Chapter 1
Duart Castle
The Isle of Mull, Scotland
October 2010
“There she be, lass.”
Emmy gripped the edge of the window and stared at the panoramic view of the distant castle the driver’s finger pointed toward as the bus traveled the winding road along the eastern coastline of the Isle of Mull. In the distance was the last destination on her ten-day UK vacation. From London to Wales to Yorkshire and from there on to Edinburgh and Glasgow. Her visit today was the last spectacle she had come so far to see. Duart Castle - the ancestral home of the clan MacLean for hundreds of years.
Her guidebook told her the name Duart meant “Black Point” in Gaelic and based on the view from the ferry as she had crossed the Sound of Mull that afternoon from mainland Scotland, she knew why it bore that name. The castle did indeed sit on black earth that contrasted with the waters of the sound and the gray sky behind it. When she had spotted the castle from the ferry on her arrival, the clouds had hung so low that they almost clung to the land between the water and the castle nearly obscuring her view of it. Now as the shuttle approached from the ferry terminus at Craignure, she could see its prominent outline standing alone on the land against the skies beyond. The setting sun lit the West-facing side as she neared showing the wear of centuries on the face of the building.
Emmy’s guidebook also told her the clan MacLean had lived on this land since the 14th century and had remained in that castle until they were forced to leave during the Jacobite rebellion when they retreated to the Treshnsih Isles. After several years of military occupation, the castle had been burned in 1756 and Duart remained a ruin until it was bought back by the family in the mid-1800s and restored.
Now the castle was a fine example of medieval architecture; glorious, wonderful…
And open to the public from May until October.
What a vacation this had been so far! After four years of brain-numbing undergraduate work, two years of medical school full of rotations through various medical specialties and four more years of harrowing residency with 48-hour shifts and no personal life, it was long past time for Emmy to have a vacation. If there was a person on earth who ever thought that doctors didn’t earn every penny of their billings then that person was dead wrong. As a resident, Emmy had hung by her fingertips on the lowest rung of the ladder. She was only just above those medical students rotating through the departments and just below the lab rats. She had been the gopher, grunt and dumping ground for every job no one else wanted to do.
It had been four years since Emmy had even been on a date. Not a single date! Not one and she now felt more sexless than one would think was humanly possible. She had brought it on herself, though. She had heard the tales, seen the proof and knew better than to encourage a relationship during her residency. With all the long hours, overnights and demands associated with a medical residency, the future MD’s had one of the highest divorce rates by occupation in the US. They were only nudged from the top spot by naval submariners who spent up to six months at a time under water and out of contact.
Like a submariner, Emmy certainly felt like she had been underwater for a long while now. But here and now, she had made time for herself. Though several of the other residents had invited her to join them on their vacations to the Virgin Islands and Hawaii, Emmy had chosen to take her vacation alone. Most of her friends couldn’t fathom that she wanted to do the UK in the chill of fall, but Emmy was determined to enjoy her alone time to the fullest extent before starting her new career.
A little “me” time was her explanation.
She had always been comfortable in her own company.
The shuttle rolled to a stop outside the outer gates of the ancient castle, the keep Emmy thought it was called, and she accepted the driver’s hand as the old man assisted her from the bus. “Wow, Donell,” she addressed the old man who had thus far been chatty and informative on the short trip from Craignure, “it is just as amazing as you said.” She was the only passenger today, most likely because it was the last day the castle was open to the public for the season. The weather was turning colder and most tourists were long gone from the area by this time. Donell had probably just been happy for someone to show up and wanted to make her feel welcome. He had entertained her along the way with outrageous tales of the region’s past conflicts that he had surely embellished on to make them more exciting.
The brisk October breeze had Emmy clutching her short velvet blazer closed as she turned to the old castle. The heavy cloud coverage did nothing to relieve the somber façade of the castle. The walls were dark and crumbling a bit. It was showing its age, Emmy thought, but was magnificent nonetheless growing from the rocky cliffs to tower five stories high at its hipped roofline.
“She’s a bonny lass, is Duart,” the old Scot commented with a thick brogue Emmy enjoyed. In fact, between his gravelly voice and his appearance of the clichéd old-timer, it was easy to picture him at the local tavern taking a pint or two. His haggard, weathered features fell into more folds than a Shar Pei. His dark eyes so deeply recessed that Donell almost gave an impression of unfathomable age. An ancient Scotsman in his battered cap and coat. A bit clichéd but the perfect person for the tourists to sidle up to for a picture or two.
Swinging her large tote and smaller purse over her shoulder together, she glanced up at the castle. Too bad the weather wasn’t cooperating, she thought; a bit of sunshine would probably do wonders for the old place. Digging in her tote for her camera she swung it up to take a picture.
Look at the old girl, Emmy thought, so beaten down with age. “I’ll bet it was really something a hundred years ago when it was first restored,” she commented aloud.
“Restoration was completed about 115 years ago,” Donell offered leaning back against the fender of the shuttle with his arms crossed over his chest. “But you wouldn’t have wanted to see it then.”
“Why not?” Emmy asked absently as she took a few more shots.
