The Parchment Scroll (21 page)

“Well, maybe I’ve gone nuts then. I went back in time to find my sister, and ended up kidnapped. Then I fell in love with my kidnapper. I need a gold medal for Stockholm Syndrome, or just a good shrink. Especially since I’m contemplating
staying
here.”

“You are? Yay!” Claire clapped.

Jules mock-glared. “You do realize you’re
not
helping.”

Her sister beamed. “Yup.”

“Just leave off, okay, little sister? I don’t want to talk about this.”

Smile fading, Claire cocked her head to one side. “Not talking about it doesn’t change a damn thing.”

“No, but it’ll make me feel better.”

She rolled her eyes. “No it won’t.”

“I really don’t like you sometimes.”

“Comes with the territory. Sisters and all that.”

Jules smirked, she couldn’t help herself.

A baby’s cry sliced through the air. Lachlan was sitting in the small cradle, his little hand clutching the side as he hollered, tears streaming down his chubby little cheeks.

Saved by the kiddo.

Claire waggled her finger in Jules’ face as she pulled away. “We’re not done with this.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

Hugh cringed as his aunt’s words refused to stop haunting him. He wanted to stab something.

He growled and nudged Dubh into a canter. His stallion obliged and he leaned down, tempted to close his eyes as chilly air kissed his face.

The wind kicked up her scent that must still be clinging to him, his clothing, and even his damn horse.

At another time, if loss wasn’t crushing him, he might’ve laughed that Juliette had the guts to steal
his
stallion right out of MacDonald stables when she’d run away. She wasn’t a fool. His lass would’ve known he would come after her.

And come after her he had. Then walked away. After Mab’s plea, Hugh had packed a bag and left again, without another word. Hadn’t been home since.

Jesus. Has it already been three days?

Hugh had taken Juliette on the beach—no. He’d made love for the first time in his life.

But was it?

Perhaps he’d
made love
every time he’d lain with Juliette. He’d never held a woman so tightly the whole time—let alone afterwards. Overnight. Keeping her in his bed had been
right.

Now she was gone.

Would he know the moment she went forward in time?

Would he be able to
feel
it somehow?

Or had she already gone?

Dubh slowed to a walk on his own, but Hugh didn’t correct his gait. Misery dominated his mind—and his wretched heart.

He hadn’t loved sweet, reserved Brenna. As Mab had mentioned, Hugh hadn’t really had the chance. She’d been taken from him.

Now the woman he wanted…the woman who’d stolen his heart…the woman he
did
love had taken
herself
from him.

His gut roiled.

A part of him wanted to rush Dunvegan’s walls, demand they release her. Then again, they weren’t holding Juliette against her will.

She was where she
wanted
to be.

The other half of him dreaded it was already too late. It had been three days, after all.

His heart missed a beat and Hugh leaned back, crushing his eyes shut. He held Dubh’s reins so tight his knuckles throbbed, but his fingers wouldn’t loosen. He sucked in cold air—if he didn’t force a breath, his lungs were going to seize, refuse to expand.

The rustling of fabric had his head whipping around. He stared down the beach, then watched the waves crash into the shore. Other than moving water, he saw nothing.

Hugh glanced down, but the MacDonald tartan under his arse was flat to Dubh’s wide back where his body wasn’t covering it. The wind had died down, and his stallion was slowly walking over rocks and sand. No urgency from his mount.

He froze and tugged Dubh to a stop. Narrowing his eyes, Hugh scanned the area before and behind him. The rustling sounded again, and he tilted his head to the side, trying to discern the direction.

Hugh dismounted and drew his claymore.

Something’s wrong.

He saw the billowy skirts of the lass running before his eyes took the time to study her frame.

Long dark hair flowed around her form as she ran toward him. She held the fabric high, her ankles and bare feet showing as she ate up the distance between them.

The Irish lass.

Bairn thief.

He tensed and darted away from Dubh. His stallion tossed his head and snorted as if he sensed tension, but he didn’t wander as he shifted from hoof to hoof. Dubh was as restless he had been the first time they’d run into the halfling. Perhaps his mount was sensing magic.

