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Authors: Veronica Wolff

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BOOK: Lord of the Highlands
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Operator.
She pressed Zero. Nothing. She jiggled the hook, pressed random buttons, a spurt of panic making her movements abrupt.
Weird
, she thought distantly, as the foreign dial tone hummed to life.
The rest came to her by rote. Collect to Los Angeles, to her aunt’s house.
Voice mail.
Her heart sank. Something niggled at the back of her mind, and on a hunch, Felicity tried again. Collect to her apartment in San Francisco.
Livvie picked up on the second ring.
“Baby!” her aunt exclaimed. And then, in a conspiratorial tone, she asked, “Where did you get off to last night? You little minx, I see you did the Tarot. Did my candle work for you? Are you calling from Mister Right’s apartment?”
Last night?
It took a moment for Felicity to make sense of Livvie’s words. Had it only been last night?
“I . . . Yes, Liv.” Felicity rested her head against the glass wall of the phone booth. She’d hoped her aunt’s voice would be a balm, but she felt more overwhelmed than ever.
Last night.
Did that mean Will was out there, trapped in some excruciatingly slow unfurling of time?
“I did meet someone.” Her voice hitched, and she braced herself. There would be no hiding her anguish from her aunt.
“Are you crying? Did he hurt you? The bastard. What did he do to you? Did you go out to a bar? You know I hate those types you meet in bars.”
“No.” She numbly repeated the events of the past months. “I went back in time. I was in the past. In old Scotland.”
“Are you okay?” Liv’s voice was instantly grave. “This guy didn’t give you anything, did he? I’ve heard about the drugs some men slip into girls’ drinks—”
“No, Livvie,” she said, tears pricking through her daze. “I was back in time. The man I met was wonderful.”
“Did you have . . . a dream?”
“No. I really was there.” She scrubbed at her face, willing Livvie to just believe her. Felicity didn’t have the energy to try and convince anybody of anything. “It was your candle. I made a wish on it. I asked the universe to send me a Viking.”
“You met a Viking? How far back did you travel?” Livia was silent for a moment. “I
told
you that’s a good candle.”
“No, he wasn’t a real Viking.” Felicity wiped her eyes through a breathy, grateful laugh. Leave it to Aunt Liv to believe her immediately. “I just called him that. It was the 1600s.”
Fresh anguish choked her.
Will. Where are you, Will Rollo?
“His name is . . . was Norse.”
Of all things to share, why was she telling her aunt that? Suddenly it was the little details that seemed the most profound, and the biggest ones the most inconsequential.
Livia was blessedly silent on the other end of the line. She would let Felicity tell her story in whatever order and however slowly she needed.
Breathing deeply, Felicity gathered herself, her emotions alternating between anguished and anesthetized. “I was there for ages. His name is Will.” She paused, fighting not to break down. “William Rollo. I love him. He’s the only man for me. The universe sent me to him. And Livvie, he loved me too. We’re . . .” She swallowed hard.
Breathe.
“We’re having a baby. I’m pregnant.”
Livia screamed. “No shit, honey! That is fantastic!”
“Do you believe me?” Felicity asked hesitantly.
“Of course I believe you. What a silly question. Now when can I meet Mister Viking Hottie?” The glee in Livia’s voice was torture.
“I left him in the past.”
“You did what?”
She closed her eyes. Just thinking about it brought a fresh stab of pain. “I met a witch. She helped me get back to this time.”
“You silly, silly girl.” Liv’s voice was low, and it sent goose bumps rippling across Felicity’s skin. “You make a wish, get sent to your true love. You get this gift, this huge, amazing, wonderful gift from the universe, and you
throw it away
?”
Livvie grew quiet. Only the sound of her breathing echoed over the phone. “You have to go back,” she stated with finality.
Felicity was taken aback. It was the harshest her aunt had ever spoken to her. The shock of it got her tears to stop.
“I can’t. I’ll never be able to go back.” She couldn’t process it all, and so repeated Will’s reasoning by rote. “It’s a dangerous time. I was kidnapped. People thought I was a witch. His brother tried to kill us. Staying wasn’t sensible.”
“Screw sensible.” Livia was outraged. “When have I ever taught you to be sensible?”
“I was in danger.”
“But not from your Viking.”
