The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  That night, she dreamed only of Alexander MacLean’s handsome face in the firelight, and the irresistible magic of his touch.

  It had been almost ten years since Elizabeth saw her Uncle Charles, and she was not entirely sure he would recognize her when she walked into his shop. In the years since her mother’s passing, they had exchanged very few letters, for he and her father did not agree on much of anything. Her uncle had the “unmitigated gall” to marry a woman from the Scottish Lowlands, and for that reason, they never shared the same political opinions. Hence, Elizabeth’s connection to her uncle slowly dwindled away to nothing over the years. To be honest, she was not completely certain he still lived.

  It was late afternoon by the time they rode into the crowded streets of Edinburgh. As they trotted through the tight congestion, past the street vendors who were shouting to sell their wares, the stench of stale rubbish assaulted Elizabeth’s nostrils. Alex enquired about the bookshop, and they had to ask four people before an older man in spectacles and a tricorne hat was able to point them in the right direction.

  Exhausted and hesitant about her future, Elizabeth locked her arms around Alex’s waist and rested her cheek on his shoulder. With silent assurance, he steered them through narrow, winding streets.

  At last, they came to a tiny bookshop on a busy lane, with a sign out front that said Morrison’s Books. She knew they must be in the right place, for that was her mother’s maiden name.

  “I believe this is it.” Elizabeth dismounted and stood on the walk for a moment, glancing over all the books in the paned window.

  Alex tethered the horse to a post, then came to stand beside her. “I give ye my word that I will not leave ye,” he said, “until I am satisfied that ye are in good hands.”

  A young boy ran by in a panic, cradling a chicken in his arms. Elizabeth jumped, and realized she felt rather panicked herself. She turned her eyes to Alex, and felt a terrible pang of dread in her belly, for she was not yet ready to leave him.

  While the cold November wind lifted his long dark hair off his tartan-clad shoulders, he did not speak a word. Elizabeth shivered in the chill.

  “It’s time to go inside,” he finally said, then took a step forward and opened the door.

  “Elizabeth! My word, is it really you?” Her Uncle Charles came bounding down a creaky set of stairs with an open book in his hand. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

  He was still as tall and slim as she remembered, but he had aged since she last saw him. His hair was bone white and pulled back in a braid, his skin had grown wrinkled, and he wore spectacles on his nose.

  Carefully he navigated his way around tables piled high with dusty books and approached her. He removed his spectacles. “You look so much like your mother.”

  Elizabeth’s heart swelled with both sorrow and joy, as her uncle pulled her into his arms and lovingly embraced her.

  “I am so happy to see you,” he said.

  “And I, you,” she replied, weeping and laughing at the same time.

  Eventually he stepped back and fixed his spectacles on his nose. “I learned of your father’s death,” he said, “fighting for King George. I am sorry, Elizabeth.”

  She dropped her gaze. “Thank you, but I am afraid there is more bad news. James was killed as well, three weeks ago. I am the only one left of our family.”

  Charles laid a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. “No, Elizabeth. You are not alone. You have family here.”

  She clung to her uncle’s steady gaze. He tapped her nose with the tip of his finger, as he used to do when she was a child, then glanced away, towards the door, where Alex was waiting.

  “Who is this man?” her uncle asked. “And why does he carry such a big sword into my bookshop?”

  Alex strode forwards. “My apologies, sir. I am Alexander MacLean of Duart Castle, and I fought in the battle at Sherrifmuir. That is where I met your niece.”

  “He has been my protector, Uncle,” she quickly explained. “I was lost and alone after James was killed. Alex found me on the battlefield and saved my life. He has delivered me here safely, so I owe him a great debt.”

  “As do I, it seems.” Charles reached out to shake Alex’s hand. “Thank you for bringing my niece home. I should like to repay you somehow.”

  Alex shook his head. “There is no debt, sir.”

  “My wife is upstairs tending to our children,” Charles replied. “Will you at least stay for supper?”

  Elizabeth’s heart began to pound, for she knew what Alex’s answer would be. The time had come. He was going to leave her now, and she would have to say goodbye.

  But she was not ready. She did not want to see him go …

  Alex paused. “I’m afraid I must return to Perth as soon as possible.”

  Every breath in her body came short. Her knees went weak under the weight of her anguish.

  His eyes locked with hers, and neither of them spoke for what seemed an eternity. He palmed the hilt of his sword, and she wet her lips, feeling as if someone was slowly ripping her heart out of her body. She should say something. She should beg him to stay, just one more night …

  “I wish good fortune to you both.” Alex bowed slightly, then turned and headed for the door. It opened and closed with the tinkle of a bell, and before she could work out what to do, he was gone.

  The whole world fell silent, except for the beating of her heart in her ears, like thunder over her head.

  No …

  Picking up her skirts, she dashed around the tables piled high with books, and ripped the door open on its hinges. She hastened out into the street. Her eyes darted left and right. His horse was already gone. Crowds of people and carriages obstructed her view in both directions. Where was he? And why hadn’t she told him how she felt? How could she have let him go?

  “Alex!” She rushed down the street, shouldering her way past hordes of people who blocked her way. Reaching the corner, she stood up on her toes. “Alex!”

