Highland Shifter (MacCoinnich Time Travel)

Simon
stepped closer and felt the heat of her skin. She smelled of the strawberry shampoo she used in her hair. Helen’s hands slid from her hips and fell to the side.

“
’Tis time we clear up a few things in your lovely head about me.”

He stepped closer, and Helen, the wise girl, took a step back until her bottom met the edge of the desk. She reached behind her to steady herself and keep from falling.

Like a predatory cat cornering his prey, Simon towered over Helen, watching her body twitch and her eyes travel over his.

“Really?” Her voice wavered. After clearing her throat, she asked. “Like what?”

Simon licked his lips and glanced at hers. “I’m not evil.”

“Uhm….” Her eyes never left his mouth while he spoke.

“And I’d never lure a child into my presence.”

Simon leaned into her, their thighs touched and Helen
’s breathing started to quicken. He placed one hand on the table beside her, leaving her very little room to escape should she want to. From the hunger in her gaze, and the heat of her body, he didn’t believe she would.

“A woman, however, might tempt me to entice her attention.”

Praise for Catherine Bybee

BINDING VOWS

“BINDING VOWS whisked me into an adventure that I was sorry to see end.”

~Romance Studio

5 Tombstone Review for BINDING VOWS “... was such an amazing book...possibly the best I have read so far this year. ...so much fun...”

~Megan, Bitten By Books

SILENT VOWS

5 Stars, “SILENT VOWS is a fascinating time travel tale of ancient Druids and modern heroes that pulls the reader in from the very first page.”

~Affaire de Coeur

REDEEMING VOWS

“As in the first two stories, the plot comes together with danger, suspense, romance, and the author’s own blend of humor.”

~The Romance Studio (5 Hearts)

WIFE BY WEDNESDAY

New York Times,
USA Today,
and
Wall Street Journal
BESTSELLER

“…
enchanting and titillating modern-day fairy-tale.”

~IndieReader.com

“…great characters that trade verbal spars like fist punches…”

~Sizzling Hot Book Reviews

Highland

Shifter

by

Catherine Bybee

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Highland Shifter

COPYRIGH
T
2012 by Catherine Bybee

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Cover Art by Crystal Posey

Visit the author at
www.catherinebyee.com

Publishing History

Kindle Edition 2012

Published by Catherine Bybee

Print ISBN 978-0-9850888-0-4

Published in the United States of America

For Tammy.

My first true fan and my harshest critic. 

I’m truly blessed to call you my friend.

I want to thank and acknowledge all of you, my readers. If it wasn’t for your response to the first three time travel books about the MacCoinnich’s, I would never have written Simon’s story. My fans on Goodreads and Facebook have been relentless, clamoring for Simon, Amber, and Cian’s stories. I can’t blame you. I love these characters so much they feel like my own children. Although I enjoy the happily ever after ending, I still want to see a glimpse or two of these characters as they ride through life.

Thank you all for giving this writer a need to finish this series so we can all see how Simon, Amber, and Cian turn out.

Chapter One

Current Day, Los Angeles

Energy buzzed down Helen
’s spine until she shivered with the electrical current her gift created. The information she sought was close enough to taste, all she needed to do was touch it and she’d be one step closer to finding the missing boy.

Helen Adams shifted onto the balls of her feet, reached well beyond her five-foot six frame, and tipped the old leather bound text into her hands. As the book slid from its comfortable position on the top shelf in Mrs. Dawson
’s library, dust plumed off the sill in a cloud. The zap she’d been feeling for the last half hour eased into a nice, steady hum. The blanket of warmth that only came when she’d found what she sought brought a rare smile to her face.

“There you are,” she whispered to the ancient book as if it were alive.

“Did you find what you’re looking for?” Mrs. Dawson limped into the room, leaning heavily on the cane. Nearing her eighty-fourth birthday, Mrs. Dawson’s battered, frail body appeared as if it wanted nothing more than to lie down and rest forever.

“I think so.” Helen gently blew the layer of dust off the book and peered close to determine the title. Embossed into the leather was an old Celtic design. The scent of a fresh meadow after a cleansing rain settled over her. Helen closed her eyes and grasped the text hard. She heard the hooves of horses, smelled the sweet scent of horseflesh. None of this experience came from the room where she stood, but from the book she held in her hands.

As the scents dissipated, Helen opened her eyes and gazed at the book in wonder. How could a book this old hold any relevance on a missing child’s case in the twenty-first century?

