Welcome

The Forbidden Grimoire

Chapter 1 – Prose (Expanded)

Eleanor Graves pressed the button on the Keurig machine and watched as weak, steaming liquid dribbled into her chipped mug. It tasted of stale plastic and regret, much like every morning before it. She grimaced, but she’d drink it anyway—just as she’d smile through yet another day of quiet servitude.

She had once believed life would be different. That love would be a grand, sweeping thing full of poetry and stolen glances, that faith would be a source of warmth rather than obligation. That marriage would feel like a partnership, not a duty. But here she was, trapped in a cycle of muted disappointments, her existence measured in bake sales, Bible studies, and the careful performance of being the perfect preacher’s wife.

Her phone buzzed, a bright blue notification blinking on the screen.

Women’s Ministry Chat: Reminder! The bake sale is THIS Sunday—ALL HANDS ON DECK!

Eleanor swiped the alert away without answering. Another text appeared almost immediately.

Sister Eleanor, you haven’t RSVP’d for the Couples’ Renewal Retreat! Hope you and Brother Samuel can make it! We’ll be discussing the Proverbs 31 woman! 😊

She stared at the grinning emoji, her stomach twisting. Proverbs 31. The virtuous wife. The woman whose worth was far above rubies, who spun wool and flax, who never knew idleness. Who served her husband joyfully.

Eleanor wondered if anyone in the group ever considered how exhausting it was to be held to the impossible standard of a woman who never seemed to want anything for herself.

A headache pressed at her temples. She had barely slept, her dreams tangled in images she couldn’t recall. Fragments of whispers. A sensation of heat curling through her bones. She reached for her coffee, hoping the taste wouldn’t be as awful as yesterday’s, but it was. The bitterness curled in her mouth as she forced herself to swallow.

The floor creaked behind her.

Samuel.

He always moved quietly, as though the weight of his righteousness made him lighter on his feet. She turned as he entered the kitchen, his Bible tucked under one arm, his crisp white shirt already buttoned to the throat. His hair was combed to one side, neat and disciplined, much like the man himself.

He studied her over the rim of his coffee cup, his gaze cool and assessing.

“You look tired.” His voice was smooth, but edged with condescension. “Are you even getting up early enough for your morning prayers?”

Eleanor forced a polite smile. “Of course.”

Samuel made a small sound of disapproval, setting his cup down with just enough force to make it clear he wasn’t satisfied with her answer.

“We must be vigilant, Eleanor. The devil is always lurking in moments of weakness.” He flipped open his Bible, scanning the pages with the air of a man searching for the right scripture to correct her with. “I’ve been thinking about something from Ephesians. ‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord.’ It’s a reminder that—”

A book tumbled from the counter, breaking the sanctity of his lecture.

Eleanor’s heart lurched as she saw which one it was.

The deep red cover. The embossed gold lettering. The swooning woman on the front, caught in the arms of a shirtless pirate.

Samuel picked it up between two fingers, as though it were something diseased. His lip curled.

“Still filling your head with this nonsense?” His tone was clipped, disapproving, but not entirely surprised. She had been caught before, after all.

Eleanor exhaled slowly. She could already hear his argument before he said it.

These books give you ideas. They twist your mind with sinful longing. They make you dissatisfied.

And the worst part? He wouldn’t even be wrong.

She took the book from his hands, tucking it under her arm.

“It’s just a story.”

He gave her a look that made it clear he didn’t believe her.

“If you spent half as much time in the Word as you do in those stories, you wouldn’t be so…” His eyes flickered over her face, down to the buttons of her cardigan. “Discontent.”

She bit back the words that threatened to rise.

Maybe if you touched me like the heroes in those books, I wouldn’t need to read them at all.

But she didn’t say it. What was the point? He’d never understand.

Instead, she turned away, busying herself with the sink.

She heard him exhale, flipping through the Bible again.

“Brother Martin says we need more volunteers for the revival this summer. You’ll put your name down, won’t you?”

As if she had a choice.

“Of course,” she murmured.

After breakfast, she retreated to the church archives, needing space, needing quiet, needing anything that wasn’t the suffocating weight of expectation pressing down on her.

The room smelled of dust and old paper, the scent oddly soothing. She ran her fingers over the spines of worn hymnals and outdated theology books, pretending she was somewhere else, someone else. Maybe in one of her stories.

Maybe on the deck of a ship, caught in the arms of a man who smelled of salt and sea, whispering run away with me against her skin.

She sighed, shaking the thought away. But just as she turned to leave, something caught her eye.

A book.

Not like the others.

Its leather binding was worn but strangely smooth, almost humming beneath her fingertips. Symbols she didn’t recognize were etched into the cover. Not English. Not Greek. Older.

Something in her chest tightened.

Her pulse quickened.

She knew she shouldn’t. Knew she should put it back and walk away.

But her fingers curled around the cover, and she pulled it open.

The words on the page shifted before her eyes.

And then, the room tilted.

A strange, electric force surged through her, curling around her ribs, sinking into her skin. She gasped, staggering back, but the book was clinging to her now, its text glowing like embers.

She barely had time to scream before the world unraveled.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – Prose

Eleanor's first breath was a gasp, sharp and desperate, as though she had broken the surface of a deep, drowning sleep. The world around her was dark, the air thick with the scent of damp leather and something earthy, like moss and old wood. Her wrists ached, bound together with rough twine that bit into her skin. The floor beneath her rocked, and it took a moment for her sluggish mind to recognize the rhythmic creak of wooden wheels on uneven ground.

She was in a carriage.

Panic clawed at her chest. She struggled upright, the heavy fabric of her gown tangling around her legs. A gown. Not her nightshirt. Not the simple cotton dress she had worn that morning. This was something else entirely—velvet, heavy and embroidered, cinched too tightly at the waist as though it belonged to a body that was not her own.

A gust of cold air slipped through the cracks in the carriage, carrying the scent of pine and peat smoke. Eleanor shivered. Her pulse roared in her ears.

She pressed a shaking hand to her throat, willing herself to wake up. This had to be a dream. It had to be. But when she pinched the skin of her arm, the pain was all too real.

A deep voice rumbled from outside the carriage. “Stop here.”

The wheels ground to a halt.

Eleanor barely had time to brace herself before the carriage door was wrenched open, revealing the broad silhouette of a man. He filled the doorway, his shoulders cutting a sharp shape against the dim light of dawn.

The first thing she saw was his eyes—dark, piercing, calculating.

The second was the sword at his hip.

“Lady Aisling Fraser,” he said, his Scottish brogue thick and rough as weathered stone. “Ye have some explaining to do.”

Eleanor’s breath hitched. “I—I think there’s been a mistake.”

The man—Lachlan MacTavish, though she did not yet know his name—tilted his head, regarding her like a puzzle missing half its pieces. Then, with a nod, he stepped aside, allowing two other men to grab her arms.

“Mistake or not, ye belong to me now.”

---

chapter-3

Chapter 3 - The MacTavish Keep

Eleanor stumbled as the men hauled her from the carriage, her legs stiff and unfamiliar. The heavy fabric of her gown—a deep emerald that caught the morning light—dragged in the mud. Around her stretched a landscape both foreign and achingly beautiful: rolling hills shrouded in mist, jagged mountains piercing a pearl-gray sky. This was not Georgia. This was not her century.

"I'm not who you think I am," she tried again, her voice steadier than she felt. "My name is Eleanor Graves, not... not Aisling."

The man—tall and formidable, with raven-black hair pulled back from a face etched with both hardness and pride—regarded her with narrowed eyes. A scar ran along his jaw, white against sun-darkened skin.

"Aye, and I'm the King of England," he replied, his voice edged with sarcasm. "Your deception won't work here, milady. We know who you are."

"Lachlan," said a younger man who shared the same sharp cheekbones, though his face lacked the weathered lines of his brother's. "Perhaps we should—"

"Enough, Duncan." Lachlan silenced him with a raised hand. "Lady Aisling is our guest until she reveals what she knows of the MacTavish stone. Nothing more, nothing less."

Eleanor's mind raced. The grimoire, the incantation she'd read aloud in the church archives—was she truly in another time? Another body? The thought made her dizzy with terror and, strangely, a flicker of exhilaration.

"The MacTavish stone?" she repeated, grasping for any information that might help her understand her situation.

A ghost of a smile crossed Lachlan's face. "Playing ignorant won't save you. Your cousin, Lord Fraser, boasted of your knowledge before his... unfortunate passing."

The implication hung heavy in the air. Eleanor shivered, not entirely from the cold.

"Take her inside," Lachlan ordered. "And post guards. Our 'guest' is not to leave her chambers without escort."

The men guided—or rather pushed—Eleanor toward an imposing stone structure that loomed against the sky. MacTavish Keep. Its walls rose like sentinels, ancient and unyielding, crowned with battlements where figures moved like shadows against the dawn.

Inside, the keep was a labyrinth of stone corridors lit by flickering torches. The air was heavy with the scent of smoke, damp stone, and something else—herbs, perhaps, or the lingering trace of meals prepared in a kitchen somewhere below. Eleanor tried to memorize each turn, each staircase, but her mind was clouded with exhaustion and fear.

They led her to a chamber high in the eastern tower. The room was sparse but not uncomfortable: a bed with rough woolen blankets, a small table with a basin of water, a narrow window that offered a view of the misty glen below. A fire burned in the hearth, battling the perpetual chill of stone walls.

"You'll stay here until the laird summons you," said one of the men, his tone not unkind despite the circumstances. "There's water for washing, and someone will bring food."

The door closed behind them with a heavy thud, followed by the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock.

Eleanor was alone.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, her borrowed body trembling. Tears threatened to spill, but she blinked them back fiercely. Crying would solve nothing. She needed to think, to understand.

Rising shakily, she approached the small looking glass mounted on the wall. The face that stared back was not her own. Gone were her mousy brown hair and unremarkable features. In their place was a woman with copper-red curls and eyes the color of winter moss, a face with high cheekbones and a determined chin. Beautiful, in a wild, untamed way.

"Lady Aisling Fraser," she whispered, touching the unfamiliar face. "Who are you?"

A sudden warmth pulsed at her wrist, and Eleanor pushed back the sleeve of her gown. There, emblazoned on her skin like a brand, was a small symbol—the same intricate pattern she had seen on the cover of the grimoire. It glowed faintly, then faded to what looked like an ordinary birthmark.

A soft knock at the door startled her. Eleanor quickly pulled down her sleeve as the door opened to reveal a young woman carrying a tray of food.

"I've brought ye some broth and bread, milady," the girl said, her eyes downcast. "And the laird wishes to speak with ye once ye've eaten."

"Thank you," Eleanor replied, trying to keep her voice steady. "What's your name?"

The girl looked up, surprised by the question. "Fiona, milady. I'm to be your handmaid during your... stay."

"Fiona," Eleanor repeated, grasping at this small connection. "Thank you for the food. I'm..." She hesitated. "I'm not entirely sure where I am or what's happening."

Fiona's expression softened slightly. "Ye're at MacTavish Keep, in the heart of the Highlands. And as for what's happening—" She glanced over her shoulder nervously. "The laird seeks what was stolen from his clan generations ago. The MacTavish stone. 'Tis said to hold great power, and your family has kept it hidden these many years."

"And what does this... stone do?"

Fiona's voice dropped to a whisper. "They say it can change fate itself. That's why the laird wants it so badly. Since his parents were murdered by the Sinclairs, he's been obsessed with restoring his clan's glory." She straightened suddenly. "I've said too much. Eat your food, milady. The laird isn't known for his patience."

As Fiona turned to leave, Eleanor called after her. "Wait! Is there... is there a woman named Morag nearby? A healer, perhaps?"

Fiona froze, her face paling. "How do ye know of the witch? She lives in the glen, away from decent folk. Only those desperate or foolish seek her out." Her eyes narrowed. "They say your kin consorts with those who practice the old ways. Is it true, then?"

Before Eleanor could answer, the door opened wider to reveal Lachlan MacTavish himself. He filled the doorframe, his presence commanding even in silence.

"Leave us, Fiona," he ordered, his gaze fixed on Eleanor.

The girl curtseyed hastily and slipped past him, avoiding his gaze.

Lachlan stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. In the confines of the chamber, he seemed larger, more imposing. His plaid was secured at his shoulder with a silver brooch bearing the same symbol Eleanor had seen on her wrist.

"So," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You seek the witch Morag already. Perhaps you are more forthcoming than I expected, Lady Aisling."

Eleanor lifted her chin, summoning courage she didn't know she possessed. "I'm not Aisling Fraser. I don't know anything about a stone or your clan's history."

"Then how do you know of Morag?" His eyes—gray as the Scottish sky—bored into hers.

"I..." Eleanor faltered. How could she explain? "I had a dream. About a book, and a symbol, and a woman named Morag who might help me."

"A dream," Lachlan repeated flatly. "A convenient explanation."

He moved closer, and Eleanor fought the urge to step back. She would not show fear, even as her heart hammered against her ribs.

"Lady Aisling—or whoever you claim to be—I care not for your games. The stone belongs to the MacTavish clan. You will tell me where it is hidden, or you will remain here until you do."

There was something in his voice beyond anger or determination. A desperation, perhaps, or a deeply buried pain.

"And if I truly don't know?" she asked softly.

For a moment, uncertainty flickered across his face. Then his expression hardened once more.

"Then pray to whatever gods you worship that you remember soon." He turned to leave, then paused. "We ride at dawn to visit neighboring lands. You will accompany me. Perhaps seeing the devastation your family's allies have wrought upon our people will loosen your tongue."

The door closed behind him with finality, leaving Eleanor alone with her thoughts and the growing realization that her only hope might lie with a woman the locals feared as a witch.

Outside the narrow window, the sun broke through the morning mist, illuminating the wild beauty of the Highlands. In another life, Eleanor had dreamed of adventure, of breaking free from the constraints of her small-town existence. Now, thrust into a world of clan rivalries and ancient magic, she felt both terrified and strangely alive.

She touched the hidden mark on her wrist and whispered to the empty room, "What have I done?"

The mark pulsed once in response, as if acknowledging her question. But answers, it seemed, would have to wait for another day.

chapter-4

Chapter 4 - Across the Highlands

Dawn broke with pale fingers of light stretching across the horizon. Eleanor had barely slept, her mind racing with questions that had no answers. The unfamiliar body she inhabited felt both wrong and right—stronger than her own, with reflexes that sometimes surprised her. Twice during the night, she'd reached for a glass of water and found her hand moving with unexpected grace, as though muscle memory belonged to this form rather than to her.

A soft knock announced Fiona's arrival. The girl entered with a bundle of clothing.

"For riding, milady," she explained, laying out a simpler gown of sturdy wool and a warm cloak. "The laird doesn't wait for anyone, not even noble captives."

Eleanor's fingers traced the fabric. "Thank you, Fiona. Can you... help me dress? I'm not used to these garments."

Fiona raised an eyebrow but said nothing as she assisted Eleanor with the complicated layers. As the girl worked, Eleanor caught sight of her reflection again—copper hair tumbling down her back, wild and untamed in a way Reverend Samuel would never have allowed. The thought of her husband sent a pang through her chest, not of longing but of uncertainty. Had he noticed her absence? Was he searching for her? The strange truth was that she couldn't summon much concern over his distress.

"Your hair, milady," Fiona said, reaching for a brush. "Shall I braid it for the journey?"

Eleanor nodded, letting her eyes drift closed as Fiona's nimble fingers worked through the tangles. It felt intimate, this small kindness from a stranger. When was the last time anyone had touched her with such care? Samuel's touches were always perfunctory, a husband's duty rather than a lover's desire.

"Tell me about Lachlan MacTavish," Eleanor said softly.

Fiona's hands paused momentarily. "The laird? What is there to tell that ye don't already know from your Fraser kin?"

"Pretend I know nothing."

A sigh escaped the maid's lips. "He wasn't always so hard. After his parents were murdered when he was but eighteen, he had to become laird, raise his brother, protect the clan. The Sinclair feud has consumed him. He believes the MacTavish stone is the key to restoring what was lost."

"And what exactly is this stone supposed to do?"

"Legend says it holds ancient power, from before Christian times. The MacTavish ancestors were keepers of old magic, tied to the land itself." Fiona's voice dropped to a whisper. "Some say it can bend time, change fate. Others say it grants visions of what might be." Her fingers returned to braiding. "But such talk is dangerous, especially with the church's influence growing."

The church. Eleanor almost laughed at the irony. Even centuries in the past, she couldn't escape its shadow.

"There," Fiona said, securing the braid. "The laird awaits below."

Eleanor descended the winding stone staircase, each step sending her heart racing faster. The great hall was alive with activity—men preparing for the journey, servants rushing to and fro. And then she saw him, standing by the massive hearth, his profile outlined by firelight.

Lachlan MacTavish cut an imposing figure in his riding clothes, the plaid draped across his broad shoulder in a way that emphasized his height and strength. His dark hair was tied back, revealing the strong line of his jaw with that distinctive scar. As though sensing her presence, he turned, gray eyes locking with hers across the room.

A strange jolt passed through Eleanor's body—recognition, perhaps, or something deeper that she didn't dare name. This wasn't her world, her time, her body. And yet in that brief moment, she felt more present, more alive than she had in years of her dutiful existence in Georgia.

He strode toward her, his movements fluid and purposeful like a predator. "Lady Aisling. I see you're prepared for our journey."

