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God’s teeth, she felt so good in his arms. He wanted to delve deeper, relish the heat and sweetness. She might curse him later, might rail at him a moment from now, but he had to ken what might have been.

She melted against him, causing his heart to soar. Aye, we might have made a wondrous pairing …

Feminine giggles slowly penetrated the mental haze that holding Claire so close had caused. The lass near his elbow whispered, “Hey, check out the old guys.”

Ack!

Reluctantly, he raised his head and glanced left to find a gaggle of lassies grinning at them.

The blonde standing at his elbow smiled up at him. “Hey, don’t stop on our account. You were doing just fine.”

“Thank ye.” Cheeky wee twit.

He turned his attention back to Claire and found her scarlet. “Sorry, lass.” He straightened to look over the heads of the whelps filling the wee hall. “Let’s get out of here, shall we?”

Without waiting for an answer, he took Claire’s hand and wedged his way through the crowd, muttering “Excuse me” as he went, elbowing bairns aside as need be.

When they broke out into fresh air, he took a deep breath, then raked a hand through his hair, mentally cursing the jeans she insisted he wear and the stranglehold they had on his poke of sweeties. “Sorry about that. I shouldna have—”

Claire, still apple-cheeked, pressed a finger to his lips. “Don’t worry about it.”

He wrapped his hand about hers. “Ah, but I do. Ye’ve a reputation to maintain.”

She surprised him by laughing. “Me? Pah-leeze.” She then turned to look about. With her back to him, she murmured, “I enjoyed it.” Before he could tell her he had as well, although she would have to be dense as oak not to realize it with his shaft pressing into her as it had, she pointed to her left, saying, “The mall is that way. We’d best get going. I don’t know how long the fair will last.”

Aye, the witch awaited.

Cam glowered as he looked down the line of colorful booths. Twenty-odd witches and not one of them the high priestess Sandra Mariah Power. Where the hell could she be? “Claire, I dinna think she’s here.”

“Me either.”

Mayhap, if they ceased being so circumspect and just asked someone where she was …

“Look.” Claire pointed to a purple tent before a two-story brick shop touting fine clothing. “The sign says she’s a psychic. If she is, then she should know where we can find Ms. Power.”

Cam warily eyed the tent and the woman sitting at a small table deep within the shadows. “What’s a psychic?”

“A soothsayer, someone who can see what others can’t, often sees things in advance. Some supposedly read auras.”

What the hell was an aura? Cam heaved a sigh. “Fine, let’s ask her.” Fey, after all, was fey no matter its manifestation and they had naught to lose but more precious time.

Claire stopped before the ten-foot-square tent with its flaps tied back allowing only an upside-down V for an entrance. “Twenty dollars for a reading. Nice money if you can do two or three an hour.”

Losing patience—gloaming was fast approaching—Cam grumbled, “After ye.”

The psychic, a striking woman with waist-length jet black hair and matching eyes, smiled from behind her white, cloth-covered table as they entered. Cam nodded. “Mistress.”

On the table before her sat a deck of large cards and to her right on a wee corner table sat three candles encased in glass chimneys, which explained why the close air hung heavy with the heady scent of sandalwood and something else he couldna identify.

Waving to the two chairs before her, the psychic said, “Come in, come in. Don’t be shy. Please take a seat.”

Claire smiled as she shook her head. “I’m sorry but we’re not here for a reading. We’re looking for someone. Sandra Mariah Power. Can you tell us where we might find her?”

“May I ask why?”

Cam snorted and whispered into Claire’s ear, “Shouldna she ken that already?”

Hissing, “Behave,” she swatted his middle with the back of her hand, then smiled at the woman. “We really need her help.”

“For what purpose?”

Ack! “I’m not of this time and need get back to where I belong. To do so, I—we—need Mistress Power’s help.”

The woman, her high forehead now furrowed, came out from behind her table and held out a hand to Claire. “I’m Julia Browne.”

Claire shook the woman’s hand. “Hi, I’m Claire MacGregor and this,” she waved her free hand toward Cam, “is Sir Cam MacLeod of Rubha, Scotland.”

The woman held a hand out to him. He heaved a sigh, took a gentle hold of her delicate bones and bent over them, bringing her knuckles against his lips. What a bloody waste of time. “Mistress, ’tis my pleasure.”

