“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 frill 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.
Catherine Stone’s cervical cancer was indeed preventable. While doing research for The Highlander’s Touch, I was distressed to discover the number of women who die from this disease each year. Cervical cancer is killing some 200,000 women annually, and at least 370,000 new cases are identified each year. It has been estimated that only 5 percent of women in developing countries have been screened for cervical dysplasia in the past five years, and only 40 to 50 percent in developed countries.
A simple Pap screening test performed by a gynecologist can detect cervical dysplasia in its precancerous stages. The earlier it is detected, the less invasive the treatment. An annual Pap screening test changed Catherine’s life and could change the lives of many others. We women need to take care of ourselves!
If you’d like to learn more about the Knights Templar, I suggest The History of the Knights Templar by Charles G. Addison (Adventures Unlimited Press); or The Trial of the Templars by Malcolm Barber (Cambridge University Press). For an interesting look at the mythology surrounding the Order, I recommend The Holy Grail by Norma Lorre Goodrich (HarperCollins). I tried to detail the history of the Order as accurately as possible in the face of myriad conflicting sources. My research uncovered as many references to the Templar’s involvement in the battle at Bannock Burn as sources that deny their involvement. However, the Scottish Order of the Knights Templar, associated with the area around Roslyn Chapel, is still in existence today.
The last I heard from Lisa, she
had just graduated from a local university and was preparing to go on to medical school. She was adamant I mention that she finally got to go to college.
And Circenn? After having lived for so many centuries, he is not quite as driven by a thirst for knowledge as Lisa, and instead devotes his days and nights to pleasing his woman.
Oh, and I nearly forgot—Adam insists I mention him. If you’d like to know more about him (I keep reminding him he is not the hero, so nobody cares), you may find him in my novel Beyond the Highland Mist, irritating Laird Hawk Douglas.
Better him than me.
Best wishes,
Karen
Contents
Master - Table of Contents
Kiss of the Highlander
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Dear Reader
Sources
KISS OF THE HIGHLANDER
A Dell Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Dell mass market edition published September 2001
Dell mass market reissue / June 2008
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2001 by Karen Marie Moning
* * *
Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
* * *
www.bantamdell.com
eISBN: 978-0-440-33784-3
v3.0_r1
This one’s for you, Mom.
When I raged, you listened
When I wept, you held me
When I ran away, you brought me back
When I dreamed, you believed.
Woman of immeasurable wisdom and grace
You have been all that a mother could be
And more.
“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 purchased, and when he discovered the loss come Yuletide he would be heartbroken.
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