Eleanor forced herself to meet his gaze steadily. "Do I have a choice, Laird MacTavish?"

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but a flicker of something other than hostility. "We all have choices, milady. Though rarely the ones we wish for."

Something in his words resonated with her. Wasn't that the truth of her life? Even before the grimoire, she'd been living a path chosen for her—the preacher's dutiful wife, the town's moral example. She'd never chosen, only acquiesced.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"To MacTavish lands that border Sinclair territory. You should see what your allies have done to my people."

"They aren't my allies," she insisted.

Lachlan studied her face, searching for deception. "We shall see."

Outside, the morning air bit at Eleanor's cheeks, sharp and clean in a way the Georgia air never was. A stable boy brought forth two horses—a massive black stallion for Lachlan and a smaller chestnut mare for her.

Eleanor froze. She'd never ridden a horse in her life.

Lachlan noticed her hesitation. "Don't tell me the fearsome Lady Aisling Fraser is afraid of horses?" There was a challenge in his voice, perhaps even amusement.

Pride—whether hers or Aisling's, she couldn't tell—stiffened her spine. "Of course not."

Duncan appeared at her side, his manner gentler than his brother's. "Allow me to assist you, milady."

Before she could respond, strong hands closed around her waist. Eleanor gasped as Lachlan lifted her effortlessly onto the saddle, his touch burning through the layers of her clothing. Their eyes met for a breathless moment, his face inches from hers.

"Hold tight," he murmured, his breath warm against her cold cheek. "Ailsa is gentle, but the path is not."

Then he was gone, mounting his own horse with practiced ease. A small party of MacTavish men formed around them, and they set off from the keep.

The journey through the Highlands was both terrifying and exhilarating. Eleanor clung to the saddle, her body gradually finding its rhythm with the horse beneath her. Around them, the landscape unfolded in breathtaking majesty—craggy mountains reaching toward a sky so vast it made her dizzy, glens carpeted in heather, streams that cut through ancient rock like silver ribbons.

Lachlan rode ahead, his back straight, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Occasionally, he would glance back, checking on her. Each time their eyes met, that same strange current passed between them—hostility mixed with something Eleanor didn't dare name.

"You ride well for someone who seemed afraid," he commented during a brief rest to water the horses.

Eleanor slid from her saddle, her legs trembling with the effort of the unfamiliar activity. "Perhaps I remembered how."

"Perhaps." His expression darkened. "Or perhaps you're still playing games."

"Not everything is a game, Laird MacTavish." She massaged her aching thighs discreetly. "Sometimes people are simply... lost."

Something in her voice must have struck him, for his gaze softened momentarily. "We're all lost in some way, Lady Aisling. The question is whether we seek to be found."

They pressed on, climbing higher into the hills. By midday, they reached a ridge overlooking a small valley. Below, the blackened remains of several cottages stood stark against the green landscape.

"Two weeks ago," Lachlan said, his voice tight with controlled rage, "this was a thriving MacTavish settlement. Fifteen families lived here, raising sheep, weaving, living peacefully." He pointed to the charred ruins. "The Sinclairs came at night. Claimed the valley belonged to them by right of some ancient deed."

Eleanor's stomach turned at the implication. "Were there... survivors?"

"Some. The women and children who managed to flee. Three men slaughtered defending their homes." His eyes bore into hers, searching for a reaction. "And you wonder why I seek the stone with such determination."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and meant it. "But vengeance won't rebuild those homes."

"It's not vengeance I seek, but justice. Protection." His voice dropped lower. "The stone would give us the power to ensure this never happens again."

As they descended into the valley, Eleanor felt a strange sensation prickling along her skin. The mark on her wrist burned suddenly, making her gasp. She pulled her sleeve down further, but not before Lachlan noticed her reaction.

"What is it?" he demanded, reining his horse closer.

"Nothing. Just... a cramp from riding." But even as she spoke, the sensation intensified. Something about this place called to her—or rather, to the body she inhabited.

They dismounted to walk among the ruins. Duncan supervised the men as they gathered what usable items remained, while Lachlan led Eleanor toward what had been the largest structure.

"This was the elder's home," he explained. "Angus MacTavish, a distant cousin. A man of learning, with a library of sorts."

Inside the charred shell of the house, little remained intact. Eleanor stepped carefully over fallen beams, the ash still fragrant with the memory of fire. The mark on her wrist pulsed like a heartbeat, guiding her toward what had once been a back room.

Without thinking, she knelt and began pushing aside debris.

"What are you doing?" Lachlan asked, watching her with suspicion.

Eleanor didn't answer. Her hands moved of their own accord, brushing away ash and charred wood until her fingers closed around something solid. A small wooden box, blackened but intact, carved with the same symbol that marked her wrist.

She heard Lachlan's sharp intake of breath behind her. "How did you know that was there?"

Eleanor stared at the box in her hands, as mystified as he was. "I don't know. I just... felt it."

Their eyes met over the discovery, a moment of connection more intimate than any physical touch. In his gray eyes, Eleanor saw bewilderment giving way to a reluctant fascination.

"It seems," he said slowly, "that there is more to you than I first believed, Lady Aisling."

Before she could respond, shouts erupted from outside. Lachlan's hand went to his sword as Duncan burst into the ruins.

"Riders approaching," he panted. "Sinclair colors."

Lachlan cursed, pulling Eleanor to her feet. "Take this," he commanded, pressing the box into her hands. "Hide it in your cloak. Whatever happens, do not let them see it."

Eleanor clutched the box to her chest, her heart pounding. "What's happening?"

Lachlan's expression was grim. "It seems our enemies have impeccable timing." He gripped her arm, his touch firm but not painful. "Stay close to me. If fighting breaks out, get on your horse and ride for the keep. Duncan will guide you."

"I won't leave—" The words were out before she could stop them.

Lachlan's eyes widened fractionally, surprise flickering across his features. Then his mouth set in a determined line. "You will do as I say, Aisling. For once in your stubborn life."

He led her outside to face whatever threat approached, his hand never leaving her arm. Eleanor could feel the heat of him beside her, solid and reassuring despite their adversarial relationship. The box tucked inside her cloak seemed to pulse in time with her racing heart, a secret burden connecting her to this wild, dangerous world.

And as riders appeared over the ridge, crimson banners fluttering like blood against the sky, Eleanor realized with startling clarity that she was no longer merely trying to find her way home.

She was becoming entangled in a web of clan rivalries and ancient magic that might well determine not just her fate, but the fate of the man whose touch burned through her sleeve like a brand.

chapter-5

Chapter 5 - Blood and Oaths

The riders crested the hill, sunlight glinting off polished metal and leather. Eight men, Eleanor counted, all armed and wearing the Sinclair colors of crimson and black. At their lead rode a man whose very posture spoke of nobility and arrogance in equal measure—tall and lean, with hair the color of wheat and eyes cold as winter frost.

Lachlan's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. Around them, the MacTavish men formed a protective semicircle, faces grim with anticipation.

"Stay behind me," Lachlan murmured to Eleanor, his breath warm against her ear. "And remember what I told you."

The wooden box felt suddenly heavier against her ribs, hidden beneath her cloak. Whatever was inside seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat, in rhythm with the mark on her wrist. Eleanor swallowed hard, fighting the urge to run her fingers over the symbol burned into her skin.

The Sinclair party halted several yards away, close enough for conversation but far enough to draw weapons if needed. The tension in the air crackled like lightning before a storm.

"MacTavish," the blond man called out, his voice carrying a melodic lilt that did nothing to soften his obvious disdain. "Picking through the ashes of your failure?"

"Sinclair," Lachlan replied, his tone deceptively calm. "Bold of you to show your face after what you've done here."

The man—Lord Sinclair, Eleanor presumed—smiled thinly. "These lands have always belonged to my family. I merely reclaimed what was mine."

"By burning homes in the night? By slaughtering unarmed men?" Duncan stepped forward, his youthful face flushed with anger. "You call that claiming?"

Eleanor could feel Lachlan's body tense beside her, coiled like a spring. His hand moved subtly, signaling Duncan to stand down.

"We can debate land rights another time," Lachlan said. "Why are you here now, Sinclair?"

The noble's pale eyes shifted, landing on Eleanor with an intensity that made her skin crawl. "I heard an interesting rumor. That you're holding a Fraser captive." His smile widened. "Lady Aisling, I presume? Your beauty is not exaggerated by the tales."

Eleanor felt exposed under his gaze, as though he could see through her disguise to the displaced soul beneath. She lifted her chin, channeling a confidence she didn't feel. "Lord Sinclair. Your reputation precedes you as well."

Something flashed in Sinclair's eyes—surprise, perhaps, at her boldness. "You're far from home, my lady. The Frasers and MacTavishes have been enemies for generations. Yet here you stand, unharmed." He turned his attention back to Lachlan. "One might wonder why."

"My business with Lady Aisling is my own," Lachlan replied.

"Is it?" Sinclair leaned forward in his saddle. "Or does it have something to do with what you seek in these ruins?" His gaze sharpened. "The stone, perhaps?"

Eleanor felt Lachlan go perfectly still beside her. The box against her side seemed to burn hotter, as if responding to the name of its contents.

"You waste your time, Sinclair," Lachlan said flatly. "There's nothing here but ash and bitter memories."

"Then you won't mind if my men search the ruins?" Sinclair made a small gesture, and two of his riders dismounted.

Lachlan's hand left Eleanor's arm, moving openly to his sword hilt. "I mind very much."

The air between the two men crackled with hostility. Eleanor's heart hammered in her chest as she calculated their odds—eight Sinclairs against Lachlan's party of six. Not favorable, especially with her useless in a fight.

Then she felt it—a surge of power from the box, racing up her arm and spreading through her chest. The mark on her wrist burned white-hot, and suddenly she knew exactly what to do.

Eleanor stepped forward, placing herself partially between the two leaders.

"Lord Sinclair," she said, her voice carrying an authority she didn't recognize, "your quarrel is with Clan MacTavish, not with me. Yet here I stand, caught between ancient enemies." She gestured to the blackened ruins around them. "Is this truly what you want? More blood spilled on scorched earth?"

Sinclair's eyes narrowed. "Pretty words from a Fraser. Your clan has aligned with MacTavish before."

"I speak for myself today." Eleanor felt the power flowing through her veins, words coming that seemed both foreign and natural. "I propose a truce. Three days of peace between your clans, to honor the dead who lie here and to prevent more joining them."

Lachlan shot her a warning glance, but she pressed on, driven by an instinct that wasn't entirely her own.

"Surely the great Lord Sinclair isn't afraid of granting three days' mercy?" she added, a challenge in her voice.

A murmur ran through the Sinclair men. Their leader's jaw tightened at the implied slight to his courage.

"A truce," he repeated slowly. "And what does MacTavish offer in return?"

Before Lachlan could intervene, Eleanor answered: "Information. In three days' time, I will meet you at the standing stones near Loch Morar. Alone. I will tell you what I know of the MacTavish stone."

"Aisling!" Lachlan hissed, grabbing her arm. "What are you doing?"

She turned to face him, her green eyes meeting his gray ones with a certainty that silenced his protest. "Trust me," she whispered, low enough that only he could hear.

For a long moment, Lachlan's gaze searched hers, conflict evident in his expression. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

Sinclair watched the exchange with calculating eyes. "The standing stones at Loch Morar," he confirmed. "And you come alone, Lady Aisling."

"She will have an escort to the stones," Lachlan interjected. "I'll not send her unprotected through disputed lands."

"Very well. An escort to the stones, then she meets me alone." Sinclair's thin smile returned. "Three days of peace, in exchange for what the lady knows." He looked directly at Eleanor. "But be warned—if you fail to appear, or if your information is worthless, the truce ends in blood."

"I understand," Eleanor replied, fighting to keep her voice steady.

Sinclair raised his hand in a mocking salute. "Until then, Lady Aisling." His gaze shifted to Lachlan, hardening. "Enjoy your temporary peace, MacTavish."

With that, he wheeled his horse around, his men following suit. The Sinclair party departed as swiftly as they had arrived, crimson banners snapping in the wind like angry flames.

The moment they disappeared over the ridge, Lachlan rounded on Eleanor, fury etched in every line of his face.

"What in God's name were you thinking?" he demanded, his voice a low thunder. "Promising to meet Sinclair alone? Offering information you don't have?"

Eleanor stood her ground, though her knees threatened to buckle as the strange power receded, leaving her drained. "I just prevented bloodshed. You should be thanking me."

"Thanking you?" Lachlan laughed humorlessly. "You've just committed yourself to a meeting that will likely end with your throat cut—and worse, you've given Sinclair reason to believe you know something about the stone."

"I bought us time," she insisted. "And perhaps I do know something."

His eyes narrowed dangerously. "What aren't you telling me, Aisling?"

The name sent a pang through her. Not her name. Not her life. Yet increasingly, it felt like both.

Eleanor's hand moved to her side where the box pressed against her ribs. "This." She pulled it out from beneath her cloak. "It called to me. Just as the grimoire did."

"The what?"

She froze, realizing her slip. "Nothing. A book I... heard about."

Lachlan studied her with renewed suspicion, but the urgency of their situation took precedence. "Whatever secrets you're keeping, they can wait until we're safely back at the keep." He turned to his men. "We ride immediately. Duncan, send a scout ahead to warn of possible Sinclair treachery."

As they mounted their horses, Eleanor's earlier confidence faded, replaced by the cold weight of reality. She had just promised to meet a dangerous man alone, offering information she didn't possess. The body she inhabited might know secrets about the stone, but Eleanor herself was as ignorant as a newborn.

They rode hard through the afternoon, pushing the horses to their limits. Eleanor's thighs burned with the effort of staying mounted, her back aching from tension. Yet beneath the physical discomfort lay a deeper unease. The power that had surged through her at the confrontation—what was it? And how had she known exactly what to say to diffuse the situation?

Lachlan rode beside her now, his expression closed and unreadable. Occasionally, his gaze would flick to her, assessing, questioning.

As the sun began its descent toward the western peaks, they entered a dense woodland. The path narrowed, forcing them to ride single file. Eleanor found herself behind Lachlan, watching the broad set of his shoulders, the way he moved in perfect harmony with his horse. Despite his anger, there was something compelling about his strength, his absolute certainty of purpose.

In Georgia, the men she knew were soft-spoken ministers and shopkeepers, their hands uncallused, their lives untouched by true hardship. Samuel, with his sermons and rigid morality, suddenly seemed a pale shadow compared to the vibrant reality of Lachlan MacTavish.

The thought should have shamed her. Instead, it sent a thrill of forbidden excitement through her veins.

They stopped briefly at a small stream to rest the horses. Eleanor slid from her saddle with a muffled groan, her muscles protesting. She limped to the water's edge, kneeling to splash cold water on her face.

Footsteps approached behind her. She didn't need to turn to know it was Lachlan.

"You ride well for someone unaccustomed to horses," he observed, his voice lacking its earlier anger.

Eleanor glanced up at him. "I told you, I remembered."

"Did you?" He crouched beside her, close enough that she could smell the leather and wool of his clothing, the faint musk of his skin. "Or is it that Aisling remembered for you?"

Her breath caught. "What do you mean?"

His gray eyes studied her with unsettling intensity. "You're different than I expected. The real Aisling Fraser is known for her cunning, her ruthlessness. A woman who would step over corpses to get what she wants." He reached out, brushing a strand of copper hair from her face with surprising gentleness. "Yet here you are, arranging truces and risking yourself to prevent bloodshed."

Eleanor couldn't look away from his gaze, pinned like a butterfly to a board. "Perhaps you didn't know her as well as you thought."

"Perhaps." His voice dropped lower. "Or perhaps you're not her at all."

Fear shot through her, sharp and cold. "That's absurd."

Lachlan's hand moved to her wrist, his fingers wrapping around it with gentle but inescapable pressure. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed back her sleeve, revealing the mark that pulsed faintly against her skin.

"This symbol," he said quietly. "It's ancient. Sacred to those who practiced the old ways." His thumb traced the pattern, sending shivers racing up her arm. "It appeared on your skin after you found the box, didn't it?"

She couldn't lie, not with him so close, his touch burning through her defenses. "Yes."

He nodded, as though confirming a suspicion. "The box bears the same mark. It's said that only those with the blood of the old ones can open such containers." His eyes locked with hers again. "Are you a witch, then? Or something else entirely?"

The question hung between them, fraught with danger. In this time, witchcraft meant death. Yet the truth—that she was a woman displaced in time, inhabiting another's body—seemed equally impossible to explain.

"I don't know what I am," she whispered finally, the admission torn from somewhere deep inside her. "I only know that nothing is as it seems. Not this place, not this body—" She stopped abruptly, realizing she'd said too much.

Lachlan's brow furrowed. "This body?"

Before she could respond, Duncan approached, his expression urgent. "Lachlan, riders on the north ridge. Not Sinclair colors."

Lachlan rose in one fluid motion, his hand falling away from her wrist. "Whose, then?"

"Fraser," Duncan replied grimly. "A dozen at least."

Eleanor's heart sank. More complications, more dangers.

Lachlan turned back to her, his expression hardened once more. "It seems your kin have come looking for you, Lady Aisling." The emphasis on the name held a question mark. "We'll continue this conversation later. For now, we ride."

