Page 3 of Fletcher

The afternoon sun made rainbows in the mist, and the water in the basin sparkled with pretty blue and green glints, but as she watched the two coins sink to the bottom of the basin she saw a beautiful silver ring someone had dropped there. The large green stone in it looked like an emerald, which meant it was probably expensive. Lark reached out, dipping her hand in the water to try to pick it up. The disturbance her fingers made caused the ring to roll away, and she bent over to grab it before it got sucked into one of the fountain’s drains.

Someone snatched her clutch out of her other hand, and shoved her into the water. Lark’s head hit the side of a planter, so hard she heard bone crack. As pain like nothing she’d ever experienced shot through her, and blood reddened the water around her, she realized she had been mugged. Through the shallow water over her Lark saw the bronze angel atop the fountain shimmering, one hand reaching toward her as if it meant to pull her out. She wished it could have, because while only a few inches of water separated her from the air, she didn’t have the strength to push herself up. From the way her vision was graying she’d be unconscious in another few moments.

She was going to drown in Bethesda Fountain. In her wedding gown. On her wedding day. For twenty-six dollars and a lipstick.

This is how it ends? Lark saw the beautiful ring float into her palm, and curled her fingers over it. Perhaps whoever had dropped it in the fountain had been heartbroken, too. But this was how she’d die, in a place that was supposed to grant wishes? Does it have to be this way?

A sense of being held in gentle arms came over her, and she heard a woman whisper, Do you wish live?

Was someone saving her?

We can, a deeper, man’s voice said. Do you wish live?

I do. Lark didn’t care that she should have been using those words at the church right now; everything in her heart desperately wanted another chance. Please help me.

The pain in her head faded, and she was so sure now she was dying she looked up, hoping to see the sun one last time through the water. She must have been crying, as her eyes stung, and the sunlight had turned blue and green. Something flung her up, and she surfaced not in the fountain but in an ocean in front of a white-sanded beach. Someone had their arms around her, and as she sputtered and coughed the person shifted her, lifting her out of the sea and against a broad chest.

Lark looked up at the man carrying her to shore, and wondered exactly how hard she’d hit her head. How had she gone from Bethesda Fountain in Central Park to an ocean? Who was this guy? Not a lifeguard. He wore badly-sewn clothing made of some rough, unevenly-woven fabric. From his shaggy mane of sun-streaked brown hair to his matching eyes, however, he looked like someone from a dream. Fiercely handsome and commanding all at once, he could have easily been the leading actor of a sold-out show. Men like him didn’t pull girls like her out of a fountain––or sea, she corrected herself.

Maybe he was an angel.

The man glanced down at her, his expression growing instantly astonished, as if he’d never before seen a woman. “By the gods, you’re lovely.”

Religious, Scottish, and needs glasses, she thought absently, fascinated by his low, velvet-soft voice. It seemed strange that she wasn’t afraid of him in the slightest. Nothing in her life had ever given her such a sense of reassurance as this moment, being held and carried by a complete stranger. Maybe she had died.

He tightened his arms around her. “Dinnae fear, lass. You’re safe now.”

Safe, in the arms of a big, gorgeous man. Lark had so many questions she didn’t even know where to start. Heaven is a beach? Why is the angel Scottish? Where’s my family?

When he reached the shore the big man carefully lowered her onto the sand, and knelt down beside her to drape his blue, green and white wool plaid over her shoulders. He started checking her over, pushing back her hair from her face and looking at her neck and arms. Too astonished to object, she simply watched him. She’d never liked being touched by strangers, but his gentle hands soothed her. Again she experienced that overwhelming sense of being protected by this man, although she had no reason to think that.

He’d explain all this to her, Lark thought, and it would somehow make sense.

“You’ve a gash here, lass,” the man asked, touching the side of her head. “Did you fall from a boat?”

“Someone pushed me into a fountain in Central Park.” She saw him go still at the sound of her voice. “My name is Lark Ambrose. Who are you?”

“Fletcher MacMar.” He frowned as he squinted at her face, and then took hold of her hand. “My apologies. ’Tis only that I can see you.”

“I’m not a ghost.” At least, she hoped she wasn’t. “Where am I, Mr. MacMar?”

“The island, ’tis called Caladh.” He helped her to her feet, which was when she realized how tall he was. “We must go before the… Can you walk, Mistress Ambrose?”

Her legs wobbled a little with her first step, but she’d been in worse shape at the church. Afraid he would disappear if she refused, she said, “If you help, I think so.”

“Aye.” He seemed to like holding her hand, and didn’t rush as he guided her toward a stairway carved out of one of the nearby cliffs.

As they walked across the sand Lark kept glancing his way. Not only was he well over six feet tall—the top of her head came to just above his elbow—he was built like a superhero, judging by all the muscular bulges under his soaked garments. He had a light tan to go with the amazing highlights in his hair, which looked so natural he must have paid a fortune to get them done. When he lifted his head and the sun glowed on his face his eyes turned pure gold, or maybe that was a trick of the light. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, but the shadowy beard and mustache looked perfect on him. Everything did, really.

She glanced down at her wedding dress, which the fountain and the ocean had thoroughly soaked. None of the embroidery she’d worked so hard to stitch appeared wrecked, although the silk underdress was dry-clean only, so that was ruined.

I don’t care, Lark thought, almost relieved. Not like I’ll ever have to wear it again.

As they reached the cliff she finally looked up to see another impossible sight: a huge golden castle soaring up from the rocky top, surrounded by double walls and protected by men with spears and bows. Like Fletcher they wore long tunics, trousers and boots; each man wore a plaid draped over the shoulders and wrapped around the torso. None of them wore kilts, which confused Lark. Even when they weren’t historically accurate, most directors always opted for kilts during productions of Brigadoon or MacBeth. A kilt said Scotland like no other garment.

Who stages a play on an island?

“I’ll carry you,” Fletcher said, reaching to lift her again.