If he allowed her to touch him again, she would be pulled back in time with him, which was tempting but out of the question. He would not do that to her. She had made it clear that she did not want to leave her sister behind, and he would honor her wish. “Dinnae touch me again.”
“But why?” She rubbed her wrist.
He had no right to ask it of someone who barely knew him, but he did. “Will you wait for me?”
“Yes, if you kiss me like that again.” Mac’s lips spread into a smile that would not be repressed.
“You’re the one who kissed me.” Had it been up to Ciarán, however, that kiss would have happened hours before. But he was thankful for the kiss and her smile.
Blinding light shone from both sides as he went from one end of the chamber to the other. And he was alone.
*
Ciarán stood staring at the back of the cave until Ivor joined him. Before he could speak, they heard a rumbling. “Ciarán!” Ivor pushed him toward the opening, and the two climbed out just as the rest of the chamber caved in, leaving a heap of rocks under a settling cloud of dust.
Coughing, Ivor yanked Ciarán to the edge of the water, where he splashed water on their faces to rinse off the dust. Other men from their clan surrounded them. Across the water, the British were putting to use their 340 barrels of gunpowder to blow up the castle and leave it in ruins.
As Ciarán stared numbly while British destroyed his home, he seemed to awaken from his reverie. “Hamish.” With growing urgency, Ciarán said, “Hamish—where is he?”
But by then, Ivor was gripping Ciarán’s shoulders. Their eyes met. “He would not leave the castle. He stood on the ramparts and fought until a cannonball struck the wall where he stood. It collapsed underneath him.”
Ciarán stared, uncomprehending.
Ivor said, “I tried to stay with him, but he insisted I find you and tell you to go on without him.”
Ciarán was quiet. “I should have been by his side fighting with him.”
Ivor squeezed Ciarán’s shoulder. “You had your lady love to protect.”
“And I’ve lost her as well.”
One of the other men said, “We were under attack. You did what you could.”
“Aye, but it wasnae enough.” Ciarán walked into the woods. One of the men started to follow, but Ivor held out his arm to stop him.
When Ciarán had gone far enough into the dark shade of the woods, he buried his head in his hands. The weight of the day’s sorrows pulled him to the ground. The two people he’d loved on this earth had left him, and he was alone. He sank down and leaned back against a tree. Eyes closed, he sat there and wished that the ground would just open and take him so he would not have to feel.
Making no effort to conceal their footsteps, the handful of men he had left behind joined him. Ivor said, “We must go.”
Without opening his eyes, Ciarán exhaled the breath he had been holding and shook his head.
With a steely gaze, Ivor said, “We cannae stop now. ’Tis a cause greater than us.”
Ciarán looked up from an expressionless face. “I’ve nothing left.”
“And your lady? Would she have you quit?”
“What does it matter? I’ve lost her.”
Ivor said, “But you’ve not lost your clan. The men look up to you, and they need you to lead them.”
Ciarán stared blankly into the woods.
Ivor’s gaze did not waver. “Do it for Hamish. Finish what he started.”
Ciarán’s emotions sprang to life as he turned a sharp look on Ivor.
Unfazed, Ivor gave him a gentle nod.
Ciarán set his jaw and dug deep. With no more words needed, Ciarán stood and left with them. There was no talk about where they were going. The plan had been set well before the British had attacked. They set out to meet those who remained.
*
Heading south, the Jacobites gathered more men. By June tenth, they were twelve hundred strong, with additional aid from 250 Spanish marines. The men from Eilean Donan had joined forces with the Earl of Seaforth. Now at Glen Shiel, Ciarán and his men were readying themselves to march for Inverness the next morning. It was late afternoon when they heard the first shots. British troops were approaching. By evening, the British were there in full force, advancing along both sides of the River Shiel. With the first battle of the 1719 rising underway and the hoped-for munitions lost somewhere at sea, the Jacobites found themselves outmatched by the advancing British. By evening, they were quickly running out of options.
19
The Aftermath
Mac sat in the garden of her sister’s home holding a coffee cup with the hand that was not in a sling.
Cam took a sip of her tea. “I still don’t get why you won’t press charges.”
