Page 4 of Tair

“Where are you going to take me?” Lucy asked.

We shall journey back to Scotland in the fourteenth century. Take the shawl.

Suddenly she was back in the garden, standing next to the shawl, as if nothing had happened. The silk seemed even more beautiful than before, and her fingers itched to touch it. She wouldn’t have believed anything that had just happened except for her heart, which was telling her it was all true—just as it had steered her in the right direction all her life.

“I don’t want Pamela to die because of me,” she said, carefully lifting the silk shawl off the fence. “If these are my only two choices, then I want to go—even if it means living in the dark ages.”

At your behest.

The fabric proved to be incredibly heavy, as if it had been woven from dense wool instead of this infinitely soft silk. The sunlight played over the gorgeous pattern, which seemed to sparkle now, as if copper and violet glitter had been woven into each strand. Holding it gave her the sense of cradling something that was alive.

“You’d better hurry and get me out of here,” Lucy warned, “or I’m going to crack up.”

Static electricity made the silk curl around her forearm, and set off sparks the same color as its glittering strands. It engulfed her other hand as she reflexively tried to pull it off her arm. It appeared much bigger now than it had looked on the fence, and was plastering itself to the front of her body like a wet blanket. As Lucy went still it seemed to stretch out in front of her, and then around her–

Maybe this was actually a very bad idea.

Before she could tug it off, the silk shawl on its own crept up over her breasts and covered her neck and face, and then it was all over her, wrapping around her like a dozen unseen arms, cradling her as if it were alive. It didn’t hurt, but it cocooned her completely. Too astonished at first to struggle, Lucy tried to call out for help, but nothing came out of her mouth. When she tried to free herself, she discovered she couldn’t move, either.

Did my brain already go loopy, and I just didn’t realize it until now?

If she was losing her mind, all her senses rushed to assure her that her experience was quite real. The air changed from warm and humid to freezing and flinty, making every breath she took hurt. It never got this cold in Florida. The scents of the garden changed, becoming more piney and mossier. The silk seemed to wrap in layer after layer around her, tightening like the coils of a lasso, or maybe a snake. Shawls weren’t like boa constrictors. She should do something, now, before things got any worse.

Really, what could be worse than going crazy enough to believe she was being swallowed alive by a shawl?

Even as panic streaked through her, Lucy decided to trust the voice and her heart. She was going to die if she didn’t leave right this moment. In the next moment her boots left the ground as she was lifted by some enormous force, and then it hurled her through the air as if she had been shot out of a giant cannon. She had nothing with which to compare this; it had to be the most startling event of her life—assuming she was still alive.

Why me? If her luck had changed, it couldn’t have been for the better. What did I do to deserve this shite?

Naught. Much. Mortals cannae choose their fate, but yours, ’twas especially cruel. That and you’re longed for, lass. Just as you long.

Lucy plummeted down, the silk streaming around her like ribbons in a hurricane while a strange calmness came over her. Maybe her luck had run out instead of changing. When she hit the ground, would it kill her? Would her death prove instantaneous? She hoped so.

Someone caught her in a pair of big, hard arms and tore the silk away from her face. Lucy’s breath left her in a gust of reaction as she stared into eyes so black they seemed to swallow the light. She didn’t recognize the man’s dark, starkly masculine features, and yet she had the bizarre sense that she’d always known him.

Stop acting like a nutter. You don’t know him.

Whoever he was, he came from people who were big, barbaric and brawny—like fourteenth century Scottish people. Although he looked more Latino with those thick straight brows and wild mane of black hair so shiny it appeared wet, his roughly refined features had something like an Asian beauty to them. The long, rough black and gray wool plaid draped over his broad, powerful shoulders and the heavy wool of his clothing suggested he hailed from a cold climate. This had to be Scotland, because if he’d dressed like this in Florida the heat would have slow-roasted him. He smelled of something she couldn’t put a name to but that made her envision dark, icy waters churning in the moonlight.

“Thank you,” she managed to get out.

The man put her down on her feet, and moved his big hands to her waist to steady her as she swayed. The heat of his body seeped through her clothes and spread over her skin, suffusing her with warmth. He had to be the biggest, most intense-looking man she’d ever encountered—and she’d always loved the ancient warrior type. Although Lucy was tall for a woman at five-eleven he towered over her, his incredibly beefy build making him look twice as wide. She checked out his clothes again, and noticed his fur-topped brown boots had been crudely made from hide or leather and, judging by the primitive look of the seams, had been hand stitched. Who made their own boots in this day and age?

Only it isn’t my day and age, Lucy reminded herself.

She wanted to be more skeptical. Could the voice and this man be working together, like a con artist team Justin had hired to mess with her? This guy could be a cast member from one of the theme parks, still wearing his work costume. Why was he looking her over with such an angry expression now?

“I’m sorry.” She saw trees behind him, but they were gigantic sessile oaks—the kind that grew on the other side of the Atlantic. That was when she realized that everything around them looked different, from the huge boulders on either side of them to the enormous shimmering lake only a few hundred yards away. “Could you tell me where I am, please?”

His jaw tightened. “You’re trespassing on my land, wench.”

That was not an American or a Latino accent, Lucy thought, even more bewildered now. He sounded a little like James, her father’s secretary, who was Scottish, although with such a heavy accent she could barely make out what he’d said. His eyes had flashed gold for a moment as he’d said that, but maybe it had been a trick of the light. She couldn’t understand why the sun was setting, either. Was he mad about her being here, really? Lucy abruptly recalled she’d dropped out of the sky on top of him, and if he hadn’t caught her might have seriously hurt the guy. Of course he had a right to be angry.

“Thank you for saving me, sir. I’m Lucy Brooke.” She waited for him to reciprocate and tell her his name. When he didn’t she gave into an impulse, stood on her toes and kissed his cheek before she stepped back. She’d meant it as a gesture of gratitude, but her lips tingled madly. “I really appreciate your help, and I don’t mean to trespass. Something very strange just happened–”

The ground began to shake under Lucy’s feet, and the man grabbed her and yanked her against him as he spun around to face a huge forest of gigantic trees. Some began to fall over, creating fountains of detritus and dirt as they crashed into the ground. An inky blackness appeared in the air, as if something had torn a hole in reality. The darkness flowered outward like a rotting wound, blasting both of them with a frigid, cutting wind.

The bizarre wrongness of it made Lucy tremble. What was coming out of that rift?