Loving the Highlander

by Janet Chapman

  With only a negligent look across the valley, Morgan stepped onto the sand and gathered up his clothes and his sword, quickly draping the cherrywood burl around his neck as he ran back to Mercedes.

  He tossed everything onto the ground beside her and picked her up, wading into the stream until it was deep enough for him to sit down. The moment the burl got wet, it started to hum against his chest. The water began churning, frothing around them and sparking to life with thousands of bubbles that rose to the surface as exploding green light.

  He untied the shirt and pulled it from around her waist. Mercedes moaned, arching her back in pain. Morgan clasped her to his chest and lay back, sinking deeply into the stream. His body felt on fire as blinding green light blazed around him. He tightened his arms around his wife’s limp body and held her head just above the surface for a good ten minutes, gritting his teeth against the heat assaulting him.

  He sat up finally and looked at her wound. It was still bleeding, frothy red bubbles oozing from it. She’d grown paler, more limp.

  Morgan roared. The magic wasn’t working. “Dammit! I command you to work!” he shouted, grabbing the burl and tearing it from his neck.

  Supporting her with his knees, Morgan tied the leather cord around Mercedes’ neck and straightened his legs to lower her into the water.

  The green bubbles suddenly turned yellow, snapping with angry pops that filled the air with steam. Morgan lifted Mercedes just enough to see her wound. It wasn’t throbbing as the cut on his thigh had, but the bleeding seemed to have slowed.

  It still wasn’t enough.

  She was still dying.

  Faol stepped out of the woods but stopped at the edge of the water. Morgan looked up to see the panting wolf frantically dancing from foot to foot, as if agitated. Faol whined, then barked, then trotted several paces upstream.

  Morgan turned his attention back to his dying wife. Faol barked again, louder. He stepped into the water, then retreated, trotting upstream again, his bark turning into a keening howl.

  Upstream.

  The waterfall.

  Nearer the drùidh’s magic.

  Morgan stood up and gently settled Mercedes against his chest. He waded out of the water and followed the wolf, who was now trotting quickly up the edge of the stream.

  The desperate journey seemed to take forever before he finally reached the waterfall. Morgan simply kept walking until he was standing shoulder-high in violently frothing water.

  This time the light snapping around them was neither green nor yellow but a pure, blazing white that forced Morgan to close his eyes or be blinded. Heat radiated from Mercedes in waves so intense his arms and chest felt scorched.

  The mist rising around them warmed the air with summerlike heat, making sweat break out on his forehead and scalp. Morgan stood solid against the assault, reciting prayers he’d all but forgotten since he had been a lad on his mother’s lap.

  And he prayed, willing the drùidh’s magic to save Mercedes’ life, to heal her wounds and bring her back to him whole and hearty and spitting mad. He stood until his muscles trembled with fatigue, willing Mercedes to live.

  “I had a wonderful dream.”

  Morgan snapped open his eyes and stared down at the woman in his arms. She was smiling sleepily up at him, her face flushed pink around heavy-lidded blue eyes.

  “And what was it you dreamed about?” he whispered, his voice shaking as violently as his legs.

  “I visited Daddy and Caroline. We had a picnic high up on a mountain overlooking a beautiful valley.”

  Sweat broke out on his forehead again when Morgan realized that Mercedes had actually died for a while. She’d been with her father and sister and very well could have ended up staying.

  “Caroline doesn’t blame me,” Mercedes whispered, drawing his attention again. “She told me the fire wasn’t my fault.”

  “I’m glad you saw your family,” Morgan whispered. He shook her slightly. “Don’t go to sleep again, Mercedes,” he softly commanded when she closed her eyes.

  “I’m so tired, Morgan. My muscles feel like jelly,” she mumbled, turning her face into his chest. She smiled again, snuggling comfortably against him.

  Morgan waded to shore and fell to his knees on the sand, still clasping Mercedes tightly, finding himself unable to set her down. He knelt there for several minutes, silent tears rolling down his face. Over and over he repeated his thanks to God that his wife was alive.

