Page 15 of Cottage in the Mist (Time After Time #3)

Elaine led her to a large parlor on the second floor.

The room was sunny, faded tapestries decorating two walls, a huge stone fireplace centered on the third. Like the rest of the main tower, the room, though comfortable, echoed with traces of its past.

"This would have been the ladies' solar in medieval times," Elaine said, reading her mind. "Sometimes I fancy I can see them here. Laughing and talking. Sewing their tapestries." Again there was an edge of sadness in her voice.

"You're thinking of your friend again." Lily crossed the room to lay a comforting hand on Elaine's arm.

"I suppose I am. She was a bit dotty about all things medieval.

" She smiled at the thought, her face brightening.

"She was a scholar. Specializing in medieval British history.

So this place was like walking into the past. A bit of a miracle, I suppose.

Anyway, we're not here to relive the past… or at least not the recent past."

She motioned toward the wall behind Lily, and she turned to see that it was lined with paintings. Some of them were enormous. Stern faces peered out from the gilded frames—captured there in pigment upon canvas for all time.

Lily shivered.

"They're over here." Elaine gestured. "It's actually one of the oldest paintings we have on display."

It was smaller than some of the others. And more rustically painted.

As if the artist hadn't quite the skill of some of the later works.

Still, it captured the images nicely—a man and a woman, arms linked, her hand resting on the crook of his elbow.

She was smiling up at him, eyes shining and even through the darkened paint, Lily could feel her joy.

A painted sun lit her golden hair, and the man's eyes feasted upon her beauty.

He was large and fierce, even in repose.

And the shirt he wore reminded her of Bram's.

Coarse yellowed linen. His plaid was similar as well, although she thought the pattern was different.

Still, he wore it in much the same way, twisted about his waist and thrown across his shoulder, his dark hair blowing in an invisible breeze.

"They're beautiful," Lily whispered, her breath catching in her throat.

"Yes, they are." Elaine's voice had grown soft. "And so very happy. You can actually feel it, I think. Katherine loved Iain very much. And to hear it told, he loved her as well."

Again an odd turn of phrase, but Lily was distracted by the emotion captured on their faces.

Elaine was right; the love radiated from the painting.

For a moment, Lily allowed herself simply to bask in the beauty.

And then the enormity of it hit her. This was Katherine and Iain.

And this was the oldest painting in the tower.

"You said the painting was old." Lily choked out the words, her gaze still locked on the couple.

"Yes." Elaine nodded, watching her now. "It dates back to the late fifteenth century. A rare portrait for the times."

"The fifteenth century," Lily mouthed, her head spinning now as Bram's voice echoed in her ears.

"Iain has men at the gate ." Present tense. But it couldn't be.

Again she heard his voice. " Your world and mine have intersected ." But that was insane. Completely and totally insane.

"Elaine, was there another Iain?" She forced out the words, closing her eyes, her stomach churning as a cold sweat washed across her skin.

"I'm sure there must have been, somewhere along the line," Elaine said. "But not another laird. Iain was the first and only."

Lily stumbled forward, fighting the dizziness that threatened to consume her. Elaine's arm slid around her shoulders, helping her to stay steady. "And were there Macgillivrays?" she asked. "Could one of them have been friends with Iain and Katherine, do you think?"

If Elaine thought the question odd, she gave no clue to it.

"Aye, more than friends. Family of a sort.

I don't know the history as well as Mrs. Abernathy, but I do recollect some of it and there was a man called Brian or Bran or something like that.

He was Iain's cousin and also a cousin of my ancestor Ranald. "

"Oh God…" Lily said, her voice trailing off as blackness threatened.

"Here now." Elaine's arm tightened as she led Lily to a sofa, helping her down. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

Lily laughed, the sound bordering on hysteria.

"Is everything all right?" a deep voice queried as a man walked into the room. His blond hair was tousled, no doubt from sleep, but his eyes widened in alarm as he took in the two of them. "I woke up and you were gone."

"I couldn't sleep and I didn't want to wake you, darling," Elaine said, looking up at her husband. "But then I ran into Lily and I'm afraid I've upset her."

"No." Lily shook her head, trying to regain focus, but it felt as if she were clawing her way through molasses. "Not you." It was so much more.

