He shimmered, his body mass diffused, breaking up, his eyes half-shut and his chest barely moving. Dear God, he was dying, fading before her very eyes into oblivion.
She turned the steering wheel hard and stomped the gas pedal. The rear tires spun, dug into the snow and mud, spattering the fenders and undercarriage.
The engine roared, the tires whined before they found traction and hurled the car forward up the driveway, toward the house, her gaze shooting repeatedly to Duncan--praying her plan worked.
A cry of relief broke from her lips as his image grew more vibrant and solidified the closer they got to Glengarren.
Coming to a stop, Rachel slammed the gearshift into park, jumped out of the car, and ran--feet sliding on the ice, sending her impacting against the hood before she regained her footing and sloshed through the snow to the passenger door, fighting with the handle that was again covered with ice, slivers jabbing her fingers.
At last she flung open the door and fell to her knees beside Duncan's still form, taking his hand in hers, trembling and numb with cold.
"Duncan," she whispered, her body shaking with the fear of losing him as she pressed his hand to her cheek.
An eternal moment passed before Duncan's eyes slowly opened; he looked at her, smiled faintly, and then swept away a lone tear coursing down her cheek.
Then he said, in a voice that had been stripped of its usual rumbling timbre, "Here I must remain." His words drove home what she had already known.
He could not leave these grounds. Not now.
Not ever.
Until that moment, Rachel had not allowed her despair to take root in the deepest, darkest place inside her. To the very depths of her soul, she had wanted to believe that the days could continue, idyllic and perfect in Duncan's arms, that God had brought this man here for her to love, and that no cruel fate would deny her that happiness. But fate had.
Even if Duncan never returned to his own time, he could not ever fully be a part of her life. He would have to remain locked behind invisible barriers, forever bound to Glengarren, battling Gordon, his life a hell on earth.
"Lady," he said weakly. "Ye must leave this place and forget about me. I am damned."
Leave him? How could she? It would be like losing half of herself. She had waited her entire life for this man, eternity--she would not lose him now.
"I won't leave you."
"There is nothing for ye here but torment."
She shook her head. "No," she murmured, forcing a smile she didn't feel. "Everything I want is here. We'll beat Gordon. Together."
"Nay," he bit out, his strength beginning to return as he swung his legs out the door and grabbed her upper arms. "I'll not have ye in harm's way."
"That's my decision to make, and I've made it. I'm staying."
"Ye are a damn stubborn wench," he said with a growl. Then he pushed away from his seat and stalked around her, the cold wind blowing back his thick mane of black hair and snowflakes flurrying around his shoulders.
The snow, like chips of ice, drove against her flesh as she chased after him, the freezing air cutting through her skin, her gloveless hands numb and her body trembling without a coat to keep her warm.
She caught up to Duncan at the Destiny Stones. A pile of rubble lay scorched and blackened by the lightning that had shattered it.
He stared down at a large fragment of the boulder, partially covered by snow. As Rachel huddled beside him, a fierce blast of wind blew down from Glengarren's rooftop like a mighty breath and scattered the drifts, revealing the words etched on the stone.
Her breath lodged in her throat. This was not some mythical druid boulder, she realized in horror . . . but a grave marker.
Duncan's grave marker.
After more than two hundred and fifty years, weather had barely eroded the words chiseled into the rock.
DUNCAN MACGREGOR
A HERO OF THE SCOTTISH PEOPLE, WHOSE FIGHT FOR JUSTICE AND FREEDOM WILL LIVE ON.
" 'Tis my grave," he said in a hoarse voice, bringing Rachel's gaze to his tormented face.
What must it be like to look upon one's own grave? To discover with such brutal clarity that no one is immune to death--even heroes.
All these years, people had believed the stones were part of pagan lore. Mysterious. Dangerous. Keeping away from them out of ignorance and superstition.
Had no one ever seen that one man had been laid to rest in their shadow? Had anyone come to honor the hero who had fought and died for this land, battling for something he believed in?
