“Did he now?” Margaret’s smile broadened before she turned her head to call loudly over her shoulder, “Bella! Fetch Colin out here to the desk for me, please.”
He was here! Somewhere back beyond that doorway where even now she could hear running footsteps.
The hard, tight little ball that had once been her stomach suddenly sprouted butterflies. Big, hairy-assed acrobatic butterflies, from the feel of it. All wearing steel-toed boots and marching in lockstep formation across her intestines.
The seconds dragged by in a fashion Abby would have denied was possible before now. Just as she’d decided she could stand it no longer, that she’d make some wild excuse and beat a hasty retreat, a small boy no more than eight or nine burst into the room. He ran straight to Margaret’s side, stopping to frown up at the woman.
“What do you want of me, Mum? My show’s on telly. I’m missing it,” he complained.
“Mind yer manners, lad.” With her hands on his shoulders, Margaret turned the boy around. “I’d like you to meet this nice lady who’s come for a visit. This is my son, Colin, and this is . . . begging yer pardon, miss. Did you give me yer name?”
“Abby,” she offered, almost forgetting herself in her surprise as the boy politely shook her hand. “Abigail Porter.”
This was Colin MacAlister?
“Run along back to yer telly, Colin. Sorry to have taken you from yer show.”
With a shy smile, the child took off running and disappeared through the doorway.
“Now, Miss Porter, do you still think it was my Colin you met?”
Abby could only shake her head, waiting for her brain and her tongue to catch up with one another. This was altogether just plain wrong.
He’d lied to her.
He’d come home with her, climbed his naked butt into her bed, and lied to her.
“I apologize for troubling you, Mrs. MacAlister. I was so sure that . . . but, obviously, I was mistaken and I’m sorry for taking up your time.”
He’d lied. To her. God only knew who he really was.
Her face burned with embarrassment and anger. The pitying look on Margaret’s face only made it worse.
“Dinna you worry yerself over yer mistake, lassie. MacAlister’s a common enough name in these parts. Likely you misunderstood the gentleman as to the name of his home.”
Yeah? No, not likely at all. He had lied to her. Plain, bold-faced lied.
Abby’s breath caught as she made her way down the stone steps toward the spot where she’d left the car. The cold mist stung her face, helping her to concentrate on something other than the tears blurring her vision.
Now what? This had been her last hope for getting him out of her head. Now she’d never find him, and that could mean she’d be haunted by him for the rest of her life.
She climbed into the car, slammed the door shut, and leaned her head back against the leather headrest. “Liar!” She spat the condemnation into the empty car as if she confronted him.
Damn him! He’d had absolutely no reason to lie to her. It wasn’t like she was going to turn into some psycho stalker who’d come looking for him.
She stuck the key into the ignition, biting back a bitter laugh as she realized that was exactly what she’d turned into. She’d traveled over four thousand miles to Scotland and spent the whole of today trying to hunt the man down.
No wonder he’d lied to her. A great-looking guy like that probably had women stalking him on at least two continents. And clearly she had turned into one of those stalkers.
“Thanks a whole hell of a lot, Casey.”
No, that wasn’t fair. This wasn’t any more her friend’s fault than it was her own. It was his fault.
Margaret had said that MacAlister was a common name here, so his telling her his name was Colin MacAlister could well be the Scottish equivalent of introducing yourself as John Smith, for all she knew. He must have thought himself pretty clever pulling that one on her.
Didn’t that just serve her right for picking some stranger up in a bar? All things considered, she had absolutely no right to feel so horribly betrayed. After all, he was nothing more than that: a stranger.
And yet betrayed was exactly what she felt. Hurt, betrayed, lost, and gullible.
“And stupid,” she muttered. That’s really what she was. She certainly couldn’t leave off her growing list how utterly, completely stupid she felt.