  Faol suddenly appeared and quietly padded up to them and nuzzled Mercedes’ hair, his tongue washing the entire side of her face. Morgan didn’t send the wolf away but let the animal see for himself that Mercedes was okay.

  And still Morgan couldn’t put her down.

  Faol started to whine and dance from foot to foot again, turning in circles, trotting to where the pool emptied out of the cliff-surrounded grotto they were in. He barked sharply and sat down, whining as his tail thumped the edge of the stream.

  “I don’t care,” Morgan said softly to the wolf. “I will find our sniper and deal with him later. Mercedes needs my attention now.”

  Faol yipped again, standing and looking nervously downstream.

  “Go, then,” Morgan told the wolf. “Stand guard.”

  Without further urging, Faol whirled and shot out of the grotto, his tail disappearing from sight in a blur.

  Morgan looked down at Mercedes.

  She was still sleeping, her eyes no longer sunken into her head, her cheeks a warm, healthy pink. He looked around for a soft place to set her down, inching forward on his knees just a bit before he gently laid her on a carpet of thick green moss.

  He straightened, brushing back the hair from her face, feeling the heat of life on her skin. He traced the shape of her cheekbone, letting his finger trail over her chin, then down the length of her throat.

  He halted and stared at the empty piece of leather tied loosely around her neck.

  The cherrywood burl was gone.

  Morgan turned to look at the pool. The waterfall dropped from the cliff at the far end, sending a cloud of mist into the air that settled over the entire grotto. The water gently rippled with floating stardust that glittered and winked in the unearthly light that scattered its rainbow through the mist.

  The magic was spent, the burl destroyed.

  And Mercedes’ life had been saved in the process.

  Morgan turned back to his wife, continuing his inspection with a still trembling hand, needing to assure himself that she really was okay. His gaze went immediately to where the gaping wound had once been, but he saw only smooth, milky-white flesh that carried just the hint of a blush from her own inner heat. His hands settled around her waist, and Morgan closed his eyes with relief.

  She was perfect. Flawless. Completely healed.

  With a sharp intake of breath, Morgan pulled back, staring at Mercedes’ body. He reached out, lifted her right hand, and turned her palm toward him.

  No scars. Nothing but pink, healthy skin. He looked back at her left arm, then turned her just enough to see her back. There was no puckered skin. Nothing but flawless flesh.

  Mercedes was completely healed.

  Completely.

  Morgan sat down on the ground and scrubbed at his face, shaking his head and grinding his palms into his eyes.

  Now how in hell was he supposed to explain this?

  His wife was going to wake up to find herself lying in this magical gorge, completely naked and flawless. It was bad enough he wouldn’t be able to explain why she hadn’t died from her bullet wound. But her old scars?

  Morgan twisted to see the scar he had on his shoulder from a battle that had been waged more than eight hundred years ago. And he turned more, to feel for the long ridge of flesh on his waist, where a sword had nearly cut him in half.

  They, too, were gone. Disappeared.

  He looked out over the still shimmering water and shook his head again. Was he dreaming? Why hadn’t the drùidh’s magic taken his old scar
s away the other day in the stream, when it had healed his thigh?

  The light had been green then, not the pure, blinding white of today. The magic was more powerful here. Special. The strength of Daar’s thick old staff flowed into this grotto and was soaked up with the mist to nourish the towering trees.

  It also had nourished both himself and Mercedes and given them perfect bodies.

  And now he was left with the task of explaining to this modern-born woman just what had happened to her. And to do that, he would have to explain his own magical existence here.

  Chapter Nineteen

  She was dead.

  She remembered the force of the bullet slamming into her back. Remembered falling against Morgan. Remembered the disbelief, the pain, and the regret that she would not get to spend a long and happy life with this man.

  She’d died instead.

  But Sadie didn’t know if she’d landed in heaven or hell.

  Or maybe this was the purgatory she’d heard about.

