chapter
12
SOMETHING AWOKE HER.
Rachel’s heart thumped against her ribs, and she nestled closer to Duncan, his arms, even in sleep, wrapped protectively around her. She listened hard, staring up into the darkness . . . waiting.
Nothing.
Duncan shifted, and Rachel turned her head on the pillow and found him looking at her. She smiled softly at him, but he did not return the gesture.
She noted then how hot he felt, his body sweating and tense. Was he sick? Or was he, like her, tuning into the sounds around them, alert to any possible danger?
“Duncan?”
He groaned, and she immediately grew concerned. He spoke in a whisper near her ear—garbled words, a fierce sound that caused a dart of fear to jab her, sending threads of icy dread down her spine as the memory of Fergus lying on the kitchen floor came rushing back—visions of Gordon’s possession and his threats to destroy Duncan . . . and her.
Struggling to sit up, Rachel kicked back the down comforter and touched Duncan’s face. His skin was as hot as the fire in the grate . . . and yet the room felt cold.
She glanced over to the fireplace, saw the flames gyrating brightly among the ashes, but no warmth touched her. Something about that fire unsettled her.
Sliding from the bed, she approached the hearth, her gaze locked on the flames that surged and dwindled, then surged again, as though they were . . . breathing. The ash appeared dark. No red and glowing coals. No crackling logs.
Her hands shaking, Rachel reached, palms out, toward the blazing fire. No heat. Nothing but frigid air assailed her. How could that be?
Edging closer, she stared hard into the lapping flames—then she swiped one hand through the fire . . . and discovered it was no fire at all.
But an illusion.
Fear closed off her throat and buzzed inside her head. Her heart hammering, she turned back toward the bed, her gaze fixed on Duncan’s form sprawled over the mattress, shimmering with sweat, the strange red and gold firelight reflecting off his bare chest.
A rumble suddenly shook the floor beneath her feet. Rachel clutched the mantel, holding tight, a cry of alarm drowning among the escalating sound.
Panic rising, she spun toward the window and threw back the heavy drapes, her wild gaze looking out over Glengarren’s grounds.
The sky suddenly flashed with a lightning bolt, illuminating rolling black clouds that seethed directly above Glengarren’s rooftop.
Again a jagged spear of lightning fractured the night, reflecting off the snow-covered grounds and the gnarled, bare-branched trees.
A roar of wind smashed against the windowpane, driving Rachel back, her breath catching, expecting the glass to shatter from the sudden impact.
Instead, they rattled and pulsated like a living thing, while the howl of the storm careened through the room like a thousand banshees.
She whirled around toward the bed, her cry for Duncan strangled as the room appeared out of focus, disorienting her. She stumbled from side to side, as though trying to gain her balance in a wildly rocking boat.
The furnishings appeared to shift and change, fading in and out, reality juxtaposed against some out-of-kilter nightmare . . . as though the twenty-first century was colliding with the past.
“Duncan!” she cried, at last reaching the bed and grabbing hold of his arms. Duncan’s head rolled from side to side and he moaned as though in agony.
She shook him, shouting his name as the thunder boomed and the lightning filled the room, the impact like a cannon blast, throwing her to the floor.
Through a fiery haze that appeared before her, she watched Duncan rise from the bed—his body radiating a dim white glow like an aura.
Slowly, the emanation ebbed and then dissipated entirely. He shook his head, his face a tangle of confusion as he looked frantically around the room.
When he spotted her, he rushed to her side and dropped to his knees before her, dragging her into his arms and holding her tight.
Rachel clung to him, and together they watched the play of light and fire flash through the room. She cringed as the thunder exploded against the house. This time the impact shattered the windows, pushing the glass inward, scattering jagged pieces around them.
With a howling rush, the wind tore at the drapes, whipping through the room with cyclonic power—hot and cold, the force sucking the air from their lungs.
Duncan groaned, and to her horror he appeared to flicker, his existence as insubstantial as Gordon’s—a ghostly blur whose arms around her felt as fragile as the diaphanous bed veil thrashing wildly from the force of the wind.
