Gray braced himself against the weight of sadness settling within him. “I miss ye both so verra much,” he said as he closed his eyes.
“We love ye, son,” his parents echoed in unison. “Ye do us proud.”
He swallowed hard against the knot in his throat and opened his eyes to see them one last time, but it was too late. All he saw was his own reflection in the pool.
A soft, warm touch rested on his upper arm. “Are you all right?” Trulie whispered. “Gray, are you all right?”
He kept his eyes trained on the scowling face staring back up at him from the water’s surface. Was he all right? No. He was damned confused. But now he vaguely understood what Trulie had been trying to tell him. If she had granted his request, traveled back, and changed his parents’ fate, Alistair MacKenna and Isabeau de Coucy would not be enjoying the life they now knew. And Fearghal and Aileas would still be there, nettling everyone they met. And Beala—who knew what would have happened to that poor, confused maid?
“Gray?” Trulie’s voice trembled.
He pulled her into his arms and pressed his cheek to her silky hair. “I understand now,” he whispered. The words caught in his throat as his mother’s smiling face focused in his mind. “Forgive me,mo chridhe.I swear I shall never doubt ye again.”
He turned with Trulie still in his arms and nodded to Granny. “Vision or reality?” Everything had seemed so real, but how could it be so?
A faint smile pulled at Granny’s mouth as her gaze lowered to the water glistening in the pool. “Both. I took your mind back to the night of the fire and walked you through what really happened. While ye relived it, I opened the bridge of this reality to your parents. Rarely are those who have taken the last leap interested in returning—but in this instance, your mother’s desire to see you happy gave us both the strength for a short visit.”
Gray bowed his head and hugged Trulie tighter. “Thank ye ... more than ye know.”
CHAPTER22
“Since May first came and went during all the chaos of finding arsonists and murderers, what date are you and Gray going to choose now?” Granny settled the flat basket woven from thin strips of wood higher on her hip.
Trulie slid the handle of a deeper basket into the crook of her elbow. After a quick glance around the garden, she untied the neckline of her kirtle and fanned it open wide. Mercy, she was used to humid Kentucky summers. They were best survived by drinking tall glasses of iced tea and staying in the shade. But an overly warm day in Scotland, dressed in entirely too much wool and linen, was about to turn her into a steaming puddle of sweat. “I don’t know exactly. It will have to be soon because Gray wants all the clan to be able to travel to the keep. If we wait too much longer, they’ll be too busy tending to their crops and stocking their larders for winter. They wouldn’t be able to risk losing a month of work for the wedding.”
“A month?” Granny stopped walking and fixed Trulie with a duly impressed gaze. “So, it’s to be a full clan gathering then?”
Trulie grinned at her grandmother’s expression. The time frame of the wedding probably did need a little explaining, even though Granny came from this era. The Sinclair clan had been even more remote than Clan McKenna. Their few remaining members had rarely gathered in one spot for any celebrations.
“The ceremony itself will only last a few hours,” Trulie said. “But Clan MacKenna considers the wedding of their chieftain an opportunity to party. Gray says they have waited a long time for things to improve here at the keep.”
Granny cut a woody stalk of rosemary and tossed it into her basket. “Sounds a bit like that Highland gathering I forced you girls to attend one summer.”
“From what I understand, a MacKenna wedding celebration is a lot like a Highland gathering that lasts two weeks.” Trulie bent to snip off several velvety, gray-green leaves of sage. “The other two weeks will tie up the clan in traveling to and from the keep. The kin from the farthest borders would have quite a ride to get here.
She stopped short when she noticed the tall spikes of a deep-purplish-blue flower. “It’s blooming, Granny.” Her blood went cold as a vivid picture of Colum stretched out across a cold, stone slab flickered through her mind. Why didn’t she see Gray too? Was he safe now?
Granny looked over at the corner of the garden. “That’s the foxglove. The one from your vision. But the poisoning shouldn’t happen now. They both should be safe. Beala is dead.”
“I don’t know,” Trulie whispered. Worry tightened a band around her chest and squeezed. Was the vision still active? Or was she just remembering it from before? “Have you picked up on any negative energy lately? Coira hasn’t mentioned anything, has she?”
“Not that I know of.” Granny scowled down at the plant. “Why don’t we just pull the thing up by the roots and burn it?”
Trulie sat her basket on the stone path and used a small dagger to snip the tops from several chamomile heads. Granny’s suggestion to destroy the foxglove wasn’t half-bad. But what if that wasn’t the plant supplying the poison to be used on Gray and Colum? “No. I don’t want to destroy it just yet. We don’t even know if the vision is still credible. And even if it is, we don’t know if that is the plant the culprit will use.”
“What if it’s not the plant?” Granny pointed her knife at the majestic purple blooms. “That is some powerful poison. It needs to go.”
“There are also good uses for it. You know that.” Trulie fanned her apron in her face to stir a cooling breeze. “Shall I call Tamhas so he can refresh your memory?”
“No thank you.” Granny shot an insulted look her way. “I know more about herbs and such than that man could ever know.”
Trulie hefted the fragrant basket of greens back onto her arm. “Come on. Let’s go find Coira. Maybe between the three of us we can figure out if Gray and Colum are still in danger.”
“And what good will Coira do when it comes to visions?” Granny bent and plucked some mint and added it to her basket.
“None,” Trulie said. “But she’s one of the few close friends I have ever had. There is no harm in keeping her in the loop.”
* * *
