The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karen Marie Moning

  Just how much could a federal employee be trusted, anyway? she brooded suspiciously. He could be part of some covert study designed to determine how much one tortured writer could endure before snapping and turning into a pen-wielding felon.

  “Purple prose, my ass,” she muttered, balling up the latest rejection letter. “I only used black ink. I can’t afford a color ink cartridge.” She kicked the door of her tiny apartment shut and slumped into her secondhand Naugahyde recliner.

  Massaging her temples, she scowled. She simply had to get this story published. She’d become convinced it was the only way she was ever going to get him out of her mind.

  Him. Her sexy, dark-haired Highlander. The one who came to her in dreams.

  She was hopelessly and utterly in love with him.

  And at twenty-four, she was really beginning to worry about herself.

  Sighing, she unballed and smoothed the rejection letter. This one was the worst of the lot and got pretty darned personal, detailing numerous reasons why her work was incompetent, unacceptable, and downright idiotic. “But I do hear celestial music when he kisses me,” Jane protested. “At least in my dreams I do,” she muttered.

  Crumpling it again, she flung it across the room and closed her eyes.

  Last night she’d danced with him, her perfect lover.

  They’d waltzed in a woodland clearing, caressed by a fragrant forest breeze, beneath a black velvet canopy of glittering stars. She’d worn a gown of shimmering lemon-colored silk. He’d worn a plaid of crimson and black atop a soft, laced, linen shirt. His gaze had been so tender, so passionate, his hands so strong and masterful, his tongue so hot and hungry and—

  Jane opened her eyes, sighing gustily. How was she supposed to have a normal life when she’d been dreaming about the man since she was old enough to remember dreaming? As a child, she’d thought him her guardian angel. But as she’d ripened into a young woman, he’d become so much more.

  In her dreams, they’d skipped the dance of the swords between twin fires at Beltane atop a majestic mountain while sipping honeyed mead from pewter tankards. How could a cheesy high-school prom replete with silver disco ball suspended from the ceiling accompanied by plastic cups of Hawaiian punch compare to that?

  In her dreams, he’d deftly and with aching gentleness removed her virginity. Who wanted a Monday-night-football-watching, beer-drinking, insurance adjuster/frustrated wannabe-pro-golfer?

  In her dreams he’d made love to her again and again, his heated touch shattering her innocence and awakening her to every manner of sensual pleasure. And although in her waking hours, she’d endeavored to lead a normal life, to fall for a flesh-and-blood man, quite simply, no mere man could live up to her dreams.

  “You’re hopeless. Get over him, already,” Jane muttered to herself. If she had a dollar for every time she’d told herself that, she’d own Trump Tower. And the air rights above it.

  Glancing at the clock, she pushed herself up from the chair. She was due at her job at the Smiling Cobra Café in twenty minutes, and if she was late again, Laura might make good on her threat to fire her. Jane had a tendency to forget the time, immersed in her writing or research or just plain daydreaming.

  You’re a throwback to some other era, Jane, Laura had said a dozen times.

  And indeed, Jane had always felt she’d been born in the wrong century. She didn’t own a car and didn’t want one. She hated loud noises, condos, and skyscrapers and loved the unspoiled countryside and cozy cottages. She suffered living in an apartment because she couldn’t afford a house. Yet.

  She wanted her own vegetable garden and fruit orchard. Maybe a milking cow to make butter and cheese and fresh whipped cream. She longed to have babies—three boys and three girls would do nicely.

  Yes, in this day and age, she was definitely a throwback. To cave man days, probably, she thought forlornly. When her girlfriends had graduated from college and rushed off with their business degrees and briefcases to work in steel-and-glass high-rises, determined to balance career, children, and marriage, Jane had taken her BA in English and gone to work in a coffee shop, harboring simpler aspirations. All she wanted was a low-pressure job that wouldn’t interfere with her writing ambitions. Jane figured the skyrocketing divorce rate had a whole lot to do with people trying to tackle too much. Being a wife, lover, best friend, and mother seemed like a pretty full plate to her. And if—no, she amended firmly—when she finally got published, writing romance would be a perfect at-home career. She’d have the best of both worlds.

