“Come, lass, I’m waiting for you. Burning for you.”
Aidan MacDonald stood at the tall arch-topped window of his bedchamber, one hand clenched around his sword belt, the other clutching the tasseled edges of a richly-embroidered tapestry proudly adorning his wall.
A brilliantly colored display of bold knights and fair, half-naked ladies romping in a wood, their erotic playfulness so explicitly depicted he could scarce bear looking at it.
Truth be told, if his temper didn’t soon improve, he might just yank the thing from the wall and send it sailing out his window.
Letting go of it, he shoved a hand through his hair and scowled. For well over a sennight, he’d been unable to reach his bruadar. The comely, well-made vixen of his dreams he’d glimpsed but once and ne’er been able to put from his mind.
Or his heart.
Not to mention what she did to his body.
“Hell and damnation.” He blew out a breath, the scent and feel of her haunting him. A bittersweet torment so real and vibrant he hurt inside. Ached with a deep, lancing pain that knew no healing.
Not without her. Her soft, lush lips parting beneath his, her bountiful curves, warm, silken, and smooth, crushed tight against him as he held her in his arms. Made her his again and again.
This time never letting her go.
His scowl deepening, he curled his hands to fists. “I burn for you, lass,” he growled, staring out at the cold wind-whipped waters tossing so indifferently beneath his tower chamber’s window. The jagged cliffs of nearby Wrath Isle, each frowning, black-glistening fissure suiting his mood, firing his frustration.
His fury at such a foul turn of fate.
Setting his jaw, he braced his hands on the edges of the window arch, leaning out so the night wind could cool him. Take the heat out of his face if not his blood.
“Sakes, lass, I need you.” The tightness in his chest let him know how much. “For the love of all the Ancient Ones, where are you?”
“She is long gone, that’s what,” a deep voice reproached from behind him. “God’s eyes, man, what did you do to her?”
Aidan spun around. “What did I do to who?”
Tavish MacDonald merely cocked a brow. He was Aidan’s most trusted friend and cousin, though some whispered half-brother due to their strong resemblance. Stepping closer, he reached to pinch out the wicks of a hanging cresset lamp.
Aidan fixed him with a withering glare, trying for the life of him to recall if he’d e’er fallen so deep in his cups as to regale his friend with tales of his dream lass.
“You ought know better than to have a lamp burning so near to the window on such a windy night.” Tavish waved a hand through the dissipating smoke. “As for who I meant” – he slid a narrow glance at Aidan – “‘twas the MacLeod widow. She herself and all her men.”
Aidan relaxed. But only for a moment.
Turning back to the window, he clasped his hands behind his back and drew a deep breath, his gaze on the moon as it came and went through the clouds. He might not have spilled his heart to Tavish in a long ale-filled night in his great hall, but the departure of the MacLeod woman presented an entirely different kind of problem.
He’d counted on her men to help him scour the hills and surrounding islands for Conan Dearg.
Trouble was, the price of Fenella MacLeod’s men and galleys was one he hadn’t wished to pay.
“She left in a huff,” Tavish informed him. “Away with the tide and a scowl darker than some of your own.”
Aidan left the window and made for a polished oak table across the room, well-laden with cold breast of chicken, oatcakes and cheese, and a freshly-filled ewer of ale. The offerings were meant to be his evening repast, but circumstance had stolen his appetite.
If his days didn’t soon take a better turn, he might never regain it.
“Lady Fenella was quick to offer aid.” Tavish hovered behind him again. “Few in these isles have a larger flotilla of longships. Or better-kept ones. Her men are fierce and strong-armed. She would have served you well.”
Aidan almost spewed the ale he’d just poured for himself. Frowning in earnest now, he tossed back the rest in one great swig, slamming down the cup.
“By the gods, Tavish! The lady wished to serve me, true enough.” He glowered at his friend, felt heat surging up his neck. “She came here dressed in her bed-robe and naught else, her hair unbound and hanging to her hips.”
Aidan clamped his mouth shut, decency keeping him from revealing how she’d swept into his bedchamber, shutting and bolting the door, then flinging open her robe to display her full, large-nippled breasts and the tangle of thick jet-black curls topping her thighs.
