Haven dragged her legs beneath her and managed to kneel before him while she sucked in great gobs of air. She’d rather not stay in such a subservient position, but the fall had winded her as well as bruised her ribs. Tripping over the root added a swollen ankle to her sore toes and aching shin. Her hands were muddy and scratched and her hair tumbled down over one shoulder.
“Though I like you on your knees, get to your feet so we can talk like civilized beings.”
“Tackling me wasn’t civilized behavior.”
She licked clean her still-bleeding thumb as she rose to her feet. Rain dribbled down through the tree canopy. Lightning flashed. No amount of thunder could make her forget her precarious situation. The man appeared calm, but he might attack her when they reached her lonely tent. And why were his eyes flaming like fire?
A roar filled her ears as blood rushed beneath her skin. Her fingers turned to ice. Dead quiet, fractured by thunderclaps, caused a vague memory to bubble up. Hadn’t the old woman said use the storm? Haven focused on him then willed the lightning to strike. A searing flash of hot, white light smacked the earth between them.
Surprised, he stepped back then tumbled head over heels over the same root that had tripped her. A second bolt seared the top of a tall pine, high above them. Haven covered her head with both hands as branches snapped and flame-filled boughs dropped exploding pinecones.
CHAPTER 6
Unconcerned for the man who growled and cursed at her feet, Haven ran. With flames behind her and possible danger looming from every other direction, tears welled up behind her eyes. Sorrow, not fear, threatened her tonight.
“Fine. If this darn storm is here for me to use, so be it!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. She skidded to a stop and raised her damp face to the sky. She simultaneously slid her bloodied hand into the pocket where she’d shoved the broken potion bottle, gemstones, and herbs. She said the ancient words she’d found on the bottle the old crone had sold her.
Rain and fire, trees and grass,
I wish to be in my lover’s grasp.
Hear my plea, so mote it be.
Haven waited for destiny to bring her mystery lover to her while she stood drenched with cold rain and bitten by burning embers. She needed help, and her use of nature’s plants and minerals only made sense. The only unknowns this time were the so-called love potion and the lightning.
Fog rolled up from the muddy earth around her feet, and filled her with hope. A silver cloud plummeted from the sky to connect with the mist and embroil her in the stench of burnt flesh. A clap of thunder made her jump, though her feet couldn’t move. Static energy frizzed loose strands of her hair, which tickled her cheeks. The next white-hot spear of energy hit her, yet the fog encasing her entire body absorbed the lion’s share of the bolt’s heat and power.
Even so, fiery pain flashed across her chest. Her head throbbed. Her toes felt encased in boiling water. She shook off the pain when she realized that the catalyst of energy, joined with earth, water, and her pocket full of charms, might be the answer. A way to escape from the man chasing her, while bringing her back to the man who’d kissed her senseless. Suddenly galvanized with a sense of pride, she yelled the words again.
Rain and fire, trees and grass,
I wish to be in my lover’s grasp.
Hear my plea, so mote it be!
A louder thunderclap split the night. Lightning shrieked from sky to earth. Her fingertips tingled and her neck hairs stood on end. Darkness welcomed her and she happily slipped under its control while someone shouted “No!”
* * * * *
Andreas Borthwick rose to his feet and pulled the hood over his wet hair. The sudden mist dissipated, leaving him alone in the dark forest. The MacKay woman had escaped. What was worse, she might already be with the Gunn laird.
All my planning, and waiting, has been for naught.
His chance to reenact his revenge on the Gunn clan would have to wait until he got his hands on the amulet. He had wasted too much time waiting for a chance to confront the old crone. She was never alone, selling her little potions and whatnots to people of this century. People trying to be something they are not. Only with the amulet would he have the power to follow the woman.
Unless…
The MacKay woman used a spell or potion to escape his clutches. His visions came true. He had found the linchpin, Haven MacKay, but she had escaped his clutches and had been swept back in time before he could subdue her.
