Chapter Eight

Reilly was nervous.

It was a new feeling he was unaccustomed to, and he found that he didn’t much care for it. The changes in his mind were, he knew, driven by something he couldn’t control. He suspected ’twas love, but he thought he was rather above all that. This was Gwen, not some medieval maiden who desired flowers and ribbons and courtly gestures. Gwen made it plain early on that all she required was him.

Why was that enough to make his palms sweat?

As he strapped the last dirk about his calf, Reilly glanced about his bedroom. It was tidy, though smaller than the ones his family members called their own. Colin’s was an entire floor of his home in Boston; Aidan’s was most of a floor in his cottage by the Irish Sea. Even James’s room in his new house in the States was at least twice the size of the one in which Reilly now sat.

Reilly loved his house. He’d lived with much more and much less, yet the humble, daub-and-wattle cottage he’d restored over years was perfect. He ensured every detail wasn’t too modern, for the comfort (and sanity) of his time-traveling visitors. So many lost souls had wandered into his garden over the years, sent to him from the Fates for various reasons. Reilly knew what could be accepted and what could not, and he took that knowledge into consideration from the placement of his light switches to the width of his stairs.

If he managed to win Gwen’s love, he’d give it all up for whatever she wanted. Gwen too had lived with much less and much more. She grew up in a life of luxury, but she had remained the most down-to-earth person he’d known. Oh, she loved her fine things—he knew she owned not a single piece of costume jewelry, and her clothes were high quality, though she never cared for labels much. But there were days when her nails were dirty from digging in the soil, or her hair was wild from sweating in the sun while working outside. She could swear like she’d been born a king’s warrior, and weep with the gentleness of a finely bred lady.

And she could read him unlike any other. Even Colin couldn’t tell Reilly’s thoughts when he didn’t want him to, but Gwen could. She knew him almost better than he knew himself.

Well…she used to. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

“Ready to go?” Gwen asked, appearing in his doorframe.

He glanced up, taking in her appearance. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

“It’s just an overnight trip,” she pointed out.

Aye, it could be. But the hair on the back of his neck had lifted ever so slightly, and he knew to take care when that happened. Hence the myriad of weaponry currently attached to his limbs. He glanced longingly at his sword, but knew he couldn’t safely carry that around modern-day Ireland. He just hoped the Fates would give him what he needed, should he need it.

He flashed her a smile and tucked the phone into his back pocket. “Aye, you’re right, of course. Let’s see where the road leads us.”

• • •

Reilly had four vehicles.

Gwen didn’t begrudge him his toys, but to her, four did seem a bit excessive for a single guy living in the woods north of Dublin.

His forest green Rover was outfitted with all sorts of medical gear. He explained that it was easier to have a mobile hospital for some of his more damaged visitors; explaining them to a hospital staff might prove to be more trouble than it was worth.

His little red Renault was what he called “the runabout car.” He used it to putt around town, and he never really cared if someone opened their car door into his, or if the mirror got scratched up. Gwen half-suspected he wouldn’t care if was stolen, either, as he didn’t bother to lock it whenever they were out. The trouble with the Renault was it was tiny, and Reilly was not. The driver seat was pushed so far back that the backseat was slightly squished.

Reilly also owned a Ford SUV. It was comfortable, with all the bells and whistles, and he liked to take it out when the weather was bad. Gwen never complained about the seat warmers, and he never complained about the four-wheel drive on icy Irish roads in the winter. It was a beautiful winter white. He always hit the alarm on that one, and parked it a bit further away from the shops.

But she knew that his love lay with his custom, shiny, black Victory motorcycle. Built for comfort and long distances, the bike was outfitted with deep seats, seat warmers, plenty of storage for bags, a high windshield, and even matching helmets. His helmets weren’t just run-of-the-mill full-face ones, though. They were wirelessly connected with the radio and each other, and made speaking between the driver and passenger a breeze. They were also soundproofed; when the visor was flipped down, there was very little road noise. Gwen loved the Victory almost as much as Reilly did.

She wasn’t surprised when he handed her a riding jacket. She grinned like a fool as she shrugged into it. She zipped it, loving how well it fit her, and tucked her overnight bag into the storage case. He followed suit, then handed her the helmet.

