Soul of a Highlander: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Arch Through Time Book 13)

by Katy Baker

  Finally, he rose from his position and approached the front door, pushing it open and stepping inside.

  He froze on the threshold.

  Violence had clearly been done here. The table and chairs had been overturned and the few cups and plates that the Order kept here in case anyone needed to stay overnight lay in fragments on the floor.

  Callum stepped inside warily, careful not to disturb anything. Footprints marred the dusty floor. Callum counted at least five different sets.

  A low growl escaped him. Damn it all! He was too late. Always too late.

  Alfred had clearly discovered something, but their enemy had found him before Callum had.

  Callum crouched, examining the area thoroughly. There was no body and no blood. That meant Alfred might still be alive but captured. He made a circuit of the cottage, searching for any indication of who might have attacked and where they might have gone. But whoever it was, they were clever. They’d covered their tracks carefully and Callum could find no evidence of the path they’d taken through the woods.

  He circled to the front of the house and stood staring out into the trees. It looked utterly peaceful, with rays of sunlight falling through the branches, but it could not soothe Callum’s mood. Anger and frustration swirled in his gut. He felt the need to hit something.

  Curse it all! Give him a living, breathing enemy, something he could fight, not this insidious enemy that vanished like mist whenever he got close!

  He blew out a breath and considered his options. He ought to return to the castle. His people needed him and would be wondering at his absence by now. But his vow burned inside him. The rest of the Order needed to be warned. If Alfred had been captured, they might be in danger too.

  He returned to the horse and swung up into the saddle. Instead of turning east, towards home, he guided the horse south, deeper into the trackless woods.

  The border between his lands and his neighbors’ wasn’t marked, but all the same Callum knew when he’d crossed it. It was etched into his mind as clearly as a line drawn on a parchment. In some places in the Highlands it was dangerous to pass into bordering territory unannounced, especially with the War of Independence only a couple of generations past. Old enmities still festered beneath the surface—as Callum understood only too well.

  But this part of the Highlands belonged to his friend and ally and so he rode quickly, without fear of reprisals, into a land of crofts and villages that was just starting to show the green of spring after the harsh winter.

  He was passing down a narrow track, hemmed in close on both sides by a thicket of last year’s brambles, when the horse shied suddenly. Looking up, Callum saw a figure standing on the track ahead of him.

  Surprised, he slowed the horse, expecting the figure to move aside to let him pass. When it didn’t, he set his hand to his sword, wary of an ambush by bandits. But as he moved closer, he realized this was no bandit.

  It was an old woman.

  She was swathed from head to toe in a shapeless plaid in colors he didn’t recognize and was so short she didn’t reach the shoulder of his horse. Slate-gray hair was pulled back from her face in a bun and she stood patiently on the path as though she’d been waiting for his arrival.

  “Good day, mistress,” he said, reining in before her. He looked around, searching for her companions, but found none. Surely an ancient such as she shouldn’t be wandering the wilds alone?

  “Aye, it is indeed, my boy,” she replied brightly. “And even better for seeing ye.”

  “Me?”

  “Aye. I’ve been waiting for ye, Callum Sutherland.”

  He glanced from side to side, suddenly wary. What was going on here? Only Agatha and James, his most trusted retainers, knew he’d ridden out today.

  “I dinna ken what ye might mean by that, mistress,” he said carefully. “How could ye have known I was coming this way? Surely ye have me mistaken for someone else.”

  The old woman raised an eyebrow and then peered at him closely. He could have sworn he saw merriment dancing in her dark eyes. “Nay,” she said, shaking her head. “No error. Definitely ye I was looking for. Ye are difficult to mistake for another.”

  Callum bit back his impatience. He needed to be away from here, not detained by the ramblings of an old woman. She was clearly a little...confused. He gritted his teeth and then swung down off his mount.

  “Mayhap ye are lost,” he said, approaching her. “If ye tell me where yer village is, I will escort ye safely back there. I’m sure yer kinfolk are getting worried about ye by now.”

