To Love a Highland Dragon (24 page)

“Where are we?” Maggie whispered to her grandmother.

“The Celts maintain several old castles scattered through the Highlands. If I had to guess, this is probably Inverlochy.”

Maggie remembered a trip she’d taken to visit the older Scottish castles. “But it’s in ruins.”

Mary Elma smiled. “Not today, it’s not. Welcome to the power of magic.”

Maggie felt someone’s energy focused on her. She glanced up, not surprised to meet Ceridwen’s speculative gaze. Glad to see the goddess, Maggie darted forward. She’d only made it a couple of feet before Mauvreen grabbed her arm.
“Not so fast. We are guests here, which means we don’t move about freely until they give us leave.”

Lots of new rules.
She gazed about, hunting for Arawn’s dark, swirling hair or Gwydion’s blond braids.

Something pushed against her psychic edges so hard, Maggie instinctively raised her hands and then looked at them in surprise.
What am I doing? I have no idea how to draw power to defend myself. Not yet, anyway.
She dropped them to her sides, hunted for the source of the power buffeting her, and found it. Ceridwen was still staring at her.

The goddess’ inscrutable gaze locked on hers. “Ye’ve come,” she crowed. “I told the others Lachlan’s mate wouldna desert him. Come forward. We shall send you to rejoin your beloved.”

Mary Elma stepped between her granddaughter and the goddess. Legs spread, hands on her hips, she tipped her chin up and said, “I think not, goddess.”

Ceridwen flowed to her feet. Maggie thought she could see sparks arc across the room. “You dare to speak against my will?”

“She is my kinswoman. It is my right.”

Maggie stared in disbelief. She wanted to help Lachlan. If Ceridwen were willing to send her, why the hell was Gran standing in the way? “I’m sure it will be fine—” she began.

“Silence. You know nothing,” Mary Elma hissed, looking nothing like the woman who’d raised her. Power crackled around her; the air grew blue-white with electrical charge.

“You heard her.” Ceridwen raised her voice and threw her arms wide to encompass the whole room. All other conversation ceased. “The lass is willing to go. Dinna she say that?”

“Not exactly.” Maggie cut in, too annoyed at feeling like a pawn to care she was probably violating some sort of protocol. “What I said was I was certain things would be fine.”

“Oh, they’ll be just peachy,” Mary Elma muttered. “Once they send you tumbling through time, you won’t have any way to get back.”

Kheladin soared high above the Scottish forests. From time to time, a dragon he knew trumpeted, and he greeted them in return. If it weren’t for the lass, their mate, he’d be just as happy remaining in a familiar world. One where he wasn’t the only dragon outside Fire Mountain. Maggie complicated everything, yet he didn’t begrudge Lachlan for including her in their bond. In his own way, he felt her absence fiercely.

He needed to talk with other dragons, older kin who’d been alive for millennia. They might know a way to find the lass. She’d ridden him; it cemented his commitment to her, plus she bore his mating bite. Kheladin focused his gaze at the thick canopy below. They’d actually come out leagues from Clan Moncrieffe’s castle, but his powerful wing beats shaved the remaining distance quickly.

“At least the castle will still be standing,”
Lachlan commented.

“Unless it is before 1300, and it wasna yet built.”

“Ever the optimist, aren’t you?”

Lachlan sank into thoughts of how to get back to Maggie. About the only avenue was to throw himself on the Celtic gods’ mercy. He shook his head. The gods weren’t known for clemency. Far from it. He could just see Gwydion arguing that now Lachlan knew his part in world events to come, he could work things from this end to make certain he wasn’t snared by Rhukon.

The logic was indisputable. If Lachlan didn’t end up asleep in his cave, Rhukon wouldn’t be able to work his behind-the-scenes treachery. No, the only help he was likely to get from the Celts was they might corral the Morrigan to limit damage from that quarter. Lachlan gazed out at the world through Kheladin’s eyes. If he’d been in human form, he would have ground his teeth together in frustration. What good was immortality if the one woman he’d ever had feelings for was lost to him—forever?