“Of course not, no,” Felicity murmured. She sighed, sad to her bones. “Not my Viking. He protects me.”
“Well, then he’ll protect you when you go back to him.”
“I can’t though. The witch said I’d never be able to go back.”
“
Can’t
. . .
never
. . . What did I teach you?” Livvie’s tone gentled. “Honey, you need to try.”
“There’s a maze,” Felicity said hesitantly. “I could try that again. But . . . it’s so dangerous there.”
“We can put people on the moon, surely you can find a little modern ingenuity to protect you.”
“You won’t miss me?”
“Of course I’ll miss you, you silly
chit
.” Livia paused on the word, as if waiting for some reaction. “Isn’t that how they speak back then?”
“Yeah, kind of.” Felicity laughed, a giddy, tension-relieving giggle. “What I can understand anyway.”
“Then we have to get you back. I’ll come help you. Where are you?”
“I’m in Scotland.”
“Good heavens, of course you are.” Her aunt gave a sharp sniffle, and Felicity thought how hard it would be for Liv to say good-bye to her only niece forever, and by telephone, of all things. “Then you’ll just need to hang up this phone, and go back to that maze, and figure out a way to get back to him.”
“I love you, Liv.” She shut her eyes, wishing she could give her aunt just one more hug. But Felicity knew, if she could choose only one person to have near for the rest of her life, it was Will whom she’d hold close. “Thank you.”
“For what, dear? Now,” Livvie added quickly, “just hang up the phone and figure out a way to go be with your Viking. And, Felicity?”
“Yes?”
“I love you too, dear.”
Felicity was no longer trembling when she hung up the phone. The numbness had cleared, and she forced herself to hold onto hope, willing her resolve to push the sadness away.
She knew they were meant to be together. She’d find a way. Figure out how to protect herself and them if it meant tromping into that silly tourist shop and getting her hands on the best reproduction claymore Scotland’s Pride Woolen Mill had to offer.
Because, Felicity decided, she’d stay by Will’s side. No matter what.
Chapter 37
London, 1659
“Massey has been captured,” Ormonde said, scanning the pub nervously. His voice was hushed, even though they sat in what was the primary Royalist outpost in Croydon.
Though in the shadows, Will saw the intent clear in his friend’s eyes. “I see where this leads. But I fulfilled my promise. I delivered your letter. I bore tidings of Cromwell’s death, returned the King’s own correspondence back to you. My debt is paid, to you, to the Sealed Knot.”
“And a fine job you did,” Ormonde replied smoothly. “I hear the King is fond of you.”
“Mm-hm.” Will was too jaded to take the bait.
“It seems Charles took a liking to you from the very first,” Ormonde continued. “You met years ago, when he was first crowned at Scone Palace.”
Will gave a cynical shake of his head, remembering. “He says he’s fond of Perthshire.”
“Is that so?” Ormonde laughed and poured himself a finger more whisky. “And an honor it will be for you to attend Charles when he returns once more.”
“I care naught for court. I’ll not be there.”
Ormonde leaned back in his chair. Crossing his arms, he studied his friend. “So morbid you are, William.” Realization narrowed his eyes. “It’s that woman.”
“Aye,” Will replied, a challenge in his voice.
“She’s a strange bird.”
He swung his cane, quick as a musket flash, touching it to Ormonde’s throat. “I am not in the mood, friend.”
“Easy.” The redheaded man leaned away from the tip of Rollo’s cane. “I meant nothing by it. Such a puzzle you are.” Ormonde raised his glass to his lips, took a thoughtful sip. “So just summon her. You can both come to court. Lord knows it’s well past time for you to take a wife.”
“She’s gone . . . to a place from which she cannot return.”
“How terribly gloomy.” Ormonde leaned onto the table, steepling his fingers. “Fine, then. I’ll bite. Why not simply go to her?”
Will was silent for a moment. He decided there was no harm in telling the truth, a partial truth at least. “She’s too far away. In America.”
Ormonde spat the whisky from his mouth. “You jest.”
“When have you known me to jest?”
“When have I known you to brood over a blonde?”
“That’s enough.” Will saw what his friend was about. Ormonde was trying to take his mind from the issue at hand. But he wouldn’t be diverted. “I’ll speak no more about Felicity this night.”
