Castle Wrath
Scottish Highlands, One Modern-Day Year Later
“I knew it was a waste of money to come here.” George Bedwell stood in the middle of the National Trust for Scotland’s Castle Wrath car park, his resentful stare fixed on the closed Visitor Centre. “We’ve spent half our vacation time bugging those people, and no one has offered a clue as to what happened to Kira or that man of hers. If he even was ‘Aidan of Wrath’.”
“You know he was.” Blanche Bedwell looked on as the last coach tour bus of the day belched a plume of exhaust fumes before rumbling out of the fast-emptying parking lot. “Just because we haven’t found out anything, doesn’t mean fate wasn’t good to them.”
Her husband snorted and hitched up his belt. “She promised she’d try and leave some kind of sign for us. With all the nutty far-seeing and time travel she was capable of, you’d think she’d have been able to manage something as simple as leaving us a clue.”
“Now, George-”
“Och! A thousand pardons.” A tall, dark-haired man bowed courteously. “I didn’t mean to bump into you,” he said, adjusting the deep blue National Trust for Scotland gift-bag he held before him.
Flashing a smile, he straightened. “I trust this lass can help you. She has the answers you seek.”
“What?” George Bedwell put back his shoulders and huffed. But when he adjusted his camera strap, ready to scald the nosy bugger with an angry, all-American stare, he could only splutter and gape.
The man was gone.
In his place, a young girl stared at them, her eyes wide. A badge declared her to be an employee of the National Trust and she held a clutch of business folders pressed to her breast.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I was day-dreaming and didn’t see you.” She smoothed a hand through hair so like Kira’s, George Bedwell’s jaw dropped.
“It’s all right, dear.” Blanche touched her arm. “We were distracted, too. That man-”
George stomped on her toe.
The girl smiled, looking more like Kira by the moment. “I don’t know who you mean, but maybe I can be of service? It’s after hours, but if you have any questions about the site, just ask.”
“Ahhh, errrr ….” George hesitated, the back of his neck flaming.
He’d definitely ingested too much haggis at the hotel ceilidh the night before.
“Your ring.” His wife peered at the girl’s hand. “I’ve seen that design before.”
George shot her a glare. “Pay her no heed,” he said to the girl. Ignoring his wife, he brushed at his jacket, trying to look distinguished.
With luck, Blanche would follow his lead and not say something that would embarrass them.
“Our daughter once had a ring like that,” she said anyway. “She-”
“Oh? That’s amazing. I wouldn’t have thought that possible.” The girl glanced down at her heavy gold ring.
A Celtic-looking piece, engraved with slender-stemmed trumpets, birds, and delicate swirls.
“You see, it’s an old family design,” she explained. “The ring has been passed down through the centuries.” She cast a glance at the closed Visitor Centre. “An uncle of mine believes it goes back to Aidan of Wrath and his wife, Katherine.”
Blanche coughed.
George frowned. “Katherine?”
The name was the reason for his foul humor.
They’d been so close, everything falling into place until they’d stumbled across the archives claiming Aidan of Wrath had wed and lived his long life with a woman called Katherine, not Kira.
The girl nodded, once more looking so much like Kira, their hearts stopped.
“Ach,” she cooed, her soft, Highland voice drawing them in, letting them hope. “Katherine is only the name in the annals.” Lifting her hand, she touched the gold ring, her smile going wistful. “There are actually two rings. A man’s and a woman’s, both with a simple ‘A’ and ‘K’ engraved on the inside. No one knows what Aidan of Wrath’s wife’s name really was. Unfortunately, history has lost her true name. Scholars replaced it with Katherine because of the ‘K.’
“We see.” Blanche slid a glance at her husband.
He was frowning again, his gaze on the perimeter wall of the Castle Wrath grounds. “Did this Katherine have any children?” he asked, clasping his hands behind his back as he stared down at Wrath Bay.
“Oh, there were many.” The girl beamed at him even if he wasn’t looking. “Her firstborn was named George.”
“Indeed?” George nodded, ready to believe at last.
And when they drove away a short while later, their eyes damp and their hearts content, a shadow materialized in the middle of the car park. A shimmering, crackling cloud that took on more density the closer it drifted to the low stone wall at the edge of the castle grounds.
Then, just when it appeared as if all Ameri-cains and tour buses were finally gone, a tall, dark-haired man stepped out of the mist and dusted his hands. Then he winked at the burly, bushy-bearded man sitting on the wall.
“That was well done.” Bushy-beard slapped his thigh, then stood. “Great fun to watch.”
“It was the least I could do.” The dark haired man adjusted the shop bag he carried. “Though, next time, I think you should do the honors.
“What?” Bushy-beard wriggled his eyebrows. “And spoil your fun?”
The dark-haired man looked past him to Wrath Isle, his lips curving in a slow smile. “My fun is about to begin.”
Bushy-beard looked skeptical. “Down on that accursed isle?”
“Nae, you loon. I feel a need to go have a closer look at our ring.”
His friend lifted a brow. “The ring or the girl wearing it?”
The dark-haired man laughed. “If you have to ask, you don’t know me as well as you should.”
With that, he clapped Bushy-beard on the arm, then turned and set off across the car park towards the Visitor Centre, his grin broadening with each step he took.
It was good to be alive.