Modern Day - Autumn
Scottish Highlands
Village of Seven Cairns
“Mama…Mama…” Emily Mithers gave up. She snapped her mouth shut and nodded in all the right places of her mother’s long diatribe about missing her, missing Jessa, and wanting to hold Jessa and Grant’s babies rather than coo at them over video calls. What her mother didn’t realize was that it had taken a battle of epic proportions to convince the goddesses and the Weavers to back down off their stance of erasing the memories of family and friends to protect the secrecy of fated mates brought together through time travel and magic so their loving bonds strengthened the weave of the Highland Veil—a mystical shield of sorts that separated all the worlds, realities, and timelines in existence.
Emily and Jessa were the first outsiders able to convince the goddesses that they should be allowed to maintain contact with their loved ones as long as they handled it delicately and protected the secrets of the Highland Veil, its Order of Defenders, and the Divine Weavers who cared for it.
“If you’re not going to listen, we might as well end this call—even though it’s long overdue.” Her mother sniffed and assumed the aloofness of a parent more than willing to hand out a generous helping of guilt. “But I’m not complaining. I’m just thankful you spared a few moments out of your busy schedule for a brief chat with your mother.”
“Passive aggressiveness is beneath you, Mama. Save it for the fearsome five. It always works on them.”
Her mother just jutted her chin even higher. “At least your brothers adore me.”
“I adore you, too, and you know it.” Emily rested her fingertips on the computer screen, wishing she could reach through it and touch her mother’s soft cheek. As the youngest of six and the only girl, her parents had lovingly spoiled her rotten, and she missed them with a fury. “You and Papa are still coming to Seven Cairns in the spring. Right?”
“Are you coming home for the holidays?”
“I’ll be there for Christmas. You already extracted that promise. Remember?”
“And what about our Jessa? And the babies? We consider her family too. I never want her to forget that.”
“Jessa and Grant aren’t brave enough to make an almost eleven hour flight with seven month old triplets.” Emily couldn’t add that by the goddesses’ order, eighteenth century Grant MacAlester’s forays into the twenty-first century were limited to the boundaries of Seven Cairns, the way station sanctioned by the goddesses for the use of fated mates and the Weavers.
“I suppose that would be a bit much. I’ll simply ship their gifts to them. I assume I’ll have to send them to your cottage there in Seven Cairns, since Royal Mail still hasn’t figured out where their castle is?”
“It’s a keep, Mama. Remember?” And she couldn’t very well tell her mother that twenty-first century Royal Mail didn’t deliver to the eighteenth century. “If you don’t want to ship them, I can always bring them back when I return after Christmas.” Emily braced herself. That particular subject was still a raw nerve with her mother. Her parents couldn’t understand why she had decided to stay in Seven Cairns indefinitely, and she’d given up on trying to explain it in vague yet convincing terms.
“That won’t work. I doubt the airline’s weight limits would allow it.” The self-ordained grandmother wasn’t the least bit ashamed that she might have overdone it a bit in purchasing gifts for the babies.
Emily couldn’t very well tell her mother that, depending on the gifts, they might not be allowed into the eighteenth century. That was another rule from the goddesses, and this one, she understood completely. They had to be cautious about fouling history’s timeline with knowledge or items from the future. The results could be disastrous. The babies would have to enjoy their presents in Seven Cairns and leave them there whenever they went home. She gave her mother a stern look she knew would be ignored. “Remember Papa’s back. Don’t pack the boxes too heavy.”
Her mother rolled her eyes. “Don’t get me started on your father’s aging insecurities and determination to prove he’s still as fit as a twenty year old.”
The video on the laptop froze before Emily could comment. A sure sign that Ishbel, Master of the Spell Weavers, was tired of waiting for Emily to show up for their daily work in spell casting. With a resigned sigh, Emily pulled out her phone and texted: Sorry! Lost the signal. Love you!
Her mother responded with a long string of heart emojis and Love you too!
Emily tucked her phone back into the thigh pocket of her black, fleece-lined leggings, then pulled on her favorite creamy white cable knit sweater over her sleek black workout tank. She had learned early on that layers were the best defense against the damp chill of Scotland in late November. Thick wool socks. Waterproof hiking boots. Wool gloves. All the accoutrements she never thought she would wear for anything other than climbing a mountain on a cold, windy day had become everyday garments here. She tied back her mane of long black braids into a neat twist that would keep them out of the way and pulled on a chunky knit beanie. A backpack with a change of clothes completed her preparations for her magical workout. Even though it was a short walk from her cottage to the Weaver’s meeting house, and she and Ishbel always practiced inside, past experience with the unpredictability of Seven Cairns had taught her to be as prepared as possible.
