Falling in Time

FALLING IN TIME

Allie Mackay

One

Talmine Village

Scotland’s Far North, the Present

Precious lass. You’re mine, do you hear me?

I won’t – I can’t – live without you.

Lindy Lovejoy, American tourist and expert on all things Scottish, heard the words in her mind. But they were real enough to make her heart thump against her ribs. Her breath caught, too, and her stomach went all fluttery. In fact, if she weren’t sitting on her bed, bolstered by pillows and surrounded by maps and writing paraphernalia, she was sure she’d melt into a puddle on the plaid-carpeted floor.

She did tilt her head and close her eyes, concentrating.

Her room, surely the tiniest in the entire bed-and-breakfast inn, was quiet. Darkness came early on autumn nights in Scotland and if anyone occupied the room next to hers, they weren’t making any noise. Outside, the wind had risen and fluting gusts whistled round the eaves and soughed down the narrow road beneath her window. A glance in that direction – she hadn’t yet bothered to close the curtains – showed a steady rain just beginning to fall.

But she could still hear the man’s voice. Deep, richly burred and dangerously seductive, his words slid through her like smooth, sun-warmed honey.

I’ll ne’er let you go, sweetness.

Lindy bit her lip, listening. He’d breathed the endearment as if he were right beside her, his chin grazing her hair and his breath warm against her cheek.

He was definitely a Highlander.

And he spoke with the kind of fill-her-with-shivers Scottish accent she thought of as a verbalorgasm.

To o bad he was a product of her imagination.

Lore MacLaren.

Hero of the Scottish medieval romance she’d been working on for years and that had only been rejected by – she opened her eyes and frowned – every agent and editor in the industry. At least the ones she’d targeted so carefully.

Not that it’d done her any good.

Biting back a curse she was not going to let pass her lips, she tucked her hair behind her ear and willed her character to stop talking to her.

Now wasn’t the time for guilty pleasures.

Even if she was sure that having such a hot, realistic, full-bodied hero – a Highland hero, for heaven’s sake! – had to be something really specialin the super-competitive business of writing and selling romance novels.

Lore MacLaren would have to wait until her vacation was over.

The research trip that – she just knew – was going to result in her big breakthrough into publishing. She plucked at a loose thread on the bed’s tartan duvet, almost afraid to acknowledge how much time, money and effort she’d vested in her plans. Anyone even halfway familiar with karma, knew how easy it was to jinx oneself.

But still. . .

Life could seem so unfair.

Some authors hit New York running.

She’d tried that and failed. Doing everything right and following all the rules had gotten her nowhere. Now she was going to take a detour.

If Heather Aflame wasn’t wowing the powers-that-be, she’d knock them sideways with The Armchair Enthusiast’s Guide to MythicalScotland. In lyricalbut concise, easy-to-follow language, she’d regale readers with insider tips on everything from how to drive on the left to finding hidden away entrances to Neolithic chambered tombs and other little known sites that most tourists never see.

Aspiring writers and maybe even some published authors would snatch the book off the shelves. Agents and editors would be impressed, hinting that she should pour her knowledge into writing a Scottish romance.

She’d sell Lore at last.

A fantastic two-book deal would be hers. She could then quit her job at Ye Olde Pagan Times, the New Age shop in her hometown of New Hope, Pennsylvania, where she worked such long hours some of the regulars often asked if she slept on a cot in the back room.

She’d never again have to urge someone to buy a sneeze-inducing bundle of bad-vibes-chasing sage.

Or suffer the equally pungent smell of some of the love potions and herbal treatments for masculine sexualdysfunction that were kept in a locked cupboard in one of the shop’s darkest corners.

Sweet lass, I need you . . .

Lore’s voice came low and husky. Lindy whipped around with a jolt, sure she’d felt his breath on her nape. Soft and warm, it had caressed her skin, making her tingle with desire and awareness. His words, deep and rough-edged, let her know that he wanted her with equal passion. But a quick glance showed that the room loomed empty. As before, nothing stirred except the damp wind outside her window.

She reached again for her pen and notepad, pushing her Scottish hero from her mind.

Sometimes it didn’t pay to have such a vivid imagination.

But she was certain her hard work would always be rewarded.

If her Armchair Enthusiast’s Guide took off, she hoped to someday earn a living by immersing herself in the world she loved best -medieval Scotland, with all its mystery and magic, and where, she knew in her heart, she should have been born if only some cruel quirk of fate hadn’t plunked her down in the wrong time and place, leaving her filled with yearning for a life she couldn’t have.

But she could write books set there.

Once, that is, she made a name for herself as an expert on the must-see Highland hot spots of Celtic mythological fame.

And that wasn’t going to happen unless she stopped thinking about her romance novel’s hero and paid attention to the task at hand – studying next morning’s route to one of the most celebrated places on her two-week tour through Scotland’s ancient landscape.

She peered at the Ordnance Survey map that covered most of her bed. The map was a Landranger 9 and detailed every inch of Cape Wrath, the wildest and most remote corner of Scotland. Just seeing all the squares, lines and minuscule place names filled her with anticipation. This was the part of her trip that most excited her. She’d never been to Scotland before, but she’d dreamed of it all her life.

Scotland’s far north was where she belonged.

The next day’s journey would feel like going home.

Already, she knew each twist and turn of the way. Every curve of the shore road, the slender crescents of golden sand and even the forgotten homesteads, each one little more than a tiny dot on her map.

Looking at them now, her heart skittered. Though nothing thrilled her as much as the special place she’d explore in less than twenty-four hours. Said to be a portalto the Otherworld as well as a favourite haunt of the fey, Smoo Cave would be the highlight of her trip.

She also meant to make it the pièce de résistance of her book.

Levering up against the pillows, she pulled the map on to her lap. But before she could trace her finger along the pink-highlighted stretch of road she needed to follow around Loch Eriboll and along the coast to Durness where the cave was located, the wind picked up, slamming one of the shutters against the wall.

Or so she thought until she remembered the window wasn’t shuttered.

What if the banging noise had been the sound of her door flying open . . .?

Lindy’s heart stopped and the fine hairs on her nape lifted. This part of Scotland wasn’t exactly known for crime, but there were always exceptions. So she slowly looked up from the map and slid a cautious glance across the shadowy room.

What she saw took her breath.

A man stood silhouetted against the light from the lamp on the dresser. Tall, kilted and too rock solid to be her imagination, he wore a very real-seeming sword at his hip and had a dark, roguish air about him that made her mouth go dry and did funny things to her stomach.

He looked very much like Lore.

Especially when his mouth curved in a slow, sensual smile and he narrowed his gaze on her, his blue eyes staring with such heat she gulped.

