A Highlander's Destiny (Digital Boxed Edition)

by Willa Blair

  His full Highland dress brought a gasp of pleasure from Nessa. His finest kilt hugged his narrow hips. He stood as though ready for battle. The whitest of tunics stretched taut across his broad chest, his plaid pinned to one shoulder with the original MacKay crest. His sporran and his father’s claymore finished the vision of fierce Highlander ’til death.

  With a bow, Latharn extended his arm, smiling as Nessa laid a trembling hand on his own. “Let us go to the rooftop. Our family waits to hear us speak our vows beneath the autumn moon.”

  As Latharn and Nessa emerged from the tower of the laird’s private rooms, Fiona clapped her hands and cried, “I told ye they’d be here! I knew they’d still wed.” She elbowed Brodie and fixed him with a superior glare.

  “I never said they wouldn’t be.” Brodie snorted.

  “It’s about time.” Trish raised her wine glass in a toast.

  A cloudless night blessed the couple’s gathering. The battlements were awash with the blue-white glow of the swollen autumnal moon. The cold, crisp air attested to the endless turn of the seasonal wheel. Winter was not far away. The kiss of frost bit the air.

  Arm in arm, the couple wound their way across the stone walkway surrounding the top of the keep. A shimmering table bearing a golden braid materialized against the farthest wall facing the ocean.

  Dozens of MacKay ancestors appeared along the inner wall of the castle. Everywhere, clansmen from ages past materialized out of thin air. It was as if they’d all been biding their time for the appropriate moment to make their presence known. Many of them had been victims of the evil sorceress. Some had once been starving children, grown to healthy warriors thanks to Latharn’s rescuing hand. All were proud to make their presence known at the wedding of their newly freed laird.

  Latharn’s mother, Rachel, stood close beside the altar with a tall, striking man holding her close to his side. Inseparable in life, they were joined in death. Nothing would ever keep Caelan and Rachel apart.

  Aveline stood beside her parents. She greeted Nessa with a glowing smile. With a wave of her hands, she adorned the walls and the altar with white roses tipped in silver. She smiled once more at Nessa and gave a regal tilt of her head. A circlet of white roses appeared in Nessa’s hair with silver ribbons flowing down her back.

  Thank you, Nessa mouthed, clutching Latharn’s arm tighter. There were so many of them. So many MacKays. She had to remember to breathe.

  Latharn squeezed her hand in the crook of his arm. “’Twill be all right, Nessa. Just feel the love that surrounds us.”

  Both of Latharn’s brothers were also in attendance. They stood with their wives and many children that Latharn had only seen as he’d looked out of his crystal tomb.

  Nessa caught her breath when she saw the man waiting to hear their vows. He seemed so very old. Latharn had told her he was the ancient MacKay, the original Auld One. Brought forth by the goddess, his magic strengthened by the addition of Rachel’s talents to the bloodline, it was he who fathered all MacKay magic. He had been the first.

  His waist-length hair and beard took on an eerie glow in the energy of the autumnal moon. His eyes burned with the knowledge of eons, his face as weathered as a sheet of ancient papyrus. He nodded once and glanced around at all the souls of the gathering, his authority commanded silence.

  “Latharn. Nessa. Come forward to be joined. Ye have been patient in your quest.” He extended his hand and held his upturned palm toward the couple, waiting for them to place their hands within his.

  The ancient MacKay glanced down at the golden braid upon the table and then returned his eyes pointedly to the couple’s hands. The rope obeyed the ancient one’s silent command and wound its way around Nessa and Latharn’s wrists.

  With a satisfied nod, the Auld One looked to the moon, then down upon the couple’s loosely bound hands. His booming voice echoed into the velvety night and traveled through space and time. “Joined in this life. Joined in the next. These two are now one. From this moment on, they are eternally bound. Through this life and beyond.”

  A shaft of pure energy shot down from the moon. It exploded as it hit the metallic loops encircling their hands. A surge of heat flashed through Nessa’s body. A sense of elation fluttered through her heart as Latharn’s hand tightened over hers. She’d never be alone again.

