A Highlander in Her Past (6 page)

“Sweet!” Ramsay bolted from the room, his excited war whoops echoing to the rafters.

Maxwell waited until Ramsay’s joyous cries faded to uncomfortable silence. Turning back to Ciara, he braced himself. He didn’t know what news she was about to share but from the shadow of worry darkening her face, it couldn’t be good.

“If we don’t find a way to heal Trish”—Ciara paused, bowed her head and drew in a slow deep breath. Lifting her chin, she swallowed hard and barely shook her head—“Ramsay will not have anyone to protect.”

A sick feeling turned to lead in the pit of Maxwell’s stomach. He knew Trish’s color hadn’t been good for the past few days but he’d hoped against all that he knew about battle wounds that his instincts were wrong this time. For once in his long, adventurous life, he hated being right. “Is there nothing we can do to save the lass? The boy will be devastated if she dies.”

Ciara glanced at Faolan, still standing at the table, then turned a thoughtful gaze to Maxwell. “Keagan has a theory.”

“God’s teeth, here it comes,” Faolan mumbled, raking both hands through his hair.

Ciara pursed her lips and turned her back to Faolan but not before fixing him with an irritated look. “Keagan feels the reason Trish has done so poorly is because her natural magic is latent and the strength of her soul remains anchored in her original strand of time rather than staying with her physical presence in this reality. He thinks her spirit has been stretched too thin…” Ciara’s voice trailed off, leaving them all to draw their own conclusions as to what would happen if Trish’s spirit snapped.

“Latent magic? A soul’s anchor?” Maxwell frowned and moved closer to the hearth. Ciara’s disheartening announcement lent a chill to the room. “What the hell do ye mean by latent magic?”

“Are ye sure, Ciara?” Faolan asked. “This is a cruel joke if ye’ve chosen to stage Trish’s impending death just to lure Maxwell to the altar.”

“I will deal with you later for such an accusation, husband.” Ciara’s tone took on a dangerous pitch as she scowled at Faolan. Turning back to Maxwell, her face softened as she took a deep breath. “Those who fully embrace their mystical heritage survive time travel much better than those who do not.” Ciara paused, shook out the twisted cloth in her hands and folded it neatly into a small square. “Look how well young Ramsay did. The boy was up and around within minutes.”

Suspicion tingled across the back of Maxwell’s neck. Although it might be cruel, Faolan made a valid point. When Ciara made up her mind about something, she’d do
anything
to see it done. Maxwell pursed his lips and stroked his mustache as he searched her face for the truth.
Dammit.
The woman knew how to mask her emotions. God help Faolan with his wife. Maxwell nodded as he continued stroking his beard. Perhaps ’twould be safest for now to play along. How else could he gather information? “Aye. Ramsay was alert and running around with Keagan before Trish ever came to. What’s yer point, Ciara?”

Ciara hugged the folded cloth to her chest and meandered slowly across the room. “Keagan feels if we can meld Trish’s latent magic and her soul to another strong soul already anchored in this time, her natural powers will come to the surface and her strength will return. Her spirit needs a comforting refuge in this time.”

Faolan snorted, then turned the sound into a hacking cough when Ciara shot him a warning glare.

“Ye know I have no magic, Ciara. How could my spirit be a comforting refuge?” Maxwell backed against the stones of the hearth and crossed his arms like a shield over his chest.

“You do have a bit of magic, Maxwell, and a heart big enough to shelter another.” Ciara took a step closer, wringing the cloth between her hands as she walked across the room. “Do you not recall blocking my magic when I tried to pull the wool of suggestion across your mind?”

“’Twas a reflex, woman!” Maxwell waved a hand in Faolan’s direction. “Your husband nettled me with that infernal nonsense the entire time we were young lads. I finally learned to close my mind to any magical suggestion because I grew tired of stepping off cliffs and plunging me arse into the deepest parts of an icy loch.”

Faolan shook with a low rumbling chuckle. “It did take him quite a while to learn to block the magic. I doused him at least every other day.”

Ciara rolled her eyes and turned her back to her husband, facing Maxwell instead. “But the point is you did learn how to block the energy. You have
some
mystical powers, Maxwell. Most people do. They just don’t know how to tap into it.”

