Falling in Time

  FALLING IN TIME

  Copyright © 2013 by Sue-Ellen Welfonder.

  www.Welfonder.com

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  *Falling In Time - This short story originally appeared in the Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance/ 2009 / Running Press

  When love calls across the ages…

  In Falling In Time, aspiring writer Lindy Lovejoy knows all about happy endings. But when she travels to Scotland to research Celtic myth and lore, she never expected a chance to live her own. Until a stop at mystical Smoo Cave whisks her back in time and into the arms of a Highland hero who’d burn up the pages of the steamiest Scottish romance novel.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Talmine Village

  Scotland’s Far North, the Present

  Precious lass. You’re mine, do you hear me?

  I won’t – I can’t - live without you.

  Lindy Lovejoy, American tourist and expert on all things Scottish, heard the words in her mind. But they were real enough to make her heart thump against her ribs. Her breath caught, too, and her stomach went all fluttery. In fact, if she weren’t sitting on her bed, bolstered by pillows and surrounded by maps and writing paraphernalia, she was sure she’d melt into a puddle on the plaid-carpeted floor.

  She did tilt her head and close her eyes, concentrating.

  Her room, surely the tiniest in the entire bed-and-breakfast inn, was quiet. Darkness came early on autumn nights in Scotland and if anyone occupied the room next to hers, they weren’t making any noise. Outside, the wind had risen and fluting gusts whistled round the eaves and soughed down the narrow road beneath her window. A glance in that direction – she hadn’t yet bothered to close the curtains – showed a steady rain just beginning to fall.

  But she could still hear the man’s voice. Deep, richly-burred, and dangerously seductive, his words slid through her like smooth, sun-warmed honey.

  I’ll ne’er let you go, sweetness.

  Lindy bit her lip, listening. He’d breathed the endearment as if he were right beside her, his chin grazing her hair and his breath warm against her cheek.

  He was definitely a Highlander.

  And he spoke with the kind of fill-her-with-shivers Scottish accent she thought of as a verbal orgasm.

  Too bad he was a product of her imagination.

  Lore MacLaren.

  Hero of the Scottish medieval romance she’d been working on for years and that had only been rejected by – she opened her eyes and frowned – every agent and editor in the industry. At least the ones she’d targeted so carefully.

  Not that it’d done her any good.

  Biting back a curse she was not going to let pass her lips, she tucked her hair behind an ear and willed her character to stop talking to her.

  Now wasn’t the time for guilty pleasures.

  Even if she was sure that having such a hot real-seeming, full-bodied hero – a Highland hero, for heaven’s sake! – had to be something really special in the super competitive business of writing and selling romance novels.

  Lore MacLaren would have to wait until her vacation was over.

  The research trip that – she just knew – was going to result in her big breakthrough into publishing. She plucked at a loose thread on the bed’s tartan duvet, almost afraid to acknowledge how much time, money, and effort she’d vested in her plans. Anyone even halfway familiar with karma, knew how easy it was to jinx oneself.

  But still….

  Life could seem so unfair.

  Some authors hit New York running.

  She’d tried that and failed. Doing everything right and following all the rules had gotten her nowhere. Now she was going to take a detour.

  If Heather Aflame wasn’t wowing the powers-that-be, she’d knock them sideways with The Armchair Enthusiast’s Guide to Mythical Scotland. In lyrical but concise, easy-to-follow language, she’d regale readers with insider tips on everything from how to drive left to finding hidden away entrances to Neolithic chambered tombs and other little known sites that most tourists never see.

  Aspiring writers and maybe even some published authors would snatch the book off the shelves. Agents and editors would be impressed, enquiring if she didn’t want to pour her knowledge into Scottish romance.

  She’d sell Lore at last.

  A fantastic two-book deal would be hers. She could then quit her job at Ye Olde Pagan Times, the New Age shop in her hometown of New Hope, Pennsylvania, where she worked such long hours some of the regulars often asked if she slept on a cot in the back room.

  She’d never again have to urge someone to buy a sneeze-inducing bundle of bad-vibes-chasing sage.

  Or suffer the equally pungent smell of some of the love potions and herbal treatments for masculine sexual dysfunction that were kept in a locked cupboard in one of the shop’s darkest corners.

  Sweet lass, I need you….

  Lore’s voice came low and husky. Lindy whipped around with a jolt, sure she’d felt his breath on her nape. Soft and warm, it’d caressed her skin, making her tingle with desire and awareness. His words, deep and rough-edged, let her know that he wanted her with equal passion. But a quick glance showed that the room loomed empty. As before, nothing stirred except the damp wind outside her window.

  She’d reached again for her pen and notepad, pushing her Scottish hero from her mind.

  Sometimes it didn’t pay to have such a vivid imagination.

  But hard work was always rewarded.

