A Highlander in Her Past

by Maeve Greyson

  Trish grinned at the mischievous glint in Ciara’s eye. She had no doubt that the church might have a few problems accepting Ciara with her history as a former Fury and warrior-daughter of the goddesses Brid and Cerridwen. “No. The absence of a priest will not be a problem.” An excited shiver rippled across her flesh triggering goose bumps atop her skin. She couldn’t believe she’d actually decided to stay in this time and become a Highlander’s bride.

  “You’ve chosen well.” Ciara interrupted Trish’s reverie with a soft pat atop her arm. “Maxwell is a good man.”

  Trish turned away from the chilling wind, tightening the fringed arisaid about her shoulders. “I just hope he doesn’t regret choosing me.” Staring down at the hard-packed earth surrounding the altar, Trish scrubbed a toe against a clump of newly sprouted greenery.

  “I’ll never be able to give him children. Don’t the men of this time feel an heir is pretty important?”

  Ciara’s dark eyes narrowed as she lifted her face to the fleeting rays of the spring time sun as it skittered beyond a bank of gray white clouds. “Never underestimate the power of the time of Bealltainn or the whims and wishes of the goddess.” Patting an escaped tendril of hair back into the dark shining knots of her intricate braid, Ciara faced Trish with a smile. “Leave the blessing of children to the Fates. All things happen for a reason, Trish. Whatever will be…will be, and Maxwell knows and accepts that.”

  Trish couldn’t read the expression on Ciara’s face and didn’t really know if she wanted to. Sorting through her own chaotic emotions was enough of a chore without adding Ciara’s cryptic messages to the list of things to decipher. Trish hugged herself and pulled the shawl tighter against the uneasy chill stealing across her flesh. No looking back. She had to keep telling herself that…and Ciara was right. Maxwell was a good man who had seemingly accepted all she’d told him whether it made him laugh or fume.

  Another thought pulled at her heart, triggering an uncomfortable stab of guilt. Ramsay. The boy had said he wanted to stay in this time as well, said his family back in the twenty-first century would be just fine without him.

  “He can stay here with us and grow up with Keagan. They’re nearly the same age and an alliance with Ramsay will give Keagan an edge over the twins.” Ciara’s understanding smile tempered the fact that she’d read Trish’s mind.

  Trish walked to the edge of the cliff and gave herself to the breathtaking vista spread before her. But no matter how glorious the sparkling waves of the endless sea gleamed, she couldn’t shake a sense of guilt from creeping into her heart. “Nessa and Latharn must be sick with worry. How could they not be? He’s their son.”

  Ciara joined Trish alongside the cliff’s edge, squinting her eyes against the endless wind. “I’ve sensed Latharn’s power reaching across the web. Ease your heart, Trish. Latharn found his son here and knows the lad to be safe.”

  As the waves below crashed against the rocks with a steady rhythm, Trish watched the foam covered blue green peaks dance forward and then recede. “I know Nessa. Her heart is breaking because of the loss of her son, whether she knows he’s safe or not.”

  A tern shrieked a forlorn cry into the wind as it floated white against the graying clouds. Trish tasted the brine of the sea kissing her lips as the spray sparkled like a handful of diamonds tossed to the winds. Swallowing hard, Trish sniffed against the sting of tears threatening to overflow. “I hope someday, she’ll find it in her heart to forgive me for leading her son astray.”

  Ciara turned Trish away from the sea, urging her back down the timeworn path of barren earth surrounding the altar. “Now is not the time for regret or fretting over things you cannot change. Heartache is sometimes a necessary stone in the path of life, but you must not allow it to end your journey. The key to reaching the reward of your destiny is to keep moving forward.”

  Trish hugged Ciara’s hand on her arm and took a deep breath. “I hope you’re right, Ciara. I truly hope you’re right.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “And ye say Angus stands ready to play the pipes as soon as we light the fires?”

  Faolan grinned and didn’t bother to answer as he glanced out the stone archway, seated himself on the window’s ledge, then turned to face Maxwell.

  “Answer me, man! And wipe that wicked smirk off your face. What the hell do ye find so damn amusing?” Maxwell adjusted the straps of his finest sporran for what seemed like the fifth time. God’s teeth! Why wouldn’t the infernal thing hang where he wished? Running his fingers behind his tunic’s tightly fastened collar, Maxwell yanked against the heavy linen, trying to loosen its hold on his throat. “And who in the hell told Sorcha to fashion this collar after a tightly knotted noose?”

