Praise for New York Times bestselling author Lynn Kurland
“One of romance’s finest writers.”
—The Oakland Press
“Both powerful and sensitive . . . A wonderfully rich and rewarding book.”
—Susan Wiggs, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Kurland weaves another fabulous read with just the right amounts of laughter, romance, and fantasy.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“A story on an epic scale. Kurland has written another time-travel marvel . . . Perfect for those looking for a happily ever after.”
—RT Book Reviews
“[A] triumphant romance.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Woven with magic, handsome heroes, lovely heroines, oodles of fun, and plenty of romance . . . Just plain wonderful.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Spellbinding and lovely, this is one story readers won’t want to miss.”
—Romance Reader at Heart
“Kurland infuses her polished writing with a deliciously dry wit . . . Sweetly romantic and thoroughly satisfying.”
—Booklist
“A pure delight.”
—Huntress Book Reviews
“A consummate storyteller.”
—ParaNormal Romance Reviews
“A disarming blend of romance, suspense, and heartwarming humor, this book is romantic comedy at its best.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A totally enchanting tale, sensual and breathtaking.”
—Rendezvous
Titles by Lynn Kurland
STARDUST OF YESTERDAY
A DANCE THROUGH TIME
THIS IS ALL I ASK
THE VERY THOUGHT OF YOU
ANOTHER CHANCE TO DREAM
THE MORE I SEE YOU
IF I HAD YOU
MY HEART STOOD STILL
FROM THIS MOMENT ON
A GARDEN IN THE RAIN
DREAMS OF STARDUST
MUCH ADO IN THE MOONLIGHT
WHEN I FALL IN LOVE
WITH EVERY BREATH
TILL THERE WAS YOU
ONE ENCHANTED EVENING
ONE MAGIC MOMENT
ALL FOR YOU
ROSES IN MOONLIGHT
DREAMS OF LILACS
STARS IN YOUR EYES
EVER MY LOVE
The Novels of the Nine Kingdoms
STAR OF THE MORNING
THE MAGE’S DAUGHTER
PRINCESS OF THE SWORD
A TAPESTRY OF SPELLS
SPELLWEAVER
GIFT OF MAGIC
DREAMSPINNER
RIVER OF DREAMS
DREAMER’S DAUGHTER
THE WHITE SPELL
Anthologies
THE CHRISTMAS CAT
(with Julie Beard, Barbara Bretton, and Jo Beverley)
CHRISTMAS SPIRITS
(with Casey Claybourne, Elizabeth Bevarly, and Jenny Lykins)
VEILS OF TIME
(with Maggie Shayne, Angie Ray, and Ingrid Weaver)
OPPOSITES ATTRACT
(with Elizabeth Bevarly, Emily Carmichael, and Elda Minger)
LOVE CAME JUST IN TIME
A KNIGHT’S VOW
(with Patricia Potter, Deborah Simmons, and Glynnis Campbell)
TAPESTRY
(with Madeline Hunter, Sherrilyn Kenyon, and Karen Marie Moning)
TO WEAVE A WEB OF MAGIC
(with Patricia A. McKillip, Sharon Shinn, and Claire Delacroix)
THE QUEEN IN WINTER
(with Sharon Shinn, Claire Delacroix, and Sarah Monette)
A TIME FOR LOVE
Specials
“TO KISS IN THE SHADOWS” FROM TAPESTRY
THE TRAVELLER
A JOVE BOOK
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by Kurland Book Productions, Inc.
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
A JOVE BOOK and BERKLEY are registered trademarks and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780698404359
First Edition: April 2017
Cover design by Katie Anderson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
To Kara, for always being on my side of the table
Contents
Praise for Lynn Kurland
Titles by Lynn Kurland
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
MacLeod Family Tree
De Piaget Family Tree
About the Author
Acknowledgments
To Kara B., again, and Amanda O. for all things legal; Tricia B., for weighing the pros and cons of Seattle neighborhoods; and, last but not least, Brandon C., stalwart friend and all-around great guy who gives venture capitalists a good name.
Thank you all for being in the right places at the right times.
As for anything else, I am, to the relief of many, no doubt, neither a lawyer nor an investor, so any mistakes in legal or investing details are entirely mine.
Prologue
FORTY YEARS AGO IN A FOREST NEAR A RUINED KEEP . . .
