Into the Dreaming (19 page)

A woman’s love.

Something worth fighting for.

Granted, it was a gamble, but there wasn’t much left to lose.

While Drustan and Christopher concentrated their efforts on an exhaustive search through the hundreds of Keltar journals and records and books—a search she feared would yield nothing—Gwen intended to pin her hopes on a good old-fashioned miracle. Funny, she mused, a year ago she hadn’t believed in anything that couldn’t be explained by science, and now here she was angling for divine intervention. Heavens, how meeting her husband and falling so deeply in love had changed her!

“Trust me, Drustan,” Gwen said softly. “I think Elisabeth Zanders might be just what Dageus needs.”

And, with the mysterious logic of a pregnant woman who’d found love where she’d least expected it—at the bottom of a treacherous ravine at that—she suspected that Dageus MacKeltar might just be what Elisabeth needed, too.

B
Y THE TIME ELISABETH ARRIVED IN INVERNESS, SHE WAS
no longer feeling giddy. In fact, she was exhausted and seriously questioning her sanity for dropping everything and rushing off to Scotland.

Resting her head on the steering wheel of the recently wrecked rental car, she tried to summon the energy to climb out and announce herself at the MacKeltar’s castle.

And just where is Gwen, anyway
? she wondered wearily, rubbing her eyes.

She’d been up since five o’clock yesterday morning. She’d forced herself to get up early so that when she caught the ten p.m. flight out of Boston that night, she’d sleep through most of the flight. She’d planned to wake up bright and cheery in London, gracefully adjust to the five-hour time difference, and spend her six-hour layover happily devouring the latest Nora Roberts novel.

As if
.

On the flight over she’d been wedged into a seat between two young boys whose parents had cleverly requested seats ten rows behind them and had been blissfully snoring away before the plane had even taken off. The boys, positively bristling with excitement, had pestered Elisabeth with nonstop questions. When she’d finally closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, the boys had whipped out Game Boys and for the duration of the flight her eardrums had been assaulted by a metallic
bleep-bleep-ZOOP!
What fitful sleep she’d managed to snatch had been full of creepy little monsters stalking her with ray guns.

Upon landing in London, she’d tried to make up the lost sleep on a bench in an out-of-the-way corner, but had belatedly discovered that the coffee in the airport apparently had some kind of illegal stimulant in it. For the entire six hours, she’d sat bug-eyed and jittery, worrying about whether she’d turned the iron off before she’d left, set the thermostat high enough that the pipes wouldn’t freeze, and myriad other nagging details.

By the time she’d arrived at Inverness airport at five-thirty Scotland time, she’d been awake for thirty-one hours straight and was having a hard time concentrating on simple tasks like making sure her zipper was up after going to the rest-room. She’d loitered in a sleep-deprived fog at the airport for another two hours, waiting for Gwen to pick her up, before it finally occurred to her to call and find out what was keeping her.

No one answered at the number she’d been given.

Never one to admit defeat, she’d trudged off to rent a car, only to find the steering wheel on the right side, which was
unequivocally—to anyone in their right mind—the wrong side of the car. Oh, she’d known Europeans drove funny, but she hadn’t expected to be driving much, and certainly not the first day she arrived.

After practicing in the parking lot for half an hour, she’d felt secure enough to venture out onto the roads, clutching a map with bewildering names she couldn’t pronounce. Then she and a mailbox (how was she supposed to know where the left side of her car was when she was busy trying to avoid the dratted sheep that kept
catapulting
themselves onto the road?) had gotten into a bit of a tussle. At thirty-five hours, and counting, without sleep she’d been offering her Visa to an elderly and amused man with a thick burr, who’d shrugged it off, pointed her in the right direction, and told her she was nearly at the MacKeltar castle.

Castle?
Life had taken on distinct
Twilight Zone
qualities.

