Highland Games Through Time

by Nancy Lee Badger

  “I will never forgive ye, Montgomery MacDonald. Instead, I curse ye and your sons. I curse their sons as well. No man born into your family shall win the heart of their soul mate with ease. Let them all fall in love, and when their intended denies them her heart, they shall feel this pain.”

  “Nessie, do not do this. I believe in curses.”

  “This I know. ‘Tis why I said it.” She strode toward the larder door, swung it open, then turned. His eyes were wide as dinner plates, the terror keeping the very air of life deep within his lungs.

  “I am sorry for ye, and for your family, Monty. Sleep well, if ye can, for ye alone have condemned them all to pain and loneliness.” She paused and pointed a finger straight at his heart. “A reprieve I offer.”

  “What? Tell me this instant, Nessie!” With clenched fists held tight to his hips, he stepped toward her, then hesitated.

  Coward. How could I be so blind?

  “An act of pure selflessness will save your kin. Since the concept is foreign to ye, I doubt they shall survive to produce many sons.”

  Monty crept closer, but her glare stilled his advance. The tingle of dragon fire rose in her throat, but she beat it back.

  Best not to shape-shift in front of a mortal.

  The coward, frozen and dejected, finally turned his guilty face away. If she found him fishing, one day soon, she might take a swifter revenge upon his soul. Licking her lips, she wondered how he would taste.

  “One more thing, Monty.”

  His head snapped up, but he took a step back when he must have noticed the savage glint boring into him.

  “Nessie? What more?” he whispered.

  “Don’t call me Nessie!”

  CHAPTER 1

  Loch Ness, Present Day

  A shadowy figure strode into the pub on the cold breeze of early spring, his backpack hefted over one broad shoulder and his gaze searching for danger. Or, he simply wanted an empty seat. Such spots were scarce on a busy Friday eve at Biadhadh nan Cearc Pub. Nessía poured three shots of Glenfiddich Scotch whisky, her attention split between the golden liquid spilling from the heavy bottle and the stranger’s sparkling green eyes. She had loved a man with eyes like his many years ago.

  She exhaled a slow, calming breath and set the filled shot glasses on a rimmed serving tray. Nessía had a passion for green-eyed men, probably because the color reminded her of the surrounding Highland meadows and hillocks, places she longed to visit for longer than a few months.

  Taking care not to open her emotions to another fair-of-face, green-eyed man, Nessía bent to her tasks. Ever since her tussle with Montgomery MacDonald centuries ago, she promised to guard her heart with her life. A smile tugged at her mouth when she realized Monty—and his wife—had died centuries ago.

  “A beautiful smile to warm a man on such a chilly day,” the newcomer said.

  He had aimed his words in her direction, so she dropped the smile. Nessía filled another two shot glasses with whisky, slid them down the bar, then casually turned to look her fill.

  Why not?

  His wavy, ink-black hair crowned a face all too familiar. Her breath caught at the symmetry of his square jaw, bushy brows, and straight nose. The dark beauty of his days old beard tugged at her heart.

  Nonsense. ‘Tis a stranger, not Monty.

  Inside the murky pub mostly unchanged since the last time she had worked there, her imagination made her stomach cramp. Candles and a roaring fire lighted the ancient pub, so she squinted to watch his profile as he glanced to the door then back at her. Her tongue swiped her bottom lip. A sudden dryness made her swallow, a reaction seeming out of place. The man was definitely not Monty, and his voice sounded foreign. Not English, either.

  “American?” Nessía asked, wiping the bar with a rag before tucking it in a pocket. She had never met an American human male, but she watched television.

  “Guilty as charged,” he said. When an old-timer bid his friends goodnight, the stranger shimmied onto his vacated stool and tossed his backpack to his feet.

  “What is your drink tonight, stranger?”

  “Whisky. My feet are numb, among other parts.” He laughed and his eyes crinkled with good-natured fun at himself.

  So unlike Monty.

