To Love a Highland Dragon (11 page)

“That makes two of us.” He smiled softly. “Go. The sooner ye go, the sooner we can move on to what we must do next.”

“Good that he seems to know what that is,” she muttered half to herself as she strode toward the hospital door. She keyed in the code and pushed her way inside. Maggie jogged down the hall, anxious to discharge her duty to her patient and do what she could to soothe Berta and the other nursing staff. It seemed odd they’d be so upset about a suicide attempt. After all, they worked on a mental health unit.

Maybe it’s not like it is in the States. Perhaps suicide’s not quite so commonplace here.
Maggie thought about it. Inverness was fairly rural. That was probably the difference. While the big, urban areas, like Glasgow and Edinburgh, likely saw their share of suicides, there were probably fewer of them here.

She took a hard left into the ICU. It was a small unit, and she located Chris immediately. Maggie picked up his chart—this hospital was years from an electronic records conversion—and glanced at his vitals. She blew out a tense breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. He was stable and improving. From the looks of things, if they withdrew the IV sedative, he’d regain consciousness.

Maggie pulled up a chair and took Chris’ hand. She bent her head and spoke low near his ear. “I’m not certain if you can hear me, but maybe you’ll be able to. What you did upset the nurses. They care about you. So do I. We’ll be discontinuing the drug keeping you asleep. When you come around, we’ll get your family in here, and we’ll all put our heads together and decide what will work best. I promise you that you’ll have a say in things.”

“Now why would you tell him that?” a male voice said.

Maggie’s head whipped around; she got to her feet and turned to face Dr. Frank MacDuff, chief of the psychiatry service. In his late fifties, he had a full head of steel-gray hair, sharp blue eyes, and a rangy build. Like most native Scotsmen, he had well-defined cheekbones and an angular jaw. Though he usually preferred dress shirts and slacks, today he wore green scrubs and a white lab coat with the hospital’s insignia on its collar.

“Let’s talk in the lounge,” she suggested.

“No need for that. He’s the only patient here, and he’s unconscious.”

Maggie latched a hand through the other doctor’s arm and pulled him away from Chris’ bed. “Research suggests patients can hear when they’re comatose,” she hissed into Dr. MacDuff’s ear.

“Aye, I read that paper, too. Never put much stock in it.”

“Humor me.” She tried a fetching smile and didn’t point out that it had been far more than a single paper promulgating that finding. “Come on.” She tugged again.

“For a bonny lass, anything.”

Maggie would have rolled her eyes, but things were going well, and she didn’t want to rock the boat. As they walked to the physicians’ lounge, she asked, “What’s your suicide rate here?”

“Very few. Less than half a dozen each year.”

“No wonder Berta was so upset.” Maggie went through the door into the lounge and straight to the teapot. She poured herself a cup. “Would you like one?”

He nodded. They took their tea and settled across from one another in the rather spartan lounge. Medical reference books lined one wall. The floor was linoleum and the walls an industrial green. The ever-present scent of antiseptic was just as strong in here as it was in the wards.

“Were you the one on duty last night when he was found?” Maggie asked.

“Aye, and I’ve talked with his two sisters. They can’t handle him at home. Oh, they say he’s fine enough if he’s sober. Problem is he’s rarely that way anymore.”

“I see.” Maggie sensed a
fait accompli
and trod lightly. “What did you work out with them?”

“There’s an establishment not far from their community in Fort William that caters to men with bipolar disorder and drinking problems. Everyone is in agreement—”

“Except me. I’m his attending, and I didn’t know.” Maggie couldn’t help herself. Outrage flooded her.

“Dr. Hibbins.”

Oh-oh.
Maggie recognized that tone. It was the I’ve-been-a-doctor-for-longer-than-you’ve-been-alive one. “Yes, sir.” She dropped her gaze, so she wouldn’t seem too argumentative.

“Better,” he snapped. “You might want to take a few days off. I’m certain you’ll be feeling more…rational once you’ve had a chance to rest up. I took a look at your timesheets. You haven’t taken as much as a long weekend off since you came to work for us.”

“Really? I wasn’t aware of that. It’s just there’s so much to learn and I—”

“Americans,” he cut in, his tone making it clear just what he thought of people from the States. “Always so driven. You need perspective, Dr. Hibbins.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she murmured. “I’ll just check in with the nurses because I promised, and then I’ll take the rest of the week off.”

“Perfect.” He beamed, ill-humor apparently forgotten. “I knew you’d come to your senses. You’re just tired. It’s why you’re wound so tight. My dear,” he leaned forward and laid a hand on her knee, “I know just the antidote to physician burnout. Have dinner with me tonight.”

Crap!
Just what I need, a middle-aged lothario. But I can’t piss him off, either.
“Thanks for caring about me, Doctor—” She moved his hand off her leg.

