Beyond the Highland Myst

by Highlander 01-08

  He'd explained a bit on the ride there, and gravely informed her that he forgave her for leaving him, although his lower lip had been set at such an angle that she'd known his feelings had been hurt.

  He'd also explained that they'd kept her on the isle of Morar while he and Adam had changed her future, and filled her in on how they'd prevented the car wreck and the cancer.

  "But I thought you hated Adam."

  Circenn sighed as he popped open a bottle of champagne and poured two glasses. Dropping onto the bed, he gave her a guilty look and patted the bed beside him.

  He opened his arms. "Come. I need you, lass," he whispered before closing his mouth over hers. Then he proceeded to show her how very much he needed her.

  Clothing fell swiftly away as they undressed each other urgently. When she was clad in nothing but a lacy pale pink bra and panties, he lifted her high in his arms above him and fell back onto the bed. Lisa sat astride him and ran her hands over his muscled chest, following the trail of silky dark hair with a feather-light finger.

  Slipping the strap of her bra down, he groaned softly. "I love these lacy things."

  Lisa laughed and dropped her head forward so that her hair curtained his face. "I love you."

  "I know," her said smugly. And for a few moments she was lost in a wave of passion and tenderness and love that surged silently along their unique bond.

  Never leave me, lass, you are the one and only, forever.

  "What?" she exclaimed.

  "Did you hear me?" With lazy sensuality, he dragged his tongue over the peak of her nipple through the thin silk of her bra. It crested eagerly.

  "Words! I heard you in words!"

  "Mmm," he murmured, nipping gently at the buds he'd teased beneath the silk. With a quick snap her bra was off, and he cupped her breasts in his hands, brushing the pads of his thumbs over her nipples. Will you love me forever? He caught a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tugging gently.

  Lisa shook her head, trying to clear it. Even after all the times she'd made love with him, she still couldn't think clearly when he was touching her. "What are you saying?"

  That I need you forever, Lisa Brodie. Wed me and have babies with me and give me forever.

  "Lisa Brodie?" she squeaked.

  You doona think I'd leave you in shame, do you? Be my wife. I promise you will want for naught. He slipped his hands inside her panties and cupped her bottom. His gaze was fixed on her abdomen, as if he were trying to see inside her. Her hand flew to her stomach.

  "Do you know something I don't know?" she asked suspiciously.

  Just that you've already done one of the three things I am asking you to do.

  "I'm pregnant? I'm going to have your baby?" she exclaimed, a shiver of delight racing up her spine.

  Our baby. Yes, lass, he already grows within you and he will be very… special. Marry me, love.

  "Yes," she said. "Oh yes yes yes, Circenn!"

  I am the luckiest man in the world.

  "Yes," Lisa agreed, then thought no more for a long time.

  * * *

  Afterward, they showered together, slipping and sliding in the huge marble shower that had six spouts, three on each wall. Circenn indulged with the unfettered pleasure of a fourteenth-century barbarian who'd never seen a shower before, standing in the streams of the water, shaking his head and spraying it everywhere. They made love on the marble floor, in the corner against the wall, and in the Jacuzzi. Lisa, wrapped in a fluffy white robe, was toweling her hair dry when she heard Circenn yelling in the bedroom.

  Startled, she slipped from the bathroom only to discover Circenn standing nude in front of the TV, roaring at it.

  "William Wallace did not look like that!" He gestured irritably at the TV

  Lisa laughed, as she realized he was pointing at a blue-faced Mel Gibson, storming into battle in Braveheart.

  "And Robert doona look like that!" he complained.

  "Perhaps you should try writing a script yourself," she teased.

  "They'd never believe it. It is obvious your time has no idea what my time was really like."

  "Speaking of your time and my time, where—or should I say when—will we live, Circenn?"

  Circenn pressed the Off button on the remote control like a pro, and turned to her. "Any place you wish, Lisa. We can spend six months in my time and six months here, or go week to week. I know you wish to be near your family. We could take them back too."

  Lisa's eyes grew wide. "We could? We could take my mom and dad to your time?"

