A Highlander in Her Past (4 page)

Ramsay nodded while the pink tip of his tongue raced back and forth across his lower lip.

Trish’s conscience kicked into gear. What would it really hurt to let him try the spell? Either it would work and they’d end up in her room or he’d fail and they’d end up staring at each other across the wreckage in the gloomy library. Trish stuffed her hands deep into the back pockets of her jeans.
Damn.
She really needed to be the adult here and tell him no. Another look at Ramsay’s expectant face and a pang of guilt shot an arrow of sympathy straight through Trish’s heart. He already felt like she’d deserted him, stayed away from him too long. She knew he didn’t accept her excuse of a weak signal for all those unanswered text messages when her schedule had been so overloaded.

“I’d hate for ye to have to go through that dirty ole tunnel again.” Ramsay leaned forward and his eyes grew rounder. “I bet there’s even spiders in there.”

“Spiders, huh?” Trish bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Ramsay was pulling out all his ammunition. He knew how she hated spiders. She’d probably end up regretting this but how could she tell him no? Nessa would wring her neck if Latharn’s magic alarms went off and they got caught. Shifting her stance on the dusty floor, Trish nodded once in Ramsay’s direction. “I’ll make you a deal.”

Ramsay hopped off the stone and edged a bit closer.

Trish couldn’t squelch her amusement any longer. The look of anticipation lighting up the child’s face was more than she could bear. With a giggle, she reached out and ruffled his hair. “Oh, Ramsay. You’re such a little con artist. What would I do without you?”

“Ye’d be a very bored old woman,” Ramsay noted with a solemn nod.

With a playful cuff atop the boy’s head, Trish bent closer until the tip of her nose nearly touched his. “You call me an old woman one more time and I’ll leave you up here by yourself—without the aid of your spell.”

Ramsay wrapped his arms around Trish’s neck and snuggled his face against her cheek. “Ye know I love ye, Auntie Trish. I didna mean to call ye old.”

Her heart melted. Trish scooped the boy into a tighter embrace and planted a kiss atop his head. “You may be a little rat. But you’re the best rat I know. You know that?”

A muffled giggle rumbled against her neck as Ramsay nodded his head.

Might as well get it over with.
Trish glanced at her watch. Surely, everyone else was asleep by now; even Latharn should be asleep over in Ireland. Ramsay could spell them down into her room and then take the tunnel back up to the tower and return to attacking his mess. “Okay, Ramsay. Here’s the deal. I’ll let you work your spell on the condition that once we travel back to my room, you come back up here and finish your assigned punishment.”

Ramsay stepped back, flattened his little hand over his heart and stood a bit taller. “I give ye m’word as a MacKay.”

Holy cow.
The boy sounded just like his father. Trish straightened her jacket and nodded. “Okay. Let’s do this.” She tapped a bright-red fingernail against the face of her watch. “You’ve got about forty-five minutes left in your Winter’s Solstice.”

“Gimme your hands.” Ramsay held both grubby hands palms up, his feet spread slightly apart beneath a dusty kilt hanging at a crooked angle about his tiny hips.

Taking a deep breath, Trish settled her fingertips into Ramsay’s damp little palms and forced a solemn look on her face. “Now what?” She needed to do this right. Poor Ram’s feelings had been bruised enough.

“Ye have to think about yer room.” Ramsay sniffed, eyed his sleeve then sniffed again as he returned his gaze to Trish’s face. “Sorry. I’ll blow it later.” Rubbing his cheek against his shoulder, he tightened his grip on Trish’s hands. “Close yer eyes and stay focused on the inside of yer bedroom. Then all ye gotta do is follow my lead. Do what I do and maybe say what I say. I don’t think ye’ll need to say anything but I’m not really sure. I’ll have to let ye know about that part as soon as I feel the energy. ’Kay?”

Trish closed her eyes, holding her breath against a mutinous giggle threatening to break free. “Got it.”

In a high-pitched voice that still managed to ring with authority, Ramsay swung their clasped hands higher into the air and guided them both into a slow-moving clockwise circle. “By the power of time, by the strength of space, take us to my loved one’s place.”