She studied him for a moment, her pupils taking up the entire of her irises so he couldna tell their color, and laughed, the sound rich and throaty. “You lie admirably, Sir MacLeod. Truth is you’re aggravated beyond endurance but that’s to be expected, I suppose, given your circumstances.”

Cam arched an eyebrow. “And what might that be?”

“You’re very uncomfortable here.”

Tell him something he didna ken. “So Mistress Power isna here?”

“No, she’s not. As a high priestess, she’s currently preparing for the Full Moon ceremony.”

Of course. “So where might we find her?”

“Patience, Sir MacLeod.” She resumed her seat behind the table and waggled a finger at Claire, bringing her closer. She again took Claire’s hand in hers, asking, “Is he always so gruff?”

Claire peeked over her shoulder at him and blushed. “No, not always.”

The psychic nodded, then shooed Claire away.

“You’ll find Sandra on Gallows Hill.” She gave them directions.

As they walked away, Cam grumbled, “What was all that about?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Well, at least we didna—”

“MacLeod!”

Cam spun at the sound of the psychic’s voice to see Julia standing just within the tent, her hand on the flap. “Aye?”

“Forgive her,” Julia said. “She was terrified and rightly so.”

“I bear no ill will toward CI—”

“I speak of Minnie, Mhairie.”

The Scots tripped on air and the hairs on Cam’s nape rose, then quivered like dried reeds before a wind. His skin crawled as the tent flap fell and the psychic disappeared. His mother, Mhairie Stewart, had been in his thoughts only a moment ago; her and what he intended to do to her when next he laid eyes on her.

“Cam, it’s getting late, we need to go.”

“Aye.” He shook like a wet dog, took Claire’s hand in his and strode as fast as her shorter legs would allow toward Gallows Hill.

Two minutes later, he happened to look left over a single-story shop and spied what appeared to be mast tips. “Claire, do my eyes deceive me or is that a ship yon?”

Claire craned her neck to look around him. “Ah, ya, that’s the Friendship. She’s a three-masted merchantman, a replica of her namesake which was built in 1797. A few Christmases ago, I donated some money in Tavish’s name to help build her. Thought it would please him. He was so into shipbuilding.”

Ack! The woman would be the death of him. Here she had knowledge and access to a ship—of a variety he kenned well—and had said naught. “Come on.”

He strode seaward down the next side street. At Water Street, before the harbor, he turned left and all but ran past dozens of stately brick homes that faced seaward with their picket fences and what Claire called widow’s walks. They passed half a dozen stately government buildings with plaques in front of them, but he only had eyes for the pier and the sleek black-and-white Friendship.

“Cam! Please, slow down. It’s not going anywhere.”

Aye, the pier did lack the usual clamor and cargo. He slowed. “Why is it not?”

She took a huffing breath. “Because the Friendship is a U.S. Coast Guard training vessel and living museum.”

“I dinna ken yer meaning.”

“I mean it spends more time at anchor in harbor—either here or in Boston—than it does anything else.”

“Is she nae seaworthy?” She certainly looked seaworthy. Newly launched, in fact.

“Oh, she’s definitely seaworthy, although she was struck by lightning a while back. Blew the hell out of one of her masts and some decking, but the damage has been repaired.”

Aye, ships did get hit on occasion. He’d spent the better part of his youth on one or another of the two frigates his clan, a seafaring sept, owned. He kenned the dangers well.

He slowed as they approached the end of the pier. “Do ye ken the master?”

“No, Cam, I don’t. I just wanted to contribute to help build her.” Trying to catch her breath, she asked, “Do you want to go on board? It only costs a few dollars.”

“They charge ye to simply look?” What nonsense was this?

“Yes. To walk through history.”

Humph. History, his arse. She was a living, breathing vessel straining at her ropes. He looked at the queue of waiting citizens, then at the ship. All on the deck appeared to be in order. The reefed canvas was new, the paint fresh, the blocks sound, and the rigging well-oiled. Examining her interior could wait. With any luck, the witch would ken how to break the curse and he’d have no need for the Friendship. But should he, he at least now kenned where to find her. Garnering a crew to man her would be another matter altogether …

“Claire, we need find the witch.”

* * *

Gallows Hill, a rocky prominence covered in wild grass and sparse trees, site of the 1692 witch hangings, stood cold and bleak. Its naked trees rattled branches in counter time with their steps as they climbed.

