Simon stepped closer and felt the heat of her skin. She smelled of the strawberry shampoo she used in her hair. Helen’s hands slid from her hips and fell to the side.
“’Tis time we clear up a few things in your lovely head about me.”
He stepped closer, and Helen, the wise girl, took a step back until her bottom met the edge of the desk. She reached behind her to steady herself and keep from falling.
Like a predatory cat cornering his prey, Simon towered over Helen, watching her body twitch and her eyes travel over his.
“Really?” Her voice wavered. After clearing her throat, she asked. “Like what?”
Simon licked his lips and glanced at hers. “I’m not evil.”
“Uhm….” Her eyes never left his mouth while he spoke.
“And I’d never lure a child into my presence.”
Simon leaned into her, their thighs touched and Helen’s breathing started to quicken. He placed one hand on the table beside her, leaving her very little room to escape should she want to. From the hunger in her gaze, and the heat of her body, he didn’t believe she would.
“A woman, however, might tempt me to entice her attention.”
Praise for Catherine Bybee
BINDING VOWS
“BINDING VOWS whisked me into an adventure that I was sorry to see end.”
~Romance Studio
5 Tombstone Review for BINDING VOWS “... was such an amazing book...possibly the best I have read so far this year. ...so much fun...”
~Megan, Bitten By Books
SILENT VOWS
5 Stars, “SILENT VOWS is a fascinating time travel tale of ancient Druids and modern heroes that pulls the reader in from the very first page.”
~Affaire de Coeur
REDEEMING VOWS
“As in the first two stories, the plot comes together with danger, suspense, romance, and the author’s own blend of humor.”
~The Romance Studio (5 Hearts)
WIFE BY WEDNESDAY
New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal BESTSELLER
“…enchanting and titillating modern-day fairy-tale.”
~IndieReader.com
“…great characters that trade verbal spars like fist punches…”
~Sizzling Hot Book Reviews
Highland
Shifter
by
Catherine Bybee
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Highland Shifter
COPYRIGHT 2012 by Catherine Bybee
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover Art by Crystal Posey
Visit the author at www.catherinebyee.com
Publishing History
Smashwords Edition 2012
Published by Catherine Bybee
Print ISBN 978-0-9850888-0-4
Published in the United States of America
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication
For Tammy.
My first true fan and my harshest critic.
I’m truly blessed to call you my friend.
Acknowledgements
I want to thank and acknowledge all of you, my readers. If it wasn’t for your response to the first three time travel books about the MacCoinnich’s, I would never have written Simon’s story. My fans on Goodreads and Facebook have been relentless, clamoring for Simon, Amber, and Cian’s stories. I can’t blame you. I love these characters so much they feel like my own children. Although I enjoy the happily ever after ending, I still want to see a glimpse or two of these characters as they ride through life.
Thank you all for giving this writer a need to finish this series so we can all see how Simon, Amber, and Cian turn out.
Chapter One
Current Day, Los Angeles
Energy buzzed down Helen’s spine until she shivered with the electrical current her gift created. The information she sought was close enough to taste, all she needed to do was touch it and she’d be one step closer to finding the missing boy.
Helen Adams shifted onto the balls of her feet, reached well beyond her five-foot six frame, and tipped the old leather bound text into her hands. As the book slid from its comfortable position on the top shelf in Mrs. Dawson’s library, dust plumed off the sill in a cloud. The zap she’d been feeling for the last half hour eased into a nice, steady hum. The blanket of warmth that only came when she’d found what she sought brought a rare smile to her face.
“There you are,” she whispered to the ancient book as if it were alive.
“Did you find what you’re looking for?” Mrs. Dawson limped into the room, leaning heavily on the cane. Nearing her eighty-fourth birthday, Mrs. Dawson’s battered, frail body appeared as if it wanted nothing more than to lie down and rest forever.
“I think so.” Helen gently blew the layer of dust off the book and peered close to determine the title. Embossed into the leather was an old Celtic design. The scent of a fresh meadow after a cleansing rain settled over her. Helen closed her eyes and grasped the text hard. She heard the hooves of horses, smelled the sweet scent of horseflesh. None of this experience came from the room where she stood, but from the book she held in her hands.
As the scents dissipated, Helen opened her eyes and gazed at the book in wonder. How could a book this old hold any relevance on a missing child’s case in the twenty-first century?
“Do you have any idea where this originally came from?” Helen asked as she moved to the table and turned on a light to view the pages inside the book.
“My late husband collected boxes of books like that when he was alive. As you can judge by the dust, they’ve not been touched since his death.” Mrs. Dawson eased herself into a chair, cringing as she sat. Helen knew her friend’s arthritis would be acting up with the sour weather pounding the window outside. Helen also knew Mrs. Dawson wouldn’t accept anything more than a sympathetic smile if Helen were to ask if she could help her sit or stand.
“Well, let’s see what you have there.”
Judging by the cover, Helen expected the text to be in either Celtic or Italian. She was wrong.
The title of Folklore, writing in a beautiful script font, splashed the front page of the book.
The book was written in English.
Helen glanced at the opening credits to see the publication date.
“This is over two hundred years old,” Helen said, confused.
“What does it have to do with that boy?” Mrs. Dawson asked.
“I’ve no idea.”
Mrs. Dawson was the only person who knew the extent of Helen’s gift. Well, the only person Helen had told who hadn’t laughed at her and passed her off as crazy.
Her work at a local antique shop had led her down this path to Mrs. Dawson’s library in search of a missing teenage boy, Simon McAllister. What the boy and the book in her hands had in common, Helen hadn’t a clue.
Helen gently turned the pages and skimmed the text. From what she could tell, several different storytellers wrote the content. Illustrations dotted the pages with small captions explaining the pictures.
There were illustrations of Celtic symbols, Scottish kilts, warriors with broadswords, and women wearing long, flowing dresses.
