Smoothing his robes, he reminded himself that he was a man of God, and as such had a duty to work in His name despite his slight stature and mild nature. Whatever was about to happen, it was clear no good might come of it. It was his responsibility to put a stop to it before someone was harmed. He began to step forth from his hidden vantage, but no sooner did he stand than Drustan MacKeltar, mounted on a snorting black stallion, burst into the clearing. He vaulted from his horse and, unsheathing his sword, stalked toward the gypsy carrying the lass.
“Release her,” Drustan roared savagely in a voice that sounded like a thousand voices. His silvery eyes blazed incandescently. ’Twas no normal voice, Nevin realized, but a voice of power.
Nevin ducked back again, blinking.
The gypsy carrying the blond lass dropped her as if burned and backed away toward the loch. The lass tumbled and rolled across the rocky sod, stopping a few yards from where Nevin stood.
And that was when all hell broke loose.
Besseta keened low and long as chaos erupted in the clearing. She wiped clammy palms on her skirt and watched in horror as mounted guards burst from the forest.
The gypsies, hemmed in by the loch at their back and guards on all sides, reached for their weapons.
Wrong, wrong, it was all going wrong!
She inched from the cover of the forest, creeping unnoticed in the tumult, toward the wagon that had been brought to cart off the laird’s slumbering body.
The gypsies were aiming their crossbows.
The guards were raising shields and swinging swords.
Men were going to die and blood was going to flow, Besseta thought, grateful that Nevin was safely in the castle working on his chapel. Mayhap rather than being enchanted, Drustan MacKeltar would be killed in battle. Not by her hand at all. Mayhap.
But mayhap was too weak a possibility to ensure her son’s safety.
I will not harm the MacKeltar, she’d promised Nevin, and she was a woman of her word. If a son couldn’t trust his mother’s word, what could he rely upon?
She’d carefully planned the enchantment so that not one hair on the laird’s head would be harmed. But now all her cautious plans were going awry. She had no choice but to try another option to save her son. If she could not remove Drustan MacKeltar before he wed his lady—well, she’d made no promises about that lady. And that lady was currently forgotten as the battle raged around her bound body.
Lying on the ground, she may or may not get trampled by the horses. May or may not get struck by a stray arrow.
Besseta was quite finished taking chances. If Drustan survived the battle, Besseta had to make certain there was no woman for him to wed.
She narrowed her eyes, watching the lass struggle with her bonds, and inched nearer the wagon.
With trembling hands, she plucked up a tightly strung crossbow and, summoning every ounce of her strength, leveled it at the lass.
Nevin’s eyes widened in horror. His mother, his own mother would do murder! She was truly lost in her madness! Thou shalt not kill!
“Nay!” he roared, plunging from the brush.
Besseta heard him and started. Her hand slipped on the cord.
“Nay! Mother!” Running, he catapulted himself through the air to shield the bound lass, and stumbled, landing sideways atop her. “Naaaa—”
His cry terminated abruptly as the arrow slammed into his chest.
Besseta froze. Her world grew eerily still. The tumult in the clearing receded and grew hazy, as if she stood in a dreamy tunnel, she at one end, her dying son at the other. Choking on a horrified sob, her knees buckled and she collapsed.
Her vision swept over her again, this time in full, and she finally saw the fourth person’s face. The person she’d thought had meant naught since she’d been unable to see it clearly.
She’d not been able to see the fourth person because it had been herself.
She was the woman who would kill her son. It had never been the lass. Och, indirectly, in a way, for had the lass not come, Besseta would not have planned to abduct the laird, and had she not set such plans into motion, she would never have shot her beloved son.
God’s will will be, Nevin had said a thousand times if once.
But, trusting her visions more than God, she’d tried to change what she thought she’d seen and had brought about the very event she’d tried so desperately to avoid.
She fancied she could hear her son’s ragged, dying breaths over the din of battle.