“Ehhh . . .” Lindy’s attempt at speech failed pitifully.

The look in the man’s eyes became even more provocative, proving he didn’t mind. “You err, sweetness.” He took a step forwards, the lamp light gilding him. “I am no’ called Lore MacLaren. My name is Rogan.” He put back his shoulders, standing straighter. “Rogan MacGraith.”

“Your name doesn’t matter.” Lindy jumped to her feet, finding her voice at last. “For all I know, you could be an axe murderer.”

She highly doubted it. But drop-dead-gorgeous Highlanders didn’t materialize out of thin air regardless of the popularity of paranormal romance. She also doubted they ran around teeny one-blink-and-you’re-through-it Sutherland villages wearing great plaids and packing razor-sharp swords.

And she hadn’t noticed any medieval re-enactors staying at the Talmine Arms.

Word was the only other tourists were an elderly English couple and two German bikers.

The proprietor had told her so.

Which could only mean . . .

Lindy grabbed a pillow and held it before her. “I don’t have any money,” she stammered, wishing his searing gaze wasn’t so unsettling. “I’m at the end of my trip and—”

“Och, lassie.” Mr Medievalwas suddenly right in front of her. “If I wanted your coin—” he plucked the pillow from her hands and tossed it aside “—any sillers you might have would already be weighing down my purse.”

He grinned and patted a small leather pouch hanging from his sword belt. Then the look on his face turned wicked as he grabbed her and pulled her to him, holding her so tightly that she could hardly breathe.

“I’m that fast, see you?”

“I see you’re a mad man.”

“Aye, that I am, true enough!” He released her, his gaze absolutely smouldering now. “So mad for you that if you dinnae cease calling me Lore each time I kiss you, I may have to kill an innocent man.”

“Kiss me?” The absurdity of his words gave Lindy the energy to dart away from him.

He caught her, his big hand gripping her arm, before she’d gone two steps. “You’ll no’ be denying our passion?” His gaze went meaningfully to the bed and Lindy was horrified to see that it was no longer the narrow, plaid-covered twin bed she’d been sleeping on.

It was a huge richly carved four-poster, its sumptuously embroidered curtains pulled back to reveala welter of furred throws, tangled sheets and a sea of tasselled cushions piled near the massive headboard.

Lindy blinked.

Rogan MacGraith’s grip tightened on her elbow. “You are mine, sweetness. I’ll no’ be sharing you with any man. Especially no’a foolnamed Lore.”

“Lore doesn’t exist.” Lindy couldn’t take her gaze off the bed. It looked so real. “I made him up. He’s fiction. Just like that bed and—”

“And what?” Rogan arched a brow, pulling her to him again. “This perhaps?”

Without warning, he lowered his head and kissed her, taking her lips with all the intimacy of someone who’d kissed, no plundered her mouth, many, many times. It was a hard, ravenous kiss, full of breath and tongue. Rogan held her tighter and deepened the kiss. Lindy’s pulse raced and her knees almost buckled.

The kiss was much better than any she’d ever written.

In fact, no real man had ever kissed her so masterfully either.

Whoever – or whatever – Rogan MacGraith was, he knew how to curla woman’s toes.

She wound her arms around his neck and leaned into him, not caring about anything but the delicious tingles whipping through her. His shoulder-length hair felt thick and smooth beneath her fingers, almost cooland sleek like the pages of her map. But she ignored that incongruity and concentrated on how wonderfully his tongue swirled and slid so hotly over and around hers. Or so she tried, until running footsteps sounded on the landing outside her room.

Lindy woke at once and peered into darkness. Her heart was pounding and – dear God – she still felt all tingly and roused.

Rogan MacGraith was nowhere to be seen.

And the narrow bed she was lying in wasn’t anything as magnificent as the curtained, black-oak monstrosity she’d glimpsed over his shoulder.

It’d all been a dream.

Except, perhaps, the hurrying footsteps she’d heard outside her door.

“Miss Lovejoy!” The innkeeper appeared at her doorway, proving that much. “Have you been disturbed? The storm blew out a window on the landing and—” he glanced over his shoulder, at the shadows behind him “—I’m checking for damage to the rooms. Looks like the gust threw open your door. I’m sorry if your sleep was—”

“I’m fine.” Lindy noticed that her Landranger 9 map was stillspread across the bedcovers. “I fell asleep studying my map and didn’t hear a thing.”

“Right, then.” The innkeeper looked relieved. “The missus and I will be up a while yet if you’ll be needing aught.” He gave her a nod, glanced quickly around her room, and was gone, disappearing as quickly as he’d come.

His footsteps faded into the distance, the night wind howled and shook the window glass, and Lindy fought the urge to laugh hysterically.

She’d lied when she’d said she was fine.

She doubted she’d ever be fine again.

Everyone knew characters talked to writers. The stories would be flat if they didn’t. Mere ink on the page and so boring that no one would want to read a single word.

It was also true that – sometimes – characters insisted on being named differently.

That, too, was pretty normal.

Stories only came to life once the names were right.

Kissing was something else entirely.

Yet she knew Lore – no, Rogan MacGraith – had kissed her. She could still feel his lips moving over hers, the silken glide of his tongue and the firm grip of his hands as he’d held her against him.

She’d even felt the rough weave of his plaid beneath her fingers. And – how could it be? – she’d breathed in his scent, finding the trace of the cold, brisk night that clung to him almost intoxicating.

But he couldn’t have been real.

Shaken, Lindy slipped from the bed and went over to the window. The Talmine road lay dark and silent, a narrow band stretching away into empty, rolling moorland. It still rained and curls of mist drifted across the shingled beach not far from the inn. The pier was deserted. No kilted, sword-packing Highlander stood in the blackness of the moon shadows, peering up at her.

The tiny village slept.

She touched a hand to her lips and trembled.

Her mouth was bruised.

Two

Centuries away – the early fourteenth, to be exact – but much closer otherwise, Rogan MacGraith stood in the shadows of his bedchamber and glared at the shutter that had dared to blow open, its loud crack against the tower wall rudely snatching him from a wondrous dream.

“Hellfire and damnation!” He strode across the room and yanked the shutter into place, latching it with much more force than was necessary.

He shoved a hand through his hair, keenly aware of his nakedness.

Not that sleeping unclothed was anything out of the ordinary.

Truth be told, he doubted any man in all broad Scotland would demean himself by wearing nightclothes. Certainly no man at his clan’s proud and formidable Castle Daunt.

Highlanders left such softness for Sassenachs.

But this night . . .

