Highland Guardian

by Melissa Mayhue

  The old saying about eyes being windows to the soul hadn’t become an old saying without very good reason. It was absolutely true. Catching a glimpse of what lived behind those windows, however, was extraordinary. Souls valued their privacy.

  Looking into this woman’s eyes, he’d felt an unusually strong energy pulling at him. Her windows had been wide open, her soul leaning out, demanding his attention like the French harlots he’d seen so many years ago, hanging out of the Barbary Coast bordellos.

  He couldn’t recall having run across anything like it in all his years. She was something entirely new.

  A thrill of anticipation ran through his body. “Something entirely new” was a rare experience for Ian. After six centuries spent shuffling between the Mortal Plain and the Realm of Faerie, he often thought he’d seen it all.

  During that time, he’d also learned countless valuable lessons. One of those lessons was that the rare experiences were usually the best. Certainly the most important.

  Yes, he was quite intrigued by Miss…

  “Damn.”

  What was her name? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t even remember if Henry had ever told him her name. He’d spent so much time thinking of her as “The American,” her name had been of no importance.

  That was certainly changed now. Playing innkeeper to his little American tourist had unexpectedly become a much more stimulating prospect.

  * * *

  Bending over in front of the fire, Sarah vigorously scrubbed at her hair with the towel. She’d read all about Scotland’s unpredictable climate in the bagful of travel guides she’d bought, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of it. In spite of the fire, the blanket, and the towels, she was still cold and soggy.

  And enormously embarrassed.

  One look at her host and she might as well have been a teenager again, completely tongue-tied and unsure of herself. That first glance had fairly taken her breath away, leaving her stammering and unable to make eye contact with anything but her own feet. It wasn’t the sort of behavior she expected from a mature woman. Particularly not when she was the mature woman in question.

  Handsome men had always had that effect on her, and this one was certainly a prime example. The classic line “tall, dark and handsome” could have been written especially for him. He towered over her by a good six inches. His eyes, a brown so dark they might actually be black, matched his hair. Hair a bit too long, curling around his neck, just onto the cream-colored turtleneck sweater he wore. The sweater clearly outlined a chest that belonged on a pinup calendar. He could be Mr. January, perfect start to a new year. A man like that might even get more than one month.

  He was one outstanding specimen, all right. And he was also a good ten years younger than she, at the very least, which made her reaction to him all the more ridiculous. What was wrong with her, anyway?

  “Serious jet lag,” she muttered, scrubbing harder at her hair.

  “Pardon?”

  Sarah jerked upright, dropping the towel to her neck. Her host stood in the doorway holding two steaming cups.

  Oh great. He’d caught her talking to herself, a bad habit that had caused her problems more than once. Heat crawled up her neck and over her face.

  “I didn’t realize you were back already.”

  His only response as he moved into the room was a smile. And what a smile. It played slowly around his lips, growing, spreading to his eyes, where it shimmered like polished jet.

  The heat on her face ratcheted up a notch.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of adding a touch of honey to yer tea.” He set the cups on a low table. “Please, sit yerself down.”

  Sarah started forward, but stopped, looking down at herself.

  “Oh, no. I’d hate to sit on your sofa in these wet clothes. Maybe it would be best if you just direct me to the cottage where I’ll be staying.”

  His smile altered, a look of chagrin passing over his features.

  “Well, that needs some explaining, you see.” He picked the folded towels up from the floor and spread them on the sofa. “Here. Sit.” He held up his hand to stop her when she started to protest. “Sit. Have yer tea and then we’ll get you into some dry things.”

  After carefully arranging herself on the towels, Sarah extended her hand to accept the cup he offered her, acutely aware of his penetrating gaze. Trying desperately to think of something to say to fill the silence, she was horrified to hear herself blurt out the first thing that came to mind.

  “You’re not at all what I’d pictured.” If she got any redder, surely flames would erupt from the top of her head.

