Immortal Warriors 01 - Return of the Highlander

by Sara Mackenzie

  She drove through the rush of Edinburgh and passed by sparser towns and villages. The chatter and noise of modern civilization faded, as she entered the solitary world of the glens and the mountains. The loneliness should have made her heart heavy, but instead it seemed to have a cleansing effect. She turned off the radio and listened to the silence.

  Bella was coming home, and she dared not think beyond that.

  The journey from Ardloch was the most difficult part. The road seemed darker and narrower than she remembered, and there were fresh potholes, probably made by the heavy machinery. As she reached the final rise above Loch Fasail, she slowed and looked out over the place that was engraved on her heart. There was the grim ruin of Castle Drumaird against the night sky, and the cottage huddled below it. The car rolled forward and her headlights swept across the moorland. Suddenly one of Gregor's sheep appeared, making her jump. The animal turned and ran off. Smiling at herself, the intensity of the moment broken, Bella drove to the empty cottage.

  She could see now, in the headlights, the torn earth where the bulldozers had been working. Some of the machines were still here, ready to resume their work in daylight. She could hardly bear to look at what they had done. At least most of the destruction was on the other side of the loch and not here, where she and MacLean had once walked together.

  The cottage key was hidden in the same place as always, and Bella let herself inside. Everything seemed so quiet and eerie, and though Bella found the flashlight in the kitchen drawer, its feeble light did little to reassure her. The cottage was cold and depressing. There was nothing for her here. Even the ghosts of MacLean and Bella were gone. They existed only in her head now.

  Maybe it had been a mistake coming back.

  Bella wandered outside again and stood, blindly staring out over the still waters of the loch.

  There were colors in the water, she realized. Green and yellow, with a touch of blue. Startled, it was a moment before she realized what she was seeing was a reflection, and looked up. The northern lights, the aurora borealis, swept along the horizon, the strange and remarkable colors strobing the sky. So beautiful. Another of the wonders of these empty northern lands.

  Mabbe when you look up into the night sky you will think of me looking up, too. Aye, the same sky for both of us.

  Was MacLean looking at these lights even now, wondering at their ethereal beauty and thinking of her?

  "He's gone," Bella told herself. "He really is gone, and I can never see him again... "

  Bella began to walk along the loch in the direction of the Cailleach Stones. She would sit on the wall there until dawn, and then she'd drive home to Edinburgh. She wouldn't come back again. Being here was like picking at a wound, never quite letting it heal. Best to let it be, best to try and put it behind her. It was her only chance of survival…

  Her steps slowed.

  There was someone already sitting in her spot on the wall.

  For a moment she couldn't breathe, memories of Ishbel and her creature filling her head. But this was a person with broad shoulders and a long back, and the tilt of his head was so familiar she felt dizzy.

  She forced herself to take another step, and another, stumbling on the uneven ground. He looked up; he'd seen her.

  "Och, Bella, I've been waiting for ye."

  "MacLean? MacLean, is it really you?"

  "Aye, 'tis me." He was smiling, she could hear it in the husky warmth of his voice. "I came through the door, Bella."

  Tears burned her eyes, her mouth trembled, but it was anger that filled her. Hot, searing, unstoppable anger.

  "Just like that? Why did you wait so long? I have been sick with missing you."

  He stood up, at a loss, hesitating to touch her. "Bella—"

  "I can't bear it, MacLean. I can't let you do this to me."

  "Do what, Bella?"

  "Come and go as if you were visiting a distant relative. If you don't mean to stay, then don't do this to me. Don't do this to me."

  Her voice wavered to a stop and she began to cry, deep wrenching sobs that broke his heart.

  MacLean wrapped his arms around her. He had dreamed of her for so long, but this was no dream. Bella was soft and real, and she smelled like Bella, like blossom, sweet and feminine. He kissed her deeply, and his body was hard from missing her so. He knew he was being rough with her, but he couldn't help it. And maybe this was not the time for gentleness.

