Her Highland Fling

by Jennifer McQuiston

  She was disturbed enough to take another sip of one of the remaining glasses of whisky—a smaller taste, this time. She tasted peat and smoke and an underlying hint of salt. It went down far more smoothly than her first swallow. She blinked in astonishment.

  Was William MacKenzie much the same as the whisky?

  Something to choke down at the first but then savor later?

  She took another sip and then set down her glass, curiously studying his profile as he called the serving girl to their table. Though he wasn’t the swiftest of men—or even the most handsome man in the room—there was something about him that made her want to lean across the table and brush her lips against that wide, laughing mouth.

  The serving girl strolled up to their table, with eyes only for the gentleman. “Ready for another pint, then?” She was a buxom, brunette thing, and she cocked her hip, clearly willing to serve up whatever MacKenzie wished. “Or have your thoughts finally turned to something more pleasurable? You know you need only ask.”

  Pen’s cheeks heated. Despite her thirst for adventure, she’d led a somewhat sheltered life, living in genteel poverty with her mother and sister in Brighton. Even with this recent move to London, she’d made sure to find lodging in a respectable establishment, and had kept to well-lit paths. She’d never heard such a blatant offer made to a gentleman before.

  Then again, she’d never set foot in a tavern before, either.

  It was a night of several firsts, and she was feeling a bit lightheaded as a result.

  MacKenzie tossed a coin out on the table. “No, Sally, none of that now. We want to be on our best behavior for the reporter who’s come to make Moraig famous. I only want to pay for Miss Tolbertson’s attempt to research our whisky, as we’re leaving now.”

  A bit of Pen’s pleasure faded, though she was glad to hear he didn’t intend to leave with the serving girl. She didn’t want to be disappointed in this man, now that she had finally sorted out there was a bit more to him than she had first presumed.

  But was he one of those gentlemen, who believed a lady must be ensconced at home or escorted everywhere? She encountered far too many of the sort in the course of her daily work. And as she had no reputation she planned to preserve—having already firmly committed herself to spinsterhood and the shocking impropriety of having a profession—she was ill inclined to bow to such whims now.

  As the servant left, the coin safely tucked between her generous breasts, Pen leaned in. “Perhaps I am not yet ready to g-go, MacKenzie,” she warned.

  “ ’Tis your choice, of course.” He turned back to face her. “But I can see you don’t believe me, lass.” His voice deepened. “So I’ve a mind to show you the crodh mara by moonlight. ’Tis said to be when their magic is strongest.”

  The pleasure rushed back in. “Oh,” she whispered.

  “You’re a courageous thing, I’ll allow. Not many women would try their hand at a malt. But I suppose it stands to be seen whether you’re brave enough to risk a stroll down by Loch Moraig.”

  Something in his voice, and in his eyes as well, told her he’d be willing to show her more than water cattle, if only she were brave enough to want that, too. Pen knew that to most people, she appeared the sort of woman who would happily spend her days lost in a book. But he wasn’t looking at her the way most gentlemen did, as though they saw only a twenty-six-year-old spinster with a stammer. No, he was looking at her as though he understood her motivations, and that was a novelty she wanted to explore.

  It surprised her that MacKenzie seemed to see more in her than most. She enjoyed nothing so much as the challenge of trying new things, probably because so much of her life in Brighton had been lived in the opposite fashion. She had taken the job in London because her fledgling success with Brighton’s small newspaper had made her want more. She’d come here alone tonight because she’d wanted the freedom to view the town in its natural state, rather than through the eyes of a tightly chaperoned female.

  She had every confidence that if she found the right gentleman, she would want to try other things as well, things she heretofore had only read about in books.

  And heaven help her, William MacKenzie made her feel . . . curious.

  In Brighton, this sort of invitation could mean only one thing. Not that she had ever received such an invitation herself, mind you, but even a spinster deserved a first real kiss. So she rose, shoving her notebook and pencil in her reticule and gathering up her bonnet and gloves.