  The man in front of her owned a handsome face, as delicious as the deceased Monty’s. Subtle differences in the stranger’s high cheekbones intrigued Nessía. His honest openness made her giggle. Or, did she laugh because she gained perverse pleasure from his misery? With a quick sweep of her tail, she could toss him in Loch Ness before he knew what hit him. How would the foreigner’s private parts like to experience the water’s ice-cold numbness?

  A wee bit of fun is long overdue.

  Nessía poured expensive fifteen-year old whisky into a glass. As she set the potent liquor in front of him, he brushed his fingers against hers. Startled, she pulled away, but not before a prickle of sensation sparkled up her arm. She clasped her hands to her stomach.

  He stared at her with an eagle’s gaze, tossed back his head, and downed the whisky in one, quick gulp. His Adam’s apple moved up and down his neck before he leaned forward, slammed the glass on the bar, and gasped.

  “We distill it strong in these hills. I should have warned ye, sir.”

  “Yeah,” he whispered.

  Shame threatened to break her stride, but she tamped it down. The newcomer looked too much like Monty for her to allow him to get on her good side. Anything that reminded her of that sneaky devil did not long survive.

  “Here,” she said, pouring a local draft beer. The rich, dark brew should remove the sting from his mouth and throat while it cooled the burn. Am I going soft?

  The stranger’s left eyebrow wavered at her, as if asking if the offering promised further pain.

  “Trust me,” she said.

  Without releasing his pointed gaze from her face, he sipped. He stared at her over the rim of the glass, then shrugged. “Not bad.”

  “ ‘Tis made from locally grown heather and flavored with meadowsweet. Smooth, aye?”

  He nodded as his gaze wandered about the small centuries-old pub. The building was of sturdy stone and timber, with a high ceiling that Mac had recently reinforced to withstand the heavy spring rains around Beltane. This early in the spring, the flowers thirsted.

  As did Nessía.

  She kept her eyes lowered. Emblazed across his wide chest, on the front of his sweatshirt, were the words Raleigh Museum of Natural Science. He had clipped a pair of sunglasses to the curved neckline.

  No scarf. No wonder he is frozen.

  When he strode through the door, she had spied his well-worn jeans and muddy hiking boots. Curiosity rose and swept over her with memories of newfound love and all its giddy passion and heat. Memories of another man who she watched as he fished in the stiff breeze off the loch. A man who lulled her into loving him. Montgomery MacDonald had captured her heart then stomped it into the dirt.

  “Snap out of it,” she muttered. The man sitting in front of her was not Monty. Monty was dead and buried, along with his wife, sons, and their sons. Had she not risen from the loch to try again? Centuries had passed and gave her hope. Hope that men of this era had changed their ways. She had no great desire to curse another family.

  “Did you say something, Miss…?”

  Nessía glanced at him and her breath froze in her throat. His wavy hair tumbled over one eye and he brushed it back the same way Monty had so long ago.

  Why am I thinking of the bastard?

  The man before her was an American, as far and away a different species as Monty and the men who frequented Mac’s pub. If he planned to stay around long enough, Nessía could have some fun with him.

  She enjoyed a carefree life beneath the surface of Loch Ness, but when she had shifted back to human form in order to try again, she discovered the difficulty of finding free clothing and food in the 21st century. Returning to the same pub, and requesting employment from the former owner’s descen
dant, she had landed a job.

  Pub wench. Again.

  “No, not me.” She wiped the bar in front of the stranger, then shoved a bowl of dry nuts into his empty hand. She listened for her other patrons, but her body wanted to stay right there. Above the malty scent of his glass of ale, his manly aroma of sweat, dirt, and heather crossed the small space and settled in her lungs. The pleasing tang teased her with a reminder of everything denied her when she swam beneath the surface of the loch.

  “Been hiking long?” Nessía asked when her mouth worked again.

  “Five or six days. I’ve lost count. I had hoped to enjoy spring weather. Did this country skip summer and autumn and head straight into winter?”

  Nessía laughed at his foolishness. Had he not studied the local weather on one of those fancy computers? “Scotland’s weather is a constant companion. Unfortunately ye cannot choose it as easily as a friend.”

