by Amy Jarecki
But the powers behind the medallion had shut down for good.
That was the last time she’d had any contact. Not even the sensation of a puff of air on the back of her neck had heightened her senses since the frigid night she’d spent prostrate on the craggy, dust-covered floor of these ruins.
To her disgust, Torwood had been in abominable condition—she’d wandered through crumbling passageways covered with graffiti. Moreover, the historic site, overgrown with vine and moss, sat tucked away deep in the wood where it could not be admired by the public.
Not long after her visit, Eva contacted the Clan Forrester Society—caretakers of the castle—put up twelve million pounds of her own money and took on the project of seeing to Torwood’s restoration.
Her writing and this project were the only two things that had kept her sane in the past eight years—kept her so busy she scarcely had time to think. In fact, life had passed her by. All her college friends were settled and had children. Eva doubted kids would ever factor into her life. After all, she was thirty-five and didn’t even have a boyfriend. Jeez—boyfriend sounded so adolescent. Perhaps Torwood Castle became a sorry substitute for a lover?
Initially, Professor Tennant and his band of archaeologists had excavated the site, revealing all the old foundations and digging up relics for the museum. Eva then hired an archaeological architect to draw the blueprints. Modern stonemasons and carpenters were brought in and now the castle was complete—a monument to be revered through the ages. A four-story donjon connected by long passageways adjoined three other towers forming a square, guarded by a fortified gate, including a guardhouse and portcullis. Inside, Eva had seen to every detail of medieval decoration from the tapestries, to the furnishings, to the display of silver behind the high table on the dais. Even Eva marveled at the magnificence of the work done by the Scottish restoration team.
And today marked the end of the project.
She swallowed. Hard.
Endings are so bittersweet.
Laird Forrester, standing at the podium on the dais, gestured toward her. “I’d like to present the key to the castle to the woman who has made this all possible. Please join me in welcoming Miss Eva MacKay, bestselling author and renowned Pulitzer winner.”
The intro was her cue. Taking in a deep breath, she smiled as the crowd applauded and faces turned her way. The past eight years may have been lonely and frustrating, but she’d suppressed her depression with hard work. After she stood, with purpose she strode to the front of the great hall with its enormous exposed rafter beams, and climbed up the dais steps. Lord, it almost felt like she’d gone back in time—but that would never again happen. Eva had finally accepted it. Besides, she wore stockings, stilettoes and a navy pinstriped skirt-suit.
After shaking Laird Forrester’s hand, he placed the enormous key around her neck.
Clearing her throat, she stepped up to the podium and waited for the applause to abate. “As I gaze out over the faces of all present, I see so many who helped bring this project to fruition, and I thank each and every one of you. Due to your efforts, Torwood Castle is now a welcoming relic where anyone can step back in time…”
Eva had her speech memorized backward and forward, and delivered it flawlessly. If she left no other legacy in her lifetime, this was the grandest. Sure, she’d written an in-depth history about Wallace that had been a blockbuster—won her a Pulitzer—and, better yet, the film would be out next summer. Her success had enabled her to increase her personal wealth, to be a benefactor of substance, and that’s what she would be remembered for.
Later at the cocktail party, nearly everyone had gone by the time Walter Tennant approached her with his arms wide. “You’ve done a splendid job, my dear.”
Eva welcomed his embrace, but smirked. “I didn’t do much aside from consult and write checks.”
“I do not believe that for a minute. No one could have made this place look so authentic. The detail in every chamber could only have been conjured by someone who had actually spent time…” He glanced over his shoulder, then lowered his voice. “You ken as well as I, little of the authenticity in the renovations would have been accomplished without your unique perspective.” He grasped her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “Do you remember what you said to me when I asked you what you wanted to do with your life—right before I gave you the medallion?”
A rueful chuckle rumbled from her throat. “Oh yes, I’ll never forget.” She’d said she wanted to find a story so intriguing, the whole world would say wow.
He grinned—his face even craggier after eight years. “I think you found your wow, my dear.”
Eva forced a smile. “I guess I did.” She should be ecstatic about her achievements—elated—ready for the next great adventure. But finishing the project at Torwood was akin to losing an old friend. It was almost as if she’d found a connection to William in the old castle. Renovating a thirteenth century relic at least made her feel like she’d kept one foot in William’s time.
“So what’s next?” Walter asked.
With a startled blink, she chewed her bottom lip. “Ah...” Returning to war-torn medieval Scotland was no longer a remote possibility.
The professor grinned. “I’m leading a dig this summer. Going to excavate Tappoch Broch. Would love to have you on the team.”
“I’d like that.” Indeed, Eva would need a new diversion. Seeing they were the last two remaining, she started toward the door.
“Can I pencil you in?” he asked, following.
“I don’t see why not.” She held the big oaken door with blackened iron nails. It might be new, but it looked as medieval as the doors had at Dirleton Castle when she’d been there with William.
He stepped over the threshold. “Can I escort you to your car?”
Eva held up her enormous key. “I think I’ll stay for a bit—do a final walk through before the place is opened to the public tomorrow.”