  But he was nowhere. He had left her to return to his home in the Highlands, and it was not likely she would ever see him again.

  She laid her hand on the corner of a building, rested her forehead against it, and closed her eyes. A flash memory of the first moment she saw him on the battlefield came hurling back at her, and she remembered the frightening sound of their steel blades clashing against each other, and the fury in his eyes before he struck her down with his targe …

  Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined the battle would turn out quite like this. She had not expected to surrender so completely to her enemy – in heart, body and soul.

  It was a particularly wet spring in the Highlands, and by the end of April, Edinburgh was an utter sea of muck. Elizabeth had spent the winter mourning the death of her brother, while helping her uncle in his bookshop, assisting customers and organizing his inventory. Her cousins – two boys and one girl, all under the age of ten – lifted her spirits with laughter and games, but each night, after she read them their stories, she retired to her own chamber and whispered a quiet prayer for the safety and happiness of the Highlander who had rescued her from her vengeance. He never ventured far from her thoughts, and she often wondered what he was doing at any given moment during the day. While she was gazing out her window at the moon and the stars, was he, too, admiring the night sky from somewhere on the Isle of Mull?

  She liked to imagine him riding his horse through a lush green glen, his dark hair blowing in the wind, his tartan pinned at his shoulder with that exquisite brooch she had once touched and admired. Eventually she began to think she was idealizing his memory, turning him into some sort of god-like, mythical hero, and she tried very hard to push him from her mind.

  Then one day, on a clear afternoon at the end of April, while she stood on a stool dusting the books on the highest shelves – the door of the bookshop opened and closed. The hanging bells chimed with their familiar hollow sound, and she heard light footsteps across the plank floor a
s she so often did, but she did not look away from her task, for her uncle was out front.

  Something, however – something she could not begin to explain – caused her heart to beat a little faster. All the tiny hairs on her arms stood on end.

  Lowering the dust cloth to her side, she stepped down from the stool and peered around the tall bookshelf. A dark-haired Highlander stood with his back to her while he spoke to her uncle. He wore a kilt, with a sword sheathed at his side.

  Was it Alex? A hot fireball of excitement dropped into her belly, and she sucked in a breath to steady herself.

  Do not be foolish, Elizabeth. You’re dreaming again. Surely it couldn’t possibly be …

  Then he turned around and met her gaze, and her heart exploded with a burst of radiant bliss. It was him! Her handsome, heroic Highlander!

  What was he doing here? What did he want?

  Struggling to contain the juddering thrills that were dancing up and down her spine, she swallowed hard and smoothed out her skirt, before taking a few tentative steps forward to say hello. They met in the centre of the shop, where sunlight streamed in through the windowpanes, creating a sparkling beam of hazy, dreamlike rapture.

  “Alex.”

  She could think of nothing else to say.

  His eyes filled with joy. “Ah, lassie. I’m pleased to see that ye did not forget me.”

  Elizabeth laughed out loud. “Forget you? Are you mad?”

  They regarded each other with affection and a familiar sense of calm.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her uncle quietly disappearing up the stairs.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, careful not to get her hopes up. Perhaps he had simply walked into the shop to purchase a book.

  “Can ye not take one look at me and answer that for yerself?”

  There was such hope in his expression. It was contagious, and she experienced a wild, kicking desire to throw her arms around his neck and dance a reel around the room.

  “You came to see me?”

  Oh, how ridiculous it was to speak with such casual curiosity, when her heart was practically beating out of her chest!

  He flashed a smile that dazzled her witless, then laid a hand on the side of her neck, his thumb brushing lightly over the sensitive flesh behind her ear. The touch of his huge warrior hand sent a flood of desire through her entire body.

  “Of course I came to see ye, lass,” he replied. “I’ve thought of nothing else all winter long but yer bonnie face and feisty nature. I could not live another day apart from ye. I had to see ye again.”

  “Is that all?” she asked. “You just came to see me? To say hello again? And then goodbye?”

  He ran the pad of his thumb over her parted lips, and shook his head. “So stubborn, as always. Can ye not accept that I am in love with ye, and that I mean to ask ye to be my wife?”

  All the thoughts in her brain toppled over each other. It was a terrible calamity of epic proportions. “I … What are you saying?” She was completely breathless.

  He laughed. “Doona play innocent with me, lass. Ye know very well what I am saying. This is a proposal. But if it’s too quick for ye, I’ll settle for courtin’ ye for a short time, at least until ye can make up yer mind whether or not ye wish to love me.”

  Her need for him erupted out of the joy in her heart. “Of course I wish to love you. I’ve loved you since the first moment I came charging after you on that battlefield.”

  “Is that a yes?” he asked.

  With a cry of euphoric laughter, she threw herself into his arms and knocked him backwards into a stack of books that toppled off a table on to the floor. A thick cloud of dust puffed into the air.

  “Or course it’s a yes,” she said with a smile, pressing her lips to his and tasting a glistening slice of heaven in his kiss. “I am so happy.”

  He held her close, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. “As am I, lass. My heart is yours, and I promise to love ye and make ye happy for the rest of my days. I will protect ye and give ye everything that is mine to give.”