The old man shook his head with a soft cluck of his tongue. “They were not happy times lass. Tragic, the old laird and his family.”
“Really?” She glanced back at the building with a sigh. “What happened?”
“Family troubles mostly, bad luck.”
“Still, I would so love to have been there to see it at its shining moment. How wonderful it would be…” her voice was wistful.
“You think so?”
Emmy nodded firmly. “I know so!”
“Should be careful, lass, what you wish for.”
“Wishing for simpler times? Where’s the harm in that?” she asked absentmindedly taking several more shots of the castle.
“Ye think old days were simple times, lassie?”
“Of course they were!”
“Hmmm…” Donell scratched his stubbled chin and considered her thoughtfully. “Would ye care to take a wager on that?”
“What do you mean?”
The sun came out from behind the clouds then and seemed to reflect for a moment off the ancient stones, bringing dark spots to her eyes. She shut her eyes tightly as a dizzying wave of déjà vu hit her, as if she had been here before. As she looked back at the castle, the sun washed across the stone embattlements as if awakening the castle from a long sleep. It seemed as if the years melted away from the building as the sun beamed across it, crumbling block smoothed, discolored stones became brighter. Well, that was weird.
“Did you see that?” she turned back to ask Donell only to discover the driver had already left. She hadn’t even heard him pull away! Humph! When did he do that? She had just been talking to him! She hoped he would remember to come back and get her.
Studying the castle again, Emmy thoug
ht a little sunshine did do wonders for the castle. Perhaps she had just imagined the aged appearance on her arrival as a reflection of the dreary weather. After all it had been rebuilt around the middle of the nineteenth century. Right now, it did in fact look like new construction. Funny, she would have thought after 150 years that the structure would have aged a bit more than this.
Tucking her camera away, she approached the outer wall and laid a hand against the stones absorbing the cold dampness. Weird, she thought again as a new sound coming from the road caught her attention. Shading her eyes, she watched a rider on horseback approached from the west at a fast pace. Though the setting sun at his back obscured the face of the rider in its shadows, her jaw sagged unconsciously at the dramatic picture of the man and horse approaching the castle. The complete vision was like something out of romance novel or maybe a surreal shampoo commercial. Dark hair rippling back from a strong, tanned face. Wind pulling at the open collar of his shirt exposing a tanned chest and muscular pecs. A kilt, no less, flapping against the long legs gripping the horse’s sides.
Such a pure physical rush of lust swept over Emmy that she swore right then and there that she would never again go so long without a date much less five years without sex at all.
The horse came to a rearing halt not ten feet from her startling her as she leaped back out of harm’s way. As the hooves landed on the ground, the rider swung himself to the ground and strode toward her his eyes blazing with heat and anger, slapping off dust as he walked, no! Actually stomped toward her.
Mel Gibson, Christopher Lambert, Adrian Paul – those movie highlanders had nothing on this man! He was just that. All man! He wore his kilt over an ivory shirt. His legs bare and heavily muscled, taller by nearly a head over her 5’8”, broad shoulders, dark hair…the whole masculine package was simply overwhelming. A god descended from the heavens. Emmy knew she’d never seen such a vision in her life and was unlikely to again.
She stumbled back several steps as he stalked forward. He easily caught her by the shoulders nonetheless and glared down at her. “Altachadh-beatha,” his deep brogue bit out the foreign words.
Partially terrified, largely enthralled she did the only thing that seemed appropriate.
Emmy fainted.
Chapter 2
Finally willing her eyes to open, Emmy found herself lying on a large comfortable bed, the dark night broken only by a small oil lamp on the table next to her. Lying in the darkness, she reflected on the humiliation of fainting in front of such a gorgeous guy. How impressive it must have looked! She thought sarcastically. She would never go eight years without a vacation again!
Maybe it had all been a hallucination. Yes, a hallucination brought on by fatigue, stress and anxiety. Yes, of course. All brilliantly clear in retrospect. She’d done a horrific six week rotation in psychiatry after all. Six awful weeks at the mental hospital where God checked in daily and Al Capone and Joan of Arc resided alive and well. It was simple anxiety, stress brought on by nerves, lack of sleep. Perhaps she would prescribe herself some Paxil or Xanax…
Her internal conversation ended in a very verbal shriek as she rolled over and saw a man…THE man sitting quietly in a chair next to the bed.
“What the..!!!” she sputtered as she jumped literally off the bed. “Ohmigod, I thought I was imagining you! Who are you? What are you doing in here? Go! Leave before I call the Bobbies or whatever they are called up here! You just can’t walk into my hotel room…wait this isn’t my hotel room! Where I am? Who are you? Go away!”
A large male finger reached out and nudged up her chin effectively closing her mouth and stopping the rambling flow of w
“Charming, my dear, is this the way we’re going to play it then?” His accent was a thick and deep Sean Connery rumbling…and so utterly sexy that Emmy was for a moment disarmed. A little shudder passed through her. She shook the feeling off and tucked it away to examine later.
“What are you talking about?” She asked after shoving his hand away from her chin roughly, a move that clearly surprised him.
“Amusing,” he murmured leaning back in the chair and rubbed a forefinger absently across his full, appealing lower lip. “Did you not think I would recognize you, Heather love?”
