Highlander's Sweet Promises

by Tarah Scott

  A tinkling laugh chided him. “Only what you desire will happen. The Bloodstone’s magic is strong – as you ought know!”

  That decided it for him.

  He did know.

  So he pulled Mara into his arms, holding her tight, his heart squeezing when Ben pressed against them, his tail still wagging.

  A tear rolled down Alex’s cheek and he looked at the dog, for one beautiful moment, seeing not Ben but Rory. The old dog peered up at him, the recognition in his eyes unmistakable. Then Ben blinked and Rory was gone. But Alex had seen and knew, the unexpected gift making him feel even more blessed.

  And so he made his wish.

  Nothing happened.

  The hills didn’t shake and the heavens didn’t split wide. Nor did the world spin and contract as it sometimes did.

  Everything felt perfectly normal.

  Ordinary.

  Then he understood.

  “Mara, look!” He unclenched his hand, stared down at his naked palm. “It’s gone. The brooch is gone and your green lady with it.”

  “And you are whole again!” she sobbed, yanking up his kilt, staring not at her favorite part of him, but at his beautiful thighs. “The scars are gone.”

  But Alex was undoing his shirt, opening it wide to look at his chest. It, too, proved free of the scorch wounds. His pain had also vanished, every last bit of it.

  All that remained was his happiness.

  The woman he loved more than a thousand eternities. He could now make her his in truth. In name, as well as body. But she’d moved away a bit, stood with her shoulders slumping.

  He went after her, catching her to him. “Mara, sweet Mara, what is it?” He rained kisses on her face, smoothed back her hair. “Are you no’ happy for us?”

  She looked away, her lip quivering. “I have never been happier,” she said, her voice breaking. “But I am shamed for not believing you in the beginning. And tomorrow is the unveiling ceremony, and” – she broke off to swipe at her tears – “my dad will read words from a memorial tablet honoring the very people who damned you.”

  She hugged herself, almost convulsing. “I will stop the ceremony,” she vowed. “I’ll have the cairn dismantled and the plaque thrown into the sea.”

  To her surprise, he laughed. “You will do no such thing. I forbid it.”

  “You what?” She blinked.

  “I said, I forbid it,” he repeated, taking her hand and leading her off the knoll. “Only unlike that time in Dimbleby’s when I tried to forbid you from buying my bed, this time I mean it.”

  “How can you?” She hurried to match his long-strides. “Knowing what we do now?”

  “Exactly.” He stopped, kissing her hard and swift. “The ceremony goes on as planned because of what we know. How hard you’ve worked. How many innocent people are looking forward to tomorrow. And how happy the day will make your da.”

  He started walking again. “Do you think I would have given him a MacDougall sporran if I hadn’t put the past to rest? Nor will I deny him his day to shine.”

  “So you’re doing it for my dad?”

  “And for myself.” He slid a glance at her. “ Dinnae think I am so selfless.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  He flashed her a dazzling smile. “Simply, that when we return to the ceilidh and if I can catch him alone, he’ll have a very special announcement to add to his duties tomorrow.”

  “Oh, Alex!” she cried, her heart bursting. “You’re going to ask him for my hand?”

  “In the right and proper Highland way, aye.” He looked at her, his smile saying everything. “As if you didn’t know.”

  But she couldn’t answer him.

  This time it was her world that careened and spun. And the wonder of it took her breath away.

  ***

  The next morning, Mara stood in the very heart of One Cairn Village surrounded by so many MacDougalls, McDougalls, and other assorted Highlanders, ghostly and otherwise, that she strongly suspected she might dream in tartan for many weeks to come.

  Not that she’d mind.

  She’d come to love Scotland with a passion she would never have believed possible. Just hearing the soft lilting voices and rich, rolling laughter of the clansmen and friends come to celebrate the memorial cairn’s unveiling, filled her with warmth and joy.

  As did the praise of her London solicitor, Percival Combe, when he’d arrived earlier that morning to witness the ceremony and assure her Ravenscraig was hers, all stipulations well met and satisfied.

