LITMIR.BIZ

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stunningly serious. “Aye. Ye defended me fer a terrible crime an’ ye defended me in the wood. We be strangers, Claire, not kin. Why?”

      She bit her lip. “I don’t know why.”

      Silence fell. His gaze slipped to her throat and she realized he was staring at the pendant she wore. “My father had a stone like that, lass. He wore it till the day he died.”

      Claire was immediately interested. Of course his father was dead, otherwise Malcolm would not be laird. She wanted all the information she could get now. She wanted to know everything about the man standing before her. She told herself it would help her survive this ordeal. “How did he die?”

      “He died at the Red Harlaw, lass, a huge and bloody battle.”

      Claire went still. “Your father was Brogan Mor.”

      His gaze narrowed. “I didna tell ye his name.”

      Her heart was thundering in her chest. What kind of coincidence was this? “Do you want to hear something ironic?” She wet her lips, not waiting for his response. She didn’t have to, for his regard was intensely riveted to her now. “I was on my way to Scotland when you came to my store. I was leaving the following night. And while I was arriving in Edinburgh, my plan was to drive directly to Mull and stay at Malcolm’s Point, so I could visit Dunroch.”

      His temples throbbed. He did not say a word, but from his expression, he did not seem terribly surprised.

      “Your father is in the history books. I read he died in 1411 at the Red Harlaw, but of course, I had no idea I’d be meeting his son shortly thereafter.” She sat back down, shaken. Maybe, given the dates, she should have realized that Malcolm was Brogan Mor’s son. “There’s nothing on your line, Malcolm, after the death of your father.”

      He came forward. “He was a great man, lass, a great warrior, a great laird. Did yer books say so?”

      “I’m sorry. They only mentioned the date of his death and that he led the Macleans in the battle.”

      “Not all of them,” Malcolm said. “The Maclean of north Mull, Tiree and Morvern sits at Duart.”

      “Black Royce is not laird of his clan?”

      “Nay. His lands were granted by a royal charter long ago. He be earl of Morvern, but vassal to me. He be a southern Maclean, lass.”

      Claire couldn’t imagine Royce being subservient to Malcolm. He hadn’t acted so, she thought. “Who became laird of your clan when Brogan died, Malcolm? You were obviously too young to do so.”

      “I was nine years old when Brogan died an’ I became laird. Royce helped me, spending much of his time at Dunroch, until I turned fifteen. That day I needed no one beside me to rule.”

      Before Claire could assimilate that he had become a clan chief at nine years old, and the actual leader at fifteen, his gaze moved back to the stone she wore. “Tell me about the stone.”

      He kept going back to the pendant. “It was my mother’s. Why?”

      “Brogan lost his stone at Harlaw,” Malcolm said, staring at her pendant. “’Twas black, not white, like ye have, but it be the same. ’Tis charmed with powers of healing. There are other lairds an’ even clerics who wear a charm stone. But ye ken.”

      “This is a piece of moonstone set in gold,” Claire cried nervously. “It isn’t magical!”

      “How did yer mother get it? It belonged to a Highlander, lass.”

      Claire went still. “I don’t know. I never thought to ask. I was a child when she died. But she never took it off. The truth is, I always thought—no, I always sensed—it had something to do with my father.”

      His eyes widened. “If yer father gave it to yer mother,” he began.

      “She could have bought it in a pawnshop! Or my father could have bought it there, if it was even his.” Oddly, she felt panic. Had her father been a Scot?

      “Ye be distressed. Why?”

      Claire shook her head, turning away, hugging his brat to her body. “I didn’t know him and he never knew about me. I was a mistake, the result of a single night of passion.” She whirled. “You’re almost making me think that my father is a Highlander—a contemporary one, of course.”

      “Ye dinna look like any Highland lass, but I be thinkin’ ye be connected t’ me, somehow.”

      She sputtered, “I am connected to you because you ripped me from my time and brought me back here with you!”

      He smiled grudgingly. “Aye.”

      “How? How do you travel through time?” This was the single most important question of all, if she was ever going to get back to the twenty-first century.

      “I will it.”

      Claire stared and he stared steadily back. “Some wizard or monk, some shaman, must have found a black hole and figured out accidentally how to use it,” she finally said. “And the knowledge was carefully passed along.” It crossed her mind that if a medieval man could travel through time, surely peers of hers were secretly doing the same thing.

      “Nay. ’Tis a gift from the Ancients.”

      She could not look away. “The ancient shamans?” Was he telling her that time travel dated back to pre-Christian times?

      “The old gods, Claire,” he said softly. “The gods most of Alba have forsaken.”

      She felt chills. Her theory had to be correct. Someone, perhaps in medieval times, perhaps much earlier, had stumbled upon time travel. Such knowledge would be carefully guarded and carefully passed on. Of course he believed that his ability was given by the gods. His culture was a primitive one. Throughout time, mankind sought explanations for events and phenomena they did not understand in religion.

      But he was treading in dangerous waters with such beliefs. “Which old gods?” she asked, fear arising.

      He just looked at her.

      “If you believe you have powers from a god, any god, even Jesus, that’s heresy.”

      His mouth hardened. “I be Catholic, Claire.”

      Claire shuddered. No Catholic believed as he did. Her mind raced. Heresy was a serious crime in the Middle Ages. In Europe, the Church had actively and aggressively prosecuted heretical movements, using the notorious court of the Inquisition to do so. Heretics were usually excommunicated and outlawed, not executed. On the other hand, a member of the Lollard movement had been burned for heresy by the Church, right there in Scotland. The date was unforgettable, because the great wave of prosecutions had come a century later.

      “Have you ever heard of John Resby?”

      His eyes widened. “Aye.”

      Claire tensed. “He was burned at the stake for his beliefs in 1409.”

      “I was a small boy.”

      Claire inhaled. “Then you know you should not be talking so openly about old gods and having powers a man should not have.”

      “’Tis a privy discussion,” he said darkly. “I be trustin’ ye, lass. Ye have no fanatical beliefs.”

      “How would you know that? But you’re right. I’m not even Catholic, Malcolm. I’m Episcopalian.” And that made her a heretic in his time, as well. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

      He nodded. “If I didna trust ye, I’d never tell ye the truth.”

      She couldn’t imagine why he would trust her, an absolute stranger. He added, “But ye’ll come to the mass with me, Claire.”

      “Of course I will. I’m not a fool—I have no problem playing along with orthodoxy until I go home.”

      His gaze flickered oddly and

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