Ann Borodell, a graduate student scrambling to find an archaeological
dig to finish her degree, lands a project in the remote Western Isles of
Scotland. With a concentration in Colonial American studies, she
knows almost nothing about Scottish history and the sixteenth century
island stronghold of the Morrison clan.
That changes though when she discovers a medieval dagger embedded
in the rubble at the base of a tower house on the island. As the dagger
pulls her back in time, she awakens in the arms of a suspicious
Highland laird who thinks she is a spy—for the English or for their
enemies, the MacLeods.
Ann believes that getting the dagger back from its owner, John
Morrison, is her way back to the twenty-first century. So does the laird.
And he has no intention of letting Ann leave the stronghold...or him.

An hour of mindless digging passed, but I knew what I had signed up
for when I entered the field of archaeology—long periods of
backbreaking, knee-aching, mind-numbing troweling broken only
rarely by an occasional "find."
That day was apparently the day I would discover my find. I had been
carefully picking away at turf and mud in a crevice between stones
when something metal fell to the ground at my knees. Metal was
always an exciting find! Unlike organic material, it lasted for centuries.
I set my trowel down and eyed what looked like a darkly tarnished
silver dagger or a dirk.
I barely breathed as I studied the dagger on the ground without
touching it. Only when I grew dizzy did I drag in a deep breath and turn
to call out to my fellow diggers. But they had moved away, probably to
take a break around the other side of the mound, where an area had
been set aside for hot drinks and refreshments.
My first instinct was to run around the base of the mound and locate
someone, Dylan, anyone, to shout out my find, but I dared not leave the
artifact. How could I? What if it disappeared? What if one of the many
seagulls flying overhead snatched it up and carried it off? The dagger
looked heavy, and I doubted whether a bird could carry it in its beak,
but still I couldn't bring myself to leave it and run for guidance. Given
that I was a bit loopy from the excitement and the blood pounding in
my ears, I did what I thought was right. I removed both pairs of gloves
and picked up the dirk to take it to Dylan.
On contact, the metal seemed to flare, and yet it didn't burn. I eyed it
wildly, almost tempted to drop it, but I held on. The sky darkened, or so
I thought. Perhaps it was just my vision. Flashing lights blinded me,
and I shook my head. Suspecting that I must have held my breath too
long and was about to faint, I tried to drag in a deep breath, but it didn't
help. I clutched the dagger by its hilt and slipped into a dizzying
whirlpool of unconsciousness.

THE HIGHLANDER'S STRONGHOLD
Bess McBride

The Highlander's Stronghold
Copyright 2016 Bess McBride
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright
reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by
any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright
owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and
incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and
trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of
fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use
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for respecting the author's work.
Cover art by Tara West

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Published in the United States of America

Dedication
For my Morrison ancestors. Thanks for letting me make up stories
about you!

Table of Contents
Title Page Copyright Dedication Dear Reader Chapter One Chapter
Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter
Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Books by Bess
McBride About the Author

Dear Reader,
Thank you for purchasing The Highlander's Stronghold. The
Highlander's Stronghold is book 1 in the Searching for a Highlander
series of Scottish historical time travel romances set in the Outer
Hebrides. As many of you who read my books know, I enjoy
incorporating my ancestors into my stories. For the Searching for a
Highlander series, I fell in love with the idea that my Morrison
ancestors may have once lived in the Outer Hebrides, maintaining a
medieval stronghold on a tiny intertidal sea stack off the coast of the
Isle of Lewis called Dun Eistean. Then again, my Morrisons may have
been lowlanders. Nevertheless, my readings on the archaeological digs
and history of Dun Eistean inspired me to begin this new series of
Scottish historical time travel romances. Please note that I have taken
numerous liberties with the findings of the digs and with the history of
the Clans Morrison, Macleod and Macaulay. This is a work of fiction.
In other words, I'm making it up! Names, characters, places, brands,
media, and incidents are either the product of my imagination or are
used fictitiously. That being said, I hope you enjoy the figments of my
imagination!
Ann Borodell, a graduate student scrambling to find an archaeological
dig to finish her degree, lands a project in the remote Western Isles of
Scotland. With a concentration in Colonial American studies, she
knows almost nothing about Scottish history and the sixteenth-century
island stronghold of the Clan Morrison.
That changes though when she discovers a medieval dagger embedded
in the rubble at the base of a tower house on the island. As the dagger
pulls her back in time, she awakens in the arms of a suspicious
Highland laird who thinks she is a spy—for the English or for his
enemies, the Macleods.
Ann believes that getting the dagger back from its owner, John
Morrison, is her way back to the twenty-first century. So does the laird.
And he has no intention of letting Ann leave the stronghold...or him.
Thank you for your support over the years, friends and readers.

Because of your favorable comments, I continue to strive to write the
best stories I can. More romances are on the way!
You know I always enjoy hearing from you, so please feel free to
contact me at

[e-mail]

or through my website at

http://www.bessmcbride.com

.

Many of you know I also write a series of short cozy mysteries under
the pen name of Minnie Crockwell. Feel free to stop by my website and
learn more about the series.
Thanks for reading! Bess

Chapter One
"Good morning, Ann. Did you sleep well?" Dylan asked me.
I slid into the Rover and fastened my seat belt before turning to smile at
the handsome thirty-year-old archaeology professor. A navy-blue
watch cap covered the majority of his wavy blond hair. The Nordic
golden color was reflected in neatly trimmed facial hair covering the
lower half of his face.
Like me, he wore a hooded sweatshirt to stay warm under the onslaught
of the cold winds blowing onto the Outer Hebrides from the North
Atlantic. Although Dylan had the heater going in the Rover, I huddled
further into my dark-gray sweatshirt and rubbed my gloved hands
together.
"Good, thank you," I said. "How about you?"
"I am used to the warmth of Glasgow. But I love being up here on the
Isle of Lewis and couldn't wait for the school term to end so I can return
to Dun Eistean. The family with whom I am boarding are absolutely
lovely, but a peat fireplace is something I would rather study, not
actually try to stay warm by."
I laughed.
"I agree with you on that. The MacIvers are wonderful as well, but I
could use some central heating myself. They use little electric heaters,
and I tend to huddle around the one in my bedroom in the cool
mornings."
"Do you regret volunteering to come up here?" he asked. A deep rut in
the perpetually muddy road sent me flying out of my seat, belt or no.
"Sorry about that!" Dylan said with a grin.
"It's not your fault. Does this place ever dry out?"
"Rarely," he answered. "I did e-mail you that the weather would
generally be uncomfortable."
"Yes, you did, and to answer your question, no, I have no regrets at all.
I'm so grateful for the opportunity to come on this dig. I don't know that
my future will involve Scottish historical sites after I graduate—
probably not—but I' m just so grateful that you had an open spot."

"No worries," Dylan said. "Your e-mail was very persuasive. How
could I refuse a lass who writes that she cannot graduate with her
master's degree if she does not get onto an archaeological dig within the
next week? I was very surprised though that nothing was available
close to home."
I shook my head.
"Me too. I' m planning on pursuing my doctorate in historical
archaeology with an emphasis on Colonial America, but I don't have to
decide that right now. Thanks to you, I'll get my archaeology
field-experience credits, graduate with my master's, and I can decide on
my emphasis after I start my doctorate in the fall."
"I fear you will struggle with the cold, windy weather here, coming as
you do from the balmy shores of Virginia." He grinned again, his smile
open and kind. I chuckled.
"Yes, William and Mary College. It does get hot in Williamsburg. I' m
originally from Ohio, but I never liked the cold winters there, so
Virginia actually suits me." "And yet here you are."
"And yet here I am." Another rut in the road almost sent my head
through the roof, a rather significant bump since I was only five foot
three inches. Dylan, on the other hand, stayed planted in his seat.
We pulled up to a short line of several other vehicles parked
haphazardly on a graveled pseudo parking lot. On my third day at the
dig, I still marveled at the vast expanse of turbulent azure and
white-capped sea that surrounded the small island known as Dun
Eistean.
It was on that tiny intertidal sea stack where the University of Glasgow
had been conducting archaeological studies of the remains of a
Highland clan stronghold for the past several years. How on earth
anyone actually lived on that little blip of land, I would never know.
Separated from the rest of the Isle of Lewis by a steep ravine and
accessible only at low tide via a rocky path, the island had once been
the stronghold of the Clan Morrison of Lewis.
Rather than await low tide to descend the cliff into the ravine, cross

over and ascend the opposite equally slippery and rocky path, the Clan
Morrison Society, who had asked the university to investigate the site,
had erected a steel-girded footbridge to facilitate crossing over to Dun
Eistean.
I swallowed hard, as I had for the past three days, and followed Dylan
over the bridge. The gusting wind, always stronger over the ravine
between the mainland and the island, buffeted me, and I grabbed the
cold metal railing with a squeak of fear.
Dylan looked over his shoulder and paused.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes?" I answered, still squeaking. I wasn't sure if I was asking him or
telling him. I really wasn't all right. I hated heights, and the sight of the
crashing waves against the rocks in the ravine about thirty-six feet
below didn't help.
Dylan grabbed my arm and guided me across the bridge.
"I'm good!" I exclaimed once we'd reached the safety of the island. We
passed through a break in what had once been a fortified stone wall,
which encircled the two-thirds of the sea stack closest to the mainland.
"I' m good! " I said again, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment.
"It can be a wee bit frightening, I know, but you'll get used to it."
"Yes, I'm sure I will."
"Let's see what's on, shall we?"
I followed him across an expanse of thick, matted emerald-green turf
toward an improbable hill on the otherwise flat surface of the island. I
knew that buried within the mound were the remnants of a
sixteenth-century keep once belonging to the Clan Morrison, and it was
there that the current summer's archaeological dig was focused. There
was evidence that the structure now being surveyed had been built
upon an earlier twelfth-century site, but the evidence was limited and
subject to speculation.
The keep had once been a surprisingly tall tower house that overlooked
the Minch, a strait between Scotland's northwest Highlands and the
Outer Hebrides. Dylan had explained that the keep, though narrow and
rectangular, had probably been used both as a permanent

dwelling and a lookout to protect the island from invaders.
"It seems so remote out here, but it does appear as if a segment of the
Morrisons of Lewis lived here on the sea stack. You will see small
turf-covered mounds beneath which we've discovered dwellings,
several boathouses, storage buildings, even a kiln. There is a catchment
pond on the island as well, which we believe is at least medieval in
origin, so they always had fresh water. I presume they left the island
only at low tide or by boat, as there is evidence of a crevice where they
once hauled their boat from the sea.
"Though Clan Morrison held only the northern tip of the Isle of Lewis
as their territory, they once wielded an enormous amount of power,
serving as brieves, or hereditary judges, to the much-larger neighboring
Clans Macleod and Macaulay," Dylan continued. "Hereditary judges?"
I had asked.
"Yes, experts in law, dispensers of justice. It is said that the Clan
Macleod sought to destroy their power and petitioned King James VI
for 'Letters of Fire and Sword' in the sixteenth century. That branch of
the Morrisons disappeared sometime after that. There is another branch
who survived and live farther south on the Isle of Harris."
"Letters of Fire and Sword? That sounds impressive. Very
mythological."
"Perhaps. In this case, a certain Madam Macleod slept with a Mister
Morrison, and that started a series of feuds. King James VI granted the
Macleods permission to destroy the Morrisons via a directive
dramatically referred to as 'Letters of Fire and Sword.' The Morrisons
were besieged for years, ultimately retreating to Dun Eistean. After
that, the trail goes cold. The rest of the family vanished...to the
mainland, to the colonies."
"Oh, how sad," I'd said.
Since Dylan had told me the haunting tale of Dun Eistean 's history on
my first day, a poignant sense of grief had stayed with me, grief for the
clan who had once lived on the sea stack.
Now, we climbed the hill and stopped just short of the peak of the
mound at the active dig site. Dylan had told me the tower had once
probably been about fourteen feet high. The hill, the culmination of

hundreds of years of blowing dirt and dust that had covered the mound,
seemed much higher though.
Dylan moved away to consult with one of his colleagues, and I greeted
my fellow budding archaeologists, six students from the University of
Glasgow, before picking up a trusty trowel to resume my work from the
day before—scratching away at the base of the keep. Sadly, the keep
walls now stood only about five feet high, most of the stones having
been carried away over the centuries, some used to build a memorial
cairn on the island.
Over the past two summers, the team had etched out the shape of the
defensive perimeter wall, complete with squints to watch for enemies;
the remains of a gatehouse to control access to the tidal island; the
tower, or dun; the retention pond; a grouping of small stone structures
with central hearths that appeared to be dwellings as well as a barn; and
corn-drying kilns. It was the dwellings that gave archaeologists the
impression that the Morrisons had actually lived on the sea stack, rather
than use it only as a lookout for seagoing enemies or as a refuge in
times of unrest and violence.
Some of the artifacts found consisted of fifteenth-century German
glass, seventeenth-century Hebridean pottery shards as well as used
pistol shot—all suggesting a history of trade and perhaps a period of
violence.
I lowered myself to my knees, thankful for the thickness of my jeans,
and eyed the edge of the rock wall. Without evidence of having been
mortared, the wall featured hundreds of nooks and crannies filled in
loosely by dirt, and it was here that I had been tasked to dig. I pulled
thick work gloves from the pockets of my sweatshirt and pulled them
over the soft gloves I already wore. Picking up the trowel where I'd left
it the previous day, I went to work.
An hour of mindless digging passed, but I knew what I had signed up
for when I entered the field of archaeology—long periods of
backbreaking, knee-aching, mind-numbing troweling broken only
rarely by an occasional "find."
That day was apparently the day I would discover my find. I had been
carefully picking away at turf and mud in a crevice between stones

when something metal fell to the ground at my knees. Metal was
always an exciting find! Unlike organic material, it lasted for centuries.
I set my trowel down and eyed what looked like a darkly tarnished
silver dagger or a dirk.
I barely breathed as I studied the dagger on the ground without
touching it. Only when I grew dizzy did I drag in a deep breath and turn
to call out to my fellow diggers. But they had moved away, probably to
take a break around the other side of the mound, where an area had
been set aside for hot drinks and refreshments.
My first instinct was to run around the base of the mound and locate
someone, Dylan, anyone, to shout out my find, but I dared not leave the
artifact. How could I? What if it disappeared? What if one of the many
seagulls flying overhead snatched it up and carried it off? The
opportunistic birds had made off with someone's backpack only the day
before.
The dagger looked heavy, and I doubted whether a bird could carry it in
its beak, but still I couldn't bring myself to leave it and run for
guidance. Given that I was a bit loopy from the excitement and the
blood pounding in my ears, I did what I thought was right. I removed
both pairs of gloves and picked up the dirk to take it to Dylan.
On contact, the metal seemed to flare, and yet it didn't burn. I eyed it
wildly, almost tempted to drop it, but I held on. The sky darkened, or so
I thought. Perhaps it was just my vision. Flashing lights blinded me,
and I shook my head. Suspecting that I must have held my breath too
long and was about to faint, I tried to drag in a deep breath, but it didn't
help. I clutched the dagger by its hilt and slipped into a dizzying
whirlpool of unconsciousness.

Chapter Two
"Lass, what ails ye?" a voice asked me.
"Dylan?" I whispered. My eyes seemed to be glued shut, and I rubbed
at them with one hand. Finally, one of my eyelids popped open, and I
looked up into the very tanned and angular face of a golden-haired and
bearded man. Not Dylan. The man who peered at me had azure eyes,
and his long hair fell about his face.
"Who are you?" I whispered. I tried to push myself upright, but the man
squatting beside me and dressed in what appeared to be a voluminous
kilt pushed me back.
"I dinna think ye are well enough to stand just yet. I will thank ye to
return my dagger. I acquired that from a French merchant, and it cost
me dearly. The man said it was several centuries auld. I dinna ken if he
spoke the truth, but it is a sturdy piece and has served me well."
I looked down at the metal in my hand. Bright and untarnished as it had
not been when I found it, sunlight gleamed on the silver surface. In a
daze, I loosened my white-knuckled grip on the handle, and the
stranger took the dagger from me, stowing it into a slender sheath
hanging from the wide belt at his waist.
"That's an artifact," I said dully. Was he planning on stealing it? No, I
wasn't going to allow that.
My heart continued to pound in my ears, as it had before I fainted, and I
breathed deeply through my nose in an effort to regulate my breathing
so that I didn't pass out again. Rather than raise my eyes to the man' s
face, I studied his tartan once again. Of a muted scarlet shade, the plaid
pattern was large, mostly gray and black, with blocks of hunter green.
But it was the size of the garment that took me aback, that and the fact
that the stranger didn't seem concerned that bent on one knee, he
exposed himself.
I blinked and looked away to study the kilt. Consisting of what must
have been yards of material, it was unhemmed, belted at the waist, and
dropped to the ground as if it hung lower in back than in front.
A padded dark-blue sleeveless vest fitted with a single row of
pewter-colored metal buttons covered most of what appeared to be a

loose, long-sleeved white linen shirt. A grayish neckcloth ended just
below his dark-blond beard. The belt now holding the dagger rested on
his waist. Dark dusty boots covered the lower half of his legs.
I felt like I'd been studying the man for hours, but when he moved to
drop both knees to the ground, I realized it had only been a matter of
seconds.
"Where's Dylan? Who are you?"
"I dinna ken this Dylan, but I do ken who I am. Who are ye, mistress?
Who brought ye here?"
"Dylan. Dylan brought me here," I said. The man's eyes mesmerized
me. The azure blue reflected the color of the sea surrounding the island.
Small silvery flecks in the irises could almost match the whitecaps.
"Your eyes," I murmured.
The man blinked. What I could see of his cheeks above the beard
reddened.
"Again, I dinna ken Dylan. Ye could no have passed through the gate
without being seen unless someone smuggled ye through. Ye surely
didna bring a boat over from the mainland by yerself. Which of the lads
brought ye? Dinna fear repercussions for yerself, lass. I will send ye
back across with no harm done. Yer man, though, I will have to deal
with him."
"I don't have a man," I mumbled stupidly. I'd actually been giving that
particular issue a lot of thought for the past year. I 'd spent so much time
in school studying for my master's degree, and when not in class,
working to make ends meet, that I hadn't had time for a man. Lately, I'd
been wondering how to go about getting a man, or if I really had the
time for a relationship.
"Are ye saying that one of the women brought ye over? No, I dinna
think that likely. They dinna saunter back and forth at low tide without
their husbands, nor can they manage one of the boats."
"What?" I asked, my head obviously still foggy. "Boats? No, I came
with Dylan, you know? Professor MacElroy? From the University of
Glasgow? He drove. We walked over. Here I am. Where is he? And
who on earth are you? You can't keep the dagger. It's a historical

artifact."
I pushed myself to rise again, but the stranger laid a restraining hand on
my shoulder. I had been stunned and bewildered. Now, I was scared.
"Take your hands off me," I said. I looked over his shoulder. Two men,
dressed similarly to the big blond kneeling beside me, stood by,
watching us.
The stranger followed my eyes and looked over his shoulder.
"Gie away, ye two. This does no concern ye."
One young, one middle aged, they grinned and moved away, stepping
into a doorway on the ground floor of the keep.
The keep! My eyes widened as I tilted my head back to eye the tower.
Of stacked rock, the rectangular building appeared to be about fourteen
feet tall with openings on all visible sides, windows without glass. The
movement made my head swim even more. I closed my eyes against
the sight of the tower. It couldn't possibly be there.
An arm slipped under my shoulders, and I opened my eyes again to see
a golden-blond beard almost touching my face as blue eyes peered into
mine.
"Lass, I can see ye are no well." All of a sudden, I was lifted into the air
and settled across the man's chest. The tower still loomed over me,
impossibly. I thought about struggling in his arms, but I sensed that he
meant me no harm, and something about the strength of his hold made
me feel completely secure. He could have been Superman carrying my
Lois Lane off into space.
He carried me into the open doorway of the tower, and I eyed the thick,
heavy wooden door with awe. The interior of the keep was dim but not
so dark that I couldn't see the stacked stones comprising the walls. A
narrow stone staircase circumnavigated the perpendicular walls of the
tower, ending at landings on two corners before disappearing near the
top. Daylight filtered in through small windows in the upper recesses.
The stranger carried me into a tiny room and settled me onto a narrow
bed. I should have been worrying at that point, but I wasn't. I felt I had
only to scream out and someone would come running. Dylan, for sure,
wherever he was.

Dylan. The tower? The excavation. No, something was seriously
wrong. Was I dreaming? If so, it was actually quite interesting. I had
certainly picked an extremely dramatic character to feature in my
dream.
"What's your name?" I asked as the stranger straightened to stare down
at me. He seemed extraordinarily tall in the low-ceilinged room.
Feeling somewhat small and vulnerable, I pushed myself into a sitting
position at the head of the bed, drawing my legs to my chest. He
watched my movements with an expression I couldn't really decipher.
His furrowed brow and narrowed eyes suggested something more than
mere curiosity. Astonishment?
"John Morrison," he said. "And yers?"
"Ann Borodell."
"Borodell. I am no familiar with this name. Is it Norman? Ye are no
from the Western Isles, are ye?"
I shook my head. "No, I think it's English, a variation of Borrowdale, I
read once."
"English!" he said with a quirk of one dark-blond eyebrow. "How did
ye come to Dun Eistean, Mistress Borodell?"
Mistress Borodell? What an eccentric man. Even the MacIvers, the
family I boarded with, living as remote as they did on the tip of the Isle
of Lewis, didn't speak in such unusual ways. Their accent was indeed
thick, but not as heavily accented as John's.
Before I had a chance to answer, he moved suddenly, and while I
thought I trusted him, I jerked involuntarily, pushing myself even
farther against the sharp edges of the stacked stone behind me. After
all, the man had just deposited me on a bed. But John only reached out
to pick up a heavy length of plaid from the end of the bed, which he laid
over my legs. I wasn't particularly cold, but I appreciated the gesture.
I grabbed the blanket and bunched it up to my chest, wrapping my arms
around the blanket and my legs.
"I came with Dylan this morning," I finally answered. "Before that,
Williamsburg, Virginia."
I noticed that John continued to stare at the blanket with a frown. What
was his obsession with the thing? Had he heard me?
"If ye please," he said. He reached toward me to tug at the blanket,

and in surprise, I loosened my arms and released it. What on earth? He
spread the tartan over my legs again. "Please cover yerself."
My jaw dropped. While my first instinct was to jump up, incensed at
the backward, outdated, outmoded, impossibly old-fashioned idea that
I was somehow "uncovered," I paused at the odd expression of
embarrassment on John's face. I did rise from the bed, but I wrapped
the blanket tightly around me.
"Look, I know we're pretty remote here in the Outer Hebrides," I said,
"but there's nothing particularly objectionable about my clothing. I' ve
seen other young women dressed as I am, and especially the women on
the dig. I know the older gals tend to wear dresses out here, but my
jeans are pretty normal. I take it you're objecting to the jeans? At least I'
m not a man wearing a skirt."
My own jaw dropped at the childish rudeness of my comment. In fact, I
loved to see men in kilts and had been disappointed on seeing none
since I arrived on the Isle of Lewis, when I had expected to see many.
John surprised me by laughing, the sort of deep guffaw that comes from
deep within one's chest. He sobered quickly, but his laugh still filled the
empty spaces in the narrow keep.
"Nonsense, mistress. My plaid has naethin to do with yer trews. I
apologize for nagging ye about yer clothing, but it is actually quite
objectionable. No to me, ye ken, but ye will certainly shock the
womenfolk when they see ye."
I hunched into my blanket, the faded-red pattern similar to his kilt, and
I pulled it more tightly around me. Nope. Whatever was happening was
not working for me.
"Listen, I don't want to do this anymore. I just want to see Dylan. This
is all way too weird for me. I' m done."
John tilted his head, as if he didn't understand my words. "I' m done!
Finished! I want to see Professor Dylan MacElroy or the other students
or somebody." I tried for an imperious tone.
"Mistress, I dinna ken any MacElroys, nor have I heard of this Virginia.
I am concerned for the soundness of yer mind. Have ye been

ill? Did ye bump yer head?"
I wanted to continue to stand, to stay on my feet, confronting this odd
man, confronting my fear that something was horribly wrong, but my
knees wobbled and weakened. I sank down onto the bed, eyeing the
stone walls of the tower that had not been there a half hour before.
In an odd flash of archaeological reflection, I noted that the stones were
set with a clay-like material, not mortar. Of course not. Dylan had said
the tower was at least sixteenth century, perhaps earlier, and they didn'
t use mortar then.
The sixteenth century... I looked at John Morrison again. Impossibly
Nordic appearing with his blond hair and beard, my racing pulse
thumped erratically, and I felt like I was about to pass out again.
"What year is it?" I eked out through a throat closed over with dread.
"Year, mistress?"
"Year. What is the year? The century?"
"The year of our lord fifteen hundred and ninety."
I almost sighed with relief when John's response told me that this was
not the thick of the medieval era but the tail end. Almost. A strange part
of my brain struggled to understand why I would cheer that
information. Fourteenth century. Sixteenth century. What did it matter?
I had traveled through time. I could no longer pretend that I was
dreaming. I hadn't been ill, and I hadn't hit my head. I didn't think I'd
lost my mind, but I almost wished I had. Even the man before me could
possibly be explained away as some sort of historical reenactor, maybe
even a local man who simply liked to wear a great kilt.
But not the tower. I had seen it from the outside, and now from the
inside. There was no explaining away the tower. No one had rebuilt the
keep in the last half hour. One moment, I had been digging at its base,
the next, awakening from an unconscious state at its base. Holding a
dagger.
Sweat broke out on my upper lip, my forehead. My hands, wrapped
inside the thick tartan, were clammy. My stomach threatened to heave.
I eyed the dagger hanging from John's belt. "Can I see the dagger
again?"

John looked down at the sheathed dagger.
"Nay, I dinna think that would be a good idea. Ye look as if ye might
want to use it. But whether upon yerself or me, I canna say."
"Probably on myself," I whispered. "No, see, the thing is...I think I need
to touch it again. Please let me have the dagger."
I reached for it, dropping my blanket in the process. John took a step
back and thrust out a hand to stop me. He grabbed my right arm and
twisted me around, surprisingly gently, before reaching down to grab
the tartan, which he wrapped around me again.
"Ye shall no have the dagger, and ye must stay covered."
He rotated me around to face him like a puppet. I seemed to have no
will of my own. Grasping both of my shoulders in strong hands, he
leaned down to peer into my face. I couldn't have looked away from his
eyes if I had wanted to.
"What ails ye, lass? Who are ye?"
I opened my mouth to speak, but I had no idea what to say. I swallowed
several times, my mind racing. Certainly, in Colonial America, they
would have locked me up as a lunatic possessed by the devil. I had no
reason to believe that sixteenth-century Scotland would be any
different.
I looked up into John's eyes, once again mesmerized by their beautiful
deep-blue color with silvery-white flecks. I couldn't fake this. I couldn't
possibly bluster my way through the next few moments, hours, even
days. I needed his help, and I hoped I wasn't about to make a huge
mistake.
"My name is Ann Borodell. I live in Virginia in the New World. In the
twenty-first century. I've traveled through time, and I have no idea
how. I just know I want to go home."

Chapter Three
John's eyes narrowed and hardened, and his hands involuntarily
tightened on my shoulders. I winced, and he blinked and dropped his
hands. Taking a step back, he stared at me. I had no idea what was
going through his mind, but I desperately hoped he was trying to
understand my words, not figure out how best to tie me up and drop me
into the ravine to see if I floated in the choppy water or simply
drowned.
I had nothing more to offer, nothing more I could say...not until I knew
what he was thinking. I waited, huddling once again into the folds of
the blanket. I was tempted to run outside, to see the rest of Dun Eistean
in the sixteenth century, but my life was virtually in John's hands at the
moment, so I waited.
I discovered him to be a quick thinker, able to grasp new concepts in
pretty short order.
"The twenty-first century?" he asked. His voice was husky, the only
thing that betrayed his astonishment, because he schooled his face into
an impassive expression.
I nodded wordlessly.
"And ye say ye dinna ken how ye traveled through time?"
"I found the dagger, and that was it. Which is why if you give me the
dagger now, I could probably reverse this whole thing and skedaddle
out of here." I tried a weak smile, which fooled no one.
In a move that suggested how things were going to go, John slid the
dagger sheath farther around his belt, hiding it behind his back.
"You're not going to give me the dagger, are you?" I asked. "It probably
won't travel with me. The one I picked up was very aged, dull, not at all
shiny like it is now. So you still get to keep your dagger."
"I dinna fash about the dagger."
"Then why won't you give it to me? I'm not going to try to stab you with
it!"
The right corner of his lips lifted in a wry smile.
"I dinna fash about my safety. Ye are but a wee thing."
Compared to his six foot plus, I was short. My head didn't even reach
the top of his shoulders.

"Then please give me the dagger. Please." The walls of the keep closed
in on me. I couldn't bear to have him stare at me any longer.
When John made no move to give me the knife, I bolted. I dropped the
blanket and ran through the door of the room and out of the keep. Rare
Scottish sunshine shone down on me as I ran toward where I
remembered the remnants of the gate to be.
I heard him call out to me, which made me run all the faster. The grass,
still emerald green, was shorter than I remembered. A few sheep grazed
near the center, explaining the cropped lawn. A group of turf-roofed
stone-walled buildings to my left caught my eye as I ran toward what
appeared to be a six-foot stone wall. Six feet? Had the mounded hump
of thick grass in the twenty-first century really been that
high?
As I raced toward a wooden gate set between the stone walls, two men,
wearing great kilts like John's, jumped up and reached for basket-hilted
broadswords at their hips, crisscrossing them and effectively barring
my exit. The pistols tucked into the front of their belts and dirks
hanging from their waists suggested they meant business.
I careened to a halt at the sight of the heavily armed Highlanders. I
heard John shout something unintelligible, and they lowered their
swords but kept them at the ready. They exchanged glances before
directing narrow-eyed stares at me.
I knew I wasn't going anywhere. Over the guards' shoulders, beyond
the gate, I saw no bridge, no way to get across. What had I been
thinking? The tide was in, and raucous waves washed through the
ravine to crash against the rocky cliffs between the two landmasses.
With resignation, I turned and faced John. My knees shook with fear
and anxiety. He strode to my side, wrapped the blanket around me
again, albeit gently, and spoke to the two men in a language I didn't
understand—I assumed Gaelic. The guards appeared to be younger
men, though their bearded faces made it difficult to guess their ages.
Like John, they wore their hair loosely about their shoulders. They
responded to John in Gaelic, their demeanor deferential and respectful.
John folded a firm arm around my shoulders and propelled me back
toward the keep. People had begun to emerge from the complex of

dwellings I had seen earlier—women, men and children, all staring at
the stranger being dragged back toward the tower. The women wore
ankle-length skirts in the same faded-red pattern I saw repeated in the
men's kilts. Dark bodices over what I suspected were white shifts were
standard. A few of the women wore a length of the material draped as
outer garments in variations of caped shawls, somewhat like the men
wore their great kilts.
One in particular, a young tall woman wearing a white cap, with two
long blonde braids draped over her shoulders, caught my eye.
Startlingly beautiful, her height, slender build and alabaster skin
outshone all the matronly women surrounding her. She stared at us
with a frown, resting her hands protectively on the blond heads of two
miniature versions of herself, a small boy and a girl.
John maneuvered me back to the tower house and into the room,
instantly dropping his hands as we entered. His gesture indicated he
meant me no harm. I wasn't exactly free, but he didn't seem particularly
angry or bent on punishing me for my little escape. I took a deep breath
and asked the question uppermost in my mind, pretending a
lightheartedness I didn't feel.
"So how do you guys get across to the mainland?" I turned to face
him.
"We cross the ravine on foot at low tide or take the boat at high tide if
we wish to travel farther."
"Boat?"
He quirked a dark-blond eyebrow, and a corner of his mouth lifted.
Before answering, he lowered himself to a wooden chair, one of two
flanking a small wooden table positioned against the wall near the
door. Centered on the table were a brown glass bottle and a pewter cup,
as well as a brass lantern.
"Dinna think of trying to take the boat, lass, in yer next attempt at
escape. It is no a wee skiff."
My heart thumped loudly at the playful charm of John's smile.
"Escape? Am I your prisoner?"
"No." He paused, tilted his head and eyed me. "Well, perhaps ye are. If
ye have traveled in time, then ye must have had a reason to do so.