With a deep sigh, Abby put the car in drive, pausing before she moved forward to wait for the dark blue car idling across from her to pull out of his space. When the driver simply stared at her but made no effort to move his vehicle, she pulled forward.
“Men,” she fumed aloud, casting an indignant look his direction. “That one’s likely so busy trying to figure out a fake name he could give some poor woman, he’s just sitting there like a lump on a log.” Well, too bad for him. He’d have to follow her now. Hopefully, wherever that woman was, she’d be smarter than Abby had been. For her own part, she sure as heck wouldn’t be fooled by that trick twice.
Abby nosed the car forward but slammed her foot on the brakes as one little detail slipped into her mind.
How could she have forgotten something so important?
Behind her, brakes squealed and gravel flew as the driver of the car she’d seen earlier slammed on his brakes to avoid rear-ending her.
Their eyes met briefly in the reflection of the rearview mirror and Abby mouthed a quick sorry before pulling forward again, her mood too lightened to allow her to dwell on feeling guilty for her little driving indiscretion.
Colin might have lied about his home, but he hadn’t given her a fake name and she had proof.
She’d spoken to his cousin on the telephone that day to arrange to have him picked up from her house. She’d seen Mairi MacKiernan Navarro, a woman she knew personally, drive up in front of her house and take him away.
He might not be from Dun Ard, or at least not this Dun Ard, but that didn’t mean she’d never be able to find him. All she had to do was call up her old professor and ask where her cousin was now.
Simple.
Of course, before she made that phone call, she’d have to find the nerve to do it, and that would be the tricky part.
Ten
Liar!”
From somewhere in the endless black void, the accusation flew at Colin, pummeling his body and his soul with its inherent anger.
“He lied to me.”
Colin shivered as the plaintive whisper rolled over him. The pain in Abigail’s voice hit him harder than the accusation alone ever could have. Like some vicious beastie, it clawed its way into his heart, leaving an empty, gaping hole in its path.
He awoke from his sleep and sat up on the narrow cot in his quarters, one hand clasped to the wound on his chest to hold back the flow of blood.
Only there was no blood. Indeed there was not even any wound. It had all been a dream.
“By the Fates,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his sweat-slicked forehead. All hope of sleep forgotten, he slipped from his bed and crossed to a small window facing out over the Hall of the High Council’s magnificent courtyard.
He’d never experienced a dream so real. Not even the others he’d had regularly of the woman in whose bed he’d landed when he’d been pulled from his own time.
And dream of Abigail he did. Almost nightly now. Exactly as he just had. Dreams of her melting in his embrace, her body warm and inviting under his eager hands.
At least that had been the flow of the dreams before tonight. Before Abby had disappeared into the black void and this entirely different experience had overtaken him.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the lingering emotion brought on by her plaintive cry.
Why? Why would he dream of her being so distraught with him? Granted, he’d not told her everything, but how could he possibly have told her more? At the time, he hadn’t understood what had happened himself. He still didn’t completely understand, if the tru
th be known.
But he’d never lied to her. He would never have willingly caused her such pain as he’d heard in her voice.
Grabbing up his plaid, he wrapped it around himself and stepped out into the indigo-hued night. The dream had been more than a dream, of that he had no doubt. It had felt—still felt!—too hauntingly real.
The time had come.
With purposeful steps, he made his way across the courtyard and slipped through a small side door leading into the Great Hall itself.
He crossed the eerily empty enormous hall to take the great marble staircase two steps at a time. Without conscious thought, he willed himself to move silently, stealthily, as he’d been trained to do here in this place. Not until he’d wound his way through the labyrinth of corridors to stand in front of a massive carved wooden door did he stop to consider the man behind the door.
Like as not, Pol would be sleeping.
Too bad for him. Colin needed answers and he needed them now.
He fortified his defenses in preparation for the mental onslaught his ancestor’s shattered Soul always presented and then pounded his fist against the wood, surprised when the door swung open at his first touch.
“Come in, my son. Join us.”
