by Beth Trissel
Somewhere My Lass
Somewhere in Time Series
Book 2
Paranormal Romance Novel
By Beth Trissel
Story Excerpt
“You are a beauty.” His words were a hoarse whisper.
The rise and fall of her chest betrayed a deep inhalation of breath. A flicker of reproach lit her eyes.
“I dinna think ye took heed of me at all.”
He winced at the well-deserved jab. “About before, I’m sorry I left you so suddenly. But there’s no earthly way I could fail to notice you. I’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind and even then…”
The tension in her face eased, and then the hurt returned. “Oh, aye? How could ye forget all ye knew?”
He remained as he was, threading that wealth of hair through his fingers. Again, the rational part of him argued, “Is it possible you’re imagining you knew me before?”
She balked, a mutinous glint in her eyes. “Nae.”
He slid his hand to the finely crafted silver chain at her throat and coaxed the coverlets further down.
A slight gasp escaped her lips. He muted any outward response to the thrill running through him.
The scooped neckline of her nightgown revealed the tops of white breasts sprinkled with freckles. Above this heart hammering sight hung the crucifix. “I gave this to you?” he managed to ask without betraying the swell of emotion surging inside him.
“At our betrothal.”
Praise for Somewhere My Lass
“Mrs. Trissel masterfully blended the past and the present in order to create a lovely romance that spans centuries.” ~Long and Short Reviews
“A good adventure and romantic time travel story that delivers.” ~Romance Novel Junkies
“The kind of story you can get lost in. Well-written and exciting, Trissel hits a homerun with her time-crossed lovers.” ~Amazon Reviewer Robin Landry
“I enjoy the paranormal and Trissel brings in much to like! Not only do we have time travel, but a number of psychics to add to the fun! The well-written fantasy is almost a fairy tale; merging the present together with the past in a seamless movement…I thoroughly enjoyed this story! Surely romance lovers will find it a wonderful way to spend the weekend. Highly recommended!” ~GABixlerReviews
Author Awards
2008 Golden Heart® Finalist
2008 Winner Preditor's & Editor's Readers Poll
Publisher’s Weekly BHB Reader’s Choice Best Books of 2009
2010 Best Romance Novel List at Buzzle
Five Time Book of the Week Winner at LASR
2012 Double Epic eBook Award Finalist
2012 Reader’s Favorite Finalist
Additional Romance Titles by Beth Trissel
Red Bird’s Song
Through the Fire
Enemy of the King
Into the Lion’s Heart
Somewhere My Love
Somewhere the Bells Ring
(Short) The Lady and the Warrior
Kira, Daughter of the Moon
The Bearwalker’s Daughter
A Warrior for Christmas
Nonfiction Works by Beth Trissel
Shenandoah Watercolors
A Christmas in the 1960’s in A Very Virginia Christmas by Wilford Kale
Somewhere My Lass
COPYRIGHT January ©2013 by Beth Trissel
Cover Art by Elise Trissel
Published in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. Contact me: bctrissel@y
ahoo.com
Dedication
To my daughter-in-law Charity and daughter Elise for their invaluable research assistance, and a special thanks to Elise for the wonderful cover~
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
About the Author
“By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.” ~Macbeth
Chapter One
Early November 2009, Staunton, Virginia
Running with the bulls seemed preferable to running his computer graphics business. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and there’ll be another Star Wars movie with an opening for a Jedi Knight,” Neil MacKenzie muttered, turning the key in the brass lock of his Victorian home. A tingle darted through his hand. What in the name of—
Had the electricity gone fluky on him too? He’d just finished paying for the new roof.
The jarring current coursed through his fingers as Neil closed them around the doorknob. And it was porcelain for God’s sake, not even an electrical conduit.
Vowing to rewire the big gingerbread house if it took every last cent he owned, Neil flung open the door and strode inside. The gilt framed mirror on the landing reflected the late rays of sunshine fingering the darkened hall—illuminating the crumpled body of his housekeeper.
“Good God.”
His briefcase thumped down onto the Persian carpet. He spun around and stared at the plump figure slumped on the red slicked steps. Neil’s heart hammered in his chest then plummeted to the pit of his suddenly leaden stomach.
Dear Lord, no. It couldn’t be. Not Mrs. Dannon.
Had the poor old lady fallen and fractured her skull? There was an awful lot of blood.
Too much.
His gut twisted as he dashed forward and bent over the woman curled at the base of the winding staircase. Her normally pink face was ashen, her body limp, motionless. Worse and worse. Her cheek felt unnaturally cool.
Everything in Neil told him she was dead. With a wild hope that went against his inherent knowledge and medical training, he tilted her gray head to check for a faint pulse. Maybe he could revive her long enough to call—No! Her throat had been neatly slit.