  "How would you like to be married in a fourteenth-century ceremony with your mother and father in attendance? Your father may bequeath you to me, and I in turn will grant him a handsome manor, should your parents choose to retire there. Of course Robert, Duncan, and Galan will insist upon being present as well—I'm afraid it may turn into quite a spectacle."

  Lisa couldn't stop smiling. "I would love that! A fairytale wedding."

  "Provided we are cautious not to change too many things, I see no problem arranging it. I'm beginning to understand what Adam meant when he said if one looks down the timeline, one can discern which things are irrevocable and should not be manipulated, and which things will make little difference."

  "Adam," Lisa said hesitantly. She hadn't forgotten for a moment that Circenn hadn't answered her earlier question.

  "Yes," a voice said behind her, as Adam materialized in their suite. He grinned at Circenn. "So you finally got around to asking her to marry you. I was beginning to despair. Every time I tried to pop in, the two of you were…"

  She spun around. "You!"

  Adam grinned puckishly, turned into Eirren, then turned back into Adam. Lisa was speechless. But only for a moment.

  She advanced on him. "You saw me in my bath!"

  "What?" Circenn thundered.

  "He visited me the whole time I was in your century," she clarified.

  Circenn glared at his father. "Did you?"

  Adam shrugged, the cameo of innocence. "I was concerned you might not be treating her well enough and checked in from time to time. You should be grateful that I decided upon full disclosure—I had considered just telling her that Eirren had run off, when she got around to asking about him. But I've decided to try to be a new person henceforth, at least around you and Lisa."

  "Why do you put up with him?" Lisa said, shaking her head.

  "Lisa, it's all right," Circenn said, moving swiftly to her side. "It's not what you think." He scowled at Adam. "Doona think I've forgotten you saw her in her bath. We will speak of it later, the three of us, and have the whole story out. But how did you come here by yourself? Has Aoibheal forgiven you?"

  Adam preened, casting his silky dark hair over his shoulder. "Of course. I am once again all-powerful."

  "Why are you being nice to him?" Lisa snapped.

  "Lass, he helped me do all that I've done."

  "He made you immortal!"

  "And if he hadn't, I never would have met you, but would have died over a thousand years before you were born. He helped save your mother and father. And… Adam is… my father."

  "Your father!" She gaped for a moment, as the information sunk in. Heavens, but there was obviously a great deal she still didn't know about Circenn Brodie. But she was more than willing to learn.

  Circenn guided her to a chair and sat her down, then the two men took turns filling in her gaps of knowledge regarding the man who would be her husband. And once she knew, it made perfect sense, and explained everything: his unusual powers, his resentment toward Adam, Adam's unwillingness to let his son die.

  A few moments of silence passed while she pondered all they'd told her, then she realized they were both watching her intently, and it seemed that they were waiting for something.

  Adam moved to her side and reached in his pocket, and Lisa watched curiously, wondering what new thing they were going to spring on her next.

  "You know now that I am half-fairy, Lisa," Circenn said gently.
"Can you accept that?"

  Lisa stood on her tiptoes and kissed him full on the lips. Yes, she assured him.

  No regrets?

  No regrets.

  When Adam withdrew a shimmering flask and a pair of goblets, and poured three drops of glowing liquid into one of the glasses, Lisa scarcely breathed.

  She watched in silence as Adam passed the glasses of champagne to Circenn, who—with great deliberation—offered Lisa the glass with the potion in it.

  He regarded her gravely, then gave her a tender smile.

  Love me forever, lass.

  Lisa looked deep into his eyes.

  Live with me forever. Cease my endless solitude. I will cherish you. I will show you worlds you've only dreamed of. I will walk beside you, hand in hand, until the end of days.

  Lisa reached for the goblet.

  Champagne had never tasted sweeter.

  Kiss of the Highlander

  Karen Marie Moning

  "I cannot believe God plays dice

  with the Cosmos."

  —albert einstein

  "God not only plays dice.