Seventeen long-haired sheep ambling straight down the center of the road as if they owned it (possession being nine-tenths of the law, she was hardly in a position to argue, though she’d certainly shouted enough nasty things out the window) and thirty minutes of a thick, swirling snowfall later, she’d slipped into the icy drive of the MacKeltar castle, shaking with exhaustion.

It was nearly ten in the evening.

Smoothing a hand over the small portion of hair that remained plaited, she forced herself to get out of the car. She lugged her luggage up the steps, then stopped and tipped her head back, gazing up at the castle. Snow dusted her cheeks and lips, then melted swiftly on her tongue as her jaw dropped gently.

Castle, indeed.

Even nearly dead on her feet, she wasn’t immune to the centuries-old stone structure’s beauty. Towering above her, the sprawling wings stretched east and west from the central hall, disappearing into the darkness. She pivoted in a slow circle, taking it all in. Majestic snow-covered hills shimmered like pearls beneath a round, white moon. The road she’d taken up to the castle was already covered with fresh snow, concealing her tracks. A few more inches of drift, and a person wouldn’t even know a road was there. Not a single man-made noise could be heard, not one car engine or horn honking, no stereo blasting from a nearby apartment complex.

Eerie. But soothing.

She was stricken by a sudden chill and quickly tugged the zipper of her parka up to her neck, but the chill seemed a deeper thing, in her bones, as if Scotland might somehow change her before she managed to find her way out again.

“Och, dearie, we’re so sorry!” Maeve Jameson exclaimed for the third time, wringing her ring-bedecked hands.

“Sure as the sun sets, we forgot,” Nigel Jameson, Maeve’s husband, added sheepishly, whisking off Elisabeth’s parka and pushing her into a deep armchair near a blazing fire.

The couple, both gray-haired and in their early sixties, had been fussing and fretting and apologizing since the moment she’d stepped out of the blustery wind and into the honest-to-goodness Greathall. Into the honest-to-goodness sprawling castle that had corridors shooting off in all direction and must have had a hundred rooms or more.

Within moments she was clutching a steaming cup of
cocoa, courtesy of Nigel, while Maeve bustled back and forth between hall and kitchen, laying cold cuts and cheese, thick, gold-crusted bread, a creamy potato salad, and a tray of condiments on the small table beside her.

“Forgive us, dearie, but it’s been such a day. You have no idea. What with the terrible accident on our minds—”

“And then with the sheep gettin’ oot, and us busy trying to round ’em up again—” Nigel said.

“And with Gwen being pregnant and all—”

“And the laird having a concussion—”

“Concussion? Pregnant? Did you say accident?” Elisabeth exclaimed, struggling to digest the bits of conversation that were alarmingly vague. “Can you start at the beginning?”

“Well, we plumb forgot to meet you at the airport,” Nigel said, as if that explained everything.

“What accident?” Elisabeth asked, hoping she hadn’t just invited another mad rush of vague half sentences.

Maeve sank into a chair beside her, fussing nervously with her short, curly hair. “The laird and lady were in Edinburgh yesterday when some biddle-brained American—sorry, not meaning any offense, dearie—was driving on the wrong side of the road and hit the MacKeltars head on. And being as Gwen’s six months pregnant—”

“She is? She didn’t tell me that when we spoke on the phone.” Nor had Gwen bothered to mention that she’d married a bona fide lord and lived in a castle. Heavens, they had a lot of catching up to do! Gwen had also been reticent to discuss her brother-in-law’s condition, promising they’d speak about it when Elisabeth arrived.

“Aye,” Nigel said, beaming. “Twins.”

“Is Gwen all right?” Elisabeth worried. “The babies?”

Nigel nodded. “No broken bones and the wee bairns are fine, but she got knocked about a bit, so they’re after keeping her for a time to be certain all’s well.”

“And Drustan’s concussed, with no few scrapes and bruises.”