  “Lead the way, MacKenzie.”

  He chuckled, making her stomach somersault once more as he gestured toward the door. “Ach, lass, don’t you think you might call me ‘William’? After all, a man who’s paid for your drinks might have earned the privilege, aye?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  In Brighton, the night skies of her childhood had carried the reflection of the moon off the water and the faint echoes of a thousand candles and oil lamps. During her brief time in London, the night had blazed nearly as bright as day, the sky obscured by smoke and smog and the sidewalks shimmering in gaslight shadows.

  But in Scotland, it seemed the night sky turned itself over to the stars.

  It was still warm, but with the night air came a mixture of scents she had missed when she first arrived. Sharp pine and mellow heather. The coastal tang of the breeze coming from the west. And beneath it all, growing stronger now as Pen picked her way along the dark path, the dusky scent of water and bogs and lurking animal life.

  “Almost there,” MacKenzie murmured over his shoulder. “Quietly now. They startle easy.”

  She smiled into the darkness, given that the idea of mythical creatures startling anyone was a bit of a lark. She had come down here for a reason, and she hoped the experience of her first real kiss—with a gentleman not obligated as a result of a parlor game—was a duly memorable one.

  Pen tilted her face up, nearly as mesmerized by the spangled sky as the whisky-rich sound of MacKenzie’s voice. How far had they come? A half mile, perhaps, but it felt as though they had gone straight down the side of a cliff, picking their way over rocks and roots alike. She’d been forced to grab his hand on more than one occasion. It had been necessary, that last grab, when her fingers had lingered over his. She refused to entertain the idea that perhaps she had reached for his hand for less than required reasons.

  She felt no hesitation, only a breathless anticipation that made everything seem more acute. Even when her feet tripped over unseen objects, she was not afraid. Her Highlander might be a bit dim, but he was also big and powerful, and she had no doubts at all he would protect her.

  They emerged from the steep path and stepped out into a clearing, and that was when she heard a low, unearthly moan that sent her heart pounding in a sudden gust of fear.

  He held up a hand, halting their progress.

  “MacKenzie?” she whispered. “What was that?”

  His only answer was a sharp, high-pitched whistle.

  The bellow came again, followed by a distant splashing. The moon shone down on the surface of the loch like a bonfire, and in its light she caught a ghastly shadow.

  Her hand came up to catch her gasp of terror. She hadn’t believed him, back at the tavern. She’d thought this little more than folktale, the sort of yarn spun to convince young ladies to sneak out for a moonlit kiss. Not that she had needed much convincing.

  But as something lumbered ashore in the darkness, she realized she was more than halfway to believing him now.

  She leaped forward like a startled rabbit, plastering herself against MacKenzie’s solid back and all but mounting him in a tangle of skirts. “What is that?” she hissed.

  He chuckled, and she could feel the movement of his big body through every inch of her front, pressed against him as she was. “Crodh mara,” he whispered. “As I told you.”

  “But . . . they are mythical c-creatures,” she protested, praying it was true.

  But something was out there.

  And that something wa
s making its way toward them.

  He put a steadying hand on her waist. “Easy, lass. They can smell fear.”

  And oh, merciful heavens, she could smell them, a musty, waterlogged scent that made her want to wrinkle her nose. She peered around his shoulder in a panic. Along the shoreline, something else moved.

  Something big and terrifying and coming her way.

  They are not real, she told herself fiercely. He only brought you down here for a kiss.

  But the moan came again, closer now, and deep and soul shaking.

  “I want to go b-back, please.” She buried her face in the expanse of his back, the linen of his shirt scraping against her goose-pebbled skin. “Take me back.”

  “Aye. Soon. But if you don’t greet them, they’ll only follow you up the hill.” He pulled her around to his side. His fingers curled where they made contact with her waist, and she could feel his calm strength through the thin fabric. “Better, I think, to face them, now that you’ve come this far.”

  She willed herself to trust in the steadying hand that hovered near her hip.