Trish kept her eyes closed, a chill shivered across her skin as Ramsay chanted the rhyme. She cracked one eyelid open and stole a peek. Nothing. They still stood in the center of the destroyed library. Still moving in the slow circle, she fully opened her eyes. “Maybe you need to say it again. Isn’t there something about doing everything in threes?”

“Auntie Trish. I was
not
finished.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Trish tightened her eyes shut along with her mouth.
Come on, powers. Give the kid a break. He’s had a rough day.
Trish matched Ramsay’s careful shuffle as they continued moving in a slow circle.

“By the power of time, by the strength of space, take us to my loved one’s place.” Ramsay raised his voice this time, matching his steps and the swing of their hands with the cadence of the rhyme. “Dammit,” he muttered under his breath.

“Ram?”

“Sorry.” Ramsay heaved an irritated sigh. “It shouldha worked by now. I can’t figure out what’s gone wrong.”

Poor little guy. Trish’s heart ached. She swallowed hard and straightened her shoulders with renewed determination. Even if Ramsay’s spell didn’t work; he at least had to know that she believed in him. Maybe she should give the chant a go. “By the power of time, by the strength of space, take us to my loved one’s place.” As an afterthought, she added a few lines she’d once heard Latharn use. “For the good of all, and with harm to none, so let it be spoken, so let it be done.”

“Holy crap! That’s it, Auntie Trish!”

A moaning roar blasted into the room, whirling around them with a gale force wind that threw them against the farthest wall. Trish grabbed Ramsay, sheltering him against her chest as their bodies flew higher into the air. Snugging her cheek against the top of the child’s head, Trish struggled to open her eyes enough to see what was happening. Brilliant flashes of blue-white light forced her to bury her face in his hair, squinting them shut against the blinding arc.

The squalling energy rose to a high-pitched scream. Trish’s heart hammered into her throat. The erratic rush of blood pounding in her ears drowned all other sound. The force of the storm tore against her body, felt as if it threatened to tear her flesh from her bones. If she survived this Pandora’s box, she’d paddle Ramsay’s butt herself.

The sound disappeared just as quickly as it had exploded into the room. The last of the gust crashed them against the stone wall before dropping them to the floor. Trish clutched Ramsay atop her body, his limp weight heavy against her chest. Squeezing her hands up and down his arms, Trish forced herself not to panic. Ram was entirely too still. A warm sticky wetness trickled down the side of her face as a sharp pain burst through the base of her skull.

Air. Dammit, I need air.
A stabbing burn shot through her ribcage as she gasped in a shallow breath and tried to shift to her side. Trish attempted to open her eyes.
Bad move.
She closed them quickly against a wave of nausea launching her into a black spinning void. As she whirled into the darkness, Trish made out the sound of a strong deep voice over the dull roar howling in her ears.

“God’s beard, Keagan. What the hell have ye done?”

Chapter Four

“Has she stirred yet?” Maxwell eased into the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

The woman in the chair settled her needlework in her lap and glanced toward the bed. “She moans a bit but hasn’t opened her eyes. I’m afraid the wound to her head might be more severe than we first thought.”

Maxwell didn’t doubt Ciara’s fears. He’d seen such injuries during the course of battles. The outcome wasn’t usually good. He drew closer to the edge of the bed, clasping his hands behind his back. “And the boy?”

Ciara smiled and picked up the cloth, pulling the looped thread taut with the needle. “The boy is fine. He’s with Keagan. Apparently, the bodies of the very young are much more resilient when traveling through time.”

Maxwell stared down at the pale, motionless woman cocooned among the pillows in the overstuffed bed. So delicate—just as she had appeared in the mirror. Her translucent skin reminded him of the fresh cream shimmering in the larder pans. He leaned forward and brushed a short ringlet of copper-colored hair back from the bandage wrapped around her head. Such a vivid shade. The lass’s hair rivaled the fiery locks of the goddess Brid herself. But so short. Had the lass been punished? Had her hair been shorn close to her head as the result of some sort of crime?

“She’s quite lovely. Isn’t she, Maxwell?”