  When the blinding light cleared, the rope had disappeared, and left a glowing ring on each of their hands. Without a word, Latharn pulled Nessa into his arms and sealed the joining with a kiss. When he raised his head, he smiled down into Nessa’s misting eyes.

  “I love ye more then ye will ever know. Ye have always been my own. Now and forever. Through this life and into the next. Now that we have found each other and performed the joining rite, we will never be separated again.”

  Nessa caught her breath, holding his face between her hands as tears threatened to overflow. “I never thought as long as I lived that I would ever find this much happiness. I’m so glad you found my soul.”

  Epilogue

  With a contended sigh, Nessa settled deeper into the pillows and watched Latharn silhouetted against the window. “I hope you’re proud of yourself, my dearest husband.”

  Latharn stood with his head bowed, mesmerized by the squirming bundle squeaking in his arms. “I am verra proud, my love, but I am proud of my wondrous wife—and I am truly humbled.” He walked back to the bed, settling the wriggling bundle back in the pillows beside her and brushed his lips across her forehead.

  “Are ye ready for me to go down and get the others? I am sure they heard them. I’m afraid your sons have verra strong lungs.” Latharn grinned across the bed at the little bundles as they kicked and squirmed beside their mother.

  “Not yet. Wait just a little longer. Right now…they’re still just ours.” Nessa reached over and touched a tiny pink fist waving about in the air. Her emotions swelled, flooded her with a serene glow, she never dreamed she’d be this happy.

  “We havna decided on their names.” Latharn eased down on the bed beside her to cup a tiny head in his massive hand. “I rather liked Trish’s suggestion. She said we should go out to the loch and the name that bellows the best across the water is the name we should choose. She seems to think a son of mine will be having his name constantly shouted. Can ye imagine a son of mine getting into a bit of mischief? Why would she say such a thing?”

  Nessa rolled her eyes. “Oh, I can’t imagine. Not a son of Latharn MacKay.” She pushed herself higher on the piles of pillows and added, “And what’s this I hear from Fiona and Brodie about catching you in the nursery giving lessons to the twins?”

  Latharn arched a brow, a twinkle in his eye as he gave Nessa a sideways glance. “Lessons, you say?”

  “Yes, lessons,” Nessa repeated. “It appears that although the twins can’t even sit up by themselves, they’re getting quite good at making objects appear out of thin air.”

  “Truly?” Latharn fixed Nessa with a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Such magic is verra good for one’s so young.”

  “Latharn!” Nessa scolded. Then she couldn’t hold back the fit of giggles. He enjoyed his time with his family so much. He’d been imprisoned from those he loved for so long. He embraced his loved ones and cherished every moment to the fullest. Latharn never let an opportunity slip by.

  The bundle at the farthest side of the bed yowled, starting a chain reaction with his brothers. With a resigned sigh, Nessa shook her head. “I guess we might as well introduce them now. It doesn’t sound as though we’re going to keep our secret any longer.”

  Latharn grinned and pecked a kiss on the end of her nose. “I love ye, Nessa.”

  “And I love you, Latharn.”

  Pausing at the top of the staircase, Latharn grinned, reveling in the strength of his sons making their displeasure known.

  Fine strapping lads! Every one of them. He and Nessa were truly blessed.

  Trish held up her fingers. “One, two, three…three of them. I knew it! I win the pot!
I knew Latharn wouldn’t let Brodie beat him with twins.”

  Running across the room, Trish reached up on the mantel to retrieve the money out of an earthen jar.

  Latharn shouted down from the top of the stair, roaring the MacKay battle cry until the dust shook loose from the rafters.

  His laugh rumbled across the room as he waved them all up the stairs.

  “Brodie! Fiona! Trish! Come and greet my sons! And Trish, put back the money jar. Ye canna count your winnings just yet. Come and see. Ye canna tell anything by counting the number of cries.”

