Highlander in Her Dreams (9 page)

But instead of his
tamhasg
's shining eyes greeting him, the eyes meeting his were brown and soulful. Perhaps even a touch worried.

Canine eyes
.

“Ach, Ferlie.” He sat up and rubbed a hand over his face, his love for the great beast keeping him from letting his disappointment show. “She was here—or somewhere close.”

But her scent was gone now. His bed most definitely empty, save himself and his huge, shaggy dog.

Only his surety remained.

Something in his world had shifted. A current in the air, a ne'er-before-there ripple in the wind. He knew not, but whate'er it was, he'd wager his best sword it had to do with
her
.

If the saints were kind, he would learn the answer soon.

She was really here again.

Kira Never-Give-Up Bedwell, finally returned to the Trotternish Peninsula on the Isle of Skye.

Castle Wrath was no longer her dearest longing, distant and intangible, but a reality. Better yet, she was already halfway across the high three-sided promontory that held the ancient stronghold's ruins. A trek she was finding much easier than years before, since this afternoon was calm and bright, without the fierce wind gusts that had made her last visit so treacherous.

The sheep pats were still everywhere, though. A distinct quiver of
ick
slid through her, but she ignored it. She'd just watch her step and pretend the piles of black goop weren't quite so prevalent.

Not that she really cared.

She blew out a breath that fluffed her bangs as she shot a sideways glance at the nearest such obstacle. Fact was, she'd march right through the stuff if need be.

If doing so meant catching another true glimpse of her Highlander.

Savoring the possibility, she inched as close to the edge of the cliff as she dared and peered down at Wrath Bay. Its waters glistened blue in the autumn sunshine, the deep scorings in the smooth flat rocks of the small, crescent-shaped strand staring back at her just as she remembered.

Furrows that, according to Wee Hughie, tour-guide-cum-author, were caused by the keels of countless Clan Donald galleys being drawn onto the shore.

War galleys
. She was sure.

Greyhounds of the sea. Their heyday marked by grooves that must've taken centuries to form. Deep indentations in stone that might not even have been visible in her Aidan's time.

But they were there now—telltale remnants of long-ago days.

Kira's pulse quickened. Much as the past beguiled her, there was only one part of it she ached to seize.

If only she could.

Her heart pounding, she edged even closer to the precipice, a sheer and dizzying drop to the stony beach below. She squinted to see better, her gaze focused on the tide as it surged up and over the rocks and kelp. Brilliant sunlight glinted off the incoming swells, making the water glitter like jewels, but it was the ancient keel marks that continued to hold her attention. Each centuries-old groove was a not-to-be-denied reminder that
he
once walked there.

He'd been a part of this place where she now stood, and knowing that made her want to pull the clip from her hair, throw off her jacket, and run the rest of the way.

Fly across the grass until she reached Castle Wrath's tumbled walls and moss-grown arches, then collapse before the remains of
his
stairwell. The dark, downward-winding stair that led, she was sure, straight into Aidan's great hall.

There, where for a brief, torchlit moment she'd seen him.

Heard him speaking to her as he ascended the tight, corkscrew steps. She shivered, remembering how he'd reached for her, pulling her against him and lowering his head to kiss her, only to vanish before her eyes.

A feat he could not possibly do again, she saw, reaching the place where she'd looked into his stairwell.

The steps were gone.

The inky darkness that had stared back at her only to suddenly blaze with torchlight was no more. Even the gap had vanished, leaving only a narrow crevice in its place. No longer yawning, it taunted her. A mere slit in the grassy, nettle-covered earth, the whole of it barely a foot wide and hardly adequate to peer into.

She gaped all the same, shaking her head at the pathetic little opening.

She put a hand over her mouth, disbelief slamming into her, freezing her heart. She'd been so certain, so sure nothing would have changed. Not after the stairs must've stood undisturbed for hundreds of years.

Only the briskness of the cold, clean Highland air remained the same. The incredible age of Castle Wrath's broken stones and the roar of the surf crashing into its jagged, impervious cliff foot.

“Oh, no.” Kira dropped to her knees, sagging against what should have been the threshold to Aidan's world.

Instead, fallen debris and rubble filled the darkness, the lichen-and-weed-grown rocks blocking the ancient steps, each cold, silent stone and layer of rich, peaty earth an impassable barrier.

The way to Aidan's great hall—
to him
—was sealed.

Closed off for all eternity.

Unless she possessed enough spirit to brave the cliff's maze of underground tunnels, stairwells, and rooms, much of which were said to be crumbling into the sea.

Dangerous places where one false step could send her hurtling to certain death.

She blew out a breath, frustration warring with her refusal to give up.

She
did
have spirit.

And she thrived on challenges. Each broadsiding kick in the shins only made her roll her sleeves higher, more determined than ever to besiege whom-or whatever would hold her down. As if to prove it, she swiped a hand through her hair and kissed her palms for luck. Then, reaching deep into the crevice, she grabbed hold of the first chunk of weedy, nettle-stinging rock she could get a grip on.

Unfortunately, when she pulled, the rock didn't budge.

A second and third effort cost her two fingernails. Not that she cared. What mattered was not the attractiveness of her hands, but getting into Aidan's great hall. If the stairwell of their previous encounter was to remain off-limits, she would just have to find another way to reach him.

Beyond the wisps of a mere ghostly encounter, she'd felt him here so strongly on her last visit, as if he truly were flesh and bone and raw masculinity. As if he'd been waiting for her, just as she hoped he was now.

If only her gift, the magic of the place, or
whatever
, would kick in again and let him know she was near.

But first she needed to rest.

Shake off a bit more jet lag and gather her strength for the assault it would mean, creeping down into damp, dank-smelling passages. Icky places where she would be able to see no more than a few feet ahead of her flashlight.