  She hugged him tight, she knew without doubt that he would keep his word. “And I make the same pledge to you.”

  Then at last his mouth covered hers, and the world was suddenly, miraculously, peaceful and perfect.

  The Curse of Wolf Crag

  Susan Sizemore

  Glasgow can be a bit dicey after dark, but possible danger is hardly any excuse to miss out on the excellent night life. Tara had gone out to celebrate the installation of two tapestries in a Trongate shop and a brand new commission. A night out on the town was certainly justified.

  It’s a university town, an artsy town, an international town. Tara Thomas loved the place to pieces. But she thought she’d love anywhere that wasn’t the isolated, cold, windswept, raining when it wasn’t snowing, postage-stamp rocky island where she’d grown up.

  Oh, and sheep-infested. Had she mentioned that?

  Not that she didn’t love wool, she was a weaver, after all. She was an artist with wool as well as every other natural fibre, but she was happy to be away from her family’s sheep farm on Wolf Crag.

  Never mind the weather, living there was just too – complicated. Most of the younger generation left, even those from the most ancient families. Even though the Crag was as wired to the Internet, mobile phones and the rest of modern technology – weather permitting – as anywhere, the Old Ways lingered, traditions stifled change. You could believe things on Wolf Crag you wouldn’t anywhere else. Not that they weren’t true everywhere else, it was just that in the misty, rugged isolation of the island you were forced to believe harder, stronger, fiercer. The Crag demanded a lot of your soul.

  In Glasgow, Tara could believe in herself, and in the rational, normal human world. She didn’t imagine fairies lurking around corners in the whirling hubbub of the city even when fog lent mystery to its streets. No one told her to be ’ware of water horses in puddles, and pixies in the tiny front gardens. None of the wild things of Glasgow required any imagination to believe in. Real thugs with real steel knives didn’t need the energy of belief. They needed to be avoided.

  Which Tara feared she hadn’t done tonight.

  A justified celebration or not, she wished she hadn’t stayed for one more drink, leaving the pub alone and tipsy at closing time. She wished the streetlights didn’t seem so far apart. She wished that the sound of her heels didn’t click so loudly in her ears. It was not that she expected trouble, but––

  Mostly she wished she hadn’t let the woman at the bar read her palm. She didn’t mind hearing that the lines in her hand showed she was destined for fame. She did mind being told that she was in great danger – that the love of her life would save her from it.

  But the thing she wished most, was that the knowledge deep in her gut that she was being followed wasn’t true.

  Tara began to run through the shadows, towards lights and the sound of traffic. But the way was very dark, and the heavy footsteps behind came on faster.

  “Fang, lad? Are you listening to me?”

  “Yes, Gran.”

  What was the old lady doing up so late? He wouldn’t be out right now if he didn’t have to walk back a half mile to the car park after a meeting that ran far too long.

  “Well, Fang, what are you going to do about it?”

  Alistair Douglas winced at the nickname. He knew the old woman had used it just for the purpose of annoying him, reminding him of his place. He almost wished he’d never given the old lady back on the island the mobile phone. He was hundreds of miles away, and yet, here she was howling and whining into his ear as he prowled the late night city streets.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about the water rising over your back garden,” he told her. “But if you’re going to live so close to the sea––”

  “Rising sea levels have nothing to do with it, as you know full well. The Crag’s disappearing, Fang! It’s the curse!”

  “Which curse, Gran? Th
e island’s under a dozen curses and plagued by even more prophecies. Some of them even cancel each other out.”

  “It’s the Secret Curse, and you know it. You have to stop it!”

  “Why me, Gran? How can I––?”

  “You’re the laird, the alpha and the summer king rolled in to one, that’s why! What are you doing in Glasgow when your place is here?”

  He didn’t think his being on the island would in any way solve the problem. One more Black Douglas wasn’t the sort of resident Wolf Crag needed. He was working on solving the Human Curse. “I think I may have the manor house rented to a Yank couple.”

  “How can you give up your own house?”

  “It’s not like I’m home that often, Gran. What I’m doing here in Glasgow is necessary. I’m working on attracting tourism to the island,” he told his grandmother. “I’m trying to get estate developers interested in building a resort, summer homes, maybe a golf course.”

  “Your sacred ancestral land is fading into the mists and you’re talking about golf courses?! What will the Wild Hunt think about that?”

  Gran didn’t think in twenty-first-century concepts – or twentieth. She’d barely come to terms with the nineteenth, for that matter. “I’m in talks with Oberon about keeping his folk away from the resort.”

  “Oh, really? As if the fae will go along with anything for very long.”

  “They will when there’s more than fairy gold involved. The king of fairy has some concept of surviving in the modern world. Besides, I’ll do anything to get people to the island,” he answered.

  He tilted his head, excellent hearing catching a faint noise in the distance. People running, maybe.

  “The children of the old families need to return,” Gran insisted. “Why don’t you find them, persuade them? What about that nice girl you used to be with, Tara Thomas?” Since there was a great deal of complex history between the Douglas and Thomas families, Gran’s effort at sounding casual was an utter failure.