Many hours and even more transatlantic miles later, Kira pulled her fine-running hire car into a so-called lay-by, and rested her head against the steering wheel. She’d made it past Loch Lomond and even Crianlarich, carefully following the A-82, the most scenic route into the Highlands. But she wasn’t sure she could go much farther. The many twists and turns were getting to her, each new one bringing her closer to defeat.
She’d lied to herself about left-handed driving.
It wasn’t a breeze.
It was horrible.
Worse, she’d been sorely disillusioned to think that sheep jams were the only hazards of Scottish roads. Truth be told, to borrow the language of her medieval Highlander, the only sheep she’d spied so far were pleasant-looking wooly creatures seemingly content to keep to the verdant pastures rising from the impossibly narrow road.
She sighed. Leave it to her to make such a journey at a time when tiredness fogged her brain and heightened her fright factor.
Trying hard not to tremble and absolutely refusing to cry, she rolled down the window, hoping a good blast of clean and brisk air would bolster her confidence. Instead, the opened window only brought the approaching roar and passing whoosh of yet another speeding sports car.
A locally licensed car, flying past the lay-by at breakneck speed and disappearing into the wilds of Rannoch Moor before she could even blink, much less wonder why she ever thought she could tackle such a drive without a good night’s sleep to recover from jetlag.
If she wished to ponder her plight, the equally speedy whooshes of two coach tour buses and an over-wide recreational vehicle dashed her hopes of wallowing in self pity.
“Holy guacamole.” She blew out a breath, clutched the steering wheel.
Maybe she would have to crawl on her knees to reach Castle Wrath.
Pulling over to tremble and calm herself each time some impatient driver zoomed up behind her wasn’t getting her anywhere. But maybe her handy-dandy map of the Highlands would. That, and her mother’s carefully written instructions to the Cairn Avenue shrew’s stepdaughter’s castle near Oban.
Ravenscraig, the place was called if she remembered rightly. Supposedly, it even boasted a recreated Highland period settlement – One Cairn Village – with craft shops, a tea-room, and tourist lodgings.
Loosening her grip on the steering wheel, she twisted left, reaching for her purse. She dug inside its voluminous side pockets, searching for the folded paper with her mother’s notes. A quick scan of them and a glance at her map brought her an instant boost.
She need only drive a bit farther north, then veer west onto the A-85, straight through Glen Lochy and the Pass of Brander before continuing along Loch Etive until she reached Ravenscraig Castle. According to her mother, she couldn’t miss it as the castle and its One Cairn Village were clearly sign-posted.
Kira smiled. Sign-posted was good.
Better yet, the A-85 would also take her along a short bit of Loch Awe, allowing her a nice view of that loch’s picturesque Kilchurn Castle.
Her smile widened. Might as well enjoy the touristy stuff along the way.
Ravenscraig was also a good deal closer than the Isle of Skye where she’d booked a room at a small family-run inn. With her eyes feeling like sandpaper, sleep riding her hard, and her jaw beginning to ache from repeating the words, stay left, a hot shower and soft, clean bed sounded like heaven.
Just how much like heaven astounded her when, after a long but scenic stretch of Highland roads, she stood in the heart of Ravenscraig’s One Cairn Village and felt herself transported to Brigadoon.
This was Celtic whimsy at its finest.
Incredible enough to blunt the worst of her jetlag.
“Oh-my-gosh.” She stopped beside a large memorial cairn topped with a Celtic cross, the clutch of thick-walled, blue-doored Highland-y cottages surrounding it taking her breath and delighting her. A profusion of late-blooming flowers and heather rioted everywhere, spilling from rustic-looking halved wine barrels and crowding moss-grown paths. Wisps of fragrant peat smoke rose from several of the thatched cottages’ squat chimney stacks, and although the afternoon light was failing, there was enough to cast a golden, autumnal glow across the whole old-timey-looking village.
She glanced about, letting the place’s magic close around her. It was like stepping into one of her books on Highland life, as if she’d blinked and found herself inside the sepia photographs of days long passed and forgotten. The kind of pictures she was always mooning over.
“Oh-my-gosh,” she said again, her eyes misting.
The strapping young Highlander beside her chuckled. Setting down her bags, Malcolm, as he’d introduced himself, flashed her a dimpled grin. “That’s what Mistress Mara said the first time she saw the castle,” he told her, his soft Highland voice almost as exciting as the Brigadoon-like village. “I’m thinking you have a greater heart for the simple things?”
A greater heart. Kira sighed. Just the phrase, so old-fashioned and Scottish-sounding, thickened her throat. She blinked, tried to wipe the damp from her eyes as unobtrusively as possible.