Are ye a spy? For the Macleods perhaps? The Macaulays?"
"The Macleods? Macaulays? So you think I traveled in time to spy?
You did hear that I come from the twenty-first century, right? About
five hundred years into the future? No one cares what the Macleods or
Macaulays are doing now. The clan warfare that you enjoy at the
moment really doesn't exist anymore. I mean, there might be some
rivalries, but there are no wars between the clans, no land grabs, no
cattle rustling."
To watch the kaleidoscope of emotions cross John's face was
spectacular. Confusion, disbelief, anger, more disbelief, even more
confusion all ended in a narrowing of his eyes.
"We dinna 'enjoy' clan warfare, mistress. The clans dinna fight for the
pleasure of doing so, but to protect their land, their women, their
kinfolk."
My face reddened, and I regretted my flippant tone. For an
archaeologist, a student of history, I should have known to treat his
culture with more sensitivity. I chalked my glibness up to my
continuing apprehension.
"Okay, okay," I said, holding my hands up in capitulation. "I'm sorry
about the wording. But you do get my point, right? I'm hardly a spy.
The Macleods and Macaulays in the twenty-first century—and I must
say that I don't actually know any—probably do not care about the
Morrisons in the sixteenth century."
"If ye dinna ken any Macleods or Macaulays, how can ye say for
certain?"
I passed a frustrated hand over my clammy forehead.
"Well, I can't for sure, but since the original subject was me, my time
traveling and whether I was a spy, I can assure you that I am not a
spy—for the Macleods, Macaulays or otherwise."
My legs wobbled again, and I lowered myself to the bed. The
conversation seemed so surreal, so improbable.
John watched me for a moment before turning toward the table and
pouring some of the liquid from the bottle into the cup. He handed it to
me, and I sniffed it. Liquor of some kind. Wine, I thought. That was all
I needed. Really!

Rather than making a point to refuse the drink, I held the cup loosely in
my hand. I was thirsty though, and I wondered about the water
situation.
"I can no imagine a world such as ye describe, a world in which all of
Scotland's clans live with each other in peace, but I am willing to
consider yer claim that ye are no spy. It remains to be seen, though,
why ye have come to Dun Eistean. Drink yer wine. It will do ye good."
I eyed the contents of my cup again.
"Do you have any fresh water or anything?" I remembered the
fresh-water catchment area from the archaeological dig. In my race to
escape, I hadn't looked to see if the pond existed in the sixteenth
century.
"Fresh water? I dinna ken yer meaning."
I sighed. Of course he did not "ken" my meaning. They had no
water-filtering system, no treatment plants, no indoor plumbing. Their
immune systems were probably much hardier than mine and could
tolerate parasites better than I could. I lifted the cup to my lips and
sipped the wine, which was surprising sweet.
I looked up at John again.
"Well, now what?"
"Now what indeed?" he repeated. "I dinna ken what to do with ye."
"Let me borrow your dagger, and I'll leave. It's just that simple."
It was the way he looked at me—his expression of curious
fascination—that told me I was wasting my time.
He reached a hand around to his back, and I stiffened in anticipation,
but it seemed he only reassured himself regarding the location of the
dagger. He dropped his hand to his side and shook his head.
"And see ye disappear forever? I can no do that just yet, lass. There is
much I would learn of yer time." My head jerked up.
"What? So you expect me to stay here and teach you about the
twenty-first century? For how long?"
"As long as is necessary?" He formed the answer into a question, and
his half smile charmed me again despite my unease.
No, not just unease. Fear. I was afraid. Terrified, in fact. What if I

couldn't get back? What if I couldn't get hold of the dagger? What was
going through John's mind? What were his intentions toward me? And
why was he so unwilling to let me go?
"Well, I can do that in an hour," I offered blithely. "Then will you let
me go?"
"Nay, lass, I dinna think ye can teach me five hundred years of history
in the space of an hour. I am no such a quick student. I think it will take
some time. Days. Perhaps some weeks."
"Weeks?" I jumped up, and John rose in a casual manner and moved
over to the closed door, his large frame blocking any exit.
"Days then," he amended, leaning against the door with crossed
arms.
"I don't know if I can do days." My life flashed before my eyes. "No,
what am I saying? Of course I can do days. What a great opportunity
this is! Any archaeologist would kill to travel back in time. Even if it's
Scotland in the sixteenth century."
"Even?" He raised his eyebrow again, a charismatic expression. "Is
there another century ye would wish to visit? I dinna ken this word
'archaeologist.'"
"I study archaic things, human history through the artifacts left behind.
My

concentration

is

Colonial

America,

seventeenth-

and

eighteenth-century America. This is a bit before my time and a whole
lot farther east than the colonies."
"The colonies?"
"Okay, so I guess we could begin there! You might as well sit down
again. I know you're blocking the door so I don't run away again."
A sharp rap on the door startled me. John opened the door, and the
blonde-haired woman I had seen earlier entered the room. She looked
from me to John and spoke to him in Gaelic.
John's face hardened at the woman's imperious tone. Clearly, she
wasn't afraid of him. When he responded, it was in English.
"This is Mistress Ann Borodell, Mary. Mistress Borodell, may I present
my sister, Mary Macleod?"
His sister! An odd sense of relief came over me. I had thought she

might be his wife. I didn't even want to think about why I felt relief at
that information. No, I did not.
My first instinct was to stick out my hand in greeting, but I subdued it.
And although she carried herself with a certain air that almost
demanded a curtsey, I squashed that idea as well.
"Hello," I said simply.
Mary inclined her head. On closer inspection, I saw that her eyes held
the same shade of azure blue as John's. She wore a gray bodice over
what appeared to be a white shift. Her skirts were made of the same
material as John's kilt. I suspected that the white cap meant she was
married, and that the children she had held were hers.
"Welcome, Mistress Borodell," Mary said, switching to English as
well. "Do ye no speak Gaelic? How did ye come to Dun Eistean?" She
looked from me to John. "The tide is in. Did she arrive by sea?"
"Mistress Borodell crossed over the ravine when the tide was out. I am
just now questioning her. She claims to be no spy of the Macleods or
Macaulays, but I have my suspicions." I saw an imperceptible flicker of
John's right eye, as if he winked at me.
I blinked and returned my attention to Mary, who studied me for a
moment.
"A woman?" she asked, lifting a skeptical eyebrow and directing a
frown toward her brother. "Surely no," she said. "If Angus Macleod
wished to send a spy, he would no send a woman, Brother. Perhaps the
Macaulays might do, but no Angus. He has little enough regard for
women, as ye ken."
John's expression sobered.
"It is no impossible, Mary. Ye ken he wants his grandchildren back,
and ye to mother them." John threw me a quick glance. "I dinna like to
speak of such matters afore a stranger, but we must remain vigilant."
Mary' s jaw tightened, and she shook her head.
"Nay, John. He will no come. He would no dare. The man paid the
bairns little attention while we were there."
Something was going on that I couldn't quite understand. Mary was a
Macleod, and an Angus Macleod was grandfather to her children?

And they mistrusted him?
John quirked that eyebrow of his, as if to lighten the moment.
"We must hope no, Sister. Still, it would be a very clever idea to send a
lass like Mistress Borodell, no? Who would suspect such a wee
thing?"
Mary, tall at about five feet ten inches, turned to study my "wee"
self.
"I can no believe such, John. Mistress Borodell, do ye come to Dun
Eistean to spy for the Macleods?"
I threw John a quick look before meeting Mary's gaze with a feeble
shake of my head.
"Then why are ye here? And may I ask again, why do ye no speak
Gaelic?"
My eyes flew to John again. What did he want me to say? Did he want
me to tell his sister the truth? Our eyes locked, and he gave a slight
imperceptible shake of his head.
"As ye see, Sister, Mistress Borodell remains silent on the matter. If she
does no wish to share the truth wi us, I can do little to compel her, but I
think several days locked in the keep wi only bread and ale to sustain
her will loosen her tongue."
I gasped. "What?"
Again, a tiny wink from John reassured me that I would at least eat
more than a bit of bread and ale, and I calmed down. Mary, however,
did not.
"Nonsense, John. Ye shall do no such thing. Ye canna starve the
lass."
Apparently, sibling rivalry was alive and well in the sixteenth century,
because John's face tightened.
"Ah, but I am laird here, Mary. I love ye dearly, but ye are interfering in
matters that are no concern of yers. I will thank ye to leave now."
Mary, seemingly as stubborn as her brother, didn't budge.
"I will no leave the lass locked up in the keep with naethin but ale and
bread. I insist that ye at least promise to feed her properly during her
stay, John. I really must insist. And no harm must come to her person! I

dinna think ye shall lay a hand upon her, but it is yer duty to see that she
remains safe." She fixed him with a determined blue stare.
"Aye, Mary, ye have my assurance. I shall watch over her myself.
Now, ye must excuse us. I have much to ask Mistress Borodell." John
reached for his sister's arm to guide her from the room, but she shook
him off and moved toward the door on her own volition. Before leaving
the room, she turned.
"I shall send some food to ye directly, Mistress Borodell." "And some
proper skirts," John said, his cheekbones reddening. "It appears
Mistress Borodell dressed in men's trews to traverse the ravine, though
I can no imagine why."
"Nor I," Mary said, pausing to study me. I pulled the blanket tightly
around me but couldn't cover the lower half of my jeans. "I have
crossed the ravine many times in skirts. But perhaps her people,
whoever they may be, allow for such peculiarities." "Perhaps," John
said.
"Very well then. I shall return shortly." Mary left the room, and I gave
John a piece of my mind.
"Listen, you! Thanks for selling me out to your sister! And this clothing
is perfectly normal for my time. Perfectly normal. I didn't get a chance
to tell you that, but there you are. Now you know! Women wear pants,
trews, jeans. Yes, we do! I know that's a shock to you, my
sixteenth-century friend, but we do." I leaned over and dragged the
plaid material around the lower half of my legs.
A chuckle made me look up. I had meant to ask John about Mary and
Angus Macleod, but his comments about my clothing had distracted
me. Foolishly so, because I knew full well that my clothing was
inappropriate for the period.
"I am no shocked that ye wear trews, lass. As much as the women fuss
about the inconvenience of their skirts, I kent it was only a matter of
time afore they rid themselves of such cumbersome garments. How
many years will pass till women do such?" "Stop wearing skirts?"
"Aye." He nodded, the smile still playing on the corner of his lips. My
heart thumped.

"Well, they still wear them when they want, and there is no specific
date when women started wearing trousers. It depended on where
women lived and what they did. If they lived on ranches, probably in
the eighteen hundreds, but most women still wore skirts to their ankles
through the early nineteen hundreds. Hemlines rose pretty rapidly
throughout the twentieth century, especially as women went out to
work."
While I talked, I had lowered myself to the bed, and John sat down on
his chair again.
"And did the men no complain?"
I nodded. "Yes, I believe they did. Some still do. And in some
countries, women are still not allowed to show limbs."
John blinked, and I wondered if it was at my use of the word "limbs." I
suspected so. He cleared his throat.
"When ye say women went out to work, do ye mean into the
fields?"
"Some work in fields, some work in offices, some fly planes, some fly
into space." As if I had a death wish, I threw it all out there, knowing I
would have to spend many, many hours explaining offices, planes and
outer space.
Somewhere in the middle of rambling on about the structure of office
buildings and what little I knew of information technology, Mary
returned with a tray of food, a jug of ale and two cups. I saw her
children peep curiously around the corner of the doorway at me before
she shooed them out.
"Leave the garments there, bairns," she said. "Go back to the croft now.
I will come soon."
John grinned broadly at the children, who disappeared. He rose to take
the tray from Mary and set it down on the table while she returned to
the doorway to retrieve what looked like a folded pile of clothing
similar to hers. She laid the clothing on the end of the mattress.
"I have brought food enough for both of ye," she said. "And the bairns
helped to carry some auld skirts of mine. I fear they will drag the
ground, but I brought no finery with me when I left the Macleod's
house."

Left the Macleod's house? There it was again. I looked at John, hoping
for an explanation, but dared not ask Mary. "Thank you," I said.
She had turned to leave but paused on my words and pivoted slowly to
look at me. My eyes widened. What now?
"Not only do ye no appear to speak the language of the Isles, but yer
English is unusual. Where do ye come from, Mistress Borodell?"
Once again, John jumped into the breach.
"Though Mistress Borodell has divulged verra little...as yet...she told
me that she comes from England."
"England! " Mary said, her tone sharp. She directed a hard stare at me.
"England," she repeated again with a shake of her head.
I nodded wordlessly. England it was, I guessed. I looked to John, but he
gave me no hints of what to say or do as he stood by the door, waiting
for his sister to leave, with an unreadable expression. A muscle ticked
in his jaw, suggesting he gritted his teeth.
"I dinna ken whether to bid ye welcome to our wee bit of Scotland or
no, Mistress Borodell, but if ye fear spying, Brother, ye might look to
the English, no to Angus Macleod."
She turned with a swish of her skirts and passed through the doorway.
John snapped the door shut behind her.
"Please accept my apologies, lass. My sister's tongue is sharp, but she is
no always such a shrew. Something fashes her, and I will speak to her
later."
"Well, she seems alternately worried about you locking me in without
food or drink," I said in a dry tone, "and thinking I'm a spy for the
English now, forget the Macleods. Which would be worse in your
world? Spying for the English or the Macleods?"
"Both are no to be tolerated in these parts," John said, his voice just as
dry as mine.
"Then you'd better come up with a better story for my appearance,
because I don't really want to be hanged as a spy."
"Hanged?" he said with a somber shake of his head. "Ye are fortunate
that I have the custody of ye, lass. Had my father still been alive,
hanging would have been an act of kindness that he would no have

offered ye. Ye are right though. My sister saw through my attempt to
lie. I must devise some other sort of explanation for yer arrival and
presence. Come. Let us think on it while we eat some of Mary's fine
stew."

Chapter Four
I joined John at the table, and while we ate, we theorized on an
explanation for my presence. I learned some things about
sixteenth-century Scotland from John in the next hour—that trials for
witchcraft were alive and well, and burning was the favorite form of
dealing with witches...after a wee bit of torture.
The food, some sort of delicious hot vegetable stew and brown bread,
sat hard in my stomach, and I found myself swallowing repeatedly long
after I had taken the last bite.
"Ye look fair green, lass. Perhaps we should no have discussed these
matters while ye ate. I am no fond of the pain men inflict upon witches
to produce a confession, but it is done. How are witches made to
confess in yer time?"
I swallowed several more times. But my mouth was dry. I reached for a
cup of ale and gulped half of it down before answering. John had
seemed largely reasonable, even acknowledging the possibility of time
travel with aplomb. Here, we diverged.
"We don't make witches confess anymore, John, by torture or any other
means. The last trial for witchcraft was in Virginia in 1706. Although
we do have people who claim to be witches, there is no proof that they
have special powers, so we generally leave them alone...unless they
break the law by engaging in some of the darker aspects of witchcraft,
like sacrifice."
John, focused on my words, stopped eating and leaned his elbows on
the table to study me. My face flamed at his intent gaze, and I dropped
my eyes to my plate.
"But surely ye have failed crops, pestilence, disease, unnatural deaths,
no? Do ye mean to say that folk dinna blame witches for such?"
I looked up and eyed John warily. Where was this going? I shook my
head.
"No, they don't, at least not in my country. I'm sure they still do in some
more superstitious cultures. Failed crops, pestilence, disease and
unnatural deaths all have very practical explanations, thanks to
science." I paused. "John, you don't believe that I'm a witch, do you?"

Without answering, John dropped his eyes and reached for his spoon to
dip into his stew. The knot in my stomach grew harder still. "John?" I
asked again.
Finally, he looked up and gave a slight shake of his head, but his words
did not reassure me.
"I dinna ken whether ye are or no. Ye say that ye traveled through time
and that ye used my dagger to do such. Is that no witchcraft?"
Oh, dear...
"No?" I offered with a helpless shrug of my shoulders. Of course, he
would think it was.
"It is most unnatural," he said. "I do believe ye come from another time,
lass. Yer manner of dress, of speech, yer mannerisms would all suggest
so. But ye must admit that some sort of spell must have been cast to
make it so, either by ye or someone else." He set his spoon down,
reached behind him around his waist and retrieved the dagger that I
longed to grab. "And this, ye claim, is the talisman that sent ye through
time?"
"Yes, though I wouldn't call it a talisman. It's just a dagger."
John studied the dirk before returning it to its hiding place behind his
back. I had thought for a moment he was going to offer it to me to see
how it worked. I would have been delighted to show him.
"So am I a witch or a spy?" My feeble attempt at humor did nothing but
frighten me even worse than I already was.
John's mouth curved into a smile.
"Aye, we have yet to devise a plausible story to explain yer presence
here. Neither witch nor spy will do." He pushed his plate away,
seemingly finished.
"And ye vow ye are neither?"
"I vow," I said, with the random thought that I had never actually said
those words in my life.
I tried to mold my features into my best expression of honesty and
trustworthiness, but I failed in my attempts to meet John's gaze. Blue
eyes bored into mine, and I balked at the intimacy. I dropped my eyes
to my plate.
"Then why are ye here?" he asked quietly.

I drew in a sharp breath. "I told you—I don't know. But if you let me
go, you won't have to worry about it again." He shook his head.
"Nay, we have spoken of this already. I think ye must stay for a time."
My frustration spilled over, and I raised my voice.
"Well, what do you plan to tell your sister? The rest of the people who
are wondering about me?"
"I dinna ken at the moment." John drank a cup of ale and rose as if to
head for the door.
"Wait! Is that it? You're leaving?"
John looked over his shoulder. "I shall give ye privacy to don the
clothing my sister brought."
I hurried to the door, but John blocked any efforts at escape, all the
while keeping his back from me, keeping the dagger from me.
"Do ye have a sister?" he asked.
The question caught me off guard, and I stopped trying to push past
him.
"What?"
"A sister. Do ye have a sister?"
I shook my head. "No, I'm an only child."
"Well, ye do now! I shall tell any who may inquire that ye are come
from England to find yer sister, who eloped with a Morrison, that ye
attempted to disguise yerself dressed as a man to get onto Dun Eistean,
but that the Morrison ye seek is from another branch of the clan, no the
Morrisons of Lewis."
John positively beamed, obviously pleased with his resourceful
explanation.
"How on earth did you come up with that?"
"Years ago, we once lived peacefully with the Macleods, serving as
brieves to the Western Islands and enforcing the laws. But my foolish
uncle, Maurice Morrison, besotted with the Macleod chieftain's young
wife, committed adultery with her, after which he took her from her
husband's home. Fortunately, she was his second wife, else the
paternity of his son and heir, Hamish, would have been in doubt."

"Oh! "
John shrugged. "Ye see then that it is no unheard of that a Morrison
might take a woman who is no his to take."
"Take?" I repeated with a gulp. Wait! He didn't mean... "Nay, no to
violate! " John choked out. "Morrison men dinna stoop to such
behavior." He pulled back his shoulders for emphasis. I breathed a sigh
of relief.
"Don yer clothing," he said. "I will return." He slipped through the door
and shut it behind him. I heard a heavy thud from the other side, and
when I pulled at the handle, I wasn't surprised to find it didn't budge.
John must have dropped a latch across the door.
I turned around and stared at the tiny room. It should have seemed
larger without his presence, but it didn't. The narrow stone walls closed
in on me. To distract myself from screaming out with claustrophobia, I
returned to the bed and fingered the clothing Mary had brought.
I contemplated the garments, similar in design and color to what Mary
wore. Hesitant to undress, I regretted the need to don historical
costume, preferring the comfort of my jeans and hooded sweat jacket,
but I understood the necessity of blending in. I'd worn similarly heavy
skirts and a tight corset when I worked several summers in downtown
colonial Williamsburg, and the novelty of wearing historical garb had
soon worn off.
I supposed I could simply refuse to change into the clothing, but I
suspected that John would keep me confined to the small room in the
keep if I didn't try to blend in. With a heavy sigh, I shed my clothing
and slipped the white linen shift over my head. I laced up the corset,
also of linen, loosely, and wriggled a petticoat over my head to settle on
my waist. After tying the petticoat strings, I thrust my arms through the
waist of the muted-red tartan skirt and secured it at the waist. A
forest-green bodice completed the ensemble. I had no mirror, but I
knew that particular shade of green complemented my hazel eyes and
my hair, a shade my mother often used to describe as gingerbread
brown.
I wondered what she would have thought of my circumstances.
Widowed when I was only two, she had been my best friend, and I
missed her terribly. I swallowed hard as I caught myself feeling almost

thankful that she had died two years before of cancer. I couldn't have
borne the thought of her terror if I'd disappeared, never to be seen
again.
Fifteen minutes later found me sitting on the edge of the mattress,
downing the rest of the ale and contemplating the dusty tips of my
dark-brown hiking boots beneath the hem of the skirts. Mary hadn't
provided any footwear, and for that I was grateful. I suspected that,
given her height, her feet were larger than mine. So I tapped my shoes
on the plain tartan carpet covering the floor, drank some more ale and
waited, studying the dirt under my fingernails.
A small sideboard with several small drawers hugged one wall, upon
which rested a porcelain basin, which appeared to be dry. A small
towel and soap accompanied the basin. I longed for water with which to
wash my hands and face, if nothing else.
A sharp rap on the door and the sound of the latch brought me to my
feet. Mary entered. Alone with her for the first time, I swallowed hard
and smoothed my skirts as Mary inspected me critically.
"Aye, as I suspected, the skirts are much too long for ye, but they are all
I had to spare. They look well enough though. I have come to pick up
yer tray. Did the food satisfy ye?"
"Oh, yes, it was lovely," I said. "Thank you! "
"Och, I am pleased to hear it." She favored me with a rare smile, which
softened her expression. "John told me of yer quest to find yer sister. I
am sorry to hear she ran off with a kinsman. We dinna ken who the lad
is, for we have no heard of this elopement, but I am sorry for yer
family."
"Thank you," I said, feeling uncomfortable with my dishonesty in the
face of such genuine sympathy.
"Do ye have need of anything? John said to tell ye he would return
soon, but he wishes ye to stay in the keep for yer safety."
"Well, I..." I pressed a hand to my stomach.
Mary nodded wisely. "Under the bed."
Unable to bend easily in the snug corset, I backed up and looked under
the bed. Yes, a ceramic chamber pot awaited me. I wasn't surprised.
We'd had them on display in Williamsburg, but no one had used one,
that I knew of.

"Thank you." She turned to go.
"Did John say how long I had to stay here?" Mary spun with a frown.
"Nay. I asked him what his intentions with ye were, but he told me to
mind my own business. He is a fair man. I dinna think he will keep ye
long. Perhaps he still wishes to assure himself that ye are no a spy for
the English or the Macleods. I canna blame him. These are troubled
times, and treachery abounds." I nodded.
She opened the door but paused and looked over her shoulder at
me.
"Dinna fear my brother, lass. He is honorable. The Morrisons dinna
treat women unkindly."
She slipped through the door, and I heard the latch drop. I let out some
pent-up air and reached up to rub my forehead. Was I going to spend all
my time in the sixteenth century locked up in a tower? Really? When I
returned to the twenty-first century—not if, but when—what would I
have to report? That the keep was much taller than we had previously
thought? That the Morrisons were a handsome group of people? That a
drawbridge of some kind did not exist to facilitate entry onto the tidal
island?
Because I certainly wasn't learning much else on my "adventure," not
while locked up in the keep.
I made use of the chamber pot, not something I had ever done in real
life, but which I was familiar with, given my time as a Colonial-era
interpreter in Williamsburg. Not only had I never actually used one of
the many chamber pots I had seen in Williamsburg, but I had never
tried to squat over one with full skirts. I managed and hurriedly pushed
the pot out of sight under the bed, vowing to empty it sometime.
I ventured over to the sideboard again and peered into the basin one
more time. No water. The towel appeared clean, the soap of fragrant
heather, but none of them did me any good without water. I had to
remember to ask for water the next time someone came by.
At loose ends, I eyed the door, wondering if Mary had truly secured the
latch. I walked over to it, dragging my overly long skirts

behind me. I pulled and pushed at the handle, but the heavy wooden
door didn't budge. I studied the timber, wondering how far they'd had to
transport the material. I had seen no forests on the windswept Isle of
Lewis, not in the twenty-first century and not from the little I'd seen of
the mainland in the sixteenth century.
Suddenly, I heard the sound of the latch lifting, and the door swung
open. I barely had time to jump back at the sight of John in the
doorway. He raised a questioning eyebrow at me, and I blinked and
waited for his words. Clearly, he knew that I had been standing at the
door.
I noted that he had smoothed back his hair, tying the top half at the back
of his neck and letting the rest of his golden-highlighted waves drape
across his shoulders. The half-pony revealed a widow's peak and high
cheekbones. The feminine style made him look more masculine than
ever.
"Ye look bonny in Mary's gown. Wee but bonny." To my surprise, John
said nothing about me standing at the door. His gaze focused on the
hemline of the skirt. I picked up a handful of skirt and shrugged.
"Yes, Mary is a good deal taller than I." "Aye," he agreed.
"So you told her the story about my sister running off with a Morrison
man."
"Aye. Did she query ye about it?" I shook my head. "No, she just
expressed her sympathy." "If Mary believes that fable, then I suppose
most will believe it. As ye already ken, she has a suspicious nature."
"She's not the only one." I jumped on the opportunity. "So now can I
get out of here?" I gestured to the walls of the tiny room. "Do ye mean
the keep?"
I nodded. I had no doubt that once I got outside, I would probably
mumble some words to see if I could travel back in time, since I
couldn't get hold of the dagger. Just in case the catalyst hadn't been the
knife after all.
"What assurance do I have that ye will no attempt to escape again,
lass?"

He crossed his arms over his chest. Even under the white shirt, I could
see the rounded curves of well-developed triceps. A pulse ticked at his
throat, and I found myself staring at him.
"Lass? Yer promise?"
"What?" I asked, returning my attention to his handsome face. Blue
eyes watched me carefully.
"Yer assurance ye will no try to escape," he repeated. I had to be
honest—with him.
"Look, what good is a promise from me? Of course I'm going to try to
escape, one way or the other. I was just thinking that if I could get
outside, I would see if I could just chant something to return to my own
time." I looked up at the stone walls again. "I doubt if I can get any
reception in here, you know?"
John's look of confusion might have made me laugh, but I didn't.
"Reception?" he repeated.
I shook my head. "No, forget that. It was a silly comment. There are no
satellites."
"I dinna ken yer words, lass. Do ye mock me? I will no be mocked, no
by man or woman."
John's beautiful eyes darkened. Deep furrows on his brow showed
strong displeasure, possibly anger, something far more intense than the
irritation he had shown earlier with his sister. The intensity of his
emotion surpassed anything he had exhibited when I tried to escape
earlier.
I backed away, though he made no move toward me.
"Ye have as good said that ye will attempt to escape again. Therefore,
nay, I will no release ye from the keep. I shall see that Mary brings ye
yer dinner."
Before I could say a word, John swung around and strode from the
room, dropping the latch with a loud thud.
My throat tightened, and tears sprung from my eyes to burn their way
down my cheeks. I rubbed at them with the palms of my hands and
dropped down to sit on the edge of the bed forlornly.
I started chatting to thin air, negotiating, persuading.
"Look, if I could just get out of here, if I knew that I could get out

of here when I wanted, I'd be all right, you know?" I didn't know to
whom I was talking, but whoever it was probably wasn't listening. "I'm
not even sure I need to get out of the sixteenth century so much as I
need to get out of this room. I feel so trapped in here." I snorted. "Well,
I am trapped in here, actually."
Dejectedly, I studied the walls, wondering if I should start counting the
stones. A sound just outside the door caught my attention, and I jumped
up to face the door. Was John coming back? I waited, holding my
breath, but the sound was not repeated. Feeling suddenly tired, I
lowered myself to the bed, slipped out of my shoes and lay down.
I wondered what people would think when they found out that I had
disappeared. Would they call the police? Search the island to see if I'd
accidentally fallen into the sea? They would know I hadn't simply
packed my bags and left, because my bags were still in the bedroom of
the MacIvers' croft.
Drowsily, I contemplated Mary's return to the keep to bring me dinner.
Tall and determined, could she block me from an escape attempt? I
imagined she could. I was going to try it anyway. The worst they could
do was drag me back into the keep, right? That was the worst they
would do, right?

Chapter Five
Barely dozing, I awakened to the now familiar noise of the latch being
lifted on the door, and I swung my feet to the floor and thrust them into
my shoes. The room had darkened considerably, as if the sun no longer
shone into the window of the east-facing room but had moved toward
the west.
The door opened as I rose, and I grabbed up my overly long skirts and
hurried toward it. Mary, just outside the doorway, bent to pick up a
tray, and with a mumbled apology, I pushed past her and ran for the
open doorway of the keep.
"Mistress Borodell!" Mary called out from behind me. "Ann!"
I emerged into a land turned gold by the late-afternoon sun. The sea
around the island sparkled. A quick glance showed that the gate was
still guarded by two men. Yet the walls surrounding the stronghold
were at least six feet high. I could never manage to climb them.
I could do nothing but run for the gate again, hoping to take the guards
by surprise. I looked over my shoulder to see Mary behind me, one
hand grasping her skirts as she hurried toward me.
"Robbie, James!" she called out. She shouted something in Gaelic,
which I assumed was the equivalent of "Stop her!"
I reached the open gate before the two Highlanders, sitting and relaxing
against the stone walls, could scramble to their feet. Without a
particular plan, I flew through the gate.
One of the men shouted, again in Gaelic. I felt a tug at my skirt and
heard a rip as one grasped at my skirts, but he couldn't keep hold of me,
and I hurried toward the precipice of the ravine. The tide was out, and I
hesitated for only a moment. Spotting a path etched into the cliff face, I
grabbed up my skirts even farther and hurried down the path.
The rocky ledge was steep, narrow and slippery with lichen. I glanced
over my shoulder to see the two men pursuing me with agile speed.
They would soon overtake me if I didn't kick into another gear.
My heart pounded in my ears, and I gasped for air. At the top of the
cliff, I saw Mary and heard her shouting, though I couldn't make out the
words.

