Page 20 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)

Chapter Nineteen

Eventually, our feet guide us up the central hill, offering a panoramic view of Moray Firth.

Standing on this verdant mound, I’m floored by the raw beauty of this untouched landscape.

No traffic jams or towering skyscrapers mar the vista—just rolling hills dotted with heather blooming purple under an endless sky.

The sight is ridiculously romantic. We’ve stumbled into some painter’s dream where Mother Nature has spilled her soul onto every corner.

As twilight begins to stretch long shadows across this idyllic landscape, Cal shoots me a look brimming with mischief.

“Feelin’ peckish?”

My stomach betrays me then, letting out an embarrassingly loud grumble. His laughter echoes into the open expanse.

“So, that’s a yes then. Let’s see if we can rustle up some grub without having to wash dishes for it.”

I appreciate how this man never lets me slip into hypoglycemia like my exes did.

Those guys were always too busy mashing arcade buttons, claiming ‘just one more level’ before they’d even think about food. Meanwhile, I’d be on the sidelines, contemplating eating my own shoe.

With our new mission in mind, we descend back into the village as darkness creeps in.

As much as I’m loving this unexpected jaunt through history, I can’t help but miss some modern-day comforts—a pair of trusty sneakers topping my wish list. Cobblestones may be picturesque, but they’re hell on my poor ankles.

Despite their relentless assault on my new footwear, I can’t deny their role, along with our outfits, in creating a scene so authentic it could be straight from a period drama—the kind that would usually have me binge-watching a whole weekend away .

“Check this out,” Cal blinks, brows drawn, as he pauses outside MacDowells’ Mercantile. He lifts a newspaper so thin it could double as a bookmark. The date in the top corner screams 1645 at us, sending my heart into overdrive.

“1645?” I parrot, my voice barely above a whisper.

Cal nods, his fingers flipping through the fragile pages until he lands on the Almanac section.

“Full moon coming up in exactly one month,” he declares, pointing at the tiny scribbles that predict lunar phases.

I blink at him, comprehension slowly creeping in.

“That’s our ticket home,” I say more than ask.

We’re going to wade into Loch Ness under the full moon’s glow and hope for the best. It’s all we’ve got.

Cal catches my gaze, his sapphire eyes brimming with understanding and a spark of hope.

“Aye, Mills. That’s our best shot.”

His thumb caresses over the printed words again before halting abruptly as his face loses some color. He frowns and spins the paper around so I can see what has caught his attention: headlines about an impending battle in Inverness.

“Clan wars? And here I thought we only had to worry about if toilet paper’s been invented yet,” I quip dryly, trying to inject humor into our dire situation, but Cal’s lips hardly curl into a smile. He gently folds the ancient document and nudges us towards MacDowells’ Tavern.

“We’ve got to get acquainted with my old-timey relatives,” he says, nodding at the MacDowells’ Mercantile sign before pointing down the cobblestone street towards the Inn and Tavern.

“Looks like they’re running this show around here. If we can get on their good side, they’ll keep us safe.”

As we cross the threshold into the rowdy tavern, two men envelop us in a cacophony of laughter and hearty back slaps strong enough to dislodge my lungs.

“Well met!” the brawniest man’s greeting bounces off the stone walls as he introduces himself as Alistair MacDowell and the man beside him as his brother Fergus.

“What brings ye to our neck of the woods?”

The MacDowells from the 17th century could be Cal’s doppelg?ngers: broad shoulders, hypnotic blue eyes, and a tendency to invade personal bubbles. They’re like Cal’s mirror images, except for their bushy beards that scream rugged Highlander charm.

“Hello… We’re just humble travelers seeking shelter,” I wheeze out, still recovering from Alistair’s enthusiastic back slap.

Fergus joins the conversation then; a grin splits his face as he sizes up Cal’s kilt. “Ye look familiar. Are ye one of us?”

“We’re… Callum and Amelia. We’re distant relatives…” Cal rushes his words out in an uncharacteristic jumble. I’ve spent enough time with him by now to recognize that slight tremor in his voice: nerves.

“Distant aye? Well now, no matter how far ye traveled... anyone wearing that tartan is family here at MacDowells’ Tavern.” He announces our status to everyone within earshot, triggering a wave of cheers from the patrons.

Cal claps Alistair on the shoulder in response, his body language mirroring the other man’s as if trying to blend in seamlessly.

“Regrettably, we’re currently low on coin,” he admits with barely noticeable hesitation. His hand is damp where it holds mine, a necessary act given our strange circumstances.

“We’ve found work with Cobbler MacTavish and should be able to settle our debts soon,” he adds quickly, shooting me a look I return with a reassuring nod.