Seeing it anyway, the red-haired Malcolm reached to dry her cheeks with a strong, callused thumb. “Dinnae shame your emotion, lass. I’ve seen grown men shed tears hereabouts. Scotland does that to people.”
Kira nodded, his words making her eyes water all the more.
“I’ve always loved Scotland.” She blinked, unable to keep the hitch out of her voice. “The mournful hills and deep glens, heather-clad moors and hidden lochs. And, yes, it’s the simple things that stir me. A drift of peat smoke on chill autumn air or the laughter and song at ceilidhs. Real ceilidhs in crofts and cottages, not the kitschy Scottish song-and-dance evenings you see in big touristy hotels.”
She paused, swiping at her eyes again. “I sometimes think I belong to another age. The time of clan battles and Celtic legends, back when a skirl of pipes and a war cry roused men to whip out their swords and-”
She broke off, heat flaming her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I get carried away-”
“You feel the pull o’ the hills is what it is.” Malcolm-of-the-red-hair picked up her bags again. “I’ll wager if you don’t have Scottish blood, then you did at one time,” he added, the notion warming her like the sun breaking through clouds.
Before she could say anything, he nodded to one of the cottages, its blue-shuttered windows glowing with the flickering light of what looked to be candles. “That’s the Heatherbrae. Yours for the night, and, nae, those aren’t real candles in the windows,” he said, as if he’d read her mind. “They’re electric. The cottages may look of another century, but they have all the comforts of our own.
“That up yonder is Innes’s soap-and-candle craft and workshop.” He indicated a well-lit cottage at the end of the path, one slightly larger than the rest. “If you pop up there, you’ll find she keeps a platter of shortbread and fresh-brewed tea ready for visitors.”
Kira cast a longing glance at the Heatherbrae. “But-”
“I need a few minutes to ready your cottage.” The young man offered an apologetic smile. “We didn’t know for sure if you were coming, see you. Mistress Mara and her Alex insist on a true Highland welcome for their guests: a warming fire on the hearth grate and a waiting dram at your bedside.”
“That sounds wonderful and so does Innes’s tea and shortbread.” Kira glanced at the large memorial cairn, according to its bronze plaque, dedicated to some long-dead MacDougalls. “But I don’t want to trouble the woman,” she added, her gaze also lighting on a nearby signpost marking the beginning of a woodland path.
An evening walk would surely give her a second wind.
Following her gaze, Malcolm’s rosy-cheeked complexion turned a slightly deeper red. “Sorry, lass, but Innes will be expecting you. She … er … watches out her shop windows, having nothing much else to do the day. Just smile and nod if she mentions Lord Basil.”
“Lord Basil?” The words no sooner left her lips than the image of an elegantly-dressed, hawk-nosed man loomed up before her, his aristocratic stare haughty and cold.
Kira blinked and he vanished, leaving her with a rash of goosebumps, alone on the path.
Malcolm-the-red had left her, too. The cracked door of the Heatherbrae and the wedge of warm, yellow light spilling out into the cottage’s little garden leaving no doubt as to where he’d gone.
She also had no doubts that they’d been observed, for unless jetlag was playing tricks on her or her far-seeing gift was showing her yet another resident of Ravenscraig’s past, a white-haired woman was peering at her from behind one of the soap-and-candle craft and workshop windows.
A tiny white-haired woman, she discovered on stepping inside the shop a few minutes later. A frilly-aproned, birdlike woman who beamed at her with a cheery, welcoming smile and a tell-tale faraway look in her bright blue eyes.
“Come away in!” she enthused, scurrying from the window to a plaid-draped table set with a tea service and an array of what looked to be home-baked shortbread. “I’m Innes, maker of fine soaps and candles. You’ll be herself, the young American Lord Basil told us we might be seeing.” She poured the tea with a shaky, age-spotted hand. “Lord Basil likes Yanks.” She paused, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He even married one.”
Kira looked at her, guessing she must mistake Mara McDougall’s Highland chieftain husband for someone named Lord Basil. No doubt the stuffy-looking aristocrat she’d glimpsed on the path. She was pretty sure her mother had said Euphemia Ross’s stepdaughter’s husband’s name was Alex.
Sir Alexander Douglas.
“You are a Yank, aren’t you?” Innes came closer, holding out a rattling teacup and saucer.
“I’m Kira Bedwell. And, yes, I’m American. From Aldan, Pennsylvania near Philly.” Kira accepted the tea and took a sip. “Philadelphia,” she added, in case the old woman had never heard the term Philly.
“Lord Basil comes from London,” Innes stated as if she hadn’t spoken.