  Right, and someday my prince will come …

  Shrugging off an all-too-familiar flash of depression, she wheeled her bike out of the tiny hallway between the kitchen and bedroom and grabbed a jacket and her backpack. As she opened the door she glanced back over her shoulder to be sure she’d turned off her computer and ran smack into the large package that had been left on her doorstep.

  That hadn’t been there half an hour ago when she’d plucked her mail from the sweaty, untrustworthy hands of the postman. Perhaps he’d returned with it, she mused; it was large. It must be her recent Internet order from the online used bookstore, she decided. It was earlier than she’d anticipated, but she wasn’t complaining.

  She’d be blissfully immersed in larger-than-life heroes, steamy romance, and alternate universes for the next few days. Glancing at her watch again, she sighed, propped her bike against the doorjamb, dragged the box into her apartment, wheeled her bike back out into the hall, then shut and locked the door. She knew better than to open the box now. She’d quickly progress from stealing a quick glance at the covers, to opening a book, to getting completely lost in a fantasy world.

  And then Laura would fire her for sure.

  It was nearly one in the morning by the time Jane finally got home. If she’d had to make one more extra-shot, one-half decaf, Venti, double-cup, two-Sweet’n-Low, skim with light foam latte for one more picky, anorexic bimbo, she might have done bodily harm to a customer. Why couldn’t anyone drink good old-fashioned coffee anymore? Heavy on the sugar—loads of cream. Life was too short to count calories. At least that’s what she told herself each time the scale snidely deemed her plump for five-foot, three and three-quarter inches.

  With a mental shrug, she scattered thoughts of work from her mind. It was over. She’d done her time, and now she was free to be just Jane. And she couldn’t wait to start that new vampire romance she’d been dying to read!

  After brushing her teeth, she slipped out of her jeans and sweater and into her favorite nightie, the frilly, romantic one with tiny daisies and cornflowers embroidered at the scooped neckline. She tugged the box near her bed before dropping cross-legged on the stuffed, old-fashioned feather ticks. Slicing the packing-tape seal with a metal nail file, she paused and sniffed, as an irresistibly spicy scent wafted from the box. Jasmine, sandalwood, and something else … something elusive that nudged her past feeling dreamily romantic to positively aroused. Great time to read a romance, she thought ruefully, with no man to attack when the love scenes heat up. Untouched except in her dreams, her hormones tended to simmer at a constant gentle boil.

  With a wry smile, she dug past the purple Styrofoam peanuts and paused again when her hands closed on rough fabric. Frowning, she tugged it free, sending peanuts skittering across the hardwood floor. The exotic scent filled the room, and she glanced at the closed casement window, bemused by the sudden sultry breeze that lifted strands of her curly red hair and pressed her nightie close to her body.

  Perplexed, she placed the folded fabric on her bed, then checked the box. No postmark, no return address, but her name was printed on the top in large block letters, next to her apartment number.

  “Well, I’m not paying for it,” she announced, certain a hefty bill would shortly follow. “I didn’t order it.” Darned if she was paying for something she didn’t want. She had a hard enough time affording the things she did want.

  Irritated that she had no new books to read, she
plucked idly at the fabric, then unfolded it and spread it out on the bed.

  And sat motionless, her mouth ajar.

  “This is not funny,” she breathed, shocked. “No,” she amended in a shaky whisper, “this is not possible.”

  It was a tapestry, exquisitely woven of brilliant colors, featuring a magnificent Highland warrior standing before a medieval castle, legs spread in an arrogant stance that clearly proclaimed him master of the keep. Clad in a crimson and black tartan, adorned with clan regalia, both his hands were extended as if reaching for her.

  And it was him. Her dream man.

  Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, then opened them slowly.

  It was still him. Each detail precisely as she’d dreamed him, from his powerful forearms and oh-so-capable hands to his luminous aqua eyes, to his silky dark hair and his sensual mouth.

  How she would have loved living in medieval times, with a man like him!

