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    Timeless
    Timeless
    Timeless
    Ebook563 pages8 hours

    Timeless

    By Teresa J. Reasor

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Archaeology student, Regan Stanhope, lands the chance of a lifetime when she’s chosen to work on a summer dig in Loch Maree, Scotland. The ancient monoliths hidden beneath the loch are the most important discovery since Stonehenge. And for seven hundred years, they have been waiting—for her.

    Saturation diver Quinn Douglas is contracted to recover some of the megaliths from the loch’s bottom. The job will breathe life into the struggling salvage business he and his brothers are building. But from the moment he arrives, Quinn is plagued by dreams and feelings from a past he did not live. Or did he?

    Regan and Quinn are drawn to each other as they research the monoliths and the reason behind their shared visions. But both sense something mystical at work, delving into their minds, manipulating their emotions. And when they finally discover the monoliths’ extraordinary secret, they know they must seal them away from those who are desperate to unlock their power. Even if it means remaining caught in a timeless struggle between the past and present forever.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTeresa J. Reasor
    Release dateJan 14, 2012
    ISBN9780985006907
    Timeless
    Author

    Teresa J. Reasor

    New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Teresa Reasor was born in Southeastern Kentucky, but grew up a Marine Corps brat. The love of reading instilled in her in Kindergarten at Parris Island, South Carolina made books her friends during the many transfers her father's military career entailed. The transition from reading to writing came easily to her and she penned her first book in second grade. But it wasn’t until 2007 that her first published work was released.After twenty-one years as an Art Teacher and ten years as a part time College Instructor, she’s now retired and living her dream as a full time Writer.Her body of work includes both full-length novels and shorter pieces in many different genres, Military Romantic Suspense, Paranormal Romance, Fantasy Romance, Historical Romance, Contemporary Romance, and Children’s Books.

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      Book preview

      Timeless - Teresa J. Reasor

      Timeless

      by

      Teresa J. Reasor

      Copyright 2012 Teresa J. Reasor

      Smashwords Edition

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

      COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Teresa J. Reasor

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

      Contact Information: teresareasor@msn.com

      Cover Art by Tracy Stewart

      Editing by Faith Freewoman

      Teresa J. Reasor

      PO Box 124

      Corbin, KY 40702

      Publishing History

      First Edition 2012

      ISBN 13: 978-0-9850069-0-7

      ISBN 10: 0985006900

      Dedication

      To Corey Albers, without whose expertise in saturation diving, my character’s world and occupation would not have been as believable. Thank you doesn’t say enough.

      To all the wonderful people on the Sub-Arch list serve. You have been invaluable to this project, in particular Rob Reedy, Lee Chamberlain III, Christopher Lewis, Dean Chamberlain, and Peter Johnson. You have always treated me with respect and kindness, gently corrected my misconceptions, and tried your darnedest to teach me. Rob Reedy thanks for always jumping in to offer help and information to a struggling author. And Peter Johnson, thanks for the added attention to detail with your illustrations and explanations about lift bags. You both went beyond the call of duty, and I will always be grateful.

      To Jim MacGregor for his wonderful translation of my song into Scots Gaelic. Your help gave an authenticity to my words.

      Any mistakes I’ve made or license I’ve taken with the information the people in the dedication have shared is totally my own and not the responsibility of the people I’ve mentioned. This is, after all, a work of fiction.

      To the Lethal Ladies Crit Loop. Your invaluable suggestions have made my writing so much better. You’re the Bomb!

      And to my family and particularly my mother, who is always supportive of my writing and artwork—I love you.

      Table of Contents

      Title Page

      Copyright Page

      Dedication

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Chapter 36

      Chapter 37

      Chapter 38

      Chapter 39

      Chapter 40

      Chapter 41

      Chapter 42

      Chapter 43

      Chapter 44

      Chapter 45

      Chapter 46

      Chapter 47

      Chapter 48

      Chapter 49

      Chapter 50

      Epilogue

      Author’s Bio

      Books By Teresa J. Reasor

      PROLOGUE

      Loch Maree, Scotland 1318

      Coira woke with the salty taste of blood coating her mouth. The pungent smells of must and copper, of damp earth and decay filled her nostrils. Her breath bubbled forth wet, rattling.

