“Did you say something, Miss…?”
Nessía glanced at him and her breath froze in her throat. His wavy hair tumbled over one eye and he brushed it back the same way Monty had so long ago.
Why am I thinking of the bastard?
The man before her was an American, as far and away a different species as Monty and the men who frequented Mac’s pub. If he planned to stay around long enough, Nessía could have some fun with him.
She enjoyed a carefree life beneath the surface of Loch Ness, but when she had shifted back to human form in order to try again, she discovered the difficulty of finding free clothing and food in the 21st century. Returning to the same pub, and requesting employment from the former owner’s descendant, she had landed a job.
Pub wench. Again.
“No, not me.” She wiped the bar in front of the stranger, then shoved a bowl of dry nuts into his empty hand. She listened for her other patrons, but her body wanted to stay right there. Above the malty scent of his glass of ale, his manly aroma of sweat, dirt, and heather crossed the small space and settled in her lungs. The pleasing tang teased her with a reminder of everything denied her when she swam beneath the surface of the loch.
“Been hiking long?” Nessía asked when her mouth worked again.
“Five or six days. I’ve lost count. I had hoped to enjoy spring weather. Did this country skip summer and autumn and head straight into winter?”
Nessía laughed at his foolishness. Had he not studied the local weather on one of those fancy computers? “Scotland’s weather is a constant companion. Unfortunately ye cannot choose it as easily as a friend.”
“I don’t find friends easily, which is why I hike alone.”
The raw sadness behind his words, accompanied by the low timber of his voice, stirred her to ask why not, but she bit her tongue and again methodically wiped the bar.
“Nessie, send a couple pints of ale down here,” a customer called from one end of the bar.
She poured the brew into glasses etched with the pub’s logo. Something new, added since I last worked here. Nessía sauntered toward the noisy customer, then plopped both tankards on the bar. Foam oozed over the rims, and she tossed him a cloth.
“If I told ye once, I told ye a hundred times, Gordon MacPherson. Don’t call me Nessie!”
Returning to the area of the long, wooden bar, closest to the stranger, she poured herself a finger of Glenfiddich. She raised it to Gordon. The surly old man wiped the bar, while his wrinkled cheeks turned apple-red. Smiling, she swallowed the golden brew as quick as if she had poured herself a thimbleful of honey.
Not quite as sweet. Ugh.
“Why did he call you Nessie? You obviously don’t like it. What’s your real name?” the stranger asked while his gaze bore into her chest.
Let him feast his eyes.
He sipped his ale, all cool and calm, as he waited for an answer. She pulled back both shoulders. Waiting until he glanced up, she turned away to ring up a departing customer’s bill, then added the excess to her apron pocket.
Ha! Monty gave me a ‘tip’ then left me for his wife.
“I do not share familiarities with strangers, sir.” She preferred to tug the dress’s lace edging up, but held back. The trim chafed her low neckline and upper arms, but Mac insisted his servers dress in period costume.
“For the tourists, lass,” Mac explained the day she walked in and asked for a job. She did not mind the long dress and doeskin shoes, per se. The whole idea of clothing was bothersome. She enjoyed swimming to the dark depths of the loch clad only in deep green scales.
Even now, she yearned to swim naked.
“Well, now. I can fix that.”
It took Nessía a few heartbeats to understand his comeback. Did he refer to her clothing, or to swimming naked? Only one way to find out. “Fix what, sir?”
“I’ll introduce myself, and then you tell me your name. ‘Easy as pie, and polite as rain’, my father always said.”
Nessía froze. No, her response caught in her throat and her blood thickened into ice. Fingering the coins in her apron, she willed her talons to stay retracted while her left foot tapped the plank floor. The stranger’s sultry voice was not familiar, but the words rang true, because Monty had spoken those, centuries ago.
Nessía stepped closer to the bar. A million questions popped into her head, but she stayed silent. Let him speak first and prove he has no affiliation to that damnable clan.
