On a windswept cliff above San Francisco Bay in 2013, 27 year-old Andra Cameron, the last member of her family, prepares to scatter her family's ashes to the wind. An earthquake catapults her to the Scottish Highlands in 1705. She wakes, aching and bloody, to the sound of horses thundering through the trees. Terrified and with no other options, Andra accompanies these rugged warriors. She can't deny the undeniable attraction that ignites between herself and the handsome but gruff Kendrick. Will she trust him to provide protection in the harsh reality of 18th century Scotland and with her secret, or will she find a way to return home to the 21st century?
Laird Kendrick MacLean and his men, escaping a recent skirmish with their worst nemeses, clan Cameron and their Sassenach allies, are shocked to find an injured, unprotected female in their path. How could she not know her kin and how had she landed in the middle of the wilderness alone? His men suspect she's a spy or a witch. Still, Kendrick will not abandon an injured woman, even if she speaks unusually accented English, and her name is Cameron. Will he ransom her to others or will their closed hearts open to each other? Although he questions her every utterance, this feisty, outspoken woman inflames his desire like no other.
FINGING MY HIGHLANDER
Aleigha Siron
Published by Tirgearr Publishing
Author Copyright 2016 Aleigha Siron
Cover Art: Cora Graphics - www.coragraphics.it
Editor: Sharon Pickrel
Proofreader: B Whary
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This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
DEDICATION
I dedicate this book to my husband, Robert, the best partner, helpmate, and genius techie, who weathered my tantrums about the evils of technology every time I hit a glitch or crashed the computer.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wish to thank all the friends and family who championed my writing career through its many twists and turns over the years. You know who you are.
I owe a very special thank you to one of the many "nieces of my heart," Jenny Donadio, for her steadfast encouragement and early organizational assistance. Your vote of confidence from the "younger generation" was and still is a warm hug.
To Faye McGay, my long-time friend, for her aide in the first of many edits.
And to Chess Edwards, the most centered Life Coach on earth, who helped open the doors more fully to my creative and meditative processes.
Praise and thanks to Kemberlee Shortland and the folks at Tirgearr Publishing for redirecting me when I went off track. Your early guidance resulted in stronger character development as well as a much-needed boost of encouragement to keep working on the book.
Finally, a special thank you to the fans and lovers of romance who believe it is always possible to find that "happy ever after" ending.
FINDING MY HIGHLANDER
Aleigha Siron
Chapter One
Modern Day, San Francisco
A thick bank of fog rose above the horizon swiftly advancing toward the cliff where Andra stood, the wild and windblown sea below. She snuggled into her mother’s cloak. Barely a memory of her mother remained, but she always felt her presence when wrapped in the familiar wool. The Celtic embellishments stitched along its hem matched the filigree on her mother’s sapphire ring, now worn on Andra’s left ring finger.
The heady tang of ocean air and wind-torn cypress and juniper that grew in twisted profusion on the ridge and cliffs north of Golden Gate Park penetrated her meditation. A smell so familiar and healing, it ushered in thoughts of earlier times when she would cling to her father’s hand and climb the rocky escarpment while he spun magic tales of Scotland, Highlanders and knights of mystery and courage.
Her father always insisted their family’s long history dated to the early kings of Scotland, but Andra considered that idea pure fantasy. She touched the Celtic cross at her neck with its embossed dove images at the four stations, worn in remembrance of a child she had lost several years ago. Now, at twenty-seven years of age, she must say farewell to her father, the last of her family. Not yet though, not yet.
A deep sigh rippled through her. “Well, Dad, here we are. I took a leave of absence from the pharmacy; Bill can handle things for a while. I’ll depart tonight on the overnight flight to your beloved Scotland. Honestly, I’m not sure I’m ready for this final journey with you, Mom, and my precious Danny, but it was my final promise to you. We Camerons always keep our promises, a lesson you instilled and I remember. So, go I must, to scatter these ashes in our ancestor’s land. Who knows, maybe I’ll finally find my very own Highlander, as you had always hoped.”
With a heavy heart, she sat down on a maroon and tan wool plaid. The sudden, strong scent of juniper touched by salty air floated across her tongue. She opened her mother’s old, brocade carpetbag and removed a maplewood funeral urn. Cradling it in her lap, she traced the trinity knot engraved on the smooth wooden surface, then lovingly splayed her hand over the urn containing her family’s commingled remains.
She reached into her bag and removed a clear box containing a black sgian dubh. The beautiful, sheathed dagger had a long history in the Highlands. Its name coming from the hilt made of hard, jet-black, bog oak, but also because warriors wore it in a covert location, strapped under the arm or tucked into a boot. This one, with a silver pommel cap and silver tip on the leather sheath, belonged to her great, great (too many greats to count,) grandfather from her father’s side, or so the legend went.
As a young girl, she had begged her father to allow her to help clean it. Finally, when he decided she understood the proper reverence as he often reproved, he allowed her to polish the silver and steel, and oil the leather and wooden case where it was stored. It became a cherished ritual shared for many years.