As they mounted their horses again, Eleanor clutched the reins with trembling hands. The box remained hidden beneath her cloak, a constant reminder of the mystery she'd stumbled into. Three days until she must meet Sinclair. Three days to discover what secrets lay within the wooden container. Three days to decide where her loyalties truly lay.

The mark on her wrist pulsed once, as if in warning. Whatever powers had brought her to this time, to this body, they weren't finished with her yet. And as she followed Lachlan deeper into the gathering dusk, Eleanor wondered if she would ever find her way home—or if, perhaps, she was exactly where she was meant to be.

chapter-6

Chapter 6 - Blood of the Frasers

Night had fallen by the time they reached MacTavish Keep, torches blazing along the battlements like earthbound stars. Eleanor's body ached from the punishing ride, muscles she'd never known existed screaming in protest. The wooden box remained tucked safely against her side, its presence a constant reminder of the mystery that deepened with each passing hour.

They had managed to evade the Fraser riders—for now. But Eleanor harbored no illusions that their respite would last.

Lachlan dismounted in one fluid motion, then turned to help her from her horse. His hands spanned her waist, strong and sure as he lifted her to the ground. For a breathless moment, he didn't release her, their bodies close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him in the cool night air.

"You should rest," he said, his voice low and rough. "Tomorrow will bring its own battles."

Eleanor nodded, suddenly aware of how exhausted she truly was. "The box—"

"Will be safer with you than anywhere else, it seems." His eyes held hers, searching. "Whatever connection you have to it, Lady Aisling—or whoever you may be—it's stronger than I first believed."

Before she could respond, Duncan approached, his expression grave. "Riders at the outer gate. Fraser colors."

Lachlan cursed softly. "It seems our evasion was for naught." He turned to Eleanor, his jaw tight. "It appears your kin are persistent."

"They're not my—" She caught herself. "What will you do?"

"Grant them guest right, as custom demands." His mouth twisted. "Even for Frasers."

Eleanor's heart raced. She would have to face people who knew Aisling intimately, who would expect her to recognize them, to understand relationships and histories she knew nothing about. One wrong word could expose her.

Lachlan must have sensed her panic, for his expression softened marginally. "Stay close to me," he said. "Let me do the talking."

She nodded gratefully, following him across the courtyard and into the great hall. Servants bustled about, preparing for unexpected guests, while Duncan issued orders to increase the guard.

"Lady Aisling." Fiona appeared at her side, curtseying hastily. "Let me help you change before the Frasers arrive."

Eleanor allowed herself to be led to her chambers, where Fiona helped her shed her travel-stained clothes and don a gown of deep blue that emphasized the copper of her hair and the pale cream of her skin. As the girl arranged her hair, Eleanor studied her reflection, searching for hints of the woman whose body she inhabited.

"Fiona," she asked carefully, "what do you know of my... family?"

The maid's hands paused momentarily. "The Frasers? They're a powerful clan, milady. Your father, Lord Malcolm, is said to be as shrewd as he is ruthless." She resumed her work, twisting Eleanor's hair into an elegant style. "They say you take after him in that regard."

Eleanor's stomach tightened. "And do I have siblings?"

Fiona gave her a curious look. "Just your younger sister, Lady Catriona. Though some say you've never treated her as such, particularly after—" She stopped abruptly. "Forgive me, milady. I shouldn't speak of such things."

"After what?" Eleanor pressed.

Fiona looked uncomfortable. "After she was betrothed to Lord Sinclair instead of you. There were... rumors that you had set your sights on the alliance yourself."

Eleanor felt a chill run through her. Aisling had wanted to marry Sinclair? The cruel, calculating man she'd faced earlier that day? The idea was repulsive.

Before she could question Fiona further, a commotion from below signaled the Frasers' arrival. The maid hurriedly finished her work.

"There, milady. You look like the Lady Aisling they expect to see."

Eleanor took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and descended to the great hall, the box hidden in a secret pocket Fiona had sewn into her gown. Each step felt like moving toward execution, yet there was no choice but to play her part.

The great hall buzzed with tension. At the far end, Lachlan stood beside the massive hearth, his posture rigid as he faced the newcomers. Eleanor's eyes were drawn immediately to the older man at the center of the Fraser party—tall and broad-shouldered despite his years, with the same copper hair as Aisling, though his was streaked with silver. Lord Malcolm Fraser, she presumed. Aisling's father.

Beside him stood a younger woman whose resemblance to Eleanor's borrowed face was unmistakable, though her features were softer, her expression more guarded. Catriona, the sister. The woman betrothed to Sinclair.

As Eleanor entered, every head turned. Lord Fraser's expression shifted from stern negotiation to visible relief.

"Aisling," he said, his voice a deep rumble that carried authority without effort. "Thank God you're unharmed."

Eleanor forced herself to walk forward, chin high, channeling what she imagined would be Aisling's confidence. "Father," she acknowledged, hoping her voice didn't betray her terror. "I am perfectly well, as you can see."

"Well?" Lord Fraser's relief dissolved into anger. "You've been abducted by our enemies, and you claim to be 'well'?"

"I was not abducted," Eleanor replied, reaching for the haughty tone she'd heard in the voices of the society women in her Georgia town. "I came willingly."

A ripple of surprise moved through the hall. Catriona's eyes widened, while Lord Fraser's face darkened.

"Willingly?" he repeated dangerously. "You expect me to believe you willingly sought out MacTavish?"

Eleanor felt Lachlan tense beside her, though his face revealed nothing. She had to tread carefully, navigating politics she didn't understand.

"I had my reasons," she said simply. "Reasons that serve Fraser interests, I assure you."

Lord Fraser studied her face, suspicion warring with long familiarity. "We will discuss these 'reasons' privately." He turned to Lachlan. "I demand the release of my daughter into my custody."

"Lady Aisling is not a prisoner," Lachlan replied evenly. "She is free to leave if she wishes."

All eyes turned to Eleanor, waiting for her response. The weight of the box against her hip seemed to burn, a reminder of unfinished business. Leaving with the Frasers might protect her from immediate danger, but it would cut her off from the mysteries she needed to solve—and from Lachlan, whose presence had become unexpectedly vital.

"I will remain at MacTavish Keep," she declared, ignoring Lord Fraser's darkening expression. "For three days, at least. I have given my word."

"Your word? To a MacTavish?" Lord Fraser's voice dripped with scorn.

"To myself," Eleanor countered, drawing on courage she hadn't known she possessed. "I have matters to conclude here before I return home."

The standoff stretched, tension crackling between father and daughter. Finally, Lord Fraser inclined his head stiffly.

"Then we shall remain as well, to ensure your safety." His tone made it clear this was not a request.

Lachlan's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Fraser and his party will be granted guest right for three days." The ancient custom would ensure a temporary peace, though Eleanor could practically feel Lachlan's reluctance.

Lord Fraser turned back to Eleanor. "We will speak privately, daughter. Now."

There was no refusing him. With a glance at Lachlan, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod, Eleanor followed Lord Fraser to a small antechamber off the main hall. Catriona trailed behind them, her movements graceful yet hesitant.

The moment the heavy door closed, Lord Fraser rounded on her. "Have you lost your mind, Aisling? What game are you playing?"

Eleanor straightened, channeling the strength she imagined Aisling would possess. "No game, Father. A strategy."

His eyes narrowed. "A strategy that involves abandoning your sister's wedding preparations to gallivant with MacTavish?" He gestured to Catriona, who stared at the floor. "Your sister's betrothal to Sinclair secures our southern borders. You know how crucial this alliance is."

The pieces clicked into place. The Frasers were aligning with the Sinclairs through marriage, despite the Sinclairs' brutality toward the MacTavishes. The political web was more tangled than she'd realized.

"Perhaps I sought a different alliance," Eleanor ventured cautiously.

Lord Fraser's eyebrows shot up. "With MacTavish? The man has sworn vengeance against half the clans in the Highlands, including ours!" He paced the small room. "Unless... is this about the stone? Did you find it?"

Eleanor's pulse quickened. "What do you know of the stone?"

"Don't play coy with me, girl. You've been obsessed with finding it since you discovered those old journals in your grandmother's chest." He leaned closer. "Did you find it?"

The box seemed to pulse against her side. "Not exactly," she hedged. "But I'm close."

Lord Fraser studied her face, clearly trying to decipher her motives. "Whatever you're planning, remember where your loyalties lie. The Fraser name has stood for centuries. I won't have you jeopardize our position for some ancient trinket—or for whatever fascination you've developed for Lachlan MacTavish."

Heat rushed to Eleanor's cheeks. "My loyalty is not in question."

"Isn't it?" Lord Fraser's voice softened slightly. "You've changed, Aisling. There's something different about you."

Eleanor's heart hammered. "People change, Father."

"Not overnight." He sighed, suddenly looking older. "Your wild streak has always worried me, but this..." He shook his head. "Three days, then you return home with us. No negotiations."

Before Eleanor could respond, Catriona spoke for the first time, her voice softer than her father's but carrying the same underlying steel. "Sister, please be careful. Lachlan MacTavish is not a man to be trifled with."

There was something in her tone—concern, yes, but something else. Knowledge, perhaps. Eleanor wondered suddenly if Catriona knew more about Lachlan than she let on.

"I can handle myself," Eleanor replied, offering a tentative smile. "And congratulations on your betrothal. Lord Sinclair is..." She searched for a diplomatic description. "...impressive."

Catriona's answering smile didn't reach her eyes. "He is powerful. That is what matters in these times."

Lord Fraser cleared his throat. "Enough of this. We will dine with our... hosts... and maintain appearances. But Aisling," his gaze hardened, "whatever you're searching for, I expect to be informed. The Fraser legacy is my responsibility. Remember that."

Eleanor nodded, relieved when they finally returned to the great hall. The evening that followed was a study in carefully maintained pretenses. The Frasers and MacTavishes dined together at the high table, conversation stilted and laden with double meanings. Eleanor picked at her food, hyperaware of Lachlan seated to her right and Lord Fraser to her left, the physical embodiment of her divided loyalties.

"You handle your father well," Lachlan murmured during a moment when Lord Fraser was distracted by Duncan's purposeful questioning. "Most would cower before the mighty Malcolm Fraser."

"Perhaps I'm not most people," Eleanor replied, taking a sip of wine to hide her nervousness.

Lachlan's mouth quirked. "That, Lady Aisling, becomes more apparent with each passing hour."

Their eyes met, and something electric passed between them—a current of understanding that transcended the clan rivalries surrounding them. For a heartbeat, the crowded hall faded away, leaving only his steel-gray gaze holding hers.

Lord Fraser's voice broke the spell. "Lady MacTavish's chambers have been prepared for our use, I trust?"

Lachlan turned away, his expression cooling. "My mother's chambers remain sealed, as they have been since her death. Your party will be accommodated in the east wing."

The implied slight did not go unnoticed. Lord Fraser's jaw tightened, but he inclined his head in acknowledgment.

As the meal concluded, servants appeared to escort the Frasers to their quarters. Eleanor rose, intending to retreat to her own chamber, when Lachlan caught her arm gently.

"A word, Lady Aisling, if you would."

Lord Fraser frowned but made no objection as Lachlan led Eleanor to a small alcove near the hearth, partially sheltered from prying eyes.

"The box," Lachlan said without preamble, his voice low. "Have you attempted to open it?"

Eleanor shook her head. "Not yet."

"Tonight, then. After the keep is quiet." His fingers brushed against hers briefly. "Meet me in the old chapel at midnight. It's the only place free from both Fraser and MacTavish ears."

The suggestion of a secret midnight meeting sent a thrill through her that had nothing to do with the mystery they sought to solve. "Is that wise?"

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Wisdom has little to do with any of this, it seems." His gaze lingered on her face. "You took a risk today, declaring your intention to stay. Your father is not a man who accepts defiance easily."

"He's not my—" Eleanor caught herself yet again. "He'll accept what he must."

Lachlan studied her with that penetrating gaze that seemed to see beyond her borrowed face. "Who are you?" he asked softly, the question holding layers of meaning. "Truly?"

Before she could respond, Catriona approached, her expression carefully neutral. "Sister, Father requests your presence before he retires."

Eleanor nodded, reluctantly stepping away from Lachlan. "Midnight," she whispered, so softly only he could hear.

His answering nod was barely perceptible.

The next hours crawled by with excruciating slowness. Eleanor endured Lord Fraser's further questioning, deflecting as best she could while gleaning what information she could about the Frasers and their alliances. She learned that the Frasers controlled lands to the north, that their alliance with the Sinclairs was relatively new, and that Lord Fraser considered Lachlan MacTavish a dangerous upstart who needed to be controlled.

When finally she was able to return to her chamber, Fiona helped her prepare for bed with no knowledge of Eleanor's planned midnight excursion. Once alone, Eleanor paced her room, waiting for the appointed hour, the box clutched in her hands.

She examined it more closely now—a simple wooden container, roughly the size of a large book, its surface carved with the same symbol that marked her wrist. No obvious latch or keyhole was visible. Whatever secrets it contained remained stubbornly locked away.

As the keep grew quiet and midnight approached, Eleanor wrapped herself in a dark cloak and slipped from her chamber. The corridors were dimly lit by guttering torches, shadows dancing along the stone walls. She moved carefully, following the directions Fiona had unwittingly provided earlier when discussing the keep's layout.

The old chapel lay in the western tower, unused since Lachlan's grandfather had built the newer one closer to the main hall. Eleanor pushed open the heavy wooden door, wincing at its creak.

Moonlight streamed through a single narrow window, illuminating the small, dusty space. A stone altar stood at one end, bare except for a tarnished candelabra. The air smelled of disuse and ancient prayers.

Lachlan already waited, a dark silhouette against the pale stone. He turned at her entrance, his expression softening at the sight of her.

"You came," he said simply.

"Did you doubt I would?" Eleanor closed the door behind her.

"I've learned to doubt everything about you, Lady Aisling." Despite his words, his tone held no accusation. "Especially since I'm increasingly convinced that you are not, in fact, Aisling Fraser at all."

Eleanor's breath caught. "What makes you say that?"

He moved closer, moonlight spilling across his features. Without the audience of their respective clans, he seemed less forbidding, the hard lines of his face gentled by silver light.

"Little things. The way you look at the world, as though seeing it for the first time. The way you speak—educated, but with phrases I've never heard from any Highlander. The kindness you showed today, preventing bloodshed." His voice dropped lower. "The way you look at me, without the hatred I'd expect from a Fraser."

Eleanor clutched the box tighter. "And if I'm not Aisling," she said carefully, "what then? Would you expose me to my... to Lord Fraser?"

Lachlan was silent for a long moment. "I should," he finally said. "Logic dictates it. Clan loyalty demands it." He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face. "And yet..."

The touch sent warmth cascading through her, more potent than any wine. "And yet?" she echoed, barely breathing.

"And yet I find myself more concerned with who you are than who you are not." His hand fell away reluctantly. "The box. May I see it?"

Eleanor handed it to him, their fingers brushing in the exchange. Lachlan turned it over in his hands, examining the carvings.

"My grandfather spoke of such containers. They were crafted by those who practiced the old magic, before the church drove such beliefs underground." He traced the symbol with his thumb. "It's said they can only be opened by those with the right bloodline, or those who possess the matching key."

"I have no key," Eleanor said. "Just this." She pushed back her sleeve, revealing the mark on her wrist.

Lachlan stared at the symbol, then back at the box. "Place your hand over the marking on the box," he instructed quietly.

Eleanor did as he suggested, laying her palm flat against the carved symbol. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a warmth began to spread from her wrist, flowing down her arm and into her fingertips. The mark on her skin began to glow faintly, a soft blue light that pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat.

"Lachlan," she whispered, alarmed and exhilarated at once.

He stepped closer, his shoulder pressed against hers as they both watched the phenomenon unfold. The matching symbol on the box began to emit the same ethereal light, growing brighter as the seconds passed.

A soft click sounded, and the top of the box shifted slightly.

"It's opening," Lachlan breathed, his voice filled with wonder.

Eleanor lifted her hand away, the glow fading from both her skin and the box. With trembling fingers, she lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, lay not the stone they had expected, but a key—ancient and ornate, crafted from a metal that gleamed with an almost unnatural luster in the moonlight. Etched along its length was a series of symbols similar to the one on the box, forming a pattern that seemed to shift if observed too closely.

"Not the stone," Lachlan said, disappointment evident in his voice.

"No," Eleanor agreed, lifting the key carefully. It was heavier than it looked, and warm to the touch. "But perhaps the way to find it."

As her fingers closed around the key, a flash of... something... burst behind her eyes. A vision, quick as lightning: a circle of standing stones, moonlight flooding the center, a hooded figure speaking words in a language she didn't understand yet somehow knew. Then darkness, and a sense of falling.

Eleanor gasped, stumbling backward. Lachlan caught her arms, steadying her.

"What is it? What did you see?" His face was close to hers, concern etched in his features.

"Standing stones," she managed, the vision already fading. "Like the ones where I'm to meet Sinclair."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. "The Stones of Morar. They're said to be a doorway."

"A doorway to what?"

"Some say to the realm of the fae. Others, to different times." His hands tightened on her arms. "The old stories tell of travelers who stepped through the stones and emerged years later, unchanged, while the world had moved on without them."

Eleanor's heart raced. A doorway to different times. Could this be how she'd come to be here? Not through the grimoire alone, but through some connection to these stones?

