Eyes flashing with a mother’s protective rage, Rachel shoved her way between Latharn and the snarling hag. Resting her hand on Latharn’s chest, Rachel stood nose to nose with the crone. “Surely, you don’t believe in such an outlandish tale? The girl could not possibly find herself pregnant in the way you just described.”
The crone hitched her way even closer to Rachel, her dark eyes narrowed into calculating slits. Hissing her reply, her foul breath nearly colored the air around her as she spit through rotted teeth with every word. “Do ye call me a liar, Lady MacKay? Do ye slur the name of Leanna MacKinnett and the honored MacKinnett clan?”
The hall crackled with the conflicting forces of emotional energy as lightning once again splintered the electrified air. Thunder roared, shaking the walls until debris rained down from the rafters.
Rachel circled the wizened old hag. “I’ve nothing to say about Leanna MacKinnett or the good name of the MacKinnett clan. I defend my son’s honor against your lies. I challenge your slander against an honorable MacKay son!”
With a wave of her hand and a narrowed eye, the hag halted Rachel where she stood. The spell she cast silenced Rachel’s voice and paralyzed her body. Sliding around Rachel, she stabbed a gnarled finger into the middle of Latharn’s chest. A demonic smile curled across her face as she sidled her body closer. With a flourish of one hand, she withdrew a ball of swirling glass from the folds of her tattered robe. Her cackling voice rose to a maniacal shriek as she lifted the ball for all to see. “Do ye deny lying with every maiden whose head ye happened to turn? Do ye deny withholding your heart from every woman in which ye’ve ever planted your cock?”
Latharn’s voice fell to a low, guttural whisper as dread gripped him in his gut. “Who are ye, woman? What is it ye seek from me?” An icy premonition, fear of what was to come, stole the very breath from his lungs. Latharn knew in the very depths of his soul there had never been a Leanna MacKinnett. This wasn’t judgment for ruining some woman or the name of her clan. The stench of something much more sinister hung in the air. It rankled with every breath he took.
With a crazed laugh, the shriveled old woman transformed before his eyes. Her dry, tangled hair lengthened into flowing black tresses. Her sallow, wrinkled skin smoothed into creamy silk. Her bent frame straightened, blossoming into a shapely woman, breasts full, hips round and firm.
Her eyes remained black as the darkest obsidian, and full red lips curled into a seductive, malicious smile. Her voice became a throaty, honey-laced melody, deadly in its hypnotic tone. “Do ye remember me now, my beautiful Highlander? We were together once, you and I. We were lovers, but now I come here as your judge and jailer. And I have found ye guilty of withholding your heart from the only one who truly deserves your love.”
“Deardha?” Latharn recoiled from the seductress bearing down upon him.
As she thrust the deep violet globe into his face, Deardha’s voice echoed across the hall. “Aye, Latharn. Ye remember me now? Listen closely to my words. I condemn ye to this eternal prison. I banish ye to this crystal hell. Ye are far too powerful a charmer of magic to be toying with women’s hearts. No longer will I allow ye to sow your seed with any poor fool who warms your bed. If ye willna pledge your heart to me, then ye shall wish that ye were dead.” As Deardha uttered the spell, blinding white energy swirled from the tips of her long pale fingers. The shimmering tendrils flowed and curled, constricting around Latharn’s body.
With an enraged scream, Rachel broke free of Deardha’s binding spell. Forcing her way between Latharn and the witch, she clawed at Deardha’s face.
“Mother, no!” Latharn roared, fighting against the tightening bands of the curse meshed about his body. “Ye must get away from her. Save yourself!” He couldn’t breathe. His heartbeat slowed and the room darkened around him. This must be what it felt like to die. Latharn struggled to focus his eyes.
The conflicting forces threw Rachel across the room as Deardha’s field of malevolence blasted against the walls. The winds howled and roared as the demonic chaos ripped throughout the castle. Then all fell silent just as swift as the storm had risen and a fog of sorrow settled over the room. Latharn shuddered awake to an icy smoothness pressed against his spine. Finding his arms freed, he flexed his hands, wincing as he rolled his bruised and battered shoulders. Where was he? He lifted his head, staring about in disbelief at the see-through globe enclosed around his body.