I jerked my head forward and ran as fast as I could, slipping and
stumbling often on the roughened surface. I reached the rocky beach
below and ran down a length toward what appeared to be another steep
cliff path rising up to the mainland.
A shout from behind almost stilled me. I recognized John's voice. I
dared not look around, afraid I would docilely stop at his command. He
seemed to have that effect on me. "Ann!" he shouted.
Clutching my skirts almost to my knees, I scrambled up the opposite
cliff side, grabbing at rock outcroppings with one hand. "Stop!"
Again, I almost complied.
"No," I muttered to myself. "No! "
I crested the path and reached the top of the cliff, the mainland where
the car park had once been. I glanced quickly over my shoulder toward
Dun Eistean as I ran away from the cliff edge. I had no idea where I was
heading and no idea what I would do when I stopped running. And I
was very near to stopping. I couldn't breathe. My lungs burned. My ribs
ached.
Again, I resisted looking behind me. John was bound to catch me soon.
What had I been thinking? That I could outrun him?
"Ann. Please stop. There is nowhere for ye to go. Ye are safer with me
than no."
John's voice came, not in a distant shout, but from close behind
me.
I stopped and bent over to catch my breath. I heard him speak in Gaelic,
and responses from the two men who' d been chasing me. From my
upside-down, hanging-head perspective, I peered at John and the men
through the crook in my elbow. The guards backed off, and John
approached me.
I straightened, clutching my aching ribs. My heart pounded, the pulse
reverberating in my chest and ears. My throat was raw.
A hand slipped around my waist, and I felt myself half lifted off my feet
as John pulled me to him. His movement was gentle, not angry, and he
held me against his chest. I listened to the rapid thud of his heart

for a moment before he released me. He stood back and looked down at
me.
"Ye didna promise no to escape," he said in a resigned voice. "Ye
warned me ye would try again, and ye did."
I looked up into his troubled eyes and shrugged, still unable to catch my
breath enough to speak.
"Will ye come back to the island willingly, or must I carry ye?"
To rest my head against his chest once again and listen to his heartbeat
as he carried me? But then again, he could very well throw me over his
shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry me back like that.
I turned and surveyed my surroundings. Nothing. No buildings. No
cities or towns within view. Nothing but long grass billowing in the sea
breezes. John was right. There was nowhere for me to go. And running
from the island had not magically transported me back to the
twenty-first century.
"I'll come willingly," I said.
As if we were headed out on a date, John offered me his arm in a
courtly gesture, and I took it. He helped me descend the path, kept me
steady across the pebbly beach, and half pulled me up the opposite
cliff. The two guards watched me pass through the gate with belligerent
expressions, which quickly went blank when John said something to
them in Gaelic.
I headed directly toward the keep, but John put a staying hand on my
elbow.
"Ye dinna have to return to the keep if ye dinna wish it, lass. I suspect
ye ken there is nowhere to go, no unless ye think ye can manage
the boat."
I breathed a sigh of relief.
"Oh, thank you!" I shook my head. "No, I don't know anything about
boats or sailing. Where do you keep it?"
John turned a wry look on me, one corner of his lips lifting. "Ye wish
me to tell ye where we keep the boat? Are ye daft?" I held back a
chuckle.
"No, I'm not daft. If you don't lock me up, I'll see it eventually. Might as
well show me now. I'm an archaeologist, you know. I'd love to

see where you all kept it—keep it—and what it looks like."
"It is so kind of ye to return, Mistress Borodell!" a voice snapped
behind me. Mary stood there, arms on her hips, fuming, her blue eyes
dark with anger.
"I' m sorry for knocking you over," I said with an embarrassed
frown. "But I had to try."
"Aye, that ye did," she said. "I have told John I will have no more to do
with ye. He can feed ye himself."
"Now, Mary," John began, but Mary turned on her heel and stalked
off.
A knot formed in my throat again. It seemed as if the sixteenth century
made me weepier than usual. Perhaps it was the time traveler's version
of jet lag.
"Dinna fash, lass. Mary is quick to temper, but she will no stay angry
for long. In the meantime, I will see to yer needs."
"I don't blame her." I followed Mary's progress to one of the thatched
stone houses. Her children playfully chased each other out front but
followed their mother inside when she arrived.
"I suppose I don't have a right to ask about her, and she wouldn't
welcome it, but I' m confused. Is she a Macleod? Is she married to a
Macleod?"
"No longer. She is widowed. Her husband was a Macleod, Hamish, son
and heir of the chieftain, Angus Macleod. The marriage was doomed
from the moment they eloped five years ago. Mary escaped from Clan
Macleod only a few months ago with the bairns after her husband
died."
"Doomed? How?"
"He was a Macleod. She is a Morrison. Our families share no love for
one another. Once we did, but no more. My father forbade Mary to
marry Hamish, and his family was no pleased either, but the deed was
done before they could be caught. I thought my sire would kill Hamish,
and perhaps he would have, but the auld man died of an apoplectic fit
and could do the couple no harm. Still, Mary's time on the mainland
with the Macleods was no a happy one. Hamish died in a drunken
brawl with a Morrison kinsman in a pub near Ness. Mary wished to
return home, but Angus forbade it. She escaped and is now under my

protection."
"Romeo and Juliet," I murmured. "Romeo and Juliet?" John repeated.
"Oh, just a play written by someone called Shakespeare, a tragedy
about young lovers from feuding families. I don't think he's written the
play yet in your time."
"I have no heard of it." I looked up at him in surprise. "Would you hear
of a playwright way up here?" John pursed his lips and bent his head to
eye me closely. "We are no savages here in the Western Isles, lass. I
have attended several performances in Glasgow."
"Really? What were you doing in Glasgow?" "My father wished me to
learn to speak and write English. And it has come in very handily, I
must say.
"Come," he said. "Ye wished to see the birlinn." He put a hand under
my arm to guide me across the expanse of the tabletop island to the
northeastern edge.
"Berlin?" I repeated. "Is that what you call the boat?"
"Aye, birlinn, boat, vessel."
We passed two small stone turf-topped buildings as we approached a
jagged ravine where the perimeter guard wall stopped. Several kilted
men sat on stone benches outside the buildings, and John nodded in
their direction before leading me forward. I assumed these were the
boathouses.
"There is a ledge below where we pull the birlinn from the sea at high
tide. Ye can see the vessel now."
I peered over the edge and looked down at a rocky beach. A
distinctively Nordic-looking wooden ship with a curved bow had been
hauled onto the beach and anchored. Smaller than pictures I had seen of
Viking long ships, I counted eight oars, four on each side. White sails
were wrapped along a tall mast.
"Wow! I was thinking something along the lines of a skiff or so. That's
a real ship."
"Of course," John said with a chuckle. "The seas are verra rough

here in the Western Isles. No wee boat will do."
"So, where do you all go in the birlinn? Not just to the mainland,
right?"
"Aye, to the mainland, but no just across the ravine. We travel along the
coast to Ness, sometimes to trade or barter. We have no horses, as ye
can see, so if we wish to travel a distance and bear a load, it must be by
the birlinn."
I turned and looked over my shoulder. No, indeed, I didn't see any
horses. I had seen several sheep near the houses, but no horses. The
island was way too small to accommodate horses, and I doubted they
would or could climb the slippery, rocky path up to the tabletop.
I looked out onto the expanse of white-capped sea and toward the
mainland. Waves crashed against dark, craggy shores and against
random rocky outcrops jutting from the sea. Thick gray clouds had
rolled in, and the entire vista was wild and untamed, desolate and harsh,
but stunningly beautiful.
"So beautiful! " I murmured.
"Aye, it is." John's voice softened as he gazed out to sea.
"But remote. Why don't you all live on the mainland? From what I saw,
there's plenty of room."
"I have a home farther down the coast, Ardmore Castle. Unfortunately,
we had to leave our home and retreat to the stronghold at Dun Eistean
for the clan's safety when my foolish uncle angered the Macleod by
spiriting his young wife away. Angus swore vengeance upon all
Morrisons, and he attacked Ardmore. We were sorely outnumbered
and had to flee. We lost many good men that night. It is Angus who
now controls Ardmore."
"Where is your uncle now?"
"Och, he fled to Glasgow with his fair lady. Angus found himself a new
young bride, but that did naethin to assuage his anger against my daft
uncle."
"I can't imagine Mary living with them under those circumstances,
especially after her husband died."
"No, it was an unhappy time for her. Their romance was short lived,
unable to withstand the clan feuding. Then again, Hamish drank

too much, leaving her oft alone with the bairns." I turned to look toward
the houses. "It sounds like she's much better off here."
"Aye, she is home with her people. She has no shortage of admirers, but
it may be too soon for her to consider romance."
My cheeks burned, and I raised a hand to my face. Had the tall
Highlander at my side just said romance? I turned to look at the keep.
"And the tower is to keep watch over the cliff edge?" "Aye, and the sea,
to ward off an attack."
"An attack? You mean from Angus Macleod? If he has the Morrison
home and land, if he got his revenge, what else could he
want?"
"Angus wants his grandchildren, Hamish's bairns. He was no happy
when Mary ran away, and reports are that he has vowed to take them
back."
"So he would attack to take the children?"
"Aye, but he might no stop with just Mary's bairns. He might take all
the children and most of the young women. It is no unheard of. The
Macleods will continue to seek to destroy the entire Clan
Morrison—that is the way of it."
"Because your uncle took his wife and Mary took her children?" "Aye,"
John said with a wry nod. "And to take our territory. At one time, we
were hereditary brieves on the Isle of Lewis, but Angus decided we had
too much authority, and his thirst for absolute power goads him to seek
the clan's destruction. He has as much said so." I studied the
stronghold—so small, so desolate. "How long can you withstand a
siege?" I asked. "Perhaps years. We capture fresh water in the well. We
take food from the sea. We grow a few small crops.
"Come," he said. "Ye must be thirsty. Let us find some ale." He led the
way, not toward to the keep but toward the cottages. Upon nearing
them, I noted on closer inspection that the stone walls were about four
feet high and the upper walls and mounded roofs were covered with
thick turf. Plumes of smoke escaped from the roofs of some

crofts, indicating fire for cooking or heat.
I had expected John to knock on the door of Mary's house, but he took
me to another house and knocked on the wooden door. A small elderly
lady opened the door with a bright, if slightly toothless, smile.

Chapter Six
"John, ye have brought yer guest! " she said, wiping her hands on a
grimy whitish apron. Like most of the Morrisons, she wore a skirt made
of the faded-scarlet material. Had it been the twenty-first century, I
would have said they had a sale on the fabric, but I assumed it was
easier to dye and weave the same colors and patterns.
Her face was lined and weathered, her white hair wispy and knotted at
the back of her head.
"Mistress Glick, may I present Mistress Ann Borodell?" I found my
hand enclosed in a scrawny but surprisingly warm little hand as she
pulled me inside her home. I was reminded of a Native American adobe
house. The floor was compacted dirt, though Mistress Glick had
thrown several tartan carpets over the whole, lending it a cozy feel. I
was able to stand up comfortably, but more to the point, so was John, at
well over six feet. Curved timber beams supported the turf ceiling. A
small ring of stones smack dab in the middle of the croft supported a
cheery peat fire. An iron tripod held a black iron pot.
A bed tucked against one wall featured a plaid blanket. A small wooden
table and several simple wooden chairs nestled against another wall,
and Mistress Glick guided me to one of the chairs.
"Yer skirt drags the ground, my dear," she said. "I can fix that for
ye."
"Oh, I don't know," I exclaimed. "This is Mary's skirt, not mine. I' d
better not make any adjustments to it. But thank you for the offer! "
"Aye, I ken Mary lent ye some clothes. I have heard ye are from
England as well. It is no surprise ye dinna have proper clothing.
English misses are allowed so many liberties. Trews indeed! " I looked
up at John, who stood behind me. "Seat yerself, lad! Will ye have some
ale?"
"I had hoped ye would have some, Mistress Glick," he said. "We are
fair parched."
"I should no wonder, given the running about I saw today. The folk
have been asking. Is Mistress Borodell yer prisoner or yer guest?"
John dipped his head in a shamefaced expression and took a seat.

His tall frame seemed liable to crush the small chair, but it held sturdy.
"Mistress Borodell is our guest," he said. "She will stay with us for a
spell."
I turned a quick glance on him as Mistress Glick opened up a small
wooden cupboard and retrieved an earthenware jug and some pewter
cups.
"A spell?" I asked.
"A spell?" Mistress Glick echoed, returning to the table with the ale.
"How long might that be?" She directed her question to me, but I had to
look to John for my answer. After all, he was the one in possession of
the dagger, not I.
"Some days, I think," he said, refusing to look at me. He poured ale into
three cups.
"I understand ye came in search of yer sister?" Mistress Glick said. She
piled some oatcakes onto a plate and brought those to the table, taking a
seat.
"Yes, but she's not here. I'll have to keep looking," I said. "That's no an
English accent," Mistress Glick said, her blue eyes sharp.
I looked to John as usual.
"I believe Mistress Borodell's mother was from France, her father from
England. Perhaps that accounts for her strange form of English."
"Perhaps," Mistress Glick said, obviously unconvinced. I squirmed in
my chair and gulped some ale.
"Where do ye think yer sister might be? What is this Morrison lad's
name? The one with whom she eloped?"
"Oh, uh...Dylan. Dylan Morrison."
"Dylan? Funny name that," Mistress Glick said. "I've no heard of a
Dylan Morrison, and I ken most of the Morrison folk in the Western
Isles. Perhaps he is a lowlander?"
"Yes, maybe. I'll check in Glasgow next."
"Aye, or Edinburgh. Did ye search Edinburgh?"
"No, not yet," I replied, hoping the bizarre conversation would end.
"Have some oatcakes," she urged, pushing the plate at me.
"Aye," John finally spoke. "Mistress Glick is known to make the

best cakes." He took one and bit into it heartily. I picked one up and
nibbled myself. Nutty tasting with a hint of salt, they were indeed
delicious. I thought I might have to get the recipe from Mistress Glick
before I left.
I looked at John. Before I left.
No! I was leaving just as soon as I got the dirk from John. I had a life, a
degree to finish, student loans, a budding career. I was leaving as soon
as possible. Whatever odd phenomena transpired to toss me back in
time was just a quirk of fate, and no romantic or mystical meaning
should be attached to it. I was privileged to experience a bit of
sixteenth-century Scotland, but I didn't belong here. I wasn't hardy
enough. I wasn't brave enough. I wasn't strong enough...and the
weather in the Outer Hebrides was far, far cooler than that of Virginia
in the twenty-first century. No!
I looked up to see John watching me, a frown between his eyebrows. I
loved the way his dark-blond eyebrows and facial hair glowed gold in
the light of the fire, the way the sun had lightened his long hair into
sandy streaks, the dark tan that suggested that although clouds covered
the island much of the time, sunshine was also abundantly available.
I didn' t love the frown on his face though, and I had the distinct
impression he could read my mind.
"These are delicious," I said. "I'll have to get the recipe from you."
"Recipe?" Mistress Glick asked, looking from me to John. "No doubt a
French word," he murmured, turning to me. "Oh, yes, probably. How
you make the oatcakes, the ingredients, how to cook them."
"Och, aye, it is simple. Oatmeal, water, a wee bit of salt, and drop them
in the frying pan."
"That is simple. I'll bet even I can do that." "Ye dinna cook then?" the
older woman asked. My cheeks flamed for some reason. I avoided
looking at John. "I'm afraid not. Not very well."
"But how do ye eat then, lass? Or perhaps ye have servants. Of course,
ye have servants in England, no?"

John looked at me with interest. I shook my head.
"No, no servants. I just make do with what I have."
"We all do, dearie, but some foods must be cooked."
How could I change this subject, no easier than the one regarding my
imaginary sister? I couldn't very well explain microwaves and
restaurants. Or could I?
"I eat at the pub often."
Mistress Glick nodded.
"Ah! Aye, of course, the public house. We have such in Ness, though I
have no been for many years. It is now in Macleod hands. I dinna like
to leave the stronghold."
"Aye, a situation I hope to remedy someday when we take back our
lands," John said. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "I dinna think Mistress
Glick has been to the mainland in three years."
"Since yer uncle whisked the Macleod's lady away." She lifted a dry
eyebrow, and John hung his head in mock shame. When he raised his
head, I thought I saw a twinkle in his eye. It could have been a spark
from the fire though.
"And him happily ensconced in Glasgow," John said.
"Aye, the scoundrel. Doomed us to years of feuding. Why does no
Angus simply go to Glasgow and do away with the irritating man?"
John's lips lifted in a curve, and he turned to me.
"I should explain that Mistress Glick is my uncle's aunt."
"Oh!" Perhaps that explained why she suggested a man kill her
nephew.
"Dinna take my words amiss, lass. I love the boy, but he has worsened
our relations with the Macleods, and only because he sought a dalliance
with a married woman."
"How old is your uncle?" I asked John. I had assumed he was older, but
the word "boy" threw me off.
"Oh, about forty, I should say. Quite auld."
I smiled. I supposed forty was old in the sixteenth century. I wondered
how old Mistress Glick was but dared not ask. She looked to be about
eighty or so, but that advanced age seemed unlikely.

The door opened suddenly, unannounced, and Mary stepped in. She
stopped short at the sight of us and turned to go.
"Stay, Mary," John called out. "Mistress Borodell and I were just about
to go. Mistress Glick has kindly given us refreshment."
Mary turned and hesitated, wiping her hands in the ubiquitous
off-white apron so many of the women wore over their skirts.
"I stopped only for some cakes for the bairns," she said. "They will no
eat mine."
"Och, those wee ones!" Mistress Glick laughed, a cackle really. She
rose and walked over to her cupboard, wrapping some cakes in linen,
which she handed to Mary.
"I share their love of Mistress Glick's cooking," John said with a smile.
Mary did not return his smile, and she refused to look at me. I could see
she was definitely one to hold a grudge.
John rose. "Come. Let me introduce ye to my niece and nephew! I have
seen little enough of them this day."
"Oh, no, John," I murmured, suspecting Mary definitely wouldn't want
me around her children. I was right
"Thank ye, Mistress Glick," she said. She turned to John, ignoring me.
"A few minutes, no more. I dinna wish them overly excited with new
visitors afore bed."
I looked out of the open doorway. Indeed, the sun was low in the sky. I
really didn't want to go to Mary's croft.
John blithely ignored the tension and turned to the older woman.
"Thank ye, Mistress Glick, for the cakes and ale." John gave the old
woman a slight bow.
"Thank you," I echoed.
"My pleasure," she said. "If ye come back tomorrow, I will show ye
how to make the cakes. I have taught Mary more than once, but
somehow her bairns still prefer my cooking." Again, she laughed in a
raspy voice.
Mary smiled, lending her face an unusually affable expression. "I take
no offense at yer comments, for they are verra true." She turned to
leave, and when I hesitated, preferring to cozy up with Mistress Glick
rather than Mary, John guided me out of the door.

We followed Mary to her croft and entered. An exact replica of
Mistress Glick's house, she too sported tartan carpeting. Two beds
anchored separate corners of the room. I assumed the children, now
seating themselves at a table along one wall, slept in one bed.
"Here is yer uncle John, Archibald and Sarah!" Mary said, immediately
busying herself over a pot in the fireplace. I supposed that small
children learned to stay away from open fires in the sixteenth century.
The children's faces barely cleared the tabletop. I assumed the boy was
about four, the girl five, but with little experience with children, I could
only guess.
John bent to kiss the top of each blond child's head before he settled me
into a spare chair. I really didn't want to sit. There were only four chairs
and five people. Mary would have to sit to eat her meal, and I didn't
want to get in the way. She still hadn't looked at me directly, and I didn'
t blame her.
"Uncle John!" Sarah sang out, her voice louder than necessary. "Are ye
no eating with us this eve? Who is the lady?"
John, who remained standing, ruffled Sarah's hair with obvious
affection.
"This is Mistress Borodell, Sarah. She has come to stay with us for a
time."
"Awww, just for a time?" Sarah said in a petulant voice, before her face
brightened. "Can she live with us?"
"Sarah!" Mary turned around with a snap. "Mind yer manners. No!
Mistress Borodell is only here for a visit, no to live."
Little Sarah's face drooped.
I melted into my chair, wishing myself far away. John, standing behind
Sarah, fixed his sister with a stare. "Aye, Sister. Manners."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mary hunch a shoulder and turn
away from him. John shook his head and popped another kiss on
Sarah's head.
"We must away, bairns. Say farewell to Mistress Borodell now." I
jumped up and echoed the children's good-byes.

"Where will ye take yer supper then, John?" Mary asked quietly, still
keeping her back to us.
"I ken Mistress Borodell and I will find something to eat," he said. He
guided me out the door and away from the houses. His step slowed as
he neared the water pond.
"I take it Mary feeds you every day?"
He stared down into the water and rubbed his beard with a rueful half
smile.
"Aye," he said. "I am no married, and since Mary returned, she took up
the task of feeding me. I have no servants here on the island. Some
were captured when Angus took my home."
"So, where do you plan to find food?" I hated being the source of the
animosity I now sensed between John and his sister.
"I dinna ken to tell ye the truth." His smile widened, showing strong
even white teeth. "Mistress Glick would be more than happy to feed us,
but I dinna like to take her food. She is no a wealthy woman and has
little enough as it is." "Can you pay her?"
"She would no like that. No. The clan gives her what she needs." "Oh!"
I looked around. No restaurants, no grocery stores. Once again, I felt
the desolation and starkness of life in the sixteenth century Western
Isles of Scotland, especially on a small tidal stack.
"Come! Let me return ye to the keep, and I will search out supper."
"Oh! Am I sleeping there?"
"Aye," he said. "Unless ye would rather sleep on Mary's floor?" I gave
him a dry smile. "But isn't the keep where you sleep?" "Aye, but I shall
make do elsewhere."
"Where?" I scanned the tabletop again. Was there spare housing? A
spare bed somewhere?
"Dinna fash about such matters, lass. It is my concern, no yers." I gave
up inquiries and accompanied him back to the keep. He dropped me off
at the ground-floor room and left without locking the door. I tried it just
in case, and it opened. But I really had nowhere to go, and I didn' t want
to worry him anymore. The sweet pleading in his voice

as he begged me to stop running earlier that day had become my jail. I
was a willing prisoner.
I made use of the chamber pot once again, still no expert at the art of
lifting my skirts, squatting and doing the deed. A cramp in my upper
thighs made me almost fall over, and I jumped up, cursed the thing and
pushed it under the bed, promising myself once again that I would find
a way to empty it.
Now desperately longing for some water with which to wash my hands,
I wiped them on my skirt and whirled around just as a tap sounded on
the door. Before I could say "enter," John pushed open the door and
ushered in an adolescent boy carrying a large wooden tray.
I watched as the boy, a tall, skinny, freckle-faced thing with a thatch of
long, scraggily red hair, bearing all the hallmarks of Viking descent, set
the tray on the table. Like others in what some might call a commune,
he wore a white shirt with the faded-scarlet tartan kilt wrapped around
his waist and a sash thrown over his shoulder.
"Thank ye, Andrew," John said.
A boy of few words, Andrew eyed me wildly, ducked his head and
turned for the door, hurrying out.
"Do you have anything to wash with?" I asked John. "My hands." I held
them up in front of me as if he could see how dirty they were.
"Aye, of course," John said. He ducked his head back out the door that
Andrew had left open.
"Andrew! "
Andrew appeared at the doorway. "Aye, yer lairdship?"
"Some clean water for the mistress. Be quick about it!"
"Aye! "
Andrew rushed off, and John turned and pulled out a chair for me. I
hesitated.
"I'll wait till I wash my hands."
"Surely ye can have some ale while ye wait?"
Indeed, the tray held a new jug of ale, several cups, and several plates
laden with food.
"Yes, okay, that would be nice."

I had to admit that I would rather drink the water that Andrew might
bring, but I supposed ale would be better for my delicate twenty-first
century constitution.
I took the seat that John offered and drank some of the ale he poured for
me. Andrew returned in a jiff and gave John a bucket. John shooed him,
then poured water into the basin and then stepped back.
"Do ye wish me to leave?" he asked.
"Oh, no! I'm fine. I'll just wash my hands and face." I dived into the
cold water and splashed it on my face before washing my hands with
the soap. Self-consciously aware that John waited for me, I hurried,
ignoring my desire to pour the water through my hair and down my
body. I really wanted a bath.
I dried my face and hands and hurried back to the table.
"I feel better, thanks! "
"Do ye?" he asked with a curious lift of his eyebrows. "Oh, yes,
refreshed." I studied his hands, which looked clean enough. He reached
for an oatcake.
"How often do you bathe around here?"
His hand stilled, and he coughed. In the act of spooning in some stew, I
looked up.
"I mean...water, washing, is that a big thing in your time? Somehow, I
don't think so, right?"
Nothing in my archaeological studies had prepared me for interviewing
a live sixteenth-century man about his hygiene habits, and I was doing
a horrible job of it.
John's eyes widened, then narrowed. His jaw tightened...literally.
"What I mean is...I'm not trying to insinuate that you all are dirty, but
with no running water, I presume you don't bathe very often?"
If they didn't bathe often, and I was sure they didn't—they certainly
didn't in Colonial America—then why did he look so insulted?
"John, I ' m just asking a question."
"And a verra rude one it is, lass. It is no polite to question me on my
cleanliness."
"Well, I ' m an archaeologist! Of course I want to know as much about
your time as I can. I ' m sorry if my questions are insensitive."

"Insensitive. There is a bonny word. Insensitive."
"I don't mean to be. I guess I could have worded my question
differently...though how, I actually don't know."
"I dinna ken either. Perhaps dinna ask?" John swigged back an entire
cup of ale.
"Okay. Sure, I guess I could miss the opportunity of a lifetime. To
interview someone who really lives in the sixteenth century. To
document things I learn. Sure, I could squander that chance while I ' m
here! " I felt ashamed but somehow righteous at the same time—an odd
combination. My anger was rapidly matching John's.
"If ye didna plan to run away again so soon, to return to yer own time as
quickly as possible, ye could simply learn these things without asking
such ill-mannered questions! "
"I' m not running away. I just want to go home! More than anything, I
want to know that I can go home."
"Well, ye canna, and that is the end of it! I am no ready to let ye
go!"

Chapter Seven
I gasped. Something in the way John spoke those words seemed
intimate, possessive. He had said them before, but his tone had taken on
more of a quixotic note.
"Enough," John said, raising a hand as if in truce. "I apologize for
barking at ye. Yes, we bathe when necessary. Less often here at the dun
than at Ardmore Castle, given our limited supply of fresh water."
My anger melted, and I eyed John curiously.
"Tell me about Ardmore Castle."
"Aye, my estate, home, as ye say. I ken yer longing for home."
"How is it that Angus Macleod is still in possession of your estate? Are
there no laws to help you get it back?"
"Angus's thirst for vengeance and power is great. He and the chieftain
of the Macaulays petitioned the king for a Letter of Fire and Sword to
destroy the Morrisons. I have no been able to travel to London to
explain our position."
"I heard of the Letters of Fire and Sword."
"Did ye?" John asked. He resumed eating. "Does the king still issue
such commissions? A sorry business."
"The United Kingdom has a queen now, not a king. She is a titular ruler
with very little real power. The United Kingdom is actually governed
by Parliament. And I doubt anyone in the UK commissions letters
authorizing clans to kill each other anymore."
"Indeed?" John said with a sardonic lift of one eyebrow. "Tell me of
this Parliament."
I told him what little I knew of Parliament, and much of that was
historical in the context of my studies of Colonial America. When I
wrapped up my meager knowledge regarding the current British
political system two minutes later, he urged me to speak further.
"Tell me of yer studies of Colonial America."
We talked while we ate, somehow putting aside the issue of my
leaving...once again. I noted that John still carried the dagger on his
belt and that he continued to position it at his back.
At some point, I noted the light from the window fading as the sun

went down, and I leaned closer to my plate to see the food. John rose
and crossed over to the sideboard, retrieving something that looked like
a small brass tinderbox. I watched in fascination as he struck flint to
steel, blew on the tinder and transferred a small flame to the candle
within the lantern. I couldn't help but thrill to see a historical figure use
a tinderbox in real time. I supposed that John would find himself just as
thrilled if I whipped out a box of matches and lit one—better yet, a
disposable lighter, but I had neither.
"Thank you! "
"Are yer eyes weak then?" he asked.
"What?" As far as I knew, I had perfect vision...so far. "No, I think it's
fine."
"I saw ye squinting at yer food. Did something displease ye?" "Oh no! I
thought you realized that it has gotten pretty dark. The sun has gone
down." He looked up.
"Aye, so it has. But it is no yet dark."
I gave up. I was clearly talking to a sixteenth-century man who didn' t
flick on lights at the first sign of twilight, not like I did. I imagined his
shock, not only at the concept of electricity but that we used light all the
time, even during daylight hours.
"Then the food is to yer liking?"
I nodded.
"Oh, yes, it's delicious!" And it was, hearty and filling. "Are ye
finished?" I nodded.
"Yes, I've eaten plenty."
John pushed back his chair and opened the door.
"Andrew! " he called out.
Andrew, as if he'd been standing guard, appeared instantly at the
doorway.
"Ye can take the food away, there's a good lad." Andrew nodded,
picked up our dishes and loaded the tray before leaving of the room.
John remained standing, and I rose.

"I shall bid ye good night then," he said with a bow. "You're leaving?"
Well, of course he was leaving. He certainly wasn't going to stay in the
room, was he?
"Aye, I think ye could use some rest. I will see ye in the morn.
Sleep well."
I wasn't ready to say good night, but I couldn't think of any reason to
stall John's departure. An after-dinner walk? Cards? Ghost stories
around a campfire? Didn't they do anything after dinner? But all I said
was, "Good night."
John hesitated as if he wanted to say something, but he must have
changed his mind. He nodded with a half smile and left before I could
think of anything to say.
I didn't hear the wooden latch slam down on the door, and I waited for
about sixty seconds before I tried the door. It eased open. A small peat
fire had been set in a stone ring on the floor of the keep, dispelling some
of the darkness that spiraled upward to the tower. I heard male voices
above. One of those voices was John's, the language Gaelic.
Restlessly, I looked toward the now closed doorway of the keep. I
dared not wander out of the keep in what was truly
nightfall—especially without a flashlight. I wasn't in some sort of
Gothic novel where I could saunter across the flat top of the island,
holding a burning candle aloft, without the flame being extinguished by
the coastal winds.
No, I supposed I had better stay safely inside rather than inadvertently
wander off the edge of a cliff. I had already noticed that the perimeter
wall did not extend all the way around to the western side of the island.
I assumed the guards in the tower above and the sheer cliff face on that
side prevented invasion.
I shut the door and turned toward the bed. Feeling insecure and
vulnerable, I opted to remain fully dressed as I lay down. I pulled the
tartan over me and settled in to watch the lantern flicker on the table
across the room. I had no intention of blowing that precious object out
to send the room into complete blackness. In the absence of a good
book to read, television to watch or the comforting arms of a big strong
Highlander, I planned to watch the candle within the lantern burn down

and wonder what the following day had in store for me.
I awakened to complete darkness amid a cacophony of shouts and
screams. I rose and scrambled for the door, tripping on my skirts and
the edge of the bed on the way.
With no time or ability to light the lantern, I bypassed it and wrenched
open the door. The peat fire burned brightly, but the entrance to the
keep was ajar, and I ran toward the doorway.
The peaceful village that I had seen by daytime seemed suddenly to
have gone berserk. Flames shot through the roofs of several of the
crofts. The lights of torches moved in chaos across the tabletop, as if
the people who carried them ran amuck. I heard the clash of steel on
steel. Swords? Swords?
Small booms that sounded like gunshot sounded. Who was shooting?
I wanted to shout out, to ask what was happening, but I didn't want to
draw attention to myself. I backed up and huddled just inside the
doorway of the keep, turning to look upward. Were the guards still
there?
Where was John? Mary? Mistress Glick? What was happening?
"Mistress! " a young voice spoke behind me. "Come. His lairdship bid
me to keep ye safe in yer room. I was up in the tower and did no see ye
emerge. His lairdship will have my head if I dinna get ye back within."
I turned and looked at Andrew, who had hold of my arm and was trying
to pull me from the doorway. I stood fast.
"Andrew!" I cried out thankfully. "What's happening? What's going
on?"
"Macleods," he spat out. "Come, mistress. Ye must come back to yer
room."
"Is the laird safe?"
Andrew shook his head. "I dinna ken, mistress. Please come! " I wanted
to comply, but I couldn't. I had to know if John was all right. I peered
out from the doorway to watch the horrific spectacle.
What could I do?
"Mary! The children! Mistress Glick! Your family, Andrew! Are

they safe? Are those gunshots?"
"Och, mistress! Please come."
"No, not yet, Andrew! I have to know. I' m sorry."
I stuck my head out the doorway again. The fires from some of the
crofts highlighted several men engaged in combat, the ringing of their
swords terrifying.
"John! " I whispered.
"Mistress Macleod and her children are hiding in the boathouse. Most
of the women and children are there. The laird kent ye would be safer in
the keep. He bade me lock the door, but I forgot and hurried up into the
tower. Please, mistress, come! "
I almost let Andrew pull me back toward the room, when the light from
a burst of flames highlighted John's golden hair. I saw him clearly,
swinging a gleaming sword back and forth against his opponent, an
equally tall dark-bearded and kilted man.
I wanted to run toward him, but even in my terror, I understood that
would only get him killed. This wasn't a reenactment or a performance.
These men were trying to hurt each other, if not kill each other.
"Andrew, I can't. I can't hide in the room knowing that John is out there
fighting for his life."
"Mistress, if he looks toward the tower and sees ye, he is likely to lose
his life! "
Andrew's heated words struck my heart. I backed into the darkness.
"You're right. You're right! I'm sorry!"
I let Andrew pull me back toward the room, where he almost pushed
me inside.
"Wait! Where are you going? You can't go out there. You are way too
young to be out there!" I grabbed Andrew's arm when he tried to leave.
"Och, mistress, where do ye come from? I am no a child." He extricated
his arm from my grasp and moved away from me. "Stay here. I will bar
the door."
"No, wait! If they burn the keep, I'll die in here! I need a fighting
chance. Don't lock the door!"

Andrew hesitated and shook his head and ran out. I didn't hear the latch
fall, and I pulled at the door to check. He had not trapped me in the
room after all.
I peeked out. Andrew had disappeared. The stone stairs clattered as
footsteps ran either up or down it. The light of a fast-moving torch
reflected against the stone walls up above. Andrew hadn't had a torch
on him, but that didn't mean the clattering footsteps weren't Andrews.
I eased shut the door, quietly settled the latch from my side and felt my
way in the darkness toward the far corner of the room. Dropping to the
floor, I hugged my knees to my chest and waited, holding my breath.
Through the window, I could hear continuous shouting, the occasional
reports of gunshots. My heart pounded in my chest, and I struggled to
breathe.
A loud banging on the door shocked me, and I jerked, slamming a hand
to my mouth to prevent a scream. I had known someone else was in the
keep and had been expecting something, but still the pounding startled
me.
Terrified, I buried my face into my bent knees and covered my head
with my arms and hands, as if bracing for an airplane crash. No fist
could make that horrible thud on the wooden door. Someone
hammered at the door with a metal object. The hilt of a sword? A
pistol? An axe? Were they trying to break through the heavy wood?
The hammering continued, and I couldn't hold back. I cried out in my
huddled position as I clutched at my arms. One particular set of sharp
staccato blows almost made me scream.
I heard the latch give way, and the door flew open, hitting the wall. I
lifted my head and scrambled to my feet, unwilling to die in such a
defenseless position. Torchlight filled the room, and a dark-bearded
Scot entered. Though I had seen him only from a distance, I recognized
him as the man who had been fighting with John.
If John's opponent stood before me with a sword in one hand and a
torch in the other, then John had fallen.
I screamed then.
"Help! Help! Help me! " My heart ached for John. My senses reeled in
terror.