“No!” she screamed, fighting to hold on to him, but unable to find solid form.
Her gaze collided with his—the reality slamming them both in the same instant. Time had run full circle and had finally caught up with them. And now, whatever power had brought Duncan to her was battling to wrench him back.
Through the growl of thunder came the shouts of men—a melee of angry cries and shrieking horses. Familiar sounds that leached the blood from Rachel’s face.
The sounds she had heard the night Duncan had burst into her life.
Duncan jumped to his feet and ran to the window, his hand fisting in the drapes, his body tensing as though preparing for battle.
He turned to her, his image momentarily growing sharper as he looked into her face, the resolve she saw in his eyes like a lance to her heart.
He was leaving her.
“ ’Tis my men,” he said, his voice a painful rip of sound that made grief fill up inside her and tears rise, scalding and bitter, to her eyes.
The plea was there on her lips. Don’t go. Don’t leave me. I love you. I need you.
Yet she had known all along that this moment was inevitable. Every second she had spent in his arms had been stolen, yet no less of a miracle, no less cherished.
She had known the kind of love with this man that few people would ever experience. She had gotten a glimpse of heaven.
He came to her then and knelt beside her, taking her into his arms, holding her tightly, fiercely, his chest heaving with emotion, his lips brushing her face.
“Lady,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “My men need me . . . my clan. My son . . .”
“Duncan . . .” Rachel’s heart felt as though it was being torn from her.
“Dear God . . .” He tipped back his head, his face awash in torment. “Why must I choose?”
Tears rolled down Rachel’s cheeks as she took his face between her hands. “You have to go.” The words longed to lodge in her throat, to never be spoken. But she knew he could not stay, and she would not let him leave with the burden of her breaking heart.
Blue eyes that would haunt her forever delved deeply into hers. “I’ll never forget ye, sweet Rachel. Ye’ll always be in my heart, no matter where I go or what becomes of me. Someday I’ll find ye, and we will be together again. Until then, I leave all my love, my honor . . . and my heart.”
She kissed him, deeply, hungrily, wanting to imprint the taste of him on her lips, savoring his touch, absorbing the memory of his body and soul in her every fiber.
“Lady . . .” The word was a haunting whisper . . . then he was gone, torn from her arms as the air erupted with a crash, a boom of thunder shaking the floor and walls.
With a cry of anguish, Rachel pushed to her feet and swung toward the doorway, where a hazy light shimmered. And there, standing on the threshold, was Duncan, once more the Highland warrior, dressed in his kilt and tattered linen shirt, the glimmering sword whose blade was etched with GRACE ME GOD clutched in one massive hand.
He looked down the corridor, as if something beckoned him. Then he glanced back at her, despair settling on his face as he held out a hand to her.
“Duncan,” she wept and reached for him. One last good-bye. One last kiss.
But he vanished. Where his form had filled the threshold, now only darkness remained.
A sob caught in Rachel’s throat and she ran to the doorway, calling his name. She couldn’t let him go. She wasn’t brave enough to face life without him, to exist in a world devoid of his love.
She fled from the room, racing wildly along the hallway, tears streaming down her face, blurring her vision. She flew down the staircase, through the foyer, threw open the front door, and ran into the raging tempest that drove the winds against her, as if thwarting her attempts to reach him.
Just like the night Duncan had so mysteriously been wrenched from his time into hers, she fought her way toward the Destiny Stones, praying she would find him there, her body numbed to the snow biting at her bare feet or the bitter cold slashing at her with icy, sharp teeth.
Above her the sky collided, and a multitude of lightning bolts careened toward Glengarren, turning the dark into daylight. . . .
And out of the swirling, earthbound clouds came ghostly human shapes—warriors on horseback, frothing animals with flaring nostrils and wild, rolling eyes, the sounds slamming against her ears like cymbals crashing.
And among it all rose the haunting cry of a bagpipe’s song—a lamenting aria heartbreakingly mournful.
Massive, snorting horses bore down upon her, their hooves churning and thundering upon the ground. Frozen in fear, Rachel watched them advance, unable to move as they came closer, barreling down upon her.