"Then perhaps your head," Elaine said, kneeling beside her to push back the hair covering the bandage. "Mrs. Abernathy said it was a nasty bump."

Jeff knelt on her other side, reaching for her wrist to check her pulse. "You're freezing cold," he said, his blue eyes filled with concern. "Were you out on the roof?"

She nodded, closing her eyes as Elaine pressed gentle fingers against her wound.

"But she was fine." Elaine sounded so apologetic that Lily wanted to assure her that everything was okay. But then again it wasn't. Not really.

"Her pulse is strong," Jeff said. "But maybe we should call a doctor."

"No." Her voice was sharp and thready and sounded as if it were coming from far away. "It's not my head. Or at least I don't think it is." She forced her eyes open and found herself staring into Jeff's worried face. And for a moment she was transported back to the painting.

The golden hair. The shape of the mouth and cheekbones.

"Oh, God," she whispered, her head threatening to explode. "You look just like her. You look like Katherine."

Jeff frowned, still holding her hand. "Well, of course I do. She's my sis…" He stopped mid-word, a look of regret chasing across his handsome face.

"Your sister," Lily finished for him. Not sure if she was elated or terrified.

Probably both. But at least she wasn't alone.

If Katherine was really Jeff's sister, then she wasn't insane.

And more importantly, Bram wasn't a figment of her imagination.

He was real. Or he had been—five hundred odd years ago.

"So you're certain this is your father's crest?" Iain asked, looking down at the silver brooch in Bram's hand.

It was finely wrought, the figure of a fierce mountain cat, muscles bunched for attack, one paw raised. Tiny green stones glittered in its eyes. A circle of metal surrounded it. And the Macgillivray motto was carved into the banner. Na bean do'n chat . Touch not this cat.

"Aye." Bram nodded, his finger tightening on the pin. "My mother had it made for him. See there at the bottom." He pointed just beneath the cat. "The initials intertwined. S and A. Seamus and Aileen. 'Tis most certainly my father's."

"And there's no chance he gave it to another?" Ranald asked. Though the hour was late, they were sitting at the broad table in Iain's working chamber, talking through the events of the last few hours. Trying to make some sense of it all.

"'Tis no' possible," Bram replied. "I saw it on him the day before the attack. He always wore it to secure his plaid. From the day my mother gave it to him."

Aileen Mackintosh Macgillivray had died just before Bram's tenth summer.

A fever had rushed through the holding with the swiftness of a forest fire.

Taking this person and leaving that, with no mercy at all.

Seamus and Bram had survived. Aileen had not.

But though Seamus's mind and body were sound, his heart had gone with his wife, buried in a grave behind the tower walls.

Bram had only faint memories of her. Black hair and blue eyes, and a wonderful laugh that had once filled Dunbrae with joy. That joy had vanished with her death. And Seamus had had nothing left to give his only son.

"It was the only thing that mattered to him," Bram said, his voice colored with bitterness. "He would have had it with him in his chamber the night he was murdered. Of that much I am certain."

"Then there can be no doubt it was brought as a message for you." Iain leaned back, crossing his arms over his massive chest. "Proof of your father's death."

"At the hand of the Comyns." Bram slammed his hand on the table, the brooch dancing against the wood, the cat momentarily seeming to spring to life.

"Tell me why you are so certain 'tis the Comyns behind all of this?

" Iain asked. "I know there is no love lost between the Mackintoshes and the Comyns.

Their treachery at Rait willna e're be forgotten.

But that was almost forty summers ago. And the Macgillivrays were no' part of it.

So was there something particular between your father and Robert Comyn? "

"Nay. At least no' anything in recent years.

There was no love lost between the two of them.

They skirmished when they were young men.

Posturing for their respective chiefs mostly.

But as my father grew older he wasna interested in the past. Or in fighting.

Robert also appeared no' to have a taste for battle as he aged and so the raiding and battles stopped.

And there was no real interest on the part of their chiefs.

As you've stated before, Dunbrae is of only minor consequence in the grand scheme of things. As was Tigh an Droma ."

"Robert Comyn's holding," Ranald added for clarification.

Iain nodded. "But Robert died recently, did he no'? And his son Alec took over?"