She reached out to take it, but he didn’t let go. It hung, suspended between them, and she frowned at his serious expression.

“Gwen…about last night.” He took a step toward her, the helmet now pressing into her chest and his stomach. “I need to know. Did you break it off?”

The zipper on his black leather jacket was zipped about three quarters of the way up, leaving his shirt exposed. She let go of her side of the helmet, which wasn’t going anywhere, and tugged the zipper fully closed.

She raised her eyes to his and caught her breath. There was no mistaking the look on his face. His eyes, darkened with desire and hope, roamed her face, looking for something, though she couldn’t decipher what. “No.”

His shoulders tensed and his nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply.

Before he could say anything, she added softly, “He did.”

His eyes widened, and her hope flared anew.

What the hell?

“Do you plan to fix it?”

He waited patiently, but Gwen understood his deeper question. Did she love Anthony enough to fight for him?

She’d had the same question. Which, she knew, was all the answer she really needed. If she loved him, it would be a no-brainer. But deciding she could consign herself to a lifetime of almost-love was a lot harder than actually doing it, and that dose of reality was a cold one.

“I don’t think so,” she whispered.

He moved the helmet out of the way and took a step closer. “Are you certain, Gwendolyn?”

Their eye contact hadn’t broken. She suddenly felt like prey; he was stalking her with his eyes, and she couldn’t help the frisson of anticipation that tingled up her spine.

If you do this, your friendship could be ruined, her brain cautioned.

If you do this, you’ll know if he’s the one, her heart whispered.

If you do this, you may never get me back, her soul warned.

Confused, and a bit afraid, she stepped back, panicked. She didn’t want to lose her best friend. She trusted him with her life, but he’d never exactly proven himself trustworthy with her heart. And she couldn’t handle it if he pulled away from her again.

She grabbed the helmet from him and placed it on her head, then flipped up the visor. “Yeah, Ry. I’m certain.”

He reached for her, and she felt a bubble of excitement grip her. But he only flicked the nearly invisible switch by her chin, then put his own helmet on and did the same. He didn’t raise his visor, and his voice filtered through the small speakers in her helmet.

“Are you happy about that?”

His voice had returned to normal. Grateful, she flipped her visor down and forced a chuckle as she got onto the back of the bike. “Turns out I’m a bit of a commitment-phobe. Who knew, right?”

He clucked as he locked the storage case, then swung a leg over his seat. “You’re not a commitment-phobe. He’s a fool for not fighting for you.” He started the engine, and the machine purred to life under her. He slowly walked it, backwards, out of the garage. “You know that, aye?”

Mutely, she shrugged, though he couldn’t see her.

His voice lowered, grew almost hoarse. “Gwen. You are worth fighting for. If I were in Anthony’s shoes, you know what I would do to get you back?”

Mesmerized by his cadence, she whispered, “What?”

They headed down the driveway at a sedate pace. “I’d drop everything to be with you. I’d show you that my sun rises and sets with your breaths, that your triumphs were my exaltations. I’d tell you every day how much more beautiful you are than you were yesterday. Hold onto me, we’ve got some turns coming up.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist, and they turned onto the main street.

“I’d write you terrible poetry about my love for you, and sing it to you through a window each night.”

She choked on a bubble of half-cry and half-laughter. “Terrible, huh? That wouldn’t be much of an incentive, I don’t think.”

She could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m a terrible poet, but the truth of the words would be there, all the same. You’re worth that and more, Gwen.”

Sighing, she laid her head on his back as they picked up speed. “Thanks, Ry.”

“What would it take to win you back?”

Gwen’s heart leaped into her throat. Was he asking hypothetically?

She was silent for so long, he prodded, “Gwen, you must have some idea as to what would be the way to get back in your good graces. A grand gesture, perhaps?”

Ah. It was about Anthony, then, as Reilly had never been out of her good graces. Her heart fell all the way to her toes, and she cursed herself.

Someday she wouldn’t wish so hard or hurt so badly for what she couldn’t have.