  It was hot. She was hot. But she was in the most beautiful place she’d ever seen. Towering cliffs of gray-speckled granite formed a half-circle around her. Mist hung overhead in a suspended cloud, blanketing her in muggy summer heat. The roar of water falling from a great height echoed off the tall granite walls, and she was bathed in a fog-amplified white light.

  She still had all five of her senses. She could hear, see, feel the tickle of moss beneath her, smell the warmth of the mist-soaked spruce mingled with pine. And she could even taste Morgan lingering in the back of her mouth.

  Sadie slowly rolled over to face the sound of the falling water and widened her eyes as her gaze traveled up and up and up, following the stream of crystalline water that appeared to be shooting out of the side of the cliff like a giant faucet turned all the way on.

  She scrambled to her knees and stood up, turning in a circle with her head thrown back, looking at the cathedral-like room surrounding her. Spruce and pine and oak and cedar rose so high over her head that their tops disappeared into the mist. Ferns grew so lush in long-feathered spikes that they looked prehistoric. The moss she’d been lying on was as thick as sheep’s wool and so green it was almost fluorescent.

  It should have been dark from the abundant canopy of growth, but there was light shimmering everywhere, the source coming from the water instead of the sky.

  Sadie raised her right hand to brush the hair off her forehead, only to halt with her hand suspended in front of her face. She stared at her palm, at the perfect flesh that should have been covered with ugly scars.

  She looked down at her body and gasped again at the realization that she was naked. She instinctively covered herself, folding her hands over her breasts.

  And that was when Sadie noticed her arm.

  The scars on the inside of her left arm were gone.

  She twisted enough to see her back. The wide, jagged patchwork of skin grafts was gone. She tucked her chin and peered at her right shoulder. There was no scar peering back at her. Pink, flawless skin covered her back from her shoulder to her waist.

  Sadie folded her legs and sat down, covering her face with her hands.

  She was dead.

  She would never see Morgan again. He was back in their valley—all alone, mourning her, cursing his inability to protect her.

  Sadie pulled her hands from her face just enough to look down at her hand. What was the point of having such a perfect body if Morgan was not here to enjoy it with her?

  Sadie threw herself facedown on the sand and burst into tears. She didn’t care anymore that she’d been scarred. Better to have flaws and have Morgan than to be perfect without him.

  Sadie cried loud, wrenching tears, mourning all that she’d lost. She’d come to this beautiful place, becoming beautiful herself, to spend eternity alone.

  And that was when Sadie decided she’d landed in hell.

  She lifted her head at the thud of something hitting the ground. She looked up to see Morgan, fully clothed, standing beside where the pool spilled out between the towering trees. At his feet was her bundle of clothes and her boots, his pack, and his sword.

  Sadie jumped up and ran toward him but came to a stop several paces away when she noticed the look on his face.

  He was as pale as snow, the skin drawn back on his cheeks in tight lines of tension. His eyes were the color of winter spruce, and his fists were clenched at his sides.

  Sadie threw herself at him. She kissed his face, his hair, his mouth, whimpering her approval when his arms tightened around her.

  “I think we’re dead,” she whispered into his ear. “I’m sorry, Morgan, that we’ve died, but I’m so happy you’re here with me. I love you so much,” she continued, kissing him again.

  It took Sadie a full minute to realize he wasn’t kissing her back. And that he’d gone even stiffer the moment she’d started to speak.

  He didn’t know yet, that they’d both died. He didn’t understand what had happened to them.

  She unwrapped her legs from his waist and stood, dancing away from him and twirling in circles with her hands out.

  “Look, Morgan. I’m whole. I’m as naked as the day I was born and just as perfect.” She spun to present her back to him, showing off her flawless skin. “The scars are gone, Morgan. I’m me again,” she said with a laugh over her shoulder.

  He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He didn’t so much as blink.

  Sadie rushed back to him and unbuckled his belt. “Let me show you,” she said, unsnapping his pants and pulling them down to his knees. “You’re going to be perfect, too.”

  Sadie took his fisted left hand and set it over the spot on his thigh where he’d stitched up the wound from the moose. “There. See? It’s gone,” she said, looking up at his face.

