My Scottish Summer

by Connie Brockway

  “Are your tired, lass?”

  Ann looked up into his dark eyes, the breath growing still in her throat. She recognized the look in his eyes, felt the hunger in him. A warmth kindled deep inside her, desire stirring as only he had ever awakened it. She brushed her fingertips over the smooth line of his freshly shaven jaw and rose on her tiptoes to kiss his chin. A smoldering scent of citrus and spices and man swirled through her senses, doing wicked things to her insides. Need curled around her, tugging on her vitals, drawing her to this man as though an unseen tether wrapped one to the other. She looped her arms around his neck and leaned into the warm strength of his body. “I’m never that tired, my darling.”

  DEBRA DIER

  A former manager in data processing, Debra Dier is the award-winning author of twelve novels. Although born and raised in Niagara Falls, New York, she currently resides near St. Louis, Missouri, with her husband and daughter and their Irish setter.

  Castle in the skye

  KATHLEEN GIVENS

  This is dedicated

  To Maggie,

  who took another leap of faith,

  To Peggy,

  who walked away from advertising into a whole new world,

  And to Russ,

  who will always be my hero.

  1

  “No!” shouted Larry Marks, Creative Director of L & M Advertising. He threw his sandwich wrapper on the floor and glared at her. “It’s terrible timing!”

  Maddie Breen crossed her arms over her chest and bit her tongue. At the best of times her boss was a manipulator, a workaholic who demanded eighty-hour workweeks from his staff. To be fair, Larry worked the same hours at his advertising firm, where she was Art Director, but enough was enough. She hadn’t had a vacation in three years.

  “Larry, I gave the dates to Human Resources last month. I have plane tickets, and I’m leaving Saturday. You knew about this ages ago.”

  “I didn’t think you’d really do it, Maddie. How can you leave us in a crisis?”

  “It’s not a crisis.”

  “Ever heard the word Super Bowl?”

  “That’s two words. It’s July. Most of the work is done, and we’ve got two months to fine-tune when I get back. I’ll only be gone for ten days.”

  “Ten days! The Gulf War was shorter.”

  Maddie shook her head. If only there were a trace of humor in this man. “We’re not at war, Larry,” she said evenly. “I’ve got everything covered.”

  “We’ve got the big pitch for the dot-com,” he snarled.

  “In October. I’ve already done the casting, and the artwork is ready.”

  “The radio stuff is two weeks late.”

  “That’s not my project.”

  “We’re a team, Maddie. I thought you knew that. If you leave, we’ll all work even longer hours. It’s a burden on the rest of us.”

  Maddie sighed. “Larry, I have to go.”

  “Why? To see some old geezer who was your grandfather’s friend? Why do you have to be there? Go for the weekend and come back.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why can’t someone else in your family go? Why you?”

  “Because I’m the one who is friends with Magnus’s granddaughter Sara. Because I promised.”

  “Well, unpromise.”

  “I don’t unpromise.”

  Larry waved at the staff, who were all pretending not to hear the conversation. “They’ll pay while you play. We’ll lose the account.”

  “We won’t lose the account. I’ll stay in touch; I’ll call every day.”

  Larry’s eyes narrowed as he watched her. Then he opened the drawer on his desk and handed her a cell phone. “Here. It’s one of those satellite phones. Day or night, Maddie. You have to be available day or night.”

  “I will be.”

  “You’ll never last two weeks. What the hell is there to do in Scotland? Where are you going? Skyeland or something?”

  “The Isle of Skye. Off the western coast.”

  “I’m going on record that you are taking this time against my direct orders.”

  “You approved it.”

  “I don’t remember approving it.”

  “That’s a different problem. Look, Larry, I know you’re not happy, but I’ve accrued six weeks of vacation, and I’m taking two of them. You approved it. In writing.”

  “We’ll all be working twenty-four/seven until you get back. Think of us while you’re playing with the boys in kilts,” he said peevishly before stalking off.

