Highlander in Her Dreams (2 page)

The Isle of Skye
Many Centuries Later…

Only a few months after her eighteenth birthday and in the unlikely environs of a crowded tour bus, Kira Bedwell fell in love.

With Scotland.

Passionately, irrevocably, never-look-back in love.

Not as one might expect with a strapping, kilt-wearing hunky, all dimpled smiles and twinkling eyes. A powerfully built Celtic giant able to melt a woman at twenty paces just by reciting the alphabet in his rich, buttery-smooth burr.

O-o-oh no. That would have made things too simple.

Kira Always-Take-the-Hard-Way Bedwell had fallen in love with the land.

Well, the land and a few choice secret fantasies. Delicious fantasies that set her heart to pounding and made her toes curl. The kind of things that would have made her parents regret every dime they'd doled out for her graduation trip to Scotland.

Land of her dreams
.

A place to stir and kindle female desires if ever there was one. Hers had been simmering for as long as she could remember—tartan-clad fantasies sparked by the colorful tales spun by onetime Scottish neighbors. The MacIvers had moved elsewhere, but the magic of their stories stayed with Kira, as did her dreams of misty hills, heathery moors, and bold, sword-swinging men.

Frowning, she crossed her legs and stared out the window, the image of a braw, wild-maned Highlander striking out across that untamed, heather-covered land a bit too vivid for comfort.

She moistened her lips, determining to ignore the nervous flutter in her belly. Prickly little flickers of giddiness that whipped through her each time she imagined such a man looming up out of the mist to ravish her. Her pulse escalated and she needed a few slow, deep breaths to compose herself. Amazing, what the thought of a hot-eyed, handsome man in full Highland regalia can do to a girl.

Especially if such a man is bent on making a woman his.

But the only kilties she'd encountered so far on her holiday coach tour through the Scottish Highlands were men over sixty. Each one ancient even if he did speak with a deep, bone-melting burr. She recrossed her legs, her frustration minimal but definitely there. Not a one of the over-sixty gallants even had had cute knees.

Forget sexy calves.

As for filling out their kilts…

Pathetic.

She frowned again and looked out her window at Eilean a' Cheò, Isle of the Mist. Better known as Skye, and one of the highlights of the tour. A rapidly vanishing highlight, as today was the tour's only full day on the misty isle and she didn't want to miss a single moment.

They were driving north along the cliff-hugging, single-track road through the heart of Trotternish, a landscape of rock, sea, and brilliant blue sky almost too glorious to behold.

The glistening bays of rocks and white sand, the black-faced sheep grazing the greenest pastures she'd ever seen. Shining seas of deepest blue and dark, rugged coastline. Cliffs, caves, and ruined croft houses, the fire-blackened stones squeezing her heart.

The woman next to her touched her elbow then, offering potato chips, but Kira ignored her, making only a noncommittal
mmmph
. She'd eat later, when they stopped at Kilt Rock for a picnic lunch.

For now, she only wanted to drink in the views. She was branding the vistas onto her memory, securing them there so they could be recalled at will when the tour ended and she returned to Pennsylvania, leaving her new love behind.

The MacIvers had been right. They'd sworn that no one could set foot in their homeland without losing their heart to Scotland's mist and castles. The wild skirl of pipes and vibrant flashes of plaid. She'd certainly fallen hard. Crazy in love, as her sisters would say.

Crazy in love with Scotland.

And crazily annoyed by the constant drone of the tour guide's voice.

A deep and pleasing Highland voice that she would surely have found appealing if the speaker hadn't been such a bore. She glanced at him, then quickly away. That he seemed to be the only kilted Scotsman close to her age only made it worse.

Rosy-cheeked, red-haired, and pudgy, he bore a rather strong resemblance to a giant tartan-draped teddy bear.

Leaning back against the seat, she blew out a frustrated breath. If she'd harbored any illusions about romance on this tour, Wee Hughie MacSporran wasn't her man.