Maxwell scrubbed both hands over his face. So this was her plan. She knew if Trish’s life was on the line, he’d have no choice but to do whatever she said. Honor demanded it. Damn, the stubborn woman and her conniving ways. How the hell did Faolan survive her? Blowing out a defeated breath, Maxwell dropped his hands to his sides. “What do ye propose we do? What does Keagan suggest?”

“Nothing as unpleasant as jumping into an icy loch,” Ciara assured with a smile. “My talented son said all we must do is a simple intertwining of your souls.”

“An intertwining of souls,” Maxwell repeated. “May the goddess Brid protect us all,” he added under his breath.

Chapter Six

Searing pain stabbed through her right side every time she sucked in a breath. Shallow breathing eased the misery until her lungs ached for more air. Trish steeled herself against the imminent pain.
Crap…this is gonna hurt.
She inhaled deeper, flinching at the now familiar agony of jagged bone tearing into tender flesh. Rolling her head to one side on the sweat-drenched pillow, Trish continued breathing in short erratic puffs.
Dammit.
Who the hell set off that jackhammer ratcheting inside her skull? The dull pound pulsed in sync with every beat of her heart. The nauseating ache drummed from the base of her neck all the way up the back of her skull and burned into the back of her eye sockets. Hot tears squeezed out from under her closed eyelids.
Son of a bitch!
Even tears hurt.

The high-pitched squeak of a door’s hinges filtered through her misery. Trish eased her head to the right, struggling to pull one swollen eyelid open just a slit. “Who is it?” The words stuck in her parched throat. She croaked them free, pushed them past her cracked lips then immediately wished she hadn’t. A fresh wave of pain exploded through her skull and vibrated down her spine.

“Don’t talk, Auntie Trish.” Ramsay’s face swam into view. The weight of his tiny hand patted with a reassuring touch against her bare shoulder. “Just close yer eyes and listen. I know it hurts ye whenever ye talk or move.”

What a good boy.
Trish relaxed her eye closed and straightened her head back into the damp dent on the pillow. She must be getting worse. She couldn’t imagine fully opening both eyes much less sitting up in the bed. Poor Ram. Before she died, she had to find a way to convince the little fellow that he mustn’t blame himself. Everything happened for a reason. Apparently, this was just the way she was meant to go.

A large calloused hand scooped under her palm and gently lifted it off the pillowed mattress. Warmth. The hand supporting hers radiated a comforting warmth into her freezing hand. A second hand folded over the top, rubbing a work-roughened thumb across the ridges of her aching knuckles. Trish squeezed the hand. Whoever it was, their heat felt good, seemed to lessen the pain in her bones.

“Auntie Trish.” Ramsey’s voice floated through the haze of pain ravaging through her head. Trish struggled to hear it better. Ramsay’s voice could be her anchor. For his sake, she had to hold on. She concentrated on the hand holding hers, mustering up enough strength to clench the calloused fingers with a trembling squeeze.

“She heard ye, lad. She just squeezed my hand.”

A deeper voice? Trish’s mind hitched trying to register on the soothing baritone rolling its “r’s” in her ear. It wasn’t Latharn. She knew his voice. Who was in the room with Ramsay?

“Auntie Trish. Keagan and I are going to join our powers and make ye feel better. Ye dinna have to do a thing but lay verra still and relax. Keagan says ’tis the only way for ye to get to feelin’ better. But we gotta have yer full permission or the magic won’t work.”

Trish eased in another painful breath, mulling over Ramsay’s words as they faded in and out of the painful fog clouding her mind. Magic. Spell. Feel better. Sounded like a definite
hell yeah
to her. Trish swallowed against the dryness scratching her throat, wincing as a sharp jolt of fresh agony sliced through her chest. If the spell didn’t work, she’d die. Either way, this endless torment would finally be over.

“Auntie Trish.” Ramsay’s voice grew louder, closer to her ear. “If ye agree to the magic with all yer heart, squeeze Maxwell’s hand.”

Maxwell? Confusion muddied the fog wrapped around her consciousness. Who the hell was Maxwell? A choking pressure inflamed her lungs. She needed more air. Drawing in a shaking breath, Trish focused what little strength she had into her right hand.
Lordy, the tiniest movement took so much effort.
She concentrated on the calloused hand cradling hers and squeezed.