“I go by Rory Hawthorn. Though I’m American, I’ve traced my ancestors to this town. I plan to be here for quite some time exploring. Learning. Studying the unusual earthquake history of the area.”
Earthquakes? What would he say if he knew I caused those tremors?
Rory Hawthorn, so called, moved closer. He leaned on the bar, and whispered as if the next words were for her ears only.
“And I very much want to know you better.”
CHAPTER 2
Nessía licked her lips and watched as the stranger’s eyes widened with immediate sexual interest. She knew that look. Typical human male. His eyes flickered, peering beneath shuttered lids. The stranger’s tongue swept his lower lip, as if in anticipation.
Her heart pounded and blood roared in her ears. Feeling oddly light-headed, and suddenly warm all over even with blustery air slipping through the pub door, she could only stare. The stranger leaned forward again, shortening the space incrementally. His emerald gaze returned to the cleft beneath the lacy edge of her peasant costume. Glancing down, she watched as her breasts swelled nearly up and over the neckline.
Mac was correct. The right costume pleases the tourists.
Well, she had survived when strangers gaped at the great Loch Ness attraction. Whether in her dragon form or as a local pub wench, she did not take kindly to stares. In addition, if the American assumed she was an easy choice for a bed partner, he was sorely mistaken.
“I keep to myself, sir.” She did not bother to use his given name. Some men enjoyed their names spoken during passion. Monty did, among other words. A strange duck, indeed. The American leaned so close, his hot breath fluttered over her skin. She shivered. He looked too much like her old lover…her only lover…for comfort.
I must concentrate on my objective.
The time was right to find a mate. With no other wingless dragons in the loch, her choice fell to mortal men. Could she really give up immortality for love? She nearly had, but a bastard named Monty already enjoyed a family.
“Too bad. I thought I might hang around. I need a guide.”
“They sell guide books at the corner shop,” she answered without looking at him. A laugh bubbled up. He huffed. Compelled to look, she found he no longer looked at her.
His attention swept toward the pub entrance where two women had burst through the old wooden double doors. Their youthful giggles filled the dark room and overrode the drone of the older men who played chess in the far corner.
“Isn’t this place adorable?” one said, the girl with a bright orange ponytail.
No hair is naturally that shade, Nessía thought. And they sound like more Americans.
Nessía strode to the far end of the bar and collected money from two of her regulars. “Too noisy for ye, Jake?”
“Aye. Best get home. Fishing at dawn, tomorrow.” He accepted his change and waddled toward the door. When the two newcomers squealed at an antique cartwheel Mac had hung over the bar, Jake shook his head.
“Well, hello ladies,” the stranger—Rory—said in a pleasantly sweet voice.
The girls turned their wide-opened, heavily powdered eyelids his way. Their smiles turned to frowns. “Hey. You don’t sound Scottish.”
The one with ink-black, messily cut, short hair glared at the poor American while nodding to her friend.
“Nope. I’m just visiting, but I plan to tour Urquhart Castle tomorrow. Interested?”
The women’s demeanor altered, slightly. While they stood with hands on hips, their eyes bored into h
im. Realizing they were not the only three in the room, their twin gazes swept the area. Since the remaining customers ranged from twenty to forty years their senior, Nessía knew they planned to take him up on his offer. Good. Anything to keep him out of my sight.
“Sure,” the redhead said. She turned to Nessía. “Two white wines.”
Nessía set two goblets of white wine in front of the young females and skirted the bar to clean off a few newly emptied tables. Carrying dirty glasses toward the kitchen, she peeked through the small front window. The sun had dipped low over the loch and its last beams of light streaked the loch’s surface gold and orange. Tiny ripples sped toward the rocky shore, and a few low clouds faded softly as the sky darkened.
Twenty minutes later, Nessía paused at the bar and held back a sly smile as Rory paid the women’s tab then shuffled them out the door. In a cloud of cheap perfume, they disappeared into the night. Their leaving together caused a silly little pain beneath her human ribs.
