Highlander's Portrait

by C. A. Szarek

  “Can I help you find something?” A pleasant voice caught her attention. It was odd, accent-less, as if the woman could be from anywhere, or everywhere. Definitely not the Scottish inflection she’d expected.

  Ashlyn looked up to meet a pair of…violet eyes? Yes, violet. More purple than blue, and mesmerizing.

  The woman’s face was just as gorgeous as her eyes. Porcelain skin, flawless across her high cheekbones. Red lips that couldn’t be a natural color, but she didn’t spot any obvious makeup. She had long red hair, brighter in hue than Kate’s. It was loose and cascaded to her waist in waves.

  She wore a gown, and it shimmered in the light, making it seem neither blue, nor purple, but more like a mother-of-pearl finish that brought out those incredible eyes. It was timeless in style, and as ethereal as the woman herself.

  Her beauty stunned Ashlyn speechless.

  She smiled gently, as if the reaction happened all the time—and hell, it probably did. “Did you spot anything you’d like to get a closer look at?”

  The question was also gentle, and jarred Ashlyn from her frozen staring. What a freaking idiot. She’s gonna think you’re a lesbian, and you’re gonna hit on her!

  Heat kissed her cheeks and scorched the back of her neck. Even her ears burned. “Ah, I’m just looking, but thank you.”

  “All right, please let me know if something catches your eye.” The woman’s face brightened, as if the prospect excited her.

  Ashlyn forced a nod—like a dummy—and wanted to flee from the counter. Or melt into it. Maybe she’d locked herself away so much trying to write, she’d lost her skills to function in public. She was socially inept, after all. She turned on her heel and slipped away from the woman.

  The paintings beckoned, so she headed there, looking first at a landscape done in pastels that dominated the wall in front of her. It was Thomas Kincaid-esque, but the only building was far off, a castle on a hill overlooking a grassy field and a pond.

  She thumbed through the prints in the wooden bin. There were dragons, unicorns, other animals, and more landscapes. Ashlyn stopped at all the castles, studying them to determine if they were Scottish or English, or from other places in Europe. All seemed to be real places, and some of the prints looked old, but some modern; some were even photographs.

  There was even a painting of a castle in Romania she recognized as Vlad the Impaler’s home. She shuddered and shook her head. Who would want that?

  This place had something for everyone.

  Next to the large bin and the stacked framed paintings, was a small metal circular rack. It had all sorts of things on it—greeting cards, post cards, as well as funny sayings on small plaques. It was the first thing she’d consider touristy in the shop.

  Ashlyn turned the display and it squeaked. She almost jumped, then yelled at herself for being startled. Her shoe bumped the rack’s base, and it shook, like the whole thing could tip over. She winced and stilled it with one hand, but she could feel the tremors beneath her fingertips, like it was fighting her.

  Movement caught her eye when something floated to the planked floor.

  She bent to retrieve it when it hit with a soft thud.

  It was a small piece of canvas, no bigger than a postcard, and its fragility was immediately apparent. Ashlyn turned it over in her hands, trying to be as careful as she could.

  Bright blue eyes peered up at her, and her gaze darted over his face. A portrait. He was handsome, with long dark hair that graced his shoulders. He was clean-shaven, which drew her even more when she scanned his strong jaw and chiseled features.

  The painting only consisted of his head and shoulders, like a bust, but the recognizable MacLeod tartan pattern was slung over one shoulder, held up with his clan brooch. It was too small to make out, but the clan’s motto, “Hold Fast”, would no doubt be etched on it.

  The detail and clarity of the image belied the age of the piece, Ashlyn guessed. She couldn’t look away from the painted blue eyes. The man was gorgeous, and the small canvas took her breath, which was so silly, but it captivated her.

  “Wow,” she whispered.

  “What do you have there?” The redheaded woman appeared by her side, that pleasant smile on her full mouth, those violet eyes twinkling.

  “I-I-I…found this.” Stuttering? Really? She held the painting out to who she assumed was the shop’s owner.

  “Oh my! How did this get here?” Her red-orange brow knitted and she took the canvas with a soft touch. “I’m glad it wasn’t damaged. Let me frame this for you.”

