by Katy Baker
Digging into her pocket, she pulled out her phone and flicked it on. Nothing happened. With a cry of exasperation, she pressed it to her ear. After a moment, it let out the long, continuous beep to indicate it had no signal.
Sophie gritted her teeth. Okay. So she had no phone signal. That made sense as there was a storm raging outside. No need to panic. She just had to wait it out and then she could find the car and go home. No need to worry. None at all.
She walked over to a bench and sank down onto its hard surface. Outside, the storm raged, battering at the shutters on the windows.
Sophie settled down to wait.
CALLUM GLANCED AT THE sky, cursing his bad luck. A spring storm had risen out of nowhere—as it often did this time of year—and now he was cold, soaked to the bone, and thoroughly annoyed. If he’d been a superstitious man, he would have said someone—or something—was doing its best to thwart his mission.
Squinting through the driving rain, he spotted a building ahead. Small, square and white-washed, it gleamed in the gloom like a beacon. A chapel. And, if Callum judged it aright, it looked like the chapel of St Barnabas.
He frowned. In that case he’d been driven many miles from his path by the poor weather, but at least the church would offer some protection against the elements. Clucking to the horse, he guided the beast towards the building.
He dismounted at the entrance and then shouldered the heavy door open and made his way inside, guiding the horse in after him. For a few seconds he stood dripping onto the floor, as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior. The horse snorted and stamped, glad to be out of the rain but a little unnerved by his strange surroundings. Callum patted him on the head and then dropped the reins, moving further into the building.
It was dark and cold. None of the braziers or candles had been lit, and he wasn’t surprised by this. The chapel of St Barnabas was remote, allegedly having been built on the site where a martyr had died centuries ago, and only pilgrims normally made the trek out here. He walked towards the stack of kindling at the far end of the room, his boots echoing hollowly on the flagstone floor.
“Um, hello?”
He whirled, drawing his sword and berating himself as a fool for his carelessness. Had he forgotten he was on the trail of Alfred’s kidnappers? This would be the perfect place for an ambush.
But as the tip of his blade came to rest against the throat of a figure standing before him, he realized this was no group of ambushers.
It was a woman, and she seemed terrified.
Her eyes were huge and round as she stared down at the gleaming blade resting mere inches from her jugular. Shame washed through him. Had he been reduced to scaring women?
He sheathed his blade and gave her a small bow. “My apologies,” he said, holding out a placating hand. “I didnae realize anyone else was here. Ye startled me.”
She stared at him. Then she spun and bolted for the door, skidding to a standstill when she saw a horse blocking the way.
“Easy, lass,” Callum called after her. He didn’t move, not wanting to scare her further, but held his hands out to either side to show he meant no harm. “I willnae hurt ye. There isnae need for ye to leave. It’s blowing quite a storm out there.”
She glanced from him to the door and back again. When she spoke, her words were unexpected.
“You’ve brought a horse into a church?”
He shrugged. “Aye. I dinna think he would ever carry me again if I left him outside in that. I willnae tell the priest if ye dinna.”
She opened her mouth and then closed it again, her eyes straying to the sword strapped at his side.
“I mean it,” he reassured her. “I willnae harm ye. I shouldnae have drawn my sword. My apologies.”
“A sword?” she mumbled to herself. “He’s got a sword and a horse.” She passed a trembling hand over her face. “What is going on?”
Callum had no idea who this woman was, but she was clearly frightened. She wore strange clothes—attire he’d never seen any woman wear: clinging trews and a long hooded tunic made of a strange material. Could she be a pilgrim come to St Barnabas chapel to ask for the blessings of the martyr? Yet she looked like no pilgrim Callum had ever seen.
“What are ye doing here?” he asked. “Where are yer kinfolk? There are no settlements in this area so ye must be a long way from home, lass.”
She laughed shrilly. “You can say that again.”
She spoke strangely too, he noticed. Her accent was most definitely not Scottish, English?
