“Morna. Alasdair and father told stories growing up about her. She could see things that were yet to happen. She must’ve known I would stumble into her spell room. She did her best to save them before her death. I’m meant to stop it, and ye can help me.”
Something clicked in Adelle’s brain, and the icy pinpricks rushed down her spine once more. “Are you telling me that this is for real? The old legend about the witch was true? You expect me to believe that you really came here from 1645?”
“Aye. I expect that’s where yer daughter is now. Ye said that we look alike, did ye not? And where else do ye expect she’d be? We’ve switched places, we have. Did she read the words below the portrait as well?”
“Holy mother of Freddie! You’re right. She did. Oh, my God! We have to get Bri back before the massacre…” Adelle’s stomach turned over as the same icy grasp that had made its way down her spine gripped her around the middle; she wanted nothing more than to jump through whatever invisible void had taken her daughter and be there by her side.
Her logical brain had no advice on what steps she should make next, but she knew she’d be damned before she left her daughter to die as she knew the Conalls would in just a few short months. Adrenaline kicked in, pushing away all doubt and logic, replacing it with an eerily calm sense of determination. “Blaire. I know you are probably as scared as Bri is—wherever she is—but we have to help each other if we’re going to get you two back where you belong. Let’s go to the car and get the boxes and dollies. We need to gather up every book and piece of parchment in this place, and then get you back to the inn while Jerry and Gwendolyn are gone and get you changed into some of Bri’s clothes.”
Adelle turned, not waiting for a response, and only briefly registering Blaire’s question as she made her way out of the basement room.
“Aye, but might I ask ye a question? What is a ‘car’?”
Chapter 11
Scotland
1645
Eoin stood at the edge of the rocky hillside that overlooked the ocean at the backside of the castle, waiting for his future bride. He scanned the crowd of townspeople all dressed in their finest, excitedly waiting for the wedding to begin.
He would gladly trade places with any one of them.
Any moment Blaire would arrive at the end of the aisle, dread simmering in her eyes as she glared up at him during her long march.
He would take her hand in marriage as his father bid, but he would live each day guilt-ridden for being the source of such great unhappiness for any lass, even one as miserable as Blaire.
He glanced toward his brother, who stood on his left-hand side. Arran looked as if he were having a hard time standing. His face was flushed and his eyes were bloodshot.
He’d been drinking again.
It hadn’t escaped Eoin’s attention that Arran hadn’t stopped drinking since their return to the castle. What was bothering him? Had Arran taken their father’s death harder than he’d realized? Whatever it was, he vowed that he would talk to his brother as soon as this wedding was behind them.
A sharp intake of breath from Arran caused Eoin to jerk his head in the direction of Arran’s stare.
His heart hammered wildly inside his chest, and his breath lodged in his throat as he locked eyes with Blaire.
Standing at the end of the aisle, she was beaming back at him with a smile so wide and bright he couldn’t help but smile in return. It was the first genuine smile he’d seen from her, and it made him uneasy.
Has the lass been drinking also? She looks pleased. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she had been. But no, the lass was too certain in her steps to be drunk, and her eyes shimmered with clarity as she neared him.
He stepped forward to take her hands in his as the ceremony began.
*
The entire ceremony had been a blur. I sat next to my new husband, watching the hordes of merry villagers dancing around the grassy expanse behind the castle. I knew I was dreaming; there was simply no other explanation for the whirlwind of confusion that had been the last two hours of my life.
The swirls of color and boisterous laughter—combined with music that I was vastly impressed with myself for dreaming up—had my head spinning yet again. I tried to stop the pounding in my temples by thinking back on what I could remember.
Meeting Mary; having not one, but two full-blown panic attacks; being tossed into a tub and dressed up like a Thanksgiving turkey; walking down the backside of the castle; laying eyes on the hunk now sitting beside me; walking up the aisle, grinning like an idiot. It seemed to me that I could recall everything that had happened since I woke up inside my coma. That is, until I had reached the end of the aisle. At that point, Coma Husband had taken it upon himself to grab my hands, and my brain short-circuited.
No surprise, really. My brain was obviously working overtime just to dream up Laird Eoin, not to mention that it was trying to heal itself out of a coma.