Time Masters Book One; The Call (An Urban Fantasy, Time Travel Romance) (62 page)

She shook her head and looked at
a large trimmed rose hedge about sixty
feet away. Kitty and Tomy were hiding behind it. She couldn’t help but smile to herself. Kitty was such a hopeless romantic and Tomy, well, was much too protective. But that was okay. Tomy had been through a lot and knew much more about men than she did. She had only her best interest in mind.

Best interest. What was her best interest? What was his, this man who invaded her life out of the blue, who seemed so familiar the more time she spent with him?

A sound caught her ear, ceasing her thoughts. Footsteps; she
could hear footsteps comi
n
g up the path.

Shona stood as John Eaton rounded a tree several yards from where she sat. He looked at her exp
ectantly, as if surprised to fi
nd her alone, and stopped up short to scan the area.

“Hello, Shona. What are you doing here?” His voice was pleasant and friendly, but with a hint of something she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“I am waiting for a friend.” Her own voice was just as friendly, her apprehension well concealed. She hoped.

He approached the bench and sat himself down. “Your mother said I should visit the gardens while in the city.”

She sat without looking at him. “Yes, most people try to catch them while here. When are you leaving, Mr. Eaton?”

“Tomorrow.”

Now she looked at him hard. “Tomorrow?
But what about the rest of my interview?
Are you t
hrough? I thought we were to fi
nish tomorrow.”

“No. It shouldn’t be necessary.”

“You are fi
nished, then?”

He studied her a moment, an odd look of knowing written sharply across his face. “Not exactly.” He leaned slightly in her direction. “
Since I'm here, I'd like to
clarify one item if that would be all right with you.”

She searched their surroundings quickly. “I am meeting someone.”

“I know.”

Shona turned back to John. “But he’ll be here any minute.”

“I know.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s a friend of mine, Shona.”

Her eyes widened.

“He came with us, Mr. Mosgofi
an and me, to see if you were ready.”

“Ready?”

“Shona,” he began, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Your dreams, I need to know something.”

She threw him a wary look. “Mr. Eaton, I do not understand. Who is the man with you? How did you know he was to meet me here?”

John sighed. “Let me begin again. My friend will be
here to fi
nish the interview with you. I can’t do this particular part myself. But I do need to know something about what we discussed the other day.”

Shona could only stare at him. Mr. Eaton knew about the man from the library? They knew each other no less? What in the world was going on? And what did Mr. Eaton say about her dreams?

“Please, Shona. I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense to you now, but it will soon.
Your dreams about the little boy.
I need to know something.”

 
She continued to stare at him whi
le confusion hit full force. Th
e boy, how could he possibly know about the boy? “What is this all about?”

“You.”

“What? What do you mean? I do not understand.”

“Shona, who is the boy in your dreams?”

She let go a nervous laugh. “Mr. Eaton, why are my dreams so interesting to you? What is going on?”

“Who is he, Shona?”

“Mr. Eaton, this is highly irregular. I think the whole thing is irrelevant.”

“Your dreams make your face change.”

She sat stunned at the words, unable to speak or even think her mind too busy running circles around what she’d heard him say.

“I don’t want to be pushy, but I do need to know. Who is the boy in your dreams? Does my friend remind you of him?” He looked at her with such understanding, such compassion, that she nearly fell from the bench. She sucke
d in a breath and managed to fi
nd her voice. “My God, Mr. Eaton, how did you know about my… face?”

“He is the boy, Shona.”

“He is?”

“Yes, he is. The little boy is gone, Shona. He is now dead.” His words cut into her soul causing her voice to escape in short pants. “H… how do you know so much? Who are you?”

“Who I am doesn’t matter. Who you are, however, does.”

 
She swallowed and blinked her eyes as if to clear her vision, her thoughts wandering to
the dreams Mr. Eaton sought.
Th
e little boy, the mysterious
man.
They were one and the same? How could that be? She was so caught up in her own confusion she didn’t hear a new set of footsteps slowly approach the bench.

“Shona?”

Mr. Eaton’s voic
e brought
her attention to the tall man standing directly in front of her. Shona’s eyes slowly traveled up to meet those of…

“Shona, may I present Dallan Keir MacDonald.” Mr. Eaton stood and motioned to the man standing before her. “Dallan, Miss Shona Whittard.”

She stood automatically, pulle
d up by a gaze stronger than fl
esh and bone, a gaze that wo
uld surely be the death o
f her, just as it was her recent conversation with Mr. Eaton.
Or so she thought, until
she heard his voice for the fi
rst time.

“I am Dallan Keir MacDonald of Glencoe, Lady.” He bowed before her, stood, to
ok one of her hands in his, and
looked her right in the eye. “And I am at your service.” His last words were whispered, his voice silky-smooth and deep. He bent at the waist as he raised her hand to his lips, the action natural, and gently kissed it.

John smiled. The repairs had begun. He silently slipped down the path and out of sight, leaving the Weapons Master to his work, praying everything went smoothly. So far today it had, for the most part.

At this point, John thought happily, what could possibly go wrong?

* * *

Shona thought she might faint. The simple g
esture was like a bolt of light
ning searing across the back of her hand, his lips soft yet hard as steel, an odd combination of sensation cutting deeply into her skin.

