Sadie's Highlander

by Maeve Greyson

  He stared at the familiar airisaidh draped about the head and shoulders of the only woman he’d ever loved as she faltered deeper into the crazed horde, slowly making her way to the outer skirting wall. The ominous sight of red stains seeping through Leannan’s clothes squeezed all breath from his lungs.

  A snarling woman of the North ripped the airisaidh away from Leannan’s coppery hair just as the weakening lass stumbled to her knees. The battle-screaming warrior caught Leannan up by her braids, shouted something unintelligible in her face, then slit her throat. Leannan’s still and lifeless body dropped to the bloody mud and the heartless intruder kicked her aside.

  “No,” Grant whispered, paralyzed by the gruesome sight. “No!” he finally shouted, then lunged off the steep ledge, hammer raised to take as many Northmen as possible straight to hell with him. He no longer cared if he lived or died. One thing mattered. Revenge.

  The world exploded with bright light, then all went black.

  —

  Voices. Women. And Alec.

  Lying on his side, Grant rubbed his face with one hand, then forced his eyes open. What is…Where…He buried his fingers in the soft green grass beside him, then slowly rolled to all fours and pushed himself up to his knees. Lifting his face, he squinted against the stark brightness of the clear blue sky, then raised one hand, spreading his fingers to better feel the touch of the cool, refreshing breeze.

  I must be dead. Good. The painful memory of Leannan’s murder was the last thing he recalled. If I’m dead, I must find her. Surely, the goddesses brought her soul to wherever this is too. Renewed hope flooded through him. Grant forced himself to his feet and looked around.

  He stood at the edge of a meadow adjoining a wood, and if he were still alive in Scotland, he’d say it was early summer. Warm sunshine. Birds singing. His favorite time of year.

  “I approve,” he said aloud. The goddesses had done well. This was a good Otherworld.

  His parents and two of his brothers were nearby. They all looked to be comfortable, sleeping soundly among the rolling dips and hillocks of the long grasses covering the meadow.

  I know I heard Alec. And women. Mayhap they can help me find Leannan. Grant tilted his head and concentrated, listening and silently praying he’d hear them again so he could find them.

  A man’s voice. That wasna Alec.

  “No matter,” Grant said. With one last glance at his sleeping family, he hurried toward the wood. Whoever it was might be able to point him in the right direction.

  A brilliant glow burned in the center of the large copse, a light so bright it looked as though the sun itself had descended from the heavens and nestled among the trees. Oak trees. A sacred wood. Grant pushed through the underbrush, his spirits lifting ever higher as he plowed deeper into the grove.

  This place had to be the Otherworld. He’d be with his sweet Leannan through all eternity. He came up short as a blinding wave of light surged and stopped him at the edge of a clearing. He held up a hand against the powerful brilliance and bowed his head. It had to be the goddesses themselves.

  “We have brought ye—our faithful servants and protectors of the stone—to a place where ye will be much safer. More at peace. We grew tired of the repeated attacks. ’Tis no need for such violence.”

  The orb of light echoed as though three females spoke in unison, each of their melodic voices perfectly pitched to enhance and complement the others. “And fear not—we’ll not be leavin’ ye here without proper guidance. We’ve chosen a fine advisor t’see ye well settled and ensure that ye thrive and guide our other druids of this time. Ye’ll find several druid clans are here, already well established, and at the ready to help ye.” Quiet laughter rippled through the glade like the tinkling of delicate bells. “Ye—our most blessed line of druids—must not die away. Ye must lead the others once ye’ve learned this place. Prosper here. Multiply. Keep our stone safe for eternities t’come.”

  Not die away? Multiply? The gut-wrenching realization that he was still alive pushed Grant to his knees. He rested one hand against the trunk of a nearby tree and fisted his other hand against the unbearable ache growing in his chest. This isna the Otherworld. Leannan is gone from me forever.

  Grant bowed his head and closed his eyes as the unknown male he’d heard earlier spoke again from the other side of the blinding light floating in the clearing.

