Falling in Time

FALLING
IN TIME

Copyright © 2013 by Sue-Ellen Welfonder.

www.Welfonder.com

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*Falling In Time - This short story
originally appeared in the Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance/ 2009 / Running
Press

When love calls across the
ages...

In Falling In Time, aspiring
writer Lindy Lovejoy knows all about happy endings. But when she travels to
Scotland to research Celtic myth and lore, she never expected a chance to live
her own. Until a stop at mystical Smoo Cave whisks her back in time and into
the arms of a Highland hero who’d burn up the pages of the steamiest Scottish
romance novel.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Talmine
Village

Scotland’s
Far North, the Present

Precious lass. You’re mine, do
you hear me?

I won’t – I can’t - live without
you.

Lindy Lovejoy, American tourist and
expert on all things Scottish, heard the words in her mind. But they were real
enough to make her heart thump against her ribs. Her breath caught, too, and
her stomach went all fluttery. In fact, if she weren’t sitting on her bed,
bolstered by pillows and surrounded by maps and writing paraphernalia, she was
sure she’d melt into a puddle on the plaid-carpeted floor.

She did tilt her head and close her
eyes, concentrating.

Her room, surely the tiniest in the
entire bed-and-breakfast inn, was quiet. Darkness came early on autumn nights
in Scotland and if anyone occupied the room next to hers, they weren’t making
any noise. Outside, the wind had risen and fluting gusts whistled round the
eaves and soughed down the narrow road beneath her window. A glance in that
direction – she hadn’t yet bothered to close the curtains – showed a steady
rain just beginning to fall.

But she could still hear the man’s
voice. Deep, richly-burred, and dangerously seductive, his words slid through
her like smooth, sun-warmed honey.

I’ll ne’er let you go, sweetness
.

Lindy bit her lip, listening. He’d
breathed the endearment as if he were right beside her, his chin grazing her
hair and his breath warm against her cheek.

He was definitely a Highlander.

And he spoke with the kind of
fill-her-with-shivers Scottish accent she thought of as a verbal orgasm.

Too bad he was a product of her
imagination.

Lore MacLaren.

Hero of the Scottish medieval
romance she’d been working on for years and that had only been rejected by –
she opened her eyes and frowned – every agent and editor in the industry. At
least the ones she’d targeted so carefully.

Not that it’d done her any good.

Biting back a curse she was not
going to let pass her lips, she tucked her hair behind an ear and willed her
character to stop talking to her.

Now wasn’t the time for guilty
pleasures.

Even if she was sure that having
such a hot real-seeming, full-bodied hero – a Highland hero, for heaven’s sake!
– had to be something really special in the super competitive business of
writing and selling romance novels.

Lore MacLaren would have to wait
until her vacation was over.

The research trip that – she just
knew – was going to result in her big breakthrough into publishing. She plucked
at a loose thread on the bed’s tartan duvet, almost afraid to acknowledge how
much time, money, and effort she’d vested in her plans. Anyone even halfway
familiar with karma, knew how easy it was to jinx oneself.

But still….

Life could seem so unfair.

Some
authors
hit New York running.

She’d tried that and failed. Doing
everything right and following all the rules had gotten her nowhere. Now she
was going to take a detour.

If
Heather Aflame
wasn’t
wowing the powers-that-be, she’d knock them sideways with
The Armchair
Enthusiast’s Guide to Mythical Scotland.
In lyrical but concise,
easy-to-follow language, she’d regale readers with insider tips on everything
from how to drive left to finding hidden away entrances to Neolithic chambered
tombs and other little known sites that most tourists never see.

Aspiring writers and maybe even
some published authors would snatch the book off the shelves. Agents and
editors would be impressed, enquiring if she didn’t want to pour her knowledge
into Scottish romance.

She’d sell Lore at last.

A
fantastic
two-book deal would be hers.
She could then
quit her job at Ye Olde Pagan Times, the New Age shop in her hometown of New
Hope, Pennsylvania, where she worked such long hours some of the regulars often
asked if she slept on a cot in the back room.

She’d never again have to urge
someone to buy a sneeze-inducing bundle of bad-vibes-chasing sage.

Or suffer the equally pungent smell
of some of the love potions and herbal treatments for masculine sexual dysfunction
that were kept in a locked cupboard in one of the shop’s darkest corners.

