by Allie Mackay
To get to Castle Wrath, I’d drive on water if need be.
Left, right, or upside down.
Leaving those sentiments unsaid, she forced her brightest smile. “Americans drive in Scotland all the time,” she added, the words meant for herself as well as to reassure Dan. “I’ve also studied maps and”—she paused, stepping aside to make way for a young woman tugging two wailing children behind her—“if I recall correctly, about the only traffic hazard to worry about over there is sheep jams.”
“As long as you’re sure.” He still sounded doubtful.
“I am.”
“Sure enough to make it all the way to those three fairy mounds I want you to investigate?”
“The Na Tri Shean?” Kira smiled, her exhilaration returning, banishing the little niggles of doubt about driving. Dan’s three conical-shaped fairy hills were thought to open into the Other World, providing access to the Land of the Fae. Not that she cared where the hills might lead or what mythical entities might dwell there.
More interesting to her was that Dan claimed the Na Tri Shean were also rumored to be time portals.
A possibility he wanted her to explore.
And an opportunity she couldn’t refuse. Not with the three supposed time-portalling-fairy-mounds located not far from the Isle of Skye.
More specifically, Castle Wrath.
The image of those cliff-top ruins blazed across her mind, and her heart skipped. She could see her Aidan standing there, so fierce and tall, his plaid slung proudly over one shoulder, his gleaming raven hair whipped by the stiff sea winds. He was looking west, searching for her, she was certain.
Catching her sigh before it could escape, she flashed Dan a confident smile. “I’ll make it to your fairy mounds,” she assured him. “I’d crawl on my knees to get there. Driving will be a breeze.”
Seemingly mollified, he harrumphed, his gaze flickering to her carry-on. “You have all the information I gave you? Eyewitness local and tourist accounts of the strange goings-on around those three hills? Copies of the ancient Celtic legends that mention them?”
Kira nodded. “I have everything,” she said, patting her bulging satchellike bag.
Including a dog-eared copy of The Hebridean Clans, a slim but fascinating volume, its pages dominated by Clan Donald, Lords of the Isles and undisputed rulers of Scotland’s medieval western seaboard.
She’d found him in that book and she wasn’t about to leave it behind.
“You’ve read the stories?” Dan was watching her. “The stress of the last days hasn’t kept you from going over them? I don’t want you running into anything unprepared. There’s always a kernel of truth in old legends. Who knows what—”
“I’ll be fine.” Kira leaned up to kiss his whiskered cheek. “And don’t worry, you’ll get your story. One way or the other. If the Na Tri Shean don’t speak to me, I have a few other ideas for sure-winning tales.”
His smile returned. “What? You visit Culloden and run into a handsome six foot four Highlander and discover you’re soul mates? Reincarnations of long-dead star-crossed lovers? Maybe that infamous Wolf of Badenoch and his great love, Mariota?”
A hot little rush shot through Kira. She wasn’t planning on going anywhere near Culloden, but she had hung her heart on a six foot four Highlander.
At least she was pretty sure her sexy medieval warrior chieftain was about that height.
“I’m surprised you’ve even heard of the Wolf and his Mariota,” she said, hoping Dan couldn’t hear the thundering of her heart.
He shrugged. “I dated a girl from Inverness in college. A bit of a history buff, always going on about those two. She was obsessed by Scotland’s most legendary love pairs.” He paused to rub his chin. “So if not the notorious Wolf come back to life at Culloden, what other ideas do you have?”
Kira felt a jab of self-consciousness but brushed it aside. Dan and Destiny had been good to her. “O-ooh,” she said, shifting her carry-on again, “something along the lines of I Was Seduced by a Selkie or I Found the Big Grey Man of Ben MacDui Sleeping in My Holiday Cottage.”
“Ben Mac-Who-ee?” Dan shook his head.
“A ben is a mountain. The Big Grey Man is like Bigfoot.” Kira smiled. “He’s the Yeti of the Scottish Cairngorms.”
Dan laughed. “I’ll be happy with any story you bring back. You just take care of yourself.” His eyes took on that worried look again. “I have a feeling those fairy mounds might be the real thing. Like that lake in Cape Cod.”