“Are ye sure this is it, Claire? I dinna see a gallows.”

Claire laughed as she puffed at his side. “They’re long gone, MacLeod.”

“Ah, and the land is going to waste.” The rest of Salem, now alight and sparkling like a fairy land below, was packed wall to wall with houses, some so close they barely had space to breathe.

“This is a historic site. I imagine they’ve placed restrictions on land use.”

Something moved at the crest. “Look, to the right. That must be her.”

As they approached, the shape became a woman in a long black cape. Lord, please let this be the woman they sought.

Claire waved. “Hello! Miss Power?”

The woman, her hands buried within her cloak, waited for them to come to within six feet of her before saying, “Yes?”

Cam wasn’t sure what he’d expected but finding a fair and fulsome woman of middle years, of about five and a half feet with flashing eyes that were first ringed in amber, then green and finally blue, wasna it. He bowed deeply. “Mistress, ’tis my honor. This is Claire MacGregor of Boston and I, Sir Cam MacLeod of Rubha, Scotland. We’re here to seek yer assistance in a most pressing matter.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

Claire waved in the direction of town. “Julia Browne told us.”

The woman smiled for the first time. “Julia sent you?”

Cam grinned. “Well, sent wouldna be entirely accurate. We told her why we were looking for ye and she told us where we might hope to find ye.”

“I see.” She studied them for a minute more in the rays of the setting sun, the light playing tricks with her eyes, changing them from mainly blue to green. “Julia is new to our community, but she’s very astute and I trust her judgment. Come along then.”

They silently followed the witch to the base of the tree where she stopped before what looked like an altar. “Tonight,” she told them, “we celebrate a full moon. I have only one more thing to do, then we can talk.”

They stood in respectful silence as the woman went about her work, setting several candles and a large bowl on the altar. Finished with her preparations, she said, “Since Julia has already vetted you, shall we retire to my home? We’ll be able to speak in greater comfort there.”

Humph. The psychic had asked only two questions of them, but no matter. “Thank ye.”

He took Claire’s gloved hand and they followed the witch down the hill. As gloaming passed into night, Claire whispered, “Wonder what her home looks like?”

“Nay doubt much like yers. No one would ken from Minnie’s croft that she’s a witch.”

Claire faltered. “You never told me your mother was a practicing witch … a Pagan.”

He shrugged and tugged her along. “Was there a need? I said she’d placed a curse on me.”

“Yes, but I’d assumed … oh, never mind.”

At a brown two-story home—what Claire called a salt box—the witch opened her windowless front door and bid them enter.

After taking his breachen feile and Claire’s coat and hanging them on hooks in the front hall, she shed her cape exposing her waist-length gold and amber curls, then led them into her colorful parlor. It no more resembled Minnie’s sparse quarters than day did night, save for the fact that Mistress Power’s ceiling beams were also low and he had to duck.

She waved to the sofa and chairs before her hearth. “Please make yourselves comfortable while I make some tea.”

“ ’Tis no need.” He really wanted to get this done.

“Of course there is.”

Claire immediately settled onto the red settee before a lower table and patted the cushion beside her. “Don’t be rude, Cam. Sit.”

He huffed. Deciding the two chairs before the window were too fragile to bear his weight, he settled on the settee next to Claire. “I pray she can undo this.”

Looking none too happy for some reason, Claire muttered, “We’ll know soon enough.”

“Aye.” A soft almost inaudible padding caused him to look to the door through which the witch had disappeared. A cat, fluffy and white and as fat as a pigeon, entered the parlor. When it stopped before him and began to purr, he leaned forward. “Good eve, puss. I take it ye’re her familiar.”

In response, the cat rubbed in serpentine fashion against his outstretched legs. Assuming that meant aye, he reached down and scratched it beneath her chin. “Ye need one of these, lass. To keep ye company.”

Claire frowned as she warily eyed the cat. “No, I don’t. It would only scratch up my furniture and leave hair all over the place.”

“What’s a few hairs between friends? Besides, she’d warm yer lap on these cold nights.”

Claire shuddered. “I’m not looking to become the neighborhood cat lady.”

“How would having one cat—”

“Ah, I see you found Ghost.”

At the sound of her mistress’s voice, the cat scampered across the room to greet her.