All I need do is steal the amulet or recreate her time portal…
The comely MacKay wench had spoken words that sounded familiar. Had he read them somewhere? Had she discovered them in the ancient scrolls? Impossible…unless someone aided her. Might someone have helped her open a time portal? The old crone, Dorcas Swann, might have had a hand in helping the bitch. If true, he promised to deal with the traitor later. First, he needed to reposition himself. Wherever—or whenever—she had journeyed. The amulet or the potion was the key. He and the Mackay would cross paths once more.
Soon.
* * * * *
Haven awoke on her side, dazed and wet with her damp hem twisted about her legs. The wind howled and slithered inside her bodice. She wished she hadn’t lost her cloak. Plastered beneath a soaked dress, her legs rested upon chilly, muddy earth. The air temperature had dropped at least twenty degrees.
When she sat up, a sticky mist shrouded everything. A sudden wave of dizziness flashed an image. Beyond the mist was the lone silhouette of a man. Proud and tall, he sat on the back of a huge horse. The animal shifted sideways as its rider turned and stared in Haven’s direction.
His ragged auburn hair suited him. Loose waves, buffeted by the wind, touched his wide shoulders. Chest hair peeked from beneath his white shirt. A look of abject melancholy darkened the scar bisecting the handsome stranger’s left cheek. Ancient, haunted eyes stared deeply into hers. While she stared, he turned his horse and galloped away. As if she read his mind, his thoughts turned toward an ominous castle at the end of his journey. She could almost see the black clouds that hovered above a tower of reddish stone.
Haven shook her head then snapped both eyes shut to clear the cobwebs. Ever so slowly, the choking fog transformed.
Just a stupid vision.
She hadn’t had one since Cal left. Interesting.
The once-opaque shroud spun into a semi-transparent cloud filled with the scent of flowers and reminded Haven of a crisp spring morning.
Spring flowers in September?
Taking stock of how seriously she had damaged Iona’s dress, she shook her head at the torn and blood-soaked fabric. Haven pushed to her feet. She wrapped her bleeding thumb in her ruined skirt as she inventoried each ache and pain. Whatever had happened, the lightning had not killed her.
Pitching forward on ungainly legs, Haven escaped the fog. Away from the mist, she sucked in clean, fresh air. She coughed then peered at a stand of huge, gnarled trees, far from the familiar grove of white birch and smaller pines that ringed the historical village.
The sun shone low over the east. Had she been asleep since she’d run from the creepy guy in a robe? And where was he? Her head ached. Rubbing a palm over her bruised ribs, Haven leaned back against one of the trees to recoup. She raised the heavy velvet brocade of her skirt to inspect the damage. Pink skin covered one thigh.
Tender, but not blistered.
Haven struggled to recall the cause of this new injury. She’d tripped over a root and twisted her ankle, and she vividly remembered the man’s hard body. When she’d fallen under him, she’d bruised her ribs. But, how did she hurt her thigh? It burned similar to…
A cherub face and a water barrel came to mind. Like the water that had splashed her, the rain had mingled with the contents of the broken potion bottle inside her pocket. A bleeding thumb added another new ingredient. Herbs and gemstones filled the same pocket. Something made the mist stronger and led her toward her destiny even though all she had wanted was to escape th
e creepy stranger’s clutches.
Cleaning the burn was her first priority. She spied a small puddle caught between several twisted roots. Kneeling, she sprinkled dry herbs from her other pocket into the water, dipped fingers into the mix, and made a paste. With a groan, she pushed to her feet then slathered a generous dollop of her hastily created concoction on her burned thigh.
A heavy sigh escaped her lips as the muddy mixture soothed the pain. Tugging a small handkerchief from her bodice, Haven pressed it to the wound. To keep it in place, she untied the gold sash from under her breasts then secured it around her leg.
Her hair tumbled down because she’d lost Jake’s handmade nails. Would he notice her missing from camp? And, where had the Indian summer’s warmth gone? Haven hugged her arms around her chest, wiggled her injured ankle, and took a step.
Good. I can walk.
She’d best get back to camp and lodge a complaint against the creep. She didn’t know his name, but there couldn’t be too many with his features. Glancing around, she sought her bearings, but nothing looked familiar.
