The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance (50 page)

“I love you, Kylie Jane Robinson. I believe I always have. Do no’ forget that.”

The haze faded away, slipping into the late afternoon sun. Tears fell down her cheeks. “Rory?” She looked around, waiting for his answer. “Rory, please.” Nothing. Only a wind slipping through the marsh whispered a reply. She tried to swallow, but her throat tightened, burned, refusing to allow it. The air jammed in her lungs. She slid to the cool grass and cried. “God, please give him back . . .”

A few weeks and several cans of paint later, the verandah sparkled white once again. Green, bushy ferns hung down every few feet, and the whirring ceiling fan stirred just enough breezes to keep cool, to keep the fern fronds rustling in the wind.

God, she ached for him.

Closing her eyes, she gave the porch swing a push. She could still see him, smell him, could still hear his voice . . .

Are you awake yet?

Kylie sighed. He sounded so real.

“I said –” two strong hands cupped her face “– are you awake yet?”

She nearly flipped out of the swing. When her vision cleared, she stared into a pair of light grey eyes. She reached out, expecting her hands to pass through, but they didn’t. Instead, his hard chest heated beneath her palms. He pulled her close, and she inhaled his clean scent. “Rory.” Her words choked from her throat. “How—”

“I don’ dare ask questions,
mo ghraidh
.” He kissed her hair.

Kylie’s eyes drifted shut. “What does that really mean?”

Rory’s mouth edged close to hers. “My love.”

“You are a miracle,” she said on an exhale.

He tilted her face up and claimed her lips. “Love always is, lass.” Marsh and magnolia swept across the verandah as they held each other into the gloaming hour . . . and beyond.

Michelle Willingham

Garrett was completely wrong,
Mary Samson told herself, straightening in her seat.
You are not a prude who’s incapable of being impulsive.

Wasn’t this impulsive enough? Taking two weeks’ vacation from her engineering position to travel to Ireland? She hadn’t taken a vacation in three years because . . . well, she’d always been too busy. There were simulations to run, project meetings to attend, and countless emails to answer. She’d prided herself on being dependable; a responsible adult with a good job and a bright future.

It hadn’t been enough for Garrett. They’d dated for almost a year before he’d dumped her last Thursday.

“It’s just not working, Mary. I need someone more impulsive. Someone who likes to live on the edge.”

“I can be more exciting,” she’d promised him. “Spontaneous, even.”

“Mary, the only spontaneous thing you’ve ever done was buy whole milk instead of two per cent.”

And even that had been an accident. Mary’s stomach twisted at the memory of their break-up. Her only consolation was that it had been easy. There wasn’t another woman; he’d simply been bored. They’d never moved in together, so there was no furniture to move, no locks to change. Not even a single dirty sock left behind. Here one minute, gone the next. Why then, did she feel so awful, as though he’d been her last chance for a real relationship?

“Are you all right?” her seatmate Harriet asked. Besides herself, Harriet was the next youngest member of the tour group. She was seventy-five, widowed and wore her white hair styled in a large pouf. “You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

The older woman handed her a pack of tissues. “You look as though you’re considering throwing yourself off the bus. Or in front of it.”

Mary glanced at their tour guide Neil, who was trying to lead the passengers in a chorus of “Kum Bah Yah”. Reaching for a bottle of Motrin, she nodded. “Always a possibility.”

Harriet beamed and opened her tote bag, revealing several bottles of alcohol from the last hotel’s minibar. “Here. Choose your poison.” For herself, the older woman selected a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

Mary doubted if they were supposed to drink while on the tour, but Neil’s perky singing was enough to drive anyone to overindulge. She reached for a bottle of Disaronno Amaretto.
“Sláinte.”

The two tiny bottles clinked together, and Harriet offered a toast. “May the wind at your back always be your own.”

Mary choked, coughing at Harriet’s remark. The alcohol burned her throat, and she took another swig. It was beginning to mellow her out. “Sorry.”

“Did you make a wish then?” Harriet asked.

“No. Should I?” Wishes were for birthday candles and shooting stars. Not for contraband bottles of minibar alcohol.

“Of course. Ireland is a land of magic. You never know when your fondest dream will come true.”

Mary was about to add a sarcastic remark when she suddenly glanced at Harriet’s face. The stubborn glint in the older woman’s eye suggested that she wasn’t going to let this one go. “Don’t scoff. You can’t say you don’t believe in something, just because you’ve never seen it. Even scientists know there are some things which can’t be explained.”

True enough. “It doesn’t mean I expect to see leprechauns hiding in the break room.”

“The bastards are more likely to be raiding the Coke machines,” Harriet retorted. She took another sip of her whiskey. “I’m speaking of the fairies. You’ve heard of the Irish superstitions, haven’t you?”

“A little.” She’d heard tales of babies snatched at birth, changeling tales. Myths of selkies and other fey creatures. “I know you’re not supposed to offend them.”

The old woman’s expression turned darker. “No. You’re not.” She stared out of the window at the road, which had grown narrower. Hedges lined the left side of the road and, below it, the sea roiled with grey waves and white foam. Harriet rested her chin on her palm, eyeing the wild landscape. Gorse and heather bloomed on the sides of the cliffs while sheep grazed in the grass.

When they reached a series of stone huts on the side of the mountain, the tour bus rolled to a stop. Mary wasn’t exactly in the mood to view prehistoric beehive huts, but perhaps the sea air would clear her head.

Harriet stopped her before they got off the bus. “I’ll tell you this, Mary Samson. Make a wish, when the time is right. It might come true.”

Not wanting to offend her seatmate, Mary nodded. “All right.” She didn’t know what Harriet was talking about, but if it made the woman feel good to give advice, there wasn’t any harm in smiling and going along with it.