  “I am Dwyn MacKay. Yer neach-teagaisg. The teacher who shall guide ye through the wonders of this new place. I am guardian and tutor to all the druids here. I shall see to it that the MacDara clan does well and continues their legacy to the goddesses and humanity as the protectors of the Heartstone—the sacred stone of hope and love itself.”

  “And this place is?” Grant’s brother Alec asked.

  “Twenty-first-century North Carolina. Welcome to the future, m’lad.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Grant whispered. “I’d rather be dead.”

  Chapter 1

  “Aww, come on. You can tell us. Those hooters real or store-bought?”

  Ignoring a chorus of sputtering hisses and coughing coming from the table behind her, Joanna Martin calmly lowered her glass and placed it beside her plate without taking a sip. She’d artfully negotiated a lot of interesting questions when she’d been a pharmaceutical rep, but no HR training in the world could’ve prepared her for this. Apparently, nothing but raw, shameless audacity was going to work to make this tour-guide business a success.

  They’d had such a pleasant stretch of normal chatter during dinner, but apparently that short span of mild behavior from this group was now over. Of course, no question would shock or surprise Joanna after the last twelve hours spent in the company of the esteemed ladies of the Alverest Knitting Chicks Textiles club, the latest group of senior citizens that her best friend, Lucia, had signed up for a five-day tour with LTB Carolina Tours.

  Might as well grab the bull by the boobs—so to speak. Joanna sat up straighter, arched her back, and proudly displayed the subjects of the conversation. “These girls are all mine, Miss Annamae. Had them since the sixth grade.”

  More coughing and table pounding came from behind them, and no small wonder. The peaceful little town of Brady, North Carolina, and the Scottish theme park, Highland Life and Legends, had no idea what they were in for with this bunch of wily old women. Joanna had discovered within the first hour of meeting the ladies that they were a force to be reckoned with.

  “Impressive,” Georgetta Millsap, Miss Annamae’s best friend and partner in all things daring, replied as she nudged a fleshy elbow into Annamae’s equally plump side. She snapped her fingers to within inches of Annamae’s nose and bobbed her brightly dyed head of neon-orange and jet-black, spiked hair with a quick jerk of her double chin. “You owe me a dollar. I told you they were real.”

  Shifting to address the group in general, Georgetta raised both hands, slightly curled her pudgy fingers, and made twisting motions as though opening two jars of pickles. “You see…falsies are too round. Like plastic balls or balloons. Real ones are always a little lopsided. Look around the table. Not an identical boob among us.”

  Chairs scraped behind them. Glasses clinked, and somebody wheezed and coughed as though in need of oxygen.

  Poor folks. I’ve gotta get the check and get these women out of here before they kill somebody. Joanna raised a hand and motioned for the waitress, but the wide-eyed young girl almost broke into a run heading in the opposite direction.

  “Georgetta, would you please lower your voice. I’m sure everyone in this county and the next county over would rather not hear your observations regarding the female physique.” The impeccably neat club recorder for the ladies’ sewing group, Irene French, leaned in close enough for Joanna to get a pleasant whiff of the delicate rosewater spray the older woman used. “I am so very sorry, Joanna. Please excuse these two. I’m doing my best to rein them in.”

  Joanna couldn’t help but grin. The group of old ladies had turned out to be bawdier and more li
kely to get into mischief than any demographic of tourists she’d researched when she’d left her job at the pharmaceutical company and offered to help Lucia get the tour business out of the red.

  She glanced over at the lively, laughing Georgetta and felt a twinge of envy. I so wanna be Georgetta when I grow up. The thought stretched her grin into a full-blown smile and the tension melted out of her shoulders.

  Joanna gave Irene’s pale, blue-veined hand a reassuring pat and winked. “No harm, no foul.” She took the paper napkin out of her lap and tucked it under the rim of her dessert plate streaked with what was left of the dark chocolate lava cake that was going to add at least two miles to her daily run this evening. Time to get these feisty golden-agers delivered to Brady’s Bed and Breakfast and tucked in for the night. “You ladies good on the itinerary for the next two days? Everyone have their copy?”