Intuition urged her forward. With no discernible trail, she stumbled along and pushed her way through branches and thick bushes. The sound of fabric tearing added to the lazy chirps of birds high overhead. Haven yanked her long curls free from a branch several times, and lost a shoe as she picked up the pace. With one thin, silk slipper and one bare foot, her feet protested the roots and rocks that blanketed the forest floor, but she kept going.
A yearning sprang up to sit beside a creek and kick and splash her bruised, sweaty feet moments before she slid to a stop. Another vision? As she untangled another twig from her hair, she gawked at a path. The narrow opening in the greenery split the dense overgrowth like an axe.
This is more like it.
She hoped the trail led toward camp. As she walked, each footstep released the scent of decaying leaves. Gnarled and twisted roots crisscrossed her path, making each step a hazard. Ahead, she spied a narrow creek. Bluish-green water gurgled as it swept over rocks rounded by age. Tall grass covered the bank.
An odd black and white bird, as large as a chicken, screeched as it flew above her head. Twigs snapped to her left. Mist swirled around the base of scraggly trees. The eerie, unfamiliar forest made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Not wanting to stay in the cold, dark woods, she hurried forward. Her shoulders relaxed the moment she broke into a clearing and spied a creek.
A breeze teased the tops of the trees on the opposite bank. Her hair fluttered across her brow, warmed by open skies filled with sunshine. Eager to soak her achy feet, she smiled at the peaceful vista while she debated a direction to travel. Surrounded by nature felt okay, to a point, because who in their right mind loved smelly trucks and noisy machinery?
A hot shower and some clean clothes would be nice.
And breakfast.
Haven closed her eyes and inhaled. With no one around, a sense of peace made her twirl in place.
“Ouch.” Her feet hurt. She wrapped her arms around her middle, relishing her newly discovered sense of serenity. Rocky crags loomed to the north. Behind her, the wind whistled through the branches. She shivered as she remembered the storm the old crone had correctly predicted. Haven had used the lightning and rain to her advantage to escape the robed man’s clutches, but her skin still tingled with apprehension.
Her gown weighed her down and she worried whether she could manage to walk if caught in another storm. Having spent the night outside, last night’s gentle rain had been a blessing. Thankful for the growing warmth of the morning sun, she hurried to the edge of the creek.
Distant mountain peaks, easily seen from the historical village on the slope of another mountain, were no longer visible, probably because the creek ran through a small gorge lined with big trees and gray granite outcroppings. The water’s slow-moving current lapped the grassy edge while happy little birds chirped. Leaves rustled amid bushes to her right, making her glad she stood in the open.
The urge to soak her feet propelled her forward until she saw her image in the surface of the water. She groaned at the sight of her disheveled hair and mud-splattered gown. Sunlight swept over the creek as she bent to pull off her lone slipper.
Obviously, the shoes weren’t made in the correct way. Scottish women walked all the time. She made a mental note to research shoes before next year. Would she volunteer next year? She’d give the Highland games a few more days before she decided. If she didn’t get back quickly, Iona might not ask for her help again.
She grabbed her muddy slipper and freed her achy toes. After wiggling them in the tall grass, she stepped into the current. Pure pleasure forced a long, low sigh from her lips. Her smile faded when a sudden icy chill washed over her.
“I feel like I’m being watched.”
Haven glanced upstream and froze.
* * * * *
Two screaming falcons soared overhead, filling Kirk with envy. Tightening his fist around his bow, he shook his free hand. His footsteps scattered pinecones and twigs, flushing out a quail. Would the fowl yield enough edible meat to feed his men? Probably not.
Along with several in his party, he scouted about for fresh food while the wounded had their injuries tended. If he could add a haunch of venison to the table, it would supplement their meager stores. Their trek was taking longer than expected, since the battle had injured several of his men. Some could not yet sit a steed.