  “Ah, wait, I—”

  The woman whirled away, her gown twirling around her as she sauntered to the counter and ignored Ashlyn’s protest.

  I never said I wanted it.

  But she did. She wanted to stare at it again. Study the sapphire eyes and the handsome details of his face. Even look at the portion of his ivory shirt visible, as well as the MacLeod plaid.

  He would’ve been wearing a kilt, her gut said, if that part of him had been painted, too.

  She went back to the glass showcase, where the redhead was humming to herself as she looked through a basket of frames.

  “Hmmm, shall we go with gilt for Eoin?”

  “Eoin?” Ashlyn whispered.

  The woman nodded and her smile widened. “This is a portrait of Eoin MacLeod. Laird MacLeod in the mid-1700s.”

  The historian in her perked awake. “Where can I find out more about him?”

  The woman held up an engraved gold frame. It was gilt-style, as she’d mentioned. “This is perfect!” She flashed a grin that Ashlyn didn’t doubt could bring any man to his knees. “This is the one.” She didn’t answer Ashlyn’s query, just handled the small canvas like an expert. Still humming, too. “Try not to touch the painting, all right? It’s old…” she laughed.

  Kate made her jump when she came to the counter. “Did you find something?” she asked.

  Ashlyn peeled her eyes away from watching the shopkeeper work, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to catalogue what the redhead was doing with Eoin MacLeod’s painting. Then she wanted to look at it again.

  Her friend smiled and held up a pair of jeweled Renaissance ladies’ slippers in her hands. “I did, see?”

  “Wow.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a good wow,” she pouted. “I’m not gonna wear them. I’m gonna plan a design or two. Maybe make a gown to go with something like this. Or branch out into a line of shoes. Been wanting to do that forever. This trip is for inspy, right?” Kate waggled her eyebrows and hugged the shoes to her bosom.

  Ashlyn laughed. “I guess so.”

  “So, what’d you find?” Her seafoam eyes lit up.

  “Ah, a painting.” For some reason, she didn’t want to share her find, not even with Kate.

  “A painting?”

  She ignored Kate’s frown and glued her gaze back to the redheaded beauty. Her long hair swayed with her movements, but it wasn’t more than a second before she held the small painting up, snug in its new frame.

  “Here you go! I trust you’ll take care of him.”

  Kate said something, but Ashlyn tuned her out and retrieved the frame with both hands.

  She needed to look at him again. His deep blue gaze compelled her to stare. She imagined his smile—since he wasn’t in the painting.

  It would be a great smile; one worth swooning over. He would sound yummy, too. A full brogue that’d make a girl’s knees weak.

  Like all her Scottish heroes, he’d call her lass.

  “Well, he sure is hot.” Kate peered down at the image, over her shoulder.

  Ashlyn fought the urge to squeeze it against her, hide it from view.

  “Geesh, doesn’t someone have a new precious?” Her friend smirked.

  “You wanted me to come in here,” she quipped.

  Kate flashed a grin, then looked at the owner of Enchanted Keepsakes. “What do we owe you?”

  Enchanted Keepsakes, indeed.

  Ashlyn was
certainly enchanted with the painting of Eoin MacLeod. She grinned and hugged the small frame; she didn’t care if Kate teased her.

  She felt a story coming on, finally! She’d write Eoin MacLeod’s love story. She didn’t need to know about his real life—though the research might be fun.

  Ashlyn would give him a true love in her current stubborn heroine. The storyline was still unplanned enough to change things around without starting over. She hadn’t gotten too much into the hero’s head anyway. Maybe the chick would cooperate if Eoin was her hero. He was hot enough.

  Excitement bubbled up from her tummy. “We have to go back to the cottage,” she told Kate as they exited the small shop.

  “Now? Why?”

  “I can finally write!”

  He friend giggled. “See? All it took was a hottie. Toldja!” Kate winked. “Too bad he’s not real.”

  “Sure he’s real, he was a laird. A real person.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Well, the problem with that sentence is, ‘was.’ Maybe we should go to the pub, and you can get inspiration from a ‘now’ instead of a ‘was.’ Like a real Highlander, ya know? They’re still tall and hot.”