"I need to see them," she whispered. "Before the meeting with Sinclair."

Lachlan studied her face. "It would be dangerous. Fraser and Sinclair patrols are everywhere."

"I need to understand what's happening to me." The admission fell from her lips before she could stop it. "Please, Lachlan."

His name on her lips seemed to affect him. His expression softened, and he nodded slowly. "Tomorrow night. I'll take you myself."

Relief and gratitude washed through her. "Thank you."

They stood there in the moonlight, closer than propriety allowed, the key clutched in Eleanor's hand between them. Lachlan's gaze dropped to her lips, just for a moment, but long enough to send a shiver of anticipation down her spine.

"We should return," he said, his voice rougher than before. "Before we're missed."

Eleanor nodded, though neither of them moved immediately. The small chapel seemed to exist outside of time, a sanctuary where clan rivalries and questions of identity could be momentarily set aside.

Finally, Lachlan stepped back, breaking the spell. "I'll escort you to your chamber."

They walked in silence through the darkened corridors, the key now safely hidden in the pocket of Eleanor's gown, the empty box left behind in the chapel. At her door, they paused.

"Whatever secrets you're keeping," Lachlan said quietly, "I begin to think they're not meant to harm my clan."

It was as close to trust as he'd come, and Eleanor felt a surge of warmth at his words. "They're not," she assured him. "I'm as lost in this as you are."

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Until tomorrow night, then."

"Until tomorrow," she echoed.

Eleanor watched him disappear down the corridor before slipping into her chamber. She placed the key beneath her pillow, its weight a reminder of the mysteries yet to be solved.

As she lay in bed, sleep eluding her, Eleanor considered how much had changed in so short a time. She had gone from being a preacher's wife—dutiful, unremarkable, constrained—to a woman embroiled in clan politics and ancient magic, with a warrior laird looking at her as though she were something precious and dangerous all at once.

The mark on her wrist pulsed gently, as if in agreement with her thoughts. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges—Lord Fraser's scrutiny, Catriona's quiet suspicion, the looming meeting with Sinclair. But it would also bring a midnight journey with Lachlan to the standing stones, and perhaps, finally, some answers.

For the first time since finding herself in this strange new world, Eleanor felt not just fear and confusion, but anticipation. Whatever forces had brought her here—be they magic, fate, or something else entirely—had awakened parts of her she'd never known existed.

And as sleep finally claimed her, her dreams were filled not with memories of Georgia, but with standing stones bathed in moonlight, and a pair of steel-gray eyes that saw her—truly saw her—for perhaps the first time in her life.

chapter-7

Chapter 7 - The Witch's Glen

Morning came too soon, pale light filtering through the narrow window of Eleanor's chamber. She woke with her hand clutched around the ancient key she'd hidden beneath her pillow, its metal warm against her palm as though it had absorbed her body heat throughout the night.

The memory of the previous evening flooded back—the moonlit chapel, the glowing symbols, Lachlan standing so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. The promise of answers at the standing stones. Tonight, they would go together, a secret journey away from watchful eyes.

A soft knock announced Fiona's arrival with a tray of breakfast. The girl's normally cheerful demeanor seemed subdued this morning, her movements careful and precise as she laid out Eleanor's clothing for the day.

"Is something wrong, Fiona?" Eleanor asked, slipping the key into the pocket of her nightdress.

The maid hesitated. "The keep is... unsettled, milady. Having Frasers under the MacTavish roof has everyone on edge." She lowered her voice. "And there are whispers about you."

Eleanor's pulse quickened. "What sort of whispers?"

"That you've changed. That you're not..." Fiona glanced nervously at the door. "There's talk of witchcraft among the servants. The way you spoke to Sinclair yesterday, the truce you arranged—it's not the Lady Aisling they know."

A chill ran down Eleanor's spine. Accusations of witchcraft weren't taken lightly in this era. "People change, Fiona. Perhaps they never truly knew me."

The maid looked unconvinced. "Perhaps. But be careful, milady. Your father watches you like a hawk, and some say he's sent word to Lord Sinclair about your... behavior."

Eleanor's hands stilled in the act of reaching for a cup of small beer. "Lord Fraser has contacted Sinclair? How do you know this?"

"One of the Fraser men was overheard speaking to his messenger." Fiona bit her lip. "I thought you should know."

"Thank you, Fiona." Eleanor's mind raced. If Lord Fraser was communicating with Sinclair behind her back, her promised meeting at the standing stones might be more dangerous than anticipated. "Tell me, is there anyone in the keep who might know of Morag the witch? I need to... consult with her."

Fiona's eyes widened. "Milady, seeking out the witch would only confirm the whispers! Besides, the glen where she dwells is perilous, especially for someone of noble blood."

"Nevertheless," Eleanor pressed, "I need to find her. Today, if possible."

The maid hesitated, then sighed. "Old Fergus might know. He tends the sheep on the western pastures, closer to the witch's glen than most dare to go." She frowned. "But your father would never permit such a journey."

"Then he mustn't know," Eleanor said simply. "Can you arrange for me to speak with Fergus privately?"

Fiona looked conflicted, but finally nodded. "He comes to the kitchen midday for his meal. I could bring him to the herb garden while the others are dining."

"Perfect. Thank you, Fiona." Eleanor reached out, squeezing the girl's hand impulsively. "You're a true friend."

The maid blushed, unused to such familiarity from her noble charge. "I wouldn't say that too loudly, milady. A Fraser befriending a MacTavish servant? Tongues would wag even more."

Eleanor smiled ruefully. Clan politics governed everything here, she was learning. Even simple human kindness came with complications.

After dressing in a gown of forest green that Fiona assured her was suitable for a day spent within the keep, Eleanor ventured downstairs to face the delicate diplomacy required by the Fraser presence. She found Lachlan already in the great hall, deep in conversation with Duncan and several of his men. His gaze lifted as she entered, a flicker of something warm passing through his eyes before his expression returned to careful neutrality.

Lord Fraser sat at the high table, breaking his fast with bread and cheese, Catriona at his side. His sharp eyes tracked Eleanor's movement across the hall, assessing, calculating.

"Daughter," he acknowledged as Eleanor approached. "I trust you slept well in the home of our... host."

The emphasis on the last word made his feelings clear. Lachlan was no generous host in Lord Fraser's eyes, but a captor to be endured.

"Quite well, Father," Eleanor replied, seating herself beside Catriona. "The MacTavish hospitality has been impeccable."

Lord Fraser grunted noncommittally, turning to a Fraser clansman who approached with news. Taking advantage of his distraction, Eleanor leaned closer to Catriona.

"Sister," she said softly, testing the strange word on her tongue. "You seem troubled this morning."

Catriona's delicate features betrayed surprise at Eleanor's concern. "Do I? I was merely thinking of the journey home. Three days will pass quickly."

Something in her tone suggested relief rather than regret at the prospect of departure. Eleanor studied her face, noting the shadows beneath her eyes, the tension in her slender shoulders.

"Are you eager to return?" Eleanor asked carefully. "To prepare for your wedding?"

Catriona's fingers tightened around her cup. "A Fraser does her duty, Sister. You taught me that, did you not?"

The cool response carried a barb that Eleanor couldn't quite decipher. What had Aisling done to create such distance between them?

"Sometimes duty and desire align poorly," Eleanor ventured, thinking of her own loveless marriage to Samuel.

Catriona's gaze snapped to hers, startled. "What game are you playing, Aisling? Yesterday you barely acknowledged me, and today you speak of... desires?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Has MacTavish somehow bewitched you?"

Before Eleanor could respond, Lord Fraser returned his attention to them, effectively ending the private conversation. "We'll ride the MacTavish lands today," he announced. "I wish to see for myself what our hosts claim about Sinclair aggression."

Eleanor felt a flash of panic. If she spent the day riding with her supposed father, she'd miss her chance to speak with Fergus about Morag.

"Perhaps Catriona could accompany you," she suggested. "I'm still weary from yesterday's journey and had hoped to rest."

Lord Fraser's eyes narrowed. "You've never been one to shy from a hard ride, Aisling."

"Leave her, Father," Catriona interjected unexpectedly. "She likely wishes time to explore the keep. For strategic purposes, of course."

The last was added with a pointed look at Eleanor, as though conveying a message. Did Catriona suspect her true purpose?

Lord Fraser considered, then nodded reluctantly. "Very well. But you'll dine with us this evening, Aisling. I've had enough of your mysterious absences."

"Of course, Father."

Across the hall, Eleanor caught Lachlan watching the exchange, his expression unreadable. She offered the slightest nod, hoping he understood that their plans remained unchanged.

The morning passed slowly, Eleanor carefully dividing her time between her chambers and visible areas of the keep to avoid suspicion. She examined the key repeatedly, its strange symbols seeming to shift in different lights. The mark on her wrist remained dormant, though occasionally it would warm slightly when she held the key directly over it.

At midday, Eleanor slipped away to the herb garden as arranged. The small, walled enclosure lay on the eastern side of the keep, sheltered from the wind and designed for growing medicinal plants. Stone benches provided seating among beds of rosemary, thyme, and other herbs whose names Eleanor didn't know.

She'd barely settled on a bench when Fiona appeared, leading an elderly man with weather-beaten skin and a shock of white hair. His rheumy eyes regarded Eleanor warily as he approached.

"This is Fergus, milady," Fiona announced. "I've told him you wish to speak privately."

Eleanor nodded her thanks. "You may leave us, Fiona. And thank you."

Once the maid had gone, Eleanor gestured for Fergus to sit. He remained standing, leaning on his gnarled walking stick.

"You seek the witch," he said without preamble, his Highland accent so thick Eleanor had to concentrate to understand him. "That's dangerous knowledge for a Fraser."

"I'm not—" Eleanor caught herself. "I need her help. It's important."

Fergus studied her face. "Aye, I can see that. There's a strangeness about you, lass. Like looking at still water and seeing someone else's reflection." He tapped his temple. "Old Fergus has the sight, you know. Not strong like Morag's, but enough to know you're not what you seem."

Eleanor's breath caught. "Will you help me find her?"

The old shepherd considered. "Morag chooses who finds her, not the other way around. But I can tell you where to look." He gestured vaguely westward. "Beyond the burn that marks the edge of MacTavish grazing land, there's a stand of ancient rowan trees. Follow the path between them until you reach a glen where no birds sing. That's where she dwells."

"A glen where no birds sing," Eleanor repeated. "Why would birds avoid it?"

Fergus shrugged. "Some say it's because the veil between worlds is thin there. Birds know better than to get caught between. Others say it's because Morag's magic frightens them away." He leaned closer. "But I think it's because the birds know some secrets are meant to stay silent."

A chill ran down Eleanor's spine. "Thank you, Fergus. I'm in your debt."

The old man shook his head. "Don't thank me yet, lass. Morag's help never comes without a price." He turned to leave, then paused. "When you see her, tell her Fergus remembers the promise. She'll know what it means."

With that cryptic message, he hobbled away, leaving Eleanor alone among the fragrant herbs. She sat for a moment, processing what she'd learned. A glen where no birds sing, beyond a burn and a stand of rowan trees. It wasn't much to go on, but it would have to do.

Rising, she made her way back to the main courtyard just as the Fraser riding party returned. Lord Fraser looked displeased, his mouth set in a grim line as he dismounted. Catriona's face was flushed, though whether from the ride or some disagreement, Eleanor couldn't tell.

"Father," she greeted him. "How was your inspection?"

Lord Fraser handed his reins to a waiting stable boy. "Enlightening. The MacTavish claims of Sinclair aggression appear to have merit." His voice held reluctant admission. "But it changes nothing about our alliance. The marriage proceeds as planned."

Eleanor glanced at Catriona, whose expression had closed like a shuttered window. "And what does my sister think of that?"

Lord Fraser gave her a sharp look. "Since when do you concern yourself with Catriona's thoughts? Your sudden sisterly affection is as puzzling as your fascination with MacTavish." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I know you're plotting something, Aisling. You always are. But remember—Fraser interests come first. Always."

With that warning, he strode away, leaving Eleanor with the distinct impression that whatever Aisling's normal behavior had been, it was very different from her own.

The remainder of the afternoon dragged by. Eleanor feigned interest in needlework in the solar, where several Fraser and MacTavish women worked in uneasy proximity. She caught glimpses of Lachlan throughout the keep, always engaged in the business of running his clan, always aware of her presence even when they didn't speak directly.

As promised, she dined with the Frasers that evening, enduring Lord Fraser's pointed questions about her "strategy" and Catriona's alternately suspicious and bewildered glances. She pleaded fatigue early, retiring to her chamber where Fiona helped her prepare for bed.

"Will you need anything else tonight, milady?" the maid asked, turning down the bedcovers.

"No, Fiona. Thank you." Eleanor hesitated. "Actually, could you leave an extra candle? I may wish to read before sleeping."

Once alone, Eleanor waited impatiently for the keep to quiet. She changed from her nightdress back into the simplest gown she could find, a sturdy garment of dark wool that wouldn't draw attention. Over it, she threw a heavy cloak with a deep hood that would conceal her distinctive copper hair.

The key she secured in an inner pocket, its weight a constant reminder of her purpose. Midnight approached with agonizing slowness, the keep settling into darkness around her. Finally, when all was still, she slipped from her chamber.

Lachlan waited in the shadows of the corridor, his tall form instantly recognizable even in the dim light of the single torch that illuminated the passage. He wore riding clothes and a dark cloak similar to hers, his hair tied back from his face.

"I feared you might change your mind," he murmured as she approached.

"Never," Eleanor replied. "I need answers more than ever."

Something in her tone made him study her face more closely. "What's happened?"

"Lord Fraser has been communicating with Sinclair. And there are rumors about me... about witchcraft." She saw his expression darken. "We need to move quickly."

Lachlan nodded grimly. "I've prepared horses. We'll use the western postern gate—fewer eyes there."

They moved silently through the sleeping keep, Lachlan leading her along servants' passages and lesser-used corridors to avoid the night guards. The western postern gate was small, designed for messengers rather than formal parties, with only a single guard who nodded to Lachlan as they passed.

"He's loyal to me alone," Lachlan explained as they emerged into the cool night air. "He'll say nothing of our departure."

Two horses waited, already saddled—Lachlan's black stallion and a smaller, surefooted mare for Eleanor. They mounted quickly and set off at a careful pace, avoiding the main road in favor of a narrow track that skirted the edge of the forest.

The night was clear, the moon nearly full, casting silvery light across the landscape. Eleanor found herself increasingly comfortable on horseback, her borrowed body seeming to remember skills her mind had never learned. They rode in companionable silence, the only sounds the soft thud of hooves on earth and the occasional call of a night bird.

"How far are the standing stones?" Eleanor asked when they paused to let the horses drink from a small stream.

"A few hours' ride," Lachlan replied, his face ghostly in the moonlight. "But first, I thought we might seek out Morag."

Eleanor startled. "How did you know I wanted to find her?"

A smile touched his lips. "Fergus reports to me, not to you. Though I admit, he was impressed by your determination." His expression grew more serious. "He also said there's a strangeness about you that only someone with the sight would notice. I want to know what that means."

Eleanor swallowed hard. "I spoke with Fergus about finding Morag's dwelling. A glen where no birds sing, he said."

"Aye, I know it." Lachlan remounted his horse. "It's not far from here, though few venture there willingly."

They continued their journey, the terrain growing more rugged as they left cultivated lands behind. The forest closed around them, ancient trees reaching toward the star-strewn sky. Eleanor felt a growing sense of anticipation—or was it dread?—as they rode deeper into the wilderness.

Finally, they reached a swift-flowing burn, its waters gleaming like polished silver in the moonlight.

"The boundary of MacTavish grazing land," Lachlan said, echoing Fergus's directions. "Beyond lies the witch's domain."

They forded the burn at a shallow point, the cold water splashing against their boots. On the other side, the forest seemed different somehow—older, more watchful. Eleanor felt eyes upon them, though whether animal, human, or something else entirely, she couldn't say.

"There," Lachlan pointed to a stand of trees ahead, their silvery bark distinct from the surrounding forest. "Rowan trees. Said to ward against evil, though Morag seems unbothered by their presence."

As they approached the rowan grove, Eleanor noticed a narrow path winding between the trees, barely visible in the dappled moonlight. Without discussion, they dismounted, leading their horses along the path. The air grew still, the normal sounds of the forest—the rustle of small creatures, the whisper of wind through leaves, the calls of night birds—gradually fading to silence.

"The glen where no birds sing," Eleanor whispered. She could feel the mark on her wrist warming, responding to... something... in this place.

The path opened suddenly into a small, perfectly circular glen. Stone cliffs rose on three sides, creating a natural amphitheater. At the center stood a modest cottage, its walls built of the same stone as the cliffs, its thatched roof sprouting tufts of herbs and mosses. Smoke rose from a clay chimney, carrying a scent that was both sweet and sharp—unfamiliar herbs burning.

Before they could approach the cottage, its door swung open. A woman emerged, tall and straight-backed despite her apparent age. Silver hair fell in a thick braid down her back, contrasting with the deep blue of her woolen dress. Her face was a map of lines and hollows, yet her eyes were startlingly bright, even at a distance.

"I've been waiting for you," she called, her voice carrying easily across the silent glen. "The woman who is not herself, and the laird who sees beyond his hatred."

Eleanor and Lachlan exchanged glances. Slowly, they approached the cottage, leading their horses behind them.