“Because, first of all, they didn’t catch the shooter. Second, it was an accident. So let’s drop it.” Mac set down her cup a little too hard.
Cam gave Mac a full three seconds of her most annoyed look. “Sorry. I didn’t know you had such strong feelings about it.”
“I don’t. But I’ve already been grilled by the police. Can we drop it?” Mac did not even bother to look at her sister. Her bandaged shoulder pained her enough; she did not need Cam to add to her misery.
Cam sat forward. “Well, it just isn’t right to just randomly fire a few rounds into the woods. Who does that?”
“People,” said Mac. She leaned her head back and was thankful that there had been an exit wound. Finding a lead ball from an eighteenth-century flintlock rifle lodged in her shoulder would have been hard to explain to the doctors, not to mention the police.
With a sudden bored sigh, Mac stood up. “I need something to read.” She went inside to Cam’s library and found the small length of shelf that held their mother’s old books on Scottish history. Settling into an oversized chair, she thumbed through the pages until she found 1719.
Standing their ground at Glen Shiel, the Jacobites fought back, but the British cut through their defenses and forced them back into the mountains. By sunset, the Jacobites were forced to retreat. By nightfall, they had scattered into the mountains and vanished. A hundred men were lost on that day, and the Jacobite rising was over.
She whispered, “But what happened to Ciarán?” Was he one of the hundred? Even if he hadn’t been, he was lost to Mac now. But wasn’t this what she had wanted—to leave the past where it belonged? She had told him as much—that she had to come home. She could not stay with him. She had only gone back in time to see him again, not to stay. She had always known she would return. So here she was, home according to plan. Except for the part where she fell so deeply in love that she couldn’t take a breath without longing for him.
“Does it hurt that much?” Cam stood in the doorway.
Mac quickly wiped her eyes. “Yes.”
“Those horse tranquilizers they gave you don’t help?”
“They’re not horse tr—”
“Pain pills. I know.” Cam swatted the air, suppressing a laugh. She waited for the inevitable snarky retort, but it never came. “Mac? Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Mac suppressed an eye roll. Even she thought she sounded defensive.
Cam sat down on the ottoman in front of Mac’s chair. She scrutinized Mac for a second or two and then said, “No, you’re not.”
Blaming the pain meds, Mac dissolved into tears. “I’ve lost him.”
“Lost whom?”
And Mac told her. Had her defenses not been lowered by the pain medication, she might have held back the time travel aspect in favor of something that didn’t sound certifiably nuts. She could have told Cam that Ciarán was visiting from Scotland, which he had been. But she did not leave it at that.
Afterward, Cam sat for a very long time without saying a word. Then, abruptly breaking the silence, she took a quick breath and exhaled. “Well, okay then. Why don’t I get you a pillow?” With that, she got up and never broached the subject again.
When the pain meds wore off, Mac decided that it was just as well if Cam thought that the story was the product of a medically induced delusion. What good would it do if Cam believed her? The end result was the same. She had lost Ciarán. And that poet who said it was better to have loved and lost could just stuff it. She had always leaned more toward the “ignorance is bliss” school of thought.
Except she loved Ciarán. Damn poets.
20
The Next Train
Mac walked through the glass doors of the Metropolitan Opera and past the fountain. As she made a left turn around Avery Fisher Hall on her way to the subway, she pulled out her phone to check when the next train would be leaving from Grand Central Station. She had turned her phone off for the opera, so now she waited for it to boot up before going down into the subway, where she might lose her signal. The screen lit to reveal five missed calls from her sister.
Cam answered Mac’s call on the first ring. “Where have you been?”
“The opera. And how are you, Cam?”
“Very funny. I’ve been frantic.”
“Well, I don’t know why. I told you yesterday I had a matinee ticket to
Werther
.”
“Oh. Well, I hope it cheered you up.”
“Yeah.
Werther
does that for me. So what’s up?”
“Nothing.”
Mac frowned. Cam’s voice sounded forced, but she could not quite tell why. Usually Cam was not that hard to read. “Are the kids okay?”
“Yes,” Cam answered with her “Why would you ask that?” tone of voice.
“Preston?”
Now Cam sounded impatient and a little annoyed. “Pres is fine. When are you going to get here?”