Sweet lass, I need you….

Lore’s voice came low and husky. Lindy
whipped around with a jolt, sure she’d felt his breath on her nape. Soft and
warm, it’d caressed her skin, making her tingle with desire and awareness. His
words, deep and rough-edged, let her know that he wanted her with equal passion.
But a quick glance showed that the room loomed empty. As before, nothing
stirred except the damp wind outside her window.

She'd reached again for her pen and
notepad, pushing her Scottish hero from her mind.

Sometimes it didn’t pay to have
such a vivid imagination.

But hard work was always rewarded.

If her
Armchair Enthusiast Guide
took off, she hoped to someday earn a living by immersing herself in the world
she loved best. Medieval Scotland, with all its mystery and magic, and where,
she knew in her heart, she should have born if only some cruel quirk of fate
hadn’t plunked her down in the wrong time and place, leaving her filled with
yearning for a life she couldn’t have.

But she
could
write books
set there.

Once she made a name for herself as
an expert on the must-see Highland hot spots of Celtic mythological fame.

And that wasn’t going to happen
unless she stopped thinking about her romance novel’s hero and paid attention
to the task at hand. Such as studying her next morning’s route to one of the
most celebrated places on her two week tour through Scotland’s ancient
landscape.

She peered at the Ordnance Survey
map that covered most of her bed. The map was a Landranger 9 and detailed every
inch of Cape Wrath, the wildest and remote corner of Scotland. Just seeing all
the squares, lines, and miniscule place names filled her with anticipation. This
was the part of her trip that most excited her. She’d never been to Scotland
before, but she’d dreamt of Sutherland all her life.

Scotland’s far north was where she
belonged.

The next day’s journey would feel
like going home.

Already, she knew each twist and
turn of the way. Every curve of the shore road, the slender crescents of golden
sand, and even the forgotten homesteads, each one little more than a tiny dot
on her map.

Looking at them now, her heart
skittered. Though nothing thrilled her as much as the special place she’d
explore in less than twenty-four hours. Said to be a portal to the Otherworld
as well as a favorite haunt of the fey, Smoo Cave would be the highlight of her
trip.

She also meant to make it the
piece
de resistance
of her book.

Levering up against the pillows,
she pulled the map onto her lap. But before she could trace her finger along
the pink-highlighted stretch of road she needed to follow around Loch Eriboll
and along the coast to Durness where the cave was located, the wind picked up,
slamming one of the shutters against the wall.

Or so she thought until she
remembered the window wasn’t shuttered.

If the banging noise had been the
sound of her door flying open….

Lindy’s heart stopped and the fine
hairs on her nape lifted. Scotland wasn’t exactly known for crime, but there
were always exceptions. So she slowly looked up from the map and slid a
cautious glance across the room.

What she saw took her breath.

A man stood silhouetted against the
light from her dresser lamp. Tall, kilted, and too rock-solid to be her
imagination, he wore a very real-seeming sword at his hip and had a dark,
roguish air about him that made her mouth go dry and did funny things to her
stomach.

He looked very much like Lore.

Especially when his mouth curved in
a slow, sensual smile and he narrowed his gaze on her, his blue eyes going so
hot she gulped.

“Ehhh…" Lindy’s attempt at
speech failed pitifully.

The look in the man’s eyes went
even more provocative, proving he didn’t mind. “You err, sweetness." He
took a step forward, the lamplight gilding him. “I am no’ called Lore MacLaren.
My name is Rogan
.”

He put
back his shoulders, standing straighter.
“Rogan MacGraith.”

“Your name doesn’t matter." Lindy
jumped to her feet, finding her voice at last. “For all I know, you could be an
ax murderer.”

She highly doubted it.

But drop dead gorgeous Highlanders
didn’t materialize out of thin air regardless of the popularity of paranormal
romance. She also doubted they ran around teeny one-blink-and-you’re-through-it
Sutherland villages wearing great plaids and packing razor-sharp swords.

And she hadn’t noticed any medieval
re-enactors staying at the Talmine Arms.

Word was the only other tourists
were an elderly English couple and two German bikers.

The proprietor had told her so.

Which could only mean….