“Very well.” The professor gave her a nod. “I’ll e-mail you the paperwork for the dig.”
“I’d like that. Thank you.”
After closing the door, she locked it and placed the key inside her purse, right beside her first aid kit. Ever since she’d returned from the thirteenth century she’d kept a “healers” kit in her purse—containing plenty of antibiotic ointment and a ten-day supply of penicillin. Thank God the family doctor humored her and wrote a script. She still couldn’t lie and feign an illness. Besides, she had to replace the medicine every couple of years.
Pulling out her penlight, she climbed the stairwell to the east wing. That part of the castle had been renovated for Clan Forrester and wouldn’t be open to visitors, though they’d given Eva full access to every chamber. Her one caveat had been complete access for life. The foundation had been so overwhelmingly pleased to receive the funds for the restorations they’d been planning for years, her request had been granted without hesitation—they’d even given her an upper chamber of her own to do with what she would—she’d even spent a few nights alone locked within…secretly hoping to find William again. Alas, it wasn’t to be. And now? Well, now it was too late.
Opening the door and turning on the light, Eva stepped inside. A long sigh slipped through her lips. She’d almost asked them not to run electricity to the replica candelabra, but then decided it was time to stop pretending. Yes, perhaps the chamber was appointed with a four-poster bed with red silk curtains. The grillwork on the hearth, the round table and two matching wooden chairs were carved with lion’s feet—similar to those she’d seen at Lord Stewart’s castle in Renfrew. Regardless if nearly everything in the chamber breathed life into the medieval era, it was lit with the miracle of electricity.
***
After returning from five years traveling throughout Christendom trying to rally support for Scotland’s cause, William had come home to a Kingdom beaten and without hope. He’d never seen people so afraid to take up arms. His failure to free Scotland from tyranny hung around his
neck like with the weight of an anvil.
Freezing beneath the bridge, William rubbed his right shoulder. The damned appendage had pained him since the king of France had forced him to fight the lion. Aye, he’d killed the ravenous beast in the end, but not before the back of his shoulder was shredded by claws sharper than iron nails. Worse, that had been five years ago. He doubted the wound would ever heal properly.
God’s teeth, I’ve fought in more battles than I can count, and a lion ends up being my downfall?
William groaned. Mayhap his trip to the continent had been a mistake.
So many things had fallen apart since Falkirk.
The horse beneath him snorted and sidestepped. William smoothed his hand along the gelding’s mane. “Wheesht.”
“Where are the bastards?” Blair grumbled in a whisper.
Upon his return to Scotland, William may have been forced back to raiding, but the few informers who remained were loyal. Regardless, fewer than ever could be counted on for certain. “They’ll be here. Mark me.”
“If they dunna come soon, the rumbling of my stomach will give away our hiding place,” said Robbie. If the young man would ever stop growing, his stomach might last more than an hour without food.
Bloody oath, looking at Boyd’s broad shoulders made William feel old. At five and thirty, he should be settled with a half-dozen bairns at his feet. And when did the cold start making everything hurt worse? Lord in heaven, eight years of battle had taken its toll.
The worst of it?
He hadn’t achieved a damned thing.
There were more Englishmen in Scotland now than when he’d left for the mainland after his tragic loss at Falkirk.
“Horses,” Eddy Little whispered.
A sharp stirring thrummed through William’s blood. He wrapped his fingers around his hilt and slowly drew the great sword from its scabbard. Making eye contact with each of his score of men, they all indicated their readiness with a nod.
He held up his hand, ready to give the signal.
The wooden planks on the bridge above thundered as the retinue began to cross.
Beneath his helm, his heart roared in his ears. This was another chance to stop English spies bearing missives and supplies from England.
Three and two score of footmen crossed with twelve horse. The odds had been worse. When the softer steps of the foot soldiers paraded onto the bridge, William dropped his hand and dug in his spurs. “Scotland until Judgement,” he growled under his breath as his mount lurched toward the unsuspecting horsemen. Racing against time to cut off the foot from the horse, William’s men rallied behind him.
Galloping out of the ravine, the first thing he saw was Comyn’s pennant. The earl had become the greatest turncoat in the history of the Kingdom. At the first sign of danger, the unsuspecting foe began drawing their swords and reining their horses.
William drove the gelding toward the head of the retinue. God’s teeth, Lord Comyn was in the lead. How tragic things had become. In the early days, the Lord of Badenoch had fought a few battles alongside William, but like many of the nobles, he’d turned at Falkirk—put his personal wealth ahead of honor and his duty to his countrymen.
Bought for lands and riches.
Gnashing his teeth, William rode straight for the backstabbing leader.
“Protect Badenoch,” bellowed a man at his flank.
In the blink of an eye, four horsemen blocked William’s path. He didn’t pull up. Strengthening his seat with a downward press of his heels, he eyed the first, swinging his sword back for a deadly blow. William glared into the wide eyes of his opponent.
Ye’re the first to die.
The pain in his shoulder shot thorough his arm like he’d been bludgeoned with a pickaxe. The lion’s claws sinking though his flesh plagued his mind with every bone-jarring strike. But William would never allow an injury to stop him. Only death would still the rage of battle that poured out from his heart to the tips of his fingers.
