Time Masters Book One; The Call (An Urban Fantasy, Time Travel Romance)

by Geralyn Beauchamp

  Yet John spoke to him of home…

  “Aye,” Dallan began, his eyes softening once again, the warrior’s posture relaxing into that of a man ready to listen, even if it was bizarre. “I’ll help ye, sir. Anything to be free of this place.”

  John smiled and nodded, “Let’s continue, then.”

  Dallan sat down and gave him a solitary nod in acceptance. It was all he could offer as the continual eruption of emotions long forgotten spilled out of the pit he’d thrown them in years ago. He’d hoped to forever keep them captive, but now they were escaping, seeping back into his empty heart.

  John glanced to the next question on the list and his features changed to poorly masked embarrassment. “Oh boy.” He said as he merely stared at Dallan as if not knowing what to do next.

  Dallan cocked his head slightly to one side. “Ask me the question will ye then?”

  John swallowed hard. “You are, uh, pure. Is that not correct?”

  Dallan’s head cocked even further, one eyebrow raised in amused curiosity at John’s sudden awkwardness. “Pure? I’m not sure I ken what ye mean."

  John had begun to fidget in his chair. “Ah, yes. Well it’s, um, a rather personal question, one I don’t normally have to ask people.” He sighed nervously. “And, I suppose I’m afraid of the answer.”

  Now Dallan was confused. His brow furrowed together as he stared at John. “Ask me the bloody question. I dinna care to watch ye squirm about any longer.”

  John’s own brow raised in defeat, making it obvious there was no delicate way to ask. He was just going to have to blurt it out. And blurt he did. “Have you ever experienced premarital or extramarital sex?”

  Dallan blinked once, twice … before an explosion of sound escaped him.

  John jerked in his chair in response, obviously doing his best to resist the instinct to dive for cover.

  The Scot was laughing. Full out.

  “Oh no!” John whispered to himself in utter horror. “I’ve sent him over the edge."

  Dallan took in the look on John's face and his glee dropped to a nervous chuckle as the import of the question hit him. Did John say something about sex?

  Dallan had never had the full pleasure of it as he wasn’t married, the only holy state one was allowed to be in if sex was involved. “Otherwise all God’s wrath would be upon ye, and a lifetime o’ punishment at the Almighty’s hand awaits, such as he’s done in my life ever since I bore ye, son,” he recalled his mother saying to him year after year. Especially before he’d been fostered out to his mother’s cousin for four years. He had left for France at sixteen, the beginning of a lad’s rutting years, according to his uncle John. But by the Saints, here he was, fourteen years later and had still never bedded a woman!

  He found his composure and firmly set his warrior’s face as it should be. “No.”

  John nodded quickly, leaving it at that. “Have you…” He stopped short, dread flashing across his already flushed face. He had a get ready, here it comes gleam in his eyes. Both men stiffened. “Have you ever had a mystical experience?”

  Dallan pondered the question, brow raised. “That depends on what ye consider to be mystical.”

  “Well,” John began, bewildered, “what about all of this? What about you being here?”

  “I see nothing mystical about any o’ this, sir. This is all real, as far as I ken. I can see things, taste things. My hearing is all right, and I’m definitely able to feel things.” He gave his right shoulder a tender pat.

  John’s face became somber as he leaned forward slightly. Time to take a chance. “And you also believe you are in the future as Kwaku told you, that he brought you from what would be our ancient past?” He held his breath.

  “I suppose at this point, I’m willing to at least consider believing that much o’ it, being as I canna come up with a better explanation o’ my own…yet.”

  John sat back in his chair, puzzled. “And you find none of this, or even the concept, mystical?”

  “Again, I find nothing mystical about the things I can hear, feel…” Dallan’s eyes narrowed as his shoulder, still healing, began to throb. “Taste and touch. It’s the things ye canna touch, hear, taste or feel that are truly mystical.”

  “Have you had an experience like that?” John asked his voice intense.

