My gaze drops to my well-worn combat boots, scuffed from trekking over fields and cobblestone streets. They’ve brought me here, to this moment, this assembly of kindred souls. Suddenly, the looming deadline and the dream of meeting my perfect match that propelled me across an ocean seem far away, replaced by a sense of belonging—a spark of possibility.
There may be a touch of magic in these Highlands, after all.
Chapter Fifteen
I slide into a wooden chair,finding myself shoulder-to-shoulder with Mac, a lively old-timer. He leans in, conspiratorially close, his accent thick and sweet as syrup. Cal reappears at our table, arms laden with frothy pints of local brew. The glasses clink together in a chorus of friendship as we lift them high for the toast.
“Ever heard about the warrior queen who led her clan to victory against the English using nothing but her brains and a hefty sword?” Mac asks.
I shake my head, curiosity already piqued. “Can’t say that I have.”
Mac takes a hearty gulp of his ale, relishing the chance to spin his tale. “Ah! It was something else! Legend has it she charged into battle atop a horse blacker than midnight, her flaming hair flying behindher like a war banner. They called her Aoife the Fierce...”
His words weave an enchanting tapestry of times long past. I picture Aoife rallying her troops on fog-drenched moors, swords clashing, hooves thundering, and cries of pain echoing through the air. It’s like I’m there in flesh and blood.
Caught up in this historical reverie, I almost miss Moira, Mac’s wife, joining in. “And don’t forget about Cawdor Castle’s ghost! Rumor has it she still roams its walls looking for her lost love.”
“Ghost?” I blink. My writerly instincts snap to attention. “Go on!”
Moira’s eyes glint mysteriously under the dim pub lights. “Long ago, an innocent bride was confined to the tower by her ruthless husband who accused her of adultery and left her to starve. When he finally unlocked the door... all he found was her wedding dress fluttering eerily in the breeze...”
A shiver of delight crawls up my spine. I can almost see it: the dank, shadowy tower room, the spectral figure in white, a love story twisted into tragedy. It’s pure Gothic romance, complete with desolate moors and tormented hearts.
I glance at Cal, wondering if he’s caught up in this thrill too; these stories coming alive, history seeping into our present. Our eyes meet, and for a split second, there’s something there. A spark ofunderstanding? Or maybe just the flickering firelight playing tricks on his rugged features.
Regardless, one thing is clear: I’m exactly where I want to be. And I wish this night would never end.
An infectious wave of laughter sweeps through the room, only dying down when all eyes land on Cal.
“Alright, ye sea-soaked barnacle,” his brother Cam begins. “How about ye delight us with yer favorite tale?”
Cal rolls his eyes. “Just so ye know, being ‘waterlogged’ has zilch to do with my sailing prowess,” he shoots back.
“Oh, I’m not doubting yer seafaring skills,” Cam replies, a devilish grin spreading across his face as he lifts his half-drained pint glass in a mock salute. “It’s yer alcohol tolerance that worries me.”
Sharon, Hamish, Mac, and Moira laugh again as Cal pretends to be affronted.
“Me? Can’t hold my liquor?” He dramatically clutches his chest as if stung by the accusation. “I’ll have ye know I can drink any of ye under the table.”
Cam snorts and shakes his head dismissively. “You couldn’t even manage bartending at last year’s family gathering without tripping over your own two feet.”
The laughter and banter flow around us like an affectionate tide. It’s clearly just another typical evening for these loving siblings, filled with friendly jabs and fraternal bonding.
After a while, Cal sidesteps Cam’s jibes and thelocal gossip and smoothly steers the conversation back to local legends.
“Well, I’ve already shared my favorite story with our resident wordsmith here—the legend of the Loch Portal,” he says, his raised brow hinting at something more. “But for ye lot, I’d be thrilled to spin that yarn once more.”
He leans forward, forearms resting on the worn wood of the pub table, lowering his voice to an enticing whisper that pulls us closer. “They say Loch Ness morphs into a gateway to bygone times on certain moonlit nights. Dare to leap into its glittering depths, and ye might find yourself catapulted to another era.”
I try to keep my face impassive as his words ignite a thrill. However, curiosity trumps any pretense of indifference, and I ask him, “Has anyone ever done it? Time-traveled?”
“Legends abound,” Cal begins in a hushed undertone like he’s sharing some top-secret information. “Stories of folks who vanished mysteriously during a full moon, only to reappear weeks later. They insist they’ve spent months or years in different periods, yet are seemingly untouched by time! No one knows who these time-travelers were, but the rumors say they lived alongside kings, mystics, warriors, and witches.”
A shiver runs down my spine as I picture the loch gleaming under a full moon, the water rippling as anunseen force drags me under. Would I surface in a castle with my combat boots swapped for silk slippers? Or on a battlefield with the clash of swords ringing in my ears?
“Of course, it’s all just legend,” Cal says, breaking the spell. “But still... it does make ye wonder...”
“It sure does,” I breathe out, my brain spinning like a top with many possibilities. A hidden portal right under our noses. An opportunity to not just read about history but to experience it. It’s mind-boggling, truth be told. And I can’t help it: I’m thirsty for more.
