Breanne Martin set down her tools and stretched her arms over her head. She let out a long sigh and wriggled her shoulders, trying to work the kinks out of her neck. On the worktable in front of her sat the museum’s latest conservation piece, defying all her attempts to get it ready for tomorrow’s display. She’d been at it for hours and it was still showing little sign of improvement.

She shook her head. Whatever museum had held the Civil War era eagle breastplate previously, they had made a poor job of its conservation. Specks of dirt and rust sat within the design and the render on the back was badly decayed. Nobody was sure who the breastplate had belonged to originally but judging from the quality of the workmanship beneath the grime, it must have been somebody important. A general perhaps? All Bree knew was that this was going on display as part of the museum’s new Civil War exhibit tomorrow and it was her job to make sure it looked perfect. Oh yes, she’d definitely drawn the short straw on this one.

Picking up her cleaning brush once more, Bree swept her auburn ponytail over one shoulder and hunched forward, using the magnifier to guide her brush to the spots where it was needed. She worked diligently, patiently, enjoying watching the breastplate begin to reveal its secrets. Bree loved working at the museum. She’d been into history ever since she was a little kid. She’d not inherited her mother’s passion for political causes, or her father’s artistic talent. Instead, she’d always had her nose stuck in history books or watching programs on the Discovery Channel.

Who had this piece belonged to? she wondered as she worked. What things had it seen? What stories might it be able to tell if only it could speak?

“Time’s up!”

Bree jumped. Sarah, her friend and colleague, was leaning against the door of Bree’s tiny workroom, grinning broadly. Her lab coat hung over her arm, showing the sassy black dress she wore underneath.

“And it’s wine o’clock!” she added. “Come on, it’s Jay’s birthday drinks tonight, remember? If we hurry, we can get the table by the window where we can eye up all the hotties!”

Bree glanced at her watch. It was five-thirty. Holy crap, where had the time gone?

“I...um...I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it,” she said, shrugging apologetically. “I still have to finish this piece for tomorrow.”

Sarah stepped into the room and rolled her eyes. “Are you still working on that? It already looks far better than anything else in the collection. Come on, it’s Friday night. We deserve some fun!”

Sarah was right, Bree knew. It had been a hard week, everyone working extra hours in order to get the exhibit ready for the grand opening tomorrow. Like she said, they deserved to have some fun and relax. But if Bree went to the party tonight, it would mean seeing him. Her stomach churned at the thought. It had been three months, but it still hurt.

As if sensing her thoughts, Sarah’s face folded into an expression of sympathy. “Look, is this because Adam will be there? You can’t avoid him forever you know.” She perched on the end of Bree’s worktable and looked down. “He’s a jerk. You deserve better. And what better way to show him you’re over him than letting him see you having fun with your friends?”

“I am over him,” Bree replied. “Seriously, I am. I’m not avoiding him; I just have so much work to do. Say hi to everyone for me.”

Sure, she thought. Try to convince yourself that seeing that lying, cheating, two-timing rat hasn’t got anything to do with you wanting to miss the party.

Sarah watched her for a moment and Bree thought she was going to press the issue but her friend sighed instead. “Fine. Whatever. But you want a piece of free advice? Start living. You spend too much time in your books and with your artifacts. You need to get out there, find a life. Not every man is like Adam Ryland, you know.”

Yes, they are, Bree thought but she didn’t say this aloud. Instead, she nodded, forcing a smile onto her face. “Sure. I know that. See you Monday.”

Sarah stood up and left. Bree stared in the direction Sarah had gone, mulling over her words. Start living. Get out there. Was she really hiding here in her little workroom, avoiding life?

Dr Cooke suddenly poked his head round the door, startling Bree from her thoughts. He hitched his spectacles up his nose and squinted. “Ah! Good, you’re still here. Come into my office, Bree, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Bree sighed. Dr Cooke was the curator of the museum and knew everything there was to know about every piece and exhibit in the place. Bree had learned a lot from him but his ‘meetings’ normally turned into lectures about this artifact or that which could last for hours if you weren’t careful.

She followed Dr Cooke to his office at the end of the corridor and stepped inside. A short, elderly woman was sitting in an over-stuffed leather chair. She smiled as Bree entered.

“This is the one I was telling you about,” Dr Cooke said. “Breanne Martin, our best conservator.”

The woman held out a hand which Bree shook. “I’m delighted to me ye, Breanne Martin,” she said in a lilting Scottish accent. “I’ve heard much about ye.”

“You...you have?”

“Aye. Dr Cooke here was just telling me how dedicated ye are. Nay better student of history, he reckons.”