Lindy grabbed a pillow and held it
before her. “I don’t have any money,” she stammered, wishing his searing gaze
wasn’t so unsettling. “I’m at the end of my trip and-”

“Och, lassie." Mr. Medieval
was suddenly right in front of her. “If I wanted your coin” – he plucked the
pillow from her hands and tossed it aside – “any sillers you might have would
already be weighing down my purse.”

He grinned and patted a small
leather pouch hanging from his sword belt. Then the look on his face turned
wicked as he grabbed her and pulled her to him, holding her so tightly that she
could hardly breathe.

“I’m that fast, see you?”

“I see you’re a mad man.”

“Aye, that I am, true enough!"
He released her, his gaze absolutely smoldering now. “So mad for you that if
you dinnae cease calling me Lore each time I kiss you, I may have to kill an
innocent man.”

“Kiss me?"
The
absurdity of his words gave Lindy the energy to dart away from him.

He caught her, his big hand
gripping her arm, before she’d gone two steps. “You’ll no’ be denying our
passion?" His gaze went meaningfully to the bed and Lindy was horrified to
see that it was no longer the narrow, plaid-covered twin bed she’d been
sleeping on.

It was a huge richly-carved
four-poster, its sumptuously embroidered curtains pulled back to reveal a
welter of furred throws, tangled sheets, and a sea of tasseled cushions piled
near the massive headboard.

Lindy blinked.

Rogan MacGraith’s grip tightened on
her elbow. “You are mine, sweetness. I’ll no’ be sharing you with any man. Especially
no’ a fool named Lore.”

“Lore doesn’t exist." Lindy
couldn’t take her gaze off the bed. It looked so real. “I made him up. He’s
fiction. Just like that bed and-”

“And what?" Rogan arched a
brow, pulling her to him again. “This perhaps?”

Without warning, he lowered his
head and kissed her, taking her lips with all the intimacy of someone who’d
kissed, no
plundered
her mouth, many, many times. It was a hard,
ravenous kiss, full of breath and tongue. Rogan held her tighter and deepened
the kiss. Lindy’s pulse raced and her knees almost buckled.

The kiss was much better than any
she’d ever written.

In fact, no real man had ever
kissed her so masterfully either.

Whoever – or whatever – Rogan
MacGraith was, he knew how to curl a woman’s toes.

She wound
her arms around his neck and leaned into him, not caring about anything but the
delicious tingles whipping through her. His shoulder-length hair felt thick and
smooth beneath her fingers, almost cool and sleek like the pages of her map. But
she ignored that incongruity and concentrated on how wonderfully his tongue
swirled and slid so hotly over and around hers. Or so she tried until running
footsteps sounded on the landing outside her room.

Lindy woke at once and peered into
darkness. Her heart was pounding and – dear God – a certain very private part
of her still felt tingly and roused.

Rogan MacGraith was nowhere to be
seen.

And the narrow bed she was lying in
wasn’t anything as magnificent as the curtained, black oak monstrosity she’d
glimpsed over his shoulder.

It’d all been a dream.

Except, perhaps, the hurrying
footsteps she’d heard outside her door.

“Miss Lovejoy!" The innkeeper
appeared at her doorway, proving that much. “Have you been disturbed? The storm
blew out a window on the landing and” – he glanced over his shoulder, at the
shadows behind him – “I’m checking for damage to the rooms, as well.

“Looks like the gust threw open
your door. I’m sorry if your sleep was-”

“I’m fine." Lindy noticed that
her Landranger 9 map was still spread across the bed covers. “I fell asleep
studying my map and didn’t hear a thing.”

“Right, then." The innkeeper
looked relieved. “The missus and I will be up a while yet if you’ll be needing
aught." He gave her a nod, glanced quickly around her room, and was gone,
disappearing as quickly as he’d come.

His footsteps faded into the
distance, the night wind howled and shook the window glass, and Lindy fought
the urge to laugh hysterically.

She’d lied when she’d said she was
fine.

She doubted she’d ever be fine
again.

Everyone knew characters talked to
writers. The stories would be flat if they didn’t. Mere ink on the page and so
boring that no one would want to read a single word.

It was also true that – sometimes –
characters insisted on being named differently.

That, too, was pretty normal.

Stories only came to life once the
names were right.