Highland Games Through Time

by Nancy Lee Badger

“I thank ye for your concern, sir. A long day, ye might say. Where be your friends?”

  “Kendra and Suzie? They went back to the B&B to…rest up. For tomorrow.”

  “Urquhart Castle. You mentioned ye planned to visit the place. Great views of the loch, I hear tell.”

  “What? A local and you’ve never walked the grounds?” Inches away, Rory raised an arm, then laid a palm against the doorjamb.

  Directly over her head.

  “I have seen it from the water. I do not care to trip over its ruins. But, have fun with the kids.” Nessía backed up, planning to lock the door, but his hand slid down to her shoulder.

  “Don’t go,” Rory whispered.

  His voice, as familiar as Monty’s sultry tone from long ago, made her hesitate a moment too long. Rory’s handsome face lowered until his lips brushed across her mouth. As his other hand gripped her waist, pinpoints of light followed the feathery sweep of his soft lips. A halo of desire, thick as morning mist, tangled around their bodies, and joined them as one. Had he noticed?

  Nessía knew this feeling and knew what this meant. Long ago, when Monty raised her skirts and penetrated her female body, she had waited for the sparkles…the sign that she had found her mate. Nothing lit up back then.

  The shock of the current moment, and what Rory’s kiss meant, made her push Rory away. His eyes opened and a sly smile spread across his handsome, mortal, human face.

  “Damnation,” she said.

  ***

  The slam of a door and the turn of a key never sounded so ominous. Rory stared at the battered wood. Its age matched the pub’s rough siding and thatched roof. When he finally turned and headed to the inn, where he’d rented a room for the week, no streetlights or moonbeams lit the street to assist him. Hoping Kendra and Suzie had fallen asleep in their own room—on an upper floor—he looked forward to a quiet night. Rory’s muscles ached, exhaustion taking its toll. He’d hiked most of the day, pulled by some ancient need to follow the footsteps of his cursed ancestors, to arrive in a small village that seemed stuck in the past.

  A laugh echoed off the loch, to his left. Unknown critters scurried through the gorse bush while he meandered along the winding road. His lips tingled. A biting wind snuck inside his jacket collar, yet his chest was warm from the memory of a single kiss. A kiss he never planned. Nessía.

  A strange name on anyone, but he assumed people named family members after Loch Ness. It made sense. Poor girl. No wonder she hadn’t shared her name with him, but he’d heard several customers call her Nessía. He’d fought against his first reaction when he walked inside the pub and saw the most interesting face on a beautiful body dressed in period costume. At first, he worried he’d stepped into a dream.

  Like those actors in Brigadoon.

  Her hair rustled over her shoulders, and she patiently combed stray whisky-brown locks behind her ears as she poured drinks. The peasant’s outfit fit her well. Her body strained beneath the fabric, but the style suited her fine. He easily pictured her as the heroine in plays he’d been forced to attend with his parents.

  And those eyes.

  Ice blue orbs under thick golden-brown lashes. They’d quickly raked him over the coals and spat him out, onto the wide boards of the dusty pub floor. She hates me. An odd first reaction

  Something tugged at him at the time. Had he felt wounded? Angry at her refusal to talk? Challenged to make her smile? When she refused to offer her name, and then blushed when Kendra and Suzie walked in, he hoped not all was lost.

  Rory tested his theory when he leaned in and kissed her. He’d botched it quite thoroughly. She hadn’t returned his kiss. She had bolted.

  “Smooth, jackass.”

  Rory climbed the creaky front steps to the inn’s porch, slipped inside, and nodded to the owner. Mr. Neeps glared as if he didn’t appreciate late arriving guests.

  “Sorry,” Rory whispered, and climbed the stairs to his room. After locking the door, he stripped off his shirt, untied his boots, and stretched out on the bed. Weaving his fingers together beneath his head, he searched his memory for more clues about the family curse. He had hoped to hear people talk about it, which was silly. The MacDonald clan lost Urquhart Castle in the late seventeenth century. He doubted many still lived in the area.

  Tomorrow, he’d mention the family and its legendary curse. No one at the inn or the pub recognized that his last name—Hawthorn—was actually a sept of Clan MacDonald. No sense telling anyone.

