Reaching down, she cursed it as she’d done so many times before. But it had been years since the injury troubled her. Like when she was younger, the jostling made it throb with pain, reminding Màiri of a day she dearly wished to forget.
The day she’d come back from that riding lesson to learn her mother had died.
Was it a woman?
Ian couldn’t tell from this distance. But one thing was for sure: he was definitely lost and should probably go back to look for his brother.
Who would have thought Greyson would be one of the first people he’d meet in medieval Scotland?
Ian shook his head, still incredulous at his good luck. The castle he’d approached, swarming with armed guards, had proven to be none other than Hightower, his mother’s ancestral home, and the man who’d greeted him at the gates was his brother, albeit not the one he’d expected to find first.
“Ian!” Grey had screamed a week earlier, running toward him.
He’d stood frozen in place, unable to move, and only when his brother engulfed him in an uncharacteristic hug did the moment become real.
It was actually him.
Ian held on tight, probably for too long, judging by the slightly disgusted expression on his brother’s hulking companion.
Turning toward the man, Grey grinned and said, “Meet Uncle Ross.”
About a million questions had flocked Ian’s head, but Grey had whispered for him to say nothing as he swept him through a wide open courtyard and yet another gatehouse. They entered thekeep, as Grey called it, and poor Uncle Ross was left behind to answer questions about the jeans-wearing stranger while the two brothers headed up to Grey’s bedchamber. By the time Ian had changed into somemore appropriate clothesand began to warm up by the massive fireplace in his brother’s room, he knew only three things:
Ian had found his way to Castle Hightower, their mother’s ancestral home.
Mom and Rhys were here, in this time, but they were not at Hightower. And though Grey had reunited with their mother, he hadn’t actually seen Rhys yet. It was a whole lot harder to get in touch with people in a time without cell phones or transport options other than horseback.
Reik was here too, but he’d apparently been here for months.
The answers he’d been given had only led to more questions.
He’d said as much, and Grey had just grinned. “I still can’t believe you’re here. And thank God you have the cross.”
That was when the unreality of the situation had hit him again, hard. He’d last seen Grey in their childhood home. Right before Grey had winked out in front of his eyes, just like Rhys had done four days earlier.
“Grey, this is fucking insane. I mean, seriously? Is this real? I mean, look at you.”
His brother looked like a Renaissance Faire reenactor, although he probably looked much the same way given the ridiculous outfit he’d put on. But this was no show. The dagger hanging from his brother’s belt appeared ominously real.
“It’s real.” Grey handed him a cup. “Goblet.”
Ian blinked.
“The fewer American words you use, the less suspicions you’ll raise.”
He took the . . . goblet . . . and drank some of the wine, finally getting warm.
“Not bad.”
Grey smiled. “That’s why I keep wine in here and not ale. The former is actually pretty decent in this time. The latter . . . sucks.”
“This time?” he asked expectantly, raising his brow.
Greyson sat on a wooden chair, its leather seat hardly looking fit for the task of holding his brother’s frame. But it did, easily.
“Lay it on me.” Ian wasn’t a fan of mincing words, and Grey knew it.
“The year of our Lord twelve hundred and eighty-six.”