  Curiosity registering on all their faces, they scrambled up the stairs. As he ushered them inside, Latharn clapped Brodie on the back and hugged the women until their faces turned red.

  Nessa greeted them all with a tired smile. She sat propped up against piles of pillows, two sons on one side and two sons on the other. Four wriggling little bundles surrounded her on the bed, their faces still red and angry from emerging from their mother’s warm comfortable womb.

  Nessa smiled down at her sons and caressed each of their downy heads. “I think we’re going to need some more help in the nursery. The twins and now these four are a little much for one nurse.”

  As she stroked the velvety softness of the nearest baby’s cheek, she felt her weary smile widen. “By the way, Trish…didn’t you say you were taking Dugan MacKay on a picnic today to show him the goddess well?”

  Trish nodded as she bent to pick up one of the babies. Pressing a kiss to his tiny fist, she looked up and smiled. “Yep. We’re going there this afternoon. Why do you ask?”

  With a knowing wink, Nessa fixed Latharn with a meaningful glance, then pointedly looked at each of their sons. She shook her head then snuggled down into the pillows as she pulled the rest of her babies close.

  “You might want to take care about getting close to that water in the presence of a MacKay.”

  INTO THE SCOTTISH MIST

  by

  Beth Anne Miller

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Into the Scottish Mist

  COPYRIGHT  2011 by Beth A. Miller

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Tamra Westberry

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Faery Rose Edition, 2011

  Print ISBN 1-60154-851-6

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  In loving memory of my grandmothers,

  Lee Miller and Susanah Stricoff.

  Thank you to my wonderful parents,

  Lois and Sam Miller, and my terrific brother Rob.

  Thank you to Lidia Nascimento, Julie Young,

  Jen McAndrews, Robin Ruinsky, and Nicole Pinto

  for their invaluable help with brainstorming, advising, and reading many drafts,

  and to Jill Jazwinski, Robin Mendez, Heather Evans, Raakhee Shirsat, Luciana Fernandez

  and Jason Cancellieri

  for their encouragement.

  Thanks to Robin Rue, Michael Mejias, Josh Getzler, and all my friends at WH for their support.

  And last but not least, a huge thank you to

  Claudia Fallon at The Wild Rose Press!

  CHAPTER 1

  Abby lowered the window on the rental car, letting the breeze waft over her face as she struggled to keep her eyes open. She’d arrived in Edinburgh early that morning after an overnight flight from New York, and she was exhausted to her very bones. She’d been foolish to attempt this drive after a restless night in a hobbit-sized seat on the airplane. It was taking all of her concentration to stay on the correct side of the road.

  But once she’d stepped onto Scottish soil, she knew she couldn’t linger in the city for any longer than necessary. As she neared the southern tip of Loch Ness, she knew she’d made the right decision. How she loved the Highlands, the rolling green and brown hills dotted here and there with herds of sheep. She knew that in late summer, all those brown patches would be transformed into brilliant blankets of purple as the heather bloomed. She had missed that and so much more in the four years she had been away. She had always felt more at peace here than anywhere else, and hoped that being here would help heal the gaping hole in her heart.

  A large, colorful sign up ahead caught her attention, and she squinted to read what it said. Her eyes widened and she slammed on the brakes, incurring the wrath of the driver behind her, who swerved sharply to avoid hitting her. He uttered some very New York words as he passed her. Shaken, she pulled to the side of the road and put the car in park.

  She looked at the sign once more. No, she hadn’t read it wrong. In fancy black lettering on a pale blue background were the words:

  Fundraiser TODAY

  Urquhart Castle, 12-2pm

  Meet actor IAN MACKENZIE and

  Support The Royal Aberdeen

  Children’s Hospital!

  Ian Mackenzie. She closed her eyes as memories tumbled through her mind in vivid Technicolor. She hadn’t seen him in four years. And she hadn’t wanted to. No, that wasn’t entirely true. Her body still wanted him, still tortured her with vivid dreams that left her burning for his touch.