  "My love, my darling Bella, it is Samhain. The door is open on this night to the spirits of the between-worlds, and all who seek to pass through. I am a mortal man now, Bella, and 'tis dangerous for me, but I had to come. I have taken this journey for you."

  "For me?" she whispered.

  "I canna live my life without you. I need you beside me."

  Bella lifted her head. "You want to take me back to 1746? But… is that possible, MacLean?"

  He heard the aching need in her voice, the need he understood all too well.

  "Aye, it is possible. The Fiosaiche showed me how, but I would no' care if she refused me. I canna… I willna live my life without you."

  It was the second time he had said that. She took a shaky breath and smiled, stroking his rough cheek with trembling fingers. "I think you're wrong about your Fiosaiche. She's a bit of a romantic. She was the one who enticed me here tonight."

  He turned his head and kissed her palm, and then he kissed her lips. The heat of her mouth made him dizzy, and despite the long and difficult journey he had made to reach her, his body demanded he take her once more. What if she didn't want to come with him? What if this time would truly be their last?

  With a groan he drew her down to the ground and, removing his plaid, spread it for them. He filled his hands with her lush curves, murmuring his love, stroking her with his tongue. Bella clung and cried out and, when he slid inside her welcoming body, drew his head to hers and kissed him with long, deep kisses.

  "I dreamed this, once," she whispered. "I dreamed of us lying together and the sky full of strange color."

  MacLean smiled against her lips. "Then mabbe it was always meant to be," he said. "Mabbe you were dreaming of your future… or your past."

  Afterward, they lay with their arms about each other, not feeling the cold with his plaid wrapped about them.

  "I have spoken to the women," he said, his voice serious. "I have promised not to follow Ishbel, as I should have done the first time. But it is no' safe in Loch Fasail, Bella. I dinna know if I will be arrested, or what will happen to me if I am. So far the English have stayed away, but I dinna trust Auchry."

  "I don't care about Auchry, or the English."

  "I am telling you so you have no illusions. If you come with me, then you come to a place where life is uncertain. We may only have a week together, we may have years. I canna promise—"

  "I don't care," she repeated, and propped herself up on one elbow, staring down into his face. Her hair tickled him as it fell forward, and she tucked it behind her ear. "I want to come back with you. I belong with you. I realize, MacLean, that I've always belonged in the past. All my life I've felt like a square peg in a round hole, but until now I never knew why. I understand the dangers I'll face. I've seen through others' eyes what life is like in the eighteenth century and I have no illusions. It doesn't matter, I will relish it. I'll live every moment and be thankful that I have the chance to live it with you. And if something happens, if you're arrested, then I'll see that your people are safe. I'll care for them, MacLean, until you come home again."

  He cupped her cheek in his big hand, the calluses rough against her soft skin.

  "Then you'll be the wife of my hand as well as my heart."

  "Can I… can we do that?"

  "Of course." He sat up, drawing her with him. He shook out his plaid and put it back on, stretching his muscles and then turning to her with a grin.

  Bella put her hands on her hips. "MacLean, how will you explain me to your people?"

  "I won't." He raised an arrogan
t eyebrow. "I am the Black MacLean, and I dinna have to explain mysel' to anybody, remember? But dinna worry. You are my sweetheart, my love, and the MacLeans of Fasail will love you, too. How could they no'?"

  She laughed and shook her head at him, and he bent to kiss her again with all the longing and love in him.

  "Ah, Arabella," he said, "I am a verra, verra happy man."

  "Is it far?" she asked, glancing at the stones, thinking of the doorway.

  "Aye, 'tis quite a way and some of it is no' verra nice, but I will protect you."

  There was a strange wavering darkness between the two uprights. A shadow. Last time she had entered the between-worlds it was against her will, through the doorway in the loch, and she'd nearly died. Could she really risk it again?

  Bella turned her gaze back to MacLean and realized he was holding out his hand to her.