She hugged her arms around herself and winced, a spasm of pain crossing her face. Her wrist, he saw, was bruised and swollen.
“Are ye hurt?” he asked. “Mayhap I can take a look—”
But when he took a step towards her, she backed off warily.
He stopped, holding up his hands. “All right. I willnae come any closer.” He peered around. “It’s freezing in here. Why havenae ye lit the braziers?”
She blinked at him. “The what?”
Aye, she must be foreign. What Highlander wouldn’t know about the stack of firewood and candles kept in every chapel for use by the congregation?
He crossed to the pile of kindling and grabbed as much as he could carry, crossing to each of the four braziers and lighting them. Soon a blaze burned merrily in each, chasing away the worst of the chill. He moved to the altar, reached underneath to the box of candles kept there, and lit several. In no time at all the gloom was chased away, and the little chapel had become as cozy as he could make it.
He sank down onto a bench, stretched out his legs and reached his hands towards a brazier. His fingers were raw with cold and he welcomed the life that slowly began to leach back into them.
The woman stood by the horse, as far away from him as she could get.
“Will ye not sit?” he asked her. “Ye look as cold as I feel. Come, warm yerself.”
She moved slowly, cautiously taking a bench opposite him. She reached her hands towards a brazier, sighing as the heat touched her skin.
He watched her. “My name is Callum Sutherland,” he said. “Are ye hungry?”
Without waiting for an answer, he got up and made his way over to the horse, pulling an apple from the saddlebags. He tossed it to her and she caught it, wincing as it jolted her injured wrist.
“Um. Thanks,” she muttered, taking a bite and watching him as she chewed. “Sophie. My name is Sophie MacCullough.”
“MacCullough?” he replied. “Ye have a Scottish name but yer accent says otherwise.”
“I’m English. I’m just here visiting.”
“Alone? Did ye get separated from yer companions?”
She shook her head. “No. It’s just me.”
He narrowed his eyes at that. From the look of her, she was clearly a noblewoman. The bracelet around her wrist and the ring on her finger were far too expensive an object for any crofter or farmer’s wife to be wearing. But no noblewoman would travel alone without even a maid.
“I dinna understand. Surely ye dinna mean ye are out her by yerself?”
She frowned. “Yes. Why does that surprise you? What’s wrong with me traveling alone?”
“It isnae safe. Any manner of calamity might befall ye.”
She stared at him in puzzlement. “What are you talking about? Of course it’s safe! I hired a car which I left in the layby at the bottom of the hill. I know the paths can be treacherous in bad weather but I had no plans on hiking—”
“That isnae what I mean.” He rubbed his head. Car? What on earth was a car? The lass’s explanations were making little sense. “There are bandits roaming the wilds, bad men who would see a woman on her own as easy pickings.”
The lass’s eyes slid to Callum’s sword, to the horse who stood drowsing by the door, then to Callum’s clothing, taking in his boots, his shirt, his plaid. The color drained from her face and she rose unsteadily.
“That’s just crazy talk. Of course there are no bandits up here. The police see
to that.”
“Police? I dinna ken what that word means but if ye mean law keepers then, aye, the laird in these parts does what he can. But the Highlands are vast and wild, his patrols canna watch every inch of it.” His words trailed off as sudden concern gripped him. She’d gone very pale, like she might pass out any moment. “What is it, lass?” he asked softly. “What’s wrong?”
WHAT’S WRONG? Sophie thought. What’s wrong? Everything, that’s what!
Panic began to bubble in her chest and she curled her fingers into a fist, digging her nails into her palm. What was happening to her? One minute she’d been talking to Irene MacAskill in the overgrown part of the graveyard, the next minute she was...where? Still the same place—that much she could tell—but it had changed dramatically.
And then there was this man. Callum Sutherland. A stranger who’d barged into the church, pulled a sword on her—a sword!—but had since acted with patience and kindness, even if half of what he said made no sense to her at all.
