The dream was always the same. Not a dream, really. More like a memory steeped in the scent of rain-soaked heather and woodsmoke. I am Elspeth. My hands are rough from work, my hair the color of a Highland sunset, and my heart aches with a love so fierce it feels like a second heartbeat. He is Calum. Broad-shouldered and kind-eyed, with a laugh that could chase away the ever-present mist. We stand near a circle of ancient standing stones, the wind whipping my woolen shawl around me. He presses a carved wooden thistle into my palm. “Fhad ‘s a bhios an cridhe a’ bualadh,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against my ear. As long as the heart beats.
My eyes snapped open. Not in the misty Highlands, but in my sterile, sun-drenched Boston apartment. The scent of coffee replaced the heather, and the rumble was just the city waking up. For the fifth time this week, I woke with Calum’s Gaelic words on my lips and the phantom weight of a wooden thistle in my hand.
As Dr. Arilyn Hayes, I dealt in facts. I was a historian, a specialist in 18th-century Scottish clan life, a period of immense upheaval following the Jacobite risings. My life was a curated collection of peer-reviewed articles, archived letters, and the cold, hard evidence of the past. There was no room for dreams that felt like memories, for a love story that had no footnote, no citation.
Yet, here I was, packing for a six-month fellowship in the Scottish Highlands, to the very place that haunted my nights: Dun Broc Castle. My proposal, “Socio-Economic Impact of the Highland Clearances on Clan MacLeod,” had won me the prestigious Abernathy Grant. I had omitted the part about feeling an inexplicable, almost spiritual pull to the crumbling fortress.
Dun Broc wasn’t just a ruin; it was a ghost. A collection of weathered stones clinging to a cliffside, overlooking a tempestuous sea. And according to my grant paperwork, it was on the chopping block, to be demolished for a luxury golf resort, a final, modern-day clearance. My job was to archive what I could before it vanished.
A week later, standing before the castle’s skeletal gatehouse, the Scottish wind a familiar caress, I felt a dizzying sense of déjà vu. The air was thick with the cries of gulls and the salty spray of the North Sea. It was more beautiful and more sorrowful than my dreams could ever convey.
“Can I help you?” The voice was deep, laced with a melodic Scottish burr that sent an electric jolt down my spine.
I turned to see a man leaning against a Land Rover, arms crossed over his chest. He was tall, with windswept dark hair and eyes the color of stormy lochs. He wore a practical jacket and work boots, but they did little to soften the rugged strength in his features. It was him. It was Calum’s face, Calum’s eyes, staring at me from a different century. My breath hitched.
“I… I’m Dr. Hayes,” I stammered, my professional composure deserting me. “The Abernathy Grant. Here to survey the site.”
His expression softened slightly, but a wary defensiveness remained. “Ewan MacLeod,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m the architect trying to keep this place from becoming the 18th hole.”
His grip was firm, warm, and when our hands touched, the world tilted. A flash of imagery, sharp and blinding, assaulted my senses: a torchlit hall, the swirl of tartan, the taste of whisky, and a promise whispered in the dark. I pulled my hand back as if burned, stumbling slightly.
Ewan steadied me, his brow furrowed with concern. “Are you alright? The jet lag can be a beast.”
“I’m fine,” I lied, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Just… a long flight.”
He didn’t look convinced. He led me through the ruins, his voice a low murmur as he pointed out structural weaknesses, areas of historical significance, and the sheer, bloody-minded determination of the developers. But I barely heard him. I was walking through two worlds at once. I saw the crumbling great hall as he did, but I also saw it as Elspeth had: filled with the boisterous life of the clan, a massive fire roaring in the hearth.
We stopped at the base of a partially collapsed tower. Ewan explained it was the oldest part of the castle, the original keep. I felt drawn to a particular section of the wall, to a loose stone near the foundation. An overwhelming urge, nonsensical and unprofessional, consumed me.
“What’s this?” I asked, kneeling and running my fingers over the rough stone. My fingers found a groove, a purchase. I pulled. The stone came loose with a grating sound, revealing a small, dark cavity within the wall.
Ewan knelt beside me, his eyes wide with surprise. “How did you know that was there?”
I didn’t have an answer. My hand, moving with a will of its own, reached into the darkness. My fingers brushed against something small, wooden, and intricately carved. My heart stopped. I knew what it was before I even saw it.
As I drew it into the light, my world shattered. It was a small, perfectly preserved wooden thistle. And as my fingers closed around it, the dream was no longer a dream. It was a waking vision, a torrent of memory. I saw Calum’s face, smiling, as he pressed it into my hand. I felt the cold dread as he was dragged away by red-coated soldiers. I heard Elspeth’s scream, a raw sound of pure agony, and I knew it was my own. The last thing I saw before the darkness claimed me was Ewan’s face, a mask of shock and disbelief, as his own eyes glazed over with a dawning, impossible recognition.