The lass saw him and started chanting something in Gaelic, but he couldn’t make out more than inflection. Her words went up and down in a cadence he’d never heard the likes of before.

Pain barreled into his stomach and raced up and down his limbs. Hugh cursed and dropped his claymore to the sand as his grip refused to hold. His fingers burned as if buried in fire and his joints jerked of their own accord.

“Nay!” The shout was ripped from his lips and he fought the pain, moving to the lass instead of away. Every muscle seared as if the fire crept over his body, slowly consuming him from the inside out. Sweat was born on his brow and rolled down his temples onto his cheeks. It stung his eyes and made his lips itch, but he couldn’t raise his hands to wipe his face.

Still she ran at him, but Hugh struggled against the agony. He threw his head back and roared. He panted, chest stabbing at him as he tried to breathe normally.

When their eyes met, an evil smile spread over her full mouth. She slowed. Now the lass was only a few feet from him.

Hugh fought the buckle of his knees, straightening his legs, arms, and back with all his might. He hollered again, hoping to God someone heard him.

Dubh screamed but Hugh couldn’t turn to see if the lass was harming his beloved horse.

“Fall, big man,” she commanded. The Fae halfling spread her palms wide, fingers open, and motioned downward.

Hugh’s legs refused his order to hold him upright. He gave a final roar as he hit the sand against his will. White-hot pain flared into his knees and thighs.

She laughed, flashing a maniacal grin. The lass increased her chants and started circling his body.

True fear gripped his gut with both hands as pain crippled him. Hugh doubled over.

I am going to die.

Juliette’s face flashed through his mind and he was glad she was already gone. So she wouldn’t—
couldn’t
—see this.

The world started spinning, then tilted on its axis when he toppled over.

The lass flipped her palm, and Hugh’s body responded as if commanded, splaying him on his back. Pebbles bit at his shoulders and spine. He grunted, but he couldn’t move, not even his head. He could only look up at the sky. Twilight was just starting to descend, the moon barely visible.

An equine scream parted the air and Hugh heard hooves pounding.

Dubh.

Another scream sounded—this time a feminine one—then a shouted curse in Irish Gaelic.

Then—
blessedly
—nothing.

Hugh sucked in air as the weight lifted off his chest and he could breathe again. But he couldn’t move.

His stallion snorted and hooves came into his line of sight.

“Dubh,” Hugh croaked.

Dubh snorted again, his wide nostrils flaring as Hugh managed to squint up at him. The stallion lowered his great head and nudged his side.

“Give me a minute, lad.” Hugh relaxed into the sand and took another breath—then two more, both deeper than the one before it.

His horse pranced backwards as if he sensed Hugh needed some space.

He pushed to his knees. His head reeled but he fought through it and planted his hands into the sand. Hugh was slow to gain his feet—and his bearings.

Dubh shot forward and Hugh threw an arm over his neck, grateful for his horse’s assistance in his remaining upright. Once again, it was if the stallion knew he needed the help.

Hugh scanned the area. The lass lay a few feet away, sprawled on the sand. She appeared to be unconscious—or dead.

Blood pooled on the right side of her head.

He scrambled free of Dubh and stumbled to the lass. When Hugh prodded her side with a boot, she didn’t respond. He knelt at her side and watched the rise and fall of her chest. He tilted her head to one side. There was a long gash behind her right ear. It was deep and disappeared into her hairline.

So she’d hit her head on a rock when she’d fallen. Passing out had cut off her chanting, which must’ve released the magic.

Dubh saved my life.

Hugh swallowed hard as his stomach dropped. If he was a lesser man he’d give in to the fear and relief mixing in his gut. He cleared his throat.

He’d known about magic and heard about every Fae legend known to man his whole life. That didn’t mean he’d bought into any of it.

Even the day he’d rescued Lachlan MacLeod and this lass had thrown something to the ground to disappear, Hugh had rationalized it could’ve been a mixture of herbs.

He’d met Alex MacLeod’s wife and her cousin, and believed them to be Fae. Hell, he’d believed his Juliette from the moment she’d told him she was from the future and magic had brought her to his time.

