and disquiet with soothing words to her pony.

“Thank you,” she said, the first words she’d spoken to him in days. Since his convalescence, when they were alone for once, though the memories of that night were foggy. Hearing her voice now, in the quiet shuffling of their morning trek, and knowing it was directed to him solely, gave it a strange power over him. “Tumbling down this incline would not have been fun.”

“No, it would not.” Frowning at the obvious statement, he glanced at her. Amusement sparkled in her eyes. So this was her attempt at humor?

Hunh.

His own smile formed, but he quickly pressed it away.

She smoothed her skirts, her gaze directed away from his. “I’m glad you’re here.” She stroked her pony’s mane, then wound a section around her finger. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. To clear up a misunderstanding. That night…at the inn. I…I wasn’t disgusted by your scar.”