He nodded in the direction of the dunes that rose behind the beach. “My keep. It’s around ten miles that way.”
“Ten miles? And I suppose it’s too much to ask to call a cab, hey?”
“A what?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
He led the way as they climbed the dunes, picking the easiest path between the tussocky grass and shifting sand. Jenna puffed along behind him, letting out a string of curses that any Highland warrior would have been proud of as her boots sank into the soft sand. Finally, they reached the top.
Arran put his hands on his hips and looked out. He loved the view from here. The Isle of Skye stretched out before him, a landscape of sparkling lochs and undulating moorland, rising up to snow-capped mountains in the distance. The land was a part of him as much as much as he was a part of it, and he would do anything to safeguard it. Anything.
“Wow,” Jenna said, coming to stand by his side. “So that’s Skye, huh?”
“Aye.”
“And I’m really here? In the fifteenth century?”
“Ye really are.”
“My aunts will never believe this.”
“And neither will my people when I show up with a MacFinnan spellweaver. The looks on their faces will be something to behold.” He squinted at the sky, trying to gauge the time. “Come. It’s getting late, and we’ve a long way to go if we want to get back before dark.”
They set off inland, leaving behind the beach and the wreckage of his fleet, and took the northern road, a well-trodden track that snaked its way towards the island’s interior. He set a steady pace but was careful not to go too quickly, mindful of Jenna’s earlier bout ofsickness. Although, he reflected, as she paced along at his side, she seemed to be doing just fine. There was a rosy blush to her cheeks and her eyes sparkled with curiosity as she looked around, taking everything in. The wind sent her cloud of dark hair streaming out behind her, and with her odd twenty-first century attire of billowing coat and red boots, she looked like some kind of warrior queen out of an old tale.
Aye, this MacFinnan spellweaver was not what he’d expected at all.
She looked at him suddenly and he glanced away quickly, embarrassed to have been caught staring. He cast around for something to say, some way to fill the silence.
“So… um… yer aunts,” he said at last. “They are spellweavers too?”
She nodded. “Yep. Both stronger than me. You would have done better enlisting either of them to help you.”
“I dinna think so,” he countered. “Lir led me to ye for a reason.”
“So you said. I’m not sure how much I like the thought of being chosen by a goddess.”
“Me neither. In my experience, it’s always best to remain beneath the notice of those who wield power. But desperate times call for desperate actions.”
Her expression turned pensive. “Desperate times, eh? Does that have something to do with all those burned ships?”
Arran’s stomach clenched. “Aye,” he growled. “It does.” He didn’t want to talk about it right now. He was cold, tired, and hungry and wanted nothing more than to get back to his keep where there would be food and a roaring fire waiting.
But Jenna did not take the hint. “What happened?”
“Raiders,” he said gruffly. “Stealing and killing and burning. That’s what happened.”
He was saved from having to explain further by a sudden shoutfrom up ahead. “My laird! There ye are!”
He halted as a group of mounted men came riding down the trail and pulled up their horses in front of them.
“Damn it, Arran!” Their leader, a huge man with blond braids and a hook nose, glared down at him from atop his prancing mount. “Where the bloody hell have ye been, cousin? When ye disappeared on the beach we thought you’d been taken! We’ve been scouring the whole bloody island for ye!”
“I didnae ‘disappear’ as ye put it, Mal,” Arran replied. “I had something important to take care of.”
Seeing Jenna, the men behind Mal broke into leering grins and began elbowing each other in the ribs.
“Seems our laird found something to distract him!” one of them called.
