The Ravenscraig Legacy Collection: A World of Magical Highland Romance

by Allie Mackay

  Not wanting to know, she slid a glance into the trees, preparing for the worst. Judging by his past antics, he might well be leaning against a yew trunk, arms folded, and glaring at her.

  Invisibly, of course.

  Since last night she knew he could be anywhere.

  Do anything. Even seduce her.

  See right through her clothes.

  “Oh, great, I’m losing it.” She glanced about as she skirted a spongy-looking patch of moss. “I’m being stalked by a ghost.”

  A damned sexy one.

  She clamped her lower lip between her teeth and quickened her pace. So long as she only sensed him and didn’t hear him striding after her or spy a sudden flash of weaving steel arcing through the mists, she’d be fine.

  She hoped.

  Determined to prove it, she inhaled deeply of the cold, clean air. Fresh, Highland air thick with the woodsy scent of damp earth and ferns. Rich, pungent smells that would’ve delighted her were this an ordinary morning.

  But it wasn’t.

  And tearing through a yew grove that was beginning to look more eerie with every step didn’t help.

  Especially knowing the trees lived over a thousand years.

  She shivered at the thought. Large as the Ravenscraig yews were, they’d surely been around in tin man’s day, may even have witnessed his treachery. Stood by as he thundered along this very path in the dark of night, the famed Bloodstone of Dalriada tucked securely in a pouch at his belt.

  Tin man, indeed.

  Apparently so!

  She shuddered, drew her jacket tighter against a chill wind knifing past her.

  With the wind, the grove seemed to creep in on her, growing darker and more impenetrable. Even the firth slipped from view, its sudden absence leaving her hemmed in by the yews’ low-spreading branches and her own ill-ease.

  Equally disconcerting, some of the larger trees appeared hollow, their empty interiors crowded with blackness. Dark shadows demanding a closer look.

  “No, thanks,” she declined, hurrying on.

  Thomas the Rhymer came to mind. The great thirteenth century mystic supposedly slept in a hollowed yew, awaiting his rebirth in a wood somewhere near Inverness.

  And if such a hidey-hole was good enough for him, a sword-swinging, MacDougal-hating ghost surely wouldn’t hesitate to use a hollowed tree for his own shady purposes.

  And it wouldn’t be sleeping.

  No, he’d be spying on her.

  Plotting his next move or maybe even laughing at her.

  Certain she wouldn’t appreciate his humor, Mara glanced round, scanning the ancient twisted trees and wishing her imagination wasn’t quite so vivid.

  Where were the stables?

  Half-running, half-stumbling, she tripped over a root, her arms flailing. As she righted herself, she grumbled, “The devil was in that,” borrowing another of the Cairn Avenue shrew’s choice quips.

  If only she had a thimble of that besom’s vinegar. Instead, she pressed a hand to her hip, breathing hard. Cold winds whipped around her, icy gusts that tossed her hair and tore at her clothes. Almost like unseen hands trying to strip her until she stood naked and shivering on the peaty path.

  The notion steeled her and she straightened her back. “You don’t scare me,” she vowed, lifting her chin as the wind slackened. “And you’ll never see me naked!”

  Ahhh, but I already have, a rich Scottish burr echoed behind her. And closely enough to ken your flaming MacDougall tresses are no’ tinted.

  Mara’s eyes flew wide. “You bastard!” she cried, whirling around.

  But nothing greeted her except the empty grove and a lingering trace of his voice, silky-deep and disturbing.

  He’d seen her naked.

  And in a much more intimate way than that one quick look at her exposed nipple. He’d somehow seen her between her legs and, heaven help her, knowing he had sent a coil of heat spiraling through her.

  Tingly heat, shamelessly delicious.

  For one crazy-mad moment, she imagined his hard, manly body pressed to hers. Skin to naked skin. His breath soft and warm on her flesh. Highlander kisses igniting her senses, his hands exploring her curves, rousing her in ways she’d never dreamed a woman could be stirred.

  Didn’t every American woman know that Scotsmen were the greatest lovers on the planet?

  No, every female on earth knew it, and she supposed it was true.

  For sure, she’d never desired a man so feverishly – or felt more foolish for wanting one.

