“God’s beard, woman. What the hell kind of madness is that?” Maxwell sucked in a lungful of the icy winter breeze. Surely, the cold air would clear the confusion from his head.
“Think about it. It makes my point.” Trish tucked her hands up into her armpits and squinted against the rising wind peppered with bits of snow. “Ramsay and I have to be extremely careful about anything we say or do while we’re here in the past. The consequences of our actions could be disastrous.”
While they’re here in the past.An unfamiliar weight pulled against the corners of Maxwell’s heart. Trish and the boy didn’t plan on staying. Maxwell ran his tongue across the base of his mustache, licking away the melting snowflakes trapped in the hair. Why the hell did it bother him so much? The fact that they might go away? “When do ye plan on leaving? You and the boy.”
Trish brought her reddened hands up to her face, cupped them together over her mouth, and blew out a steamy breath. Rubbing them together, she raised her shoulders in the faintest shrug and stared down at the ground. “I don’t know when we’ll be able to leave. Ramsay’s got to figure out how to get us back since it was kind of an accident that we ended us here in the first place.”
“I see.” Well no. He really didn’t see. He’d just begun to grow accustomed to the fact that the keep seemed a much more interesting place with the addition of the fiery redhead. Maxwell unwound his plaid from about his shoulders and wrapped it around Trish. “I know ye canna stand wool but the cold grows stronger and that bit of cloth ye’ve got around yer body will do no good against the storm.” Maxwell paused; his face close to Trish’s hair as he tightened the cloth around her shoulders.Damn.But the woman smelled fine. She had an alluring sweetness about her, like the spices Ciara used in the treats she fashioned during Yule. Trish’s wild curls blew against his skin. Maxwell closed his eyes, forcing himself not to bury his face in the silk of Trish’s tousled hair.
“Thanks, Maxwell.” Trish cleared her throat and eased a step back.
Maxwell opened his eyes; his gaze centered on Trish’s flushed cheeks and nervously shifting eyes. Trish wouldn’t meet his gaze. Her focus darted everywhere except for Maxwell’s face. Surely, she could feel it too. It couldna be just him.
Maxwell reached out, cupping her chilled face in the palm of his hand; his thumb caressed the velvet of her cheek. He had to know. Steeling himself, Maxwell leaned in and bent his head to hers. With the barest touch, he tasted her mouth, sampled the softness of her lips. Relief flooded through him as the weight of her hand eased up the side of his neck and pulled him closer still. Aye. She felt it too.
Maxwell cradled her closer, deepened the kiss and reveled in the warm sweetness of her mouth. She opened to him, welcomed him in and gave back in return.
Mine. The strength of the word surged through Maxwell’s being.Mine and no other’s.Maxwell deepened the claiming, cradling her head in the crook of his arm as he pulled her body tight against his. He traced his fingers along the warmth of her throat and tickled them up into the softness of her hair.Lore a’mighty.Trish tasted sweeter than he’d imagined. What the hell were they doing standing in the middle of a frozen garden when they could be enjoying each other in the comfort of his soft warm bed?
“Come with me,” he whispered against her mouth. “I need ye more than ye know.”
Trish turned her head slightly away, her hand sliding from around his neck to rest in the center of his chest. Her voice fell to such a soft whisper, Maxwell strained to hear her words. “I shouldn’t, Maxwell. It wouldn’t be right.” Her tiny hand pressed against his breastbone, then slowly slid away. “As soon as Ramsay figures out a way, we’ll be returning to our time.”
Maxwell slid a finger beneath her chin and raised her face to his. “Ye could find happiness here, Trish. This ripple of time is no’ all that bad.”
Trish shook her head and stepped away. “No.” She pulled Maxwell’s plaid tighter about her shoulders and turned toward the outer archways of the keep. “I don’t belong here, Maxwell. I’ve got a life back in my own time. As soon as I can figure out a way, I’m going to return to it.”
Maxwell clasped his hands behind his back, watching Trish’s swaddled form follow the wandering path out of the garden. Realization twisted through his heart, chilling him more than the frigid wind. Trish had to stay. She didn’t belong in the far-off future. Trish belonged with him.
ChapterTen
Deodorant. Tampons. Toothpaste. Steaming hot showers. Grape soda. And ice cream. What she wouldn’t give for a humongous bowl of tongue-tingling butter pecan ice cream. Which item did she miss the most from the future? Hard to say. Probably a three-way tie between tampons, the shower, and ice cream.
Leaning forward on the window ledge, she gave herself to the velvety blackness of the starless sky. She caught her breath, a sudden feeling of claustrophobia wrapped around her and squeezed. The black of the night reached out like an endless, suffocating blanket. Strange how dark the night seemed when there wasn’t any sort of manmade lighting piercing through its folds.
A resounding thud of a dropped book and a muffled curse interrupted the quiet of the room.
“I take that to mean that the spell wasn’t in that book after all?” Trish didn’t bother pulling her gaze from the bleak wintry night. She supposed she should scold Ramsay for his choice of words, but why bother? The boy was frustrated and she didn’t really blame him. They’d been trapped in the past now for almost three months. Any hope of returning to the future was wearing thin around the edges.
Trish closed her eyes and counted backward. Ramsay’s little sister should’ve been born by now. In fact, as best she could calculate, the newest addition to the MacKay brood should be almost one month old. Trish turned, studying Ramsay’s bent head shining auburn in the lamplight. Poor Latharn and Nessa. They must be heartsick and completely frustrated at the loss of their eldest son.
Ramsay lifted his head and wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. A lone teardrop escaped down the curve of his flushed cheek. Trish’s heart ached. What consolation could she offer the boy? Tamping down the urge to gather Ramsay into her arms, Trish forced herself to remain sitting in the window seat. So helpless. She was the adult and what had she done to see them safely home? Nothing. A sense of failure festered in the pit of her stomach and soured on her tongue. “I’m sorry, Ram.”
Ramsay cleared his throat, his voice quivering when he finally spoke. “I miss Ma and Da, Auntie Trish. Do ye think maybe they miss me just a little too?”
“Of course, they do.” She couldn’t resist him any longer. Trish rose from the pillowed bench stretched in front of the window and hurried to Ramsay’s side. Wrapping an arm around his scrawny shoulders, she hugged him tight against her. “You know your mom and dad miss you just as much as you miss them. And I’m sure your brothers and your cousins are sad that you’re gone as well.”
“I bet Hamish isn’t sad. I bet he’s already laid claim to all my stuff.” Ramsay leaned forward over the table, propping his chin atop his folded arms.
“Now Ram.” Trish swallowed a giggle. Knowing the avaricious Hamish, Ramsay was probably right. “You know your mom and dad aren’t going to let anyone pillage your stuff.”
“Auntie Trish?” Ramsay whispered, his gaze focused on the flickering flames of the iron candelabra centered on the table.
“Yes, Ram?”
“What if it takes us years to get back? What if we canna get back at all?”
Trish’s heart lurched. She couldn’t tell the boy she feared the exact same thing. Ramsay needed to feel that she believed in him. Neither one of them could afford believing they’d never make their way back to where they belonged. “We’ll get back. You’ve got to believe that or your magic won’t work. You know that, Ram.”