  She drew a shuddering breath and looked up.

  Oh, God. They looked like nothing she had ever seen before, in books or otherwise. Certainly, nothing like this shaggy, waterlogged creature had ever washed up on the shores of Brighton. In the moonlight, it seemed the size of a London omnibus, with horns longer than a man’s leg.

  “Some say the crodh mara are fairies,” MacKenzie said, his voice deep and strangely hypnotic, though whether it was fashioned to render her or the creatures frozen, she couldn’t be sure. “But I’ve always had a more practical view of the beasts.”

  One of the dark, lumbering creatures came closer. MacKenzie held out his hand, as though he held heaven and earth in it. The thing butted its huge head against the outstretched palm, knocking them both off balance. Pen squeaked in fear and surprise.

  “And of course,” he chuckled, “they like a wee bit of sugar.”

  He loosened his hold on her, one hand digging in his trouser pocket, and then, as she watched in mute fear and wonder, he stretched his hand out again, a biscuit in his palm.

  The creature took it with a delicate swipe of its tongue.

  “They’re . . . real?” Pen whispered, growing braver now. Any creature who liked biscuits was one she could perhaps comprehend. She looked up at MacKenzie, her eyes searching his. “I d-don’t understand.”

  “Every legend is anchored in fact, aye?” He handed her another biscuit, dug from the depths of his pocket. “These are a breed of cattle unique to the Highlands. Kyloe, we call them. These are my personal breeding stock.” He rubbed an affectionate hand on the creature’s nose.

  Pen stared at him, incredulous. “You brought me here to show me your c-cattle?”

  “My water cattle.” In the moonlight, she could see the flash of his teeth. “They are great hairy beasts, and so they spend a good deal of time in the water on hot summer days, only coming out at night.”

  Her heart was still pounding like a hammer in her chest, but more in wonder now than fear. Her natural curiosity began to overcome her surprise. “Can I touch them?” she asked. At his nod, Pen slowly reached out her palm. She’d seen cattle before, of course. They littered the Sussex countryside and were driven into Brighton on market days. But those cattle had looked nothing like this shaggy, dripping beast.

  She felt the roughened swipe of its tongue. The warm breath and slick surface of its nose.

  And then her hand was licked clean, and she was laughing in delight.

  More inquisitive bodies crowded in. It seemed MacKenzie had brought biscuits enough for them all. Seemed, as well, as though he did this with some regularity. He called them by name, soft Gaelic words she didn’t understand but that made her heart thump louder and that obviously meant something to the eager creatures.

  Oighrig. Cadha. Beathas. Caileach.

  She took care to keep her feet out of reach of their milling, sharp hooves, watching more than participating. And then finally, his pockets were emptied.

  “I think we are safe enough to go now.” He wiped his hands on his trousers as the cattle began to lumber away. “Once they’ve had their treat, they are usually content to let me leave.” He gestured to the steep hillside. “The path is just there.”

  Pen’s cheeks warmed. “Must we g-go quite yet?”

  He smiled down at her, shadowed by moonlight. “Waiting for a water dragon, then?” She felt the air stir as he stepped nearer, and his low, earthy chuckle brushed tantalizingly against her ears. “Or perhaps a brollachan?”

  Her knees quivered at the sound of the unfamiliar word. “What is a brollachan?”

  “A shapeless creature of the night.”

  Pen’s gaze swept down his moon-soaked frame, and a shiver snaked its way up her spine. She was a journalist. A manipulator of words. And “shapeless” was not a word she would ever reach for to describe William MacKenzie.

  In his plaid, he had been fiercely magnificent.

  In moonlight, he was devastating.

  “I j-just want to enjoy the moment,” she whispered. “The n-night is lovely, after all.” She flushed to hear her stammer was worsening, but there was no denying she felt anything but calm and serene. She had come down here for a reason, and despite the beauty of the surprise he’d offered her, that reason had not yet been realized. “Did you really just bring me here to see your c-cattle?” she blurted out.

