Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends #1)(103)

I digested the way he phrased his words. Their meaning dawned, even if acceptance did not. “I’m no longer human?”

Rich, deep laughter boomed out. “Ms. MacInnes, with everything you’ve been through, you’ve become more human than most of humanity. Due to your travel through time, not to mention all the power you absorbed from that wall, you’ve also become something more. The babes you carry as well. I’d imagine Iain has also, now that I think about it.”

“And what’s that?” My short-bus mind slammed to a stop. “Wait. Babes?”

The breeze changed direction, and the feeling of power emanating from Sunshine disappeared. A whispered word carried on the wind tickled into my ear.

“Immortal.”

My jaw dropped. Without thought, my hand flew to my belly. It never occurred to me the power flowing through me . . . had changed me . . . on a molecular level. And Iain?

I rushed into the castle, raced up the steps, and burst into our bedchamber. Iain’s broad smile greeted me, his relaxed body soaking in the wooden tub. I’d never seen a more beautiful sight.

A slow smile spread across my face. I unsheathed my sword, pointing it at him, stalking across the room.

“Och, Isa. I’ve been back but an hour and already you’re pickin’ a fight. You doona think I’ve been tortured enough?”

I smirked, propping a hip on the edge of the tub, reaching down, and grasping his hand. “Yes, you’ve suffered enough for a thousand lifetimes. Apparently, I’ve committed you to suffer an eternity.” I aimed my blade toward his open palm.

“Donna stab me!”

He yanked his hand away, but I jerked it back, and the sharp point of my sword pierced the center of his hand.

“Ochhh!”

I pulled the blade away from his skin. A stream of blood trickled across his open palm and into the water. Within seconds, the wound closed and the bleeding stopped. Iain dipped his hand under the water and lifted it. He stared at the unmarred flesh.

“What magick is this?” he asked on a whisper.

“Exactly. And Sunshine, I mean Skorpius . . . you know, the big, black, badass angel? He said not only are you immortal. So am I. And”—I sheathed the blade back into its scabbard and gazed lovingly into Iain’s eyes—“Skorpius also said so are the babes I’m carrying.”

“Bairns? You’re carryin’ my bairns? Two of them?” His eyes widened as he grinned like an idiot.

I laughed lovingly at his instant pride and happiness. “Damn. I hope there’s only two.”

His strong grip seized me, and I toppled into the water on top of him. Waves sloshed out of the tub, splashing everywhere as he kissed me soundly.

I pulled away. “My weapons!”

Iain tossed them out, the metal clattering onto the stone floor. “We’ll forge you new ones.”

He ripped the clothes from my body, holding me down. I struggled, trying to sit upright.

“Hold still, woman. You look—and smell—like you’ve been to hell and back.” He flipped me over, pulling the last torn scrap away. “Let . . . your . . . man . . . take care of you.”

I relaxed in his hold.

What a wonderful idea.





CHAPTER Thirty-six





UCLA Archaeology Department—Twenty—first Century



The letter had been penned on parchment from the thirteenth century . . .

written in ink from the thirteenth century . . .

tied with a silk red ribbon from the thirteenth century . . .

wrapped around a Pict short sword and battle ax . . .

forged twelve hundred years earlier than that.

I exhaled slowly through pursed lips, carefully positioning the time-capsuled package in the center of Professor MacLaren’s desk. Out of nostalgia, or unsolved mystery, MacLaren had left the box exactly where I’d placed it. Good thing too. If MacLaren hadn’t kept my mysterious disappearance that coincided with the box’s appearance a secret, we might’ve ended up in the back forty of a police station’s evidence lockup.

The desk’s immaculate, shining surface showed that MacLaren had been in residence within the last few days. Iain and I had no idea if we’d arrive alone or shock the hell out of my mentor, but the risked chance outweighed the not knowing.

Iain stood behind the desk in his finest plaid. The heirloom brooch fastened to his hip gleamed in the light of the room. He lifted his gaze up to me. We owed everything to that box.

I walked to the far wall of the professor’s enormous tribute to the past. Dusty tomes were stacked neatly on their sides to protect the aged spines. Definitive proof would be found in the facsimile edition of the Codex Laurentianus Mediceus by Tacitus, but the horrific Latin scrawl was nearly illegible. My index finger hovered over the books until I found a powder-blue, unjacketed cover. I lifted three other historical first editions to free the one that would tell us everything: Clarence W. Mendell’s Tacitus: The Man and His Work.

With bated breath, I curled into a corner of the coffee Chesterfield sofa, the leather softly creaking as I tucked suede-clad legs beneath me. I flipped the pages to the second half of the book, scanning every section that mentioned Agricola. Everything had remained the same.

I glanced up at Iain who remained rooted where he stood, silently watching. “Nothing’s changed.”