  Dallan’s one eyebrow lifted slightly. “Aye, I have,” he spoke quietly, almost evasively. He didn’t want to share it. It was his and his alone. Nay, he didn’t want to share her with any one. A fierce possessiveness came over him, encompassing everything around him, including the Lord Councilor. He wouldn’t let any of them know of her. She was all he had left to himself.

  “Tell me.” John insisted.

  Dallan threw a penetrating stare, giving John the same feeling of helpless captivity he’d had the day of Dallan’s shoulder injury.

  “No.”

  “I need to know, Dallan.” John breathed out as Dallan’s stare held him prisoner like an invisible vice. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes intense. “Tell me about her.”

  Dallan fought a sudden urge to flee, totally taken aback. “What?” he pushed through clenched teeth, knowing full well what the Lord Councilor was after.

  John looked apprehensively at his writing instrument and sat quietly, as if waiting for something. He smiled at Dallan. “Tell me. Tell me about her.”

  “I dinna ken what yer talking about.” Dallan said evenly, his facial twitch doing a warm-up.

  Lany Mosgofian slipped silently into the room to stand near the door, quietly observing his superior and the big Scot, neither of which glanced in his direction, both too intent on the other. John was smiling a warm, knowing smile, Dallan glaring viciously back.

  “Your mystical experience. Will you tell me?” John asked again gently.

  “No!” Dallan stood, his glare threatening to strangle John. Lany continued to stand quietly in the doorway and watched the big Scot pace.

  “Calm down, Dallan,” John began softly. “What can sharing her with me hurt?”

  Dallan's mouth opened and snapped shut a few times, his jaw tense, before he spun on John. “Nay, how could ye know? No one knows!”

  Lany swallowed hard at the desperate look on Dallan’s face, then glanced quickly to John, who held firmly to his legendary compassion. Lany knew his boss wouldn’t budge an inch on this; it was what had made him famous through out the Known Lands.

  “I know, Dallan,” John spoke gently. “Tell me about her.”

  Dallan began to pace again, the small room not big enough for his frustration. How did John know? How could he possibly have found out? He had told no one! No one! He spun again on John, features full of rage, and Lany moved to stand beside his superior protectively. Dallan growled as he turned away from the two, crossed to a small table against the wall, and stood there slowly sucking air through his nose. He stared intently at the tired piece of furniture and fancied John sprawled across it like a sacrifice on an altar stone, one huge fist waiting to take his life.

  He closed his eyes tightly to fight against the anger, then opened them and again stared at the table, John’s image replaced now by Lany’s. Dallan softly snarled and growled at the vision, then closed his eyes again.

  Kwaku now sat on the conceptual altar, grinning and wagging one long dark finger, about to go into one of his appalling lectures he mercilessly subjected Dallan to.

  That was all Dallan could take. His fist exploded through the table which sent its tattered fragments flying.

  Lany instinctively moved in front of John, who calmly sat, a smile on his face. They both glanced up at the Scot, who now faced them, jaw dancing with anger, eyes oddly seeking.

  “How did ye find out about… her?” Dallan softly demanded through clenched teeth.

  John shrugged, his smile broadening, and looked Dallan right in the eye. “You, um… talk in your sleep.”

  Lany had to turn away to hide his tight-lipped smile and stay out of trouble. Oh, but this was go
od! Nobody but Eaton would have dared.

  “I… what?” Dallan choked out. “Ye canna be serious.” His balled fists relaxed as his mind raced over the past ten years in Genis Lee. No one was ever allowed in his cottage while he slept, and if anyone somehow had managed to get in, he would have surely woken, his warrior’s senses too keen to miss anything. He shook his head and paced. Nay, he thought, no one was ever with him while he slept. How…?

  Vyn.

  Dallan slowly turned to face John. Lany, his forehead against the opposite wall, shook in silent laughter. The sight made Dallan’s rage reignite. His intense green eyes narrowed on the Assistant Councilor as he took a threatening step forward.

  John quickly stood and placed himself between his assistant and the seething Scot. “Lany, calm down. Dallan, he had nothing to do with it. Vyn approached me on his own, concerned about you.”