The grey skies rolled a fog off the sea, cloaking the Dingle Peninsula in a low mist. It was cooler outside, and Mary buttoned up the pullover sweater she’d bought at the last tour stop. As she trudged up the path, following the guide, Harriet’s words came back.
Make a wish, when the time is right.

Some people would wish for a winning lottery ticket. Maybe a house in Bermuda or a job promotion.

I want a family, she thought. Her parents had been dead for ten years, and there was no one left. No aunts, no uncles. Not even a grandmother. It was loneliness that had made her register for an online dating service. And though her gut had warned her that Garrett wasn’t Mr Right, she’d hoped he could be Mr Almost-Right. She had been willing to settle, to mould herself into the woman he wanted. And how pitiful was that?

Stepping into the grass, she sat on a large limestone boulder, watching the sea from her vantage point. The tour group continued on without her, and she rested her hands on the rock, letting her thoughts drift. At her feet, the grass swayed with the gusts of wind. She realized her tennis shoes were squarely in the middle of a circle of mushrooms. A fairy circle, so the legend went.

Funny. Perhaps that was what Harriet had meant. All right, she was game for anything. Superstitions didn’t mean a thing, but why not make that wish?

I wish a man would love the woman I am, not the woman he wants me to be. And I want to have a family.

She looked up and saw the old woman rushing towards her. “No!” Harriet cried out. “What have you done?”

Mary frowned, not understanding. It was just a circle of mushrooms. A common gardening problem, nothing more. But her heart began to quicken with an unnamed fear. “What is it?”

The old woman reached her side. “Get out. Get out, before it’s too late.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s just—”

A blinding migraine seemed to strike out of nowhere. A pulsing, swollen pressure that pressed against her brain.

“Those who step into an empty fairy ring die at a young age,” Harriet breathed. “It’s forbidden, didn’t you know that?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mary tried to stand up, but a wave of dizziness seemed to pull her down. “It’s just a bunch of mushrooms.” Probably the amaretto, coming back to haunt her.

Harriet grabbed her hand and pressed something soft into it. “Take this. And whatever you do, don’t let go.”

It was a piece of brown bread, left over from breakfast. What on earth?

“It’s an offering. It might pacify the fey.”

A strange music seemed to emanate from the ground, the faint sounds of harp strings. “Do you hear that?” Mary leaned forwards, trying to make sense of it.

Harriet was mumbling under her breath, her hands working upon a strand of rosary beads. Prayers. Mary wanted to smile and tell her not to be silly. It was going to be OK.

But before she could speak, her knees buckled beneath her. She stumbled on to her hands and knees inside the circle. Grass tickled her face, and pressure rose up inside her skull to an unbearable pitch. She gripped her head, but the agony kept building and rising.

A small pop, and she was ripped free of her body, her spirit hovering above the fairy circle.

Some wish,
Mary grumbled. She wasn’t supposed to die, for God’s sake. That was her last thought before her spirit was torn through the fairy circle and across to the other side.

Mary opened her eyes and saw a tiny man, about the length of her forearm, staring at her with an appreciative smirk. He wore clothes that blended into the surrounding grasses, and he propped his elbow against one of the stones. A leprechaun? No, she had to be dreaming.

“You’re a fetching one, aren’t you?” he remarked. “He’s going to like you.”

Mary wasn’t sure what the little man was talking about, but when she glanced down, she saw that she was completely naked. “Oh, my God.” She rolled on to her chest and looked around frantically for her clothes.

“They’re not there. You can’t exactly bring clothes with you, once you’re dead. Or, partly dead, in your case.”

“Partly dead?” She scrambled around for some vegetation but only came up with a daffodil or two. And she could just imagine what it would look like to have flowers plastered across her bum.

“Indeed.” The man nodded towards the ring of mushrooms, which was nearby. “You made a wish, before you were taken. That’s what saved you.”

“Somehow, I’m pretty sure that I’m asleep on the tour bus, and I’m going to wake up.” Mary glared at the man. “You’re probably going to tell me you’re a leprechaun and you’re looking for your Lucky Charms.”

He shrugged. “Not a leprechaun. My name is Kevan, and I am one of the Daoine Sídhe.”

The Deena She? Who? Play along, Mary. You’re dreaming anyway. What’s the harm?

“You wished for someone to love you and for a family.” Kevan rubbed his beard, staring at her. “A powerful wish, love is. And it holds the power to save you. You have three days to fall in love and make him love you in return.”

“What do you mean
him?”

“The man you wished for. He’ll be arriving shortly. And when the sun rises on the third day, you’ll either get your wish . . .”

“Or?”

“Or you’ll die, Mary Samson. And this time, it’s for ever.”

Ireland, 1173

Cian MacCorban was a man who trusted his instincts. Though some would accuse him of being ruled by his dreams, he knew differently. They weren’t dreams; they were realities yet to occur. Too often, the visions came upon him without warning. And every last one had come true.

Even the deaths.

That was the cursed part of the Sight. He saw friends, family members, knowing
how
they would die. But not
when.
Never that. He hadn’t known that a death was about to happen until it was too late.

His people feared him, and most had abandoned him. His ring fort was falling apart, and he no longer cared. What did it matter, when he was nearly the only one left?

Cian mounted his horse, preparing to ride out. He let the horse lead, opening his mind to the vision he’d seen again last night. A woman’s face, her honey-blonde hair cut short to her shoulders. Intelligent grey eyes and an uncertain smile. For so many years, he’d hoped this vision would come true: the woman who was meant for him.

He’d seen the morning sun rising through the circle of standing stones. One day, she would be there. For ten years, he’d ridden out to the circle, hoping to find her. But when he glanced behind him, he sensed that even
she
would not want a man like him. A man cursed with visions of death.