"Stop yer yammering, woman! " the man shouted. He sheathed his
sword, strode toward me and grabbed my arm, seemingly all in one
movement. "Why are ye here in the keep and no hidden with the other
women?"
"Help!" I continued to shriek, attempting to wrestle out of the vice grip
he held my arm in.
The flames of his torch revealed a big, brawny middle-aged man
wearing a grayish bonnet over stringy dark hair. Even as I struggled, I
noted the blue-and-green woven pattern of his kilt, so unlike the red
that the Morrisons favored.
He pulled me to him with little effort, pinning an arm around me and
bringing his face down to mine. When I thought he meant to kiss me, he
only stared at my features. His teeth were in terrible shape, his breath
most foul.
I twisted my face away from his, but he didn't seem to care.
"Who are ye?" he asked. "Ye are no a Morrison, of that I am sure."
I struggled in his arm, but to no avail. I couldn't budge. I kept my face
from him and my lips sealed. For about ten seconds, until he squeezed
me so tightly that I couldn't breathe.
"I'm not! I'm not a Morrison. I'm just visiting."
"Visiting? Whom?"
My chaotic thoughts prevented me from understanding whether I was
more worried about John or myself. Where was Andrew? Had the
Macleods killed everyone? I couldn't bear the thought. I really couldn't.
"Where is John Morrison?" I ground out, partially in pain, mostly
because I couldn't control the trembling of my jaw.
"Ah! John Morrison is it? Are ye his lady? I didna ken he had taken a
wife."
"No!" I snapped. "I'm not his wife. Where is he? What did you do with
him? Who are you?" I spoke with courage I didn't have.
"Angus Macleod, chief of the Lewis Macleods, at yer service," he said
in a horrible parody of a gentlemanly introduction.
I wasn't surprised by the news. Andrew had said the attackers were
Macleods. It followed that Angus might have led the attack. A deep
hatred formed in my heart, and I let all that I felt pour out through my

eyes.
"Where is John? Is he hurt?"
"I dinna think I killed him," Angus said with a self-satisfied grin, "but
perhaps I should have done, especially if ye are his lady. I think ye must
come with us as well."
As well?
"What?" I shrieked. I twisted, but his vicelike grasp on my body left me
no room to maneuver. "No!" I shouted. "No, you're not taking me
anywhere! "
"Aye, ye are coming! " Angus pulled me from the room with one hand
while holding the torch aloft with the other. The movement gave me a
few more inches to maneuver, and I kicked at him and struggled against
him. My skirts, far too long for such activities, tripped me up, and
Angus half carried, half dragged me from the keep. Once outside, he
threw down his torch and shouted something in Gaelic, as if calling for
someone.
Wildly, I searched the dun for John, for his body, but I couldn't see him.
The flames had subsided, leaving less illumination on the scene. Shouts
continued, but I heard no screams. Had they killed the women? The
men?
I screamed for help. What did I have to lose?
"Help! Help! "
"Cease! " Angus said. With his free hand, he slapped me with an open
palm. Pain shot through my cheek, my head. My ears rang. My eyes
watered from the smack.
I sagged against him, with a woozy promise to myself that I wouldn't
scream again. I had never been slapped in my life, and the shock of it
stunned me.
Two men, one carrying a torch, ran up to us. I knew they weren't
Morrisons. Like Angus, they both sported dark beards and wore kilts
similar to his.
Angus barked at them in Gaelic before thrusting me in their direction.
The men, both brawny like Angus, grabbed my arms and hauled me off
across the tabletop. I dragged my feet, trying to forestall whatever
horror was about to come. On the point of screaming again, I

looked over my shoulder to see Angus following us. He had gathered
up his torch and pulled his sword from its sheath once again, keeping it
at the ready. I swallowed my screams, wanting no more searing smacks
across the face. Angus strode past us, leading the way.
We seemed to be headed toward the gate. Ahead of us, I saw a large
wave of torches massing. Twenty? Thirty? I didn't have the presence of
mind to count.
They were taking me off Dun Eistean! Of course. Hadn't Angus said he
was going to take me with him?
Out of the corner of my eye, near one of the crofts, the remnants of a
burning roof reflected a body on the ground. John's body. Lifeless.
I stopped struggling. The fight left my body, and I sagged. No, no, no.
Oh, please no!
The Highlanders dragging me paused and barked at me in Gaelic,
probably ordering me to move. I couldn't. With an exchange of words
between them, they released my arms, and one moved to slide an arm
around my waist to carry me.
A banshee-like scream erupted behind us. I swung around to see young
Andrew running toward us with a sword. In a wild move I had only
seen in films, he flew into the air and sliced through one of my captors.
I screamed then. As did the injured Highlander, who grabbed his arm.
Angus whirled around and yelled something. I didn't know which way
to turn, what to do.
"Andrew! " I shrieked, with no particular message. I think I was
warning him to run for his young life, not begging him for help.

Chapter Eight
My little Highland warrior roared again and attacked the captor to my
left. He thrust his sword at the man's midriff, but the bigger Highlander
managed to sidestep him. In doing so, he inadvertently released me.
Somehow, my legs came to life. I grabbed my skirts and pivoted away
from him.
Suddenly, a small army of kilted, screaming bearded men emerged
from the darkness of the tabletop and ran toward us—Morrison men,
brandishing swords, battle-axes, pistols and torches.
Angus shouted again, and my captors turned and ran for the gate. I
swung around to find Andrew, who now joined his older brethren in
chasing the Macleods from the island.
Even amid all the shouting, the sound of crying children caught my ear,
coming not from the dun but from somewhere beyond the gate. I ran
forward in the wake of the Morrison men.
Flames from torches on the path leading to the mainland lit the blond
hair of a woman and two children, all three being dragged up the steep
cliff by Macleod men.
"Mary!" I screamed. She couldn't hear me, of course. They were too
far. "They've got Mary and the children," I shouted to anyone who
would listen.
Andrew, his thin chest heaving under his tartan sash, turned back to
me.
"Aye, we ken. They will no hurt the bairns. Angus Macleod always
said he would come for his grandchildren, and he has made good on his
word."
Even in my terror, my grief, I noted the weary adult tone of Andrew's
voice. No, he was no child, not if he had to live like this. I put a
trembling hand on his shoulder, at a level with my own. "Thank you for
saving me, Andrew. I need to find John! " I turned then and ran for
John's body, hoping and praying that he was still alive, that his wounds
were not fatal. Angus had said he hadn't killed him.
I found John in the faint light cast by the rooftop embers of Mary's
house, and I dropped to his side. Unconscious, he did not move.

Thankfully, Andrew followed me with a torch, because I couldn't see
John clearly, couldn't see where he was wounded. "Where is he hurt,
Andrew? Can you see?" A welcome voice sounded above me. "Let me
see to the lad, lass."
I sobbed to see Mistress Glick standing over me. Behind her, women
and children gathered, having emerged from their hiding places in the
boathouses. Some carried torches.
Mistress Glick slowly lowered herself to her knees beside me and ran a
hand along John's body while Andrew and the women held their
torches aloft. Her hand, when she finished her examination, dripped
with blood. I gasped and reached for the pulse in John's neck. A steady
beat reassured me that although he was wounded, he hadn't lost a great
deal of blood...yet.
"He has a wound to his head and one to his trunk," Mistress Glick said.
"Andrew, go fetch two of the lads to help carry him to the keep."
Andrew hurried away, and I took John's hand in mine. Thankfully, his
skin was warm to the touch, not cold as if life ebbed from him. I
worried about his head injury though. I couldn't see it on the opposite
side, and I didn't want to go digging around on his scalp. Mistress Glick
seemed to know what she was doing.
"They've taken Mary and the children," I whispered, trying to keep the
other women and children from hearing.
"Aye, we ken," Mistress Glick said with a nod. "Angus said he would
have them. He was no happy when Mary took the bairns and left."
Andrew returned with several men in tow.
"The Macleods have gone," said one of them, a tall, husky
ginger-bearded man. "They have what they came for. They will no
trouble us again this night."
"They did no get all they wanted though, Torq," Andrew said, his voice
deep, somehow more mature than it had been at the beginning of the
night. "The Macleod took a fancy to Mistress Borodell. He was taking
her with them until I attacked them. He might return for her." I heard
some gasps from the women. "Is that true, lass?" Mistress Glick asked.

"I don't know what he wanted with me. He definitely intended to take
me with them though, until Andrew intervened. " I flashed him a weak
but thankful smile.
"Will he live?" Torq asked in a hushed voice.
"Aye, he will," Mistress Glick answered. "Lift him with care. Take him
to the keep. I will tend to him there."
The men picked John's unconscious body up, and the women grabbed
their children and dispersed toward their homes. Other men, those not
manning the perimeter wall or the gate, busily gathered buckets of
water from the pond to extinguish the flames on the turf roofs. The
sturdy stone houses remained intact, if slightly charred. I assumed the
night would be long as the clan attempted to put their village back to
rights.
"What about Mary and her children?" I asked to the group in general as
I followed them to the keep.
"There is naethin we can do about it this night," Torq growled over his
shoulder. He seemed to have assumed some position of authority in
John's incapacitation, and his tone suggested the subject of Mary and
her children disturbed him.
"When the laird is mended, he will decide what to do," he continued.
"We will no allow the Macleods to keep Mary and the bairns."
"Torq speaks the truth, Mistress Borodell. John will find a way to get
his sister and the bairns back," Mistress Glick added.
We reached the keep, and the men maneuvered John into the small
room, depositing him on the bed. One of the men lit the lantern on the
table and set his torch into a sconce high on the wall, filling the room
with light.
Mistress Glick eyed me. "Ye will need to leave, lass. I must disrobe
the laird."
"I'm not leaving," I said with a shake of my head. "I've seen men
undressed before."
I ignored the grunts from the men behind me. I had hoped to avoid
shock by refraining from the use of the word "naked," but I heard the
surprise in Mistress Glick's hushed voice.

"Lass! Ye must no say such things. Still, I would welcome a steady
hand, and the lad will be comforted by yer presence." She turned to the
men, speaking louder.
"Gie away with ye. The womenfolk need ye. Andrew, go to my croft.
The Macleods did no have time to damage it afore they ran away. I
have a length of linen set by in my cupboard and a small brown jar of
lard. Fetch those and fetch some water from the well."
Torq and the other two men left, and Andrew flew from the room on his
mission.
With the torch reflecting off the stone walls, I now saw a deep gash on
the right side of John's skull, and I drew in a sharp breath. Blood had
already started to clot around it, matting his beautiful golden hair. Even
though the wound looked awful, the clotting meant bleeding had
slowed or stopped. I worried about concussion though, or worse.
Mistress Glick tore away at John's shirt, revealing a deep laceration
across the left side of his back, extending up toward his neck. I bit my
lip, thankful that he remained unconscious, yet simultaneously worried
about the same thing.
"Oh, John," I whispered, cradling his hand. "What can I do to help?" I
asked Mistress Glick.
"Ye are doing what the lad would want. Comforting him. When
Andrew returns, ye can help me tend to his wounds."
I started to bring John's bloodied and muddied hand to my lips, but a
glance toward Mistress Glick made me pause. I'd known John for so
little time. Wouldn't she think it odd if I were to show a stranger such
affection? Did it matter what she thought? I kissed John's hand and
lowered it to the bed, tightening my grip and checking his pulse once
again. Still strong and steady. Tough guy!
While Mistress Glick poked around at John's wounds with her
bare—and unwashed—hands, I tried to look away from the sight of
probable future infection, and I studied John with his matted hair,
muddy face and bloodied skin. Now shirtless, John's muscular chest
showed a myriad of tiny golden hairs. I almost smiled. I did like men
with chest hair.
Andrew returned with a pail of water, linen and a small lidded

pottery jar, which he set at Mistress Glick's feet.
"Thank ye, lad. Here, help me turn the laird onto his side." Together,
the three of us wrestled a very large and heavy John onto his right side.
I drew in a sharp breath. There, at his back, still looped around his belt,
was the dagger. Without thinking, I almost grabbed it, when Mistress
Glick reached for it, pulling it from the sheath. She handed it to
Andrew.
"Hold this to the torch, lad."
"What?" I squeaked. "Why?" My eyes locked onto the dirk and
followed Andrew as he pulled the torch from the wall and thrust the
knife into the flames.
No! No need to worry. Steel did not melt. "To tend to his wounds, lass.
Do ye ken naethin of medicine?" "No, not really," I mumbled, hardly
hearing her words, and praying that steel really didn't melt. It was
almost as if Andrew burnt my one-way ticket home.
"Here, hold the lad while I brace his back so that he does no roll over."
I bent over John to steady him on his side while Mistress Glick stuffed
the pillow behind his back. She then picked up a few scraps of linen
from the stack, moistened them in the bucket and gently swabbed at the
wound.
I continued to wonder what Andrew was doing and how Mistress Glick
planned to stitch John's lacerations. She hadn't asked for needle and
thread.
"There! Now we can see what we're about. Andrew, bring the dagger
here. I will need both of ye to hold him. Keep his arms pinned to his
sides. The laird is no awake now, but he may verra well awaken in the
next few moments, and he will no be happy."
I eyed Andrew wildly as he brought the dagger to Mistress Glick. She
was going to cauterize John's wounds with the dagger! "Hold him
steady now," she said as she pulled both sides of the laceration on
John's back together with one hand. She pressed the flat side of the steel
down onto the wound, and the smell of searing flesh

made me gag.
John screamed, almost throwing me off him, but I hung on, keeping his
arms pinned as I lay on top of him. Andrew kept his shoulders steady.
John's eyes flew open, and he stared at me wildly. He calmed instantly
and gritted his teeth as Mistress Glick continued pressing the hot
dagger to his flesh.
"There ye are, lass," he mumbled.
"Here we are," I said with a small smile. I didn't want to tell him about
Mary.
His eyes closed, and he fainted.
"Good. He does no need to be awake for this. Here, Andrew, return the
dagger to the flame. I must tend to his head wound as well."
I eyed the cauterized wound on John's back. If anything, it looked
much, much worse than it had—red, angry and rapidly blistering, but
the bleeding had stopped.
Mistress Glick reached into her jar and applied what she had called lard
to the wound. She then covered the wound with several squares of the
linen and, with my assistance, wrapped several lengths of material
around John' s torso to keep the bandage in place.
"The dagger, lad," she said, looking up at Andrew. Again, the smell of
searing flesh jarred me, combined now with the burning of John's
beautiful hair. This time, John did not awaken fully but only moaned. I
worried even more about a concussion.
"I'm surprised that didn't awaken him," I murmured. "What if he has a
concussion?"
"A concussion?" Mistress Glick asked. "What is that?" She set the
dagger down, and I eyed it.
"A brain injury when the brain hits the skull. It can be quite dangerous."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mistress Glick shoot me a curious
glance while she applied lard to his head wound. "How would we ken if
he has this injury?"
To my dismay, Andrew bent to pick the dagger up, letting it dangle
from his hand while he watched.

"We will have to wait and see," I said in a bemused tone. "He might be
nauseous, forgetful, unsteady on his feet. Hopefully, he will sleep for a
while though. I can't imagine being in this much pain."
"Och, this is naethin," Mistress Glick said. "He has all his limbs. He
was no run through. His heart was no pierced. Men lie dead out there.
This is naethin. Do ye see this scar? I tended to that wound only last
year, the result of another encounter with the Macleods."
I looked down to where she pulled John's long hair back from the side
of his neck. Indeed, he had a thick dark-red scar running from his right
shoulder across toward the front of his neck, as if someone had almost
cleaved off his arm...or his head. "He will heal from these wounds."
The dagger still dangled from Andrew's hands. "Can I see that?" I
asked.
Andrew looked down at the dirk in surprise and proffered it to me.
"Nay!" John's husky voice startled me. "Dinna give her the dagger,
lad. No yet! "
John's eyelids opened and closed as he struggled for consciousness.
Andrew snatched the dagger back, tucking it into his belt. John lost his
battle and fell asleep again. "I am sorry, mistress. I can no disobey the
laird." Mistress Glick finished wrapping a bandage around John's head
and looked up.
"Does the laird no trust ye with a knife, lass?" she said with a lift of her
lips. "Did ye threaten to kill him? I did wonder that he called ye a
guest." Her smile faded, and she straightened to regard me with a sober
expression. "Ye have the look of a trapped animal. Are ye here of yer
own free will or no?"

Chapter Nine
"Me?" I stalled. I looked down at John, the man who, even in his
unconscious state, still managed to keep me prisoner, both by denying
me access to the dagger and by putting my heart in a stronghold.
He was the only one who could reasonably respond to Mistress Glick's
question.
"Free will," I whispered, hearing the words as if someone else spoke
them.
And they were now true. Somehow, somewhere, I had ceased to be a
prisoner and had become a woman in love. Did I know John well
enough to love him? No. Did I love him? Yes, with all my heart. I
looked down at his abused body, and I took his hand in mine once
again.
To John, I was probably an oddity, something new and interesting, an
enigma. I doubted that he felt the same as I, and that was okay.
I looked over at Andrew, imagining a scenario where I tackled him and
wrested the dagger from his grip, where I whirled around in a cloud of
smoke and mirrors and disappeared back into the twenty-first
century...perhaps tossing off a cackle as I left.
"Good! " Mistress Glick interrupted my odd flight of fantasy. "I see ye
care for the lad," she said, nodding to our conjoined hands. "He will
have need of ye in the days to come, when he discovers that Mary and
the bairns have been stolen."
"Me?" I asked again. My cheeks burned, as if she read my mind.
"Aye, ye seem to have a sound head on yer shoulders, lass, and a
wisdom even beyond what I possess at my age. Ye ken things. When he
discovers that Mary has been taken, he will wish to rush off to her
rescue, but he will listen to yer council. I saw how he was with ye. Ye
are special to him. He will listen to yer council, and hopefully, ye will
convince him that he has to heal before he can dash into Macleod
territory."
"Oh, Mistress Glick, I don't think he will listen to me!" "I do," she
affirmed. She rose.
"I will leave the linen and lard if ye wish to change his bandages and
reapply the lard in the morn." She looked around the room. "Keep

the water for yer needs."
"Are you leaving?" I asked with a gulp.
"Aye," she said. "Andrew will sleep outside yer door, there's a good
lad. And ye no doubt wish to stay with the laird?"
"Yes! Yes, I do," I said firmly. I had thought I might need to argue
about it and was surprised to find Mistress Glick so permissive with my
virtue. One look at John's pale face indicated she didn't have much to
worry about. He looked weak as a kitten at the moment.
"Aye, I will sleep without," Andrew said, nodding toward the door. I
understood Andrew's archaic reference to mean the outer room.
"Fetch some blankets from my croft for the mistress and yerself,
lad."
Andrew left obediently.
Mistress Glick checked her handiwork.
"I will return in a few hours," she said, straightening and stretching.
"No need. Get some sleep," I said. "I'll be fine. Maybe in the morning?"
"Aye, that is all right then. In the morn. These auld bones are aching,
and I must tend to others."
Andrew was back in a jiff, and he handed me a blanket in the usual
weathered-red pattern, while holding one for himself.
Mistress Glick looked around the room again.
"Perhaps ye can sleep in the chairs? I would no recommend the floor. It
looks hard and has no carpeting."
"I'll be fine," I said. "Get some rest."
"I will see who else needs tending then."
I objected, noting that the older woman looked like she needed rest.
"Is there no one else who can help them? You look exhausted."
"That I am, lass. But no, we have no doctors. I am the only healer, and a
poor one at that."
I grimaced. From what I had seen, several of the Morrison men had
been injured. If she was the only one with healing experience, she
probably did have a long night ahead of her.
"Good night then," I said. I waited until Mistress Glick and

Andrew left before pulling both chairs up to the side of the bed and
settling in with my feet on the opposite chair. I reached over and
touched John's forehead. While warm, it wasn't hot. Or cold. He was
alive, and so far, he didn't have a fever. I covered myself with the
blanket, eyed the torch on the wall and the lantern on the table and
decided not to extinguish either one.
I settled my head back against the hard edge of the chair back and
wondered what strange twist of fate had propelled me into the sixteenth
century and into love with a Highland laird with a probable shortened
life span.
I hadn' t though I would be able to sleep, but I must have drowsed. I
awakened to the sound of moaning. The torch, now burning low, still
provided some light. The lantern had gone out again. I saw John, eyes
closed, moving his head restlessly from side to side.
Throwing off my blanket, I pivoted in my chair and took his hand in
mine. He seemed to calm instantly.
"John?" I whispered. I put a hand to his cheek, his forehead still
covered by the linen wrap. His skin was warm but not hot, nor did he
sweat.
His eyelids fluttered open, and he gripped my hand.
"Lass," he said in a raspy voice. "Have I died?"
I couldn' t help but smile.
"No," I responded, shaking my head. "Not yet."
John's eyes widened, and I realized my mistake. My concern for what I
suspected would be a foreshortened life must have slipped out.
"No! You're not dying," I amended hastily. "Mistress Glick says you'll
recover."
"Ahhhh..." He expelled a breath. His eyelids started to close again, and
his grip relaxed. I rested my other hand over our clasped hands and
watched him drift off to sleep again, thankful for the respite of what
must have been excruciating wounds, without the aid of painkillers.
"Where is the dagger?" he whispered, opening his eyes with effort.
My heart skipped a beat. He was certainly obsessed with the dratted
thing.
"Andrew has it. You told him not to give it to me, and believe

me—he's hanging on to it."
"Good lad," he murmured. "I am no ready to say good-bye to ye and
ken ye are safe enough here for now. Angus has no interest in stealing
women. He wants the bairns, and Mary as their mother only. He failed
this time."
The effort to speak seemed to drain him, and his eyes closed.
I hardly thought this was the time to tell John that the Macleods had in
fact made off with Mary and the kids. Or that it seemed Angus Macleod
was interested in stealing at least one woman. Me!
John's breathing deepened, and I rose to check the bandaging over his
shoulder and neck. Everything seemed intact, and no bleeding seeped
through the linen. I had absolutely no nursing skills, so I was relying on
common sense. Blood soaking through the bandage? No. Fever? No.
I sat down again and reached over to push his hair away from his face.
A knock on the door startled me, and I froze. I held my breath while I
reasoned with myself that even had Angus Macleod returned for me, he
wouldn't have knocked softly.
I rose and crossed over to ease the door open.
Andrew stood there with a fresh torch.
"Thank you! " I said, pulling the door wider.
"Do ye have need of anything, mistress?" He entered and replaced the
torch on the wall.
I needed a doctor and painkillers and x-rays, but those would not be
forthcoming.
"No, I don't think so," I responded, watching him. "Have you slept at
all?" I couldn't even imagine sleeping on the stone floor, blanket or not.
"Aye, some," Andrew said. He looked over at John. "How does the
laird fare?"
"I think he's doing okay," I responded. "I'm sure he'll be in a lot of pain
when he wakes up."
"Och, aye. I suspect Mistress Glick would prescribe whisky for the
pain. A large measure of it dulls the senses."
I grinned at the adult note in his voice.
"And how do you know that?"

"I had a toothache last summer, and Mistress Glick gave me copious
amounts of whisky before she pulled my tooth."
"How old are you, Andrew?"
"I was born fourteen winters ago, mistress."
"Where is your family? Are they here on Dun Eistean?"
His little jaw hardened, and he looked down at the stone floor.
"No, they were taken by consumption going on three years now."
"I' m so sorry, Andrew! " I processed that for a moment. "Whom do you
live with?"
"My uncle, Torq Morrison."
"Oh! The man with the red hair."
"Aye." Andrew looked a little uncomfortable, as if he didn't know what
he was doing in a bedroom with a strange woman not related to him, so
I let him go.
"Thank you for the torch, Andrew."
He nodded. "Mistress Glick said that I am to bring ye breakfast in the
morn. She will follow to see to the laird's wounds and give ye some
respite."
"Thank you."
He dipped his head and left.
I returned to my seat, propped my legs on the opposite chair and
covered myself once again.
"Are ye tasked with tending to me throughout the night then? Ye must
take rest. Andrew should sit with me, if need be."
John's raspy voice startled me, and I bolted upright and looked at him.
His eyes, albeit heavy lidded, were partially open.
"Oh no! I want to! "
I turned toward him, noting that his lips were dry.
"You need hydration. Can you drink some water?" I asked, throwing a
skeptical look at the bucket of unfiltered water.
"Nay, but I would have some ale." His lips attempted to curve into a
smile, but the creases between his eyes suggested he was suffering.
"Are you in pain?" I said, looking down on him as I rose.
"Aye, a wee bit."
I poured some ale and brought it to him. Dropping to my knees at

his bedside, I slid my arm under his uninjured side and attempted to lift
him to drink, but I couldn't budge him.
"I am a heavy carry, lass," he said. He pushed up on the elbow on his
uninjured site to lift himself slightly from the bed. He winced but did
not cry out. I would have been screaming my head off. I handed him the
ale, hoping he would sip it like a good patient, but he downed the cup
and held it out for a refill.
"Are you sure you should have more? What if this isn't good for you
right now?"
"I dinna have an injury to my gut, lass, only my head and back. And
they pain me. Is there whisky about, by chance?" I shook my head.
"Andrew said he thought Mistress Glick might prescribe some in the
morning for pain. Maybe she thought you would sleep through the
night. I'm so sorry you're hurting, John." My mouth drooped. "Andrew
is just outside. I could go wake him and ask him to get some whisky."
"No need to bother the lad. Let him sleep. I can wait until morn. These
are no the worst injuries I have suffered."
He held out his cup for another refill, and I gave it to him. John, the
sixteenth-century Scottish warrior, knew more about his body and his
condition than I did, so who was I to cut off his intake of ale?
He gulped the refill quickly before handing me his cup and lowering
himself to the bed. He eyed me drowsily.
"Ye must take some rest, lass. Those chairs dinna seem verra
comfortable. My sister will share her bed with ye. I ken she is angry
with ye, but she is a charitable lass. She will put her feelings aside. And
the bairns will be pleased to have a visitor."
My heart dropped on hearing his words. I wasn't about to tell him that
Mary and the children had been kidnapped. No, someone else could do
that. This wasn't the time.
"I'm fine right here," I said softly. "Sleep."
"As ye wish. If I were truthful, I would say that I am glad to see ye here
by my side—safe and unharmed. I would no forgive myself if harm had
come to ye when ye could have been safely away from here."
"So does this mean you're going to give me the dagger?" I asked,

teasing him more than anything. I wasn't about to leave John in this
condition.
"I feel verra weary," he mumbled, closing his eyes. A lift of his lips
revealed that he pretended not to hear me.
I watched him with affection. Only when his breathing deepened and I
knew he'd fallen asleep did I close my own eyes.
I slept fitfully throughout the night, rousing myself often to check on
John. The ale had done its job, and he slept soundly. So soundly that I
put a hand to his forehead on more than one occasion to see if his skin
was warm or ice cold.
It was on one such occasion, as the faint light of dawn crept through the
window, that John awakened. He tried to turn over before I could stop
him, and his gasp of pain tore at my heart.
"Wait!" I exclaimed softly. "Don't turn over. I'll send Andrew for
Mistress Glick and some whisky."
"Aye," John said. He raised a hand to try to touch his back wound but
winced and gave up the effort.
"Stop moving! " I directed. I hurried to the door, pulled it open and
peered out into the keep. Light from above filtered down, and I saw
Andrew lying on a tartan on the floor. The peat fire in the center of the
room continued to burn, but low.
"Andrew," I called out.
He came instantly awake and scrambled to his feet. "The laird?" he
asked in a thick voice.
"He's fine, but he's in pain. Could you go get Mistress Glick and
hopefully bring some whisky back with you? I gave him ale last night,
but he needs something stronger."
"Aye, mistress! " Andrew turned and headed for the tower door, and I
returned to John's bedside.
"I must rise, lass," John said. He pushed himself up on his elbow with
effort, seemingly with more difficulty than last night.
"Are you in pain?" I asked.
"Aye," he said, "but if I dinna tend to the needs of nature, I shall wet the
bed." He smiled crookedly.
"Oh!" I eyed him wildly. "How can I help?"

"Nay, lass. Ye can no help me with this. Where is the pot?" I pulled it
out from under the bed, humiliated that I hadn't thought to empty it in
the night.
"If ye would step outside for a moment?"
I watched him try to push himself to a sitting position, his brow
furrowed with obvious pain.
"Oh, John. Are you sure I can't help? Can you wait for Andrew to
return?"
"Nay, lass, I can no wait. Please go! " "Okay, call out when you're
done!"
With a last worried glance, I turned and fled, closing the door only
partially behind me so I could hear if he needed help or if he fell.
I heard a few grunts of pain, but I steeled myself against the urge to run
back in and help him. The sight of a man urinating was hardly going to
shock me, but I understood that John couldn't tolerate having me in the
room.
A few moments later, I heard John's voice. "Ye may reenter, lass."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Andrew returning, a bottle of
dark-brown liquid in his hand.
"Mistress Glick is preparing some food and will come soon," he said.
"She said I am to give ye this."
I took the bottle and entered the room, Andrew in my wake. "Here you
go! Something to add to your next donation to the pot! " I said brightly
to John, who was sitting up on the edge of the bed, wiping at a bead of
sweat on his forehead, a testament to his pain. The pot had disappeared
back under the bed.
John looked up at me with a quirked eyebrow. Andrew's cheeks
reddened, and I regretted my foolish joke as soon as I'd said it.
"And a welcome donation it will be," John said, his mouth curving into
a crooked smile.
I grinned back and poured him a small cup of whisky. "Mistress Glick
will come soon," Andrew said. He reached under the bed and removed
the chamber pot. I looked away as he left with the room with it.

"Andrew said she's coming with food, thank goodness," I added,
concerned that John needed to eat more to soak up the alcohol. Andrew
returned in moment, indicating he hadn't taken the pot very far at all. I
grimaced.
"That is kind of Mistress Glick," John continued. "I hate to trouble her
to cook for me. Is Mary about?"
Andrew threw me a look of surprise, and I met his eyes with a shake of
my head. The time had come, and I couldn't let Andrew bear the brunt
of the disclosure.
"John," I said softly. I sat down across from him, our knees touching,
and I took one of his hands in mine.
He looked down at our joined hands before raising widened eyes to
mine.
"What is it? Where is Mary?" He looked beyond me to Andrew.