“Do you have any idea where this originally came from?” Helen asked as she moved to the table and turned on a light to view the pages inside the book.

“My late husband collected boxes of books like that when he was alive. As you can judge by the dust, they’ve not been touched since his death.” Mrs. Dawson eased herself into a chair, cringing as she sat. Helen knew her friend’s arthritis would be acting up with the sour weather pounding the window outside. Helen also knew Mrs. Dawson wouldn’t accept anything more than a sympathetic smile if Helen were to ask if she could help her sit or stand.

“Well, let
’s see what you have there.”

Judging by the cover, Helen expected the text to be in either Celtic or Italian. She was wrong.

The title of Folklore, writing in a beautiful script font, splashed the front page of the book.

The book was written in English.

Helen glanced at the opening credits to see the publication date.

“This is over two hundred years old,” Helen said, confused.

“What does it have to do with that boy?” Mrs. Dawson asked.

“I
’ve no idea.”

Mrs. Dawson was the only person who knew the extent of Helen
’s gift. Well, the only person Helen had told who hadn’t laughed at her and passed her off as crazy.

Her work at a local antique shop had led her down this path to Mrs. Dawson
’s library in search of a missing teenage boy, Simon McAllister. What the boy and the book in her hands had in common, Helen hadn’t a clue.

Helen gently turned the pages and skimmed the text. From what she could tell, several different storytellers wrote the content. Illustrations dotted the pages with small captions explaining the pictures.

There were illustrations of Celtic symbols, Scottish kilts, warriors with broadswords, and women wearing long, flowing dresses.

What any of it had to do with Simon McAllister disappearing off the face of the earth without a trace was a mystery to Helen.

Releasing a long-suffering sigh, she flattened her hand on the table and twisted away in frustration. “This is useless.”

Mrs. Dawson cocked her head to the side in a motion of concern. One of the shutters on the outside of the house ripped free of its lock and swung back, hitting the side of the old house with an angry bang.

Helen and Mrs. Dawson jumped at the noise and swiveled toward it.

Cold air blew into the room, and the drapes around the window flapped in protest from the outside elements.

An eerie screech whistled through the crack in the window, and the book to Helen’s side started fluttering through pages like a deck of cards being shuffled in Vegas. The pages moved in a rapid pace, but the current of air in the room barely brushed her skin.

Unable to pull her gaze away, Helen watched as the pages of the book came to a sudden stop.

The air on her back blew colder, harder, but the pages no longer rustled.

Her chocolate brown hair started to come loose from the tight bun on her head, but she ignored the tendrils falling in her face. Instead, Helen inched closer.

Two illustrations covered the pages. On the left was a Scottish warrior, broad shouldered and dressed in his plaid, as would any proud Scot of centuries past. In the corner of the illustration flew a hawk or maybe it was a falcon. Helen couldn’t be sure.

The warrior
’s hand extended toward the opposite page, his face solemn with an expression of absolute desperation.

Helen let her eyes travel to the right page and time suddenly stood still.

“My God,” Mrs. Dawson exclaimed.

My God indeed.

“That’s you.”

Helen peered closer, stared at the image, which certainly looked like her. The woman in the picture wore her hair long, past her waist. She wore a floor length dress with long, flowing sleeves.

Yes, it could have been a distant relative of Helen’s. That alone gave her a sense of familiarity she had never experienced any other time in her life. Abandoned at a young age, Helen never knew her parents or any other relative.

Helen took in the features of the woman
’s face and gasped when her gaze landed on the pendant around the woman’s neck.

Reaching a hand to her own neck, she pulled out an identical replica of the necklace in the picture from under her turtleneck sweater.

The breeze from the window stopped and the room started to warm.

“This lady must be one of your relatives,” Mrs. Dawson said.

Helen nodded but couldn’t voice any words. The necklace wasn’t an heirloom. What did the picture mean? Who was the man on the opposite page, and what did it have to do with the missing boy she felt a need to find?

She had more questions than answers. Glancing at her watch, Helen realized how late it was. “I should leave so you can rest. Do you mind if I hold onto this book for a while?”

Mrs. Dawson patted her hand. “Of course not, dear. It appears to belong to you anyway.”

Helen reached for the book, but Mrs. Dawson stopped her hand midway. Frail, wrinkled fingers touched the backside of Helen
’s hand and fiddled with the watch surrounding her wrist. Mrs. Dawson tapped the watch then lowered her same finger to the picture of the woman in the book.

There, in the pages of an ancient text, was a very similar timepiece on the wrist of the woman.