Familiar Highland mountains rose around them. If he were any judge, they’d be home very soon. Home. Except it didn’t feel that way anymore. Not without Maggie by his side. Kheladin circled, losing elevation, banked his wings, and brought them down in the central courtyard of Clan Moncrieffe’s castle.

Twenty or so people backed away, their eyes round with fear. Two of the men picked up cudgels and watched them warily.

“What is the problem?”
Kheladin asked.

“We must have returned afore ye and I bonded. Let me shift into myself.”
He felt the dragon’s resistance, even understood it. If Kheladin had his way, he’d be off hobnobbing with dragon friends he hadn’t seen in over three hundred years. Dragons he’d been afraid were lost to him forever. An unpleasant understanding horned its way in.
“Ye’ll get to choose again—or not. Once I am back in my human body, we will have to redo the magic that bound us, since it hasna happened yet.”

A long pause.
“Not that I doona wish to link our life paths, but would ye mind if I had a brief respite?”

It was a risk, but if he didn’t agree, he might have a rebellion on his hands.
“Not at all. Ye were young when ye chose me. Frolic all ye wish, but ’twould make my heart sad if ye werena to return.”

“Mine as well…bondmate.”

Lachlan felt the dragon’s hot breath embrace him as he found his body. For the first time in hundreds of years, he stood in human form and watched his dragon spread his leathery wings and take to the skies without him. Tears pricked behind his lids; he blinked them away. It would never do for his people to see their laird cry.

“Laird.” Shock made the stableman’s voice sharp. “I last saw ye within.” He bowed low. Lachlan made a non-committal gesture. He existed in one place, either here, in the future, or in the past. He held no concerns about running into a duplicate of himself inside his castle, but blundering through an explanation would be awkward.

Another man saved him the trouble by asking, “And where did ye get the handsome dragon?” The few maids passing through the courtyard whispered and giggled.

“Could one of you get me a cloak?” With a flurry, the stableman, John, unclipped his and draped it around Lachlan. “Thanks be to you. I shall return it verra soon.”

“But where were ye, laird?” John persisted.

Lachlan leveled his gaze at the crowd, managing to catch the ones staring at him and the ones pretending not to look. “Mage business. You doona wish to inquire too deeply.” With that, he turned and strode into the castle. His castle. When he’d first wakened in the year 2012, he would have given every gold coin in Kheladin’s hoard if his castle were still standing. To find it gone had been a horrible shock. Despite that, he took no joy in this homecoming.

He worked his way up passageways and stairs to his rooms on the third floor. Someone had changed the rushes. The room smelled sweet, and a fire burned in its hearth. Despite it being summer, the stone castle was always cold. He opened a clothing chest, removed a plaid, and wound it about himself. Next, he picked up his familiar brush that still had his hairs twisted amidst its bristles and worked the snarls from his hair. He was lacing up a pair of soft, deerskin boots when a knock sounded on the door.

“Come.”

“Laird.” Vanessa, the lead housekeeper and someone who occasionally shared his bed, inclined her head. Her long, red hair was drawn back from her face and hung in a braid draped over one shoulder. Black skirts topped by an embroidered, rust-colored tunic set off her creamy complexion. “I was told ye’d returned, laird. Is there aught ye desire?” Though she kept her hazel eyes downcast, he had no doubt what she desired. Even without Kheladin’s enhanced senses he smelled her heat.

“Nay. Thank you for asking.”

“Will ye be wantin’ supper at six?”

“Bring a tray to my rooms.”

She glanced up at him through dusky lashes. “Would my laird wish company with his meal?”

“Not tonight.”

“As my laird wishes.”

“Vanessa.”

“My laird?”

“Ye will think the question strange, but what year might it be?”

She shot him an odd look before dropping her gaze again. “Why the year of our Lord, fifteen hundred and sixty-seven, laird.”

“Thank ye kindly. Ye may leave me now.”