  In those dreams, he was the carefree young graduate student she’d been in love with when his acting was a joke, a one-time opportunity that came about after some talent scouts saw him participating in a re-enactment of the Battle of Bannockburn. They’d seen him astride his big black stallion, proudly wearing his plaid as he brandished a blunted sword at his brother, and wanted him for a bit part in a historical movie.

  In her dreams, he had eyes only for her, not for every young starlet that batted her fake eyelashes at him. In her dreams, he was still hers.

  In reality, though, none of those things was true. He was the reason she hadn’t been back to her beloved Highlands in four years.

  She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was 12:30 p.m. Not wanting to waste any more time dwelling on things that were long in the past, she carefully eased back onto the road, wanting to reach her destination as soon as possible.

  Lost in thought, she was miles down the road before she realized that Loch Ness was to her right instead of her left. “Shit. I went the wrong way,” she groaned, annoyed at her carelessness. Then she saw the sign welcoming her to Urquhart Castle. No you didn't go the wrong way. Deep down inside, you knew exactly where you were going. “Shut up,” she mumbled to her inner voice. “That’s not why I came here.” Well, you’re here now. Might as well make the most of it.

  Abby sighed in resignation and pulled into the car park. She knew that she wouldn’t have the slightest chance of finding the peace she sought so desperately if she passed up the opportunity to lay eyes on him, if only from afar.

  She unfolded her body from the small car and stretched her aching back and legs, needing time to gather her thoughts before she went any further. She studied the castle that stood sentinel over the seemingly endless expanse of Loch Ness. It was still a commanding presence, even though it was a mere shell, a ruin of its former glory.

  Beyond the towering ramparts of the castle lay the sapphire blue waters of the famous loch, home to one of the most well-known mysteries of the world. Abby had often wondered what the walls of Urquhart Castle would say if they could talk. What stories would they tell? Would they confirm the existence of the ancient sea creature, or would they laugh mockingly at the foolish humans who
saw monsters in the flotsam and jetsam that drifted by on the strong current?

  Enough procrastinating! Go inside already!

  Abby trudged to the entrance, where she handed the fifty pounds admittance fee to a perky blonde in a skimpy dress.

  “Thank you for your donation,” she said with a bright smile as she handed Abby her receipt. “Enjoy the party, and make sure you say hello to Ian. He’s worth every penny of the admission fee,” she added with a conspiratorial wink.

  And you know that, how, exactly? Abby barely managed to avoid rolling her eyes in disgust as she turned away. What am I doing here? I should just go right back to the car and get the hell out of here. They can keep my donation.

  In spite of her internal grumblings, Abby entered the castle grounds and began her search. She passed by tables full of chafing dishes, ignoring the rumbling in her stomach as the tantalizing aromas of chicken, steak, roasted vegetables, and pastries teased her nostrils, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since the rubbery chicken on the plane nearly ten hours earlier.

  She wound her way through clusters of men and women in tuxedos and cocktail dresses, glancing quickly at each small group and dismissing them just as quickly when she didn’t spot him.

  I’m looking in the wrong place, she decided. She turned her attention to the large group of women standing by a crumbling wall. Yep, there he is. Her heart skipped a beat, then kicked into overdrive. She should have known he would defy convention and show his Scottish pride. Instead of blending in with the crowd in a black tuxedo, he was decked out in full Highland regalia.

  He wore the Great Kilt, the full nine yards of blue and green tartan, belted around his lean hips, the excess material looped across his chest, where it was held together at the shoulder with an ornate silver brooch. The plaid ended just above his knees, and his handmade black leather boots came to mid-calf, showing off muscled legs honed from years of riding. From the center of his belt dangled a traditional badger sporran, and on his left hip he wore a ceremonial dirk in a hand-tooled leather scabbard. He also had a smaller knife, the sgian dubh, tucked into his boot. His snowy white shirt was a striking contrast to the long, wavy black hair tumbling over his shoulders.