  Ashlyn shook her head. “Let me start with the ‘was’ guy for now. Get some words down. Then I’ll go with you. Promise.”

  Her bestie snorted but didn’t answer.

  Chapter Two

  Prickles shot down his spine, making him sit taller. He paused, the quill hovering over the parchment he’d been writing on. Eoin waited, trying to judge if magic had kissed him, or if it’d been his imagination.

  The shiver started again, in waves, getting stronger as the call was repeated.

  Nothing was normal about the sensation. It wasn’t a chill from a fire going out or a too-breezy room from gales outside. It was what he called, ‘Fae-feels.’

  It was the telltale sign that it’d changed hands. Again.

  Korinna had promised she’d keep it safe when he’d entrusted it to her three years ago. Well, at least, three of his years. She’d told him he wouldn’t have to go traipsing through the centuries to protect it. He could stay home in 1752—1755 now—where he belonged. She’d ensured that a convincing-looking fake was put in its place, and even his clan didn’t know. He wouldn’t have to worry about what he didn’t have control over—where the Faery Flag was in the far future.

  Well, then, why the Fae-feels?

  Eoin growled and made a fist. “I’m goin’ ta kill tha’ witch.” He slammed the quill down. The inkwell on his desk jumped and spewed black ichor, as if in protest. It dotted the corner of the missive he’d been drafting.

  He wiped what wetness he could away, but the letters were smeared, and the date he’d noted on the top right corner was obscured. He frowned because his skin was stained now, too.

  “Problem, brother?” Fiona caressed the doorframe of his ledger room for a moment before sauntering inside, making her skirts dance. She was dressed in finery, complete with a MacLeod plaid around her waist and tacked over her shoulder with a brooch he’d given her—a more feminine version of his own. Her ebony hair was braided intricately and pinned up, the ends framing her pretty face in cascading curls.

  He wracked his brain. Had he forgotten about a feast of some sort? It wasn’t the anniversary of her birth—or his, for that matter.

  Never mind.

  Eoin wouldn’t ask. The lass often sought attention, so that must be what this was about. He didn’t bother chiding his sister about entering his sanctuary uninvited; Fiona didn’t often obey him, even with the threat of bodily harm. Not that he’d put his hands on her—of which she was well aware. To his detriment, and it only added to her boldness. If she were younger, he’d tan her hide, but she was no longer a child.

  “Nay.” It came out a near bark.

  She arched a dark eyebrow. “Nay? Yer countenance states otha’wise, my laird.”

  He focused on her face, narrowing his eyes. “What do ye wan’?” His sister never addressed him properly unless she was begging for something. Dealing with the little pest of seven and ten would distract Eoin from his impending departure, anyway.

  She smiled her most persuasive grin. The one that always melted their grandfather into a pile of goo, baring her right dimple and all the teeth in her head. She’d mastered the art of making her eyes sparkle to go along with it by age two.

  He’d always been immune to that smile, despite his younger sibling’s beautiful visage. It’d always led to her pouting, but he didn’t respond to that, either. Everyone else in their clan doted on her; he couldn’t afford to.

  “Why would ye think I wanted anathin’, except ta pay my respects ta my favorite brother?”

  Eoin picked his quill up, and resumed his letter. The Fae-feels plagued his spine, but he wouldn’t shift in his chair in front of his beloved little bother. He’d not have her thinking him weak for something she didn’t know about. “I’m yer only brother,” he said, not hiding the dryness of his words.

  “That doesna mean I adore ye any less!”

  When he looked up, his sister had curtseyed with a flourish, and her sapphire eyes were fairly shining.

  “What. Do. Ye. Want, Fiona MacLeod?”

  “Oh, verra well, if ye need ta be as such.” She flopped down into the chair nearest his desk, slumping her shoulders. Her bottom lip shot out in its familiar form. Her posture belied her garments.

  Eoin studied her.

  Fiona straightened her shoulders when she noticed. She took a breath, making her breasts heave and it occurred to him the green gown, made of glimmering fabric, was too low cut, revealing too much of her body.

  When had she grown up so much?

