The calm, gravelly voice settled like a heavy block of ice upon Kirk’s ears. His beast pranced in the mud, its hot breath steaming. Kirk’s fingers tingled as he clenched the hilt of his sword, raised it high, and pointed his weapon at the heart of the man dressed head to toe in black to match his hair and beard.
“Lord Marcas Mackenzie. As I live and breathe.”
“Not for long.”
“I hoped to avoid ye on this trip.” Kirk shook the hood from his head.
“How lucky for me, then. I should have recognized that head of hair at once. How convenient it shall match the dried blood soon covering your corpse.”
Battle ready, Kirk squinted in the low light. A sneer pulled at his scar. Pain gripped him, but he shook it off. Raw hate muddied his vision as he beheld the vile monster responsible for the death of his lover. The same man who had scarred his flesh.
“I see my handiwork remains.” With a cry that startled even Kirk’s well-trained beast, the man known as The Mackenzie attacked. He swung his long sword at Kirk’s shoulder. Both weapons collided and rent the sky with the shriek of metal on metal. Their warrior cries joined the clamor of shouts, curses, and thunder.
An edgy euphoria washed over Kirk’s limbs as the battle intensified. He had trained for battles since big enough to hold a weapon. White-hot lightning threatened death and destruction to all within earshot, but Kirk did not care, even when a bolt slashed between them and hit the wet earth at their mount’s hooves. Mud and rocks flew outward as heat and steam sizzled skyward. Both beasts reared.
An acrid smell filled Kirk’s nostrils, and his eyes stung. Frosty raindrops threatened to blind him again. A roar erupted from deep within as Kirk’s vision wavered and his limbs grew heavy. Before he could determine whether The Mackenzie had struck a mortal blow, or that a bolt of lightning had found its mark, sounds of battle and dying men faded.
Waving his sword in a defensive semicircle, he returned his attention to where his archenemy and steed last stood. He wiped hair and rain from his forehead with the back of his left hand expecting to come away bloody, but his vision cleared enough to see nothing but mist. The Mackenzie had disappeared into the thickening fog.
In his stead, a hazy cloud bubbled up between the earth and sky. Colors swirled and danced inside its borders then coalesced into a female form. As the curvaceous image solidified, his heart lurched. Something about this creature called to him.
The thud emanating from his chest pounded in his ears. He drew closer, fighting his mount as his steed pranced and screamed. After controlling the creature with a commanding voice, Kirk dismounted, and raised his sword.
“God’s teeth,” Kirk whispered. Everything had faded from view except the mist.
And the woman.
She stood with her back to him. Long, raven locks tumbled down the back of her simple green gown. A gentle breeze teased her frock’s hem to reveal her naked calves above simple calfskin slippers. No boots? No wool cloak? How could she not feel the brunt of the winds that buffeted the forest surrounding the battle?
“Why are ye here?” he roared. Concern for her safety propelled him forward.
When she spun and faced him, her long, black hair fluttered in a halo of wispy curls. Two pale green eyes widened, and her berry-red lips parted silently with surprise. One delicate hand slapped against her chest, over her heart.
An ample chest, at that.
Unable to look away, Kirk studied the pale-skinned creature whose lithe figure enticed his man parts to harden and his blood to heat.
“Why are you here? In battle?”
She cocked her head sideways as if listening, but remained mute. He strode forward to better gaze upon her beauty. Glancing upward, past the swell of perfect breasts, a slender neck, delicate chin, and luscious lips, his attention landed on the slight arch of her nose. A lovely nose dotted with delicate freckles.
Mine.
The thought, so foreign to anything he might have imagined on this day, rushed head-on with a surge of desire so strong it made his steps falter.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
The suddenness of her voice, when the conversation had proceeded one-sided for too long, drew him to a stop several feet away. She had surprised him by answering, yet offered no explanation.
“Me? Ye be the one standing in the midst of a deadly battle!”
The woman stepped closer and looked behind him. “I don’t see anyone. Where did you come from?”