Alistair throws his head back in hearty laughter. “Ah, lad! We’ve all weathered hard times. We understand your plight.” His gaze softens as he takes us in, hopefully looking beyond our odd hairstyles and foreign accents to see the shared struggle underneath.

“But,” he adds after a moment’s pause, “we’ll need something in return. The Campbell clan has tried to take our land; there’s no doubt they’ll try again. Ye’ll fight alongside us when called upon.”

Cal tenses beside me. “Fight?” He repeats with a full-bared teeth wince.

Alistair waves off his concern with an airy sweep of his hand and another chuckle. “Aye, lad! Surely ye didn’t think life here was all feasting and merriment?” Despite his lighthearted words, there’s a serious undertone that hints at darker times ahead.

“Speaking of feasting...” Fergus, his dark hair secured in a neat bun, pipes up from across the room.

He’s been deep in conversation with Fiona MacDowell, his wife and clan matriarch.

The fiery-haired woman bustles over, her arms laden with trays of roasted meats, hearty stews teeming with root vegetables, and fresh-baked breads that send mouth-watering aromas wafting through the room.

The night is buzzing with the comforting hum of companionship and the tantalizing scent of a robust stew.

We’re gathered around the large wooden table that can easily accommodate a small army, our bellies filled to bursting as stories from the past fill the air.

Alistair, whose stern exterior hides a treasure trove of tales, sits at the head of the table.

Fiona’s eyes sparkle as he beckons her over with a subtle nod.

They share a secret that makes her grin before she saunters towards the rustic kitchen.

The worn wooden floorboards groan under her quick steps until she returns, bearing a silver tray loaded with crystal glasses that catch flickering firelight and a bottle of amber whisky.

Then Alistair and Fiona take charge, pouring generous measures into waiting glasses.

Laughter bubbles up like champagne as glasses clink together before being passed down the length of the table.

Each person eagerly accepts their glass with smiles that speak volumes about shared history and unspoken bonds.

Alistair begins to paint us a picture through words and memories woven together like an intricate tapestry. “Our grandfather, Ewan MacDowell,” he starts in his strong voice, “born in Inverness in 1578, was nothing short of visionary.”

His tale unravels with dramatic hand motions, spinning out like some grand adventure. It’s all about Ewan’s lofty ambitions and how he morphed this valley into more than just a patch of earth.

Alistair paints vivid images of harsh winters and scorching summers—trials faced by early settlers who dared to believe in his grandfather’s dream.

He gestures expansively toward the window overlooking the village, saying, “Each home you see was built by many hard-working hands, each hand belonging to someone who believed in our family’s dream. ”

As Alistair concludes his tale, Fergus chimes in with a jovial tone from his corner seat, adding to the narrative with a cheeky grin on his weathered face.

“And this inn of ours here,” he pats the worn wooden table lovingly,” is one such testament to that shared dream.”

Fergus’s tale sweeps us along too, as he explains how they used their timber and nearby stones to construct this inn and tavern. The entire village—mostly MacDowells—had chipped in. The men flexed their muscles while the women kept everyone fed and cared for the kids.

“And at the heart of it all is our humble home on the hill.” He leans back in his chair like he’s shared a state secret, “Built by every hand in this small town.”

Fiona nods beside him, her eyes misty with memories. “Every soul that worked on our home left a piece of their heart in it,” she says softly. Her voice is gentle but carries throughout the room, wrapped in a delightful Scottish lilt.

The tavern falls into an awed hush as we soak up the depth of their shared history. The sense of unity and community is so thick you could cut it with a knife, leaving me deeply moved by their stories.

Breaking the reverent silence that has settled over us, Fergus and Fiona rise from their seats, gearing up to belt out a traditional folk song.

But before they can even get started, Alistair retrieves a Scottish drum from the corner. At his nod, Fergus and Fiona launch into song while he keeps the rhythm on his drum. They’re singing ‘The Flowers of the Forest,’ an ancient yet beautiful melody Fiona tells us she learned at church.

As their voices fill the inn, harmonizing perfectly with Alistair’s rhythmic beats, I can almost see those early settlers working together to build this town from scratch.

We sing, laugh, and tell stories well into the night, our voices echoing through stone halls steeped in history and love.

Each tale I’m told deepens my understanding of this surprising world we leaped into.

It’s a living testament to guts, nerve, and the unyielding tenacity of Highlanders who dared to dream without limits.

As the last notes fade into the night, Alistair turns to us with a sly grin.

“It’s about time fer bed. Now tell me,” he says, his eyes flickering with uncertainty in the dim light, “how long have you two been wed?”

“Wed?” I echo, my cheeks burning up. Cal shoots me a look that screams:

Just go with it.