Page 9 of Darach

“Yes.” She watched him approach, the wariness back in her eyes as she studied his face. She started to stand up, but then subsided. “I’m sorry, I’m still a little unsteady.” She held out her slender hand. “My name is Charlotte Walsh.”

“’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Mistress Walsh,” the laird said as he shook hands with her. “I ken ’tis greatly confusing to you. I regret our sain adding to your misfortunes by bringing you to us.”

Her expression grew remote. “How could you know anything about what’s happened to me?”

“’Tis because you came to Dun Lasair with the Fire sword of the MacRoss Clan,” Luthias said, pulling up a stool to sit facing her. “The blade, ’tis a sain of great power––a kind of protector––and ’twas enchanted by the first MacRoss laird, a Fae prince named Ross. When terrible danger threatens our clan, he bespelled the sain to move through time to find one who may save us, and bring them here. ’Twould seem that’s you, my lady.”

“Are you saying that your magic sword abducted me?” she asked tonelessly. “And then it flew me across the ocean to drop me in a spring in Scotland, just so that I could save your clan?”

“Aye.” Luthias grimaced. “Such must sound outlandish to you, but ’tis truth.”

Darach expected Charlotte to react with disbelief, laughter or even become angry with the laird. Instead she sat quietly and gazed at both of them as if waiting for them to admit it was all a jest.

“We shall talk more on the morrow,” Darach said finally. “’Tis too much for the lady now. She needs rest.”

“I just want to understand, Chieftain. I was attacked by a killer in Canada, and then I fell into the water here in what you tell me is Scotland. It took only a few seconds, and I remained conscious the entire time. Since none of that has a plausible explanation, a magic sword actually does make sense.” Charlotte shook her head as if she had no faith in her own words. “The problem is the police won’t believe any of this. Two, maybe three of their men were murdered while guarding me. They’re going to want some answers when I go to the hospital in the morning. Can you come with me, and bring the sword to show them how it works?”

Darach exchanged a look with Luthias, and against his better judgement nodded.

“We’ve no police nor hospitals here, Mistress Walsh. What happened to you, ’tis how my wife came to us from the twenty-first century,” Luthias said. “That ’twas the same time in which you lived as well?”

She went very still. “Are you telling me that it’s not the twenty-first century here?”

“Aye. The Fire sword brought you back seven hundred years, my lady,” Darach told her gently. “Our time now, ’tis the fourteenth century.”

For a long moment Charlotte didn’t move, blink or take a breath. What little color that had returned to her face abruptly drained away. A choking sound came from her as she stood up and then sat back down again, and pressed a shaking hand over her mouth.

“She’ll boak,” Luthias predicted, rising and heading for the wash basin.

“Wait, my lord.” Darach saw the tears brimming on her lashes, but the sound she made was more like a laugh. He sat down beside her, taking her hand in his. “Charlotte?”

“If you’re telling me the truth, then I’m safe now. He really can’t touch me here.” She straightened her shoulders and looked at Luthias. “Your enchanted sword didn’t abduct me, Laird. It saved my life. Just before I fell in the spring I saw how I would die. The maniac who was beating me would have cut me to pieces before he drowned me.”

“Then ’twas a sain for you as well, Mistress Walsh.” The laird gave her a reassuring smile. “’Tis good to ken.”

Charlotte wiped her eyes quickly. “I don’t understand why it chose me. What could I possibly do to save your clan?”

“That I cannae tell you,” Luthias admitted. “We’ve only had such happen once before, with my wife Emery. She’s a forensic anthropologist. Do you some special work like hers in your time?”

“I’m an artist. Mostly I illustrate children’s books.” Her gaze strayed to the Fire sword where Darach had set it against the wall. “I think the killer who attacked me wanted to find that blade. He called it a sain, too, and mentioned a chieftain.” She rose and went over to study the blade, even running her finger tips over the flame-shaped hilt. “There’s something else you should know, and it may be related to the reason your sword brought me here. I’m still not sure if I believe it, however, and I can’t explain it.”

“We shallnae question whatever you tell us, lass,” Darach assured her.

“I drew this blade in a book I illustrated a few years ago. The story was about a knight using it to defend a garden of flowers against frost demons. The blade had gold markings like yours, and the hilt was also shaped like flames. Flower tattoos covered the knight’s skin, and he had a huge red rose inked over one of his eyes.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “He looked almost exactly like you, Chieftain. When I first saw you, I thought I was hallucinating my own artwork.”

Luthias’s brows drew together. “How could you ken what the Fire sword and Darach looked like, my lady?”

“That’s the part I can’t explain because it wasn’t my story,” she said. “The manuscript I worked from was written by a historian named Seona Kerrich. I based my illustrations on her descriptions of the knight and the sword.”

“I’m in a book.” Darach didn’t know whether to be pleased or dismayed.

“’Tis yet another mystery we cannae solve now,” the laird said. “I wish I could send you back, my lady, but you must stay here until your purpose is served. Once you do, the Fire sword ’twill grant you a wish. You may use that to return to your time.”

“I don’t need a wish,” she said, her voice tight. “I’m never going back.”

Chapter Three

Struan Carack brought a lantern to the counting table he had moved to the back corner of the great hall at Dun Deigh. There he sat down and took out the three scrolls delivered to him from the clan’s overseers. He could hear muted voices coming from the garrison, where the clansmen not on patrol or guard duty gathered each night to drink. Occasionally a brawl broke out, but since the death of the laird most of the Carack had wallowed in too much whiskey and even more resentment.