Hold A Highlander: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (A Highlander Across Time Book 3)

by Rebecca Preston

  She heaved a sigh, trying and failing to put the thought of Jim out of her mind. There was going to be so much to do once she got back. The apartment was still full of his stuff… he'd packed up some of it when he'd left, clothes and toiletries and the like, but there were still heaps of his books and a lot of his furniture to be dealt with, especially if someone was going to move into the second bedroom. She'd have to get used to living with someone else, to sharing the place with a stranger… none of her friends needed an apartment, so it'd have to be some random from Craigslist.

  She didn't want to think about it… but the weariness from the flight made it hard to take much control of where her thought patterns were taking her. So, she spent a lot of the drive to Skye lost in gloomy thoughts of the relationship she'd lost, of what might have been if she hadn't found out what Jim was up to. Would it have been better to find out he was cheating on her after the trip, or before? Maybe they'd have made some nice memories here. Maybe the trip would have been enough to make him realize he shouldn't have cheated on her in the first place… maybe he'd have come clean and apologized, and they could have found a way forward together…

  She sighed heavily, irritated by how pathetic that train of thought was. She was better than that. She owed it to herself not to accept that kind of nonsense. He was a scumbag who'd cheated on her — she wouldn't have accepted that behavior from any of her friends' boyfriends, so why should she think of accepting it from her own? No — like it or not, Jim was out of her life now. She had the opportunity to spend some time without him — to reconnect with herself, to find out who she was outside of the relationship that had taken up so much of the last few years of her life.

  It just sucked to be alone, that was all. Loneliness felt more acute in another country… she found herself texting her parents, though she knew they didn't look at their phones much when they were driving the RV. Then she settled back into the seat of the car and tried to take a quick nap.

  Her sleep wasn't restful — she found herself in a half-waking dream about shouting at Jim for betraying her, and before long she woke up to the gentle sound of the driver's voice. He'd pulled over, and she blinked in confusion.

  "Are we there already?"

  "Not quite. I thought you might want to see the bridge."

  Sure enough, as he set off driving again, she realized they were approaching an enormous bridge. She peered dutifully through the window as they drove over it and took a few photos on her phone to show her mother later — but her mood wasn't good, and she couldn't bring herself to appreciate the bridge the way she wanted to. The island, as the driver had promised, was beautiful, though, and she gazed out at the shifting landscape flashing past the windows, trying at least to make her mind peaceful, even if she couldn't quite manage happiness just now.

  They reached the hotel not long after. She'd seen photos of the place and spent plenty of time on their website in the leadup to the trip — but still, as she stepped out of the car and felt the cool wind whipping at her hair, she felt a thrill run down her spine. It was hard to believe that she was actually here — after all those months of planning, here she was, standing on the Isle of Skye. Carissa thought back to the poem she'd written and grimaced a little — she'd given the standpoint character long hair but being here she realized that that had been a mistake. Anyone with long hair wouldn't enjoy standing out on these moors for long — not with the wind as strong as it was.

  The driver wished her a pleasant stay and headed off, leaving her in the hands of a friendly assistant who took her bags for her and led her through to reception. The smile on her face felt forced and uncomfortable but she did her best to play along with the receptionist's excitement — it seemed just about everyone had read and loved her poem, and though she felt a little self-conscious, it did feel nice to have her work appreciated.

  "But you must be exhausted, you poor wee thing," the woman said, clicking her tongue as she handed her a swipe card. "Danny will take you straight to your room. Dinner's in the main hall between six and nine but give us a call if you'd prefer to have something brought up to you."

  She nodded gratefully as the bellhop led her up the stairs of the hotel. Her room was gorgeous — a huge window looked out over the rocky cliffs with a view of the sea that she imagined would have been breathtaking if she'd been in a better mood. As it was, all she really wanted was to lie down. Part of it was the trip, she knew that; the exhaustion of travel and jetlag… but on a deeper level, she knew that her depression was to blame. Flaring up again. Hopefully, a good sleep would help… but she was a little worried that she was going to spend the rest of this week in a deep funk. She kicked off her shoes, hesitating over having a shower — it had been nearly a full day since she'd last bathed, and she was acutely aware of the grime of the long journey — but in the end, exhaustion won out. She climbed into the bed fully clothed and lost herself to a deep sleep.

  Chapter 3

  Carissa had some strange dreams that night. Maybe it was the jetlag, maybe it was the lingering trauma of the breakup, or maybe it was being in a new place… but for some reason, her dreams were haunted by strange images of doorways, all around her. But they weren't just doorways in the traditional sense… she knew, with her poet's mind, that these were symbolic doorways, too, representing thresholds she was passing, points of no return she had reached. Through one door, she saw Jim, his face drawn and angry as she told him they were over. Through another, she saw her mother and father, waving goodbye as they headed off on their cross-country trip. But they reached back further than that, too — another door showed her spraining her ankle in the eleventh grade, an injury that had put an end to some lingering ideas of getting an athletic scholarship to college. Through another, she saw herself bundling up college applications and dropping them into the recycling, remembered the decision she'd made to get a job instead of going to college.

