She blinked hard, not understanding how or why the sword was here. Perhaps it’d been buried in the chapel ground all these centuries and the rebuilding work loosened the earth around it? Or maybe it’d been lodged deep in the recess in a stone or underground crevice. Perhaps now through some magic she couldn’t understand, it was showing itself to her?
Whatever the reason, she worked harder and harder to dig the sword from the cold, hard-packed earth.
Finally, she lifted it free, taking it carefully from the ground. It didn’t crumble as she’d feared, but it felt so light and brittle and
old
that holding it was agony.
Could this piece of thin, rusted nothingness really have been the gleaming steel at Bran’s side?
That the blue crystal remained relatively intact, and still so valiant and loyal to its mission despite the years and damage, tore her soul.
Holding the sword against her heart, she folded her hands around the gritty, age- roughened hilt. She let her fingers close over the crystal, as she’d seen Bran do. Only she knew he’d done so in desperation, at first, anyway, hoping to resist the sword’s magic.
Mindy held the blade reverently.
“Oh, Bran . . .” She squeezed shut her eyes, pain wracking her.
From a great distance, his words flashed through her mind:
“Just so there aren’t any doubts in your mind, the Heartbreaker only lets MacNeil men know where the woman of our heart is waiting for us.”
She tightened her fingers over the crystal, her heart splitting. She hadn’t only heard the words. She’d also heard Bran’s voice saying them. His buttery rich burr, so deep and seductive.
A voice she’d never hear again, unless the Heartbreaker’s magic could work in reverse. Not leading a MacNeil man to his woman, but taking her to her MacNeil man.
It was worth a try.
But before she could think of a prayer, some chant, or whatever, the sword started slipping from her hands.
“Agggh!” She grappled with it, losing her balance and nearly toppling over. She couldn’t let it fall. But it was so heavy, the hilt so smooth. It was slippery as an eel, suddenly felt almost alive, and was already sliding out of her grasp again.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” She held the sword with both hands, gripping the pommel gemstone as tightly as she dared. It felt hot now, almost blazing, but she kept her fingers clenched around it anyway. Until—she gasped—she realized she was holding nothing.
The sword was gone.
But the soft blue haze in the little chapel was everywhere.
Thick, swirling, and full of brilliant sparkles, it nearly blinded her. As did the bright gleam of the sword that winked at her from the hip of a tall, broad-shouldered man limned in the chapel’s open doorway.
The sword was the Heartbreaker.
And the man was Bran of Barra.
But it was neither the sword’s glint nor the whirling blaze of the blue mist that was blinding her now. It was Bran of Barra’s dazzling wicked smile and the hot tears stinging her eyes.
“Dear God!” Mindy shot to her feet, running to him. “It’s you! You, you, you! You’re here and—”
“Nae, Mindy-lass, ’tis
you
who are here!” He caught her to him, crushing her against his big, kilted body as if he wanted to squeeze the breath from her. “You’re here, with me, on Barra, in my time, and I say you welcome! Praise all the saints and whatever magic brought you back to me!
“I’ve near lost my mind, without you.” He grabbed her face between his hands and kissed her hotly. “I love you so much I couldn’t breathe without you. Dinnae you e’er leave me again. The world will become a very dangerous place if you do, so be warned!”
“I am!” Mindy wrapped her arms around him, holding on for dear life. “And, trust me, I’m not going anywhere. Never. I promise. I’ll be like flypaper—”
“Flypaper?” He raised his brow.
“Never mind.” Mindy shook her head, laughing. “Just kiss me, you great big handsome Scot!”
Bran grinned, then laughed with her. “Saints, but I’ve missed you!”
At his side, Gibbie barked, letting her know he’d missed her, too. Leaping forward, he jumped at her, nearly knocking her down in his enthusiasm.
Laughing, Mindy dropped to her knees to hug him, accepting his welcome. And rubbing his ears heartily enough so he’d know the affection was mutual.
“Enough!” Bran clicked his fingers, calling off Gibbie. “He can welcome you back later. Just now, you are mine. I’m ne’er letting you go!”