Bree felt her cheeks flushing. Dr Cooke had said that? “I...um...thanks.”

“Nay need for thanks, lass, where it’s well-earned. I’m Irene by the way. Irene MacAskill.”

Dr Cooke folded into his chair, the leather creaking as he settled. “Irene is the head of Celtic Antiquities in Edinburgh. She’s here to discuss an exchange program.”

Bree looked blankly from Irene to Dr Cooke and back again. “I’m sorry, a what?”

Dr Cooke steepled his hands and peered at Bree over the top of them. “A sharing of skills. Members of our two institutions will collaborate on projects and train each other on new techniques—such as the conservation of rare or delicate artifacts. Irene has kindly offered one of my conservators the chance for a six month secondment to the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh to learn their conservation techniques –particularly in relation to Celtic artifacts.” He fixed her with his stern gaze. “Who do you think I should nominate for this chance?”

“Och, stop teasing the lass, Alistair!” Irene said. She swiveled in her chair to look at Bree, her hands clasped in her lap. Her eyes were so dark as to be almost black and she watched Bree steadily, a thoughtful look on her face.

“Aye, ye’ll do just fine, I’m sure,” Irene muttered, almost to herself. Then she smiled. “What Alistair is trying to say, lass, is that I’m here to offer ye the secondment.”

Bree blinked. “Me? But there are far more experienced conservators than me.”

“Nay, lass,” Irene said, her expression turning serious and her eyes seeming to pin Bree to the spot. “Ye are the one I need. Only ye. I have been searching for ye a long time. What do ye say?”

“I...um...” Bree stammered. This was all moving a little fast.

Irene raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong, lass? Cat got yer tongue? Would ye like to visit my bonnie homeland? Although, I warn ye, if ye accept yer life will be changed forever. Ye will walk a different path to the one ye walk now.  Be sure ye are ready for that.”

Bree’s mind whirled. A secondment to Edinburgh? To study Celtic artifacts? It was the kind of job she’d dreamed of. Pulling in a deep breath, she tried to get it together. She didn’t want Irene MacAskill and Dr Cooke to think she was a bumbling idiot did she? “When would I leave?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow?” she croaked.

“Aye. Is that a problem?”

Bree opened her mouth and closed it again. A problem? Hardly. Her mom was currently in Alaska on her latest campaign and her dad, living in Singapore, barely spoke to her now he had Helen and the twins to keep him busy. Nobody would miss her. Hell, nobody would even notice she’d gone.

“No, it’s not a problem,” she said. “I’d love to accept your offer.”

A smile curled Irene’s lips and her eyes sparkled. “Excellent. Yer whole future could rest on this, lass. I think ye will find ye’ve made the right decision.”

Bree grinned back, feeling excitement bubbling inside. She was going to Scotland!

***

“Hand it over. Now,” Owen growled.

“Please!” the old woman cried, cowering away from the warrior’s stern expression. “I havenae got anymore, I swear!”

Alexander Murray shifted his weight uncomfortably. He was leaning against the wall of the crofter’s shack, watching as Owen and the others spoke to the householder. Although ‘spoke’ was a loose term, he had to admit. Since they’d arrived to collect the quarterly rent for Lord Donald, all Owen and the others had done was threaten an old woman who was clearly terrified of them. It twisted Alex’s stomach to see it but he kept his mouth shut. He’d learned not to interrupt Owen when he was in this kind of mood.

“Ye know the price,” Owen growled. “Ye owe us double since ye underpaid last time.”

He leaned over the woman threateningly, hands on his hips and a feral grin curling his lips. Owen had once been a fine soldier, skilled, loyal and full of patriotic fervor but the years and the hard times had made him mean and cruel. Although he wore the colors of Lord Donald’s household guard, he was little more than a brigand.

Alex frowned, not liking where that thought led. The same could be said of him.

“Well, if ye willnae show us where ye keep yer money, we’ll just have to find it willnae we?” Owen barked. He turned to the others. “Search the house.”

The old woman’s eyes widened and she watched in horror as the men began rifling through her things. They weren’t gentle or careful. They tore open the cupboards and ransacked them, tumbling the old woman’s meager belongings all over the floor. They crossed to the straw mattress and up-ended it, searching the space beneath for anything she might have hidden.

Alex didn’t join in. He remained by the door, disgust filling him that this once brave company had been reduced to intimidating peasants. How had it come to this?

“There’s naught, Owen,” Rob said, straightening from the over-turned bed. “Maybe we should leave her be.”

