Highlander in Her Dreams (29 page)

“The very one—I think. He's a bit heavier and has less hair than the last time I saw him. But”—she squinted, straining to catch a better look at him through the clustering Aussies—“Yes, I'm sure now. It's him.”

Aidan narrowed his eyes at the man, then smiled.

His wickedest smile. “Then come.” He started forward, his hand on the Invincible's hilt. “I shall give him a history lesson.”

Reaching the little book stand, he whipped out the sword and plunged it into the earth a few inches from Wee Hughie's feet. “Greetings, kinsman!” he boomed, clapping the startled Highlander on the shoulder. “I'm told you're of good Clan Donald blood?”

The Aussie women giggled.

Wee Hughie's face colored, but he nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing. “I—”

“He's related to Robert the Bruce,” the Kilt-Tilter trilled, eyeing Aidan with equal interest.

Kira frowned at her.

Aidan arched a brow. “Indeed?”

Wee Hughie stepped back a pace, brushing at his kilt. “The Bruce was my great-great-great-grandfather. Eighteen generations in a direct line.”

Aidan closed the space between them. With a wink at Kira, he lowered his voice. “I canna claim eighteen generations from the man, but I have fought and wenched at his side. Welcomed him at my table and hearth.”

Wee Hughie lifted his chin, clearly annoyed. “Ancestral roots should not be mocked. I can document my lineage back through two thousand years of Scottish history.”

“Lad, if you do have Clan Donald blood, I
am
your history.”

“Come, let's move on.” Kira put a hand on his arm, not surprised when he brushed it away.

“And”—he yanked the Invincible from the ground, resheathing it without taking his gaze off the author—“I am here to tell you that your book is wrong. Aidan MacDonald of Wrath didn't die in his own dungeon. That was his cousin, Conan Dearg.”

Wee Hughie puffed his chest. “You, sir, are the one who has your history skewed. I never wrote that. Conan Dearg drowned.”

Aidan frowned and picked up one of the books, tucking it inside his plaid. “I shall read this and see what other errors you've made,” he said, once more clapping the author on the shoulder. “If I find more, kinsman, we shall meet again.”

“Spoken like a true Highlander of old.”

A tall, darkly handsome man fell into step beside them the minute Aidan turned and pulled Kira away from the book stand. Dressed like a prosperous knight of old, he made them a gallant bow, clearly taking pains not to dislodge the studded medieval shield he held in front of his groin.

A beautiful Highland targe, round and covered with smooth, supple-looking leather, it was the finest example of a medieval shield Kira had ever seen outside a museum.

“You must be one of Sir Alex's reenactor friends,” she said, certain of it. “I'm Kira. Of Aldan, Pennsylvania.” She glanced at Aidan. “And this is Sir Aidan. The MacDonald of Wrath,” she blurted, his true identity somehow spilling from her.

The dark knight's casual, easy grace could have pulled even more from her had she not been careful.

There was just something about him.

“I know who you are, Lady Kira.” He smiled, his gaze passing knowingly to Aidan before returning to her. “You have been expected. Both of you. We are here to help you.”

“We?” Kira blinked.

“Many of us.” He gave a slight nod, his mailed shirt gleaming in the afternoon sun. “I am Sir Hardwin, onetime companion-in-arms to Alex of Ravenscraig, and late of my own fair Seagrave in the north.”

Kira's brow furrowed. “Late?”

He shrugged and flashed her a dazzling smile. “So to speak, my lady.”

For one crazy mad moment, she was certain she could see Wee Hughie MacSporran and his fan club of Aussie women right through the man and his precious medieval targe.

But then a cloud passed over the sun and the illusion faded, leaving him looking as solid as everyone else.

Including the giant bearlike man with a shock of shaggy red hair and an equally wild beard who suddenly appeared at his side.

“Dinna fash yourself, Kira-lass. We are friends.” The bushy-bearded newcomer slung an arm around the first man's shoulders, then winked at Aidan. “Friends of…old.”

Kira slid a glance at Aidan, not surprised to see him eyeing the two men with skeptical, narrowed eyes.

“You have the looks of the MacNeils about you,” he said, his gaze fixed on bushy-beard.

“Aye, and I suppose I do!” The man rocked back on his heels, mirth rolling off him. “'Tis Bran of Barra I am,” he added, looking quite pleased about it. “And you are a Skye MacDonald—a son of Somerled, as I live and breathe!”

And then he was gone.

As was the first man, both swallowed up by a new surge of holidaymakers pushing past them into the rows of trinket stalls and refreshment booths.

Nothing of the strange encounter remained…until a bright flash of glitter struck Kira's eye and she stooped, examining the grass where the two men had stood.

Two gold rings lay there, glinting in the day's fading light. Celtic rings identically patterned with slender-stemmed trumpets, birds, and delicate swirls. A man and a woman's rings, both looking suspiciously medieval.

So beautifully medieval, her heart dipped the instant her fingers closed around them.

We are here to help you
. The dark knight's words came back to her and she suddenly knew.

As she should have known right away, and would have, had the day's trials not taken such a toll.

She turned to Aidan, the rings clutched tight in her hand. “They were ghosts,” she said, the wonder of it sending warmth all through her.

“I know that.” He snatched the rings and frowned down at them, not about to admit he'd not known indeed.

He'd been about to draw the Invincible again and challenge the cheeky bastards.

As it was, he chose to bow to the greater wisdom of his lady regarding the spirits of her time. He also didn't want to overlook the possibility that the Ancient Ones of his own time might still be looking after them.