And then, much as Mindy had fantasized on the bollard, he seized her by the waist, carrying her with him from the chapel and out into the bailey, where he hoisted her high in the air and twirled in a circle, laughing and kissing her again and again as they spun around.
Except, when they stopped, Bran of Barra being, well,
Bran of Barra
, he didn’t look even slightly dizzy.
He did toss a glance and a wave to his friends who were lining the parapet walk cheering and jabbing their swords in the air. Even Serafina was there, hanging on Saor MacSwain’s arm and waving a silk veil above her head. And—Mindy was amazed—the courtesan’s expression was soft, her eyes a bit misty. And the woman’s eyes weren’t the only ones that looked damp.
Bran’s Barrachs truly were giving her a grand home-coming.
Mindy swallowed and stared at them all, once again feeling a need for her handkerchief.
Especially when she spotted a
walking stick
being thrust high in the air, right along with all the swords. She also heard a very distinctive
whoop
that could be only Silvanus’s.
“It can’t be. . . .” She flashed a look at Bran, but he only grinned and shrugged.
“I told you I had a feeling we’d see them again. They’re still ghosties and pop in now and then. You’ll understand”—he winked at her—“none of my men mind their visits. There’s no one here afraid of ghosts!
“As what can and cannae be . . .” He planted his hands on his hips and laughed heartily. “I can see I’ll be needing to teach you about Highland magic. Scotland is a place full of wonder. And Barra . . .”
His chest swelled proudly. “Barra is Barra! There’s no finer place in all the land, as I’ll soon be showing you when I take you round to see the other isles.
“But first”—his grin turned wicked again—“come here, you, and let me kiss you properly.”
And he did.
Again and again and again—until her toes curled.
Epilogue
Ye Olde Pagan Times
New Hope, Pennsylvania
Several months later
“Keep your eyes closed.” Madame Zelda’s soothing voice echoed through the quiet of the New Age shop’s darkened back room. Each softly spoken word settled onto Margo’s consciousness like one more gently weighted urge that should, but didn’t, send her spiraling into a relaxed state where she hoped to establish contact with her sister.
“Focus on your breathing.” The fortune-teller was leaning over her. Margo could smell the other woman’s lemony perfume, the slight trace of onions from the hoagie she knew Madame Zelda had eaten for lunch. “Inhale deeply, then breathe out slowly, releasing all the tension and worry that’s troubling you.
“Feel peace and serenity surrounding you.” Madame Zelda had moved away—her voice was growing fainter. “Relax and let your mind drift. Imagine soothing hands stroking your forehead and your face, feel gentle fingers—”
“It’s not working.” Margo sat upright on the therapy couch, frowning.
She believed as firmly as anyone in the power of soul ties and that no one is ever truly separated from those they love dearly.
A connection was
always
there.
At least, she was sure, through the unbreakable bonds of energy. The karmic threads that kept our many lives so tightly entwined with those destined to share our journey.
Even now, so long since Mindy’s inexplicable disappearance, Margo knew her sister was well.
She’d feel it if something bad had happened.
Instead, each time she thought of Mindy, she felt only a strong sense of joy and peace.
Her sister was alive and happy.
Certain of it, Margo couldn’t quite suppress a yawn. She considered lying back down. Madame Zelda had sworn she could reach Mindy, and Margo was willing to try anything to know the truth.
But the pungent scent from eucalyptus aromatherapy oil was making her nose twitch. And no matter how hard she’d tried to
breathe
herself into a state to discover her sister’s true whereabouts, her every attempt at going under proved an abysmal failure.
“You weren’t visualizing.” Madame Zelda smoothed her voluminous purple caftan. “You need to imagine a bright white light at the top of your head and then feel its warmth descending, slipping down through your body to—”
“I can’t be hypnotized.” Margo tucked her hair behind an ear, wishing she had the strength to jump to her feet and exit the room.
But she was so tired.