Oblivious to the warfare all around her, the arrows flying, the swords swinging, she crawled to her son’s side and tugged him onto her lap. “Och, my wee laddie,” she crooned, smoothing his hair, stroking his face. “Nevin, my baby, my boy.”
Gwen struggled to sit up the moment she was no longer pinned by the man’s body. A sob escaped her when she spied the arrow protruding from his bloody chest.
She’d never seen anyone shot before. It was horrible, worse than the movies made it seem. She tried to inch away, but her wrists were bound behind her, her ankles tightly tied. Scooting awkwardly on her behind was painstakingly slow going. When a horse screamed and reared behind her, when she heard the chilling swish of a blade slicing through the air, she went utterly still, and decided moving might not be the wisest course of action.
Drustan had been gone only a few minutes when the gypsies had slipped into the chamber and taken her captive. They’d subdued her with humiliating ease.
She hadn’t seen it coming, but somehow, by preventing Dageus’s death, they’d changed things. Plans had been accelerated, and rather than a message bidding Drustan to come if he wished to know the name of the man who’d killed his brother, she’d been used as the lure.
She stared at the weeping old woman, whose frantic, gnarled hands fluttered above the man’s cheeks and brow. As Gwen watched, his chest rose and fell, then did not rise again.
“ ‘Twas me all along,” Besseta wailed. “ ‘Twas my vision that did this. I should ne’er have bargained with the gypsies!”
“You arranged to enchant Drustan?” Gwen gasped. This gray-haired old woman with arthritic hands and rheumy eyes was their unknown enemy? “You’re the one behind everything?” But the old woman didn’t reply, merely stared at Gwen with loathing and madness in her gaze.
“Gwen!” Drustan roared. “Get away from Besseta!”
Gwen’s head snapped back, and she saw him running toward her, a horrified expression on his face.
“Crawl, get away!” he roared again, dodging swords and ducking arrows.
“Stay back,” Gwen screamed. “Protect yourself!” He would never make it through so many weapons.
But he didn’t stay back, he kept running, heedless of the danger.
He was no more than a dozen yards from her when an arrow slammed into his chest, taking him off his feet. As he collapsed on his back, suddenly she was…
…on the flat rock, sunning herself, in the foothills above Loch Ness.
“Noooooo!” she screamed. “Drustan!”
“The release of atom power has changed everything except our way of thinking…the solution to this problem lies in the heart of mankind. If only I had known, I should have become a watchmaker.”
—ALBERT EINSTEIN
“The heart has its reasons—of which reason knows nothing.”
—BLAISE PASCAL
25
Gwen lay on the flat rock for time uncounted.
She was mindless, wracked with grief. When a sip of reality finally returned, it couched an impossible pill to swallow—reality without him. Forever.
How had she—the brilliant physicist—failed to see it coming?
How could she have been so stupid?
She’d been so thrilled to remain with Drustan in the sixteenth century, so lost in dreamy plans of their future, that her brain had gone on strike, and she’d failed to take one critically important factor into account: The moment she changed his future, she would change her own.
I
n the new future they’d created, Drustan MacKeltar was not enchanted. Was not buried in the cavern for her to find.
And so—in this new future they’d created—because Drustan was not enchanted, she’d not found him, and he’d never sent her back to him.
At the precise moment the possibility of him being enchanted had reached absolute null, Gwen Cassidy had ceased to exist in his century. Reality had plunked her right back where she’d been before she’d fallen down the ravine. Right back when she’d been. No need for the white bridge. Sixteenth-century reality had spat her out, rejecting her very existence. An unacceptable anomaly. Drustan was never enchanted—hence she had no right to exist in his time. So much for the theories that claimed Stephen Hawking was wrong for advocating the existence of a cosmic censor that would prevent paradoxes from piling up. There was clearly some force keeping things aligned in the universe. God abhors a naked singularity, Gwen thought with a half-snort that quickly translated into a sob.
She clutched her head, suddenly fearing her memories might melt away.
But no, the scientist reminded her, the arrows of time remembered forward, and so her memory would remain intact. She had been in the past, and the memory of it was etched into the essence of her being.