  A ghost of a smile played across her lips but it did not reach her eyes which flashed like chips of obsidian. “Ye are an honorable man, Calllum Sutherland, and I thank ye for yer concern but it is misplaced. I have what I need right here.” She stared up at him and her gaze seemed to pin him to the spot. “Ye.”

  A sudden sense of unease washed through Callum. He found himself taking an involuntary step back. Behind him, the horse snorted in alarm. The woman was tiny, old enough to be his grandmother, and yet her presence seemed to fill the space like a thundercloud.

  “Who...who are ye?” he asked.

  “Ah, now we get to it,” she said. “My name is Irene. Irene MacAskill. I am mighty pleased to make yer acquaintance, Callum Sutherland.”

  Callum froze. Irene MacAskill. He’d heard that name before, passed down in whispers from his grandfather and father before him. It was a name that everyone in the Order would recognize, and one they hoped never to hear spoken aloud. A warning whispered in his mind, sending a cold shiver right through him.

  Fae.

  “What...what do ye want with me?” he asked, more harshly than he intended. “I have done all that has been asked of me. I havenae forgotten my vow.”

  She held up a soothing hand. “I know that, my boy. Yer family has guarded the secret for eons uncounted—and kept the Highlands safe as a result. But things are changing and I have come to warn ye. The balance is shifting and powers are stirring.”

  She moved closer and it was all Callum could do not to take a step back. Her expression softened and she smiled up at him. “Oh, my boy,” she said, her voice holding a tinge of sadness. “I know it has been hard on ye. I know ye have pushed aside all that might bring ye comfort in the pursuit of yer duty. Ye have forsworn friendship, kinship, the chance of a family. Even love. Yer vow bows yer shoulders as surely as a weight around yer neck.”

  Callum stiffened. “I have done what was necessary.”

  “Ye have,” she agreed sadly. “But change is coming. Can ye not feel it in the air?”

  “Aye,” he breathed. “I’ve felt it for months. Something is happening. Our enemies are moving.” He fixed her with a stern gaze. “What can ye tell me of the Disinherited? What do ye know about Alfred’s fate?”

  “No more than ye, my boy. They are clouded from my sight as much as yers. But understand this: ye canna defeat them alone. The balance must be restored and for that to happen ye must allow another to walk beside ye, one who will crack the cocoon ye have woven around yerself. Can ye do that, Callum Sutherland?”

  All he knew of the Fae said that they spoke in riddles. Now, Callum realized that was true. What did the old woman mean? And did he even want to know?

  He stepped back. “I will do what I must. And I will keep my vow. The Order will stand against the Disinherited and honor our ancient bargain with the Fae.”

  Irene watched him for a moment and then nodded sadly. “I know ye will, lad. Just make sure it doesnae cost ye more than ye can afford to give. Remember what I said.”

  She turned around and walked away. Callum blinked and when he looked again Irene had disappeared as surely as if she was just a puff of smoke. Callum suppressed a shiver. The spring day suddenly seemed cold, as though a cloud had passed over the sun even though it shone brightly in the sky above.

  The balance is shifting and powers are stirring.

  What did she mean by that? Did this have something to do wi
th Alfred’s disappearance?

  His nostrils flared in annoyance. Rather than providing answers, Irene MacAskill’s appearance had only given him more questions.

  He grabbed the reins and swung into the saddle. Setting his heels to the horse’s flanks, he sent the beast galloping down the road with reckless speed. Urgency bit at his heels, a sense that time was running out. As he rode, his vow settled around him like an iron coat.

  Yer vow bows yer shoulders as surely as a weight around yer neck.

  Aye, it was as heavy as Irene said it was.

  Chapter 2

  Sophie had most definitely not dressed appropriately for the Scottish weather. Even though she wore a light coat over her jeans and sweater, the incessant wind still had a chill to it, despite it being mid April and spring being well underway. The breeze’s cold fingers managed to find every gap in her clothing, sending goosebumps riding across her skin.