“I don’t know. It depends on when I can catch the next train. An hour? Maybe an hour and a half. I don’t know. I’ll call you from the train.”
Since the gunshot wound, Mac had been staying with her sister. Cam thought that Mac was afraid of getting shot again, but in truth, Mac had not quite been ready to face driving day after day past the stone chamber where she had met Ciarán. But from the sound of her sister’s voice now, she thought it might be time, after all, to go back to her house. Cam was sounding a little controlling.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Mac asked.
“Yes, I’m fine.” Cam added, “But hurry!”
“Okay, bye.”
Mac smirked at the phone and wondered if Cam had lost her way coming out of the wine cellar. Cam had developed a habit of overreacting, but this seemed a bit odd, even for her. Mac shrugged it off and took a cab to Grand Central Station, where she caught the next train to Cam’s Westchester hamlet.
An hour and a half later, she pulled into the driveway. Preston and Cam met her at the door with forced smiles. Mac muttered to herself as she closed the car door, “Oh, no. They’re wearing their blind date smiles.”
Just to torture them, Mac took her time walking up the steps. “Whatever you’re up to, I’m not in the mood.”
“Wait.” Cam pulled her to the side of the hallway and fluffed up Mac’s hair while Preston disappeared around the corner.
“Really?” Mac lowered her chin and lifted her eyes for a death glare at Cam. “Who’s in there?” She nodded toward the formal living room.
“He’s not there. He’s in the family room.”
“Who?” Mac looked off to the side rather than make eye contact with Cam.
“Come on.” Cam hooked her arm into Mac’s.
“I can’t.” The words caught in Mac’s throat. She had grown almost able to go through the motions of living, but dating was not going to happen. As Cam led her along, Mac rehearsed in her mind how she would apologize quickly and make her escape.
Across the room, Preston stood next to Mac’s would-be date, chatting. They stood with their backs to her as they looked through the window. The man next to Preston was tall and athletic, in jeans and a T-shirt—just her type… that is, before her type became kilted men named Ciarán MacRae. Hearing Mac’s footsteps on the wood floor, the men turned to face her.
Mac’s stomach went weightless along with her head.
“What?”
Ciarán fixed bright eyes on her. “Bonnie Mac.”
Mac grabbed hold of the back of a chair for support.
“Are you all right, lass?” He rushed to her and swept her into his arms while she wept. He smiled as he lifted her chin. “Dinnae fash yersel, lass. I’ve a question to ask you.”
Cam appeared out of nowhere, tissue box in hand. For once, Cam’s timing was perfect.
All tissues dispensed with, Mac looked up to find Ciarán grinning at her. She could not help but grin too. “Look at you.” She touched her palm to his chest. “You look good in a T-shirt.”
Cam said, “While we waited for you, I had time to go shopping.”
Ciarán leaned close to Mac and said softly, “I dinnae think she liked the blood stains on my plaid.”
“Well, you clean up well.” Mac lifted her face to his, touched his clean-shaven jaw, and brushed her fingertips over his mouth just before she kissed him.
A loudly cleared throat reminded them that they were not alone. Ciarán looked up and nodded to Preston and then said to Mac, “I’m told I must do this.” He knelt down on one knee and looked up at Mac, who looked back through her shimmering tears. Ciarán took her hand in his. “I ken that you cannae go back with me, but I would stay here with you if you’d have me.”
“You would live here?” Mac had never imagined he would. It took her a moment to absorb the idea.
“I would, under one condition.”
Based on the look on his face, the condition seemed to be a grave one.
“That you marry me,” he continued. When he got no response, he asked, “Will you?”
A sniffling noise sounded behind her. Mac turned and caught Preston’s eye as he handed a tissue to Cam. Mac could not suppress a crooked smile.
“Lass? Is it so hard to answer?”
“No—yes. Yes, I’ll marry you!”
The relief on Ciarán’s face surprised Mac. Had he actually doubted her answer?
“Yes?” Ciarán leaned closer. “Are you sure?”
A light laugh escaped her. “Should I not be? Yes, I’m sure!” Mac circled her arms around Ciarán’s neck as he held her against him. They kissed until Cam and Preston gave up clearing their throats and left the room in search of champagne.