“If they are, just don’t forget your promise.”
“A time portal would be a bigger story than a sunken Viking boat, Kira.” He hesitated. “You’d be world-famous.”
“Not if you keep your word and leave my name off the story.” Kira lifted her chin, not willing to budge. “I’ve had enough fame in recent days to last a lifetime. Give the honors to one of the horn-tooters who’ll love the glory.”
Dan looked uncomfortable. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then off with you and be quick about it.” He clutched her to him for a quick hug. “I hate long good-byes.”
So did Kira, but before she could say her own, he was gone. Vanished into the teeming maze of hastening passengers and harried-looking airport personnel.
Shifting her carry-on yet again, she remembered what else she hated. Namely carting around unnecessary take-alongs pressed on her by her well-meaning family. No wonder her bag was digging a groove into her shoulder.
Determined to lighten her load—and avoid excess calories she really couldn’t afford—she made for the nearest waste bin, then unzipped her carry-on, plucking out the bulky plastic bag stuffed with Lindsay’s crushed and crumbling organic chocolate chip cookies.
A fat wedge of some kind of soybean imitation cheddar cheese and a mysterious home-baked energy bar her sister had sworn would keep her from suffering jet lag. Half a poorly wrapped hoagie her father must’ve secretly slipped into the bag after seeing Lindsay give her so much unappetizing health food.
Pitching it all, Kira dusted her hands and rezipped her now much lighter bag. But not before her gaze fell upon her book, The Hebridean Clans.
Her heart thumped. Catching her lip between her teeth, she retrieved her boarding card and headed for the long line at the security checkpoint, thoughts of catching a glimpse of her own Hebridean chieftain in real live waking hours quickening her steps.
With a bit of luck and if her special gift of far-seeing didn’t let her down, it just might happen.
She couldn’t think of anything sweeter.
Chapter 3
Many hours and even more transatlantic miles later, Kira pulled her fine-running hire car into a so-called lay-by, and rested her head against the steering wheel. She’d made it past Loch Lomond and even Crianlarich, carefully following the A-82, the most scenic route into the Highlands. But she wasn’t sure she could go much farther. The many twists and turns were getting to her, each new one bringing her closer to defeat.
She’d lied to herself about left-handed driving.
It wasn’t a breeze.
It was horrible.
Worse, she’d been sorely disillusioned to think that sheep jams were the only hazards of Scottish roads. Truth be told, to borrow the language of her medieval Highlander, the only sheep she’d spied so far were pleasant-looking woolly creatures seemingly content to keep to the verdant pastures rising from the impossibly narrow road.
She sighed. Leave it to her to make such a journey at a time when tiredness fogged her brain and heightened her fright factor.
Trying hard not to tremble and absolutely refusing to cry, she rolled down the window, hoping a good blast of clean and brisk air would bolster her confidence. Instead, the opened window only brought the approaching roar and passing whoosh of yet another speeding sports car.
A locally licensed car, flying past the lay-by at breakneck speed and disappearing into the wilds of Rannoch Moor before she could even blink,
much less wonder why she’d ever thought she could tackle such a drive without a good night’s sleep to recover from jet lag.
And if she wished to ponder her plight, the equally speedy whooshes of two coach tour buses and an over-wide recreational vehicle dashed her hopes of wallowing in self-pity.
“Holy guacamole,” she breathed, clutching the steering wheel.
Maybe she would have to crawl on her knees to Castle Wrath. Pulling over to tremble and catch her breath each time some impatient driver zoomed up behind her wasn’t getting her anywhere. But maybe her handy-dandy map of the Highlands would. That, and her mother’s carefully written instructions to the Cairn Avenue shrew’s stepdaughter’s castle near Oban.
Ravenscraig, the place was called if she remembered rightly, and it even boasted a re-created Highland period settlement—One Cairn Village—with craft shops, a tearoom, and tourist lodgings.
Loosening her grip on the steering wheel, she twisted left, reaching for her purse, then digging inside its voluminous side pockets, searching for the folded piece of paper with her mother’s notes. A quick scan of them and a glance at her map brought her an instant boost. She need drive only a bit farther north, then veer west onto the A-85, straight through Glen Lochy and the Pass of Brander before continuing along Loch Etive until she reached Ravenscraig Castle. According to her mother, she couldn’t miss it, as the castle and its One Cairn Village were clearly signposted.