  “Not what you’d pictured? What were you expecting?” He was smiling again.

  “Well, Mr. McCullough, you sounded much older when we spoke on the telephone.”

  “Ah, well, that explains it then. I’m no Mr. McCullough.”

  “What?” Had that squeak actually come from her?

  He placed a restraining hand on her arm as she started to rise.

  “Let me rephrase that. I am Mr. McCullough, just no the one you spoke to. That would be Henry, he’s…” He paused for a moment, glancing away from her as he moved his hand from her arm to pick up his cup. “I’m Ian McCullough.”

  “Oh.” That explained why he didn’t look at all like the sweet old man she’d imagined Henry McCullough to be. “But you’re also a McCullough. You’re related?”

  “Aye. We’re as related as an uncle and nephew can be.” He briefly flashed that brilliant smile again.

  “Where is your uncle?”

  “Henry? Oh, in hospital, actually. Minor knee surgery. He’ll be home in a few days. In the meantime, I’m supposed to be looking after things, but I’m afraid I’ve mucked them up a bit.” The smile reappeared. “Starting with knowing nothing about my lovely guest, no even her name.”

  “Oh.” Her conversational skills were rapidly disappearing in his presence. The blush returned. “I’m Sarah. Sarah Douglas.”

  “Sarah.” He repeated the name slowly. “It suits you. Now that we know one another, we’ve only the problem of the cottage, it seems.”

  Uh-oh. “My cottage?”

  He nodded. “Regrettably, our caretakers were called away on emergency this morning, so the cottage isna prepared for you. With the storm, I dinna think it a huge problem. I was sure you’d stay in the city when you saw the weather. Which reminds me.”

  His eyebrows lifted in a manner reminiscent of a school principal about to chastise an errant student.

  “This is no night to be out on the roads, lass. Did you no think about the risk you were taking by driving here in this tempest?”

  His tone implied lecture, not a conversational question. It might even have been offensive if not for his lovely accent. The lightly lilting brogue made everything he said sound good. The brogue and the deep baritone.

  “I guess I didn’t at the time. But I certainly recognize it now.” She put down her tea. “Mr. McCullough—”

  “Ian,” he corrected.

  “Ian.” She briefly made eye contact and smiled. “If the cottage isn’t prepared, then…”

  “It’s no worry. We’ll put you up here in the main house for tonight.”

  He sat back, looking very satisfied, and took a drink of his tea.

  “I was under the impression that you didn’t rent out rooms here.” Henry had been rather emphatic about that point, assuring her there would be no other lodgers.

  “We dinna. You’ll join us tonight as my guest. We’ll get you set up in the cottage tomorrow. Now…,” Ian stood and held out his hand in invitation. “Let’s get you all settled. When did you eat last?”

  “On the plane.”

  She rose to her feet, clutching the now damp blanket tightly around her. If he’d noticed she’d avoided his hand, he gave no sign of it.

  “We’ll remedy that right after we get you in some dry clothing.” He paused, tipping his head to the side. “Come to think of it, I dinna recall seeing y
er auto in the drive.”

  “It’s not exactly in the drive. It’s down at the entrance gate.” She shrugged. “I sort of slid off the road and got stuck in the mud. I can go back down and get my suitcase.”

  As they neared the door, thunder rumbled ominously close, rattling windows.

  “I’m thinking that’s probably no the best idea. In fact, I’m sure we can find you something dry to slip into here. We’ll collect yer things and yer vehicle in the morning when the rain’s done.”

  He’d stopped talking so she risked a quick glance up. It appeared he was waiting for that, catching her eyes and once again extending his hand. Perhaps he had noticed her earlier evasion after all.

  “Here. Come with me.”

  There was no chance this time to avoid his touch without seeming unusually rude and she couldn’t bring herself to do that. He’d been much too nice.

  Simply one hand against another. No way to prevent her unprotected skin from contact with his. No blanket or clothing to filter it through this time. She’d simply have to steel herself against the assault she knew would come with the touch, as it always did.

