Suspecting it’s just his way of getting her to accompany him on yet another archaeological dig, Maggie agrees to the expedition, only to find herself transported four hundred and fifty years into the past. Though a bit disoriented at first, she discovers her father’s world to be every bit as exciting as his stories, particularly when she’s introduced to Ian Rutherford, the charming son of a neighboring laird. However, when her uncle announces her betrothal to Ian, Maggie’s twentieth-century sensibilities are outraged. She hardly even knows the man. But a refusal of his affections could ignite a blood feud.
Maggie’s worlds are colliding. Though she’s found the family she always wanted, the sixteenth century is a dangerous place. Betrayal, treachery, and a tragic murder have her questioning whether she should remain or try to make her way back to her own time.
To make matters worse, tensions escalate when she stumbles across Bonnie Will Foster, the dashing young man in her father’s portrait collection, only to learn he is a dreaded Englishman. But could he be the hero she’s always dreamed him to be? Or will his need for revenge against Ian shatter more than her heart?
¸.•*´¨)✯ ¸.•*¨) ✮ ( ¸.•´✶
Maggie’s heart lodged in her throat. No
matter what the risk, she needed to get to her uncle’s cottage and retrieve the
amulet, and her grandmother’s ring with it. Without another thought, she sped
down the dimly lit staircase. Fierce fighting raged all around her, causing
such turmoil she doubted anyone would notice one girl slipping amongst the
clashing swords. But someone did notice, and Alasdair whirled her around with
such force her head spun.
“Where are ye going, Cousin? Get yerself upstairs; ’tis safest there.”
“No, I can’t—”
Before she could utter another word, a Foster blade came down upon him, and he had all he could do to block it.
Maggie seized the opportunity and hurried outside. She headed for her uncle’s cottage, clusters of burning thatch now lighting its roof in an eerie glow. A filthy arm grabbed her around the waist, but she wiggled out of the scoundrel’s grasp, shoving the rogue so hard he landed on his behind. Another tried to take hold of her skirt, but a swift kick in his privates put him in his place. By the time she’d reached the cottage door, three more scoundrels stood nursing various body parts.
That’ll teach them to mess with Rabbie Armstrong’s daughter. Giving herself a mental pat on the back, she turned toward the flaming roof and groaned. From the look of things, her troubles were just about to begin.
Though the dampened moss sizzled and cracked, the underlying layer of reeds and hazel twigs caught easy enough, and the flames threatened to engulf the entire roof. The heat from it burned her cheeks and made her eyes water. She raised her hand to shield herself from it, but she needed something more. Searching the yard in desperation, she spied the bucket Emma kept by the door. Right away, she recalled her fire-safety training. In one swift movement, she pulled the plaid from her shoulders and plunged it into the lukewarm water, soaking it well before wrapping it tight around her face.
Somehow she found the courage to enter but
stopped for a moment to survey the situation. Sparks and patches of burning
thatch fell from above, setting parts of the staircase on fire. Here and there,
thick wooden support beams buckled while white hazy clouds billowed from the
floor above. She swallowed hard, climbing the crumbling steps with care. Her
legs trembled, and her heart pounded out a deafening rhythm against the thick
linen kirtle, but at last she made her way to the rooms above.
Smoke filled the upper chambers, smoldering embers dropping from every direction like a fiery spring rain. Only the stone and turf of the walls kept the entire structure from going up in a ball of flames, and yet Maggie would not turn back. Her precious items lay on the bedside table, and she had every intention of retrieving them. Using a great deal of caution, she inched her way toward them. The floor below her creaked and sagged until, with a sudden crack, one of the boards gave way. The jagged wood scraped along her leg, and though she couldn’t suppress a cry, she managed to pull free and crawl away without falling to the ground below. With bile rising in her throat, she pushed herself the last few feet to the table and ran her fingers along its top, groping for her cherished possessions. “Stay low,” she whispered over and over, almost like a mantra, but even so, the dense fog of soot and ash stung her throat. The heat was so intense it penetrated the once-moist cloth, and she began to cough.
A washbasin sat on the table. Would it be too hot? She stuck her finger in. No, warm but tolerable. She poured the contents over her face, dampening the rag once more, and took a tentative breath. Her coughing eased, and she continued searching the tabletop until she felt the smooth gloss of the amulet’s stone and the delicate curve of the ring she’d left beside it. Hanging the amulet around her neck, she slipped the ring on her finger and headed back downstairs, careful to dodge the large chunks of fiery debris that fell at her feet.
Her coughing had worsened again, and she tripped over the last three steps, unable to control the movement of her legs any longer. You’re the daughter of Robert Armstrong. Are you going to let a little smoke be the end of you? With a defiant lunge, she grabbed on to the rickety banister and pulled herself up, shoving her body toward the front door.
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Andrea Matthews
Andrea Matthews is the pseudonym for Inez Foster, a historian and librarian who loves to read and write and search around for her roots, genealogical speaking. In fact, it was while doing some genealogical research that she stumbled across the history of the Border reivers. The idea for her first novel came to mind almost at once, gradually growing into the Thunder on the Moor series. And the rest, as they say, is history…
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