  Dallan stopped in mid-stride. “Concerned? About me?” he whispered surprised, his eyes still on Lany who stood erect now, his usual apathy firmly back in place. Dallan raised an annoyed eyebrow at him, to which Lany shrugged, a sheepish smile on his face, as if to say that’s Vyn for you. Dallan still wasn’t sure whether to like the man or throttle him, his presence irritating like the heathen’s, yet strangely comforting like John’s.

  “Very concerned about you,” John began again. “He was upset after watching you have one of your nightmares.”

  Dallan sidestepped once and sank heavily into his chair. He closed his eyes tightly and swallowed hard. So, they knew about the nightmares too…

  He leaned back and opened his eyes as a long sigh escaped him. He then looked John in the eye, trapping him again. He might as well get it over with.

  The Lord Councilor calmly reclaimed his own chair as Lany positioned himself again in the doorway.

  “When I was verra young, I used to play with my grandfather’s hounds back behind the Auld Fox’s summer house at Gleannleac-na-muidha. We stayed there with him every year. One day I set to teasing the dogs when I suddenly felt someone watching me. The dogs must ha’ felt it too as they started a-barking at something. I looked, but couldna see what might ha’ upset them. Odder yet, they didna take to chasing whatever it was as hounds are prone to do. I tried to get them to calm down. I…”

  “How did you get the dogs to calm down, Dallan?” John suddenly interjected.

  Dallan cocked his head. “I told them to be quiet, o’ course.”

  “In English?” Lany asked, coming away from the doorway to stand behind John, face still intense.

  Dallan’s head tilted even further. “I dinna remember. What’s the difference, sir?”

  Lany looked at John, not able to see his face from where he stood. It was just as well; he could sense the tension coming from his superior. “Nothing,” he said quietly.

  Dallan sighed again, though shakily. “’Twas then I smelled it.”

  “Smelled what?” John urged mildly.

  “A scent like wild flowers. The finest scent I’ve ever kent the likes of. It suddenly was all around me, in the breeze.”

  Lany gave John’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and John nodded silently.

  “Then I saw her,” Dallan sighed, his voice low and silky. Either from relief at the admission or a caress meant for the source of his most cherished memory.

  John and Lany both smiled, hoping…

  “She was a wee younger than I, smaller too, and had the most glorious hair I’ve ever seen. It was full of colors. Cinnamon, honey, rust and gold.” Dallan smiled. "’Twas a bonny sight with the sun on it, the wind lifting it away from her face. Made her look like something magical.” He straightened in his chair, his stare gripping John harder. “I kent right away she was one o’ the Faerie Folk. I should ha’ run for my life, but I didna. I just stood there, stared at her. I couldna ha’ looked away if I’d wanted to.”

  John’s face beamed appreciatively despite the stare that held him. He nodded again.

  “Then… she looked right at me, a peculiar expression on her face.” Dallan paused in recollection, searching for words. “Ye ken how it is when someone looks, recognizes who ye are. Mayhaps they've no seen ye in a verra long time. They want to find out how ye’ve been and ask after yer folk and wee bairns…” He sighed softly, almost shakily. “That’s how she looked at me.”

  Dallan leaned forward. So did John. "Like she recognized who I was, John.” He sat back in his chair. “She was the most beautiful thing I ever laid eyes on. She just stood there and stared at me, smiling.” He smiled himself, automatically causing John and Lany to do the same. Both were too encouraged now to do anything else.

  “I’ve never seen anything as beautiful since. Nay, not since her.” His eyes gripped John with everything they had. John winced slightly. “I gave my heart away then, gave it to the wee lassie, like… I dinna ken how to explain it. Like a gift?”

  Lany’s grip tightened on John, who leaned forward even further.

  “I didna speak to her, nay, didna say a word. Somehow she kent what I was thinking, feeling. What I offered too. My only hope and prayer ‘twas she wouldna give it back. If she would take and keep it forever.” Dallan’s voice trailed off on the last few words, his eyes smiling. “And she did. She took it, kept it.”