What any of it had to do with Simon McAllister disappearing off the face of the earth without a trace was a mystery to Helen.
Releasing a long-suffering sigh, she flattened her hand on the table and twisted away in frustration. “This is useless.”
Mrs. Dawson cocked her head to the side in a motion of concern. One of the shutters on the outside of the house ripped free of its lock and swung back, hitting the side of the old house with an angry bang.
Helen and Mrs. Dawson jumped at the noise and swiveled toward it.
Cold air blew into the room, and the drapes around the window flapped in protest from the outside elements.
An eerie screech whistled through the crack in the window, and the book to Helen’s side started fluttering through pages like a deck of cards being shuffled in Vegas. The pages moved in a rapid pace, but the current of air in the room barely brushed her skin.
Unable to pull her gaze away, Helen watched as the pages of the book came to a sudden stop.
The air on her back blew colder, harder, but the pages no longer rustled.
Her chocolate brown hair started to come loose from the tight bun on her head, but she ignored the tendrils falling in her face. Instead, Helen inched closer.
Two illustrations covered the pages. On the left was a Scottish warrior, broad shouldered and dressed in his plaid, as would any proud Scot of centuries past. In the corner of the illustration flew a hawk or maybe it was a falcon. Helen couldn’t be sure.
The warrior’s hand extended toward the opposite page, his face solemn with an expression of absolute desperation.
Helen let her eyes travel to the right page and time suddenly stood still.
“My God,” Mrs. Dawson exclaimed.
My God indeed.
“That’s you.”
Helen peered closer, stared at the image, which certainly looked like her. The woman in the picture wore her hair long, past her waist. She wore a floor length dress with long, flowing sleeves.
Yes, it could have been a distant relative of Helen’s. That alone gave her a sense of familiarity she had never experienced any other time in her life. Abandoned at a young age, Helen never knew her parents or any other relative.
Helen took in the features of the woman’s face and gasped when her gaze landed on the pendant around the woman’s neck.
Reaching a hand to her own neck, she pulled out an identical replica of the necklace in the picture from under her turtleneck sweater.
The breeze from the window stopped and the room started to warm.
“This lady must be one of your relatives,” Mrs. Dawson said.
Helen nodded but couldn’t voice any words. The necklace wasn’t an heirloom. What did the picture mean? Who was the man on the opposite page, and what did it have to do with the missing boy she felt a need to find?
She had more questions than answers. Glancing at her watch, Helen realized how late it was. “I should leave so you can rest. Do you mind if I hold onto this book for a while?”
Mrs. Dawson patted her hand. “Of course not, dear. It appears to belong to you anyway.”
Helen reached for the book, but Mrs. Dawson stopped her hand midway. Frail, wrinkled fingers touched the backside of Helen’s hand and fiddled with the watch surrounding her wrist. Mrs. Dawson tapped the watch then lowered her same finger to the picture of the woman in the book.
There, in the pages of an ancient text, was a very similar timepiece on the wrist of the woman.
“Perhaps not a relative after all.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“She looks exactly like you, Helen. That necklace, where did you get it?”
“I found it in a thrift shop.” Her love for all things old brought her into thrift shops in search of hidden treasures. Lots of people threw their possessions away instead of treasuring them. The pendant had Celtic markings with a polished stone dead center. It was simply a well-polished rock set in a common metal. But the stone felt warm against Helen’s skin when she’d put it on. Somewhere inside of her soul, she knew she was meant to own the necklace.
“This woman is wearing a watch. Your watch.”
“That’s ridiculous. It’s probably a bracelet.”
Mrs. Dawson pressed her reading glasses close to her eyes and peered down. “I see numbers.”
Helen noticed them, too. But it wasn’t possible. “What are you suggesting?” The woman in the picture was clearly garbed in a dress right out of medieval times, a time when watches weren’t part of any woman’s wardrobe. In fact, Helen knew wristwatches weren’t invented until the early nineteenth century.
Mrs. Dawson stared deep into her eyes before she spoke. “To coin a phrase, ‘a picture is worth a thousand words.’”
“Now you’re throwing riddles at me.” Her curiosity spiked, however, and she decided a Google search was definitely in order. What was the exact date the wristwatch was invented, and who were the authors of this book?
Glancing back at the curtains, Mrs. Dawson said, “Seems something else is throwing riddles at you, dear. I just happen to be the one holding the book with the answers.”
* * * *
1596 Scotland
An unrelenting desire surged into the tips of Simon’s fingers. If only he could toss a ball of fire onto the ass of his opponent’s horse. But no, that would be cheating, and why hurt the innocent horse. Using his powers would be like bringing a gun to a knife fight. Besides, the warrior’s sword arm was tiring. Simon felt it the last time the man’s broadsword hit his shield.
Metal clashed against metal behind him, and smoke plumed above the fires in the encampment of the invaders who threatened MacCoinnich Keep. Night crept around the edges of light being cast off by the flames, bringing finality to the fight at hand.
Simon’s opponent dug his heels into the flanks of the horse he rode, his sword aiming straight at Simon’s chest.
Hold still, he whispered mentally to his horse. This skill, the one where he talked to animals, was one he’d mastered at the tender age of thirteen. Now, nearly thirty, Simon had complete command of any animal he came in contact with. Or, as his mother often said, he was a regular Doctor Doolittle.
The warrior charging him released an angry cry, his blade poised for a deathblow.
Simon waited, one hand holding his own weapon firmly, the other cradling a shield with the family crest engraved upon it.
A little closer.
Within a hair’s breadth of the sword reaching his personal space, Simon urged his mount to lunge. With that momentum, he knocked the other man’s sword aside and pierced his enemy’s chest, laying it wide open, spilling the man’s lifeblood.
A set of stunned eyes caught Simon’s as the warrior slid from his horse on his final descent from life.
Simon paused for only a second to watch him topple before quickly spinning around to assess his next threat.