  Faolan scrubbed his hand across his freshly shaved face, an amused chuckle escaping through his fingers.

  “Yer a vile, wicked man, Faolan MacKay. A vile, wicked man.” Maxwell stomped across the flagstones and joined Faolan at the window, stretching past him through the arch to peer up to the hill. “It seems to me I remember havin’ to shove your cowardly arse toward the altar on the day ye pledged to your bride.”

  Faolan clapped a hand to Maxwell’s shoulder and pointed up the hillside toward the carefully constructed mound of broken limbs piled beside the stone altar. “Look just beyond the brush. See there? Angus awaits and he holds his pipes at the ready.”

  Maxwell exhaled, barely relaxing the strangle hold he held along the edge of the window’s blocks. “This day will be the death of me. I ne’er thought I’d take a wife but now that I’ve met Trish, I canna stomach the thought of another day passing without her bearing m’name.”

  “Ye’ll be fine, old man.” Faolan thudded him across the back once more as he rose from the windowsill. “Come. ’Tis time we joined your bride at the altar before ye fret yourself into an early grave.”

  As they stepped outside, Maxwell turned his face into the evening breeze, sucking in a great lungful of the crisp briny air. “’Tis a good evening to repeat our pledge. I feel Brid’s blessing on the wind.”

  Faolan’s smile faltered a bit as he matched Maxwell’s ground-eating stride. “Aye, my friend. There is an energy crackling in the air. I feel it too.”

  Maxwell nodded to the throng of guests crowding the base of the hill. A comforting warmth filled his heart at the sight of so many smiling faces. “Thank ye, Faolan, and thanks to Clan MacKay for adding your blessings to this day.”

  Faolan nodded once as the crowd opened to the clearing holding the stone altar, revealing Trish waiting with Ciara. “Ye owe me no thanks, my friend. Now go and join your bride.”

  Reason fled him as Maxwell’s gaze connected with Trish’s beaming smile. His heart swelled at the sight of the Sullivan plaid draped about her shoulders. Lore, the woman fills my soul with fire and wears my colors well. Her shining curls blazed loose and free in the golden colors of the setting sun. Maxwell itched to bury his hands in the silky locks finally long enough to brush the tops of her shoulders. As he stepped close to her side, he brought her trembling hand to his lips. “The sun rushes to hide behind the horizon ’cause it canna compete with your beauty.”

  The most delightful shade of rose he’d ever seen colored Trish’s cheeks as she ducked her chin. She squeezed his fingers and leaned forward, so only he could hear her whisper. “Thank you…for everything.”

  Maxwell brought her clasped hands back to his lips again, lingering on the silky coolness pressed against his mouth. Words escaped him. Lore. He hoped the woman knew the joy filling his heart.

  “Are you both ready?” Ciara stepped between the stone arches, her back to the glowing sun sinking into the ocean’s glistening waves.

  Maxwell glanced at Trish. Her shy nod and quivering smile warmed him like a dram of fine whisky. Cradling her hands between his own, he turned them both toward Ciara. “Aye. We’re ready to pledge our lives and our souls.”

  Ciara stared at him, unblinking, her head tilted slightly forward.

 
; Maxwell beamed back at her as he snugged Trish’s hands against his chest.

  Ciara cleared her throat, glanced down at Trish’s hands then returned a pointed gaze and an arched brow back to Maxwell’s face. “Now, Maxwell,” she finally whispered.

  Realization hit Maxwell like a nudge in the ribs. It was time he revealed the ring. Freeing one hand and shoving it deep in his sporran, Maxwell gave Trish an apologetic smile as he searched the depths of the richly furred pouch. Where was the damn thing? He’d wrapped it carefully in a bit of soft hide to ensure it traveled well. A sense of relief flooded through him as his fingers touched the tightly wrapped bundle. Pulling the bit of yellowed hide from the pouch, Maxwell unwrapped the ring in the palm of his hand. Trish’s sharp intake of breath assured him he’d done well.