  He wasn’t looking at his thigh. He was staring at her. Sadie gave him a huge smile, straightened, wrapped her arms around his neck again, and kissed him soundly on the mouth.

  “I truly am sorry we died, Morgan,” she whispered. “But we’re together, my love.” She rained kisses over his face as she spoke. “I was so afraid I’d lost you forever.”

  Sadie felt him reach down and pull his pants back up before his arms came around her again. Morgan swept her off her feet and carried her back to her spot by the pool. He set her down and then sat beside her, unbuttoning his shirt, shrugging out of it and handing it to her.

  “Put this on, lass,” he said softly, his gaze quickly roaming over her naked body before he turned his head and looked out over the pool.

  “I wish you’d take your clothes off instead,” she said, disgruntled but doing as he asked. She slipped into the shirt and buttoned it up to her neck but stopped at the feel of something dangling over her collarbone.

  Sadie lifted the leather cord and gasped, sending her gaze to Morgan’s chest. “This is the cord you wear.” She tucked her chin and pulled the leather out to see better, feeling for the wood that should have been there. “Oh, no. I lost the cherrywood knot that was on it.”

  She turned, frantically searching the ground for the wood. Morgan grabbed her by the shoulders, then leaned them both over until he was lying on top of her. He brushed the hair back from her face.

  “We’re not dead, Mercedes,” he said, his mouth mere inches from hers, his eyes dark and unreadable as he stared at her. “We are both very much alive.”

  Sadie blinked at him, pressing her head into the ground to focus better on his face. “We…we can’t be, Morgan. I don’t have any scars. And neither do you.”

  “You’re alive, Mercedes.”

  “But I remember the bullet. The pain. I remember falling against you. I was shot, Morgan. I…I died.”

  He slowly nodded his head, his eyes never leaving hers. “Aye, lass, you did die,” he whispered, bringing one hand up to finger the leather cord on her neck. “But the old priest’s magic brought you back to me.”

  “M-magic?”

  He nodded again. “Aye.” He let go of the leather and
waved at the air around them. “This place, the mist, the very water that flows from the cliff. It’s special, Mercedes. It comes from a pond where the drùidh’s staff was thrown two years ago.”

  “D-drùidh?”

  Sadie pushed at his chest, struggling to get up. He rolled off and sat up as she scrambled to her feet and turned to stare down at him.

  “What are you saying?” she whispered, fighting the fear that was rising inside her. She took a step back. “Are you…are you saying you’re a…a witch or something? A warlock?”

  He shook his head and then quickly stood.

  She took another step back.

  “I’m only a man, Mercedes,” he said, keeping his distance. “I know nothing of magic.”

  “Then how…” She fingered the leather cord at her throat, swallowing the lump that had lodged there. “Then how did you heal me?” she finished on a dis-believing squeak.

  He nodded in the direction of her neck. “The priest’s gift,” he said. “The cherrywood burl and this water healed you,” he told her, waving at the pool behind her.

  Sadie darted a cautious look at the water, turning just enough so that she could see it without losing sight of Morgan.

  “Wh-where is the burl now?”

  He waved his hand again. “Gone. Dissolved. The magic was spent saving your life.”

  Sadie dropped her chin and toyed with the button on Morgan’s shirt that she wore. What he was saying was fantastical. But, more important, why was he saying it?

  Could he not accept that they’d died?

  “Morgan,” she said, looking at him, taking a small step closer, and holding out her right hand, palm up. “Do you see this?” she asked. “The scars are gone. And that’s not possible. There’s no such thing as the kind of magic you’re talking about. A person can’t get shot and then just…just heal. And eight-year-old scars can’t disappear as if they never existed.”

  “Then explain to me what has happened,” he softly demanded, his eyes now piercing points of solid green flint.

  “We died. Both of us, or you wouldn’t be here with me now. That cut on your leg wouldn’t be gone. It’s the only logical explanation, Morgan. We’re dead.” She suddenly smiled. “And we’ve landed in heaven.”