"When did I die?" he asked, posing the one question Rachel did not want to answer, did not want to even think about.
"It doesn't--"
"When did I die, lady?" he demanded angrily, fierce blue eyes slashing in her direction. "Did Gordon kill me?"
"No," Rachel replied, emotions constricting her throat. "You wounded him badly. In revenge, he torched the east wing of Glengarren, hoping the entire castle would burn down. In the process, the fire became his funeral pyre, which is the reason I believe he is still here."
"Then how did I die, if not saving my home?"
"A group of the king's men surrounded you during a battle that took place down this very hill, at Culloden Moor."
"What day, lady?"
Rachel hesitated, and then said in a barely audible voice, "April 17, 1746."
He raked a hand through his hair and looked away, down the valley toward Culloden. His eyes became distant. His brow furrowed with anguish. "Four months hence in my own time," he uttered despondently. "Four months tae live." He shook his head. "Not enough time. I have so much tae do. My son . . . my clan . . . how will they survive when I am gone?"
"You won't die. Don't you see?" Rachel moved to stand in front of him. "You're here with me now. That time has come and gone. You've escaped your fate."
His gaze dropped to hers. "Have I? And what fate awaits me here?"
"Us." She did not want to think of Gordon or being apart or battles or gravestones. "By some miracle, God has brought you to me, and for that, I am so very grateful."
"Miracle?" His jaw clenched and he stepped away from her, striding to the middle of the stones and whirling around to face her. "Speak not tae me of your God! He has cast me out. Left me here where I cannot get back. All I've ever known has been torn from me. This is no miracle. 'Tis a curse! What future have I? Have we? Your God has thrown me into this nightmare tae live eternally, with Gordon plaguing my life--and this ye call a miracle." He turned from her, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.
Rachel wanted to go to him, but knew her comfort would not be welcomed. How could she refute his words, anyway? He was right. Unless history changed, Gordon would remain here to haunt them the rest of their days--until they were all ghosts, doomed to forever drift through Glengarren's dark corridors.
Duncan dropped to his knees in the snow, his hands raised to the sky. "Why have Ye forsaken me?" he roared in anguish. "Why, damn Ye!"
His voice was a pained rasp that went straight through Rachel, piercing her heart, causing tears to slip unchecked down her cheeks.
She went to him, dropping to the ground before him and taking his face in her hands. Though he tried to fight her, she wouldn't let him look away.
"I won't leave you, Duncan." She stared into his tormented eyes, wanting him to see that she spoke the truth. "Whatever happens, we'll face it together. Lean on me, as you have allowed me to lean on you."
She felt him shiver, and knew it was not from the cold. Then, with a strangled oath, he gave himself over to her, drawing her tightly into his arms and laying his head in the crook of her neck.
"I love ye, lady," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. "I'm sorry for all I've done. Forgive me."
"You have nothing to be sorry for."
The snow began to fall then, dusting them with light flakes, though the sky above their heads was ominous, speaking eloquently of the storm that had only temporarily abated.
They were trapped here, left with only two choices. To return to Glengarren and face Gordon--or freeze to death amid the stones, to allow the cold to slowly numb their bodies until they could feel no more, clutched in each other's arms for all eternity in the place where Duncan had once been laid to rest, so long ago.
To sleep and never wake up . . . for in that sleep of death, what dreams may come.
Rachel wanted that. Her parents were gone, and without Duncan, she would have nothing. She was not afraid. No, she was comforted. She had found the answer, and with its revelation came relief.
She eased away from Duncan, pressing a gentle kiss on his Ups. Then she sank down to her side in the snow, Duncan's beautiful blue eyes delving into hers, knowing what it was she wanted.
"Lay with me, Duncan."
"Lady . . ." came his hoarse protest.
"Lay with me," she whispered.
Myriad emotions flickered across his face in that moment, a second in time that seemed to go on forever as they stared into each other's eyes, each knowing it might very well be the last time they ever did.