  As he contemplated his next step—visiting the castle with the two women in tow—Rory fell into a fitful sleep. He tossed and turned until his feet tangled with the bedspread. When his flailing arm knocked a lamp from the side table, he shot awake. Dawn’s gray light filtered through lace curtains and crept up the flowered wallpaper opposite the window.

  He tramped barefooted to the private bathroom, shaved, and showered. Scrubbing his chest and arms, an image arose of brilliant blue eyes. Rory shook his head and tamped down his thickening body. He returned his thoughts to the project at hand. The project he’d told his family had sent him to the Highlands of Scotland.

  He’d jot notes about the terrain while they hiked to the castle grounds and keep an eye out for any obvious evidence of ancient earthquake damage. The notes would help prove his reason for visiting the area, was not to learn about a curse.

  Rory shoved a notebook and several pens inside his daypack, grabbed bottles of water purloined from last night’s dinner, and threw in an extra t-shirt. Maybe he’d take a dip in the loch, if the sun ever came out.

  “Earthquakes,” he’d assured his mother, were the reason for the visit. He had worked on a program that he planned to submit for consideration to his peers at the Museum of Science. Earthquakes were a rare oddity in Scotland, but the area surrounding Loch Ness had the dubious distinction of being active. Too active, for his taste. Something unusual lurked beneath the calm surface. The monster stories aside, he planned to get a first hand view of the zone he’d come to call “Nessieville.”

  Since Loch Ness was about twenty-three miles long, and Rory only had three weeks to spend on his investigations, he’d settle for exploring the towns within a few hours’ walk of Urquhart Castle. The long, straight loch followed the Great Glen Fault, and the area surrounding this village had the most recorded activity. The easiest way to get to the eastern side of the narrow loch was by boat. Several fishermen frequented the pub, and he had a lead on a man who might take him out on the water for a few coins. As long as the thick mists stayed away.

  Previous seismic surveys described the loch as riding on a complex fault. Seismically, it was a rarity, but his interest was genuine. The curse, however, was his main objective. He needed to ration his time accordingly.

  Rory ran his fingers through his wet hair, and pulled on a navy blue sweater. He’d traded in his dusty blue jeans for khaki shorts that met his knees, heavy wool socks, and hiking boots. Last night’s brisk air might return, so he slipped a windbreaker in his pack, then clipped his sunglasses to his collar.

  He locked his door, and padded down the stairs as quietly as humanly possible and tossed his bag by the front door. Finding the dining room empty, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee led him to the antique breakfront by the far wall of the dining room. Mrs. Neeps peeked through the door Rory assumed led to the kitchen, and smiled.

  “Up and raring to go, I see, Mr. Hawthorn. I’ll be bringing yer plate in a jiff.”

  Rory poured a cup of black coffee and settled into a seat with a view of the stairs. He made a bet with himself that both Kendra and Suzie would sleep in, thus affording him a reprieve as a tourist guide. Or, maybe they would appear dressed completely unprepared for the tricky Scottish weather.

  Why had he offered to accompany them to the castle? It had sounded like a great idea when he saw the gleam in Nessía’s eyes the moment the girls started to talk to him. In the light of day, his insistence seemed silly. Had he wanted to make Nessía jealous? A frown tugged at the corners of his
mouth, and he squirmed in his chair.

  Noise on the stairs made him set his coffee cup down and stare. The two American women giggled all the way down. Rory cringed. He hoped the other guests were heavy sleepers.

  “What is all that racket?” Mr. Neeps barreled into the room from the kitchen.

  “Oops. We’re in trouble, Suzie-Q,” Kendra said, slapping a hand over her mouth.

  “Sorry. We are just so excited to be spending the day with…Rory.” Suzie flashed a smile at him, and ignored the innkeeper. Mrs. Neeps entered and placed Rory’s plate in front of him.

  “Will you look at that,” Suzie said as she stared at his plate. “Fat-laden sausages, carb-filled potatoes, and something I can’t name. I can’t eat any of that.”

  Mrs. Neeps tapped her toe and crossed both arms over her chest. “I’ve scones, cheese, and fruit salad. Will that do?”