  The silver band gleamed with carefully polished knots and whorls forming an intricate weave. A deep blue stone, an oval-shaped, sparkling sapphire nestled into the widest part of the band. Maxwell took Trish’s shaking hand and seated the ring upon her finger. Closing his hand over hers, he smiled into her eyes. “I canna imagine taking a breath without ye by my side. Ye own my heart and ye own my soul. I pledge all eternity to ye…my willful, beautiful bride.”

  A deafening roar exploded around them, plunging them into an inky darkness. Howling winds tore through them, shrieking through the upright stones of the altar. The pyres of gathered wood burst into flames, blazes shooting high into the air. Maxwell staggered back against the altar table, hands raised against the onslaught of debris stinging against his flesh.

  “Trish,” he roared into the gale, clawing against the blackness of the swirling cloud. A heart-wrenching scream reached him through the howling wind just before everything went black.

  Icy raindrops plopped into his face as he rolled back against the base of the altar. The pelting drops shot faster from the clouds, melding into frigid sheets of water pummeling down the hillside. Maxwell squinted through the deluge, searching the gray, watery landscape for any sign of Trish. Crawling across the rain-slicked earth, he pulled himself to where Faolan and Ciara huddled in each other’s arms.

  “Where is she? Where is Trish? I canna see her,” he roared to them, vying to be heard above the screaming storm.

  Ciara shook her head and buried her face into Faolan’s shoulder as he pulled her beneath the shelter of the stone altar’s ledge.

  “Tell me now!” Maxwell bellowed through the rain even though he feared the answer to his question.

  Keagan shook his head as he elbow-crawled beneath the stone and crouched next to his mother and father. “They’ve gone back, Uncle Maxwell. They’ve both returned to their time.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The air swelled then exploded between the stone pillars as though someone had squeezed the universe and popped that particular space like a delicate bubble. Drenched and shaking, Trish and Ramsay sprawled across the altar stone right where the universe spit them out.

  “My baby!” Nessa rushed forward, pulling Ramsay into her arms and covering his closed eyes with kisses. “Ramsay, speak to me. Tell me you’re all right. Please, Ramsay, say something.”

  “I’m okay, Mama,” Ramsay croaked before going limp in her arms.

  Trish closed her eyes. This could not be happening. Not this. Not now. Raking the back of her hand across her wet face, she strained to raise her head and force her eyes to focus. Latharn’s concerned face swam into view. That was all it took. She collapsed back into an exhausted heap atop the stone, dragging a handful of the Sullivan tartan against her mouth to absorb her uncontrollable sobs. He was gone. She’d returned to her time and lost the only man she’d ever attempted to love.

  “Trish! Are ye hurt? Can ye speak?” Latharn eased a hand beneath her shoulders and carefully turned her toward him. “Trish. Why are ye weeping? Are ye no’ glad to finally be home?”

  Ramsay stirred in Nessa’s arms, coughing and spitting as though he’d just been resuscitated after drowning. Unwinding himself from his mother’s arms, he inched across the stone table and laid his cheek against Trish’s arm. “Ye shouldha left Auntie Trish back there, Da. Ye yanked her away from her wedding day.”

  “Wedding day?” Nessa repeated in a horrified whisper. Pulling Ramsay back into her embrace, Nessa turned the boy’s face to hers with a trembling finger under his chin. “What do you mean, Ramsay?”

  “Auntie Trish loved Maxwell. Look at her hand. She wears his ring.”

  Trish curled her hand against her chest, cupping the precious ring against her heart. Rocking back and forth atop the stone, heart-wrenching sobs tore from her throat. Why couldn’t Maxwell have returned with her instead of the damn ring? Blinded by a torrent of tears, Trish shoved her fingers into her waistband until she found the cold metal snugged against her side. Working it free, she placed a man’s silver ring on the stone beside her and covered it with a shaking hand. Ducking her head, she clenched her ringed hand to her chest and rocked back and forth, keening her pain to the wind. She hadn’t given Maxwell his ring. Nor had a chance to repeat her vows.

  “Send me back,” she hissed through her tears into Latharn’s startled face. “You’ve got to send me back right now. I’m in the middle of getting married.”

  A sorrowful shadow darkened Latharn’s face as he slowly turned away. “I cannot, Trish. Please forgive me. I cannot reopen the portal.”