Rogan glanced downwards, his scowl deepening. His nude body only revealed how much he burned for the curvaceous, flame-haired vixen he’d just been kissing and was about to sweep into his arms and carry to his bed before the damnable shutter bang had shattered his dream.

“Odin’s ball s!” He clenched his fists and willed his manly parts to stop aching. When they did, he snatched his plaid off a chair and threw it on, not wanting any remaining vestiges of lust to embarrass him when he stormed down the tower stairs and into his father’s hall .

It would cause a great enough stir just disturbing the men’s night rest. The saints knew they deserved their sleep. But one of them might have heard the name Lore MacLaren.

If so, he meant to rout the bastard.

A lifetime of searching hadn’t produced the temptress who haunted his dreams, but if he could locate the man whose name she cried in passion, he might just find her. Only then would he know peace.

He’d make her his, insisting she wed him.

And if she refused or – saints preserve him – for some reason wasn’t able, he’d finally bend to his father’s will and accept a suitable bride of his family’s choosing.

He just hoped she wouldn’t be Euphemia MacNairn, his clan’s current favourite.

She was such a wee slip o’ womanhood that a man could blink and miss her presence in a room.

But her tongue was sharper than the best-honed sword.

A fault she kept well hidden, though Rogan had no trouble seeing through her false praise and simpering airs. Her eyes, when she thought no one saw her, held a chill colder than the blackest winter night. And – Rogan shuddered – he’d rather guzzle brine than take her to wife, even if her sire was his father’s staunchest ally.

At least the thought of her banished the painfulth robbing at his loins.

Grateful, Rogan hastened from his bedchamber. But before he reached the stair tower, a dark shape stepped from the shadows, blocking his way.

“Ho, Rogan!” His cousin Gavin’s smile was crooked. “Such a scowl! Are you on your way below stairs to announce that the sun willna be rising on the morrow? Or—” he waggled his eyebrows “—have you been dreaming of her again?”

“Her?” Rogan pretended innocence.

Gavin laughed. “Unless you cease blethering about the vixen each time you sink into your cups, you cannae think I know naught of her!”

“I ne’er ‘sink into my cups’.” Rogan tried to push past his cousin, but the lout shot out a hand, seizing his elbow in a vicelike grip.

“Once was enough.” Gavin leaned close and winked, clearly amused. “Truth tell—” he flashed a glance over his shoulder and then lowered his voice “—if such a lush piece invaded my dreams, I’d stay abed all my days.”

“You’ll hold your tongue is what you’ll do.” Rogan shook free and glared at him. “Lest you wish me to silence it for you?”

He reached for the dirk that should have been tucked beneath his belt, but remembered too late that he’d tossed on his plaid and nothing else.

Gavin caught the gesture all the same.

Unfortunately, it only drew another laugh.

“I but speak the truth.” The lout had the gall to clamp a hand on Rogan’s shoulder.

“Why are you skulking about in the shadows?” Rogan changed the subject.

“I was . . . er, ah . . . visiting Maili.” Gavin released him and brushed at his plaid. “You might be of a better temper, too, if you’d partake of her services now and then.”

“I haven’t tumbled a laundress since I grew my first beard.” Rogan stepped away from the cold wind blowing through an arrow slit in the stair tower’s thick wall . The chill reminded him of the coldness of his empty bed.

He did his best to assume an air of importance. “I have no time for such frivol. Some of us have weightier matters to attend, see you.”

“In the middle o’ the night?” Gavin looked close to laughter again.

“Snorri’s gone missing,” Rogan improvised, seizing the first thought that came to his mind.

His dog was out and about somewhere.

And considering the beast’s age and bad hip, his disappearance from Rogan’s bedchamber was troubling. Snorrirarely left Rogan’s side. He even shunned his comfortable pallet by the hearth fire to sneak into Rogan’s bed, often sleeping sprawled across Rogan’s ankles.

It wasn’t like the dog to be missing at this late hour.

Though – Rogan was sure – the well-loved scamp had no doubt crept down to the kitchens where he was known to beg meaty bones and other tidbits from Cook and the kitchen laddies.

Even so, if Snorrihadn’t returned by morning, he’d launch a search.

“I was just heading out to look for Snorrinow.” Rogan started forwards again.

He wasn’t about to tell Gavin he was on his way to ask his father’s men about a man named Lore who, like as not, was as non-existent as his dream vixen.

Even so, he had to know.

“I saw Snorritrotting towards the kitchens as I was leaving Maili’s pall et.” Gavin’s words stopped him.

“Ah, well – ” Rogan forced himself not to continue down the stairs “ – I’ll be returning to my bed then.”

He tried not to frown.

He should have known his cousin would somehow twist any excuse he used, making it impossible for him to complete his intended mission.

Proving it, Gavin nodded and folded his arms. He clearly intended to stay where he was until Rogan turned and tromped back up the way he’d come. Damn his cousin for being such a long-nosed bugger of a kinsman.

Rogan felt the loon’s stare boring into his back even when he knew the tightly coiled stairs hid his retreat from the other man’s view.

He still felt eyes on him when, moments later, he let himself back into his bedchamber. But the gaze he sensed now wasn’t his cousin’s.

The eyes he knew were watching him were amber.

And they belonged to her.

The dream vixen who now, damn her luscious hide, was apparently no longer content to merely haunt his sleeping hours, but his waking ones as well.

Rogan could feel her everywhere. In his room’s darkened corners – the night candles had gutted hours ago and only a few cold embers glimmered in the hearth – and even right before him, tempting and beckoning, although he couldn’t see her.

Her presence shimmered in the air.

Rogan stopped where he was, just a few paces from his bed, and tore off his plaid, letting it drop to the rush-strewn floor. He half hoped his nakedness might call her. So he stood still, waiting, challenging the silence. But the only thing that came to him was the smell of rain on the cold breeze slipping in through the shutter slats.

Until the wind seemed to shift, turning even colder. Then, beneath the night’s chill, her scent slid into the room, teasing him.

Light and provocative, it was only a tantalizing promise. But just one slight hint of her was enough to fire his need and set him like granite.

She was near.

He knew it in the depths of his soul.

“Damnation.” Rogan sank on to the edge of his bed and put his head in his hands.

Don’t leave me.

Stay . . . I beg you!

The words – her words – came to him from a distant place. But although the beloved voice was hers, one so engrained on his heart that he’d recognize it anywhere, she spoke in soft lilting tones very different from the speech she used when she talked to him in his dreams.

You will be killed . . .

Rogan jerked, looking up. This time the words were close. No longer far away, her voice was as clear as if she’d spoken at his ear, pleading. And the words, so ominous and dire, had broken on a sob.