  The rosy-cheeked vice president of the sewing club, sitting directly across the large round table from Joanna, leaned to her right with one bejeweled hand shielding her brightly lipsticked mouth. Eyes dancing, she whispered something to the nothing-but-business, big-boned woman beside her. High-pitched hissing laced with breathless chuckles that mimicked the bubbly enthusiasm of a newly uncorked bottle of champagne effectively camouflaged whatever she was sharing with the president of the group of rowdy women.

  “Secrets at the dinner table are rude, Frances,” Irene said, rapping her butter knife sharply like a warning bell against the edge of her plate. “Miss Joanna asked us a question. I think we should all be good enough to grace her with an answer. Does everyone understand our schedule for the next two days?”

  Hazel Abraham, the recipient of Frances’s covert conversation, leaned far to the right until her chair creaked in protest at the shifting of her generous weight. Long, square face locked down in an intense scowl, she peered at something just past Joanna’s left shoulder. Slowly, she adjusted her glasses, then finally straightened in her seat and nodded. “I believe you’re on to something, Frances.” She turned and fixed Irene with a look that had to be a pre-agreed-upon signal among those in the club and barely pointed an arthritic finger in Joanna’s direction. “I need to visit the ladies’ room. Don’t you need a visit too, Irene?”

  A chorus of “I do’s” echoed around the table, all seven of the elderly ladies sounding off as though answering roll call at the bingo hall.

  Irene barely shook her head, thin lips moving in what had to be a silent prayer as she rolled her eyes and slowly rose from her seat.

  An ominous shiver tingled up Joanna’s back, starting at her tailbone and ending in the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck. Now what were they up to and how could she get this tour of Highland Life and Legends back on track?

  “We won’t be long,” Georgetta announced. Chairs scraped backwards and the liquid in the half-empty glasses littering the table shimmied back and forth with every bump as the ladies rose from their seats.

  Georgetta’s smile was a little too bright for Joanna’s comfort as the old woman said, “Now, you just wait here. When we get back we’ll make sure we’re all up to snuff on the itinerary—okay?”

  “Okay,” Joanna agreed weakly. What choice did she have? She had the distinct feeling that the Alverest Knitting Chicks had just called an emergency meeting in the Brady Townhouse Café’s restroom and she was the topic.

  The ladies, ranging in age from Annamae’s young sixty-five to Hazel’s mature eighty, toddled single file through the maze of mostly empty tables in the café. Heads bobbing, and speaking in low tones, every damn one of them stole a glance back at Joanna, then smiled at something or someone behind her, before disappearing through the restroom door.

  What the hell are they looking at? Joanna swiveled around in her seat, hugging the back of her chair with one arm.

  Seated at the table in the corner behind her—actually, quite close behind her—were the MacDara brothers—three of them anyway.

  When the devil did they come in? Joanna quickly adopted a relaxed, not-a-care-in-the-world attitude and feigned looking out the café window on the other side of the men’s table.

  Wedged around the small corner table was the baby of the bunch, the almost baby, and the one Joanna had dubbed “Mr. Avoid” because of his rumored bad temper. That’s how she’d always thought of them. The only one missing was the oldest brother. Probably home with the new wife. The eldest son was CEO of Highland Life and Legends and had been married less than a year.

  Joanna had met all four of the MacDara sons and their elderly father when she and Lucia kept their much-coveted appointment at the theme park to discuss the business venture that could make or break their fledgling tour agency. The five MacDaras and their lawyer, an odd little man with a stare that could rival deadly lasers, had listened to Joanna and Lucia’s proposal, then agreed to the terms and signed a “twelve-week trial” contract for LTB Carolina Tours to bring groups of tourists for two-day/two-night stays each week at the Scottish historical theme park. If the tours went well and turned out to be lucrative for all concerned, a more permanent agreement would be negotiated this fall. LTB’s finances needed a permanent contract. Badly.

  The three men seated behind her seemed oddly nervous. All of them looked…guilty. Especially Mr. Avoid, the dark blond with the hair-trigger temper. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember any of their real names except for his. He was the next-to-the-oldest one. His name was…Grant. Yeah. That’s it. Grant the hothead. Old short fuse himself.