Rachel, already numbing from the cold, reached up and wrapped her arm around Duncan's neck. Slowly, he eased down beside her, his lips, so warm, so full of life, pressed against hers in a kiss that encompassed all their love, a love very few people ever experienced.
A love she was fortunate to have been granted.
He pulled her close. She pressed her cold cheek against his shoulder, unafraid for the first time in a long while. This man of her dreams had burst into her life and pulled her from her despair. Whether he believed it or not, he was her miracle. Her salvation.
And as the frigid winds and icy snow bit into her flesh, Rachel hoped that God would grant her one last wish: that if she and Duncan could not be together in this lifetime . . . they would be together in the next.
RACHEL DRIFTED IN A DREAMWORLD, a beautiful vision of green meadows and blue skies . . . and Duncan magnificently garbed in his Highland colors, waiting for her at the cliff's edge, one hand reaching out to her.
She smiled and started toward him, wanting to go wherever he was going, out there beyond the clouds, beyond pain and sadness. Out where her parents now were.
She didn't feel herself being lifted or the strong arms that carried her. She didn't feel the warm air touch her brow, or creep across her damp body, easing beneath the wet layers of her clothing. She was at peace.
"Wake up, lass," a deep voice said, trying to pull her from her dream, but she didn't want to relinquish her hold on this wonderful place.
She moaned as tender hands gently removed her shirt. She writhed, wanting those hands on her body, stirring her passion, bringing her senses to life.
Pain set in then, tiny needles pricking her skin, jabbing at her in a hundred places. She whimpered and tried to draw back into herself, back into the beautiful dream, the enchantment of this other realm.
The pain dissipated as a sweet warmth pressed against her side, taking away the chill, enfolding her in a safe and protective embrace.
Instinctively, she curled into the hard length beside her, her palms resting against solid flesh, a smile filtering across her lips as her thumbs found the silky disks, heard the slight intake of breath, heat beginning to swell in the pit of her belly and fanning outward, seeping through her bones until none of the chill remained.
"Lie still, sweet," came that same voice, huskier now, familiar . . . endearing.
Rachel's eyes fluttered open, and when at last her world came into focus, she knew all her dreams had been answered as she stared up into Duncan's handsome face.
She did not question this miracle, but embraced it, sliding her naked body up the few inches it would take to reach his mouth. If this was heaven, she never wanted to return to earth.
She sighed ever so sweetly as her lips closed over his, his tongue slipping inside to mate with hers.
She rolled him to his back and moved on top of him, taking control, wanting to touch, taste, love every dangerous, glorious, hard sinew of him.
A breath of delight whispered from her lips as she cuddled the silk-and-steel length of him. He moaned and ground his hips against hers.
Then he shook his head and lightly took hold of her arms. "Nay, lady . . . ye need rest."
"You're what I need."
She moved against him and lowered her mouth to the beautiful, chiseled planes of his chest, finding one smooth pebble and lapping at it with her tongue.
In the next instant, she was on her back, Duncan's darkly alluring body poised above her, his heaviness pressed intimately between her thighs, and she savored the delicious feel of him, reaching down to run a finger across the tip of his silky shaft and then down the length.
His jaw clenched and air hissed between his teeth. "Lady . . . ye must stop. Ye make it difficult for me tae act the gentleman. Desist before ye break my control. 'Tis on the very edge as things stand."
It was only then that understanding dawned on Rachel. They were back in Glengarren . . . in Duncan's room. Reality crashed in on her and her fear swiftly returned.
"What are we doing here?" She tried to push Duncan away, to get up. "We were supposed to die . . . the snow . . . the storm. We could have been free."
He gently shackled her wrists, his weight pinioning her to the bed. "Not by death, lass. My soul would be damned for all eternity if ye died for love of me."
Rachel struggled against his hold. "But I wanted to! You had no right to deny me." Tears welled in her eyes and coursed silently to the pillow beneath her head. "I want to go with you. Don't leave me here without your love."
"Where I must go, ye cannot follow. But ye'll always have my love." His lips brushed across hers. "Let me prove it to you."