"Morag," Lachlan greeted her with cautious respect. "We seek your counsel."

The woman's gaze fixed on Eleanor, seeming to look through her rather than at her. "Not counsel, but truth. Isn't that right, traveler?"

A shiver ran through Eleanor. "You know what I am?"

Morag smiled, revealing surprisingly strong teeth. "I know what you are not, which is often more telling." She gestured toward the cottage. "Come inside, both of you. The night grows cold, and we have much to discuss."

She turned without waiting for a response, disappearing back into the cottage. Lachlan secured their horses to a nearby post, then offered Eleanor his arm.

"Are you certain about this?" he asked quietly. "Morag's knowledge comes at a price."

Eleanor nodded, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. "Whatever the cost, I need to understand what's happening to me."

The interior of the cottage was larger than it appeared from outside, a single room divided by hanging curtains of dyed wool. A fire burned in a central hearth, smoke rising to escape through a hole in the roof. Herbs hung from the rafters, filling the air with a complex fragrance that made Eleanor feel simultaneously alert and dreamlike.

Morag gestured for them to sit on low stools near the fire. She herself remained standing, moving with surprising grace as she added herbs to a pot suspended over the flames.

"Fergus sends his remembrances of a promise," Eleanor said, recalling the old shepherd's message.

Morag paused, a fleeting smile crossing her weathered face. "Ah, Fergus. Still haunted by what might have been." She shook her head. "The past is a stranger country, even to those who've lived it."

She stirred the pot, then turned to face them fully. "Now, show me what you've brought."

Eleanor hesitated, then drew the key from her pocket. Its metal seemed to catch the firelight oddly, reflecting colors that weren't present in the flames.

Morag's eyes widened slightly. "The Traveler's Key. I had wondered if it still existed." She made no move to touch it. "And your wrist, child. Show me the mark."

Eleanor pushed back her sleeve, revealing the symbol that had appeared after she'd touched the box. In the amber light of the fire, it seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

"As I thought," Morag murmured. "The old magic recognizes its own, across time and flesh."

"What does that mean?" Lachlan asked, his voice taut with tension.

Morag regarded them both for a long moment, as though deciding how much to reveal. Finally, she sighed and seated herself on a third stool.

"The woman before you is not Aisling Fraser," she said directly to Lachlan. "Her body is Aisling's, yes, but the soul within belongs to another. A traveler from a time yet to come."

Eleanor's heart pounded. To hear it stated so plainly was both terrifying and oddly relieving.

Lachlan's face remained impassive, though his hand, resting on his knee, clenched slightly. "Is this witchcraft? Some Fraser plot?"

"Neither," Morag replied. "It is older than clans, older than the church that would call it witchcraft. It is the way of the stones, and the blood that remembers them."

"The standing stones," Eleanor said. "That's how I came here, isn't it? Not just through the grimoire, but through the stones somehow."

Morag's sharp gaze fixed on her. "The grimoire you found was a catalyst, a key of sorts itself. But yes, the stones are the doorway. They have always been doorways for those with the right blood." She gestured to Eleanor's wrist. "That mark is proof that you carry such blood, even in your original form."

"And Aisling?" Lachlan asked. "What happened to her?"

A shadow passed over Morag's face. "That, I cannot say with certainty. When such exchanges occur, balance must be maintained. A soul for a soul."

The implications hit Eleanor like a physical blow. "You mean... Aisling might be in my body? In my time?"

"It is possible," Morag conceded. "Though whether she retains her memories or finds herself as lost as you were, I cannot say."

Eleanor tried to imagine proud, calculating Aisling Fraser suddenly finding herself in the body of a preacher's wife in rural Georgia. The thought was both absurd and disturbing.

"The key," Lachlan redirected the conversation, nodding toward the object in Eleanor's hand. "What does it open?"

"Not what, but where," Morag corrected. "The key opens a passage at the center of the standing stones, but only at certain times, when the moon and stars align properly." She rose, moving to a shelf crowded with pots and jars. "Three nights from now is such a time."

"The night I'm to meet Sinclair at the stones," Eleanor realized with a chill.

Morag nodded. "No coincidence, that. The old magic draws such connections tight, like strands in a web."

"And the MacTavish stone?" Lachlan pressed. "Is it connected to all this?"

"Aye, more directly than you know." Morag returned with a small clay pot. "The stone you seek is not merely a talisman of power for your clan. It is a piece of the original circle, broken off centuries ago when men first tried to harness the stones' power for their own purposes."

She opened the pot, revealing a fine, silvery powder. "The passage revealed by the key leads to a chamber beneath the stones, where the MacTavish stone has been hidden for generations, guarded by those who understand its true nature."

"And what is its true nature?" Eleanor asked.

Morag's expression grew grave. "It is a doorway in itself, smaller but no less powerful than the stone circle above. With it, one could travel between times at will, without waiting for the stars to align." She sprinkled some of the powder into the pot over the fire. "Such power was deemed too dangerous to remain in human hands."

The liquid in the pot suddenly flared, flames dancing across its surface in uncanny patterns. In their flickering light, Eleanor saw images forming—standing stones wreathed in mist, a dark chamber beneath the earth, a stone that glowed with inner fire.

"The three clans—MacTavish, Fraser, and Sinclair—were once united as guardians of the stones," Morag continued. "But greed and ambition drove them apart. Each believed they alone should control the stone's power."

The flames in the pot shifted, showing figures locked in battle, ancient warriors falling beneath sword and axe.

"The blood feud has continued for generations, though few remember its true origin," Morag said, her voice taking on a rhythmic quality, like a bard reciting an ancient tale. "Each clan preserves pieces of the truth in their histories, but none holds it all."

Eleanor felt dizzy with the enormity of what she was learning. The key in her hand seemed to grow heavier, its responsibility pressing down upon her.

"Why me?" she asked finally. "Why am I here, in this body, at this time?"

Morag's gaze softened slightly. "The old magic chooses its own vessels. Perhaps because you were seeking escape from your own life. Perhaps because Aisling Fraser's bloodline made her a suitable vessel for what must be done." She gestured toward Lachlan. "Or perhaps because the MacTavish laird needed someone to help him see beyond hatred and vengeance."

Lachlan's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

"Can I return to my own time?" Eleanor asked, voicing the question that had haunted her since her arrival.

"With the stone, yes," Morag confirmed. "Though whether you should is another matter entirely."

Eleanor felt Lachlan tense beside her at the witch's words. She didn't dare look at him.

"The choice will come," Morag said, as though reading her thoughts. "But not yet. First, you must retrieve the stone from its resting place. And for that, you'll need more than just the key." She reached for Eleanor's hand, turning it palm up. "You'll need your growing power, the magic in your blood that the grimoire awakened."

Eleanor swallowed. "I don't know how to use it. I don't even understand what it is."

"I can help with that." Morag placed a small amount of the silvery powder in Eleanor's palm. "Close your hand around it and concentrate on the mark on your wrist. Feel the connection between them."

Eleanor did as instructed, curling her fingers around the powder. At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, she felt a warmth spreading from her palm up her arm, connecting with the mark on her wrist. The sensation intensified, building like heat before a storm, until suddenly her closed fist began to glow with the same blue light that had emanated from the box.

"Open your hand," Morag commanded softly.

Eleanor uncurled her fingers. The powder had transformed, crystallizing into a small, perfectly formed stone that pulsed with inner light.

"A fragment," Morag explained. "A tiny piece of the same material as the MacTavish stone. It will guide you when you enter the chamber, drawing you to its larger counterpart."

Eleanor stared at the glowing fragment in wonder. "How did I do that?"

"You didn't," Morag said simply. "The magic did, working through you. Your task is not to control it, but to surrender to it." She looked between Eleanor and Lachlan. "Both of you must learn this lesson, though in different ways."

The fire crackled, sending shadows dancing across the walls of the cottage. Outside, the night remained unnaturally silent, no creatures stirring in the witch's glen.

"Dawn approaches," Morag said, rising. "You must return to the keep before your absence is noted. But first—" She moved to a shadowed corner of the cottage, returning with a small leather pouch. "Herbs to help you sleep dreamlessly. You'll need your strength for what's to come."

Eleanor accepted the pouch, tucking it into her pocket alongside the key and the glowing fragment. "Thank you, Morag. Fergus said your help comes with a price. What do you ask in return?"

The witch's eyes glittered in the firelight. "When the time comes to make your choice—to stay or to return to your own time—remember this night. Remember what you've learned about the true nature of power and the cost of wielding it." Her gaze shifted to Lachlan. "And you, MacTavish. Your price is to set aside vengeance long enough to see truth."

Lachlan stood, his expression troubled. "I've seen enough truth tonight to last a lifetime."

"Yet more awaits you," Morag replied enigmatically. "Go now. Return when the moon is new again, and I will teach you what you need to know for the journey beneath the stones."

They left the cottage as the first hint of dawn lightened the eastern sky. The glen remained eerily silent as they mounted their horses and retraced their path through the rowan grove. Only when they had crossed the burn did normal forest sounds resume—the rustle of leaves, the occasional sleepy chirp of birds awakening.

They rode in silence for some time, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Finally, Lachlan spoke, his voice low and measured.

"I believed you weren't Aisling Fraser. I didn't expect to be so thoroughly right."

Eleanor glanced at him, uncertain of his mood. "Are you angry that I kept the truth from you?"

"How could you have told me? 'Good day, Laird MacTavish, I'm actually a woman from the future inhabiting Aisling Fraser's body'?" A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. "I'd have thought you mad."

"You believe it now," she pointed out.

"Aye, well, Morag's word carries weight. And there's been something about you from the start—something that didn't fit with what I knew of Aisling Fraser." His expression grew more serious. "Though I admit, learning that my clan's ancient enemy might be wandering around in the future is somewhat disconcerting."

Despite everything, Eleanor found herself laughing softly. "If it helps, my husband is a preacher. Aisling is probably beside herself with the restraints of that life."

"A preacher's wife?" Lachlan raised an eyebrow. "That explains some things about you."

"Oh? What things?"

"Your manner of speech. Your... kindness." He studied her profile in the growing light. "Though I suspect the strength was always yours, not learned from any role."

The unexpected compliment warmed her. "Thank you. For believing me. For helping me."

Lachlan nodded, his expression thoughtful. "We're allies in this now, whether by choice or by Morag's machinations. The stone must be recovered before Sinclair can claim it."

"And after?" Eleanor couldn't help asking. "When I have the choice Morag spoke of?"

Their eyes met across the space between their horses. Something complex passed through Lachlan's gaze—uncertainty, perhaps, or a question he wasn't ready to voice.

"We'll face that when it comes," he said finally. "For now, we return to the keep and prepare for what awaits us at the stones."

The sun was just cresting the horizon as they approached the western postern gate, bathing the landscape in golden light. The same guard admitted them silently, his expression betraying nothing as they led their horses to the stables.

"We should enter separately," Lachlan suggested, his voice low. "Less chance of raising suspicion."

Eleanor nodded, suddenly reluctant to part from him. In the witch's glen, everything had seemed possible—magic, time travel, ancient powers. Now, facing the return to the keep with its Fraser guests and clan politics, reality pressed in once more.

"Eleanor." Her true name on his lips startled her. It was the first time he'd used it. "Be careful today. Lord Fraser is not a man to cross lightly, and if he suspects anything unusual..."

"I know," she assured him. "I'll play my part."

A shadow of a smile touched his lips. "You've played it remarkably well already." He hesitated, then reached out, his fingers brushing hers briefly. "Until tonight."

"Until tonight," she echoed.

Eleanor watched him stride away across the courtyard, his tall figure outlined against the rising sun. So much had changed in the space of a few hours. She knew now how she had come to this time, and potentially how she might return. The MacTavish stone was within reach, hidden beneath the very standing stones where she was to meet Sinclair.

And Lachlan... Lachlan knew her truth and had not turned away. Had stood beside her in the witch's glen, accepting the impossible with the same stoic courage he brought to every challenge.

As she made her way back to her chamber, slipping through the still-quiet corridors, Eleanor found herself contemplating Morag's words about choice. When the time came, would she choose to return to her own time, to the constrained life of Reverend Samuel's wife? Or would she remain here, in this dangerous but vibrant world, with its clan rivalries and ancient magic?

And what of Lachlan? The thought of him stirred something in her chest—something warm and frightening and exhilarating all at once.

Three days until the meeting at the standing stones. Three days to prepare for whatever awaited them in the chamber beneath. Three days to decide where—or when—her heart truly belonged.

chapter-8

Chapter 8 - Echoes of Aisling

Eleanor woke with a gasp, fragments of a dream slipping away like water through cupped fingers. For a moment, she couldn't remember where—or when—she was. The stone walls of her chamber at MacTavish Keep gradually came into focus as her racing heart slowed.

The small leather pouch Morag had given her sat on the bedside table, its contents untouched. Despite the witch's offer of dreamless sleep, Eleanor had been too wired upon her return to the keep to consider using the herbs. Now, as the remnants of her dream faded, she wished she had.

She'd dreamed of a woman with copper hair—not herself, but Aisling. The true Aisling. In the dream, the woman had been wandering through the halls of a modern building, confusion and anger warring on her face as she confronted her strange surroundings. Eleanor had tried to call out to her, to explain, but no sound emerged from her throat.

Sunlight streamed through the narrow window, indicating she'd slept later than usual. Eleanor sat up, pushing back the heavy blankets. The small fragment Morag had given her glowed faintly on the table beside the pouch of herbs, its blue-white light pulsing like a tiny heartbeat. She reached for it, the stone warm against her palm as she curled her fingers around it.

A soft knock announced Fiona's arrival. Eleanor quickly slipped the stone beneath her pillow as the door opened.

"Good morning, milady," Fiona greeted her, setting down a tray with bread, cheese, and small beer. "You've slept half the morning away. Lord Fraser was asking after you."

Eleanor suppressed a grimace. "Was he? What did you tell him?"

"That you were indisposed." Fiona moved to the wardrobe, selecting a gown of deep burgundy. "He seemed... suspicious."

"He always is," Eleanor murmured, thinking of Lord Fraser's calculating eyes.

Fiona helped her dress, arranging her copper hair in an elegant style more elaborate than Eleanor would have chosen. As the maid worked, Eleanor caught glimpses of her—of Aisling's—reflection in the looking glass. The face that stared back was becoming more familiar, yet still held a strangeness, like a portrait that moved independently of its viewer.

"There's to be a gathering in the great hall this evening," Fiona said as she secured the last pin. "Lord MacTavish has invited some of the lesser clan chiefs from neighboring lands."

Eleanor frowned. Lachlan hadn't mentioned any gathering during their midnight journey. "Do you know why?"

Fiona shrugged. "Politics, I suppose. With Frasers in residence and the Sinclair threat looming, the laird seeks to shore up alliances." She lowered her voice. "Though some say it's an excuse to show you off to potential allies."

"Me?" Eleanor's surprise was genuine.

"The Fraser daughter, willingly staying at MacTavish Keep?" Fiona raised an eyebrow. "It sends a powerful message, milady."

Eleanor hadn't considered the political implications of her presence. She'd been so focused on the mystery of the stone and her own displaced existence that she'd overlooked how others might interpret her actions. If Lachlan was using her presence to suggest a Fraser-MacTavish alliance...

"Is my father aware of this gathering?" she asked.

"Oh, aye. He and Lord MacTavish have been in discussion all morning." Fiona's expression suggested the conversation had been less than harmonious. "Your sister has been keeping to her chambers. Might be wise for you to look in on her."

Eleanor nodded, grateful for the suggestion. Despite their strained relationship—or perhaps because of it—Eleanor was curious about Catriona, the sister Aisling seemed to have treated poorly.

Once Fiona had departed, Eleanor retrieved the glowing stone fragment from beneath her pillow. Following an instinct she didn't fully understand, she pressed it against the mark on her wrist. A jolt of energy passed between them, and for a moment, the world seemed to shimmer around her. Images flashed through her mind—a great standing stone with symbols carved into its surface, a dark passage descending into earth, a chamber lit by an unearthly blue glow.

Then the vision faded, leaving her breathless but certain of one thing: the stone fragment was leading her, preparing her for what lay beneath the standing stones.

Eleanor tucked the fragment securely into a small pocket sewn into her bodice, alongside the key. Then, steeling herself for whatever political machinations awaited, she left her chamber.

The keep bustled with activity, servants preparing for the evening's gathering. Eleanor made her way to the east wing where the Fraser party had been quartered. Two Fraser men stood guard outside one door, their expressions hardening at her approach.

"I wish to see my sister," Eleanor stated with what she hoped was appropriate authority.

The men exchanged glances before one knocked softly on the door. A moment later, it opened to reveal Catriona, her delicate features drawn with fatigue.

"Aisling," she acknowledged, stepping back to allow Eleanor entry. "What an unexpected honor."

The sarcasm was gentle but unmistakable. Eleanor entered the chamber, noting its similarity to her own, though smaller and less comfortably appointed.

"I thought we might talk," Eleanor said as Catriona closed the door. "Sister to sister."

Catriona's eyebrows rose. "Have you hit your head, Aisling? We haven't had a sisterly conversation in years."

"Perhaps it's time we did."

Catriona studied her face, wariness giving way to curiosity. "You've changed since coming here. Father sees it too." She moved to the window, gazing out at the courtyard below. "Is it MacTavish? Has he somehow bewitched you?"

