Page 24 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)
Chapter Twenty-Three
For three weeks straight, with Cal marking the days with pebbles, we’ve been caught up in the intoxicating allure of a village that feels like it’s been pulled straight from the pages of a fairy tale.
We tell the locals that we’re two modern-day explorers who’ve tripped over this magical place, keeping our identities swathed in an alluring mystery to keep us safe.
Our reasons for hanging around Aven Valley?
That stays our delicious secret, keeping the local gossip mill churning but never quite satisfied.
Each day kicks off with Fiona—Fi to those lucky enough to be on her good side—buzzing about like a hummingbird on steroids.
Her energy is so vibrant it could give Red Bull a run for its money.
She whips up bowls of porridge that taste like childhood memories and tea that warms your soul.
Her laughter is the soundtrack to our mornings as we devour every morsel before rolling up our sleeves to pitch in.
Life here in 1645 is simple and satisfying.
Yet, there’s an underlying fear and sadness.
We discovered Alistair shares the farmhouse and land with Fergus and Fi out of necessity rather than choice.
His wife and former clan matriarch traveled to Edinburgh and back earlier this year and fell victim to some ghastly strain of influenza—a death sentence in this era.
After she died, he was forced to burn down his home and all of their treasured belongings to prevent the virus from spreading.
The sorrow casts long shadows across his rugged face whenever her name slips into conversation.
Once we’ve clocked out from our chores and Cal’s work at the cobbler’s, he and I make a beeline for Moray Firth’s breathtaking coastline.
We lose track of time, skipping stones across its glassy surface while diving into deep conversations that peel back layers of our souls.
Dreams deferred, fears unspoken, hopes reignited—each confession weaves another thread into the fabric of our blossoming relationship.
As dusk settles over us, Fi and I retreat into the cozy kitchen where she transforms me from a culinary disaster zone into someone who can whip up meals worthy of MasterChef without setting anything on fire—an achievement I wear like a Michelin star.
After dinner is served and devoured, along with lots of laughter and playful banter, Alistair whips out his drum while Fergus cradles his fiddle like it’s the love of his life.
Together, they create enchanting music that makes us involuntarily tap our feet along.
We dance to the irresistible rhythm that fills the night until our bodies wave the white flag.
Despite the never-ending cycle of farming, cleaning, and cooking, these days feel like an unplanned staycation—one of those spontaneous adventures that ambush you and leave you feeling refreshed in ways you didn’t even know you needed.
Just a few days shy of the next full moon, Cal and I are tangled up like pretzels in our cozy bed. I stare out our window at the starry sky—so breathtaking without any light pollution—and ruminate on all that’s transpired.
Recently, Cal has taken to sleeping in his kilt again. I’ve deciphered this is not just a nod to his cultural roots but very likely a survival tactic in these uncertain times—and a touch of self-preservation. Sleeping side by side in our tiny bed has been an exquisite kind of torture.
Cal has this devil-may-care aura, a charm that could disarm anyone within seconds.
But I've realized there’s more to him than flirtatious banter and alpha-man charisma.
Beneath his playful exterior, he savors every moment life offers.
He unabashedly embraces his desires while maintaining respect and kindness toward others.
Perhaps he accepted the nightshirt Fi sewed for him out of politeness.
Still, I soon realized it barely conceals any sexy bits, especially with our frequent accidental brushes against each other.
A tangible tension hangs between us, an electric current sparking with each unintentional touch or shared glance.
Through his thin clothing, I can feel the hard contours of his body, which makes it far too easy for my imaginative mind to wander into self-imposed forbidden territories. Every night we’ve spent here has been a dangerous dance of desire and restraint.
We want each other—it's undeniable. But there's this delicate balance we’re trying not to upset, a friendship I’m scared to ruin with rushed decisions.
Yet every morning, Cal only has to slip into his boots and face the day.
Meanwhile, I struggle to stop imagining what’s hidden under his kilt.
I’m torn between wanting to leap into something more and holding back to protect what we already have.
This isn’t just about lust; it’s about something deeper, something that feels like it could last if we let it grow naturally.
Our conversations peel back layers of ourselves, revealing dreams and fears and deepening our connection.
But I can’t help but wonder, what if this one leap changes everything?
