Present Day, Manhattan
Humid July air slammed into Finn as he rushed from the steel and glass high-rise of his family's prestigious business consulting firm. The fine linen shirt he wore instantly stuck to his chest. He tugged at the fabric and surveyed the heavy afternoon traffic. The shrill horn from a passing vehicle blared, starting a frenzy of honking.
Finn released a heavy sigh and loosened his silk tie. If he didn't find a cab right away, he'd be late for his flight.
He flicked his gaze at the empty curbside stand then hurried along Madison Avenue in search of a taxi. Sudden tingling on the back of his neck alerted him someone followed. A glance over his shoulder confirmed his suspicion.
Damn. To be stalked by beautiful women would be most men's fantasy dream, but it was his worst nightmare and all too real. The debutante following him was only the most recent in a barrage of overzealous females set on making his life hell.
He clutched his shoulder bag filled with his reenactment gear and quickened his pace. He didn't have the time or the inclination to deal with the woman's intrigues.
Finn had a games to attend. Damn good thing he'd sent his claymore on ahead.
In an effort to lose her, he sprinted for several blocks, weaving in and out of hordes of pedestrians, and ducked into a side street. He jumped into the first cab he came across.
"LaGuardia, and make it quick."
When he looked back, a second cabby pulled in behind them, the darned woman the passenger. His gut burned with dread.
He told her he wouldn't marry her. Why did she persist in pursuing him?
"You've earned an extra hundred if you lose the yellow following us."
The driver accelerated into the flow of vehicles. The taxi careened through midtown traffic, running red lights and barely missing bystanders. Finn darted glances behind him. The other cab tailed them as if attached to their bumper.
At the Queensboro Bridge, traffic slowed to a crawl. Finn tapped his fingers on the armrest. Antsy, he twisted to see out the rear window. The other vehicle was two cars behind.
Once on the boulevard, things opened up. He checked his watch.
"Hurry, damn it."
On the expressway, they raced along straight-aways, darted between cars, skidded around curves. Tires squealed. Horns blared. An abrupt twist of the steering wheel hurled Finn across the black vinyl. He used his arms and legs to brace himself, determined to keep his seat.
When he entered the airport terminal, the woman wasn't far behind. Zigzagging through the crowd, he lost her at security.
Finn boarded his flight, slumped into his first-class seat, and ordered a whisky. While the crew prepared for takeoff, he spied the woman watching through the large plate-glass window of the waiting area. She must have used her security credentials to get through the checkpoint. Her audacity made him shudder.
The 737 taxied, took off, gained altitude. He stared out the small window at the wispy clouds. He could imagine the look of defeat in her dark eyes when the aircraft pulled back from the jetway to speed him off to North Carolina and the Highland games at Grandfather Mountain.
* * *
Blue Ridge Mountains, near the Village of Anderson Creek
Finn inhaled deeply. His lungs filled with fresh mountain air. For the first time in months, he was free of fawning women. Free of the awkward position they put him in.
Patrick's sword sliced past his face, drawing him from his thoughts. Rain streamed over his bare chest, mixing with sweat. He needed to pay attention. If he weren't more careful, he'd do a face plant in the mud.
"You fight like a lass," Patrick taunted.
"Hilt is slippery." Finn cursed under his breath and sought a better grip.
"You must learn to fight under every circumstance. That includes rain. Could save your miserable life someday."
Grunting, Finn barely ducked the next assault.
Patrick pulled back.
"Enough!" He dropped the point of his claymore to the ground and scowled. "'Tis obvious you are not paying attention."
Trying to catch his breath, Finn gulped air. He glared at his cousin-in-law. "This is supposed to be just for fun."
"Ach, then. You must try harder to have fun, lad." Humor lit Patrick's blue eyes, and he pulled free the leather strip holding back his long chestnut hair. Patrick MacLachlan was a primitive man; to him a workout with the large two-handed sword was child's play. "At times I forget we live in a modern world."
Finn shook his head. " You are my fiercest opponent."
Patrick laughed and placed a hand on Finn's wet shoulder. "Come. The bairns are at the inn for Rory's Thursday morning story time. Let us go and warm ourselves by the fire and listen to the old Highlander tell his tales."
Finn yanked on a soaked t-shirt and followed Patrick across the wet lawn.
About twenty-five eagerly waiting children sat on the plush carpet in the parlor of the Whispering Pines Inn while gossiping moms relaxed on overstuffed floral sofas. A few dads stood nearby, appearing disinterested. Finn knew better. Everyone loved hearing Rory's stories.
The crackling fire brought much-needed warmth to the dreary mountain morning. Finn joined Patrick at the hearth, hoping his clothes would dry.
Conversation ended when Rory MacNaughton entered from the rear door, his carved walking stick at his side. The elderly gentleman wore dress slacks, a brown tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, and a tam covering his white hair. He greeted individuals as he crossed the room and eased onto the tall stool at the center of the parlor. With an age-spotted hand, he motioned for his audience to move closer.
Alert eyes sparkling, Rory glanced at Finn and grinned. One of the men standing nearby snickered. Finn groaned, sure he knew the yarn the storyteller would regale them with.
Taking a deep breath, Rory began…
"The Sithichean, the faeries of the ancient Highlands, had a special affinity for moonstones. Enamored by the pale, lustrous, blue color resembling that of moonlight, they found the best of these unique stones on the shores of their sensuous faerie paradise Tir-nan-Og—land o' heart's desire—having washed ashore on the tides when the sun god and moon maiden were in a particular heavenly harmony."