      Blinded by darkness, her movements weak, she touched the sides of her prison and followed the flat contour of the rough stone with her fingertips. Her arm and hip pressed into the spongy ground. Her bare feet pushed against one side of the small chamber, her head the other. The fabric of her kirtle wrapped her in a cloying, damp cocoon.

      Where was she? What kind of place was this? She reached up and encountered the same rough stone. For a moment, the rock surrounding her seemed to press down on her. Instinct kicked in, shredding her composure. She flailed her arms and succeeded in barking away the skin on her elbows. Her labored breathing squeezed the scream clawing its way up her throat into a wheeze.

      Thoughts of Braden, her husband, tumbled through her mind, tightening her throat with emotion. Was he already searching for her? Would they harm him to end his inquiries? Would they imprison him to silence his accusations? Fear for him cleared the dullness from her mind. Once again, she probed the walls with her hands for an opening.

      A dull pulse of sound rose from the ground beneath her and beat against the walls of the tomb. Her panic stilled. Holding her breath, she strained to identify the low musical rhythm. Voices. Voices raised in a chant she could not define. She had to be close to the stone circle.

      Closing her eyes against the distracting blackness, she focused and allowed her mind to open and reach out. She encountered coldness, slimy and repulsive. The world spun, and a dark, hungry void opened before her, reaching up to suck her down.

      She jerked her mind back, breaking the tie with the man who had attacked her. Drawing in a sharp breath, a fit of coughing racked her. Pain ripped through her so fierce she curled in on herself to ride its crest.

      Afterwards, her meager strength spent, she spat out the fresh blood that clogged her throat.

      She was dying.

      A short rush of fear coursed through her then eased into acceptance. Death did not exist. She would live again. The Druid faith expected it, accepted it, and she knew the truth in her heart.

      Braden. His name hung like a benediction on her lips. Regret, as painful as the cough, tore through her. She did not want to leave him. He was her heart, her lover, her husband. Her everything. Why had she not realized that until now? Tears flowed hot and wet down her cold face.

      The rising force from the ground beneath her throbbed an increasing beat. She knew the worshippers would be stomping in rhythm to the chant, encouraging the rise of power between the priest and the elements as he called upon the stones. With the power of the circle at his disposal, her people would be torn asunder by the clansmen with whom he had aligned himself. For what? Why?

      The answer came like a whisper. For control of the stones.

      Nay. The word, little more than a breath, bounced off the close walls of her tomb.

      In times past, a human sacrifice had been offered to ensure prosperity and the continuing safety of the clan. The priest had attempted to sacrifice her body for his own ends, but she had not died. Not yet.

      She turned on to her back, her movements clumsy and weak. Fresh pain echoed through her body. She bit back a groan. The ground felt soggy as she pressed her palms, her bare feet against the earth. Too weak to speak aloud, she whispered an incantation.

      "With my blood open the way for strength,

      With my body open the way to peace,

      With my blood open the way to unity,

      With my body protect my people from any harm he would do them,

      now and forevermore."

      With the last word, her mind flew free beyond the stone confines. She beckoned the force welcoming the warmth of the power within her. Familiar heat trickled beneath her skin, flowing from the earth she lay on and from the tomb that surrounded her, from the air she breathed. As it permeated her flesh, the ache of her injuries receded and she grasped at the powerful sensation that thrummed through her system like the pulsing of her blood.

      She opened her mind and the small recess where she lay filled with light. The rock slab above her grew transparent, as though she lay face up within a pool of clean water. The sky spread above her heavy with clouds. The priest stood before her. A black hood covered his head. Deep shadows hid his face. He raised his arms, his voice a shout of eager command as the followers repeated his words.

      At once she recognized her prison. She lay inside the very altar where she had worshiped for so many years.

      Patience taught through her faith had served her well in times past. But now an urgency to rush, to seal the stones from him, infused her. A humming filled the altar, high pitched and insistent, as the power the priest summoned reached a fever pitch.

      Steeling herself against the sickening sensation, Coira once again probed the priest’s thoughts and sensed his control wavering. She imagined taking the hard strength of the stones within her, holding it inside her damaged body, as wind whirled around her cooling her overheated skin. The sound of thunder seemed to fill the small space. The lightning had started. If it struck the stones she might not be able to control them.

