Falling in Time
Allie Mackay
One
Talmine Village
Scotland’s Far North, the Present
Precious lass. You’re mine, do you hear me?
I won’t – I can’t – live without you.
Lindy Lovejoy, American tourist and expert on all things Scottish, heard the words in her mind.
But they were real enough to make her heart thump against her ribs.
Her breath caught, too, and her stomach went all fluttery.
In fact, if she weren’t sitting on her bed, bolstered by pillows and surrounded by maps and writing paraphernalia, she was sure she’d melt into a puddle on the plaid-carpeted floor.
She did tilt her head and close her eyes, concentrating.
Her room, surely the tiniest in the entire bed-and-breakfast inn, was quiet.
Darkness came early on autumn nights in Scotland and if anyone occupied the room next to hers, they weren’t making any noise.
Outside, the wind had risen and fluting gusts whistled round the eaves and soughed down the narrow road beneath her window.
A glance in that direction – she hadn’t yet bothered to close the curtains – showed a steady rain just beginning to fall.
But she could still hear the man’s voice. Deep, richly burred and dangerously seductive, his words slid through her like smooth, sun-warmed honey.
I’ll ne’er let you go, sweetness.
Lindy bit her lip, listening. He’d breathed the endearment as if he were right beside her, his chin grazing her hair and his breath warm against her cheek.
He was definitely a Highlander.
And he spoke with the kind of fill-her-with-shivers Scottish accent she thought of as a verbalorgasm.
To o bad he was a product of her imagination.
Lore MacLaren.
Hero of the Scottish medieval romance she’d been working on for years and that had only been rejected by – she opened her eyes and frowned – every agent and editor in the industry. At least the ones she’d targeted so carefully.
Not that it’d done her any good.
Biting back a curse she was not going to let pass her lips, she tucked her hair behind her ear and willed her character to stop talking to her.
Now wasn’t the time for guilty pleasures.
Even if she was sure that having such a hot, realistic, full-bodied hero – a Highland hero, for heaven’s sake! – had to be something really specialin the super-competitive business of writing and selling romance novels.
Lore MacLaren would have to wait until her vacation was over.
The research trip that – she just knew – was going to result in her big breakthrough into publishing.
She plucked at a loose thread on the bed’s tartan duvet, almost afraid to acknowledge how much time, money and effort she’d vested in her plans.
Anyone even halfway familiar with karma, knew how easy it was to jinx oneself.
But still. . .
Life could seem so unfair.
Some authors hit New York running.
She’d tried that and failed. Doing everything right and following all the rules had gotten her nowhere. Now she was going to take a detour.
If Heather Aflame wasn’t wowing the powers-that-be, she’d knock them sideways with The Armchair Enthusiast’s Guide to MythicalScotland.
In lyricalbut concise, easy-to-follow language, she’d regale readers with insider tips on everything from how to drive on the left to finding hidden away entrances to Neolithic chambered tombs and other little known sites that most tourists never see.
Aspiring writers and maybe even some published authors would snatch the book off the shelves. Agents and editors would be impressed, hinting that she should pour her knowledge into writing a Scottish romance.
She’d sell Lore at last.
A fantastic two-book deal would be hers. She could then quit her job at Ye Olde Pagan Times, the New Age shop in her hometown of New Hope, Pennsylvania, where she worked such long hours some of the regulars often asked if she slept on a cot in the back room.
She’d never again have to urge someone to buy a sneeze-inducing bundle of bad-vibes-chasing sage.
Or suffer the equally pungent smell of some of the love potions and herbal treatments for masculine sexual dysfunction that were kept in a locked cupboard in one of the shop’s darkest corners.
Sweet lass, I need you . . .
Lore’s voice came low and husky. Lindy whipped around with a jolt, sure she’d felt his breath on her nape.
Soft and warm, it had caressed her skin, making her tingle with desire and awareness.
His words, deep and rough-edged, let her know that he wanted her with equal passion.
But a quick glance showed that the room loomed empty.
As before, nothing stirred except the damp wind outside her window.
She reached again for her pen and notepad, pushing her Scottish hero from her mind.
Sometimes it didn’t pay to have such a vivid imagination.
But she was certain her hard work would always be rewarded.
