Chapter Four #2
The rock pool nestled among tumbled boulders at the back of a beach where gentle waves lapped the shore of a horseshoe bay. Bobbing in the waters of the bay were the burned-out remains of boats in all shapes and sizes.
Oh God, she thought. I’m here. I’m really here. I’m in fifteenth century Scotland.
The enormity of the situation crashed in on her with the power of a tidal wave. She leaned over and deposited her breakfast all over the rocks.
*
Arran breathed deeply, savoring the salty sea-air that told him he was home.
He glanced at the sky, trying to determine how much time had passed while he’d been in the future.
The sun was lower in the sky than it had been but he didn’t know if this was the same day he’d left or another.
Lir had been pretty sketchy on the details of how time travel worked.
What he did notice was that the floating bodies had been removed, for which he was grateful.
He looked around for the goddess, expecting her to be waiting for him, ready to explain what to do next, but there was no sign of her. Climbing to his feet, he padded down to the water’s edge, trying to ignore the way his guts twisted at the sight of the broken hulks of his fishing fleet.
“Lir!” he shouted, his words swallowed by the pounding waves. “Lir!”
There was no response. The goddess, it seemed, had done all she was willing to do. Now it was up to him and the spellweaver.
He turned at a sudden sound and found the lass doubled over, retching into the sand.
“Lass?” he asked in concern, striding towards her.
She retched again and then wiped the back of her hand over her mouth. “I’m fine,” she muttered. “This is my first attempt at time traveling. Guess you have to get used to it. Like jet lag.”
The tales of MacFinnan spellweavers passed down through Arran’s clan spoke of women of immense power and wisdom who could turn you into a toad as soon as look at you.
This raven-haired beauty spewing her guts into the sand was not what he’d envisaged at all.
She seemed so… normal. Younger, and certainly more attractive than he’d expected.
What did you expect? he asked himself. Some wizened old crone with a cat?
Jenna wiped her mouth then climbed shakily to her feet.
“Can ye walk?” he asked her. “Or would ye like me to carry ye?”
She gave him a flat look. “I can walk just fine, thanks. Where are we going?”
He nodded in the direction of the dunes that rose behind the beach. “My keep. It’s around ten miles that way.”
“Ten miles? And I suppose it’s too much to ask to call a cab, hey?”
“A what?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
He led the way as they climbed the dunes, picking the easiest path between the tussocky grass and shifting sand. Jenna puffed along behind him, letting out a string of curses that any Highland warrior would have been proud of as her boots sank into the soft sand. Finally, they reached the top.
Arran put his hands on his hips and looked out.
He loved the view from here. The Isle of Skye stretched out before him, a landscape of sparkling lochs and undulating moorland, rising up to snow-capped mountains in the distance.
The land was a part of him as much as much as he was a part of it, and he would do anything to safeguard it. Anything.
“Wow,” Jenna said, coming to stand by his side. “So that’s Skye, huh?”
“Aye.”
“And I’m really here? In the fifteenth century?”
“Ye really are.”
“My aunts will never believe this.”
“And neither will my people when I show up with a MacFinnan spellweaver. The looks on their faces will be something to behold.” He squinted at the sky, trying to gauge the time. “Come. It’s getting late, and we’ve a long way to go if we want to get back before dark.”
They set off inland, leaving behind the beach and the wreckage of his fleet, and took the northern road, a well-trodden track that snaked its way towards the island’s interior.
He set a steady pace but was careful not to go too quickly, mindful of Jenna’s earlier bout of sickness.
Although, he reflected, as she paced along at his side, she seemed to be doing just fine.
There was a rosy blush to her cheeks and her eyes sparkled with curiosity as she looked around, taking everything in.
The wind sent her cloud of dark hair streaming out behind her, and with her odd twenty-first century attire of billowing coat and red boots, she looked like some kind of warrior queen out of an old tale.
Aye, this MacFinnan spellweaver was not what he’d expected at all.
She looked at him suddenly and he glanced away quickly, embarrassed to have been caught staring. He cast around for something to say, some way to fill the silence.
“So… um… yer aunts,” he said at last. “They are spellweavers too?”
She nodded. “Yep. Both stronger than me. You would have done better enlisting either of them to help you.”
“I dinna think so,” he countered. “Lir led me to ye for a reason.”
“So you said. I’m not sure how much I like the thought of being chosen by a goddess.”