      The strength of the water beckoned her, and she turned her inner vision to the loch just beyond the stone circle. The water glistened. The lightning’s flash reflected red-gold on its surface.

      Come to me. The words, shouted within her mind, passed her lips as a mere whisper. The humming grew to a whistle as the pressure inside the altar escaped from beneath the heavy lid. The worshippers’ shouts and movements grew frenzied. The ground rumbled beneath her like a great beast that had suddenly awakened and shaken itself from sleep.

      Come to me. Another stronger tremor struck as if the beast struggled to rise and the land began to ripple.

      Great cracks appeared in the earth leading to the loch. Water rushed forth in rivulets to fill them, nipping and tearing at the soil and rock. The ground shuddered, dislodging a huge chunk of the bank and it fell into the water’s depths.

      A collective cry went up as the worshippers staggered and stumbled riding the undulating surface. The stones rocked and swayed as though dancing to the music of the wind. The writings carved on their surface glowed red hot in the lightning’s heat.

      The priest fell to his knees.

      A single monolith cracked at its base and toppled. The lintel balanced between tumbled aside. The last thin layer of ground crumbled away and water surged forth in a great tide.

      Having regained his feet, the priest turned to face the wave, his arms outstretched as though to embrace it. His hood fell back and for the first time she saw his face twisted with rage and fear.

      Nay. Her cry of pain ripped from the depths of her heart as the water crashed down upon him. Her vision faded and, once again, darkness shrouded her. Cold water spewed through the cracks wetting her face and slowly filling the altar. Her body grew numb, her mind disoriented after the release of concentration.

      She panted, drawing short painful breaths of the thinning air as she waited to die. A thought revived her. If she would be reborn one day, then so would he. He might again prove a threat to the stones. To her people.

      With her last breath, she murmured a spell, a prayer of protection for her clan and the stones.

      CHAPTER 1

      Loch Maree, Scotland 2011

      Don’t panic. Don’t panic.

      The mantra played through Regan’s mind like a prayer as she propelled herself through the turbid water with strong even kicks. Heavy sediment clouded her range of vision and gave the water a greenish cast. It reflected back the feeble glow of the watertight dive light she held clamped in her hand. The grayish scales of a lone fish sparkled as it swam within the small, illumined circle, then darted away along the brown bottom of the loch.

      It looked as though she’d been dropped on a waterlogged moon, desolate and distant. Her face ached from the cold temperature of the water, but her dry suit kept her reasonably protected. She forced herself to stop and take stock of the situation. She’d lost her dive buddy, Henry, in the haze, but still had her compass and remained on course. Her heart beat hard against her ribs, and she tried to slow her breathing. He’d been right beside her only moments before. Where could he be?

      She checked her depth gauge. She’d been at a hundred and forty feet for nearly five minutes searching for him, four minutes longer than she should have stayed. She’d have to surface soon. Five minutes on the bottom could eat into the air she needed to decompress.

      He’d be looking for her, as she’d been doing for him. She should have never pushed him to dive with her. Her desire to see the stones may have put Henry’s life at risk. And her own. She had to find him.

      Regan looked at her tank pressure. Would he continue on to the site before surfacing? She could make it to the location and see if he’d made it there.

      The loch bottom rose in a knoll with little vegetation. Regan swam up and over the rise. The ground dropped steeply away, giving the sensation of a bottomless maw opening up to swallow anyone or anything that swam over its lip. An electric fission of renewed fear raced down her body. Her sense of isolation intensified. She heard her father’s voice in her head. Stay calm. She turned her attention to the task at hand.

      She had to be close to the cofferdam. The dark blue panels of the structure should be right before her. How could anything that stood two hundred feet tall and stretched half the length of a football field be so difficult to find? She resisted the urge to look up. In her current situation, the sight of so much water overhead might make her fear worse. She already found it difficult to control her breathing.

      Checking her wrist compass again, she found the needle bouncing back and forth erratically. She gave it a vigorous shake then held it as still as possible. There was something wrong with it. Had it been somehow damaged on the flight to Scotland? She swallowed back the panic that threatened to close her throat. What more could go wrong during this dive?