Owen’s face twisted into a snarl. “Nothing? Ye reckon Lord Donald will be happy with that? These peasants always have something hidden away. Search harder! Or do ye want to return to Lord Donald and tell him we’ve come back empty-handed again?”

Rob, a green young lad who’d only recently joined their company, winced. Alex didn’t blame him. Lord Donald’s temper was legendary and he would think nothing of taking out his ire on this new recruit.

Owen rounded on the old woman. Alex didn’t like the ugly expression on the other man’s face as he approached her–he’d seen it too many times on the battlefield and it never boded well.

“Now ye listen here,” Owen spat. “If ye dinna give me what I want, I willnae be responsible for my actions, by God, I willnae!”

He raised his hand to strike her and Alex surged forward, hand going reflexively to the hilt of his sword. He might be little more than a brigand these days but he would cling desperately to the little shred of honor left to him—and that meant he couldn’t stand by and let Owen strike a defenseless woman.

“Owen, I’m warning ye—” he began.

“Found it!” Rob yelled.

The lad was standing by the window, holding up a small leather purse. A broken floorboard dangled from his other hand.

Owen smiled grimly. “See,” he said to the woman. “Didnae I tell ye we’d find it eventually? It would have been easier for ye if ye’d given us what we wanted from the start.”

“Please!” the woman cried. “That’s all I have! How will I get through the winter?”

“Ye should have thought of that before trying to cheat Lord Donald, shouldnae ye? Come on men, let’s get out of this hovel.”

He snatched the purse from Rob, tucking it into his pocket and then strode through the door without a backward glance at the woman or the ruin of her home. The others followed, only Alex remaining. The woman sank slowly onto the only chair that hadn’t been up-turned. It was a battered old thing made from salvaged drift-wood, nothing like the chairs back at Dun Carrick, Alex’s childhood home. She passed a shaking hand over her face. It was creased like old leather and she wore her gray hair pinned to the back of her head in a bun.

“Listen,” Alex said, stepping forward. “Take this. It should see ye through the winter.” He fumbled in his belt for his money pouch and tipped the contents onto his palm. There wasn’t much—Lord Donald didn’t pay well these days—but it was all he had. He held it out to her.

She looked up at him and he noticed for the first time how dark her eyes were. They glinted in the gloomy light like pebbles of polished black onyx. She glanced at the coins sitting on Alex’s outstretched palm but made no move to take them. Instead, her face broke into a smile, her eyes glinting with something that Alex couldn’t quite place. Satisfaction?

“Why do ye keep company with such men?” she asked. “Ye are not like them. Ye are a good man.”

“A good man?” Alex snorted. “Do ye reckon? Perhaps ye would not say that if ye knew me.”

If ye knew me ye would recoil, he thought. I have not been a good man in a long time. Just ask my family.

Images of his mother and father flashed through his mind in quick succession. His mother, begging him not to go, his father admonishing him for being so foolish. His laird threatening dire consequences if he went through with his plan. He’d done it anyway of course. He’d been young and eager, desperate to prove himself a warrior, desperate to live up to the Murray family name.

What a fool he’d been.

Look at what he was reduced to—threatening villagers and scaring old women. Was that all that was left of Alexander Murray’s vaunted honor?

He dropped the coins onto the floor where they bounced before coming to rest. “Do as ye please. Take the money or not. I dinna care,” he snapped, his voice harsher than he intended.

“Ye have wandered far, havenae ye, Alexander Murray?” the old woman said, looking up at him. “I wonder if ye can find yer way back again?”

Alex tensed. “How do ye know who I am?”

“Who else would ye be? A young man wearing the Murray colors so far from home? Yer reputation precedes ye, lad.”

Alex glanced at his shoulder. Although he wore Lord Donald’s colors now, he still wore a square of Murray plaid pinned to his shoulder. He had no right to it, not anymore, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to throw it away.

“Dinna pretend ye know me, woman,” he growled. “Ye know not of what ye speak.”

“Dinna I?” she replied. Her expression was hard and her eyes flashed. “I know ye were once the hope of yer clan. I know that ye once had a shining path glittering at yer feet, if only ye had the courage to walk it. But ye didnae. Ye lost yerself along the way.” She leaned forward and Alex had to force himself not to take a step back. “But it isnae too late, lad. Not if ye are willing to retrace yer steps and find yer path once more.”

Alex opened his mouth to snap at her but no words came out. Who was this woman? Why was she saying these things to him? His anger sparked. “Bah! Ye talk nonsense, woman! I willnae hear any more of this.” He spun on his heel and strode out.

The old woman’s voice called after him. “Never too late, Alex Murray!”

But it was. It was far too late for him.