Chapter Three #2
“Well, ye have my thanks all the same.” He cleared his throat.
“And I, it seems, have forgotten my manners. I havenae even introduced myself.” He scraped back his chair and rose to his full impressive height before giving her a courtly bow that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else but for some reason seemed to suit him.
“My name is Arran MacLeod, laird of the MacLeods of Skye. Pleased to make yer acquaintance.”
“Laird?” she asked. “What’s that? Some kind of lord?”
“Aye. I am chieftain of my clan.”
“Nice to meet you too, chieftain of your clan,” she said. “I’m Jenna. Now tell me, what was a Scottish laird doing in the lake outside my house?”
“I was sent here by the goddess Lir to seek aid for my people. I’m looking for a MacFinnan spellweaver.”
Jenna’s mug smashed as it hit the kitchen floor, splashing coffee all over her shoes.
“Damn it!” She crouched and began picking up the pieces of broken crockery, using the movement to cover her sudden shock.
A MacFinnan spellweaver? How did he know that term?
Nobody was supposed to know about her and her aunts.
The MacFinnans had been persecuted as witches in times past and as a result, they’d kept their powers carefully hidden.
But now a man dressed like he belonged in some historical reenactment came looking for one?
And what had he said? He’d been sent by a goddess?
“Here, let me help.” He took a step towards her but she flung up a hand to stop him.
“I can manage!”
She picked up the bits of broken crockery, slung them into the bin, and then stood with her hands resting on the countertop, back to Arran MacLeod, staring out of the window.
Just when she thought her day couldn’t get any worse.
What had she done that was so bad the universe had decided to crap on her like this?
“Lass?” he said from behind her. “Jenna? Are ye all right?”
His voice rumbled across her skin like a warm breeze, deep and soothing.
“Fine,” she lied. “I’m just fine. Now, if you’re dry and you’ve finished your coffee, you’d best be on your way. I have to get ready for work.” She suddenly wanted him gone, wanted him out of her house, out of her life. She didn’t need this complication.
She heard the soft tread of his boots as he came to stand behind her. “Have I offended ye, lass?”
She whirled. “No, you haven’t offended me, just—” She cut off as she realized how close he was, not six inches away, staring down at her with those deep blue eyes of his. She swallowed thickly. “But I think you’d better go now.”
He studied her face and his eyes suddenly narrowed. “Wait,” he breathed. “I know ye. Ye are the one in the vision Lir showed me. I recognize ye now!”
“Don’t be stupid. We’ve never met before.” Vision? What vision?
“Ye said yer name was Jenna,” he said softly. “Jenna MacFinnan. Am I right?”
She pushed past him and went to stand on the other side of the table, putting some space between them. “Yes, I’m Jenna MacFinnan, and I’m also very busy. So you need to leave now.”
He shook his head. “I canna do that, lass. I need yer help.”
“I’ve already told you, if you need to retrieve your boat from the lake, there’s a—”
“I need ye to come back through time with me to save my people.”
Jenna stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“The goddess Lir sent me from the year 1497 to bring a MacFinnan spellweaver back through time with me. Only yer magic can save my people.”
He was clearly insane. “If you expect me to believe that—”
“I’m telling the truth, lass. The lake ye dragged me from? That was the portal Lir sent me through. Ye are a MacFinnan spellweaver—surely yer powers can tell ye I speak the truth?”
His blue eyes were alight with something like hope, and his voice sounded so earnest that Jenna paused. He really believed what he was saying. Either he was completely mad or… or… he was telling the truth.
She hadn’t touched her power in years and had no wish to do so now, yet she couldn’t deny that there was something very odd about the way he’d arrived here, not to mention the way he was dressed. All right. Just this once. Just a tiny bit.
Slowly, reluctantly, she opened herself up to her spellweaving magic.
It was like opening the drapes on a sunny morning and the world suddenly sprang into sharper focus, revealing things that were normally hidden.
The first thing she saw was the strange displacement that surrounded Arran MacLeod like the shimmering optics of a rainbow.
It hurt Jenna’s eyes to look at, and she knew immediately what it was.
A distortion of time.
Arran MacLeod was most definitely not of this time, which explained his strange appearance and his strange clothing. What it did not explain was how he thought she could help him, or why she would want to.
She disengaged her power, and the world faded to normal. “I’m sorry,” she said, striding to the door and holding it open for him. “I can’t help you. Now please leave.”
