Did the vest alone support her ample bosom? Her breasts shook while her arms and hips moved in a twisting motion as she tried to run away. Sliding to a stop within an arm’s length of the outer edge of the swirling gray mist, he drew his sword.
“Who be ye and why have ye returned?” he bellowed.
She froze in place. Her frantic hand waving stopped in mid air and she cocked her head as if listening. With the storm ebbing and the rumbling clouds beating a retreat, had she heard his challenge?
While raindrops dripped down his face and shoulders, her slender hands visibly shook as they adjusted the folds on the front of her green skirt. Then the lovely vision glared straight at him. When he dismounted and approached, her eyes widened.
He could still taste her on his lips. He remembered the pale green orbs that blazed back at him in horror. Guilt fused his feet to the ground until her intoxicating fragrance drifted over him, pushing aside the smoke and mist. Her eyes locked on his the moment she recognized his face. A tingle slid down his spine as he fought the rising desire in his loins. Wanting to put her at ease, Kirk lowered his weapon.
“What be yer name, lass?” he asked, keeping his voice soft and disarming. Before the woman uttered another word, the mist began to dissipate, and her image wavered. Surging forward, he reached for her. She grasped his outstretched arms and flung herself into his chest.
“God’s teeth, I thought yer were a’leaving me again so soon.”
She smiled up at him and all breath escaped his lungs.
Her smile killed him with its naivety. Kirk cupped her chin, lowered his head, and kissed her with all the gentleness and emotion he could muster. She softened, leaned into his embrace, and hesitantly slid her tongue between his lips.
Startled by the sensuousness of her reaction, Kirk’s hold loosened. Her eyes flickered nearly shut, but not before he noticed they glistened with tears. Shocked senseless, he made no attempt to grab her when her mouth-watering image vanished into nothingness, leaving behind the subtle fragrance of mountain wildflowers. Once more, he had been too late. How would he ever know why the most beautiful woman his eyes had ever beheld haunted him if she would not stay long enough to tell him her name?
* * *
“Hello camp!” Iona Mackenzie’s voice drifted up the trail. Amid the lowing of Highland cattle and the bleating of sheep, Iona’s familiar tone brought Haven a welcome sense of relief. She’d been knitting since the incident with the fog. Knitting kept her mind off the man who’d kissed her. Why this kilted dressed man stirred her was a mystery. All she need do was glance around. Kilted men by the thousands walked the games.
Then an unwanted wave of dizziness swept over her. The second attempt at a love spell, even accidental, had taxed her equilibrium, but she relaxed her shoulders and gave her friend a welcoming wave.
“Finally.” Haven stowed her knitting basket under the three-legged wooden stool. Standing, she tapped one foot and waited for her friend to reach her. Since regaining control of her senses, Haven had pondered why it sent her back to the same man on horseback. Back to a man who all but attacked her with a sword. Back to his molten kisses.
Earlier, after her dress dried, she’d emerged from the smoke-filled tent, and her brain tried to work out what happened so it would not happen again. While knitting, she’d even lost count of her stitches when she tried to recall what preceded the second vision.
A vision I never planned.
What if someone had seen the fog and smoke? Iona would have a fit, all because Haven wished for a chance at true love. What happened? Herbs in small packs lay inside her pocket. The water accidently splashed on her clothes had dampened the pocket then mixed with the herbs. Had the addition of water as a catalyst caused her vision?
The second vision had arisen quicker and clearer. Still, something was missing. Something powerful, like the ability to materialize and stay put. First, she had materialized in front of a man who kissed her before she had faded away. When smoke and the strange mist had enveloped her a second time, the same man appeared. He had questioned her, and asked her for her name. Could he turn into the lover for whom she’d searched since Cal had broken her heart?
Mesmerizing in his ancient plaid and perched astride a great brown steed, his savage face lent him an air of mystery. His icy stare initially caused her throat to constrict with fear, even as her body heated with desire. She hadn’t been able to answer his question. Why not? She would speak to him if they met at the office or at a party.
Weird.
Something about the mounted warrior seemed out of place. On display at the games were sheep, border collies, shaggy Highland cows, and geese. Not one horse.
