A Highlander in Her Past (13 page)
Maxwell’s rumbling laughter shook through her as he spun her in his arms. “I’m real, lass—as real as an ancient Highlander from the 1400s can be.”
Trish held his face between her hands and touched the tip of her nose to his. “How? I thought you were…the headstone…the date.”
Maxwell chuckled. “I believe if ye checked yon stone ye’ll find the date has disappeared.” His eyes darkened and his face grew solemn as he pressed his forehead against hers. “All that remains on the stone is the inscription. Those words will never change.”
Trish closed her eyes against the warm tears running down her cheeks. “I love you, Maxwell. I love you so much more than I ever thought possible. Please know how much I love you.” Lordy, she couldn’t say those words enough. She’d made the mistake of not saying the words before. She’d be damned if she’d make that mistake again.
Maxwell cut off her words with a hard claiming kiss as he held her even tighter. Pausing for just a moment with his lips still touching hers, Maxwell shuddered and whispered against her mouth. “And I love you more than life itself and I’ve come to claim ye as m’bride.”
Trish silenced him with another kiss. She longed to savor the taste of him. She thought she’d lost his sweetness forever.
“Mama. Are they ever gonna stop kissing?” Ramsay’s bored voice echoed through the garden, followed by a chorus of tittering laughter.
Unbelievable joy surged through her and warmed the color to her cheeks. Trish peeped over Maxwell’s shoulder at the MacKay family waiting at the edge of the garden. Her gaze settled on a familiar face. Another MacKay she’ never thought she’d see again. “Keagan?”
“Aye.” Keagan nodded, his face beaming with a grin spreading from ear to ear.
A rush of guilt dampened her joy as Maxwell lowered Trish’s feet to the ground. “Oh, Keagan. You’ll never see your family again because of us. Now, you’re forever trapped in the future.”
Keagan’s smile widened as he hooked his thumbs into the waist of his kilt and looked over at Latharn. After receiving Latharn’s single nod, he moved a bit closer to Maxwell and Trish. “It sounds as though Uncle Latharn told ye about one of the MacKay gifts.” Ducking his head, his expression softened as he stubbed the worn toe of his brown boot against the moss covered edge of one of the flagstones. “But Uncle Latharn didn’t know until today that the MacKay magic is a bit different with me.”
Confusion joined all the other emotions running amok in Trish’s being. Holding tight to Maxwell’s arms, she leaned against the security of his chest. She’d never let him go again. “What are you talking about, Keagan? Are you saying you get more than one free token when it comes to traveling through time?”
Keagan chuckled as Ramsay ran to his side and thumped him on the shoulder. “I’m still quite new to all the gifts my grandmothers granted me. But with mother’s help, I’ve learned how to dance across the web of time and can do so as often as I like…as long as I have good reason.”
“Your grandmothers?” Trish held a hand against her chest. If her heart beat any harder, it was surely going to break free of her body. Maxwell was here and if Trish understood Keagan, they even had a choice as to which time period they chose to live.”
“Aye.” Keagan nodded with a sheepish grin. “Mother told me we must always protect the secret of my ancestry but she gave me leave to share it with you. Goddess Brid and goddess Cerridwen are my grandmothers. They hold me close in their hearts and bless me with the Ways.”
Maxwell stepped forward, pulling Keagan into a hug while keeping Trish locked against his side. “Thank ye, Keagan. I’m forever in yer debt for reuniting me with m’love.”
Keagan’s face grew suddenly serious as he retracted from Maxwell’s embrace and stepped back to the center of the path. He first glanced toward the twenty-first century MacKays then turned his focus back to Maxwell and Trish.
Trish sensed an uneasiness about the boy. She read him as easily as Ramsay. “What do you need to tell us, Keagan? What’s bothering you?”
Keagan shifted positions, first crossing his arms over his chest then returning his thumbs to their hooked position atop his kilt. “Your choice must be made. And it can only be made the once.”
Maxwell pulled Trish tighter against his side. Trish dug her fingernails into Maxwell’s arm. She’d be damned if she let anything separate them again. “What choice?”
Keagan nodded toward Trish’s midriff then cleared his throat before he spoke. “Do the two of ye choose to raise your child in the past or shall ye tend your family here in the future? The choice is yours but take care with what ye choose, because I will only shift ye across the web the one time. I must not abuse the portal. The balance of the continuum canna be risked and I must guard its well-being.”
Trish pressed her hands against her stomach. It wasn’t possible. The doctors had said too much damage had been done. A large warm hand covered her own as a husky voice whispered into her hair. “Dinna doubt the boy, sweetling. He has the knowledge of an old soul. Keagan is never wrong.”
Trish smiled; a warm aura of contentment filled her as she snuggled deeper into Maxwell’s embrace. “Then
when
shall we raise this miraculous child of ours, my stubborn, burly Highlander?”
“I dinna care,” Maxwell rumbled against her cheek. “As long as we raise the bairn together.”
Trish closed her eyes, losing herself in Maxwell’s delicious scent and warm comforting embrace. When? What time would she choose? The safe familiarity of the twenty-first century with all its conveniences and chaos or the rugged excitement of the past—the world where Maxwell truly belonged? Trish smiled as her heart swelled with the answer. Without opening her eyes, she tightened her arms around Maxwell’s waist and whispered loud enough for Keagan to hear. “Take us home, Keagan. I belong with my Highlander in the past.”
A word about the author...
When not at her full-time job at the steel mill, Maeve's writing paranormal romances with a Celtic twist from her cozy little home near Kentucky Lake. Tucked away in the middle of a five-acre wood, Maeve listens to the wind whispering through the trees and hears her characters’ voices. Her work is proofed by her sharp-eyed dog, Jasper. Her promotional manager is her long-suffering husband of over thirty years who's learned to ignore Maeve's habit of mumbling to her computer and leaving sticky notes filled with odd bits of conversation all over the house.
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