She pushed through the swinging kitchen door, then filled the dishwasher. At the ancient stove, Mac fried fish in a cast iron skillet while he sipped a thimble of whisky. He nodded at her, and his small smile shook away the empty feeling at Rory’s departure. She liked old Mac and the villagers, but the American made her body react in peculiar ways.
Nessía had promised her heart not to return to the loch, unless endangered. The solitude beneath the surface was a trap: familiar and pleasant, yet a home she no longer enjoyed.
She closed the dishwasher and straightened. Nessía tidied the tiny kitchen’s counters while she kept watch on the remaining customers through the service window. When the last customers waved their good-byes, Nessía managed a smile. The people of Na Cearcan Bã Na were good, wholesome, hard-workers who deserved a few drinks and friendly banter. She had hoped to find a virile male among them. So far, the few still left in the village were not to her liking, though a couple showed interest, if their leers and flirtatious words were any indication.
What do I expect? This gown will make a dead man sit up and take notice.
She wiped her hands, turned off the dining area’s lights, and stood at the open door. Staring at the loch, she crossed her arms to brave the cool breeze, then leaned against the doorjamb. Unwanted memories rose of the last time she lived in human form. A sigh escaped, the only sound other than footsteps on the gravel parking lot.
“Such a meaning-filled sigh. Anything I can do?”
The American—Rory—walked out of the dark like a Highland wolf of old. He stopped inches from her and she had to lean to the side to discern if he arrived alone.
“I thank ye for your concern, sir. A long day, ye might say. Where be your friends?”
“Kendra and Suzie? They went back to the B&B to…rest up. For tomorrow.”
“Urquhart Castle. You mentioned ye planned to visit the place. Great views of the loch, I hear tell.”
“What? A local and you’ve never walked the grounds?” Inches away, Rory raised an arm, then laid a palm against the doorjamb.
Directly over her head.
“I have seen it from the water. I do not care to trip over its ruins. But, have fun with the kids.” Nessía backed up, planning to lock the door, but his hand slid down to her shoulder.
“Don’t go,” Rory whispered.
His voice, as familiar as Monty’s sultry tone from long ago, made her hesitate a moment too long. Rory’s handsome face lowered until his lips brushed across her mouth. As his other hand gripped her waist, pinpoints of light followed the feathery sweep of his soft lips. A halo of desire, thick as morning mist, tangled around their bodies, and joined them as one. Had he noticed?
Nessía knew this feeling and knew what this meant. Long ago, when Monty raised her skirts and penetrated her female body, she had waited for the sparkles…the sign that she had found her mate. Nothing lit up back then.
The shock of the current moment, and what Rory’s kiss meant, made her push Rory away. His eyes opened and a sly smile spread across his handsome, mortal, human face.
“Damnation,” she said.
The slam of a door and the turn of a key never sounded so ominous. Rory stared at the battered wood. Its age matched the pub’s rough siding and thatched roof. When he finally turned and headed to the inn, where he’d rented a room for the week, no streetlights or moonbeams lit the street to assist him. Hoping Kendra and Suzie had fallen asleep in their own room—on an upper floor—he looked forward to a quiet night. Rory’s muscles ached, exhaustion taking its toll. He’d hiked most of the day, pulled by some ancient need to follow the footsteps of his cursed ancestors, to arrive in a small village that seemed stuck in the past.
A laugh echoed off the loch, to his left. Unknown critters scurried through the gorse bush while he meandered along the winding road. His lips tingled. A biting wind snuck inside his jacket collar, yet his chest was warm from the memory of a single kiss. A kiss he never planned. Nessía.
A strange name on anyone, but he assumed people named family members after Loch Ness. It made sense. Poor girl. No wonder she hadn’t shared her name with him, but he’d heard several customers call her Nessía. He’d fought against his first reaction when he walked inside the pub and saw the most interesting face on a beautiful body dressed in period costume. At first, he worried he’d stepped into a dream.
Like those actors in Brigadoon.
Her hair rustled over her shoulders, and she patiently combed stray whisky-brown locks behind her ears as she poured drinks. The peasant’s outfit fit her well. Her body strained beneath the fabric, but the style suited her fine. He easily pictured her as the heroine in plays he’d been forced to attend with his parents.