“…ancient seat of the MacDonalds of Skye, Castle Wrath stands empty, its once formidable walls crumbled and silent.” The guide's voice rolled on, at last saying something that caught her attention.

She sat up, perking her ears.

Castle Wrath sounded interesting.

She could go for crumbled walls. Especially if they were silent, she decided, trying not to notice that her seatmate was opening a second bag of potato chips.

“Some say Castle Wrath is haunted,” Wee Hughie went on, seemingly oblivious to crackling potato chip bags. In fact, his chest swelled a bit as he looked round to see the effect of his tale. “To be sure, its walls are bloodstained, each stone a reminder of the past. The turbulent history of the ancient warrior-chiefs who once dwelt there.”

Pausing, he pointed out the ruin on its cliff, clearly pleased by the tour-goers' indrawn breaths. Their appreciative ooohs and ahhhs.

Kira ooohed too.

She couldn't help herself. Etched starkly against sea and sky, Castle Wrath, or what was left of it, looked just as dark and brooding as Wee Hughie described it.

Shivering suddenly, she rubbed her arms and nestled deeper into her jacket. She'd seen a lot of castle ruins since arriving in Scotland, but this one had her catching her breath.

It was different.

Romantic.

In a spookily delicious sort of way.

She turned back to the guide, for once not wanting to miss a word he had to say.

“Castle Wrath was originally a Pictish fort,” he told the group. “A
dun
. This first stronghold was seized by invading Norsemen until they, in turn, were dislodged by the Lords of the Isles.” He looked around again, pitching his voice for maximum impact. “These early MacDonalds were fierce and powerful. Their sway along Scotland's western coast was absolute.”

He paused, his hands clenching the green vinyl satchel that Kira knew held his scribblings on Scottish history and lore.

Looking ready to impart that lore, he cleared his throat. “Deep grooves in the rock of the castle's landing beach attest to the MacDonalds' prowess at sea, for the grooves are believed to have been caused by the keels of countless MacDonald galleys being drawn onto the shore. These fearless men were the ones who raised the new castle, and it is their ghosts whose footfalls, knocks, and curses can be heard—”

“Have you seen our guide's beanstalk?”

Kira blinked.
“Beanstalk?”

She looked at her seatmate, certain she'd misunderstood.

But the woman nodded, her gaze on Wee Hughie. “It's quite impressive.”

Kira could feel her jaw drop. True, she hadn't seen that many naked men, but she'd seen enough to know that Wee Hughie's beanstalk was the only part of his anatomy that lived up to his name. She'd caught a glimpse of his
Highland pride
when some of the tour-goers photographed him at Bannockburn. Striking a pose beside the famous statue of King Robert the Bruce, he'd looked regal enough until an inopportune gust of wind revealed what a true Scotsman wears—or doesn't wear—beneath his kilt.

A wind blast that proved Wee Hughie MacSporran to be anything but impressive.

Wincing at the memory, she shot a glance at him. “I didn't think he was all that—”

“He's descended from the MacDonalds, Lords of the Isles,” Kira's seatmate enthused, poking her arm for emphasis. “From the great Somerled himself. I know genealogists back home who'd sell the farm for such illustrious forebears.” She paused to press a hand to her breast and sigh. “He carries a diagram of his lineage in that green satchel. It goes back two thousand years.”

“Oh.” Kira hoped the other woman hadn't guessed her mistake. She'd forgotten the guide's ancestral pedigree. His supposed claim to noble roots.

Kira didn't believe a word he said.

Any descendant of Robert Bruce and other historical greats would surely be dashing and bold, with dark, flashing eyes full of heat and passion. Beautiful in a wild, savage way. Sinfully sexy. Well-muscled rather than well-
fleshed
—and definitely well-hung.

She squirmed on the seat, certain that her cheeks were brightening.

