“God... it’s been a long time. I don’t know how to do this.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “But I need to say something for Callum. He deserved better than what he got. He was brave, he fought hard, and I tried—” Her throat closed, and she had to draw a shaky breath. “I tried, but it wasn’t enough. Please don’t let it be counted against him that I failed.” She swallowed, blinking hard. “And please... help me forgive myself. I keep replaying what I could have done differently, what I might have missed. I don’t want to carry that for the rest of my life. He deserves peace, and I hope he has it now. If You’re there, if You hear me... please let him rest. He was... he was so afraid to die.”
She covered her face with her hands and wept—that was the worst part, how frightened Callum had been, so afraid of what lay beyond this life. A single sob broke into another, and another, each one bigger than the last. Her shoulders heaved; her breath came in short, uneven gasps. She couldn’t stop the sound from rising into the hush of the chapel, hiccups and wet, ragged sobs, the sort that shake the whole ribcage and leave your throat raw. Her hands trembled over her mouth, and she felt as if she might be sick.
The grief wasn’t only for Callum. It spilled out for everything—this life thrust on her, the people she’d left behind, the choices she’d made. She thought of her parents, of Jason, of a husband she barely considered. And then for all the good she might have done, how she’d helped the Kerrs during a difficult time, she’d erred twice as much. She should have gone with Ivy and Alaric to Braalach, she should be thinking more of her husband and her mom and dad, and sister and brother. She shouldn’t havereturned Ciaran’s kiss, absolutely shouldn’t wish that somehow, he might forgive her and kiss her again.
She sat with the shame of that and still with an aching need, and she knew, with a clarity that felt like a slap across the face, that she didn’t belong here. Not really. Not anymore. And she needed to stop pretending she did.
She cried until her vision blurred and her throat burned, until finally she knew she needed to pull herself together. But it was clumsy work, wiping her eyes with her fingers, her nose with her sleeve, and coughing to clear her throat even as a fresh set of sobs threatened.
She glanced up at the crucifix, uneasy.
“God, I’ve made a mess of things. I’m not even sure You had anything to do with me being here, but if You did—if You’re watching—could You maybe show me a way back?”
Time travel. She almost laughed. She was pretty sure that God didn’t shuttle people back and forth through centuries. That was the work of myths, sci-fi, the stuff of fairy tales. And yet, here she was, in the fourteenth century, begging God for direction, because who else was left to ask?
The absurdity of it tightened her chest. She buried her face in her hands again, exhaling shakily.
Maybe it isn’t God. Maybe it’s fate. Or some Highland goddess, some ancient pagan spirit that delights in tangling people’s lives. Whoever—or whatever—it is... please, just give me an answer.
The door creaked behind her, and Claire startled, half-turning.
Ciaran.
Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!she thought frantically, whipping back around to hide her surely blotchy, snot-streaked face. Her breath stalled in her chest and heat crawled up herneck. She kept her eyes fixed on the hands in her lap, nervously wringing the folds of her skirts.
Of all people—of all times—seriously?
She hadn’t spoken to him in days, not since she’d confessed she was married.
She thought now of the last prayer she’d just given, right before he’d shocked her by coming into the chapel—asking whoever was responsible for tossing her around in time to just give her an answer.
Seriously! She’d meant about how to get home!
She kept her head bowed, not moving at all, even as her hair fell down around her face, obstructing most of her peripheral view. Still, she saw his boots come into view, in the aisle to her right. Claire held her breath, waiting for him to take a seat, politely across the small aisle. She would make her escape as soon as he sat over there—
To her growing horror, he did not sit in the set of pews across the way, but sat down literally right next to her, the old wood of the seat groaning under his weight.
Christ! Was he trying to torture her? Was this some kind of bitter payback for not having told him she was married? He’d heard her crying and decided to humiliate her by coming for a front row seat?
What a jerk!
She swallowed desperately and refused to lift her face. He was too large for this tiny chapel, and now entirely too large for this small pew. His thigh brushed against her until she jerked hers away. He rested his forearms on his thighs, his hands loose between his knees, and looked at her.
She still didn’t look at him. But she felt the weight and power of his stare.
The silence stretched until she wanted to scream just to break it. Her face burned, but there was no escape. The pewswent directly to the wall on her left, leaving no room for her to scoot out in that direction.
Just when her shoulders began to tremble with her efforts to keep in a new wave of tears—because this humiliation was absolutely the last thing she needed right now—Ciaran finally spoke.
“Why do ye weep, lass?”
The words were simple, but they cut deeper for what they implied, that he had clearly heard her obnoxious sobbing of moments ago. And now she was trapped in the wreckage of her own mortification, with no clean escape.
Screw it, she thought, wrapping her fingers around the top of the pew in front of her, pulling herself to her feet. She faced him then, letting him see the disaster of her face, not caring what he thought.
“Why am I crying? Why am I—? The list might shorter, Ciaran, filled with things thatwouldn’tmake me cry,” she fumed, her voice breaking sharp in the stillness of the chapel. “Everything is awful—nothing is right! Callum is dead and I couldn’t save him, and I don’t belong here.” Her chest heaved as the words tumbled out. “I hate this century. I shouldn’t even be here, and I can’t go home—I don’t even know if home still exists for me. I should’ve gone with Ivy to Braalach, shouldn’t have put so much store in some stupid memory—or dream, whatever it was that made me think I knew you, that we shared some connection.” More tears fell, unchecked, though she paused to wipe her sleeve under her nose again. “I shouldn’t have kissed you—or kissed you back. Yes, I’m married but my marriage is dead, and I wonder if my husband is even looking for me, or if he flew straight back home to his mistress.” Her voice cracked and tears dripped down off her cheeks, and she flailed her hands in time to her words. “And I have only one pair of underwear,” she informed him, trying to name everything thatsucked, “and I have to wash them each evening, hoping they dry by morning. And Callum is dead,” she repeated, flustered, “and Old Donal. And you hate me, so I don’t understand why I was dragged across seven hundred years if I have no purpose here, if everything is awful. I want my mother.” She lifted her hands to her chest, fisting them in front of her, filled with so much rage for how unfair it all was. “I want to go home. I can’t do this anymore. I hate it, all of it. But I don’t know how to go back. That’s why I’m crying, Ciaran!" And with that, she moved, staring at his long legs, needing them out of the way so that she could now, finally, make her escape.
Ciaran lifted his hand and caught one of hers, his grip firm. She jerked instinctively, trying to pull away, but he didn’t let go. His hand was rough and warm, holding hers steady. His eyes locked on hers, intensely green, pinning her as surely as if he’d spoken a command aloud.
