Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends, Book 1) (36 page)

CHAPTER
Thirty-five

I rode
Solus
hard. The decision to send Iain to safety was never second-guessed, but the long minutes it took to reach the castle felt like unmoving hands on a stalled clock. We thundered over the drawbridge just as it settled into place. We charged up the rise, straight to the keep. Before she fully stopped, I slid off and ran into an already-open front door.

It seemed the entire clan milled about in the great hall. All their attention turned to me. Without a word, the sea of people parted, and I ran across the room and down the corridor. The strong power signature radiating from Sunshine told me exactly where they were.

The door to the study remained closed. I pressed down on the iron latch, carefully pushing the door into the room.

The place was a mess. Iain’s map desk had been shoved against the bookcases. Rolled parchments had fallen from their categorized homes, littering the ground like tan tubes of pick-up sticks.

Iain’s battered body stretched across the stone floor while Sunshine’s arm supported his head and shoulders. Those tremendous black wings were opened and curved protectively over Iain’s form.

Sunshine glanced up with a grave expression. “He’s badly injured. Every breath he takes is a struggle for life.”

“What can I do?”

He shook his head. “My expertise falls outside the realm of easing suffering.”

I growled, angry I’d been put in these circumstances over and over again, unable to be in control of anything, incapable to help those around me—the ones that needed me the most.

Energy still hummed hot and furious through my veins. I stared at the wall. Laser lights that had been beaming statically began pulsing rapidly. It powered up at my presence, responding to me like an excited dog wagging its tail.

The wall.

“Skorpius, move to the other side.”

The angel eyed me in surprise but followed my command.

I stepped between the two men and the wall. The surface pulsed as shimmering waves appeared, and the lights stopped beaming, incredible energy building beneath its sparkling exterior.

I glanced down at Iain. He’d gone so far under—away from the cruelty of the world—that his expression was relaxed . . . peaceful. Short, broken breaths were the only movements he made.

Shadows filled the room. A dark angel surrounded him. His body had been grimly painted by every shattered vessel, bruised muscle, and broken bone.

They’d stolen him. Forces still conspired to take him. Yet he clung to life by a thread . . . for me.

My gaze lifted to Sunshine as I slowly knelt. Everything in my programming made me fight for the man I loved with every weapon in my arsenal.

A whisper fell from my lips. “Will it work?” I raised my hand to a wall humming with power. It begged for my touch.

Those iridescent, blue-green eyes pierced into my soul. “For a price. Everything has a price.”

“If he lives,
I
will pay the price.”

Sunshine nodded once.

I pressed my palm onto the heated surface. Raw energy poured into my hand, running hot and furious through my body. I gritted my teeth and tensed my arm. The conduit fired so much power into me, I barely maintained the connection.

My free hand hovered above Iain’s chest, over his heart. With a focused determination I’d learned from the hunts, from the meditations, from every soul-searching, self-finding reflection, I aimed the exhilarating energy straight into Iain’s body.

Before I even touched Iain’s skin, a reaction happened. Warm, yellow light emanated from my hand, and Iain’s body jerked. Sunshine shot an arm over Iain’s abdomen, holding him securely.

I lowered my hand onto Iain’s chest. The contact sent the glow deep into his body. Iain’s lungs shot up, his mouth opening on a loud gasp. I clenched my jaw. His face contorted in pain, and I felt his suffering. Beads of sweat trickled into my eyes. I pinched them closed.

The wall’s energy buffered me from feeling the brunt of Iain’s pain as it assaulted me. If Iain could take every blow, every strike, every consequence of protecting people he loved, so could I.

Then it ended abruptly. The pain .
 . . gone.

I opened my eyes, and Iain’s bright, hazel eyes stared up at me in wonder.

Well, hell.
That made two of us.

I quickly scanned his body. His skin was still dirty; his hair still encrusted with blood. But his color was pink and healthy. No more broken limbs. No more bruises. He’d been made whole.

Iain flicked a glance at Sunshine. His gaze returned to me, tearing away from the shocking form of an angel hovering over him.

“Och, lass. I’ve died, haven’t I?”