Certain, too, that she wouldn't be picnicking at Kilt Rock with full-of-himself MacSporran and the tour group. As if drawn by a force impossible to resist, she stared through the bus window at the ruin perched so precariously on the cliff-top. Bold men, mighty and strong, had called the romantic pile of stones their own, and if their echoes still lingered there she was of a mind to find them.

Or at least enjoy her packed lunch surrounded by the solitude.

The bus could return for her later. If she could persuade the driver to indulge her.

Determination urging her on, she approached him a short while later during the obligatory roadside photo stop. A pleasant enough man about her father's age, he turned when he sensed her hovering, his smile fading at the lunch packet clutched in her hand.

“My regrets, lass, but there won't be time for you to eat that here.” He shook his head. “Not if we're to make the craft and art shops on our way to Kilt Rock.”

“I'm not interested in arts and crafts.” Kira plunged forward before she lost her courage. “I'd rather picnic here than at Kilt Rock.”

“Here?” The bus driver's brows shot upward. He eyed the clumpy grass at the roadside, the peaty little burn not far from where they stood. “Do you have any idea how many sheep pats are scattered hereabouts? Och, nay, here's no place for a lunch stop.”

Looking sure of it, he glanced at the other tour-goers, some already filing back into the bus. “I canna see anyone in this group wanting to picnic here.”

“I didn't mean the others.” Kira seized her chance. “I meant just me. And not here, along the roadway,” she added, casting a wistful look toward Castle Wrath. “I'd like to spend an hour or two out at the ruins. Eat my lunch there and do a bit of exploring.”

She looked back at the bus driver, giving him her most hopeful smile. “It would be the highlight of my trip. Something special that I'd cherish forever.”

The driver stared at her for a few moments, then began rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. He said nothing, but the look he was giving her wasn't encouraging.

“You could pick me up on the way back to Portree.” Kira rushed the words before he could say no. “Two hours is all I ask. More if you'd need the time to come for me. I wouldn't mind the wait.”

“That ruin really is haunted,” he warned her. “Wee Hughie wasn't lying. Strange things have been known to happen there. The place is right dangerous, too. It's no' one of those fancy historical sites run by the National Trust.”

He turned piercing blue eyes on her. “Everything at Wrath stands as it was, untouched by man all down the centuries. Och, nay, you canna go there. The cliff is riddled with underground tunnels, stairwells and rooms, much of it already crumbled into the sea.”

“Oh, please,” Kira pleaded, feeling as if the ancient stones were actually calling to her. “I'll be careful. I promise.”

The bus driver set his jaw and Kira's heart plummeted when he glanced at his watch. “Come, lass. Think with your head, no' your heart. We'll tour Dunvegan Castle in the morning, before we leave for Inverness. You'll like Dunvegan much better. It's furnished and has a gift shop—”

“Which is why Castle Wrath is so special.” Kira's throat began to thicken with her need to reach the ruins. “It's not overrun with tourists. It hasn't been spoiled.” She paused to draw a breath. “My parents worked overtime for a year to give me this trip and I can't imagine ever getting back. Visiting Scotland again doesn't figure in my budget.”

The driver grunted. Then he nudged at a cluster of heather roots, his hesitation giving her hope.

“I've ne'er had anything happen to anyone on one of my tours.” He looked at her, a troubled frown knitting his brow. “One false step out there and you'd find yourself in some underground chamber, maybe even standing at the very wall of the cliff, the earth opening away at your feet and falling straight down to the sea.”

“Nothing will happen to me.” Kira lifted her chin, tightening her grip on the lunch packet. “Believe me, anyone used to walking around downtown Philly can poke around Scottish castle ruins.”

“Ach, well.” The driver gave a resigned sigh. “I still dinna like it. No' at all.”

Kira smiled. “I won't give you cause to be sorry.”

“I'd have to double back to fetch you,” he said, rubbing his chin again. “It's a straight shot from Kilt Rock south to Portree. The others might not like—”