Highlander in Her Bed (33 page)

Could life get any worse?

A three-hour arrival delay for any transatlantic flight certainly qualified in the worst-things-that-could-happen category. A delayed overseas flight with Euphemia Ross onboard was a recipe for disaster.

That her father seemed to have chosen the busiest day of the year to land at Glasgow International Airport didn't help matters.

His arrival would surely cause a stir whether ten or hundreds of people milled about the smallish airport's none-too-large arrival area.

Hugh McDougall of One Cairn Avenue wasn't just flying to Scotland for the first time, after all.

He was going home.

To the
Auld Hameland
.

As he'd repeatedly emphasized by phone every day of the preceding week.

Mara glanced at Malcolm the Red, felt a shivery twinge of déjà vu.

Had it really been only a few short months since he'd startled her by plucking her carry-on out of her hands outside the Oban rail station?

Amazingly, it had. And then, as now, she couldn't help but smile at the sight of him.

Well gifted with Highland courtesy and patience, the strapping young man stood with his hands clasped in front of him, his red cheeks glowing as always, and his even brighter red hair gleaming in the airport's stark, artificial lighting.

He turned to her then, looking quite unfazed for having wasted most of the fine summer morning in the crowded arrival hall. "Shall I fetch you another cup of tea?" he asked, his dimpled smile hard to resist. "But it willna be much longer now."

Mara shook her head. "Thank you, but no."

If she drank any more lukewarm Scottish tea, she'd find herself in the loo just when her dad and the shrew strode out of Customs and Immigration.

And Malcolm the Red was much too nice to deserve such a fate.

Not sure she was ready for it herself, she leaned back against an unmanned tourist information counter and closed her eyes.

"A right shame your Alex couldn't come with you," Malcolm allowed, joining her.

Mara's eyes popped back open.

"But I doona blame him wanting to stay down-bye," Malcolm added, making himself at home against the counter. "He'll want to be certain everything is done proper at Ravenscraig."

Mara looked down to smooth her skirt, deliberately avoiding the young man's eyes.

Without doubt, Hottie Scottie would be in the thick of things back at Ravenscraig. Elbow to elbow with old Murdoch, tripping over Dottie and Scottie, and flustering Prudentia, as they all readied what Mara secretly thought of as the Great Reception.

But that wasn't the reason he hadn't joined them on the drive south to Glasgow.

Hottie Scottie was simply not yet keen on riding in cars.

Not that she'd share his reservations with Malcolm the Red. "I don't mind that he didn't come," she said, speaking truthfully. Remembering how many appeals Alex had made to his Maker the one time she'd persuaded him to ride into Oban with her. "There'll be plenty of time later for him to—"

She got no further, cut off by a great stir and commotion near the arrival screen. A hullabaloo that could mean only one thing, she realized, surprised by the sudden hot swelling in her throat.

It was time.

Forget the Cairn Avenue shrew.

After sixty-nine endless-seeming years of longing and yearning, Hugh McDougall had finally arrived in the land of his ancestors.

There, be-kilted and moony-eyed, in the crush of the passengers pouring into the arrival hall. A soppy smile on his face and a chieftain's eagle feather bobbing from the blue tam-o'-shanter perched jauntily on his head.

He pushed a trolley piled high with bulging, tartan-patterned luggage and seemed oblivious to both the pinched-face scowl of the minuscule woman crowding his side and the drop-jawed gawking of the teeming throng.

"Your da?" Malcolm glanced at her.

Mara nodded, speechless.

The tops of her ears were burning and she was quite sure that if she had a mirror to hand, she'd see that they'd turned bright red.

"Looks like he's right pleased to be here," Malcolm said, starting forward.

But he only went two paces before turning round and grabbing Mara's hand, pulling her along with him. "Come, lass," he said, squeezing her fingers. "Dinna fash yourself o'er what others might be thinking. The brightness o' your da's eyes is all that matters."

Mara agreed, suddenly finding herself blinking back the brightness in her own eyes as her father spotted them and a broad grin spread across his tear-dampened face.

"Mara!" he cried, snatching off his tam-o'-shanter and waving it in the air. "My little girl!"

"Dad!" Mara let go of Malcolm's hand and elbowed a way through the jostling passengers. "It's so wonderful to see you," she said when she reached him.