And she was glad she had one. Bright blue, plastic and beautiful, it rested in her trusty backpack, along with two sets of extra batteries.

Thanks to Alex and Mara Douglas.

She also had the perfect place to rest. The great grass-grown arch of what she was sure had once been the entry into Castle Wrath's bailey. It, at least, was still there as she remembered, the top half of its imposing bulk rising up out of the cliff-top to wink at her in all its Celtic rune-incised glory. A medieval wonder, undisturbed by time, the arch looked as inviting now as it had twelve years ago.

Strangely beckoning.

Kira frowned. Regrettably, the tangle of brambles and nettles surrounding the arch didn't beckon at all. Unlike the caved-in entrance to Aidan's stairwell, the crevices and holes scattered throughout the castle's empty courtyard appeared anything but filled in.

Just the opposite—they looked deep, dark, and dangerous. She wasn't about to search for one with an intact stairwell until her eyes no longer felt like sandpaper and she'd fortified herself with a tuna sandwich and a thermos of tea.

Tea solved everything, the Brits always claimed.

Hoping it was so, she started forward, carefully avoiding the worst of the brambles and nettles, but especially watching where she stepped. She had no desire to get better acquainted with one of those black-staring holes-in-the-ground until she was good and ready.

Sadly, when she reached the arch and managed to scramble on top of it, Castle Wrath's pièce de résistance proved to have a few cracks of its own. Some looked rather crumbly around the edges, while others had a fern or two thrusting up from their depths. Thankfully, none looked wide enough for her to fall through.

Almost tired enough not to care if she did, she quickly claimed the most solid-looking spot the arch top offered, pleased because her chosen picnic site also seemed to have the thickest, most cushiony grass.

Soft, cushiony grass was good.

A crackless resting place even better.

Proud that she'd made it to the arch without mishap, she shrugged off her backpack and pulled it onto her lap, eager to dig out her treasures. A tightly rolled tartan picnic rug, waterproof on one side and just one of several souvenirs picked up at One Cairn Village. Her tea thermos and packed lunch. Her father's borrowed mini-binoculars and her two special books.

The Hebridean Clans
and Wee Hughie MacSporran's
Rivers of Stone: A Highlander's Ancestral Journey
.

Thinking of the tour guide—no,
author
, she corrected herself—reminded her of the other treasure in her backpack. The most special one of all. A fine MacDonald dress sporran she'd plucked off the wall display in Innes's soap-and-candle craft and workshop.

Now hers to cherish, she meant to have it altered into a handbag when she returned to Aldan.

Not wanting to think about her return journey, she unrolled her tartan picnic rug and spread out her goodies, determined to enjoy her afternoon despite her disappointment over the collapsed stairwell.

Filling her stomach and taking time for a soul-soothing glance through her books would do her good. Then she'd be ready to search for access into Castle Wrath's heart.

Or rather she'd be ready if the words on the page stopped blurring before her eyes. The book, Wee Hughie's little self-published tome, also felt heavier than it should. In fact, the thing slipped right from her fingers, bouncing off her knee to disappear into the nearest crack in the arch top.

“Oh, sheesh!” Too late, she lunged for it, a sudden wave of dizziness making her clumsy.

The book was gone, and it was her fault for being such a butterfingers.

Frowning, she sat back and rubbed a hand over her face.

What she needed was some of that tea.

Cure-all of the British Isles.

Yes, good old Earl Grey would give her a boost.

If only she could remember where she'd placed her thermos and packed lunch. But her mind felt fuzzy and the picnic goods were nowhere to be seen, the smooth stone surface of the arch top pitifully bare.

Worse, the afternoon had darkened and a chill wind now whistled past her ears, its keening making it hard to think. Not that she'd be able to concentrate even if the day had remained as clear and still as it'd been. Not with all the shouting and dog barking going on around her.

Loud shouting and dog barking
.

Even if she couldn't see anyone or their frenzied canines, the noise was deafening enough for her to jam her fingers in her ears and wriggle them. Something she did with great gusto—until she noticed that Wee Hughie's tome and her trusty tea thermos weren't the only things missing.

Her world was missing.

Beginning with her tartan picnic rug and ending with her father's much-prized mini-binoculars. Most alarming of all, the thick carpet of grass covering the arch top had vanished, replaced by smooth, polished stone. The whole sweeping lot of it not showing a single weedy crack. And, surprise-surprise, the arch now raged much higher than before.

She stared down at the cobbles. Yep, her perch was definitely up there.

She swallowed, little chills beginning to streak up and down her spine.

If the well-swept paving stones were an illusion, the arch's height wasn't.

Never in a million years could she have climbed such a towering monstrosity.

Leaping down was unthinkable.

If she could even tear her gaze away from Castle Wrath's bailey and curtain walls long enough to consider the risk. Castle Wrath's teeming, bustling bailey and its mighty, notably
un
tumbled walls.

Thick, crenellated walls of medieval mastery. Massive, whitewashed, and impregnable-looking, they soared proudly into the Highland sky, every magnificent foot of them daring her to challenge their existence.

Kira blinked, not about to do the like.

After all, she decided, clutching her jacket closer against the wind, there wasn't a need. Her wits had finally returned, and with them, her heart slowed a pace. She really was seeing Castle Wrath as it had once been. She looked about the bailey, ready to appreciate the moment for what it was: another fleeting time slip.

A tantalizing glimpse into the past, visible for the space of a blink and then forever gone.

Just as she'd seen flashes of Norsemen landing in America. Or, more recently, at One Cairn Village, when she'd caught a look at Ravenscraig's onetime English lord.

She recognized the moment for what it was because her gift always let her see time-slip images as real and solid. Only true ghosts and spirits appeared somewhat translucent.

But this time the image was lasting longer.

Much longer
.