The freshly laid wood crackled and popped in the hearth, a fitting accompaniment to the rain falling softly against the roof. A heavy black cauldron hung on a hook over the flame, full of something that steamed as it simmered. A woman leaned close, sniffed, then cautiously tasted what she’d tossed into the pot earlier that morning. She considered, then nodded. It would do well enough for supper. If nothing else, there was plenty of it.
When one wore the title of MacLeod witch, one learned to be prepared for any number of unexpected guests.
Moraig MacLeod continued to stir her stew, happy at the though
t of something hot on a chilly fall evening. She imagined her visitor who had yet to arrive might feel the same way. She had no idea who that soul would turn out to be, but she’d felt a shift in the world earlier in the day. She’d had enough experience with that sort of thing to know what it usually meant.
She hadn’t always lived in the little house she occupied at present, and she hadn’t always had a gift for knowing what was coming her way. Time had taught her many things and led her in paths she never would have anticipated in her youth. Then again, her youth, whilst tolerable enough, was something she tended to leave in the past, where it belonged.
She reached out and pushed a hearthstone back into a spot it seemed determined to liberate itself from and gave thought to the events of the past pair of days.
She didn’t often have any sort of commerce with the souls in the village—they were happy enough to leave her alone with her thoughts in the forest—but she’d had occasion to encounter a handsome young man at the grocer’s shop the McCreedys had just opened. He wasn’t a local, which had perhaps worked in her favor. He’d been a polite lad and apparently unafraid to carry a sack full of tinned goods home for her. His courtesy had extended to chopping a decent amount of wood as well before he’d joined her for a bit of last week’s stew.
She’d been thoroughly delighted to listen to tales of his life in the Colonies, including his recent eluding of his father’s clutches long enough to come to Scotland for a few months. And who could blame the boy? Whilst she had heard tales of New York and its glittering finery, who with any romance in his soul wouldn’t want to spend as much time as possible where dreams and forests and heather were reflected on the surfaces of still lochs?
The lad had promised to return in a pair of days with materials to shore up a few things in her home, and she hadn’t refused the offer. Her skills lay with midwifery and herbs, not hammer and nails. Any help with a bit of repair work on her ancient abode was very welcome indeed.
She gave her supper a final stir, then straightened and walked over to her front door. There had been no knock, but there had been no need for one. The shift in the air had been enough. She opened that door to find a young woman standing there on her front stoop, soaked to the skin and looking profoundly terrified.
Moraig understood that, more clearly than she supposed she would ever admit.
“Sanctuary,” the girl pled hoarsely.
Moraig studied her visitor for a moment or two. The gel couldn’t have been more than ten-and-five, though it was clear those green eyes had seen more than they should have for one so young. “Who are ye, lass?”
“Ceana Fergusson.”
Moraig lifted her eyebrows briefly. If that one was a Fergusson, then she was a McKinnon. She opened her door widely. “Come in.”
The girl didn’t move. “I tried the keep,” she said, looking as if she had just paid a visit to hell instead. “The stones . . . and the walls . . . the roof—”
“Bit of a storm,” Moraig said, because that was a simpler tale for the time being than the truth. “Took the roof right off.”
“That was a mighty storm then.”
“So it was, lass.”
The girl looked at her. “Are you the MacLeod witch?”
Moraig smiled. “I am.”
The gel paused. “Would it offend you if I made a sign of ward against you? Just to be safe?”
Moraig laughed before she could stop herself. “Of course not. Do what you must.”
Ceana Fergusson did so, then whispered a prayer as she stepped over the threshold. Moraig shut the door behind her, then walked across the rough stone floor toward her sleeping nook. She rummaged about in a trunk for something suitable, then handed it to her guest.
“There you are, lass. Perhaps not stylish, but dry.”
Ceana’s hands were trembling badly as she took the simple dress. Moraig might have felt justified in suspecting that the cold had gotten to the girl, but she was who she was and she knew better. With the way the child was examining the fineness of the cloth, Moraig suspected questions would come sooner rather than later.
She went back to tending her stew whilst Ceana changed into dry clothing, then she saw the girl seated by the fire before she scooped out a bowl of something strengthening. If Ceana looked at her spoon as if she’d never seen anything so fine in her life, well, what was to be done?
Moraig understood.
She made herself at home on her own stool and waited until her guest had finished her first bowl before she offered more. She added the accompaniment of a large mug of ale because it looked as though Ceana could use the same. It was a pewter mug, as it happened, because Moraig had learned from the former MacLeod witch not to hand guests anything made of pottery. Too fragile for the sorts of conversations that were inevitably had near that stone hearth.
