My Heart's in the Highlands by Angeline Fortin (ebook reader screen TXT) 📕

But as hehad stood in the door of what had been the Billiards Room in yearspast, Jace had seen her as she crossed the hall from the base ofthe stairs and into the Armory. Head high, chin lifted just so. Herblond hair bound in a twist at the base of her neck. In profile,she looked so much like Hero that Jace’s heart began to pound andhis body stirred in a familiar response to her presence.

By their own will, his feet had followed,carrying him unwillingly along in her wake. Their wake, he realizedas she bestowed a bright familiar smile on her companion. Bloodyhell! How had he not noticed the man at her side? In the shadows,Jace studied his competition. He was tall, probably as tall asJace, but much thinner. His wool trench coat showed that much. Hisshort blond hair was worn spiked up on the top in a trendy stylethat Jace recognized from his time in London and Edinburgh. A fauxhawk, they called it. Conscientiously, Jace ran a hand through hisown short black hair.

Objectively, Jace acknowledged that the otherman was handsome enough, if so very different from himself. Youngeras well, and suddenly uncertain, Jace wondered what the Hero oftoday preferred.

If she were Hero at all.

Bugger it. He should never have come toCuilean. His already worn nerves could barely handle the fact thathe had walked into his own home once again and yet it was not hisat all. And now this! Hope followed by swift disappointment. Jacefelt the urge to take the dog-eared auction brochure that hadbrought him here again and rip it to shreds.

The uncertainty ate at him. Was it Hero? Wasit not? Suddenly, Jace had to know. He had to meet this Mikah Bauerface to face, see the blankness that the absence of recognitionwould bring to her eyes when she saw him, and finally know that itwas all pure coincidence.

Nothing but folly.

And finally he could forget the hell the pastfew months of his life had been.

Almost literal hell.

Over a year ago, he’d gone to Afghanistan …or rather been sent to Afghanistan as a part of his service as acaptain in the Army Air Corps. He had served as a helicopter pilotout of Camp Bastian in support of the Joint Aviation Groupsupporting NATO, combining the skill with a desire to serve hiscountry.

However, more than two months ago, his Apachehad been shot down over the Helmand province in Afghanistan, theheart of Taliban territory. Jace had died, they told him. For overthree minutes the medics had worked on him amid the fire andshelling as the marines from the nearby U.S. camp kept theinsurgents at bay.

What had happened in those three minutes hadchanged Jace and left him with a life that was not his own. He hadbeen whisked away from the sound of gunfire and alarms sounding inthe helicopter and found himself standing in front of Dùn Cuilean,a place he knew well enough, but in that moment he had felt as ifhe were looking at it for the first time.

Jace had fought against his fate in thosefirst weeks at Cuilean, fought against the madness he was certainwould consume him if he gave in. He had lived another man’s lifeagainst his will, all the while wondering what had happened to hisown. The only moments that had brought him any peace were thosespent with his alter ego in silent contemplation of the portraitthat hung over the fireplace in the marquis’s bedchamber.

Those were the times he was sure he had died,because he knew the woman depicted there … or rather, he haddreamed of her before.

Then he had seen Hero in the flesh, and Jacehad felt the last burning need to return home wither away. Theflames of his surprising love for Hero consumed him quickly, and hehad been content to stay there in the nineteenth century with herforever.

That decision had not come easily to him. Hehad a life and a family in the twenty-first century that were veryimportant to him, yet he knew he could not live and be a wholeperson without Hero.

He had embraced a destiny only to have ittorn away in a heartbeat.

The pain of that loss was more terrible thanthe recovery from his injuries. Jace had been sent to Germany to anarmy hospital to recover, a difficult task for a man who felt hehad little left to live for. Upon his return to his own estate inBallantrae just a week before, his mother had coddled him within aninch of his life. But through her constant, cheery conversation,Jace had heard of the auction at Cuilean.

In the sales list Jace had seen items heknew, but initially he had equated the familiarity with hisprevious visits to Cuilean. Until he had seen the family historyand made the connection between his experience and documentedhistory, he hadn’t understood what had happened to him. He had nottraveled through time but made a journey into another man’s verybody and mind.

It was a realization Jace had shared with noone.

For who would have believed him?

Nothing had been left to him but memoriesuntil the auction was announced. He had thought to gain somephysical remembrance of Hero …

Was there more to gain?

Would he find the answers in this MikahBauer?

Cursing himself and the entire situation,Jace followed the couple out onto the ramparts. In their modernclothing, they were able to walk side by side along the narrow pathbetween the walls. With one arm, the woman clung to the man’s armas the brisk chill of the winter wind buffeted them.

But her other hand …

It skimmed along the top of the outer wall …and lifted, fluttering over the first gap before descending oncemore. Jace held his breath as she continued along.

One … two … three … four … five …

Swallowing back the lump that suddenly formedin his throat, Jace curled his trembling hands into fists.

Six.

Keep going, he thought, contrarily.God, please stop.

She did.

Jace closed his eyes, torn between hope anddenial.

The waves were crashing against the rocks,just as they had for hundreds of years, and the wild winds of thefirth lifted the spray upward until Mikah imagined she could