Highlander's Portrait

by C. A. Szarek

  He’d learned his lesson when he was a lad. Couldn’t ignore the call. It was his duty to protect the Clan MacLeod’s Faery Flag.

  “I’ve ta go now.” He looked at Jamie, who was one of the few who knew of his duty and its demands. “The Flag calls.”

  “Ah. Verra well, my laird.” Jamie bowed. “Ye willna have worries when yer gone. Yer grandfa and I shall handle clan matters.”

  Eoin fought a full body shudder and forced a nod. The magic that ran through his veins was screaming now. His heart thundered and his temples throbbed.

  “What does tha’ mean?” Fiona yelled, but neither man acknowledged her.

  He should have Jamie send someone to ready his horse, but he couldn’t. If he wasn’t there to keep an eye on his little pest, his steward would have to, because their grandfather would let her run amok.

  Eoin cleared his throat and locked his gaze with his sister’s. So she would know he was serious. Then he looked at their cousin. “Lady Fiona is ta be confined ta her chambers.”

  Her outrage was instant. Instead of sobbing, like most lasses would, she glared and started to holler at him. Even rushed to him and pounded tiny fists to his chest before he caught her wrists in a hard grasp.

  A glare stopped Fiona from further assault, but she didn’t close her mouth, uttering unladylike curses even after he’d released his hold.

  Their parents would roll over in their graves to hear her speak as such. Even their grandfather would take her to task, were he in the room.

  “‘Twill be done, my laird,” Jamie said, as if Fiona wasn’t still screaming. “Safe journey.”

  “Thank ye, Jamie.” Eoin pointed to his sister. “Ye, I will deal wit’ when I return.”

  Chapter Three

  She closed her laptop and pushed back from the desk. Satisfaction washed over her for the first time in longer than she could remember.

  Ashlyn had worked. Written a few thousand words in less than two hours—probably a record for her, too. She didn’t hate what she’d added to the manuscript, either. Certainly a plus, especially with how things had been lately concerning her and her chosen profession.

  She felt good. Better than she had in months. Almost wanted to email Jayne, her agent.

  Her gaze darted to the small painting she’d propped against the lamp next to her. She locked onto Eoin MacLeod’s sapphire eyes. His gorgeous, but stoic expression made her want to know something about him for real.

  She’d made things up about the character she’d just invented based on him, but…Ashlyn craved facts about the real laird. Maybe he’d been the reason the story had flowed so well.

  Stop being ridiculous.

  “Are you done? Damn, your fingers were flying.” Kate whistled in appreciation, looking up from the magazine she was perusing while lounging, stretched out on her bed.

  She jumped, couldn’t help it. Then cursed the eyebrow her bestie arched at her. If she teased her about the painting, she’d deck her.

  Kate hadn’t stopped her best impression of Gollum since she’d seen Ashlyn treating the laird’s image with kid-gloves.

  She forced a nod. “Yes, I got them through the first kiss.”

  “Good stuff?”

  “Hope so. Let you read it later.” Her eyes found the laird’s again, half against her will since her bestie was most likely still watching.

  What would it be like to kiss a man that looked like him? It’d been a while since she’d kissed anyone—let alone done more than that.

  Oh, God, just stop. It’s a freaking painting.

  Did Kate have a point with the “my precious” stuff? Ashlyn fought a wince.

  “Awesome. I love your stories.”

  She scoffed.

  “I do, Ash! I just don’t get to read. I’m a busy girl. Runway shows and production take up so much of my time. My average work week is seventy hours!” Her friend sighed. “If I get into Marie Claire, I’ll be even busier.” Kate sounded wistful. She wanted in the magazine more than anything else—lately anyway.

  “I know. Sorry I gave you crap. I appreciate all your support; you’ve been with me from the start.”

  “Always, babe. I can say the same for you. I was a nothing designer longer than you were a nothing writer.” She popped up and closed the distance between them, sliding an arm around Ashlyn’s shoulders for a quick squeeze.