“She made no mistake in letting me know why she came knocking on my door so late of an e’en.” Aidan fought back a shudder at the memory. “The woman was brazen, I say you. Over-bold.”
To his annoyance, rather than answer him, Tavish moved to the table, taking his time to help himself to a towering portion of sliced chicken and a brimming cup of ale.
Worse, he then lowered himself into a chair beside the fire, setting his victuals on a nearby stool before he stretched his long legs towards the warmth of the softly-glowing peats. Looking irritatingly comfortable, he pinned Aidan with an all-too suspicious stare.
“Fenella MacLeod is an ardent woman. Generously-made and vigorous, her eyes knowing.” Tavish leaned back in the chair, his own gaze too wise for Aidan’s liking. “Seldom have I seen a larger-breasted female. She has fine legs as well. I caught a glimpse of them once when she hitched up her skirts to board one of her late husband’s galleys.” He paused, lifting a hand to study his knuckles. “Indeed, many are the men in your hall who would bed her gladly.”
Aidan quirked a brow. “Yourself included?”
“Nae, I, too, would have turned her from my door.”
“I am glad to hear it. I would’ve doubted your honor otherwise.” Aidan nodded, well pleased that his friend, too, drew the line at lying with the widow of a one-time ally. “Though I wouldn’t begrudge my garrison men such a dalliance. No’ if the lady desired it.”
“She comes and goes here at will, as all ken.” Tavish rubbed his beard, looking thoughtful. “She isn’t shy about displaying herself, dropping hints she’d welcome certain attentions. There are surely men amongst us eager enough to enjoy her charms.
“Regarding you,” – Tavish continued to peruse his knuckles – “the specter of your old ally, her late husband, isn’t the only reason you refused her.”
Aidan lowered the cup he was about to refill. “What are you saying?”
Tavish looked up, his knuckles forgotten. “We were born and bred together,” he said, holding Aidan’s stare. “I know you as few men can claim. I know the depth of your honor, the privilege of your trust, and the pleasure of your friendship. I’ve seen the rage of your battle-fury, felt secure knowing you were at my back. And” – he sat forward – “I know you are a well-lusted man.”
Aidan folded his arms. “So? I wouldnae call myself a man were I not.”
“To be sure, and neither would I,” Tavish agreed, studying his knuckles again. “Nor,” he added, looking up quickly, “did I abstain from the plump bed-warmer that robber-baron on Pabay thoughtfully provided for me when we sailed there to look for Conan Dearg.”
Aidan frowned.
His friend’s gaze grew more penetrating. “Despite the roughness of the men, the wenches on that isle-of-marauders were more than pleasing. Frang the Fearless offered you the comeliest of them all, yet” – he lifted his ale cup to take a sip - “if memory serves, you slept alone.”
“Leave be,” Aidan warned, unpleasantly aware of the muscle beginning to twitch in his jaw. “I’m thinking you couldnae have enjoyed your night on Pabay overmuch if you were so occupied observing mine.”
Seemingly calm as a spring morn, Tavish crossed his ankles. “Lady Fenella is not the first female to leave here looking soured in recent times,” he drawled, brushing oatcake crumbs from his legs. “Nor have you tumbled Sinead, the Irish laundress, in longer than I can recall.”
Aidan felt his face coloring. “Who I bed and when is my own business and no one else’s,” he snapped, especially furious to be reminded of the flame-haired Irish girl. There was only one fiery-tressed lass he hungered for and she wasn’t Castle Wrath’s light-skirted laundress.
Tavish lifted his hands in surrender.
Mock surrender, Aidan was sure.
“I’m only concerned for you,” the lout declared, proving he wasn’t about to let the matter lie. “You’ve been missed in the hall. Everyone knows you’re up here brooding, locking yourself in your privy quarters or prowling the battlements at all hours, snarling like a chained beast.”
I’m feeling like a chained beast! Aidan almost roared.
A deprived creature, trapped, ravenous, and filled with fury.
And about to do bodily harm to the one soul he loved above all men. If the great buffoon who looked so like him and knew his heart so well didn’t soon have done with his badgering.