  And that, many months before the required year had run its course.

  The day’s weather blessed her, too, for another cloudless blue sky smiled down on the celebrants. A soft wind sighed across the heather, sweetening the air with the pleasant scent of birch.

  Even Euphemia had spared her a cordial word, claiming she’d rested well in the Shieling, secure in knowing Alex’s friends were but a help cry away should her sleep have been disturbed by ghosts.

  One less ghost now haunted Ravenscraig, and Mara couldn’t remember ever being so happy.

  Alex looked pleased, too.

  Surprisingly at ease in MacDougall tartan, his handsome clan sporran catching all eyes.

  She reached for his hand as her father droned through the cairn’s dedication.

  “…in reverent memory of Sir Colin MacDougall and the Lady Isobel, those who went so valiantly before and laid a good and noble path for those who came after…”

  Mara closed her ears to the words, hearing instead the happiness in her father’s voice.

  “… more proud than I have words ….”

  “….will burst my heart to see him place his ring on my little girl’s finger ….”

  She whirled to face Alex. “What did he say?” I wasn’t really listening.”

  “I can see that,” he said, smiling.

  Then he was pulling her toward the cairn where her father, Murdoch, and Percival Combe stood beaming like peacocks. Alex sank on one knee, but rather than reach for her hand, he unclasped his sporran, producing a topaz and diamond ring.

  “Mara McDougall, I told you I meant to ask for your hand in true Highland tradition and I am doing so now.” He held her gaze, lifting his voice above the cheering. “With your father’s blessing and these witnesses, I am telling you that I want you for my own.”

  His eyes brimmed with love. “Will you have me, Lady of Ravenscraig?”

  “Oh, yes!” Mara watched him slid the medieval-looking ring onto her finger. “I will love you this day, this night, and for all our tomorrows unending, Laird of Ravenscraig.”

  The skirl of Erchy’s pipes ended the poignancy of the moment when he materialized beside them, a twinkle in his eye and his red cheeks puffing. Amidst the stir, no one noticed his unconventional arrival or that Alex and Mara seized the opportunity to slip away.

  “So,” Mara said, a short while later on a less-frequented path to the castle, “where did you get this ring?”

  “You do not like it?”

  “I love it.” She did. “But it looks medieval-y. Is it?”

  He nodded. “Conjured at the ceilidh,” he admitted, looking pleased. “I fashioned it the instant I knew your da would be pleased by our union.”

  “You really do like him, don’t you?”

  “Och, aye,” Alex smiled. “It was good to see him in such high fettle. He has big dreams and sees with his heart. A true Highlander even if he wasn’t born on Scottish soil.”

  He glanced at her. “You were kind to call me laird. He’ll weave tales about that. A Highland laird as a good-son!”

  “But you are Laird of Ravenscraig,” she said, sounding as if she meant it. “Did your king not give you a charter granting you this land and its holding?”

  “Och, lass.” He drew her into his arms, held her. “That is done and by with.”

  “Well, I haven’t forgotten.” She pulled out of his arms, retrieved a slender leather packet from inside her jacket. “Here, my
betrothal gift to you.”

  “Lass! What is this?” Alex’s eyes widened as he opened the packet and withdrew an official-looking parchment of modern making, but fashioned to look old. Complete with red wax seals and ribbons.”

  It was a deed.

  The same as his medieval charter – granting him full rights and titles to Ravenscraig and its lady.

  Alex’s heart split. “Sweet lass, what have you done?”

  “Only what should have been done nearly seven hundred years ago.” She lifted on her toes and kissed him. “It’s quite legal. Why do you think Solicitor Combe is here? He made the arrangements.”

  Alex crushed her to him, his world more complete than he would have ever dreamed. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then don’t say anything.” She slipped her hand beneath his sporran and squeezed. “Just love me.”

  His eyes darkened. “That I shall do.

  “Forever?”

  “Oh, aye,” he promised. “For all our days and then some.”