With reverence, he slipped inside her, his gaze locked to hers, holding her captive as she moaned from the pleasure of each long sweep, each thrust that took his possession to the hilt.
Long into the night he loved her, proving his feelings for her time and again. Yet, as the hours ticked past and twilight settled into midnight, the winds swirling around the house in the desperate hours before dawn, Rachel knew that this time, there would be no outdistancing fate.
chapter
11
THEY BEGAN THE NEXT DAY as they had ended the last, living in the moment and trying not to think about what might happen next. Yet the tragedy and despair they had experienced thus far could not be dispelled as easily. Images, both beautiful and horrible, plagued Rachel.
Was it only last night that she had thought to let her worries and fears drift away forever? To be covered by the snow as she nestled close to Duncan on the frozen ground of Glengarren? To embrace that sleep of death in the shadow of his tombstone?
In the light of day, it was almost unfathomable that her anguish had taken her that far, that she had seen no other way out.
Never had she thought to solve whatever heartache might haunt her by taking her own life. It was cowardly. And yet, she knew losing Duncan would be akin to losing herself, that once he was gone, she would never find that integral part of herself again.
In her heart, she believed that, somewhere in time, they had loved one another, that fate had torn them apart, and they had been searching all this time to find a way back to each other.
Not long ago she would have scoffed at such a tragic, unimaginable notion of lost love, centuries old--until it happened to her.
She was living a dream, a precious fantasy--a fantasy that had transformed into a nightmare somewhere along the way, and she didn't know how to stop them from careening toward disaster. Would she and Duncan slowly erode under the heavy weight of impending doom? Would they lose out on love once more?
Could fate prove to be so cruel again?
Perhaps it was those questions that had led Rachel to such a desperate course of action, believing that, in death, she would have what she could not possess in life.
The uncertainty of that answer had compelled her to find out, thinking to
determine the outcome of her own life instead of being propelled by other powers.
Duncan had been the sensible one, of course, not allowing emotions to obscure his focus or make him lose touch with what really mattered most. Life. And the act of living it. He knew that death was not the answer.
But what was? And would they find a solution before Gordon succeeding in killing Duncan?
A chill washed over Rachel, and she hugged herself, gazing out the kitchen window as Christmas music floated softly from the radio on the countertop.
A dense wall of falling snow obliterated the distant church steeples in the village below Glengarren, enclosing them in a cocoon of white.
The sight made her feel as though they dwelt within a snow globe--picturesque, immune to outside influences, encapsulated. And yet, one shake would send the world they knew wildly into a tilt--one careless move by whatever force held them in the palm of its hand would have them crashing to the ground . . . and splintering into a million pieces.
Rachel hugged herself tighter and pushed the thought aside, trying to focus on the moment--and only the moment. It was then that a realization suddenly dawned on her.
Today was Christmas Eve.
She had forgotten all about the holiday, had labeled it as surreal, transpiring outside the small sphere she occupied. It was hard to believe she and Duncan stood on the cusp of a day of celebration while potential destruction loomed above their heads like the sword of Damocles.
Away from Glengarren, Rachel suspected that the hustle and bustle of last-minute shopping was rising to a fever pitch--the shops jammed, families scurrying to wrap presents, and children counting down the hours until Santa's visit. It made Rachel wish she still believed in fairy tales.
She sighed wearily and lifted her gaze to the sky, longing to see a ray of sunshine to alleviate the pall of perpetual gloom that surrounded her and had settled beneath her skin like a sickness.
"What do ye see out there, lady?" came a deep voice from behind her.
A smile touched Rachel's lips as she turned from the window and faced Duncan. The sight of him never failed to take her breath away.
With the way he looked at that moment--hair mussed, needing a shave, shirt somewhat rumpled, the tail hanging out of jeans that were faded and worn at the knees, and his big body slouched in the kitchen chair, a cup of steaming black coffee in his hand--he might have been a man born of the twenty-first century, just risen from his bed on a lazy Sunday.