He focused on her lips, then turned to look. The mist was thick and he no longer heard the sounds of battle; no cries of men, or clanging of swords. Even the rain had ceased to fall. Turning back, he sniffed the air, surprised at the absence of the brimstone odor of a lightning strike. Instead, her fragrance drifted over him, enticing him with the scent of Highland wildflowers. Overwhelmed with her beauty and intoxicating fragrance, he dropped his sword and grabbed her by the upper arms.
“Hey. Knock it off!”
Kirk ignored her plea and gazed into her eyes. She did not cower beneath his show of force. In fact, she straightened her back, then kicked him in the shin.
“God’s teeth, woman. That hurt.” He kept his hold on her soft, naked skin.
“You started it,” she huffed.
Kirk’s impulse to taste the mouth spouting insults took over. Drawing her into his embrace, he heaved a sigh of relief when she came willingly. Her eyes widened the moment she realized he had easily enclosed her within his arms. She winced.
“You’re cold and wet,” she said.
Kirk had no cause to doubt the lass, recalling the storm and battle minutes earlier, so he smiled. She stared up at him, blessing him with sparkling pale green eyes like jewels filled with mischief.
“Let me warm ye.” Kirk grabbed a fistful of inky locks, gently tilted her head back, and feathered his lips over hers. His hunger for more warred with his need to not frighten the lass. He felt it in his bones that when he released her—if he ever let her go—she would disappear as quickly as she arrived.
Even though he traveled eastward to marry a woman who meant nothing to him except protection for his clan, his mind worked to rewrite his future to include this nameless vixen. As he continued to kiss her, and she softened beneath his touch, he slipped his tongue inside her mouth.
She did not protest. Instead, the beautiful creature moaned with pleasure and curved her body into his chest and groin. The sound of her moans and the delicious heat of her body filled him with desire so strong, he fought against the need to strip her naked and ravish her in the mud.
Pulling back ever so slowly, Kirk gazed into her partially closed eyes, then placed soft kisses upon her eyelids. When he straightened and set her away from him, to get a better look at her, the fog began to break apart. Kirk’s breath caught.
“No!” As he had feared, nothing he said kept her image from fading as quickly as she had appeared. The sounds of the raging battle returned, and Kirk’s beast whinnied behind him. The maiden’s mouth widened in surprise.
“Ye be fading from my sight. Do not go!”
“Devil’s own luck!”
The pungent scent of sizzling lightning returned. He grabbed the animal’s reins and gathered up his sword in case Mackenzie found them, then mounted. He charged through the receding vapors and easily passed through the mist as he searched for his enticing female quarry. Kirk stopped abruptly when his beast crashed headlong into Mackenzie’s mount.
Both men tumbled from their saddles and landed on the muddy ground. Rolling away, Kirk regained his balance. Swords clanged nearby and the sky flashed. Thunder rumbled and the cries of men and swords returned.
“Prepare to die, Mackenzie,” he yelled. With each swing of his broadsword, Kirk searched for the odd fog or the woman encased in the mist. Nothing but Mackenzie filled his vision. Like salt on a wound, the heavens opened and darkness closed ranks.
CHAPTER 2
Present Day New England
“Who was that?” Hav
en MacKay asked aloud as she peered from behind a tree at the fading bubble of mist. Touching her fingertips to her lips, the taste of the stranger’s mouth lingered. Her dress was damp from his wet clothes and dripping russet hair. His fierce expression, before he grabbed her, made her fear he would strike her.
“Far from it,” she said to the wind. Hell. What exactly happened when she scattered herbs along the forest path, then tumbled a few mineral stones inside her pocket? Using ingredients from an ancient text she’d uncovered in the attic of the herb store where she worked, she had prayed they would make her see clearly.
When the thick fog rose up and engulfed her, she knew she had miscalculated. Her wish to meet a man who would love her was a simple request, and the reason she slipped away during her break. Haven had to accomplish her task in secret.
“Well, he can’t be the guy I’m looking for.” When she pictured the type of man to share her life and treat her well, she thought of a handsome and successful businessman in a suit. He’d carry a laptop on the way to his important career—not ride a horse while brandishing a sword. Even so, she had loved the stranger’s dark hair…and his kiss.