“Ye should never call yer mother when ye know ye’re due to be somewhere,” Ishbel said as Emily entered the practice hall. “It makes ye tardy every time.”
Emily gritted her teeth against telling the Master Spell Weaver that it was none of her business. Wasn’t it enough that she had put her life on hold and remained in Seven Cairns to get in touch with her Spell Weaver ancestry as the Weavers had requested? Of course, she had also stayed because of Jessa, but the more she saw how happy and settled Jessa was, the more restless she felt. Not that she wasn’t happy for Jessa—but…well…it was complicated, and she wasn’t in the mood to get into it with Ishbel.
She dropped her backpack onto the bench against the wall and started stretching as if about to lift weights or run a marathon. Sometimes, magic turned physical, and she had the bruises to prove it. “So, what are we working on today? Same old stuff?”
When Ishbel remained silent, she turned to find the Weaver studying her with a worried scowl. Emily tensed, or more aptly, her already tensed muscles ratcheted into even tighter knots. Of late, she stayed so overwound it was a wonder she wasn’t a cramped bundle of misery. “What?”
“We have talked of how yer emotions feed into the magic, ye ken?” Ishbel moved closer, her long, silky robes of purple and red splashes fluttering around her as if she were a colorful butterfly. She had released her gray hair from its usual messy bun, and the silvery curls cascaded down well past her waist. “Yer aura is full of chaos, child. Murky with troubled shades. Perhaps ye best spend yer day elsewhere and leave the energies be. They dinna take kindly to those who poke at them with negativity. Mayhap Mairwen could give ye a massage.”
“I am not negative.” Emily huffed at her own snappishness. She sounded like a brat even to herself. “Or at least I wasn’t until you accused me of it.”
“What is wrong, child? What has ye so upset?”
“I am not your child, and I’m not upset.”
Ishbel spread her hands and offered an apologetic bow.
The Weaver’s placating dramatics and faint smirk made Emily even pricklier. She plopped onto the bench and dropped her head into her hands. She was upset, had felt that way for days, and was sick and tired of it. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, and nothing I try helps.”
“What about meditation? Seeking the problem and working it out the way I showed ye?”
“No luck.” Emily stared at the toes of her boots and noticed some of the stitching had torn free. Great. She had spent a bundle on those and even sang their praises to her bazillion followers on her influencer channel. Looks like she would have to go back online and tell everyone she’d been wrong. And that was just it. She’d been wrong about so many things. “I’m tired of being wrong, Ishbel. Tired of screwing myself over by making the wrong choices.” She snorted a sad laugh. “And I have no one to blame for my misery but myself.”
Ishbel settled down beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I have never seen ye like this, child…er…Emily. Ye worry me when ye are so troubled. Is part of it because we’ve not yet found yer fated mate?”
Every frustration churning within her roared even louder, making Emily twitch to shake Ishbel away, then immediately feel guilty about even thinking that. “I didn’t come here looking for a fated mate and don’t expect to find one.”
“Why did ye come here, lass?”
“To help Jessa find happiness. She deserved it.”
“And ye dinna believe ye deserve that same happiness as well?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Ye nay had to.” The determined glint in the Spell Weaver’s pale green eyes warned she was not yet finished. She shook a finger as if winding up for one hell of a sermon. “Why do ye not believe ye have every right to be as happy as yer friend?”
“Why do you believe I can’t be happy without the complication of a relationship?”
“The complication of a relationship?” Ishbel nodded. “I see now. Ye have been burnt by that fire before and still feel a bit singed, I reckon. Is that not what ye worked so hard to help yer Jessa overcome? The complication of a relationship that had soured?”
“Enough therapy, Ishbel. Shall we get started?” Emily jumped up from the bench, strode to the center of the room, and bounced in place while flexing her fingers. “What spell are we working on today? Same one as yesterday?”
Ishbel’s eyes narrowed with a displeased glare. “I doubt verra much ye can manage the serenity spell today any better than ye managed it yesterday. The thatching on Innis’s cottage is still smoking.”