  Sir Alexander Douglas wasn’t real.

  He was everything she didn’t believe in. And he hated MacDougalls.

  No matter that, technically, she was a McDougall.

  Either way, getting all hot and bothered just because he was six feet four and gorgeous and had a voice that weakened her knees was unhealthy.

  Wanting to kiss him until she grew dizzy, drowning in the taste of him, was against all reason.

  Downright dangerous.

  A fact she couldn’t ignore since last night.

  She’d spent hours tossing and turning, terrified he’d reappear. Her heart had pounded so rapidly, she’d heard its hammering like a drum in her ears.

  Her knees still shook. And not because he was so incredibly sexy she sometimes forgot to breathe when he towered over her, pinning her with those stormy, sea green eyes and making the rest of the world melt away as if only he existed.

  As if he really did, that was.

  Knowing he didn’t, she puffed a strand of hair off her face. How she’d managed to dress this morning and descend so many stairs without landing in a heap at the bottom was beyond comprehension.

  He’d shocked her that greatly.

  And he was still unnerving her. Lurking somewhere, staring at her with such piercing intensity, her toe collided with a boulder blocking the path.

  “Owwww!” She grabbed her foot, glaring at the rock – a lichen-blotched chunk of granite that seemed to glower right back at her.

  It also wasn’t anywhere near the path she’d been following.

  She blinked and looked around. The offending rock rose from a patch of rough deer grass at the edge of a bracken slope and a broad stretch of grazing pasture.

  The footpath through the yew grove was nowhere in sight, the trees now well behind her. Somehow she’d broken free of their clutches. Nothing more ominous crowded her now than a tangle of juniper, gorse, and broom.

  And the eyes staring holes into her weren’t Sir Alexander’s, but a horse’s.

  A magnificent brute munching grass a few paces from where she stood. All sleek lines and muscle with a glossy black coat, he eyed her with unblinking interest.

  Several other horses, similarly impressive, watched her from a distance. But it was the nearby stable block that made her heart leap and banished her scare in the yew grove.

  She stared, her jaw dropping.

  Awe sweeping her, she picked her way across the grass, her excitement mounting the closer she came to the ancient building and its cluster of byres.

  Low-slung, stone built, and with a gray slate roof, Ravenscraig’s stables stood heavy with the weight of years. Centuries of wind, rain, and long cold winters had taken a toll, softening edges and darkening stone, but that was its charm.

  Anything but scribbled dates and jotted memories, the stables lived and breathed history. Every rough-hewn stone hummed with age, but also enough activity to keep thoughts of him at bay.

  Wishing she could forget him completely, she approached the stable, her arrival not disturbing the broody hens scratching and pecking in the dirt near a drystone wall, or the handful of sheep and shaggy, red-coated Highland coos foraging near the byres.

  Everything seemed normal, except for the humming stones.

  Mara’s nape prickled. Wild possibilities whirled inside her. Romantic as it was to imagine old stones vibrating with age, actually hearing that humming was something else entirely.

  But then she recognized the s
ound for what it was: soft, repetitive thuds and the murmur of male voices.

  Highland voices, and coming from behind the stables.

  A mystery quickly solved when Scottie and Dottie shot out of nowhere, their stubby legs pumping and their brown and white bodies splotched with blackish goo.

  “How many times am I telling ye wee buggers no’ to play in the dung heap-” Malcolm the Red skidded to a halt behind them, his flushed face turning even brighter.

  “Miss Mara!” He stared at her, eyes wide and chest heaving, a manure shovel clutched in his hand.

  Scottie and Dottie dashed forward, sniffing at her heels until the young Highlander gave a sharp whistle.

  “Those two are in fine fettle.” He shook his head as the little dogs ran off toward the broody hens. “What sees you out and about so early? Murdoch didn’t say you’d be coming down here.”

  “He didn’t know.” Mara shivered as a stray wind rifled her hair. “No one does.”

  Think you? A rich burr much deeper than Malcolm’s purred at her ear.

  Mara gasped, but Malcolm didn’t seem to have heard. “Ach, well, I wish we’d known.” He slid a glance at another young man just stepping out from behind one of the byres. “We would’ve put off the dung loading.”