As she headed for the trail, she recalled how his hair—somewhere between deep red and rich mahogany—framed a handsome face. His ice blue eyes and straight nose were interesting, but his jagged scar lent him an air of mystery. He wore an ancient-style kilt over tree trunk thighs. How could wool, draped over one broad shoulder and over a simple white shirt and a dark vest, protect anyone from a storm?
“He looked more like one of the re-enactors visiting the Highland games.” Haven’s steps faltered. Had anyone heard her conversing with herself? She’d made sure no one noticed when she had sneaked away from the historical encampment.
After another quick glance through the dense foliage, she slipped from the grove of white birch trees and stepped onto the path. It led to the reproduction of an ancient Scottish village laid out on the grassy slope of the novice hill. The ski area was a brilliant place to hold the annual Highland games since the New England landscape was similar to the Scottish Highlands. Broad stretches of rolling hills, a huge parking lot between two fabulous ski lodges, and the views…
“I could stand here all day and stare at these mountains.” Fall foliage in red, orange, and deep yellow dotted the branches of stately maple trees and oaks that stood nestled between evergreens. Their colors climbed toward peaks normally dusted with snow.
Too warm.
Arching her back, she stretched tight muscles, then tipped her head back to drink in the beauty of the afternoon sky. Besides puddles, last night’s drizzle left behind blue skies, wispy clouds, and sunshine.
Straightening, she tugged on the bottom of her suede vest then retied a loose lace at one side. As she pinched the lacy edge of her pale green, peasant top, she glanced down the trail past the encampment’s lower border where it widened beside a grassy slope. Her thoughts drifted back to the stranger who had kissed her senseless. She ought to get back to work, but a few deep breaths couldn’t hurt.
And I can’t face Iona. Not just yet.
Her best friend would read it in her face and yell. “No, she wouldn’t yell. She’d say she was disappointed I tried to use my herbs and stones for personal gain. She doesn’t understand.”
No one could.
In the meadow to the east of the smaller ski lodge, a flock of curly-haired white sheep grazed on sweet grass and late summer wildflowers, their black faces all but hidden as they munched. The flowers, still vibrant in early autumn, produced a fragrance that mingled with the scent of sheep droppings and roasting meat pies. Orange plastic snow fences kept the placid animals penned as they awaited the sheepdog trials. Her stomach growled.
“Lunchtime!” She skipped around a mud puddle, careful to keep her borrowed doeskin shoes dry. The day’s relative quiet had threatened to lull her into finding a quiet spot to nap. Instead, she hid and practiced the ancient words. She’d peppered the air with crumbled juniper and boxwood then sprinkled more herbs as she chanted the scripture. It hadn’t worked. Well, not in the way she had planned.
All I accomplished was making smoke, and stood like a statue while some man strolled by and kissed me.
Haven peeked in her dress’ hidden pocket and checked her supply of infusion of honeysuckle and thyme. Only a fraction remained. She’d refill her supplies next chance she got and then she’d find a way to get back to her mystery man.
Why do I want to do that?
He can’t be the person she wanted. He certainly didn’t dress like a successful businessman. Unfortunately, arousal swept over her at the thought of being able to speak to him, or touch him.
Or, kiss him.
“What went wrong?”
“Talking to yourself again?”
“Iona! Where’d you come from?”
“The village, of course. I saw you sneak off and—”
“I didn’t sneak.” Haven crossed her arms over her chest, her defensive stance obviously not lost on her friend.
“Fine. I was concerned, okay? After all, I invited you to the Highland games to help me. If anything happened to you—”
“What could happen? This is a huge event, I admit, but it’s a family atmosphere. I’m glad to help.” Haven stared up at her tall friend. Iona Mackenzie stood about five inches taller than her own five-foot five. Unlike her wispy black curls hanging down her back and teasing her ears, Iona’s red hair flared like a fiery crown.
