Page 38 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)

Chapter Thirty-Six

“Cal!”

His name rips through the air again, my voice a desperate plea drowned out by the clashing swords around us. A symphony of nerves thrums wildly in the pit of my stomach as I sprint towards him, each beat echoing with the fear of losing him.

Just the thought of it feels like an icy dagger stabbing my soul—unthinkable after everything we’ve been through together.

As I close the gap between us, something catches my eye. A twitch of his arm?

Could he still be breathing? Is it possible?

In response to my silent prayer, Cal pops up like a jack-in-the-box on steroids.

Oh, that sneaky Scot! Seeing him sitting up sends my pulse skyrocketing into overdrive. He’s been playing dead the whole time, fooling our rivals into thinking they’ve got him beat.

He swivels to face me, and that’s when I see it: his shirt is torn apart across his heart, but the blade has only grazed his chest and instead lodged itself in his arm.

Despite the fresh wound marring his muscular bicep, he clings to his sword with an unyielding grip.

Blood leaks from the gash, seeping into his sleeve and turning it a horrifying shade of red against the pale backdrop of his skin.

His face is all stoic determination, but beneath this hardened facade, I catch a glimpse of pain flickering in his eyes.

“Cal! You’re hurt,” I gasp out as I reach him finally. “Stop fighting! I’ve got this.”

Our eyes meet for a split second before he shakes his head with determination. “No way, Mills. We’ve got this.”

A spark of resolve ignites in his eyes like a match hitting the striking pad. His words are more than just a denial; they’re a vow—one sculpted in affection and hardened on the battlefield.

Shoulders squared and hearts racing, we charge forward as one: Cal, Alistair, Fergus, Fi, me, and four other robust allies.

We’re hot on the heels of Gregor and his last two goons through the labyrinthine lanes of the village, our footfalls echoing off the time-worn cobblestones like an insistent drumroll.

Finally, we trap them in a dead-end alley with no escape routes left for them to exploit. Gregor is standing at the helm of his pitifully shrinking forces, his face twisted into an ugly grimace of rage and desperation.

“It’s over, Gregor,” I call out, my voice ringing with conviction. “Surrender now, and we’ll show you mercy.”

Gregor lets out a harsh bark of laughter.

“Mercy? From a MacDowell witch? Aye! I’ve witnessed yer witchcraft out on the Loch! I’d rather die than accept pity from a sorceress.”

With the cat out of the bag about our strange magic, I’m on the verge of blurting out the truth about my lineage as well.

“I’m not a witch. I’m a Canadian, you big oaf! And a Sutherl...” I begin, then pause, biting down on my lower lip. A rush of conflicting emotions surges within me.

Cal and I are partners in time now. In my heart, that makes me a Sutherland-MacDowell. But does this thick-skulled oaf need to know that? No need to waste precious moments enlightening him about the complexities of time-travel partnerships and inherited Scottish surnames.

Besides, it will all go over his head like a highland caber toss.

“Gregor, this doesn’t have to go down like a bad breakup,” I say, my voice steady, hoping to inject some reason into the escalating tension. “We can squash this beef right here, right now. No more bloodshed, no more grudges.”

I swear I catch a glimmer of regret in his frosty gaze for a split second. But then his features harden, and he hoists his sword with renewed defiance.

“Never,” he snarls through clenched teeth. “I’ll keel over ’afore I bow down to ye MacDowells.”

Behind him, his crew shifts around like they’ve got ants in their pants. Their expressions are a mixed bag of doubt and unease. Ah. They’re starting to question their fearless leader’s sanity.

Taking a bold step forward, our eyes locked in an intense stare-down, I call him out.

“Take a look around,” my voice rings out clear and steady amid the chaos. “Your posse is ditching you faster than last season’s fashion trends. They see the pointlessness of this showdown. They know you’re on one big ego trip that’s only going to bring pain.”

Gregor’s face contorts with confusion, probably at how I’m speaking and at my audacity. He’s definitely never encountered a woman who dares to fight. But there’s an unmistakable spark of doubt flickering in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

He knows deep down that I’m onto something.

“Your reign of terror has to stop. Now,” I snarl at him.

As if on cue for dramatic effect, thunder rumbles ominously overhead.

“You’ve been playing human Jenga with families for too long just to feed your own freaking power trip. But playtime’s over, you kilted buffoon. Drop the sword!”

There’s a heart-stopping pause where Gregor stands frozen like a statue; sword still raised high in stubborn refusal. Then Cal moves in, weapon at the ready and his free hand poised to snatch Gregor’s blade from him.

Gregor’s sword makes a desperate plunge for Cal’s. Their metals meet with a bang that echoes around us before morphing into a deafening crack. It’s the swan song of Gregor’s precious blade as it breaks at its hilt.

The pieces clatter to the ground like someone just dropped their hopes and dreams on the floor. Gregor’s eyes nearly pop out of his head as he takes in his ruined weapon. Then they fill with what I can only describe as Oscar-worthy tears.

“N-no... not me darling blade!” he wails, crumbling to his knees and sobbing as he gathers the shattered pieces close like they’re his babies.

A cheer ripples through our ragtag army as Gregor’s two remaining men surrender, their weapons clattering on the ground behind him.

We’ve done it! We’ve won! But even as a wave of relief crashes over me, I’m painfully aware that the real test is just beginning: piecing back together what’s been shattered and figuring out how to move forward.

I sneak a peek at Cal, my heart blooming with pride and affection. He’s been my rock through all this madness, a steady beacon in the chaos. Together, we’ve stared down the impossible and come out stronger for it.