  Both women giggled and nodded, and Rory watched the poor innkeepers toddle back into the kitchen.

  “Coffee?” he offered, pushing from his chair and heading to the urn on the sideboard. Their company was unwanted, but he prided himself on his manners. If only Nessía sat beside him, then he would thoroughly enjoy his breakfast. Maybe they would order breakfast in bed. Definitely more palatable. From where had that thought come?

  And, what the hell am I going to do about it?

  CHAPTER 3

  Nessía swept the pub’s entranceway. The swish, swish of the broom was a calm influence on her troubled mind. She had other things on her mind. Like Rory’s kiss. Damn, but the man tasted good. She failed to understand why she allowed a perfect stranger to do such an intimate thing. A very perfect stranger. It had taken Monty several days before he had spoken to her, and weeks more to coax her beneath him.

  The double doors, braced open to let in the morning breeze off the loch, allowed clean air to blow through the smoky pub, freshening it before the menfolk tainted it again with their haggis, tobacco, and blood sausage. The heavy mist had already burned away.

  She returned the broom to the supply closet, and poured a glass of water. Returning to the door, she sat beside the table nearest it, and inhaled. The moss along the rocky beach, where the steep grassy hills met the calm ripples of the loch’s shore, filled her with a familiar yearning to go for a swim.

  Not today, old girl.

  Nessía slowly swallowed half a glassful of water, then returned to the bar. She tidied up what she had neglected the previous night. Customers, never expected until the noon meal, meant she had the time. Because she had not cleaned the place as thoroughly as normal, sleep eluded her last night. Had simple guilt over a few dirty tankards affected her sleep, or had dreams filled with the handsome face of Rory Hawthorn been the culprit?

  A delicious, familiar scent drifted in on the breeze…followed by the sickly odor of stale perfume.

  “The Americans.” The three people walked past the pub with their small backpacks. They reminded her of two-legged draft animals. The women wore something flat on their feet, no visible socks, and shorts that reached only to mid-thigh.

  Disgraceful. I hope they freeze off their private parts.

  Rory, the most sensibly dressed of the trio, talked to the women. They did not glance toward the pub’s open doors. Why should they? She hoped Urquhart’s crumbling walls suffered a natural earthquake, and flattened the trio by noontime.

  What could they possibly have in common? And, what is he telling them? The girls looked a little bored, and the redhead struggled with her tiny pack. Rory, of course, stopped walking long enough to reach over and remove it from her back, then slide it over his shoulder.

  Nessía leaned forward and willed her human ears to listen, hoping her dragon sense of hearing worked as well on land as underwater.

  “Rory, you’re mistaken. We’ll be fine,” the little redhead cooed.

  “Bikini tops, short shorts, and flip flops are not appropriate. Don’t get me wrong,” Rory smiled, “I like the view, but don’t bitch when the wind blows through the castle and freezes your asses off.”

  Nessía covered her mouth to hide her smile…just in case Rory looked her way. Do I want him looking my way? The thought intrigued her, yet she knew nothing could come of it. He was transient. A foreigner, here to hike, play, and enjoy the area. A handsome visitor who planned to waste his time checking out the earthquake conundrum. Then he would head home and disappear forever.

  She had set her sights on finding a local man whose love could lift the curse. Nessía knew such a plan was the only way to spend the rest of her life as a normal human female. To accomplish this, she needed someone other than a handsome American male on vacation.

  I will never leave Loch Ness.

  ***

  Rory’s steps slowed as he returned to the village after a day spent hiking around Urquhart Castle. He soon reached the pub overlooking Loch Ness. Since he’d poured his shivering, tired, partly sunburned companions into a cab hours earlier, he was in no mood to return to the inn. His ears still ached from their whining.

  He had originally planned to scout the lower cliffs beyond the castle, but the noisy girls kept peppering him with questions about the Highlands, the men who lived in the area and the location of the closest bar with men under the age of thirty.

  “Time to eat out.” He hefted his daypack on his shoulder and glanced up at the pub’s sign. He forgot to ask what Biadhadn nan Cearc meant. Rory pushed through the pub’s double doors. Heat washed over him. The huge fireplace in the corner pumped waves of prickly heat across the busy dining room. He hadn’t noticed it the day before. He stomped his feet. His boots and socks were wet since he’d tumbled into the shallows when Kendra slipped.

