Mark of the Highlander (The MacLomain Series: Next Generation, Book 1) (2 page)

McKayla pulled her cousins into a group hug and mumbled, “Thanks,” once more. One way or another, they kept her whole. They, as diverse as they were, made real life a little more bearable. Because if she had her way every last inch of her existence would be part of a medieval Scottish novel. And that just wasn’t good. Or healthy.

When she broke away from her well-meaning family she came face to face with a portrait size portrayal of her book cover propped up on an easel. Again she found herself staring. Yes, her editors loved it. She loved it. But did it really represent what she’d written?

As if on cue, Caitlin’s husband Ferchar walked up beside her. It was a hard thing not to find him incredibly attractive. Tall, muscled, hot as heck with a deep Scottish brogue, he was impossible to ignore.

“Bloody odd, that mark,” he said.

She touched her collarbone absently. “You mean the one here.”

“Aye. Scots dinnae have marks like that. At least not then.”

McKayla rolled his dialect over in her mind. Though she wrote it, did her words sound as good as they did when they came from his mouth? If in fact he sounded like they did in medieval times. After all, Ferchar was from modern day Scotland.

“The cover artist, or should I say cover model, is responsible for that,” she explained.

Ferchar’s pale blue eyes narrowed but he didn’t grow too serious. “I’m sure.” He paused and frowned. “I dinnae much like the title.”

McKayla tried not to be offended but her sensitive nature made it tricky. “The title?”

“Aye.” He shrugged. “
Plight of the Highlander
doesnae seem quite right.”

The writer in her kicked in as she stared at the cover. “But the whole story revolves around his plight. There’s no more perfect title.”

Caitlin came between them. “Is he telling you it’s all wrong, then?”

McKayla frowned. “Yeah, so it seems. What do you think?”

“I think only you should be the judge of what you want to call your book, nobody else.” She wrapped arms over McKayla and Ferchar’s shoulders. “This is a happy day. Let’s step away from serious talk.”

“But now he’s got me thinking,” McKayla murmured.

“Naturally. That’s all you do!” Caitlin grinned. “
Think
too much. So let’s not, eh? Let’s drink, eat and party.”

Ferchar offered her a knee-buckling smile and agreed. “Aye, let’s be merry.”

Yet even as the crowd celebrated, McKayla was eager for the party to be over. She wanted to be back in front of her computer. Another story waited, another highlander. While the meeting had gone smoother than anticipated, she felt edgy. Even though she’d signed the contract, edits were underway and she had her release date, something very important was still missing. But what? Everything was ready to go.

“She’s driving me crazy,” Sheila said under her breath.

“She always does,” McKayla responded and shook her head.

Sheila, of course, referred to Leslie who was now surrounded by three admirers.

“Are we sure she’s even our cousin?” Sheila said, scowling. “She looks nothing like us. And who are those guys anyways?”

“She’s definitely family,” McKayla said. “And not so bad most of the time. As for the guys, I’m not sure. Maybe they’re Seth or Caitlin’s friends. I don’t know who half these people are.”

“Hmph.” Sheila frowned. “You’re too damn forgiving. She’s an arrogant tyrant. Not sure what men see in her.”

McKayla did. Leslie was a knock-out. But so was Sheila. Both were constantly dating which made her realize she hadn’t gone on a date in far too long. In her defense, it took a lot of focus
and
time to write a book. Still. It’d be nice to have a man waiting in the wings. Though that’s probably where he’d have to stay while she worked on developing future characters and fleshing out plots.

As if she’d been reading her mind, Sheila said, “It wouldn’t hurt you to socialize with a few of the men here tonight. There are a lot of good looking ones.”

“True,” McKayla said, eyes narrowed on Seth. “Too many I’d say.”

He grinned at her from across the room. These guys were his friends for sure. It seemed he was determined to set her up. Push her into getting out and maybe even to date a little. But as she gazed at all the faces and found a few gazing back, McKayla’s stomach grew queasy. The idea of mingling and going through the whole ‘get to know you’ process suddenly seemed like way too much.

Seth recognized the telltale signs, and made his way over. “So you figured me out. I only had the best intentions, sweetie. C’mon, let’s go outside and get some fresh air.”

She followed him out and they sat on a bench beneath the old oak tree. A rope swing hung lazily on the opposite branch. The warm summer night felt welcoming. Without a doubt, the old colonial full of life suited her much better from a distance.

“One of these days you’re going to have to return to the real world,” Seth said.

“I did the real world today. The T’s were crossed, the I’s dotted.”

Seth shook his head. “So you stuck your head out for a sec then retracted.” Before she could respond he cut her off. “Eventually you’re going to have to join the rest of us.” He nodded at the house. “Outside of here.”

Head leaned back, eyes closed, she responded, “It’s here that I find them, everyone I need.”

When he sighed she opened her eyes and looked at him. “You know what I mean.”

“Real life, McKayla.” He glanced around at the yard and once more at the house. “Not just this.”

While he was one of her best friends, he was just like the rest, clueless. They lived one life, she another. Why couldn’t they understand she was fine living life the way she did. Even if it seemed terribly dull, she was content.

“You say you’ve read my books, Seth. I’m obviously not bored.”

He chuckled. “Matter of opinion.”

Yet his eyes swung her way with appreciation. Outside of Trevor, she had no greater fan. Only God knew why because neither man was into reading romance. Still, Seth thought her passion for writing outstanding and Trevor, well, he just loved that she didn’t give up on her dream.

“When is Alana due home?” McKayla asked. It was the perfect time to change the subject. She was over talking about her life, or lack of one. “You’ve got to be missing her.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” He shook his head. “And she’s not coming home soon enough for my taste.”