The enemy retreated to the west, fleeing the losing battle so they could fight another day. Duncan, his uncle by marriage, stood beside his horse, his chest heaving heated breaths as his brother, Cian, circled the fallen. He would determine if any still lived.
The bloody battlefield stunk of unwashed flesh and dying men.
“Do any still breathe?” Duncan called out to Cian.
Cian slid from his horse and carefully rolled one of their enemies over. Even from Simon’s distance, he could see death on the man’s face.
“Nay. None.”
Several other battle-weary men gathered and awaited direction from Duncan.
“I’ll send hands from the Keep to aid in the burial of these men,” he told his men. “Did anyone see a leader?”
Simon shook his head. “No one stood out among them.”
“None.” A chorus of denial rose.
“Mayhap ye should send scouts to follow those who fled.”
“Aye.” Duncan’s gaze settled briefly on Simon. An unspoken request lit his eyes. They would scout, but not with men on horses. Sending a small party, easily outnumbered and ambushed, was not the answer.
“I’ll ride ahead and report to Ian.”
This excuse would go unquestioned by the men. Ian was Laird of the MacCoinnich clan, and he would want to know the outcome of this battle. Instead of returning to the Keep, Simon would scout ahead alone and return without anyone knowing that he watched.
Duncan lifted his chin. “Tell my Tara I’m well.”
Simon nodded, knowing he didn’t need to say a thing to his aunt. Duncan and Tara had a special mental bond that made it possible for the two of them to communicate with their thoughts. Tara was probably in Duncan’s head right now asking about his well-being.
Simon and his extended family were Druids, all of them. Each possessed special gifts—Druid gifts that aided them in life and allowed them to defeat their enemies, magical and mortal alike. He’d take the latter any day of the week. Magical enemies were much harder to fight.
Keeping to the forest, Simon reined in his horse away from any watchful eyes and slid to the ground.
He quickly removed each layer of armor and clothing and stacked them against a tree. “Keep an eye on my things, won’t you, Kong?” Simon had named his very first horse King, a massive animal that served him well. Kong was King’s son. The names were a constant joke between his twenty-first century family members.
Kong sniffed the air before moving to a patch of grass to graze. The horse was hungry and tired after the battle. Most likely, he’d eat and rest until Simon returned.
Stepping away from his horse, Simon spread his arms wide, closed his eyes, and envisioned the falcon.
Familiar energy gathered around him. The air crackled and the world started to pitch.
His limbs shortened and his skin erupted and morphed.
Pain started at his head and spread to his feet, but it was brief and gone before Simon could blink an eye. The entire change took only a few seconds before Simon became the falcon.
Kong offered a passing glance before returning to his meal.
Simon took to the sky.
Above the trees, Simon returned to the direction of battle. He noted the battlefield and Cian helping with the dead.
Simon let a falcon’s cry fill the air and saw Duncan and Cian both turn their heads his way.
Duncan nodded at him then continued with his duty as Cian waved a mock salute.
Leaving his family behind, Simon followed the trail the enemy left behind in search of answers.
Chapter Two
Without an invitation, Helen walked into her boss’s office of the Auction House and gently placed the book she’d found the day before on his desk. “Look what I found.”
She’d spent most of the previous night mulling over its pages and found herself more confused than ever by why her gift led her to this particular tome.
“What is it?” Philip lifted his dark eyes to hers briefly before glancing at the book in front of him.
Helen leaned a hip against the side of her boss’s desk and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s about Scottish folklore.”
“Is it valuable?” He ran a hand over his firm, attractive jaw, the way he always did when intrigued. She had his attention.
“It might be.” Though she doubted it. “It’s what I found inside that has me puzzled.”
Philip Lyons, owner of The Auction House and Magazine, and her boss, encouraged her to follow her gut instincts when it came to finding valuable antiques. A couple of months before, two ornate candlesticks were brought into the auction house to be sold on commission. As the house photographer, and occasional buyer, Helen’s entire body sizzled with excitement when she encountered the twelfth century works of art. She knew there was more to the candlesticks than a common sale to a collector. Philip knew it too.
He opened the pages of the book with care and skimmed the words. “What am I looking for?”
Helen leaned in and scooted the book closer. She opened to the page of the Highland warrior and the lady who looked a whole hell of a lot like her.
Philip paused.
“Quick. What’s your first thought?” she asked him, not wanting him to filter his words.
He paused, and then said, “She looks like you.”
Not your first thought.
Helen wasn’t sure how she knew Philip held his first impression back, only that he did.
“What else do you notice?”
Philip ran his finger over the page, stopping at the pendant around the woman’s neck. “That’s your necklace.”
The necklace Helen wore even now. Philip’s gaze traveled to her neck. His eye twitched and a smile started to spread over his face. “How’s that possible?”
“I told you I had funny feelings about things.”
Philip reached out and touched the pendant. His cool fingers sent a tiny jolt over her skin and she shivered.
Philip leaned forward to examine the necklace. His proximity suddenly felt too personal, and Helen shifted back.
Letting his hand drift to the desk, Philip narrowed his eyes to hers. “Maybe I should appraise your necklace.”
“I’ve already checked. It’s not worth much of anything.” Besides, the thought of removing it and handing it to anyone actually left her ill.
Philip’s eyes skirted over the necklace and dipped lower. After a brief pause on her breasts, they returned to the book.
Men and their wandering eyes.
Helen would have been offended if she hadn’t already detected a desire from her boss to get to know her better. Something she wouldn’t have minded exploring if he wasn’t in charge of her paycheck.
He was five years older than her, financially stable, and pleasing to the eye. His dark brown hair was military short and his jaw always clean-shaven. Though, if Helen had to guess, she’d swear he’d worn a beard at some point in his life. She constantly caught him stroking his chin and upper lip, a habit men with facial hair acquired. At six feet, he had five inches on her and though she’d seen him only in a suit and tie, she didn’t think he was a stranger to the gym.