  She’d learned to accept it. From childhood she’d suffered the trauma of absorbing other people’s thoughts and emotions when she touched them, and the strange, random “feelings” that assailed her, trying to direct her actions. Almost worse had been the pain of knowing she was “different” from everyone else. She’d accepted that long ago, too.

  While her preference was, as always, to escape the unavoidable result, sometimes, like now, it couldn’t be helped.

  She took his hand.

  * * *

  Eggs.

  He scanned the contents of the refrigerator. He knew how to cook eggs. Not well, mind you, but he could cook them. And there was bread. He’d make toast. Surely there was canned fruit of some sort in the pantry. Martha served it with almost every meal.

  Under optimal conditions no one would ever mistake him for a chef, but with the current distraction standing in his kitchen, well…

  Best to keep it simple.

  How was it a woman, any woman, could look so appealing when you dressed her in men’s clothing? And if it happens to be an attractive woman, dressed in my own clothing? Without a doubt, anything other than simple would be beyond his abilities at this moment.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “You can have a seat. Yer my guest.” He flashed a grin. “I’ll have you a tasty meal whipped up in no time.”

  Ha. “Tasty” was pushing it a bit, but as Henry was fond of accusing, he’d never been an overly modest man.

  “Are you warmer now?”

  He’d grabbed the first things he’d come to in his drawers; the things he wore to loaf about: sweatpants, thermal undershirt, woolen overshirt and thick cotton socks.

  He was positive those items had never looked so appealing on him.

  “Much better, thanks.” She rewarded him with a shy smile as she padded over to the table and sat down.

  Before long, he was setting plates filled with scrambled eggs, toast and canned grapefruit sections on the table. To her credit, she gave it only one small dubious glance before sampling a bite.

  “You don’t do a lot of cooking, do you?”

  So, a diplomatic woman.

  “Is it as bad as that?”

  “No, not at all. It’s just that you appeared to be hunting for things in the kitchen while you were fixing this.”

  Observant, as well.

  “And here I was afraid it would be the rubber eggs that gave me away.”

  “Actually, the burned toast was more of a tip-off than the eggs.”

  Even a sense of humor.

  He grinned at her and was rewarded with a quiet laugh and another blush softly coloring her cheeks.

  Simply charming.

  “So, how did you come to choose our little cottage for yer holiday?”

  “Working holiday,” she corrected. “My three months will fly by, I’m afraid. And as to this location, I chose by sheer, blind luck. Once I knew I had to come to Scotland…”

  She paused, her eyes flickering up to meet his, betraying mild alarm, as if she’d said something she hadn’t intended, before she hurried on.

  “I…uh, I sat down at the computer and searched. Heather Cottage was the first entry that came up. I know this sounds stupid, but when I clicked on the site and read about it, it just felt right.” She shrugged without looking up. “So I emailed Mr. McCullough—Henry—and he called me, and here I am.”

  “What kind of work are you here to do?”

  “I write.” A furtive glance up.

  “Ah, a storyteller. And what do you write?”

  “Uh, women’s literature. Pretty much.” Another quick, furtive glance.

  “Hmmmm. I dinna believe I’m familiar with that.”

  “Really?” As a deep crimson stain slowly crept across her face, she rose and carried her plate to the sink. “At least I can help wash up.”

  So, her work was something she did not want to discuss. A most intriguing woman indeed. Too bad he didn’t have time or room for a woman in his life.

  They finished the dishes with relatively little talk, her weariness a tangible thing to him. His goal was to show her to the guest room as quickly as possible.

  Their walk to the stairs was interrupted by an enormous boom of thunder, accompanied by a flash of lightning so close he could feel the hairs on his arm lift. Followed immediately by every light in the house going out. He’d known it was only a matter of time.

  Sarah’s gasp was audible.

  Standing so close to her, he fully expected she would throw her arms around him, or lean into him at the very least.