His friend pretended to nose his drink, but Will saw the machinations at work. “Say it, Ormonde. Tell me your real purpose. Why am I sitting here with a belly full of whisky?”
“Massey,” Ormonde conceded. “He was captured in Gloucester, by the militia. It seems he planned a wee uprising that didn’t sit well.”
“That makes how many arrests for the man?” Will asked dismissively. “He’s been taken more times than a South Bank whore.”
“This is serious, Will. They plan to bring him to the Tower.”
“I’ve pulled my last man from the Tower,” Will snapped. When Ormonde didn’t reply, Rollo shook his head, in disbelief of what he saw coming. “Surely you have men closer to Gloucester than we are here. What of Oxford? Doesn’t the Sealed Knot have men in Oxford who could rescue him?”
“None as good as you, Will. And Massey’s not in the Tower yet. He’s still held in Gloucester. Child’s play for a man of your talents.”
“Your flattery may amuse, but it does naught to convince.”
Ormonde remained deathly silent, clearly thinking his uncharacteristic gravity would be the thing to convince Will.
“Massey will be fine,” Rollo said. “I’ve not enough fingers to count the times that man has escaped imprisonment.”
“This is different.” Ormonde raised his glass to drink, then put it down, thinking better of it. “Our enemies have become aware of his value. Massey joined Charles in exile. Became his pet.”
“I thought the King preferred spaniels,” Will replied dryly, referring to Charles’s famous hounds.
“Aye,” Ormonde laughed, unable to maintain his somber mask for long. “A nasty wee rat of a creature.”
Rollo ignored the jest. “Why didn’t the man just stay with Charles in exile?”
“We all have work to do
here
. We’re close, Will. So close.” Shoving glasses aside, Ormonde leaned in, elbows on the table. “England is in chaos. The army despises Richard Cromwell, they rally against him, call him Tumbledown Dick.”
“I heard it was Queen Dick,” Will muttered. “So, if you foment enough unrest . . .”
“The people will see the need to reinstate their king,” Ormonde finished for him. “Tumbledown Dick”—Ormonde gave a sly smile—“is close to resigning.”
“Because the army won’t follow him?”
“Precisely. And while Parliament and the army argue . . .”
“The King shall make his glorious return,” Will concluded. He spun his glass around and around on the table. “And Massey is key to this unrest.”
“Aye. Massey is a key player. We have momentum, Will. There are few men I’d entrust with such a mission. We need you. Just once more.”
Rollo nodded somberly, thinking he’d heard that line before. He studied his friend across the table. Wild red hair and the bright eyes of a boy. His friend needed him.
Will had nothing but his friends now. Felicity was never coming back. His love, gone from him forever. Without her, he had nothing left to live for.
“We need you, Will. Please, help us this one last time. And then you can go to her. Go to America.”
“I cannot.”
“Why not?”
“It’s impossible.”
“Impossible for
you
?” Ormonde raised his brows, confounded. “Why?”
Why indeed?
Will tried to formulate an answer.
His father’s words came to him.
Go to her.
And why not try?
He’d likely not make it. He could die in the attempt. But death would be preferable to this grieving that choked him day and night.
“It’s not as though you’d be the first Scotsman to cross an ocean. Or . . .” Ormonde’s eyes lit. “Is it that you’re afraid of the sailing?”
“I am not afraid of sailing.”
“Good then.” The redheaded man smiled. “Then you’ll not be minding our plan.”
Will’s eyes narrowed.
“To save Massey,” Ormonde clarified.
“You’ve a plan already?” He canted his head in disbelief. “I’ve been taken.”
His friend chuckled. “We sail around. To the mouth of the Severn.”
“No boats,” Will snapped. “I will help you, but there will be no boats.”
“We ease along the passage,” Ormonde continued, ignoring him, “like the Viking ships of old. Come, now.” He shot Rollo a broad and challenging grin. “Your woman did call you a Viking, did she not?”
Chapter 38
The small fishing boat was cold, wet, and dark, and Will regretted that nobody was there to witness the scowl he wore openly on his face.
He despised boats.
“Far cry from a Viking,” he muttered. He sat on the floor of the hull, his back against the hard bench. The position did much to conceal him from view, but it did naught to soothe the ache from his bones.
BOOK: Lord of the Highlands
12.06Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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