She hugged her arms around her chest. Her hair and clothes were beginning to dry, but she still felt cold—and it wasn’t just because of the temperature inside the church. Her left wrist throbbed, an insistent ache, but she had no time to spare for the injury. It was the least of her problems.
Callum studied her silently. He was perhaps a handful of years older than Sophie herself, and had sandy colored hair that fell around his face, piercing hazel eyes, and the kind of sculpted cheekbones and full lips that would have him on the front of magazines if he so chose.
But he also carried a sword, rode a horse, and wore the traditional Scottish plaid tied over a white linen shirt—all of which was mud-spattered and travel worn.
She squeezed her eyes shut. What was happening here? It was as though she’d traveled through...
No. Don’t be stupid. That’s not possible.
She flinched away from the thought, unable to entertain it. She turned away from Callum’s steady gaze and walked over to the altar. It was little more than a wooden table with a battered bible sitting on it. She reached out and ran her hand down the book’s cover. It was made from soft, faded leather and had seen a lot of use. She flicked it open, scanning the first page. It was a dedication.
Gifted to the Chapel of St Barnabas from Marchington Abbey.
The Year of Our Lord 1409.
She stumbled back, her legs bumped against a bench and she sat down heavily.
Callum rose to his feet, a concerned expression on his face. “Lass? Are ye all right?”
He took a step, but she held out a hand to keep him away. She breathed deeply, fighting against a rising tide of terror.
“The chapel,” she gasped, her voice quivering. “It looks different to when I first got here. How is that possible? It seems newer. In better repair.”
He looked at her quizzically. “I dinna ken what ye mean. It isnae a new chapel at all. The abbot at Marchington Abbey commissioned it to be built on the site of a martyr’s grave to give thanks to God for the ending of the Wars of Independence. That was over a generation ago now.”
The world tilted around her. Sophie would have fallen had she not already been sitting down. This could not be happening. She was dreaming. Or ill. Or...or...
Or I’ve traveled back in time.
The Year of Our Lord 1409.
It wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t. There had to be a rational explanation for all of this.
She surged to her feet and hurried to the door, but halted abruptly at the sight of the horse blocking the entrance.
“Um. Could you get him to move, please?” she asked Callum.
“Where are ye going? It’s still raining outside.”
“I need to get back to the car.”
Callum watched her for a second and then slowly nodded. He walked towards her and she noticed he was careful not to get too close. He took the horse’s reins, led him away from the door, and then pulled it open for her. She noticed that he had a tattoo on the inside of his left wrist. It was a strange design that looked something like a bird of prey.
Pulling her eyes from it, she nodded her thanks before darting outside.
Yes, it was still raining but the wind had dropped, turning the tempest from a howling storm to a spring rain shower. Over in the east the sun was beginning to break through the bank of storm clouds, sending streamers of light spearing down into the landscape.
Callum stepped up beside her, leading the horse.
“What are you doing?” she asked, backing away warily.
“Escorting ye to this ‘car’ of yers,” he replied, the word sounding odd on his lips. “What kind of a man would I be if I let ye go wandering off alone?”
Sophie wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or alarmed by that comment. She nodded tightly and set off, Callum walking silently by her side. She hurried along the path to where the gate should be—except there was no gate anymore and no surrounding wall marking the boundary of the church grounds. Ignoring this, she turned left down the hill, hoping to see the village twinkling in the valley below.
But it wasn’t there.
All she could see was the empty expanse of the Highlands stretching out, with not a car or a road or a house in sight. Sophie swallowed thickly.
“What is it, lass?” Callum asked softly. “Ye look mighty pale.”
“Nothing,” she insisted. “Everything’s fine.” She set off again, trudging down the road—which had become just a muddy path—scanning the ground for the layby where she’d left the car.
But she didn’t find it.
They reached the bottom of the hill and Sophie stumbled to a halt, no longer able to deny the evidence of her own eyes. There was no layby, no car. There was no road. Hell, there wasn’t even a village.
She swiped the back of her hand across her eyes, wiping away the rain that had plastered her hair to her neck.