Once they were settled—they with their tea, the cat with a saucer of milk—Mistress Power asked, “How may I be of help?”

Cam took a deep breath. So much rested on his being articulate, on her believing his and Claire’s tales. “I respectfully request that ye break the curse binding me here, mistress.”

To his relief she didna so much as arch an eyebrow but said, “Go on.”

Relieved she hadn’t scoffed, he told her all he kenned from the moment he awoke in Claire’s bedchamber to the present Claire then told her how she came to be in possession of the chest and how she’d opened the puzzle box. When at last they grew silent, the witch asked, “Did you bring this puzzle box with you?”

“Yes.” Claire’s hands were shaking as she reached into her purse. “And the scroll his mother had written. I’ve repeatedly opened the box, said the same words, but nothing changes.”

Mistress Power grinned. “Why would you expect it to? That which was once inside is now out.” She smiled at Cam.

The witch did have a point. He was as out as out can be. “But can ye undo this curse, mistress? Send me back from whence I’ve come?”

“May I examine the scroll and box?”

Claire handed them to her. After reading the scroll, Mistress Power studied the intricate carvings as she quietly hummed to herself, whether in ritual or from habit, he couldna tell.

To Claire, she said, “Could you please show me the pattern you used?”

Claire did as the witch bid, explaining her logic, which caused the witch to grin, though he couldna find the least humor in it.

The witch finally placed the box and scroll on the table before them and folded her hands in her lap. “I wish I could be of help but I can’t undo this.”

“But—” How could she not? Cam bolted to his feet, startling the cat, who’d been complacently licking its paws.

Nay. They’d come all this way. She simply had to help.

Claire placed a hand on his arm. “But surely, Miss Power, there must be some way—”

Mistress Power held up a hand to silence her. “This curse, as you call it, has already been undone.” She looked at Cam. “I assume that your mother fully intended to release you when she thought it was safe. Unfortunately, she died prior to doing so. Claire came along and undid it. There is nothing for me to undo.”

Ack! He should have kenned better. No wonder these witches could tout their so-called skills so publicly. They had none, so the church and elders hadna reason to fear. Worse, he’d wasted precious time.

“Do not despair, Mr. MacLeod. Fate may have cast a cruel blow but has seen you to a good place and surrounded you with caring friends.”

“Ye dinna ken the heartache this duplicity has caused, Mistress.”

“I think I do. Not so long ago in the greater scheme of life, three frightened girls set in motion a lie that took twenty innocent souls to the gallows … right here on this very hill. Not one of those souls was a witch, yet the girls claimed they’d been bewitched.”

He raked the hair off his face as the squat clock sitting on the mantel ticked away minutes, stealing time like water from a poor spigot. “Mistress, not twenty but thousands upon thousands are going to die if I dinna get back to where I belong.”

Mistress Power sighed, her lovely multicolored eyes growing glassy, shifting to green as tears welled behind her thick lashes. “I’m so sorry, Mr. MacLeod. Even if I were able to reduce you again to essence … soul … and place you in that box, what then? The box is simply a box that has passed from hand to hand for generations. There’s no more magic in it than there is in my having my great-grandmother’s spell book over there.” She waved in the general direction of bookcase to his right. “If I did send you back to Scotland, there’s no one awaiting you there. Those who knew you and the magic are long gone.

“I do empathize with your plight, Mr. MacLeod, I truly do, but there is no way to undo this. More importantly, we can’t change history. We can only learn from it.”

“Nay! I willna accept this.”

The witch cast a worried look toward Claire and rose, her hands clasped before her. “Mr. MacLeod, you have no choice but to accept it. I wish you well.”

“To hell with ye!”

Blood roared in his ears as he stormed from the room. Had he remained, he’d have started smashing things … starting with that bookcase and her bloody book of spells. Great lot of good they could do him.

Biting cold slapped his face as he crossed the witch’s threshold. Piercing, frigid, and laden with the tang of salt, the wind tasted and felt like home. Of Rubha.

He had to go home.

Behind him, Claire’s mumbled apology was caught by the wind and then tossed away to be replaced by the sound of the thick door closing.

A moment later, her hand settled on his forearm. “Cam, I’m so sorry, I thought … I’d hoped …”

He shook off her hand. “I have nae need for sympathy, Claire. I willna be taking this lying down.”