  She’d always been a pretty little thing, flitting around Dunvegan. Causing trouble, no doubt, but making everyone adore her, as well.

  “Cover yerself,” he growled.

  His sister frowned. “Why? ’Tis the style. Ye approved of this gown when I had it made, did ye no’?”

  He hadn’t actually paid attention when she’d sought coin for new clothing. Something he wouldn’t make the same mistake about again. “Why have ye come ta see me?”

  “I wish ta be wed,” she blurted.

  Eoin blinked.

  His sister’s fair skin flushed pink from chin to ear. She fidgeted in the oversized carved chair and wrung her hands on her lap.

  “Aye?”

  She nodded, making the curls dance around her cheeks.

  He’d thought he’d have more time to find her a suitable husband. Their father had passed when he was a lad, right before her birth, so the duty fell to Eoin as laird, but he’d been waiting for her to grow up. Not in years, but in maturity. “Verra well, I’ll start tha search—”

  “I know who I wan’ ta marry.” Another blurt, and now her face was crimson.

  “Who has put his hands on ye?” he snarled. He stood to his full height and rounded his desk, towering over his sister.

  Her blue eyes went wide and she shook her head. “Nay. ’Tis no’ like tha’.” She retreated, cowering like she hadn’t—ever.

  “Then, explain ta me, Fiona MacLeod, what ’tis it like?” Eoin sat on the edge of his desk, only a few feet from her.

  “He loves me.”

  His instinct was to scoff, but a silly smile lit his sister’s face and her eyes went glassy, what the lasses would call, dreamy.

  “I shall kill him,” he declared.

  Fiona focused on his face and glared.

  Ah, there’s my sister.

  “Nay. Ye willna harm him. I will marry Kenneth MacDonald.”

  Eoin startled. She couldn’t have— “What did ye say?” he barked. Crossed his arms over his chest.

  She straightened in the chair and squared her slim shoulders. “We love each other.”

  He was torn between anger and laugher. “Ye are seven and ten. The lad isna much older. What do ye know of love?”

  His sister didn’t pout, as expected. Fiona sat taller, and her eyes flashed. “Wha
t do ye? Ye’ve never wed. How do ye know more than me abou’ love?”

  Love is for silly lasses.

  It didn’t matter what he thought about love.

  Eoin wasn’t going to say that aloud. He’d not want her to think he was more like a petulant child than she. “Ye arena marryin’ a MacDonald,” he commanded, low and gruff.

  His sister rolled her eyes and tsked. “Our clans arena enemies ana longer.”

  It was true, a great aunt of theirs—by marriage—had wed the MacDonald laird, so they were technically kin, but Eoin wasn’t going to admit that to the lass before him. MacDonald and MacLeod avoided each other, and he liked that just fine. As it’d always been.

  Kenneth was the current laird’s heir, so if she married Callum MacDonald’s son, his sister would maintain her station, but Eoin wouldn’t give her to a MacDonald. “‘Tis no matter. Yer no’ goin’ ta marry a MacDonald.”

  “I am so.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Ye would defy yer laird?” His voice rose with each word, until he was shouting. Of course she would. She did so weekly, if not daily. Frustration swirled in his gut and rose to his throat. He needed his grandfather, but then again, the man would probably side with the lass.

  Eoin tried to use his size to intimidate her, but Fiona was on her feet now, her fists pinned tight to her sides, and she leaned toward him, as if her petite form could compete with his. Like most men in his family, he was past six feet in height and just as broad.

  The material of her gown rustled as she pitched forward. Her eyes flung daggers at him.

  If rage didn’t dominate his body, he might’ve laughed.

  “I’ll run away!” Fiona shrieked. “We’ll run away tagether.”

  Not likely.

  The lad was an heir. He wouldn’t.

  “Kenneth promised—”

  “Is all well?” Jamie, the head MacLeod steward, and their cousin, poked his red head into the room. His eyes shot from lass to laird and he cleared his throat, then shuffled forward. He inclined his head to them both.

  The Fae-feels demanded all of Eoin’s attention, making his body shake. He needed to get to the Faery Stones. The longer he waited, the more the demand would make itself known. He’d become ill if he resisted, and unable to walk.