...but he was her boss. That meant off limits as far as she was concerned.
“What do you think it all means, Helen?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m hoping you’ll give me a couple of days off to look into it.”
“A couple of days off? That’s all?”
Now came the tricky part. “A week, actually.”
Philip didn’t say a word, just continued to stare at her.
“...and a plane ticket to Scotland.”
* * * *
Twenty-two hours later, Helen finished unpacking her suitcase at a Holiday Inn outside of Dundee, Scotland and after renting a car, she started driving north. Where to, she hadn’t a clue.
Part of her couldn’t believe she was even here, another part, a nagging little itch, felt as if she was coming home. Which was stupid, because Helen had never had a home? The closest she’d ever come was Mrs. Webber’s foster care where she’d spent four years housed in a small room with three other girls. At seventeen, Helen emancipated herself from the system by running away and never looking back. Smart thing, too, the other girls she’d roomed with all ended up either pregnant, in jail, or strung out on some cheap drug. Not the sort of life Helen envisioned for herself.
Feeling at home in a country where she’d never been was as foreign as driving on the wrong side of the road. Even the gimped up car they’d loaned her didn’t have the controls in the right place.
Still, the strange sense of peace had washed over her the minute she’d walked off the airplane.
Philip had given her the time off and the ticket abroad. He’d have been stupid not to. The last time she asked for such a thing, she delivered the location of a stolen Vermeer.
While on assignment in a Boston museum, Helen photographed several pieces that were going to auction. When she scraped her hands along a wall, she’d felt a current of electricity similar to one she’d experienced when touching the book of Scottish folklore.
Apparently, a Vermeer had been heisted from the spot long ago. Helen called Philip and asked him to research the museum and tell her everything he could find out about the missing art. In addition to looking into the past theft, Philip flew to Boston and stood beside her as she followed her gift tracking the painting around the city. One week and hundreds of miles later, on an island off the Florida Keys, Helen led her boss to a collector who had the art in his possession.
The museum in Boston credited Philip’s Auction house for the retrieval of the art. As a result, his standing in the art community elevated to amazing heights. Philip attributed her gift, her ability to follow objects and find missing things, to intuition. There was a lot more to it than intuition. That she knew. But why was this path now leading her toward a missing boy?
“The answer is out here somewhere,” she said to herself as she dodged a crater-sized pothole in the road.
The roadside signs pointed off in all directions to castles dating back hundreds of years. The desire to drive up to the nearest one and pull out her camera was strong, but the feeling that doing so would slow down her search stopped her.
As she approached a four way stop, her right hand started to tingle. If she hadn’t been waiting for the sensation, she would have missed it. At the stop she veered northeast onto a tiny two lane road. According to her map, the road would eventually run out and become nothing but dirt. Yet while her hand hummed, turning away wasn’t an option.
Ten miles later the road turned to dust, and weeds of neglect crowded the lane. A large rut forced her from the car. She still had several hours of daylight and a backpack full of snacks and water.
Outside the car, humidity hung in the air like a blanket. Helen rolled up her short sleeved shirt to catch some of the wind blowing off the eastern coast. Following the rolling tingle along her skin, she moved away from the deserted road toward the sound of the ocean. She didn’t think she was that close to the shore, so the noise caused her to pause.
A strange, panicky sensation rolled down her spine, forcing Helen to spin in a circle, searching for the cause. She was alone, but the feeling of being watched made her question the sanity of venturing off the marked road in a foreign country. Anyone could come along and do, God knew what, and never be caught. The only person who even knew she was in Scotland was Philip, and he wasn’t expecting an update for a couple of days.
Hoisting her backpack higher, she pushed aside her unease and tried to walk closer to the noise of crashing waves.
A low stone wall peaked above the grassy field a good two miles from her car. She took a moment to rest and removed a bottle of water from her pack. After taking a long drink, Helen closed her eyes and leaned against the stones. She realized then the ocean sound hadn’t changed since she’d stepped from the car. It hadn’t gotten louder, or softer. It was as if she were walking along a coast, yet the coast wasn’t there.
Her entire body began to hum. A small vibration told her she was close to whatever clue came next. “What the hell am I looking for?” she called out to the empty field. She removed the objects from her pack that led her this far, hoping to find her answer.
First was a picture of the candlesticks. Twelfth century pieces of art sold on consignment at Graystones, a rival auction house. They’d stayed in the possession of the owner for nearly a year before the said owner sent them to Philip to be resold. Apparently, the current economic crisis wasn’t limited to the poor.
When Helen had touched the candlesticks every nerve ending in her body lit up. When an insatiable need to find out more about them rivaled breathing, she decided to discover all there was to find out about their history.
A woman by the name of Myra Doe consigned the candlesticks. Lord, the name Doe put up so many red flags Helen couldn’t see straight. It was worse than Smith or Adams, for that matter. Still, a real live person brought in the candlesticks to sell. Yet when the sale took place, the money was put in another woman’s name. Elizabeth McAllister.
Elizabeth was the mother of Simon. Both of whom simply disappeared without a trace nearly two years ago.
Helen thought she’d reached a dead end. The missing persons’ case was cold. It didn’t seem like anyone cared about these two people vanishing. On further study, Helen learned of another sister who’d gone missing. It was then Helen found herself in the halls of a favorite haunt, the public library. Then she explained her plight to her oldest friend, and only real family-like person in Helen’s life, Mrs. Dawson.
Now the book from Mrs. Dawson’s library warmed her palm as she opened it to the pages of the man with the woman who looked like her. Under their pictures was a simple passage. Love is Timeless. Whoever wrote the book was either a poet or a romantic.
A school picture of Simon dropped from one of the pages. Helen gripped the familiar photo, the same one that had been plastered in newspapers and on milk cartons for months. Even though his mother disappeared at the same time, the authorities always obtained more tips about missing children than missing adults.