Turning away lest his friend eye him any deeper than he already had, Aidan stalked back to the window and glared out at the expanse of dark water stretching between his own cliffs and the inky-black bulk of Wrath Isle. A strong swell was running, the swift current reminding him of the other matter weighing so heavily on his mind.
A problem he suddenly knew the answer to.
He almost smiled.
Under other circumstances, he would have.
As it was, it sufficed that he now had a clear enough head to squelch Tavish’s concerns. Feeling more himself than he had in a while, he returned to the fire, deliberately striking his most formidable pose. Not for the first time, he also silently thanked the gods for the one inch advantage of height that he boasted over his friend.
“I haven’t been brooding,” he denied. “I’ve been thinking.”
Tavish looked at him. “I dare say you have.”
“No’ about wenching.” He knew Tavish well.
Not wanting the lout to see through him, he glanced again at the window, remembering the treacherous journey they’d made to Wrath Isle a few days before.
A dangerous crossing that had led to naught, their hours spent searching the isle’s caves and tumbled ruins turning up little more than angry seabirds and moldering sheep bones. Of Conan Dearg, there’d been nary a sign.
It’d been an undertaking he’d meant to make alone, not wishing to endanger anyone else’s life but his own. Tavish, great and beloved meddler that he was, had declared himself of another mind, vowing he’d swim after Aidan’s boat if he didn’t let him board.
And Tavish MacDonald, may the gods e’er bless him, always kept his word.
Reason enough to welcome his company, however grudgingly.
Looking at him now, Aidan heaved a great sigh and spoke the only part of his heart he was able to share. “It grieves me to have caused the MacLeod widow distress, but it troubles me more that we haven’t yet found Conan Dearg. We’ve upturned every stone on this isle and others, even sailing to that notorious robbers’ den, Pabay, then scouring every treacherous inch of Wrath Isle as well.
“So-o-o,” he concluded, reaching down to scratch his favorite dog, Ferlie, behind the ears when the great beast lumbered up to him, pressing his shaggy bulk against his legs. “While I regret losing the support of Fenella MacLeod and her birlinns, I doubt we will have needed them to find Conan Dearg.”
Tavish tossed Ferlie a bit of roasted chicken. “Indeed?”
Aidan nodded. “Since we’ve searched everywhere the double-dyed bastard could have hid, there’s only one place he can be. He’s at Ardcraig.”
“His own holding?” Tavish blinked, looking doubtful. “We’ve already gone there, searching his keep from the undercroft to the parapets.”
“We saw what we expected to see.” Aidan touched his sword hilt, rolled his thumb over the jeweled pommel stone. “Next time we shall seek the unexpected. Then we will find him. I know it in my bones.”
“Then let us drink to your gut instinct.” Tavish pushed to his feet, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve ne’er known it to err.”
“Neither have I.” Aidan watched his friend pour them both a generous portion of ale.
He only hoped his feelings about his bruadar were as accurate. That the shapely, hot-blooded woman he’d been thinking of as a dream vision wasn’t that at all, but a tamhasg. Nightly visitations of the woman meant to be his future bride.
As soon as Conan Dearg was found and locked in his dungeon, his people safe from treachery, he meant to find out.
No matter what it cost him.
Nothing was surer.
Worlds and an ocean away, Kira stood in the middle of the Newark Liberty International Airport check-in area, almost oblivious to everything but the precious Newark-Glasgow boarding pass clutched in her hot little hand. Gate C-127, seat number 24A. A window behind the wing, left side so that she could see the sun rise over Ireland and then the endless sweep of the Hebrides as the plane descended into Scotland.
She remembered it well. The views that had stilled her heart and stolen her breath as she’d stared out at the isle-dotted coast, feasting her gaze on soaring cliffs, deep inlets, and sparkling, crystal-clear bays. Long Atlantic rollers crashing over jagged, black-teethed reefs and tiny crescent-shaped beaches of gleaming white sand, inaccessible bits of paradise, pristine and almost too beautiful to bear looking down upon.