  “I don’t find friends easily, which is why I hike alone.”

  The raw sadness behind his words, accompanied by the low timber of his voice, stirred her to ask why not, but she bit her tongue and again methodically wiped the bar.

  “Nessie, send a couple pints of ale down here,” a customer called from one end of the bar.

  She poured the brew into glasses etched with the pub’s logo. Something new, added since I last worked here. Nessía sauntered toward the noisy customer, then plopped both tankards on the bar. Foam oozed over the rims, and she tossed him a cloth.

  “If I told ye once, I told ye a hundred times, Gordon MacPherson. Don’t call me Nessie!”

  Returning to the area of the long, wooden bar, closest to the stranger, she poured herself a finger of Glenfiddich. She raised it to Gordon. The surly old man wiped the bar, while his wrinkled cheeks turned apple-red. Smiling, she swallowed the golden brew as quick as if she had poured herself a thimbleful of honey.

  Not quite as sweet. Ugh.

  “Why did he call you Nessie? You obviously don’t like it. What’s your real name?” the stranger asked while his gaze bore into her chest.

  Let him feast his eyes.

  He sipped his ale, all cool and calm, as he waited for an answer. She pulled back both shoulders. Waiting until he glanced up, she turned away to ring up a departing customer’s bill, then added the excess to her apron pocket.

  Ha! Monty gave me a ‘tip’ then left me for his wife.

  “I do not share familiarities with strangers, sir.” She preferred to tug the dress’s lace edging up, but held back. The trim chafed her low neckline and upper arms, but Mac insisted his servers dress in period costume.

  “For the tourists, lass,” Mac explained the day she walked in and asked for a job. She did not mind the long dress and doeskin shoes, per se. The whole idea of clothing was bothersome. She enjoyed swimming to the dark depths of the loch clad only in deep green scales.

  Even now, she yearned to swim naked.

  “Well, now. I can fix that.”

  It took Nessía a few heartbeats to understand his comeback. Did he refer to her clothing, or to swimming naked? Only one way to find out. “Fix what, sir?”

  “I’ll introduce myself, and then you tell me your name. ‘Easy as pie, and polite as rain’, my father always said.”

  Nessía froze. No, her response caught in her throat and her blood thickened into ice. Fingering the coins in her apron, she willed her talons to stay retracted while her left foot tapped the plank floor. The stranger’s sultry voice was not familiar, but the words rang true, because Monty had spoken those, centuries ago.

  Nessía stepped closer to the bar. A million questions popped into her head, but she stayed silent. Let him speak first and prove he has no affiliation to that damnable clan.

  “I go by Rory Hawthorn. Though I’m American, I’ve traced my ancestors to this town. I plan to be here for quite some time exploring. Learning. Studying the unusual earthquake history of the area.”

  Earthquakes? What would he say if he knew I caused those tremors?

  Rory Hawthorn, so called, moved closer. He leaned on the bar, and whispered as if the next words were for her ears only.

  “And I very much want to know you better.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Nessía licked her lips and watched as the stranger’s eyes widened with immediate sexual interest. She knew that look. Typical human male. His eyes flickered, peering beneath shuttered lids. The stranger’s tongue swept his lower lip, as if in anticipation.

  Her heart pounded and blood roared in her ears. Feeling oddly light-headed, and suddenly warm all over even with blustery air slipping through the pub door, she could only stare. The stranger leaned forward again, shortening the space incrementally. His emerald gaze returned to the cleft beneath the lacy edge of her peasant costume. Glancing down, she watched as her breasts swelled nearly up and over the neckline.

  Mac was correct. The right costume pleases the tourists.

  Well, she had survived when strangers gaped at the great Loch Ness attraction. Whether in her dragon form or as a local pub wench, she did not take kindly to stares. In addition, if the American assumed she was an easy choice for a bed partner, he was sorely mistaken.

  “I keep to myself, sir.” She did not bother to use his given name. Some men enjoyed their names spoken during passion. Monty did, among other words. A strange duck, indeed. The American leaned so close, his hot breath fluttered over her skin. She shivered. He looked too much like her old lover…her only lover…for comfort.