  "You dinna have to come," he said quietly, his pale eyes fixed on hers, his handsome face somber. "I would no' blame you."

  Bella slid her fingers into his, her barely tamed Highlander. "I want to," she said firmly.

  MacLean smiled and then he drew her toward the doorway to the between-worlds. "Let's go home," he told her, his voice echoing slightly, and then there was a rumbling sound, like a heavy portal closing, and nothing.

  Loch Fasail lay as desolate as the meaning of its name, apart from a great eagle that rose suddenly from the roof of the cottage and went sailing into the sky. Briefly the dark winged shape was silhouetted against the colors of the aurora borealis, and then she, too, was gone.

  * * *

  Epilogue

  The Fiosaiche strode through her cathedral. Morven MacLean had been given his second chance, time had been rearranged, and despite what Arabella Ryan believed, it was not difficult. A stitch, a tuck, and the thing was done. Unless you knew the seam was there, you'd never even notice it. And Arabella and Morven were together and happy, just as she had always planned for them to be.

  "It's not as if I'm doing any harm," she said to herself, her voice an echo in the cool shadows of the great church. "Ishbel was wrong. The Lords of the Universe wouldn't mind, even if they knew about my interference."

  She almost believed it.

  The air held a tantalizing memory of flowers and incense, and there was no more sound except the swish of her new cloak—deep red and bright as the flame of her hair—and the soft breathing of her sleeping warriors.

  Her favorites.

  Each awaiting his turn.

  With a smile of anticipation, the sorceress turned through an archway decorated with twining stone vines and carvings of odd little creatures. This was just one of many chapels, each one occupied. A beam of something like sunlight shone through the tiny round window high above, illuminating the face of the sleeping man who lay like an effigy on top of his own tomb.

  For a moment the sorceress studied him.

  Brown hair with a touch of gold, long and falling untidily across his forehead. A strong masculine face with the mouth now relaxed rather than curved in its usual cynical curl. Hazel eyes hidden beneath closed eyelids and almost feminine lashes. Handsome, yes. In his day he was renowned for capturing the hearts of the women who crossed his path.

  The sorceress recalled the words spoken of him by his friends: dashing and reckless, brave and true. They were words any man would be proud to own. And yet on his headstone was something very different:

  NATHANIEL RAVEN

  Here lies the infamous Raven

  who put fear into the hearts

  of all who traveled

  the highways of Cornwall,

  and who was shot dead,

  in the year of our lord 1814

  So what had gone wrong?

  How had Nathaniel Raven, gentleman, ended so ignominiously, shot down in the act of highway robbery, dying on a lonely stretch of road in Cornwall without anyone to mourn his passing?

  Briefly she touched his cheek, her fingers light, but even that soft touch made him stir. As if he felt the power in her fingers, as if he knew his time had come. He would need help, but the sorceress had found a suitable mortal. It might be tricky and they all might fail, but that was not up to her.

  "It is time, sweet Raven," the sorceress whispered.

  She lifted her arms and began to chant the ancient incantation of waking, until the sound of her voice echoed like thunder in the chapel, and the very air crackled and sparked.

  And the Raven opened his eyes.

  * * *

  Glossary of Gaelic Words Used in the Story

  Fiosaiche (sorceress or witch)—FISS-ich-uh

  each-uisge (water-horse)—Yach-oosh-ka

  claidheamh mor (broadsword)—Cl-aiv-mor Loch Fasail (desolate lake)—Loch FAH-sal

  Cailleach (woman)—Cal-yach arisaid (plaid)—AH-rissej trews (trousers)—trooz

  * * *

  Turn the page

  for a sneak peek

  at the next book in

  Sara

  Mackenzie's

  Immortal Warriors series,

  Secrets of the

  Highwayman

  Coming October 2006

  Melanie Jones slowed the Aston Martin, creeping along the narrow lane. The vehicle almost brushed the hedges growing on either side, reducing her vision to the depth of the headlights forward or the taillights backward. She felt like she was in a tunnel, with only a strip of dark, star-strewn sky above. Was she even going the right way? The last sign was miles back and she hadn't seen another one since.