Chapter Ten
"Angus Macleod took her and the children last night," I said softly.
"No! " John ground out. "No! " His grip on my hand tightened
painfully, and before I realized what was happening, he had pushed
himself up to a standing position.
I jumped up, steadying him, and Andrew rushed in to support John as
he wobbled.
"No! I must dress. I must find them. Where is my shirt?"
Well-defined chest muscles flexed as he fought to stay upright.
"Ye can do naethin for yer sister or the bairns today," Mistress Glick
said as she entered the room, carrying a tray. She set the tray on the
table and approached.
"Ye are too weak, lad. The Macleod will no harm them," she said.
I marveled that John continued to stand, but my jaw dropped when
Mistress Glick spoke next.
"It is good to see ye up and about though. Perhaps Mistress Borodell
can accompany ye on a short walk after ye eat."
Walk? In his condition?
I dropped my supporting hands and let Andrew take his weight.
"Wait! He needs rest. What about his wounds? Won't they open with
strain?"
"He walks with his legs, no his back or head, lass."
"I can no wait! I must go for Mary and the bairns. I dinna ken whether
Angus will take them to Ardmore Castle or spirit them away to his own
lands, or perhaps to the Macaulays.
"Is that my shirt?" he asked, nodding toward the tattered and
blood-stained white linen cloth on the floor where Mistress Glick had
dropped it the night before.
"Aye, and in good need of scrubbing and mending afore ye wear it
again," she said. "Let me see to yer wounds, and ye can dress, but ye
will no be leaving the dun today."
John's jaw firmed, and I suspected he wasn't planning on taking orders
from Mistress Glick. And I wasn't planning on letting him out of

my sight.
"Andrew, if ye could pull a clean shirt from my chest under the bed,
there's a good lad."
I hadn' t realized there was a chest under the bed, and I watched
curiously as Andrew retrieved a small, flat, wooden-and-brass trunk
and pulled a shirt from it. He handed the shirt to John as Mistress Glick
inspected her patient's wounds. I picked up my chair, returned it to the
table and sat down, more to get out of the way than any need to rest my
legs.
Despite my worry about John's plans, I couldn't help but admire the
muscles in his arms and chest and the six-pack abs visible just above
the belt of his kilt.
I suppressed a smile as Mistress Glick batted at John's arms when he
impatiently tried to slip them into his shirt.
"When will ye cease, mistress?" he growled crankily. "When I have
finished." She checked his head wound and then dropped her hands.
"Now I am finished, and ye may dress."
I watched in horror as John thrust his uplifted arms into his shirt again
and dropped it over his shoulders. "Doesn't that hurt?" I squeaked.
"A wee bit," he said. The sweat on his forehead belied his words
because the room was quite cool. He wobbled a bit, and I jumped up,
but Andrew and Mistress Glick steadied him. He lowered himself to
the bed.
"My boots, lad," he said. "I would welcome another dram of whisky,
lass."
Andrew fetched John's boots and helped him into them while I poured
out another glass of whisky and handed it to John.
"Do you have any other painkillers besides whisky, Mistress
Glick?"
The older woman clucked and shook her head. "Alas, no. I have no had
hemlock since last year. We can no readily leave the dun to barter for
such for fear of capture by the Macleods or Macaulays. No one wishes
to visit us to trade for fear of retribution."

Her face drooped.
"It is no matter, Mistress Glick. The whisky works well. I hardly feel
the pain." John's pale face indicated something different, but there was
no point in arguing with him. I suspected these sixteenth-century Scots
were a hardy lot, tolerating pain far better than I might. Far better than
I might, a small voice repeated in my head. I gave myself a shake. The
issue of whether I could tolerate pain in the sixteenth century was a
nonissue. John was bound to send me home sooner rather than later.
As if Mistress Glick read my mind, she commented.
"I dinna ken if Mistress Borodell told ye, lad, but Angus Macleod tried
to carry her off last night as well. He was no successful, thanks to
Andrew."
"What's this?" John's head shot up, and he pushed himself to his feet
again, leaning heavily on Andrew.
"Is this true?" he asked of the room in general before focusing his
attention on me.
I shrugged my shoulders.
"Aye, Laird. The Macleods dragged the mistress as far as the gate and
would have taken her from the dun had I no stopped them."
John, throwing a reproachful look in my direction, reached up to tousle
Andrew's curly red hair.
"Ye stopped them? How is this? Well done, lad. And why did ye no tell
me yerself, Mistress Borodell?"
I guessed I was to infer John's displeasure by his use of the more formal
title. I gave him another shrug.
"What good would it have done? I'm still here. Andrew saved me. He
attacked the two men dragging me away! "
John ruffled Andrew's hair again, and Andrew ducked his head in
embarrassment.
"That Angus Macleod tried to take ye bodes no good," John said in a
husky voice. "I thought ye safe and sound. I thought my sister and her
bairns were safe and sound. Now, I ken neither is true. I must go after
her, and I must send ye home, mistress! "
My heart thudded, once, loudly, before dropping to my stomach.
Home!

"Lad, ye can no send her home. Two of our lads were killed. Others
injured. We have no men to spare to escort Mistress Borodell back to
her home. And ye can no send her out alone! "
John threw a harried look at Mistress Glick before returning his gaze to
me.
"Ye can no stay," he said pointedly, "but we will speak of this later." He
turned to Andrew and Mistress Glick. "Who was killed? Who injured?"
As they discussed the names of various people who had been injured or
killed in the previous night's raid, my eyes wandered to the dagger
clearly visible on Andrew's hip. I settled back into my chair and stared
at the weapon that was likely to tear me away from the man I loved. My
throat ached, and I rehearsed various arguments I was prepared to have
with John against returning to the twenty-first century.
I felt his eyes on me, and I looked up. His tanned face was pale and taut,
his forehead still wet with perspiration. He followed my glance to the
dagger before returning his attention to my face. Blue eyes bored into
mine, and I lifted my chin, unwilling to burst into tears. I hadn't cried
when the Macleods had carried me off, and I wasn't about to cry when
John Morrison sent me home. I wasn't!
I swallowed hard and met John's gaze.
"Andrew, I will have the dagger now," he said. Andrew untied his belt
and handed John the sheathed dagger. I wondered if John was about to
slap it into my hand and forcibly close my fingers around the hilt.
Because that was what it would take for me to touch the dagger at the
moment. I wasn't leaving! Not yet!
But John merely loosened his belt and tucked his shirt inside the
waistline of his kilt before sliding the dagger onto the belt.
I watched the threesome for a few minutes until Mistress Glick nodded,
and she and Andrew left the room.
"Well, Mistress Borodell, will ye assist me in walking?" John stood,
feet wide, steadying himself in the absence of something to hold on to.
I rose and hurried to his side, slipping an arm around his waist. Given
the vast difference in our heights, that was about as high as I could
possibly support him. I still marveled that he was up and standing.

He dropped his arm over my shoulder, but when I anticipated the
weight of his upper body, I felt very little. Obviously, he meant only to
use me as support.
"You can lean on me," I said.
"Nay, lass. Ye are but a wee thing. It is enough that ye are willing to
accompany me."
"I can't believe you're up and walking. I really can't!" "To lounge upon
the bed would only allow the wound to fester." We shuffled toward the
door, and I checked his face anxiously. Still pale, sweat continued to
bead his furrowed brow. He was obviously in a great deal of pain, but I
knew I couldn't convince him to rest.
We made it outside of the keep and stopped to survey the dun. A far cry
from the dark terrors of the previous night, the scene looked almost
pastoral. Sun shone on the island, highlighting emerald-green grass and
the sparkling-blue scenes of the sea to the north.
With my help, John moved on, heading toward Mary's croft, as I had
suspected he would. On closer inspection, much of the grass was
trampled and muddied, and about half of the crofts showed burnt turf
on their roofs.
Several men approached. I recognized Torq among them. John dropped
his arm from my shoulders and stood without support, his feet braced
wide. The men spoke in Gaelic while I studied the aftermath of the
Macleod raid.
A resilient little fort, the stone walls of the crofts stood firm, and the
roofs, though charred, remained intact. Men, women and children
moved about repacking the turf on the roofs and clay in the walls.
I noted several men manned squint holes in the perimeter wall. They
turned and watched us but did not leave their posts. Nor did the two
Highlanders guarding the gate.
Torq seemed particularly loud and guttural in his speech. I had no idea
what they were saying, but he seemed more upset than even John.
John's voice rose in response, and I looked up to see a muscle working
in his jaw. That he was angry with Torq was obvious, but why? The
other men shuffled uncomfortably, saying nothing as the two tall men
squared off. There was no evidence Torq was going to smack

John—otherwise, I would have stepped in between the two six footers
with my five-foot-three-inch frame.
John's voice deepened, and he placed a hand on Torq's shoulder. The
redheaded Highlander calmed. There was nodding throughout the
group, as if the men had reached a consensus, and John turned away.
He took two faltering steps, clearly forgetting he had sustained
life-threatening injuries over the past twelve hours. Before I could slip
an arm around John' s waist, Torq rushed in to support him.
John nodded that I should follow them, and I did as they entered the
small conclave of houses. Torq and John stepped through the doorway
of one croft. I couldn't decide whether or not to linger outside, but the
men following us sort of swept me up and pushed me inside.
To my surprise, Mistress Glick looked up from a kneeling position on
the floor next to two tartan-covered piles. She rose and nodded in my
direction but spoke to John and Torq in Gaelic.
As she moved, I recoiled in shock. The piles of blankets very obviously
covered bodies. I turned and pushed my way through the men to get
outside. I burst out of the door and bent double, trying desperately not
to heave. I had never seen a dead body, never smelled one, and I had no
earthly idea what I was doing in a century where such lawless violence
existed and no air-conditioned morgue housed the victims. I had only
studied eighteenth-century America. I hadn't actually lived it!
I dropped the hand covering my mouth and nose and straightened,
becoming aware that the villagers had stopped their activities to watch
me. I eked out a wan smile but felt light headed, as if I might faint. I
suspected they studied me as an outsider more than as a woman about
to heave in the middle of their housing complex.
A long arm slipped around my shoulder, and I looked up to see John's
troubled eyes.
"Have ye no experience with death then, lass? Do people no die in yer
time?" He kept his voice low.
I fought back tears and shook my head.
"Yes, of course, people die, John. We have war and murder and all the
terrible things that humans do to each other, but no, I've never seen
bodies."

"Och, I am sorry for yer distress, lass. I must visit with three lads who
were injured last night, but I will have Andrew take ye back to the
keep."
"No!" I said. "I can do this! I would rather not run away." John nodded
and squeezed my shoulder.
"Why did ye no tell me about Angus, lass?" he said in a low voice. "Ye
canna stay. No if Angus has taken a fancy to ye. I ken the man. It is
possible he will come for ye again."
The thought of Angus Macleod returning to take me sent a chill down
my spine, but not as much as John sending me back...before I was
ready.
"No," I murmured.
"I fear that I can no protect ye, Ann." John's use of my first name
startled me in its intimacy. "I could no protect my sister or the bairns."
"He won't come for me. Don't read too much into that. I think he was
just curious about me."
"Och, I doubt his interest was naethin more than curiosity, lass. Ye are
a rare beauty. He would have seen that."
My face flamed. Me? A rare beauty?
"Oh, no, not me," I mumbled.
Thankfully, Torq and the others came out of the croft and surrounded
us, bringing our conversation to a halt. John lifted his arm from my
shoulders and allowed Torq to help him walk into one of the other
crofts. I felt bereft and useless in John's absence, and many of the
villagers still stared at me. I followed Torq and John into the croft.
The layout was similarly styled to Mistress Glick's and Mary's houses.
A man in a white shirt lay on a bed against the far wall. I recognized
him as one of the gate guards I had escaped from the previous day.
Long dark matted hair spread out over a sweat-stained pillow. A plump
woman who had been bending over him straightened as we entered.
She rubbed her hands on her red tartan skirt and greeted us.
"Och, yer lairdship, look at ye! " Blonde with rosy cheeks, she
appeared to be about thirty. She spoke in English, her accent unlike the
Gaelic speakers.
"I heard ye fared worse than my Rob here, but he was always one

to lay about."
She grinned as if she was kidding, and I wondered at her good humor,
given that her husband had obviously sustained a wound to his upper
arm. A blood-stained cloth wrap encased his arm.
"And who told ye of my wounds, Catherine?" John said, matching her
smile.
"Mistress Glick," she said. "Oh, good morn, Rob, you lazy Scot," she
said, catching sight of her husband stirring. Her term of endearment
convinced me she was English. "Here is the laird come to see ye. At
least he is up and about! "
Rob opened his eyes. As soon as he saw John, they widened, and he
rose to stand, one hand reaching for his injured arm. I blinked, unused
to seeing the men in the absence of their kilts. Rob's white shirt, soiled
and stained, fell to his knees though. He seemed not to notice me,
standing as I was behind tall Torq and John.
"Yer lairdship! I saw ye fall but could do naethin to help ye as I
engaged in battle with a Macleod. Are ye well?"
John laid a hand on Rob's shoulder.
"I am well and am pleased to see that yer injuries are no worse." Rob
looked down at his arm. "Nay, I will mend."
"Good, because we need ye on the morrow. We leave for Ardmore in
the morn."
It was Torq who spoke, also in English, and I gasped at his words. John
murmured something to Torq and pivoted slowly to look at
me.
"Tomorrow?" I whispered. "Aye. We will speak of this later."
"I will be ready! " Rob said, though I seriously doubted it. His face was
as pale and wan as John's. I suspected his injury was much more serious
than his wife made out.
But barring that, how could John possibly think he could journey south
to Macleod territory and engage in some sort of retaliatory raid to
retrieve his sister and the children so soon after his life-threatening
injuries?

I turned and stomped out of the room, unable to deal with my anger and
anxiety. Unwilling to even meet the stares of the villagers as I emerged
from the croft, I marched out of the housing compound and across the
tabletop. I rounded the keep, heading for the back and away from
prying eyes. The abrupt edge of the cliff brought me to a halt.
Turquoise and white frothy waves crashed on the dark rocks below.
Farther out, the blue agate sea sparkled under the sunlight. The scene
seemed so peaceful, so tranquil.
Suddenly exhausted, I bunched up my skirts and lowered myself to the
ground while I struggled to imagine John marching off to battle in the
morning. He couldn't possibly walk. They had no horses. Was he
planning on being carried on a stretcher or a gold-plated sedan chair
like some ancient pharaoh? What insanity was this? How could I stop
him? What could I say? Surely Mistress Glick could tell him that he
wasn't up for a raid, couldn't she? I contemplated enlisting her help in
making him see reason.
Ten minutes later, a shadow fell over me, and I looked up. John stood
there alone, without Torq or anyone to support him. He didn't wobble,
and when I rose quickly to slip my arm around his waist, he stayed me.
"No need, lass. I can fend for myself. Sun and fresh air are healing to
me."
He lowered himself to the ground with a wince.
"How on earth do you think you can go off on a rescue mission to save
your sister in your condition?" I blurted out. "For all you know, you
might have a concussion! "
Naturally, at John's request, I had to explain my cursory understanding
of a concussion.
"Anyway, concussion or not, you're in no shape to go. Can't some of
the other men go?"
"Aye, they could," John said. "But Mary is my sister, Sarah and
Archibald are my niece and nephew and it is to me to bring them back."
"But Torq looks pretty proficient. Why can't he go?"
"As enamored as Torq is of my sister, he is no her kin. No yet,
anyway," John said with a faint smile.

"Oh! So that's why he was so angry."
"Aye, that and he wanted to leave at once. I told him I was no fit to
travel today."
"I'll say!" I sputtered. "Or tomorrow, or probably even next week. I saw
that slice across your back and neck."
John reached over with his right hand to touch his neck.
"Aye, it is a good thing Angus did no cut to the right. I will need that
hand for my sword."
"No," I said firmly, as if I had any say in the matter at all.
"I must," John said. He looked out to sea, and I turned to stare at him.
Sunlight gleamed off the dagger hilt on the belt at his back. I blinked
and turned away.
John must have caught my movement...or read my mind—I wasn't sure
which. He reached for the dagger and offered it to me.
"I thought to wait until the morn to give ye the dagger, but suppose that
a selfish gesture. Take the dagger, Ann. Go home. This is no place for
ye."
As if John would grab my hand and force it around the hilt, I tucked my
hands under my skirts, securing them under the weight of my hips.
"No," I said. "I can't believe I'm saying this after I begged for the knife,
but no. I'm not leaving. Not yet."
John set the dagger down on the grass between us.
"Why do ye say no yet? Yer words tell me that ye do want to leave
then."
I didn' t answer but turned my face into the wind blowing in from the
sea.
"Ann? Do ye wish to leave or no?" That was an easy answer. "No, not
yet."
"But ye wish to leave someday." That was less easily answered.
I shrugged, keeping my head forward. The rugged landscape before
me—the white caps dancing on the waves, the frothy waves crashing
against dark volcanic cliffs in the distance, the emerald-green coastal

grasses billowing in the coastal breezes—drew me. As if possessed, I
found the vista mesmerizing, compelling.
Or maybe it was the sixteenth-century man at my side. I could not take
the dagger and return to my safe life in the twenty-first century.
"Why can ye no tell me what ye desire, Ann? I ken what I want."
Color flushed my face, and my breathing quickened.
"I want ye to go home."

Chapter Eleven
I stifled a gasp, and my heart dropped to my stomach. A knot formed in
my throat, threatening to choke me. Hot tears burned my eyes, but I
didn' t dare wipe at them.
"Take the dagger, lass," John said.
He didn't feel like I did at all, did he? Of course he didn't. Why should
he? I was the sap who had fallen in love in the space of a day, hours,
maybe even minutes.
I continued to stare out to sea.
"Lass, please."
At the pleading in John's voice, I almost reached for the knife. I would
do anything for him, anything. Well, almost anything.
A hand touched my cheek, turning my face toward him. I caught a faint
hint of a wince as he twisted his body to reach for me. His pain made
me speak.
"Not today," I whispered. "Not today, John. Can't it wait until you
come back? I don't think I could bear to leave and not know you
returned safely."
John traced the line of my jaw with his fingers. Rough and calloused,
his touch made my heart race. "In fact, let me go with you! " John
dropped his hand and shook his head.
"Och, lass, ye canna. If the Macleod kens ye are with us...if he sees
ye..." John finished neither statement.
"Really, John, I don't matter to him. Please let me go with you."
"We dinna take womenfolk on raids, lass."
I blew out a breath of air in frustration.
"Well, I can't just sit here and worry about you."
"Nor do I wish to travel away and fash about yer welfare, Ann. I would
no fash if ye went home."
No, no, he wouldn't, would he? John didn't feel the same about me.
Knowing that his heart wasn't breaking like mine gave me the strength
to fight him.
"Unless you stick that dagger in my palm and wrap your hand

around it to force me to go, I' m not going! " John drew in a sharp
breath. "Then ye wish to stay? Forever?"
I couldn't commit to that. Not forever. In the sixteenth century? I said
nothing.
John sighed heavily, picked the dagger up and stuck it into its sheathe.
"I dinna understand ye, Mistress Borodell. No at all. Come! Help me
rise, and give me no lectures on my weakness. All I require to set me
right is more whisky."
I stood and did my puny best to pull John to his feet, though he had to
do most of the work. I had to admit that he did better if he kept moving.
His wounds seemed to stiffen when he rested.
We returned to the keep, where John refused to lay down, opting
instead to sit in a chair. I poured him some whisky, and he drank it.
Taking the seat across from him, I studied him surreptitiously, trying to
memorize his face. I suspected that I wasn't going to convince him to
let me accompany them. Why would he if women traditionally didn't
accompany them?
He seemed about to say something, but a knock on the door signaled
Andrew, who brought some food from his aunt, Torq's sister. He set
down a tray holding two bowls of soup and a plate of oatcakes, which
seemed to be the standard fare on Dun Eistean. A jug of ale
accompanied the meal.
"Thank you, Andrew, and thank your aunt," I said. Hungry, I dug into
the hearty carrot soup.
"Aye, lad. Thank her kindly."
"Aye, yer lairdship." Andrew turned and vanished from the room,
leaving John and me to alternately eat and stare at each other. It was as
if both of us wanted to say something but could not. And so we didn't.
We ate in uncomfortable silence. When I finished, I pushed my plate
away and eyed the bed. In our absence, someone had come in and
replaced the blood-stained sheets and freshened things up with a clean
tartan blanket. I suspected Andrew.
"You really should rest," I said.

John met my eyes, and to my surprise, he nodded. "Aye, lass. I ken ye
are right. I am fair weary." "Are you in pain?"
"Aye, but the whisky and ale will help." He looked toward the bed. "I
think it best I find other accommodations and leave ye here in peace."
"No! " I said vehemently. "This is your room. I took it from you. Rest.
I'll find something to do with myself."
John, on the point of rising, turned and looked at me.
"What do ye mean? Ye will no try to leave the island again, will ye? I
am no sure I can give chase today." His lips curved, albeit tiredly.
"No," I said. "Why would I leave since you're now willing to give me
the dagger?"
I reached out quickly to help John lower himself to a sitting position on
the bed.
"Aye, of course! Ye are free to leave. What was I thinking?" he asked,
kicking off his boots. I plumped his pillow and watched as he sank onto
his side with a wince.
When I turned away, he grabbed my hand.
"But please do no leave without saying farewell, Ann," he said. He
released my hand, reached behind his back with obvious pain, and
retrieved the dagger. I backed up as if he would hand it to me, and he
dropped it onto the stone floor with a ringing thud.
"I'm not going anywhere right now, John. I told you that. You're the
one who thinks I need to go, not me."
John ran a tired hand across his eyes. He looked pale and wan, and I
couldn't believe he was planning on traveling the following day, or
worse yet, engaging in some sort of raid or battle.
"I dinna ken if I want ye to stay or go," he murmured, his eyelids
drooping. "Neither perhaps."
The words fell from his lips as his breathing deepened, and I blinked.
Had he actually fallen asleep that fast, or fainted? I checked his
forehead, noting a warm but not feverish temperature, before turning
away to scan the room.
What was I going to do with myself for the next few hours? With no
particular destination in mind, I left the room and came upon Andrew,

sitting on the floor of the keep, eating the same food John and I had
shared. Although the day was reasonably warm, the peat fire continued
to burn, albeit low.
Andrew set down his food and jumped to his feet at my appearance. At
the same time, I heard several men up in the tower above.
"Are they on lookout?" I asked.
"Aye, mistress. James and Torq keep watch."
"Is someone always watching out from the tower?"
"Aye."
"How did the Macleods manage to get onto the island then? Weren' t
they seen from the mainland or the path leading to Dun
Eistean?"
"I am no sure, mistress. I heard the men tell the laird they came silently
in the night, on foot, with no torches. The laird asked the verra same
question this morn."
I moved out of the dimness of the tower and into the afternoon sun.
People were in motion, and activity bustled on the island. Andrew
followed and stood by me while I watched.
"He's too weak and injured to travel tomorrow," I said.
Andrew didn't answer, and I turned to look at him.
"You don't agree?"
"It is no my place to question the laird, mistress."
"No, I guess not," I said with a sigh. "Would Mistress Glick talk him
out of going? Does she have any influence with him?"
Andrew shook his head. "I dinna think he would listen to her." He bit
his lip and kicked dust at his feet. "What I mean is, he is no used to
taking orders or advice from anyone. No that I have ever kent! "
I nodded and returned to watching the activity on the tabletop.
"No, I imagine not. He seems very stubborn."
"Och, I would no say stubborn, mistress." Andrew shuffled his feet
again.
"Willful?" I smiled at his discomfort. "Noooo."
"Obstinate?"
Andrew's cheeks flamed. "Mistress, I can no say such things. He is

the laird."
I laughed.
"What can you say then?"
"The laird is—" Andrew paused. "Determined."
"Determined," I repeated with a grin. "Yes, he is definitely that." I
turned to Andrew. "I have been meaning to ask. People call him the
laird. Is he an aristocrat? Titled?"
"Titled? Och, nay, I dinna think so. He is no king or duke. He is laird of
Dun Eistean and Ardmore Castle."
"So, by laird, you mean lord of property."
"Aye, mistress. He is our chieftain."
"Chieftain," I repeated thoughtfully. "For the entire Clan Morrison?"
"Oh, noooo, there are many Morrisons. My uncle told me that there are
Morrisons in the lowlands, in Glasgow as well, but they are from a
different clan."
"Hmmm," I murmured. How little I had known about Scotland before I
came to the archaeological dig on Dun Eistean. Having spent a bit of
time in the sixteenth century, did I really know any more? I thought not.
"I think I'll go exploring on the island," I said.
"I will accompany ye," Andrew said.
I looked at him in surprise.
"I'm not going anywhere, Andrew. I'll be all right." "Still, I think I
should go with ye." "Are you determined, Andrew?" He chuckled, a
quiet laugh. "Aye, mistress, that I am."
There really wasn't much to explore, and it took very little time to
circumnavigate the tabletop, but I enjoyed the outing and stretching my
legs. If I had ever wondered what people on Dun Eistean did to while
away the time, I saw that afternoon that they repaired their homes,
worked on small vegetable gardens, wove tartans on looms, baked corn
in several large kilns, mended fishing nets, scrubbed down the boat,
guarded the island from yet another raid and tended to their children.

I didn' t know if they were busier because they were trying to repair the
damage from the raid the previous night or whether I bore witness to
otherwise normal routines, but I was surprised to see that they appeared
to have little time to relax and stare out to sea.
We returned to the keep in a few hours. I eased open the door, and
Andrew slipped in to pick up the tray. He carried it off. As I shut the
door behind him, I heard John's voice.
"There ye are, lass," he said, raising himself to his elbow. "I fashed that
ye had gone with no farewell, but saw the dagger on the floor."
I took my chair and pulled it over to the bedside.
"Nope, I'm still here. I just walked around with Andrew."
"Ah! He is a good lad," John said.
"How do you feel? Are you in pain?"
"Aye, a wee bit. Is there whisky?"
"Yes, I think so." I got up and poured out a cup of whisky. "For
medicinal purposes, right?" I said, handing him the cup with a smile.
"Aye, of course," he said. I wasn't quite sure he understood that I was
joking.
John gulped the whisky and held out his cup for a refill. "Don't drink it
too fast," I cautioned. "You don't want to get drunk."
"There is little fear of that," John said with a wry expression, "though I
may wish to find myself inebriated. This night will no be a joyous one,
as we must tend to the dead."
I swallowed hard. It was one thing studying ancient bones, quite
another to deal with the violence that had brought about their demise.
"Do you burn the bodies?" I imagined Viking-style funeral pyres, given
the heavily Nordic immigration to the Outer Hebrides.
John looked up in something akin to shock.
"Och, lass, no! We are no pagans! But we canna bury bodies here on
the island. We dinna have the room, so we must carry our kin to the
mainland."
"Tonight?" I asked. "Why wouldn't you do that in the daytime? When
you can see?" He sighed heavily.

"We must bury the bodies quickly, but more importantly, we must bury
them under cover of darkness lest the Macleods or Macaulays have
scouts about. Angus probably suspects we will bury our dead soon."
"So you think they'll be waiting for you?" "It is possible."
"But why would you go? What about burying them at sea?" Again, I
channeled what little I remembered of Viking funeral practices from
my studies. I regretted paying little attention in the class now, my focus
having been on Colonial funerals. "Send them out to sea in a boat."
Having seen too many movies apparently, I imagined an arrow shot
into the boat, burning as it drifted off into the mist.
As soon as I spoke, I regretted my foolish comment. Not only would an
unmanned boat probably be thrown back onto the rocks by the rough
surf, not only had I not seen bows or arrows on the island, but they only
had one boat, and a very large one at that. John reared his head and
eyed me curiously. "How do ye think of these things? We canna lose
our only boat." Now, I sighed heavily.
"But, John, you can't just carry two bodies onto the mainland and take
time to bury them if the Macleods are out there. Which sort of raises
another question. Since they have Mary and the children, why would
they still be hanging around up here?"
"Did ye forget? That the Macleod wishes to take ye for himself?" He
bent over with care, picked up the dagger and sheathed it behind his
back.
"Noooo," I said. "I'm sure that was some sort of spontaneous 'Here, I'll
take her even though I don't know what to do with her,' sort of thing. If
anything, he probably would have tossed me over the cliff edge and
into the sea in no time at all." I tried to smile to diffuse my comment,
but the image I invoked actually frightened me. I had landed in a
turbulent and unsettled time where laws were capricious at best. Life
and liberty were controlled by the fickle edicts of the powerful.
"I dinna think he would do so, but it is clear that he wanted ye and was
thwarted by young Andrew. However, that as it may be, Angus is bent
on destroying us, and he has the king's permission to do so. We

were lax in our guard last night. It will no happen again."
"Well, no, because you're heading over to the mainland, so you'll be
easy pickings."
"Easy pickings?" He tilted his head, thrusting his feet into his boots.
"An easy mark, easy to find, to slaughter, to kill." "Och, aye, I ken we
will. But we have no choice. My kinsmen's bodies must be buried at
once given the warmer weather. If winter were upon us, perhaps we
could wait, but we canna."
"So that's it? You're just going over there anyway? Why can't you just
toss them over the cliff?" My voice rose to a high pitch, and I crossed
my arms in frustration. "Desperate times call for desperate measures!"
John pushed himself from the bed with obvious pain. I was so angry
that I resisted helping him. I regretted my callous words though.
John came to me, but instead of addressing my heartlessness, he put his
hands on my shoulders.
"I ken ye dinna mean to dishonor the dead, Ann, and ye a student of
history. Ye have told me yerself that ye have studied the bones of those
who died. If we were to throw my kinsmen into the sea, they might
wash back up on the rocks below, or some great water beastie might
make a meal of them. Their wives and bairns suffer for their loss
already. We can no treat their loved ones with such disrespect." I hung
my head.
"No, of course you're right. I'm sorry. That was a stupid thing to
say."
"No stupid," John replied with a crooked smile. "A sensible solution,
but no one we can condone. When the Macleods and Macaulays are
long gone, and I pray that one day they will vanish from the face of the
earth, we will visit the burial sites of those who have died, and we will
mourn them properly."
I looked up at John, debating. But never one for knowing when to keep
my mouth shut, I spoke.
"The Macleods and Macaulays will not 'vanish from the face of the
earth,' John, but clan warfare will cease after the eighteenth century, as
I

told you before. You will all coexist in peace and prosperity, if a little
bit of peaceful rivalry."
"Under English rule."
"Yes."
"Under the verra king who commissions Letters of Fire and Sword to
set the clans against one another." His tone was sarcastic.
"No, I guess not this king, but in the future. King George II, I
think."
"We shall see," John said skeptically. "Until then, I shall do whatever is
necessary to protect my clan."
"Yes." I knew he would. I took one more chance. "You said you are
going after Mary in the morning. Can you take your kinsman then and
bury them on the way?"
"Nay, lass. We do no follow the Macleods over land but by sea. Though
I am told the Macleods took Mary and the bairns to the mainland, I feel
certain they came by boat, perhaps anchoring farther down the coast.
We will bury the lads tonight and return to take the birlinn out at first
light."
I really couldn't understand why I was presuming to advise John on
burial practices and strategy. I was clueless about how to deal with
kidnapping, violence, burials and death—unlike a sixteenth-century
clan chieftain.
"I'm sorry. I'm just tossing out ideas without a lot of thought. When will
you leave tonight?"
"Soon. When darkness falls," he said. I bit my lip at the obvious
answer.
John put his hands on my shoulders again and lowered his head to peer
into my eyes.
"I ken ye mean well, Ann, but there is much ye dinna understand about
our ways and life here on the island. Thank ye for yer counsel."
My cheeks flamed, and I couldn't hold his beguiling blue gaze. I
dropped my eyes and shrugged.
"Can I go with you tonight?"

Chapter Twelve
John shook his head, dropping his hands. I missed his touch, though I
was sure he'd meant nothing particularly romantic in his gesture.
"Womenfolk do no attend burials. Do they in yer time?" I reared my
head. "Really? Why not?" John appeared to think for a moment. "I
dinna ken. It has always been thus." "Well, for goodness' sake!" "As ye
say."
Apparently, he wasn't about to change that custom for me either.
"Come with me now though," John continued. "Sunset will soon be
upon us, and I wish to share the beauty with ye."
"Oh!" I said, suddenly flustered. I moved in to support him, but he took
my hand and tucked it into his arm.
"I will no have ye to lean on in the future. I had better learn to walk on
my own."
I said nothing but allowed him to guide me out of the keep and around
to the back of the tower to face the sea to the west. The sun was low in
the sky, and the clouds highlighted a brilliant orange. A dazzling peach
streak extended from the setting sun toward us.
We sat down and watched silently as the sun set. Acutely aware of
John's nearness, I resisted the yearning to take his hand in mine.
Peeking at him out of the corner of my eye, I inhaled deeply in an
attempt to calm my pounding heart.
John seemed enthralled with the sunset and didn't turn to look at me.
Thankfully. I didn't want him to know how lovestruck I was. Was this
the last time I would be alone with him?
The sound of voices caught my attention, and I looked over my
shoulder toward the crofts. A flurry of activity showed six men
emerging from one of the houses, carrying the two bodies of their
kinsmen. Women and children crowded around them, some crying. I
jumped up.
"Already?"