Duncan! His name was a silent scream.
As though she had summoned him, he appeared, his hair flying, his sword raised above his head. His gaze slashed in her direction, but it was as though he looked right through her.
With a call to battle, he drove his knees into the sides of his black stallion. The horse reared, its forelegs thrashing in the air before its mighty back hooves propelled them forward . . . hurtling them toward Glengarren. And her.
Rachel cried his name and threw her arms in front of her face, certain she would be trampled to pieces by the razor-sharp hooves of his horse—yet, like a mirage, the animal passed through her.
She watched Duncan ride toward Glengarren’s east wing, the house suddenly ablaze with flames that lapped high into the sky, turning the black, churning clouds into the crimson slashes she had seen the night he had appeared.
Stumbling through the high drifts of snow, she followed, the realization of what was transpiring driving her onward, filling her with some macabre fascination—and a terror unlike any she had ever known.
With the dawning horror of knowing what was to come, Rachel’s step faltered. She had read about this day in the history book, the time corresponding with an event that had taken place over two centuries ago . . . the predawn hours of Christmas Day.
She was witnessing the moment when Gordon had torched Glengarren out of revenge—when Duncan had waged one last battle against his hated foe—when he had at last sent Gordon to his death.
Damning his vile soul to haunt Glengarren for all eternity.
As the ghostly flames rose into the sky, eating away at the castle’s rafters, Duncan jumped from his horse. The beast reared and danced upon its back legs, froth flying from its mouth and its teeth bared in fright.
Wielding his sword, which reflected the fire like a burst of sun, Duncan shouted Gordon’s name—the sound a tear of vicious fury as he plunged through the flames and disappeared.
Rachel ran for the house, the spirits of warriors long dead surrounding her, waging their battle—the MacGregor and Gordon clans clashing with steel blades and fists, their shouts and cries whipped by the roaring winds that pummeled her, driving her back with gale force.
She fought desperately against the storm, finally reaching the burning wing. She hesitated on the perimeter of the blaze, fear of the flames holding her back, but her love for Duncan propelled her forward.
She scrambled over the burning, smoldering ruins—no heat, no flames, the fire could not harm her. It wasn’t real, not now, not in her time.
This was all an illusion, history repeating itself, like the soldiers around her—she didn’t exist in their reality any more than they existed in hers.
Rachel stopped in her tracks, gasping as she caught sight of the two men, Duncan and Gordon, the fire encircling them, their eyes locked on each other, their bodies tautened, preparing to fight a battle to the finish.
The flames formed a wall before her and streaked over the rafters, eating up the old timber like a famished beast.
Above Glengarren’s gaping roof, beyond the high, lapping flames, she watched the black, electrified clouds collide, spitting lightening bolts at the castle, spears of blue and white illumination that centered their fury on the two men battling amid the incinerating inferno.
With a slash of his sword, Duncan drove Gordon back. The man stumbled, his face contorted in fury and pain as the wound Duncan had inflicted in his side bled profusely.
With a roar of outrage, Gordon rallied his strength and deflected Duncan’s next assault—metal against metal, crashing as resoundingly as the storm above, sparks flying like charged daggers from the blades.
Gordon braced his legs and wielded his sword in a mighty arc. Duncan met it with a parry that sent the weapon flying toward Rachel, landing near her feet. The ghostly blade spun, reflecting the fire in bright yellow streaks, as if burning with internal heat.
Sweat poured from Gordon’s enraged face, his teeth bared as he boomed, “Kill me now, MacGregor, and I’ll curse your name all the way tae hell and back! By my blood, I’ll have my revenge on ye and all those ye love. They’ll suffer my wrath until I can drag their souls down into the inferno with me. This I vow!”
The rafters began to groan then, and with an ear-splitting crack, fiery debris rained down upon them. Gordon stumbled back. Duncan threw himself aside, but not quickly enough to avoid the impact of fire and wood that glanced off his arm, knocking the sword from his hand.
Gordon’s eyes gleamed at the advantage afforded him, and with a roar, he threw himself upon Duncan, fists swinging, knuckles cracking across Duncan’s jaw, sending him spiraling backward.