Haven twirled a loose lock of hair then smiled at her beautiful friend. She ought to get her mind back on the present situation. Iona carried a rustic basket full to the brim with thick coils of raw wool ready for spinning. Her emerald eyes sparkled and her dress fluttered behind her, her clan plaid draped casually across her chest.
“You don’t work these games, Ms. Mackenzie. You live them.”
“Ms. MacKay! Has the afternoon gone well? Did you have to handle many visitors? I found myself enthralled by all those lusty warriors playing at swords and wearing not much more than their own sweat.”
“Did you talk to any?”
“Who, me? No. No time for men. And why are you stamping your foot?”
“You’re late.”
“Forgive me. Hungry?”
“I am out of my element here. And, yes, I’m hungry.”
“For food? Or a man?” A sly smile spread across Iona’s face, and her brilliant white teeth sparkled.
“Men are not on the menu.” Haven regretted her words the moment they left her mouth. Iona knew about Cal’s mistreatment.
“This weekend’s venue is the perfect place to meet a nice guy. Although Cal broke your heart and left a wound a mile wide, I refuse to watch you suffer.” Iona stared her down and gave Haven no opportunity to change the subject.
“I’m not sitting around mourning him.”
“Good. We’re both of Scottish descent and this place is swarming with Scots. Rich ones, too. The chieftain’s tent is bursting at the seams with wool kilts on silver-tongued devils sporting long, thick… daggers.” She giggled. Iona actually giggled?
“I can’t afford a dagger.” Admittance at the chieftain’s tent required a sizable donation and she didn’t wear the coveted ribbon to allow access. A smile tugged at her mouth when she thought how walking past the tent on her way to lunch would cost absolutely nothing.
“I figured you’d say something like that. Here.” She held out her open palm to reveal a small leather sheath. The handle of a knife peeked out.
“What’s this?”
“A dagger. Actually, this example is referred to as a sgian dubh and is small enough to fit in a pocket or down your…” Iona pointed to her bodice.
“Okay, I’ll bite. Why do I need a weapon?”
“Haven, you know how I worry. You’re always alone, ever since Cal left you and—”
“I left him! Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” She had heard the rumors. Cal was a bastard with a big mouth. In order to save her dignity, she ignored his lies even when friends snickered behind her back.
“Fine. Not another word. Wear it. Sell it…I don’t care.”
“Fine. Thanks.” She accepted the gift and shoved it between her breasts. Warmth, transferred from Iona’s palm, eased her pain at the memory of Cal’s treachery, the slime, but she’d found out too late to save her heart…or her precious virginity. “How’s your dad?”
“He flew in late last night. His tent is up and his clan books and souvenirs arrived, but I need to go back and help finish up his display. I know I can count on you to man the fort.” Iona smiled again.
“But, I want to do some shopping before the vendors close for the night.” The sun hovered low in the west between two peaks. A breeze had picked up. The aroma of roasting meat wafted
up from the vendor tents. Her stomach growled. Plus, having wasted a huge amount of herbs on her love spell, she needed to restock her supplies. The second unplanned attempt depleted her entire stash of several hard-to-find herbs. If she hoped for a repeat, she’d have to go shopping.
“Go get some food. Finish your shopping. Dad can wait.”
She left Iona at her spinning wheel and escaped down the slope. As she headed into the crowd, the battle din grew to a thunderous roar. Thousands of people ringed the athletic field. Squealing children petted the cows or watched shepherds put their sheep dogs through their trials.
More visitors traversed clan village. Food tents belched smoke, and traveling minstrels added to the ear-numbing noise. Men passed by and several gave her a second look. Maybe if she had more experience with men their stares wouldn’t unsettle her.
Heat pulsed beneath her cheeks. She kept her gaze low and ended up away from the raucous crowd. Nearing the vendors who dotted the landscape, she scanned their banners. Anything related to Scottish life lay under large, billowing tents.
Including handsome, kilted men.