Rory leaned forward. "Ye ken this miraculous occurrence happens only once in three, seven-year cycles of the moon…"
He held up his index finger.
"Just once in a very blue moon," he whispered.
A hush fell across the parlor.
"Handfuls of these precious stones belonged to a beautiful flame-haired faerie with eyes the color and brightness of the most costly emeralds."
"Caitrina?" a precocious little girl, with red curls and freckles sprinkled across her nose, whispered aloud. Her blond-haired friend giggled, and Rory smiled at the pair.
"She bestowed upon the moonstones magical powers, gifting them to deserving mortals. Some of these charmed stones had the ability to reunite lost lovers. Others gave the bearer the gift of second sight. One especially large gemstone she forged into the hilt of a magnificent Highland claymore, and with a kiss enchanted it with extraordinary power."
His eyes wide, a boy in front pointed at Finn.
Finn glanced down at his sodden form. He must be a sight, his soaked shirt clinging to his chest and his wet kilt slung low on his hips. He'd grown his hair long and now the knotty, wet strands hung around his shoulders in disarray. Beside him, his sheathed sword leaned against the stone of the fireplace, the large moonstone in its pommel plain to see.
Rory chuckled, locking gazes with him. With tight lips, Finn shook his head no. He didn't want the kids to think his sword was the one of which Rory spoke.
"Over the ages, the sword brought many a worthy warrior fame and fortune. That was until the day an evil, dark power used it." Rory's voice rose and his pace quickened. "This could not be borne. With green eyes shooting flames of fire, the one who fashioned the splendid weapon cast it far away to vanish in the Sands of Time."
The storyteller lowered his voice an octave and slowed his speech. "There are those who believe the lost sword of the fae has been found."
Finn refused to listen to more of the man's fantasy. He signaled to Patrick he was leaving.
Patrick followed him into the foyer. "Why the rush, lad?"
"My claymore doesn't have supernatural powers. It's just an antique sword."
"Ach, well. Dinnae take offense. Rory means nae insult. He merely wishes for the bairns to believe in a wee bit of magic. Nae harm in that."
Finn shrugged. "Guess not."
"Will you be staying for the midday meal?" Patrick asked.
"No. I'll change out of these wet clothes then head to the mountain for a nap before the festival begins."
"I will meet you at the game field for the picnic along with Laurie and the bairns."
"See you there." Finn crossed the parking lot to the truck he kept at Patrick's and his cousin Laurie's home and garden center for when he visited the area.
Less than an hour later, he walked along the camping area's muddy gravel road past travel trailers, water dripping from his rain gear. Why hadn't he thought to rent an RV? He'd be about to enjoy a dry warm bed instead of a damp sleeping bag. He continued down the road, swerving to sidestep one exceptionally large puddle.
There were few people out and about. The afternoon rain kept most from exploring. Those who had ventured outdoors huddled beneath ugly blue tarps, sat around smoldering campfires that made him want to sneeze, or were garbed in bright-colored raingear from head to toe.
Heading down the hill past pop-up trailers, he walked into what some had named Flag Town. Wet banners and flags flapped in the wind, hanging mostly everywhere, from ropes strung across the road, from poles in campsites, from trees. Stars and Stripes, St. Andrew's Crosses, and Lion Rampants hung together among the multitude of Clan banners. He inhaled a deep breath of moist air. The display roused his ancestral pride.
He waved to a couple of fellow reenactors then jumped over a fast running stream that hadn't been there yesterday. The flow weaved its way across the road, along the edge, through the center of someone's campsite, to cross the road again around the bend. There the water rushed into the woods, into the faerie glen where his friends, the MacRae sisters, camped.
Farther along the road, he eyed his tent where it stood in the woods at the edge of the camping area, behind the campsite of a bunch of good ole boys, alumni of the University of Tennessee. Fortunately, he pitched his humble abode on the hill and dug a trench around the upward side. His efforts paid off. The water flowed around the tent instead of through it. But there was too much rain, making it impossible for anything to stay completely dry.
Finn bent to unzip the fly and entered the vestibule. Hunched over, he re-zipped the flap and took off his raingear, hanging the wet jacket and pants on the line he strung inside. After removing his muddy boots, he unzipped the tent and climbed in. His sleeping bag wasn't wet, just damp.
He didn't care. He needed sleep.
Rolling his shoulders, he tried to ease the tension in his muscles from his workout with Patrick. He reached for a ditty bag and took out an aspirin, popped the pill into his mouth, and washed it down with water from his sport bottle.
Wrapped in a fleece blanket, he lay on the sleeping bag and allowed the distant skirl of pipes lull him toward sleep. He began to snore, the sound startling him, almost fully waking him again, before he drifted into oblivion.
She called to him.
The young woman stood alone on a heather-covered hill, as if surrounded by a halo, her long strawberry blond hair aglow in the sunshine. A puff of air blew the sheer gown she wore, causing the gossamer fabric to cling to her feminine curves, teasing his imagination.
The lilting sound of her voice came to him on the breeze, soft and alluring.
At first, he couldn't make out her words. She spoke a language he didn't understand yet sounded familiar. And then…
"Come to me, my warrior…save me…come to me."