“Lass!” Rogan shot to his feet, glancing around, his heart thundering wildly.

How cruel that he didn’t even know her name.

But – he could scarce believe it – he could see her!

She stood in the far corner, limned by moonlight. And unlike in his dreams, when she usually wore naught but a smile, this time she clutched a deep red cloak about her, holding fast to its voluminous folds as if a great gusting wind blew, chilling her.

Even more surprising, her lovely amber eyes were now deepest blue, glistening tears making them shine and sparkle like sapphires.

And her hair – Rogan stared, disbelieving – was no longer the deep, gleaming russet he knew and loved, but palest flaxen. She wore it in a single heavy braid that swung low, reaching to her shapely hips.

Ragnar . . . She looked right at him, calling him a strange name as she reached a hand towards him.

Rogan stared at her. How odd that she looked so different. And that she call ed him Ragnar and not Lore.

Frowning, he took a step forwards. But then his blood chilled, stopping him.

He could see the window shutter through her outstretched hand!

Indeed, now that he’d blinked a time or two, he noted that he could look through more than just her hand. The entire length of her – even her richly worked woollen robe – was as insubstantialas a will-o’-the-wisp.

Yet the strange woman was her.

His dream vixen.

He tried to go to her, but his feet wouldn’t move. And neither would his lips when he attempted to speak. He could only stand and stare, watching as she faded into the moonlight, disappearing in a swirl of twinkling sparkles that danced on the air, taunting him, before they, too, vanished as if they’d never been.

“Thor’s hammer!” Rogan scrubbed a hand over his face.

Even that one cannot help us . . .

The words came on the icy wind still racing past the windows. But even as he wondered if he’d really heard them, the night stilled. Allwas silent save for the muffled roar of the nearby sea.

Sure now that he was in danger of losing his wits, he strode across the room and thrust his hands into the corner where he’d seen the woman. But, of course, he felt nothing out of the ordinary.

Rogan frowned. He knew he’d seen her. He’d heard her, too.

Yet . . .

The more he tried to make sense of it, the more it tied his mind in knots. It was one thing to have heated dreams of a hot, passionate woman, but this was something else. And perhaps he could also be excused for enjoying their sensual encounters, realor imagined. He was, after all , a red-blooded man with needs and desires that made it impossible to resist such temptation.

But to have her suddenly appear as a see-through woman in his own bedchamber, calling him a different name and then vanishing before his waking eyes, tested even his limits of belief.

And as a MacGraith – hereditary guardians of nearby Smoo Cave, with all its inherent oddities – he’d been born to accept strange happenings.

This night he’d had enough.

So he crossed the room determinedly and climbed into his bed, pulling the sheets and furred coverings over him. The morrow would be soon enough to think on the things he’d seen and heard.

But as soon as he rolled on to his side and tried to sleep, he knew he wasn’t alone.

She was in the bed with him.

Naked, warm, and supple as always.

Rogan’s eyes snapped open. He couldn’t see her – she was lying behind him, her full, round breasts pressing against his back. Equally rousing, she was sliding one sleek thigh up and down his in a slow, sensualglide that would bring any man to his knees.

Rogan groaned. His entire body tightened.

“Don’t leave me.” She spoke the same words as before. But this time she used the voice he knew.

The voice he loved.

Knowing himself lost, he turned to face her. His heart caught when he saw the want in her amber eyes. She reached for him, trembling as she wound her arms around his neck, clinging to him, begging his kiss.

“Lass—”

“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded again, just as he slanted his mouth over hers.

His heart pounded and he pulled her close, thrusting his hands in her hair as he kissed her. She opened her lips beneath his, her tongue slipping into his mouth, firing his senses even as he slid his hands from her hair down over her shoulders and to her breasts. He rubbed his thumbs over her nipples, almost losing his seed when they hardened beneath his caress.

“Lass . . .” He broke their kiss, pulling back to look at her. “I don’t even know your name.”

“But you know me .” She bracketed his face, dragging him back to her mouth, silencing him with a deeper, more feverish kiss. “I am yours. I have always been yours. And—” she pressed into him, her silken warmth and lush curves taking his breath and blotting out everything in his world but her “—you, my heart, will always be mine.”

“Aye, I am,” Rogan agreed, believing it.

And then, for the rest of the long night, he knew no more.

Three

“You can be letting me out here, lassie.”

Lindy glanced at the tiny black-garbed woman she’d picked up along the roadside shortly after driving out of Talmine village.

Grizzled and ancient-looking yet surprisingly spry, the old woman was leaning forwards to peer through the car’s rain-splattered windscreen.

“That be the turn-off I need, up yonder.” The woman sat back and rubbed her hands in glee.

Or so the gesture struck Lindy, flashing another glance at her strange passenger.

In fact, if she’d taken a better look before slowing the rentalcar that morning, she might not have offered the woman a ride. But she’d appeared harmless enough, hobbling along the edge of the road with a woven-wicker shopping basket on her arm. It was just too weird that on such a wet and windy day, the crone’s heavy waxed jacket hadn’t shown even a few speckles of rain.

And – Lindy really couldn’t explain this – the woman’s small black boots, jauntil y tied with red plaid laces, weren’t at all muddied or damp-stained.

But she did have kindly eyes.

Bright blue eyes that twinkled with merriment as Lindy drove past Sutherland’s great mist-hung hills and through the dismal morning. And each time Lindy assured her that such wild weather and rugged landscape were the reasons she’d wanted to come to Scotland, her odd companion nodded enthusiastically.

“Och, I know.” She trilled agreement, sounding as if she did. “There be some folk what belong here, they do. These hills are in their blood, no matter where they’re born. And when that happens, there’s naught what can keep them away. No’ time nor the span o’ the ocean.” She bobbed her head again, sagely. “They always return.”

They always return.

The old woman’s words echoed in Lindy’s mind as she scanned the winding road ahead, looking for the turn-off. But all she saw were miles of bleak moorland and the dark, choppy water of Loch Eriboll. Untilher passenger grabbed her arm and pointed, indicating a narrow, heather track which could or couldn’t be a path leading to a croft house.

“That’s it!” The crone’s insistence convinced Lindy.

And indeed, as soon as Lindy stopped the car and the old woman clambered out, Lindy spotted a low white croft in the distance. Half-hidden by the shoulder of a hill, the little house was thatched with heather in the old way and appeared to stand very close to the loch.

“I’d be for asking you in for a cup o’ tea, but –” the crone turned up her jacket collar against the wind, her eyes bright in the watery sunlight “ – you’ll be a-wanting to get on to Smoo afore the day gets too long!”

