Highlander’s Curse (11 page)

“No,” Pol rejected, turning his attention to his general. “The Coryells still have her under surveillance for us, do they not? Have we learned any more of this man who is responsible for her presence in Scotland?”

Colin felt as if the air had been sucked from the room. It was the first he’d heard of Abby’s traveling to Scotland and definitely the first he’d heard of any man. He focused his attention on Dallyn, waiting to hear more.

“She is still being watched, Highness, but we’ve yet to learn much more about Jonathan Flynn. What records they’ve found seem to indicate a wealthy, eccentric recluse.”

“Yet not only is he behind the expedition for which he personally chose Miss Porter, he’s also participating, accompanying those he has hired. An eccentric recluse,
out in the open, freely associating with the masses.” Pol paused, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Nuadian, do you suppose?”

“Unknown,” Dallyn replied. “But the layers of secrecy around him make it a distinct possibility. Is it time, do you think, that we send in a Guardian? To verify and neutralize?”

“Send me.” Colin could not contain himself any longer. He was a Guardian. He wore their mark on his arm as proof. Besides, the idea of some stranger spying on Abby didn’t set well at all. Nor did the idea that some man traveled with her. Especially some man that might well be a Nuadian. His education in the evils of the Nuadian Fae had been most thorough.

“No.” Pol turned his gaze back to Colin. “You’re not ready. Your training is not yet complete.”

“No ready? I’m a warrior. I was born to it. It flows in my very blood. I’ve learned the way to recognize yer Nuadians. I ken the danger they represent.” He had, after all, faced them as a young man when they’d tried to take his sister. “What more is there?”

“You’ve barely scratched the surface of how to blend into this time.” Dallyn shook his head as if he were saying something he considered obvious. “You’ll need to learn much more to enable you to fit comfortably into your new life.”

Pol rose from his seat and in two steps reached Colin’s side, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Patience, my son. You will leave here when the time is right. For now”—he turned his gaze toward his High General—“let us hold off on sending a Guardian. Give Coryell Enterprises time to learn what they can.”

Colin ground his teeth to refrain from making comment, managing enough self-control for a brief nod of his head before he made his way from Pol’s quarters.

They dared counsel him on patience? On fitting into his new life?

Patience and a new life were luxuries he could ill afford. Though he’d yet to read the whole of the wondrous book he’d taken from his cousin’s library, he had made his way through enough of it to know that even should his friends survive the carnage of Methven, they’d have precious little time to recover before they’d be set upon at Dalrigh. Their lives depended upon his return and here he sat in Wyddecol, spending his days in practice of swords and playing at being a school lad with daily lessons.

Patience!
He’d bide his time well enough, but for his own purposes, not theirs. Certainly not for learning to fit into a new life in this time. He didn’t belong here and he had no intention of remaining. His plan was to go home. To his own time. Home, where he was needed. And nothing—
nothing!
—would keep him from that goal.

Not even the wounded voice of Abigail Porter, still echoing in his head.

“Do we err in pushing him too hard?” Dallyn at last moved to take a seat, perching on the edge of the chair as if even in sitting he somehow managed to remain at attention.

“No, my friend. We do what is necessary.” Pol walked to the window overlooking the courtyard. “He
is a strong one. Strong enough to face what is already inside him. The blood of the Royal line of the House of Fae courses through his body.”

“Tempered by the blood of Mortals,” the High General reminded.

Pol lifted a hand, waving away Dallyn’s suggestion. It was too late to worry about that now. His own mother had seen to that when she’d chosen to enchant Colin, drawing out his Fae powers and enhancing them.

It had been bittersweet knowledge to learn the old queen yet lived. He’d known only that she’d been exiled somewhere within Wyddecol after the Great War when the Earth Mother had seized power. That she’d retained the power to move between the worlds had come as a complete surprise. Like as not, the High Council and the Earth Mother would find it equally surprising.

If they knew.

As surprising as they’d likely find Colin’s powers to be.

If they knew.

But they’d not learn any of it from him. He didn’t serve them. The Royal family had always served Wyddecol. They’d served the Magic.

The Magic itself had chosen Colin and nothing in their power could change that. It fell to him now to do his best to prepare the young man for whatever lay ahead.

Behind him, Dallyn cleared his throat. “The Porter woman, she’s a Fae descendant, do you think?”

Pol nodded his agreement. It seemed the only reasonable possibility.

“That would increase the possibility that the man with her is Nuadian. She’s likely in great danger,” Dallyn murmured.

“Likely,” Pol agreed. “And it’s every bit as likely that Miss Porter is Colin’s Soulmate.”

“If you believe that, why didn’t you tell him?” Dallyn had hesitated before the question, obviously working to reason out the answer on his own.

“Precisely because I believe that, my friend. The Magic grows stronger and with great speed. It grows tired of waiting for us to reunite the broken Soul Pairings. Until we know what it has planned next, we have no choice but to prepare as best we can.” No choice but to prepare those who had been chosen as best they could be prepared.

Below him, Colin crossed the courtyard, his figure all but blending in with the shadows.

“When Colin is sent to the RoundHouse on the morrow, I want only waters from the Fountain of Souls to be used for his training. No dilution.”