Helen didn’t know what to think. Only that her gift was pointing toward the child and not the mother. But something told her if she found one, she’d likely find the other. She shoved her things back in her bag and pushed herself to her feet.
A flicker of white caught her eye. The picture of Simon lifted with a breeze, floating away on the wind.
With bag in hand, she ran after the photograph. She tripped once, scraping her palms on the jagged surface of the rocks, and then took off running again. When the wind calmed for a moment the picture dropped and caught in a weed.
Helen pounced on it.
Out of breath, she placed her stinging hand on her chest, and held the picture with the other. A smudge of dirt layered the picture. Helen brushed the filth aside and left a trail of blood on the image.
“Dammit.”
Her hands were a mess, full of embedded gravel and dirt with just enough blood to cake it all together.
She shook the picture. “See, here. I’m bleeding to find you, Simon McAllister. So stop trying to fly away.”
The words no sooner left her lips before the sound of the ocean simply turned off. The air around her crackled and rushed out of her lungs.
The colors of the sky disappeared in a swirling tornado. The grass around her flickered and went black.
Panic rose in her throat in a scream, but when she opened her lips the sound didn’t escape. Gravity sucked her down and pushed her back up.
All Helen could do was sit hopelessly by and pray the world found its axis soon.
Wind swirled around her and a loud thunderous roar replaced the nothing.
When Helen’s stomach threatened to rebel, she closed her eyes and crushed her hands to her ears.
I don’t want to die.
As fast as the world shifted around her, it came to a stunning halt.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Helen held perfectly still, fearing any movement would start the tornado again.
Her skin chilled. The temperature felt almost frigid, and the smell of the air had changed.
The sound of a horse neighing forced her eyes to spring open.
She was in a forest, a lush green forest with dew dripping off the trees. A massive black horse stood a couple of yards away and eyed her with curiosity.
“Well now, what have we here?” A deep, tender voice rumbled behind her.
Helen jumped to her feet and let loose the scream that had been lodged in her throat before. Now filling every inch of the surrounding forest with her shock, she spun, dropping her backpack at her feet.
There, standing in the middle of the forest and draped in only a kilt, stood the man from the book. Only this man was massive, huge in a way a picture could never describe. Thick arms and a bare chest so ripped with muscles, Helen couldn’t help thinking he could do some serious damage to anyone if he had a mind to.
And she was alone with him.
Her head reeled.
It was too much. Everything had happened so quickly. She started to back away from the stranger, her foot caught on her pack, and down she went.
Fine with her. Maybe she’d hit her head and wake up in her bed and all of this was nothing but a dream.
Chapter Three
Simon lunged to catch this stunning traveler before she hit the ground, but he couldn’t move fast enough. Kneeling beside her, he carefully pushed a lock of her hair from her forehead. Her eyes were shut, her breathing slow and steady. “Come now, lass. Wake for me.”
She didn’t. With gentle fingers, he brushed through her hair and felt for any lumps or tender patches. Finding none, he lifted her head, rested it on his knee, and waited for her to wake.
“When?” From when did she travel, and why? She wore a cotton shirt with perfect stitching. His eye traveled to her thigh and stuck there. Shorts were from a time in which he’d once lived. Memories of days running in the park, or on the playground with others in similar clothing, were etched so deeply in his past he had to close his eyes to reach it.
Forever ago.
It seemed it had been a lifetime since he saw this woman’s garb worn by anyone. Even his own mother and aunt didn’t bother any longer. Lizzy, his mother, rebelled against the clothing of this century for nearly five years before giving up the fight. His Aunt Tara gave up shortly after Simon and his mother arrived. Either way, Simon wasn’t used to seeing women with their legs bare for anyone to gaze upon.
He liked it.
In a strange way, he missed it. Her sun kissed skin was free of any hair. Smooth. His hand itched to feel the silky surface. But before his fingers made contact, the woman winced and shuddered as she came awake, jarring him from his thoughts. If she’d been any other girl, he’d worry about the impropriety of her head being in his lap. This girl was from a different time, and he doubted she’d be shocked at his closeness. Well, at least not as much as a common lass from this time.
“There you are,” Simon whispered.
Her jaw tightened, and her body went rigid.
“You’re still here.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement that brought a smile to Simon’s lips. “Aye.”
“Where am I?”
Anyone else, he would have scoffed at the question. “Scotland.”
She nodded, eyes still closed.
“That’s good.”
“You are not from Scotland.” Easily deduced from her lack of accent.
“No.”
“America then?” It was a trick question since America was little more than an unexplored land full of Indians at this date in time.
The girl nodded, smiled. “Yeah, California.” Her eyes were still closed.
“Who’s the leader…? I mean president?”
Her brow pitched together before her eyes sprung open. “Obama. Geez, I didn’t hit my head that hard.”
Bright blue eyes met his.
Beautiful.
Obama. Not a name he recognized. This woman must be from a future he hadn’t experienced. The confusion marring the expression on her face as it searched his made him wonder if she knew what she’d done.
She gazed at him for several seconds with a multitude of emotions filling her eyes. “You’re him,” she finally said.
Simon held his tongue. If there was one thing he’d learned in this time, it was to let others speak their piece before he offered his own. Patience was something he’d learned through the years. Not something practiced in this woman’s America.
She knew him, but Simon knew nothing of her. Maybe she was sent from the future with a message. A warning. Lord knew he’d had plenty of them.
“What’s your name, lass?”
“Helen.”
When she didn’t offer more, he asked. “You were looking for me?”
Helen shook her head.
It was his turn to look confused.
“You’re not looking for me?”
“I’m looking for a child. Y-you look like someone I’ve seen before.”
Her gaze moved to his plaid, her cheek was firm against his thigh. Helen scrambled to remove herself from his lap, but her eyes never left his. “Who are you?”