She leaned close, saying something else, but great buffets of wind were rocking the car and the shrieking gale snatched her words away. Lindy only saw the old woman’s lips moving. But she caught the almost mischievous wink she gave Lindy just before she stepped back and, turning into the wind, hobbled off down the path to the cottage.

A cottage where – Lindy only registered after starting to drive away – the two deep-set windows shone with flickering candlelight.

Lindy frowned and hit reverse, just to be sure.

Scotland did seem like a land where time stood still , but the last she’d checked, electricity was in use. Even in wild and remote Sutherland.

But when Lindy slowed the car and came to a halt where she’d let out the old woman, the narrow heathery track leading to the croft house was gone.

Lindy blinked.

Then she looked again, even getting out of the car and shading her eyes against the sun that was just beginning to break valiantly through the clouds.

But the track really wasn’t there.

Nor was the low-lying croft house, though – the fine hairs on her nape lifted – the shoulder of the hill that had kept part of the cottage from view still ranged distinctively against the backdrop of the loch.

Lindy’s heart began to pound and she whirled around, scanning the empty moorland for the old woman. But, of course, she, too, was nowhere to be seen.

Nothing stirred anywhere except a few clumps of scrubby, wind-tossed gorse and several wheeling seabirds, determined to take advantage of the howling gale whistling along the loch shore.

Then the sun dimmed again, once more slipping behind the clouds, and – for one startling moment – Lindy was sure she saw a man standing in the distance, watching her. Tall and broad- shouldered, he stood, unmoving, on a narrow curve of the dark, pebbly strand.

He looked as powerfuland forbidding as the wild landscape surrounding him. In fact, Lindy swall owed, everything about him screamed that this was where he belonged. He was as much a part of the big, brooding sky, the sea and the dark, rolling moors as the cold, racing wind that seemed to quicken and chill the longer she watched him.

She could feel his stare.

It was fierce, almost compelling.

Lindy put a hand to her breast, unable to look away. The wind was icy now. It made her eyes tear, but she was afraid to risk blinking. The man hadn’t budged a muscle that she could tell, but something about him made her believe that any moment he’d come for her.

He’d move – she just knew – with incredible speed, appearing suddenly before her. And then, before she could even realize what was happening, he’d pull her into his arms and start kissing her.

Or so she thought until the sun peeped out from a low bank of clouds again and she recognized the silhouette for what it was: the stark black outline of a tree. No braw Highland laird readying to stride across the heather and seize her. It was only a tree.

Feeling foolish, she turned back to her rentalcar and scrambled inside. She gladly turned the key in the ignition and drove away a bit faster than she likely would have done otherwise.

Thinking about how much the man – no, the tree – reminded her of Rogan MacGraith, didn’t hurt either.

It also helped that she found the passing scenery almost surreal, as if she’d left the realworld and driven straight into the fabric of her dreams.

Whatever the reason, she kept her foot firmly on the gas pedaland knew she was still in the twenty-first century when she spotted a sign for Smoo Cave. The attraction’s tiny car park loomed quickly into view. And if she’d still had any doubts about reality, a small blue car, quite old and battered, was parked right in front of the little shop-cum-museum, claiming pride of place and letting her know she wasn’t the day’s only visitor.

Torn between relief and annoyance, she sat for a moment to collect herself and then climbed out of the car. She had to lean into the wind as she crossed the car park to the well-marked entrance to the cliff path. Incredibly steep steps led down to the cave entrance far below and she surely wasn’t the first tourist to worry about the danger of being blown away at some point during the perilous descent.

Och, even auld as I am, I could take thon steps in my sleep.

You’ve no cause to fash yourself.

The words – spoken in the soft Highland voice of Lindy’s earlier car passenger – came from right behind her.

Whirling around, she saw the old woman standing there. She still sported her heavy waxed jacket and the small black boots with red plaid laces. Her wizened face wreathed in a smile when Lindy blinked, her jaw slipping.

“Time’s a-wasting, lassie.” The crone tilted her head to the side, her blue eyes dancing. “’Tis now or never, lest you wish to miss – ”

“I can’t believe this is the place you said we couldn’t miss!” A heavy-set woman, shaped roughly like a refrigerator and wearing a bright yellow oilskin, loomed into view, bearing down swiftly on the crone.

Except – Lindy’s heart stopped – the crone was no longer there. In her place stood a thin, sparsely haired man wearing a wrinkled grey suit made all the more incongruous by his tightly knotted blue tie.

The old woman, if she’d even been there, had vanished into thin air.

But before Lindy could puzzle over what she’d just seen and heard, or hadn’t, the overbearing woman gripped the man’s elbow and marched him across the car park towards the battered blue car.

“I told you we’d find only wind and rain up here with the heathen Scots!” she scolded, her English accent – one Lindy usually found almost as enchanting as Scottish – losing its charm as the woman ranted at her husband. “Those steps are murderous. Only a foolwould risk their neck traipsing down them, rain-slick as they are.”

She threw a glance over her shoulder at Lindy, shaking her head, before she gave her husband another glare. “Some anniversary trip you planned! We could be in Blackpoolnow, or Brighton. But no-o-o, you had to drag us up here to the wilds of—”

The slamming of the car doors cut her off, but Lindy could see the woman’s jaw still working as she revved the engine. With a puff of smoke, the little blue car chugged away, disappearing down the road and leaving Lindy alone in the wilds of bonny Scotland.

That was what the woman had been about to say, after all .

Though Lindy was sure she’d have left out the bonny part.

More foolshe!

Lindy was glad for the sudden peace that descended.

Somewhere a dog barked in the distance. But otherwise, all was silent except for the rhythmic wash of the sea, the wind and the cries of seabirds.

Lindy’s heart swelled. This was her idea of heaven.

She turned back to the entrance to the cliff path, thanking the weather gods for such a damp, blustery day. Had the sun been shining and the lovely, remote sea cave baking under a Highland heatwave, there’d surely be people crawling about everywhere, ruining the atmosphere.

Spoiling the otherworldly ambiance she’d travelled so far to enjoy.

Now . . .

She couldn’t have wished for a more perfect day.

Eager to plunge right into it, she rolled her shoulders and splayed, then wriggled her fingers, before starting down the narrow steps to the rocky little bay and the cave at the base of the cliff.

Her descent raised the hair at the nape of her neck, made her breathing difficult. She’d only gone a short way when her scalp tingled and, in a momentary flicker, her long flaxen braid swung round from behind her, bouncing against her hip and into her sight. She stopped in her tracks, her blood freezing.

She didn’t have long flaxen hair.

And she hadn’t even worn braids as a child.