Her legs felt much too leaden to swing off the sofa. And even if she managed to stand, she doubted she could do so without swaying. Not that her exhaustion had anything to do with Madame Zelda’s attempts at trying to help her probe the cosmos for signs of Mindy.
She was just worn-out from having to run Ye Olde Pagan Times these last few months, during Patience Peasgood’s unavoidable absence as she recovered from knee surgery.
Overtime hours and no sleep took a toll on everyone.
She deserved a rest.
So she allowed herself to flop back onto the sofa, secretly closing her ears to Madame Zelda’s soft, calming voice. She’d sleep just ten minutes and then she’d waken, refreshed and free of the aching tightness that seemed to sit fast between her shoulders in recent weeks.
Sleep was good.
Though her much-deserved rest would be more restorative if she didn’t sense Madame Zelda looming, leaning close and peering at her.
Irritated, Margo opened her eyes to say so, but the sight before her stole her speech.
Madame Zelda had grown a beard.
In fact, the face staring at her wasn’t the Puerto Rican woman’s at all.
It belonged to an aged, magnificently kilted Scotsman who now leapt back and made her a graciously formal bow. “I greet you, my lady.” His voice boomed as he straightened, the huge Celtic brooch pinning a swath of plaid to his shoulder glinting brightly. “You may call me Silvanus.”
“Sil—?” Margo blinked.
He had a beard that would put every shopping-mall Santa to shame. The great sword strapped to his hip could be only a museum piece. And although he didn’t appear poised to draw the dangerous-looking blade, he
was
regarding her with a steely, determined gaze.
Margo pushed up on her elbows, sure she was dreaming.
“Where’s Marta—I mean, Madame Zelda?” she asked anyway, glancing about.
The fortune-teller was nowhere to be seen.
Silvanus—whoever he was—ignored her question and, with a grand flourish, plucked a small leather pouch from the air.
Margo stared, suspicious. “How did you do that?”
“Many years of practice!” He smiled, his eyes twinkling as if from a private joke.
Margo didn’t share his amusement. There was something odd about him.
And if she wasn’t sleeping, she needed to slip off the therapy couch and press the emergency alarm button hidden under a shelf near the door.
“I brought this from your sister.”
The man’s words froze her just as she’d been about to push to her feet.
“Mindy?” Margo’s heart began to race.
“Herself, and no other.” The man held out the packet, an old-fashioned sack made of oiled sheepskin, Margo saw as she took it from him. “Though”—he cleared his throat—“I do think she’d meant for you to find this on your own. Someday, as it were.”
“Where is she?” This time Margo did jump up.
“Is she—” Her jaw slipped and the leather pouch almost dropped from her hands.
She was talking to air.
The kilted man was gone.
But she still held the oiled packet. Her entire body trembling, she sank onto the couch and began untying the brittle red ribbon that held the sheepskin together. She hadn’t noticed how fragile the ribbon was until she began plucking at it, causing it to crumble.
Dear God . . .
The leather was disintegrating, too.
Not oiled at all, but cracked and dry, it was splitting apart in her hands. As was the folded piece of thick, yellowed parchment the pouch had held. But it wasn’t disappearing so quickly that she didn’t see her own name scrawled across the note in Mindy’s distinctive, looping handwriting.
“Oh, God!” Margo couldn’t breathe.
The world slammed to a halt and then started spinning madly, the dark little room whirling around her so fast, she grew dizzy.
Her hands shook as she unfolded the parchment and her vision blurred, hot tears making it difficult to read the words swimming before her eyes.
Dearest Margo,
You were right—Scotland is magical. And if you are reading these lines, you’ll know that I am well and happier than I ever dreamed possible. You might remember the grand portrait of Bran of Barra, the fourteenth-century MacNeil chieftain who built the tower? If you do, you’ll know I was always drawn to his painting and now, thanks to a wonder I can’t begin to explain, I am with him in his time. We’ve wed and . . .
The note turned to dust, sifting through her fingers to the floor, before she could finish reading. Within the blink of an eye, her hands were empty. The parchment, the leather pouch, and its red drawstring ribbon—all vanished as if she’d only dreamed them.