  Dark eyes glittered down at her, nearly handsome in their unswerving focus. “I thought you might like to write about them. They are part of what make the Highlands special.” He paused. “Why? What else did you hope to see, Miss Tolbertson? I would be happy to show you anything you wish during your time here.”

  “I p-prefer to explore on my own.” It was said before Pen had time to think. Though it was the truth, she regretted her haste. She could think of worse ways to spend her days in Moraig than strolling the picturesque streets on this man’s very muscular arm.

  “Aye. I’ve noticed,” he said with a tight smile. “But you might consider using a guide. There is a good deal of history in the town, and we want you to have a favorable impression, after all.”

  Pen swallowed. In truth, her impression was improving with every passing second, and not only of Moraig. She thought of how this man’s body had felt pressed against hers, when she had thrown herself against him. Safe and disturbing, all at once. But he seemed to have no intention of kissing her. And why would he? The buxom serving girl in the Gander had offered him far more than a kiss, and she didn’t have a stammer.

  Worse, he had brought her here, shown her these mysterious, moon-soaked creatures, only because he imagined she would want to write about it. And she should.

  She would.

  But for Pen, it was a night of firsts, and she couldn’t see ending it without reaching for the experience she most desired. And after all, he’d just offered to show her anything she wished.

  She stepped forward, going up on her toes, and fisted her hands in his shirt. Her lips bumped against his. And then she threw herself into her very first kiss.

  He stilled, as though wrapping his head around what she was offering.

  Dim as a rock, she thought, closing her eyes. How could he not see what she wanted?

  But then his arms came up around her, and that was when her thoughts became muddled. Because the kiss she had sought—the kiss she had taken, really—shifted into something no longer under her control. She was pulled against his chest with a solid, welcome thump, and then his mouth moved over hers, murmuring in a soft brogue that made no sense but turned her into little more than a quiver.

  And his kiss . . . He might be a bit dull about the edges, but in this area he was proving well educated. It was clear the man knew how to kiss a woman properly. It was impossible to do it justice with mere words. She turned herself over to the sheer feel of it. Every sense she possessed—and some she hadn’t realized she had—felt plundered by the contact o
f his mouth on hers. Stripped bare.

  Reformed in the shape of this moment.

  He tasted of Scotland: dark and smoky, heat and salt. The scrape of his whiskered jaw and the solid strength in his body made her hum with an unspoken awareness.

  She kissed him blindly, her arms stretching up around his neck, body arching against his in an invitation she didn’t even understand. And oh, dear heavens, how he kissed her back. His hands came up, tilting her face up to meet his mouth more fully. His tongue swept against hers, sure and swift and tasting of whisky, and she whimpered in welcome, unable to articulate how perfect it felt.

  But the sound seemed to mean something different to him, and he broke away, panting.

  “Christ above, lass.” His hands loosened, falling away. “I dinna mean to take such advantage of you.” His voice seemed to crack at the edges. “I need you, you see.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “You . . . need me?”

  “Aye.” He pulled a hand across his mouth, as though the taste of her still lingered there. “That is, Moraig needs you. I would offer you an apology.” He shook his head. “I’ll not have you thinking all Highlanders behave this way.”

  Pen didn’t know whether to laugh or moan in embarrassment. Because merciful heavens, if all Highlanders kissed this way, she was never going back to London.

  If he chose to take the blame for the impropriety, she supposed she should be grateful, but part of her wanted only to press her lips against his again and see where this might lead.

  “Think nothing of it, MacKenzie,” she forced herself to say. “C-consider it a bit of research. Nothing more.”

  His brow tipped down. “Research?”

  She nodded, already taking a step toward the path that would carry her floating feet back to the Blue Gander. “Like the whisky.”

  She left him then, scurrying up the steep hillside. Left him looking as big and confused as he had this afternoon at the posting house, but this time she couldn’t help but smile at the thought. Her head was buzzing with all the glorious contradictions inherent in a kiss of this sort.