Highlander in Her Dreams

by Allie Mackay

  The glistening bays of rocks and white sand, the black-faced sheep grazing the greenest pastures she’d ever seen. Shining seas of deepest blue and dark, rugged coastline. Cliffs, caves, and ruined croft houses, the fire-blackened stones squeezing her heart.

  The woman next to her touched her elbow then, offering potato chips, but Kira ignored her, making only a noncommittal mmmph. She’d eat later, when they stopped at Kilt Rock for a picnic lunch.

  For now, she only wanted to drink in the views. She was branding the vistas onto her memory, securing them there so they could be recalled at will when the tour ended and she returned to Pennsylvania, leaving her new love behind.

  The MacIvers had been right. They’d sworn that no one could set foot in their homeland without losing their heart to Scotland’s mist and castles. The wild skirl of pipes and vibrant flashes of plaid. She’d certainly fallen hard. Crazy in love, as her sisters would say.

  Crazy in love with Scotland.

  And crazily annoyed by the constant drone of the tour guide’s voice.

  A deep and pleasing Highland voice that she would surely have found appealing if the speaker hadn’t been such a bore. She glanced at him, then quickly away. That he seemed to be the only kilted Scotsman close to her age only made it worse.

  Rosy-cheeked, red-haired, and pudgy, he bore a rather strong resemblance to a giant tartan-draped teddy bear.

  Leaning back against the seat, she blew out a frustrated breath. If she’d harbored any illusions about romance on this tour, Wee Hughie MacSporran wasn’t her man.

  “…ancient seat of the MacDonalds of Skye, Castle Wrath stands empty, its once formidable walls crumbled and silent.” The guide’s voice rolled on, at last saying something that caught her attention.

  She sat up, perking her ears.

  Castle Wrath sounded interesting.

  She could go for crumbled walls. Especially if they were silent, she decided, trying not to notice that her seatmate was opening a second bag of potato chips.

  “Some say Castle Wrath is haunted,” Wee Hughie went on, seemingly oblivious to crackling potato chip bags. In fact, his chest swelled a bit as he looked round to see the effect of his tale. “To be sure, its walls are bloodstained, each stone a reminder of the past. The turbulent history of the ancient warrior-chiefs who once dwelt there.”

  Pausing, he pointed out the ruin on its cliff, clearly pleased by the tour-goers’ indrawn breaths. Their appreciative ooohs and ahhhs.

  Kira ooohed too.

  She couldn’t help herself. Etched starkly against sea and sky, Castle Wrath, or what was left of it, looked just as dark and brooding as Wee Hughie described it.

  Shivering suddenly, she rubbed her arms and nestled deeper into her jacket. She’d seen a lot of castle ruins since arriving in Scotland, but this one had her catching her breath.

  It was different.

  Romantic.

  In a spookily delicious sort of way.

  She turned back to the guide, for once not wanting to miss a word he had to say.

  “Castle Wrath was originally a Pictish fort,” he told the group. “A dun. This first stronghold was seized by invading Norsemen until they, in turn, were dislodged by the Lords of the Isles.” He looked around again, pitching his voice for maximum impact. “These early MacDonalds were fierce and powerful. Their sway along Scotland’s western coast was absolute.”

  He paused, his hands clenching the green vinyl satchel that Kira knew held his scribblings on Scottish history and lore.

  Looking ready to impart that lore, he cleared his throat. “Deep grooves in the rock of the castle’s landing beach attest to the MacDonalds’ prowess at sea, for the grooves are believed to have been caused by the keels of countless MacDonald galleys being drawn onto the shore. These fearless men were the ones who raised the new castle, and it is their ghosts whose footfalls, knocks, and curses can be heard—”

  “Have you seen our guide’s beanstalk?”

  Kira blinked. “Beanstalk?”

  She looked at her seatmate, certain she’d misunderstood.

  But the woman nodded, her gaze on Wee Hughie. “It’s quite impressive.”

  Kira could feel her jaw drop. True, she hadn’t seen that many naked men, but she’d seen enough to know that Wee Hughie’s beanstalk was the only part of his anatomy that lived up to his name. She’d caught a glimpse of his Highland pride when some of the tour-goers photographed him at Bannockburn. Striking a pose beside the famous statue of King Robert the Bruce, he’d looked regal enough until an inopportune gust of wind revealed what a true Scotsman wears—or doesn’t wear—beneath his kilt.