  She'd never felt so completely alone.

  Maybe she should turn back. There'd been a pub at the crossroads and the thought had entered her mind to stop and stay there for the night, but then she'd decided it would be best to just get to her destination, and then she could wake up tomorrow morning at Ravenswood, ready to begin work.

  Now she regretted she had been so dedicated.

  She longed for her neat, familiar office with an actual physical ache. Melanie Jones was a solicitor with the firm of Foyle, Haddock and Williams, which had a reputation for getting things done in an orderly fashion. Everything in its place, no surprises, everything… comfortable.

  People said that about her. You knew where you were with Melanie Jones. Others, less kind, called her a control freak. Melanie preferred to think that she lived her life just as she wanted it, the rough edges smoothed off, every possible deviation noted and sidelined. Her childhood had been a nightmare of uncertainties, and when she left home, she promised herself she would never have to worry about the inconsistencies of life again.

  And now here she was, deep in Cornwall, driving a car she loathed because her Ford Escort was being repaired and her boss had insisted she take his Aston Martin. Sensible Melanie, driving a car made famous by James Bond, into the dark depths of Cornwall.

  The car crept forward and the hedges abruptly gave way to a gray stone wall on one side and a dense wood on the other. She hit a pothole, and as her headlights tilted, there was a brief view over the wall and across a field, and then the road widened enough to make her feel less claustrophobic.

  Maybe it would be all right after all. She'd keep going until she found a signpost and then she'd decide whether to carry on or turn back to the pub. Maybe there'd be another pub close by. With luck, the worst was behind her and Ravenswood was just around the next corner.

  Melanie sped up in anticipation, just as something big and black ran in front of her car.

  She slammed on the brakes and was jolted violently forward, bruising her ribs against the steering wheel. The car engine stalled and for a moment Melanie sat, stunned, wondering what had run in front of her and whether she had hit it. She blinked to clear her vision, ignored her throbbing ribs, and peered through the windshield.

  A dog. A hound. Bigger by far than a Great Dane and coal black. It sat on its haunches in the middle of the lane, facing the car, ears pricked, perfectly still. It was looking right back at her, the gleam of the headlights reflecting in its oily, dark
eyes.

  Melanie couldn't move.

  There was something strange about the hound, something frightening. Its size was intimidating, but there was a stillness to it. And the way it stared back into her eyes, as if it were aware of her as a person. Melanie became conscious of the utter silence all around them.

  Maybe I'm imagining it.

  She blinked again, but the hound was still there.

  Waiting.

  The thought popped into her head. It did look as if it were waiting for something. She cast a nervous glance sideways at the woods. The trees were close together, twisted, bending like old widows gossiping, forming a wall of blackness. Anything could be in there, watching her, preparing to pounce.

  One thing was for certain, she needed to get out of there.

  Melanie gave the car horn a long blast. In the eerie silence, the sound was very loud, but the black hound didn't even flinch. Her heart thumping, her hands shaking, she sounded it again. Still the thing wouldn't move.

  "All right then, if that's the way you want it." She fumbled with the ignition key. The powerful motor started. The black hound didn't take its eyes off her as she began to inch forward toward it. The car moved closer and the animal still didn't move. The big black head was higher than the hood of the car, high enough that the gleaming eyes were on the same level as her own.

  This was worse than before, when at least there had been some distance between her and the hound. Now it loomed over her.

  "Good God, what now?"

  The car bumper must be almost knocking against the animal's body. She braked with a gasp.

  "Will you please go away!"

  A whistle came from the woods.

  The black hound's head snapped around, and then it was on its feet. With one gigantic leap it cleared the lane and vanished into the thick wall of trees. And just like that it was gone.