My Heart Stood Still by Lynn Kurland (best book club books of all time .TXT) 📕

"Aye."

They mounted again and set off. Thomas closed his eyes briefly in gratitude that he'd escaped Malcolm's pit, that he had his sword near his side, and that he had an ally in Duncan MacLeod. He was sure, as time passed and he became quite lost, that if he succeeded at all, it would be because of Duncan.

He didn't want to think about what would have happened otherwise.

Chapter 28

I, Iolanthe MacLeod, do make this record, not by my own hand, but by the hand of my laird, James MacLeod. I make it in the year of Our Lord's Grace 2001, in the autumn of that year. I have returned to my home after six hundred years of self-imposed exile in a keep on the border between England and Scotland.

I make this record because mayhap I will be restored to the life I lost in 1382. And should that happen, 'tis also possible I might lose my memories.

And I want to remember.

My laird tells me that the book before him has many pages and that my six centuries of haunting should be written down. I will do so more fully later. Now, I can only bear to speak briefly of that which has passed.

My earliest memory is of my mother. She was beautiful and good, and I loved her for the ten years I had her. I believe she loved me as well, for she gave me a beautiful name, as well as her gentle hands tending my hurts and sorrows, and her smiles at the expectation of my company, even when she was ailing.

I had a brother as well, Alexandir, who died in battle. Other brothers I had, as well as a sister, though they were sired on a different woman. Angus was the eldest of these; I have nothing to say about him for he betrayed me to my death. He also scattered his seed carelessly so that I daresay there was a mighty battle for the chieftainship on his death. My sister Grudach deserves no kind word either, for she betrayed me along with my brother. Of my other half-siblings, I can say naught but that they weren't overly unkind. What I can say is that when I was forced to leave my home, I was not unhappy about never having to see them again.

I was sold to an English-man who believed there was a secret held in my father's keep that would bring him vast riches. When he demanded the secret from me, I would not give it to him. I knew of what he spoke, for my grandfather had trusted me with the knowledge, but I had never given the like to another soul, not even my sire. Why would I tell a stranger?

I was murdered at sunset. I did not cry out, for I am a MacLeod. And at the time I had nothing left but my virtue and my pride.

Nay, I did not cry out.

It seemed as if I dreamed for a goodly while, for when I awoke to myself, it was to find that I was not mortal, yet not a pure spirit either. There was enough substance to me that others could see me if 1 willed it, yet I felt no pain.

Nor joy.

Nor the sun on my back nor the breeze on my face.

I was angry for a goodly while. The English-man who took my life died in the great hall as a sniveling, terrified rabbit, surrounded by men he had bid protect him. He was the only one who could see me, and I took my revenge on him in full measure, though it did nothing to relieve my pain.

At first I paid attention to life as it went on around me. When I could aid my countrymen against the English, I did so. Many ghostly Highlanders found their way to my keep, and they joined me in my efforts.

But then the tide turned for my country. The slaughter became greater, and I saw my people, both friends and enemies, begin to despair. After the battle at Culloden, I closed my eyes and my ears. I know now that my people were swept off their land to make way for more profitable crops such as sheep, rather than noble men and women living and working their small fields.

Few mortals came over the years to the keep I called mine. The ones who came didn't stay long. The hall soon fell into disrepair. The years stretched out before and behind me like a long, featureless road. There were no seasons that I could mark, no change in the unlife that had been forced upon me. I knew the sun rose each morn and set each evening. I watched the moon travel her path each night. I had tasks I set myself in the garden, and I had kin about me and nearby that provided a goodly bit of speech now and then. But it was all the same. I had no hope, no faith, no surety that something would come and change my existence.

And then change came.

He walked into my hall, that Thomas McKinnon, and insulted me. For the first time in centuries I wept, but they were tears of fury. I would have gladly pushed him off the nearest wall had I had the strength, yet something kept me from doing it.

The memory of an autumn breeze against my cheek, I suppose.

Or that I knew him.

'Twas those memories that assaulted me whenever I was near him. I knew we had never met, yet I knew his face as intimately as if I'd gazed on it every day for the whole of my life.

For I had dreamed of a man who would come to rescue me.

And, beyond all reason, that man was Thomas McKinnon.

He is fey, of that there is no doubt. He knew things before he was told, saw spirits who should have remained hidden, read the innermost secrets of my heart as if they'd been written on a