  Maddie leaned against the railing of the ferry and looked across the water at the jagged mountains of the Isle of Skye. The dark peaks of the Cuillins dominated the skyline before climbing into the clouds, even more breathtaking than she’d remembered. Over the sea to Skye, she thought and smiled—she wasn’t a Scottish prince fleeing for his life like in the song; she was an American on her way to a birthday party. She didn’t need to take out Magnus’s letter. Maddie knew his words by heart, had read them a hundred times since receiving it. It was a shameless maneuver, and she’d laughed when she’d read it.

  “Madeline,” he’d written. “Come to Skye. You have no choice. An old man who has loved you all your life humbly requests your presence at what may be his last celebration. Say yes. Please come and see me one more time.”

  And so she had agreed, just as he’d known she would. The invitation to his eightieth birthday party had triggered a flood of memories. She had not replied at once, wanting to go but knowing she couldn’t even consider leaving her job just now. It was impossible, she’d told herself. But then Magnus himself had written, and she knew it was just as impossible not to go. How could she say no to him?

  Her grandfather, Charles Breen, had been a paratrooper in World War II, dropped behind enemy lines in northern Italy. Separated from his unit, he’d found a wounded Magnus MacDonald hanging from a tree and had carried the Scotsman seven miles to safety. Later, when Charlie was wounded as well, the two men met in the hospital in England. And when victory in Europe was declared, Magnus brought Charlie to Skye to heal. Eventually Charlie went back to the States, but when he married, Magnus was his Best Man. And when Magnus married Anne the following year, Charlie returned the favor. Over the decades the two men had remained close friends, visiting as often as they could. When she was fifteen, Maddie spent a magical summer here with her grandparents and Magnus’s granddaughter Sara. And when Charlie died, Magnus came to the States, bringing Sara with him, and a bagpiper who played “Amazing Grace” at the graveside while the skies darkened above them. How could she possibly say no?

  Sara had offered to drive down to Glasgow and collect her, but Maddie insisted that she rent a car and save Sara the trip. It had been fifteen years, but she still remembered, sitting in the backseat with a sour face because she’d been forced to leave her one true love behind to spend the summer at Magnus and Anne’s hotel, the Trotternish House. When she got home she’d hardly been able to remember the boy’s name, but Skye’s scenery and history had haunted her ever since.

  This time she rented a convertible and let the summer wind blow her long dark hair out of its bindings and billow around her head until she arrived at Mallaig and boarded the ferry to Skye. She might have to stay in touch with the office, but she didn’t have to look as if she was still there.

  Maddie looked at her watch. Noon in Scotland; seven A.M. in New York. It was Sunday, but that wouldn’t make any difference to Larry, who would be calling at any moment. He’d try to make her feel guilty for leaving, and he wouldn’t have to try very hard. She probably should have stayed, should be working with the team, but it felt so good not to be there. As if on cue, the phone rang, and there he was, Larry Sunshine, curt and hassled.

  “Maddie, did you e-mail the schedule to everyone?’

  She sighed. Charming man. “Good morning, Larry. Nice to hear from you too. Yes, my flight was fine, thanks for asking.”

  “What? What about the schedules?”

  “I did
that two weeks ago. Look on your e-mail. You also have a hard copy in the file I gave you. It’s all been done.”

  “What about the color blend on the brochures?”

  “Corrected. Check the file.”

  She held the phone away from her ear and looked out over the water at the mountains as Larry continued to ask her unnecessary questions. It was no use. She no longer saw the Cuillins, but instead computer screens and the print campaign she’d approved in the taxi on the way to the airport. Larry hung up just as the ferry approached the dock and the people around her began to file down to the car deck. Maddie lingered, taking a moment to take one more picture, one more mental image of the blue water and the even bluer islands of Rum and Eigg on the horizon. She took a deep breath, smiled up at the gulls overhead, then followed the others below.