If that were the case, the rings had a definite purpose and had best be worn.

Sure of it, he grabbed her hand and shoved the smaller-looking ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand, then worked the other onto the same finger of his own left hand.

And with no time to spare, it would seem, because no sooner were the rings in place than a wild-eyed older couple came tearing across the grass toward them, calling his lady's name.

“Kira!” A tall, slender woman threw her arms around Kira, sobbing and laughing at the same time. “Dear God, girl,
where
have you been? We've been here for weeks, searching for you!”

The balding, potbellied man puffing after her wasn't looking at Kira at all, but at him. “So you're the man who's married my little girl?” he demanded, eyeing him as if he were one of the birthing sisters' newts. “Without so much as a by-your-leave!”

Quick on his heels, a running, panting couple about Aidan's own age burst through a hedge of rhododendron, then drew to a skidding, slip-sliding halt.

Keeping a few paces behind the older couple, they winked and gesticulated, the man's magnificent Highland regalia and the woman's simple flame-haired beauty letting him know they were his hosts.

Mara McDougall of Pen-seal-
where'er
and her Douglas husband, Alex.

That they'd informed Kira's parents that he and Kira had married was more than obvious. Not that he cared. Far from it, the notion pleased him.

He'd meant to wed her anyway, as soon as he'd managed to settle their future.

It scarce mattered if he claimed her as his wife already.

In his heart, she'd been his since time was.

Mayhap, he sometimes believed, many lifetimes before that as well.

They fit together that beautifully.

Secure in that knowledge, he put back his shoulders and smoothed his plaid, understanding now why the Ancient Ones had sent the ring-bearing bogles.

“Well?” Kira's father glared at him, both his chins quivering. “What have you to say for yourself?”

“The only thing of import, sir.” Aidan cleared his throat, regretting the temporary deception. “I am the man who loves your daughter. And, aye, I've taken her to wife.”

“Taken her to wife?” The man's face reddened. “That's a queer way to put it.”

“He's a reenactor, George.” Kira's mother spoke up. “Don't you see his costume? He's speaking
in period
. Like the guides at Pennsbury Manor back home. Or Colonial Williamsburg.”

George Bedwell glared at his wife. “I'd have him speak to me as my daughter's father, not some tourist!”

“Oh, George, calm down,” the woman returned. She threw Aidan an apologetic smile. “You know how long we've waited to see Kira settled. I'll not have you scaring the boy off before the ink is dried on their marriage license.”

“I hope to God he has one.” George produced a small square of white linen and mopped his brow. “I'll have answers if he doesn't.”

“We are properly wed.” Aidan extended his hand, showing the man his ring.

George peered at it, looking only somewhat mollified.

Aidan nodded, then did his best to assume the most respectful mien he could manage.

The only consolation he was willing to give, considering his position.

“My sorrow, sir, that we were unable to inform you until now. It simply wasn't possible.”

“Not possible?”
George's face went red again. “In this day of high-speed Internet and e-mail? Good old-fashioned telephones?”

Aidan sighed and pulled a hand down over his face. “Where my home is, we do not have such amenities.”

Kira pulled away from her mother to hasten over to him. “You don't understand, Daddy,” she began, sliding an arm around Aidan. “Aidan is—”

“Aidan?”
Her mother pressed a hand to her throat, her eyes rounding. “Dear God, it's him!”

“What do you mean
him
?” Her husband shot another angry look at her. “Have you met this man already? Met him, and not told me?”

Blanche Bedwell shook her head. “No. I've never met him, but I've heard of him. For years. He—”

“Years?”
Kira's father's gaze flew from her mother to her and then back to her mother again. “You've known of him that long and I wasn't informed?”

His wife pursed her lips. “You weren't informed because there was nothing to say. He was a dream. An obsession of Kira's since her graduation trip to Scotland. He's a legendary historical hero who lived over seven hundred years ago.”

Kira's father laughed. “Are you telling me my daughter married a ghost?”

Blanche shrugged.

Alex Douglas chose that moment to stride forward, placing a hand on both their shoulders. “Aidan of Wrath is no ghost.” He spoke in a level tone. “Trust me, I can sense spirits within a hundred paces. Your new son-in-law is a good man.”

He paused, his gaze dropping to the Invincible's hilt, lingering there, before he fixed Aidan with a deep, knowing stare.

“He simply hails from a distant time.”

“From seven centuries ago?” George frowned at him. “Look,” he added, glancing first at Kira, then the others, “our family has had its share of oddballs. Far-seers, ghost-seers, and other assorted fruit-loops. But I've yet to hear of anyone marrying someone seven hundred years dead.”

Mara McDougall Douglas coughed. Joining them, she put a hand on George Bedwell's arm. “I know it sounds impossible,” she said, her voice so calm
anything
sounded possible, “but you have to remember this is Scotland. It's an ancient land, full of magic. I've had to learn that myself. Strange things can happen here that you'd never hear of elsewhere.”

She exchanged a quick glance with her husband. “Strange and wonderful things.”

George grunted. “I don't see anything wonderful about my daughter marrying a dead man.”

“Oh, Daddy. He's not dead.” Kira reached for Aidan's hand, grasping it hard. “You can't imagine what he's sacrificed for me.”

“Seven-hundred-year-old men have to be dead.” George insisted it, bent on being belligerent.

“Nay, that is not so. I can prove it to you…if you desire.” Aidan spoke with his laird's voice. “But I warn you, it is not wise to tamper with such things. The consequences can be dire and wreak more harm than your simple doubts can stir in a lifetime.”