“No grand gesture,” she finally said sadly. “Just love. Real love. The kind that lasts forever, even when you’re at your lowest.”

“Are you at your lowest right now?”

She closed her eyes, focusing her attention on the wind whipping at her jacket and pants; on the solid man in front of her, real and wonderful and damn near perfect for her.

And she wondered if she would ever be able to really move on from him. She wanted to, but she wasn’t at all sure she could. Right now, at this moment, she wasn’t scared of anything. She wasn’t anxious or thinking about her friends who died a terrifying death, or how close she herself came to dying. She was enjoying the day, knowing that no matter what happened, she was protected.

Because of Reilly.

“Not anymore,” she finally replied.

“How can I help to lift your spirits?”

She tightened her grip on him as they rounded a particularly sharp curve in the road. “Just be you, Reilly.”

In response, he placed his gloved hand over both of hers and gave them a squeeze. They merged onto the highway, and they rode westward.

• • •

Three hours later, Reilly cut the engine and stretched. The drive had been an easy one, without much traffic and somehow without rain. The clouds hung low in the sky, promising a good soaking at some point in the near future, but he hoped to have them fully ensconced in a quaint bed and breakfast well before then.

“Where are we?”

Her voice, which had been mostly silent for the drive, came through his helmet. He stepped off the bike and pulled it off, motioning for her to do the same.

She did, then tugged the elastic from her riotous hair and tried to fluff the curls with a head shake. The fiery copper and red strands tumbled over her black-clad shoulders.

She always looked even more beautiful after they’d been out riding.

“We’re near Cong, on the west side of the island,” he answered, unzipping his jacket a little.

“This looks weirdly familiar, but I don’t think I’ve ever been out here.”

“Oh, you have. But not in this time.”

A little V appeared between her eyes as she processed that. He watched the wheels turn for a moment, then pointed up the hill. “There’s Bri and Nick’s castle. Or what’s left of it, anyway.”

Her eyes widened, and she followed his finger toward the spectacular ruins overlooking the ocean.

Her face conveyed her feelings more than words ever could.

“Aye, ’tis strange to walk over these stones in different times,” he mused, staring at it. “I know she lived a good life. A happy one.”

“But it still hurts that she’s gone,” Gwen said softly. She stood and placed her hand on his arm. “I understand, Ry. And it sucks.”

A pang hit him squarely in the chest, because he knew that she did understand. She had met Bri. She had stayed in the woman’s castle, had become friends with her husband and children. Gwen had lived through an experience that brought her an idea of what he lived with every time he came out to these ruins.

Before, no one save Colin or James could ever have truly understood what the feeling was like. The walls between time were fragile here, in this place. He’d have to warn her to be careful, to watch her step. Time gates were all over Ireland, and he set up his cottage near the busiest one, but the ones in the west were fickle. All manner of folks popped up in the strangest of places.

And there it was. The breeze shifted just slightly, the hair on the back of his neck stood at full attention, and Reilly felt the familiar pull on his soul. His senses went on full alert, and he stiffened his back.

Back when Aidan was in the past and Emma was in the future, Reilly had broken the cardinal rule of time traveling: No traveling for personal gain.

With certain exceptions, Reilly was allowed to see Brianagh whenever he liked, as long as he didn’t interfere with history. He was also allowed to visit his family, again without changing anything. And he was not, under any circumstances, allowed to change the fate of other people.

But he blatantly ignored that rule when Aidan and Emma became separated. Seeing two people—even if one of them was the man who had made his life difficult when Reilly first brought Bri back in time—who were so clearly meant to be together, hurting so desperately, made him angry. Sweet Emmaline, whose tough outer shell protected a fragile heart for so long, did not deserve to be at the mercy of the time gates. So, when he decided to act without regard to the rules set forth by the Fates, he knew the proverbial other shoe would drop in a major way. There would be punishment, possibly retribution, definitely revenge.

The feeling that swept over him was instant, and he knew his comeuppance with the Fates was finally upon him.

As a stiff wind kicked up, lifting Gwen’s hair and swirling it about her, his stomach lurched. Damn them, it was going to involve Gwen.

