Kahleena MacCarthy ~ To Meet a Highlander (4 page)

             
He noticed, as he shook her hand, Tsarina was making her own assessment of him. Thank God for good Scottish bloodlines. He should definitely have worn a kilt.

****

              Tall, at least six foot four. Thick, strong build. Long dark hair. Perfect. How was Tsarina going to concentrate on work when they give her a guide like Galen Campbell? Damn did he fill out the jeans and T-shirt he had poured himself into. If he'd just turn around so she could get a view of his butt...

             
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.” Tsarina shook her head to try to hide she was so intent on looking at him that she hadn’t realized he was even still talking to her. Not a good way to start. He was going to think she was an idiot and slept her way to a doctorate in history.

             
“Let’s get your luggage and I’ll take you to Castle Campbell. Sam told me that’s where they have you staying. It’s a really great place. Many areas are still as they were centuries ago, just well cared for and restored. It’s like getting to live in some actual medieval history.” Galen’s smile was warm, but knowing. He’d obviously caught her gawking.

             
“Thanks. I can’t wait to see it. I’ve dreamed of visiting since I picked up my first Highlander romance novel by Monica McCarty.”

             
“So you’ve based your ideas of Scotland on romance novels?” Galen asked with a chuckle and raised brow.

             
“Well, aren’t Scots men supposed to be burly and strong and all romance?”

             
“I guess some of us are. But it’s like anywhere else, we have a little different accent and some of us are seducers, some nice guys, some users and some jackasses. It’s worldwide.” He winked and took her bags from her as she pulled them off the line.

             
“So, you're a descendant of Clan Campbell?”

             
“Yes.” Was all Galen would say. He was tight lipped for now, but she had six weeks to loosen his tongue in order to gain the information she needed.

             
“I hope your boss isn't too terribly upset with you. I have no idea how Sam managed to get you available to me as much as he has and for as long. At the least, I hope they're paying your regular salary.”

             
“Not to worry, lass. My job is safe.” Galen was again tight lipped and Tsarina decided to give up. For now.

             
Sam said you were available a lot. It's not a problem? I really don't want to cause any headaches.”

             
“It's no trouble.” Again, short and to the point, expressionless. Tsarina decided Galen Campbell had a secret. And she was going to find out what it was.

             
As they drove to Castle Campbell Galen pointed out some of the sites between there and the airport. All were beautiful – like nothing Tsarina had ever seen before. Once they made the Castle, she was speechless. It was amazing. Sam had arranged for her to stay in the old area. Which, she was told, was very rarely allowed. It was mostly just for walk throughs.

             
There were stone stairways, privy’s…amazing. Luckily, she had remembered to pull out her camera as the plane was landing. She would have a lot of gorgeous pictures to forever remind her of this trip.

             
“Here’s your room. They’ve got the fire started for you. While it’s nice during the day, it does have quite a chill at night. And we do get a lot of rain. I hope you’re prepared for it.” Galen smiled as he put her bags in the corner. “I’ll let you get settled in. They’ll bring dinner up for you tonight and I’ll pick you up around seven in the morning and we’ll get breakfast before we get busy.”

             
“Thanks Galen. I’ll see you in the morning.” Tsarina smiled as she closed the door behind him.

             
“Scotland. I’m in Scotland. Maybe real romance will find me. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Time for change.” In her mind, she wished herself great sex as well. She deserved it after Mr. Loser and Kaeden.

             
Or maybe karma was simply out to get her.

****

              The first two weeks in Scotland were uneventful. Tsarina spent a lot of time with Galen and they became good friends. At least as much as they could. He'd still remained tight lipped on so many things. Research was more of the same, verifying facts she’d already found. Nothing new that would turn the direction of her previous Campbell studies. Book, books, books and even more books.

             
Tsarina had fallen into a routine. Her and Galen would have breakfast at one of the local restaurants or bed and breakfast locations. Always his treat. They'd head off to some library or research location, sometimes a university, and look through more books, journals and online resources. Each night she plopped into bed, in front of a toasty fire, and dreamed of being swept away by an ancient Highlander, that always managed to look like Galen, just a more medieval version.

             
The third week Galen found some interesting facts in his family library. So they dove into more for the next two weeks. Luckily that gave Tsarina the room to show progress and get to stay at least her six weeks. Some of the personal journals were amazing. She was sorry to see them end. It was as though she could watch history unfolding on a big screen as she read them from the point of view of one individual. The historian in her longed for a never-ending stack to read.

             
As the weeks went on, she found she was becoming sad, knowing it was almost time to leave the beautiful country and the friends she’d made while there. Maybe she could convince Sam there was more to be discovered if she had just a little more time. Or, if she'd manage that promotion, maybe she could get a vacation here once a year or so.