      If she found the cofferdam, she’d find something onto which to tie her emergency line. She followed the concave edge of the drop-off for a short distance. Through the cloudy water rose the dark corrugation of the cofferdam. She quickly swam forward and rested a rubber-gloved hand on the metal. The height and breadth of the structure appeared like a benevolent mountain looming over her. Constructed of interlocking vertical steel pilings, the temporary dam gave the impression of blocking out what little light permeated the water overhead.

      Dirt and stone littered the landscape along its side. Had the process of sinking the metal sheets bubbled up the debris, or had some other more natural occurrence caused it?

      The water made the structure appear to lean toward her. Dwarfed by the dam’s looming height, she struggled to suppress her cloying claustrophobia. She swung her dive light back and forth, searching for any sign of Henry. The ground gave way to a long downward slope. She drifted, following the deep ruts cut into the bank.

      At the sudden inexplicable increase in the water temperature, she hesitated. It didn’t feel like a natural current, but warmer, like a hot spring. Had the seal along the wrists and ankles of her dry suit broken, she would be experiencing the chill of the water, not a surge of warmth. For a moment, the circle of illumination her dive light provided seemed to expand as some of the sediment cleared. Worry brought a hollow emptiness to the pit of her stomach. Where was Henry?

      She couldn’t search any longer. She’d secure an emergency line, release her buoy, and follow it up. And hope and pray Henry had already surfaced. She looked below for something on which to fasten her line.

      Just beneath her, white PVC pipes delineated a grid around the site. Nearly all the squares blocked in showed signs of digging. In the center of the underwater dig, a long, rectangular object, gray-black in color, lay on its side in the mud. It appeared that the hieroglyphs marking the surface of those already recovered were absent on this one. That couldn’t be right.

      Regan swam down and rested a gloved hand on the block. A cloud of sediment kicked up obscuring visibility, but the deep recessed edge of a design became evident beneath her fingertips. Her satisfied sound forced bubbles from her mouthpiece past her ear.

      Water and mud sealed off the stones protected by the cofferdam above ground. And until the scaffolding was completed, she could only view them from a distance. But these she could touch. And what could it hurt?

      Regan pulled loose her glove and tucked it beneath her weight belt. The water temperature seemed warmer than when she had entered the loch. The pitted surface of the rock felt slick and slimy.

      The sensation of warmth intensified to a prickly static that tingled almost painfully against her bare skin. She tried to lift her hand and break the contact, but her palm felt welded to the top of the stone. Fear bit into her, sharp as an eel’s teeth. Pinpricks traveled with liquid speed up her arm to her shoulder and across her chest. Was she having a heart attack? Was she experiencing an embolism?

      Burning heat raced to the rest of her extremities. A current of power surged like electricity through her entire body. Energy hummed along her nerve endings like a dance of fire until it reached her groin. Regan groaned as an orgasm hit her with such intensity she bowed her back. Jets of sensation rolled outward from the very depths of her body. She remained locked to the stone, yet she was projected someplace else as well. In an instant her consciousness splintered.

      The water cleared, and blue sky appeared above her. She drew a deep breath. The smell of burning peat, strong and acrid, settled on her tongue. She was home. In the distance, stood a stone hut, its roof thatched, and smoke curling from the chimney. Home. The familiar sight sent joy spiraling through her. Her heart beat with excitement as she waded through the tall grass, the blades catching at her skirts and pulling at her stockings.

      Quinn Douglas awoke with a start, a strangled cry on his lips. It was just a dream. He squinted against the glare of the setting sun and threw up a hand to block it. The fishing pole he held in his right hand hung slack. He straightened his neck and grimaced as the crick hit him. God, his sleep deprivation was worse than he’d thought if he could fall asleep sitting on deck fishing. His heart drummed against his ribs. His hands shook as he reeled in the line and set aside the pole.

      Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed an unsteady hand across his face. Jesus, the sodding dreams were killing him. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since he and his crew had arrived at this bloody place. All night he searched for some illusive thing he’d lost. Or he awoke painfully aroused craving the woman’s body he’d dreamed of. Who the hell was she? Some composite woman his subconscious had invented or someone he’d seen on the telly?

      This dream had been especially weird. She had lain still in a clear pool, her eyes staring up at him. A shudder racked him. It reminded him too much of his parents. Their eyes had been open, empty, staring. Looking into the unknown.

      He struggled against the loss, abandonment and anger that accompanied the memory.