The thought both thrills and terrifies me.
So, for now, I’m choosing to savor these moments.
To relish in every laugh, every shared secret, and every accidental touch.
Maybe soon, we’ll find the courage to leap together. But until then, I’ll hold onto this delicious tension, knowing that what we have is already a rare, electrifying bond.
The thunderous crash of the tavern door being flung open jolts me awake. The pounding of sturdy boots on the weathered wooden planks reverberates through the room, shaking the floorboards beneath us.
Shouts and laughter ricochet off the stone walls, each voice carrying a drunken edge. It gives me horrible flashbacks to the last call at my campus pub.
“Where’re ye hiding that Sassenach wench?” one of the intruders bellows.
Cal’s grip on my hand tightens, yanking me out of my groggy stupor. “They’ve got our scent, Mills. Let’s move!” His tone is urgent, snapping me further into alertness.
I open my eyes to see he’s already standing, buttoning up his white shirt and tucking it into the kilt he sleeps in. I pull on my boots, sticking with the billowy tartan nightie Fi gifted me. A nagging voice in my head warns me I’ll probably regret this decision later.
‘‘This way,’’ he whispers, leading me down the stairs.
We dart towards the back of the inn and as I risk a glance over my shoulder, I’m met with the sight of burly men in kilts storming inside like a rowdy mob after a night of heavy drinking.
They’re tearing up the place, faces twisted in a drunken rage.
If they catch us... well, I wish we’d practiced synchronized running because we’ll need an Olympic-level sprint.
“Hey! It’s that outlandish lass!” one bellows, his words slurring together.
We sprint towards the back door, almost crashing into Alistair, Fi, and Fergus spilling out from the kitchen. The crash of tables flipping over and mugs shattering reverberates behind us.
“Gregor Campbell, always lookin’ for a fight,” Alistair grunts, herding us towards a narrow wooden door. “The cellar! Quick, before they spot ye.”
Cal’s hand clamps tighter around mine as he hauls me into the damp, musty cellar. Fiona and Fergus scamper in after us, their eyes wide with terror. As Alistair slams the door shut, we’re plunged into darkness.
“Well, isn’t this cozy,” I whisper to cut through the tension. “If only we had some wine and cheese down here. We’d have ourselves a real party. ”
Fiona stifles a snort of laughter. “Aye, maybe even a nice charcuterie board to go with it.”
“Hush, both of ye,” Cal hisses back at us, but I can hear the smile in his voice. Trust Fi and me to crack jokes while angry Scots are tearing up the place above our heads.
I lean closer into Cal’s solid frame for comfort.
This is wild. One minute, we’re enjoying a peaceful meal, and the next thing you know, we’re hiding in a cellar from a clan of pissed-off Highlanders.
How on earth did I get myself into this cock-a-leekie soup?
Oh yeah... because I decided to peer into some mystical portal instead of whale-watching as any typical tourist would.
Superb decision-making skills there, Mills!
The footsteps above intensify with the cacophony of overturned furniture and sporadic shouts. Holding my breath tight, I silently pray they don’t think to check in the cellar.
My eyes squeeze shut as I will them to find the whisky in the kitchen and bugger off. There’s no way I’ve traveled through time to get murdered by a bunch of drunk and angry Scots.
Alistair’s hand comes down on my shoulder, making me startle. “Dinna fash, lass,” he murmurs gruffly. “We’ll keep ye safe. I swear it on the MacDowell name.”
I nod, words escaping me. The guts and bravery of these people are something else.
They’re risking their lives for strangers with weird haircuts and odd expressions.
In our short time here, they’ve fed us, given us shelter, and even danced with us.
They feel like family now, and nobody messes with my family.
This isn’t some whimsical adventure or wild daydream anymore; this is as real as it gets.
Cal squeezes my hand as the chaos continues upstairs, and I force myself to steady my breathing. We’re in this together, for better or worse. And if we make it out of this cellar alive, I swear I’m never taking indoor plumbing for granted again.
Alistair crouches down next to me, his eyes glinting in the dim light as he whispers urgently into my ear. “Ye need to understand the history of this land, lass. The clans of Inverness have been at war for generations, fightin’ for control and honor.”