“You all call her Auntie Trish.” Maxwell examined the boy with interest. Apparently, Latharn had not only survived the witch’s curse, he’d thrived in whatever century he’d landed.
“Aye.” Ramsay nodded. “Me and Hamish, Sawny and Gordon.” He sniffed, started to wipe his nose on his sleeve then stopped and pulled a wadded bit of thin white cloth from the tiny fur pouch hanging from his waist. A trembling smile flickered across his mouth as he glanced at Trish and blew his nose. After wiping his nose, he shoved the crumpled rag back into his sporran. With a final sniff, he reached out and gently laid his hand on the pillow beside Trish’s head. “Catty and Beathan call her Auntie Trish too. But they’re my cousins, not my brother and sister.”
Ciara rested her hand atop Maxwell’s shoulder. “I knew Latharn had done well. Faolan will be so pleased to hear this news.”
Maxwell snorted. “Aye. Latharn’s done better than well. And Faolan will be more than pleased. He’ll be relieved.”
At that moment, Trish stirred beneath the covers, shifting her head from side to side. With a weak moan, she dragged a hand over her eyes, her pale fingers trembling. “Ramsay. Would you please turn the TV down and shut off a few of these lights? Auntie Trish’s head is about to split wide open. This migraine appears to be a doozie.”
Joy radiated from Ramsay’s face. His mouth stretched into a wide, toothy grin. “It’s not the TV, Auntie Trish. And the only kind of lights we’ve got in this room are bunches of candles. Ye want me to blow a few of them out?”
Trish’s squinting blue eyes appeared between her spread fingers as she slowly shifted to her side. “Son of a—”
“Auntie Trish!”
Maxwell bit back the laughter threatening to spill and grabbed Ramsay by the shoulders, gently moving him to the side. “Ye’d fare better if ye kept still, lass. Ye’ve got quite a gash across the back of your head and a fearsome bruise forming over the ribs on your right side.”
Trish flinched as her hand slid away from sheltering her eyes. Lifting the blankets, she tucked her chin and peered beneath covers. “Uhm. I appear to be naked.”
“Don’t worry, Trish,” Ciara interjected. “I’m the one who undressed you once Maxwell brought you to the bed.”
Pulling the blankets higher about her neck, Trish squinted up into their faces. Her voice trembled as she mumbled, “Thanks.” She flinched as she gently pressed her fingertips against the edges of the cloth bandage wrapped around her head. “What exactly happened?” Reaching out, she grabbed a hold of Ramsay’s sleeve, pulling him over beside her. “Where are we, Ram?”
“Yer at MacKay keep.” As Trish flinched, Maxwell lowered his voice. “Yer safe, lass. Nothing will hurt ye here.”
Trish snaked an arm around Ramsay’s chest and hugged him closer still. Choking out a husky whisper filled with uneasiness, Trish closed her eyes as she spoke.”I thought you said we’d end up in my room?”
Ramsay looked at her with an apologetic shrug as he pointed at the highly polished stonework patterned into dark curlicues around an extremely unique hearth. “We are in your room. Kinda.”
“Kinda, my—” Trish stopped, her cheeks reddened as she struggled to continue. “You better be glad it pains me to move or I’d have your butt, Ramsay Alexander MacKay.” Trish hissed out a pain-filled groan as she fell back against the piles of pillows.
Maxwell couldn’t resist a chuckle. Lore, the woman’s tongue matched the fire of her hair even when she lay weak as a kitten. “What year are ye from, boy?” Perhaps if he gave Trish a bit of time to regain her strength, she’d talk more with them later.
Ramsay clamped his mouth shut and returned his arms to their stubborn position of folded over his chest.
Trish cracked open an eyelid and poked Ramsay’s shoulder. “Answer him, Ramsay. You’re not going to be able to single-handedly bail us out of this one. We’re going to need their help.”
“But I’ve heard of him, Auntie Trish.” Ramsay turned with his hands up against his mouth as though he could hide his words. “Da told me about a man named Maxwell that was Uncle Faolan’s best friend.”
“And what exactly did your da say?” Maxwell hooked his thumbs back into his belt, struggling to keep from grinning. He had a pretty good idea of the words Latharn would’ve used to describe him. Maxwell and Latharn had never seen eye to eye because Faolan had always been closer to Maxwell than he’d been to either of his brothers. Maxwell and the eldest son of clan MacKay were best friends. Maxwell and the other MacKay siblings were not.