  If her Armchair Enthusiast Guide took off, she hoped to someday earn a living by immersing herself in the world she loved best. Medieval Scotland, with all its mystery and magic, and where, she knew in her heart, she should have born if only some cruel quirk of fate hadn’t plunked her down in the wrong time and place, leaving her filled with yearning for a life she couldn’t have.

  But she could write books set there.

  Once she made a name for herself as an expert on the must-see Highland hot spots of Celtic mythological fame.

  And that wasn’t going to happen unless she stopped thinking about her romance novel’s hero and paid attention to the task at hand. Such as studying her next morning’s route to one of the most celebrated places on her two week tour through Scotland’s ancient landscape.

  She peered at the Ordnance Survey map that covered most of her bed. The map was a Landranger 9 and detailed every inch of Cape Wrath, the wildest and remote corner of Scotland. Just seeing all the squares, lines, and miniscule place names filled her with anticipat
ion. This was the part of her trip that most excited her. She’d never been to Scotland before, but she’d dreamt of Sutherland all her life.

  Scotland’s far north was where she belonged.

  The next day’s journey would feel like going home.

  Already, she knew each twist and turn of the way. Every curve of the shore road, the slender crescents of golden sand, and even the forgotten homesteads, each one little more than a tiny dot on her map.

  Looking at them now, her heart skittered. Though nothing thrilled her as much as the special place she’d explore in less than twenty-four hours. Said to be a portal to the Otherworld as well as a favorite haunt of the fey, Smoo Cave would be the highlight of her trip.

  She also meant to make it the piece de resistance of her book.

  Levering up against the pillows, she pulled the map onto her lap. But before she could trace her finger along the pink-highlighted stretch of road she needed to follow around Loch Eriboll and along the coast to Durness where the cave was located, the wind picked up, slamming one of the shutters against the wall.

  Or so she thought until she remembered the window wasn’t shuttered.

  If the banging noise had been the sound of her door flying open….

  Lindy’s heart stopped and the fine hairs on her nape lifted. Scotland wasn’t exactly known for crime, but there were always exceptions. So she slowly looked up from the map and slid a cautious glance across the room.

  What she saw took her breath.

  A man stood silhouetted against the light from her dresser lamp. Tall, kilted, and too rock-solid to be her imagination, he wore a very real-seeming sword at his hip and had a dark, roguish air about him that made her mouth go dry and did funny things to her stomach.

  He looked very much like Lore.

  Especially when his mouth curved in a slow, sensual smile and he narrowed his gaze on her, his blue eyes going so hot she gulped.

  “Ehhh…” Lindy’s attempt at speech failed pitifully.

  The look in the man’s eyes went even more provocative, proving he didn’t mind. “You err, sweetness.” He took a step forward, the lamplight gilding him. “I am no’ called Lore MacLaren. My name is Rogan.”

  He put back his shoulders, standing straighter. “Rogan MacGraith.”

  “Your name doesn’t matter.” Lindy jumped to her feet, finding her voice at last. “For all I know, you could be an ax murderer.”

  She highly doubted it.

  But drop dead gorgeous Highlanders didn’t materialize out of thin air regardless of the popularity of paranormal romance. She also doubted they ran around teeny one-blink-and-you’re-through-it Sutherland villages wearing great plaids and packing razor-sharp swords.

  And she hadn’t noticed any medieval re-enactors staying at the Talmine Arms.

  Word was the only other tourists were an elderly English couple and two German bikers.

  The proprietor had told her so.

  Which could only mean….

  Lindy grabbed a pillow and held it before her. “I don’t have any money,” she stammered, wishing his searing gaze wasn’t so unsettling. “I’m at the end of my trip and-”

  “Och, lassie.” Mr. Medieval was suddenly right in front of her. “If I wanted your coin” – he plucked the pillow from her hands and tossed it aside – “any sillers you might have would already be weighing down my purse.”

  He grinned and patted a small leather pouch hanging from his sword belt. Then the look on his face turned wicked as he grabbed her and pulled her to him, holding her so tightly that she could hardly breathe.

  “I’m that fast, see you?”

  “I see you’re a mad man.”

  “Aye, that I am, true enough!” He released her, his gaze absolutely smoldering now. “So mad for you that if you dinnae cease calling me Lore each time I kiss you, I may have to kill an innocent man.”

  “Kiss me?” The absurdity of his words gave Lindy the energy to dart away from him.

  He caught her, his big hand gripping her arm, before she’d gone two steps. “You’ll no’ be denying our passion?” His gaze went meaningfully to the bed and Lindy was horrified to see that it was no longer the narrow, plaid-covered twin bed she’d been sleeping on.

  It was a huge richly-carved four-poster, its sumptuously embroidered curtains pulled back to reveal a welter of furred throws, tangled sheets, and a sea of tasseled cushions piled near the massive headboard.

  Lindy blinked.

  Rogan MacGraith’s grip tightened on her elbow. “You are mine, sweetness. I’ll no’ be sharing you with any man. Especially no’ a fool named Lore.”