  She smiled up at her friend. Her bestie might be a pain sometimes, but Ashlyn couldn’t imagine life without her. It really sucked that they lived so far apart now. “What’s next on the agenda?”

  Kate grabbed the guide the tour personnel had given them all on day one from next to Ashlyn’s laptop. She ran her finger down the color-coded time and date listings’ table. “Looks like free time until eight. Then we’re supposed to gather up out front for a ghost walk.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Do we have to?”

  “Oh yeah, I totally wanna go to that. But right now, you have a promise to fulfil.”

  “I do?”

  Her friend perched a hand on her hip. “The pub, babe. The pub.”

  Ashlyn groaned. “Really?”

  “Are you trying to spoil my fun again?”

  “No, no. I’ll go.”

  “Again. Don’t sound so happy about it. Maybe I’ll be able to snag me a hottie-Scottie.” She waggled her auburn eyebrows and Ashlyn couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Well, you’re not gonna bring him back here, I won’t have any of that sock-doorknob stuff.”

  Her friend threw her head back and laughed, making her groomed ponytail dance. “Okay, that was one time, and in college; give a girl a break.”

  She smirked. “No way. I’m never gonna let you live it down. I got a B on my English mid-term because of you. My books were in our room, and I needed to freakin’ study, dammit.”

  Kate’s mouth fell open. “Seriously, Ash? The horror, a B! That was ten years ago. I don’t even remember the guy’s name.”

  “I do.”

  “Yeah?” Her friend’s mouth rippled, like she was trying not to smile. She cocked her head to the side, waiting.

  “That B traumatized me for life.”

  “More than the sock?” She snorted.

  “Yeah. It burned images in my head forever. Brad-the-douche.”

  Kate wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. Him! Don’t remind me. He was the hugest douche ever.”

  Ashlyn giggled. “He was pretty bad.”

  “I don’t know what I saw in him.”

  “Told you that!” she said in a singsong voice that made Kate roll her eyes.

  “That’s why being single is better.”

  “Thought you were gonna snag a hottie-Scottie?” Ashlyn shot back.

  “Sure, to shag, not marry.”

  She shook her head as Kate flipped her suitcase open and started rummaging through her clothing. “I don’t know how we’re friends,” Ashlyn teased.

  “Well, only one of us can be the hopeless romantic. I guess it makes sense it’s you, who makes up happily-ever-afters for a living.”

  Her eyes cut to the painting of Eoin MacLeod. “Too bad they’re made up.”

  Jesus, stop being an idiot.

  “You say something?” Kate asked.

  She met her bestie’s green-blue eyes and shook her head. No way she’d admit her head was in the clouds. It was only something another writer could understand. Maybe she was still too hooked into her manuscript and her new hero.

  Kate didn’t bat an eye, just twirled in the very low cut fire-engine red top she’d put on. Her bust was generous anyway, but the shirt gave her cleavage with a capital C. It was shimmery fabric that caught the light and had long billowy sheer sleeves. She’d also put on some tight black pants and a pair of red heels that were probably Louboutins. “How do I look?”

  “A tad too rich for a neighborhood pub in Inverness.”

  “One always needs to look one’s best. Especially someone as sexy as this one.” She gestured to herself and winked. “Are you going to c
hange?” The signature arched eyebrow suggested the question was more of an order.

  Ashlyn stood and looked down at her navy tee that read, “Writers have text appeal.” It was one of many nerdy shirts she owned—and loved. Her jeans were dark denim, and her favorite pair for how they hugged her hips and made her ass look smaller. “What’s wrong with what I have on?”

  Kate cast her eyes to the ceiling as if she was seeking divine intervention. “What am I gonna do with you?”

  “Hey, this is my vacation, remember? As you so aptly pointed out.” She flashed a grin. “I’m not supposed to have to get dolled up. Didn’t bring fancy clothes, anyway.”

  “Of course you didn’t. And you’re awesome, tossing words back in my face.” Her bestie mock-glared.

  “You’re welcome.” Ashlyn giggled.