And those eyes.
Ice blue orbs under thick golden-brown lashes. They’d quickly raked him over the coals and spat him out, onto the wide boards of the dusty pub floor. She hates me. An odd first reaction
Something tugged at him at the time. Had he felt wounded? Angry at her refusal to talk? Challenged to make her smile? When she refused to offer her name, and then blushed when Kendra and Suzie walked in, he hoped not all was lost.
Rory tested his theory when he leaned in and kissed her. He’d botched it quite thoroughly. She hadn’t returned his kiss. She had bolted.
“Smooth, jackass.”
Rory climbed the creaky front steps to the inn’s porch, slipped inside, and nodded to the owner. Mr. Neeps glared as if he didn’t appreciate late arriving guests.
“Sorry,” Rory whispered, and climbed the stairs to his room. After locking the door, he stripped off his shirt, untied his boots, and stretched out on the bed. Weaving his fingers together beneath his head, he searched his memory for more clues about the family curse. He had hoped to hear people talk about it, which was silly. The MacDonald clan lost Urquhart Castle in the late seventeenth century. He doubted many still lived in the area.
Tomorrow, he’d mention the family and its legendary curse. No one at the inn or the pub recognized that his last name—Hawthorn—was actually a sept of Clan MacDonald. No sense telling anyone.
As he contemplated his next step—visiting the castle with the two women in tow—Rory fell into a fitful sleep. He tossed and turned until his feet tangled with the bedspread. When his flailing arm knocked a lamp from the side table, he shot awake. Dawn’s gray light filtered through lace curtains and crept up the flowered wallpaper opposite the window.
He tramped barefooted to the private bathroom, shaved, and showered. Scrubbing his chest and arms, an image arose of brilliant blue eyes. Rory shook his head and tamped down his thickening body. He returned his thoughts to the project at hand. The project he’d told his family had sent him to the Highlands of Scotland.
He’d jot notes about the terrain while they hiked to the castle grounds and keep an eye out for any obvious evidence of ancient earthquake damage. The notes would help prove his reason for visiting the area, was not to learn about a curse.
Rory shoved a notebook and several
pens inside his daypack, grabbed bottles of water purloined from last night’s dinner, and threw in an extra t-shirt. Maybe he’d take a dip in the loch, if the sun ever came out.
“Earthquakes,” he’d assured his mother, were the reason for the visit. He had worked on a program that he planned to submit for consideration to his peers at the Museum of Science. Earthquakes were a rare oddity in Scotland, but the area surrounding Loch Ness had the dubious distinction of being active. Too active, for his taste. Something unusual lurked beneath the calm surface. The monster stories aside, he planned to get a first hand view of the zone he’d come to call “Nessieville.”
Since Loch Ness was about twenty-three miles long, and Rory only had three weeks to spend on his investigations, he’d settle for exploring the towns within a few hours’ walk of Urquhart Castle. The long, straight loch followed the Great Glen Fault, and the area surrounding this village had the most recorded activity. The easiest way to get to the eastern side of the narrow loch was by boat. Several fishermen frequented the pub, and he had a lead on a man who might take him out on the water for a few coins. As long as the thick mists stayed away.
Previous seismic surveys described the loch as riding on a complex fault. Seismically, it was a rarity, but his interest was genuine. The curse, however, was his main objective. He needed to ration his time accordingly.
Rory ran his fingers through his wet hair, and pulled on a navy blue sweater. He’d traded in his dusty blue jeans for khaki shorts that met his knees, heavy wool socks, and hiking boots. Last night’s brisk air might return, so he slipped a windbreaker in his pack, then clipped his sunglasses to his collar.
He locked his door, and padded down the stairs as quietly as humanly possible and tossed his bag by the front door. Finding the dining room empty, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee led him to the antique breakfront by the far wall of the dining room. Mrs. Neeps peeked through the door Rory assumed led to the kitchen, and smiled.
Dragon Bites Page 21
