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Rogene glanced sharply at Sìneag. “Angus Mackenzie?”
“Aye.”
“The one who married Euphemia of Ross?”
“The very same.”
“Their marriage produced Paul Mackenzie, who famously saved the life of King Robert III. Did Angus Mackenzie have something to do with this rock? Did he leave some information about this myth?”
Sìneag laughed. “Nae he didna. But he is the man for ye.”
Rogene stared at her in disbelief. Then gave out a loud laugh. “For me?”
“Aye, dearie. Look.” She looked down at the rock and Rogene followed her gaze.
The carved lines glowed.
Rogene shook her head, not believing her eyes. The three lines of the river glowed blue, and the straight line through it glowed brown. Blinking, she sank to her knees by the rock and looked at it from different angles. What could glow like that? Puzzled, she ran her finger along the blue line, and a buzz went through her. Her heart accelerated. What the hell was that?
She looked at the handprint and had an inexplicable urge to put her own palm into it. Had the Kings of Dál Riata had a similar impulse to step into the footprint? Something called to her, and she just had to press her hand against this rock.
As though, if she did, everything would be all right in the world.
Blood pulsing in her hand, she pressed her palm into the print.
A shiver went through her. The sensation of being sucked in and swallowed consumed her. She felt as if she were falling into emptiness, hand, then head down, as nausea rose in her throat. She screamed, terror washing through her in a cold, paralyzing rush.
And then she became darkness.
Chapter 2
Eilean Donan Castle, May 1310
She was freezing. She lay on a cold, wet surface.
Then came the smell. Smoke.
She opened her eyes and went completely still. A man stared at her. A tall, muscular, dark-haired man holding a torch and dressed in a medieval tunic that reached his knees, with a belt around his narrow hips, and breeches and pointy shoes. He had a short beard—a bit longer than a week’s worth of stubble—and hair that curled around his ears. He was handsome, with a slight bump on his otherwise straight nose and intelligent, steel-gray eyes that bored into her.
Was he another museum worker, like the woman, Sìneag? Then she remembered the glowing carving and putting her hand on the rock. What in the world possessed her to touch the artifact without gloves, without anything…
Holding her throbbing skull, she scrambled to her feet.
“Sorry, I’m not supposed to be here, I know,” she said.
He slowly looked her over with his wide eyes, and even in the long dress and a bolero, she felt naked.
“Don’t look at me like that, sir. I’m leaving. Where’s Sìneag? I’m not sure what happened. I must have passed out…” But why would she? She’d had a sensation of falling, so perhaps she’d hit her head? Gosh, how much time had passed? “Are the guests still there, or did they already leave?”
“Guests?” he asked. “Ye must be with the Ross clan… I’m Angus Mackenzie. Ye ken, of course, I’m the groom.”
He had a beautiful voice, low and husky, like distant thunder after an exhausting heat wave, promising sweet release. Distantly, Rogene realized he’d called himself Angus Mackenzie. Angus Mackenzie, the man Sìneag told her would be her destiny… How weird was that? A shiver ran through her. He must be the descendant of the historical figure Sìneag had mentioned. Perhaps he meant he was with the groom…
“No. I’m with the Fischers,” she said automatically.
She hugged herself, warming her arms. He stared at her bare arms and her cleavage, and then some realization seemed to cross his face and he visibly relaxed.
“Oh. I’ve never used the services of a fisher before,” he said. “Is that a new, secret word for what ye whores do?”