  “Well, let’s go.” She gestured to the small desk and made a face. “It’ll be good to get you away from your new man, and maybe, just maybe, you can meet a real one. You could benefit from the company of a male that’s not in your head.”

  She stole a look at the painting but chose not to comment. Resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at Kate, even if she was right.

  Ashlyn grabbed her tote embroidered with her name, and slung it over her shoulder. It felt empty without her laptop inside, but she was done working and she could definitely use a drink. Not like she’d write in a noisy pub, anyway.

  She took a step toward the door, where Kate already was, then looked at Eoin MacLeod again, as if compelled.

  “Ash, are you coming?”

  She murmured a response, but her feet didn’t move.

  Her friend exited their room ahead of her, and Ashlyn darted back to the desk. She stared at the painting for a split-second, then slid it into her bag.

  ****

  Eoin pulled on the uncomfortable modern trews. They were called jeans, and were made of a material he’d learned was referred to as denim. He had no love for them, but he’d come forward in time on more occasions than he wanted to contemplate and the tight garment seemed to stay relevant, no matter the year. He could blend in, which was essential.

  He preferred his plaid. It allowed movement and comfort, but it seemed the men of his country only wore them for show in the future. It was a shame. A loss of culture.

  Eoin tried to limit what of the future he retained. Knowledge made going home harder, especially since he couldn’t share what he’d witnessed with anyone. He’d seen wonders he’d not understood the first time he’d come forward, but that’d only changed with time, put him in even more awe. He knew the names of things, like automobiles and televisions, even the telephone, but he’d learned of mobile phones when he’d given his Flag to Korinna.

  Wonders he couldn’t begin to understand, but he no longer feared them. The witch had helped with that, actually. He hadn’t taken her as a lover, but he would’ve if she’d wished for the same. Her ethereal beauty was as timeless as she was.

  He pulled the soft blue shirt over his head. It was tight to his body, nothing like tunics or leines he wore in his own time. It was called a T-shirt, and he had both long and short-sleeved versions. This one had a pocket over his heart.

  Eoin kept a variety of clothing stowed in a modern satchel, buried in the corner of the cave the Faery Stones were in, under rocks and sand. He’d gathered the things and left them there; he always had to undress before time traveling. The Stones stripped a person of everything but what was held in one’s hands, but only when traversing centuries.

  He’d left his plaid in the cave of 1755. When he got home, he wouldn’t have to head back to Dunvegan naked. However, he’d brought his claymore with him through time, holding it in his hands for that purpose. He’d have to leave it in the cave of the Faery Stones, for this was a time when people didn’t carry weapons openly, but he always felt better knowing it was there, awaiting him.

  If Eoin went to the Fae Realm in his own time, he’d keep his clothes and weapons—and he’d need his claymore, if not more than one. Winged Fae Warriors killed humans on sight, no matter what amount of Fae blood ran through his veins. His great-grandmother, Alana, had been a full-blooded Fae Princess.

  He’d gone into the Realm of the Fae a few times as a lad and had barely gotten back to his home on the Isle of Skye on each occasion. He stayed away, learning his lesson. Had no reason to go there.

  Eoin had an innate ability to know where he was in time; if he happened to come to a year before his supplies were present in the cave, he could always open the Stones again and go to the place in time when what he needed was there. That hadn’t happened to him in a while, at least not since his last trip.

  Instinct told him he was no more than three of his years in the future since he’d given the Flag to Korinna; it was the twenty-first century, and the farthest in the future he’d ever had to travel.

  The Flag had changed hands many times since he’d planted the fake in the treasures of his clan, but he’d always been able to save it from causing damage. He’d taken the real Flag back with him, but somehow it never worked and he was always sucked forward after it again.

  He had no control over it, and no choice but to answer the call. He was linked magically to the damn thing, and even when the real Faery Flag had been in Dunvegan with his ancestor Rory MacLeod’s horn, and the Dunvegan Cup, he’d had to come to the future when the Flag ended up with a new owner.