Her hair was auburn and reached just past her shoulders. At the moment, it was caught back by a clip, because of the wind and how much it annoyed her to have the strands fly across her face, whipping into her eyes.

She knuckled her eyes now.

She couldn’t have mistaken her hair for a long blonde braid. She’d surely just caught a reflection of the sun glancing off the water. It wasn’t a bright day, but there were moments when the cloud cover parted a bit.

Even so . . .

She shivered and rubbed her arms, glad when she again caught the sharp barking of a dog. She liked dogs. And this one’s barks lent an air of normalcy to a day that was beginning to turn just a tad too unusual for her liking.

She saw the dog then. And when she did, she knew such a strong rush of relief that she almost laughed out loud at her nervousness.

Huge, grey and scruffy, the dog looked old. He wasn’t wearing a collar and a tag either. But he seemed to be enjoying himself as he trotted along the damp shingle, pausing now and then to sniff at tide pools near the dark-yawning entrance to the cave.

Hoping to catch a good picture of him – after all , such a shot would look grand as an accompaniment for her Armchair Enthusiast’s chapter on Smoo Cave – she dug into her jacket pocket for her digitalcamera.

Just as she pulled it free, something caught her eye and she glanced around, sure it’d been one of the seabirds she’d seen earlier.

She didn’t see any birds, but she did note a heavy bank of thick, roiling mist far out at sea, its drifting, grey mass almost blotting the horizon.

Lindy stared, shivering.

The wind felt icier now. And she was sure her imagination had kicked into overdrive but she’d swear the air smelled different. It seemed tinged with a deeper, brittle kind of cold one might expect to find in Iceland.

It was definitely a crisp, Nordic type of cold.

Lindy frowned.

She could almost taste the snow. She half expected to see little sparkly bits of frost clinging to her jacket sleeves when she looked down to examine them.

But, of course, she saw no such thing.

Yet she did see something extraordinary when she glanced up again.

Three large open-hulled boats were pulled up at the water’s edge, their elaborately carved prows and rowing oars proclaiming their identity. Not to mention their square sails, raised and ready, and the colourfully painted shields hanging along the wooden sides.

They were exquisite replicas of Viking longboats.

Lindy stared, eyes rounding.

They looked so real.

The bulky fur-wrapped packages and wooden barrels and crates crammed into the narrow space between their rowing benches looked equally authentic. Clearly provisions, the supply goods indicated that the re-enactors were about to embark on a staged journey and not a warring raid.

Only . . .

Lindy gulped.

The little group of men who came into view just then, striding down the opposite cliff path, didn’t look like modern-day men dressed up as Viking re-enactors.

They looked like the realthing.

Worst of all , one of the men near the front, leading the others down the steep cliff side, was him. The man she often dreamed of and who she’d named Lore in her romance novel, but now knew to be Rogan MacGraith.

Except – Lindy’s heart tripped – when a tall blonde-braided woman in a flowing red cape appeared at the top of the bluff, her hair and her cloak whipped by the wind, Lindy knew that the man she was staring at was named Ragnar.

In that instant, she also knew that she’d once been the woman.

She’d fall en in time, and was reliving a fatefulday that had changed her life ever after.

Tears streamed down the woman’s face and, even from here, across the cove, Lindy could see how the woman’s anguished gaze stayed pinned on the man as he strode purposely down the path, making for the longships.

He was heading to his death, Lindy knew.

She could feelthe woman’s pain clawing at her heart, ripping her soul.

“No-o-o!” Lindy wasn’t sure if she’d yelled, or if the red-cloaked woman on the other cliff top did, but the cry echoed in the cove, causing the men to pause and swing round to stare up at the woman.

Lindy watched her, too, looking on as the woman pressed a fist against her mouth and shook her blonde head as Rogan – no, Ragnar – call ed something up to her. But whatever it was, the wind took his words and Lindy couldn’t hear what he’d said.

Then he turned away again and, for an instant, his gaze caught Lindy’s. He froze, shock and recognition flashing across his face before he whipped back around to stare up at the woman on the cliff.

Only she was gone.

And before Lindy could see his reaction, he disappeared, too. His little party of men and the three beached longboats vanished as well, the entire scene erased from view as if none of it had ever been.

Yet Lindy knew it had.

She’d just glimpsed her own past.

“Oh, God!” She started to tremble. The camera slid from her hands, bounced twice, and began clattering away. “Damn!” She grabbed at it, but her foot slipped and she plunged forwards, tumbling down the remaining steps.

Blessedly, they weren’t that many, but she slammed painfully on to her knees all the same, flinging out her arms to break a worse fall . Even so, she feared the hard shingle might have cracked her kneecaps. And her hands were definitely bleeding. They hurt badly, burning like fire.

“Oh, God . . .” Shaken, she slumped against a rock just as the dog she’d seen earlier came bounding up to her, barking excitedly and wagging his tail as he scampered close to sniff at her scraped and bloodied knees.

“Snorri!” A man’s deep voice called the dog away. “Leave the lass be.”

“Oh, God,” Lindy gasped again, recognizing the rich burr. “It’s you! Lore . . . Rogan!”

And then, just as she glanced up, seeing indeed that it was him, a sea of stars flittered across her vision and the world went black. But not before she felt strong manly arms slide protectively around her. They were familiar arms and so dear, nothing else mattered but knowing that Rogan MacGraith was lifting her, holding her safe.

She’d come home at last.

Wherever – and whenever – that might be.

Four

Her hands were bandaged.

And – this is what really woke Lindy – someone was kissing her fingertips.

That same someone was also murmuring Gaelic love words, his breath soft and warm against her skin. Lindy’s heart skittered and she opened her eyes, looking into the face she’d loved forever. She knew that now, the surety of it filling her with a completeness, a sense of rightness and contentment, such as she’d never known.

At least not in the twenty-first century life she’d left behind.

That she was now somewhere else was clear.

The evidence was all around her. But most of all , she felt it inside her. She’d been returned to a place and time she belonged, it was like nowhere else. If she had any doubt – which she didn’t – the love shining in Rogan MacGraith’s eyes as he sat beside her on the huge medievalfour-poster bed, told her everything she needed to know.

The important things, anyway.

Such as how much she meant to him and how glad he was to see her.

That his dog – the one she’d seen below the cliffs, when she’d fall en – stood beside the bed wagging his tail and looking at her with adoration was another boon.

She was definitely welcome here.

The dog edged forwards to nudge her with his nose, proving it.

His master grinned, the sight warming her to her toes.

“Precious lass.” Rogan’s voice, so deep and deliciously burred, was even more seductive than in her dreams. “I would spare you every hurt, but if you had to fall down the cliff to come to me, then—” he kissed her hands again “—I thank the gods for the misstep that brought you into my arms.