“Whoa!” Gwen exclaimed, wrestling her hair back. She secured it with her elastic again and glanced worriedly at the sky, where the clouds were now rolling. “I hope we can get to a dry place before the storm hits.”

An old woman shuffled toward them, a withered staff in one hand. Her back was hunched, her kerchief was anchored over her white hair, and her skirts blew in the breeze. Her skin, papery thin and more wrinkles than not, was nearly translucent.

Reilly evened his breathing, reminded himself that he was tired of their games, and assumed his intimidation position. Legs spread shoulder-width apart, arms folded over his chest, feet planted firmly on the hard-packed earth.

“State your purpose, old woman, and be quick about it,” he snapped.

“Reilly!” Gwen gasped, her eyes turning to saucers. “That was so rude!” She hopped off the bike and hurried to the old woman, who stood now only about ten feet from Reilly. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. Please excuse my friend.”

The woman gave her a wizened smile, then patted her hand. “What a kind soul ye have, Gwendolyn.”

“Thanks,” she started to reply, then froze. “How did you know my name?”

Reilly stalked over to Gwen and yanked her behind him. “Don’t touch her. Leave her out of this, Crone. What is it you want from me now?”

“You’ve disappointed us, Protector,” she replied, her voice steely. “We’ve spent much time deciding what your future will hold.”

“And what did you come up with?” he demanded. Gwen tried to peek around his back, but he roughly shoved her back in place.

He didn’t want any of the Fates near her, especially not the Crone. She could be the cruelest of all, if she hadn’t the other two nearby to temper her. And as the Maiden and Mother weren’t anywhere to be seen, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—take any chances. She’d have to go through him to get to Gwen.

“Many ideas, to be sure.”

Gwen stepped out from behind Reilly, and he shot a prayer heavenward that she would keep her mouth closed. Pissing off a Fate would bring her nothing but trouble.

“Do not say a word,” he warned her in a low voice. At the flash of anger in her eyes, he gave her the first, and hopefully last, pleading look he’d ever given anyone. “Please, Gwendolyn.”

She mutinously clamped her lips together, and he breathed a short-lived sigh of relief.

The old woman cupped her hand and gently blew in Gwen’s direction. “She’s deaf and mute for the moment,” the Crone informed him. Her eyes narrowed. “She’s a mortal woman, with no right to know who I am. Naming me in front of her? You have been taught better. Another rule broken. Your list of transgressions is multiplying, child.”

“I’m not a child,” he stated flatly. “Speak your piece.”

“I could take her life,” the Crone warned him. “There is one too many lives here in this time. One who shouldn’t be here.”

“Make it work,” he growled.

“Oh, we’ve forged a new path for young MacWilliam. The fabric of time has an abnormality in its weave, now that he will be allowed to remain.”

“As he should be,” Reilly replied evenly. “To place two soul mates together, only to rip them apart, seems a cruel game, meant to amuse you.”

“In your case, Protector, we’ve placed your soul mate with you time and again. Yet still you resist, and any humor we may have had has vanished. So the question becomes,” the Crone said slowly, her eyes taking on an unholy light, “do we take your love from you as a payment for young MacWilliam to keep his? Vows were broken. There must be amends.”

Reilly felt a panic unlike any other rise up, choking him. “Do not use her as a pawn in your game. I’ve given you almost two hundred years, Crone.”

“And she wants to give you three weeks. Oh, aye, we heard her demand. Cheeky of her, to think she could issue a demand to us.”

“State your purpose, Crone,” Reilly ground out.

“Colin O’Rourke shocked us, you know. He decided to remain a Protector, even though he found his mate. He’s the first one in all the Protectors to do so. Of course, he’s your most loyal clansman, so looking back, it shouldn’t have surprised us quite so much. But he did, and we do love a good surprise.”

“By good, you mean one that benefits you,” he growled.

She shrugged. “What benefits us, benefits all. ’Tis the nature of life.”

“Tell me your plans or be gone from here. I’ve no more patience for your stall tactics, woman.”

The old woman straightened, and the clouds dropped from the sky, encircling them. Reilly pulled Gwen flush against him and wrapped his arm around her. Gwen’s eyes, wide with fear, met his. Her mouth moved, but no sound emerged.