“Will ye not even hear me out?” he replied. “Will ye not even hear what I’ve come all this way to say?” There was an edge to his voice now, one that sounded like anger.
“I’ve heard enough. I’m not the person you’re looking for, and I can’t help you. Now go, before I call the police.”
He studied her. Warring emotions shone in his eyes.
Anger, yes, and something else. Desperation?
He was an imposing sight standing there like that, all six-foot-something of him with his huge shoulders and raptor’s glare.
But she wouldn’t be intimidated. If he tried anything, she would kick him in the balls like Aunt Elise had suggested.
His fists clenched and she tensed, expecting some kind of outburst, but then his shoulders relaxed. “I can pay,” he said finally. “Name yer price.”
*
Arran watched Jenna MacFinnan closely. She opened her mouth as though to speak—to tell him to go hurl himself in the lake most likely—but then closed it again. He took this as a good sign. Since his offer of payment she hadn’t refused him outright nor tried to throw him out of the house.
Lir had told him that he couldn’t force the spellweaver to come back with him, and that he had to find a way to persuade her.
For a moment, when she’d refused to help him, he’d considered picking her up, slinging her over his shoulder, and bodily marching her back to the lake, whether she willed it or no.
He was so desperate to help his people that he would have done it had his conscience and common sense not stopped him.
He’d never manhandled a woman in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now.
And besides, this was a woman who could most likely toss him through the air like a leaf in a breeze if she chose to.
So he’d resorted to the only tactic he could think of: a deal. He’d pay whatever she wanted if she would agree to help him. He’d happily hand over what was left of the MacLeod wealth if that’s what it took. Wealth could be replaced. Lives could not.
Still, she said nothing, and he read skepticism in her wide green eyes. He couldn’t blame her. In his present condition he hardly looked the chieftain of a once-prosperous clan, did he? Neither had he brought any coin with him in order to make such a bargain.
He yanked the chieftain’s torc from around his neck and tossed it onto the kitchen table. It landed with a heavy thunk. “Here, I will give ye this for starters. It’s gold. Worth a pretty sum even in yer modern age I would image.”
The lass’s eyes widened. The torc was a heavy, braided circle of metal, with its terminals carved into the semblance of snarling sea-wolves with garnets for eyes.
The torc had been the symbol of the chieftains of the MacLeods since time beyond measuring, passed down from chieftain to chieftain.
It pained him to give it up. But that was naught compared to the pain of seeing his people suffer.
What was one lump of gold compared to that?
Jenna cleared her throat. “Yes,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “That would be worth a fortune.”
“And there’s more where that came from,” he said, pressing his advantage. “I will pay ye a king’s ransom if ye can save my people.”
She swallowed. He couldn’t quite decipher the expression on her face. Hopeful and despairing at the same time, as though she was being pulled one way and then another.
She was not what he’d expected, this MacFinnan spellweaver.
She was beautiful, that was for sure, with her lustrous black hair, bright green eyes, and a smattering of freckles over her face.
Confident too, if the way she’d waded into the lake to help him and then brought him back to her dwelling place was anything to go by.
And yet she seemed… fragile. There was a shadow in her eyes and he’d yet to see her smile. He got the feeling that she didn’t do that very often.
“So, lass?” he pressed gently. “What do ye say?”
Her eyes moved from the torc on the table, to his face. Arran held her gaze, refusing to look away, and for an instant they stood like that, staring at each other.
Then the lass turned away. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But you’ve got the wrong person. I may be a MacFinnan, but I’m not a spellweaver. Not anymore. I’m not the person you need.”
“I think ye are. Lir sent me to ye.”
“Then she got it wrong! I can’t help you. Now please leave.” Her expression had gone blank, shutting away whatever she was feeling behind an expressionless mask. She strode to the door and held it open for him.
He ground his teeth in frustration. He had come all this way, traveled through the layers of time for this woman. He could not go home empty-handed. “Listen, lass. I—”
“Just go!” she yelled. And then more softly, added, “Please. Just go.”
The anguish in her voice stopped any further protest. “All right,” he breathed in defeat. “All right.”
He picked up the torc, its weight feeling as heavy as the despair that settled in his stomach. He’d failed. This had been his last chance, and he’d failed. He walked to the door and paused as he reached her. She did not look at him, but stared straight ahead.
“Thank ye for the coffee.” He gave the giant dog one last scratch behind the ears, then walked down the porch steps and onto the path that would lead back to the lake.
He heard the door close behind him.