Eleanor chose her words carefully. "Sometimes... being away from everything familiar allows us to see more clearly."

"Clearly enough to suddenly care about the sister you've ignored since I was promised to Sinclair?" Catriona turned, her expression guarded. "The sister you blamed for stealing your chance at being Lady Sinclair?"

So Fiona had been right—Aisling had wanted the Sinclair alliance for herself. Eleanor felt a chill at the thought. What kind of woman aspired to marry a man like Lord Sinclair?

"I was wrong," Eleanor said simply. "About many things."

Catriona's eyes widened at the unexpected admission. "Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?" The question, meant as a jest, hit uncomfortably close to the truth.

Eleanor forced a smile. "People change, Cat." The diminutive slipped out naturally, though Eleanor had no memory of using it before.

Catriona's expression softened at the childhood nickname. "You haven't called me that since..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Never mind. What did you want to talk about?"

"Your betrothal," Eleanor said carefully. "To Lord Sinclair. Are you..." She hesitated, searching for the right words. "Are you content with the match?"

A flicker of something—pain, perhaps, or resignation—crossed Catriona's face. "Content? What has contentment to do with anything? It's a good alliance for our clan."

"But are you happy about it?"

Catriona laughed, a brittle sound without humor. "Now I know you've changed. When did Aisling Fraser ever concern herself with another's happiness?" She sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "No, I am not happy about it. Sinclair is cruel, and he doesn't bother to hide it. But Father says the match will protect our lands from Sinclair aggression, so..." She shrugged, the gesture eloquent in its resignation.

Anger flared in Eleanor's chest—at Lord Fraser for sacrificing his daughter to politics, at the society that treated women as pawns, at Aisling for apparently coveting such a match for herself.

"You deserve better," Eleanor said firmly.

Catriona's smile was sad. "We seldom get what we deserve, sister. You taught me that." She moved closer, studying Eleanor's face. "But tell me truly—what has happened to change you so? Is it..." She lowered her voice. "Is it because of him? Duncan MacTavish?"

Eleanor blinked in surprise. "Duncan?"

"Don't pretend innocence," Catriona said, though without rancor. "I remember your letters after you met him in Edinburgh last spring. Before Father forbade the connection and pushed you toward Sinclair instead."

A piece of Aisling's past Eleanor hadn't known—a connection to Lachlan's younger brother? The revelation left her momentarily speechless.

Catriona misinterpreted her silence. "Your secret is safe with me, as always. Though I wonder at your strategy in staying here. Do you hope to rekindle what was between you? Or is this some elaborate scheme to disrupt my betrothal to Sinclair?"

"Neither," Eleanor managed, still processing this new information. "I'm here for... other reasons."

"The stone." It wasn't a question. "Father thinks you're close to finding it. Is he right?"

Eleanor hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal. "Perhaps."

Catriona studied her, then sighed. "Just be careful, Aisling. Whatever game you're playing, the stakes are higher than you know. Sinclair isn't just cruel—he's desperate. The rumors say his lands are failing, his coffers emptying. He needs this alliance as much as Father thinks we do."

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. One of the Fraser guards announced that Lord Fraser requested Catriona's presence.

"We'll speak more later," Eleanor promised as Catriona prepared to leave.

Her sister paused at the door, a question in her eyes. "Why now, Aisling? After all this time, why reach out to me now?"

Eleanor could only offer a partial truth. "Because I'm seeing things differently. And because I think we both deserve better than the hands we've been dealt."

Something like hope flickered across Catriona's face before she schooled her expression back to careful neutrality. With a nod, she departed, leaving Eleanor alone with her thoughts.

The revelation about Aisling and Duncan added a new complication. If Aisling had been involved with Lachlan's brother, did that explain her willingness to come to MacTavish Keep? Was she pursuing a former romance, or using it as cover for her search for the stone?

Eleanor left Catriona's chamber, her mind whirling with questions. She needed to find Lachlan before the evening's gathering, to warn him about this new dimension to their charade.

The keep was a flurry of activity as preparations for the evening continued. Eleanor moved through the corridors, nodding to servants who paused in their work to bow or curtsy. She was heading toward the great hall when a voice called out behind her.

"Lady Aisling!"

She turned to find Duncan MacTavish approaching, his youthful face lighting up with a smile that held more warmth than their previous interactions would warrant. Seeing him now with the knowledge of his past connection to Aisling cast their earlier exchanges in a new light.

"Duncan," she acknowledged, studying him more carefully. He was handsome in a softer way than his brother, his features less weathered by responsibility. "You seem well this morning."

"Better for seeing you," he replied, his voice dropping slightly. "I had hoped we might speak privately before tonight's gathering."

The eagerness in his manner confirmed Catriona's revelation. Clearly, whatever had been between Duncan and Aisling had meant something to him, at least.

"Of course," Eleanor agreed, wondering how to navigate this conversation without revealing her ignorance of their shared history. "Perhaps the herb garden? It should be quiet this time of day."

Duncan nodded, offering his arm with a formality that seemed at odds with the warmth in his eyes. Eleanor placed her hand on his sleeve, allowing him to guide her through the keep to the small, walled garden where she had met Fergus the previous day.

The space was indeed deserted, the late morning sun warming the stone benches and coaxing fragrant aromas from the carefully tended herbs. Duncan led her to a bench partially secluded by a large rosemary bush, ensuring their conversation would remain private.

"I've missed you, Aisling," he said without preamble once they were seated. "When I heard you'd been brought here, I couldn't believe my fortune." His expression grew more serious. "Though Lachlan's treatment of you troubles me. He doesn't know about us, about Edinburgh, but still..."

Eleanor chose her words with extreme care. "Your brother has been... correct in his behavior toward me."

Duncan frowned. "You defend him? After he's kept you prisoner?"

"I'm not a prisoner," Eleanor corrected gently. "I chose to stay."

"Because of me?" Hope flared in his eyes. "Have you reconsidered your father's prohibition? With your sister now betrothed to Sinclair, perhaps he would look more favorably on a match between us."

Eleanor felt a pang of sympathy for the young man. Whatever Aisling had felt for him, it was clear Duncan's affections ran deep.

"Duncan," she began, unsure how to let him down gently, "much has changed since Edinburgh. I'm not the same woman you knew then."

His face fell. "You've found another? Is that why you stayed?"

Before Eleanor could respond, a shadow fell across them. She looked up to find Lachlan standing at the garden entrance, his expression unreadable as he observed his brother sitting intimately close to the woman he believed was Aisling Fraser.

"Brother," Duncan acknowledged, straightening. "Lady Aisling and I were just discussing the changed circumstances between our clans."

Lachlan's gaze moved from Duncan to Eleanor, a question in his steel-gray eyes. "Indeed? How... diplomatic of you, brother." His voice carried a dry edge. "Unfortunately, I must interrupt. Lady Aisling's presence is required elsewhere."

Though framed as a request, his tone made it clear this was not a suggestion. Duncan rose reluctantly, bowing to Eleanor with more flourish than necessary.

"We'll continue our discussion another time, perhaps," he said, a hint of defiance in his glance toward Lachlan.

Once Duncan had departed, Lachlan approached, his expression softening slightly. "Edinburgh?" he asked quietly. "You and my brother?"

Eleanor sighed. "Apparently so. Catriona mentioned it this morning—a meeting last spring that Lord Fraser subsequently forbade." She met his gaze directly. "I had no idea until today."

Lachlan's mouth twisted. "That explains much about Duncan's behavior since your arrival. And about Aisling's willingness to come to MacTavish lands." He seated himself beside her, keeping a proper distance. "Did he speak of love?"

The directness of the question surprised her. "He implied a desire for a match between them."

"And did the real Aisling return his feelings, I wonder?" Lachlan mused. "Or was he merely a pawn in her search for the stone?"

"I don't know," Eleanor admitted. "Though from what I've gathered about Aisling thus far, I fear the latter is more likely."

Lachlan nodded, his expression grim. "My brother has a tender heart. Too tender for clan politics, and certainly too tender for Aisling Fraser's machinations." His gaze softened as it rested on Eleanor. "Though in fairness, he could hardly be blamed for falling under the spell of those green eyes, regardless of who looks out from behind them."

The compliment, delivered with such casual honesty, sent warmth spreading through Eleanor's chest. "I didn't encourage him," she assured him. "Quite the opposite."

"I know." A smile touched the corner of his mouth. "You're many things, Eleanor, but cruel is not among them." The use of her real name, spoken softly to avoid being overheard, created an intimacy between them that transcended their physical distance.

"I should warn you about tonight's gathering," Lachlan continued, his tone shifting to more practical matters. "Your father believes I'm using your presence to suggest a Fraser-MacTavish alliance against Sinclair. I've allowed him to think this while gathering support from neighboring clans."

"For what purpose?"

"Protection, when the truth about the stone emerges." His expression grew serious. "What Morag told us changes everything. If the stone truly holds the power she described, and if the three clans were once its guardians..." He shook his head. "The old alliances may need to be reformed, whether we like it or not."

"Will you tell them the truth about me?" Eleanor asked, suddenly apprehensive.

Lachlan's hand moved as though to cover hers, then stopped, mindful of any watching eyes. "No. That remains between us, and Morag." His voice dropped lower. "Though I confess, I find myself increasingly grateful for whatever magic brought you here in her place."

The admission hung between them, fragile and significant. Before Eleanor could respond, the bell rang for the midday meal, breaking the moment.

"Tonight," Lachlan said as they rose. "After the gathering. We should discuss our approach to the stones."

Eleanor nodded, reluctant to end their conversation but aware of the need for caution. "Until tonight, then."

The remainder of the day passed in a blur of preparations. Eleanor endured a tense midday meal with Lord Fraser, who questioned her relentlessly about her conversations with both Catriona and Duncan. She deflected as best she could, claiming a renewed sisterly affection that Fraser clearly found suspicious.

As evening approached, Fiona helped Eleanor dress for the gathering. The gown selected was finer than any she'd worn since arriving—a deep emerald silk that complemented her copper hair and fair skin, embroidered with silver thread in patterns that Eleanor recognized with a start as similar to the symbols on the key.

"This gown," she said as Fiona laced her into it. "Where did it come from?"

"It was delivered this afternoon," Fiona replied. "A gift from Lord MacTavish, the messenger said."

Eleanor's hands traced the embroidered symbols. They weren't identical to those on the key, but close enough to suggest Lachlan had chosen the design deliberately. A message, perhaps, or a reminder of their shared purpose.

Her hair was arranged in an elaborate style, with small silver pins that caught the light. When Eleanor surveyed her reflection, she barely recognized herself. The woman who stared back looked like a Highland noblewoman, confident and regal. Nothing like the preacher's wife from Georgia.

The great hall had been transformed for the evening's gathering. Additional torches bathed the space in golden light, while garlands of evergreen and heather adorned the stone walls. Long trestle tables lined the sides of the hall, laden with platters of food—roasted meats, bread, cheese, and fruits preserved from the autumn harvest.

As Eleanor entered, the hum of conversation momentarily faltered. She felt the weight of dozens of gazes upon her—MacTavish clansmen, Fraser guards, and visitors from neighboring lands. At the high table, Lachlan rose from his seat at the center, his eyes finding hers across the crowded space.

He wore his finest for the occasion—a deep blue doublet over a crisp white shirt, his plaid draped formally over one shoulder and secured with the silver MacTavish brooch. His dark hair was tied back, emphasizing the strong lines of his face. Eleanor's breath caught at the sight of him, a reaction that had nothing to do with her role as Aisling Fraser and everything to do with the man himself.

Lord Fraser sat to Lachlan's right, his expression sour despite the festive atmosphere. Catriona was nowhere to be seen.

As Eleanor made her way toward the high table, whispers followed her. The significance of her presence wasn't lost on anyone—a Fraser daughter, willingly at MacTavish Keep, wearing a gown gifted by the MacTavish laird. The political implications were clear, even if the truth was far more complex.

Lachlan stepped forward as she approached, offering a formal bow that nonetheless conveyed genuine admiration. "Lady Aisling," he greeted her, loud enough for nearby guests to hear. "You honor us with your presence."

"The honor is mine, Laird MacTavish," she replied, matching his formal tone while holding his gaze. Something passed between them in that look—understanding, partnership, and something deeper neither was ready to name.

He led her to the high table, seating her at his left. The arrangement was deliberate, placing her opposite her supposed father, who watched the exchange with narrowed eyes.

"Where is my sister?" Eleanor asked as servants began bringing platters to the high table.

"Indisposed," Lord Fraser replied curtly. "A headache, she claims."

Eleanor suspected Catriona's absence had more to do with avoiding the public spectacle of the Fraser-MacTavish display than any physical ailment. She couldn't blame her sister for wanting to escape the complicated politics of the evening.

The meal progressed with the formal rhythm of Highland hospitality. Between courses, Lachlan introduced Eleanor to various clan chiefs and their representatives—Cameron, MacDonald, Murray, and others whose names blurred together. Each regarded her with varying degrees of curiosity and suspicion, clearly wondering what game the Frasers and MacTavishes were playing.

"They're all wondering if we've orchestrated an alliance through marriage," Lachlan murmured during a brief lull. "Your father has done nothing to discourage the speculation."

Eleanor glanced at Lord Fraser, who was deep in conversation with a gray-haired man introduced as the Cameron of Lochiel. "He sees advantage in the ambiguity," she observed.

"As do I, for now." Lachlan's fingers brushed hers momentarily as he reached for his goblet. "Though for entirely different reasons."

The touch, brief as it was, sent warmth cascading through Eleanor's arm. She took a sip of wine to hide her reaction, grateful for the hall's dim lighting that concealed the flush spreading across her cheeks.

As the meal concluded, the tables were pushed back to create space for dancing. Musicians took their place near the hearth, tuning instruments crafted from wood and hide. The lively notes of a Highland reel soon filled the air, and guests began to form sets for the dance.

Lord Fraser approached, his expression carefully neutral. "Daughter," he addressed Eleanor. "A word, if you please."

She rose, following him to a quieter corner of the hall. Once they were relatively private, his mask of civility dropped.

"Whatever game you're playing with MacTavish ends now," he said, his voice low but intense. "I've humored this charade long enough."

Eleanor straightened her spine. "It's no charade, Father. And I've made my position clear—I remain until my business here is concluded."

"Your business?" Lord Fraser's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Your only business is Fraser business. And I say we depart tomorrow, before this farce progresses further."

"And Catriona's betrothal to Sinclair?" Eleanor challenged, drawing on what she'd learned. "Is that Fraser business as well, sacrificing your daughter to a man known for his cruelty?"

Lord Fraser's expression hardened. "You overstep, Aisling. Clan alliances are my concern, not yours." His gaze shifted to where Lachlan stood watching them from across the hall. "Unless you've developed a different alliance in mind? Perhaps with the MacTavish laird himself?"

The suggestion should have been absurd—Aisling Fraser and Lachlan MacTavish, enemies by birth and circumstance. Yet Eleanor couldn't deny the truth behind the accusation, though not in the way Lord Fraser imagined.

"My priorities remain what they have always been," she replied carefully. "Finding the stone."

"And have you? Found it?"

The fragment pressed against her skin, warm beneath the embroidered bodice. "I'm close," she admitted. "After my meeting with Sinclair at the stones, I should know more."

Lord Fraser studied her face, searching for deception. "Two days, Aisling. Two days until your meeting with Sinclair, and then we return home, stone or no stone." His tone brooked no argument. "And watch yourself with MacTavish. He's not the ally you imagine him to be."

With that warning, he strode away, leaving Eleanor alone at the edge of the celebrating crowd. She took a steadying breath, turning to find Lachlan approaching.

"Your father seems displeased," he observed, offering her a goblet of wine.

Eleanor accepted it gratefully. "He wants to leave tomorrow. I've convinced him to wait until after the meeting with Sinclair."

"And then?"

"And then he expects me to return with him to Fraser lands." She met Lachlan's gaze. "Regardless of whether we've found the stone."

Lachlan's expression darkened. "Then we must ensure we find it before then." He set his own goblet aside. "Come. The dancing has begun, and a laird who fails to lead the first set would be remiss in his duties."

He extended his hand, an invitation that was also a statement to the watching crowd. Eleanor placed her fingers in his, allowing him to lead her to the center of the hall where couples were forming lines for the next dance.

The music began, a lively tune that had couples spinning and changing partners in intricate patterns. Eleanor had never danced a Highland reel before, but Aisling's body seemed to remember the steps. She found herself moving with unexpected grace, her hands meeting Lachlan's and parting again as the dance demanded.

During one turn that brought them briefly together, Lachlan spoke softly near her ear. "You dance well for a woman out of time."

"Muscle memory," she replied with a smile. "Aisling's body remembers, even if I don't."

His eyes darkened at that, something complex passing through his gaze before the dance separated them again. When next they came together, his hand at her waist felt more possessive, his touch lingering a heartbeat longer than the dance required.

They moved together with increasing harmony as the music continued, each anticipating the other's movements. The watching crowd faded from Eleanor's awareness, leaving only the music, the movement, and Lachlan's steady presence as they wove through the pattern of the dance.

When the music finally concluded, they found themselves at the edge of the hall, breathless and flushed from exertion. Applause erupted from the guests, but Eleanor barely noticed, caught in Lachlan's intense gaze.