Where Haven liked to pull some hair back off her face by tucking strands behind her ears, Iona piled her unruly curls high on her head, anchored by black, hand-wrought, iron spikes. A few loose tendrils framed her best friend’s delicate face and emerald-green eyes. Haven’s eyes, in comparison, were as dull as pea soup.
Or so my ex-boyfriend had complained.
She didn’t mean to compare herself to Iona, but Cal Murchie certainly did, and on many occasions. He once described Haven to a colleague as mousy and as drab as dishwater. She’d overheard his conversation one day, but never thought to jump out and demand an apology. Iona would have.
She idolized the woman. With her father, Iona ran an antiques store adjacent to the herbal store where Haven worked with her aunt. Iona also staged historical displays at a downtown museum. Her friend’s shoulder proved a comfortable port in a storm. And storms had dumped tons of rain on Haven. Another reason she volunteered to help her at the games.
Iona acted happier, here at the games. Haven loved seeing a different side of her friend. At her antique shop or while working at the museum, Iona forced her hair into a tight bun, wore high heels, and dressed in designer suits or modest dresses. Haven’s meager budget allowed for a pair of decent jeans and several simple skirts. Nothing could detract from Iona’s natural good looks.
Today she wore a long, bleached muslin dress with an overskirt of rich wool made up of dark green and blue, crisscrossed with thin white and red stripes; her family’s tartan. A swath of the same plaid rose up and over her left shoulder, pinned by a jeweled brooch. The style established her position as a chieftain’s daughter. Proud to be a descendent of a family steeped in history and intrigue, she also brightened the entire historical village.
“You said you needed help. Here I am. You’ve done the same for me,” Haven said. Dressing up and pretending to be a Highland lass for a few days was the least she could do.
“So. Are you going to tell me why you were talking to yourself?”
“I like the sound of my voice?” Her friend’s head shook at her answer. She’d best come clean. Sort of. “I used the last of my chamomile to make tea last night, and I was hunting for more.”
“Have you had trouble sleeping? I have a recipe for a simple herbal sleeping draft. You remember. I bought the ingredients in your aunt’s store. She has the best assortment of analgesics and mood relaxers. Or, is it your sleeping arrangements? The cots are primitive—”
“The cot and the tent are okay. I’ve had trouble relaxin
g ever since…” Her chest tightened. Tears threatened to fall, and her throat suddenly constricted. Iona knew all about Cal. Haven had cried on her shoulder enough times. No need to bring him up today.
Raucous cheers pulled their attention toward the lower athletic fields. Men in colorful kilts and sporrans, draped in yards of wool, carried huge swords and trampled the grass as they fought a mock battle to the delight of the crowd. Their thunderous war cries filled the air, and nearly drowned out the marching pipe bands.
“Those weapons must weigh a ton.” Haven spied several carrying round shields whose brass and leather surfaces were tipped with lethal-looking points.
“I came to tell you I’m headed to clan village. Dad needs help setting up. Will you be okay until I get back?” Iona tilted her head and looked apologetic.
“Sure. Don’t worry about me.” Haven slipped her arms around her friend, stretched up on her toes, and kissed her cheek. Iona set off down the trail. She studied Iona as her friend passed several brawny athletes, but didn’t stop to flirt. Although Iona was quick to push others into a man’s arms, Haven couldn’t remember the last time the woman went out on a real date.
She’s picky, I guess.
During a lull in the battle, a bagpipe’s ghostly wailing made her believe she stood in the Highlands of Scotland. In reality, she stood on a mountainside in northern New England amid modern day people pretending to be old world Scots.
Haven’s heartbeat thumped with the urge to relive the pleasurable vision. And the kiss. She could almost smell his manly fragrance enhanced by the mist that had surrounded them, drowning out all sounds of the forest or games. Kissing a broad-shouldered Highlander might seem like Heaven to another, but Haven wasn’t interested in make-believe. She wanted a real man. A serious man to love and cherish her forever.
Someone not like Cal Murchie.
Haven had lost herself so deeply in the stranger’s kiss that she’d forgotten to ask questions. Why hadn’t the fog given her time to ask his name or location? What if he attended the games?
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