             
In the middle of her fifth week, Galen took her to some Standing Stones. It was rumored to have a lot of history and also there was supposed to be some sort of meeting tonight. It was rumored to be exclusive, so Galen told her that they may not speak to either of them, if in fact, there were others there. But, she knew she had to go. This could be the one thing that might allow Sam to give her more time.

             
Samhain was supposed to be a powerful time for magic in the Highlands. Tsarina supposed she’d find out. She didn’t believe in magic, but right now she’d take any break she could get. Besides, the Scottish were a strange bunch over superstition and magic. They fully believed in it and didn't push their luck.

             
It was just getting dark as they climbed their way up the hill. Well, Galen called it a hill. Tsarina called it a mountain. She was exhausted by the time she reached the stones. How had she gotten so out of shape? It had to be all the extra hours of research on her living room floor. When was the last time she'd seen the inside of the gym she paid the membership for each month?

             
They quieted down as they saw a couple dozen people in long dark robes. They had candles and were swaying or dancing or something. Watching, they waited. It was like Tsarina expected something to happen. Though she really had no idea what. She heard chanting of some sort. Gaelic possibly. But she wasn't close enough to clearly make out the words.

             
“She's here.” Tsarina heard a voice say. “You! You’re the one that will save him. We’ve waited for you. I knew you would come this night.” One of the older women moved a wrinkled finger in Tsarina’s direction. How had they even been seen?

             
“What? What are you talking about?” Tsarina asked, with a bit of caution, fear and curiosity in her voice.

             
“It’s you. But you have to be willing. You need to go and save Zarik. We’re running out of time.” This time it was a slightly younger woman that spoke. “You will save him. Your task will not be an easy one, but you must not be defeated.”

             
“I don’t know who Zarik is. And I don’t know who you are. Save him? From what? But I guess if someone needs my help, I can help them. But where do I need to go?” Tsarina shrugged at Galen who shook his head. So many thoughts ran through her head at the odd way the woman spoke to her that she was fairly certain she wasn't making any sense herself.

             
“Tsarina, they’re going to attempt to send you through the stones. Back in time. I don’t know that it’s possible, but there have been rumors. And the magic is powerful here. Even I can feel it.” Galen still looked unsure.

             
“You are Galen. We need you as well. You have a strong attraction to her that you’ve not acted upon. Come to the stones with her. Show her your feelings.” It was once again the old lady speaking and Galen was almost positive that Tsarina had not mentioned his name.

             
The old woman looked back to Tsarina. “Save him from whatever there is a need to. His clan perhaps. Another clan. A king. Himself. No one knows these things. We only know it needs be done.”

Chapter Two

             
1300 Scotland: The Highlands

             
Dunakin sat just over the hill. Zarik MacKinnon would soon inherit the castle, the keep and all that went with it. The responsibility of seeing to his clan’s safety and needs weighed heavy on his shoulders. The responsibility of knowing when to try to talk matters over and knowing when war was the only way. For him, as leader of their clan's warriors, war was always the answer. Even as a person, defend and beat, then ask questions. No one took advantage of you that way. No one would hand you anything and once you attained something, it was your job to protect it. To keep it. It's the reason the MacKinnon clan stayed feared. Zarik acted first, asked questions later. Most would dare not pillage their lands.

             
When Niall, his father, turned it over to him, would he be as worthy of the clan loyalty as his father had been? Would he be forced to take a bride he didn’t have time for nor want? Would he be able to make a woman happy? Sure he could pleasure one, but could he truly satisfy one outside of her bed? Would he even be happy with only one woman? While it was common for men of position to have a leman, it was not his father's way and would be highly frowned upon were he to attempt it. The MacKinnon's were known for their love and devotion to only one woman. Even long after that special woman had left this world. As his father often said, a woman takes much caring for. Outside of the bedroom, Zarik was clueless.

             
He'd kept their clan safe for years. Everyone appreciated his skill in battle, but even he questioned if those were his only skills. Zarik was far too old to learn to be polite and political. He spoke with his sword – his point always connecting. His mark always hit. And it was always final.

             
Several women of their clan spoke of love. For Zarik, it would always be duty. If the wife he was forced to take could tolerate him, it would be acceptable. Marriages survived on less. Duty. That was his life. A life of duty. He needed a woman that would gain something from his title because he didn't have much else to give her. A marriage where the woman had status wouldn't help him any. She'd feel she had equal footing. His heart had long ago grown cold, the need for death in battle controlling him. There was no room in it for emotions, especially not love.

             
Evidently, he needed an heir or two as well. While children didn't bother him, most ran from him, he wasn't exactly wanting to have to permanently deal with any. Another duty.