Then at last the Highlands stretching away to the horizon, each ever-higher rising hill bathed in the soft, rosy-gold glow of a new morning.
The day she’d yearned for so long.
A place of mist-hung peace and splendor so different from the hectic lifestyle she loathed that just thinking of being there soon nearly set her to swooning.
Ignoring the airport chaos, she traced a fingertip across the fresh black print on her boarding card. She kept her finger on the word Glasgow, certain each letter held magic. She could feel it. The boarding card vibrated in her hand, its pulsating warmth making her skin tingle.
Until she realized it wasn’t the boarding card causing the sensation but the trembling of her own fingers, her hands as they shook with giddy excitement. Whether in the flesh or not, Aidan was there waiting for her. She’d sensed him call to her, could feel him willing her to come to him.
Chances were, once there, she’d catch another true glimpse of him. A daylight glimpse without the smoke-and-mirror effects of their dreams. If it’d happened once, it could again. Knowing that, combined with the thrill of finally getting back to Scotland, was pushing her over the edge.
Making her light-headed.
She took a deep breath, shoved her boarding card into a side panel of her purse. The she wiped her damp palms on her one great splurge: a fine and stylish, many-pocketed, weather-proofed jacket complete with hood.
“Kira, you’ve gone pale. Are you okay?” Dan Hillard gripped her elbow, his blue eyes filling with concern. “We can still get your luggage back. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“Are you kidding?” Kira blinked at him, all the whirr, noise, and haste of the airport filtering back into her consciousness, pulling her into the crowded, bustling reality.
“Of course, I want to go. More than I can say.” She placed her hand over his, squeezing his fingers. “I’m fine. It’s just too warm for me in here. I don’t think they ever run air conditioners in this airport.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m positive.”
A tall, middle-aged man with an open, ruddy face and an unfortunate haircut that made him look more like an Army general than executive editor for a magazine that specialized in paranormal oddities, Dan slung an arm around her shoulders, drawing her near in a fatherly hug.
“What about driving on the left?” He stood back to look at her, the simple question making her stomach flip-flop. “The last time you were there, you were on an escorted coach tour. This time there’s a rental car waiting for you at the Glasgow airport. Will you be able to manage?”
Kira straightened her back against her belly-flutters and hitched up the shoulder-strap of her carry-on. “Of course, I’ll manage,” she said, willing it so.
To get to Castle Wrath, I’d drive on water if need be.
Left, right, or upside down.
Leaving those sentiments unsaid, she forced her brightest smile. “Americans drive in Scotland all the time,” she added, the words meant for herself as well as to reassure Dan. “I’ve also studied maps and” – she stepped aside to make way for a young woman tugging two wailing children behind her – “if I recall correctly, about the only traffic hazard to worry about over there are sheep jams.”
“As long as you’re sure.” He still sounded doubtful.
“I am.”
“Sure enough to make it all the way to those three faery mounds I want you to investigate?”
“The Na Tri Shean?” Kira smiled, her exhilaration returning, banishing the niggles of doubt about driving. Dan’s three conical-shaped faery hills were thought to open into the Otherworld, providing access into the Land of the Fae. Not that she cared where the hills might lead or what mythical entities might dwell there.
More interesting to her was that Dan claimed the Na Tri Shean were also rumored to be time portals.
A possibility he wanted her to explore.
And an opportunity she couldn’t refuse. Not with the three supposed time-portalling-faery-mounds located not far from the Isle of Skye.
More specifically, Castle Wrath.
The image of the cliff-top ruins blazed across her mind. Her heart skipped, her pulse quickening. She could see her Aidan standing there, so fierce and tall, his plaid slung proudly over one shoulder, his gleaming raven hair whipped by the stiff sea winds. He was looking west, searching for her, she was certain.
Catching her sigh before it could escape, she flashed Dan a confident smile. “I’ll make it to your faery mounds,” she assured him. “I’d crawl on my knees to get there. Driving will be a breeze.”
Seemingly mollified, he harrumphed, his gaze flickering to her carry-on. “You have the information I gave you? Eye witness local and tourist accounts of the strange goings-on around those three hills? Copies of the ancient Celtic legends that mention them?”