“She agrees.”

Was that Maxwell? Trish felt her body grow lighter; the pain surged with an unbearably strong stab then ebbed to a less searing throb, undulating like a cruel tormenting wave.

Light. Soothing light flooded into her mind, a golden stream of shimmering yellows and blazing oranges flowed through her, chasing away every last remnant of pain. Trish sucked in a deeper breath. Finally. A decent breath of air. She almost laughed aloud. A lungful of oxygen never felt so good. Directly in front of her, suspended against a backdrop of stars, a flowing cloud of iridescent particles swirled into the glowing shape of a smiling, bearded man.
Damn.
Had she finally died and was being greeted by a hairy angel?

Trish patted her body; her hands passed through her chest and stirred the shimmering air behind her.
Holy crap!
She must be dead. She peered closer at the man up ahead. Why did he seem so familiar?

The man’s smile widened as he held out his hand. His translucent palm glowed with a blinding orb of blue-white light as though fired by a mysterious arc welder.

Trish drew closer. She’d never seen an angel before and this one seemed so…welcoming. As she floated across the starlit void, the vision of the man sharpened, focused clearer into view. Trish stopped. Since when did an angel wear a kilt…and sport a full reddish-brown beard?

The angel smiled and beckoned her forward while still holding out his hand.

He did seem nice enough. Trish floated forward a bit further then stopped again. She couldn’t leave until she had some sort of promise that someone would reassure Ramsay. “I can’t go with you until I know Ramsay’s okay. I don’t want him to blame himself.”

The man nodded agreement with a single dip of his chin, then extended his glowing hand again.

Wow.
Who would’ve thought dying could be so painless? Trish floated forward another few feet, the closer she drew to the welcoming man; the more pleasurable the pulsating warmth felt coursing through her veins. Trish relaxed, took in a deep breath and smiled back at him. He did have the nicest eyes. They crinkled at the corners whenever he smiled as though he were about to laugh aloud. And he seemed so friendly, making her feel as though she’d known him since the beginning of time.

He took a step forward, met her half way, then bent and scooped up her hand. As Trish wrapped her fingers around his glowing palm, her vision exploded into a cloud of blinding white sparks, electrifying heat surged through her, then everything faded to black.

Chapter Seven

The faintest tickle teased across the end of one nostril. Trish wiggled her nose, rubbed it against the back of her hand, then buried her face into the furry warmth cradled against her head.
Pain-free warmth.
Trish dozed back into oblivion. Another tickle assaulted the end of her nose, threatening to trigger a sneeze.

Batting away the persistent offender, Trish stretched, inhaled a deep lung-expanding breath and burrowed deeper beneath the covers. She laced her fingers into the tight nest of curly hair springing about her face.
Hair?

Trish opened her eyes to a mountainous mound of chest coated with a lush carpeting of reddish-brown hair. Trish sprang backward toward the far side of the bed, digging and kicking at the covers. “Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing in my bed?”

The man didn’t bother opening his eyes, just rolled toward Trish and beckoned with an extended arm. In a drowsy voice, mumbled against the pillows, he motioned toward his chest. “Ye know me, lass. Now quit yer fussin’ and come over here. ’Tis wicked cold in this room and I’d planned on sleeping a bit longer.”

Trish settled her back against the bone-chilling cold of the stone wall, planted her feet dead center of the furry expanse of chest and shoved.

As his naked body slid over the edge of the bed, Maxwell’s eyes popped open. He hit the floor with a heavy thud followed by several muttered words that Trish was fairly certain were Gaelic curses. Rising above the side of the over-sized mattress, Maxwell’s sleepy expression changed to one of irritated confusion. “Dammit, Trish! Why the hell did ye do that?”

“You know my name?” Trish scooted as far back against the wall as she could manage, yanking all the covers of the bed up around her naked body and wadding them under her chin. How did he know her name?
Holy crap.
She was naked. He was naked. They’d been in bed together.
Dammit.
When had she gotten that drunk, and what the devil had she done? “Who the hell
are
you?”