“’Tis you who showed up from nowhere, and you who needs to answer my questions. Where did you come from?”
She took in the woods around her, her eyes pitching together again. “I was walking in a…. I don’t know, meadow, I guess. I dropped something.” Helen glanced down at her hand. In it was a paper crushed within her palm. She uncoiled her fingers and flattened the paper to her other hand. “Then everything went crazy.”
“A meadow?” Simon glanced at the trees above their heads.
“Maybe I did hit my head.”
Simon didn’t think the confusion on her face was false, but he didn’t dare say anything that would damn him or his family. Better to keep quiet and learn.
Kong, he called his horse in his head.
The massive animal started toward them. Helen’s focus changed from the woods to the animal.
“Where did he come from? Where did you come from?” Helen backed up a few steps.
Simon took a step toward her, and she scrambled out of his reach. Stopping, he placed a hand in the air.
“I’ll not hurt you, lass.”
“You weren’t here. None of this was here.”
“Right. You were in a meadow, chasing that paper, then noise erupted, and darkness fell.”
She was nodding now, eyes full of hope. “Right.”
“Then everything stopped, and you were standing here.”
Helen’s head bobbed on her neck. “Exactly.”
“Only you don’t know where here is, do you?”
“Scotland. You said Scotland.”
Where wasn’t the right question, but Simon wasn’t about to ask her the harder one.
“Helen?” He approached her slowly, as he would a child. His hand lifted to hers.
“What the hell is going on?”
Spunk, he loved a woman with passion. “I have answers, but I think you’d feel better in the presence of other women.”
Even from her time, a woman alone in the woods with a man would be frightening. Unless the woman was a fighter, or police officer. This one looked soft and vulnerable. It was a very good thing he’d come upon her instead of any other medieval man.
“You’re not a woman.”
He laughed. “Nay. That I’m not. But my family is full of them. They can help.”
* * * *
Helen had never been on a horse in her life, let alone with a man as solid as Fort Knox at her back. Yet here she was sitting ram-rod-straight on a huge horse with a huge man flush against her.
He looked nothing like any man she’d ever seen. Every ounce of his body looked as if it had been carved from stone, every muscle firmly in place. Dark locks of hair draped around his face, a scruff of facial hair afforded him a mysterious look any woman would appreciate.
The skin on her bare arms tingled, not in the way it should considering she had no idea where she was, or more importantly, how she’d come to be there. It was because of the man whose muscular legs tensed against hers as they rode.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Helen thought she knew him. A strange sense of déjà vu washed over her every time he spoke. She supposed it was like thinking you knew a celebrity simply because you’ve seen them on the big screen. Yes, that had to be it. The picture in the book resembled the man at her back, therefore she thought she knew him.
Get your head out of that book, she chastised herself. She ought to be thinking about where she was, or where her car had disappeared to. Maybe she’d fallen when she’d reached for the picture and hit her head when she fell. That would explain a lot.
Helen reached for the top of her skull, feeling for a knot.
Nothing.
“You didn’t hit your head.”
Statement, not a question.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve not hit your head. Everything you see from this moment on is real. Remarkable, but real.” His deep voice rumbled in his chest and stroked upon her back in a hauntingly familiar caress.
“How do you know my thoughts?”
He laughed. “I’ve been where you are.”
The horse under her stuttered in his step.
“What’s your name?”
He leaned back on the reins. The horse stopped.
Every noise in the forest waited for her next breath. Without being told, Helen lowered her voice. “What is it?” she whispered.
The man behind her went rigid. The reins in his hand fell to the side of the horse, raising alarm in Helen’s blood. What if the horse bolted without its master holding him tight?
Helen bent over the horse, grasping for the leather.
“Shhh.”
Crouched over the animal, Helen’s gaze wandered beyond the trees, deeper into the forest. A forest that hadn’t been there before the strange storm swept her away.
Heat inched up the right side of her face. She turned toward it and caught movement in the wood.
The man beside her turned his head to follow hers. His hand drew the sword strapped to the costume he wore.
The same clothing the man in the picture wore.
“What is—?”
His free hand clamped around her mouth, silencing her.
Every nerve in her body stood on end waiting for release.
Helen held still when the man behind her let go of her mouth and reached into a small pouch strapped to his thigh. He drew a jewel-encrusted dagger and pressed the hilt of it into her palm.
She started to tremble. Helen couldn’t help her body’s shudder any more than she could stop blinking her eyes. The forest seemed to wait, quiet with anticipation. Her breath held in the back of her throat for some sort of action.
Nothing prepared her for what she saw when it came.
On their right, three men bounded from the forest, two on horses, and the other on foot. They wielded swords and wore armor that should have been in a museum instead of on their backs. Still, they filled the air with battle cries and charged toward them.
The horse she rode stood perfectly still. Helen would have run for the nearest exit. Only when the closest man fell on them did the animal move. When it did, it backed away, and her dark hero took aim at their enemy’s sword.
Metal scratched against metal while Helen grasped the dagger in her palm and held onto the horse’s mane for balance.
This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be happening. No one fought with swords any longer. The closest thing she could recall was knife fighting, like with the one in her hand.
Without looking, she knew this knife wasn’t like any she’d held. And before her misguided youth decided on her current path, she’d held plenty. She now turned to that instinct. The one that had kept her alive on the streets of Hollywood when she’d run from the last foster home.
The men charging them meant to hurt them.
From the force of their strikes, they meant to kill them.
Helen refused to fall victim to anyone before she had answers to the many questions burning inside her head.
While her hero beat down one man with a sword, another descended upon them. Hardly fair, but these giant men didn’t seem to care.
Black eyes met hers and skimmed to her legs astride the horse.
Helen couldn’t see the expression on the man’s face because of the strange mask he wore, but laughter lit his eyes.
She drew the knife in her hand in front of her, ever mindful of the man behind her beating his sword against the man trying to kill him.
