The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance (69 page)

She leaned close, saying something else, but great buffets of wind were rocking the car and the shrieking gale snatched her words away. Lindy only saw the old woman’s lips moving. But she caught the almost mischievous wink she gave Lindy just before she stepped back and, turning into the wind, hobbled off down the path to the cottage.

A cottage where – Lindy only registered after starting to drive away – the two deep-set windows shone with flickering candlelight.

Lindy frowned and hit reverse, just to be sure.

Scotland did seem like a land where time stood still , but the last she’d checked, electricity was in use. Even in wild and remote Sutherland.

But when Lindy slowed the car and came to a halt where she’d let out the old woman, the narrow heathery track leading to the croft house was gone.

Lindy blinked.

Then she looked again, even getting out of the car and shading her eyes against the sun that was just beginning to break valiantly through the clouds.

But the track really wasn’t there.

Nor was the low-lying croft house, though – the fine hairs on her nape lifted – the shoulder of the hill that had kept part of the cottage from view still ranged distinctively against the backdrop of the loch.

Lindy’s heart began to pound and she whirled around, scanning the empty moorland for the old woman. But, of course, she, too, was nowhere to be seen.

Nothing stirred anywhere except a few clumps of scrubby, wind-tossed gorse and several wheeling seabirds, determined to take advantage of the howling gale whistling along the loch shore.

Then the sun dimmed again, once more slipping behind the clouds, and – for one startling moment – Lindy was sure she saw a man standing in the distance, watching her. Tall and broad- shouldered, he stood, unmoving, on a narrow curve of the dark, pebbly strand.

He looked as powerfuland forbidding as the wild landscape surrounding him. In fact, Lindy swall owed, everything about him screamed that this was where he belonged. He was as much a part of the big, brooding sky, the sea and the dark, rolling moors as the cold, racing wind that seemed to quicken and chill the longer she watched him.

She could feel his stare.

It was fierce, almost compelling.

Lindy put a hand to her breast, unable to look away. The wind was icy now. It made her eyes tear, but she was afraid to risk blinking. The man hadn’t budged a muscle that she could tell, but something about him made her believe that any moment he’d come for her.

He’d move – she just knew – with incredible speed, appearing suddenly before her. And then, before she could even realize what was happening, he’d pull her into his arms and start kissing her.

Or so she thought until the sun peeped out from a low bank of clouds again and she recognized the silhouette for what it was: the stark black outline of a tree. No braw Highland laird readying to stride across the heather and seize her. It was only a tree.

Feeling foolish, she turned back to her rentalcar and scrambled inside. She gladly turned the key in the ignition and drove away a bit faster than she likely would have done otherwise.

Thinking about how much the man – no, the tree – reminded her of Rogan MacGraith, didn’t hurt either.

It also helped that she found the passing scenery almost surreal, as if she’d left the realworld and driven straight into the fabric of her dreams.

Whatever the reason, she kept her foot firmly on the gas pedaland knew she was still in the twenty-first century when she spotted a sign for Smoo Cave. The attraction’s tiny car park loomed quickly into view. And if she’d still had any doubts about reality, a small blue car, quite old and battered, was parked right in front of the little shop-cum-museum, claiming pride of place and letting her know she wasn’t the day’s only visitor.

Torn between relief and annoyance, she sat for a moment to collect herself and then climbed out of the car. She had to lean into the wind as she crossed the car park to the well-marked entrance to the cliff path. Incredibly steep steps led down to the cave entrance far below and she surely wasn’t the first tourist to worry about the danger of being blown away at some point during the perilous descent.

Och, even auld as I am, I could take thon steps in my sleep.

You’ve no cause to fash yourself.

The words – spoken in the soft Highland voice of Lindy’s earlier car passenger – came from right behind her.

Whirling around, she saw the old woman standing there. She still sported her heavy waxed jacket and the small black boots with red plaid laces. Her wizened face wreathed in a smile when Lindy blinked, her jaw slipping.

“Time’s a-wasting, lassie.” The crone tilted her head to the side, her blue eyes dancing. “’Tis now or never, lest you wish to miss – ”

“I can’t believe this is the place you said we couldn’t miss!” A heavy-set woman, shaped roughly like a refrigerator and wearing a bright yellow oilskin, loomed into view, bearing down swiftly on the crone.

Except – Lindy’s heart stopped – the crone was no longer there. In her place stood a thin, sparsely haired man wearing a wrinkled grey suit made all the more incongruous by his tightly knotted blue tie.

The old woman, if she’d even been there, had vanished into thin air.

But before Lindy could puzzle over what she’d just seen and heard, or hadn’t, the overbearing woman gripped the man’s elbow and marched him across the car park towards the battered blue car.

“I told you we’d find only wind and rain up here with the heathen Scots!” she scolded, her English accent – one Lindy usually found almost as enchanting as Scottish – losing its charm as the woman ranted at her husband. “Those steps are murderous. Only a foolwould risk their neck traipsing down them, rain-slick as they are.”

She threw a glance over her shoulder at Lindy, shaking her head, before she gave her husband another glare. “Some anniversary trip you planned! We could be in Blackpoolnow, or Brighton. But no-o-o, you had to drag us up here to the wilds of—”

The slamming of the car doors cut her off, but Lindy could see the woman’s jaw still working as she revved the engine. With a puff of smoke, the little blue car chugged away, disappearing down the road and leaving Lindy alone in the wilds of bonny Scotland.

That was what the woman had been about to say, after all .

Though Lindy was sure she’d have left out the bonny part.

More foolshe!

Lindy was glad for the sudden peace that descended.

Somewhere a dog barked in the distance. But otherwise, all was silent except for the rhythmic wash of the sea, the wind and the cries of seabirds.