Everyone eased their way out from where they’d taken cover: they crawled out from under tables, from behind overturned benches. Eyes wide with fear, they glanced about the room to see if the attack was over.
Latharn spread his hands on the curved, cold glass. What were they doing? Why did they mill around him like he wasn’t there? It was as though he sat among their feet on the floor. What the hell were they doing?
The serving lads rushed to re-light the torches lining the walls. The scattered clansmen and villagers rose from the floor, checking each other for injuries. Tables and benches lay about the room like scattered rushes strewn across the floor. Tapestries and tartans hung in tattered strips, nothing left on the standards but bits of colored shreds.
Laird MacKay shoved his way through the wreckage to his wife. Rachel lay in a crumpled heap beside the hearth, her weakened breath barely moving her chest.
“Mother!” Latharn shouted against the glass. If she was dead it would be no one’s fault but his own. Standing, Latharn stretched to see if Rachel would move.
Laird MacKay cradled her against his chest, pressing his lips to her forehead until she opened her eyes.
Rachel struggled to lift her head, her eyes widening with disbelief as she looked across the room directly toward Latharn. Lifting her hand, her voice cracked with pain as she keened her sorrow to all who remained in the great hall. “My baby!” she sobbed. Waving her trembling hand toward her son, she buried her face in Caelan’s chest.
Latharn closed his eyes against the sight of his mother rocking herself against her pain. As her wails grew louder, he covered his ears and roared to drown out the sound.
Chapter Two
Washington University, St. Louis, MO, 2010
“Professor Buchanan, do I get extra credit for fixing you up with him? You know, the fine piece of man we met? That guy we met at last month’s conference?”
Nessa Buchanan peered over the top of her laptop, scowling from behind the pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. “If you were one of my students, Ms. Sullivan, you would’ve just failed the semester for hooking me up with that so-called fine piece of man.”
“Oh come on, Nessa. He couldn’t have been that bad.” Trish sank her teeth into the apple she’d been juggling as she sauntered around Nessa’s office.
After she tossed her glasses onto the desk, Nessa steepled her fingers beneath her chin.
“Trish, do you remember his lecture on the existence of different realities and their definitions as determined by any one individual’s perceptions?”
“Vaguely.” Trish nodded as she munched another bite of apple, and thumbed through the exams on Nessa’s desk.
“Well, it appears that his perception of all night long is my reality of maybe—and I’m really stressing the maybe part—of about, oh, maybe ten minutes.”
Nessa stretched across the desk and slammed her hand down on top of the pile of exams. “And after the questionable ten minutes of all night long…he started snoring!” Snoring didn’t begin to describe it. He’d practically rattled the windows out of her apartment.
With a grimace, Trish shuddered and tossed her half-eaten apple into the trash. Wiping her hands on the tight seat of her jeans, Trish shrugged a shoulder. “Come on, Nessa. Was he really all that bad? He seemed kind of nice at the conference.”
“He farts in his sleep.” Not looking up, Nessa shoved folders of exams into her backpack in a futile attempt at unearthing her disappearing desk. The guy had been a veritable methane gas factory.
“I see,” Trish o
bserved with a sigh. “Well that settles it since we both know you never fart.” Trish groaned out loud, as Nessa handed her another stack of exams that wouldn’t fit in her already over-stuffed backpack.
“And he sucks his teeth,” Nessa continued, holding out two more piles of papers toward Trish.
“Before or after he farts?” Trish asked as she juggled the packets of over-sized files.
She grunted. “After he eats.” Dragging her backpack over into her chair, she huffed as she kneed it shut and wrestled the straining zipper.
Trish backed away from the desk with a defeated shrug. “Okay! I get the message. No more fix-ups. I’ll just leave you to your fantasies about your nocturnal Highlander.”