“Dad, can you believe it, I even managed to obtain clearance to carry the sgian dubh into the cabin with me as long as it’s in an air-sealed container. The museum at Castle Ruadhstone has agreed to house the artifact for display during my stay in Scotland. You would not believe the weeks of wrangling and writing it took to obtain permission.”
Andra pulled out the blue, green, and heather plaid, neatly folded and wrapped in a linen covering. The fine piece of woven wool came from her grandmother on her mother’s side. She ran her fingers over the soft fabric thinking of the many years it had passed from generation to generation. Her grandmother had told her its age equaled that of the sgian dubh resting in its box by her lap. What complicated histories. She never could keep them all straight, but loved their stories just the same. Without a doubt, there were many embellishments from generation to generation; lending the tales a mythical air and retaining only the thinnest thread of truth. Now, she was the last of once proud and extensive families, at least as far as she knew.
The fog was thickening, and the wind picked up. Andra stood and carefully removed the cap from the urn. She tilted it slightly so only a small measure of ashes sifted into the wind and murmured softly, “Dad, in this place where you and mother fell in love, where I was born, where Danny drew his few precious breaths, I leave this dusting of ash so something of each of you will remain here with me upon my return.”
A gust of wind took the trickle of ashes over the headlands and out to sea.
She slid to the ground and closed the lid. The ruby nestled in the raised bevel of her dad’s ring, worn on her right middle finger, flashed when a prism of light struck through the clouds. It seemed the moment should be an epiphany of sorts, but of what she didn’t know. She rubbed her thumb over the intricate Celtic knots that covered the band and choked back tears.
A suffocating weight stopped her breath, as though one of the boulders on the hill behind had slipped its mooring and crashed against her breast. The air around her felt thick and wavering. Her stomach roiled as she replaced the urn in the aged carpetbag. Before she finished repacking the remaining items, the earth beneath her shifted and rolled dizzyingly.
“Damn, another earthquake!” Reaching to brace against the tree at her back, she searched the cliff edge for possible danger from falling rocks. The air shimmered as the rumbling grew stronger, a loud roar filled her head, and a dark chasm opened beneath her. Thrown into a whirlwind, her body stretched and tumbled feeling both weightless and dense as iron at the same time. The atmosphere sizzled and cracked, as though a great heaving beast awakened. The air around her grew heavy enough to crush her bones. Surely, she was dying. Excruciating pain penetrated every fiber of her being until everything swirled and blanked out.
Chapter Two
Andra came around slowly. Her head ached and felt wet and sticky. A wave of nausea swept over her when she sat up. Though not usually squeamish, she thought she might throw up when she touched the lump on her forehead. Her hand came away bloody and blood trickled down the side of her face and dripped off her chin. The sgian dubh lay on the plaid under her, its Plexiglas box smashed. Her side throbbed where she must have landed on it. She rolled onto her knees and took slow, deep breaths through her nose, blowing out through her mouth trying to calm her shaking body. Aside from the lump on her head and blood flowing down her face, a dark foreboding gripped her.
“Duh? What do you think is wrong! You smashed your skull on the bloody boulder you’re leaning against. And, I’m talking to myself, again.” Friends and family frequently chided her for the constant singing or talking diatribes she engaged in with herself.
That wasn’t the problem though. Something else was strange, very strange. She must have been out for a while because last she remembered it was early afternoon but now, twilight descended. A deep feeling of disquiet settled over her, and the hairs bristled across the back of her neck. She brushed away the broken pieces of plastic and grabbed the sgian dubh.
“Damn, damn, and double damn. I’m going to miss my plane and this gash probably needs stitches.” Her vision fuzzy, she tried to orient herself. A rich scent of heather and herbs and damp earth filled her nose. No boat whistles pierced the air. No sirens shrieked in the distance. No ocean scents reached her nostrils. For that matter, where was the ocean?
“What the hell! Did I just fall off the cliff? No, because then I’d be on the shore.” She shook her head. “Urrrgh, don’t do that you idiot. Don’t move, just breathe slowly.” She attempted to quell her anxiety by speaking aloud as her surroundings were entirely too quiet.
Moving her head cautiously, Andra observed a thick, dark forest that rose to the peak of the hill behind her. Dense tree growth and scrub continued down past her left beyond the boulder she leaned against and thinned out slightly in front of her. A filmy mist feathered through the trees. To her right, glimpsed through sparser forest, the ground rolled into mounded hills covered with bushy plants that smelled of heather and other unfamiliar scents. Thick, grayish-white fog swirled over the distant hills, moving like a specter in her direction.
“I must be hallucinating,” Andra groaned. “Perhaps I’m unconscious and dreaming.” Yet the ground felt solid enough. The air, heavy with mist and strong earthy scents, smelled totally unlike the briny windswept cliff where she thought she should be. She placed her hands on the ground at her sides just as a low rumbling started again.
“Another earthquake?” This quaking was not the same. Whatever the cause of this rumbling portent, it was heading toward her and coming on fast.