      A stiff breeze whipped across the deck pushing against Grannos’s hull. The two hundred and thirty foot salvage vessel pulled against its anchor, but barely rocked. The rain-laden air smelled crisp and cool. A storm would reach the area by evening.

      He turned to look over his shoulder, eastward where the lumbering mass of Slioch Mountain stretched rocky and barren behind him. Its drab gray-brown contrasted with the thick cluster of deep green Scots pines nestled at its base. Since it was Sunday, the diving crew hired for the dig were ashore. They had planned a hike on Slioch. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about them depressurizing and boarding during a storm, but they might get wet anyway.

      His focus shifted to the dark blue steel cofferdam constructed only sixty-eight meters from where Grannos lay anchored. The structure shot four meters into the air above the water line. Its interlocking panels held back the loch and kept it from flooding the area until a more permanent structure was devised.

      The constant sound of the pumps inside the cofferdam bounced across the loch. Jets of water spewed over the side of the structure into Loch Maree, churning the water and spreading a strip of mud across its surface. The silt made visibility miserable below, but it hadn’t kept him from catching enough trout for dinner.

      Along one side, the land sloped, allowing him to see the edge of one stone and part of the lintel that rested atop it. Uneasiness churned in the pit of his stomach every time he looked at the place. He rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders trying to release the tension of his muscles and the crick in his neck.

      Staying aboard Grannos for a few hours of quiet and privacy had been a good idea, even though he’d ended up stewing all afternoon about the dreams and the bloody rocks. Why did he find the limestone slabs so disturbing? He’d made a journey to Stonehenge some years past and had experienced no sense of wariness or discomfort there.

      His cell phone rang and he fished it out of the case on his belt and looked at the number. He swore, then replaced the phone without answering. Marissa could call until doomsday. He wasn’t interested. He was working on the biggest archaeological dig since Stonehenge, and she’d been turned away. There was justice in the world. A wry grin twisted his lips.

      He lifted the cooler next to him and carried it aft to the worktable bolted to the deck. With a knife from the galley he began cleaning and scaling the fish. A clanging of metal against metal drew his attention and he laid aside the blade. He moved to the rear of the boat and looked over the rail to the diving platform.

      A diver shoved a large underwater dive light across the metal scaffold out of the way, then grasped the railing of the stage and attempted to drag himself aboard, his movements clumsy. Quinn removed the panel that sealed off the platform from the deck and stepped out. Grasping the man’s tank harness, he added his strength to the diver’s and wrestled him onto the scaffold.

      The diver ripped the mask from his face and looked up at him, his eyes wide. Is Regan aboard? His accent, distinctly American sounded clipped. His freckles stood out against the paleness of his skin like splotches.

      No one’s aboard but me, Quinn answered.

      She’s in trouble. I know it. We got separated and visibility is terrible. I searched for her for nearly five minutes. But you can’t see shit down there. I finally had to break off to surface.

      Concern ripped through Quinn. How long have you been down?

      Twenty minutes.

      Quinn swore under his breath, his mind weighing possibilities. How much gas did she have?

      She’s got double eighties.

      Air?

      Yeah.

      To what depth were you diving?

      We were aiming for a bounce dive of fifteen minutes at two-hundred feet. But it’s already been longer than that.

      Quinn swore again. Sodding foolish girl. God save him from reckless Americans. What’s the position you were aiming for?

      The stones.

      Quinn stared at him. Dread tightened his shoulders and brought a thickness to his throat. He’d known the damn rocks would be the death of someone. More than likely he’d find the lass drowned, if he found her at all. Jesus. A clammy sweat broke out on his skin. He didn’t want to do this. But there was no one else.

      I’ll get my gear.

      Sparse grass struggled to grow in the front yard. Mud sucked at her shoes as she strode toward the house, and she raised her skirts to keep the hem of her surcoat from dragging through the muck. Before she reached it, the door swung open. A great bear of a man ducked beneath the low header and strode across the yard. He grabbed her upper arms and his smile, laced with relief, brought an airless feeling beneath her ribs and a fierce stab of joy.

      Where have you been, lass?

      Her gaze delved into the emerald green depths of his. His soot black hair hung shaggy and thick about his face and down his back. A dark beard shadowed his jaw. The sensual curve of his bottom lip invited further exploration. When he smiled again, she fought the urge to trace the deep crags that appeared in each rugged cheek.