“Anything fresh will taste good at this point,” he whispered to the wind. He chuckled, vaguely aware the wind might answer him one day. Living with his sister, Skye, and her odd ways had taught him not to rule out anything. In truth, he had lost his appetite the moment the missive from Castle Ruadh had reached the gates of his Highland keep a month earlier.
Why should I feel sorry for myself? I am to wed a beauty while our union brings peace.
His lonely heart had been ripe for such an event, even without the Privy Council’s edict. King James had decreed all chiefs and lairds must guarantee good conduct between clans in the Highlands. Their monarch ordered the larger, more powerful clans to restore order and keep their smaller neighbors in check or he would send his armies. Over the centuries, bloody battles tainted the lives of the people of both the Keith and Gunn clans.
The Keith’s laird offered his niece to the Chief of Clan Gunn to secure peace between two warring tribes. The plan sounded ideal on paper, but the terms might not be acceptable to all. The entire deal worried his men. Clan Keith had been their enemy for too many generations. How could anyone forget the atrocities heaped on his clan’s doorstep?
“Have ye forgotten the massacre at the chapel of St. Tayre?” Cameron had whispered in his ear once he had read the missive from Clan Keith.
“Aye, Cameron. Though the battle took many lives o’er a hundred years ago, I remember the stories. I am kin to those who died as well. I shed tears whenever the village elders retell the tale.” Cameron had acquiesced and vowed to accompany him when Kirk accepted the proposal.
Even the promise of peace, paid for with a woman’s virginity, did not make him eager to arrive at their destination. Not when several of his warriors nearly died under the arrows and blades of The Mackenzie and his band of mercenaries.
He stroked his scarred flesh. It had been months since he enjoyed the pleasures of a female. The strange apparition from the mist was the first time in a long time that he had tasted a woman’s lips or smelled her arousal.
Shrugging away the memory, Kirk’s fate was laid before him the day he signed the Keith’s agreement. Until they reached the Keith stronghold, he feared his warriors’ confidence in him might wane. He would forget the black-haired Goddess and follow his destiny. Hell on earth would be the only outcome if their clan did not achieve peace with Clan Keith.
And soon.
Clan wars had reshaped Scotland since the beginning of history. The last few years had tested everyone’s patience. Skirmishes in and around their villages had been har
dest on the young and the very old. The King’s decree threatened to do more than stop their clansmen from borrowing cattle, which all young men did as an act of passage.
He loathed traveling to Castle Ruadh, the Keith’s home. He would rather be at his keep. Ugly and cold, the tower had been home to many generations of Clan Gunn. The breeze off the river that meandered near Keldurunach breathed life into his dark soul. When the battlements shimmered under the morning sun, he felt at peace.
The planned joining of clans might yet prove unattainable, if the recent attack was any indication. What was Mackenzie’s plan? Was he intent on raiding the treasure wagon? Cameron had defended it against a handful of foot soldiers who managed to grab only one trunk. His men put a quick end to Mackenzie’s mounted warriors, killing several.
Where had a fool like Mackenzie gotten mounts? Last reports stated the man lived as an outcast from his family with no coin and no home. Had his need to fill his coffers pressed him and his band of cutthroats to attack Kirk’s well-trained warriors? Or, had Mackenzie simply wanted him dead?
Branches on the opposite bank of the stream rustled.
Too high for a hare.
Kirk notched an arrow onto his bowstring, pulled it taut, and took aim. Something big approached. His fingers trembled with eagerness. The arrow was razor-sharp and flocked with green and red feathers. He planted his feet and readied his weapon. A vision swam in front of his face, a nightmare in broad daylight. He blinked and the face of the man who had caused his beloved’s death hovered.
“Mackenzie,” he muttered. Pushing the image away, he concentrated on the bushes. Kirk braced his arms as he tamped down their shaky response to the painful recollection of his sweet Cora’s death. In vain, he waited, while he loosened his jaw to lessen the pull on his scar.
Lord Mackenzie’s attempt to separate him from the main battle had been devious. The devil had almost succeeded, but they were equally matched and had competed against each other at the games held each year, when amnesty brought a few days of civility.
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