  “Dung loading?” Mara looked from one young man to the other, not missing the black flecks on their thigh-boots. “You mean mucking out the stables?”

  “Aye, but more than that,” Malcolm told her. “Iain and I were just loading dung for the National Farmers’ Union.” He paused, his freckled face lighting. “And for you. Every shovel will help raise funds for One Cairn Village.”

  Mara blinked. “They pay you for manure?”

  Malcolm grinned. “Not the NFU, but the folk they send the lot,” he explained, shoving a lock of bright red hair off his brow. “There are some who believe manure can be converted into electricity. It’s the methane gas that’s a by-product of the dung. Folks in the know claim that with the right heat exchangers, the dung will provide a new and inexhaustible source of energy.”

  “The people researching the possibilities pay well for each lorry of manure we deliver.” Iain joined them. He flashed Mara a confident smile. “Whether anything comes of it or nae, Murdoch says we’ve already tallied up enough revenue to lay the foundations for your project.”

  Mara’s heart clenched. “I’ve never heard of such a thing, but it sounds promising. Truly, I don’t know what to say.”

  What she did know, she wasn’t about to reveal – that if such a harebrained scheme existed and was real, maybe the claims of a medieval Scottish ghost who’d already proved his knightly prowess, weren’t so far-fetched either.

  The possibility made her head ache, so she flashed her best smile and ignored trouble. “Malcolm, you asked why I’m here.” She stood straighter, summoning all her courage. “I want to go riding.” I want to get away, need cold wind on my face, blowing my hair, and, hopefully, clearing my mind.

  She needed that badly.

  So she prepared to hold her ground, already sensing Malcolm’s objections. “I’d like a good mount. I plan to ride for a few hours, at least.”

  “Och, nae, lass, you cannae do that.” Malcolm looked appalled. “Murdoch would hang us by our toes.”

  Iain cleared his throat. “See you, we cannae give you a suitable ride,” he said. “Ravenscraig’s horses are right spirited. Even the mares are high-strung. These stables have been the pride of the MacDougalls for centuries. We’ve the finest Anglo-Normans you’ll find anywhere.”

  “Anglo-Normans?” Mara’s belly tightened. “That sounds archaic.”

  Malcolm attempted a smile. “Och, he means their roots are in a breed of Norman horse that was once prized as a medieval war horse,” he explained. “They were rare in these parts, but one of your ancestors, Colin MacDougall, is said to have brought the first one here in the early fourteenth century. Legend claims he wrested the beast from another knight in battle.”

  Mara swallowed, the queasiness in her belly spinning into a cold hard knot. “Murdoch said something about a seal colony,” she blurted, changing the subject. “I’d like to see it.”

  Malcolm’s brows shot upward. “That’s even worse. You cannae go there,” he said, his burr thickening. “‘Tis way too far and the cliffs are dangerous. Besides, what if the heidbanger is still about?”

  “Heidbanger?” Mara decided then and there to purchase a Scottish dictionary. “What in the world is that?”

  “A crazy person,” Iain translated. “The kind you wouldn’t want to meet in a place as remote as the seal colony. Begging your pardon, miss, but all Oban knows there was such a loon badgering you last night, and that he got away.”

  Mara shot a glance at Malcolm, but he only shrugged.

  “Word spreads quickly.” He shook his head as if making light of it. “But dinnae you worry. Whoe’er he was, he’s no’ here now. We searched all night and didnae find a trace of him.”

  Mara smiled. She had them now. “Then there’s no reason I shouldn’t ride out, is there?”

  Iain looked down and shuffled his dung-splattered feet.

  Malcolm’s brow crinkled. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”

  “No.” She had to get away, clear her head. “I’m in the mood for a good outing, by myself.” That was true. “You needn’t worry that I’m inexperienced. I’ve ridden before.”

  She just hoped they wouldn’t guess that had been on a rented pony up and down Cairn Avenue on her fifth birthday.

  ***

  “By the gods, Alex, how long are you going to let the lass suffer?” Hardwin de Studley stood near the edge of the sea cliff, his great cloak flapping in the wind. “You’ve filled my ears with blether about your honor for an eternity, yet you do nothing to aid a helpless maiden.”