Another horrible groan issued from the timbers above them, bringing Rachel’s head jerking up. She watched in horror as the beams began to sag, the crack as deafening as the lightning overhead.
Her gaze snapped back to Duncan. She cried his name in warning—knowing even as she did so that he could not hear her, could not see her . . . and worst of all, she could not help him.
With a final curse, Gordon flung himself upon Duncan. They met in a fierce battle for supremacy, bodies impacting, wrestling, stumbling as fire and embers fell to the ground, scattering around them, thick, black smoke beginning to fill the air.
Then the rafters, with a final horrifying growl, shattered in a burst of flames and began to collapse inward . . . toward the men.
As if time ground to a stop, Duncan turned his head, his eyes connecting with hers for an infinitesimal moment, his love reaching out to her across a chasm far greater than either of them could span.
His lips moved, forming a solitary word.
Rachel
Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone. Vanished. As was everything else—the sounds of chaos, the horses, the men. Gordon. And the silence was deafening. She stood alone in the cold morning light as her entire world crumbled around her.
With a sob breaking from her lips, Rachel stumbled across the ruins to the spot where she had last seen Duncan, and there she sank to her knees amid the centuries-old scorched rubble, all that remained of the battle . . . all she had left of Duncan.
Covering her face with her hands, she wept with all the pain inside her, her shoulders shaking, the loss filling her up with such wrenching grief she thought she might shatter.
How long she remained there on her knees, the cold whirling around her, pressing her nightclothes against her body with frigid fingers, she could not guess. Time had no consequence in that moment. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. An eternity. What did it matter anymore?
Then, from somewhere, came the sound of bells. They rang across the moor, across Glengarren’s ruins, echoing from the village’s church steeples, heralding the arrival of Christmas Day.
Blinking hot tears from her eyes, Rachel gazed around her, traveling over the place where only a short time ago flames had raged and men had waged an all-out war to the death. Now their battle cries had long since died, and the ancient rafters glittered with snow.
Overhead, the black, turbulent clouds had changed to white, drifting puffs that parted to allow a single ray of sunlight to spill upon her face. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back to feel its warmth, seeking its comfort.
Then she heard a sound, her eyes snapping open. Squinting against the sun, she threw up her hand to shield the brightness . . . and found a dark figure looming just inside the doorway leading from the main part of the house. Her heart missed a beat.
The figure took a single step forward out of the shadows, revealing a familiar face that made her breath hitch in her throat. It was a man . . . a man whose penetrating blue eyes regarded her with concern.
“Rachel?” he called softly.
“Duncan?” she whispered, rising to her feet, her heart beginning to beat faster as he moved toward her.
He halted two feet from her, and her happiness turned to confusion as reality sharpened. Something was different. He had changed. His black hair was shorter, his skin not so darkened from the sun. He was dressed in a worn, brown bomber jacket, sweater, and faded jeans.
This man was not Duncan. Perhaps, she thought in her grief-stricken mind, he was not even real, but rather an image her mind had created to help console her pain.
She turned away from the stranger, the illusion, and hugged herself. She could look at him no longer. It was simply too much to bear.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, moving in front of her, his arm lightly brushing against hers.
The contact was electric. Jarring. She jumped back, shocked by the force of that single touch as she regarded him from the dark embrace of one of the fallen timbers. This was no phantasm conjured up by her mind. But a real man, one of flesh and blood.
“It’s all right, lass. Don’t be afraid.”
She stared at him, unable to speak. Why was she being tormented? Why had God mocked her by putting Duncan’s face on this man?
He stared back at her, his eyes slightly narrowed as his gaze skimmed over her face, obscured now from his full inspection.
“Who . . . who are you?” she managed to say.
He shook his head as though to clear it and replied, “My apologies. I haven’t introduced myself. Allow me tae correct that oversight.”
He held out his hand to her, and Rachel hesitated in taking it. When she did, she experienced the same jolt that had gone through her when he had brushed so innocently against her. She saw something flicker across his face. Had he felt it, too?
“The name’s Duncan MacGregor . . . Lord of Glengarren.”