Nessa stopped grappling with her overstuffed backpack long enough to point her finger at Trish. “I will have you know my dreams of my ancient Scotsman have made me what I am today.”
The youngest PhD in Archeology at Washington University, Nessa prided herself on the position she’d attained in her field. She’d worked long and hard to get this far, untold hours of solitude, sweat, and tears. She also knew the reason she’d achieved such a lofty position. Nessa owed it all to the inexplicable dreams she’d had since the summer she’d turned eighteen.
She’d never forget that horrible summer or the catastrophe of her eighteenth birthday. She’d spent summer vacation mooning over the muscle-bound exchange student staying with her mother’s best friend.
Nessa realized now she had grown up an insecure child. And no wonder, the way her thoughtless parents had always maligned her with constant criticism. “Develop what little mind you’ve got, Nessa. As plain as you are that’s all you’re ever going to have.” Those words had been their constant mantra for as long as she could remember.
However, her mother had noticed Nessa’s infatuation with Victor and had plotted a little birthday surprise. The night of Nessa’s party, Victor attended her every move. Everywhere she turned, Victor was there. Nessa was delirious. She thrilled in his touch. She couldn’t believe he really liked her. But at the end of the party, the delightful fantasy shattered when Nessa saw her mother hand Victor a check. Her mother then bestowed a pitying smile upon her and told her happy birthday.
Nessa sobbed herself to sleep that night, the night she’d had the first dream. He had appeared as though in answer to her silent cry of despair, this man, this great, hulking warrior the size of a mountain. Soul-piercing eyes glimmered, so green and haunting Nessa felt adrift in a sea of pines. High cheekbones, aquiline nose… She sighed. His features struck her breathless. He had the reddish blond hair that bespoke of Viking ancestry, the strong Norse genetics forged when the marauding invaders overtook weaker villages and sowed their ancestral seeds. At eighteen years of age, Nessa didn’t know much about men. But she knew enough to realize this one was pure perfection.
He’d never spoken to her, not a single time. The first time he’d appeared, he’d stood a few steps away as though he didn’t wish to frighten her. His gaze had swept across her body, while the faintest of smiles had pulled at one corner of his mouth. The understanding in his eyes had pushed the loneliness from her heart. He’d reached out to her with the barest touch, brushing the back of his fingers across her arm. The trust had telegraphed like electricity across her skin. At last, she’d found someone who wouldn’t humiliate her.
As she’d grown older, his repeated visits had changed, evolved into something much more. The dreams had become a subtle courting, a gentle winning of her heart. He’d found clever ways to draw her close, pursue her with a sensitive glance. Always intuitive, he appeared when she needed him. He never pushed her but never failed to respond whenever her subconscious called out. Her Highlander soothed her with his silent caress. He strengthened her with his touch.
She didn’t realize her nocturnal visitor was a true Highlander by birth until one of her history classes touched upon the turbulence of Scotland. She’d always loved his unusual garb but had never placed it until one day when she’d opened to a particular chapter in her history book. His kilted plaid fit snug about his narrow hips as though it were part of his body. His ancient claymore hung at his side as a silent warning. His hand often rested on the hilt as though he found comfort in its touch.
When he’d taken her hand and guided it over the ancient crest pinned at his shoulder, Nessa had fallen hopelessly in love with the man and all things relating to the Scot.
After that, she had been a soul possessed to find out everything she could about Scotland’s past. She’d spent months trying to find the elusive crest, in the hopes of identifying her Highlander’s clan. She’d found some that were close, but to her dismay, she’d never located an identical match. That’s when she’d decided he was just her fantasy. At least if he was only in her head, it meant he could never leave her. Her Highlander would always be hers.
Even though she’d accepted deep in her heart her Highlander couldn’t be real, Scotland remained the first love of her life. She studied its history with relentless passion, from its bloody past to its determined people, and how it had changed the course of civilization through the ages. The only drawback of her single-minded obsession, and a rather annoying side effect of her dreams, was the fact that any male met during her waking hours didn’t quite measure up against her perfect nocturnal Highlander.