“Christ!” Neil lurched back, his fingers red, the metallic stench of blood in his nose. Sweet Jesus, why! Who would commit such a terrible act?
A skilled problem solver accustomed to thinking on his feet in the business world, he struggled for a reasonable explanation for the grisly murder. Horrific crimes didn’t happen in this quiet neighborhood of sedate older homes. And amicable Mrs. Dannon had no enemies, nor anything worth killing her for.
The string of pearls she loved still hun
g at her throat. Stained scarlet, but there. The necklace was of some value and easily torn from her. Why leave the pearls if this was the work of a violent thief or thieves?
Neil almost expected to see slashed wallpaper, vulgar graffiti, and gang slogans spray-painted on every surface. But this was no home invasion such as he’d heard about in the news. Nor was it Los Angeles but historic Staunton, for Christ’s sake. It struck him as the heinous deed of a single man.
Insane or driven by greed? Was he strung out on drugs?
That made no sense. A crackhead would steal anything for his next high including the pearls.
Maybe this thief had inclinations other than jewelry—electronics or antiques.
Had Neil been robbed? Was he the one targeted and poor Mrs. Dannon in the wrong place at the wrong time? He knew of no one with a personal vendetta against him either.
More importantly than why, was whether the intruder remained inside.
He shot a glance down the hall. Nothing.
What of the front door? It bore no sign of a forced entry. No one had come in that way other than him. And he’d unlocked it himself.
All this flashed through Neil’s reeling mind. Grabbing his cell phone from his pants pocket, he called 911. “Code Blue. Woman down,” he said in a low voice, using the lingo from his EMT days in the Rescue Squad. “Throat cut. 1602 North Coalter.”
That same training helped him keep his head in an emergency. That and his stint as a medic in the army. “Perp at large,” he added, using the abbreviation for perpetrator.
He’d find that menace. In a matter of seconds, he’d transformed from disbelief to grim resolve. He slid the bloodstained phone back into his pocket and snatched an antique cane from the umbrella stand. If need be, he’d wield the cane as a weapon. Though the vintage revolver tucked under his bed would be better. The silver monkey head on the end of the walking stick grinned impishly in contrast to his black mood as he crept along the hall.
Every shadow harbored sinister possibilities. Each ponderous piece of furniture was a potential hiding place. The big house was stuffed with massive wardrobes, chests of drawers, large upholstered chairs and couches all providing a forest of concealment. Perfect for boyhood games, insidious now. His old family home had gone from quaintly cluttered to lethal.
The current that charged through Neil when he’d closed his hand around the doorknob still tingled. As though he needed further warning. Hyper alert, he strained to detect the slightest movement, the faintest rustle that didn’t belong. He could have been a hunter out in the woods stalking his prey. If he hunted.
Nothing unusual yet. Dead silence.
Not a sound echoed inside the house. Only the rumble of cars passing by in the street, the scrape of tree branches against the eaves in the autumn wind and late day birdcall. Even the skittish tabby didn’t come out to greet him. Sebastian must’ve holed up at the top of the closet, or so Neil hoped. The cat was all he had left of his family, that and some distant cousins in Scotland if he counted them.
He didn’t. He’d endured enough loss without seeking out new relations to forfeit. Besides, with his father’s passing he’d lost touch with the MacKenzie Scots. Mrs. Dannon was a cousin five times removed on his father’s side or some such remote attachment, but she meant far more to him than that. More of a dear aunt than a housekeeper. The last of a gracious generation. There’d never be another like her.
A sharp pain knifed through his chest at the realization of her loss. And the acute awareness that her murderer might still lurk inside somewhere. Anywhere. Ready to spring out at any moment.
Killing an old woman with a knife seemed particularly heinous. Such a ruthless individual would stop at nothing. Neil was more enraged by her brutal end than in fear for his own life.
If he got his hands on her assailant, he’d crack him over the head with the weighty cane then choke the breath from him. Neil might fall under that madman’s blade in the attempt but so be it. He should have been here to protect her.
If that damn, vacillating client hadn’t delayed him at the office he would’ve made it home in time. Mrs. Dannon couldn’t have been dead for long. Maybe no more than half an hour.
Berating himself that he’d failed her, he poked his head inside the parlor. Warily, he passed his gaze over the shaded room, pure Victorian in style as was the entire house. Everything was just as he’d left it this morning. As Mrs. Dannon left it, rather. Spotless, not a knickknack out of place.
But appearances could be deceptive. Swiveling his head, he met the glassy stare of the stuffed owl peering at him from the mantel. Beside the bird, a jar of potpourri lent the unlikely fragrance of roses to the slightly musty air. No fresh breeze wafted through broken glass in telltale evidence of entry.