Kira smiled. Signposted was good.
Better yet, the A-85 would also take her along a short bit of Loch Awe, allowing her a nice view of that loch’s picturesque Kilchurn Castle. Her smile widened. Might as well enjoy the touristy stuff along the way.
And Ravenscraig was a good deal closer than the Isle of Skye, where she’d booked a room at a small family-run inn. With her eyes feeling like sandpaper, sleep riding her hard, and her jaw beginning to ache from repeating the words stay left, a hot shower and a soft, clean bed sounded like heaven.
Just how much like heaven astounded her when, a long but scenic stretch of Highland roads behind her, she stood in the heart of Ravenscraig’s One Cairn Village and felt herself transported to Brigadoon.
This was Celtic whimsy at its finest.
Fine enough to blunt the worst of her jet lag.
“Oh-my-gosh.” She stopped beside a large memorial cairn topped with a Celtic cross, the clutch of thick-walled, blue-doored Highland-y cottages surrounding it taking her breath and delighting her. A profusion of late-blooming flowers and heather rioted everywhere, spilling from rustic-looking halved wine barrels and crowding winding, moss-grown paths. Curling wisps of fragrant peat smoke rose from several of the thatched cottages’ squat chimney stacks, and although the afternoon light was failing, there was enough to cast a golden autumnal glow across the whole old-timey-looking village.
She glanced about, letting the place’s magic close around her. It was like stepping into one of her books on Highland life, as if she’d blinked and suddenly found herself inside the sepia photographs of days long past and forgotten. The kind of photograph she was always mooning over.
“Oh-my-gosh,” she said again, her eyes misting.
The strapping young Highlander beside her chuckled. Setting down her bags, Malcolm, as he’d introduced himself, flashed her a dimpled grin. “That’s exactly what Mistress Mara said the first time she saw the castle,” he told her, his soft Highland voice almost as exciting as the Brigadoon-like village. “Looks like you have a greater heart for the simple things?”
A greater heart. Kira sighed. Just the phrase, so old-fashioned and Scottish-sounding, thickened her throat. She blinked, tried to wipe the damp from her eyes as unobtrusively as possible.
Seeing it anyway, the red-haired Malcolm reached to dry her cheeks with a strong, calloused thumb. “Dinna shame your emotion, lass. I’ve seen grown men shed tears hereabouts. Scotland does that to people.”
Kira nodded, his words making her eyes water all the more.
“I’ve always loved Scotland.” She blinked, unable to keep the hitch out of her voice. “The mournful hills and deep glens, heather-clad moors and hidden lochs. And, yes, it’s the simple things that stir me. A drift of peat smoke on chill autumn air or the laughter and song at ceilidhs. Real ceilidhs in crofts and cottages, not the kitschy Scottish song-and-dance evenings you see in big touristy hotels.”
She paused, swiping at her eyes again. “I sometimes think I belong to another age. The time of clan battles and Celtic legends, back when a skirl of pipes and a war cry roused men to whip out their swords and—”
She broke off, heat flaming her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I get carried away—”
“You feel the pull o’ the hills is what it is.” Malcolm-of-the-red-hair picked up her bags again. “And I’m a-thinking if you don’t have Scottish blood, then you did…atone time,” he added, the notion warming her like the sun breaking through clouds.
Before she could say anything, he nodded toward one of the cottages, its blue-shuttered windows glowing with the flickering light of what looked to be candles. “That’s the Heatherbrae. Yours for the night, and nay, those aren’t real candles in the windows,” he said, as if he’d read her mind. “They’re electric. The cottages may look of another century, but they have all the comforts of our own.
“And that up yonder”—he indicated a well-lit cottage at the end of the path, one slightly larger than the rest—“is Innes’s soap-and-candle craft and workshop. If you pop up there, you’ll find she keeps a platter of shortbread and fresh-brewed tea ready for visitors.”
