Highlander in Her Dreams

by Allie Mackay

  Instead, he did what he could.

  He walked proud and curled his hand around his sword’s ruby red pommel, taking comfort in the blade’s name.

  Sooner or later, he would surely be able to convince himself that he was just as unshakable.

  Chapter 14

  A surprisingly short while later, considering how long such journeys took in his day, Aidan decided he liked Fort William even less than the Spean Bridge Mill. Unfortunately, he was also quite sure he’d prefer walking the town’s crowded, strange-looking streets to spending much more time trapped inside Kira’s rental-hire car.

  She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d claimed she wasn’t very good at driving left, and he strongly suspected she might even have similar difficulties driving right if such a thing existed.

  He had no idea and didn’t really care to know.

  For himself, once they were settled where’er that might prove to be, he would secure himself a fine and capable steed. Perhaps even a whole stable of them. Cars, tour buses, and the rolling nightmares Kira called recreational vehicles were not for him.

  And from what he’d seen of her RAF military jets, he knew without doubt that flying machines would disagree with him even more.

  But for now, he had other worries. Another huge, square-shaped recreational vehicle was heading straight at them and he didn’t need to sneak a glance at Kira to know she’d spotted it, too, and was fearful.

  Each time one of the monstrosities approached, she gritted her teeth and tightened her hands on the thing she called a steering wheel. Even more alarming, he was certain she also shut her eyes at the critical moment when the things thundered past them. Considering the narrowness of the road, he understood her distress.

  Sadly, her ill ease only worsened his own.

  Frowning, he wished the Invincible had fit inside the car rather than having to be stashed in the storage area she called the trunk-boot. He felt naked and vulnerable without the great brand at his hip. Aye, to his mind, there weren’t many advantages to this driving.

  No matter how quickly the rental-hire car might get them to Oban.

  If they even arrived alive.

  Something he wasn’t all too sure would be the case.

  Casting a cautious glance at his lady, he wriggled his jaw as unobtrusively as possible. He’d been clenching it since they’d left the Spean Bridge Mill and his teeth were beginning to ache. His head ached even worse. Truth was, even though Kira had taken great pains to explain her world and tried so valiantly to ready him for her life before he’d landed in her time, none of those details and descriptions could have prepared him for what he was facing now.

  He doubted even Tavish would have been pleased by Kira’s Scotland.

  Much as the lout declared his eagerness to see it.

  Thinking of his friend made his heart hurt, so he fixed his attention on the road ahead, regretting it immediately when he spotted another recreational vehicle in the distance, heading determinedly their way. Dreading Kira’s reaction as much as the coming encounter, he looked down at the wee bit of tartan cloth clasped so tightly in his hands.

  An eye mask, Kira had called it.

  She’d plucked it from her travel pouch and offered it to him when he’d balked at being strapped into the rental-hire car. Naturally, he’d refused to use it, preferring to see death coming rather than hide behind such a fool thing.

  Even so, if they didn’t soon reach their destination, he might reconsider.

  “Why don’t you put that in your new sporran?” Kira glanced at him, and he immediately ceased fiddling with the thing.

  Driving left was danger fraught enough without him distracting her. But apparently it was too late to worry about it, because her gaze dipped briefly to the eye mask.

  “If you haven’t used it by now, there’ll be less need soon,” she said, blessedly returning her attention to the road. “We’re almost to Ballachulish now. After the bridge, we’ll leave the A-82 for the A-828, the coast road that’ll take us right down to Ravenscraig Castle. That road won’t be as busy.”

  Aidan harrumphed.

  He wasn’t at all sure driving left on a less-traveled coast road would prove any less harrowing than constant encounters with recreational vehicles on a busy one. Coast roads presented other hazards, as even he knew.

  Things like cliffs and sharp, hair-raising turns.

  He frowned. If either one caused Kira to shut her eyes as she did each time a recreational vehicle or tour bus whizzed past them, he would insist she halt immediately. He would then wisely proceed to Ravenscraig on foot, whether she laughed at him or nay.

  “I thought you liked the sporran.” She reached over to flick one of the scrip’s tassels, clearly misinterpreting his scowl.