The breeze tossed escaped tendrils of her hair. Fingering them back behind an ear, she scrutinized the single gray cloud above. It blocked the sun and lowered the temperature several degrees, but the air still felt unseasonably warm for late September. Perspiration dripped down her back and made her coarse gown even more uncomfortable.
She returned her attention to the first tent. Maybe she’d find a bargain. Tingling with anticipation, she might find an antique cooking spoon or a tarnished silver ladle.
It’s sad that old spoons are my passion. I’d rather have a family.
An enticing aroma filled the air. Her stomach growled and her parched tongue licked her upper lip. She found the end of a line that snaked toward the aromatic smells emanating from a food vendor’s tent. Twenty minutes later, she nibbled on a meat pie while forgoing the addition of any steak sauce or vinegar. She balanced the paper plate with her bottled water then scouted for a place to sit up on the deck that overlooked the athletic field.
“Sit here, pretty lass.”
A booming voice caught her attention.
CHAPTER 4
Startled, Haven turned toward the voice. As she spun around, her open water bottle flew out of her hand.
“Careful, lass. This kilt cost a small fortune.”A familiar smile beamed from a nearby picnic table on a deck nearest the athletic field. Sporting a black Glengarry, complete with a bobbing, bright red pom-pom atop a head of salt and pepper hair, his curved mustache lifted at the corners of his mouth as he smiled.
A blue and green wool vest crisscrossed with red stripes, the Mackenzie plaid, peeked from beneath his bottle green jacket. As chieftain, he’d draped a broad sweep of the same cloth across one shoulder, anchored in place with a silver brooch. The sparkling ruby was as big as her thumbnail. His left hand leaned on a cane.
“Why thank you, Mr. Mackenzie.” She choked back a giggle at the drooping feather on his hat. The decoration also signaled his status as leader of his clan.
He stood, grabbed her plate, and set it on the table. He clasped his beefy arms around her shoulders. Towering over her, he blocked the sun better than the recent passing cloud. When he released his grip, she noticed his sporran. Trimmed with silver, the black leather and rabbit fur pouch sparkled. His kilt stopped an inch above the center of his knee and his beige kilt hose rose up his beefy calves. Bright green flashes peeked from the folded over cuffs while an ornate knife grip protruded from the top of one sock.
“Impressive outfit. “
“Thank ye, Haven my dear.”
“I just spoke with Iona. She said you were in Clan Village. I planned to visit you.” With a shy smile, she sat on the rough bench next to the weathered picnic table where he’d set her plate. She spooned another bite of meat and pastry into her watering mouth. Iona’s father sat beside her, his attention locked on the athletic fields.
“I did all I could without her help. Truth be told, I dinna’ want to miss the caber toss. How do ye like yer first Highland games?”
“I’d hoped to learn by watching Iona, but she flits here and there. I feel like a fish out of water, Mr. Mackenzie.”
He nodded and gave her a hug. “I told ye to call me Ross. Logistics for an event this big are always a nightmare. The grounds crew here is fantastic, but volunteers are the real miracle workers. Just enjoy yer weekend. ‘Tis the closest ye can get to yer Scottish roots without visiting Scotland.”
“A storm ‘tis brewing to the west.”
Haven’s attention swung toward the voice coming from behind her left shoulder. A crooked smile, inside the hood of a brown woolen cloak, drew Haven to her feet.
“Were you speaking to me?”
The woman nodded then whispered something to Mr. Mackenzie. He chortled, nodding back. Haven guessed her age around seventy. Could be eighty. A few strands of silver hair and two wrinkled hands peeked from under her cloak. Around her neck hung a gold medallion that sported a large yellow stone. It twinkled until long fingers tucked it inside the cloak’s folds.
“A dose of lightning could prove life changing.”
Her words hung on the breeze. Just idle talk, or prophetic?
“Especially if it strikes ye dead,” Ross added.
Haven coughed. Swallowing a gulp of water from her bottle, she kept quiet. Until curiosity won out.
“Are you serious? Can you predict the weather? Are you psychic?” The idea of meeting someone with an ability she had only begun to explore, motivated her to question the odd woman. Too late. The woman had already melted into the crowd.