“And now that I have you—” he reached to smooth the hair back from her face “—I would know your name at last.”

“Lindy.” She didn’t want to speak. It was bliss just to listen to his beautifulvoice. “My name is Lindy. Lindy Lovejoy.”

“Lindy.” He made her name sound like a song. “’Tis a fitting name for one who fills my heart with such gladness. Sakes, lass—” he took her face between his hands, kissing her soundly “—when I saw you fall , I thought I’d lost you. To have you so close, within touching distance and then . . .” Rather than finish, he pulled her hard against him, almost crushing her in his arms. “You are mine, Lindy. Now that you’re here, I willnever let you go.”

Lindy almost swooned. “You won’t have to. I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere.”

She hoped that was true.

It was so hard to believe he really was holding her. Running his hands through her hair, touching her face, and – oh, joy! – kissing her.

She wasn’t dreaming.

This was real.

And – she suddenly realized – with the exception of the linen bandaging wrapped around her hands, she wasn’t wearing anything. She was naked. Though, proving medieval gallantry, someone had taken care to cover her with a soft furred throw and a lustrous welter of silken, richly embroidered sheets. She was also leaning back against a sea of plumped pillows.

Her comfort clearly mattered.

But her clothes . . .

They were definitely gone.

As if he’d read her thoughts, a slow, dangerously sexy smile curved Rogan’s mouth. “You couldn’t stay garbed as you were. I had to—”

“You undressed me?” She blinked. The notion both excited and embarrassed her.

“You’ll no’ deny I’ve done so before?” His smile reached his eyes, the effect positively wicked. “Many times, it’s been, aye, if I were to count.”

“I know that.” She spoke the truth. He’d undressed her a thousand times, in her dreams and fantasies. In the pages of her umpteen times rejected romance novel. And, she now suspected, he’d also done so in other lifetimes such as a Viking.

She tightened her arms around his neck, half afraid he’d disappear. “What I don’t understand is how I came to be here. How did you find me?”

He glanced at his dog. “Truth to tell, it was Snorri. He’d gone missing and when I went searching for him, I heard his barks and followed, knowing he’d be at the cave. I reached the strand just in time to see you falling.”

“You didn’t see me before?”

“Oh, aye.” He grinned. “In my dreams, nigh every night, if you’d hear how it was.”

He patted his dog’s head, scratching the beast’s ears. “You can ask Snorri. We keep no secrets from each other. He knows how I’ve pined for you.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Lindy hesitated, aware of the heat staining her cheeks. “I know we’ve shared dreams. But there’s more. I’m certain – ” this was so hard to say “ – we’ve shared past lives. That we’ve always been together, but this time something went wrong. I was born in the wrong place. Somewhere distant and far from here and impossible to reach you, until —”

“The cave brought you back to me.” He made it sound so easy.

So plausible.

Lindy frowned. “Smoo Cave? So it really is a kind of time portal? An entrance to other realms as all the lore and legend claims?”

She so wanted to believe.

Rogan was nodding as if he did. “I canna say if the cave is a time portal. Though, after seeing your clothes, I’ll own they did no’ come from any world that I know.” He stood and started pacing. “That’s why I left them in the cave. There are cracks and crevices so deep that no man can retrieve anything that is thrown into them. And—” he came back to the bed, once more sitting on its edge “—strange as Smoo is known to be, I couldn’t all ow my kinsmen to see such raiments. Your shoes alone would have caused too many questions. That is why I stripped you.” His gaze flashed the length of her, the look in his eyes burning her as if he could see her nakedness right through the thickness of the furred covering and bed sheets.

“And you’re not curious yourself?” Lindy had to ask.

His gaze burned even hotter. “All I care about, sweet, is having you with me.”

Taking her in his arms again, he kissed her thoroughly, leaving her breathless when he pulled away. “You could have come to me draped in seaweed or glittering from head to toe in twinkly starlight and it wouldn’t have made a difference. I only want you.”

“But – ”

He pressed a finger to her lips. “There are no buts in my world, Lindy-lass. Though I will tell you that, as a MacGraith, I slipped into this life knowing that there are things we canna ever hope to explain.

“MacGraiths are the hereditary guardians of Smoo Cave. Since time was, we have been here at Castle Daunt, watching always to ensure that nothing passes in or out of the cave without our knowledge.”

Lindy stared at him. “So you’re fairies?” The plots of countless paranormal romance novels came to mind. “Immortals guarding the entrance to—”

“Guarding, aye, but we’re no’ immortal.” He laughed, grinning again. “We’re flesh-and-blood men, as rock solid as any other man.” His smile turned wicked again and he pulled her back into his arms, holding her close. “You should know how solid I am, Lindy-sweet.”

She flushed, knowing indeed.

His solidness was very apparent, though neither one of them had yet acknowledged the obvious.

It was one thing to be naked together and burn up the sheets in a dream. Being naked in his arms for realwas both a wildly exhilarating thought and flat out terrifying.

And not alarming without reason.

Trying to be discreet, Lindy cast an assessing glance at her well -covered body. The sad fact was that, although Rogan was undoubtedly passionately in love with her in fantasy form, the realLindy Lovejoy might just be packing a few pounds more than the dream edition.

Sure that was true, her cheeks flamed brighter.

How sad that her love of fish and chips had kept pace with her around Scotland.

Not to mention haggis with neeps and tatties.

Or steak and ale pie.

Lindy frowned, wondering if she could just stay hidden beneath the covers forever.

A notion that brought another, equally disturbing thought. How could she think in terms of eternity when she might only be here a nano-second? She’d spent too many hours working at Ye Olde Pagan Times not to be well versed in the ins and outs of all things supernatural.

Her manifestation in Rogan’s time had surely upset the balance in her own world.

Something somewhere wasn’t right.

It was kind of like plucking a thread from a knitted sweater. No matter how carefully you pulled, a hole appeared.

“Oh, God.” Dread tightened her chest and heat burned her eyes, blurring the richly appointed room and all its lush, oh-so-realmedievaltrappings.

Rogan sprang off the bed. “What is it?” His gaze flew to her injured hands. “Are you in pain? Did I tie the bandages too tight?”

Snorribarked, sharing his master’s concern.

“Or—” Rogan jerked a glance at the door “—shall I call for the clan hen wife? Perhaps you hurt yourself worse than we know. You might be in need of—”

“No.” Lindy stood, careful to snatch a pillow and hold it strategically. “I’m fine, really. It’s just that—”

“Here—” Rogan swirled a plaid around her shoulders “—I’ll no’ have you taking a chill .” He strode across the room and yanked the shutters tight, dusting his hands as he turned back to her.