Iron scraped and clanged as blood splattered and men fell.
Behind the bridge, the foot were running with John Blair leading the pursuit.
Attacked from the side, William had no time to spare. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he forced his arm to keep swinging, defending every blow.
When his opponent fell, he set his sights on the prize. He’d have Comyn’s traitorous head. “Sssss,” William hissed, leaning forward in his saddle and demanding a gallop. “Ye venomed swine-eared rat!” He raised his sword, ready to meet his foe head-to-head. “I’ll send ye to hell for selling your loyalty for a bit o’ land.”
Comyn’s eyes grew wide with terror as William swung, aiming for the bastard’s neck sinews.
Struck from the side, a hammer collided with his helm. Stars blinded him. The great sword flung from his hand. Squeezing his knees, he fought to stay mounted while his body hurled sideways.
William’s sight cleared in time to see the ground approach. Tucking his shoulder, he hit with a jarring thud. A thousand knives needled his torturous scars.
His pulse thrummed.
No time to think.
Drawing his dirk from his belt, he tried to spring to his feet. His stomach squelched. Everything went black as he dropped to the mud.
***
“Give me a wee bit o’ help would ye, now?” a voice strained.
William gulped back his bile, his eyes flashing open. God’s teeth, Robbie was trying to heft him onto his horse.
“I’ll be right,” Willy slurred. “Go a-f-ter Comyn.”
“They’re long gone.” Robbie grumbled as he shoved against Wallace’s backside.
“Let me help,” said Little’s voice. “We need to spirit him away afore they double back with an army.”
Wind coughed through William’s throat as he landed across his saddle on his gut. Consciousness slipped in and out, his vision blurred. Was this the end? Finally?
“Eva,” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.
All strength fled as his head dropped and bobbed against the horse’s barrel.
Chapter Seventeen
Bitterly cold as if she’d plunged into a snowdrift, Eva sat up and shook her head. Lord, it was darker than midnight. Her teeth chattered. Where the hell was she?
Putting her hand down, her palm filled with wet slush.
How in God’s name did she end up in the Highlands?
Scrubbing her hands over her face, her eyes adjusted a bit.
Icy prickles shot across her skin.
Good Lord, she wasn’t in the mountains.
A tightness gripped her chest so powerful she couldn’t breathe. Though overgrown, she’d recognize the cave entrance anywhere.
But how did she end up in Leglen Wood in the snow? Yes, it had been cold at the reception, but snow hadn’t been in the forecast.
Her next problem? The surrounding forest was so dense, there was no way to wander out of there until daylight.
Pushing herself to a stand, her feet wobbled. Jeez, she still wore stilettoes, stockings and suit. She rubbed her outer arms. Where’s my coat?
Shaking her head, the last thing she remembered was lying across her bed at Torwood.
A flicker came from the cave.
She gasped.
Who’s in there? Shit.
She wouldn’t last the night out in this cold. But before she just marched inside and met up with a band of hoodlums or drug addicts, she reached into her purse and pulled out her smartphone.
It only took one blink for the realization to sink in. Her throat closed. With the sudden perspiration oozing from her palm, the phone slipped.
Oh God, no.
Clutching the phone to her chest she paced while her teeth chattered.
Twelfth February, 1305?
I can’t do this.
The medallion chilled like ice against her skin.
“Take me back, dammit.”
Bouncing her knees to stave off the cold, she squeezed her eyes shut.
Please. I can’t. Please, please, please, please.
If it got any colder, she’d turn into an ice sculpture.
What if he wasn’t there?
What if she’d been sent back to fall in love with someone else?
No. Fucking. Way.
With a gulp, she pushed the torch icon on her phone and hobbled inside, trying not to twist an ankle on the craggy ground. The last time she’d been in this very spot, she was wearing hiking boots and a down vest—much more practical attire for the woods.
She hadn’t seen another flicker. Maybe her eyes had played a trick on her? With luck, the place would be empty…and then she’d need to build a fire. Did she have a book of matches in her purse? She certainly didn’t have a flint.
A hiss echoed through the passageway.
Ice coursed through her veins. Eva hadn’t heard the sound of a sword sliding from its scabbard in eight years. “Hello the cave,” she called in a panicked voice. “I’m in need of shelter.” Lord, the Auld Scots came back, too.
“There’s no room to be had. Be gone with ye,” a young man’s voice resounded—one she didn’t recognize.
She turned off the torch and slipped the phone back into her bag, replacing it with a vial of pepper spray—not a fantastic defense against a sword, but it might buy her some time. To run where?
Should she chance it?
“I’m looking for William Wallace,” she said.
A wry chuckle followed. “Ye and everyone else. He’s nay in these parts—now be gone with ye.”
She ventured to guess the reason for her sudden appearance. He had to be in there. If her hunch was right, asking for shelter would be met with a firm rebuttal. “I am Eva MacKay come to see William. I have no weapons.” Not even a miserable coat or a practical pair of shoes either.
Silence filled the cavernous walls.