The breath lodged in Rachel’s throat, the name rebounding through the room.
“It’s nice tae finally get tae meet ye in person, instead of only knowing ye through your letters.”
Letters? Rachel’s mind scrambled back, recalling the correspondence she had exchanged with the son of her father’s friend, remembering one letter in particular that she had received shortly after her father had died.
The words of condolence had resonated so strongly within her . . . giving her the strength to do what she had to do. He had seemed to know exactly what to say to ease her pain.
“Duncan.” The word came out a benediction. Until that moment, she hadn’t made the connection. He had simply signed his letters “D. MacGregor.”
“Aye,” he said, an endearing half-grin bringing out the deep dimple in one cheek. “I was named after the man who built Glengarren.”
Rachel tried to hold back the pain inside her, but the world seemed to conspire against her, and the tears began to fall.
His smile immediately changed to an expression of concern. “Don’t cry, lady,” he softly beseeched.
Lady. Duncan had called her that. The memory only made the tears flow that much harder.
Without another word, he pulled her into his arms. She wept softly against his broad shoulder, finding an odd comfort in his embrace, his scent causing a firestorm of raw emotions to spark inside her.
He took her face in his hands and gazed deeply into her eyes, his own searching her features with an expression of wonderment.
“Sweet God,” he whispered. “It can’t be.”
“What?” she said in a choked voice, glancing up at him. “What’s the matter?”
“Ye’re . . . her.”
“Her?”
“The lady in the locket.”
Rachel frowned. “I don’t understand.”
His hand moved from her face to ease down the zipper of his jacket, one finger hooking the edge of his sweater to reveal what was around his neck . . . a gleaming gold chain.
Her locket at its base.
He pressed his thumb to the seam and the pendant flipped open, showing a miniature picture of herself. Her gaze elevated to his and she saw something there, something beneath the bewilderment. A connection.
“How . . .?”
“I found it years ago, when I was a lad. I had been rummaging around in these old ruins, against my father’s wishes, as this section of the castle had been off-limits for as long as we lived here.
“I don’t know why I searched beneath this particular pile of fallen debris, but I did. I sifted through the soot . . . and there it was. As soon as I looked upon the beautiful face within the locket, I was lost tae glorious sea-green eyes . . . your eyes.”
“I don’t understand. Why was it here?”
“I don’t know. I always wondered about that myself. Perhaps it belonged tae my ancestor, the original Duncan MacGregor. He died in the fire that burnt down this wing.”
Rachel pulled away from him. “He died?” she said in a pained voice. She had yearned to believe he had survived, that he had seen his men into battle, and that perhaps he had not been killed in the battle of Culloden Moor.
“Aye,” he said. “On Christmas Day, 1745. He was engaged in a mighty battle with his most hated enemy—”
“Gordon.”
He nodded, giving her a puzzled look. “The story is that the men fought in here, and that MacGregor had the upper hand.”
“What happened then?”
“Well, it’s strange, but according tae what I’ve read, MacGregor pushed Gordon out of the way when a section of the rafters caved in, saving the man.”
Rachel closed her eyes, the tears seeping between her lashes. “Oh, Duncan,” she whispered in a raw, barely audible voice. “You died to save me, didn’t you?” He had taken the blow that was meant to kill Gordon so that she would be safe from his enemy. If Gordon did not die, then he could not haunt Glengarren, looking for his revenge.
Duncan put a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up to his. “Your tears are like daggers tae my heart, lass. Tell me what I can do tae comfort ye?”
Rachel stared up at him, remembering how a Highland warrior had once spoken those same words to her as they stood together beneath the rowan tree, her heart breaking as her parents’ ashes floated away on the wind.
As she gazed up into the face that she had thought never to see again, she repeated the words she had said to him then, “Hold me, Duncan. Hold me tight and don’t let go.”
“Aye, lass. That I will. Always.”
And as the man she had loved through an eternity held her tight in his embrace, the sun rose in a fiery ball above Glengarren, bathing them in its warm, golden rays, and Rachel knew then that her wish had been granted. She had gotten her Christmas miracle.