John looked over his shoulder and nodded. He pushed himself off the
ground before I could bend over to pull him up.
"Aye. The light is fading. By the time we reach the mainland, darkness
will cloak us."
"How long will you be? You haven't even eaten." "I will take
something when I return. I ken Mistress Glick will be pleased to give
ye some supper."
"No, I'll wait for you." I turned to follow him. "Are you sure I can't go
with you? The men appear to have their hands full. Won't you need
help on the cliff path?"
John took my hand and slipped it under his arm as we crossed the
tabletop.
"Andrew will see to me, lass. Nay, no women." The women and
children now lingered outside the complex of crofts, watching the men
walk toward the gate. I ducked my head self-consciously as they turned
as one to look at us.
John stopped near the houses and released my arm. "Go now to
Mistress Glick." He nodded toward the older woman, who stood with
the group.
"Okay," I said in the spirit of not arguing. I moved away from John but
stopped when he turned and walked toward the gate. I really didn't want
to visit with anyone.
John looked over his shoulder as he joined the men waiting for him. He
made a motion for me to join the women, and I took two steps sideways
to appease him and waved back. I could see Andrew in the group.
John shook his head as if frustrated with me, before turning away to
follow the group through the gate. I watched until they disappeared into
the gathering darkness.
Mistress Glick startled me when she appeared at my side and took my
arm.
"Come, lass. John wished me to feed ye supper." I didn't resist as she
led me to her croft. "Why can't the women accompany the men to the
cemetery?" "To the cemetery? Och, lass, we have no such here. Our
burial

grounds and kirk are farther down the coast on Morrison land, but we
canna take the lads there just now. They are to be buried in an auld
Viking cairn. We canna even give them a proper headstone at the
moment, no coffin, as we have no wood, no proper sending off with a
wake."
"I' m sorry," I said.
She escorted me inside her cottage, where she had a fire burning. She
moved straight toward the pot hanging from an iron hook in her fire pit.
"But I dinna ken why ye ask about the women," she said, turning to
look at me with a sharp eye. "Women dinna attend burials."
"Can I ask why not?" I settled into a chair at her table, where a single
candle burned. I eyed a plate of oatcakes but resisted taking one before
supper.
Mistress Glick had returned to stirring her pot but stilled and looked
over her shoulder at me.
"Because we are no allowed, I suppose. I dinna ken. That is the way it
has always been. If we were home at Ardmore Castle, we could visit
the burial site later. But we canna leave the dun now. Do English
women attend funerals?"
I smiled gently. Neither John nor Mistress Glick really knew the origin
of the custom of denying women access to the funeral. I would
probably never hear an explanation.
"Yes," I answered, though I wasn't really sure, but I couldn't very well
say so. Had I truly been a citizen of the sixteenth century, I would
probably have known more than a few people who had died.
"A strange custom," she said, echoing my words. She spooned the
usual soup into bowls and brought them to the table, taking a seat
across from me.
"The lads are off in the morn then," she said, slurping her soup with
apparent enjoyment.
I had almost taken a bite but paused and dropped my spoon into the
bowl.
"Can't you stop John, Mistress Glick? Can't the rest of the men go?
John's wounds are way too severe for him to be traveling."

She slurped some more soup, and I wondered if she was just going to
ignore my plea.
"Nay, I canna stop John from going, lass. I ken he should no travel, but
there is naebodie to tell him no. The lads will look after him. They
dinna wish to lose their laird."
I sighed and shook my head.
"And what if he has to fight? How could he possibly wield a sword,
engage in hand-to-hand combat?"
"Hand-to-hand combat is it now?" she said with a broad smile. "That
sounds verra serious." She bit into an oatcake and pushed the plate
toward me. I took one but set it down beside my bowl.
"It is serious, and so am I. John cannot win in a battle. Angus will kill
him this time." My words came out in a bit of a sob, and I cleared my
throat.
"Och, lass, I hear the tears in yer voice. Dinna fash. John carries a
pistol. All the lads do. Hopefully, he will just shoot the Macleod for
once and for all and be done with the man.
"Still," she continued, "John is one of those who still prefers the auld
ways of swordplay. He considers it much more honorable. Yer
'hand-to-hand combat.' Torq is one of those as well."
"It looks like Andrew might be one of those who prefer steel as well," I
said. "If he'd had a gun, he could just have shot one of my captors, or
both...instead of endangering himself by attacking bigger men with a
sword."
"Aye, he is Torq's nephew after all."
"I know," I said. I'd developed quite a fondness for the teenager. I
sighed heavily, lifted my spoon to eat and set it down again.
"I'm afraid I'm just not hungry. And the soup smells so lovely."
"It is lovely," Mistress Glick said with a wry smile. "Hear me, lass.
Clan feuding is a way of life. It has always been so. Good men die.
Women and cattle are stolen. Land is taken. John's father, the auld
chieftain, protected us well, but he was no able to stop his brother from
stealing away with the Macleod's young wife. John inherited this
current feud, and there is naethin we can do about it. Maurice does no
intend to give up his wife, and even if he did or could, Angus would no
have her

back. He has already taken a new wife that he likes just as well. Angus
just wants his revenge. And his grandchildren."
"What more revenge does he want? He already has the Morrison
home."
"I ken he has found a way. He must have decided that ye are important
to young John, and I believe he means to have ye."
The dark expression on her face chilled me, and I drew in a sharp
breath.
As if Mistress Glick had called terror down upon us, the door flew
open, and Angus Macleod strode into the croft, his sword in one hand,
his pistol in the other. He shoved the gun into his belt, freeing up one
hand.
"Ah! There ye are," he said in English, directing his attention to me. I
jumped up, grabbed Mistress Glick and pulled her to far end of the
room. Where was John? Where were the men? How had Angus gotten
back on the island? Surely the guards had been extra watchful, had they
not?
Angus advanced into the croft, backed by two additional burly
Highlanders.
"Stay back!" I yelled, as if that would stop him.
"Come, lass. Ye have no choice," he said as if we were having a
reasonable conversation. I tried to push Mistress Glick behind me, but
she was having none of it.
"Angus Macleod, do no think for one minute that I will let ye take this
lass. Where are Mary and the bairns? I demand that ye return them at
once! "
Angus laughed triumphantly, unpleasantly, coldly.
"Mistress Innis Glick, do ye ken ye can speak to me thus? That ye can
keep me from what I want?"
He looked over his shoulder and nodded, and the two Highlanders
moved forward like bulldozers, pushing the table over and advancing
upon us.
I screamed then, as loud as I could. I shoved the older woman behind
me and thrust out my hands as if I could stop the men from grabbing
me. But grab me they did.

"Have a care now, lads. Do no damage the goods," Angus barked.
"Bring her. Leave the auld woman." He turned and stalked out of the
croft.
I screamed again as the blue-kilted men hauled me forward, Mistress
Glick hanging on to my waist as if to pull me back.
Why didn't anyone come to help? Couldn't they hear me? I screamed
again.
"Help me!"
"Leave off, woman," one of the men said. Big and brawny, with dark
stringy hair hanging over his bearded face, he pulled at Mistress Glick's
hands and pushed her backward.
"Stop! Don't hurt her!" I screeched with a glance over my shoulder.
Mistress Glick fell but pushed herself upright again. "Stop! You'll get
hurt. Stop, Mistress Glick!"
The older woman froze and dropped her hands.
"Be strong, lass. Be strong. John will come for ye. I promise." Unlikely
tears streamed down her face, and my heart broke. I had never seen her
weakened or helpless.
I nodded, and the men pulled me through the door and into the dark
night. Like the previous night, some of the crofts had been set alight.
Women and older children ran about trying to extinguish the fires with
blankets and buckets of water.
The clash of steel rang out as Macleod men battled Morrison men. Was
I responsible for this? Was this my fault? That Angus had returned for
me?
"Stop!" I shouted. "Please stop! Don't fight!"
My puny shrieks went unheard in the chaos surrounding us. I looked
over my shoulder one last time at Mistress Glick, standing in her
doorway, wringing her hands, before the Macleod men dragged me not
toward the gate but toward the opposite end of the tabletop.
"Where are you taking me?" I screeched. "Where are we going?"
I could see Angus moving quickly ahead of me, but at my voice, he
turned.
"Shut yer mouth, lass, or I will shut it for ye. Silence now."
I took him seriously and shut my mouth as he resumed moving

away from the crofts. We passed the boathouses, and I realized we
were heading toward the ravine that held the boat.
I wanted to scream out, to let people know where we were headed, but
what did it matter? No one would hear me, not amid the shouting and
strife near the crofts.
My captors pulled me to the edge of the cliff, and I struggled. Were
they going to throw me over? Had I gotten it wrong? Was Angus going
to kill me rather than kidnap me?
I started screaming again.
"Help me! Help! "
Down below, I saw men with torches standing by the birlinn. Someone,
perhaps Angus, smacked me across the face, not enough to knock me
out but enough to silence me. I slumped, and one of the men picked me
up and carried me down a rocky path into the crevice. Dizzy and close
to fainting, I could do nothing but blurrily watch the activity
surrounding me.
The tallest of my captors, the one who had spoken, stepped into the
wildly rocking boat and set me down on the floor before tying
something around my wrists. My head lolled against his knee as he
seated himself. Other men jumped into the boat, their swords clashing
against one another in the cramped space. Angus stepped in, and after a
quick look in my direction, moved up to take a seat toward the front.
A big shove forced my aching head against my captor's knee, and
nausea swept over me as some men pushed the boat out to sea. The
Macleods operated in silence, stealthily, quietly. Even the sound of the
oars hitting the water was muted.
The last thing I remember before I fainted was looking up to the top of
the cliff and seeing the small figure of a woman, her white hair
highlighted in the moonlight, wind whipping her skirts about. Mistress
Glick watched us sail away.

Chapter Thirteen
I awoke to the sight of misty gray skies. My head throbbed, and nausea
gripped me as the world rocked beneath me. In front, men pushed and
pulled at oars, and I heard the sound of wood slapping on the water.
I reached up to rub at my blurry eyes and found my hands still bound
together with a rope. My face lay against the foul-smelling tartan of
someone's kilt. With a jerk, I looked up.
My guard, the dark-bearded Macleod who had carried me aboard,
looked down at me with a flat expression. Seeing me awake, he raised
his eyes, and I followed his gaze toward Angus Macleod, seated toward
the front of the boat.
As if aware of the big man's silent bid to grab his attention, Angus
looked up and rose to work his way back toward us. I tensed, and my
heart, already racing, pounded. Angus took a seat next to the big man.
"How fares our guest, Dugald?" Angus said in English, his grin wide
but humorless.
"She just awakened," Dugald responded.
I kept my mouth shut. My headache served as a reminder to remain
silent.
"Are ye well, mistress?" I nodded silently.
"And what shall we call ye?" Angus asked.
"Ann Borodell," I said, fearing that a nonresponse would elicit another
smack to the face from Dugald. The Macleods certainly had a penchant
for smacking women.
"Mistress Borodell," Angus repeated. He picked up a metal flask of
something from the hull of the boat, took a drink and offered the
container to me. I shook my head in response to the sketchy container
of liquid.
"As ye wish," Angus replied. He studied me for a moment, then looked
up at Dugald.
"Ensure the lady eats," he said. He rose without another look in my
direction and made his way back toward the front of the boat.
Dugald produced a soiled piece of linen that held several oatcakes,

and he offered one to me. I shook my head.
"The Macleod wishes ye to eat," he said. I heard an ominous and
determined tone in his voice, and with my clasped hands, I reached for
the oatcake. I nibbled on the edge of it, trying to combat the nausea that
my aching head and the movement of the boat through choppy waves
caused. I hadn't realized I suffered from seasickness, but apparently I
did.
I had no idea where we were or where we were headed, but I swallowed
my questions and tried to breathe deeply through the anxiety running
rampant throughout my body.
I heard voices in the distance but could see nothing in the mist. I
wriggled myself straight to see over the side of the boat. Cliffs
appeared in the near distance, dropping down to a beach.
Highlanders, Macleods from the blue-green color of their kilts, waved
and shouted in Gaelic. Some of the men on our birlinn bellowed back,
and the boat bounced up and down in the surf as it surged toward shore.
A commotion ensued as men jumped out to drag the boat in, and
Dugald picked me up and stepped out of the boat into shallow water to
carry me to shore. He set me down on the beach but kept a restraining
arm on me. He didn't need to. I wasn't going anywhere.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noted another boat anchored just
offshore. Then I spied Mary and her children nestled in a huddle on the
sand nearby.
"Mary! " I called out.
Mary lifted her head and looked up. Her flaxen hair, normally sleek and
well groomed, hung down the sides of her face in a bedraggled mess.
Her children slept against her chest, and she held them close. Her face
broke into a smile then transformed into an expression of horror as she
saw Angus grab my arm to pull me forward.
"Come," he said roughly.
"Ann!" Mary cried out in English. "Is my brother no with ye?" She
didn' t wait for me to answer. "Och, what have ye done, Angus?" She
shook her children gently awake and rose, pulling them to a stand.
"What have ye done?" she repeated. "John will come for her. He will
come for

all of us, ye can be sure of that! "
"Aye, perhaps he will," Angus said, continuing in the same language as
he hauled me along the sandy beach toward a path. Dugald waited
almost patiently as Mary took each child in one hand and fell into step
behind us, followed by the rest of Macleod's men.
"He is welcome to do so. I really should have killed yer brother long
ago," Angus tossed over his shoulder.
I kept silent but looked behind me at Mary. She had turned her attention
to her children and seemed not to hear Angus, but Dugald's solicitous
behavior surprised me as he guided the group up the path away from
the beach. Somehow, I didn't think he would be smacking Mary
anytime soon. If anything, he seemed to have a crush on her.
Angus pulled me awkwardly onto a grassy embankment, and I paused
at the site of the large turreted gray stone edifice before us. Angus
dragged me forward toward a six-foot stone wall surrounding the
fortress.
Ardmore Castle. I had no doubt.
We entered the grounds through an arched doorway guarded by two
Highlanders armed with pistols and swords. Once inside the castle
walls, a beehive of activity caught my attention as women, men and
animals scurried about the daily business of living.
The Macleods at Ardmore Castle were far better protected and
provisioned than the Morrisons on Dun Eistean, and my heart went out
to the refugees on the tidal island. Barrels, wagons and carts of food
and drink were in abundance in the courtyard of the castle. The
Macleods didn' t look like they were going hungry. As if Mary read my
mind, she spoke.
"Ye have no right to live here, Angus, no right to bring yer people
here," Mary said.
On the point of being taken inside a seven-foot arched doorway of the
largest tower in the castle, I turned to look at Mary. Angus paused.
"The king gives me the right, lass. Ardmore is now mine." "My
family's ancestral home will never be yours, Angus. Never. John will
make his case to the king."
Angus shrugged. "His pleas will fall on deaf ears. The king is no

likely to reverse his edict. He would look foolish."
Mary's eyes glistened, but tears did not fall. She shook her head.
"More's the pity," she said.
"Dugald, take my daughter and the bairns to their rooms. And send
Mrs. Mackay to me. She can take Mistress Borodell in hand." Dugald
responded in Gaelic.
"Have courage, Ann. John will come for us," Mary said as she was led
past me. My heart dropped to my stomach to see her disappear down a
narrow stone-walled hallway. Whatever was about to come my way
would have been more tolerable in her presence. I wasn't sure what
Angus planned to do with me, to me, but surely he wouldn't assault me
in the presence of his daughter-in-law. Would he?
I kept my face averted from Angus as he turned and spoke to several
men who had followed him into the castle. I didn't understand their
words, but they nodded and left again, leaving me alone with Angus.
As if realizing he still had hold of my arm, he released me and indicated
I should take a seat on a wooden bench by the front door. I eyed the
bench and the open doorway and sat, rubbing what was probably going
to be a very bruised arm.
Angus probably knew that I wouldn't run, not then anyway, not out a
door and into a courtyard filled with Macleods. I couldn't possibly
blend in. And there was no way I could escape the confines of the
walled compound, not with the guards at the gate.
"My housekeeper will take ye to a room," Angus said.
"What do you plan to do with me?" I asked in a shaking voice. "Am I a
hostage?"
I knew John would come for us, but I wanted to bluff Angus. I cleared
my throat and lifted my chin.
"Because John Morrison isn't coming to rescue me, so don't think
taking me will draw him here. I' m no one to him."
Angus laughed in that hateful way of his and took a seat next to me on
the bench. I turned away from his hideous smile.
"I didna take ye as hostage, Mistress Borodell. But John Morrison will
come. He will come for his sister, and he will come for ye. Of that, I

have no doubt."
In such close proximity, Angus's breath was foul, and I winced.
Keeping my face averted, I spoke, though barely above a whisper, as
my throat constricted.
"Then why did you bring me here?"
"Ye have but to look in a mirror to see why I took ye, mistress. Yer
skin, yer lips, yer hair glisten like fine sugar. I would taste of ye."
He wrapped a hand around the back of my neck as if to pull my face
toward his, and I reared back in shock.
"Yer lairdship! " a querulous female voice called out in English. Angus
released me, and I jumped to my feet and backed away. A short, stout
woman emerged from the hallway into which Mary had disappeared.
"Did ye send for me?"
Seeing another woman, I took a step toward her. Angus reached for my
arm as if to grab me, but the plump gray-haired woman positioned
herself between Angus and me, effectively cutting him off.
"Dugald says I am to take the young lass in hand?"
Angus dropped his hand and stared hard at Mrs. Mackay. I cringed at
his angry expression, but the housekeeper stared up at him with
unwavering sky-blue eyes. I scooted to stand behind her, though she
was only about an inch taller than me.
To my surprise, Angus blinked.
"Och! " he spat out in a resentful tone, as though he had lost some silent
battle. "Take the lass to a room. See to her needs. Give her food and
drink. She will be staying as our guest, but she is no to leave her room
without Dugald or myself. Lock her in."
"And how long will she be staying?"
"As long as suits me, Mrs. Mackay. Off ye go then! "
Angus turned away as if he couldn't be bothered, and Mrs. Mackay
took my ill-used arm and pulled me away, propelling me down the dark
hallway. Given that there were no windows in the cool and slightly
damp hall to let in daylight, a single burning sconce shed poor light. We
paused at the foot of what appeared to be a very narrow and steep
stairwell.
"Up ye go now, lass," Mrs. Mackay said.

Longing to say something to the unusual housekeeper but unsure of
where her loyalties lay, despite my sense that she had protected me
from Angus, I kept my mouth shut, hoisted the front of my bedraggled
skirts and climbed up the winding stone stairwell. Slightly
claustrophobic in less terrifying times, I struggled with the tight space.
"Keep going, lass," the housekeeper encouraged when I paused for the
oxygen that anxiety stole from me.
"I'm trying," I said. "I'm trying. Where are we going?" "Och, ye dinna
appear verra fit. Ye must have lived a life of luxury in yer London
house."
I turned and looked down at Mrs. Mackay. Ruddy cheeks glowed with
perspiration under a white cap.
"My London house? I don't have a London house." "No?" she said,
shooing me forward. "Well, wherever ye are from, ye dinna appear to
have lived in a troublesome castle with steep stairs. Keep climbing. We
are almost there! "
I threw her one last look. She pulled up her own plain gray skirts and
apron. A patch of cloth fell from her skirt pocket, a bit of muted-red
tartan. I looked down at my skirts. The material matched. "Mrs.
Mackay! Are you a Morrison?"
Mrs. Mackay clucked. "Hush now, lass. I dinna care to remind the
Macleod of such. Aye, I was born a Morrison. Go now! "
I turned and half climbed up the stairs on my knees, each stone step
above me just about at nose level. A landing appeared, and I reached it
with a gasp, my heart pounding. The staircase appeared to continue on
to another floor.
"Please tell me we're not climbing farther up." "Aye, that we are, lass.
Angus has his rooms on this floor. Ye dinna wish to be near him."
She nodded for me to continue up the stairs, and I sucked in a deep
breath to continue the climb, galvanized by a need for distance from
Angus's rooms.
"Where are Mary and the children?" "They are in Mary's auld rooms in
another tower." "Is she free to leave? To walk around the castle?" I
hardly thought

so.
"Nay, she will no doubt be under lock and key. Dugald is standing
guard outside the room, and he will see to their needs."
"Why are you here, Mrs. Mackay? I mean...how is it that you're here?
Are you safe? Why would Angus Macleod let you stay? Why wouldn't
he lock you up or—" I stopped, unwilling to say what I had been
thinking.
"Why did he no kill me and all?" she asked with a raspy chuckle. I
looked down at her again. She was just as winded as I.
"Angus had need of me and a few others. He is no interested in the
workings of the castle. I ken it was better to stay than let the Macleods
destroy our home. The Clan Morrison will return to Ardmore Castle
someday."
"And you'll be waiting," I said, breathing heavily as I reached the next
landing.
"Aye, lass. I will be here."
I straightened and stretched my back, realizing that I'd basically
crawled up the stairs. Several hallways ran in different directions, and I
turned to give Mrs. Mackay a supporting hand as she crested the stairs
and stepped onto the landing.
"Follow me," she said as she took the hallway to the right. She stopped
in front of a heavy oak door and selected a skeleton key from a key ring
hanging at her waist.
I followed her into a low-ceilinged, rounded tower room featuring a
narrow slit for a window, shining oak furniture with red velvet
upholstery and hangings. A small white porcelain tub behind an
embroidered screen caught my eye.
"A bathtub?" I mused.
"Aye," she said. "We have several here in the castle, a vanity of the
chieftain's mother, Elsbeth Morrison. Angus has one in his rooms, but
he makes no use of it."
I wasn't surprised.
"Where were John's rooms? The Morrison laird?" "Down below.
Angus took them for himself. How is the lad? I have no seen him this
past year." Mrs. Mackay spoke over her shoulder as she

moved about the room, ruffling red velvet bed hangings, straightening
matching bed covers and checking for dust on an oak dresser and
several chairs.
"He was injured pretty severely by Angus a few nights ago when the
Macleods kidnapped Mary and the kids," I said, but hurried to finish
when Mrs. Mackay whipped around with a startled face. "He's going to
be okay! But he sustained a head wound and a severe laceration to his
back and neck in a swordfight."
"Och! " She shook her head. "Those two will kill each other afore
long."
I feared the same thing and wanted to say something about John
coming for Mary, but the less I said about that, the better. Angus
expected John to come and was probably ready for an attack.
"The young laird will no let an injury stop him from rescuing his
family," she said, as if she read my mind.
I relented.
"But Angus will surely kill him this time," I moaned. "John simply
cannot win in a physical battle, not with those injuries. They were
awful! "
Mrs. Mackay bit her lip.
"I truly hope that will no come to pass."
She moved toward the door.
"I must return to my duties, lass. And ye heard the Macleod. I am to
lock the door. I will return soon with food and drink. Rest a bit. Ye look
fair done in."
I wanted to cling to her, to beg her not to leave me, but I resisted.
"Thank you" was all I could say.
Mrs. Mackay nodded silently with sympathetic blue eyes before
slipping out the door and locking it behind her.
I stared at the closed door forlornly for a moment before turning to
study the room. The dank chill begged for warmth, and I surveyed the
small stone fireplace flanking one end of the room, regretting that I
hadn' t asked Mrs. Mackay to light it for me. I saw no wood, nothing
that remotely resembled a tinderbox, and I wasn't sure I could work
flint and steel even if I tried.

I grabbed a soft gray blanket from the end of the bed and wrapped it
around my shoulders. The window lured me, and I moved toward it.
Thankfully, it wasn't high on the wall but was at eye level. I looked out.
My room faced the sea, and I strained to see the water through the mist
that continued to sock in the castle.
When would John come? I imagined they had returned to Dun Eistean
after burying their kin and discovered not only that they had been
attacked yet again but that Angus had taken me. How had John reacted
to that information? I knew he felt responsible for me, that he would
regret he hadn' t forced me to take the dagger the previous day. I hoped
he wouldn't do anything foolish, take any unnecessary risks, rush
headlong into danger to save me.
Mary and the children were probably safe from harm. I remembered
the vile touch of Angus's hand around my neck as he pulled me to him.
I wasn't so certain how safe I was.

Chapter Fourteen
The sound of a key in the door awakened me, and I opened my eyes.
The window showed twilight seeping in, and I wasn't sure how long I
had slept. The door opened, and fearing the arrival of Angus, I
scrambled off the bed to a standing position.
But it was only a rosy-cheeked Mrs. Mackay and a young, mousy
brown-haired girl bearing a tray of food and drink.
"Set it there, lass," Mrs. Mackay said, pointing to a small round
wooden table in a corner of the room near the fireplace. The petite
pale-skinned maid complied before she turned and hurried from the
room.
"Did ye rest then, lass?" Mrs. Mackay asked, nodding toward the
unkempt cover and loose blanket on the bed.
"Yes, I did, a bit," I said. "Thank you for the food."
"I have brought ye a bit of carrot soup and some oat bread—a tankard
of ale as well."
I would have killed for a cup of hot tea but decided not to ask. I
assumed the kitchen was at least on the first floor, if not a basement,
and I remembered the climb up the steep stairs.
"Thank you," I said.
"Have ye need of aught else afore I go?" she asked. Just some company,
I thought, but I shook my head. "Do ye wish to bathe after yer meal?"
"Oh, yes, please!" I couldn't help it. I didn't care how many flights of
stairs someone had to climb. Yes, please! Mrs. Mackay grinned a
toothy smile.
"I suspected as much and have had Igrid boiling water. Some of the
lads will bring up a few buckets. Ye will find soap and linen in the
cupboard." She nodded toward the dresser. "I ken ye only have what ye
are wearing, and yer skirts appear soiled. Igrid will bring ye a clean
shift, and she will wash yer skirts this evening."
"Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Mackay! " A relaxing hot bath would go a
long way to normalizing my life. I just knew it.
"Ye're most welcome, dearie. Eat yer dinner." She turned and left.

I heard the key in the door as I sat down at the table to enjoy a
wonderfully hot soup. My stomach warmed, reminding me that I'd
forgotten to ask Mrs. Mackay to set the fire. I promised myself that I
would ask whoever brought up the bath water.
Famished, I ate quickly, and a knock on the door and the clanking of
keys brought two young teenage boys into the room, carrying four
buckets of hot water. Igrid followed them in, keys dangling from her
hands, and she laid some clothing on the bed. The boys, both tall and
lanky, and resembling each other so much that I thought they must be
related, pushed the screen aside and poured water into the tub.
"Igrid, could you set the fire or ask one of the boys to do it?" I asked.
"Aye, mistress," she said. "I will send the lads back with peat for
the fire."
Ah! A peat fire. That would be thrilling, I thought with a sigh. A great
smell.
"Thank you! " I said.
The boys directed curious stares at me as they backed out of the room,
and Igrid, chiding them in a matronly way, followed them. Just before
reaching the door, she turned and spoke, her expression sympathetic.
"Mrs. Mackay said I am to lock the door again, mistress." "I know.
That's all right, Igrid."
She nodded and left. I heard her lock the door behind her. I hurried
around to the back of the screen and dipped my fingers into the
steaming water.
On the verge of shedding my clothes and climbing in, I realized that,
thanks to me, I had to wait for one of the boys to come back and make
up my fire. Restlessly, I paced back and forth between the door and the
tub, awaiting someone's return and hoping that the water wouldn't cool
before I could get in. I stopped once and retrieved the soap and linen
towels from the cupboard, laying them on a small stool near the tub,
before resuming my pacing.
Both boys came back with a bucket of peat, and they bent to set the fire,
again throwing curious glances at me out of the corners of their

eyes. I smiled and stepped from foot to foot impatiently as I waited for
the fire to take hold.
"Okay, that's good! Thanks!" I said, hurrying them out of the room like
a gaggle of geese. I heard the keys in the door once again.
I shed my clothing as fast as I could, dropping my soiled garments onto
the floor. Grabbing up the soap, I stepped into the hot tub. The water
had lost some of its steam, but the fire, now burning brightly, made up
for the loss of heat.
I wanted to close my eyes and luxuriate, but I found it hard to relax
knowing that I was a captive in a castle under the control of a man who
had kidnapped me for some nefarious purpose. Angus had said I wasn't
a hostage, and he must have known that John probably didn't have
money for ransom. I assumed the bulk of any money John had was tied
up in the estate in which I was now imprisoned.
I soaped up and washed my hair as best I could before succumbing to
the warmth and leaning my head back in the small tub. Closing my
eyes, I dreamed of a tidal-stack island surrounded by sparkling blue
sea, a majestic tower house standing alone on a cliff and the handsome
Highlander who took my breath away.
A jingle of keys startled me out of my reverie, and I started up out of
the tub to grab a towel, when the door burst open. Angus Macleod
strode in, and I shrieked and fell back into the tub to bury my body
under the water.
He heard my shriek and looked toward me. Rather than excuse himself
or turn away, a slow smile spread across his face. He carried a glass
decanter of some sort of dark liquid.
"Mistress Borodell," he almost purred, taking a sloppy sidestep. I heard
a slur in his words and realized he was drunk.
"Get out! " I shouted, though my voice came out in a rasp. "Get
out! "
"I think no," he said, moving toward me. "Will ye no have a drink with
me?"
I cowered under the water, desperately searching for a way out of what
was likely to happen. I could jump out of the tub and grab a towel to
hide behind. Or maybe just grab the chair and smack him. But I hated

to think of the consequences if I missed or if he didn't fall. And even if
I knocked him out, what would happen when he exacted revenge on me
for attacking him?
I was just on the point of screaming, when Mrs. Mackay hurried into
the room, Dugald behind her.
"Help the laird to his room, Dugald," she said in a matter-of-fact voice.
Dugald, to my surprise, did not argue, but took Angus by the arm and
pivoted him around. The drunken chieftain only laughed as he spun.
"I will visit with ye later, mistress! " he crowed, allowing Dugald to
guide him from the room. Mrs. Mackay grabbed the keys from Angus's
hand, hooked them on her belt and shut the door behind the men. She
turned and hurried toward me. Reaction had set in, and I huddled in the
tub with my knees to my chest, shaking.
"Och, lass," she murmured, picking up a towel and holding it out for
me. "I should have kent the Macleod would do something foolish when
I saw him drinking. When I saw my keys missing from the hook where
I keep them, I kent he was on his way to yer room."
She seemed to want me to stand up, but I couldn't. I could only shake.
"Come, lass. Dry yerself off and ready yerself for bed." "Bed?" I
squeaked. "I can't sleep! How am I going to sleep with that man
running around?"
"Dugald will take Angus to his room, and the laird will sleep off the
drink. Ye have no more to fear from him this night."
"This night?"
Mrs. Mackay's face drooped.
"Ye need to be away, lass. I think Angus plans to take ye for his own.
Ye may no ken, but John's uncle, Maurice Morrison, seduced Angus's
wife and spirited her away to Glasgow. He has long dreamed of
revenge and must think he has it now in ye. He has a wife, but she is a
sickly thing, and he sees her only rarely. She lives far away on his
estates."
I had suspected as much when Angus kidnapped me, but had tried not
to think about it.
"Come, lass, out of the tub. Ye can no hide in there forever."

I pulled myself up, too shaky to be embarrassed at my nakedness, and I
allowed the housekeeper to wrap the large linen towel around me. She
helped me out of the tub, and my weakened legs could do no more than
allow me to drop into the chair. I bent over my knees, long wet hair
hanging down over my head, and I buried my face in my lap. Hot tears
flowed, and sobs racked my body as I reacted to Angus's intrusion into
my room and the news that he planned on keeping me forever.
Mrs. Mackay patted my back and murmured soothing words in Gaelic.
When my torrent of tears subsided, I lifted my head and eyed her.
"I have to get out of here," I whispered.
She nodded. "Aye, that ye must."
"How?"
She shook her head. "I dinna ken, lass. I have no left the castle in a year.
I am little more than a prisoner here myself. Once I decided to stay, I
could no leave. The guards would never let me pass through the gate,
nor would they let ye go.
"But ye have said that the laird is coming. Will he come soon, do ye
ken? Afore tomorrow eve?"
I alerted on her last words.
"Tomorrow eve? What happens then?"
"Angus will come for ye again, I fear, and if he comes without benefit
of drink, I dinna ken if Dugald or I can stop him."
I started to shake again, and Mrs. Mackay wrapped the second towel
around my shoulders.
"There now, lass. There now," she whispered. "Perhaps young John
will come afore then."
"I doubt it. Angus took the birlinn. I don't know how fast John can
travel on foot with his injuries."
"Och! It is a fair journey by land." She clucked in her motherly way.
"Still, we must no give up hope."
"Why would Dugald help you tonight or any other time, by the way?" I
asked. "Why did he take Angus out of the room? He's loyal to Angus,
isn't he?"
Mrs. Mackay nodded. "Aye, he is, but he is besotted with Mary
Macleod—has been for years, even when she was married to young

Hamish. It was she who bade Dugald watch over ye, especially if the
Macleod took to drink. She suspected Angus intended to have ye for
himself, either out of revenge or because he fancies ye. I could see from
the moment I first saw ye that he desired ye." I thanked Mary silently
for her foresight.
"How is Mary? The children?"
"They are well. The Macleod will no do harm to his son's widow or the
bairns."
"Other than imprison them against their will." "Aye, other than that.
The mistress is saddened to hear of her brother's injuries and frets about
him."
"Me too," I murmured. I turned to stare into the flames of the fireplace.
"Are ye fond of him then?" Mrs. Mackay asked. I nodded. "Very much
so." She put a hand on my shoulder. "Then ye are the one," she said
softly. I lifted my head and looked up at her.
"The one?"
She beamed and nodded.
"Aye, the lass for him. A wife, a companion. John's mother, Elsbeth,
was a fanciful woman. She told the children bedtime stories of heroes
and fairy maidens, dragons and beasties, love and war—perhaps to
make up for her own loveless marriage to an auld man. John and Mary
loved her dearly and were devastated when she died of a fever. Mary
grew up to fall in love with her own hero, Hamish, but young John
never seemed to find someone of his own. I wondered if he ever would.
Elsbeth left her son with impractical ideals that no simple lass could
ever hope to achieve—and many have tried." I jumped up.
"Oh, no! That's not me. I'm not the one!" I cried out. Mrs. Mackay took
a step back. "Och! Did I no understand ye? Did ye no just say—" "No!
Yes! Yes, I am very fond of him. But I'm not staying! I have to go. I
can't really live here!"