  He sometimes throws the dice where they

  cannot be seen."

  —stephen hawking

  * * *

  highlands of scotland

  1518

  Prologue

  "The MacKeltar is a dangerous man, Nevin."

  "What are you going on about this time, Mother?" Nevin looked out the window and watched the grass rippling in the early morning sun beyond their hut. His mother was reading fortunes, and were he foolish enough to turn around and meet Besseta's gaze, she would interpret it as encouragement, and he would be lured into yet another conversation about some bewildering prediction. His mother's wits, never the sharpest blade in the armory, were dulling daily, eroded by suspicious imaginings.

  "My yew sticks have warned me that the laird presents a grave danger to you."

  "The laird? Drustan MacKeltar?" Startled, Nevin glanced over his shoulder. Tucked behind the table near the hearth, his mother straightened in her chair, preening beneath his attention. Now he'd done it, he thought with an inward sigh. He'd gotten himself snagged in her conversation as securely as he'd gotten his long robes entangled in a thorny bramble a time or two, and it would require finesse to detach himself now without things degenerating into an age-old argument.

  Besseta Alexander had lost so much in her life that she clung too fiercely to what she had left—Nevin. He repressed a desire to fling back the door and flee into the serenity of the Highland morning, aware that she would only corner him again at the earliest opportunity.

  Instead, he said gently, "Drustan MacKeltar is not a danger to me. He is a fine laird, and'tis honored I am to have been chosen to oversee the spiritual guidance of his clan."

  Besseta shook her head, her lip trembling. A fleck of spittle foamed at the seam. "You see with a priest's narrow view. You can't see what I see. This is dire indeed, Nevin."

  He gave her his most reassuring smile, one that, despite his youth, had eased the troubled hearts of countless sinners. "Will you cease trying to divine my well-being with your sticks and runes? Each time I am assigned a new position, you reach for your charms."

  "What kind of a mother would I be, if I didn't take interest in your future?" she cried.

  Brushing a lock of blond hair from his face, Nevin crossed the room and kissed her wrinkled cheek, then swept his hand across the yew sticks, upsetting their mysterious design. "I am an ordained man of God, yet here you sit, reading fortunes." He took her hand and patted it soothingly. "You must let go of the old ways. How will I achieve success with the villagers, if my own dear mother persists in pagan rituals?" he teased.

  Besseta snatched her hand from his and gathered her sticks defensively. "These are far more than simple sticks. I bid you, accord them proper respect. He must be stopped."

  "What do your sticks tell you the laird will do that is so terrible?" Curiosity trumped his resolve to end this conversation as neatly as possible. He couldn't hope to curtail the dark wanderings of her mind if he didn't know what they were.

  "He will soon take a lady, and she will do you harm. I think she will kill you.

  Nevin's mouth opened and closed like a trout stranded on the riverbank. Although he knew there was no truth to her ominous prediction, the fact that she entertained such wicked thoughts confirmed his fears that her tenuous grasp on reality was slipping. "Why would anyone kill me? I'm a priest, for heaven's sake."

  "I can't see the why of it. Mayhap his new lady will take a fancy to you, and evil doings will come of it."

  "Now you truly are imagining things. A fancy to me, over Drustan MacKeltar?"

  Besseta glanced at him, then quickly away. "You are a fine-looking lad, Nevin," she lied with motherly aplomb.

  Nevin laughed. Of Besseta's five sons, only he had been born slender of build, with fine bones and a quietude that served God well but king and country poorly. He knew what he looked like. He had not been fashioned—as had Drustan MacKeltar—for warring, conquering, and seducing women and had long ago accepted his physical shortcomings. God had purpose for him, and while spiritual purpose might seem insignificant to others, for Nevin Alexander it was more than enough.

  "Put those sticks away, Mother, and I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense. You needn't fret on my behalf. God watches over—" He stopped midsentence. What he'd nearly said would encourage an entirely new, and at the same time very old and very lengthy, discussion.

  Besseta's eyes narrowed. "Ah, yes. Your God certainly watched over all of my sons, didn't He?"