Nessa blamed her continued solitude on the fact that apparently her parents had been right all along. She must be too homely for any man to consider taking home to meet the folks. That is, any man worth having…any man like the one in her dreams. There were plenty of them out there ready and willing to participate in messing up the sheets. As long as you weren’t too picky, and had approximately ten minutes you didn’t mind donating to a total waste of time.
“Nessa! You’re doing it again!” Trish dropped a stack of books on the floor.
Nessa jumped, jolted from her reverie.
“I mention dream dude and there you go, off into Nessa-land again.”
Fixing Trish with a threatening glare, Nessa tucked her reading glasses into the neck of her shirt. “You drop my textbooks like that again and I’m gonna recommend you for the Research Department! I haven’t forgotten how much you just love disappearing into the archives for days—and nights—at a time.”
An opened letter on the desk caught her attention and Nessa’s irritation with Trish vanished. “You’ve got to see this! Take a look. Are you up for an extended trip to Scotland?” Scooping up the paper, she pushed it under Trish’s nose, then slung the groaning bag over her shoulder. That multi-folded piece of paper held her magic genie. Her wishes were finally granted.
Trish shook her head as she unfolded the paper. “Come on, Nessa. You know I can’t afford airfare to Scotland right now. I’m still up to my eyeballs in student loans from getting my masters degree.”
Scanning over the well-worn letter, Trish wrinkled her nose as she read. Pinching the page where her reading had stopped, Trish’s face grew thoughtful with what she’d just digested. “Where exactly is Durness?”
Excitement bubbled inside Nessa as though she was a can of carbonated cola. All of her studying and long hours of solitude had led her to the land of her dreams. “Northwestern tip of Scotland. The Highlands. It’s finally happened, Trish! I finally got the grant!”
Trish’s grin spread into an excited smile as she glanced up again from farther down the page. “This is it? You finally got the grant from the University of Glasgow? This is the one you’ve applied for three years in a row?”
Snatching the letter out of Trish’s hands, Nessa waved it in the air. “You got it, my friend. I finally got the grant. I’ve received the funding to go on an extended archeological study of the Durness sites and the surrounding areas of Balnakiel. All I have to do is register all of my findings with the University of Glasgow. Anything I find will be tagged by their history department for use in further studies. And since you’re my assistant, your expenses are just as fully paid as mine.”
&nbs
p; “Well then, woo hoo!” Trish hooted at the top of her lungs with a jab of her fist in the air. “That’s fantastic! You’ve been trying to get this grant forever. And Scotland…what is it you call it after you’ve had about a half a beer? The land of your heart’s desire? Hey! Maybe you’ll meet the great-great-grandson of the guy in your dreams and finally have a sex life worth talking about.”
Great. She could always count on Trish to put things in perspective. Nessa laughed as she folded the well-worn letter and forced it in an outside pocket of the backpack. “Tell me, Trish. Why is it you can remember things like that but you can never remember what we’ve named our database files? And is sex all you think about? I think you’re the one who needs to find a guy worth taking to bed.”
With a wicked wink, Trish patted her shapely rump before she scooped up an armload of folders off the desk. “I’m not the one who has a problem with snoring, farting, ten-minute teeth suckers taking up space between my sheets.”
Chapter Three
Finally. Almost six hundred years in this accursed prison. Some would call it an eternity. The reward for his infinite patience was about to be received. He had turned her in the direction of the sphere and she was bound for the land of his birth. His freedom, the wife and children he’d always dreamed of having, all were within his grasp.
Latharn stripped to the waist. His kilt hung low about his hips as he worked with his ancient sword. The massive claymore swung like an extension of his arms. The hilt as good as melded to the palms of his hands. Latharn smoothed his fingers across the cold, hard steel with the gentleness of a lover’s caress. The blade had been his ever since his father had presented it when he had become a man. Slashing through the air with tireless rhythm, his body and soul tingled with the heat of the ancient dance.
Beyond A Highland Whisper Page 2