             
Zarik removed himself from his thoughts to look at the surroundings of his home. He never got tired of the view. Looking down was beautiful. It was like entering another world. Green grass, trees, livestock, the homes of his clan that lived outside the castle walls. Over to the back was a loch. One that he, and many before him, had grown up fishing, swimming and bathing in. The loch was the one place he enjoyed going. It helped him to clear his head. It was most often silent and empty when he was there. Being the laird's son did afford him some comforts. Bathing in privacy was among them.

             
It was a place that the elders spoke of the Selkies coming from. Zarik laughed out loud. He didn’t believe in magic nor mythical beings, but the children certainly loved the tales. It was rumored that some of the elders, especially their Druids, had taken Selkies as wives. Again, their Druids loving only one woman eternally.

             
Argus, the old Druid, had taken years trying to convince Zarik that magic did exist. It was only to be used for certain things, winning battles not one of them. If magic could not be used to save the lives of his clansmen, provide food, assist with necessary clothing and shelter - then why did they even need it? He spit at the thought of it. Magic. It was something kids dreamed about and heard stories of and something old men used to still try to hold worth. It was also something one could lay blame on. When things went wrong, it was always due to some magical power being pissed off.

             
Clucking to his horse, Rage, he started down toward the keep.

****

Days later, the summer rain turned into a barely there drizzle as Zarik looked over at his half-brother Torradan, waiting for his nod. Once it came, he nodded in return and looked the opposite direction. His best friend, Drostan gave him the same nod. He leaned forward to speak to Rage, his black stallion who was the only other being that shared his thrill for battle. Others went to battle for the sake of duty. He'd do it for fun, as would Rage. The moment he'd seen the horse, he'd felt their connection. “Come now, Rage, it's time to bloody my sword and the ground beneath your feet.” Pulling his sword from his belt and sounding the MacKinnon battle cry. “Audentes fortuna juvat! If you die this day, go with honor.”

Zarik raised his sword high over his head and gave his horse his head as he led the way into a much overdo battle. The MacLean clan could all be sliced to dust today and Zarik would not give them a second look. Not feel one second of remorse. If the MacLean were on fire, he'd not piss on his head to put it out. To hell with their clan. For years they’d been at odds and with more trouble with England, it was time to lay the MacLean battle to rest once and for all. It would be one less threat for Zarik to keep track of. How do they battle England when they're so busy battle themselves.

This was not Zarik MacKinnon’s first battle. At ten and nine, he’d led his clan into battle for the last three years. His father, one and forty, rarely took the battlefield anymore. Zarik and the clan didn’t hate him for it though, as sooner rather than later, the clan would be his anyway. This was much needed experience. And something he excelled at. He stopped counting the number of lives he'd taken at his eighteenth birthday.

Torture was another technique he excelled at. Zarik never showed mercy or remorse. He never felt the pang of conscience that so many of his father's warriors did. His prisoner would do the same to him without blinking an eye if their roles were reversed. They both knew it.

He'd been tortured as well, but able to escape. So, he was no stranger to it. Or pain. Sometimes pain was good. It also meant that you just might live to see the next battle.

Zarik picked up his first sword at four, albeit wooden. At ten he had a metal one, at two and ten he had a warrior’s sword. Zarik was a warrior at heart not a chief. His father, Niall MacKinnon, wouldn’t simply agree to him running the guard for one of his brothers. Zarik would give all the protection they’d need. He simply did not want to lead anything other than a battle. Responsibility was something he never backed away from, but being the Chief was more than he wanted. Everything was about the good of the clan and everyone would be in his business. War was far simpler.

Tor was more suited for the position of Laird than he. If only he and his brother could convince their father. Zarik would hold no ill will in leading his brother's warriors into more battles and victories. He'd even be the first to congratulate his brother on becoming Laird of the clan. Of course, he'd silently laugh because the duty of a proper marriage with heirs would then fall upon his brother's shoulders as well.

As he was lost in thought, Zarik sliced through opponent after opponent, searching out Lachlann MacLean. If he would take out the MacLean Chief’s son, the day would be over. Battle had become so customary to him, that often he just went through the motions. Most warriors from other clans, or raiders that came through on occasion, were no match for his sword. He scarcely even paid attention anymore. One day, perhaps, he'd meet someone worthy of battling him. Someone that might even bring him an honorable death.

Zarik and his swords were one from the second he drew them until the moment he placed them back in their sheaths.

Zarik felt most at peace while swinging them through the air.

He had long lost sight of Torradan and Drostan, but Odhran, the youngest, fought not far from his side. At five and ten he’d not be left behind. Zarik was proud of the warrior his half-brother was becoming. Soon, Odhran might even be able to take his sword. If he could only get him to concentrate more on training with him than chasing after girls. Of the brothers, girls loved Odhran every bit as much as he loved them. His distraction by them, could cost him much more than just his life.