  It took an hour to drive to the small harbor town of Portree, where she stood for a moment on the cliff overlooking the water, remembering being here with Sara. The two girls had become fast friends that long-ago summer, and the memory of their giggles and inept sailing in this bay brought a wistful smile. It feels like coming home, Maddie thought in surprise, looking at the pastel buildings that lined the shore of Portree Harbor. They hadn’t changed at all, but she and Sara certainly had. It would be good to see Sara in person again, although they knew each other well after years of keeping in touch through letters and e-mail. Sara was a chatty correspondent, keeping Maddie up to date on her grandparents, her parents, her brother Derek, and her husband Keith. Maddie had written about her divorced parents, her married sisters and their children, her nonexistent love life. And her career. She sighed. She should be in New York. She called for her voice-mail messages as she drove up the coast.

  She was still picking up messages and leaving her own for Monday morning as she passed the Old Man of Storr and started the last leg of her journey. The topography was dramatic here—the Sound of Raasay to her right, dark green hills dotted with gray rocks to her left, cliffs suddenly bordered by wide green pasturelands, but Mad-die hardly noticed. She was explaining to her assistant Katie’s voice mail how to solve the glitches with the brochure inserts when she took the turnoff to Trotternish House and slowed down on the narrow driveway. The trees grew close to the road here, but between them she could see a gravel track running parallel to the drive. The old road, she remembered, then slowed down even more as the pavement dipped down to a stone bridge that arched across the stream. Almost there. She told Katie three more things to look into, then hung up. Her mood lightened immediately. Katie could handle it, she assured herself with a grin. And if not, well, Larry would have to. It would serve him right. He hadn’t given her a decent raise in three years.

  The road rose sharply here, into a wide meadow where the Trotternish Games were held every summer, an emerald bowl with a view of the Quiraing behind and the sea below. Maddie slowed the car to a crawl as she remembered this meadow filled with color and activity. The Games were well attended, and this field would be teeming with hundreds of people watching the caber and hammer tosses, the putting of the stone, the dancing and piping competitions. Locals in traditional dress would mix with tourists in jeans, and this year she’d be among them. She’d paint the Games, Maddie thought, her pleasure growing.

  One reason for this trip was to be here for Magnus’s party, but another was to find the artist in herself, submerged under deadlines and advertising details for so long. She’d use acrylics to catch the vibrant colors, the tartans bright against the dark green landscape and the blue of the sky and sea beyond. If only the paints could hold the sounds as well—the laughter, the hush of the crowd as the competitions neared their end, the roar of applause when the winner was announced, the proud chatter of the parents when the children began their dancing. And over all the sound of bagpipes. She loved the Games, loved their drama and pageantry, and this time she’d capture them on canvas, or at least try.

  She pulled to the side of the road and parked, then walked through the low bushes that separated the meadow from the sea cliffs. The old road was narrower here where it hugged the top of the cliffs overlooking the Minch, the sea strait that divided the Outer Hebrides from the mainland. Maddie took a deep breath as she watched the waves crash on the rocks below and pretended not to hear her cell phone ringing in the convertible, concentrating instead on naming the shades of blue in the sky and the water. Nothing changes here, she thought. This view had been the same fifteen years ago, and probably two hundred years before that. It might as well be the nineteenth century. Or perhaps not, she told herself—I wouldn’t be wearing a black silk shell and slacks and ignoring my boss in New York. And I wouldn’t have a warm shower waiting for me at Trotternish house. She turned from the panorama to head back to the car and that shower, then heard a pounding coming from the turn in the road that led to the hotel. Drums? But no, the very ground seemed to shake. She took a step forward, then gasped as a huge chestnut horse, mane and tail flying, thundered around the bend. Maddie stood frozen in the middle of the road as the horse charged at her. The rider was leaning over the horse’s neck and urging it even faster, but as the chestnut lurched to the side, he looked up at her and straightened in the saddle, shouting something and waving his hand. They bore down on her, and Maddie prepared to die.