As though picking up on my thoughts, Cal swivels towards me, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You know, Mills,” he teases, his voice full of admiration, “you might’ve just kicked off a new fashion revolution with those boots of yours.”

I follow his gaze and chuckle. He’s spot on. The women around us—Fi leading the charge—have all shucked off their boots and are brandishing them like they’re ready to hurl them at Gregor and his goons.

Fi tosses me a cheeky grin, her fiery red curls bobbing around her face. “Much more practical than those flimsy slippers!” she announces triumphantly, waving one of the cobbler’s latest boot creations in the air. “We’ll all be sportin’ these boots from now on, thanks to ye, Mills.”

Laughter bubbles up from deep within me, releasing the tension that had knotted my shoulders during battle. “Happy to be of service. It’s like I’ve always said: boots make kick-ass weapons.”

As the dust settles and the adrenaline from the battle slowly fades, Fi and her sister Elspeth jump into action, expertly bandaging our wounds. We’re back in the sanctuary of the Inn and Tavern, a space that's become our steadfast command center.

Fi and her friends move through the room like a well-oiled machine, gently tending to the injured and soothing away pains with their tender care. Cal and I glance around, taking stock of what we've lost and what we've gained.

Gregor Campbell, that silver-haired snake, is groaning in the corner, his hands and ankles shackled.

“Oh God, me head,” he whines like a spoiled child who lost at his own game. A lone soldier from his clan hides behind an overturned table. He’s spotted by Alistair, who raises his sword menacingly. The poor guy screams a pathetic plea for mercy before high-tailing it out of our tavern.

Whoops of triumph fill the room as Gregor is unceremoniously dragged down to the cellar by Alistair and Fergus, where he’ll be locked up tight as a drum.

Cal and I weave through our victorious crowd, offering comforting words here and sharing a laugh there. My whole body is ready to burst with pride.

“We did it,” I say loud enough for everyone to hear me over their own jubilation. “We were brave together, and look at us now!”

Their faces light up with relief as they clap and cheer in response. An emotional lump forms in my throat as I see these people who risked it all to stand with us.

“I cannae thank ye all enough,” Cal adds. “Yer courage, yer sacrifices... yer unwavering commitment means more than ye’ll ever know.”

Alistair strides forward, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Amelia, Callum, my family and friends,” he booms, his voice echoing across the tavern.

“Today marks a remarkable achievement. We’ve defended our rightful land and done it together.

” He pauses for a breath, letting the weight of his words settle over us all.

“But let’s not ignore the challenges loomin’ on the horizon.

This battle may be won, but there will be more.

The world is shifting under our feet; we must shift with it. ”

I swallow hard as a shiver of realization runs down my spine. Nearly four centuries of change and evolution are waiting in the wings for these people.

Well, at least we saved the farm. My gaze flits to Cal. He catches my eye and flashes that dimpled grin that always makes me swoon.

“And let’s remember the legacy we’re crafting,” Alistair continues. “The MacDowells have always embodied strength, resilience, honor. Now that this land is ours again, we’ve got an opportunity to build something extraordinary.”

He lifts his glass high above his head, hope and determination sparkling in his eyes like twin stars in the twilight sky.

“To the future,” he says. The room vibrates with the timbre of his voice, a deep bass that bounces off the stone walls.

It’s as though each word he lets loose has been marinated in centuries-old Scotch whisky—rich, full-bodied, and steeped in tradition.

“To the MacDowells and all those who stand beside us.”

“To the future,” we echo back in unison.

Fi uncorks three dusty bottles of aged whisky at this cue, setting off a riotous celebration throughout the tavern.

No sooner than the flickering candlelight begins its waltz across our elongated wooden table, we're all scurrying to get it set.

Moments later, it's heaving under the weight of robust stews and homemade loaves of bread that are so tantalizing I'm practically salivating like a Pavlovian dog at dinner time.

Fi and Elspeth had the foresight to stash the stews and bread in the cellar, so the meal just needed a quick warm-up to be ready.

Good news for my stomach. If it growls any louder, I might have to pounce on the table.

The candles have burned down to their halfway point. Their thick, earthy scent of animal fat and a hint of lavender intertwine with the lingering aroma of peat smoke, ale, and roasting meats.

Kilted men stomp their feet to the beat of the tavern’s makeshift band—Cobbler MacTavish on bagpipes (who knew?), Fergus on the fiddle, and Alistair on his drum. The women twirl in vibrant tartan dresses, their laughter echoing off the old stone walls.

Across the table, I catch Cal’s joyful gaze. We can’t be sure we’ve set everything back to how it was in present-day Aven Valley. But one fact shines brighter than any candle here tonight: the MacDowells are ready for whatever comes next.

The tavern is practically vibrating with the energy of our late-night celebration. Fi darts through the crowd, whisky bottles in hand, topping off glasses as she goes. The euphoria is contagious, and it’s impossible not to smile.

Cal slips next to me, his hand settling on my lower back. “Ever experienced anything like this before, Mills?”

His touch sends a comforting warmth through me, and I lean into him.

“Time travel? Epic battles? A party that feels like it’s been ripped from the pages of a history book?” I flash him a teasing wink. “Nah. Just an average day for a novelist.”

He chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Aye, but ye’ve navigated it all with such grace and bravery. I’m honored to be by your side.”

Heat creeps up my cheeks at his words. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you, Cal. Or without any of them.” I gesture around the room at our friends and allies, who are all wearing wide—and slightly drunken—smiles.