  Eoin didn’t understand why it wasn’t safely in modern-day Dunvegan. He’d been proud to learn that not only was his clan’s stronghold still standing—his descendants occupied it, at least some of the time.

  When Korinna had convinced him to give the Flag to her for safekeeping, and suggested he install a fake, the change of hands in the future made more sense, but it hadn’t stopped things from reoccurring when he’d brought the real thing back to the past.

  Puzzling, but not even the witch could explain the circle of time.

  Eoin stuffed his feet into black boots and buried a dagger he’d purchased on one of his trips inside it, tucking the short hilt against his ankle. He refused to go weaponless entirely, so this was an alternative he could handle. The knife was black-bladed, made of a fine material much better than anything in his time, but he couldn’t bring it home with him.

  Very few could know of his duty—or how he fulfilled it. It was a secret role handed down to one chosen male MacLeod to another—not necessarily the laird. His grandfather had trained him, but before Eoin’s grandfather, it’d been a cousin. Both older men had mentored him in one way or another.

  The Fae magic in their blood varied, and the role of Guardian fell to the male with the most magic. He had the ability to blink. He could picture himself in a location and appear there. It took concentration, and could wipe him out physically if he did it too many times in one day, but it was something he’d been able to do even as a wee lad.

  His cousin—the grandson of a Fae Warrior that’d married a great-aunt of his—could do the trick as well, and had helped Eoin hone the skill. His grandfather could blink, too, but the man had struggled with it the older he got, so he’d taught Eoin other Fae magic instead.

  He hadn’t had to do any of this in three years, so he was rusty, anyway. Was going to have to rely on the magical tie to the Flag more than he should. The good thing was, if he concentrated, the Flag’s magic would pull Eoin to it, no matter where in the world it was.

  It wasn’t necessarily in Scotland. That’d only happened once. He’d had a scary experience in America, but back in the early twentieth century.

  He growled. He was going to have words with that witch—if Korinna was still in Scotland. She moved around in time and place. He’d thought he was done with chasing the Faery Flag. Trusted her to care for it. He could stay home, stay with his clan and family. Live his life. She’d assured him of it.

  What happened?

  He’d have to find out.

  Eoin had only entrusted the Flag to Korinna in the first place because the witch
had greater magic than his own. The Fae blood in the MacLeod line was diminishing. He worried that there wouldn’t be a MacLeod after him who could feel magic or be tied to the Flag, but he’d been telling himself for years he couldn’t dwell on it.

  It wasn’t like there was a Fae Princess volunteering to marry him, like his great-grandfather, Alex. Eoin couldn’t saunter into the Fae Realm to seduce a female—princess or not—either. Human blood in Fae Realm was a death sentence.

  His sister didn’t have any magic, and that scared him, too. If the blood wouldn’t help his clan protect what was theirs, what would?

  Eoin didn’t have time to focus on that; he needed to go to the Flag.

  Giving it to the witch had been a mistake.

  He’d failed in his duty.

  His great-grandparents would roll over in their graves.

  He buried the paper money in his back pocket. Korinna had been helpful in explaining what modern currency was the first time he’d met her, as well as assisted in gathering his cache. He didn’t know if he’d need it, or how much, but it might take him more than one day to ensure the Flag was safe.

  His gaze swept the cave as he hid his satchel and sword. The Faery Stones glinted, as if some light source was present to reflect off the crystals, but the radiance came from inside each one. They gave off enough light to illuminate the cave, but they were hidden well enough to prevent unexpected guests. No one would find this cave unless they knew where to look.

  The Faery Stones were made up of five clustered natural formations, rising from the cavern’s floor, perfectly spaced from each other, in a loose circle. One was centered, and the other four surrounded it.

  Eoin’s grandfather had explained that the crystals atop the five pillars were from the Realm of the Fae, and magic-born. The one in the center was larger than the rest. It was the key to making the others work. They had to be in tune as a whole to open the portal.

  The semi-circle they sat in was perfect, as if it had been placed there, not grown. That was probably the case; they’d been put in the Human Realm a millennia ago by the Fae who’d wanted to link their worlds.