Konnor blinked. He must have smacked his head really good, Because this conversation was unbelievable. “What?”
“Do ye have someone? Love someone?”
Shit. He had to be reading her wrong. “Look, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but I’m not looking for anything here. I’m just on a guy trip with my friend.”
She laughed, the sound sweet and pure.
“Oh, nae!” She said. “‘Tis nae what I meant with the question. Forgive me. I canna be with a mortal anyway.”
A mortal? What did that mean? Was she some sort of a celebrity here and meant that in a mocking way? Nausea rose in his throat. Yeah, he probably had a concussion.
“Okay,” he said. “As long as we’re clear about that.”
“I just wanted to ken if someone like ye—a man with a strong soul and a soft heart—has someone in yer life?”
A grunt started deep in Konnor’s gut, but he stopped it. Was today “let’s grill Konnor about his love life day”? First Andy, and now a complete stranger?
“I don’t.”
“Good,” she exclaimed and clapped her hands. “I dinna see anyone in your heart, but I just wanted to be sure.”
“What is the point of this?”
“‘Tis all for yer own good, ye’ll see.”
Getting hurt was for his own good? She was really testing his patience. As the owner of a personal protection agency, he had to deal with all kinds of clients. Sometimes his company was contracted by Hollywood celebrities and billionaires to protect them and their families, so he’d met his share of eccentric people, but he’d never had a conversation like this. Could the concussion be causing him to hallucinate?
“What are you talking about?” he said.
She giggled, and the sweet laughter reminded him of the ringing of small bells.
“I’m testing yer patience, aye? Ye’re a good man. I wouldna have done this for a bad one. ‘Tis like so…” She pointed at the huge pile of rubble and what looked like the remnants of a wall. “‘Tis here was an ancient Pictish stronghold. ‘Twas built upon a magical rock.”
She looked pointedly at a large, flat rock that lay sunken in the dirt. It had what looked like an old, simple carving on it—a flowing river in a circle with something that looked like a road piercing it. Near the carving was the clear imprint of a hand. Just like the imprint of a shoe in asphalt before it got a chance to dry. Weird.
“They say there’s a tunnel through time that opens for those who touch the rock. On the other side is the person who’s destined for them.”
Konnor raised one brow. “Wonderful,” he murmured. “That’s a looney story.”
“There’s a person for ye, too,” Sìneag said.
“Oh, really?”
“On the other side of the tunnel of time, there’s one person who’ll make ye happy. Someone who can help you soothe all your wounds and stop running from all ye secrets. A woman you can truly love. A woman who can love ye.”
“Back in time? Do Highlanders have stories about time travel?”
An owner of one of the distilleries on their whiskey tour had been very enthusiastic about local folklore. She’d told them stories of kelpies, faeries, and silkies. But none about time travel.
“Aye, though nae many ken them. The woman I’m talking about is as hurt as you are, and she needs someone who’ll help her get back on her feet. Tell me this is nae something you need, too?”
He shook his head. “What I need is to be left alone.”
She smiled. “Ye humans amuse me. Ye make all kinds of excuses to cling to yer beliefs. Destiny will show ye, Konnor Mitchell. Remember, Marjorie will soothe yer soul.”
He propped his hand against the ground. Was he hallucinating, or was the rock with the carvings glowing? No. Not hallucinating. There was a faint glow coming from the indentations of the carving.
“What the hell?” He looked up, but Sìneag wasn’t there. He looked around. “Sìneag?”
The noise of the rain drumming against the ground and the leaves was the only sound, and the scent of lavender and cut grass was gone.
Where the hell did she go? “Sìneag?”
It seemed like the rock was vibrating. His pain and discomfort forgotten, Konnor stared at it. What was happening? The carvings were glowing clearly now—the waves blue, the straight line brown. And the handprint… It called to him to put his palm into it. What was the harm? Slowly, he moved his hand and placed it into the indentation in the rock. A buzz went through his fingers, like the distant rumble of an earthquake. It was as though his hand were made of metal and the rock was a magnet. Strangely, his head was full of one name.
Marjorie.
He fell forward, and the hard, wet surface disappeared, replaced with cold, fresh air. He saw nothing. Heard nothing. His ears were muffled, as though he’d been plunged into water.
He was falling and falling, and darkness consumed him.
Chapter 2
Lands near Glenkeld Castle, Loch Awe, summer 1308
Marjorie pulled back the string of her bow. The tip of her arrow was pointed at the stag grazing between the trees, his antlers a giant crown on his head.
The air was ripe with the scent of flowers, deer dung, and rotting tree trunks. Birds chirped, and the wind rustled through the leaves. Sunlight fell through the branches onto the grass and tree trunks, and the hair on the stag’s body glistened where the sunrays fell on them.
Marjorie made herself breathe deeply to fight the violent drumming of her heart against her ribs. She imagined it wasn’t the big, graceful animal with the crown of antlers beautiful enough to decorate a king’s great hall. Instead, she imagined Alasdair MacDougall standing there with his back to her.
She often imagined the man when she trained with her sword, imagined piercing him with her weapons and bringing the most excruciating of deaths to him.
In her mind, he fought back every time. Now, just like the stag, he didn’t. He stood there unaware of her presence. The arrow was in the perfect position to meet the target, but she couldn’t let it fly.
Despite her years of sword, archery, and combat training, she’d never attacked and killed anyone. All she’d done was train. This stag would be her first truly large kill. She’d only hunted fowls and hares before.
Just do it already.
Marjorie let out a long, slow breath, making the last estimations of the flight of the arrow in her mind’s eye. Everything was ready. The coarse string rubbed against her cheek as she pulled it back just a little.
Let go.
The stag raised his head and looked east.
Voices.
It took off.
“Oh, damnation!” Marjorie cursed and lowered her bow.
Tamhas and Muir, the clunky fools, must be looking for her. She may as well head back. She was alone outside the walls of Glenkeld Castle for the first time in ten years. Her father and three brothers Craig, Owen, and Domhnall, were north in the Highlands, fighting for King Robert the Bruce together with the rest of Cambel clan. Ian, her dear cousin who’d been fostered with her family for almost his whole life, had been killed in a battle with the damned MacDougalls soon after she’d been saved from Alasdair.