How had she failed to realize that by saving him, she would lose him forever? Now, looking back, she couldn’t believe she’d not once thought through to what the inevitable finale would have to be. Love had blinded her, and in retrospect she realized that she hadn’t wanted to think about what might happen. She’d studiously blocked thinking about anything to do with physics, busy savoring the simple joy of being a woman in love.
“No,” she cried. “How am I supposed to live without him?”
Tears slipped down her cheeks. She scanned the rocky terrain, seeking the ravine down which she’d tumbled, but even that was gone. There was no longer a crevice splitting the northeast face of the foothills. The gypsies must have had some part in creating it, she realized, perhaps lowered him though it, who knew?
What she did know was that even if she dug beneath the mountain of rubble upon which she perched, she would find no sleeping Highlander beneath it.
“No!” she cried again.
Yes, the scientist whispered. He’s five hundred years dead.
“He’ll come through the stones for me,” she insisted.
But he wouldn’t. And she didn’t need the scientist to point that out. He couldn’t. Even if he had survived the arrow wound, he would never use the stones. It would be like someone saying to her, “If you finish your research, create the ultimate weapon and unleash it upon an unsuspecting world, you can have Drustan back.”
She could never release such capacity for evil, no matter the enduring grief.
Nor would he. His honor, one of the many things she loved about him, would keep them forever apart.
If he’d even survived.
Gwen dropped her head against the rock, scooped her pack into her arms, and clutched it tightly. She might never know if he died from the arrow wound, but if he hadn’t died in battle, he’d still died nearly five hundred years ago. Grief smothered her, grief more intense than anything she’d ever imagined. She buried her face in the pack and wept.
It was hours before she managed to force herself up from the rocks and hike down to the village. Hours in which she sobbed as if her heart would break.
Once in the village, she’d gone to her room and checked in but wasn’t able to bear being alone, so she’d walked numbly down to the inn’s cozy restaurant, hoping to find Beatrice and Bertie. Not to talk—she could hardly talk about it—but to be buffered by their warm presence.
Now, standing in the doorway of the dining room, she blinked as she glanced around the brightly lit interior. I will not start crying again, Gwen told herself fiercely. She would weep later, after she’d returned home to Sante Fe. She would fall apart there.
The restaurant felt strange and modern to her after having been in the sixteenth century. The small fireplace on the south wall of the dining room seemed miniature compared to medieval hearths, the neon bar decorations garish after weeks of soft candlelight and oil globes. The dozens of tables, topped with vases of fresh wildflowers, seemed too small to seat guests with any degree of comfort. The modern world felt impersonal to her now, with everything churned out in mass, uniform shapes and styles.
Her gaze drifted over a cigarette vending machine in the corner. Dimly, she realized she’d passed through the worst of withdrawal in the sixteenth century.
Still, she felt an utterly self-destructive urge wash over her.
Her gaze was drawn to a yellowed calendar that hung behind the cash register. September 19.
It was the same day she’d left. But of course, she thought. No time would have passed. Perhaps a mere few moments had slipped by in the twenty-first century while she’d lived the happiest days of her life in sixteenth-century Scotland.
She sniffed, perilously close to tears again. Glancing around, thinking Bert’s rainbow ensemble should be easy to spot, she nearly missed the lone silver-haired woman huddled in one of the booths that lined a bank of windows, silhouetted against the gathering twilight. The gloaming cast Beatrice’s complexion in bruised shadows, and Gwen was struck by how old she looked. Her shoulders were hunched, her eyes closed. Her wide-brimmed hat was crushed between her hands. As a car drove by outside the bank of windows, headlights illuminated the elderly woman’s face, revealing the shiny trails of tears on her cheeks.
Oh, God—Beatrice weeping? Why?
Stricken, Gwen rushed to the booth. What could make cheerful Beatrice weep, and where was Bertie? From what Gwen knew of the love-struck couple, the only way Bert would leave Bea’s side was if he was physically incapable of being there. A chill brushed her neck.