I laughed, so damn happy. “No, love.” I bent down, brushing trembling lips over his in the gentlest kiss. I pulled back, kneeling over him, staring into the beautiful olive eyes I’d missed. “Iain, you have
no
idea. The living’s just begun.”

* * *

Behind the castle, I walked in the rays of the sun while Sunshine kept to his beloved shadows. Iain bathed upstairs. Rowena insisted on preparing a special meal for the two of us, saving the enormous celebration for tomorrow at my request. Tonight would be a private reunion.

“Thank you for your help, Skorpius.”

He growled. I laughed.

It bothered him that I saw the teddy bear behind the dragon. I wondered if I’d see him again since the adventure had ended.

“
You have many adventures still to come. You know how to reach me. My aid will follow.
”

“
My own genie in a bottle
,” I mentally teased.

“
Hardly
,” he choked out, and I laughed, imagining his eye roll hidden in the darkness.

“What did you mean about the price to be paid?” I asked.

“Ahhh, now she’s curious. The fool acts now . . . questions later.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’m the fool. Tell me the consequence of hastiness—the price of saving a man not yet destined to die.”

He barked out a laugh. “Destiny. A word
humans
use to explain what they can’t control. How does it feel to be different now?”

I digested the way he phrased his words. Their meaning dawned, even if acceptance did not. “I’m no longer human?”

Rich, deep laughter boomed out. “Ms. MacInnes, with everything you’ve been through, you’ve become more human than most of humanity. Due to your travel through time, not to mention all the power you absorbed from that wall, you’ve also become something more. The babes you carry as well. I’d imagine Iain has also, now that I think about it.”

“And what’s that?” My short-bus mind slammed to a stop. “Wait.
Babes
?”

The breeze changed direction, and the feeling of power emanating from Sunshine disappeared. A whispered word carried on the wind tickled into my ear.

“
Immortal
.”

My jaw dropped. Without thought, my hand flew to my belly. It never occurred to me the power flowing through me .
 . . had changed me . . . on a molecular level. And Iain?

I rushed into the castle, raced up the steps, and burst into our bedchamber. Iain’s broad smile greeted me, his relaxed body soaking in the wooden tub. I’d never seen a more beautiful sight.

A slow smile spread across my face. I unsheathed my sword, pointing it at him, stalking across the room.

“Och, Isa. I’ve been back but an hour and already you’re pickin’ a fight. You doona think I’ve been tortured enough?”

I smirked, propping a hip on the edge of the tub, reaching down, and grasping his hand. “Yes, you’ve suffered enough for a thousand lifetimes. Apparently, I’ve committed you to suffer an eternity.” I aimed my blade toward his open palm.

“Donna stab me!”

He yanked his hand away, but I jerked it back, and the sharp point of my sword pierced the center of his hand.

“Ochhh!”

I pulled the blade away from his skin. A stream of blood trickled across his open palm and into the water. Within seconds, the wound closed and the bleeding stopped. Iain dipped his hand under the water and lifted it. He stared at the unmarred flesh.

“What magick is this?” he asked on a whisper.

“Exactly. And Sunshine, I mean Skorpius . . . you know, the big, black, badass angel? He said not only are you immortal. So am I. And”—I sheathed the blade back into its scabbard and gazed lovingly into Iain’s eyes—“Skorpius also said so are the babes I’m carrying.”

“Bairns? You’re carryin’ my
bairns
?
Two
of them?” His eyes widened as he grinned like an idiot.

I laughed lovingly at his instant pride and happiness. “Damn. I hope there’s only two.”

His strong grip seized me, and I toppled into the water on top of him. Waves sloshed out of the tub, splashing everywhere as he kissed me soundly.

I pulled away. “My weapons!”

Iain tossed them out, the metal clattering onto the stone floor. “We’ll forge you new ones.”

He ripped the clothes from my body, holding me down. I struggled, trying to sit upright.

“Hold still, woman. You look—and smell—like you’ve been to hell and back.” He flipped me over, pulling the last torn scrap away. “Let . . . your . . . man . . . take care of you.”

I relaxed in his hold.

What a wonderful idea.