  “Leave be, I warn you.” Alex kept his gaze on the blue-crested waves of the Firth. “Your arrows are sailing past their mark.”

  Hardwick sighed. “Any fool can see she can’t handle a horse.”

  Alex glanced up from the isle-strewn waters and looked at his friend. “You see a wench in need in every female that walks. We both know the kind of help you aspire to offer them,” he said, trying to ignore his friend’s protruding affliction.

  An impediment the woman-chasing lout’s wind-whipped cloak couldn’t begin to hide.

  Alex winced, some of his own irritation flagging.

  “Yon flamed-haired she-devil is anything but helpless. Ne’er have I encountered a bolder wench,” he declared, folding his arms. “She has herself to blame. She’s the one who told those two sniveling striplings to saddle a horse.”

  “Hah! I should’ve known.” Hardwick’s dark eyes flashed. “You’re jealous!”

  “Whelps, both of them,” Alex denied.

  “Och, to be sure.” Hardwick hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, clearly enjoying himself. “The strapping one with the bright red hair stands almost as tall as you. And the other wasn’t exactly a reed in the wind.”

  “Women have addled your wits.”

  “Nae, they sharpen them.” Hardwick angled his head, gave Alex a probing look. “Those two whelps, as you call them, are why you’ve let the lass sit there for nigh onto an hour while her mare fills her belly with clover.”

  “You no longer know me if you think I care aught about wet-behind-the-ears stable boys ogling a MacDougall.” Alex blew out a breath, hoped the heat in his face didn’t mean he was flushing. “It matters not a whit to me how many green lads she lets fawn over her. Even less how long she requires to master the skills of riding.”

  And he wasn’t going to look her way again.

  Saints, she could be a Saracen whore the way she sat her steed, her shapely legs spread in brazen invitation and her breasts jiggling each time her fool horse deigned to move.

  Ignoring her, Alex narrowed his eyes on her mount. “I’m far more interested the mare,” he said, studying the beast’s lines. “Do you not see the resemblan
ce to Pagan?”

  “What if I do?” Hardwick shrugged. “The deed you seek to avenge is long ago and best forgotten. What does it matter if the MacDougalls made well with Pagan’s seed?”

  He paused to adjust his cloak. “‘Tis my seed alone that interests me when such a tempting vessel is near.”

  “You are worse than a rutting stag.” Alex shook his head.

  Hardwick grinned. “I but speak the truth, my friend.”

  Alex snorted.

  His friend arched a mocking bow. “Look upon the lass and tell me she does not stir you. Or has spleen withered your manhood?”

  “I should call you out for that.” Alex gave him a withering glare. “Be glad I am a well-tempered man.”

  “What folly - neither of us would win.” Hardwick laughed. “We’d succeed only in maiming ourselves. Think what a loss it would be to the fairer sex were I to lose a certain part of my anatomy.”

  Grabbing Alex’s arm, he gave him a roguish wink. “Would you want that on your conscience? For truth, if you weren’t so fettered by duty, you’d put your lance to good use as well,” he vowed. “Yon sweetmeat is ripe for the plucking.”

  Alex jerked free. “She is ready for more than that,” he returned, careful to keep his tone from revealing his true meaning.

  Instead he turned back to the sea, all the ways he’d sample her lushness running through his mind. Making him hard. And in a worse way than Hardwick could ever dream to experience, permanent arousal or no.

  His friend desired all women.

  Alex burned for only one.

  It was a truth he didn’t want to admit. Not to Hardwick, not to himself, and certainly not to her.

  Especially after visiting the site of her planned One Cairn Village earlier that morning and seeing the work progressing there. Trees being cleared and foundations laid, the ever-growing pile of stones for her memorial cairn.

  An abomination he’d learned was to carry a bronze plaque glorifying his archenemies. Colin MacDougall and his scheming mistress, the ill-famed Lady Isobel of evil memory.

  Checking himself with an effort, he clenched his fists and stepped closer to the cliff-edge. “Bluidy MacDougalls,” he seethed, staring down at the swells breaking on the rocks until his eyes ached and his need diminished. “Pestiferous she-witch!”