  With a curse and a gust of warm wind the horse and rider pounded past her. She saw a blur of flying hooves, gleaming chestnut horse, and a bare, well-muscled male thigh at eye level before they flew around the next bend and out of sight. In the silence that followed, she began to breathe again and pressed her hand against her throat to still her pounding heart. My God, that was close, she thought; I’m out of here. She had started back to the car, her foot still in the air, when the horse came careening back around the curve, heading directly for her again. This time she screamed but was unable to move, watching in terror as man and beast raced toward her, then skidded to a stop ten feet away. The man threw a long leg over the horse, dropped to the ground, and stalked to stand before her. He was in his thirties, very tall, very blond. And very handsome, with sculptured cheekbones, a strong jaw, and brilliant blue eyes surrounded by thick lashes. He had broad shoulders and a trim waist under a white linen shirt. And he wore a kilt.

  Maddie closed her eyes. I’m dreaming, she thought. I’ll open my eyes, and I’ll still be over the Atlantic. I knew I shouldn’t have had that second glass of wine.

  “Lassie, are ye a’right?”

  The voice was real, she thought. She couldn’t have invented that rich Scottish burr or the sound of him catching his breath. Or that body. She opened her eyes and looked at him. He was—impossibly—grinning at her!

  “Am I all right? You scared me half to death!”

  “Sorry. Perhaps ye shouldn’t be standing in the middle of the road.” He looked her up and down and fought a smile. “Ye look just fine, but let me look closer.” He circled her, then nodded. “Aye, ye look fit enough. Not a scratch. A bit of dust here, though,” he said, reaching out toward her leg.

  Maddie stepped away, eyeing him suspiciously, brushing her slacks off. “I’m fine, thank you. What were you doing?”

  He met her eyes with an amused glance. “Brushing dirt off yer leg.”

  “I mean racing down this road.”

  “Practicing.”

  “To kill people? I think you’ll do quite well.”

  He laughed. “Glad to hear it. Might come in handy with the English around everywhere.”

  Maddie let her gaze fall from those amazing blue eyes past his shirt, open enough at the collar to let her see tanned skin and golden hair on his chest, and down to the kilt he wore with nonchalance, his legs bare below. His horse gave a snort, and they both looked over at the chestnut. The Scotsman patted him on the nose, then turned back to Maddie.

  “I am sorry to have frightened ye, miss,” he said, his voice sincere. “I didna expect to find someone standing in the middle of the road when we came ‘round the bend. Ye near gave me a heart attack.”


  His contrite tone melted her resistance. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t think anyone used the old road anymore. I was looking at the view.”

  “It’s even better from the hotel. I assume ye’re going to Trotternish House?” She nodded. “Are ye staying at the hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled again, gesturing to the chestnut. “Do ye need a ride? I have a horse handy.”

  “No, thank you. I have a car.”

  She started to move away. He watched her for a moment, then called after her. “Are ye sure ye’re not hurt? D’ye need me to drive ye?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Aye, that ye are,” he said appraisingly. “And yer welcome.”

  Maddie gave him another glance before she walked through the bushes.

  Trotternish House Hotel stood on the northeastern shore, atop a small knoll overlooking Duntober Bay, protected from the worst of the weather by the Quiraing, the fantastically shaped lava formations that crossed the center of the Trotternish. It still looked like the rambling private home it had been before Magnus had converted it to a hotel twenty years ago, its three wings and four stories of gray stone dramatic against the surrounding greenery. Anne’s hydrangeas were six feet tall where they lined the circular driveway that climbed to the reception portico, the lawn lush and dark against the flowers that bordered it. The trees had grown considerably since her last visit, the white trim around the doors and windows had been recently repainted, and there were new benches under the beech trees in the side garden, but Madthe could see nothing else that had changed. Before she could even climb from the car, the side door of the inn banged open and Sara bounded out, her red hair streaming behind her like a banner. She gave a whoop and threw her arms around Maddie.