Then she threw her arms around him and hugged him tight, vaguely aware of Malcolm clapping a welcoming hand on his shoulder. Her heart swelling, she gave him a smacking kiss, no longer caring who in the terminal might wish to stop and stare at them.

"This is Malcolm, a friend," she said, glancing his way as she introduced him. "He was kind enough to drive me here. Alex is busy at Ravenscraig but is looking forward to meeting you."

Hugh McDougall thrust his hand toward the younger man. "By God, if you don't remind me of myself in younger years," he enthused, pumping Malcolm's hand. "Back when I had a bit more brawn to fill my kilts!"

Turning to Mara, he added, "As for your young man, I've brought him something special—two whole boxes of saltwater taffy from the Jersey shore and a bag of Lancaster County soft pretzels."

Mara smiled, well aware of just who would be eating the most of both.

"Oh, Dad," she said, her voice thick. "It
is
good to have you here. A-and you look great!"

"Don't I now?" He beamed at her, swiped an age-spotted hand across his cheek. "Bought a new kilt special for you. And"—he looked down and plucked at his full-sleeved shirt—"this here's a
Jacobite
shirt! Just like our forebears wore at Culloden."

"If you'd changed into a T-shirt to sleep in on the plane as I'd suggested, it wouldn't be so wrinkled." The tiny dark-haired woman at his side sniffed and reached small hands to fuss at the shirt. "My tartan sash has nary a crease."

And it didn't.

Looking impeccable as always, the Cairn Avenue shrew's ladies dress sash of Clan Ross tartan was draped stylishly over her right shoulder with neither a wrinkle nor speck of lint visible anywhere.

"Euphemia—welcome to Scotland," Mara blurted before her tongue refused to greet the woman. "And congratulations on your marriage. I wish you both every happiness."

The shrew gave her a tight little smile. "Our honeymoon would have had a more auspicious start had security in Newark not caused us such a long delay."

"But you're here now and the day is bonny," Malcolm put in, taking charge of the overburdened trolley and guiding them out into the sunshine.

"I expected to see mist," Euphemia said, sounding peeved. "Mist and castles."

"Och, you'll see plenty o' both," Malcolm promised, flashing her a blinding smile. "Dinna you worry 'bout that."

"I hope so." Euphemia cast a skeptical glance at the cloudless sky.

Malcolm winked at her. "If you'd like to stop for tea along the way, I know just the place guaranteed to give you a good glimpse o' some real Highland mist."

To Mara's surprise, the shrew smiled.

"I'd love to stop for tea," she said, hooking her arm through her husband's. "So long as we don't arrive at the castle too late. Hugh needs his sleep. He wearies easily."

But it was Mara who was soon wearying as they made their way north on the A-82, a narrow and winding ribbonwide bit of road and one of Scotland's most scenic routes into the heart of the Highlands.

Indeed, the sparkling waters of Loch Lomond shimmered through the trees to their right and the wooded, sheep-dotted slopes rising so steeply on their left could've been straight out of
Rob Roy
.

But the only things catching anyone's attention were Euphemia's repeated shrieks and exclamations of doom each time they had a close encounter with an RV or tour coach that happened to be heading in the opposite direction.

"O-o-oh, I don't believe this!" she shrilled, clapping her hands over her eyes as they squeezed past yet another superwide recreational vehicle. "And they're all going so fast."

"Ah, well, that's no bad thing," Malcolm owned, his eye on the road. "See you, we're almost nigh to Crianlarich, where we'll turn west to Oban, and up just ahead is our tea stop, the Drover's Inn."

But when they pulled into the popular inn's car park a few minutes later, Euphemia eyed the place and frowned.

And the Drover's Inn seemed to glare right back at her.

A three-storied pile of old stone with a colorful past, the somewhat tumbledown droving inn hugged the road, a scatter of empty picnic tables stretched along its front and a rise of great, moody hills looming to its rear.

Mist-hung hills.

Just as Malcolm had promised.

"Look, Phemie! There's your mist," Hugh McDougall cried, pointing to where tendrils of drifting gray mist hung down the hillside. "Highland mist just for you."

"Those are rain clouds if ever I saw one," his wife quipped, hardly looking. "And if this place isn't haunted, Philadelphia doesn't have the Liberty Bell," she added, brushing at her tartan sash. "I'm not sure I want to go in there."

