Page 77

Jessica smiled back warmly. “Aye, of course. I can show you later how to play it if you like.”

Bryanna nodded enthusiastically as she stood up from Jessica’s stool. A harp wasn’t exactly a pub instrument in Bryanna’s understanding, but it was, apparently, in Scotland…at least in Inverness. Normally, Jessica had a small band—a man who played a Celtic drum and a guitarist—but their guitarist had moved to London.

“You know,” Bryanna said, “if you like how I play…I’m looking for a band to join.”

Jessica raised her eyebrows. “Oh! ’Tis good because we’re still looking for a new guitarist.”

“Well, then let me know if you like my style. No hard feelings if not, really, but I’m open to possibilities. Wide open, actually. I quit my job back in the States, and I really want to stay in Scotland.”

“Oh! Do you like it here?”

Bryanna’s heart made a lurch. “I love it here…” She felt close to the man she loved here, even if she would never see him again. “And I don’t know, I just have a feeling I should stay here. You know, everything is finally falling into place.”

Everything but Raghnall.

Soon, the pub began filling, and the two went into the back room. There were four musicians playing tonight, and Bryanna was the second. She’d landed this gig by chance, when someone she’d met in the youth hostel had told her they were auditioning for musicians playing Celtic music. Since she had been practicing Celtic ballads a lot after her crazy adventure in time, she’d decided to try, and was delighted when they accepted her.

Before she knew it, her turn came, and she went onto the stage with her heart drumming in her fingertips. She had played on the stage of her school before, to accompany the performances of her students, but this was first time that she’d been on a real stage, in front of an audience who didn’t call her Miss Fitzpatrick.

The beams of light were shining right into her eyes, and she couldn’t see the faces of her audience. Perhaps it was for the best, as it created a sort of a protective wall between them and made her less nervous. They were chatting, laughing, clinking their pints of ale against the tables, but when she leaned towards the microphone, they became quiet.

“My name’s Bryanna,” she said, not recognizing her microphone voice, “and I’m going to sing you a medieval ballad that I heard in the Highlands from a very dear person. Here we go…”

She held the chord and ran her fingers over the strings. The sound plunged her back into Tigh na Abhainn, into the bedroom that she and Raghnall had shared, where she’d first heard him sing. She forgot everything, letting her love and her heartache pour through her voice and through her fingertips.

“There lived a man in a Kintail house, a man with a hole in his chest…”

The song flowed freely, and she lost all sense of time until she struck the final chord and a tear rolled down her cheek. The audience was silent. Her heart beat once, twice, a million more times. She couldn’t see their faces.

Then the audience exploded into applause. She stood up, the move shifting her face out of the direct beam of light. She could see—they were standing, clapping, whistling. She bowed, and as she straightened, a familiar face flashed in the crowd.

Short black beard; broad, arched eyebrows; long black hair; dark eyes.

Thinking the lights had clearly messed up her vision, she stepped to her side to move out of their glare… And froze.

Stopped hearing. Stopped existing. Lightness filled her to the tips of her hair.

Standing by one of the round tables, clapping, was a man who resembled Raghnall like a twin. He had a ponytail and wore a leather jacket and black jeans, and was staring straight at her, with the intensity of a bushfire.

Then he crossed the distance between them. When he stood at the bottom of the stage, staring up at her, the applause around them began to die out, and the MC announced Jessica would be next.

Slowly, Bryanna stepped down from the small stage, staring at the man who looked like Raghnall, her heart tearing open and bleeding. She put her guitar against the wall and moved into the shadows of a nook by the bar.

“Hello,” she said.

He chuckled, his eyes smiling. “Hello, lass.”

God, he sounded just like Raghnall.

“Sorry if I’m staring, you look just like—”

“Yer husband.”

Her throat closed from emotion. How could she dare to hope? “Oh good God, is it you, Raghnall?”

He leaned over her and cupped her face. All doubt evaporated as the scents of leather, musk, and iron and his own musk filled her nostrils.

As the divine sounds of the clàrsach filled the room, Bryanna had the strangest sensation that she was in some sort of Celtic myth and her Highland prince—well, her medieval Highland rogue—had just found her.