  “I like it fine.” He hoped the quick answer would get her hand back on the steering wheel.

  Relieved when it did, he looked down, admiring her gift. He did like it. Indeed, he was more than pleased. Ne’er had he seen such a fancily fashioned scrip, all fine leather and fur and decorated with flashy silver-beaded chains and tassels. It even boasted the MacDonald crest. Had he possessed such a treasure in his time, he’d have been the envy of every other laird in the Highlands.

  A notion that pleased him.

  “So you do like it?”

  His frown returned. “To know I smiled means you took your eyes off the road again, Kee-rah.” It was high time to warn her about such things. “’Tis a mighty fine gift and I am proud to wear it.”

  “I wish I’d been able to give it to you at Wrath.”

  He swallowed. He wished that too. But there wasn’t any point in being sad about something they couldn’t change. So he forced a smile, aiming for a wolfish one.

  Just in case she was peeking at him again.

  “If your friends at Ravenscraig give us private quarters, I shall show you exactly how much your gift pleased me, Kee-rah. How much you please me.” He glanced at her, deliberately deepening his burr. “A man might even think this time-traveling business makes a body ravenous.”

  Kira’s heart flipped to hear him sound like himself again. Another, entirely different part of her tingled. She knew just the kind of ravenous he meant and she couldn’t wait.

  “Don’t make me think of such things while I’m driving,” she said, only half meaning it. “I might just pull over and demand you take care of that hunger now. But we’re almost there and Mara said they have a big surprise for us, so we’d best keep going.”

  “As you wish, my lady.” He sat back, her tartan eye mask still clutched tight in his hands, his white-knuckled grip letting her know how much his bravura cost him.

  Kira bit her lip and drove on, pretending not to notice.

  With any luck, Mara McDougall’s surprise would be something special enough to take his mind off all he’d left behind. Make him less sad and help him adjust better to her world. From Mara’s excitement on the telephone, she could almost believe that might just happen.

  Then, about an hour and a good stretch of lonely coast road later, Ravenscraig Castle’s double-turreted gatehouse finally loomed ahead and she did believe it.

  A large banner stretched across the gatehouse, welcoming them with the traditional Gaelic greeting Ceud Mile Failte!

  A Hundred Thousand Welcomes!

  Aidan snorted. “The MacDougalls have grown friendlier since my day.”

  Kira glanced at him. “I told you—they are friendly. To everyone.”

  But the greeting made her smile. Even if she suspected that the banner remained in place all summer, there to greet the scores of MacDougalls and others who visited Ravenscraig from all over the world, eager to enjoy One Cairn Village’s Brigadoon-ish charm or to take advantage of Mara’s state-of-the-art genealogical center.

  The welcome banner wasn’t the surprise.

  A cluster of signposts lining the drive and the overlarge placard in front of the rhododendrons flanking the gatehouse had to be it. Bold and colorful, the sig
ns announced the second annual Ravenscraig Highland Games.

  Not that they wouldn’t have discovered the day’s significance the instant they drove beneath the gatehouse’s raised portcullis and through its dark, tun-nellike pend. The castle came into view as soon as they did, but only the tall, parapeted towers.

  Everything else was blocked from view, the entire expanse of endless, emerald green lawn crowded with colorful tents and tartan-draped platforms. Rows of refreshment booths and trinket stalls lined the perimeter, as did a large U-shaped area of bleachers.

  Chaos reigned, with competing pipe bands standing in tight circles everywhere, playing their hearts out, while solo pipers stood on the scattered platforms, giving skirling accompaniment to young girls performing the Highland fling.

  On the far side of the lawn, the kilted heavies were already in full swing, throwing hammers and weights, and tossing the huge, telephone pole–like caber. Closer by, more kilties engaged in a fierce tug-o’-war, much to the delight of the female spectators. From their flushed faces and laughter, Kira suspected they were more keen on catching beneath-the-kilt flashes than watching to see which team of huffing, straining tuggers actually won.

  Kira beamed as she drove past them, slowing to a snail’s pace as she followed the parking instructions of a young, freckle-faced lad in a kilt. Beside her, Aidan was silent, but she caught a suspicious gleam in his eye when he clambered out of the car.

