Fourteen

T he world rent itself in twain with a tremendous noise.

Mairead looked up over her head and stared in astonishment as the sky burst into light as if the very stars of Heaven had flung themselves down to the earth like sparks from a mighty fire in colors she'd never before imagined—

She suddenly found herself freed from her cousins who had been dragging her toward the pyre. She would have commented on how well they crumpled to the ground, but she found her hand taken by someone else. She immediately tried to pull it free, then she realized it was Oliver, dressed in black from head to toe.

She blinked in surprise. "But I just saw you—"

"Let's go."

She wanted to stop and consider, but there was no time for it. She could either continue on to her death or she could turn aside onto a path she suspected would forever change the course of her life. Surely Ambrose and his wee siblings would survive well enough without her. They would be without her either way—

"Mairead, now ."

She nodded, took her skirts in her free hand, and ran with him directly toward the pile of wood ready to be set alight. She felt someone grab her arm and almost pull her off her feet. She was spun around and watched a hand come toward her face, but she never felt it because Oliver's hand caught that hand first. She watched him plow his fist into her brother's mouth so hard, she was fairly sure she heard something break.

"He may be eating soup for a bit," she managed breathlessly.

"If he doesn't choke to death first," Oliver said, shaking out his hand briefly. "Can you run?"

She would have answered, but the sky had again exploded into shards of colors that had surely come from some angelic realm. She looked at Oliver, had a brief smile as her reward, then she gathered her courage and nodded.

He squeezed her hand. "Brave lass. Let's go."

She fled with him past the front door of the keep and directly into the forest behind the hall where only the bravest of her clan dared tread. She imagined bravery had nothing to do with Oliver's choice of paths, but rather causing the men she could hear shouting in the distance to think again before they followed after them certainly did.

She had no idea how long they ran. All she knew was that whatever skills she had in blending into the forest, Oliver had only to an entirely new and terrifying degree. They went west, which she imagined wasn't the direction Tasgall would have expected her to take. Then again, he would have enough pain in his face that perhaps he wouldn't be thinking clearly for a bit.

At one point, Oliver stopped, looked at her bare feet, then winced.

"Your feet are bleeding."

She imagined that was the least of her worries, but she didn't protest when he pulled leather shoes out of his rucksack and laced them to her feet.

"I can keep on," she said, wiggling her toes and scarce feeling them. "Very comfortable."

He rose, looked at her for a moment in silence, then very gently pulled her into his arms. She held onto him tightly, likely more enthusiastically than was polite, but she was freezing and terrified.

"Thank you," she managed.

He pulled back a bit and pressed his lips against her forehead. "I would have done it as many times as necessary."

She shivered. "Don't say that."

He breathed out an uneasy bit of a laugh. "I won't," he said, shivering. He tightened his arms around her briefly, then pulled away. "We should go."

"Where?"

"Still west, I think," he said slowly, "then north as long as we can keep to the trees. We need to find a better vantage point if we can. I want to know what's coming."

"Likely nothing," she said honestly. "I'm not worth it to them."

"You're worth it to me, though. Let's run for a bit longer, then we'll find a place to rest. I brought food."

"Not your offal cakes, I hope."

He smiled, more truly then. "Your uncle Patrick supplied the food, so you can blame him when you see him for whatever he sent for us."

She nodded, a jerky motion that left her feeling as if she weren't at all in control of her poor form.

"Mairead, just a bit farther."

She wished she'd had a tart remark to offer about her ability to carry on under extremely trying circumstances, but she had just been rescued from death by fire by a man dressed all in black and she could still hear the men in her clan shrieking her name behind her.

"Let's run," she said hoarsely.

He nodded and took her hand.

It was midday before she could finally go no further. She'd run when she could, then walked until she'd regained enough strength to run again, but she came to the point where she simply had no more strength left.

Oliver pulled her into his arms and held her close. She wanted to point out to him that he was trembling, but she realized he wasn't the one shaking.

"I can't feel myself," she managed.

"You're in shock," he said, rubbing his hand over her back. "It's what your body does when you've had something happen to you that's past any warrior's ability to bear."

She would have smiled, but she couldn't feel her face, either.

He pulled away and nodded. "There's an outcropping of rock up that hill that will serve well enough as a perch. Can you go that far?"

She nodded, though the movement felt strange and uncontrollable. She glanced at Oliver to find him watching her with concern in his eyes.

"I am well," she croaked.

He put his arms around her again and rested his cheek against her hair. "You are the bravest woman I know."

"I don't feel brave," she whispered. She had to take a moment and simply breathe. "Thank you for saving me."