  Her bitterness was palpable and made him heartsick. Of all his flock, he'd failed most surely with his own mother. "I might remind you that quite recently He was your God, when I was granted this position and you were well-pleased with my promotion," Nevin said lightly. "And you will not harm the MacKeltar, Mother."

  Besseta smoothed her coarse gray hair and angled her nose toward the thatched roof. "Don't you have confessions to hear, Nevin?"

  "You must not jeopardize our position here, Mother," he said gently. "We have a solid home among fine people, and I hope to make it permanent. Give me your word."

  Besseta kept her eyes fixed on the roof in stubborn silence.

  "Look at me, Mother. You must promise." When he refused to retract his demand or avert his steady gaze, she finally gave a shrug and nodded.

  "I will not harm the MacKeltar, Nevin. Now, go on with you," she said brusquely. "This old woman has things to do."

  Satisfied that his mother wouldn't trouble the laird with her pagan foolishness, Nevin departed for the castle. God willing, his mother would forget her latest delusion by dinner. God willing.

  * * * * *

  Over the next few days, Besseta tried to make Nevin understand the danger he was in, to no avail. He chided her gently, he rebuked her less gently, and he got those sad lines around his mouth she so hated to see.

  Lines that clearly pronounced: My mother's going mad.

  Despair settled into her weary bones, and she knew that it was up to her to do something. She would not lose her only remaining son. It wasn't fair that a mother should outlive all her children, and trusting God to protect them was what had gotten her into this bind to begin with. She refused to believe she'd been given the ability to foresee events only to sit back and do nothing about them.

  When shortly after her alarming vision a band of wandering Rom arrived in the village of Balanoch, Besseta struck upon a solution.

  It took time to barter with the proper people; although proper was hardly a word she'd use to describe the people with whom she was forced to deal. Besseta might read yew sticks, but simple scrying paled in comparison to the practices of the wild gypsies who wandered the Highlands, selling spells and enchantments cheek by jowl with their more-ordinary wares. Worse still, she'd had to steal Nevin's precious gold-leafed Bible, which he used only on the holiest of days, to trade for the services she purch
ased, and when he discovered the loss come Yuletide he would be heartbroken.

  But he would be alive, by the yew!

  Although Besseta suffered many sleepless nights over her decision, she knew her sticks had never failed her. If she didn't do something to prevent it, Drustan MacKeltar would take a wife and that woman would kill her son. That much her sticks had made dear. If her sticks had told her more—mayhap how the woman would do it, when, or why—she might not have been seized by such desperation. How would she survive if Nevin were gone? Who would succor an old and useless woman? Alone, the great yawning darkness with its great greedy maw would swallow her whole. She had no choice but to get rid of Drustan MacKeltar.

  * * * * *

  A sennight later, Besseta stood with the gypsies and their leader—a silver-haired man named Rushka—in the clearing near the little loch some distance west of Castle Keltar.

  Drustan MacKeltar lay unconscious at her feet.

  She eyed him warily. The MacKeltar was a large man, towering and dark, a mountain of bronzed muscle and sinew, even when flat on his back. When she shivered and nudged him gingerly with her toe, the gypsies laughed.

  "The moon could fall on him and he wouldn't waken," Rushka informed her, his dark gaze amused.

  "You're certain?" Besseta pressed.

  "'Tis no natural sleep."

  "You didn't kill him, did you?" she fretted. "I promised Nevin I wouldn't harm him."

  Rushka arched a brow. "You have an interesting code, old woman," he mocked. "Nay, we did not kill him, he but slumbers, and will eternally. 'Tis an ancient spell, laid most carefully."

  When Rushka turned away, instructing his men to place the enchanted laird in the wagon, Besseta heaved a sigh of relief. It had been risky—slipping into the castle, drugging the laird's wine and luring him to the clearing near the loch—but all had gone according to plan. He'd collapsed on the bank of the glassy lake and the gypsies had set about their ritual. They'd painted strange symbols upon his chest, sprinkled herbs and chanted.