Determined to be polite, Kira opened her mouth to reply, but the words lodged in her throat. All thought of Innes and her apparent delusions left her as she blinked at a small display of books on local history and fauna.
A familiar face stared back at her.
Wee Hughie MacSporran. The puffed-up peacock of a tour guide who’d accompanied her long-ago coach tour and repeatedly regaled the company with his claims to lofty ancestry.
There he was again, preening with self-importance on the cover of a book titled Rivers of Stone: A Highlander’s Ancestral Journey.
Kira frowned, half certain that this time jetlag really was getting to her. But when she looked closer, there could be no mistaking.
It was the tour guide.
Even if he looked a bit more portly than she remembered. His name was on the book: Wee Hughie MacSporran, historian, storyteller, and keeper of tradition.
Kira almost dropped her teacup. How like the swell-head to tack on so many distinctions to his name.
Curious, she set down her tea and reached for the book, clearly a vanity press job. Her fingers were just closing on it when a richly timbred voice spoke behind her.
A deep Highland voice that sounded so much like Aidan that her heart leapt to her throat.
“A fine book,” the voice endorsed, “written by a local man well-versed in our legends and lore. You can have a copy if you like. A wee welcome-to-Scotland gift.”
Kira spun around, the book clasped to her breast. “Thank you. I know the author. He guided a tour I was on years ago. And you must be-”
“No’ Lord Basil.” The Highlander stepped aside to make way for an aging collie when the dog shuffled in, then plopped down at his feet. “He was the late Lady of Ravenscraig’s English husband. And this is Ben.” He cast an affectionate glance at the collie. “He’s the true master at Ravenscraig.”
The dog thumped his tail and looked up, his approving brown eyes saying he knew it.
“Myself, I’m Alex. Mara’s husband.” He took one of the shortbreads off the table and gave it to Ben. “You have to be Miss Bedwell? My regrets that we were unable to greet you, but” – he glanced at his kilt and shrugged – “we were having a folk afternoon for a gathering of school children at the Victorian Lodge.”
He looked over his shoulder at the semi-darkness framed by the shop’s half-open door. “You may have seen the turrets of the Lodge on your way here. It’s a rambling old pile just the other side of the woodland path.”
Kira gaped at him, well aware he was talking, but hardly registering a word he said. Indeed, she was quite sure her jaw was hanging open, but found herself unable to do anything about it.
Sir Alexander Douglas had that kind of presence.
Tall, well-built, and handsome, he had rich, chestnut brown hair just skimming his shoulders and the kind of deep, sea green eyes she would’ve sworn existed only in the pages of historical romance novels.
She blinked again, surprised by his kilted perfection.
And he wasn’t just wearing a kilt. Not like the kilt-clad Americans she’d seen at stateside Highland Games. O-o-oh, no. This man really wore his tartan. He was the genuine article, decked out in full Highland regalia, every magnificent inch of him making her knees water.
Not because of himself, but because he reminded her of Aidan.
Alex Douglas had that same medieval-y air about him. The only thing missing was the sword.
But then that, too, was there. A great, wicked-looking broad sword flashing silver at his hip as his plaid seemed to stir in some unseen wind, its eerie passage even riffling his hair.
Kira swallowed and the image slowly faded. The wind vanished quicker, but the sword lingered to the last. Then it, too, was no more. The only flashing silver left on him was the large Celtic brooch holding his plaid at his shoulder and the cantle on his fancy dress sporran.
A MacDougall clan sporran of finest leather and fur with tasseled diamond-cut chains. A similar assortment of various clan sporrans hung on the wall behind the shop’s till.
Kira’s heart thumped. Imagining Aidan wearing such a grand sporran nearly made her swoon. If ever a man’s best part deserved such an accolade it was his.
She swallowed again, feeling heat blaze onto her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I-”
“It’s okay. Women always react to him that way.” A pretty auburn-haired woman with a Philly accent stepped forward, extending her hand. “Especially mad-for-plaid American women,” she added, her warm smile taking any sting out of the words. “I’m Mara, and so pleased to meet you. My father called and told us you might be stopping by. I’m glad you did.”
“I am, too.” Kira shook her hand, her blush deepening because she hadn’t noticed the woman standing there. “This place is like Brigadoon. Amazing.”
Mara McDougall Douglas looked pleased. “That was our intent.”
She threw a smile at her husband, then slipped behind the till to straighten a large framed print of three sword-brandishing Highlanders captured in the midst of what appeared to be a medieval battle fray.
The poster hung beside the display of clan sporrans and on closer inspection, Kira saw that the sword-wielding Highlander in the middle was none other than Mara’s Alex.
“That’s you!” She swung around to look at him, but he only smiled and shrugged again.