“Zarik, ‘tis done. The MacLean son has fled.” Drostan shook his head in disgust. “’Tis a sad day when a man will run. I’d happily meet my death before putting on a skirt and running from battle. May as well have cut his bullocks off. He needs to be inside sewing with the women of his clan, for he is no a warrior. Mayhap we have a pretty silk dress he could make use of.”

              “Mayhap we could get Da to send him a skirt.” Odhran spoke as he cleaned the blood from his sword with his kilt.

Zarik shook his head. He knew Lachlann MacLean was a coward. The worst of it was his father actually had honor. He wondered if Gregor knew the coward his son was. Zarik could not place the faults of the son onto the father, though. Not this time, anyway. He doubted he'd been taught the way his current path took him. Gregor would not have allowed it.

Though they were enemies, Gregor MacLean fought with honor and was no coward. The clan may very well fall on their own once Gregor allowed Lachlann to become chief. Perhaps if the MacLean heir would stop hiding, Zarik could end this and simply take over the MacLean clan. “Aye, it seems we’re done here then. Mayhap another day. Let those who remain from their clan be free to go back. We'll no be stabbing them in the back today.” He listened as Torradan made a call to gather everyone together. “What happened to your arm, Torradan?” Zarik asked as he approached.

“’Tis but a scratch.” Shrugging, Torradan walked past Zarik to cuff Odhran on the back of the head. “It seems Zarik was able to keep your arse alive this time. Not even a scratch.” Though Tor had no use for battle, he still fought well, just not well enough for Zarik to hand over their warriors to him when he became Laird. Perhaps Odhran would be the one to fill his shoes.

Odhran knew how his brother liked to taunt him and simply shook his head. In many ways, he was more mature than Torradan, despite his younger age. He knew that on this day, he'd done more than hold his own.

“Ye'll need scars to empress the lassies, boy.” Drostan smiled to the younger MacKinnon. “If ye keep not getting sliced, ye'll never have them to show off or tell stories about.” Looking back to Zarik, he continued. “Let’s gather the injured and go home. I sure could use a drink.” He seemed to enjoy his cups more and more these days, never saying why.

“A drink? Or some time with yer wife?” Zarik teased his friend.

“Ye, bastard, yer just jealous. When ye find yer own, ye'll understand. Things are no so simple anymore. I cannae wait to see ye led around by yer wee bullocks.” Drostan was one that never sugar coated anything when it came to Zarik. It's likely why he'd been one of his best friends for years. They'd both felt the effects of his marriage.

“Wee bullocks?” Zarik looked down at his kilt. “There's no a thing wee about mine. Perhaps yer speaking of yer own.”

“Shut up. No one wants to see yer bullocks. Neither of yers.” Odhran rolled his eyes at the two of them. “Let's just go. I stink and have blood all over me.”

On the way back to the keep the chatter continued. It was as if they were returning from a hunting trip rather than a battle in which many lives had been lost. Luckily, the losses were on the MacLean side. While injuries had happened, no MacKinnon lives had been lost this day.

****

              Once back at the keep, Zarik filled in his father. After hearing Niall's rants and raves about the cowardice of the MacLean eldest son, he finally asked about injuries to the MacKinnon warriors.

             
“Da, we need to raid the MacLean's.” Zarik slammed his fist onto the table. “It makes no sense to allow them to stalk us as if we are prey, only to let their wounded live and those who wish to turn tail and run do so. There's no honor it in for them or us. We can take them. We can finish this. Then mayhap others will think harder on trying to battle us. We need to prove a point.”

             
“Aye, Zarik, we have our honor intact. We do not brutally kill those who are running. I ken  ye understand not to stab a man in the back while he isnae looking.” Niall looked frustrated. His son always longed for battle and death. Yet, Niall only wanted peace. Is a year without bloodshed too much to ask for?

             
“They run like cowards. Where is their honor? If I were to tuck my bullocks between me legs and run, I'd full well deserve to die. Someone need shove a sword in my back and end my shame.”

             
“Where would our honor be to kill cowards – in the back? Zarik leave it be. Ye killed many today. This I am certain of.”

             
“What of our battle? We need to show them that we will not sit by as they attack us at every whim.”

             
“Nay, let them come to us. We have advantage here. We've yet to lose to them or to have a life taken by them on our own lands. I fear we won't do as well on their land. If we go there, we beg trouble.”

             
“Do ye not trust my skills in battle? I'm the one that leads the men to battle each time. Or have ye forgotten? Ye've not seen a training field in years. I'm the one at the head of the attack, no the one hiding behind my great walls.” Zarik was more than annoyed that his father thought him to only have an advantage when fighting on their own land. “I havnae lost a battle yet. No matter what land it fell upon.”