Ramsay remained silent.
Trish covered her eyes with her hands and deflated with a sigh. “Say it, Ramsay. I’m sure it was something brilliant.”
Ramsay took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and met Maxwell’s gaze. “He said ye were a pompous arse hole that thought entirely too much of yourself.”
Trish groaned and held her head as Maxwell and Ciara both snorted with laughter.
“Did he now?” Maxwell chuckled and nudged Ciara with his elbow. “Well, perhaps ye’ll find I’m not nearly as big of an arse as your father described.” Shoulders still shaking with silent laughter, Maxwell motioned the boy away from the bed. Poor Trish looked as if she was about to retch and every time the lad jarred the bed frame, her skin paled to another shade of sickly yellow. Maxwell bent and leveled his gaze even with the boy’s. “Now, tell me. What year have ye traveled from?”
After a quick glance at Trish’s pale face, Ramsay tucked his chin and mumbled a barely audible 2020.
“2020?” Maxwell repeated. God’s teeth. A wave of uneasiness shuddered across his body. The woman and the boy had traveled back across the web of time nearly six hundred years.
“What year is this?” Trish croaked, one arm thrown across her eyes.
“In but a few days, ’twill be the year 1425.” Maxwell cleared his throat as he smoothed the sides of his unruly moustache. “Today’s date is the tenth of December in the year 1424.” Maxwell blew out a groaning sigh as he shook his head. “Winter Solstice.”
“Can’t be,” Ramsay countered. “Winter Solstice is December twenty-first.”
“Not in the year 1424, Ramsay,” Trish rasped in a weakened voice from the bed.
Ramsay’s blue eyes widened, glistening with unshed tears as he dove back toward the head of the bed. “I’m so sorry, Auntie Trish. I dunno what could’ve happened.”
Trish reached out and covered Ramsay’s hand with her own. The lines deepened around her mouth but she remained silent, her other arm still draped across her eyes.
The poor woman. Maxwell edged a bit closer to the bed. His heart clenched as he caught the glimmer of a single tear as it escaped from beneath her arm and rolled down the side of her face. She had to know she was safe here until…Maxwell stole a glance at Ciara’s worried face. Well. Until whenever. She and the boy would be safe until they chose to leave. “Ye have m’word that ye’ll be protected here. Ye have nothing to fear. Neither you or the boy.”
“Your word?” Ramsay turned from Trish and faced Maxwell, eyes narrowed and an irritated frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. “Yer no’ the laird here. What good is your word?”
“Ramsay!” Trish clutched the blankets against her throat, her face whitened with pain as she forced her body over to her side. “You will not be rude, young man. We’re in a big enough mess without adding insults to the lot.” Flinching as she pushed herself higher up in the bed, Trish swallowed hard and sucked in several deep breaths before she spoke again. “Thank you, Maxwell and Ciara, for everything. We’ll need your protection until we can figure out a way to get back before we muck up anything in this century.”
A strange feeling fluttered in the center of Maxwell’s chest, shook his heart into skipping a beat and made him swallow hard against a sudden lump swelling in his throat. Was it Trish’s helpless situation that shook him to his core or the fact that she didn’t collapse into an inconsolable bundle of weeping hysteria like most women in her situati
on would have done?
Maxwell didn’t miss how she kept a protective arm curled around Ramsay even when it must surely pain her to do so. Trish had spirit, a delightful stubbornness shone from her soul. And damn those eyes beneath that ragged bandage, blue as sapphires but sparking with three times the fire. As he exhaled a tentative breath, Maxwell’s gaze faltered a bit lower, mesmerized by the twin mounds of Trish’s ample breasts peeking over the edge of the covers. And the freckles. Damn the woman and those teasing freckles. Maxwell worked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Where the hell had all his spittle gone? His mouth tasted as dry as the dust flooring the paddock. With a cough, Maxwell forced his attention back up to her pain-filled gaze. “Rest, Mistress Trish…er…Mistress?” Maxwell caught himself about to stammer. What the hell was wrong with him? “Or would ye prefer to be called by the name of your clan?”
Trish brought her knees up to her chest, tenting the blankets all about her. Massaging her temples underneath the bandage, she closed her eyes as she spoke. “Sullivan is my last name. But everyone here can call me Trish.”