“Yes, that’s him,” his wife confirmed, clearly proud. “Alex, and two of his best friends, Hardwic- … I mean, Sir Hardwin de Studley of Seagrave and the big, burly fierce-looking fellow, that’s Bran of Barra.”
Kira’s brows lifted. “Hardwin de Studley?”
Her hosts exchanged glances.
Alex cleared his throat. “An old family name. Goes back centuries.”
He glanced at the print. “I’ve known him for ages. Bran as well. They were among the most fearsome fighters of their day, their sword skills second only to a certain Sassunach I also had the privilege to call my friend.”
“Were?” Kira looked back at the men on the print. “They’re dead?”
“No.” Mara came out from behind the till. “He means they’re expert swordsmen. Alex and his friends are re-enactors. They stage medieval battles for our visitors. Mostly in summer when we’re full up here.”
“Oh.” Kira tightened her hold on Wee Hughie’s book, certain she’d caught Mara shoot her husband a warning glance.
“I’m surprised Euphemia didn’t mention the reenactments to your mother.” Mara hooked her hand through her husband’s arm. “Alex and his company put on quite a show when she and my father visited last year.”
Innes tittered. “Ach, that biddie was too fashed about bogles to pay much heed to aught else.” She pinned her gaze on Kira. “Be you afeart o’ bogles?”
“Bogles?”
“Ghosts,” Alex explained, a smile quirking his lips. “Innes is asking if they frighten you.”
“Maybe a better question would be if she believes in ghosts.” Mara glanced from her husband to Kira. “In America, people aren’t as receptive to such things as over here, where every house, pub, and castle is simply accepted as having ghosts.”
“Indeed?” Alex looked amused. “So, Kira Bedwell, what do you think of them?”
“Ghosts? I rather like them. Or rather, the notion of them.” Kira smiled, leaving it at that. She wasn’t about to mention her talent and especially not having already glimpsed the previous Ravenscraig lord.
If he’d indeed been a spirit.
She could usually see through ghosts, so she suspected she’d only caught a brief glimpse of the past again, an image imprinted on a path the man often frequented.
Sure that was the way of it, she turned to Mara. “Do you have ghosts at Ravenscraig?”
“None that would bother you,” Alex answered again, this time clicking his fingers at Ben, then holding open the door so the dog could trot outside. “You’ll sleep well enough at the Heatherbrae. It should be ready now if you’d like us to see you there.”
Opening her mouth to say she would, Kira was horrified when a ferocious yawn snatched the words. Blessedly, her hosts had already stepped out the door. Innes appeared too busy humming to herself to notice.
Not wanting to intrude on the old woman’s obvious happy place, she did allow herself a quick glance at Wee Hughie’s book before she started after Alex and Kira. Skipping what looked to be long passages of flowery prose about his illustrious ancestors, she flipped to the illustrations and photographs in the book’s middle, near dropping the book yet again when the words Na Tri Shean leapt at her.
Captured in a glossy black and white photo, the three faery mounds sent an immediate shiver down her spine.
She’d either been there before or would be at some point in the future.
And in a way that had nothing to do with her assignment for Dan Hillard and Destiny Magazine.
Giving herself a shake lest her hosts look at her and think she’d seen a ghost, she shut the book and left the shop, walking straight into the next surprise.
Scotland’s world renowned gloaming.
In the short time she’d been inside the soap-and-candle craft and workshop, the evening had turned a deep bluish-violet. Soft, billowing mists descended, sliding silently down the hillsides. The whole Brigadoon-ish scene was now bathed in a gentle, never-to-be-forgotten luminosity she knew Highlanders thought of as the time between the two lights.
A special and magical time full of mystical promise.
Her heart jolting at the notion, she made her way down the path after Alex and Mara, hoping that the proximity to Castle Wrath and One Cairn Village’s own magic might let Aidan come to her in her dreams that night.
He hadn’t visited her in weeks and she needed him badly.
Almost feeling his hot and hungry gaze on her, she hastened her steps. Heatherbrae Cottage and her bed loomed just ahead. Soon she might feel his heated touch, lose herself in the mastery of his kisses, and glory in the deliciousness of the Gaelic love words he whispered against her naked skin.
Kira sighed.
Oh, yes, she needed him.
Even if having him make love to her on Scottish soil might prove a greater sensual pleasure than she could bear.
She just hoped she’d have the chance to find out.