“Perhaps not a relative after all.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“She looks exactly like you, Helen. That necklace, where did you get it?”

“I found it in a thrift shop.” Her love for all things old brought her into thrift shops in search of hidden treasures. Lots of people threw their possessions away instead of treasuring them. The pendant had Celtic markings with a polished stone dead center. It was simply a well-polished rock set in a common metal. But the stone felt warm against Helen
’s skin when she’d put it on. Somewhere inside of her soul, she knew she was meant to own the necklace.

“This woman is wearing a watch. Your watch.”

“That’s ridiculous. It’s probably a bracelet.”

Mrs. Dawson pressed her reading glasses close to her eyes and peered down. “I see numbers.”

Helen noticed them, too. But it wasn’t possible. “What are you suggesting?” The woman in the picture was clearly garbed in a dress right out of medieval times, a time when watches weren’t part of any woman’s wardrobe. In fact, Helen knew wristwatches weren’t invented until the early nineteenth century.

Mrs. Dawson stared deep into her eyes before she spoke. “To coin a phrase,
‘a picture is worth a thousand words.’”

“Now you
’re throwing riddles at me.” Her curiosity spiked, however, and she decided a Google search was definitely in order. What was the exact date the wristwatch was invented, and who were the authors of this book?

Glancing back at the curtains, Mrs. Dawson said, “Seems something else is throwing riddles at you, dear. I just happen to be the one holding the book with the answers.”

* * * *

1596 Scotland

An unrelenting desire surged into the tips of Simon
’s fingers. If only he could toss a ball of fire onto the ass of his opponent’s horse. But no, that would be cheating, and why hurt the innocent horse. Using his powers would be like bringing a gun to a knife fight. Besides, the warrior’s sword arm was tiring. Simon felt it the last time the man’s broadsword hit his shield.

Metal clashed against metal behind him, and smoke plumed above the fires in the encampment of the invaders who threatened MacCoinnich Keep. Night crept around the edges of light being cast off by the flames, bringing finality to the fight at hand.

Simon’s opponent dug his heels into the flanks of the horse he rode, his sword aiming straight at Simon’s chest.

Hold still
, he whispered mentally to his horse. This skill, the one where he talked to animals, was one he’d mastered at the tender age of thirteen. Now, nearly thirty, Simon had complete command of any animal he came in contact with. Or, as his mother often said, he was a regular Doctor Doolittle.

The warrior charging him released an angry cry, his blade poised for a deathblow.

Simon waited, one hand holding his own weapon firmly, the other cradling a shield with the family crest engraved upon it.

A little closer.

Within a hair’s breadth of the sword reaching his personal space, Simon urged his mount to lunge. With that momentum, he knocked the other man’s sword aside and pierced his enemy’s chest, laying it wide open, spilling the man’s lifeblood.

A set of stunned eyes caught Simon
’s as the warrior slid from his horse on his final descent from life.

Simon paused for only a second to watch him topple before quickly spinning around to assess his next threat.

The enemy retreated to the west, fleeing the losing battle so they could fight another day. Duncan, his uncle by marriage, stood beside his horse, his chest heaving heated breaths as his brother, Cian, circled the fallen. He would determine if any still lived.

The bloody battlefield stunk of unwashed flesh and dying men.

“Do any still breathe?” Duncan called out to Cian.

Cian slid from his horse and carefully rolled one of their enemies over. Even from Simon
’s distance, he could see death on the man’s face.

“Nay. None.”

Several other battle-weary men gathered and awaited direction from Duncan.

“I
’ll send hands from the Keep to aid in the burial of these men,” he told his men. “Did anyone see a leader?”

Simon shook his head. “No one stood out among them.”

“None.” A chorus of denial rose.

“Mayhap ye should send scouts to follow those who fled.”

“Aye.” Duncan’s gaze settled briefly on Simon. An unspoken request lit his eyes. They would scout, but not with men on horses. Sending a small party, easily outnumbered and ambushed, was not the answer.

“I
’ll ride ahead and report to Ian.”

This excuse would go unquestioned by the men. Ian was Laird of the MacCoinnich clan, and he would want to know the outcome of this battle. Instead of returning to the Keep, Simon would scout ahead alone and return without anyone knowing that he watched.

Duncan lifted his chin. “Tell my Tara I’m well.”

Simon nodded, knowing he didn
’t need to say a thing to his aunt. Duncan and Tara had a special mental bond that made it possible for the two of them to communicate with their thoughts. Tara was probably in Duncan’s head right now asking about his well-being.