“Beatrice?” she said faintly.
Beatrice jerked, startled. The eyes she raised to Gwen’s were red-rimmed from crying, deep with grief.
“No,” Gwen breathed. “Tell me nothing has happened to Bert,” she insisted. “Tell me!” Suddenly limp, she slumped into the booth across from Beatrice and took the older woman’s hand in hers. “Please,” she begged.
“Oh, Gwen. My Bertie’s in the hospital.” The admission brought on a fresh bout of tears. Plucking another napkin from the dispenser, Beatrice wiped her eyes, blew her nose, then deposited the wadded napkin atop a substantial pile.
“What happened? He was fine just…er, this morning,” Gwen protested, having a difficult time keeping the date straight.
“He seemed fine to me too. We’d been shopping all morning after you left, laughing and having a fine time. He was even feeling…frisky,” she said with a pained smile. “Then it happened. He went absolutely still and just stood there with the most startled and angry look on his face.” Beatrice’s eyes filled with more tears as she relived the moment. “When he clutched his chest, I knew.” She wiped impatiently at her cheeks. “The damn man never takes care of himself. Wouldn’t get his cholesterol checked, wouldn’t get his blood pressure tested. A few days ago, I’d finally managed to wring a promise from him that once we got back home, he’d get a complete physical—” She broke off, wincing.
“But he’s alive, right?” Gwen asked faintly. “Tell me he’s alive.” She couldn’t bear any more tragedy today. Not one more ounce.
“He’s alive, but he had a stroke,” Beatrice whispered. “Although they’ve stabilized him, they don’t know how much damage was done. He’s still unconscious. I’m going back to the hospital in a few minutes. The nurses insisted I get a breath of fresh air.” She flushed. “I couldn’t stop crying. I guess I was pretty loud and the doctor was getting upset with me. I thought I’d get some soup and tea before I went back for the night, so here I am.” She waved a hand at the plastic container of soup and sandwich-to-go.
“Oh, Beatrice, I’m so sorry,” Gwen breathed. “I don’t know what to say.” Tears she’d been holding back slipped down her cheeks; tears for Drustan, and
now tears for Bea and Bertie.
“Dearie, are you crying for me? Oh, Gwen!” Slipping over to Gwen’s side of the booth, she hugged her, and they clung to each other for a long time.
And something inside Gwen broke.
Wrapped in Beatrice’s motherly arms, the pain of it all crashed over her. How unfair to love so deeply and lose. How unfair life was! Beatrice had only just found her Bert, much as Gwen had only just found Drustan. And now, were they both to suffer endlessly for losing them?
“Better not to love,” Gwen whispered bitterly.
“No,” Beatrice chided gently. “Never think that. Better to love and lose. The old adage is true. If I never had another moment with my Bertie, I would still feel blessed. These past months with him have given me more love and passion than some people ever know. Besides,” she said, “he’s going to be all right. If I have to sit by his bed and hold his hand and yell at him until he gets better, then tote his ornery butt to the doctor every week, and learn how to cook without fat or butter or a damn thing worth eating, I’ll do it. I am not letting that man get away from me.” She fisted her ring-bedecked hand and shook it at the ceiling. “You can’t have him yet. He’s mine still.”
A bit of laughter escaped Gwen, mingled with fresh tears. If only it were so easy for her, if only she could fight for her man the way Beatrice could fight for hers. But hers was five centuries dead.
She became aware, after a moment, that Beatrice was regarding her intently. The older woman cupped Gwen’s shoulders and searched her gaze.
“Oh, dearie, what is it? It looks to me as if you might be having a problem of your own,” she fretted.
Gwen tucked her bangs behind her ear and averted her gaze. “It’s nothing,” she said hastily.
“Don’t try to put me off,” Beatrice chided. “Bertie would tell you there’s no point once I set my mind on a thing. It’s not only my problem with Bertie that’s made you cry.”