Mrs. Mackay stared at me in consternation for a moment before she
blinked and allowed her features to soften into a sympathetic
expression.
"Ah, I ken, lass. Ye wish to return to England. The wilds of Scotland
are no place for ye, is that it?"
Stunned by my own perverse outburst, I nodded slowly. I was in no
doubt that I had fallen in love with John Morrison, but I was torn
between my love for him and the safety and comfort of my own time.
Even Colonial America seemed far, far away. "Yes, that's it," I said in a
bemused tone.
Mrs. Mackay picked up the shift she had laid out, and she handed it to
me. I dropped the towel and slipped the shift over my head. The older
woman moved toward the bed and pulled back the red velvet cover.
"Slip into bed, dearie. I will lock the door. The Macleod will no bother
ye again tonight. I will sleep with the keys under my pillow."
I knew I wouldn' t sleep a wink, but I crawled into the soft linen sheets.
Mrs. Mackay tucked me in like a child and said good night before
leaving. I heard her lock the door.
I became aware of a discomfort in my nether regions, and I crawled out
of bed to look under the frame. Sure enough, a porcelain bowl
beckoned me, and I lifted my shift and hovered. The needs of nature
satisfied, I crossed over to the tub to wash my hands in the lukewarm
water before sliding back into bed.
A peek at the window showed darkness had descended, but I had no
need of the wall sconces and candles I had noticed on several walls and
a small bedside table. The fire lit the room, lending it a warm,
comfortable atmosphere. I put my arms behind my head and watched
the crackling flames for a while, trying to stay present in the moment
and forget about the following morning, the following day. My
anxieties and fears ebbed, and my eyelids fluttered.

Chapter Fifteen
Shouts startled me awake, and I opened my eyes. The fire now glowed
softly but lit the room enough for me to find the floor when I jumped
out of bed.
Angus! Angus was coming for me! I backed away from the door and
looked for a corner or something to hide behind. I threw myself down
to the stone floor and wriggled under the bed frame, pushing the
chamber pot aside. I held my breath. Of course he would find me here,
but hopefully, Mrs. Mackay would hear him and reach me in time
before he broke down the door.
I held my breath and listened to the men's voices raised in anger, the
clash of steel and a few pistol shots. The sounds came not from the
hallway but from the window. I slid out from under the bed and scooted
toward the window on my hands and knees.
Rising slowly to peer out over the sill, I looked down into the courtyard
and saw a sight that was rapidly becoming all too familiar. Torches
moved haphazardly across the enclosure, lighting up the chaos. I heard
women screaming. Men engaged in combat, steel upon steel. Shots
rang out, and I involuntarily ducked before sticking my head up again.
The flames of one torch gleamed off the golden head of a tall man, and
I screeched from my window.
"John! John! "
Instantly, I regretted shouting down to him. He lost his concentration
and fell backward. I could only imagine his wounds ripping open. His
opponent lunged at him, but another Highlander interceded, thrusting
his sword into the mix and barring the attacker from striking John.
Torq, the rescuer, and John's attacker threw themselves at one another
in a fierce struggle.
John rolled to his feet and looked up. "I'm sorry!" I shouted. "I
distracted you! I'm sorry!" John put a hand to his ear as if he couldn't
hear me, and then he disappeared from sight, heading toward the castle
tower. I ran to my door and shook the handle. Locked! Mrs. Mackay
had the key!
I desperately wanted to shout out for John, to tell him where I was,

but I realized that by doing so, I only endangered him, possibly giving
away his location, most likely calling attention to myself. Angus might
come for me before John could reach me...or Dugald. I pressed my lips
together tightly and listened at the door.
The hallway was silent. Maybe John had gone to Mary first. And
rightly so! The children needed to be taken home. Family first! He
would come for me when he could, if he could. I knew he would.
"John," I whispered, pressing my forehead against the thick oak. "John,
please come get me."
"Ann?" a deep, hushed voice spoke through the keyhole. John!
"John?" I whispered back. "Is that you?" I bent down to look through
the keyhole. One dazzling blue eye regarded me. He backed up, and I
saw the entirety of his handsome beloved face.
"Are ye injured, lass? Where is the key?" he asked. "I'm fine! Mrs.
Mackay has the key. I don't know where she is." "Why would Mrs.
Mackay lock ye in a room?" he asked. "For my protection at this point,
more than anything." "Yer protection?" he growled. "Did Angus harm
ye?" "No! Have you found Mary? How are you? Are you in pain? You
must be in pain."
"Torq will free Mary. I assume she is in her auld rooms. I will mend,
lass. Dinna fash yerself on my account." He looked troubled.
"I have to leave ye to get the keys from Mrs. Mackay. I will return."
"John! " I wanted to grab him, to beg him not to leave me.
"Aye, lass?"
"Please come back. Don't get hurt. Please don't get hurt." John
chuckled. "I will return, my love."
"John! " I whispered urgently, but he had already disappeared. My love.
He loved me! John had called me his love.
I ran back to the window and looked down onto the melee. A sense of
surrealism overcame me as if I were deep inside some sort of

historical adventure film. Was I really looking down from a castle keep
onto a medieval skirmish complete with broadswords, long-handled
pistols, torches and kilts?
For a brief mad moment, I longed to hear sirens and see the flashing red
and blue lights signifying the authorities had arrived. The riot was
over! But that wasn't going to happen.
Mesmerized, I watched the action until I heard a rattling of keys at my
door. I whirled around. Angus stumbled into the room.
"There ye are, lass! I thought young Morrison had stolen ye from
me."
"No! " I shouted as Angus, apparently still drunk from his slurred
words, advanced on me, the ring of keys dangling from his hand.
"How did you get those?" I asked foolishly.
"The good housekeeper relinquished them rather unwillingly," he said
with a repulsive sloppy grin.
I backed away from the window, frantically searching for an escape
route. Unable to work out a plan, I launched myself toward Angus,
hoping I could tip him over and get to the door. Drunk or sober, I hit a
brick wall, and he dropped the keys and folded me into a foul-smelling
embrace.
I screamed then, but the sound was muffled by his mouth upon mine.
Disgusted and frightened, I twisted my head away, but he grabbed my
chin and forced it to his.
"Come, lass! Once ye are mine, Morrison will no want ye. I will have
my revenge! "
"Unhand her! " a voice bellowed behind us. A muted thud sounded, and
Angus reared back, his eyes wide, before he slumped to the ground. He
almost dragged me down with him, but I slithered out of his arms.
John flipped his pistol around and thrust it into his belt. Given the
absence of a gunshot, I wondered if he had hit Angus over the head.
My body shook as adrenaline receded, and I chattered when I spoke.
"Is he dead?" I looked down at the prone figure. "Nay," John said,
slipping an arm around my waist as my shaky legs gave way. "I could
wish that he were, but no, I merely struck him

with the butt of my pistol."
"Oh, sorry! My legs aren't working," I mumbled, keeping a wary eye on
the unconscious Angus to make sure he didn't jump up again.
"Dinna fash, my love. I have ye." John dragged me from the room just
as Mrs. Mackay emerged from the stairway, panting and perspiring.
"Och, lass! There ye are! " She looked to John. "Where is Angus?"
"On the floor sleeping off the knocking I gave him," John said. "Come.
We must go. We are severely outnumbered, and the lads can no distract
the Macleods for much longer. We are no prepared to retake the castle
just now."
"Go!" Mrs. Mackay said. "I will see to Angus."
"You mean you have to leave your home behind in the Macleod's
hands?" I gasped. I turned to the older woman. "You're not staying, are
you, Mrs. Mackay?"
"Aye, I will remain here until the Morrisons come home."
Though still supporting me, John grabbed the older woman around the
waist and planted a kiss on her cheek.
"I love ye, Mrs. Mackay. We will return soon, that I promise ye."
"Gie away with ye, lad! " she said with a tear rolling down her face. "Of
course ye will. This is yer home."
John grinned, let go of her and half carried me down the steep stairwell.
We emerged into the chaos of the courtyard to see Torq with Mary and
the children in tow, running for the gate. John followed in their wake,
dragging me with him. Before we passed through the wall, he turned
and whistled, a shrill sound that turned heads.
The fighting seemed to stop, and men in muted-red kilts ran toward the
gates, while the Macleods stared after them, seemingly stunned at the
sudden cessation of battle and disappearance of their opponents.
A full moon shone down to light our way, and ahead of me, I saw Torq
pick up one of the children, while James, one of the guards at Dun
Eistean, picked up the other child, and they ran down the path that led
to the beach. Andrew seemed to come out of nowhere and ran beside
us.
"Andrew! " I said breathlessly.
"Mistress," he panted, keeping pace. "I trust ye are well? "No time for
pleasantries, ye two," John said.

"You came by boat?" I asked.
"Nay, Angus stole our boat. But we are leaving by boat, and taking one
with us! "
We had reached the beach now and ran through the sand toward the
birlinn at the water's edge. There was no doubt the Macleods would
follow us once they snapped out of their confusion.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw several of the Morrison men head for
the moored Macleod boat. They pushed it offshore before hopping into
it.
John and I ran up to the birlinn to see Torq and James, knee deep in
water, lifting the children over the edge of the hull while several men
already on board received them. Mary watched anxiously, turning only
slightly on our arrival.
"John! " she said in a husky voice before returning her attention to her
children, who seemed to handle the chaos stoically and without tears.
"Sister," John said. He leaned in to kiss her cheek as Torq returned to
shore to pick Mary up in his arms. He carried her out to the boat to toss
her in.
To my surprise, I felt myself swept up into John arms. "Put me down!"
I said urgently. "You're going to hurt yourself!" "Nay, lass. I keep
telling ye that ye are but a wee thing, light as a feather." He moved
forward.
"Och, laird! " Andrew fussed to no avail. "Uncle! " he called out. Torq,
seeing John carrying me, splashed back to shore. "Laird, let me take
her," he barked.
"Nay, I can manage," John said. He stepped into the water and
immediately fell back with a groan, though he maintained his balance.
Simultaneously, I felt something warm, wet and sticky under my hand
as it rested lightly on his shoulder. The smell of copper told me it was
blood.
Torq grabbed me from John's arms and lifted me over the edge of the
hull. Mary pulled me into the boat and settled me onto a bench, while
Torq yelled out something in Gaelic. Andrew, James and several other
men turned to help with John, who sagged against the hull, as if he
fainted.

"Careful, he's bleeding," I called out, rising to watch them roll John into
the boat. Mary and I fell to our knees to John's side while Torq, Andrew
and the other men pushed the boat out into the surf and jumped in. The
children huddled on a bench just behind Mary.
Shouts came from the hill above the beach, and I looked up to see men
running toward us. I hoped they were Macleods and not any Morrisons
left behind. One tall man standing still at the water's edge caught my
eye. Dugald.
I returned my attention to John, who was definitely unconscious. That
his wound had opened was apparent, but I couldn't really see much
under the moonlight. I tore off the bottom edge of my shift, bundled it
and stuffed it under his shirt to staunch the flow.
"How long until we get back?" I asked Mary, trying to tamp down my
panic.
"It will be some time," she said. "Perhaps dawn. I pray he does no
exsanguinate afore then."
I felt the pulse in John's neck. Strong and steady, he seemed to be in
good shape for now. But that didn't mean he wouldn't lose so much
blood by dawn that he wouldn't die. I tried to remember some of my
first-aid classes. Where was the pressure point to stop bleeding near his
neck? Somewhere near his collarbone, and very near the site of the top
portion of his injury.
Gently, I applied pressure to the top of his clavicle. "What are ye doing,
Ann? Do ye seek to further harm my brother?" Mary squawked.
"No!" I said testily. "I'm trying to stop the bleeding." "Och! And how
do ye expect to do that without benefit of hot
metal?"
"Well, I don't know, Mary! Do you happen to have some fire? Or a hot
sword?"
Mary sank back on her knees. The boat rocked now as the surf carried
us out to sea. The few men we had pulled at oars, and we paralleled the
coastline. Andrew, smaller than the others, joined James and did his
best with the heavy oars.
"Nay, I am without either, and we can no take the boat in to build a

fire. How is it ye ken how to stop bleeding with yer fingers?"
"Something I learned long ago," I said. I lifted the edge of John's
compress. Indeed, I had managed to slow the bleeding. But how long
could I apply pressure? Hours? Until dawn? Hopefully, his reopened
wound would begin to clot before too long, and I could allow blood to
flow again.
Torq approached us and spoke to Mary in Gaelic. She responded in
English.
"She is pressing against his wound to stop the bleeding." Torq nodded,
ever the silent man, and he sat down next to the children as if he was
prepared to watch.
Mary said something to him in Gaelic and offered him her shawl. To
my surprise, he laid it around my shoulders.
"Ye are no dressed, Ann," she said with a half smile. I looked down at
my baggy calf-length shift and nodded. No, I guessed to them I was
only half clothed.
"I will see to my bairns now. Call if ye need anything." I nodded as
Mary returned to her seat and cradled her exhausted children. I watched
as they fell instantly asleep. If anything, they should have had the shawl
wrapped around them, but there was little I could do.
The swaying of the boat and the rhythmic slapping of the oars in the
water lulled me, and I almost fell asleep too, but I shook myself awake.
I checked John's wound again, knowing I shouldn't disturb the
compress yet unable to tell if his bleeding had stopped without doing
so.
Unable to see, I could only press my very unsanitary hands upon his
wound to feel that, indeed, clotting was forming and his bleeding had
stopped. I released my grip on his collarbone and looked up to see
Mary and Torq give me inquiring glances. Andrew looked over his
shoulder, also clearly curious.
I nodded to everyone with a broad smile, and they responded in kind.
Mary closed her eyes and laid her head on Torq's shoulder. Torq put an
arm around her and rested his head against hers. Poor Andrew kept on
rowing.
I laid my head back against the hull of the ship and slept fitfully until
the gray light of dawn awakened me. I opened my eyes to see a

familiar tidal stack appear in the near distance. The other boat, that
belonging to the Macleods, had already arrived.
Torq was up and moving, though Mary still slept with her children in
her arms. I looked down at John, still unconscious...or sleeping. The
boat picked up momentum as the oarsmen stroked through the wild surf
to reach the cove at the bottom of Dun Eistean. As if we were on a
roller coaster, the boat lifted and dropped, and I leaned over John to
hold him in place.
Several men jumped out and pulled the boat up onto the rocky beach.
Andrew and James followed. Torq helped Mary and the children down
and turned to me. I rose and looked at John.
"Be careful with him," I begged as Torq helped me climb over the side
while Andrew and James waited to steady me on the slippery pebbles. I
waited anxiously as Torq and another man struggled to ease a very
heavy John over the side.
Andrew, James and several other men grasped John, and I hurried to
slip a supporting arm around John's back. In doing so, I accidentally
grabbed a metal object—the hilt of John's dagger. Heat spread
throughout my hand, and flashing lights blinded me. I cried out.
"No! Oh no! John! "

Chapter Sixteen
I opened bleary eyes and looked up at gray skies. Seagulls flew
overhead, screeching at each other. The thunder of waves crashing
against rocks close by caught my attention.
With a start, I lifted my head and pushed myself to a sitting position.
My fingers scraped against wet rounded pebbles. The beach!
I was on the beach, but no Viking-style ships anchored nearby, and
none maneuvered the surf just offshore. No men scurried about,
carrying John off the boat. No one. I was alone, save for the seagulls.
Stunned, I looked down at my empty hands. The dagger was gone. I
scrambled to my feet to search the rocky shore for the dagger. With a
sickening feeling, I knew the worst had happened.
"No, no," I sobbed. "No, please no. I'll do anything. Just please let me
find the dagger. John! Please let me find the dagger. Where is it?
Where is it?"
But for all my tears, for all my entreaties, the dagger did not
materialize.
I had traveled through time. I didn't know to what year, but John was
gone. Or I was gone. And without the dagger, I had no way back to
him.
I turned away from the sea toward the cliff. Only a few days ago, I had
seen Mistress Glick up there, watching Angus take me away.
Grief constricted my throat. My lungs felt tight, and I couldn't breathe.
I heard someone shout, and I looked up. A tall man stood on top of the
cliff, his hands cupped, calling down to me. Shoulder-length blond hair
blew in the wind. John!
"John?" I called out with a racing heart. "John! " "Ann! Ann! Wait
there! We're coming for you." I recognized Dylan's gray sweatshirt and
blue jeans, and my legs crumpled. I sank to my knees and buried my
face in my hands.
"John," I whispered. "John! How do I get back to you? How do I
get back?"

But John didn't answer. I couldn't hear his voice. I looked up again to
see Dylan and several other people working their way down the crevice
to the beach. Hurriedly, I called out to John again.
"John, can you hear me? John?"
Nothing. No flashing lights, no dizziness. Aching tears poured down
my cheeks as I whispered his name over and over again. Was he
unconscious? If he was conscious, could he hear me? Would he call for
me? How could I get back to him?
"Ann!" Dylan's voice penetrated my grief. "Ann! Where have you
been? Are you all right?"
Through blurry eyes, I saw Dylan's hiking boots by my knees. I think
his arms went around me. Multiple voices penetrated the mantra I kept
silently whispering.
John! John! Can you hear me?
"Is it Ann? Where has she been? Ann! Are you all right? Where did she
come from? Ann! "
I couldn't answer. I didn't think I would ever be able to answer. Wet and
cold, I started to shiver, and someone, perhaps Dylan, dropped a warm,
dry jacket over my shoulders.
Hands pulled me to my feet, and I found myself resisting as someone
tried to pull me forward. I kept my eyes on the wet pebbles, unwilling
to raise them to see anything but John. I didn't want to be taken from the
beach. I wanted only to stay right where I was, in case time reversed
itself somehow and sent me back. Or John was able to call me back.
"Come on, Ann. Come with us," a male voice said. "She seems dazed
and confused. I can't think what's happened to her. She has no shoes."
"We called the authorities when you disappeared, Ann," someone said.
"They'll want to talk to you, to know that you're okay."
I shook my head at that but said nothing. Against my will, I was
dragged, albeit gently, toward the cliff. I kept shaking my head, but I
already had forgotten about the police. I didn't want them to carry me
away, but I couldn' t fight them.
The group hauled me up the path. It seemed as if every

archaeologist and student had joined the mass propelling me forward. I
heard their questions, their comments, their concerns, but I answered
none of them.
At one point, I turned and looked over my shoulder, beyond the group
of contemporary faces. The agate sea churned with whitecaps. Waves
crashed against boulders and pounded the beach. Seabirds screeched
against our intrusion. But the view was still void of boats.
The archaeological team half carried me onto the tabletop, and I balked
and cried out when I saw the remains of the keep.
"Oh, no! Oh, please, nooooo..." I mourned. Only grassy mounds now
covered the hump that was once the tower house, the boathouses and
the crofts. Everything was the same as it had been before I traveled
back in time, but what had once seemed to be an exciting
archaeological dig now looked desolate, abandoned and achingly sad.
"What's wrong, Ann? Ann?" Dylan supported me across the tidal stack
and toward the modern bridge that connected the island to the
mainland. I resisted again when we reached the bridge, unwilling to
leave the island, unwilling to break the spell that had thrown me back in
time.
"Come, Ann," Dylan said more firmly. I heard encouragement from the
others as they escorted us across the bridge. Dylan helped me into his
Rover and pulled a blanket out from the back to cover my legs.
"I' m taking her to hospital," he said to the others. "Someone call the
police and tell them she's been found."
Nods, waves, more calls of encouragement later, and Dylan pulled out
of the car park to begin the rough ride across the countryside.
"Ann, please tell me where you've been. What happened to you? Are
you injured?"
I shook my head.
"Which? Not injured? Or you won't say where you've been?"
"I haven't been injured, Dylan," I said in a weary voice. "And I can't tell
you where I've been."
"Whyever not? You just disappeared! We were worried sick. And then
you wind up on the beach below several days later in a dress?" He
leaned a little closer, as if to inspect the material. "A handwoven shift?

Where on earth did you get that?" "I can't tell you, Dylan."
"All right then, I'll stop badgering you, but the police will want to
know."
"I can't tell them either."
"Ann! Be a dear and stop being so mysterious."
I tried to focus then, to drag myself from the sixteenth century to the
present. I lifted my head and turned to look at Dylan, noting as if for the
first time the golden color of his curly blond hair and beard.
I knew that he lived in Glasgow, far from the Outer Hebrides, but he
bore a faint resemblance to John, given his Nordic blond locks.
"Dylan, do you have relatives up here in the Outer Hebrides?" I asked
in a bemused tone.
"Me?" he sputtered. "You're asking me about my genealogy? Now? At
this moment?"
"Not a good time?" I gave him a lopsided half smile and turned to look
out the window at the windswept landscape. The sea looked faraway. I
couldn't even see Dun Eistean any longer.
"I cannot help but think you are trying to distract me. Can you at least
tell me why you can't tell me what happened to you? At first we thought
you had left voluntarily, just walked off the dig, yet no one knew who
had given you a ride back to the MacIvers'. Then we checked with the
old couple. They said you hadn't come home.
"That's when we called the police, fearing you'd been kidnapped or
some other mishap had befallen you. We searched the island, the cliffs,
and wondered if you'd somehow gone down the old path between the
island and the mainland and been swept out to sea."
I listened with half an ear.
"Ann, we were truly worried about you! "
I heard him as if from far away.
"Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you."
"Then you're prepared to tell me what happened? If it's a secret, I
promise I will keep it in confidence."
I turned to look at him again.
"Then don't take me to the hospital. I'm well. I don't need to go."

Dylan pulled the Rover over on the dirt road and rotated in his seat to
face me.
"You don't look unwell—I will give you that. But I'm worried about
your mental state. You don't appear to be the same person I met a week
ago."
"I don't think I am," I said with a catch in my voice. "I think you need to
be examined," he said.
"You mean, to see if I'm crazy?" I shook my head. "I'm not crazy, but
you will think I' m crazy if I tell you what happened to me."
"No, Ann, I promise you I won't. Tell me."
I opened my mouth to tell him, desperate to share my story, to tell
someone about my grief, my loss, about John. If anyone could help me
get back to John, it would be Dylan.
I looked into his concerned blue eyes and saw John's eyes. I gave
myself a shake. No, not John's eyes. Maybe I did need to go to the
hospital...if they had a psychiatrist on staff.
I shut my mouth and shook my head.
"No, I'd better not." I took a deep breath, trying to figure out what to do
next. I had to get back to Dun Eistean.
"Listen—I'm sorry I distracted you all from the dig. I think you should
take me back to the MacIvers' so I can change clothes and get back to
work at the site."
Dylan blinked. "Get back to work?" Now he shook his head. "Oh, no,
I'm sorry, Ann, but you won't be coming back to the Dun Eistean
project, not this year anyway."
"What?" I gasped. "Why?"
"The university has shut down the project, at least for this year. When
they heard one of our students had disappeared without a trace, they
closed it. All the students and faculty are leaving tomorrow."
"Oh, no! I' m so sorry, Dylan! I' m so very sorry! "
"It's not your fault. I didn't realize they would take such drastic
measures. It isn't like students haven't quit before, but the university
was concerned for our safety in the event you had come to some harm,
and insurance always becomes an issue, so I am told."
"But I'm back now, safe and sound. Can't they change their

minds?"
"No, not this year. It's too late. I'm off to a dig in Guatemala tomorrow.
Most of the students will accompany us over there. I would invite you
along, but I don't think the university will approve without an
explanation as to your disappearance."
"I don't want to go to Guatemala," I moaned. "I have to stay here."
"Why here, Ann? If I recall, your studies are Colonial America. Why
do you think you have to stay here, studying medieval Scotland?" He
raised a sandy eyebrow.
I turned and looked out toward the sea again.
"Everything I love is here," I said feebly.
"Pardon?" Dylan said, his voice abnormally high.
I sighed heavily and looked at him again. Two bright-red spots flamed
on his cheeks.
"Oh, my dear Ann! If I have given you the wrong impression, I beg
your pardon! I hardly know you. What an awkward moment! "
"What?" I asked, rubbing my forehead. "What are you talking
about?"
"No?" he rasped. "Oh! Perhaps I misunderstood. You said everything
you love is here. Did you mean me?" He shook his head, apparently
overcome by the same confusion as me.
I wanted to laugh, but I hurt too much.
"Dylan! No! " I choked out. "No! Not you! "
"Och!" he said, and then he tilted his head. "Well, you don't have to
deny it quite so vehemently! "
I still couldn't laugh at the injured expression on his face, though it was
comical.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean you, but I'm sorry. I'm sorry about all the
trouble I've caused." It seemed as if I said the word over and over again.
Dylan nodded, still appearing slightly affronted, and he turned to start
the engine again.
"Where am I taking you then? Shall I take you to the MacIvers'? The
police really will want to speak to you."
"Yes, please. I'll call the police from there and tell them I'm okay."
Dylan turned the Rover around and headed the other way. I caught

him looking at me once or twice, but he said no more, and for that I was
grateful. My plan was to change clothes and walk the three miles back
to Dun Eistean to see what I could see, to do what I could to get back to
John.
"Let me give you my card, Ann. I don't think I'll have mobile service in
Guatemala, but you can reach me by e-mail. I leave in the morning, but
if you need anything at all, please contact me by e-mail."
He reached into his back pocket and retrieved his wallet. In doing so,
everything spilled out, and he cursed and pulled the Rover over again. I
reached down to help him pick up various cards, a driver's license, bits
and pieces of paper. The name on his driver's license caught my eye.
"Dylan Alexander Morrison MacElroy," I read. "Morrison? Are you a
Morrison?"
Dylan, stuffing things back into his wallet, looked up and grinned. "Of
course, didn't I tell you?" He handed me a dog-eared business card.
"Ah! That's right. You asked if I had relatives in the area. I'm sure I do,
but I haven' t looked them up yet. I do believe my ancestors came from
this area though—at least, my mother once told me they did. That's one
reason I've always been fascinated with Dun Eistean." He laughed. "I
can't believe I didn't mention it."
He put the Rover into gear, and we moved on. Stunned, I could only
stare at him. In fact, he looked a lot like John. I noted out of the corner
of my eye that we crossed over the dirt road leading back to Dun
Eistean, and I put a restraining hand on his arm.
"Stop! Let me go back to the island now, please! "
Dylan stopped again and turned to stare at me.
"Ann! What has possessed you? You cannot possibly want to return to
the island without at least a dry change of clothes. You have no shoes,
and of course, you aren't going to tell me where those got off to, are
you?"
I glanced behind my seat and eyed a pair of Wellington boots on the
floor.
"I'll wear the boots." He followed my gaze.

"My wellies?" I nodded.
Dylan reached behind him and grabbed some material that appeared to
be clothing. He pulled the garments into his lap, leaned forward and
peered into my face.
"Ann Borodell, I will trade you. You may borrow my wellies, dry jeans
and jumper if you will tell me what where you have been and what you
got up to. I always carry extra clothing in my Rover. They may be too
large for you, but if you truly think you must return to the island at
once, then you will tell me what befell you, or I will deposit you at the
MacIvers', and you can walk back to the island."
I looked at Dylan and took a deep breath.

Chapter Seventeen
"I've been in the sixteenth century." Predictably, Dylan blinked as if he
didn't understand. "I beg your pardon?"
"I've been in the sixteenth century," I said. "I traveled through time.
You're a scientist, Dylan. You know strange things happen!" Relief
flooded through me at being able to say it out loud.
Dylan blinked several more times and leaned back, staring at me. "I'm
not crazy! " I said. "You don't have to back away like I'm crazy."
"I didn't say you were mental." "Well, you're staring at me like I am."
"You have to admit, Ann, that is a farfetched tale! " He turned to gaze at
the empty road ahead for a moment before returning his gaze to me.
"You want me to believe that you traveled back in time to the sixteenth
century, to medieval Scotland?" I nodded. "Yes."
"Can you prove it? Did you bring back any evidence?" "Uh, no. I didn't
expect to travel back so suddenly." I looked down at my hands, void of
a dagger.
"Wait! " I pulled the blanket from my lap. "My shift! Even you
recognized that it's handwoven!"
I held up my arm and tugged at the fabric of my sleeve. Dylan leaned
over to look at it.
"The textile isn't machine made, that is certain, but it looks fairly new,
if somewhat soiled."
"Because it is new, Dylan! I was in the sixteenth century, remember?"
Dylan leaned back in his seat and shook his head as if to clear his mind.
He ran a hand along his beard and studied me with a mixture of
skepticism and curiosity, a true scientist.
"I find the idea of time travel hard to believe, Ann. I really do. Let me
gather my thoughts."
I waited while he absorbed the information. When he finally spoke,

he let out a torrent of questions.
"How did it happen, or do you know? How long were you gone in
sixteenth-century time? Where did you go? What happened? What did
it feel like to travel through time? Can anyone do it?"
I laughed then, even through my grief—a brief chuckle.
"Thank goodness!" I breathed. "I needed you to believe me." I
collected my own chaotic thoughts. "How did it happen? I was digging
around the base of the keep—it's much taller than we realized, by the
way—and I found a dagger, tarnished with age but still quite beautiful.
I picked it up—I know I should have called you first and at least taken
photos, measurements—but when I picked it up, I grew dizzy and
fainted.
"Or at least I thought I fainted. Yes, I fainted. Then I woke up, and a
tall, handsome man was bent over me, asking me if I was all right."
"A tall, handsome man?" Dylan interrupted with a quizzical look.
"Oh, yes, Dylan, handsome, handsome, handsome. Like no one you or
I have ever seen. His name is John Morrison, and he is...or was...the
laird of a group of Morrisons. I'm still not sure how that works."
"John Morrison? The clans had many lairds, many chieftains," Dylan
said softly. "Go on."
"Anyway, he found me, and somehow or another, it was made clear to
me that I was in the sixteenth century. I suspected the dagger was the
catalyst for throwing me back in time—" Grief welled up in me at the
thought that I had lost the dagger, and my words came out in a sob. I
stopped to catch my breath.
"Ann?" Dylan asked. He reached into his sweatshirt pocket and handed
me a packet of tissues. I pulled several out and wiped at the tears
streaming down my face. I hadn't realized I was crying.
"I'm sorry. It's hard. Anyway, I knew the dagger was the catalyst for
throwing me back in time, but John took it from me. You see, it
belonged to him."
I couldn't help it then. I broke down into sobs and buried my face in my
empty hands. I felt an arm slide around my shoulders, and Dylan
murmured words of comfort.
"There now, there now."

Minutes passed as I mourned the almost certain knowledge that I would
never see John again. My heart ached. My stomach ached. My lungs
ached. Everything hurt, even my soul. I gasped for air as I tried to slow
my crying.
"I' m sorry," I said again, my face still buried in my hands. "I loved
him."
"John Morrison?" Dylan asked in a quiet voice. I nodded. "With all my
heart." "Why did you come back then?"
"It wasn't my choice," I said, looking up blurrily. "While John and I
went back and forth about the dagger the entire time I was there—me
begging for it, trying to steal it, him hiding it, refusing to let me have it,
then him trying to get me to take it so I would leave, and me refusing to
take it—"
"Hang on, Ann!" Dylan said, withdrawing his arm. "I'm confused. I
think you must be skimming over some details! " I paused for breath.
"Yes, I'm sorry. I am."
"Do quit apologizing. Take your time. I do wish I had some tea in the
Rover, but I've left my thermos at the site. You could do with a cup." I
nodded.
"Yes, I probably could."
"I want to hear more. I am dying to hear more, but I think we need to set
you right. When did you last eat?" I tried to think back. I shook my
head. "I really don't know." Dylan looked around the countryside.
"I wish we were closer to town and could stop into a pub. I have some
sandwiches on site as well. Unless you wish to return to the MacIvers'
to change, and you have said you do not, I think I had better take you
back to Dun Eistean."
My heart skipped a beat, then two.
"Yes, please. I'll change right now."
"Change in the Rover. I'll step out and get some air. There are clean dry
socks inside the wellies."