"I need air," she murmured, suddenly overwhelmed by the heat and noise of the hall.

Lachlan nodded understanding. "The western battlements should be quiet."

He led her through a side door and up a narrow staircase that opened onto the stone walkway atop the keep's western wall. The night air was crisp and cool against Eleanor's heated skin, the stars scattered like diamonds across the velvet blackness above.

"Better?" Lachlan asked, his voice gentle in the darkness.

Eleanor nodded, moving to the parapet to gaze out at the moonlit landscape. From this height, the Highlands stretched before them in all their wild majesty—rolling hills, deep glens, and in the far distance, the silhouette of mountains against the night sky.

"It's beautiful," she breathed. "So different from Georgia."

"Tell me about your home," Lachlan requested, coming to stand beside her. "Your true home, in your time."

Eleanor considered how to describe a world so different from his. "It's... tamer. The wilderness has been pushed back, replaced by towns and farms and roads that stretch for hundreds of miles." She smiled ruefully. "The church in my town would fit inside your great hall, yet it dominates our community as surely as this keep dominates your lands."

"And your husband? The preacher?"

The question held a note of something Eleanor wasn't ready to examine too closely. "Samuel is... a good man, in his way. Devoted to his faith, respected by his congregation." She sighed, the admission coming easier in the darkness. "But there was never passion between us. Our marriage was a matter of convenience—security for me, a suitable wife for him."

"You were not in love, then."

Eleanor shook her head. "I don't know that I even believed in love, not the kind written about in poems and songs." She turned to face him. "My life there was small, contained. Every day the same as the one before."

"And here?" Lachlan asked, his voice low.

"Here..." Eleanor searched for words. "Here, everything feels more vivid. More real, somehow, despite the strangeness of it all." She gestured to the vast landscape before them. "There's danger, yes, but also a kind of freedom I never knew."

Lachlan stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him in the cool night air. "And is that why you hesitated when Morag spoke of your return? Because you've found something here worth staying for?"

The question hung between them, loaded with implications neither had voiced until now. Eleanor's heart beat faster as she met his gaze.

"Perhaps," she admitted softly. "Though what awaits me if I stay is far from certain."

"Few things in life are certain," Lachlan replied, his hand rising to trace the curve of her cheek with gentle fingers. "But some are worth the risk of uncertainty."

Eleanor leaned into his touch, her eyes drifting closed for a moment. When she opened them again, Lachlan had moved closer still, his face inches from hers.

"I should not want this," he murmured, his breath warm against her lips. "You wear the face of my enemy's daughter. You may return to your own time. Every reason cautions against what I feel."

"And yet?" Eleanor whispered, her hands moving to rest against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her palms.

"And yet I find myself beyond caution where you are concerned." His fingers slid into her hair, dislodging one of the silver pins. "Eleanor," he breathed her true name like a prayer.

The last space between them vanished as his lips found hers. The kiss began gently, a question rather than a demand. Eleanor answered by winding her arms around his neck, drawing him closer as the kiss deepened into something hungry and reverent all at once.

The world seemed to shift beneath her feet, a dizzying sensation that had nothing to do with the height of the battlements. The stone fragment pressed between them suddenly flared with heat, and the mark on her wrist burned in response.

Images flooded Eleanor's mind—not her own memories, but Aisling's. A shadowed meeting with Duncan in Edinburgh. A secret chamber beneath a Fraser tower where ancient texts were hidden. Lord Fraser's rage upon discovering his daughter's dalliance with a MacTavish. And beneath it all, Aisling's single-minded obsession with finding the stone, using whatever means necessary, including the affections of an infatuated young man.

Eleanor gasped, breaking the kiss as the vision faded. Lachlan steadied her, concern etched on his features.

"What is it? What did you see?"

"Aisling," Eleanor managed, her voice unsteady. "Her memories. She used Duncan to get closer to the stone. She never cared for him at all."

Lachlan's expression hardened. "I feared as much. My brother has always been too trusting for his own good."

"There's more," Eleanor continued, the fragments of memory still vivid. "She found texts, hidden in Fraser Tower. Ancient writings about the stone and its powers." She met his gaze. "She knew more than she revealed to anyone, even her father."

"And now those memories are coming to you," Lachlan observed. "Through her body."

Eleanor nodded, disturbed by the implications. "When we... when you kissed me, it triggered something. As though the connection between this body and its original owner strengthened momentarily."

Lachlan's hands remained at her waist, his touch reassuring rather than demanding. "Does that mean Aisling, in your body, might be experiencing your memories as well?"

The thought was unsettling. "I don't know. But if she is, she'll have little use for the quiet life of a preacher's wife in Georgia."

A shout from below interrupted their conversation. They moved to the parapet, looking down to see a rider entering the courtyard at speed, his horse lathered with exertion.

"A messenger," Lachlan identified, his posture tensing. "At this hour, it cannot be good news."

They hurried back to the great hall, where the celebration continued unaware of the interruption. Lachlan was immediately approached by a servant who whispered urgently in his ear. His expression darkened as he nodded dismissal.

"What is it?" Eleanor asked as the servant departed.

"Sinclair men have been spotted near the standing stones," Lachlan replied, his voice low to avoid being overheard. "A larger force than expected, and they're setting up camp, not just passing through."

"But the meeting isn't for two days," Eleanor protested. "The truce—"

"Holds, technically. But it seems Sinclair is preparing the ground to his advantage." Lachlan's jaw tightened. "And that's not all. The messenger reports signs of Fraser banners among them."

Eleanor felt a chill run through her. "Fraser? You think my fa—Lord Fraser has betrayed the truce?"

"Or is playing both sides against the middle." Lachlan's gaze swept the hall, locating Lord Fraser deep in conversation with several clan representatives. "Either way, our plans have become more complicated."

Eleanor's hand moved to where the fragment rested against her skin. "We need to reach the stones before Sinclair discovers what lies beneath them."

"Agreed. But we must be cautious." Lachlan's eyes returned to hers, softening slightly despite the tension of the moment. "What happened between us on the battlements—"

"Was real," Eleanor finished for him. "Whatever complications surround us, that much I know for certain."

A shadow of a smile touched his lips. "Then we face these complications together." He straightened, resuming the mantle of laird visibly. "For now, we must maintain appearances. The gathering continues for some hours yet."

chapter-9

Chapter 9 - Promises to Keep

The gathering continued late into the night, but Eleanor barely registered the continued festivities. Her mind raced with the implications of Sinclair forces gathering near the standing stones, and the even more disturbing possibility of Fraser involvement. Had Lord Fraser truly betrayed the truce? Or was he playing a more complex game than she understood?

More distracting still was the lingering sensation of Lachlan's kiss, the warmth of his hands on her waist, the way his eyes had darkened when she'd admitted the kiss was real. Even as she circulated among the guests, smiling and conversing as expected of Lady Aisling Fraser, her awareness remained fixed on Lachlan's presence across the room.

She watched him fulfill his duties as host with effortless authority, noting how the other clan representatives deferred to him despite his relative youth. There was something magnetic about him that had nothing to do with his position and everything to do with the man himself—his unwavering certainty, his fierce loyalty to his people, the intensity that simmered beneath his controlled exterior.

By the time the last guests had been shown to their quarters or escorted to the village below the keep, exhaustion pulled at Eleanor's limbs. The stone fragment against her skin seemed to pulse with increased urgency, as though sensing the heightened stakes.

"Meet me in the old chapel in an hour," Lachlan murmured as they bid formal goodnight at the foot of the staircase leading to the private quarters. "We must plan our next move carefully."

Eleanor nodded, aware of Lord Fraser watching from across the hall. "An hour," she confirmed softly.

In her chamber, Fiona helped her remove the elaborate gown and pins from her hair, commenting on the apparent success of the gathering.

"They're saying it's the beginning of a new alliance," the maid remarked as she folded the emerald silk. "Fraser and MacTavish united against Sinclair aggression. Is it true, milady?"

Eleanor sighed, too tired for pretense. "Politics is rarely so simple, Fiona."

The maid's hands stilled momentarily. "And Lord MacTavish? They say the way he looked at you was hardly political."

Heat rushed to Eleanor's cheeks. Had their connection been so obvious to observers? "People will gossip about anything," she deflected.

Fiona's smile was knowing. "As you say, milady." She paused at the door. "Will you need anything else tonight?"

"No, thank you. I'm quite tired." The lie came easily, though guilt followed. Fiona had been nothing but kind and helpful.

Once alone, Eleanor changed from her nightdress into a simple gown of dark wool, better suited for a midnight meeting. She retrieved the stone fragment and key from their hiding place, securing them in the small pouch Morag had given her. The witch's herbs remained untouched—sleep would have to wait until their plans were set.

The keep had settled into its nighttime quiet, torches burning low in the corridors as Eleanor made her way silently to the old chapel. She encountered no one on her journey, though she moved with caution nonetheless.

The chapel door opened with the same telltale creak as before. Lachlan already waited inside, a single candle illuminating his features as he pored over what appeared to be a map spread across the stone altar.

He looked up at her entrance, his expression softening momentarily before returning to grave focus. "You came."

"Did you doubt I would?" She approached, noting the dark shadows beneath his eyes. He looked as exhausted as she felt, the weight of leadership heavy on his shoulders.

"After everything that's happened today, I would not have blamed you for choosing the safety of your bed." He gestured to the map. "I had this brought from the archives—an old rendering of the area around the standing stones."

Eleanor moved beside him, studying the yellowed parchment. The map showed the circular arrangement of stones in detail, along with the surrounding terrain—a stream to the east, a dense forest to the north, and open moorland to the south and west.

"The messenger reported Sinclair forces here," Lachlan indicated a spot near the forest edge, "and Fraser men joining them from the west. Together, they nearly surround the stone circle."

"Leaving us limited approaches," Eleanor observed, tracing possible routes with her finger. "What of Morag's guidance? She mentioned a passage beneath the stones, opened by the key."

"Aye, and according to this map, the entrance would be here." He pointed to the center of the circle, where a larger stone was marked with a symbol similar to the one on Eleanor's wrist. "But reaching it with Sinclair and Fraser men watching will be nearly impossible."

Eleanor considered the problem. "Unless we go tomorrow night instead of waiting for the appointed meeting."

Lachlan's eyebrows rose. "A day early? Sinclair would consider it a breach of the truce."

"Only if he catches us," Eleanor countered. "And he'll be expecting us to approach openly for the meeting, not secretly in the dead of night."

A reluctant smile tugged at Lachlan's mouth. "Thinking like a Highlander already, I see." His expression grew serious again. "It could work, but it's dangerous. If we're caught, Sinclair would have every excuse to declare the truce void."

"More dangerous than waiting until he's had two days to explore the stones himself?" Eleanor challenged. "If the stone is truly as powerful as Morag described, we can't risk Sinclair finding it first."

Lachlan studied her face in the candlelight, admiration evident in his gaze. "You're right, of course. Tomorrow night, then." He straightened, rolling up the map. "We'll need help—trusted men who can create a distraction if necessary."

"Duncan?" Eleanor suggested hesitantly.

Lachlan's expression closed slightly. "My brother has a good heart, but his judgment is...compromised where Aisling Fraser is concerned." He sighed. "And given what you've learned about Aisling's use of his affections, I'm reluctant to involve him further."

"I understand," Eleanor agreed, relieved. The last thing she wanted was to deepen Duncan's confusion by involving him in their plans. "What of Fergus? He seems loyal to you, and he knows Morag."

"Fergus would help, but he's too old for such an expedition." Lachlan considered. "I have three men I trust absolutely—Callum, Rory, and Ewan. They've stood with me since my father's time and would die before betraying clan secrets."

"Four against Sinclair's forces?" Eleanor frowned. "The odds seem poor."

"We won't engage directly if we can help it. Stealth, not strength, will be our advantage." Lachlan's hand covered hers where it rested on the altar. "And we have something they don't—the key, and your connection to it."

The simple touch sent warmth spreading up her arm. After their kiss on the battlements, even this casual contact felt charged with meaning.

"There's another matter we must consider," Lachlan continued, his voice dropping lower. "If Lord Fraser is indeed coordinating with Sinclair, your position here becomes more precarious. He may try to remove you from the keep before tomorrow night."

The thought sent a chill through Eleanor. "What can we do?"

"I've instructed the guards to prevent any Fraser departure without my explicit approval. A breach of hospitality, perhaps, but necessary." His thumb traced small circles on the back of her hand, the gesture unconscious yet intimate. "But you must be careful tomorrow. Give Lord Fraser no reason to suspect our plans."

Eleanor nodded, trying to focus on strategy rather than the distraction of his touch. "And if we succeed? If we find the stone before Sinclair's meeting?"

Lachlan's expression grew solemn. "Then comes the choice Morag spoke of. The stone would allow you to return to your time, if that's what you wish."

The possibility hung between them, weighted with unspoken feelings. Eleanor turned her hand beneath his, their fingers intertwining.

"I don't know what I wish," she admitted softly. "My life there seems distant now, like a half-remembered dream. But this—" she gestured to encompass the world around them, "—this isn't truly my place either."

"Isn't it?" Lachlan stepped closer, the space between them shrinking to mere inches. "You've adapted to this time with remarkable ease. You've shown courage and wisdom that would serve you well here." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "And there are those who would be... diminished by your departure."

The admission, coming from a man so careful with his words, carried profound weight. Eleanor's heart quickened as she met his gaze.

"Lachlan, I—"

The chapel door creaked, cutting off her response. They sprang apart as a figure slipped inside, closing the door softly behind them.

"Sister?" Catriona's voice was barely above a whisper. "Are you here?"

Eleanor exchanged a startled glance with Lachlan before responding. "Catriona? How did you know where to find me?"

The younger woman moved further into the chapel, her slender form becoming visible in the candlelight. She wore a simple nightrail beneath a dark cloak, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her expression registered shock at finding her sister alone with Lachlan MacTavish in the middle of the night.

"I... I followed you," she admitted, her gaze darting between them. "I needed to speak with you urgently, but this—" she gestured to their close proximity, "—explains much about your recent behavior."

"It's not what you think," Eleanor began, then stopped. What could she possibly say that would make this situation appear innocent?

To her surprise, Catriona laughed softly, the sound holding more resignation than judgment. "Isn't it? The way you two looked at each other during the gathering was hardly subtle. Father noticed too, though he attributed it to political maneuvering rather than..." she trailed off delicately.

Lachlan cleared his throat. "Lady Catriona, your presence here puts us all in a difficult position. Whatever you believe you've discovered—"

"I'm not here to expose you," Catriona interrupted, her voice steadier than Eleanor had yet heard it. "I'm here because Father is planning something dangerous, and I fear you're both in grave danger."

Eleanor moved toward her sister, concern overwhelming embarrassment. "What do you mean? What is he planning?"

Catriona glanced nervously toward the door before continuing. "I overheard him speaking with his captain after the gathering. He's been communicating with Sinclair all along, coordinating some kind of ambush at the standing stones."

Lachlan's expression darkened. "So our information was correct. The truce was merely a ruse."

"Not entirely," Catriona clarified. "Father believes Aisling—" she nodded toward Eleanor, "—knows where the MacTavish stone is hidden. The plan is to allow you to lead them to it, then seize it once you've done the work." Her gaze dropped. "Sinclair promised that once he has the stone, his marriage to me would proceed with greater... leniency."

The implication that Lord Fraser was trading his daughter's welfare for power turned Eleanor's stomach. "And you're telling us this knowing it could be considered treason against your clan?"

Catriona raised her chin, a flash of defiance in her eyes. "My clan, yes. But Father's ambition has nothing to do with Fraser welfare and everything to do with his own power." She turned to Lachlan. "I don't pretend to understand what's between you and my sister, Laird MacTavish, but I know she's changed since coming here. Changed for the better. And I would not see her sacrificed to Father's schemes."

The assessment was so ironically accurate that Eleanor nearly laughed. If only Catriona knew just how changed "Aisling" truly was.

"Thank you for the warning," Lachlan said, his tone gentler than Eleanor had expected. "Your courage does you credit, Lady Catriona."

"Will you help us?" Eleanor asked impulsively. "We plan to reach the stones before the appointed meeting."

Catriona's eyes widened. "You want my help to betray our father?"

"To prevent unnecessary bloodshed," Eleanor corrected. "If what you say is true, the meeting at the stones will end in violence regardless of what we do. This way, we might avoid the worst of it."

Indecision flickered across Catriona's face. "What would you have me do?"

"Create a distraction tomorrow evening," Lachlan suggested. "Something to keep Lord Fraser occupied while we slip away from the keep."

Catriona considered this, then nodded slowly. "I could claim illness—a female complaint. Father avoids such matters assiduously and would likely remain in his quarters rather than risk encountering details of women's difficulties."

Eleanor smiled at the clever suggestion. "Perfect. Can you maintain the ruse for several hours?"

"For a chance to thwart Father's plans to sell me to Sinclair?" Catriona's answering smile held a hint of her sister's spirit. "I believe I can manage a quite convincing ailment."

The three unlikely conspirators spent the next hour refining their plan. Lachlan would arrange for horses to be ready at the western postern gate immediately after the evening meal. Catriona would begin her performance of illness during the meal itself, ensuring Lord Fraser would be occupied with her supposed condition. Eleanor would slip away in the confusion, meeting Lachlan and his trusted men for the journey to the standing stones.