"Again, I would—"

"Don't say it."

He laughed a little, uneasily, then pulled away. "Let's go climb up that hill and make ourselves a spot for the afternoon. We'll be safe enough, I imagine."

She followed him up the hill and was more relieved than perhaps she should have been at the chance to simply sit and rest. She watched Oliver take a brief walk in both directions, then return and sit down next to her. The rock was warm and she supposed she would have been happy to close her eyes and sleep if she hadn't been so unnerved.

That, and she could also feel a stillness coming from Oliver that spoke very clearly of his watchfulness. She didn't dare hope she was safe, so she forced herself to keep her eyes open and watch the land below them for any movement.

"What happened?" he asked finally. He glanced at her briefly. "After Jamie pulled me away, which I apologize for. I assumed you would be safe from them."

"Then how did you know?" she asked wearily.

He grimaced. "I read it in a book."

She had to smile a little then. "Of course you did."

He took her hand in both of his and continued to look over the countryside in front of them. "And?"

"They wanted to put Deirdre to death," she said with a sigh. "I couldn't allow that to happen, so I showed them my mark to draw their attention away from her."

"Your mark?"

She looked at him archly. "Am I to show it to you as well?"

"I don't think I'll ask where it is," he said faintly.

She rolled her eyes, pulled her dress far enough off her shoulder to show him the mark she'd come with into her current life.

Her previous life, if luck were with her.

"It looks like a heart," he said with a faint smile.

"Does it?" she asked, pulling the cloth back up. "They didn't seem to think so."

"That was very noble of you," he said. "To sacrifice yourself for her."

"It wasn't for her," she admitted. "My mother died when I was very young and I didn't want Ambrose and the wee ones to suffer as I did." She paused. "And you were gone, so…"

The look he gave her almost brought tears to her eyes.

"Mairead," he said in a low voice. "In truth?"

She took a deep breath. "Well, you are braw enough, so aye. But now, I don't think they'll burn Deirdre or anyone else, not after that display you put on. What was that magic?"

He smiled. "We call them fireworks, though that's just a fancy way of talking about gunpowder. It's an English thing, if you want the truth, and the most famous practitioner in your day is a man named Guy who will in a few years try to blow up important bits of London where King James will be taking a stroll."

She looked at him in surprise. "Does he succeed?"

"He doesn't," Oliver said, "and winds up in the Tower as a result. I'll leave the rest to your imagination for now, though I'll tell you later if you like." He stared out over the countryside. "I wonder about Master James," he said slowly. "It isn't as if he can put the whole clan into the fire, is it? Perhaps he'll look for riper pickings somewhere else."

"At least he won't find them at Cameron Hall," she said, shivering in spite of the sunlight. "They were a suspicious lot in the past, but no longer."

"Both Sunny and Cameron would have something to say about that," he said. "And I forgot about food, sorry. Let me show you what I brought."

She tried to eat, truly she did, but her hands were shaking too badly to manage it very well. Oliver only caught whatever she dropped—oatcakes, dried things he claimed were fruits from the Future, and equally cured meats in strips—and held it for her until she could take hold of it again. She gathered her strength to thank him, but when she turned to do so, she found him watching her as if he feared she might have some sort of fit.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Will you mind coming back with me?"

"To the keep?" she asked, surprised. "In this time?"

He shook his head quickly. "Forward, I should say. To the Future."

She was very aware there was no future for her at her home, though she would miss Ambrose and his wee siblings. But to walk into a different time entirely… that was daunting.

"You could stay with Cameron and Sunny," he said carefully.

She looked at him in surprise, but said nothing. That offer of sanctuary and shelter would be very kind, of course, but she had thought…

"Or Patrick and Madelyn," he added. "Or even Jamie and Elizabeth, if that wouldn't be too unnerving to be in the same keep yet a different year."

She nodded, because she could do nothing else. "Lovely."

He looked profoundly uncomfortable. She imagined that was because he was attempting to find a way to tell her that he would be depositing her on someone's doorstep and fleeing as quickly as possible. Perhaps that shouldn't have surprised her. It wasn't as if she'd had a long line of suitors in her time, either, so she was accustomed to it.

"It might take a few weeks to not be startled by things," he continued gingerly.

"I have a strong stomach."

He nodded and fell silent.

"You obviously have things you need to see to," she said, supposing there was no reason not to have everything out there in front of them right off.

He blinked. "I suppose so."

"I'm certain I'll have many important things to see to as well," she said, watching him to see what, if any, impression that thought might make on him.

He only nodded slowly.