Emily rolled her shoulders and stretched her tensed neck muscles by tipping her head from side to side. “I apologized for that and even made it rain to put out the fire.”
“I was the one who made it rain, lass, and shielded the rest of the village from the lightning ye conjured with yer weather spell.”
“I’ll do better today.” And she would. She would concentrate. Clear her mind and her heart, and swim with the energies as if she were a magical dolphin. She forced a smile she didn’t feel. “I promise.”
Ishbel did not appear convinced, but she nodded for Emily to proceed.
Pulling in a deep cleansing breath, Emily closed her eyes and struggled to calm her thoughts—never an easy task, even on a good day. She had always considered it a strength, the way her mind jumbled with limitless possibilities, and prided herself on the ability to juggle any number of ideas while handling whatever needed to be handled in the forefront. It was simply a matter of channeling all her lively internal wiring into successfully firing on all cylinders at the same time.
Unfortunately, magic was a greedy energy that demanded her full focus, or at least her version of focus. As a child, her teachers had labeled her with all the usuals: ADHD, hyperactive, dyslexic, neurodiverse, or just plain difficult. Thankfully, her psychiatrist mother and internal medicine physician father had lovingly embraced her unique way of thinking and refused to allow the education system make her feel ashamed or ostracized. But even though she had thrived and amazed them with her brilliance, as her father had always said, she still struggled when it came to focusing on one finite thought and blocking out all the others. Magic was hard, and hard frustrated her. How dare that energy not cooperate with her way of thinking!
“Yer aura is flaring red, Emily. Rage will poison yer power. Go to yer vision and rid yerself of it.”
“My vision,” Emily repeated calmly, even though she wanted to tell Ishbel to be quiet and let her work this out for herself. That would be rude, and Ishbel didn’t deserve rude. The Weaver had always been patient and kind. Emily counted her breaths, concentrating on slowing them while bringing forth the memory of a pristine white beach she had enjoyed while visiting the island of Saint John in the U.S. Virgin Islands. She returned to the waters that had been bluer than the bluest crayon in the jumbo crayon box she had always prized as a child. The gentle shush of the waves stroked the shore like a devoted lover. A gentle breeze tickled across her as she basked in the warmth of the tropical sun after a nice, long swim. Her heart rate slowed, and breathing came easier. The impossible to explain feeling she needed, the relaxing fluidity of centering herself, flowed through her.
“ Tranquillitas ,” she whispered, envisioning herself as a serene being floating among the clouds.
“Emily!”
Ishbel’s panicked cry exploded through her like an electrical jolt. Emily hit the ground hard. The spell turned on her and attacked with a fury. She thrashed to be free of the painful energy searing through her. If she didn’t release it, she’d surely burst into flames. “Stop it! Leave me!”
“Feckin’ hell!”
Clods of dirt and grass showered her as a monstrous horse leapt over her. Instinctively, she curled into a ball and covered her head. Thankfully, the fiery barbs of mystical energy nipping at her bones had eased, but now she was in the middle of a field somewhere. And she had dropped herself in the path of somebody riding a horse. Damn, magic! She tried to push herself to her feet, but agony knifed through her hip and knocked her back down. “Shit!”
Head pillowed on her arms, she pulled in several deep breaths, fighting the horrendous pain and trying not to give in to the nausea it stirred. Then she opened her eyes. Whatever damage she had done to her hip was the least of her worries.
A very large, angry man had alighted from the horse and was headed her way. She didn’t know him, and that meant she had spelled herself somewhere away from Seven Cairns. Wasn’t that just freaking wonderful? Then she noticed his clothing and clenched her teeth even tighter. From his manner of dress, the twenty-first century was not his time. The where of her landing was no longer the larger problem—the when was.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she hissed under her breath. Now what was she going to do?
His worn leather boots rose to his knees, and with every forceful step, his kilt molded itself across the muscular powerhouse of his long legs. His impressively broad shoulders were encased in a black wool coat that didn’t come close to matching the sooty darkness of his shoulder length hair and the short beard that enhanced the angular lines of his face. The coldness living in his flinty stare made her wonder if he was going to kill her. This man made the mountains look small. She might’ve held her own when it came to tussles with her five older brothers, but she would never stand a chance against this guy.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, instinctively raising an arm as if that would somehow protect her from his wrath. “I didn’t mean to land in your way. I didn’t mean to land here at all.”