“Sullivan?” Maxwell’s heart fell and he took a step back. Was he standing here lusting after his own great great granddaughter? God’s beard! The very thought of it turned his stomach.
Trish barely nodded. Grabbing her head between both hands, Trish furrowed her brow against the jarring movement as she gasped. “Yes. Sullivan. Why?”
“Because Maxwell heads the Sullivans, a sept of Clan MacKay and he’s wondering if the two of you share a bloodline.” Ciara hid an evil grin from Trish behind the extra blanket she shook out across the bed.
Ye’re a conniving, wicked woman, Maxwell mouthed to Ciara with the slightest tilt of his head.
Ciara’s smile widened.
Trish gingerly slid back down into the depths of the bed without opening her eyes. “We might be related but it would be in name only.” Plucking the covers up under her chin, she hissed out a pained sigh. “I was adopted. According to everything I can find I’m really a mutt from Czechoslovakia.”
The tension left Maxwell’s shoulders. He didn’t have a clue where or what Czechoslovakia was but he knew none of his bloodline had been to a place so named. He tugged at the throw spread across Trish’s legs, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Rest, Trish. ’Tis the only thing that will truly heal ye.” After a moment’s hesitation, he barely traced a finger across the pale skin of the back of her hand. Pure velvet. Just like it looked.
The deep pained lines around Trish’s mouth gradually faded as the rise and fall of her chest settled into the rhythm of shallow, easy breathing.
Ciara scooped up Ramsey’s hand and looped her arm through Maxwell’s elbow. With a smile and a nod at Trish’s now-peaceful face, Ciara turned the males toward the door. “Come. She sleeps. Let the herbs do their work.” Pressing a sharp elbow into Maxwell’s ribs, she smiled up into his face. “It’s good to know you two don’t share a bloodline.”
“Meaning?” Maxwell growled under his breath, struggling to keep his voice low.
“Meaning”—Ciara nudged Maxwell in the ribs again—“that perhaps the Fates sent Trish to you for a reason.”
“What reason?” Ramsay piped up as they all squeezed through the door.
“Never mind,” Maxwell answered. “Go find your cousin, Keagan.”
Chapter Five
“Ye do realize she’s plotting and yer doomed to the utter certainty of matchmaking hell?” Faolan shoved an overflowing tankard of ale between Maxwell’s fisted hands tensed atop the table.
Curling his fingers around the cool damp metal, Maxwell stared down at the scowl looking back up at him from the amber depths of the mug. “Do ye think…” Maxwell paused, raised the tankard to his mouth and sucked in a deep fortifying swallow. Lowering the mug, he returned his attention to the surface of the swirling brew. “Do ye think she might ha’ sent for her?” Surely, Ciara hadn’t dabbled with his fate. She couldn’t just yank a woman from another fold of time just to see Maxwell tethered to a wife. Could she?
Faolan shrugged, his warrior’s braid slid back and forth across the top of his shoulder as he slowly shook his head. “My wife is a verra determined woman, Maxwell. Ye know that as well as I. How many times has she told ye that ye needed a wife over the course of just the past few months?”
“Too damn many to count.” Maxwell drained the contents of the cup in one desperate gulp. Nearly every time he turned around, Ciara never failed to mention how much happier Maxwell would be if he married. He’d survived this long without a wife. Maxwell slid the damp metal tankard back and forth along the well rubbed top of the wooden table, his gaze following the shapeless patterns formed by the trails of condensation. He didn’t need a wife…or a family. Such things only led to unnecessary complications—complications he’d do just as well without.
Faolan propped his chin in one hand and drummed his fingertips atop the table with the other. “At least she brought ye a pretty one.”
“She didn’t bring me anything.” Maxwell thunked his tankard against the table as he rose from the bench. Stalking across the room to the blazing hearth, Maxwell glared down into the glowing coals radiating beneath the flaming logs. Shimmering reds and oranges quivered and danced, heat waves undulated from their core. Vibrant colors. Mesmerizing and bright…like the shine of Trish’s coppery hair when she stirred beneath the light of the candles.
“Dammit, Faolan!” Maxwell whirled from the hypnotic blaze, putting his back to the fire. “I dinna have need of a wife.”