"Perhaps Lord Patrick will find a place for me in his house," she added. "As a kitchen maid."

He seemed to be chewing on his words. In fact, he chewed on them so long and so well, she wondered if he might never speak again. She was a little surprised to find that she knew him well enough to be able to say that he was a man of few words and many deeds, but he had, after all, plucked flowers for her that were purple, because he'd known that was her favorite color. She suppressed the urge to simply elbow him sharply in the gut to dislodge a bit of conversation and settled for waiting him out.

He finally simply held out his hand toward her.

She looked at it, then at him.

He only regarded her with a grave expression on his face. "Or," he said very quietly, "you might stay with me."

She would have said the smoke from the fire was terrible, but they hadn't made a fire and she was freezing.

But she put her hand in his just the same. That task accomplished, she considered her next move. She supposed there was no reason not to point out things he might have missed.

"I am very plain."

"Are you?" he mused. "I disagree."

"I would say you hadn't seen my sisters, but you have."

"I have," he agreed. "And whilst they are very pretty, I think you are far lovelier."

She would have blustered a bit to save herself the discomfort of a compliment she didn't deserve, but she was honestly too unbalanced to do so. "I think you're daft."

"And I think I see very clearly."

She reached for something else he might not have noticed. "My teeth are crooked," she admitted. "Not perfectly straight like yours."

"A couple of mine are fake," he said with a shrug. "Cricket batt to the face when I was younger, so I don't care."

She wasn't entirely sure what a cricket batt was, but the result sounded painful. "Did it break your nose as well?"

He smiled. "It did, as it happened. But your nose is perfectly straight, which makes up for mine."

"'Tis a noble nose," she offered. "But for the rest of me, I don't think you've looked properly."

He turned toward her, took her face in his hands, and looked at her seriously. "I have," he said. "Your beauty comes from your soul, Mairead MacLeod, and will be shining through your features when we're both ninety and mooning over each other like a pair of wizened apples."

She was slightly appalled to find her eyes were burning, but there was nothing to be done about that. "Will I be mooning over you then?"

His expression was very serious. "I don't know. Will you?"

"Do you care if I will?"

"Very much."

"Daft man," she said, shifting uncomfortably.

He smiled and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. "Is that all you have to say?"

"Daft, braw, demanding man?"

"I think there was a compliment in there," he said with a brief laugh. "Settle yourself comfortably, Mairead, and see if you can't sleep for a bit. I think we'll try the faery ring at dusk when the sunset might help us by shining in the eyes of anyone hunting us."

She shifted so she could put her head on his shoulder which she likely should have found a bit alarming given that she'd never sat with a man's arms around her, but Oliver was sturdy and solid and warm. That, and she liked very much the way he ran his hand over her hair occasionally, as if he found it, well, beautiful.

She tried to sleep, truly she did, but it was impossible. She had the feeling that what lay before them was more difficult than he wanted to admit which left her wanting to think about anything else.

"You've seen my family," she said, latching on to the first thing that came to mind. "Will you tell me of yours?"

"Hmmm," he said, shifting a bit, "well, there's not much to tell. I have four younger siblings, three brothers and a sister, but we don't speak often."

"Are they terrible people?"

"To be honest, I didn't grow up with them, so I don't know them very well. They're very involved in flattering my father, so I hear, which takes up a great deal of time."

"Is he an important man, then?"

"Well …"

She lifted her head and put on a glare for his benefit. "If you tell me he is a duke, I will stick you."

He smiled. "Nothing so lofty, I fear, though he is a viscount. I haven't spoken to him in years, so it has little to do with me."

She suspected there was more to the tale, but whatever it was, it seemed to make him uncomfortable. She cast about for a less tender topic to discuss.

"How do you earn your bread?" she asked "Do you have a wee croft you tend, or a labor you perform?"

She didn't want to admit that discovering what he did might answer the question of how she might find a way to feed herself. Perhaps given that his father was a lord, he might have a kitchen that needed tending.

"Mairead."

She smiled before she could stop herself. There was something about the way he said her name that was far more lovely than she deserved.

"I'm thinking," she admitted.

"I recognize the activity," he said, lifting his eyebrows briefly, "and I can imagine what those thoughts are. I'll see that we don't starve."

"What are your normal labors, then?" she managed, grasping for a distraction from those very pleasing words.

He shot her a quick smile. "Other than wishing I were the Duke of Birmingham?"

She pursed her lips. "Aye, that."

"I am, I suppose you might say, a merchant." He shrugged lightly. "A bit of a fall from a duke, isn't it?"

"I believe he was little more than a landlord, so that hardly seems any loftier," she said honestly. "What sort of merchantry is your business?"