But magic had not
impacted
him until today.

When it’d almost stolen his life.

Words.

Words had almost killed him.

Hugh blew out a breath as tremors chased each other down his spine. He glanced up at Dubh when his horse neighed, as if to ask if he was all right. “I’m fine, laddie.”

The stallion trotted to him, pushing at his shoulder with his soft nose.

He managed a small smile and reached to pat Dubh’s neck.

Hugh stood and dug into the pack he’d been smart to grab when he’d left Armadale. He’d intended to stay gone a few days—he’d not wanted to hear another word Mab had to say about Juliette. He was glad he’d grabbed rope he’d not anticipated needing, and quickly bound the lass’s hands and feet.

Running his hands over her body, he felt for a belt-pouch or any pockets. His aunt had always sewn pockets into her garments, saying a woman needed a place to put her secrets.

The lass’ skirt had none, but there was a strap of leather around her neck. He couldn’t see what was hanging from it; it was buried in the neckline of her leine.

Hugh tugged until it snapped, catching the prize in one hand.

A leather pouch.

“Wha’ have we here?” Hugh turned it over, squeezing. Something small and hard was enclosed inside it. He stared at the unconscious lass, but she didn’t stir. He needed to work quickly, he had no idea how long she would be out.

He opened the pouch and dumped its contents onto his flat palm. Two crystals gleamed in the fading light, one black and one clear. There was also a piece of gold. Uncut, a nugget that would be worth a great deal, even in its current condition.

“Hmmm….”

The three stones were covered in a dark powdery substance.

Hugh shook the pouch and more dark grains fell to the sand at his feet. He didn’t know what it was, but something made a shudder rack his frame.

It felt bad.

Dark.

Evil.

He shoved the crystals and gold back into the pouch, tugging the drawstring tight and knotting it twice—just in case.

Swallowing hard, Hugh shoved the magic tools into his bag on Dubh’s back. He’d no desire to have them near his body, so he didn’t want them in the pocket of his trews.

He hefted the lass up, and again tremors threatened moving up his arms and settling in his chest. Hugh really didn’t want to touch her. A sense of foreboding hovered, flipping his stomach, but he wouldn’t have the lass with him long.

She was destined for justice.

The halfling needed to pay for her crime, even though the lad had come to no harm.

Dubh snorted and tossed his head, darting away when Hugh approached with the lass in his arms.

“Come to me, Dubh.” He kept his voice low, using his most cajoling tone.

The stallion obeyed, but danced backwards when Hugh tried to drape the unconscious lass across his wide back.

“I’m sorry. T’won’ be long. I find her unbearable as well.”

His horse grunted and flared his nostrils, hoofing the rocks. But he stood still so Hugh could approach again and accomplish his task.

He laid her face down, swinging himself astride his horse and placing a hand on her back so she wouldn’t tumble off Dubh.

Even that small touch made his skin crawl.

“Come, laddie. Let’s hie to Dunvegan and get rid of this wretch!”

Dubh shot down the beach without a physical command, as if he wholeheartedly agreed.

Getting the MacLeods to let him in the gate wasn’t a problem this time, despite it being full dark when he’d ridden in. The three oversized guards had taken one look at the Irish lass and stepped aside so he could ride right into the bailey.

Then they closed the outer gates—for the night.

Hugh arched a brow at Cormac MacLeod.

Was he invited to stay the night?

He shrugged. It worked for him. Assisted nicely in his quest to avoid his aunt, too. Although him leaving for a day or two was nothing new, Mab would likely think him dead—or at least worry that harm had come to him if he didn’t go home on the morrow. He’d planned to go home, telling himself he was done licking his wounds.

Juliette may still be here.

His heart thundered. It mattered not. They’d parted ways three days ago, after the most perfect week and half of his life.

Again, Mab’s voice pounded into his head.
Ye love tha’ lass
.
So swallow yer pride and hie ta the MacLeods. Get her back. Ferget about the Fae, magic, and the distant future. Bare yer heart and wed tha’ lass.

It had nothing to do with pride, did it?

He was here now, should he not see if she remained?