Lindy’s heart swelled. This was her idea of heaven.

She turned back to the entrance to the cliff path, thanking the weather gods for such a damp, blustery day. Had the sun been shining and the lovely, remote sea cave baking under a Highland heatwave, there’d surely be people crawling about everywhere, ruining the atmosphere.

Spoiling the otherworldly ambiance she’d travelled so far to enjoy.

Now . . .

She couldn’t have wished for a more perfect day.

Eager to plunge right into it, she rolled her shoulders and splayed, then wriggled her fingers, before starting down the narrow steps to the rocky little bay and the cave at the base of the cliff.

Her descent raised the hair at the nape of her neck, made her breathing difficult. She’d only gone a short way when her scalp tingled and, in a momentary flicker, her long flaxen braid swung round from behind her, bouncing against her hip and into her sight. She stopped in her tracks, her blood freezing.

She didn’t have long flaxen hair.

And she hadn’t even worn braids as a child.

Her hair was auburn and reached just past her shoulders. At the moment, it was caught back by a clip, because of the wind and how much it annoyed her to have the strands fly across her face, whipping into her eyes.

She knuckled her eyes now.

She couldn’t have mistaken her hair for a long blonde braid. She’d surely just caught a reflection of the sun glancing off the water. It wasn’t a bright day, but there were moments when the cloud cover parted a bit.

Even so . . .

She shivered and rubbed her arms, glad when she again caught the sharp barking of a dog. She liked dogs. And this one’s barks lent an air of normalcy to a day that was beginning to turn just a tad too unusual for her liking.

She saw the dog then. And when she did, she knew such a strong rush of relief that she almost laughed out loud at her nervousness.

Huge, grey and scruffy, the dog looked old. He wasn’t wearing a collar and a tag either. But he seemed to be enjoying himself as he trotted along the damp shingle, pausing now and then to sniff at tide pools near the dark-yawning entrance to the cave.

Hoping to catch a good picture of him – after all , such a shot would look grand as an accompaniment for her
Armchair Enthusiast’s
chapter on Smoo Cave – she dug into her jacket pocket for her digitalcamera.

Just as she pulled it free, something caught her eye and she glanced around, sure it’d been one of the seabirds she’d seen earlier.

She didn’t see any birds, but she did note a heavy bank of thick, roiling mist far out at sea, its drifting, grey mass almost blotting the horizon.

Lindy stared, shivering.

The wind felt icier now. And she was sure her imagination had kicked into overdrive but she’d swear the air smelled different. It seemed tinged with a deeper, brittle kind of cold one might expect to find in Iceland.

It was definitely a crisp, Nordic type of cold.

Lindy frowned.

She could almost taste the snow. She half expected to see little sparkly bits of frost clinging to her jacket sleeves when she looked down to examine them.

But, of course, she saw no such thing.

Yet she did see something extraordinary when she glanced up again.

Three large open-hulled boats were pulled up at the water’s edge, their elaborately carved prows and rowing oars proclaiming their identity. Not to mention their square sails, raised and ready, and the colourfully painted shields hanging along the wooden sides.

They were exquisite replicas of Viking longboats.

Lindy stared, eyes rounding.

They looked so real.

The bulky fur-wrapped packages and wooden barrels and crates crammed into the narrow space between their rowing benches looked equally authentic. Clearly provisions, the supply goods indicated that the re-enactors were about to embark on a staged journey and not a warring raid.

Only . . .

Lindy gulped.

The little group of men who came into view just then, striding down the opposite cliff path, didn’t look like modern-day men dressed up as Viking re-enactors.

They looked like the realthing.

Worst of all , one of the men near the front, leading the others down the steep cliff side, was
him.
The man she often dreamed of and who she’d named Lore in her romance novel, but now knew to be Rogan MacGraith.

Except – Lindy’s heart tripped – when a tall blonde-braided woman in a flowing red cape appeared at the top of the bluff, her hair and her cloak whipped by the wind, Lindy knew that the man she was staring at was named Ragnar.

In that instant, she also knew that she’d once been the woman.

She’d fall en in time, and was reliving a fatefulday that had changed her life ever after.

Tears streamed down the woman’s face and, even from here, across the cove, Lindy could see how the woman’s anguished gaze stayed pinned on the man as he strode purposely down the path, making for the longships.

He was heading to his death, Lindy knew.

She could feelthe woman’s pain clawing at her heart, ripping her soul.

“No-o-o!” Lindy wasn’t sure if she’d yelled, or if the red-cloaked woman on the other cliff top did, but the cry echoed in the cove, causing the men to pause and swing round to stare up at the woman.

Lindy watched her, too, looking on as the woman pressed a fist against her mouth and shook her blonde head as Rogan – no, Ragnar – call ed something up to her. But whatever it was, the wind took his words and Lindy couldn’t hear what he’d said.

Then he turned away again and, for an instant, his gaze caught Lindy’s. He froze, shock and recognition flashing across his face before he whipped back around to stare up at the woman on the cliff.

Only she was gone.

And before Lindy could see his reaction, he disappeared, too. His little party of men and the three beached longboats vanished as well, the entire scene erased from view as if none of it had ever been.

Yet Lindy knew it had.

She’d just glimpsed her own past.

“Oh, God!” She started to tremble. The camera slid from her hands, bounced twice, and began clattering away. “Damn!” She grabbed at it, but her foot slipped and she plunged forwards, tumbling down the remaining steps.

Blessedly, they weren’t that many, but she slammed painfully on to her knees all the same, flinging out her arms to break a worse fall . Even so, she feared the hard shingle might have cracked her kneecaps. And her hands were definitely bleeding. They hurt badly, burning like fire.