      I dinna ken.

      Did you fall asleep in the meadow again?

      Aye, I must have. She pressed her hand to his beard roughened jaw, taking in the familiar, yet unfamiliar, planes and angles of his face.

      A frown flitted across his features drawing his heavy brows together. What ails you, Coira?

      I feel as though I have been away from you forever, and I have just now found my way home again.

      A quick flash of concern darkened his gaze, and he smoothed her hair from her face and drew her close. Feel me agin you so you will know you are with me.

      Coira breathed in the familiar smell of peat smoke, leather, and the woodsy scent of pine and soap that clung to Braden. She nestled close and rested her body as tightly to his as she could. His touch, his smell, the perfect way her small frame fit against his larger one eased the sense of danger prickling her skin like the sting of nettles. As she calmed, welcome warmth spread through her limbs, chasing away the fear. A smile tilted her lips as she recognized the thrusting pressure of Braden’s arousal against her stomach through the thickness of his braies.

      Are you a wee bit glad to have me home then, m’lord?

      Aye, lass. My body recognizes yours and is welcoming you.

      Her stomach muscles tightened with anxiety. Have I been away long?

      Every moment we are apart is too long, wife.

      Coira drew back to look up at him and raised one brow. That melted off your tongue as smooth as my black truckle candy.

      Braden laughed. Can I not court you after the wedding then?

      A feeling of tenderness rose up in her and emotion clogged her throat making her voice sound breathy and weak. Aye, court me as much as you will, and I will welcome your words as warmly as I would your kisses.

      Who is the bard now?

      Coira shivered as Braden’s deep voice, husky with emotion, played upon her heart like a harpist plucking strings. He smoothed a tendril of hair back from her cheek. The intensity of his gaze left her mouth powder dry with a longing so strong her lower limbs grew weak.

      Braden brushed her lips with his. I wed you knowing you are as you are. I would not change anythin’ about you. But I would ask you to have a care for yourself. There are those who would wish you harm because they dinna understand what you believe, and they fear it.

      I canna turn aside those who seek my help.

      I dinna ask that of you. I ask you to be wary of all who do seek you out. ’Twould only take one whisper of what you do to have you touted as a witch, or worse. Even here, away from the influence of the English, there are those who would wish to destroy you, or use you for their own purposes.

      I am always careful, Braden. I offer herbs for the illness, but I dinna offer the way to the healing until I am alone. I have not closed my eyes to the danger of being different or to believing differently.

      I am relieved to hear it. He drew her more firmly against him and bent his head to nuzzle her neck.

      Coira shivered as delightful sensations trickled down her spine. She wanted to lose herself in the feelings he evoked, but she couldn’t completely shut off the anxiety that came with not knowing where she had been or how long she had been gone. You did not tell me how long I was away.

      Only a short time. Did you fall asleep?

      I dinna ken.

      Braden pulled back once again to look into her face. You left with your basket to gather herbs.

      They moved apart to look about the yard. I have left it behind, but I dinna remember where. Fear lanced through her again then settled like a stone in her belly.

      Braden laced his fingers through hers and drew her back the way she had come. We will look about for it. You could not have gone far.

      The trail sloped down, the heavy growth of trees shielding the henge from view for a time. The foliage grew sparser and opened into a clearing.

      Loch Maree provided a purplish-blue backdrop to the circle of twenty stones topped by lintels that stretched nearly the width of the inlet. A knoll of ground provided a natural dam holding back the water.

      Braden led her beneath the crossbar spanning a narrow path between two of the stones. Atop the limestone altar in the center of the site sat her basket, the long stems of several plants sticking over the sides. The edge of her tartan shawl, bunched beside it, fluttered in the breeze. Braden paused in the shade of one of the slabs, a sudden wary tension in his stance.

      Warm moist air looped around them. A prickling sensation fluttered over Coira’s skin as though a lightning strike had just dispersed. The smell of smoke lingered on the breeze. Braden’s grasp tightened upon her hand, holding her at his side.

      More curious than alarmed, she ran a soothing hand down his arm. Be at ease. There is nothing to fear in this place.