  She hugged her arms around herself and thought ruefully of the roaring fire back at the hotel. Still, at least she was making progress. Of a sort.

  She crouched and wiped the accumulation of dirt and leaves from the gravestone in front of her. Sure enough, the inscription told her another MacCullough was buried here, this one from the nineteenth century. The little church and graveyard she was visiting occupied a windswept and desolate spot atop a hill where the wind sliced through like a knife. The graveyard was filled with nodding daffodils and tulips, who, like Sophie, seemed determined to make the most of the burgeoning spring, despite the weather.

  She sighed, looking down at the name inscribed on the gravestone. There were several MacCulloughs buried here. Were any of them related to her? Were these the graves of her ancestors?

  Pulling her coat tighter about herself, she wandered along the path. It led her away from the tiny church and to a part of the graveyard that was overgrown and unkempt. Here there were no graves, at least none that were marked with gravestones, and instead she spotted overgrown structures rising from the ground. They appeared to be buildings, perhaps the ruins of an edifice that predated the church, and most of the tumbled stones were covered with a dark green moss.

  Intrigued, Sophie wove her way among them. The path began to dip and steep banks rose on either side. The banks looked like the remains of walls and up ahead, a stone arch spanned the gap above, dark against the bright expanse of the sky.

  Sophie reached the arch and halted, looking up. Through it she could see the path winding on through the graveyard, purple hyacinths growing in large clumps on either side of the path.

  There was something about the arch that gave her pause. It looked sturdy enough, but the design was utterly different to the design of the church. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was but it exuded age, as though it had stood here long before the Christian church had been built nearby and would still be here long after it had fallen into dust.

  Listen to you, she thought. Since when did you become an expert on architecture?

  “Quite imposing isnae it?”

  Sophie turned, her eyes widening as she spotted a familiar short, squat figure standing behind her.

  It was Irene MacAskill.

  “You!” Sophie gasped. “It’s you!”

  Irene raised an eyebrow, then made a show of checking herself over. “My, my, so it is. Nobody ever tells me aught these days.” Her eyes shone with amusement.

  “What? How?” Sophie spluttered.

  “I’m sorry?” Irene said. “I didnae catch any of that.”

  Sophie sucked in a deep breath, composing herself before she spoke again. “Sheesh, you startled me. What are you doing here? I didn’t realize you lived nearby.”

  Irene smiled. “I dinna. My clan come from far to the east.”

  “Oh. Right. Then why are you here?”

  “I would have thought that was obvious, my dear. I’ve come to speak to ye.”

  Sophie shifted uneasily. How had Irene known how to find her?

  “Have you been following me?”

  “Nay, my dear, but I knew ye would come here. Ye canna fight the pull of yer destiny.”

  “My destiny? What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, I think ye know.” She tapped her chest right above her heart. “In here.”

  Sophie stared incredulously at the woman. “Okay. Sure. Whatever you say. Right, I’d best be on my way.” She gestured for the woman to step aside and let her pass but Irene didn’t move.

  “Sometimes we resist our true path,” Irene said. “But the balance willnae be denied. If ye truly wish to find the answers ye seek, if ye truly wish to discover yer origins, then ye must have the courage to take the path of yer destiny. After all, isnae that why ye are here, Sophie MacCullough?”

  Sophie opened her mouth to reply, but stopped as something tingled against her skin. She turned slowly, eyes widening. The space beneath the arch had...changed. She could no longer see the path or the flowers on the other side. It had been replaced by a shimmering curtain, like heat-haze over a roaring fire.

  And within that heat-haze she saw images: a huge, moss-covered doorway with strange symbols carved over the lintel, a sword glinting in firelight, and a man walking alone, shoulders bowed under a heavy weight.

  “What’s happening?” she cried, taking a step back. “What’s going on?”

  “Ye already know the answer to that,” Irene said by her side. “Beyond the arch lies a beginning. A fork in the path.” She looked up at Sophie, pinning her with her dark gaze. “The question is, my dear, what is yer choice? Will ye walk through? Or will ye turn aside?”