Across the room, Pol sat facing him, with Dallyn, High General of the Faerie Realm, standing at his side.
“I must speak to you, your highness.” If there were answers to be had, these were the men who would have them.
Pol rose to his feet, the golden robe he wore flowing around him like liquid sunlight as he gestured to a chair next to him. “Grandfather,” he corrected on a sigh. “As my descendant, Colin, you’re entitled to address me as grandfather.”
“As long as no one else is around,” Dallyn murmured.
Colin chose to ignore them both in favor of dealing with the matter at hand.
“You asked that I come to you if the dreams changed.” Though how his Faerie ancestor had known he was having dreams of any sort was another of those mysteries beyond his understanding. “They’ve changed.”
Pol nodded knowingly and sat back down, pausing to hold Colin’s gaze for a long moment before he spoke. “Describe the change in the dreams to me.”
Describe the change?
The new dream tore at his gut like something reaching deep inside him, stripping away little pieces of his very being. But disclosing the full extent of what he felt? Absolutely not. That would be worse than acknowledging the pain of training, or the fear before battle. A warrior did not admit such weakness.
“I feel Abby’s presence more . . .” He paused, struggling to find an honorable description. “More vividly. She is upset. Upset with me.” An adequate compromise of terms. “I believe I should go to her.”
“No,” Pol rejected, turning his attention to his general. “The Coryells still have her under surveillance for us, do they not? Have we learned any more of this man who is responsible for her presence in Scotland?”
Colin felt as if the air had been sucked from the room. It was the first he’d heard of Abby’s traveling to Scotland and definitely the first he’d heard of any man. He focused his attention on Dallyn, waiting to hear more.
“She is still being watched, Highness, but we’ve yet to learn much more about Jonathan Flynn. What records they’ve found seem to indicate a wealthy, eccentric recluse.”
“Yet not only is he behind the expedition for which he personally chose Miss Porter, he’s also participating, accompanying those he has hired. An eccentric recluse, out in the open, freely associating with the masses.” Pol paused, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Nuadian, do you suppose?”
“Unknown,” Dallyn replied. “But the layers of secrecy around him make it a distinct possibility. Is it time, do you think, that we send in a Guardian? To verify and neutralize?”
“Send me.” Colin could not contain himself any longer. He was a Guardian. He wore their mark on his arm as proof. Besides, the idea of some stranger spying on Abby didn’t set well at all. Nor did the idea that some man traveled with her. Especially some man that might well be a Nuadian. His education in the evils of the Nuadian Fae had been most thorough.
“No.” Pol turned his gaze back to Colin. “You’re not ready. Your training is not yet complete.”
“No ready? I’m a warrior. I was born to it. It flows in my very blood. I’ve learned the way to recognize yer Nuadians. I ken the danger they represent.” He had, after all, faced them as a young man when they’d tried to take his sister. “What more is there?”
“You’ve barely scratched the surface of how to blend into this time.” Dallyn shook his head as if he were saying something he considered obvious. “You’ll need to learn much more to enable you to fit comfortably into your new life.”
Pol rose from his seat and in two steps reached Colin’s side, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Patience, my son. You will leave here when the time is right. For now”—he turned his gaze toward his High General—“let us hold off on sending a Guardian. Give Coryell Enterprises time to learn what they can.”
Colin ground his teeth to refrain from making comment, managing enough self-control for a brief nod of his head before he made his way from Pol’s quarters.
They dared counsel him on patience? On fitting into his new life?
Patience and a new life were luxuries he could ill afford. Though he’d yet to read the whole of the wondrous book he’d taken from his cousin’s library, he had made his way through enough of it to know that even should his friends survive the carnage of Methven, they’d have precious little time to recover before they’d be set upon at Dalrigh. Their lives depended upon his return and here he sat in Wyddecol, spending his days in practice of swords and playing at being a school lad with daily lessons.