“Do you have a phone I could borrow?” she blurted at Callum.
He looked at her blankly. “A what?”
“A phone. I can’t get a signal on mine. But if I could borrow yours, maybe I could ring the emergency services. Or a taxi to come pick me up. It would only take a minute!” She knew she was babbling, on the verge of hysteria, but she couldn’t seem to help it.
“Lass,” Callum said softly. “I dinna ken what ye are talking about. It’s clear ye are lost. Will ye let me help ye?”
“Help me? How?”
He lifted his chin to indicate the valley below. “I’m riding to a friend’s dwelling that lies over yonder, less than two hour’s ride away. Come with me. Ye will be safe there and can at least get warm and dry and a decent meal in ye.”
Sophie said nothing, watching him warily. He was tall, broad-shouldered and his wet clothing made his shirt stick to his chest, revealing contoured muscle beneath. He was an imposing figure and, if the way he’d pulled his sword on her was anything to go by, she ought to be afraid of him.
Yet, she wasn’t. Maybe it was exhaustion or merely the thought of a warm fire and a meal, but she found herself nodding.
“All right. I’ll come with you.”
TODAY WAS TURNING INTO one of those days, Callum thought as he rode along the muddy trail, the lass—Sophie—perched precariously on the saddle in front of him. It was fast becoming one of those days when everything went wrong.
He glanced up at the sky, guessing it to be somewhere after midday. If they were lucky, they’d reach Dun Garnon by midafternoon. If they were lucky? He almost laughed at that thought.
His hands tightened on the reins as he scanned the damp landscape. Where was Alfred? What was the news that he’d needed to tell him?
The balance is shifting and powers are stirring, Irene had said. Was this what she’d meant?
Ah, curse it. His thoughts were knotting themselves into tangles. He hoped that when they reached Dun Garnon his friend might be able to shed some light on the matter.
The horse stumbled over a rock, jolting the lass. She gasped, huggin
g her arm to her chest. Callum pulled the horse up with a muttered curse. In his worry about his mission, he’d forgotten her injury.
“Show me,” he commanded.
She didn’t move. Now that the rain had stopped, her hair had begun to dry, showing that it was a shade lighter than it had appeared, falling around her face in golden waves. Her skin was pale, her mouth pinched with pain. “It’s nothing.”
He frowned at her. “Show me.”
She hesitated and then, twisting in the saddle, held out her left wrist for his inspection. He took it gently, careful not to cause her pain. His frown deepened. The wrist was blackened and more swollen than the first time he’d seen it. That did not bode well.
He released her wrist, swung his leg over the horse’s back, and jumped down from the saddle. “Come. That needs treating.”
“It’s nothing, honestly. I just hurt it when I fell, that’s all.”
“Lass, I’ve seen enough injuries in my time to recognize that yer wrist is either sprained or broken. If we dinna bind it now, soon ye willnae be able to move it at all.”
She bit her lip, then nodded.
Stepping forward, Callum reached up, grabbed her around the waist and lifted her down. He did his best not to jolt her wrist, but even so she grimaced in pain as he set her on her feet.
She was very close and he could smell whatever soap she used; something akin to honeysuckle. Despite her bedraggled appearance, with soaking wet clothes and her hair in disarray around her face, he found sudden heat uncoiling inside him. She was beautiful. Her eyes were large and thick-lashed and despite her predicament, they flashed with intelligence and determination.
He stepped back. “Here, sit a moment.”
He guided her to a large rock where she sank gratefully down, cradling the wrist against her body. Callum had no supplies with which to bind such an injury so he tore several strips from the hem of his plaid then cast around until he found a small stick to use as a splint then crouched before her.
“Hold out yer arm.”
She hesitated a moment but then did as he asked. He took hold of her wrist as gently as he could but his fingers felt large and clumsy against her delicate ones. Carefully, he ran his fingers over her wrist, feeling for any sign of a break. She gasped in pain, gritting her teeth, but didn’t try to move.