  Joanna hated relying solely on gossip, but she’d noticed that gossip almost always contained a kernel of truth. Either way, she’d play it safe and give this guy a wide berth. She’d endured enough violence from her father and ex-fiancé to last a lifetime. It had cost her everything: family, finances, and career. She’d be damned if she ever tolerated violence again.

  Speaking of rages, Grant’s face did seem unnaturally red—even under the dark-gold dusting of the day-old beard that totally failed at concealing the sexiest little cleft in his chin and the dimple in his left cheek. Well…sexy or not, if Mr. MacHottie’s temper matched the heat of his smoldering looks, the fewer interactions with him, the better.

  Have to be polite though. Don’t wanna screw up that contract. Joanna smiled and nodded at the men as though she’d just noticed them, hoping she didn’t look like a complete idiot spinning around in her chair and staring at them like the nosy kid in church. “Hi, guys. Good to see you again.”

  The two younger brothers, sitting snugged with massive shoulder against massive shoulder on one side of the tiny table, smiled back at her and nodded their greetings. Opposite them, Grant fisted a large hand over his mouth, wheezed in a deep breath, then turned aside and coughed.

  Coughing. The same coughing from earlier. Joanna grit her teeth and quickly turned back around to face her own table. Shit! Grant must’ve been the one hacking and spewing his drink everywhere when he’d overheard the “hooter” conversation.

  Well, isn’t this just great? The guy would surely go back and report to the MacDara bunch that a group from LTB had been disruptive…again. They’d had a slight run-in two weeks earlier, when one of the couples in a younger age group had slipped away and been found in the family’s private quarters at the MacDaras’ strictly off-limits Castle Danu.

  If the two trespassers had just been wandering around snapping pictures, Joanna could’ve easily explained away their actions as avid interest in the historically accurate structure. But the self-absorbed couple had decided that the private garden tended by CEO Alec MacDara’s wife, Sadie, was the perfect place to have a shot at conceiving their first child.

  The memory of the resulting unpleasant meeting with the MacDaras’ lawyer and the enraged CEO still stung, spurring Joanna to snap her fingers at the waitress, who was still maintaining a safe distance on the other side of the dining room. “Mary! Could I please have the check? Now? I have to get my group settled for the evening.”

  Mary scurried over, a relieved smile
plastered across her face. She quickly ripped four of the pages free from her dog-eared notebook and plopped them on the table in front of Joanna. “There you go. I’ll leave some mints up at the register for the ladies. I just opened a fresh box.”

  “Thanks.” I’d rather have tranquilizers to knock those grannies out, she silently added as the herd of seniors made their way back to the table much faster than they’d left. Apparently, the trip to the restroom had filled them with renewed energy and from what Joanna could see, also super-charged the ever-present spark of devilry in their eyes.

  “All set, ladies? How about if we just go over tomorrow’s schedule at the B&B before you retire to your rooms. Okay?”

  “Oh, we can’t go yet,” Frances said, her fluttering hands and animated flitting back and forth around the table confirming Joanna’s suspicion that the woman must’ve been a hummingbird in a past life.

  Joanna dreaded asking, but she had no choice. She smelled a setup, and it reeked of rosewater and arthritis ointment. “Why can’t we leave now?”

  “We have to find the case for Violet’s sunglasses,” Annamae said. “She thinks they must be under one of the tables. Thinks she dropped them.”

  “What? I what?” Violet asked, one thin hand clutched to the lace neckline of her print dress with flowers so purple they perfectly represented her name. She peered around as though she’d just awakened from a trance. “Did you see me drop my glasses case?” she asked, confusion knotting her sparse gray brows.

  “ ’Course I did,” Georgetta declared as she rounded the table. “Matter of fact, isn’t that it over there?” Georgetta bent and vaguely motioned toward the floor under the MacDara men’s table in the corner. “Joanna, you’re closest and have younger eyes than the rest of us. Crawl under there and see.”

  All three MacDara men grinned. Seated with his kilt draped across his muscular thighs and the hem hitting just above his knees, Grant scooted his chair back, slowly planted both feet shoulder-width apart, and held out a hand as if to usher Joanna under the table at his feet. What a way to improve her view and reveal the answer to that age-old question: what does a Scot wear under his kilt?