But not before Lindy caught a look at the view. A cold drizzle was falling and she’d seen mist, lots of drifting curtains of mist. But she’d also seen endless roll ing moorland and dark, rugged hills. A vast wilderness that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was also a landscape covered with thick woods.

The Scotland she’d left hadn’t been anywhere near as forested.

Needing to be sure of what she’d seen, she gripped Rogan’s borrowed plaid more tightly about her and went to the window, opening the shutters he’d just closed.

She hadn’t been mistaken. She really was looking out at medievalScotland.

And if the scenery wasn’t proof enough, the deep silence was. Only a world truly empty of everything modern could be so still .

And the texture of the air! Even with the damp gusting wind and all the mist, everywhere she looked, the world seemed filled with light and colour in ways she’d never have believed possible. Almost like an uncut jewel, sparkling in its purity.

Lindy gulped, her heart splitting. It was as if she’d stepped inside her own story.

She so wanted to stay here.

“Just what, lass?” Rogan’s arms went around from behind and he pull ed her back against his chest. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”

Lindy bit her lip. She was not going to cry. “I . . . it’s just that—”

“Ho, Rogan!” The door flew open and a young man burst into the room. Big, hairy and kilted, he looked like he’d just stepped off the set of Rob Roy or Braveheart. But for all his fierce appearance, the slack-jawed, owl-eyed stare he gave Lindy made him much less intimidating.

“It’s herself!” He raised an arm, pointing. “Your dream vixen! You’ve described her so often, I’d know her anywhere.”

“You’re forgetting your manners.” Rogan scowled at him. “MacGraiths know better than to gawk at women, whoe’er they might be. This loon, if you’re curious—” Rogan glanced at Lindy “—is my cousin, Gavin.”

“My lady.” Gavin bobbed his head, the crookedness of his smile revealing a chipped tooth.

The introduction made, Rogan crossed the room in three swift strides and took the younger man by the elbow, turning him back towards the door. “Away with you now and hold your flapping tongue.”

“I canna. Your da sent me up here with grim tidings.” Gavin broke free and swatted at his mussed sleeve. “One o’ the men just hastened in from Smoo. Lady Euphemia was walking along the cliffs above the cave and before he could call out a warning—” he paused, throwing a look at Lindy “—she slipped into one o’ the sinkholes. He swears he saw her go down and even heard her scream, but when he ran over to the edge o’ the crevice and peered in, she disappeared.”

Lindy gasped.

Rogan slid an arm around her, drawing her near. “The tide washes in and out of the sinkholes. Have men searched the beach? Or, if there’s no sign of her there, have they taken out boats? She could have been washed out to sea and might be in the water around the cliffs.”

“To be sure they’ve done all that, but they won’t be finding her.” Gavin sounded convinced. “She’s gone, sure as I’m standing here.”

“No one can be sure until a thorough search is made.” Rogan started steering his cousin out the door again. “Others have fallen into the sinkholes only to be found later, wandering the moors, as well you know.”

“Did you no’ hear me, man?” Gavin thrust his jaw. “I said she disappeared when the guard peered o’er the edge, into the sinkhole. He saw her right enough and then, like mist before the sun, she vanished!”

“And how ale-headed was the guard, eh?” Rogan shoved his cousin out the door and slammed it behind him, this time sliding the drawbar in place.

“I’m sorry, lass.” He turned to Lindy, reaching for her. “Dinna let Gavin’s blethering—”

“I don’t think he was.” Lindy moved away, thinking again of sweaters and pull ed threads. “That woman’s disappearance will be my fault. I came here and, as is the way with such things, someone had to be sent forward to my time.” She paused, leaning against a table. Guilt swept her. “It’s because of me that an innocent—”

“Euphemia MacNairn lost her innocence the morning she awoke and discovered she had breasts.” Long strides brought Rogan to where she stood. He braced his hands on either side of her, caging her against the table. “I regret speaking poorly of her if she truly has come to harm. But you need to know, as you’ll hear it soon enough, that she was my clan’s choice for my bride. I resisted because—” he leaned close and kissed her, slow and deep “—I knew you’d come to me someday, somehow.

“And—” he straightened, his expression solemn “—because Lady Euphemia was the last female I’d have wed, regardless. There’s no’ a laird or kitchen laddie in these parts, save o’ this clan, that she hasn’t bedded.”

“But—”

“I told you, Lindy-lass, no buts.”

“Even so—”

“None o’ those either.” Rogan shook his head. “Truth is, Lady Euphemia has been trysting with a shepherd who has a cottage in the next glen. She has to pass by Smoo Cave on her way to meet him.” He stepped closer and cupped Lindy’s chin, lifting her face to his. “That’ll be what she was about. A pity if she fell into one of the sinkholes. But she should have thought of the danger thereabouts before she traipsed across those cliffs.

“Now—” he set his hands on her shoulders, looking down at her “—I’d hear what was fashing you before Gavin came bursting in here.”

Lindy glanced aside. She still believed the MacNairn woman had been sent forward in time. And if so . . .

“I don’t want to be responsible for someone else’s misery.” There, she’d blurted the only honourable thing she could say.

Rogan lifted a brow. “If Lady Euphemia has replaced you where’er it was you hailfrom, sweetness, I promise you, she’ll no’ be unhappy. Such females know well how to fend for themselves.”

“Then . . .” Lindy considered.

“Do you want to stay with me?” Rogan’s arms were around her again, pulling her close.

So near that she could feel him pressing against her.

“You know I want that – to stay with you.” She leaned into him, unable to resist.

“Then do.” He swept her up into his arms, carrying her across the room. “Stay here and be my wife.”

“I will .” She didn’t care that the plaid fell from her shoulders as he lowered her to the bed. As for her few extra pounds, the smouldering look in Rogan’s eyes said he didn’t see them.

Oh, yes, she’d marry him.

In her heart, she already was his wife.

She didn’t want to dwell on it too deeply, for fear of jinxing herself, but she believed that, after losing him in their Viking life, whatever powers watched over souls had now reunited them.

For a moment, she wondered if such gods or their helpers might wear small black boots, carefully tied with red plaid laces. The thought made her smile. Seeing as she was here, she supposed it was possible.

It was just a shame she’d not be able to put her experiences in a romance novel. She was sure that if she could, her book would be a bestsell er. But then Rogan was throwing off his plaid and stretching out on the bed beside her, and she no longer cared.

And as she opened her arms to him, pulling him down to her, she knew she’d never feel the urge to read or write a Scottish medieval romance again.

After all , why should she?

As of this moment, she was living one.