  A gleam that was getting brighter by the moment. So she held her silence, not wanting to embarrass him by saying anything he’d have to comment on. Not until she was sure he’d caught himself.

  Her throat was thick too.

  Pipes always did that to her. She knew, too, that such games went back well over a thousand years. That medieval chieftains like Aidan used the competitions to select the clan’s strongest and fastest men. Those with the most stamina and the greatest hearts. Men who became the chieftain’s personal tail, or bodyguards. His most prized fighting men.

  Trusted friends.

  She shivered. The medieval games must’ve been full of pageantry and color. Things she was certain Aidan was remembering now. She could tell by the way his hands shook just a bit as he refastened his sword belt, then smoothed his plaid, his head held high.

  Looking proud.

  And so out of place against the backdrop of milling T-shirted, sneaker-footed American tourists that she could have sat down and wept.

  “Aidan, my love.” She reached for his hand, lacing their fingers. “We can leave now. No one yet knows we’ve arrived. We can go back—”

  “You call me your love.” He looked at her, his gaze going so deep she’d swear he’d brushed her soul. “Am I, lass? Do you love me as much as I love you?”

  Kira’s heart burst. He’d never yet mentioned love, but she’d guessed, hoped. “Oh, Aidan, you know I do.” She slid her arms around him, squeezing tight. “I love you more than there are sands on the shore. More than all the stars in the night sky. I have always loved you. I think since that very first day.”

  He nodded, taking her hands and kissing both palms. “Then all is good, Kee-rah. We shall stay here and visit your friends. Then…I canna say. But we are no’ going back to Wrath. No’ so long as Conan Dearg breathes and a faceless enemy threatens you in my own bedchamber.”

  Kira looked down, nudging at a pebble on the graveled path. She’d almost hoped he’d say they would go back to Wrath. Her world felt funny to her, too, now.

  She never would have believed it, but she was actually homesick for the fourteenth century.

  “Nay, lass.” He shook his head, almost as if he’d read her thoughts. “We are here now and shall make the best of it.”

  “And if—” She broke off, her jaw dropping.

  Just ahead a small book stand claimed pride of place in the middle of the Games’ row of trinket stalls. Two large flags flew above it, the red and gold Lion Rampant, so often associated with Robert the Bruce, and the blue and white Scottish Saltire. Both snapped proudly in the afternoon wind, but it was the giant poster of RIVERS OF STONE: A HIGHLANDER’S ANCESTRAL JOURNEY and the many teetering stacks of the little book that drew attention.

  As did the tall, kilted Highlander preening beside the book table, surrounded by a clutch of female Australian tourists. Loud and giggly, they wore their national flag on the backs of their sweatshirts. All except one, a brassy-looking older woman who appeared to be hanging on to every word the Highlander said.

  In addition to the Australian flag, the back of her sweatshirt declared that she was ELIZABETH: WORLD CHAMPION KILT-TILTER.

  Kira almost choked. “Oh-my-Gawd! It’s him!” She grabbed Aidan’s arm. “Wee Hughie MacSporran.”

  Aidan stopped. “The scribe who claims Conan Dearg locked me in my dungeon to starve to death?”

  “The very one—I think. He’s a bit heavier and has less hair than the last time I saw him. But”—she squinted, straining to catch a better look at him through the clustering Aussies—“Yes, I’m sure now. It’s him.”

  Aidan narrowed his eyes at the man, then smiled.

  His wickedest smile. “Then come.” He started forward, his hand on the Invincible’s hilt. “I shall give him a history lesson.”

  Reaching the little book stand, he whipped out the sword and plunged it into the earth a few inches from Wee Hughie’s feet. “Greetings, kinsman!” he boomed, clapping the startled Highlander on the shoulder. “I’m told you’re of good Clan Donald blood?”

  The Aussie women giggled.

  Wee Hughie’s face colored, but he nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I—”

  “He’s related to Robert the Bruce,” the Kilt-Tilter trilled, eyeing Aidan with equal interest.

  Kira frowned at her.