“Auntie Trish doesna want a husband either. ’Specially not one like you.” Ramsay stomped into the hall, his little hands fisted against the sides of his kilt. Ramsay’s lower lip barely quivered, matching the telltale tremble of his voice. “She got here by accident ’cause I screwed up a spell. But Keagan’s gonna help me find the way back so the doctors there can help Auntie Trish and make sure she gets better.”
“Calm down, boy.” Faolan rose from the bench, leaning forward with both hands atop the table. “And did your father never teach ye ’tis rude to listen in on other’s conversations?”
Maxwell raised a hand, frowning at Faolan as he moved to Ramsay’s side. “Let the boy alone, Faolan. He’s just defending his aunt.” He gave Ramsay’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “A fine quality, boy. Always protect your women.”
“Ramsay.”
Maxwell turned and faced the archway leading to the stairs. Something was wrong. He sensed a darkness in Ciara’s tone. Brow furrowed, Ciara stood twisting a towel between her hands.
Stepping out of the shadow of the stone arch, Ciara’s knuckles whitened as she tightened her hold on the towel. “Ramsay. Ian has saddled the horses so the two of you can take them out for a bit of exercise. Dress warm. I’ve put some of Keagan’s winter woolens on the peg in the bathing room. You can change your clothes there.”
“Sweet!” Ramsay bolted from the room, his excited war whoops echoing to the rafters.
Maxwell waited until Ramsay’s joyous cries faded to uncomfortable silence. Turning back to Ciara, he braced himself. He didn’t know what news she was about to share but from the shadow of worry darkening her face, it couldn’t be good.
“If we don’t find a way to heal Trish”—Ciara paused, bowed her head and drew in a slow deep breath. Lifting her chin, she swallowed hard and barely shook her head—“Ramsay will not have anyone to protect.”
A sick feeling turned to lead in the pit of Maxwell’s stomach. He knew Trish’s color hadn’t been good for the past few days but he’d hoped against all that he knew about battle wounds that his instincts were wrong this time. For once in his long, adventurous life, he hated being right. “Is there nothing we can do to save the lass? The boy will be devastated if she dies.”
Ciara glanced at Faolan, still standing at the table, then turned a thoughtful gaze to Maxwell. “Keagan has a theory.”
“God’s teeth, here it comes,” Faolan mumbled, raking both hands through his hair
.
Ciara pursed her lips and turned her back to Faolan but not before fixing him with an irritated look. “Keagan feels the reason Trish has done so poorly is because her natural magic is latent and the strength of her soul remains anchored in her original strand of time rather than staying with her physical presence in this reality. He thinks her spirit has been stretched too thin…” Ciara’s voice trailed off, leaving them all to draw their own conclusions as to what would happen if Trish’s spirit snapped.
“Latent magic? A soul’s anchor?” Maxwell frowned and moved closer to the hearth. Ciara’s disheartening announcement lent a chill to the room. “What the hell do ye mean by latent magic?”
“Are ye sure, Ciara?” Faolan asked. “This is a cruel joke if ye’ve chosen to stage Trish’s impending death just to lure Maxwell to the altar.”
“I will deal with you later for such an accusation, husband.” Ciara’s tone took on a dangerous pitch as she scowled at Faolan. Turning back to Maxwell, her face softened as she took a deep breath. “Those who fully embrace their mystical heritage survive time travel much better than those who do not.” Ciara paused, shook out the twisted cloth in her hands and folded it neatly into a small square. “Look how well young Ramsay did. The boy was up and around within minutes.”
Suspicion tingled across the back of Maxwell’s neck. Although it might be cruel, Faolan made a valid point. When Ciara made up her mind about something, she’d do anything to see it done. Maxwell pursed his lips and stroked his mustache as he searched her face for the truth. Dammit. The woman knew how to mask her emotions. God help Faolan with his wife. Maxwell nodded as he continued stroking his beard. Perhaps ’twould be safest for now to play along. How else could he gather information? “Aye. Ramsay was alert and running around with Keagan before Trish ever came to. What’s yer point, Ciara?”
Ciara hugged the folded cloth to her chest and meandered slowly across the room. “Keagan feels if we can meld Trish’s latent magic and her soul to another strong soul already anchored in this time, her natural powers will come to the surface and her strength will return. Her spirit needs a comforting refuge in this time.”
A Highlander in Her Past Page 4