“Obviously you’ve got the wrong girl, Scotty. My name is Emmy.”
“Could you not think of a more clever alias, my dear? Not a terribly original variation of Emeline Heather.”
Emmy rolled her eyes. “Okay. Whatever. Point remains you got the wrong girl. Go back to the mother ship.” Too bad that he was absolutely round the bend, she thought. He honestly had to be the most incredibly appealing man she had ever laid eyes on and that voice! It alone sent little vibrations of lust a long her every nerve ending.
She rounded the bed to the safety of the opposite side attempting to create a barrier between them. Noticing her blazer and scarf at the end of the bed, she snatched them up slipping them back on. “What time is it anyway?” Hurrying over to the door she ran her hand over the wall next to it. “And where is the damn light switch?”
“The what?” he asked.
“The switch? Or do you call it something else? Oh, hell, just turn on the damn lights, for crying out loud!” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him in turn.
“You have developed a most foul mouth while you’ve been gone, my dear.”
Emmy threw her hands over her head. “I am not your dear OR your Heather!”
“Did you think I would forget you even if it’s been ten years since you left?” That voice was doing things to her again. Despite her apprehension, she felt every word with a quiver deep in her chest. It was disconcerting to say the least. She needed to get away from here before she did something stupid.
“Left? Read my lips, I-have-never-been-to-Scotland-before.” She spoke slowly enunciating each word while making a mouthing motion with her hand like a puppet. “Never. Comprende? You got the wrong girl. I am Emmy MacKenzie,” she squared her shoulders. “Dr. Emily MacKenzie.”
He stared at her in disbelief for a moment then to her surprise burst out in laughter. A warm, rich laughter that would have been incredibly attractive from a man not quite so insane.
Disgusted with him and herself, Emmy wrenched the door open and left the room, determined to find the castle’s caretaker and get that madman away from her.
Emmy clomped down the hall to the massive stone staircase that led to the floor below. The thought crossed her mind that it looked even more authentic than the brochure or website had seemed. Where was the office? Surely, the caretaker would have some sort of office or desk. A tall, lean man in a dark suit entered from the adjacent room. “Can I help ye, lass?” he asked in a heavy burr.
“Thank goodness,” Emmy said throwing up her hands as she rushed toward him. “Are you the manager? There is a strange man upstairs who was harassing me and I’d like to report him.”
“A strange man, ye say?” the man looked utterly befuddled by her statement. “Only the laird and his family are here in the castle, lass. Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”
“No! There really is someone up there!” she insisted and hissed to him, “He keeps insisting that I’m his wife!”
The man’s eyes crinkled in amusement as they shifted up to the stairs behind her. “It seems the lass is having a hard time remembering you, Connor.”
Emmy spun around to face the man from her room above her on the landing watching with an amused grin on his lips. “It does seem to be the case, Ian. Perhaps you should reintroduce us.”
“Lassie, meet Lord Connor James Lachlan MacLean the Second, Earl of Stratheclyde, Laird of the Clan MacLean, Lord of Duart Castle and you’ll be remembering, yer husband.”
“I am not his wife!”
“Aye, ye are!” both men replied in unison.
Connor MacLean stared down at his long-lost wife momentarily enthralled by the beauty before him heightened by the high temper she was in. Her hair was lighter than he reme
mbered and her figure fuller in all the best places, but it was definitely she. Nor was she the frigid young thing he recalled from ten years past. Time had brought an assuredness to her manner and clearly enough self-confidence not to fear an argument or confrontation with him for she had actually slapped his hand away! And her temper brought a high color to her cheeks that was unbelievably alluring.
He tamped down the beginnings of an arousal and tried to remember his anger. The humiliation she had dealt him all those years ago. It should not matter that she had a fullness to her lips that begged him to forgive and forget. To take them with his own. He could not forget who she was.
She paced the hall with unconcealed agitation. Her stride manly in the trousers she wore. Strange that, Heather had been one for high fashion.
“Oh my God,” she entreated again in a most sacrilegious way, “if you treat all your guests in this fashion, you’ll be out of business in no time!” Rubbing her hands over her face, Emmy tried to remember what she had learned about dealing with the mentally unstable. Damn, she never, ever wanted to go into that field, why would she retain any working knowledge on the subject? That laird had her totally frazzled.
“Connor, right? Okay, Connor, let’s compromise here,” she tried in a low soothing voice. “I’d be willing to accept that I must bear a remarkable resemblance to your wife, if you will just for one tiny moment consider that I might just not be her.”
“I might have considered that if you weren’t here, now exactly ten years from the day you left.” Connor answered. How long was she thinking she could preserve this denial of her identity? He wasn’t sure whether he should be angered or amused by her tenacity.
“Ten years later you think you’d know me? Her? Get real! I could not see my own mother for ten years and not recognize her. What makes you so sure?” she challenged.
A female squeal sounded from a nearby doorway. As Emmy turned, a young woman who looked remarkably like her yet white as a ghost, whispered “Gracious” and fainted promptly into the other man’s arms.
A Laird for All Time Page 1