CHAPTER Thirty-six

UCLA Archaeology Department—Twenty-
first Century

The letter had been penned on parchment from the thirteenth century . . .

written in ink from the thirteenth century .
 . .

tied with a silk red ribbon from the thirteenth century .
 . .

wrapped around a Pict short sword and battle ax .
 . .

forged twelve hundred years earlier than that.

I exhaled slowly through pursed lips, carefully positioning the time-capsuled package in the center of Professor MacLaren’s desk. Out of nostalgia, or unsolved mystery, MacLaren had left the box exactly where I’d placed it. Good thing too. If MacLaren hadn’t kept my mysterious disappearance that coincided with the box’s appearance a secret, we might’ve ended up in the back forty of a police station’s evidence lockup.

The desk’s immaculate, shining surface showed that MacLaren had been in residence within the last few days. Iain and I had no idea if we’d arrive alone or shock the hell out of my mentor, but the risked chance outweighed the not knowing.

Iain stood behind the desk in his finest plaid. The heirloom brooch fastened to his hip gleamed in the light of the room. He lifted his gaze up to me. We owed everything to that box.

I walked to the far wall of the professor’s enormous tribute to the past. Dusty tomes were stacked neatly on their sides to protect the aged spines. Definitive proof would be found in the facsimile edition of the
Codex Laurentianus Mediceus
by Tacitus, but the horrific Latin scrawl was nearly illegible. My index finger hovered over the books until I found a powder-blue, unjacketed cover. I lifted three other historical first editions to free the one that would tell us everything: Clarence W. Mendell’s
Tacitus: The Man and His Work
.

With bated breath, I curled into a corner of the
coffee Chesterfield sofa, the leather softly creaking as I tucked suede-clad legs beneath me. I flipped the pages to the second half of the book, scanning every section that mentioned Agricola. Everything had remained the same.

I glanced up at Iain who remained rooted where he stood, silently watching. “Nothing’s changed.”

He nodded once.

Satisfied for the moment, I replaced the book and methodically stacked the professor’s other collectibles into their rightful place. A light layer of dust coated the mahogany shelf. I drew a smiley face in the evidence that a cleaning lady had never touched its surface; MacLaren refused to trust anyone to care for his treasures the same way he coddled them .
 . . well, besides me.

A huge grin stretched onto my face. Everything I needed to assess my historical impact was hidden in plain sight. I stepped back, scanning the entire wall on a reminiscing scavenger hunt.

“What’re you doin’, Isa?”

I glanced over my shoulder. Iain had moved closer and stood with his arms crossed in front of the gilded mirror. “Shhh .
 . .” I cringed the moment the sound left my lips, knowing I’d pay for the inconsiderate silencing later.

My gaze roved a shelf at eye level until I’d found it: the pressed orange poppy I’d hidden for MacLaren to find, if he’d ever bothered to clean.
A few shelves down to the right
. . . and there was the second: the hot-pink corner of a smartass note I’d left on the virtues of cleanliness. It peeked out from between two volumes of George Buchanan’s
History of Scotland
. I tugged at the corner, pulling it out a bit further to announce its presence and, I supposed, mine.

I tapped a finger to my lips, trying to remember where I’d placed other clues of my existence. Firm hands gripped my shoulders, turning me around.

“Enough, Isa. You were here. To know that is enough.”

I nodded, laughing. “Yes, you’re right.”

He wisely tugged me from the modern-day static wall where I could spend days researching through books on the effects of my presence in history, all illustrating the same clear and undeniable conclusion:
I’d been there all along.

Iain paused as we stood by our box. His gaze tracked left toward the mirror. Mine followed, and the reflection took my breath away.

He wrapped his arms around me. I slid a hand around his waist, tipping my head onto his shoulder, admiring the beautiful couple: his chestnut hair, bronzed skin, and white linen shirt beneath a green-and-black plaid; her wild, unbound blond locks, tanned skin, and new deerskin hunting outfit he’d had newly made for her and insisted she wear.

Iain hooked a finger under my chin, and I gazed up into his olive eyes. They conveyed trust, protection .
 . . love. The last time we stood together in the room, I was unsure. But I doubted no more.

He whispered, “Isa, our history had been written long before it ever began.”

I smiled, beaming up at him. He’d spoken the utter truth.

“Iain .
 . . take me
home
.”