  She pulled back to peer at him. “On your plaid? In the heather?”

  “That, too,” he agreed, tightening his arms around her. “So often as you desire.”

  Then he closed his eyes and smiled. Life had become indescribably good.

  He couldn’t wait to start living it.

  Epilogue

  One Cairn Avenue

  Philadelphia, a Year Later

  The launch party for Hugh McDougall’s book on his family history, Tartan Roots, was in full swing by the time Alex managed to drag himself from bed and join the revelry going on belowstairs in his father-in-law’s plaid-hung living room.

  Plaid-hung and plastered with so many likenesses of the book’s cover, the startling vision had made Alex dizzy when he and Mara arrived from Scotland late last night.

  Still feeling a bit queasy, he pressed firm fingers to his temples, knew now that he was suffering from something called jetlag. A malaise that didn’t surprise him at all, considering how harrowing the journey had been.

  He couldn’t believe he’d allowed his beloved wife to persuade him to undertake such a nightmarish adventure. Although they were staying a full fortnight, he was quite sure he’d not change his mind about air travel by the time the fourteen days passed and they were left no choice but to board another flying machine.

  Not that he’d let his dread show.

  Regrettably, he suspected Mara knew.

  After all, she’d kindly refrained from commenting on his white-knuckled grip on her hand all through the travails of the Atlantic crossing.

  At least now he’d never again complain about the drive into Oban. Dodging sheep on the road in nowise compared to sailing through the clouds!

  Now he knew there were much worse things in his Mara’s world than automobiles. But blessings, too, like the beautiful full roundness of her swelling belly.

  Alex stopped halfway down the stairs and swallowed hard. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose until all threat of possible misty eyes vanished.

  He wouldn’t embarrass his father-in-law by striding into the man’s ceilidh looking teary-eyed. Mara had warned him her father told everyone his good-son was a fierce Highland laird and Alex didn’t want to disappoint him.

  “Here he is! Straight from the Auld Hameland!” Hugh McDougall grabbed Alex’s arm the instant he reached the bottom of the stairs, pulling him into the dining room where a giant likeness of Tartan Roots served as a table centerpiece.

  Looking like he might burst with pride, Hugh McDougall threw his arm around Alex and raised his voice, “Sir Alexander Douglas, Laird of Ravenscraig Castle, and my son-in-law,” he boasted, beaming round at the circle of his impressed-looking friends and his somewhat pinch-faced wife. “And” – he turned to Mara – “soon to be father of my first grandbaby, Hugh Colin McDougall Douglas!”

  A chorus of happy oohs and ahhs rose at that, and Erchy, rotund, red-cheeked, and be-kilted as always, underscored the moment’s glory with a fine rendition of “Highland Laddie.” Claiming to be an old friend on tour with group of traveling Highland musicians, the Jacobite piper had arrived last night, touching Alex deeply.

  As did Hardwick’s and Bran of Barra’s presence, though Alex knew he was the only one able to see those two. They hadn’t chosen to materialize as Erchy had and simply stood against the wall, arms crossed and smiling, observing the day.

  “Alex?”

  He turned, found his lady at his side. “You really don’t mind the name?” She looked at him, one hand resting on her middle. “We can still change it.”

  Alex touched her hair, slid his fingers through the silky strands. They seemed to gleam even brighter these days, as did her beautiful eyes. Mara McDougall Douglas wore motherhood well and he simply could not get enough of her.

  He’d even fly around the world with her in one of her ghastly flying machines if the notion pleased her.

  She meant that much to him.

  Naming his first son after her da and their ill-winded ancestor was a small thing in the grandness of it all.

  The peace and happiness she’d brought him.

  “Hellfire and damnation,” he muttered, dashing at the tear he hadn’t realized was trickling down his cheek. “See what you do to me.”

  “Hottie Scottie,” she said, using the nickname that never failed to make him smile, “methinks you have a soft heart.”