      She closed her eyes and embraced the power that lingered on the air like mist. Pulling away from Braden’s grasp, she walked clockwise along the edge of the circle. A low hum traveled through the bottoms of her feet to the top of her head, the vibration intensifying as she neared one particular stone. The Ogham designs carved into the pillar writhed black against the reddish light the setting sun painted upon the slab’s surface.

      The air grew still and weighted with moisture. She tasted it, like dew, on her tongue. Her skin grew damp. The sound of the wind, the movement of the trees, her own breathing, ceased. Her ears felt full, as if she had climbed a tall peak and needed to swallow to clear them. What was about here?

      Coira— Braden spoke behind her, his tone taut with wariness.

      An area, head high, on the block wavered like something live wrestled within it. A bulge appeared pulsing, panting, as if the stone were giving birth. A shape thrust forward. Coira staggered back in surprise and fear, a startled cry torn from her.

      Shoulders bowed, the figure stretched its neck back as though attempting to relieve the cramped pain of release. The head turned. A strange oval structure covering the top third of the face, a round disk covered the mouth with a black piece as thick as an eel attached to it. For a moment, the form retained the gray color of the limestone in which it was imbedded, and then the stone slid away like liquid leaving the flesh exposed. The features were feminine, her head, neck, and shoulders encased in something gray-black as a seal’s pelt. With a wiggle, and a sound like the release of suction, a single arm and hand flopped free reaching toward her.

      The pale blue eyes that gazed at her from behind the strange mask reflected her same horror and fear. The wide cheekbones, the dark slash of her brows, the narrow bridge of her nose, mirrored hers in exact detail, and for a moment Coira thought she gazed at her own image.

      With a twisting movement, the woman tried to break free of the stone, her chest heaving in and out as she attempted to breathe. Coira’s eyes stung with tears of pity. She could not stand aside and watch her die. She had to pull her free. Coira reached up to grasp the hand extended toward her.

      Nay! Braden bellowed.

      A current passed through Coira’s fingers, and a force, invisible but strong, looped around her wrist like a rope and pulled. Fear lanced through her, bone deep. She braced her feet and leaned back, fighting against the power that sucked her forward against her will. As she looked up, the hand above her reached out like a black claw to grab her.

      CHAPTER 2

      Quinn shined the watertight torch on the face of his wrist compass. The sediment in the water had grown thicker since his last dive. The red-brown debris peppered his dry suit and clung to his mask. It was like swimming inside an angry, dark thundercloud. He wiped the sediment away with the back of his glove.

      Though a sense of urgency goaded him to hurry, he forced himself to keep his kicks slow and even. It would do no good to expend his air before he’d had a chance to search the immediate area. The light from his torch penetrated the silt only a few feet before it bounced back to him.

      Would he be able to find the girl’s body? Dredging would be futile. Loch Maree was too deep. If he couldn’t recover her, she would be lost in the loch until she surfaced downstream in a few days or weeks. A pity.

      He came upon the side of the cofferdam and allowed the momentum of his kicks to carry him over the lip of the drop-off. The deeper he swam, the more the water cleared and grew darker. The current just beneath the surface carried the sludge kicked up by the pumps downstream and away from the stones.

      His light picked up the white PVC piping that lay suspended over the bottom. The blurred image, separated by so much water, looked like broken bones scattered on the ground. The thought sent a tremor through Quinn. He shouldn’t have listened to Henry describe the woman over the five minutes it had taken him to call his brother and get suited up. She was too young to die like this.

      Warmth permeated his dry suit and a current looped around him. Surprised by the sudden change in temperature and the resistance, Quinn swam against the water’s pull. Perhaps the pumps above had forced surface water down and caused a strange undertow. The girl’s body could be caught in it. He would explore the current more fully once he had checked out the site. He popped through into calmer water surrounding the underwater dig.

      The long, dark slabs surrounded by the piped grid appeared like shadows nestled in the mud. Quinn played his light over the end of one and trailed it along its length. Light reflected off the tempered glass of a mask. He’d found her. She appeared to be kneeling atop the stone, so still she looked like part of it. Had she somehow tethered herself to the stone? He’d known divers to do that to save their families the heartache and wait of searching for them. His parents had done so.

      The memory had his stomach rolling and his chest tightened. Don’t think about it. He closed his eyes until the sensation eased. When he opened them again, the diver remained as still as death before him.