Silent and grim as death, he stopped, then crouched in front of her, eyes narrowing as he raked his gaze across her.
Maybe he didn’t speak English? He looked like a Scot. An eighteenth century Scot, in fact. His clothing reminded her of what Jessa’s husband, Grant, always wore. Had she sent herself back in time? If she had, she prayed she’d hit Jessa and Grant’s 1786 timeline. “Uhm…I’m Emily. And again, I’m really sorry. Is your horse okay?”
The man’s baleful expression darkened even more. He tipped his head to the side as if struggling to decide what species she was. “My horse is Avric—not Okay. ”
“Sorry.” She chewed on her bottom lip. Jessa had told her about the problem of using modern words in a different time and the confusion they caused. She’d have to filter herself more carefully. “I’m Emily,” she said again as if he might’ve missed that, even though he was kneeling within a foot of her. “Would you mind telling me the date?”
“The date?”
His hard eyes reminded her of onyx, or black quicksilver, if there was such a thing, or maybe some sort of dark molten ore. A sudden shiver stole through her along with an unmistakable certainty that he meant her no harm. In fact, she felt as if she had met him before. That was pure crazy. She didn’t know this guy. How could she know on the deepest level imaginable that he wouldn’t hurt her?
“Today’s date,” she said, flinching at the quiver in her voice. She cleared her throat and tried to push herself to a sitting position, only to cry out as pain burned through her hip.
“Ye are injured.” His deep voice washed across her, making her catch her breath. “Where are ye hurt?”
“The date?” She had to know the date. He couldn’t possibly understand how important that was—way more important than whatever was wrong with her backside.
“Late November, I think. I dinna ken for certain the day.” He leaned closer. “Where are ye hurt?” he repeated with a gentle sternness that clearly said he wanted an answer.
“My pride. I landed on it.” She gingerly rested her hand on the joint of her left hip. “And the year is?”
“1786.” He tipped his chin higher, as if daring her to lie. “What of it?”
“Thank goodness. 1786. You don’t happen to know Grant MacAlester, do you?” The lack of recognition in his eyes disappointed her immensely. Where the devil had she landed? “The village of Seven Cairns? MacAlester Craig?”
Still scowling, but maybe he was one of those who always scowled, he shook his head. “Is Grant MacAlester yer husband, then? Are ye running from him?” The growling ferocity rumbling through his voice surprised her.
“No. He’s my friend’s husband. I thought you might know him.” She shifted on the cold, hard ground, hoping she could convince her rear end to let her sit upright this time. It did not. “Shit!”
The glowering Highlander’s expression softened somewhat, but he still didn’t smile. “Ye’ll not be able to ride with that injury.”
“Can you just help me stand? I don’t like being lower while I’m trying to have a conversation with someone. It’s like I’m a rabbit in a trap or something.”
He didn’t move. Just studied her, sweeping his gaze from the top of her head to her feet once again.
“Is that a no, then?”
“I think I should carry ye. Yer arse may be out of joint.”
She bit her tongue to keep from firing off a smart remark. Her entire life had been out of joint for a while now. “Just help me stand, and we’ll go from there, Mr…?”
“MacStrath—Chieftain Gryffe MacStrath of the Midlands. Ye may call me Gryffe .” He caught her by the shoulders and swept her to her feet as if she weighed no more than a blade of grass.
Her hip raged against the move, punishing her with a dangerous slap of nausea. Dots of blackness swirled through her vision, making her head swim. She fell forward and fisted his shirt in both hands while breathing deep to keep from losing the pot of tea and toast she’d had for breakfast. Eyes closed, forehead braced against his chest, she prayed she wouldn’t throw up all over his boots. “I apologize in advance if I puke on you,” she whispered, then swallowed hard and willed herself not to vomit. This first impression was not going well at all, and she needed it to. She’d need his help getting back to Seven Cairns, since her freaking magic had turned on her.
He held her with a gentleness that helped her catch her breath and reconsider pulling away. This man was a total stranger—and yet, he wasn’t. His nearness, his warmth, the reassuring hardness of his muscular chest against her face both calmed and confused her. She should pull away. Stand on her own. But—she couldn’t and wasn’t all that mad about being mesmerized into breathing him in and resting in the moment. He smelled of an exciting wildness, cold crisp air warmed by a smoky fire that made you want to curl up and enjoy it. Stroking her hair, he softly murmured a string of words she didn’t understand, but she felt them. What the devil was happening here?