"Rich people—and nobility now and again—tell me what sort of treasures they would like to have and I get them the same."

She pushed away from him and gaped at him. "You're not a merchant, you're a pirate!"

He laughed and it was as if Sunshine Cameron's merry fire had started up, warm and lovely, directly next to her.

"My boss would be thoroughly flattered by that," he said, looking as if he found the thought particularly delightful.

"Boss?"

"The head pirate, who is also a cousin to Robert Cameron, Sunshine's husband. Lord Robert is the one who started this whole business. He has, as you might imagine, a good feel for old things."

"I daresay," she agreed, then she realized what he'd said. "Old things? Why does that matter?"

"Because some people in the Future are very fond of old things and willing to pay a great deal of money to possess them." He shot her a look. "And if that doesn't make me sound like a mercenary, I don't know what does."

"We should have stuffed our pockets then," she said frankly, "though I don't know with what."

He smiled. "We'll find things enough in my day, I suspect." He reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, then met her eyes. "Will you be all right?"

"You've asked me that before."

"I want you to be sure," he said. "I haven't given you much choice about this so far."

"You saved me from death," she said. "Life is a gift."

He smiled faintly. "Even when it might include old age with a wizened apple like me?"

She would have smiled in return, but she didn't think she dared. "Is that what you want?"

He nodded, his smile fading. "It is, but you have to decide what you want."

She couldn't bring herself to think he might be speaking of marriage, but she couldn't imagine he would have been suggesting anything else. That thought was so foolish that she had to stop herself from getting up and running away. It helped that Oliver shot her a look and took her hand, as if he could tell what she was thinking.

"Will your mates like me?" she managed. "You know, if I were to meet them." She paused. "At some point in the Future."

"They will love you. Please don't forget about me in their mad rush to surround you and wax rhapsodic about your beauty."

She pursed her lips and made a noise of dismissal, but he was only watching her with what she might have been willing to concede was affection if she'd been as daft as he was. He pulled her close again and wrapped his arms around her.

"Let's rest for a bit longer, then I think we should decide on a path back to the faery ring."

"Will they be waiting, do you think?"

He sighed deeply. "I'm hoping it's the first place they will have gone. Since they will find nothing there, hopefully they will have already returned to the keep. For all we know, Master James has spent the day accusing other people."

"I hope not," she said quietly.

"I do, too," he agreed, just as quietly. "I think your uncle Lachlan has more control over things than your brother gives him credit for, so perhaps he'll manage to stop the madness."

She couldn't deny that was true. Her uncle babbled on and on about magical things, but she had begun to suspect over the past pair of years that it was something of a ruse to draw attention away from the shrewd glances she occasionally caught him turning on her brother.

"He won't hurt Ambrose or the bairns, will he?" she whispered. "Master James?"

Oliver shook his head. "Not even your brother would allow that to happen, I don't think."

She nodded and closed her eyes, breathing carefully until she thought she could voice the terrible thought that was rattling around in her empty head.

"Might we read about what happened?"

She felt his lips against her forehead. "Of course. And keep in mind, Mairead, that if Master James went on to harm others, harming you first wouldn't have stopped it."

She nodded and hoped that was true.

The sun was setting when she found herself standing with Oliver just under the eaves of the witch's forest, well within bolting distance of the faery ring.

A pity there were so many men standing there, apparently keeping watch.

"We'll use the cottage door," Oliver murmured.

She didn't argue. She turned and slipped into the forest with him, grateful beyond measure that she'd spent her life escaping various things. The forest was still firmly situated in her day, which made things easier for her at least. She pulled on Oliver's hand when it was useful, and kept pace with him at his side when he seemed to see a clear path forward.

She saw the croft through the trees, but she didn't allow herself any of the relief she so desperately wanted to feel. She knew the threshold had worked for Sunshine and Robert Cameron… after a fashion. She absolutely didn't want to find herself in a far different time from Oliver, not after he'd managed to save her from the fire.

She ran with him past her tree and would have insisted that they stop so she could retrieve her book—and wishing quite desperately that she'd hidden it instead in the loose stone at the back of the witch's croft—but perhaps it would be a token for someone else to study. For all she knew, it might give another Highland lass hope that she could change her own life.

Oliver threw open the croft door. The inside was completely dark, but she had expected that.

He kept hold of her hand and leapt across the threshold.

The sound of his head striking the stone above the doorway was uncomfortably loud as was the sight of him pitching forward. She felt something slam into her back and wondered if they had healers there in that Future she could see opening up before her.

She thought she might need one.