Page 54 of Edge of Yesterday

Lennox swung his gaze hard onto him.

It took Cailean three heartbeats to realize his mistake. “Lady Julianna,” he amended.

Lennox stared for another heartbeat, then turned his attention forward.

“I take it you don’t like this Crowe,” Cailean said.

“He has convinced Alexander that my father withholds portions of tax monies collected from our tenants. Crowe has the laird’s ear and is slippery as an eel. Now Alexander suspects my sire is lining his own purse with coins skimmed off the payments. Worse, he’s suggested that we have no’ just enriched our coffers with such coin, but also that we have taken cattle and crops that should have gone to our laird.” Lennox spat on the ground. “Alexander hasnae yet said he believed the craven, but he looks on us with a much chillier eye than e’er before. ‘Tis only a matter of time before he sends his men to seek retribution—and for crimes we have no’ committed.”

“Serious accusations,” Cailean said, though he suspected Lennox’s dislike of the man had as much to do with his desire to marry Julianna as it did politics. Cailean laughed inwardly. Bloody hell, he’d started thinking of Lennox and Julianna as real people, instead of the actors they were. “And why might I have been fighting on Crowe’s side the night I saved Lady Julianna?”

Lennox looked sharply at him. “You would not have been.”

“Probably not. But you just said—”

“Never mind what I just said,” Lennox broke in. “It doesnae matter.”

Cailean felt sure it did. But he was suddenly more concerned that the hovels lining the road were too real. The swordsmith’s shop. The lack of anything modern. As eerie as Raghnall had been, the chill that burrowed soul-deep now almost made him sick. They passed through the dark, almost squalid town gate with little more than a glance from the guards.

As he’d noted earlier, no streetlights hung above the road as silent reminders that modern cars traversed the streets of Heatheredge forty-six out of every forty-eight months. Just like at Raghnall, he hadn’t glimpsed so much as an errant electric cord peeking out from behind a table. He found no facades that transformed the internet café and local bistro into two-dimensional medieval buildings.

He wanted to tell himself that this Heatheredge was a living history museum that lay hidden somewhere in the hills distant enough from the modern Heatheredge so as not to be discovered by tourists, but how distant? Six hundred years? The bleating of sheep, neighing of horses, the creak of wagons, and the smells… How far away would this place have to be so that modern Heatheredge had no idea of its existence?

How had he missed this the night he’d landed here? He thought back. The night had been fairly bright. No lights had shown in the cottage windows, but he’d attributed that to the reenactment. But no lights had dotted the countryside when they had traveled to Raghnall, either. He’d been exhausted, groggy from all the fighting, not to mention wounded. In retrospect, while he wouldn’t see lights as he would in Aberdeen, enough homes were scattered about the countryside outside Heatheredge that he should have seen something. Yet, even when they’d crossed the river, the mill had been eerily quiet.

He felt like he’d been thrown into an alternate reality.

Or back in time.

That would be a damned hard trail for even Ginny to follow.

Cailean’s thoughts froze. Constable Edan Drummond had investigated that man’s disappearance four years ago. The investigation revealed the man had gone missing the night of the Great Performance, the very same reenactment portraying the death of Elizabeth Ross that Cailean had taken part in before he’d found himself in this Heatheredge.

What had Drummond said to him? “Take care of yourself tonight. People have been known to get lost in the shadows beyond the theatre lights.”

A chill rolled down his arms. Was the man who disappeared four years ago here, at this Heatheredge?

Had he fallen into the Twilight Zone?

“Lennox…” Gregory leaned in, spoke in a low voice, “Crowe is up ahead.”

“Aye,” Lennox replied. “I see him.”

Cailean snapped from his thoughts. “Crowe? Where is he?” But before either man could answer, he caught sight of three men up ahead and recognized one of them as Val. Then he realized the man couldn’t be Val.

“What twist is this?” he muttered. The Val Ross that Cailean knew was at least fifty years old. This man couldn’t be more than thirty. Val had said nothing about a son. “But then you wouldn’t, would you, Val?”

“Who are ye talking to?” Lennox demanded.

Cailean snorted. The man even wore a crow feather woven into his hair.

“Cailean,” Lennox said, but was cut off when Crowe called his name. Lennox’s gaze shifted to him and Cailean slowed along with Lennox as Crowe strode toward them. His two companions kept pace with him.

They reached them and Crowe said to Lennox, “Has your father returned?”

“Nae, he is no’ due home for another week.”

Crowe’s attention swung onto Cailean, and Cailean read a startling hardness in the man’s eyes.