"Och, I ne'er drive past without stopping here, and I've yet to see any spirits save the kind served in wee dram glasses," Malcolm assured her, opening the inn's door. "Though there's surely some that do call the place haunted. Most tourists like the idea."

"Not this one." The shrew shivered and set her mouth in a hard, tight line.

"Oh, come, Phemie, you know there's no such thing as ghosts." Hugh McDougall took her hand, patting it. "We'll just have a quick look inside. Only long enough for your tea."

"They have kilted servers and give you shortbread with the tea," Mara put in, trying to be nice.

"Shortbread is fattening," Euphemia said, peering into the inn's main taproom, a dark-paneled low-ceilinged pub that reeked of ale, peat smoke, and dogs. "And I doubt they can serve tea good enough to get me in there."

Shuddering, she cast one last contemptuous look into the smoky little room.

"This entrance hall is even worse." She folded her arms, glaring round at the clutter of discarded, broken furniture shoved into the corners, the many stags' heads on the walls. "No, I don't want tea here. They probably don't serve it with ice cubes anyway."

"Ice cubes?" Malcolm's brow furrowed. "I thought you meant hot tea."

Euphemia looked at him. "No, I wanted a tall glass of iced tea with lemon, and now I just want to go," she said, turning toward the door so quickly she almost collided with a moth-eaten standing bear. "I am sure Ravenscraig will suit me better."

"But, Phemie, this place is like peeking into the past. Just look at those smoke-blackened hearthstones. You know each one would have a tale if only they could speak!" Hugh McDougall threw a longing glance at the glowing peat fire on the far side of the dark little pub. "You drink hot tea, too. Come on, five minutes."

But the Cairn Avenue shrew was already out the door.

"I'm sure you'll be able to do plenty of past peeping at your daughter's castle," she called over her shoulder. "I won't stay anywhere that smells of mold and mildew and looks like it might have ghosts."

Mara slid a glance at Malcolm as they crossed the car park, but his face showed no sign that he'd guessed the true nature of Alex and his reenactor friends.

Blessedly, neither did her father or the shrew when, about two hours later, they drove through Ravenscraig's massive gatehouse and Alex's stalwarts came into view.

They lined the drive, standing proud in their plaids and mail.

Excepting a few that Mara knew especially well, even she was hard-pressed to say who was a ghostie and who was a flesh-and-blood Highlander.

"Now
there's
your past peeping." Euphemia leaned forward to poke her husband's shoulder. "They must've robbed a museum or paid a fortune to have such authentic costumes made."

Mara bit back the urge to tell her just how real most of the costumes were.

And the swords.

Not that she really cared whether she frightened Euphemia Ross or not. The look of awe on her father's face was well worth suffering the woman.

With luck, a good stout wind might even blow her into the firth. Considering she didn't even top five feet and looked to weigh no more than eighty pounds, Mara figured the possibility had chances.

"By golly!" her dad exclaimed then, rolling down his window. "Will you look at that wild-eyed devil over there on the left? The big burly one with the bushy red beard. If he doesn't look like he just stepped out of a history book, I'll eat my tam-o'-shanter!"

Mara smiled. "That's Bran of Barra," she was glad to supply. "He's one of Alex's closest friends and a genuine Hebridean chieftain."

"I can sure see that," her father said, his eyes almost popping out of his head.

"And over there on that rise, the tall piper with his plaid lifting in the breeze, that's Alex." Mara waved at him, her heart catching when he flashed her a grin and started playing "Highland Laddie."

"Piping is just one of Alex's talents," she added, glancing back at her dad. "I hope you'll like him."

"Like him?" Her dad slapped his knee. "Any young man who wears a kilt, pipes, and puts such a twinkle in my little girl's eye is a young man I'd be proud to call son."

Mara felt happiness tighten and burn her throat, sting the backs of her eyes.

Swallowing hard, she fought the sensations before the first tear could fall. She wasn't going to get emotional in front of Euphemia Ross. She just hoped her dad would still feel the same about Alex if ever their secret leaked out.

Not that she intended to let that happen.

With so many guests, ghosties, and friends attending the welcome reception planned for the evening, if Hottie Scottie
did
start to fade at some point during the celebrations, enough of his men would be on hand to shield him from view until the fading spell passed.