      He swam forward.

      Air exploded from Coira’s lungs, and the world careened. She landed on her back with Braden’s large form pinning her to the ground. His eyes looked dark against the paleness of his skin. With an oath, he turned to look over his shoulder.

      The steady vibration of power interrupted, the woman’s head and shoulders slowly receded as the slab swallowed her. For a moment, her flailing hand appeared suspended, bobbing as if caught upon a liquid current deep within, before it too sank back into the rock. A final watery ripple expanded from the center of the stone to its edge.

      With a loud pop, Coira’s ears cleared, and she became aware of Braden’s stormy countenance above her.

      Do you have no fear, woman? You were going to touch her. How could you do such a thing, Coira?

      She could not breathe, Braden. I only sought to free her.

      And what if she dragged you in with her? What if she drowned you in the stone?

      Shudders of reaction racked her. Her arms and legs felt heavy and weak. Her clothing, clammy and damp, clung to her skin, and moist curls brushed her face. She drew a deep breath and still tasted the odd moistness of the air. Tears blurred her vision and she burrowed her face into Braden’s shoulder and clung to him, needing his strength more than she had ever needed it before.

      ’Twas me, Braden. Did you not see it?

      Nay. His denial bordered on a shout, arms tightening around her to the point of pain. His large body trembled as violently as hers. He struggled to his feet, his movements sluggish, as if he too felt drained. Half dragging, half lifting her, he urged her to a standing position and looped his arm about her waist to hold her up. He scooped the basket and shawl from the altar, and, stumbling forward, guided her through the stones and back up the path.

      They reached the summit of the hill before he stopped. His chest heaving like bellows, Braden gasped between breaths, You will never return there again, Coira. Never. I forbid it. Do you hear me?

      Aye. She sank down on the ground and bent her knees to rest her head upon them, lightheaded from the climb. She shivered, her damp clothing cooled by the evening air.

      Braden sat beside her and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. She pulled the tartan against her body and burrowed beneath its warmth.

      He clenched his hands into fists, his mouth thin, his brows drawn into a scowl, but he did not voice his thoughts.

      She looked out on the loch as the last rays of light touched the water, turning it to liquid gold. As she remembered the thickness of the air she had breathed, felt the cloying dampness that still clung to her skin, a renewed surge of fear sent icy tendrils down her spine. She turned her face against her knees and huddled tighter within the meager warmth of the shawl.

      Braden pushed against her shoulder until she allowed him to press her down on the ground, sharing the heat of his body. For several moments, she continued to shiver, and clenched her teeth against their urge to chatter. She had survived, because her husband had intervened, but what would have happened had he not been there to protect her? What happened before he had accompanied her to the circle? Why could she not remember?

      She nestled against him and bent her knee over his thigh, drawing him within the cradle of her body. She rolled onto her back pulling him with her, driven to feel the weight and strength of him on top of her.

      Bracing an arm on the ground, he looked down at her. His expression grave, he smoothed back the tendrils of hair that clung to her forehead. I thought I had lost you, he said.

      His deep voice fell to raspy whisper that caught at her heart and brought a lump to her throat. They had already endured so much separation, so much heartache. Had she been snatched into the stone, they could have lost each other forever.

      Promise me you wilna go there again, Coira.

      Tears pricked her eyes. Even after what they had experienced, she could not imagine refraining from worshipping within the circle. The stones are a part of me, Braden. I canna promise not to go there. Her hand cupped his beard-roughened cheek as her gaze probed his.

      His frown grew harsh, his mouth a thin hard line. You could have died, Coira. Do you not know that? Can you not feel it in your heart?

      I know ’tis the truth you speak. But ’tis my church, Braden. ’Tis where I must go to cure the sick and ease their suffering. What power I have ties me to the stones, and them to me. You can ask me to forsake them for myself, but you canna ask me to forsake them for the others.

      He swore again and dropped his head on his forearm. His weight pushed down on her and his muscles trembled with tension. She felt the rage and frustration in the clenching of his stomach muscles, in the tight banded muscles of his thighs pressed against hers. For all the violent rage he exuded, she clung to him, sensing a shift in her world that frightened her. When he raised his head, lines of strain dug deep around his eyes and mouth. His green gaze held resignation and a hint of sadness.

      "I would fight the very devil for

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