“What are you saying?” she whispered without opening her eyes.
“Just words, lass. Dinna fash yerself.”
Breathing him in yet again, she found the strength to lift her head and look up at him. He was so tall. At just a whisper shy of six feet in height herself, he was a full head and shoulders taller than her. “I’m better now. Thank you.” Her hip still throbbed, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been. She could bear it as long as she didn’t put any weight on her left leg—which would be a problem. “I need to get back to Seven Cairns. What part of Scotland is this, so I can get my bearings?”
He studied her for a long moment, looking deep into her eyes as if walking into her soul and wandering through the shelves of her innermost thoughts to learn more about her. “Seven Cairns is several days’ ride from here. Due north. It could take ye nigh on a sennight, depending on the weather, and how hard ye push yer mount. This is my land. Edinburgh is a wee bit to the south of us. Not far from here at all.”
“Edinburgh?” Her heart fell. Seven Cairns was north of Inverness, about an hour by rental car—not horse, and it was well over a four hour drive from Edinburgh, depending on how many sheep blocked the road in various places. How had she managed to shoot herself so far south and into another century with what was supposed to be a simple serenity spell? Then it hit her that he knew of Seven Cairns when earlier, he’d shaken his head that he didn’t. “I thought you said you didn’t know about Seven Cairns?”
With his arms still around her, he twitched a shrug. “I never said that.”
“You shook your head when I asked about Seven Cairns and MacAlester Craig.”
“I shook my head because I dinna ken MacAlester Craig nor the name of yer friend’s husband.” His expression darkened again. “Or was that a lie?”
She tried to shove out of his embrace, hobbling her weight onto her right leg and nearly falling. “Shit!”
Baring his teeth, he caught her arm and steadied her. “So it was a lie then, was it?”
“Grant MacAlester is the husband of my friend, Jessa, who is more like a sister to me than a friend. In fact, my parents even think of her as family, and I consider myself an auntie to their three babies. Their favorite auntie, I might add!” She thumped his chest with both fists, then almost fell before grabbing hold of his arms. Why was she telling him all this? He obviously didn’t care. “If you don’t want to help me, then don’t, but nobody calls me a liar.”
“I dinna make it a habit of leaving the injured to fend for themselves until the wolves end their misery.”
“Wolves?” Mairwen had told her that Scotland had hunted wolves to extinction by the seventeenth century. “Wolves survive on your land?” She loved wolves, had even gone so far as to sponsor several sanctuaries and raise donations for them on her influencer channel.
A leeriness settled across him as he slowly pulled one of his arms free of her hold and only allowed her to steady herself with the one. “Wolves roam the vastness of the United Kingdom of Scotland. King Roric IV respects their right to survive alongside the rest of us.”
“King Roric IV?” While she had never been a history buff, she’d never heard of a King Roric or known Scotland to ever be called the United Kingdom of Scotland.
“Aye. Roric rules this land.”
“He rules Scotland.”
“Aye. He rules all Britannia.”
All Britannia? “Scotland rules England? They not only won their independence but also overcame England’s rule?”
“Aye. The English made a poor attempt at an uprising in 1746, but we convinced them of the error of their ways. Both them and the French.”
The leeriness in his eyes seemed to shift to concern. Maybe. She’d never really been that good at reading people. “What about England’s royals? Their peerage? The dukes and earls and stuff?”
“They all pay fealty to Roric. In return, they’re allowed seats in parliament. Some say our king is a wise and fair ruler for doing such, hearing the opinions of those who once opposed him. Some say otherwise.” His scowl tightened with a narrowing of his eyes. “Where are ye from, lass? Ye dinna speak like anyone I have ever known, and the questions ye ask are worrisome. I am thinking Seven Cairns is nay the home of yer birth.”
“I’m from…” She didn’t know how to finish that sentence and wished she had paid more attention to her history lessons. Or maybe she was better off because she hadn’t paid that much attention to them. This eighteenth century defied what little history she happened to remember. Almost like it was flipped. Scotland over England. An entirely different reality. What had Mairwen said about alternate realities? Emily’s throat closed up, making her gasp for air as the dark spots returned to her vision, spinning at a dizzying pace this time until everything went black.