  In his experience, which was extensive, frightened women always turned to the closest man for comfort and protection. Particularly when he was the closest man.

  It wasn’t conceit, simply an observation. He was well aware of the effect he had on women. He’d certainly had long enough to get used to it. After all, he’d met a goodly number of women in the past six hundred years.

  But she didn’t do either of those things.

  In fact, as his eyes quickly adjusted, he saw that she stood as she first had in the hallway, huddled into herself, her arms wrapped about her own middle.

  “Dinna be afraid. It’s only the electric.” He touched her shoulder and she flinched.

  “I…I’m not afraid. Just startled.”

  But not completely truthful? He could sense the fear rolling off her in waves.

  “Well, maybe a tiny bit afraid,” she amended in a whisper.

  Ah, that’s better.

  He guided her into the library, where the fire afforded them a modest light.

  “Have a seat and I’ll go find a torch for you to take upstairs.”

  “Torch?”

  “Aye. A hand light. You put batteries into it?”

  Recognition dawned on her face. “Oh, a flashlight.”

  “No, a torch.” He grinned. “One day you Yanks will have to learn to speak proper English.”

  * * *

  When he returned with the torch, having spent a good ten minutes hunting in the dark for fresh batteries for the thing, she was fast asleep, slumped over sideways into the corner of the sofa, her feet still on the floor.

  What to do? He could wake her, a choice that seemed patently unkind. Or he could easily pick her up and carry her to the guest room. And, although his arms fairly itched for the opportunity to hold her, chances were good she’d wake, again not the result he wanted. Best to let her sleep where she lay. No chance of waking her, with the added benefit that he could sit and watch her as long as he wanted to.

  And he found that he wanted to.

  Very gently he lifted her legs to the sofa so she could stretch out her full, what, maybe five and a half feet at most? He reached for the woolen plaid folded over the back of his chair, and draped it over her sleeping form, tucking it around her shoulders. It ou
tlined rather than hid her soft curves.

  She moaned and snuggled into it.

  Ian crossed the room and reached into a recessed cabinet to withdraw a bottle of his favorite whisky.

  Full glass in hand, he sank into his chair and propped up his feet, savoring a swallow before turning his attention to study the woman on his sofa.

  Even in sleep her features reflected uneasiness, a tiny frown fixed on her brow. Soft golden curls, too short to do more than barely brush her shoulders, wildly framed a delicate face. Smile lines around her eyes hinted of a woman who looked for the good in life and also of a maturity. He’d guess her to be in her early- to mid-thirties, perhaps not a classic beauty, but a very attractive woman in her prime nevertheless.

  Certainly she was attractive to him. From that first astonishing glimpse of her soul, to her unexpected behavior, right down to the way she looked lying on his sofa, covered with his own plaid, he was drawn to her.

  His instincts, however, screamed that there was much more to this woman than met the eye.

  He hadn’t missed her flinch each time he’d touched her, or how she’d tried to avoid taking his hand. Nor had he missed her look of resignation when she finally had. Perhaps more to the point, he’d seen the surprise that had flashed through her eyes at that moment, as if she’d expected some inevitable something that hadn’t come.

  He took another drink of his whisky, savoring the warmth that flowed down his throat.

  “Just what were you expecting, wee Sarah?” he whispered before draining the glass.

  Hunting the answer to that question would, at the very least, give him some distraction while he waited for Henry to come home.

  Waited to return to what really mattered, protecting Mortal men from those of his kind who would destroy them all.

  Two

  Heather Cottage was perfect.

  On her walk from the main house down to the cottage this morning, she’d had very little opportunity to really soak up the surroundings, but what she had seen pleased her senses. The manor house itself was a huge, rambling mansion with ivy covering its walls. Her cottage was an adorable little house, looking like something out of a Disney cartoon, right down to the window boxes and big wooden door. The path between the two abodes was a riot of color, lined by masses of flowers.