Kira cast a longing glance at the Heatherbrae. “But—”
“I need a few minutes to ready your cottage.” The young man offered an apologetic smile. “We didn’t know for sure if you were coming, see you, and Mistress Mara and her Alex insist on a true Highland welcome for their guests: a warming fire on the hearth grate and a waiting dram at your bedside.”
“That sounds wonderful and so does Innes’s tea and shortbread. Still”—Kira glanced at the large memorial cairn, according to its bronze plaque, dedicated to some long-dead MacDougalls—“I don’t want to trouble the woman,” she finished, her gaze also lighting on a nearby wooden signpost marking the beginning of a woodland walk.
An evening walk she was sure would give her a second wind.
Following her gaze, Malcolm’s rosy-cheeked complexion turned a slightly deeper red. “Sorry, lass, but Innes will be expecting you. She…er…watches out her shop windows, having nothing much else to do the day. Just smile and nod if she mentions Lord Basil.”
“Lord Basil?” The words had no sooner left her lips than the image of an elegantly dressed, hawk-nosed man loomed before her, his aristocratic stare haughty and cold.
Kira blinked and he vanished, leaving her with a rash of goose bumps, alone on the path.
Malcolm-the-red had left her, too. The cracked door of the Heatherbrae and the wedge of warm yellow light spilling out into the cottage’s little garden left no doubt as to where he’d gone.
She also had no doubts that they’d been observed, for unless jet lag was playing tricks on her or her far-seeing gift was showing her yet another resident of Ravenscraig’s past, there was a white-haired woman peering at her from behind one of the soap-and-candle craft and workshop windows.
A tiny white-haired woman, she discovered upon stepping inside the shop a few minutes later. A frilly-aproned, birdlike woman who beamed at her with a cheery, welcoming smile and a telltale faraway look in her bright blue eyes.
“Come away in!” she enthused, scurrying from the window to a plaid-draped table set with a tea service and an array of what looked to be home-baked shortbread. “I’m Innes, maker of fine soaps and candles. And you’ll be herself, the young American Lord Basil told us we might be seeing,” she added, pouring the tea with a shaky, age-spotted hand. “Lord Basil likes Yanks.” She paused, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He even married one.”
Kira looked at her, gue
ssing she must mistake Mara McDougall’s Highland chieftain husband for someone named Lord Basil. No doubt the stuffy-looking aristocrat she’d glimpsed on the path. She was pretty sure her mother had said Euphemia Ross’s stepdaughter’s husband’s name was Alex.
Sir Alexander Douglas.
“You are a Yank, aren’t you?” Innes came closer, holding out a rattling teacup and saucer.
“I’m Kira Bedwell. And, yes, I’m American. From Aldan, Pennsylvania, near Philly.” Kira accepted the tea and took a sip. “Philadelphia,” she added, just in case the old woman had never heard the term Philly.
“Lord Basil comes from London,” Innes stated, as if she hadn’t spoken.
Determined to be polite, Kira opened her mouth to reply, but the words lodged in her throat, all thought of Innes and her apparent delusions forgotten as she blinked at a small display of books on local history and fauna.
A familiar face stared back at her.
Wee Hughie MacSporran. The puffed-up peacock of a tour guide who’d accompanied her long-ago coach tour and repeatedly regaled the company with his claims to lofty ancestry.
And there he was again, preening with self-importance on the cover of a book titled Rivers of Stone: A Highlander’s Ancestral Journey.
Kira blinked again, half certain that this time jet lag really was getting to her. But when she looked a second time, there could be no mistaking.
It was the tour guide.
Even if he looked a bit more portly than she remembered. His name was on the book, too: Wee Hughie MacSporran, historian, storyteller, and keeper of tradition.
Kira almost dropped her teacup. How like the swellhead to tack on so many distinctions to his name.
Curious, she set down her tea and reached for the book, clearly a vanity-press job. Her fingers were just closing on it when a richly timbred voice spoke behind her.
A deep Highland voice that sounded so much like him that her heart leapt to her throat.
“A fine book,” the voice said in endorsement, “written by a local man well versed in our legends and lore. You can have a copy if you like. A wee welcome-to-Scotland gift.”