Page 11 of Desire of a Highlander

Faye got up and carried the pestle and mortar over to a rickety table next to the fire. She scraped a sticky green paste out of it into a clay cup and added water from a kettle over the fire.

Elodie watched her every movement, hardly daring to breathe. She’d hit her head? Was that why everything had gone so weird? She’d been walking down a hill, looking for a road or somebody with a phone.

Wait. Walking down a hill? She’d been in the community center only moments before that. And then she’d seen those strange images through the arch formed by the willow branches and she’d stepped into them.

Stepped through to...

She couldn’t finish the thought. Her pulse went skittering. “Where am I?” she asked, hearing the shrill, hysteria-tinged tone of her voice. “What am I doing here?”

Faye stirred the concoction in the mug and turned to face her. “Ye mean ye dinna know? Ye weren’t looking for this place?”

“Looking for it? How could I be looking for it? I was just at the community center. We were planning the protest for tomorrow. I said I’d lock up the center after everybody left. Now I don’t know where I am! What the hell has happened to me?”

She threw back the blankets and swung her feet out of bed. It was only then that she realized she was dressed in a long linen nightgown that reached from her neck to her toes.

“Where are my clothes?” she cried.

“Yer clothes were wet through, lass. I had to get ye out of them so ye didnae catch yer death.”

Clutching the edge of the bed for support, Elodie tried to stand. A wave of dizziness went through her, making the room sway dangerously, and she sat down heavily, pressing a hand to her forehead.

Faye was at her side in an instant. “Lie down,” she instructed. “Ye aren’t fit to get out of bed yet. Here, drink this. It will help ye feel better.” She held the cup towards Elodie.

“No,” Elodie muttered. “I have to go. This is crazy. Crazy.”

“Aye, it may be,” Faye replied. “But things will seem better after some rest. Do as I say. Drink this. It will help with the headache.”

Elodie eyed the cup dubiously. A voice in the back of her head was shouting that she most definitely should not be drinking things offered to her by some strange woman she didn’t know, who lived in a rustic little cottage that looked like it might belong to a witch in some child’s tale.

But her headache was getting worse, making her feel sick and dizzy. How could she figure out what had happened to her if she couldn’t think straight?

She took the cup and downed the contents in one go. It tasted vile and for a horrified second she thought she might bring it straight back up again, but after a few moments her stomach began to settle.

Faye was watching her intently. “Better?”

Elodie didn’t answer immediately. Then she noticed a slight lessening of the pain behind her eyes. The dizziness receded a bit as well.

“Yes,” she admitted. “Better.”

“Good. Now lie down and sleep. Ye’ll feel better for it, I promise ye.”

“No,” Elodie muttered. “No sleep. Have to get...” But she was suddenly feeling very sleepy. Her eyes drooped and she couldn’t quite remember what it was she had to do.

“That’s it,” Faye said, taking her shoulder and pushing her gently down onto the bed.

Elodie didn’t resist. As her head hit the lumpy pillow, sleep was already pulling her under.

THE WATER HISSED, SENDING up gouts of steam as Ronan plunged the glowing piece of metal into the barrel, allowing it to cool a little. After only a few seconds he pulled it out again and inspected his handiwork. The blade was forming nicely, curved with a tang at one end to allow it to be fitted to a handle. When it was finished, it would make a half decent scythe but it would need more tempering if it was to last longer than a season.

He shoved it back into the glowing heart of the forge, allowed it to heat up again, then pulled it back out. Using the tongs, he carried the blade over to his anvil and laid it on the top.

Selecting one of his hammers from the rack on the wall, he bent and squinted along the length of the blade, deciding where to strike. Then he swung the hammer and struck, a ringing sound filling the smithy as sparks flew from the molten metal.

As always, he lost himself in the work. His muscles responded almost without thought as he swung the hammer over and over, the metallic ring echoing in tandem with his heartbeat.

He was so lost in the work in fact, that he didn’t notice that the smithy door had opened and someone had entered, until the sound of someone clearing their throat reached him above the ring of the hammer.

He looked up. Faye stood by the door, arms crossed, foot tapping irritably. Ronan put the hammer down.