“You are safe,” he mouthed clearly to her. She clung to him, confused, and he pressed her head into his chest. To the Crone, he snarled, “Get on with it, then.”

The dense fog swirled harder, creating a pressure around them. He could see the Crone from the knees up, gripping her staff tightly, anger creasing her brow.

Another figure appeared out of the thick mist, and Reilly narrowed his eyes. The Maiden, resplendent in her beauty and grace. She was the polar opposite of the Fate in front of him.

“Crone, release your anger,” she commanded, her voice gentle. “We’ve already determined his immediate path.”

“He speaks out of turn,” the Crone spat.

The Maiden looked at Reilly and gave him a sweet smile. “Aye, but he’s been loyal to us for nearly two centuries. A mishap is to be expected. He is, after all, merely human. He went without incident even longer than we believed him capable of, aye?”

The Crone’s eyes narrowed, but she dipped her head in acknowledgement. “Aye, ’tis truth enough in that.”

Reilly remained tense. When he traveled back in time to bring Aidan forward, he knew he was overstepping the boundaries set forth by the Fates. Aidan was supposed to live out his life in the Middle Ages, and Emma in the present.

But instead, Reilly couldn’t stand to see such suffering, and, in a moment of either weakness or clarity, depending on how he chose to look at it, he knew he could bring the two souls together.

The Fates were not pleased he had stepped in where he wasn’t allowed.

Gwen’s shaking brought him back to the present moment. He glanced at her and had a flash of terror unlike any he’d experienced before. To his knowledge, no one other than the O’Rourke Protectors had ever seen the Fates, in any form. Their individual power could easily overwhelm a human, and their collective power could easily frighten a person into a heart attack or worse.

His voice cold, he said clearly, “If your plan is to take Gwen’s life for MacWilliam’s, be warned that I will be forever done with you and your schemes. Finished. I will refuse any more assignments. If I cannot return to the moment before you take her, I will actively seek out danger, so that I may join her in the afterlife. You will not take her from me and continue to use me to your liking. This woman is mine to protect, and you will not take her from me.”

The Maiden blinked slowly. “Reilly O’Malley…are you declaring her to be your soul mate?”

The Crone smirked, but he held his reaction in check. Whatever the Fates claimed to do, they could not read minds, nor control free will. Reilly understood better than any that destiny was merely a set of paths, set out by the Fates, allowing a person to choose which direction his life will lead. One of the paths was the easy one. That path ensured a smooth road, with as few bumps as possible. A charmed life, people called it. If the person took one of the other roads, then life became longer and more difficult. Reilly had watched as people who made the right choices along the wrong path reap the rewards at the end of the tough stretches, and those rewards were all the sweeter for the trials they overcame.

He was never allowed to choose his own path…until now. Suddenly, with great clarity, he understood what his punishment would be.

He was going to choose his path, and come hell or high water, they were going to make him do it without their aid.

“Well?” the Crone demanded, crossing her arms. Her staff pointed away from them, clutched tightly in her gnarled knuckles, almost vibrating. “You took the fate of another in your hands before. You have the power to do so again. Claim your mate, and she will be spared. For now.”

He looked down again at Gwen, who had buried her face into his jacket.

He looked back at the Fates and gave a decisive nod. “Aye. I’m claiming my mate, and her name is Gwendolyn Allen.”

The Maiden nodded and the Crone lifted her staff above her head. “Be warned. She demanded we give you three weeks, so three weeks you shall have.”

The Maiden added, “Use it well. If she does not claim you as her soul mate by the twenty-eighth night, it’ll be her place in time for MacWilliam’s.”

“And if she does claim me?” Reilly challenged, though his heart was beating hard.

The Maiden smiled easily. “We’ll not reveal all our secrets so easily, warrior. But be warned, Reilly O’Malley. You shall do this without our aid. And you must not take her free will from her, either, or else our agreement is void. Do you agree to these terms?”

Reilly nodded once, tersely, and the Crone slammed her staff to the ground. The fog surged, encasing the two Fates.

The mist dissipated almost immediately, and Reilly caught Gwen as she crumpled.