Maxwell returned his hands to the tightly clasped position behind his back and swiveled his attention to the grinning woman sitting in the high-backed chair.
Damn Ciara.
He recognized that tone. She was up to her usual mischief.
He cleared his throat. “I hadna truly noticed. I was just wondering who had cut off all her hair.”

Ciara’s smile widened. “If she’s from the year I think she’s from, she chose to cut it that short.”

Maxwell turned back to the unconscious woman. Shining red hair snipped so short ye could barely brush it?
Sheer madness.
His gaze traveled down the ivory path of her throat and came up short at the enticing bit of décolleté smattered with a dusting of pale freckles. Maxwell rubbed his thumbs across his knuckles as he pressed his fists tighter against the small of his back.
Lore, her skin looks as soft as velvet.
He’d bet his favorite dagger the woman’s entire body shimmered with those tempting little marks. The gods had sprinkled her skin with their favorite spices. Maxwell smiled. He had a particular fondness for just such spice. His groin tightened as he shifted his stance.

Ciara’s muffled giggle interrupted his thoughts.
Damn that woman.
Maxwell cleared his throat. “What year do ye think she’s from? Or did the boy finally open up to Keagan?”

Ciara set aside her sewing into the seat of the chair as she moved to wring out a rag in the bowl of steaming water on the table beside the bed. “All we’ve been able to get from the boy is his name.” Her voice softened as she gently pressed the damp folded cloth against the silent woman’s cheeks and smoothed it across her shoulders. “He refuses to answer any other questions until he’s talked with her.”

“Aye.” Maxwell nodded toward the bed, wrinkling his nose against the scent of lavender rising from the heated rag Ciara pressed against the woman’s temple. He hated lavender; it brought to mind too many memories of ailing and loss. “He’s a good lad. His mother probably instructed him to be careful.”

The door burst open as Ramsay exploded into the room. “What are ye doing?” He ran across the room and clambered over the end of the bed, dodging Ciara and Maxwell until he sat wedged between Trish and the wall. “Is she awake yet? Can ye tell if she’s all right?”

“Be still, boy!” Maxwell leaned across the bed, grabbed Ramsay by the shoulders and lifted him to the floor. “Your mother’s ill and doesna need the likes of you bouncing her all over her sickbed.”

“She is NOT my mother.” Ramsay squirmed free of Maxwell’s grasp and backed against the side of the bed. With a sullen scowl, he folded his scrawny arms across his chest with an irritated yank. “And I’d never hurt Auntie Trish. I know she wants me here.”

Maxwell admired the boy’s fighting spirit. And damn if the lad didn’t look familiar, especially around his eyes. “What’s your name, boy?”

Ramsay jerked his chin toward Ciara. “I told Keagan already and I know he’s told
her
. It’s Ramsay.”

“
Her
name,” Maxwell corrected in a warning tone, “is Lady Ciara. Ye will address her with respect. She’s the lady of Clan MacKay.”

Ramsay’s arms unfolded and slid to his sides as his scowl shifted to a look of confusion. “My momma is the lady of Clan MacKay.”

Uneasiness sent a warning tingle across Maxwell’s flesh as he peered closer into Ramsay’s face. “Name your parents, boy.”

Ramsay stood a bit taller, stuck out his chest and proudly lifted his chin. “My momma is Nessa and my da is Latharn MacKay, honored chieftain of Clan MacKay.”

“Latharn?” Maxwell took a step back.
That’s
why the boy looked so familiar. Twisting the wiry curls of his beard through his fingertips, Maxwell cocked his head to one side as laughter rumbled through his chest. So Latharn had survived Deardha’s curse and gone on to sire this fine strapping lad.
God’s beard.
Wait ’til Faolan heard the news.

Returning his gaze to the pale woman in the bed, Maxwell hooked his thumbs into the wide leather belt cinched about his waist. “And this is your mother’s sister? Yer Auntie Trish?”

Ramsay turned and rested his little hand against Trish’s cheek. His voice hitched a bit as though he struggled with barely controlled emotions. “She’s not really momma’s sister but we call her Auntie Trish ’cause she loves all of us like we belong to her.” Ramsay swallowed hard and his voice fell to barely above a whisper. “And we love her too.”

“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.”