  Then, at the very end of the strange hallway she was walking down, she saw another door — this one tiny and wooden, seeming to be carved out of ancient oak instead of the pine wood of the previous doors she'd looked through. And unlike the others, this one was closed. She couldn't see anything within it… was it a doorway into her own life? What could it mean? If those doors looked into the past, was it possible that this one looked into the future? She approached it, full of apprehension, but just as she bent to reach out for the handle, she heard a sharp knocking coming from the door — and jerked awake, utterly disoriented.

  Carissa took a moment to still her racing heart. The hallway was gone — she was lying in her bed in the hotel room, and morning sunlight was pouring onto the carpet. The knocking was still there, though, and she called hoarsely for them to come in, realizing that someone was knocking on the hotel door.

  "Good morning," a Scottish voice trilled — she recognized the woman from reception and managed a smile. "You must be starved, you poor thing. Did you sleep right through dinner?"

  "I think so," she said, rubbing her eyes blearily, not wanting to know what a sight she must look. "Sorry."

  "Don't be! You've had a long journey. Breakfast," the woman said brightly, placing a covered tray on the table across the room. "And an itinerary for the day. There's a tour of the ruins today; if you're feeling up to it!"

  "The ruins?" She remembered reading something like that in the brochures they'd sent her, but all of that was feeling a very long way away at the moment.

  The woman smiled. "Oh, yes! One of our more exciting historical attractions. The Dunscaith ruins… what remains of a medieval castle. The tour guide's excellent," the woman added with a twinkle in her eye. "And I'm not just saying that because he's my husband."

  "That sounds great," she said, remembering in more detail now. "I'd love to go along."

  "I'll pop your name down! I'll leave you to your breakfast for now, though."

  Carissa thanked her warmly — but the door had already clicked shut behind her when she realized she hadn't remembered her name. Hopefully,
there was a name plate at reception or something, she thought with a guilty twinge. Her appetite was non-existent — that was pretty common when it came to her depression, she thought with an aggrieved sigh — but she had enough experience with it to know that not eating would make it worse, not better. And the meal laid out for her under the tray's covering was generous to say the least. She was able to get through barely half of what was there — scrambled eggs, baked beans, sausages, toast with lashings of butter, perfectly fried bacon… it was hard not to feel better after a meal like that.

  Fortified with food, she took herself into the little ensuite bathroom and finally washed the trip off her body. Maybe it was being in a different country, maybe it was the lingering jetlag, or maybe it was the disorientation of her long, long sleep, but the water felt different against her skin. She washed her hair, too, enjoying the lavender-scented shampoo the hotel had provided, and by the time she'd dried herself off she was feeling… well, not better, exactly. Better was a difficult concept when it came to depression. But there were fewer things making her feel worse, that was for sure.

  She spent the rest of the morning unpacking, settling into the room more comfortably. She was only going to be there for a few weeks, but she knew from experience that it was nice to have a space that felt fully your own. For the first time in a long time, she realized, she wasn't thinking about leaving space for anyone else's possessions — an odd twinge of mingled guilt and relief, at that. The room would have been a little cramped with Jim at her side. She realized that the receptionist hadn't asked her about why there were two names on the booking but only one person had appeared, and she felt a brief surge of gratitude for the woman. That wasn't a conversation she was particularly interested in having right now.

  She reset her watch and fidgeted with her phone until she was sure it was on the right time zone — and then realized with a start that the tour would be starting soon. Carissa dressed quickly, remembering what her mother had said about the importance of wearing lots of layers. It was summer in Scotland, and though it wasn't exactly hot outside, the sun could get strong… but not strong enough to cancel out the wind. Layers was the key to maintaining a comfortable temperature in the sun and the shade.

  So, wrapped in a few layers — undershirt, shirt, sweater, cardigan and jacket, plus a scarf that she tucked into her backpack for safety — Carissa headed down to hotel reception, where a crowd of distinctly tourist-like people were standing around chatting. A tall, red-headed man in his fifties with a clipboard under one arm and a jacket with the hotel's logo on it seemed to be in charge — she approached him to sign in, and he gave her a twinkly blue-eyed smile when he recognized her.

  "You're our poet!" he said brightly, drawing a few looks of interest from the other guests waiting for the tour.

  She blushed, not especially interested in that kind of attention right now — seeming to sense her discomfiture, the guide tipped her a wink and lowered his voice.

  "Glad to have you. You're coming along to the Dunscaith ruin?"

  She nodded.

  He grinned. "Excellent. I don't doubt you'll find a bit of inspiration there. There's all kinds of stories about the Dunscaith ruins… myths and magic, you name it. But we'll get to that."