“So it seems they may not be back ’til the end of the week and then when the sheep got oot—”

“What with the boys being off to London for a wee holiday—”

“Well, as you can see we’ve had our hands full—”

“Which is no excuse, but—”

“Begging your forgiveness, we are,” Nigel said earnestly, and Maeve nodded.

Elisabeth took a slow, deep breath. “I see,” she said, waiting cautiously to see if they were going to burst into another simultaneous conversation.

But they didn’t. Merely sat, regarding her expectantly.

“Oh,” she said hastily, realizing they were waiting for her to accept their apology. “Don’t worry about it. I got here just fine,” she lied. “No problem at all.”

They beamed.

“That’s a fine thing, then,” Maeve said. “Drink up, drink up, ’tis a brisk night for the bones. Once you have a bite to eat, we’ll settle you in your chambers.”

Elisabeth took a few sips of her cocoa, trying to gather her wits, but they’d long since trundled off to sleep without her consent. “My patient?” she managed to ask. She’d like to know something about him before she went to bed, so she’d be better prepared to meet him in the morning. She hoped he
wasn’t expecting to meet her this evening. She was far too exhausted to make a professional impression.

Maeve and Nigel exchanged a long glance. “You mean the laird’s brother, Dageus?” Nigel asked carefully.

Elisabeth nodded.

“No need to fash yourself o’er him for the now,” Nigel said. “When the laird returns, he’ll take you to meet him.”

“You mean he’s not here? He doesn’t live in the castle?” Elisabeth asked, surprised.

They shook their heads in tandem.

“Well, where is he?”

Another long glance was exchanged. “In a cottage,” Nigel said.

“North of the castle,” Maeve added.

“By himself?” Elisabeth asked, mildly shocked. It wasn’t good for a person suffering mental problems, even if only a case of depression, to live alone. Isolation was never conducive to recovery.

“Aye.”

“And he’s, er … fine living by himself?” she pressed, hoping they’d volunteer a useful bit of information. Though she wouldn’t sink to interrogating Gwen’s hired help, she certainly would like to know something about the man before she met him.

“Aye.”

“S’ppose so.”

Elisabeth cocked her head, studying the Jamesons curiously. The loquacious couple had dwindled down to one- and two-word answers. Most peculiar. “I’ll just go introduce myself in the morning.”

“No!”
they both shouted.

Elisabeth blinked.

“I mean, that is to say the laird bid you wait until he returned,” Nigel said hastily. “Then he’ll be taking you to meet him proper-like.”

“All right,” Elisabeth said warily, puzzled by their reaction. Then, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, it occurred to her that if the Jamesons and “the boys” were the sole caretakers of the vast estate, and the boys were away, the elderly couple probably didn’t have time to take on a single extra responsibility. Likely, they were worrying about just how they might keep her occupied until Gwen and Drustan returned. Well, she wouldn’t be a bother to them, she resolved sleepily. She could find north just fine by herself.

Maeve smiled uncertainly. “There you are, then. Eat up and we’ll see about tucking you in for the night. You must be fair weary from traveling.”

You have no idea
, Elisabeth thought.

So bone-weary in fact, that when she stumbled into bed thirty minutes later, she’d didn’t even pause to undress, but fell asleep with her parka and boots still on.

D
AGEUS MACKELTAR WAS DREAMING
.

In his dream, he stood in the circle of the powerful Ban Drochaid stones beneath a vast and velvety night sky. Gàidhlig for “white bridge,” the Ban Drochaid was just that—a bridge through time for a man privy to the arcane and dangerous knowledge.

He’d already etched the thirteen complex formulas on the thirteen stones. Now he need but complete the final three on the center slab to open a gate through time.

It was five minutes to midnight on Yule, the winter solstice, the year 1521. It was one of the final times that he’d been in his beloved sixteenth-century Highlands.

His brother, Drustan, was dead. And grief and guilt were eating him alive.

Three years earlier, Dageus had made a pledge to Gwen;
that he would protect her and all those she loved. Protect them with his life if necessary.