  A wind blast that proved Wee Hughie MacSporran to be anything but impressive.

  Wincing at the memory, she shot a glance at him. “I didn’t think he was all that—”

  “He’s descended from the MacDonalds, Lords of the Isles,” Kira’s seatmate enthused, poking her arm for emphasis. “From the great Somerled himself. I know genealogists back home who’d sell the farm for such illustrious forebears.” She paused to press a hand to her breast and sigh. “He carries a diagram of his lineage in that green satchel. It goes back two thousand years.”

  “Oh.” Kira hoped the other woman hadn’t guessed her mistake. She’d forgotten the guide’s ancestral pedigree. His supposed claim to noble roots.

  Kira didn’t believe a word he said.

  Any descendant of Robert Bruce and other historical greats would surely be dashing and bold, with dark, flashing eyes full of heat and passion. Beautiful in a wild, savage way. Sinfully sexy. Well-muscled rather than well-fleshed—and definitely well-hung.

  She squirmed on the seat, certain that her cheeks were brightening.

  Certain, too, that she wouldn’t be picnicking at Kilt Rock with full-of-himself MacSporran and the tour group. As if drawn by a force impossible to resist, she stared through the bus window at the ruin perched so precariously on the cliff-top. Bold men, mighty and strong, had called the romantic pile of stones their own, and if their echoes still lingered there she was of a mind to find them.

  Or at least enjoy her packed lunch surrounded by the solitude.

  The bus could return for her later. If she could persuade the driver to indulge her.

  Determination urging her on, she approached him a short while later during the obligatory roadside photo stop. A pleasant enough man about her father’s age, he turned when he sensed her hovering, his smile fading at the lunch packet clutched in her hand.

  “My regrets, lass, but there won’t be time for you to eat that here.” He shook his head. “Not if we’re to make the craft and art shops on our way to Kilt Rock.”

  “I’m not interested in arts and crafts.” Kira plunged forward before she lost her courage. “I’d rather picnic here than at Kilt Rock.”

  “Here?” The bus driver’s brows shot upward. He eyed the clumpy grass at the roadside, the peaty little burn not far from where they stood. “Do you have any idea how many sheep pats are scattered hereabouts? Och, nay, here’s no place for a lunch stop.”

  Looking sure of it, he glanced at the other tour-goers, some already filing back into the bus. “I canna see anyone in this group wanting to picnic here.”

  “I didn’t mean the others.” Kira seized her chance. “I meant just me. And not here, along the roadway,” she added, casting a wistful look toward Castle Wrath. “I’d like to spend an hour or two out at the ruins. Eat my lunch there and do a bit of exploring.”

  She looked back at the bus driver, giving him her most hopeful smile. “It would be the highlight of my trip. Something special that I’d cherish forever.”

  The driver stared at her for a few moments, then began rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. He said nothing, but the look he was giving her wasn’t encouraging.

  “You could pick me up on the way back to Portree.” Kira rushed the words before he could say no. “Two hours is all I ask. More if you’d need the time to come for me. I wouldn’t mind the wai
t.”

  “That ruin really is haunted,” he warned her. “Wee Hughie wasn’t lying. Strange things have been known to happen there. The place is right dangerous, too. It’s no’ one of those fancy historical sites run by the National Trust.”

  He turned piercing blue eyes on her. “Everything at Wrath stands as it was, untouched by man all down the centuries. Och, nay, you canna go there. The cliff is riddled with underground tunnels, stairwells and rooms, much of it already crumbled into the sea.”

  “Oh, please,” Kira pleaded, feeling as if the ancient stones were actually calling to her. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  The bus driver set his jaw and Kira’s heart plummeted when he glanced at his watch. “Come, lass. Think with your head, no’ your heart. We’ll tour Dunvegan Castle in the morning, before we leave for Inverness. You’ll like Dunvegan much better. It’s furnished and has a gift shop—”

  “Which is why Castle Wrath is so special.” Kira’s throat began to thicken with her need to reach the ruins. “It’s not overrun with tourists. It hasn’t been spoiled.” She paused to draw a breath. “My parents worked overtime for a year to give me this trip and I can’t imagine ever getting back. Visiting Scotland again doesn’t figure in my budget.”