“Begging your pardon, Highness. Do you think that wise?”

“Wise or not, I believe we’ve diverted this young man from the course set by the Magic for as long as we’re able.” Pol nodded to himself, continuing to watch the subject of their conversation disappear into the door of his quarters. “Make it so, General.”

Wisdom was no longer a consideration; only expediency mattered now. Colin would be leaving them soon, he could feel it. He wanted his young descendant fully prepared when he did go.

“Cautiously, of course,” he added, turning to meet his general’s gaze.

“Of course,” Dallyn replied.

He hesitated to voice his next request. Still, it was necessary. “Someone must go to the Temple of Danu to invoke the spirit of the Earth Mother. Perhaps General Darnee?”

“No.” Dallyn’s lips tightened, his face devoid of all emotion. “I’ll go. No one else should be involved. In case.”

“In case,” Pol agreed.

“And now”—Dallyn rose to his feet—“if you’ll excuse me, Highness, I’ve arrangements to make.” With a formal nod of respect, his general crossed to the door and let himself out.

Arrangements to make.

Pol smiled to himself, turning back to stare out over the empty courtyard. A most delicate way of putting it.

Though use of the Fountain’s waters was forbidden by the High Council and the Earth Mother herself, Pol had no doubt Dallyn would find a way.

His only doubt, in fact, was what effect those waters would have on Colin.

I
f only the sun would chase away the dark, heavy clouds, it might yet turn out to be a decent day.

Abby shivered and pulled the zipper on her jacket all the way up to her chin, huddling into herself against the early morning chill. The rains had finally stopped early yesterday, but the clouds hanging low over the dig site looked ready to burst open at any moment. Summer in the Highlands.

“Okay, people. Gather round so we can go over today’s plan of action.” Mackenzie Lawrence tapped her pencil impatiently against the clipboard she held. “Come
on
, people! Mr. Flynn doesn’t have all day for us to waste.”

Puh-leeze
. Abby forced herself to stare at her own feet so that no one would see her eyes rolling in irritation. As if every single person out here this morning wasn’t
every bit as committed to this project as that annoying little harpy.

Like Abby, most of the others were so excited and grateful to have been chosen to participate in this dig, they’d all minded their manners and deferred to Jonathan Flynn’s every word.

Not Mackenzie. She’d quickly appointed herself their benefactor’s right-hand woman and clearly considered herself head and shoulders above the rest of them because she’d been working as some professor’s assistant for the past year.

Big frickin’ whoop.

Pretty pushy, in Abby’s estimation. Especially for an undergrad. Abby herself had no illusions that Ms. Lawrence knew more than any of the others. She didn’t. It was only that none of them—including Abby—worked so hard at trying to be in charge.

Or at kissing Jonathan Flynn’s butt.

Besides, they’d been over this same little speech so many times, Abby could almost give it herself. After all these weeks, she seriously doubted that the item Jonathan sought was even here to be found.

Her head snapped up when she realized Jonathan had already launched into his description, only to find his eyes fixed on her as if he spoke directly to her.

“I have faith in your ability to locate the stone marker we seek, even though it likely will be in small pieces since the site has been so thoroughly damaged by time.”

Damaged by time? Abby was willing to bet a full month’s salary there was more than time that had gone into the deteriorated state of this particular site. With an undergraduate degree in archaeology, she’d
seen thousands of photos from more than her share of ancient sites located all over the world. This one looked like none of them. Granted, she had never been to the British Isles before, but she had firsthand knowledge of dig sites all across the southwestern United States and she’d never seen any in this shape. In fact, this site looked as if a wrecking crew had been here with sledgehammers, paid to pound the place to dust.

The effects of a thousand years of warring tribes and wet weather, according to Jonathan. That might well be, but Abby had her doubts. This destruction looked intentional to her. Intentional and absolutely complete.

She tuned out the drone of Jonathan’s voice and began her mental preparation for the day’s work. As she always did, she visualized herself sending out delicate tendrils of fluorescent green energy. They curled across the ground, lashing out like lizard tongues testing the air. They probed the rubble and beneath, deep into the earth under her feet, determinedly seeking their prize, the Marker Stone.

According to Jonathan, centuries ago the stone would have stood as tall as a man, its surface engraved with strange Pictish markings. He’d shown them a rough hand-drawn sketch of what he expected to find based on his research. The drawing had reminded Abby of a snake curling around a Do Not Enter sign.

She filled her mind with the image of the drawing but, again today, she felt nothing other than her own frustration. If the marker was here, it wasn’t in the location where she was assigned to dig today.

Their standard pep talk ended, Abby made her way to the spot where she’d been working for the past week
and stepped gingerly into the taped-off square. Down on her knees, she laid her hands on the dirt, spreading her fingers in her own private ritual.

There were archaeological treasures somewhere below her hands. She could feel them. Lovely bits and pieces of past lives, clues to a people long gone, calling to her to expose them to the world once again.

But no Marker Stone. Nothing with the design Jonathan sought.

Neither was her own special treasure here.

For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted to travel to Scotland on an excavation. Something here had called to her. Something ancient. Something special meant for just her to find.

Ah, well. There were still two months left. She might yet locate that special something.