  “Bullshit!” Trish screamed, tripping over her long skirts as she scrambled off the altar stone. Stumbling forward, she fell atop Latharn’s chest. Her clenched fists bounced against his body, fueled by her rage. “Don’t stand there and lie to me. If you opened it once, you can do it again!”

  She had to get back. Maxwell had to know that she really loved him. Panic ripped through Trish’s heart. She’d never said the words. She’d never told Maxwell she loved him. Balling up her fists, she swung at Latharn again, screaming as he locked his hands around her wrists and held her blows at bay. “Send me back to him now, dammit! I don’t belong here anymore.”

  “I cannot!” Latharn hissed between clenched teeth. “Each MacKay chieftain is granted the magic to open the portal once during his life time. I used my chance to recover you and my son.”

  The painful truth hit Trish like a wall of ice water, knocking her to her knees. Ramsay was next in line to be laird and he’d used his one shot at the portal when he’d sent them back in time. Trish sucked in a shuddering sob as hopeless hysteria battered against the cruel logic unfurling in her mind. She’d never see Maxwell again. She’d used up her quota of MacKay chieftains. By the time Ramsay fathered an heir who could re-open the portal, a life with Maxwell would be a missed chance…like waking too soon from a lovely dream.

  “Trish.” Nessa’s soft voice interrupted her misery, broke through the aching fog. “Even if you could go back, I don’t think you’d find what you expect.”

  Trish twisted the ends of the drenched arisaid tighter about her shoulders. A bone-chilling weariness settled into her flesh, making every movement a struggle. Not bothering to look up from the cold hard ground, Trish forced the words from her mouth. Even breathing took too much effort. What was the point really? “Cut to the chase, Nessa. I don’t have the strength for your attempt to let me down gently.”

  A despondent sigh sounded from somewhere just above Trish’s head, right before a pair of strong hands pulled her up to her feet. “Come on, Trish. There’s something I think you need to see.”

  Somehow, her feet moved of their own accord as Nessa and Latharn pulled on her arms. Strange. How could a body continue to function and shift into auto-pilot when the heart and mind had been totally shattered? Trish shuffled forward, stumbling along the path as Nessa and Latharn led her down the hill.

  “I know this will seem cruel but you need to know the truth. It would be pointless for you to return to the past, Trish. This is what you’d find.” Nessa pulled on Trish’s arms, stopping them just inside the gate of the family cemetery. Her fingers dug into Trish’s flesh, pointing
her toward the corner of the headstone-filled garden. “Please don’t hate me, Trish. But you’ve got to know that he’s not there waiting for you. I’m so sorry but it’s just too late.”

  Trish frowned at Nessa. What the hell was she babbling about? Of course Maxwell would still be there waiting for her. Only a few moments had passed. If he wasn’t here by her side, then he had to be back there standing beside that damn stone arch.

  Nessa pulled her toward a taller headstone, slightly offset from the others. A dark foreboding squeezed icy claws around Trish’s throat, threatening to cut off her air. “I don’t need to see where he’s buried, Nessa. Don’t you think I’ve got enough sense to realize that if he didn’t follow me to the future then he’s long dead by now?”

  Nessa’s mouth tightened into a determined line and she pulled Trish closer to the stone. “You need to see when he died. It will help you move on…I hope.”

  Shrugging out of Nessa’s grasp, Trish stomped over to the gravesite nestled in the corner. The name Maxwell Sullivan was carved deep and dark into the face of the soft gray stone. Trish stumbled forward, falling to her knees as she read the inscription that followed:

  A day without the warmth of her smile…

  …is an eternity spent in darkness.

  Life is nothing without her.

  Trish didn’t understand how it could be possible. How could her heart hold so much pain and still beat within her chest? Below the inscription was the date. The numbers seemed to jump from the stone and slap her in the face. Trish hugged her body, rocking back and forth on the cold hard ground as tears blurred the engraving forever chiseled into her mind. Maxwell had given up. He’d died the same day she’d left.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Auntie Trish.” Ramsay’s hesitant call wafted through the garden like a sultry summer breeze.

  “I’m here, Ramsay.” Trish shifted positions on the stone bench, settling her chin in the crook of her arm propped atop the low stone wall. She had a clear view of his headstone from here—could just make out the words of the heart-breaking inscription. Perhaps it was silly but she always felt a bit closer to Maxwell whenever she sat here and watched over his grave.