  The driver grunted. Then he nudged at a cluster of heather roots, his hesitation giving her hope.

  “I’ve ne’er had anything happen to anyone on one of my tours.” He looked at her, a troubled frown knitting his brow. “One false step out there and you’d find yourself in some underground chamber, maybe even standing at the very wall of the cliff, the earth opening away at your feet and falling straight down to the sea.”

  “Nothing will happen to me.” Kira lifted her chin, tightening her grip on the lunch packet. “Believe me, anyone used to walking around downtown Philly can poke around Scottish castle ruins.”

  “Ach, well.” The driver gave a resigned sigh. “I still dinna like it. No’ at all.”

  Kira smiled. “I won’t give you cause to be sorry.”

  “I’d have to double back to fetch you,” he said, rubbing his chin again. “It’s a straight shot from Kilt Rock south to Portree. The others might not like—”

  “I’ll make it up to them,” Kira exclaimed, her heart soaring. “I’ll never be late getting back to the bus again, and I promise not to ask for extra time in the bookshops.”

  “Just have a care.” He looked at her, his brow still furrowed. “Wrath is an odd place, true as I’m here. I’d ne’er forgive myself if harm came to you.”

  Then he was gone, striding away and herding his charges into the bus as if he needed a speedy departure to keep him from changing his mind.

  A distinct possibility, she was sure.

  So she didn’t release her breath until the big blue and white Highland Coach Tours bus rumbled away, finally disappearing around a bend in the road.

  Alone at last, she allowed herself one doubtful glance at the nearest sheep pats, certain they’d suddenly increased in size and number. But she steeled herself as quickly, putting back her shoulders and lifting her chin. Making ready for the long march across the grassy field to get to the ruins.

  Ahead of her was an unhurried world of hills, clouds, and mist.

  Mist?

  She blinked. She’d heard how quickly Highland weather could change, but this was ridiculous.

  She blinked again, but the mist remained.

  The day had definitely darkened, turning just a shade uninviting.

  She peered over her shoulder, scanning the road behind her, but the sky in that direction stretched as clear and bright blue as before. Cozy-looking threads of smoke still rose from the chimney of a croft house not far from where the bus had parked, and if the sea glittered any more brilliantly, she’d need sunglasses.

  Only Castle Wrath had fallen into shadow, its eerie silhouette silent against waters now the color of cold, dark slate.

  She took a deep breath and kept her chin lifted. Already, sea mist was dampening her cheeks, and the chill wetness in the air made the day smell peaty and old.

  No, not old.

  Ancient.

  She started forward, refusing to be unsettled. She liked ancient, and this was just the kind of atmosphere she’d come to Scotland to see.

  So why were her palms getting clammy? Her nerves starting to go all jittery and her mouth bone-dry?

  She frowned. Bedwells weren’t known for being fainthearts.

  But bone hadn’t been a very wise word choice.

  It summoned Wee Hughie’s tales about wailing, foot-stomping ghosts, but she pushed his words from her mind, choosing instead to dwell on the other images he’d conjured. Namely those of the great and powerful MacDonald chieftains, preferring to think of them as they’d been in their glory days rather than as they might be now, skulking about in the ruined shell of their onetime stronghold, bemoaning the passing centuries, their ancient battle cries lost on the wind.

  Thinking that she could use a battle cry of her own, she marched on, looking out for sheep pats and huddling deeper into her jacket.

  Scudding mists blew across her vision, and the pounding of the waves grew louder with each forward step. She could still see Castle Wrath looming on the far side of the high, three-sided promontory, but the rocky spit of land leading out to it was proving more narrow and steep than she’d judged.

  Kira’s heart began to pound. She quickened her pace, her excitement cresting when she caught her first glimpse of Wrath Bay and the deep grooves scoring the smooth, flat rocks of its surf-beaten shore.

  Just as Wee Hughie MacSporran had said.

  Then she was there, the heart of the ruins opening up before her. All thought of the medieval landing beach and its ancient keel marks vanished from her mind.