  “Stupid flip flops.”

  “Come again?”

  Nessía stood at his elbow and held a tray of dirty glasses on a small, round tray. One golden brown eyebrow arched as if awaiting an answer. Loose tendrils of silky hair fluttered beside her right cheek, and her eyes sparkled. She smelled great. Inhaling deeply, the corners of his mouth pulled up in what surely must look like a goofy grin.

  She laughed.

  “I need a drink. And dinner,” he said.

  “Well, sit yourself down and tell me what ye be a ‘craving.”

  At the sexy timbre of her voice, a certain body part surged to life. He dropped his pack and fell into a chair beside a small table. Quickly covering his lap with a ragged linen napkin, he glanced around for a menu. None. She pointed to a hand-written sign over the bar.

  “Shepherd’s pie and an ale, please.”

  She sauntered away. Nessía stirred his body and filled his head with the startling image of her hair, as it fanned out over his pillow. The Scottish peasant skirt, and the apron she’d tied tightly around her slim waist, displayed her generous curves.

  His mouth watered.

  Rory spread his legs and squirmed in his seat. His neck grew hot while his pulse drummed a staccato beat. To calm his reaction, he concentrated on curling his damp toes inside his wet socks. Uncomfortable as he watched Nessía, he couldn’t push away the raw desire he felt for her.

  Kendra and Suzie were beautiful women, as well, yet more scantily clad than Nessía. With their coy glances, sweet whispers, and touches, they broadcast their need for male companionship loud and clear. So, why wasn’t he attracted to either of them?

  “No matter,” he whispered, then quieted when a couple of old-timers stared at him. He forced a bland smile and sat back against the hard chair. Steam rose from his boots as the fire’s heat wafted over him. Though his body ached, his eyelids drooped. Weariness threatened to pull him into a comfortable nap. He’d scampered over rocks and crags as well as climbed around the many levels of the castle and dreamed of Nessía.

  Rory’s stomach muscles clenched and all thoughts of rest flew aside when footsteps signaled someone approaching. He snapped open his eyes, and gazed at the buxom beauty heading his way.

  ***

  Nessía tripped over the hem of her dress a
nd a steaming plate of food and a mug of foamy ale went flying. A cry of surprise filled the suddenly silent pub interior. The American with the broad shoulders and muscular calves, whose stare had startled her, jumped from his chair. He stood, still staring, covered in food.

  Mac appeared at her side.

  “What ye trying to do, lass? Drown the man?”

  Nessía couldn’t sputter one word in reply. Heat rose along her neck and cheeks. Embarrassed at her clumsiness and, knowing she had been watching his eyes when she should have been watching her feet, she backed away.

  “Fetch this feller a fresh meal. And bring some of my best whisky.”

  Nessía turned and stumbled toward the kitchen.

  “And bring a new tablecloth and some towels, ye clumsy wench!”

  Nessía’s eyes burned, humbled by a mere human for her ineptness. “I heard ye, Mac,” she snapped, intimating she wasn’t upset. A lie, of course, but a dragon never shows its weaker side.

  And I have a weakness for sea-green eyes.

  Unable to sweep aside her feelings much longer, she had to come up with a plan to keep her distance. And soon. If the American arrived at Loch Ness to fulfill her destiny and lift the curse, things could be different. Now that he probably thought her only a clumsy barmaid, he would leave and never return.

  Why does this simple thought make my chest hurt?

  Nessía gathered the new tablecloth, towels, two shot glasses, and a bottle of Mac’s finest whisky and hurried back to the American. Mac grabbed the tablecloth, reset the table, and then handed the towels to Rory Hawthorn. The American wiped his face and shirt with a good-natured smile aimed her way.

  She melted. Her breathing sped up and dizziness made her head feel light and not her own. Nessía forced a smile as she poured whisky into both glasses. Mac lifted one, handed it to Rory, and swallowed the amber contents of the other. She stood quietly to the side, unsure if she should return to the bar.

  No, that is not quite true.

  She did not want to leave. And when Rory pulled out the seat beside him and asked her to sit, she sat.