“I still think it’s great she’s traveled to Europe to scoop up authentic pieces for your house,” McKayla said.

“Ah yes, nothing but the best for the Tudor Revival.” Though he smiled, she saw the strain around his eyes. He adored his wife. Married only a year, McKayla could truly say she’d never seen Seth so smitten. Free-spirited and more alive than most, her friend had once prided himself on independence and extreme adventure. Now, when his other half wasn’t around things weren’t nearly as fun as they used to be. The truth was Alana had not turned Seth into a boring man but into a far more interesting and dynamic one. And perhaps more mature. But she’d never tell
him
that.

“She’ll be home soon. Then you’ll be back to redecorating.” McKayla smirked before issuing a proper pout. “Then you’ll be back in Vermont and I won’t see you very much.”

“True,” he said and slanted a look at her. “Unless, you come up for a few months and work on your next novel at our place.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” The very idea ignited a strange sense of trepidation and her gaze once more settled on the old colonial. This was where she wrote
Plight of the Highlander
. This was the place that marked the beginning of her mental affair with Colin of the MacLeod clan. A man born in the wild, Scottish highlands when times were perilous, and tumultuous. Where men were brave, honorable, loyal and relationships were meaningful. A time before chivalry died. While McKayla always loved elements of medieval history, she still didn’t understand why moving into this house had inspired such a sweeping saga.

“I know you’re determined to stay here and write,” Seth said softly. “I’m sure this house knows as well.”

“This house?”

“Yeah, sure. Houses have their own souls. And this one inspires you to write well and often. Why, I’ve no clue, but it does.”

It was hard not to reflect upon how mature Seth had become as of late. The old Seth would never say anything so profound. At least not on purpose.

“I suppose you’re right,” she admitted. “The minute I sit down at my computer a whole new world blossoms...one that never existed before. Sort of strange, don’t you think?”

A grin split his face. “I don’t think anything’s strange, love. After all, I hunt ghosts for enjoyment.”

“Right.” She smiled and nudged his arm lightheartedly. “Weirdo.”

He shrugged and threw his arm around her shoulders. “What fun would life be if not for the afterlife, eh?”

“If you say so.” She chuckled. “I suppose it can’t be much different than being infatuated with a world that only exists in my imagination.”

His eyes widened playfully and he huffed. “Are you saying that ghosts are as made up as the characters in your book?”

“Not to me,” she replied, always respectful of his beliefs. “But surely they are to most. Face it; our passions walk a similar but bizarre line.”

“Only because you hint at witchcraft in your story,” said Caitlin’s husband.

McKayla was surprised to find Ferchar sitting on the rope swing. How had she missed him walking out? Never mind sitting so close to them.

“How did you?” she started.

“What?” Ferchar asked.

“I never saw you walk by,” she said.

“I did,” Seth said. “Perhaps you were too engrossed in your thoughts.”

McKayla frowned. This sort of thing had been happening a little too regularly. She’d miss small things like people approaching her. While it wasn’t overly alarming she was starting to take note. Granted, she always lost time when she wrote. One reality replaced another. When it did, time seemed to slip away. But it wasn’t normal not to hear someone approach. Was it? Shouldn’t she hear something? The sound of a footfall, breathing, anything?  

“He’s right,” Seth said, interrupting her thoughts. “You did add a little witchcraft to your story, right?”

“Yeah, a little. Just enough to flavor the time period.”

Ferchar smiled. “I thought it was a nice addition, lass. One that will make a difference.”

“A difference?” She cocked her head. “How so?”

“Well who doesn’t like a bit of fantasy in their romance?” Seth offered.

“Most people,” she replied. “Straight historical romance usually prevails. I’m still a little surprised I landed a contract on this one.”

“Dinnae be,” Ferchar said absently. “It will do the world good to ken a wee bit more about what really went on back then.”

“What?” she asked, confused. “Of course everything I wrote is purely fictional. Unless…” She eyed him, a little flutter in her stomach. “You know something I don’t.”

Seth eyed Ferchar as well. McKayla swore she heard a hint of mock amusement when he asked him, “So what
do
you know of a time long gone in your country?”

Ferchar was about to answer when Leslie walked out the front door. She released one last peel of riotous laughter for her admirers before she slammed shut the door, demeanor once more serious. She stopped short in front of them and eyed her notepad. “Okay, so here’s what you said this morning.”

McKayla frowned. Had it been Sheila who did this she would have rolled her eyes. But it wasn’t. It was Leslie. And Leslie was the most level-headed, logical minded person she knew, oftentimes to the point of frustration.

She almost said ‘huh’ but Seth beat her to it. “What do you mean?”

“This morning. On Skype. She was talking to me and Sheila, when she started to speak in what turns out to be a very old form of Gaelic.”

McKayla’s mouth turned dry. “Gaelic?”

“Yes. And a form of Gaelic primarily used in Scotland during the early medieval period.” She paused for a moment, her perfectly plucked brows drawing together as her pale green eyes pinned McKayla. “Did you research Gaelic for your book?”

“You know I didn’t.”

Leslie nodded. “Precisely.” Her attention returned to what she’d written. “Though I’m sure the translation isn’t exact you said something very close to, “His is the circle that never connects. A means to let me in. If ever it closes, we are forever lost.””

A strange chill shot up her spine. What did that mean? “You must’ve heard me wrong. I don’t speak any language but English and a little Spanish.”

“May I see it?” Ferchar asked.

When Leslie handed it to him McKayla got goosebumps. It suddenly felt as though Ferchar and the words written on that paper were interconnected. Why would she think such a thing?

“Do you understand the language?” Leslie asked him.

Ferchar glanced over the words, his expression unchanging when he handed it back to her. “What makes you think I would understand it? They dinnae teach this in Scotland nowadays.”