“Me neither. In my experience, it’s always best to remain beneath the notice of those who wield power. But desperate times call for desperate actions.”
Her expression turned pensive. “Desperate times, eh? Does that have something to do with all those burned ships?”
Arran’s stomach clenched. “Aye,” he growled. “It does.” He didn’t want to talk about it right now. He was cold, tired, and hungry and wanted nothing more than to get back to his keep where there would be food and a roaring fire waiting.
But Jenna did not take the hint. “What happened?”
“Raiders,” he said gruffly. “Stealing and killing and burning. That’s what happened.”
He was saved from having to explain further by a sudden shout from up ahead. “My laird! There ye are!”
He halted as a group of mounted men came riding down the trail and pulled up their horses in front of them.
“Damn it, Arran!” Their leader, a huge man with blond braids and a hook nose, glared down at him from atop his prancing mount. “Where the bloody hell have ye been, cousin? When ye disappeared on the beach we thought you’d been taken! We’ve been scouring the whole bloody island for ye!”
“I didnae ‘disappear’ as ye put it, Mal,” Arran replied. “I had something important to take care of.”
Seeing Jenna, the men behind Mal broke into leering grins and began elbowing each other in the ribs.
“Seems our laird found something to distract him!” one of them called.
Arran strode up to the man and unceremoniously yanked him from the saddle. Grabbing his tunic in both fists, he shook him and snarled, “This lass is no ‘distraction’, Sean MacLeod! She is a MacFinnan spellweaver come to aid us, and ye will show her the same respect ye show to me! Is that clear?”
Sean swallowed thickly, his eyes darting between him and Jenna. “Aye, laird. My… my apologies.”
Arran released him and studied his men. They were staring at Jenna with wide eyes, a chorus of awed murmurs rippling through the air.
A MacFinnan spellweaver!
We’re saved!
But they died out, surely?
Jenna said not a word but licked her lips nervously as she looked around at the men, clearly a little rattled by this greeting.
Mal was the first to regain his composure. He bowed to Jenna from his saddle. “Welcome to Skye, my lady. We are at yer disposal.” He turned to Arran. “There is quite the tale in this I suspect, cousin.”
“Aye, there is, but it’s telling can wait until we’re all safely back in Dun Tabor. Sean, double up with Mal. I will take yer horse. Hamish, Dougal, ride to the keep and warn of our arrival.”
As the men scrambled to obey, he turned to Jenna. The earlier rosy hue to her cheeks had faded and she looked a little pale. “We’ll move more quickly by horse. Will ye consent to ride with me?”
She blinked. “What?”
“Will ye consent to ride with me?”
“Um… I suppose so—”
“Good.” Without further ado, he bent and lifted her into his arms. She gave a surprised shriek as he hoisted her into the saddle and then swung up behind her.
“Wait! I didn’t know you meant—”
“Yah!” He nudged the horse into a canter.
The lass squawked and was thrown back against Arran—something he didn’t mind one bit. She felt warm and inviting where she touched him and her scent—something akin to sandalwood—made his nostrils tingle and a pleasant warmth steal through him.
The next moment, she grabbed hold of the saddle horn and clung on for dear life, pulling herself forward until she was half slumped over the horse’s shoulders, her eyes squeezed closed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, puzzled.
“What’s wrong?” she cried. “Isn’t that obvious? Make this thing slow down!”
He did as she asked, pulling on the reins until the horse slowed to a trot. Yet this only seemed to make things worse as the lass bounced around like a sack of turnips, not swaying with the horse’s gait at all.
“Aargh!” she cried. “I think my bones are getting shaken loose!”
He slowed the horse to a walk. “It will take longer to get home at this pace.”
She peeled her eyes open, loosened her death-grip on the saddle horn, and slowly pushed herself upright, sitting rigidly and being careful to keep a gap between them.
“You know what? That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
The wind picked up, sending her hair billowing out behind her and making it tickle Arran’s chin. It was not an unpleasant feeling, and he found himself wishing she would lean back against him again.
Stop that, he chided himself. It’s been too long since you had a woman if you’re having such thoughts about a MacFinnan spellweaver!
He schooled his patience as they plodded their steady way along the trail. There was none of the usual banter among his men as they rode, caused in no small part by the atrocities they’d seen on the beach today but also, no doubt, by the presence of the woman riding with them.