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flat out terrifying.
    And not alarming without reason.
    Trying to be discreet, Lindy cast
an assessing glance at her well-covered body. The sad fact was that, although
Rogan was undoubtedly passionately in love with her in fantasy form, the real Lindy Lovejoy might just be packing a few pounds more than the dream edition.
    Sure that was true, her cheeks
flamed brighter.
    How sad that her love of fish and
chips had kept pace with her around Scotland.
    Not to mention haggis with neeps
and tatties.
    Or steak-and-ale pie.
    Lindy frowned, wondering if she
could just stay hidden beneath the covers forever.
    A notion that brought another,
equally disturbing thought. How could she think in terms of eternity when she
might only be here a nano second? She’d spent too many hours working at Ye Olde
Pagan Times not to be well versed in the ins and out of the all things woo-woo.
    Her manifestation in Rogan’s time
had surely upset the balance in her own world.
    Something somewhere wasn’t right.
    It was kind of like plucking a
thread from a knitted sweater.
    No matter how carefully you pulled,
a hole appeared.
    “Oh, God." Dread tightened her
chest and heat burned her eyes, blurring the richly appointed room and all its
lush, oh-so-real-seeming medieval trappings.
    Rogan sprang off the bed. “What is
it?" His gaze flew to her injured hands. “Are you in pain? Did I tie the
bandages too tight?”
    Snorri barked, sharing his master’s
concern.
    “Or” – Rogan jerked a glance at the
door – “shall I call for the clan hen wife? Perhaps you hurt yourself worse
than we know. You might be in need of-”
    “No." Lindy stood, careful to
snatch a pillow and hold it strategically. “I’m fine, really. It’s just that-”
    “Here” – Rogan swirled a plaid
around her shoulders – “I’ll no’ have you taking a chill." He strode
across the room and yanked the shutters tight, dusting his hands as he turned
back to her.
    But not before Lindy caught a look
at the view. A cold drizzle was falling and she’d seen mist, lots of drifting
curtains of mist. But she’d also seen endless rolling moorland and dark, rugged
hills. A vast wilderness that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was also
a landscape covered with thick woods.
    The Scotland she’d left hadn’t been
anywhere near as forested.
    Needing to be sure of what she’d
seen, she gripped Rogan’s borrowed plaid more tightly about her and went to the
window, opening the shutters he’d just closed.
    She hadn’t been mistaken.
    She really was looking out at
medieval Scotland.
    And if the scenery wasn’t proof
enough, the deep silence was.
    Only a world truly empty of
everything modern could be so still.
    And the texture of the air! 
Even with the damp gusting wind and all the mist, everywhere she looked, the
world seemed filled with light and color in ways she’d never have believed
possible. Almost like an uncut jewel, sparkling in its purity.
    Lindy gulped, her heart splitting.
    It was as if she’d stepped inside
her own story.
    She so wanted to stay here.
    “Just what, lass?" Rogan’s
arms went around from behind and he pulled her back against his chest. “Tell me
what’s troubling you.”
    Lindy bit her lip. She was not going to cry. “I- … it’s just that-”
    “Ho, Rogan!" The door flew
open and a young man burst into the room. Big, hairy, and kilted, he looked
like he’d just stepped off the set of Rob Roy or Braveheart. But for all his
fierce appearance, the slack-jawed, owl-eyed stare he gave Lindy made him much
less intimidating.
    “It’s herself!" He raised an
arm, pointing. “Your dream vixen!  You’ve described her so often when you’re in
your cups, I’d know her anywhere.”
    “You’re forgetting your manners."
Rogan scowled at him. “MacGraiths know better than to gawk at women, whoe’er
they might be.
    “This loon, if you’re curious” –
Rogan glanced at Lindy – “is my cousin, Gavin.”
    “My lady." Gavin bobbed