Only a few hours to the north by car, but many centuries distant in time, Aidan MacDonald, prowled the lofty battlements of Castle Wrath, his features set in a fierce scowl. He was feeling every bit the harsh and embittered soul his good friend Tavish had accused him of being. A dark-tempered, cold-hearted beast, some of his younger squires had called him when they hadn’t known he’d heard. Remembering, he raked a hand through his hair and stifled a scornful laugh. Soon the wee kitchen lads would claim his eyes glowed red and he hid a tail beneath his plaid.
Even his guardsmen had fled from him, the whole lot of the quivery-livered night patrol taking themselves off to the far side of the parapets as soon as he threw open the stair tower door and strode out into the mist-hung evening.
Not that he blamed them.
In recent days, even his favorite hound, Ferlie, had begun to eye him as if he’d run mad.
Perhaps he had, he was willing to admit. He stopped pacing to stand before one of the open square-notched crenels in the parapet walling.
Who but a crazed man would lust after a dream?
“Blood of all the gods,” he growled, his folly cutting into him as sharply as the razor-sharp steel of his sword. Thoughts of the wench bestirred him even now, filling his mind with the warm smoothness of her skin and the fine, plump weight of her breasts, her nipples beautifully puckered and begging his caress. The silky-soft heat between her thighs and her sweet sighs of pleasure when he touched her there.
Her fiery passion. For him, his land, and everything he stood for.
He saw it in the way she’d reverently touch his plaid or run a finger over the intricate Celtic designs on his sword belt. How her breath would hitch, her eyes filling with wonder when his world intruded on their dreams and he knew she’d caught glimpses of his tapestried bedchamber, the glowing peat fire across from his bed or the black cliffs of Wrath Isle, visible through the room’s tall, arch-topped windows.
Marvels, she called such things, shaking her head as if she’d never seen the like.
As if she loved them as much as he did.
That passion blazed inside her, too. Knowing it made him appreciate her in ways that had nothing to do with how good she felt in his arms. How just looking at her made him burn.
His loins grew heavy and aching with wanting her. He needed her now. But all he could do was jam his fists on his hips and glare into the thick swirls of mist gliding past the battlements. Chill, cloying, and impenetrable, the mist seemed to mock him, its gray-white swaths blotting everything but the damp stone of the crenellated wall right before him.
Just as his dreams had begun throwing up an unbreachable barrier, keeping him from reaching her and letting him see only the great void that loomed without her.
Until tonight.
Casting one last scowl at the mist, he started pacing again. He was as keenly aware of her now as he’d been earlier, sitting at the high table in his hall, holding council with Tavish and several of his most trusted men. They’d been planning their surprise raid on Conan Dearg’s Ardcraig, when a jolt had ripped through him and he’d sensed her.
Felt her presence, so vibrant and alive he would’ve sworn she’d somehow stolen into Castle Wrath and was standing right behind his chair.
Her sweet feminine fragrance, so fresh and clean, had swirled around him, filling his senses and making his heart slam against his ribs. A scent with him still, even here in the cold dark of the parapets.
To be sure, the perfume wasn’t his.
And with certainty not his guardsmen’s, the fools still busying themselves on the other side of the battlements. Each one of the impressionable buffoons doing their best to pretend he wasn’t there.
Nae, it wasn’t coming from them. Their scent leaned toward armpit and old leather. Wool and linen that hadn’t been washed in the saints knew how long, the whole charming effect enhanced by a slight whiff of stale ale, horse, and dog.
“Och, aye, ‘tis you, my sweet,” he breathed, certain of it.
His dream vision, tamhasg, or whatever she was, was near.
So close he could almost taste her.
See her eyes light when she caught that first glimpse of him, feel her arms slide around him, drawing him to her, urging him to make her his.
“Lass.” The endearment came choked, burning his throat as he clenched his hands, willing her to appear.
When she didn’t, he bit back a roar of frustration and whirled around, turning away from the empty night and striding toward the stair tower. The curving, torch-lit steps that would take him back to his bedchamber.
The massive oak-framed bed and the sleep awaiting him there.
The dreams.
His last hope of finding her this night.
Several hours later, he believed he had. He stirred in his sleep when soft kisses bathed his cheek, warm and wet. Hot breath hushed sweetly across his ear, waking him.
Instead of his tamhasg’s shining gaze greeting him, the eyes meeting his were brown and soulful. Perhaps even a touch worried.
Canine eyes.
“Ach, Ferlie.” He sat up and rubbed a hand over his face, his love for the great beast keeping him from letting his disappointment show. “She was here, or somewhere close.”
But her scent was gone now. His bed most definitely empty, save himself and his huge, shaggy dog.
Only his surety remained.
Something in his world had shifted. A current in the air, a never-before-there ripple in the wind, he knew not. Whatever it was, he’d wager his best sword it had to do with her.
If the gods were kind, he’d learn the answer soon.