Ceana finished her additional supper with the enthusiasm of one who had apparently not eaten recently. She gulped the remainder of her ale, then set everything down on the floor at her feet. She glanced carefully at her surroundings, shivered, then looked at Moraig.
“I must repay you.”
“No need,” Moraig said easily. “Highland hospitality, my gel.”
Ceana shook her head. “I cannot, mistress. I cannot take charity.”
Moraig suppressed a smile at the and because you’re a witch that had been added not entirely under Ceana’s breath. She understood that as well. She considered for a bit, then nodded, as if she’d just hit upon the perfect solution. “I have some mending that needs seeing to, if you can do that.”
Ceana closed her eyes briefly. “Witchly items?”
“Even a witch must have warm things for winter,” Moraig said mildly. She paused for a moment or two, then smiled. “There is a lad coming from the village in another day or so to help with my roof if that won’t trouble you. Perhaps you two can discuss pleasant things whilst you’re working.”
Ceana wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t think I can take advantage of your hospitality that long.”
“Winter is hard upon us, my gel. No need to rush off until you’ve your feet under you. Your future will wait for a bit longer until you have. Perhaps you might see what the village holds for you in the spring.”
Ceana looked at her with large, haunted eyes. “The village is gone, mistress.”
“The one near the keep is,” Moraig agreed, “but another has taken its place a bit farther down the way.” She smiled. “And then there is the wide world beyond that to explore. I’ll show you, when you’ve rested.”
“I feel as if I’m dreaming.”
“’Tis Scotland, lass. What else can you expect?”
Ceana closed her eyes, let out her breath slowly, then looked at Moraig. “I think I might do well not to expect anything at the moment.” She hesitated. “Who is the lad, if I can ask?”
“Just one with a good heart,” Moraig said. “Fleeing an oppressive father, or so I gather, and in need of something to do. Archie is his name, if I remember it correctly. Perhaps you might understand what drives him.”
“I imagine I might,” Ceana said with a yawn.
Moraig smiled to herself as she rose. She gathered Ceana’s supper things up and took them into the kitchen, supposing that room was also something the poor thing didn’t need to investigate at the moment.
She soon saw her guest settled on a pallet in front of the fire, then settled herself in her own chair with a fine candle and a good book. If Ceana stared at both as if she’d never seen their like before, well, that was something for the gel to think about later as well.
She looked up from her book eventually to find the girl at her feet sound asleep. There were still lines of tension on her face, but perhaps that was to be expected. One didn’t travel as far as Ceana Fergusson had obviously come without having the journey take its toll.
In time,
though, those lines faded. Sleep was the great healer. With enough time and good fortune, it could also give one dreams, which was perhaps the most healing thing of all.
Moraig MacLeod, witch for a clan that had once been and would be again, closed her book, and leaned her head back against her chair. She would seek her bed eventually, but for the moment she was content to simply sit in front of her fire, listen to the rain on her roof, and allow herself the pleasure of wondering what the future would hold for that dreaming lass at her feet. She would do whatever she could to nudge things along, of course, but time would do the rest.
It certainly had in the past.
Chapter 1
PRESENT-DAY SCOTLAND ON A CRISP FALL MORNING . . .
Scotland in my dreams.
Emmaline Baxter took a firmer grip on the key to her rental car, looked around at the rain-drenched everything, and congratulated herself on successfully getting herself to her present location with her luggage, her sanity, and her person intact. It had been a long journey, in more ways than one, but as anyone with any romance in her soul knew, when you were taking charge of your life and running full tilt into your perfect future, you ran to Scotland.
She stood still, lifted her face to the sky, and savored. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been rained on enough over the course of her life, but this was Scottish rain. It felt different somehow, as if it were the sort of stuff that had fallen on centuries of history and bagpipers and guys wearing kilts and carrying swords.
It was magical.
That was actually a fairly accurate word to describe her trip so far. She hadn’t had any trouble flying from Seattle to London, the train north had been on time, and her reserved car had been waiting for her in Inverness as promised. Getting from Inverness to the village of Benmore had been a bit of an adventure, but she supposed that was due more to weariness than it was to being set free with keys to a car designed to be driven on the wrong side of the road. She hadn’t encountered anything more dangerous than the sight of fluffy sheep grazing on hillsides as she’d wended her way north. The day had been a success so far.
She was, however, starting to see the smallest of clouds on the horizon, and it had everything to do with the hotel she was looking at presently.