Lachlan paced the length of his rooms over and over. His heart ached for Maggie, and his mage’s soul ached for the dragon who’d become first a part of him and now a part of them—him and Maggie. Because the turmoil in his mind was making him crazy, he left his quarters and loped down the stairs, intent on taking a horse and riding to the Celts’ sacred grove. Mayhap he’d find one or more of them and discuss his problem. He considered using his magic instead of a horse but was reluctant to test it quite yet. He’d lost Maggie and Kheladin—perhaps not permanently, but they were gone nonetheless. Lachlan didn’t think he could stand any more unpleasant revelations today.

Doona hope for too much,
he cautioned himself and threw a leg over Brandywine, a favorite stallion that he remembered well. The horse tossed its head, whinnied, and took off at a near gallop. Lachlan didn’t mind. The wind in his face and hair cooled the fire raging inside. Fear for Maggie ate at him. What had happened to her? Was she still in the future? Had she found her kinswoman, the grandmother with magic strong enough to protect her?

The grove was empty, but he’d expected as much. Beech, ash, and hawthorn trees grew tall and straight, interspersed with standing stones. He gathered simple magic and commanded the horse to stay within the grove. That done, Lachlan knelt to pray. He opened his mind and his heart. The tears he’d held back in his own courtyard streamed down his face. He clawed great handfuls of dirt and let agony pour through him. Maybe it was better Kheladin was gone. If the dragon saw him like this, mad with grief, he’d never respect him again.

“Lachlan.” A gentle hand settled on his shoulder. He started, scrambled to his feet, and looked into Ceridwen’s ageless face. “Doona speak,” she crooned. “I will read what is in your mind.”

While she stood, one hand on his shoulder, another atop his head, Gwydion and Arawn materialized. Time slipped away. The sky passed from day into night before the goddess released her hold and exchanged glances with the other two gods.

“Ye wish our help,” Gwydion intoned. Not trusting himself to speak, because if they turned him down, he had nowhere else to turn, Lachlan nodded.

“We must confer,” Ceridwen said. “At present, Rhukon is nothing but a mischief-maker, and the Morrigan is useful on the field of battle, though nowhere else. The only red wyvern I know about presides over the red dragon clan across the great ocean in the New World.”

“Ye might scry the future, now ye know where to look.” Lachlan shook his head. “’Tis sorry I am. Ye will find your own way without my paltry suggestions.”

“Apology accepted.” Arawn favored him with a rare smile. It transformed the severe lines of his face into something quite striking. “Ye love this woman.”

“He must,” Ceridwen said. “I wouldna have officiated at their mating if I dinna sense their commitment, one to the other.”

“I cherish her, love her more than life itself.” The words cut like sharp glass as they tore out of him. “Rhukon is strong enough to rip me from the future and strand me here. I fear what he may have done with Maggie.”

“She has magic of her own,” Gwydion pointed out. “Witch powers.”

“Aye, but she is untrained.”

“Why would a woman fully-grown not have taken her magic to hand?” Arawn frowned.

“Things are different in the twenty-first century. Everything seemed magical to me there. Invisible waves travel through the air and make small things ye can talk on ring…”

Ceridwen held up a hand. “Enough. I will scry what is to be seen in my cauldron. We will come to you with our decision.”

“Please.” Lachlan heard pleading in his voice, knew he was groveling, and didn’t give a damn what they thought of him. “Please. I doona fully understand this, but I canna live without her by my side. She is part of me. Part of a prophecy that links us through time.”

“Aye.” Gwydion nodded. “We saw that in your mind.”

Arawn added, “I must speak with Bran. As the god of prophecy, he will know of it if ’tis truly of import.”

Lachlan fought despair. If the prophecy was so obscure Arawn didn’t know about it, perhaps it didn’t hold the power he hoped.

“Shield your mind. It bleeds like an open wound.” A corner of Arawn’s mouth turned down. “Prophecies havena been of much use to me. The dead who walk my halls often cite failed divinations.” He shrugged. “They are just as dead. I doona pay much heed to foretellings.”

“When I spoke with you in the future,” Lachlan said slowly, “ye knew of the prophecy then.” Arawn’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t reply.