  She faded into the crowd, trying to look inconspicuous, and it wasn't too long before they were heading out to a bus that was parked in the hotel's parking lot and climbing aboard. The thing about depression was that first it isolated you, and then it made you feel like there was something wrong with you for being isolated. She sighed as she took a seat toward the back of the bus, setting her backpack on the seat next to her to discourage anyone from sitting next to her… even though a big part of her wished fiercely that someone would. Making small talk would be exhausting… but it was exhausting to be alone, too. What she really wanted was somebody she knew well enough to be comfortable around… but with her friends and family on the other side of the world that wasn't exactly an option. To her dismay, she realized she missed Jim. It made sense, she supposed — he was the only person she'd spent any real time with for the past several years. He'd betrayed her and she was better off without him… but in the privacy of her own mind, she could admit that she sorely wished that he was still here.

  The road wound through the picturesque countryside, and Carissa tried to cheer herself up as she gazed through the window. It was beautiful, she could see that much… and the chatter of the excited tourists on the bus should have helped improve her mood, too, especially the two teenaged sisters sitting in front of her who were arguing fiercely about who could do a better Scottish accent. The answer, of course, was neither of them. But it was as though everything she was seeing was through a thick fog — it was impossible to rouse any interest, as though everything was happening to someone else.

  With a heavy heart, she climbed off the bus after everyone else when it pulled over. The wind tugged at her coat and whipped her hair around, and she realized they were standing close to a sheer cliff that dropped all the way down into the sea. And there, a few hundred yards away, was the ruin they were here to visit. Dunscaith — an old castle she'd mentioned by name in her winning poem. It wasn't a particularly well preserved ruin, especially positioned as it was so close to the edge of the cliff — centuries of howling sea winds and lashing rain had obliterated all but the remnants of the stone walls. But the tourists poured into the ruin regardless, chattering enthusiastically as they explored.

  She drifted after them, feeling a little like a ghost haunting the living. The tour guide was talking to a huddled group of tourists, explaining that the ruin was famous for stories of witchcraft and folklore — but she found herself drifting away. There were several stone staircases leading down into rooms hollowed out below the ruin, and she hesitated a little before heading down, reasoning that if the lowest rooms in the ruin were going to collapse, they'd have done so centuries ago.

  It was a little eerie down here — perhaps that was why the majority of the tourists seemed to be staying up at surface level. But Carissa didn't mind. The lower floors were surprisingly extensive, and she began to wander through them, trying to interest herself in the ruin, in thoughts of people living here hundreds of years ago, making a life in this strange, remote ruin on the very edge of the ocean… and before she knew it, she'd headed down yet another flight of stairs. It was even quieter down here, only the distant crash of waves on the rocks disturbing the peace, and she felt a shiver run through her. The other tourists were as far away as her family back home. She was completely alone here. There was something oddly liberating about that. The idea of leaving everything behind, becoming someone completely new… hadn't she been entertaining the fantasy of running away, of starting a completely new life? Maybe if everyone else though she was someone different, she could actually become someone different.

  But was that even possible? Could she actually escape herself? What was that old saying… anywhere you go, there you are. Carissa sighed as she adjusted the straps of her backpack, wincing at how heavy it was. She always packed too many books — as though the bus ride was going to be longer than she'd expected. As though she might just fill five notebooks with poetry, somehow, on a two-hour trip away from the hotel… and as she looked up from fiddling with the straps, she saw something unusual.

  It was a small wooden doorway, so small she wondered who it was for and where it would lead. Perhaps it led to a storage room of some kind? And why was it half the size of a regular doorway? And how, after all this time, was it still intact? It seemed strange… but she didn't know enough about the decomposition of ruins to come up with a better theory. It was a strange doorway, though. It was wooden, ancient and solid. There was something almost… magical about it. The cool, dark wood seemed to be different to whatever the walls around her were made of, and despite the cool, damp air, the wood was almost warm to the touch.

  A magic doorway, she thought with a wry smile. Now that was a nice thought. Maybe if she crawled through
it, it would transform her into the new person she so desperately wanted to be.

  Chapter 4

  Carissa glanced down at the stone beneath her feet. Though upstairs, sand and salt had marred the rocky floors of the ruin, down here the stone was clean and looked almost polished in a ring that encircled the small doorway. She couldn't imagine what it was for and didn't much care to at this point — she was more interested in indulging the fantasy of transformation.

  Maybe it will turn me into a frog, she thought with a grin. The idea of being a frog on the Isle of Skye wasn't exactly a bad one. Frogs probably didn't get cheated on by their crappy frog boyfriends. Frogs probably didn't have to spend half their lives grappling with depression and the other half terrified that the depression was going to return at any minute so they'd better enjoy life while they could… she shook her head, looking down at the door.

  Magic wasn't real, of course. But Carissa had always had a soft spot for ritual. So, she took a deep breath, readying herself to crawl through the doorway. She was going to set an intention. She was going to let this magical door transform her — maybe not literally into a frog, but figuratively, into a person who… well, what? What did she want? She wanted … happiness; that was the bottom line. She wanted to be the kind of person who was content with her life, whatever form it took.