  I must concentrate on my objective.

  The time was right to find a mate. With no other wingless dragons in the loch, her choice fell to mortal men. Could she really give up immortality for love? She nearly had, but a bastard named Monty already enjoyed a family.

  “Too bad. I thought I might hang around. I need a guide.”

  “They sell guide books at the corner shop,” she answered without looking at him. A laugh bubbled up. He huffed. Compelled to look, she found he no longer looked at her.

  His attention swept toward the pub entrance where two women had burst through the old wooden double doors. Their youthful giggles filled the dark room and overrode the drone of the older men who played chess in the far corner.

  “Isn’t this place adorable?” one said, the girl with a bright orange ponytail.

  No hair is naturally that shade, Nessía thought. And they sound like more Americans.

  Nessía strode to the far end of the bar and collected money from two of her regulars. “Too noisy for ye, Jake?”

  “Aye. Best get home. Fishing at dawn, tomorrow.” He accepted his change and waddled toward the door. When the two newcomers squealed at an antique cartwheel Mac had hung over the bar, Jake shook his head.

  “Well, hello ladies,” the stranger—Rory—said in a pleasantly sweet voice.

  The girls turned their wide-opened, heavily powdered eyelids his way. Their smiles turned to frowns. “Hey. You don’t sound Scottish.”

  The one with ink-black, messily cut, short hair glared at the poor American while nodding to her friend.

  “Nope. I’m just visiting, but I plan to tour Urquhart Castle tomorrow. Interested?”

  The women’s demeanor altered, slightly. While they stood with hands on hips, their eyes bored into him. Realizing they were not the only three in the room, their twin gazes swept the area. Since the remaining customers ranged from twenty to forty years their senior, Nessía knew they planned to take him up on his offer. Good. Anything to keep him out of my sight.

  “Sure,” the redhead said. She turned to Nessía. “Two white wines.”

  Nessía set two goblets of white wine in front of the young females and skirted the bar to clean off a few newly emptied tables. Carrying dirty glasses toward the kitchen, she peeked through the small front window. The sun had dipped low over the loch and its last beams of light streaked the loch’s surface gold and orange. Tiny ripples sped toward the rocky shore, and a few low clouds faded softly as the sky darkened.

 
; Twenty minutes later, Nessía paused at the bar and held back a sly smile as Rory paid the women’s tab then shuffled them out the door. In a cloud of cheap perfume, they disappeared into the night. Their leaving together caused a silly little pain beneath her human ribs.

  She pushed through the swinging kitchen door, then filled the dishwasher. At the ancient stove, Mac fried fish in a cast iron skillet while he sipped a thimble of whisky. He nodded at her, and his small smile shook away the empty feeling at Rory’s departure. She liked old Mac and the villagers, but the American made her body react in peculiar ways.

  Nessía had promised her heart not to return to the loch, unless endangered. The solitude beneath the surface was a trap: familiar and pleasant, yet a home she no longer enjoyed.

  She closed the dishwasher and straightened. Nessía tidied the tiny kitchen’s counters while she kept watch on the remaining customers through the service window. When the last customers waved their good-byes, Nessía managed a smile. The people of Na Cearcan Bã Na were good, wholesome, hard-workers who deserved a few drinks and friendly banter. She had hoped to find a virile male among them. So far, the few still left in the village were not to her liking, though a couple showed interest, if their leers and flirtatious words were any indication.

  What do I expect? This gown will make a dead man sit up and take notice.

  She wiped her hands, turned off the dining area’s lights, and stood at the open door. Staring at the loch, she crossed her arms to brave the cool breeze, then leaned against the doorjamb. Unwanted memories rose of the last time she lived in human form. A sigh escaped, the only sound other than footsteps on the gravel parking lot.

  “Such a meaning-filled sigh. Anything I can do?”

  The American—Rory—walked out of the dark like a Highland wolf of old. He stopped inches from her and she had to lean to the side to discern if he arrived alone.