  Aidan arched a brow. “Indeed?”

  Wee Hughie stepped back a pace, brushing at his kilt. “The Bruce was my great-great-great-grandfather. Eighteen generations in a direct line.”

  Aidan closed the space between them. With a wink at Kira, he lowered his voice. “I canna claim eighteen generations from the man, but I have fought and wenched at his side. Welcomed him at my table and hearth.”

  Wee Hughie lifted his chin, clearly annoyed. “Ancestral roots should not be mocked. I can document my lineage back through two thousand years of Scottish history.”

  “Lad, if you do have Clan Donald blood, I am your history.”

  “Come, let’s move on.” Kira put a hand on his arm, not surprised when he brushed it away.

  “And”—he yanked the Invincible from the ground, resheathing it without taking his gaze off the author—“I am here to tell you that your book is wrong. Aidan MacDonald of Wrath didn’t die in his own dungeon. That was his cousin, Conan Dearg.”

  Wee Hughie puffed his chest. “You, sir, are the one who has your history skewed. I never wrote that. Conan Dearg drowned.”

  Aidan frowned and picked up one of the books, tucking it inside his plaid. “I shall read this and see what other errors you’ve made,” he said, once more clapping the author on the shoulder. “If I find more, kinsman, we shall meet again.”

  “Spoken like a true Highlander of old.”

  A tall, darkly handsome man fell into step beside them the minute Aidan turned and pulled Kira away from the book stand. Dressed like a prosperous knight of old, he made them a gallant bow, clearly taking pains not to dislodge the studded medieval shield he held in front of his groin.

  A beautiful Highland targe, round and covered with smooth, supple-looking leather, it was the finest example of a medieval shield Kira had ever seen outside a museum.

  “You must be one of Sir Alex’s reenactor friends,” she said, certain of it. “I’m Kira. Of Aldan, Pennsylvania.” She glanced at Aidan. “And this is Sir Aidan. The MacDonald of Wrath,” she blurted, his true identity somehow spilling from her.

  The dark knight’s casual, easy grace could have pulled even more from her had she not been careful.

  There was just something
about him.

  “I know who you are, Lady Kira.” He smiled, his gaze passing knowingly to Aidan before returning to her. “You have been expected. Both of you. We are here to help you.”

  “We?” Kira blinked.

  “Many of us.” He gave a slight nod, his mailed shirt gleaming in the afternoon sun. “I am Sir Hardwin, onetime companion-in-arms to Alex of Ravenscraig, and late of my own fair Seagrave in the north.”

  Kira’s brow furrowed. “Late?”

  He shrugged and flashed her a dazzling smile. “So to speak, my lady.”

  For one crazy mad moment, she was certain she could see Wee Hughie MacSporran and his fan club of Aussie women right through the man and his precious medieval targe.

  But then a cloud passed over the sun and the illusion faded, leaving him looking as solid as everyone else.

  Including the giant bearlike man with a shock of shaggy red hair and an equally wild beard who suddenly appeared at his side.

  “Dinna fash yourself, Kira-lass. We are friends.” The bushy-bearded newcomer slung an arm around the first man’s shoulders, then winked at Aidan. “Friends of…old.”

  Kira slid a glance at Aidan, not surprised to see him eyeing the two men with skeptical, narrowed eyes.

  “You have the looks of the MacNeils about you,” he said, his gaze fixed on bushy-beard.

  “Aye, and I suppose I do!” The man rocked back on his heels, mirth rolling off him. “’Tis Bran of Barra I am,” he added, looking quite pleased about it. “And you are a Skye MacDonald—a son of Somerled, as I live and breathe!”

  And then he was gone.

  As was the first man, both swallowed up by a new surge of holidaymakers pushing past them into the rows of trinket stalls and refreshment booths.

  Nothing of the strange encounter remained…until a bright flash of glitter struck Kira’s eye and she stooped, examining the grass where the two men had stood.

  Two gold rings lay there, glinting in the day’s fading light. Celtic rings identically patterned with slender-stemmed trumpets, birds, and delicate swirls. A man and a woman’s rings, both looking suspiciously medieval.