She hardly dared ask what he meant by that, but Oliver seemed to trust him and she trusted Oliver. They continued to run directly at those lads and then suddenly a cloud of pale red smoke billowed out, obscuring everything in sight. She watched, open-mouthed, as Ewan rendered unfit for any sort of battle both those men with several sharp movements of his hands and feet.
She continued on with Oliver and Ewan toward the proper spot, trying not to lose what breath she had left at the sight of the doorway simply standing there, ajar. She felt Oliver tighten his hand around hers.
“Ewan,” he said sharply, “take my hand, damn you.”
“Are you daft—”
She found herself pushed forward, which left her releasing Oliver’s hand. She stumbled out of the faery ring, then turned to make certain he’d come with her only to find him standing a few feet away from her looking at Ewan who had gone sprawling behind her. Oliver stopped short when Ewan sat up and swore.
“Stop moving,” Oliver said quickly. “You have a knife sticking out of your back.”
Ewan crawled to his feet, then turned around. “Pull it out. I’m wearing Kevlar, dolt.”
Oliver laughed a little and smoothly pulled the knife free of his mate’s back. Mairead would have commented on that, but he pulled her suddenly behind him. She could see fairly well in the gloom and realized that the pair of men she found standing there were ones she recognized.
From the Future.
Oliver handed the knife to Ewan, then sighed deeply and rubbed his hands over his face. She supposed she might be allowed the same relief, so she took a deep breath and let it out, though with perhaps a bit less confidence than Oliver had used. She had another look at the gate that was still shimmering in the last of the day’s light. It seemed to think its work was done because it closed with a softclick.
She stared at the place where it had been for a handful of moments, permitting herself time to fix the sight in her memory so she might recall the exact instant when her life had changed forever.
Well, perhaps that had been several days ago when she’d looked up from the madness of her unruly cousins and first laid her poor gaze on Oliver Phillips, but perhaps she could argue the point with herself later when she had the time.
She turned and looked at that collection of souls gathered there, the last bit of twilight surrounding them like a soft shawl. Her uncle Patrick was there along with the man who had come to fetch Oliver in the past. She suspected, given how much he resembled Patrick, that she was looking at James, his elder brother and, if she looked at it the right way, her grandfather. She smiled briefly at both of them, then looked to her left.
There standing closest to her, watching her with an expression on his face she couldn’t quite identify, was Oliver Phillips, the man who had just rescued her yet again from death at the stake.
He closed his eyes briefly, then reached out and pulled her into his arms. If he did it with a fair bit of enthusiasm and she threw her arms around his neck and held on with just as much fervor, well, perhaps their kith and kin wouldn’t make note of it overmuch.
She wanted to tell him a score of things beginning and ending withthank you, but all she could do was stand in his embraceand pray that if the world were to end in truth, it would end at that very moment so she might forever remain where she was. Oliver seemed no more willing to let her go, which she found very much to her liking.
“Are you shaking,” she managed finally, “or am I?”
“I don’t know,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know anything except I’m never letting you out of my arms ever again.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For it all.”
He shook his head, but said nothing. She suspected there was a great deal more to the tale than she knew, for no other reason than she’d seen Oliver fall into the witch’s croft and disappear, yet there he was, dressed in other gear and bringing along one of his mates to be his support.
She shuddered to think what might have happened to her had he not been willing to make an attempt to rescue her.
A throat cleared itself suddenly from behind her.
“That’s all well and good,” it said in reassuringly crisp Gaelic, “but night is falling and we should be away.”
Mairead pulled out of Oliver’s arms and turned to look at that intimidating Highlander behind her. She felt Oliver arrange her so she was standing next to him with his arm around her shoulders, which she had to admit she appreciated. She caught the gaze of Patrick MacLeod and had a brief smile as her reward, then a nod toward whom she had to assume was the current laird James.
“My brother Jamie,” he said with a shrug. “Good luck with him.”
Mairead had endless amounts of experience dealing with capricious leaders, though she suspected she wouldn’t need to call on any of those skills at present. Jamie had already shot her a quick smile before he turned a very lairdly look on the man standing next to her.
“Turn her loose, young Oliver.”
“With respect, my laird,” Oliver replied politely. “I think I’m capable of caring for her.”
“Whilst I’m certain you could,” Jamie conceded, “’tis growing dark and she needs to be home.”
“I’m not letting her out of my sight.”