  Alex pulled her against him, brushed a kiss across her lips. “When we are alone again, I shall show you just how soft your Highlander is, lassie.”

  She flushed prettily, looking pleased. “So the name really doesn’t bother you?”

  Alex hesitated, glanced at the giant likeness of Tartan Roots. One Cairn Village and the memorial cairn stared back at him from the book’s cover and he knew his own name and the name of his soon-to-be-born son were scrawled across the book’s first page in a flowery dedication so touching it would have made a medieval bard weep.

  And, some wicked corner of his heart knew, would have Colin MacDougall turning in his grave.

  That was enough.

  His son, a joy he’d ever thought to know.

  His wife…

  He felt a surge of love so powerful it almost brought him to his knees. He could live another eternity and not have enough days to tell her how much she meant to him. And she was waiting for a response, doubt beginning to cloud her eyes.

  “Our son’s name is perfect,” he gave her his answer, sealing it with a kiss. “It pleases me greatly.”

  “It does?”

  “Oh, aye.” He kissed her again, deeper this time, and not caring who saw them. “Though I can think of two very good friends whose names I’d like to give our next-born son, if I may do the choosing.”

  “Of course,” his lady agreed.

  And across the room, Hardwick and Bran grinned like fools.

  ~*~

  Author’s Footnote

  Highlander in Her Bed was inspired during my stay at a posh castle hotel in Scotland. Historically themed suites were offered and mine was medieval, located deep in the oldest tower. The castle’s 500 year old well claimed a corner of the room, with a glass plate over the opening and tiny lights in the well shaft.

  At night, I’d stare at the well, imagining a knight climbing out of the shaft. After a while, the knight became a sexy knight. Later still, he also crossed the room, joining me in the medieval suite’s bed, where he ravished me.

  Sadly, he never appeared. Not for real, anyway.

  He did fire my writer’s mind. Before I boarded the plane that would carry me back to the US, I was plotting his tale.

  Mara’s adventures as a tour guide were based on my own many-yeared career in the travel industry. I was a flight attendant for 23 years, but have friends who run tours similar to Mara’s. I’ve been on some of these jaunts, including ghost hunting excursions, which I happen to love. (unlike Mara)

  London’s Wig and Pen Club exists. From the early 1900s, Fleet Street journalists
and lawyers gathered there to talk gossip from the nearby Royal Courts. I dined there once (with my tour guide friend), though none of the solicitors there that night told me I’d inherited a Scottish castle. Even so, I had a great time. The building is on the Strand, in Westminster, and dates back to the 1620s. It is one of the few buildings to have survived the Great Fire of London in 1666. These old walls also boast an illustrious ghost: Oliver Cromwell. If you visit, don’t expect to find the Wig and Pen Club visited by Mara. A Thai restaurant has replaced the famous drinking den and club.

  Ravenscraig Castle is pure fiction, but based on several castle hotels and country manor estates I know and love in Scotland.

  Thank you for reading Highlander in Her Bed. I hope you enjoyed the hours spent with Mara and Alex.

  Wishing you Highland Magic!

  Allie Mackay / Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  If you enjoyed Highlander in Her Bed, read on for a sneak peek at my sexy Scottish time travel romance, Highlander in Her Dreams, coming soon!

  Highlander In Her Dreams

  They met through Highland Magic, can true love keep them together?

  After stepping through a magical gateway, Kira Bedwell finds herself in fourteenth century Scotland, face-to-face with Aidan MacDonald, the irresistible Highlander who has visited her in dreams. Now that their romance transcends dreams to reality, they find themselves under attack by Aidan’s enemies. And it will take all of their courage and will for their love to survive beyond time itself…

  Aidan is a Romantic Times K.I.S.S of the Month Hero!

  Highlander in Her Dreams

  First Prologue

  Castle Wrath, The Isle of Skye, 1315

  “May the devil boil and blister him.”

  Aidan MacDonald, proud Highland chieftain, paced the battlements of his cliff-top stronghold, fury pounding through him, disbelief and outrage firing his blood.