  A labyrinth of tall rough-hewn walls, uneven ground, and tumbled stone, the ruins stopped her heart. The remains of the curtain walls clung to the cliff edges, windswept and dangerous, but what really caught her eye was the top half of an imposing medieval gateway.

  Still bearing traces of a beautifully incised Celtic design, the gateway raged up out of the rubble, its grass-grown arch framing the sea and the jagged black rocks of the nearby island she knew to be Wrath Isle.

  Without doubt, she’d never seen a wilder, more romantic place. A onetime Norse fortalice. Vikings once walked and caroused here.

  Real live Vikings.

  Big, brawny men shouting praise to Thor and Odin as they raised brimming drinking horns and gnawed on huge ribs of fire-roasted beef.

  Kira drew a deep breath, trying hard not to pinch herself.

  Especially when she thought about the Norsemen’s successors. Wee Hughie MacSporran’s Celtic warrior chieftains, the kind of larger-than-life heroes she could only dream about.

  Bold and virile men who could only belong to a place like this.

  A place of myth and legend.

  Looking around, she was sure of it.

  Shifting curtains of mist swirled everywhere, drifting low across the overgrown grass and fallen masonry, softening the edges and making it seem as if she were seeing the world through a translucent silken veil.

  And what a world it was.

  The constant roar of the sea and the loud whooshing of the wind were fitting, too, giving the place an otherworldly feel she would never have experienced on a clear, sun-bright day.

  She set down her lunch packet and stepped into the sheltering lee of a wall, not quite ready to spoil the moment.

  Nor was she reckless.

  Rough bent grass and fallen stones weren’t the only things littering the ground that must’ve once been the castle’s inner bailey. Winking at her from a wild tangle of nettles and bramble bushes, deep crevices opened darkly into the earth. Silent abysses of blackness that could only be the underground passages, stairwells, and vaults she’d been warned about.

  Almost tasting her need to explore those abysses, she took a deep breath, drinking in chill air ripe with the tang of the sea
and damp stone. She felt an irresistible shimmer of excitement she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  She pressed her hands against the stones, splaying her fingers across their cold and gritty surface, not at all surprised to sense a faint vibration humming somewhere deep inside them.

  She felt a distant thrumming real enough to send a chill through her and even lead her to imagine the sounds of loud masculine laughter and song. The sharp blasts of a trumpeter’s fanfare. Barking dogs and a series of thin, high-pitched squeals.

  Excited feminine squeals.

  Kira frowned and took her hands off the wall.

  The sounds stopped at once.

  Or, she admitted, she recognized them for what they’d been: the rushing of the wind and nothing else. Even if the tingles spilling through her said otherwise.

  An odd prickling sensation she knew wouldn’t stop until she’d peered into one of the earth-and-rubble-clogged gaps in Castle Wrath’s bailey.

  Her lunch forgotten, she considered her options. She wasn’t about to march across the nettle-filled courtyard and risk plunging into some bottomless medieval pit, meeting an early grave. Or, at the very least, twisting an ankle and ruining the remainder of her trip. But the shell of one of Castle Wrath’s great drum-towers stood slightly tilted to her left, a scant fifty feet away.

  Best of all, in the shadow of the tower’s hulk she could make out the remains of a stairwell. A dark, downward spiraling turnpike stair that filled her with such a sense of wonder she didn’t realize she’d moved until she found herself hovering on its weathered threshold. An impenetrable blackness stared back at her, so deep that its dank, earthy-smelling chill lifted the fine hairs on her nape.

  Something was down there.

  Something more than nerves and imagination.

  The sudden tightness in her chest and the cold hard knot forming in her belly assured her of it. As did the increasing dryness of her mouth and the racing of her pulse, the faint flickering torchlight filling the stairwell.

  Flickering torchlight?

  Kira’s eyes flew wide, her jaw dropping. She grabbed the edges of the crumbling stairwell’s doorway, holding tight, but there could be no mistake. The light was flaring brighter now, shining hotly and illuminating the cold stone walls and the impossibly medieval-looking Highland chieftain staring up at her from the bottom of the stairs, the vaulted hallows of his crowded, well-lit great hall looming behind him.