He swept his gaze toward the bay windows secured behind heavy drapes. Even the sunshine couldn’t penetrate the fabric. No shadows patterned the wallpaper. The MacKenzie Coat of Arms hung undisturbed on the wall.
Still not a sound. His home seemed eerily like a tomb.
Neil stole out of the parlor and down the hall. It was the same in every room. Nothing and nobody. Not so much as a shadow was out of place in his study or the room he’d converted into an art studio.
"How in hell did that fiend get in?" he muttered, his nerves frayed.
Grim thought—was the man hiding upstairs waiting to take him by surprise?
Neil wanted to shout him out, wherever he was, and curse him to the heavens. But his one advantage lay in knowledge of the house and stealth. He cringed at having to step over poor Mrs. Dannon, but he didn’t dare move her body before the police arrived. Don’t disturb the crime scene was a cardinal rule.
Hating to leave her as she was without even a blanket covering her, he knelt and gently closed her staring eyes. Then he straightened and started up the winding stairs.
From childhood he’d known the exact spot where each board creaked and tiptoed soundlessly from step to step—
He came to a halt in mid step. A second figure lay slumped at the top of the landing. How in the name of—
Stunned beyond oaths, Neil gaped down at the slender young woman dressed in an outlandish Scottish costume. Hair the color of a flaming sunset spilled down over the red and blue tartan plaid draped around her like a shawl. A circular brass brooch engraved by some skilled craftsman held the edges together. A full green skirt covered the rest of her, a hint of petticoats beneath. She looked straight out of the Old Country.
In profound disbelief, he knelt beside her and laid his hand on her shoulder. Warm. He wasn’t hallucinating. She was real enough.
Stranger still, the peaty scent of turf smoke emanated from her. And some perfume he couldn’t place, but inherently knew. Moss rose, maybe? The rich meld of fragrances carried him back, but to where?
Baffled, he shook her gently. “Miss?”
She gave a soft moan.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
She turned toward him, fluttering a dark fringe of auburn lashes. Another moan issued from between what surely were petal soft lips.
He frowned at the bruise marring her forehead. Had that maniac done this to her?
The rest of her smooth skin was pale except for the sprinkle of freckles on her nose, not too long with a pert tilt, Neil noted, along with an absence of any other immediate injuries. Thank God he hadn’t been too late to help this young woman. Perhaps he’d frightened off her attacker, the coward. Although he had no idea where the killer had gone.
Neil remained on his guard. He mustn’t take anything for granted. The only certainty, a violent criminal was on the loose. Difficult to keep watching over his shoulder, though, with the inexplicable stranger commanding his attention.
Intrigued, despite the gruesome circumstances of their meeting, Neil locked his gaze on her once again. Vivid blue eyes, cast with a purplish hue, opened wide. Unusual color and deeply stirring.
She blinked and stared up at him as if he’d materialized out of the mist
. But it was she who’d mysteriously come upon him with such wonder and beauty. His already pounding heart skipped a beat for an entirely different reason now.
He looked long into her eyes...for a moment he forgot the grisly murder, forgot everything. There was a timeless quality in those violet depths; the term “window to the soul” took on a whole new meaning. And it seemed to him that he’d seen these eyes before…
Impossible. He came back to himself. Mastering the tremor threatening his speech, he said, “You were knocked out, but you’ll be all right.”
She shook her head, wincing. “None of us will. The MacDonald comes,” she warned in a Scottish brogue.
The hair on the back of Neil’s neck bristled. And so it begins, a voice inside him said.
Chapter Two
Mora Campbell focused her giddy senses on the gentleman kneeling by her side. He stared at her as if she were a silkie or some other fantastic creature. Even with her head aching like the beating of a Hielan drum, the appeal of her rescuer wasn’t lost on her.
My, but he’s a handsome one. Eyes colored like a brooding sky. The strength in his face bespoke the bearing of a great chieftain. His demeanor marked him as a leader. He must be a commanding laird.
As her vision cleared, she looked more closely. There was a dearly familiar quality about him, though she couldn’t fathom why. Searching the haze fogging her mind, she strained to remember. Her thoughts swirled around the beloved image of a man.
Niall. He looked like Niall. And he had the same masculine allure and deeply sensual air.
Why was his thick brown hair clipped so short?
Nae, it should fall down around his well-muscled shoulders. Outlanders might wear their hair shorn in sech a manner, but he didn’t seem to be foreign. Unless…
Her eyes dropped lower. What did he mean by wearing the clothes of an Englisher, if that’s what they were? They looked to be some sort of trews or breeches, she guessed, and a jacket right enough, but not in any fashion she’d ever seen before.