  Beneath his likeness, carefully stitched, was his name. “Aedan MacKinnon,” she whispered.

  Mortals did not bide captivity in Faery well—they did not age and time stretched into infinity—and Aedan MacKinnon was no exception. It took a mere two hundred years of being imprisoned in ice, coupled with the king’s imaginative tortures, for the Highlander to forget who he’d once been. The king devoted the next two centuries to brutally training and conditioning him.

  He educated the Highlander in every language spoken and instructed him in the skills, customs, and mores of each century so that he might move among mankind in any era without arousing suspicion. He trained him in every conceivable weapon and manner of fighting and endowed him with special gifts.

  During the fifth and final century, the king dispatched him frequently to the mortal realm to dole out one punishment or another. Eradicating the mortal’s confounded sense of honor had proven impossible, so the king utilized dark spells to compel his obedience during such missions, and if the conflict caused the mortal immeasurable pain, the king cared not. Only the end result interested the Unseelie king.

  After five centuries, the man who’d once been known as Aedan MacKinnon had no recollection of his short span of thirty years in the mortal realm long ago. He no longer knew that he was mortal himself and did not understand why his king was banishing him there now.

  But the king knew he owned his Vengeance only once he had fulfilled all the terms of the original agreement—the agreement the Highlander had long ago forgotten. In accordance with that agreement, the king was forbidden to coerce him with magic or instruction of any kind: Vengeance was to have his month at Dun Haakon, free of the king’s meddling.

  Still, the king could offer a few suggestions … suggestions he knew his well-trained Vengeance would construe as direct orders. After informing Vengeance—to whom time had little meaning—that the year was 1428, refreshing his knowledge of the proper customs of the century, and giving him a weighty pouch of gold coin, the Unseelie king “suggested,” choosing his words carefully:

  “Your body will have needs in the mortal realm. You must eat, but I would suggest you seek only bland foods.”

  “As you will it, my liege,” Vengeance replied.

  “The village of Kyleakin is near the castle wherein you’ll reside. It might be best that you go there only to procure supplies and not dally therein.”

  “As you will it, my liege.”

  “Above all else, it would be unwise to seek the company of female humans or permit them to touch you.”

  “As you will it, my liege.” A weighty pause, then, “Must I leave you?”

  “It is for but a short time, my Vengeance.”

  Vengeance took a final look at the land he found so beautiful. “As you will it, my liege,” he said.

  Jane studied the tapestry, running her fingers over it, touching his face, wondering why she’d never thought to try to create a likeness of him before. What a joy it was to gaze upon him in her waking hours! She wondered where it had come from, why it had been delivered to her, if it meant he really existed out there somewhere. Perhaps, she decided, he’d lived long ago, and this tapestry had been his portrait, handed down from generation to generation. It looked as if it had been lovingly cared for over the centuries.

  Still, that didn’t explain how or why it had been sent to her. She’d never told anyone about the strange recurring dreams of her Highlander. There was no logical explanation for the tapestry’s arrival. Baffled, she shook her head, scattering the troubling questions from her mind, and gazed longingly at his likeness.

  Funny, she mused, she’d been dreaming about him for forever, but until now she had never known his last name.

  He’d been only Aedan and she only Jane.

  Their dream nights had been void of small talk. Theirs had been a wordless love—the quietly joyous joining of two halves of a whole. No need for questions, only for the dancing and the loving and, one day not too far off, babies. Their love transcended the need for language. The language of the heart was unmistakable.

  Aedan MacKinnon. She rolled the name over and over in her mind.

  She wondered and wished and ached for him, until at last, she rested her cheek against his face, curled up, and tenderly kissed his likeness. As she drifted into dreams—in that peculiar moment preceding deep sleep that always felt to Jane like falling—she thought she heard a silvery voice softly singing. The words chimed clearly, echoing in her mind:

  Free him from his ice-borne hell

  And in his century you both may dwell.

  In the Dreaming hast thou loved him

  Now, in the Waking must thou save him.

  And then she thought no more, swept away on a tide of dreams.