Page 76 of Beyond Dreams

“Cease!” He growled again, wanting the noise to stop. “Give me a bleeding minute, will ye?” He closed his eyes, presuming no threat from so soft a voice, and concentrated on his breathing. He didn’t open his eyes until his heart had stopped racing. The sky above was clear and bright, the slivers of white clouds perfectly detailed.

Graeme swallowed and blew out a gust of air.

Out of habit, he clenched his fist around the hilt of his sword. He always felt better with sword in hand.

But his hand clenched at nothing. Staring up at the sky as if he were blind, he patted his hand repeatedly on the ground at his right side, the motion growing more frantic with each passing second, when he’d searched the ground all around him.

“I’m sorry,” said that same small voice. “I took your sword. I—I don’t think you’re well enough to have this.”

Graeme forced himself to sit up, closing his eyes to stave off a return of that earlier fogginess, even as he adopted his most gruesome battle mien.

“You dinna take a man’s sword, lass,” he said in a dangerously low voice, “unless you mean to eventually be skewered by it.”

“Oh—okay, I’m going to call whatever emergency number they have here.”

“Did the witch bring you as well?” He asked, unable to escape the improbable conclusion, since her speech sounded so much like Holly’s, like those other time-shifted lasses, Cora and Kayla and Gabrielle.

No response.

Graeme shook his head, deciding the unsteadiness had abated. He rolled his shoulders, able to do so with ease, so that he next attempted to get to his feet. This time, he wasn’t forced to instruct each part of the action. Everything was fine. His body had caught up with his brain, or vice versa. He glanced around, able to find no figure to which the voice belonged.

“What is this, Sidheag?” He grumbled. “Bluidy tricks with the mind, you scurvy witch?”

“Sir?”

Graeme spun around again, the voice still behind him.

This time, he saw her, her figure clear. Remarkably, confoundingly clear. She stood outside the broch, thus elevated almost two yards, staring down at him from twenty feet away. She was not particularly tall, but appeared well-proportioned, delightfully so according to the skin-tight black trews in which she was garbed. The pink that had had caught his attention moments ago was whatever covered her from neck to waist, the fabric bulky and...furry, it seemed. Her hair was a chestnut hue, hanging in soft waves around her shoulders, and she possessed striking blue eyes and rosy cheeks. As Graeme raked her with his gaze, so too did the bonny lass look him over, her stare inquisitive.

Considering once more her legs in the close-fitting trews, the material unknown, Graeme began to believe he had it all wrong. ’Twas only hopefulness and the familiar scenery that had led him to believe that he’d not traveled outside the fourteenth century. But no, Sidheag had indeed sent him through the layers of time. They weren’t made like this where—when—he came from.

“Bugger me,” he seethed.

Her eyes widened.

“I need my sword, lass,” he said, deciding that should be his first order of business.

“Yes,” she said, “but tell me first: are you all right? Or should I call for an ambulance?”

“I’ll be right as rain, lass, as soon as my sword is returned.”

“Right. Okay. I put it back there, behind that part of the wall,” she said.

Feeling stronger, more himself, with each second that passed, Graeme pivoted and easily climbed out of the sunken broch, leaping and planting both hands on the level ground, hoisting himself up and out. He walked swiftly around the curved wall and did indeed find his sword, lying flat in the grass. He reclaimed his weapon, blindly sheathing it as he continued around the round house, meaning to question the lass about the time and actual place.

When he came upon the spot where she had been standing but did not find her, he spun around, searching every direction, loping ahead again around the broch.

A squeaky rattle caught his attention, spinning him around just in time to be dumbstruck as he watched the lass scurry away on some two-wheeled contraption. Her legs moved in circles up and down, which propelled her vehicle and her away from him. Stunned and beyond stupefied, Graeme gave chase, not willing to let her escape, imagining he might need her assistance. To his dismay, she got moving fairly quickly and he was forced to sprint to catch up with her. Several times she turned her head, little squeaks of fright escaping as he gained on her. Not wanting to leap and tackle her off the rolling thing, Graeme pushed himself further until he was close enough to wrap his arm around her and haul her off the wheeled horse. But he was moving at a good speed, and she kicked and fought as soon as he touched her, and did not release the cross bar and the capture was made sloppy. Graeme tripped over one of the wheels, and then he and she and the machine went tumbling to the ground. He tried to shift as they flew threw the air so that she did not land under him. He knew only some success. His shoulder hitting the ground first, followed by his thigh smacking against the seat upon which she’d sat. They tumbled and rolled and when they stopped, Graeme was on top of her, grimacing for the quickly achieved aches and pains.

Beneath him, the lass wrenched her arms between them and starting pounding her fists against him, landing several blows to his chin before he managed to capture her arms and launch them above her head, pushing them hard into the dry summer grass.

“Hold!” He growled at her. “I’ll nae strike you.”

“But you just tackled me off my bike!”

“I could nae let you escape,’ he said, his chest heaving.

“Escape?” She whimpered and then went perfectly still, closing her eyes.

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