“I hope Dorcas dinna talk about tonight. Keeps the visitors away, rain does.” Mr. Mackenzie lifted his attention to the blue sky above.
“Dorcas? Is that her name?” Haven asked, then sat.
“Aye. Dorcas Swann. Comes every year. Sells herbs and potions or some such.”
Haven arched her neck and searched the sky as she thought about the odd old woman. “I love thunderstorms, but not while I’m out in the open or sleeping alone in a tiny tent.”
“Too bad yer not sharing yer tent. Heard ye and yer fella’ had a fallin’ out.”
“I threw him out on his ass.” Feeling feisty, she strained to hide how much Cal’s treachery had wrenched her heart. The pain deep inside had tempered to a dull ache the moment she’d spied her mysterious Highlander in the mist.
Haven sighed. She’d been naïve the day she’d stopped at the newspaper office to ask a question about her column and Cal flattered her and treated her to lunch. He’d pushed her into a sexual relationship because she forgot to listen to her intuition. Haven believed she loved the man and had given in to his advances. She wrongly assumed they’d get married and start a family.
Is it my fault I believe in happily ever after?
She refused to let the memory of such a spineless piece of trash ruin her weekend. She’d severed ties with the bastard months ago. From that moment on, she swore to protect her heart from unscrupulous, lying, hypocrites.
“Will ye be attending the ceilidh tonight? Lots of handsome lads will dance with ye.”
“Stop match-making.” She wiped her hands on her napkin and stood, then brushed a crumb from her bodice. A sudden jolt of heat swept across her nipples at the thought of dancing in the arms of a man not like Cal Murchie. Calm washed over her when she recalled an image of her mystery man. “I promised Iona I’d attend, but…” She turned away to hide the blush heating her neck and cheeks.
“Ye know I wouldn’t think to—”
“I know you’re trying to help. I’ve got to get going.” Heartbreak swept across her chest. Tears threatened to dampen her face. The heat that bloomed beneath her cheeks would expose her recent feelings for the man. She turned away to stare at the athletes.
Don’t let anyone see your pain.
“Are ye alright, Lass? I am sorry ye and Murchie did not last together. I would have like
d to meet another member of my clan.”
“Who?”
“Cal. Cal Murchie, lass,” Ross said.
“But, he never mentioned he was Scottish. Cal Murchie doesn’t sound—”
“Murchie is a sept of Clan Mackenzie.”
How could she forget most clans included dozens of surnames? Haven lowered her gaze and twirled a stray curl. Cal said he hated to see her play with her hair. “An annoying habit,” he always said.
The memory of Cal’s condescending tone and scornful smile incited her to continue twirling her hair. What she did, or who she kissed, was no longer any of Cal Murchie’s business. Turning to Iona’s father, she planted a chaste peck on his bristly cheek then picked up her water bottle. As she made her escape, a clammy palm gripped her upper arm.
“Beware the storm.”
Haven looked into the face of the woman Ross Mackenzie called Dorcas Swann. She pushed back her hood and her long, gray hair shimmered like newly hammered pewter. Straggly ends floated on an invisible current. A crooked nose protruded over thin lips and a mouthful of small teeth. Her curvy smile evoked an image of a nurturing soul, drawing in Haven’s lonely heart. Her skin prickled as the woman’s heavy, silver brows arched, pushing wrinkles up her pale brow. Intense dark eyes glowed, their centers nearly as black as her painted fingernails.
“Yonder storm approaches.”
The words slid across Haven’s consciousness. Without making eye contact with the strangers who filled the lane, she listened. Haven blinked and before she could utter a word to question the old woman, she vanished. She glanced behind her and looked throughout the huge crowd.
Intent on finding her, Haven’s long skirt caught the corner of a vendor’s table. A display of delicate sewing thimbles quivered then tumbled to the ground.
“Hey! Take care with me goods, lass,” the rotund vendor cried. He threw half a dozen clothing-filled hangers on another table. When the collection of expensive kilts tumbled to the dirt, he growled as he bent to grab them up. Haven leaned over and picked up the thimbles. A crack snaked up the side of one gold-trimmed piece of expensive porcelain.
Highland Games Through Time Page 4