Kira patted her bulging satchel bag. “I have everything.”
Including a dog-eared copy of The Hebridean Clans, a slim but fascinating volume, its pages dominated by Clan Donald, Lords of the Isles and undisputed rulers of Scotland’s medieval western seaboard.
She’d found Aidan in that book and she wasn’t about to leave it behind.
“You’ve read the stories?” Dan was watching her. “The stress of the last days hasn’t kept you from going over them? I don’t want you running into anything unprepared. There’s always a kernel of truth in old legends. Who knows what-”
“I’ll be fine.” Kira leaned up to kiss his whiskered cheek. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your story. One way or the other. If the Na Tri Shean don’t speak to me, I have a few other ideas for sure-winning tales.”
Dan’s smile returned. “What? You visit Culloden and run into a handsome six foot four Highlander and discover you’re soul mates? Reincarnations of long-dead star-crossed lovers? Maybe that infamous Wolf of Badenoch and his great lady-love Mariota?”
A hot little rush shot through Kira. She wasn’t planning on going anywhere near Culloden, but she had hung her heart on a six foot four Highlander.
At least she was pretty sure her sexy medieval warrior chieftain was about that height.
“I’m surprised you’ve even heard of the Wolf and his Mariota.” She hoped Dan couldn’t hear the thundering of her heart.
He shrugged. “I dated a girl from Inverness in college. A bit of a history buff, always going on about those two. She was obsessed by Scotland’s most legendary love pairs.” He paused to rub his chin. “So if not the notorious Wolf come back to life at Culloden, what other ideas do you have?”
Kira felt a jab of self-consciousness but brushed it aside. Dan and Destiny had been good to her. “O-o-oh,” she said, shifting her carry-on again, “something along the lines of I Was Seduced By A Selkie or I Found The Big Grey Man Of Ben MacDui Sleeping In My Holiday Cottage.”
“Ben Mac-Who-ee?” Dan shook his head.
“A ben is a mountain. The Big Grey Man is like Bigfoot.” Kira smiled. “He’s the Yeti of the Scottish Cairngorms.”
Dan laughed. “I’ll be happy with any story you bring back. You just take care of yourself.” His eyes took on that worried look again. “I have a feeling those faery mounds might be the real thing. Like that lake in Cape Cod.”
“If they are, just don’t forget your promise.”
“A time portal would be a bigger story than a sunken Viking boat, Kira.” He hesitated. “You’d be world famous.”
“Not if you keep your word and leave my name off the story.” Kira lifted her chin, not willing to budge. “I’ve had enough fame in recent days to last a lifetime. Give the honors to one of the horn-tooters who’ll love the glory.”
Dan looked uncomfortable. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then off with you and be quick about it.” He clutched her to him for a fast hug. “I hate long goodbyes.”
So did Kira, but before she could say her own, he was gone. Vanished into the teeming maze of hastening passengers and harried-looking airport personnel.
Shifting her carry-on yet again, she remembered what else she hated. Namely carting around unnecessary take-alongs pressed on her by her well-meaning family. No wonder her bag was digging a groove into her shoulder.
Determined to lighten her load – and avoid excess calories she really couldn’t afford – she made for the nearest waste bin, then unzipped her carry-on, plucking out the bulky plastic bag stuffed with Lindsay’s crushed and crumbling organic chocolate chip cookies.
A fat wedge of some kind of soybean imitation cheddar cheese and a mysterious home-baked energy bar her sister had sworn would keep her from suffering jetlag. Half a poorly wrapped hoagie her father must’ve secretly slipped into the bag after seeing Lindsay give her so much unappetizing health food.
Pitching it all, Kira dusted her hands and re-zipped her now much-lighter bag. But not before her gaze fell upon her book, The Hebridean Clans.
Her heart thumped. Excited, she retrieved her boarding card and headed for the long line at the security check point. Hope of catching a glimpse of her own Hebridean chieftain in real live waking hours quickened her steps.
With a bit of luck and if her special gift of far-seeing didn’t let her down, it just might happen.
She couldn’t think of anything sweeter.