The horse bolted forward, and Helen held on for dear life.
An arrow caught in a tree to her side, right as the horse skidded to a stop. It missed her by inches.
Three more men bolted from the forest, all more dire than the next.
Six to two.
Within seconds, they were surrounded.
The horse she rode stamped his foot on the ground.
Helen held her dagger in a fist, knuckles white.
“Hold your tongue,” her hero breathed into her ear.
Not that she needed the advice. If there was ever a time in her life to close her mouth and open her ears it was now. These men stepped from the pages of time, each of them regarding her with a mixture of lust and speculation.
Helen had an uncanny desire to pull her shorts lower on her legs.
“MacCoinnich?” one of the men shouted.
Her hero shifted his gaze toward the voice.
“Looks like we’ve captured one after all.”
The men circling them started to laugh.
The sound grated on her nerves.
“And with a lassie, too.”
What was up with the lass thing? Unlike any time the man at her back had used the term, the man stating it now did so with vulgar intent.
Her hero sensed it too, or so she thought as she felt his body move closer to hers. Without thinking, Helen moved her hand from her thigh to his in acknowledgment. Hold your tongue, he’d told her.
She could do that.
“Put down your sword, MacCoinnich, and we’ll let you live to see another day.”
The man’s accent was English, not the thick, Scottish brogue she’d heard since arriving in Scotland.
The animal under them pranced.
Helen held her breath.
A fight would be futile. They’d die. The men surrounding them were similar in stature to her hero, yet all of them had a deadened gaze behind their eyes. Haunting.
One man aimed an arrow straight at her chest. The thought of outrunning it would mean suicide.
“What do you want?” MacCoinnich asked.
“You, to start with. And then your companion. She appears quite inviting dressed as she is. Wouldn’t you say, men?”
The leader led the laughter erupting around her. She knotted her fist into MacCoinnich’s thigh.
This was bad. Very, very bad.
MacCoinnich’s breath brushed against her ear. “Follow Kong, my horse,” he uttered.
Maybe he had a plan. A plan of escape.
Yet as the thought solidified in her mind, their enemies drew closer.
Her hero lowered his sword, but his body screamed with tension.
The predatory cry of a bird filled the air and several of the men shot their attention above their heads. The horse carrying the warrior holding the bow pitched onto his back legs, forcing the man to lose his aim to stay on the animal.
MacCoinnich drew his sword high, and wrapped his free arm tightly around Helen.
All the horses started to prance, their riders struggled to get them under control.
Kong leapt toward an opening between the men, and it was all Helen could do to stay mounted. The other horses didn’t seem to be able to move, but that didn’t stop the men from fighting. One threw himself off his horse and clashed swords with MacCoinnich.
“Grab the girl!”
Kong’s exit was blocked and the horse spun around.
Helen’s gaze collided with one of the men trying to kill them. From the ground, he reached for her leg. She pulled her leg back, retreating from his fingers. And when he moved closer, she thrust her heel as hard as she could at the side of the man’s head. When he fell back, another man took his place. This one slashed at her with a sword. The skin on her leg started to burn.
“Hold on, Helen,” MacCoinnich said behind her. “Trust me.”
The words left his mouth and the sky started buzzing with noise.
The man who’d sliced her leg open didn’t stop to glance at the sky. He descended with death in his eyes.
Suddenly, her hero jumped off the horse, and Kong ran at breakneck speed into the forest with Helen crouched low over his back. She tightened her legs around his flanks, but still didn’t think she could hold her seat. The voices behind her started to fade, but Helen didn’t feel any relief from it. She didn’t dare look back.
This was a nightmare.
Dammit, she wanted to wake up.
Kong’s gait shifted from a full run to a slower gallop. The change jarred Helen and sent her tumbling off the side of the horse.
Air rushed from her lungs when she hit the ground.
Kong continued to run away, leaving Helen less than a half a mile from the fighting men and struggling for breath. Alone on an open path, she stumbled to her feet, ignoring the pain in her leg, and scrambled behind a large tree.
She needed to focus. Her breath came in short gasping pants, while her heart raced in her chest so quickly she could hear her own blood gushing through her veins.
The knife MacCoinnich had pressed into her hand was her only defense if the men returned. Helen held it in front of her, and her eyes darted, following every noise in the forest.
As adrenaline started to subside, the pain from her leg started to scream. Unable to avoid facing the injury any longer, Helen glanced down at the three-inch gash on her calf. It wasn’t horribly deep, but it hurt like hell. Some gauze and an antibiotic was all she needed. She colored herself lucky since the sword that did the damage was large enough to amputate her leg with a single blow.
Using the knife, Helen cut away a portion of her shirt and pressed the cloth into her wound. With blood seeping through her fingers, she wondered if the scent would attract animals from the woods.
She had to keep moving. But where?
With the loose ends of the cotton tied together, she attempted to stand. Everything hurt.
After moving only a few yards in the direction the horse had run, Helen tripped on a stump.
Anger and frustration welled inside, threatening tears. “Dammit!”
Boy, did she want to sob big fat tears that would serve no purpose.
She didn’t. Instead, she picked herself up off the ground and began walking again.
A twig behind her snapped.
She spun.
Two sets of angry eyes, belonging to two equally angry men, stared at her.
If these two managed to follow her, Helen couldn’t help but wonder if MacCoinnich had died in the fight.
The thought of her life ending in a foreign land, at the hands of men dressed in ancient warrior garb, had her blinking back tears. One managed to escape, trickling down her cheek.
At the sight of her weakness, the men laughed. “No need to fret,” one of the men said as he stepped closer to her.
“Oh, she should fret,” said the other man who’d met her foot with his face. He didn’t hold back his anger.
Helen backed up with each of their advancing steps.
Why had she left home?
More tears clouded her eyes.
She thought she heard a growl in the woods behind her, but couldn’t risk turning away from the men to look.