Patience! He’d bide his time well enough, but for his own purposes, not theirs. Certainly not for learning to fit into a new life in this time. He didn’t belong here and he had no intention of remaining. His plan was to go home. To his own time. Home, where he was needed. And nothing—nothing!—would keep him from that goal.
Not even the wounded voice of Abigail Porter, still echoing in his head.
“Do we err in pushing him too hard?” Dallyn at last moved to take a seat, perching on the edge of the chair as if even in sitting he somehow managed to remain at attention.
“No, my friend. We do what is necessary.” Pol walked to the window overlooking the courtyard. “He is a strong one. Strong enough to face what is already inside him. The blood of the Royal line of the House of Fae courses through his body.”
“Tempered by the blood of Mortals,” the High General reminded.
Pol lifted a hand, waving away Dallyn’s suggestion. It was too late to worry about that now. His own mother had seen to that when she’d chosen to enchant Colin, drawing out his Fae powers and enhancing them.
It had been bittersweet knowledge to learn the old queen yet lived. He’d known only that she’d been exiled somewhere within Wyddecol after the Great War when the Earth Mother had seized power. That she’d retained the power to move between the worlds had come as a complete surprise. Like as not, the High Council and the Earth Mother would find it equally surprising.
If they knew.
As surprising as they’d likely find Colin’s powers to be.
If they knew.
But they’d not learn any of it from him. He didn’t serve them. The Royal family had always served Wyddecol. They’d served the Magic.
The Magic itself had chosen Colin and nothing in their power could change that. It fell to him now to do his best to prepare the young man for whatever lay ahead.
Behind him, Dallyn cleared his throat. “The Porter woman, she’s a Fae descendant, do you think?”
Pol nodded his agreement. It seemed the only reasonable possibility.
“That would increase the possibility that the man with her is Nuadian. She’s likely in great danger,” Dallyn murmured.
“Likely,” Pol agreed. “
And it’s every bit as likely that Miss Porter is Colin’s Soulmate.”
“If you believe that, why didn’t you tell him?” Dallyn had hesitated before the question, obviously working to reason out the answer on his own.
“Precisely because I believe that, my friend. The Magic grows stronger and with great speed. It grows tired of waiting for us to reunite the broken Soul Pairings. Until we know what it has planned next, we have no choice but to prepare as best we can.” No choice but to prepare those who had been chosen as best they could be prepared.
Below him, Colin crossed the courtyard, his figure all but blending in with the shadows.
“When Colin is sent to the RoundHouse on the morrow, I want only waters from the Fountain of Souls to be used for his training. No dilution.”
“Begging your pardon, Highness. Do you think that wise?”
“Wise or not, I believe we’ve diverted this young man from the course set by the Magic for as long as we’re able.” Pol nodded to himself, continuing to watch the subject of their conversation disappear into the door of his quarters. “Make it so, General.”
Wisdom was no longer a consideration; only expediency mattered now. Colin would be leaving them soon, he could feel it. He wanted his young descendant fully prepared when he did go.
“Cautiously, of course,” he added, turning to meet his general’s gaze.
“Of course,” Dallyn replied.
He hesitated to voice his next request. Still, it was necessary. “Someone must go to the Temple of Danu to invoke the spirit of the Earth Mother. Perhaps General Darnee?”
“No.” Dallyn’s lips tightened, his face devoid of all emotion. “I’ll go. No one else should be involved. In case.”
“In case,” Pol agreed.
“And now”—Dallyn rose to his feet—“if you’ll excuse me, Highness, I’ve arrangements to make.” With a formal nod of respect, his general crossed to the door and let himself out.
Arrangements to make.
Pol smiled to himself, turning back to stare out over the empty courtyard. A most delicate way of putting it.
Though use of the Fountain’s waters was forbidden by the High Council and the Earth Mother herself, Pol had no doubt Dallyn would find a way.
Highlander’s Curse Page 7