Dylan climbed out of the vehicle, and I grabbed his jeans and pulled
them up under the shift. I looked over my shoulder to see that he had
wandered away from the Rover and appeared to be looking out to sea. I
pulled the shift over my head and slipped into a heavyweight gray
sweater. I folded up the shift with care and set it aside. Reaching into
the rubber boots, I pulled out a pair of thick dark socks, thrust my feet
into them and then stepped into the boots. I climbed out of the Rover to
zip up the jeans and straighten my clothing.
"Okay! " I called out.
Dylan turned around, smiled and came around the front end of the
vehicle.
"You look a sight," he said. And he was right. The jeans were far too
long and baggy, both at the hips and bunched up as they were at the top
of the Wellingtons. The boots were far too big, but in the absence of
shoes, they were all I had. The sweater dropped down to my thighs, and
I had to fold the sleeves back several times. But everything was dry,
and I was heading back to Dun Eistean.
"I know," I said with a crooked smile, "but I'm warm and dry. Can
we go?"
"Aye," he said. "We're off then. I'm not sure what everyone will say
when I bring you straight back, but we'll have to deal with that
then."
I had no answers for him. I only knew that I had to get back to the
island.
We got back on the road and arrived at the car park within ten minutes.
As we drove, I looked out onto the windswept landscape, wondering
where the burial ground had been. In any number of mounding hills, I
imagined. I would probably never know.
We parked, and I stepped down from the Rover. Dylan led the way
back across the footbridge, with me trudging along in my oversized
rubber boots. I remembered how frightened I had been of heights when
I first arrived. Now, I paused to look down into the ravine, at present
filled with a surging tide. I couldn't see the path. Perhaps it was
submerged, or perhaps it had been worn away over the centuries.
No sooner did we set foot onto the island than one of the students

caught sight of us and turned to call for the others. I recognized Dylan's
colleagues as they approached from various directions.
"Did you return from the hospital already? I would not have thought to
see Miss Borodell back so soon," one man said.
Some of the students, now crowding around, to my dismay, echoed the
same things.
"No need for concern. Ann is feeling fine," Dylan said. "We should
give her some space though. We've just returned for a spot of tea and
sandwiches." He grabbed my arm and led me across the tabletop and
around the back of the keep. I gasped as I remembered that the area set
aside for refreshments and rest was in fact very near the site where I
had sat with both Andrew and John, gazing out to sea.
A portable table had been set up under which the students and faculty
had set their bags. Given the hungry seagulls, no one left any food lying
about. Dylan grabbed his black backpack, and I followed him to a spot
of grass overlooking the sea. The exact spot where I had once sat.
I lowered myself to the ground and accepted a cup of hot tea while
Dylan drank directly from his thermos. He unwrapped several
sandwiches and handed me one.
"They eat a lot of oatcakes," I said without direction. "I'm not
surprised," Dylan said. "Most Scots do. Were they tasty?" "Very." My
throat tightened, and I struggled to swallow the piece of sandwich I had
bit into. I set the food down on my lap and drank my tea, hoping it
would relax my throat and stem a newly forming tide of tears.
"So, you are back on the island. Can you continue your story?" I
nodded. If I couldn't be with John, I wanted to talk about him. I turned
and looked over my shoulder at the mound that once represented the
tall keep.
"The keep was more than just a lookout tower. You were right. John
kept his rooms there."
"John Morrison, the laird," Dylan clarified. "What year did you
travel to?"
"Fifteen ninety."

Dylan's sharp intake of breath was somehow satisfying. "Yes, over four
hundred years into the past," I said. I told Dylan about meeting John,
his sister, Mary, and the Macleod children, her relationship with the
son of the Macleod chieftain, Angus. At the mention of Angus's name,
I shivered.
"Are you all right? What happened, Ann?"
I told him about the attacks, Mary's kidnapping, my own kidnapping,
and rescue by John.
"John's wounds had reopened, and he was unconscious when we got
back. When they lifted him from the boat, I tried to help. In doing so, I
wrapped my arm around his back, and I accidentally grabbed the hilt of
the dagger. When I awakened, I was on the beach, and I heard someone
calling out to me."
My heart rolled over in a dull thud, as if it would never beat vibrantly
again.
Dylan was silent for a moment, and that was okay. What was there to
say? I didn't want to answer any questions at that moment. I just wanted
to hang on to the memories of John, the sensation of being where he
probably was, albeit over four hundred years apart.
"My aunt used to do genealogy," Dylan said in a seemingly random
comment. He closed his hand over mine. "She told me that we were
directly descended from John Morrison."
I drew in a sharp breath and turned to look at him, seeing again his
resemblance to John.
"Oh, I thought you looked like him! Then I thought that was just
wishful thinking. So he lived? He had children?" Dylan nodded.
"If you are speaking about John Morrison, late fifteen hundreds, then
yes, that's the same one. We believe he had five children—all lived to
adulthood, which was unusually rare for that time."
"Ohhhh," I whispered. I imagined John married, a father of five
children.
I looked at Dylan, suddenly a living, breathing link to John, and I threw
myself into his arms and hugged him with all my might. Dylan grunted
as he caught me, but he responded to my embrace, patting me on

the back.
"Don't get me wrong," I said in a muffle, buried as I was in his neck. "I'
m still not making a pass at you. I just want to hug you." "I understand,
lass."
At that moment, he even sounded like John. I pulled back but kept hold
of his hands, unwilling to let go of any descendent of John's.
"Don't tell the others," Dylan said. "I don't know if the university would
have allowed me to work here given that this was home to my
ancestors. I've always kept that quiet."
"I won't," I said. "So you're John's descendent."
"Aye, so I've been told," he said with a nod.
"You look like him and you sound like him."
Dylan's cheeks bronzed. "I do?"
I nodded. "I thought so when I first saw you again this morning." Dylan
smiled.
I took a deep breath and asked a question I really didn't want the answer
to.
"Whom did he marry, do you know?" A knot in the pit of my stomach
tightened.
Dylan drew his brows together with a shake of his head.
"I can't remember. My aunt passed away some years ago and left me
her work on the family history, but that's at home in Glasgow, and I'm
sorry to say I really don't remember."
I breathed deeply, restraining myself from asking him to call someone.
I supposed I could find a computer somewhere in the nearest town and
look the information up...if that were possible. Unless women were
particularly notorious—the Salem witch trials came to mind—or
rulers, their names were very often forgotten in the historical records.
"This must be so difficult for you," Dylan said. "You said you had
fallen in love with John Morrison? How long were you there?"
I sighed heavily. "Only a few days. I know. I know. Can one really fall
in love in a few days?" I looked out to sea. "I can't speak for others, but
I know I did. Life and death, love and hatred are all so unambiguous in
the sixteenth century, so clear, so immediate. There doesn't seem to be
a lot of time to waste."

"No, I don't imagine there is. Life was short then." I shook my head. "I
can't think about it. I hope John lived a long and happy life."
"I'm sure that information is available on the Internet," Dylan said in a
kindly voice.
I turned to look at the descendent of the man I loved.
"No, I've thought about it. I don't want to know. Just knowing that his
line lives on in you, that he lived, married and had children is enough
for me."
"I, for one, cannot believe that you met my ancestor! " I gave him a
broken smile and turned my face to sea. "Yes," I said quietly. "That I
did."

Chapter Eighteen
I stayed on the island until I couldn't feasibly stay any longer. I
supposed I could have asked Dylan for a blanket, and I could have
attempted to sleep out under the stars, but the temperature, already
cool, dropped forty degrees at night, and Dylan wasn't about to allow
me to stay on the island through the night.
I followed Dylan off Dun Eistean late that afternoon and accepted a
ride from him back to the MacIvers'. The lovely old couple, thrilled to
see me safe, were solicitous and kind, and I showered gratefully and
retired to bed early, having folded Dylan's clothing carefully to return
to him the following morning when he picked me up to take me to the
airport.
He had, with my permission, used his mobile phone to book a flight for
me back to Virginia.
I lay awake that night, listening to the sea wind blow through my
window, straining to hear John's voice across time. But nothing came to
me. He was gone. I was grateful that his DNA lived on in Dylan, but
John was gone to me.
My heart ached, and I worried that Dylan would have to drag me onto
the plane kicking and screaming, or perhaps he would have to just carry
my grief-stricken, almost comatose body aboard. Although he had
originally booked his own flight to Guatemala via Miami, he had
changed his connection to Virginia to accompany me. I appreciated the
gesture. I suspected I was going to need the support.
Dun Eistean was only about three miles from the MacIvers' house. I
rolled on my side and imagined myself trotting back to the island to
commune with the ghosts of the Morrisons. Though there was no
evidence anyone was buried on Dun Eistean, I thought fancifully that
there was no evidence there weren't ghosts there either.
Dylan wouldn't have to know. I could return to the croft by morning.
The MacIvers didn't have to know. They slept soundly. It would only
take me about forty-five minutes to reach the island.
I rose from the bed and crossed to the window. I couldn't see the sea
from the MacIvers' house, but I could smell the salt air.

"John?" I whispered. No answer.
John was gone. Long gone. Buried somewhere over four hundred years
ago. My time in the sixteenth century seemed almost like a dream.
With an ache in my heart, I turned from the window and crawled back
into bed to pull the covers over my head.
John was gone.
Dylan picked me up in the morning. He drove me to the little airport in
Stornaway, where we boarded a flight for Glasgow and then on to
Richmond, Virginia. We talked about his upcoming work in
Guatemala. He wasn't enthusiastic about it, but he was enthusiastic
about archaeology.
At one point on the flight, Dylan looked at me as if he had something
on his mind. I had cautioned him when he picked me up that morning
that I didn't want to talk about Dun Eistean or John, not then. Maybe in
time, but not then. Dylan was John's descendent. He had every right to
know as much as I could remember about my time in the sixteenth
century, but I simply couldn't make the journey without screaming if I
had to talk about John. I felt like I had left a piece of me behind in
Scotland, in the Outer Hebrides. I couldn't talk about it.
"What?" I asked him.
"I checked my computer last night." My heart stopped, and I held up a
hand.
"No!" I snapped. "No," I said more softly. "You promised me. I don' t
want to know."
"You really don't want to know?" Dylan asked. I held my breath and
shook my head slowly. "No, please don't tell me anything." "All right,"
he said.
I turned away and looked out the window down onto blue seas, terrified
that Dylan would still say something and fighting a perverse sense of
curiosity about what he had discovered. Was it about John? His
family? A wife? What?
My heart raced, and I breathed deeply to try and slow it. Curiosity was
such a strange thing. How did one subdue the urge for discovery

when those very discoveries might break one's heart?
I chewed on my lower lip, I contemplated cloud formations and I
looked for cruise ships on the vast sea. I worried about how I would
now finish my degree, I wondered if anything had gone bad in the
refrigerator in my apartment and I pondered the miracle of time travel
as if it had happened to someone else.
But it hadn't. It had happened to me. And no amount of distraction
could keep me from turning to John's descendent and asking the
questions I had tried to avoid.
"Okay, what did you find out?" I said with dread.
Dylan looked up from his paperback novel. He tilted his head and
regarded me with a gentle expression.
"Nothing. There was nothing on the Internet regarding John Morrison's
marriage, just that he'd had five children who all lived to adulthood, as
I mentioned before."
I let go of the breath I'd been holding and smacked Dylan on the
arm.
"You could have told me that! I was about to pass out from anxiety."
"I tried," Dylan said, his lips curving into a smile.
"Not hard enough." I wanted to return his smile, but every mile the
airplane put between me and Scotland made me sadder.
I supposed one day I would get over my grand adventure. One day I
would put John in the proper perspective, a historical figure I'd had the
thrill of meeting, and not a living, breathing man with whom I'd fallen
soundly in love. One day. I didn't know when.
Many hours later, I saw Dylan off on his connecting flight to
Guatemala City, and I picked up my car and drove the hour to my
apartment in Williamsburg.
I dragged my bags into my apartment and stared at what had once been
a refuge for me. I supposed that if I hadn't been so distanced, so
entrenched in the past at that moment, I would realize that my fairly
serene and calm apartment would have been a miracle to people in
sixteenth-century Scotland.
But at that moment, I couldn't see the value in that security. Not

without John. Scotland seemed so far away, and I missed it terribly.
I picked up the cell phone I had left behind and punched in my college
advisor's number. Given that it was Thursday afternoon at 3:00 p.m.,
she was still in her office.
"Ann! How's it going there?"
"I' m back in Williamsburg, Dr. Crandall. They cancelled the dig for
this season."
"What? I'm sorry to hear that! What happened? No funding?"
"No, it's complicated," I said. "I still need something, or I'm not
graduating."
"Yes, you do. As it happens, I've got something coming up on an
emergent basis. The Department of Transportation discovered some
pottery and other artifacts while they were digging up a road, probably
from a Colonial farm, and we need to get up to Parnassus and excavate
the site. They want it done by the end of summer. We start next
Monday. It's about three hours away, so we'll plan on camping up there
for the summer. Do you want me to register you for that?"
"Yes, please," I said without thinking. Anything but stay home in my
apartment, anything but imagining myself in the arms of a tall
sixteenth-century Highlander. Leaving Scotland hadn't put the memory
of John behind me. Arriving home to my apartment in Williamsburg, a
place he had never been and where I had never imagined the handsome
laird, hadn't kept me from dreaming about him. Maybe some shards of
Colonial-era pottery would stop my obsessive thoughts about the man I
loved and had lost.
I resisted searching the computer for information about John, and I
spent the weekend washing clothes and repacking. I removed the shift
from my suitcase and washed it by hand, certain that it would never
survive the rotations of the washing machine. I hung it up in the
bathroom to dry. I hadn't offered it to Dylan as an artifact, and he hadn't
asked. To give it to the University of Glasgow would have raised too
many questions. It was unlikely that a woven shift could have survived
over four hundred years, not unless it was buried in a peat bog.
I met Dr. Crandall and the other students at the college Monday
morning, and we set off in the archaeology department's van. Upon

reaching the site, we pitched tents and went immediately to work. The
Department of Transportation had removed their bulldozers from the
site, and we followed Dr. Crandall's direction as she outlined the dig.
I was glad of the work, glad of the distraction. I worked long and hard
that day and in the days that followed.
One day, a week into the dig, Dr. Crandall stopped by where I
meticulously brushed dirt from some shards of pottery.
"You seem possessed, Ann! This isn't the great American discovery,
you know."
A lean outdoorsy woman in a brown plaid shirt and forest-green cargo
pants, she wore her graying brunette hair tied back at the nape of her
neck. A nondescript gray baseball cap sheltered her face from the sun.
She kneeled down beside me and studied the shards. "Is everything all
right? You seem different."
"Different?" I asked.
"You were more lighthearted before you went to Scotland. Did
something happen there?" I shrugged.
"No, nothing in particular."
"I know you weren't there for long, but how did you like it? I got a
chance to do a dig in England once. Loved it! "
"Very nice," I murmured, leaning back and staring at the dirt on my
hands. Since I had started working the soil again, I had struggled to
keep thoughts and memories of Dun Eistean and John at bay. How
could they possibly intrude in the middle of Colonial Virginia? And yet
they
did.
I had negotiated with myself, had promised myself that if I could
concentrate on the current dig and get my degree, then at some point in
the future, maybe in a couple of years, I might even return to Scotland.
Maybe not to Dun Eistean—I didn't think I could ever go back
there—but to Edinburgh, Inverness or Glasgow.
A hand touched my shoulder, and I jumped and looked up. It was only
Dr. Crandall.
"If you need to talk about anything, Ann, I'm always here." "Thank
you, Dr. Crandall." I gave her a polite smile and returned to

cleaning off the pottery.
She rose and moved away, and I sat back on my legs and lifted my face
to the sun to breathe in the muggy smell of the Virginia countryside in
summer. The smell was so unlike the salty air of Dun Eistean.
I turned and watched the middle-aged woman walk away, wishing I
could tell her what happened to me, about John and the grief that
continued to grip me.
Dylan was well and truly out of cell phone range, and he had told me
his Internet coverage would be sparse. I hadn't heard from him since
we'd parted in Richmond, and I felt alone with my secret. Time travel
was possible. I wasn't sure if the exact circumstances of my particular
travel could be replicated—perhaps the dagger was the only
catalyst—but I wasn't sure I wanted to be alone with that knowledge.
Dr. Crandall bent down to talk to some other students, and I returned to
my work again with a sigh.
Six weeks passed, sometimes quickly, sometimes inexorably slow, but
at last we had dug up as many artifacts as possible and released the site
to the Department of Transportation. Dr. Crandall prepared to return to
school for the fall semester. I had an offer from her to return as a
teaching assistant. I had earned the credits for my degree, and I had
only to accept her offer or apply for other archaeological or
anthropological positions throughout the nation. I had tried to give the
matter some thought during the warm Virginia nights as I slept on a cot
in my tent, but had come up with no concrete plans.
I didn' t know where I wanted to go, so how could I possibly apply for
jobs? I wasn't the same person that I had been before I traveled back in
time. I had lost focus. The future seemed vague, the present something
to be tolerated. Only the past seemed real to me.
On the final afternoon of the dig, I joined other students as we finished
categorizing and labeling our finds. Dr. Crandall stopped by and asked
me to walk with her. I assumed she wanted a response to her job offer,
and I fretted about what to say. I hadn't made a decision.
"I've watched you work all summer, Ann," she said, surprising me.
"You're depressed. You're sad. And you seem very lonely. You kept to
yourself, which isn't the same Ann I've known over the years.

Something happened to you in Scotland. Why don't you tell me about
it?"
She indicated a small patch of grass under the browning leaves of a tall
oak tree. I followed her lead and sat down. And I told her everything. I
let it all out, including some accompanying tears I had been holding
back for weeks.
She listened to me without interruption. I didn't think I would have let
her interrupt, at any rate. I needed to talk to someone safe, a person
whom I could trust with the truth. Dylan was unreachable, and I needed
to tell someone how much I missed John, about the empty spot in my
soul that would never be filled. To love and lose was one thing. I had
lost my parents, and they were irreplaceable. But I could visit them at
their graves.
I didn't know where John's grave was, or if he even had one.
When I had finished, I wiped my eyes and peered up at Dr. Crandall
from under my lashes, afraid of the expression I might find on her face.
She crinkled her weathered green eyes, smiled with even, white teeth
and asked me a question.
"Did you try to find the dagger again?"
"What?" I asked, taken aback.
"The dagger. You found it once. Did you go back and try to find it
again?"
Of all the incredulous comments I thought Dr. Crandall might make,
this was not one of them.
"Well, no! I must have dropped it when I traveled through time. It
wasn't lying on the beach where they found me."
"What if John buried it again where he found you? That's what I would
have done."
A cold feeling came over me, and I struggled for air.
"Bury it? Are you saying that you think John would have buried it so I
could find it and go back?"
"Like I said, that's what I would have done. But then I ' m an
archaeologist. I dig things up."
I rose slowly to my feet, though my mind raced. I hadn't even tried

to find the dagger. I hadn' t even tried!
"Oh, Dr. Crandall! What have I done?"
She stood with me.
"Nothing that can't be undone, I suspect. Can I assume you're off to
Scotland and won't be taking the teaching assistant position?" I leaned
in and kissed her, deliriously hopeful and happy. "Yes and no! Not if I '
m lucky! Thank you, thank you, Dr.
Crandall! "
"Call a taxi! We need the van to get back."
I turned and fled for my tent, stopping only to call for a taxi before
stuffing my gear into my bag and running out to the road to wait for my
ride. While I waited, I made airline reservations to the small airport at
Stornaway, no small feat on my phone.
I had the taxi wait while I ran into my apartment to grab the shift and
my passport. I looked around and could think of nothing that would be
helpful if I could find the dagger and travel back in time.
I jumped back into the taxi and directed the driver to the airport. I
e-mailed Dr. Crandall instructions to find the spare key to my
apartment and what to do with my stuff if I didn't return. She was the
only one, besides Dylan, who would understand my possible, hopeful
disappearance. I e-mailed Dylan as well, providing him with Dr.
Crandall' s information.
Several hours later, I boarded a flight to London, connecting to
Glasgow and then Stornaway. I tried to slow the pace of my heart, the
fast-paced thudding, just to try to extend my life, but I couldn't.
Excitement gripped me, and I slept not at all.

Chapter Nineteen
I rented a small car at the Stornaway airport, in the absence of any
available Land Rovers, and I drove the three hours to Dun Eistean. The
car park was empty when I arrived, which suited me just fine. I
certainly didn' t want anyone asking why I was digging around when
there was no archaeological team on site.
On shaking legs, I crossed the footbridge. The tide was in, and waves
swept through the ravine. Once on the island, I hurried over to the
remains of the keep. I raced back and forth along the base of the tower,
trying to remember where I ' d been digging.
It was then that I realized I hadn't even brought a trowel with me. With
a few choice words at my stupidity, I dropped to my knees and started
digging with my bare hands. I imagined the rental car probably had a
tire iron for the spare tire, but I didn't want to waste the time to run back
to the car, nor did I think digging with an iron poker in a delicate
archaeological site was a good idea.
As I worked, I listened to the sound of the waves crashing against the
rocks below, the screeches of the seagulls, the wind as it blew over the
tidal stack. I smelled the salt in the air, the ancient dirt beneath my
fingers.
Given the absence of tools, the digging went painfully slow, as the dirt
around the base of the keep was mixed with the clay that had been used
to shore up the stone walls.
"John?" I called out. "I know you probably can't hear me, but I ' m
digging my way to you. Is there any chance you buried the dagger
again?"
I didn't get a response.
"I can't believe I didn't think of this before, John. And I ' m sorry I
waited so long. Please tell me you left the dagger for me. Please tell me
you did."
One of my knuckles struck a stone, and I winced. Then I hit another
rock. I rubbed the dirt from my hands and looked at them. Blood oozed
from several places where I ' d scraped the skin off.
I sat back in frustration and pain to survey the base of the keep. I

simply wasn't going to be able to dig for long with my bare hands. I
should have brought gloves with me but hadn't even stopped at my
apartment long enough to pack warm-weather clothing. All I had was
the clothing I ' d worn in hot and humid summer Virginia.
Tire iron it was! I ran back across the tabletop, across the footbridge
and to the car. I fumbled and fiddled until I managed to get into the
trunk. Pulling up a cover, I discovered the tire iron, and I lugged the
heavy thing back to the tower.
With an apology to all the archaeologists who had come before me or
would follow, I started digging with the tire iron. Stiff dirt mixed with
clay gave way easily, and I inched my way along the base, hoping and
praying that a medieval dagger was about to present itself.
An hour passed, then another. I ignored the tears slipping down my
cheeks. They were nothing but an inconvenience and no doubt caused
by the wind and the pain in my knuckles and knees.
I had brought no water with me, and I licked my dry lips. My stomach
rumbled, and my head hurt. I was jet lagged and a little loopy. "Come
on, John! Please tell me you buried the dagger for me to
find."
I dropped the iron and sat back again. What if someone had found it
before they left the dig six weeks prior? How would I know? I hadn't
heard from Dylan. Would he even know? Yes, of course he would.
What if John hadn't buried the dagger? What if this had been nothing
but a wild-goose chase? I wanted to continue to ignore the tears, but
they blinded me for the moment.
Rain began to fall, stinging my face as the wind whipped it around. I
looked up to see storm clouds rolling in, swirling around the tidal stack.
What was I going to do? Dig through what was rapidly turning into a
torrential downpour?
I wasn't done. I wasn't giving up! I supposed I could go huddle in my
rental car until the rain passed. If the rain passed. Dark clouds filled the
sky, and it looked as if the storm was here to stay.
A flash of lightning startled me. I hadn't heard thunder to announce it. I
jumped to my feet, never a fan of lightning.
As I turned away from the keep to run for my car, another burst of

lightning cracked almost overhead, and I tripped over the mound of
dirt, turf and rocks that I ' d dislodged. As I fell on my stomach, a glint
of dull metal caught my eye. There, not a foot from my face, laid John' s
dagger, nestled in between two stones in the wall.
I reached for it and then pulled my hand back.
Was I sure? Was I absolutely certain that I wanted to go back in time?
Perhaps never to return again?
Another flash of lightning reflected on the metal. What was I thinking?
Was there ever a question?
John had buried the dagger for me. He had wanted me to come
back.
I grabbed the hilt of the dagger. The metal flared but didn' t burn.
Lightning flashed again, and the world spun out of control as I lost
consciousness.
****
"Lass," a husky-timbered voice whispered near my ear. No longer cold,
I felt myself cradled in a warm embrace. The storm was gone, and the
sky appeared to be blue when I opened my eyes. I looked up into John's
face and smiled.
"John," I whispered.
His arms shook as he held me, and I noted a dark intensity in his blue
eyes. A tear slipped from the corner of one of his eyes, coursing down
his cheek.
"Och, my love, I thought never to see ye again. When I awakened to
find ye gone—" He stopped and shook his head. "They told me ye had
simply vanished. I did no ken for over a day that my dagger had been
lost."
I watched speechlessly as he reached to take the once again gleaming
dagger from my hand.
"Lost?" I murmured. Then he hadn't buried it for me to find?
I tried to sit upright, but John's muscular grip prevented me from doing
anything but lying in his arms. We sat near the front of the doorway of
the keep, in the same spot where he had first found me.
Where he had first found me, I repeated silently.
John nodded. "Aye, lost. But Andrew brought the dagger to me,

and the pain in my heart lessened. For I had hope, ye ken, hope that ye
would one day return to me. Andrew told me he had picked it up on the
rocks where ye must have dropped it when ye disappeared." "Did you
bury it for me to find?"
Another tear slipped down the side of his cheek, and he brushed at it
impatiently and cleared his throat.
"Aye. I tried to rebury it in the same place where I found ye afore. I
wasted no time and buried it the day after ye disappeared, when
Andrew brought it to me. When ye did no come back, I thought ye had
heeded my instructions to return to yer home, to yer time. And I cursed
myself...cursed myself every day for sending ye away without telling
ye how much ye meant to me, how much I loved ye, lass."
John pulled me to his chest and buried his face in my neck.
"I love ye. I love ye, Ann," he whispered near my ear. "I have no words
to tell ye how happy I am that ye have returned to me."
I dropped the dagger and wrapped my arms around the shaking
Highlander. He lifted his head and kissed me deeply and resoundingly.
Over his shoulder, I heard shouts, and we turned to see Mary and the
children running toward us, Mistress Glick, Andrew and Torq
following.
"Ann! " Mary called out.
"We must continue this another time," John said with a grin. He lifted
me to my feet, looking down at my jeans and long-sleeved blue cotton
button-down shirt.
"I see we must find ye some new clothing again, though I am loath to
do so. I am developing an appreciation for yer style of garment." He
kept an arm around my waist as we turned to face the group moving
toward us.
I laughed and accepted the length of plaid that Mary whipped from her
shoulders to throw over mine.
"Ye look fair chilled," she said with a knowing lift of an eyebrow. "I am
so pleased to see ye returned from yer journey to England."
The look that passed between her and John indicated that he must have
told her about me.
"Aye, lass, welcome back," Mistress Glick said.

I looked up at John, and he nodded.
"Only this circle of people ken where ye come from, Ann. I could no
manage the secret, no with yer very public disappearance." He bent to
kiss the top of my head as I stared at what seemed to be hundreds of
pairs of curious eyes but were only six people.
"Even the children?" I whispered out of the corner of my mouth. "Aye,
the children saw ye vanish. John had to tell them something. We chose
the truth," Mary said. Torq moved to stand beside her, and I noticed a
ring on her finger.
"Did you get married?" I squeaked. "Congratulations! " "Thank ye,"
Torq said.
"Just last week," Mary said with bright-red cheeks. "And when can we
expect an announcement from the both of ye?"
"What?" I stammered.
"I have no yet asked the lady, Sister! " John said in an exasperated
voice. "Ann has just returned. Give us a moment to catch our breath."
"Aye, the lad is right. We can no rush things. The lass looks as if she
could use some food and drink. I will bring ye some." Mistress Glick
nodded with a bright smile and pulled Andrew away.
"Thank you, Mistress Glick," I said, still stunned that so many people
readily accepted that I was a time traveler, especially sixteenth-century
Scottish Highlanders.
"As ye wish. I dinna want to be the last to ken, Brother. Welcome back,
Ann." Mary smiled, and she, Torq and the children turned away. I
looked up at John, suddenly shy and highly curious. "They seem so
calm about me," I said inarticulately. "They have kent ye traveled from
the future for a long time. They have grown used to the idea, and
mourned with me that ye did no, or could no, return."
John dropped his hand from my waist and turned away to look out to
sea for a moment. I saw the muscles in his jaw working, as if he
struggled with some strong emotion.
"John? What is it? What's wrong?" He turned to me and laced his hands
behind his back. "Why did ye no come sooner, Ann? Did ye struggle
with the notion

of returning? To me? To the past? Have ye come back to stay, or will ye
leave again? I can no promise ye that clan feuding will cease, but I can
promise ye that I will protect ye. Angus Macleod will no take ye again.
Can ye live with that? Can ye trust me to protect ye?"
He pressed his lips together, seemingly to stem the flow of questions. It
seemed as if he had a lot of those. I hadn't realized John was in doubt of
my love for him. Though I ' d told him over and over silently, I ' d never
said the words aloud.
I moved close to him and put my hands on his chest. "I love you, John
Morrison, and I have from the first moment I met you. I didn't come
back sooner because, for the better part of six weeks, it didn't occur to
me that you would rebury the dagger. I thought the dagger was lost
too." I swallowed hard. "I know clan feuding will continue, but I also
know that you will live to have five children, hopefully by me, so I
don't think Angus Macleod will take me again. I can live with that, and
I trust you with my life."
At my first words, John put his hands on my shoulders. Now he bent to
me and pressed his forehead against mine.
"And I love ye too, Ann Borodell. Are ye here to stay? Will ye marry
me?"
"I' m here to stay, and I will marry you, John Morrison. Yes, please."
The stones of the Highlander's Stronghold towered over us as John
folded me into an embrace that promised warmth, passion, respect and
undying love. And that was enough for me.

Books by Bess McBride Time Travel Romance
My Laird's Castle (Book One of the My Laird's Castle series)
My Laird's Love (Book Two of the My Laird's Castle series)
My Laird's Heart (Book Three of the My Laird's Castle series)
Caving in to You (Book One of the Love in the Old West series)
A Home in Your Heart (Book Two of the Love in the Old West series)
Forever Beside You in Time
Moonlight Wishes in Time (Book One of the Moonlight Wishes in
Time series)

Under an English Moon (Book Two of the Moonlight Wishes in Time
series)
Following You Through Time (Book Three of the Moonlight Wishes
in Time series)
A Train Through Time (Book One of the Train Through Time series)
Together Forever in Time (Book Two of the Train Through Time
series)
A Smile in Time (Book Three of the Train Through Time series)
Finding You in Time (Book Four of the Train Through Time series)
A Fall in Time (Book Five of the Train Through Time series)
Train Through Time Series Boxed Set (Books 1-3)
Across the Winds of Time
A Wedding Across the Winds of Time

(Novella) Love of My Heart
Historical Romance
Anna and the Conductor The Earl's Beloved Match (Novella)
Short cozy mystery stories by Minnie Crockwell
Will Travel for Trouble series
Trouble at Happy Trails (Book 1)

Trouble at Sunny Lake (Book 2)
Trouble at Glacier (Book 3)
Will Travel for Trouble Boxed Set (Books 1-3)
Trouble at Hungry Horse (Book 4)
Trouble at Snake and Clearwater (Book 5)
Trouble in Florence (Book 6)
Will Travel for Trouble Boxed Set (Books 4-6)
Trouble in Tombstone Town (Book 7) Trouble in Cochise Stronghold
(Book 8)
Trouble in Orange Beach (Book 9) Will Travel for Trouble Boxed Set
(Books 7-9)
Trouble at Pelican Penthouse (Book 10)

About the Author
Bess McBride is the best-selling author of over twenty time travel
romances as well as contemporary, historical, romantic suspense and
light paranormal romances. She loves to hear from readers, and you can
contact her at

[e-mail]

or visit her website at

www.bessmcbride.com

, as well as connect with her on Facebook and

Twitter. She also writes short cozy mysteries as Minnie Crockwell, and
you can find her website at

[e-mail]

.