Dallan stood to his full height and looked down at her, his eyes instantly capturing hers. She didn’t know what to do, think or feel. Suddenly she no longer knew him, the magic of previous meetings oddly choosing not to become present at this one.

She said the fi
rst words to pop into her mind. “You are a Scotsman.” Her voice made the statement sound as if he’d grown a horn in the center of his head.

He merely looked at her, his face a mask of uncertainty. She gathered he was as confused as s
he. Why did things feel so diff
erent? Where was the intimate communication they had shared at the last meetings and why were they now so detached? She met his gaze head on, her own confusion evident in her furrowed brow.

“And yer not.”

His voice startled her. “What did you say?”

He studied her a moment. “And yer not a Scot, I mean. I rather hoped as Shona is a Scottish name that
ye’d
be the same, lass.”

 
She stepped back. Her legs hit the park bench and stopped her. “I am not Scottish.”

He snorted as if insulted. “Och, aye, lass, that’s a wee bit o’ an under-statement.”

Her back
stiff
ened
as she stood straighter. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“Ye’ll fi
nd out soon enough, I’m afraid. Ye might want to sit
yerself
down.”

 
He still held her in his gaze, the one thing familiar left to them,
the
one action still concrete. “What is this all about? Who are you? What are you doing here? How are you associated with Mr. Eaton?”

 
Dallan held up one hand and took a step back. “Whoa, lass, one thing at a time. I dinna understand much more than
yerself
. I’m not even sure why I’m here
wi
’ ye now.” He yawned.

For some odd reason, his last statement stung, not to mention his action. “And where would you rather be?”

He raised an amused brow at her. “Och, lassie, ye dinna want to know.”

That stung even more. “I do not know who you are or what you are doing here, but by all means do not let me stop you from being elsewhere.”

 
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Sometimes ye ha’ to do things that will help another, even if ye dinna like it yerself. I didna say I didna want to be here because of you.
‘Tis other reasons, lass.
Sit down.”

Shona tried to pry her eyes from his and failed, backed into the bench again and fell onto it.

He smiled lightly at her as if amused. Without releasing her from his gaze, he sat at the benches opposite end and began studying her as if she were an inanimate object, his look assessing, calculating, controlled. A trained eye if she ever saw one.

“What are you looking at?” she asked trying to keep the nervousness in her voice to a minimum.

“I can hardly believe it.”

“Beli
eve what?”

“That yer… that you could possibly…” He stood suddenly and paced as she had been doing earlier. “Saints.” He stopped and stared at her, as if deciding something.

Shona gathered her courage, found the rod for her back and rammed it into place. “What do you want?”

Surprisingly, his face fell. He let out a halfhearted chuckle. “Och, lassie, I dinna ken anymore what I want. The only sure thing is so far away, and
I’m told yer the only one can get it for me.”

She was drawn into the near-helpless look on his face and the rod in her back fell away. “Who are you really?”

He pulled himself up to his full height and captured her gaze. “A survivor, lass. Like
yerself
. Call me Dallan.”

She opened her mouth to speak but snapped it shut, not understanding the way her heart had become hard toward him. Where was the tenderness from before? The need?
The
unquenchable hunger?
She fi
nally knew his name, heard his voice. She should be ecstatic, not annoyed.

That was it. She was annoyed for some reason. Almost as if his presence warred with something else inside her, trying to take over. “Why are you here?” Her voice had dropped against her will to a breathy whisper. Perhaps her heart was not as hard as she thought.

He sat back down upon the bench as he took in the sight of her
and swallowed. “I’ve come to fi
nd someone.”

“Who?”

“A lass.”

She shook her head, not understanding any of this, that particular thought the most annoying of all. She was still trapped in his gaze and realized he had begun to tighten it. Now she had to swallow. “How long have you searched?”

Her voice still betrayed her. He softened his look and shifted on the bench, bringing his body closer to hers. He leaned slightly in her direction.

“A verra long time.”

“Why are you looking for her?”

He shifted again, scooting a few inches closer. “She is verra special, verra important. But she doesna
ken
w
ho or what she is. I came to fi
nd her, to tell her and take her home.”

Shona found herself staring long and hard at the huge Scotsman seated in front of her. Find her. Tell her. Take her home?
Oh…
She felt her face turn pale. Her voice trembled. “How… how will you know when you’ve found her?”

His face became oddly stern, yet gentle. She recognized the look and froze. “Mayhaps I’ll know her by her hair. Hair with all the colors of the sunset.”

Shona’s face twisted slightly at the way his voice dropped into a dreamy deep whisper.
Oh boy. I am in trouble!

He scooted a few inches closer.

She scooted a few inches back.

“Mayhaps ‘twill
be
her eyes. Eyes that ‘twould surely drown a man if he got too close to them. Fall right into them, he would.”

 
She leaned back against the bench’s armrest as he closed the remaining distance between them. Oh no! Trapped! To make matters worse, her mouth wouldn’t work, reigniting her earlier annoyance with the situation. And what was this sunset hair and drowning eyes business anyway?

Shona leaned as far back as she could, grimacing slightly at the sudden euphoric look on his face.
Here it comes…