  Dallan’s eyes released John suddenly as he abruptly looked away. The action not only broke the spell, but startled both the Lord Councilor and his assistant. John pitched forward unexpectedly, Lany moving with him. The questionnaire in John’s lap dropped to the floor. John shook himself, trying to dislodge the mesmerizing effects of the Scot’s stare.

  Dallan glanced back to John, watching him as he and Lany picked up their effects and repositioned themselves as they were before. His look had turned to the window by the time they were done. “I’ve been thinking about her, the wee lassie, wondering if she still has it.”

  Lany’s hand clutched John’s shoulder anew. Both men tensed. “Has… your heart?” John managed to whisper.

  Dallan turned his attention back to the two men. “Aye.”

  “What makes you think she might have it?” Lany asked cautiously, gripping John’s shoulder so hard his fingers became white.

  Dallan gave the two men a condescending look and shrugged. “She must. I havena ever gotten it back.” He quickly looked away, his voice barely a whisper. “But what does it matter? ‘Tis naught but dreams now. Only dreams. And nightmares…”

  Lany released his grip on John’s shoulder and moved to stand in front of him. “Eaton, you okay?”

  John looked up at his assistant, lips white from pressing them together so tightly. He could only nod and smile, and Lany nodded in response.

  This was the news they had been waiting for. This was the sign the Muirarans prayed daily to see. At last, there was no doubt about it. Dallan MacDonald had already seen the Muiraran Maiden… and had bonded with her! Preliminary bond though it be.

  Now, the Councilors could proceed as planned.

  How sweet the answer Echo makes

  To music at night

  When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,

  And far away o’er lawns and lakes

  Go answering light!

  Yet Love hath echoes truer far

  And far more sweet

  Than e’er, beneath the moonlight’s star,

  Of horn or lute or soft guitar

  The songs repeat.

  Thomas Moore

  CHAPTER SIX

  John and Dallan left the confines of the one-room cottage to seek the friendly companionship of the village cookhouse, both ready for a brief repast after the day’s recent happenings. Lany had left to take care of business elsewhere.

  John smiled as he hurried to keep up with the Scot, still elated with the confirmation he and his people desperately needed: Dallan MacDonald was the right man. Kwaku hadn’t made another mistake; thank the Creator for that! He had already once grabbed the wrong Highlander, from the wrong century no less. At least the poor victim of the Time Ma
ster’s supposed miscalculations had taken it all in stride. After all, Kwaku had shown up just in time to rescue him from a hangman’s noose. But Kwaku had left him little say as to what would happen to him from then on.

  John sighed as they neared the cookhouse. Kwaku was using the grizzled little man even now, having him keep an eye on the Muiraran Maiden for them while he prepared the real hero meant to save them all.

  Whether said hero wanted to or not.

  The two men reached the cookhouse across the village and stepped inside. A large room greeted them, a fire in its homey cobblestone hearth. The flames seemed to wink merrily in their direction as pungent aromas embraced them in welcome. Long wooden tables accompanied by pairs of well-worn benches sat in four straight rows patiently awaiting the many villagers that would come eat that day. Vases of fresh flowers sat atop brightly colored linen runners that stretched down the center of each table surface, adding to the cheeriness of the room.

  Dallan reveled in the smells coming from the kitchen beyond the hearth. This was one of his favorite places in Genis Lee. He and John continued to hover in the doorway, to savor all the sights and smells around them.

  The few villagers already in the cookhouse glanced up from their food to see who had entered. No one went back to their meals. Dallan’s eyes captured theirs one pair at a time.

  John watched with interest, making mental notes to himself. At least he wasn’t the only one to react to the Scot’s intimidating stare. He wondered if he ought to study it further, but his stomach had ideas of its own and began to rumble in protest at his delay. He searched for a suitable table for the upcoming meal and perhaps a continuation of what was left of the interview, anxious as he was to get done.

  Dallan left the doorway, letting the villagers get back to eating and headed straight for a small corner table near the hearth. John followed him, noting the expressions of wariness on the faces of those around them, and committed them to memory as he and Dallan took their seats.