  Sophie’s heart began to hammer in her chest. She wanted to walk away. She wanted to turn her back on Irene MacAskill and her crazy words. She wanted to run back to her hire car and drive off, forget any of this had happened.

  But instead, she found herself turning towards the arch. The vision had disappeared and now all she could see was the shimmering heat-haze. She took a step towards it. A part of her screamed that this was crazy, that she shouldn’t be listening to the ramblings of a cracked old woman.

  But another, deeper part of her, felt a pull she couldn’t explain.

  She took another step. She was right beneath the arch now. Hesitating, she looked over her shoulder at Irene. The woman said nothing, just watched her solemnly.

  Taking a deep breath, Sophie looked up at the arch.

  Then stepped through.

  Chapter 3

  It felt as if the ground had fallen away beneath her. For a second the sensation of plummeting through empty air ricocheted through her body and Sophie’s stomach rose into her throat. She opened her mouth for a scream, but before any sound could leave her lips, it was over.

  Her feet thumped down on hard ground with enough force to make her knees buckle. She crashed to the ground, throwing her hands out to catch herself. Her wrist twisted and pain stabbed through her arm sharp enough to make her gasp.

  Cradling her arm against her chest, she flipped onto her backside and looked back at the arch. It appeared no different from before. Of course it didn’t. What had she expected?

  She shook her head and gave a wry laugh. Idiot, she chided herself. With a wry smile for her own stupidity, she climbed to her feet.

  And froze.

  Yes, the arch appeared the same, but as she took a look at her surroundings, she realized that everything else most definitely wasn’t.

  The church, the graveyard, and the surrounding landscape were almost unrecognizable. For a start, the church seemed in far better repair than it had a moment ago. There was no sign of the scaffolding that had been holding up the tower and it had a coat of whitewash so that it gleamed in the gloomy light filtering down from the gray clouds. The large yew trees that lined the path from the road were little more than saplings as high as her knee. There were no gravestones that she could see, only crude wooden crosses lashed together with thin rope.

  And there was no sign of Irene MacAskill.

  Sophie blinked several
times, sure she was imagining things. But the scene in front of her didn’t change. She licked her lips, fighting back a surge of panic.

  “Irene!” she shouted. “Where are you?”

  There was no answer other than the whine of the wind.

  “Irene!” Panic filled her voice now. “Irene! Come out! This isn’t funny!”

  Something cold hit her face, and she glanced up to realize it was beginning to rain. The wind had picked up too, and by the look of the gray bank of clouds on the horizon, a storm was swiftly coming in. Oh, just perfect.

  She’d left the hire car parked in the lane halfway down the hill and right now getting back to the car and then back to the hotel seemed like the best idea she’d had since she arrived in Scotland. She took a step, wincing at the pain that shot through her wrist, but before she could take a second step, the heavens opened and a sheet of rain came hissing down, drenching her in moments.

  “Thank you very much!” she shouted, throwing up her hands. “Couldn’t you have waited just for a minute?”

  She ran along the path—now just beaten earth rather than the gravel it had previously been—and pelted for the church door. Pulling it open, she slipped inside, grateful to be out of the wet.

  But her relief lasted only a moment. Like the surrounds, the inside of the church had totally changed. Gone were the radiators and light switches. Gone were the cushioned pews facing the ornately carved wooden altar.

  Now the space stood all but empty, with a flagstone floor, a few rough-hewn benches and a plain wooden table for an altar. A battered bible sat on it. With the gray sky outside, the interior of the church was dark and gloomy. A few candlesticks stood around, although they held no candles, and a stack of kindling sat neatly in one corner.

  Sophie leaned against the door, heart thudding. Was she asleep and dreaming? Or had she hit her head as well as her wrist when she’d stepped through the arch? Was she hallucinating?

  She dragged a shaking hand down her face. There’s a rational explanation, she told herself. Don’t panic.