As they prepared to return to their respective chambers, Catriona pulled Eleanor aside, her voice dropping to ensure Lachlan couldn't overhear.

"Sister, whatever has changed you, I'm grateful for it," she said softly. "But be careful with your heart. We Fraser women have poor luck in matters of love."

Eleanor squeezed her hand. "Some luck can be changed, Cat. Some fates rewritten."

Catriona's smile was sad but genuine. "I hope you're right. For both our sakes."

They parted at the chapel door, Catriona slipping away first to ensure the corridor was clear. Lachlan hung back with Eleanor, his hand finding hers in the darkness.

"Your sister surprises me," he admitted. "There's more strength in her than I would have expected from a Fraser."

"There's strength in unexpected places," Eleanor replied. "If we've learned nothing else these past days, surely that's become clear."

His fingers tightened around hers. "Indeed. And speaking of unexpected things—" He hesitated, uncharacteristically uncertain. "What you were about to say, before Catriona interrupted us..."

Eleanor summoned her courage. "I was going to say that I've found reasons to stay. Reasons that had nothing to do with stones or magic or clan politics."

In the dim light, she saw his expression soften. "Eleanor," he began, her true name spoken like a caress.

"Tomorrow," she interrupted gently. "After we find the stone. Then we'll speak of... possibilities."

Lachlan nodded, accepting the wisdom of her restraint even as his eyes promised conversations yet to come. "Until tomorrow, then."

The night passed in fitful snatches of sleep, Eleanor's dreams filled with standing stones and passages leading into darkness. She woke before dawn, the stone fragment pulsing against her skin with increasing urgency, as though sensing the approaching confrontation.

The day stretched endlessly before her, each hour an exercise in patience and performance. She broke her fast with Lord Fraser, who watched her with calculated interest as he discussed preparations for their departure following the meeting with Sinclair.

"I've arranged for an escort of twenty men," he informed her. "More than adequate protection for our journey home."

"Twenty men seems excessive for a simple journey," Eleanor observed mildly. "Unless you anticipate trouble."

Lord Fraser's smile didn't reach his eyes. "A prudent leader always anticipates trouble, daughter. Particularly when Sinclair and MacTavish are involved."

Eleanor maintained her composure through a long morning of meaningless activities—needlework with the other women, a tour of the keep's defenses led by Duncan, a review of Fraser accounts that Lord Fraser insisted required her attention. Through it all, she felt Lachlan's periodic gaze from across rooms and courtyards, their shared secret a tangible connection despite the distance between them.

By mid-afternoon, a steady rain had begun to fall, shrouding the keep in a misty veil that suited Eleanor's mood. Weather that would complicate their night journey, but might also provide additional cover from watching eyes. She stood at her chamber window, watching raindrops trace patterns down the leaded glass, when a soft knock announced Fiona's arrival.

"Lady Catriona requests your presence in her chamber, milady," the maid reported. "She mentioned something about assistance with her embroidery."

The pretext was flimsy but sufficient. Eleanor thanked Fiona and made her way to Catriona's quarters, where she found her sister alone, pacing nervously.

"Is everything prepared?" Eleanor asked once the door was securely closed.

Catriona nodded. "I've spoken with my maid, hinting at my monthly difficulties. She's sympathetic and will support my claims of severe discomfort." She bit her lip anxiously. "Father's been watching you all day. He suspects something."

"He always suspects something," Eleanor replied with more confidence than she felt. "But even he can't prevent a daughter's illness, nor would he wish to involve himself in its details."

"True enough." Catriona sank onto the edge of her bed. "I've never defied him like this before. I'm not as brave as you, Aisling."

The use of her supposed name gave Eleanor pause. The genuine affection she'd developed for this sister who wasn't truly hers created a complex guilt. If she succeeded tonight, if she found the stone and chose to return to her own time, what would happen to the real Aisling? Would she return to this body, with no memory of Eleanor's actions on her behalf?

"You're braver than you know," Eleanor said gently. "Standing against Lord Fraser for what you believe is right takes considerable courage."

Catriona smiled tremulously. "Perhaps. But I wouldn't have found that courage without your example these past days." She stood, embracing Eleanor impulsively. "Whatever happens tonight, know that you've given me hope that I might write my own fate someday."

Eleanor returned the embrace, throat tight with emotion. "You will, Cat. I promise."

They spent the next hour finalizing details of their plan before separating to prepare for the evening meal. Eleanor returned to her chamber to find Fiona laying out a practical gown of dark blue wool—ideal for their nighttime expedition.

"A strange choice for dinner," Eleanor commented.

Fiona's expression remained carefully neutral. "Lord MacTavish suggested it might be more comfortable, given the chill in the hall from today's rain."

So Lachlan had thought of practical details as well. The man's thoroughness never ceased to impress her.

"Thank you, Fiona. It's perfect."

As the dinner hour approached, Eleanor dressed with care, securing the stone fragment and key in the inner pocket of her gown. She pinned her hair in a simple style that would fit easily beneath a hood, and tucked Morag's herbal pouch into her sleeve—a precaution against whatever challenges the night might bring.

The great hall was indeed chilly despite the roaring fires at either end. Eleanor took her place at the high table between Lord Fraser and Lachlan, noting the tension that radiated from both men. The remaining guests from the previous night's gathering had departed, leaving primarily clan members and the Fraser contingent to dine together in uneasy harmony.

Midway through the second course, Catriona made her entrance. She looked genuinely pale, her steps faltering slightly as she approached the high table. Eleanor had to admire her sister's commitment to the performance.

"Father," Catriona murmured, her voice pitched low but audible to those nearby. "I fear I must retire early. I'm... unwell."

Lord Fraser frowned. "You seem feverish. Perhaps the keep's drafts—"

"It's not a fever, Father," Catriona interrupted, her cheeks flushing with what appeared to be embarrassment but was actually part of their planned exchange. "It's a... woman's matter."

As predicted, Lord Fraser's expression immediately shuttered, discomfort evident in his posture. "I see. Yes, of course. You should retire at once."

"I'll assist her," Eleanor offered, rising.

Lord Fraser waved a hand dismissively. "Yes, yes. Women's business. See to your sister."

Eleanor suppressed a smile at his predictable reaction as she escorted Catriona from the hall. Once they were safely in the corridor, Catriona let out a soft laugh.

"Did you see his face? He couldn't dismiss us quickly enough."

"You were perfect," Eleanor assured her, squeezing her arm. "Now, remember to keep your chamber door locked. Claim extreme pain if anyone tries to enter."

Catriona nodded, sobering. "Be careful, Aisling. Whatever you seek at the stones, it's not worth your life."

If only she knew, Eleanor thought as they embraced once more before parting. The stone was worth far more than just one life—it might determine the fate of multiple clans, not to mention Eleanor's own future.

Eleanor returned briefly to the hall, informing Lord Fraser that Catriona was settled but would need periodic checking throughout the evening. "I'll see to her needs," she assured him. "There's no need for you to trouble yourself."

He accepted this with obvious relief, returning his attention to his meal and conversation with the Fraser captain at his side. Eleanor caught Lachlan's eye briefly, exchanging a nearly imperceptible nod. The first part of their plan had succeeded.

For the next hour, Eleanor moved between the hall and Catriona's chamber, establishing a pattern of caring for her sister that would provide cover for her eventual absence. The rain continued steadily, drumming against the keep's stone walls and creating a constant background murmur that helped mask other sounds.

Finally, during one supposed visit to Catriona, Eleanor ducked into an alcove near the servants' stairs. She pulled a dark cloak over her gown, drawing the hood forward to shadow her distinctive copper hair. Then, moving with deliberate purpose as Lachlan had suggested—servants rarely questioned someone who appeared to know exactly where they were going—she made her way to the western postern gate.

The same guard from their midnight journey to Morag's glen was on duty. He nodded silently as Eleanor approached, opening the small door without question. Outside, the rain fell in a steady curtain, already soaking through her cloak as she hurried to where four riders waited, their faces shadowed beneath oiled hoods.

Lachlan dismounted as she approached, helping her onto the same chestnut mare she'd ridden before. "Any trouble?" he asked quietly.

"None. Catriona played her part perfectly."

He remounted his black stallion, surveying the small party. "Callum, Rory, Ewan," he addressed the three men. "You know our purpose tonight. Absolute silence until we're well away from the keep."

The men nodded their understanding, and the small party set off through the rain, keeping to the trees that bordered the main road west. The downpour masked the sound of their horses' hooves and limited visibility, providing the cover they needed to slip away undetected.

They rode hard for the first hour, putting distance between themselves and the keep. The rain eventually slackened to a misty drizzle, though low clouds obscured the moon and stars. Eleanor's clothing was soaked through, her fingers numb with cold as she gripped the reins. Yet a fierce exhilaration burned in her chest, warming her from within.

They were doing this—actually attempting to reach the stones before Sinclair, to find the MacTavish stone and unlock its power. Whatever happened next, this moment of purposeful action, of choosing her own path, felt more right than anything Eleanor had experienced in her previous life.

As they approached the general vicinity of the standing stones, Lachlan signaled for them to slow and dismount. One of the men—Callum, Eleanor thought, though it was difficult to distinguish them in the darkness—took charge of the horses, leading them to a sheltered copse where they would wait.

"From here, we proceed on foot," Lachlan murmured, his voice barely audible above the patter of raindrops on leaves. "Sinclair's men will be watching the main approaches. We'll circle wide to the south, then approach from the rear."

The terrain grew increasingly difficult as they abandoned established paths for wilderness. Eleanor was grateful for the sturdy boots Fiona had provided, though mud still sucked at each step, threatening to unbalance her. Lachlan remained close at her side, his hand occasionally steadying her when the ground grew particularly treacherous.

After what felt like hours of careful progress, they crested a low rise that offered their first view of the standing stones. Eleanor's breath caught at the sight.

Even in the misty darkness, the stone circle emanated a primal power. Twelve massive stones, each twice the height of a man, formed a perfect circle around a central monolith that seemed to pierce the low clouds above. The stones weren't uniform—some were slender and pointed, others broad and flat—but all shared the same silvery-gray coloration that seemed to absorb the darkness around them.

And surrounding this ancient wonder, just as the messenger had reported, were the flickering lights of campfires. Sinclair's men had established positions on three sides of the circle, with what appeared to be a smaller Fraser contingent completing the encirclement on the fourth.

"They've surrounded it completely," Eleanor whispered, dismay evident in her voice.

Lachlan studied the scene with narrowed eyes. "Not quite. See there—" he pointed to a section between two campfires on the southeastern arc, "—the gap between patrols is wider. The ground there is marshy from the stream overflow. They've avoided setting watch directly in the bog."

"So we wade through a marsh to reach the stones?" One of the men—Rory, she thought—sounded dubious.

"Unless you'd prefer to announce ourselves to Sinclair's archers," Lachlan replied dryly. "The marsh it is."

They backtracked slightly before descending toward the boggy ground that bordered the stream. The going was even more difficult here, each step requiring careful testing before committing weight. Cold water soon filled Eleanor's boots, her sodden skirts clinging to her legs and hampering movement.

Yet the fragment against her skin seemed to pulse with increased vigor the closer they drew to the stones, its warmth a contrast to the chill that had settled into her bones. The mark on her wrist tingled, a sensation that intensified as they finally reached the outer edge of the marsh and crouched in the shadow of gorse bushes, surveying the final approach to the stone circle.

Two Sinclair guards patrolled the section nearest them, moving in a predictable pattern that created a brief window of opportunity between passes. Lachlan pointed silently, indicating the timing to his men. They would need to sprint across thirty yards of open ground to reach the protective shadow of the stones themselves.

"Wait for my signal," he whispered. "Then move fast and stay low."

Eleanor's heart hammered against her ribs as they watched the guards complete another circuit. The rain continued to fall, a blessing that muffled sound and reduced visibility. The stone fragment seemed to burn against her skin now, urging her forward.

Lachlan raised his hand, watching the guards intently. Then, as they turned away on their repetitive path, he dropped his arm in a sharp gesture. "Now!"

They broke cover simultaneously, running in a low crouch across the open ground. Eleanor's sodden skirts hampered her speed, but adrenaline propelled her forward, her focus narrowed to the looming shadow of the nearest standing stone.

Twenty yards. Ten. Five.

A shout rang out behind them—one of the guards had turned early, catching a glimpse of movement in the rain. Eleanor drove herself harder, legs burning with effort as the yell was taken up by other voices around the circle.

Then suddenly, blessedly, they were among the stones. The massive monoliths provided immediate cover, their bulk hiding the small party from searching eyes. But they'd lost the element of surprise—now it was only a matter of time before Sinclair's men moved in to investigate.

"The center stone," Eleanor gasped, pulling the key from her pocket. "We need to reach it now."

Lachlan nodded grimly. "Callum, Rory, guard our backs. Ewan, with us." He took Eleanor's arm, guiding her in a crouching run from stone to stone, working their way inward toward the central monolith.

The center stone was larger than the others, its surface covered in weathered carvings that seemed to shift and change in the uncertain light. Eleanor approached it with reverence, the key clutched tightly in her hand. The mark on her wrist burned as though responding to some unseen power radiating from the ancient rock.

"Hurry," Lachlan urged, glancing back toward the sounds of approaching men. "They'll be upon us in moments."

Eleanor pressed her palm against the stone's cool surface, feeling for something—anything—that might indicate where the key should be used. The massive rock seemed solid and unyielding beneath her searching fingers.

"I don't understand," she murmured, frustration welling. "There's no keyhole, no opening of any kind."

A flicker of movement caught her peripheral vision—torches approaching through the rain, Sinclair's men closing in. They had seconds, not minutes.

"The mark," Lachlan suggested urgently. "Try placing your mark against the stone."

Eleanor pushed back her sleeve, pressing her marked wrist directly against the rough surface of the monolith. Immediately, a surge of energy coursed through her arm, the symbol on her skin flaring with blue-white light that matched the pulsing of the fragment in her pocket.

Beneath her touch, a section of the stone's surface began to glow with the same unearthly light, ancient carvings illuminated from within. A perfect impression of the key's shape appeared, etched in light against the dark stone.

With shaking fingers, Eleanor inserted the key into the illuminated depression. It fit perfectly, as though the stone had been waiting all these centuries for precisely this moment. She turned the key, feeling resistance, then a sudden giving way as ancient mechanisms shifted deep within the monolith.

A low rumbling vibrated through the ground beneath their feet. At the base of the central stone, a section of earth began to sink, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness.

"Inside, quickly!" Lachlan urged, as shouts from Sinclair's men grew louder. They'd been spotted.

Eleanor didn't hesitate, ducking into the opening with Lachlan and Ewan close behind. The stone fragment guided her, its glow providing just enough light to navigate the tight, winding stairs. Behind them, Lachlan called out to his men still guarding their retreat, but his words were lost as the earth sealed itself once more, plunging them into near-total darkness save for the faint blue glow emanating from the fragment.

"Callum and Rory," Lachlan's voice was tight with concern. "They were still outside."

"They knew the risks," Ewan replied grimly. "And they'll buy us the time we need."

Eleanor's chest tightened at the thought of the men facing Sinclair's forces alone, but there was no turning back now. The passage had sealed behind them, leaving only one path forward.

"This way," she said, holding up the glowing fragment to illuminate their surroundings.

The staircase descended in a tight spiral, the air growing progressively cooler and damper as they moved deeper beneath the earth. The walls were not rough-hewn but precisely carved, adorned with the same symbols that marked the key and Eleanor's wrist. This was no natural cave but a deliberately constructed chamber, ancient beyond reckoning.

After what felt like hundreds of steps, the staircase finally opened into a circular room. Eleanor's breath caught at the sight. The chamber's walls were inlaid with veins of the same material as her fragment, pulsing with blue-white light that created an otherworldly glow. At the center stood a raised dais, and upon it...

"The MacTavish stone," Lachlan breathed, moving forward as though drawn by an invisible force.

The stone was smaller than Eleanor had expected—perhaps the size of a man's head—but its presence dominated the chamber. Unlike her fragment, which glowed with steady light, the stone's illumination shifted and flowed like water across its surface, creating patterns that seemed almost like writing in a language beyond human understanding.

Eleanor approached slowly, the fragment in her hand pulsing in rhythm with the larger stone, calling to its counterpart. As she drew nearer, images flickered at the edges of her vision—brief glimpses of other times, other places. Her own living room in Georgia. The church where Samuel preached. And something else—a figure with copper hair moving through unfamiliar rooms, touching unfamiliar objects with growing confidence.

Aisling, in Eleanor's body, adapting to the twenty-first century.

"Eleanor." Lachlan's voice drew her back to the present. He stood beside the dais, his expression a complex mixture of awe and apprehension. "You're seeing something."

"Flashes," she confirmed. "My home. And... Aisling, I think. In my body."

Lachlan's jaw tightened. "The stone is already affecting you. Morag warned it would."

Eleanor nodded, placing her fragment beside the larger stone. The two pieces seemed to recognize each other, their light harmonizing into a single pulsation that filled the chamber with increasing intensity.

"What now?" Ewan asked from near the staircase, his voice hushed with reverence.

"Now we take it," Lachlan replied, reaching for the stone. "Before Sinclair's men find another way—"

His hand had barely touched the stone's surface when a voice rang out from the staircase.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, MacTavish."

All three turned to find Lord Fraser descending the final steps into the chamber, a sword in one hand and determination etched into