If her Armchair Enthusiast’s Guide took off, she hoped to someday earn a living by immersing herself in the world she loved best -medieval Scotland, with all its mystery and magic, and where, she knew in her heart, she should have been born if only some cruel quirk of fate hadn’t plunked her down in the wrong time and place, leaving her filled with yearning for a life she couldn’t have.
But she could write books set there.
Once, that is, she made a name for herself as an expert on the must-see Highland hot spots of Celtic mythological fame.
And that wasn’t going to happen unless she stopped thinking about her romance novel’s hero and paid attention to the task at hand – studying next morning’s route to one of the most celebrated places on her two-week tour through Scotland’s ancient landscape.
She peered at the Ordnance Survey map that covered most of her bed.
The map was a Landranger 9 and detailed every inch of Cape Wrath, the wildest and most remote corner of Scotland.
Just seeing all the squares, lines and minuscule place names filled her with anticipation.
This was the part of her trip that most excited her.
She’d never been to Scotland before, but she’d dreamed of it all her life.
Scotland’s far north was where she belonged.
The next day’s journey would feel like going home.
Already, she knew each twist and turn of the way. Every curve of the shore road, the slender crescents of golden sand and even the forgotten homesteads, each one little more than a tiny dot on her map.
Looking at them now, her heart skittered. Though nothing thrilled her as much as the special place she’d explore in less than twenty-four hours. Said to be a portalto the Otherworld as well as a favourite haunt of the fey, Smoo Cave would be the highlight of her trip.
She also meant to make it the pièce de résistance of her book.
Levering up against the pillows, she pulled the map on to her lap.
But before she could trace her finger along the pink-highlighted stretch of road she needed to follow around Loch Eriboll and along the coast to Durness where the cave was located, the wind picked up, slamming one of the shutters against the wall.
Or so she thought until she remembered the window wasn’t shuttered.
What if the banging noise had been the sound of her door flying open . . .?
Lindy’s heart stopped and the fine hairs on her nape lifted. This part of Scotland wasn’t exactly known for crime, but there were always exceptions. So she slowly looked up from the map and slid a cautious glance across the shadowy room.
What she saw took her breath.
A man stood silhouetted against the light from the lamp on the dresser. Tall, kilted and too rock solid to be her imagination, he wore a very real-seeming sword at his hip and had a dark, roguish air about him that made her mouth go dry and did funny things to her stomach.
He looked very much like Lore.
Especially when his mouth curved in a slow, sensual smile and he narrowed his gaze on her, his blue eyes staring with such heat she gulped.
“Ehhh . . .” Lindy’s attempt at speech failed pitifully.
The look in the man’s eyes became even more provocative, proving he didn’t mind. “You err, sweetness.” He took a step forwards, the lamp light gilding him. “I am no’ called Lore MacLaren. My name is Rogan.” He put back his shoulders, standing straighter. “Rogan MacGraith.”
“Your name doesn’t matter.” Lindy jumped to her feet, finding her voice at last. “For all I know, you could be an axe murderer.”
She highly doubted it. But drop-dead-gorgeous Highlanders didn’t materialize out of thin air regardless of the popularity of paranormal romance. She also doubted they ran around teeny one-blink-and-you’re-through-it Sutherland villages wearing great plaids and packing razor-sharp swords.
And she hadn’t noticed any medieval re-enactors staying at the Talmine Arms.
Word was the only other tourists were an elderly English couple and two German bikers.
The proprietor had told her so.
Which could only mean . . .
Lindy grabbed a pillow and held it before her. “I don’t have any money,” she stammered, wishing his searing gaze wasn’t so unsettling. “I’m at the end of my trip and—”
“Och, lassie.” Mr Medievalwas suddenly right in front of her. “If I wanted your coin—” he plucked the pillow from her hands and tossed it aside “—any sillers you might have would already be weighing down my purse.”
He grinned and patted a small leather pouch hanging from his sword belt. Then the look on his face turned wicked as he grabbed her and pulled her to him, holding her so tightly that she could hardly breathe.
“I’m that fast, see you?”
“I see you’re a mad man.”
“Aye, that I am, true enough!” He released her, his gaze absolutely smouldering now. “So mad for you that if you dinnae cease calling me Lore each time I kiss you, I may have to kill an innocent man.”
“Kiss me?” The absurdity of his words gave Lindy the energy to dart away from him.