  “Lore doesn’t exist.” Lindy couldn’t take her gaze off the bed. It looked so real. “I made him up. He’s fiction. Just like that bed and-”

  “And what?” Rogan arched a brow, pulling her to him again. “This perhaps?”

  Without warning, he lowered his head and kissed her, taking her lips with all the intimacy of someone who’d kissed, no plundered her mouth, many, many times. It was a hard, ravenous kiss, full of breath and tongue. Rogan held her tighter and deepened the kiss. Lindy’s pulse raced and her knees almost buckled.

  The kiss was much better than any she’d ever written.

  In fact, no real man had ever kissed her so masterfully either.

  Whoever – or whatever – Rogan MacGraith was, he knew how to curl a woman’s toes.

  She wound her arms around his neck and leaned into him, not caring about anything but the delicious tingles whipping through her. His shoulder-length hair felt thick and smooth beneath her fingers, almost cool and sleek like the pages of her map. But she ignored that incongruity and concentrated on how wonderfully his tongue swirled and slid so hotly over and around hers. Or so she tried until running footsteps sounded on the landing outside her room.

  Lindy woke at once and peered into darkness. Her heart was pounding and – dear God – a certain very private part of her still felt tingly and roused.

  Rogan MacGraith was nowhere to be seen.

  And the narrow bed she was lying in wasn’t anything as magnificent as the curtained, black oak monstrosity she’d glimpsed over his shoulder.

  It’d all been a dream.

  Except, perhaps, the hurrying footsteps she’d heard outside her door.

  “Miss Lovejoy!” The innkeeper appeared at her doorway, proving that much. “Have you been disturbed? The storm blew out a window on the landing and” – he glanced over his shoulder, at the shadows behind him – “I’m checking for damage to the rooms, as well.

  “Looks like the gust threw open your door. I’m sorry if your sleep was-”

  “I’m fine.” Lindy noticed that her Landranger 9 map was still spread across the bed covers. “I fell asleep studying my map and didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Right, then.” The innkeeper looked relieved. “The missus and I will be up a while yet if you’ll be needing aught.” He gave her a nod, glanced quickly around her room, and was gone, disappearing as quickly as he’d come.

  His footsteps faded into the distance, the night wind howled and shook the window glass, and Lindy fought the urge to laugh hysterically.

  She’d lied when she’d said she was fine.

  She doubted she’d ever be fine again.

  Everyone knew characters talked to writers. The stories would be flat if they didn’t. Mere ink on the page and so boring that no one would want to read a single word.

  It was also true that – sometimes – characters insisted on being named differently.

  That, too, was pretty normal.

  Stories only came to life once the names were right.

  Kissing was something else entirely.

  Yet she knew Lore – no, Rogan MacGraith – had kissed her. She could still feel his lips moving over hers, the silken glide of his tongue, and the firm grip of his hands as he’d held her against him.

  She’d even felt the rough weave of his plaid beneath her fingers. And – how could it be? – she’d br
eathed in his scent, finding the trace of the cold, brisk night that clung to him, almost intoxicating.

  But he couldn’t have been real.

  Shaken, Lindy slipped from the bed and went over to the window. The Talmine road lay dark and silent, a narrow band stretching away into empty, rolling moorland. It still rained and curls of mist drifted across the shingled beach not far from the inn. The pier was deserted. No kilted, sword-packing Highlander stood in the blackness of the moon shadows, peering up at her.

  The tiny village slept.

  She touched a hand to her lips and trembled.

  Her mouth was bruised.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Centuries away – the early fourteenth, to be exact – but much closer otherwise, Rogan MacGraith stood in the shadows of his bedchamber and glared at the shutter that had dared to blow open, its loud crack against the tower wall, rudely snatching him from a wondrous dream.

  “Hellfire and damnation!” He strode across the room and yanked the shutter into place, latching it with much more force than was necessary.

  He shoved a hand through his hair, keenly aware of his nakedness.

  Not that sleeping unclothed was anything out of the ordinary.

  Truth be told, he doubted any man in all broad Scotland would demean himself by wearing nightclothes.

  Certainly no man at his clan’s proud and formidable Castle Daunt.

  Highlanders left such softness for Sassunachs.

  But this night….

  Rogan glanced downward, his scowl deepening. His nude body only revealed how much he burned for the curvaceous, flame-haired vixen he’d just been kissing and was about to sweep into his arms and carry to his bed before the damnable shutter bang had shattered his dream.

  “Odin’s balls!” He clenched his fists and willed his own man parts to stop aching. When they did, he snatched his plaid off a chair and threw it on, not wanting any remaining vestiges of lust to twitch to life and embarrass him when he stormed down the tower stairs and into his father’s hall.

  It would cause a great enough stir just disturbing the men’s night rest. The saints knew they deserved their sleep. But one of them might have heard the name Lore MacLaren.