“What the...”Andra blinked her eyes in disbelief. It appeared as though the horsemen of the apocalypse were thundering through the trees, and she was about to be trampled under their pounding hooves. She rose up on wobbly legs, her bloodied right hand raised in front of her, the sgian dubh tightly clutched in her left hand.
The horses ground to an abrupt agitated halt. A man, dressed in a kilt, smoothly dropped to his feet even before the dappled gray beast he rode on had come to a full stop a few feet in front of her. A kilt, really. Even covered in grime he was a magnificent specimen. Close to six and a half feet tall, broad shouldered, every inch of him banded in generously honed muscle.
To his right and slightly behind stood a monstrous steed, carrying a man doubled over and tied to his saddle to prevent his plunge to the hard earth. Andra’s injuries did not compare to the grievous wounds suffered by the man bound to his horse. Two other slathering horses ridden by equally foreboding men, stood behind the man on the ground and his wounded comrade. The injured man and one of the mounted men wore kilts, like the one worn by the man standing; the other mounted man wore tight pants and a linked-metal vest with leather straps holding numerous weapons.
The air assaulted her nose with the smell of dirt, horse, sweat, and…blood. She must have taken quite a smack to her head. The images battering her brain simply wouldn’t solidify into anything resembling rational thought.
The man on the ground spoke, but she couldn’t make out his words. He spoke again. “Lass…?” His voice vibrated over her skin with a gentle, burring tone he might have used to calm a panicky horse.
“Wh…where am I? Who…who are you? Wha…what’s happening?” Her voice, breathy and hesitant, rose in pitch toward a fit of hysteria.
One of the men in the back moved forward, coming alongside the injured man. “A filthy Sassenach. She’s likely a spy.” He spat to the side, his face dark and threatening. Arms the size of thick tree branches gripped his reins. His face, streaked with dirt, sweat, and blood, wore a scowl meaner than any she’d ever seen
“Sass-Sassenach?” she whispered. She understood his derogatory reference to the English, had heard it enough in the many tales spun by her father over the years.
The giant on the ground moved slowly forward, his hand still reaching toward her while he spoke to the mean-looking one. Gaelic. They were speaking Gaelic. Though she knew a few passing words, mostly curses and a few endearments, she was certainly not proficient enough to speak intelligently or grasp their quick pattern of speech.
Her gut gripped, her head throbbed. She closed her eyes, wishing the hellish nightmare away. When she opened them again, nothing had changed.
“Stop where you are,” she hissed at the man facing her. She widened her eyes, tried to focus on the scene in front of her, while glancing from one man to the other. “I know Judo,” she sputtered. She raised her pitiful dagger as if that could do anything to stop these men. The one who had called her a Sassenach growled something in a threatening tone as he inched his horse in her direction. The fourth man moved up beside the injured man’s horse.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up!” she screamed in her head. No, she’d screamed it out loud!
Thick, dark-blond hair, streaked with lighter strands from time in the sun, fell into the eyes of the man standing on the ground. He had a strong chin covered with several days’ growth, a wide forehead and high cheekbones smudged with dirt and grime. Questioning brows arched above piercing, dark-blue eyes. He stopped his approach but maintained an intense penetrating focus on her face.
He spoke over his shoulder to the mean one and issued a command. Again, she did not catch the words, but his tone left no question that he commanded the group. As he advanced ever so slowly, she matched his movement with backward steps.
“Shush, be at ease, lass. I see you’re
injured, we’ll nae harm you.”
“Leave the Sassenach, or better yet, kill her. She’ll tell our enemies we passed this way. We have no time to deal with her and must get Lorne to safety.” The mean one spoke English, scowling with obvious hostility directed at her. The quiet one said nothing but watched the others closely.
“She’s bait—a Sassenach trap!” The mean one’s horse jittered around as the man scanned the trees and hills.
Her back stiffened as if all her Scots ancestors had suddenly risen behind her. “I am no damn Sassenach. Who are you and where in the hell am I?” she screamed. “Is this some bizarre reenactment scene?” She already knew the answer to that question. The man bent over and tied to his horse had real wounds. No theatrical makeup could mimic the blood streaming down his legs, or the blood and grime streaked across the others’ clothing and limbs.
Screaming seemed to be the only way she could speak now. “My name is Andra Heather Adair Cameron, daughter of Brian Cameron and Gillian Adair, descended from the ancient kings of Scotland.” She had no idea if any of those tales of ancestry were true but what did it matter at this point. This hallucination could not be real. Surely, she’d cracked her skull, and now floated in this bizarre, nightmare realm.
All the wind left her lungs; she had screamed them clean. She dropped to the dirt, bent forward, and vomited. Humiliated, and concerned she’d suffered a concussion or worse, she found it impossible to unscramble her brain or utter another sound.
Chapter Three
Kendrick watched the lass fall to her knees and empty her innards. The head injury still trickled blood down her face. It looked serious enough to have addled her senses. He had no time to waste assessing her unexpected appearance, nor her injuries, nor her unfamiliar English dialect, nor her peculiar form of dress. They must get to their hiding place in the hills. Lorne could not survive much longer on his horse, if he survived at all.
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