Instead, Helen curled her arms into her chest and wept, “I want to go home. Please, just let me go home.”
The world around her tilted and once again fell away.
Chapter Four
Amber MacCoinnich cried out in physical pain. “Not again.” Grief swelled in her gut, doubling her over until she had to sit or risk falling. Her empathic gift suffocated her. The loss of Simon blanketed her with sorrow. She’d only experienced this feeling once before in her short life. It had happened years ago, when Grainna cursed her older brother Fin and his wife, Lizzy, sending them into the future. The memory of that loss swelled in her mind, even though Lizzy and Fin eventually made their way home.
The door to her room sprung open, her sister-in-law Lizzy tumbled through. “Simon’s gone.”
“Aye.”
Her body ached with his loss. The void of a loved one’s death was the only thing that compared.
Desperation marred Lizzy’s face. Her son was gone. In a heartbeat, in a one blink of an eye—gone.
Amber closed her eyes and willed the pain gripping her stomach to recede. She focused her gift, reaching for some hope. But she didn’t feel any. She had no way of knowing if Simon was dead, or swept away by some magical force.
She prayed it was the latter. The family would depend on her to reveal hope of Simon’s safety. And each year her empathy grew, nearly crippling her.
“Mother?” Selma MacCoinnich pulled at Lizzy’s skirts. The ten-year-old’s blue eyes clouded with unshed tears. “What is it?”
Lizzy shook her head and patted her daughter’s head. “It’s okay. Find your grandmother and aunts.”
Selma ran off and Lizzy closed the door behind her staring blankly at Amber with fear etched in her face.
Amber pulled Lizzy into a chair, although the physical connection caused Amber more pain. Her empathic gift felt like a curse during times of grief. It was as if she harbored the misery of everyone around her.
“Can you feel him at all?” Amber asked. Lizzy and her son shared a bond that once allowed them to speak to each other in their heads. As Simon grew, that bond severed. Left in its wake was what Lizzy described as a simple hum. A buzzing sensation told her, her son was well.
“No.”
Amber didn’t press. Soon her mother Lora and sister Myra rushed into the room. “What happened?”
Tara was fast on their heels.
“’Tis Simon. Lizzy can’t feel him.”
Lizzy sobbed. For Amber, the sound renewed her deepest fear, for Lizzy never cried. She was as strong as any Highland warrior.
Lora knelt beside Lizzy and gathered their hands together. “Shh.”
“I can’t feel him.”
“I know, lass, but hold hope. I’ve not had any premonitions of death.”
“If not death, then what?” Tara asked.
Myra ran her palm over her swollen belly as she spoke. “Could he have turned himself into an animal so small you’re not able to sense him?”
Lizzy shook her head.
“What if he used the stones?” Amber posed the question, and the women all turned to stare at her.
“Did he ever say he wanted to?”
“Nay. But perhaps—”
Lizzy shot from the chair and fled the room. Amber knew her sister-in-law would search all the hiding spaces around the Keep where they’d hidden the stones. After Tara and Myra left, going in different directions, Amber joined the search up the spiraled staircase to the tallest tower and into what appeared to be an abandoned room.
Behind a hidden door was a space occupied by one of the sacred stones—the stones the ancients charged her family with for their safekeeping—the time traveling stones, that hadn’t been used for over a decade.
When Amber’s fingertips touched the stone, it started to glow. She lifted it out of its home intending to take it to the others as proof.
As she started to stand, the stone in her hand grew hot. Fearing she’d drop it, Amber set it on the floor. Before her eyes, the stone split into several pieces. Light cascaded over the stone and created a searing heat. Amber backed away and watched as the broken stone mended itself back together.
When the light faded, and the temperature in the room dropped, the stone appeared unharmed, but beside it was a thumb size piece of the rock.
Determining the stones wouldn’t burn her palm, Amber gathered them and searched out the women in her family.
She found them in her father’s study, each with a bewildered expression on their face. Amber lifted both stones up. When she did, Lizzy and Myra pointed to the table on which they’d placed the other stones. Once Lora returned to the room all five stones sat beside smaller pieces.
“Should we look in the trunk?” Myra asked.
“Simon would never take that one.” Lizzy said.
The trunk Lizzy spoke of housed the sixth stone. Safely tucked away to be used some 500 years in the future. Simon would die before compromising that one.
Lizzy fingered the smaller stones. “They had babies.”
Myra, six months pregnant with her third child, laughed.
“What do you suppose it means?” Tara laid an arm over Lizzy’s shoulders.
“I’ve no idea.” Lizzy lifted one of the tiny stones and inspected it closer. “There’s writing on it.”
Amber crowded her, taking a better look.
“Aye. ’Tis the same as the larger stones.”
At the doorway to the study, the patter of small feet crowded in. Amber smiled into the faces of her nieces and nephews. Briac, Tara’s oldest son, stepped forward, a strange pack dangled from his hand.
“Grandpa asked me to rush this inside,” Briac said.
Lizzy gasped, and Tara walked to her son.
“What is it?” Amber didn’t recognize the material or design.
“It’s a backpack.”
Amber still had no idea of what her sister-in-law spoke.
“Where did it come from?”
Selma stepped away from the other children and placed her hand into her mother’s palm. “Simon’s horse arrived without him.”
* * * *
Simon wrapped his arms around the lass and braced for the fall.
A scream ripped from Helen’s lips the moment gravity crushed them to the earth’s surface.
They landed on something soft. The air around his body no longer felt cool or permeated with the smells of the forest. Simon jerked his head up, but kept the lass firmly within his hold. Protecting her from whomever may have followed them in the vortex.
Looking from side to side, he recognized the inside of a home similar to the one he’d spent the first decade of his life.
Under the trembling girl was a sofa. To the side of the couch was an end table and lamp. A mechanical noise filled the room and a high-pitched beep repeated every few seconds. Other than the noises of the apartment, there were none.