“Frank, call me Frank.”

Maggie dredged a smile from somewhere. “Sure, Frank. I think I caught a bit of food poisoning yesterday. I was up most of the night, and I’m still feeling a bit under the weather. I’d planned to stop by here, catch a few hours’ sleep, and then drive to Glasgow. My grandmother is arriving on an early morning flight.”

“Excellent. You have family coming to visit. Another perfectly despicable American trait—estrangement from blood kin. Maybe once you bring her to Inverness, you could be my guests for supper.”

“Let’s give her a chance to get over jet lag, first.” Maggie stood. “If there’s nothing else, I’d like to stop by and see the nurses.”

“Go on, Maggie. Enjoy your time away.”

“Thank you, sir, er, Frank.” She scuttled out of the doctors’ lounge, so anxious to get away from Frank MacDuff, she could almost taste the relief once she escaped. She’d thought he had designs on her, but thank Christ he’d kept them under wraps. Until now.

Look,
she spoke sternly to herself as she walked briskly toward the psychiatric unit,
whether I complete this fellowship isn’t even marginally important. I can always show up from my few days’ vacation, give them thirty days’ notice and quit.

Lachlan sank back against the cramped seats in Maggie’s car. At first he warded himself, and then he extended his enchantment to include the car, casting a
don’t look here
spell. He’d have to keep an eye out for Maggie’s return. If he didn’t loosen his spell, she might think her car had been nabbed.

“We must find the other dragons. My kin who were forced to return to Fire Mountain,”
Kheladin said, his voice a quiet rumble in Lachlan’s mind.

“I agree. There are other tasks that take precedence, though. Ye heard the discussion with Gwydion and Arawn.”

“Aye, but I dinna agree with much of it.”

Lachlan shook his head. The dragon was willful and headstrong, yet he had a pure heart and a generous soul.
“If we canna get this problem with Rhukon, the Morrigan, and the red wyvern—Connor—well in hand, ’twill be nowhere for your kin to return to.”

“Ye could join us at Fire Mountain. Gwydion told us other dragon shifters went there with their dragons.”

Lachlan’s eyes widened. That option hadn’t even occurred to him, though he’d certainly heard what Gwydion had said. While he’d traveled outside the British Isles, so far as he was concerned the Scottish Highlands were his home. Despite their current level of contamination with modernity, he had no desire to leave. Because he didn’t want to hurt Kheladin’s feelings, he said,
“Aye, ’tis a possibility. At the verra least, we could plan a visit. Do ye know how to get there?”

A long silence. Lachlan gave the dragon space. When Kheladin finally spoke, he sounded embarrassed.
“Not exactly. ’Tis something I should have learned from another dragon, but there are naught left to ask.”

“I’ll speak with the Celts,”
Lachlan reassured him.
“Mayhap they would be willing to help us get there.”

“Ye willna forget?”
Kheladin’s fretful tone didn’t sound at all like him.

“Nay. I promise. If there is a way for us to visit Fire Mountain, I shall do everything in my power to find it.”

Lachlan inhaled through his mouth, tasting the air. It held a metallic undercurrent that stung his nose and dried his throat. Without fully understanding the why of things, he thought about what Gwydion and Arawn had said. The conversation was brief, but they’d hit a few salient points. Water was fast disappearing from many places on Earth; species were dying every day. Manmade chemicals were well on their way to poisoning the oceans and the air. Brighid, Danu, and Ceridwen, most powerful of the Celtic goddesses, were so furious, they’d washed their hands of humans.

Lachlan shook his head. How could things have gone to hell in so little time? Humans had been around for thousands of years. According to Gwydion, it had taken less than a hundred to wreak the current disaster.

’Twas Rhukon’s prodding. And the Morrigan thrives on chaos.
Lachlan ground his teeth together. He could just see the two of them chortling with delight over the disaster they’d created.

According to Arawn, humans had welcomed one convenience after another into their lives, apparently not paying one whit of attention that all their labor-saving amenities were destroying their home. Lachlan felt infuriated and incredulous by turns. Had men turned into such stupid fools they would sully the very ether that sustained them? His hands were fisted so tightly they ached. He stretched out his fingers to get circulation back into them and thought about the rest of what the Celts had told him.

With Rhukon and Connor by her side, the Morrigan had been in her element during the various wars riddling Europe, Asia, the States, and the Middle East. Flitting from battle to battle in her crow form, she’d positively glowed as blood dripped from her beak and feathers.

Long ago, Arawn and she had an alliance. It was a logical coalition since she chose who was to die in battle, and he was god of the dead. Lachlan had asked Arawn about it, but the god had waved him to silence and said, “The partnership has eroded beyond hope of repair.”

Lachlan took stock. The world was in serious trouble. In a large part, it was a result of Rhukon, Connor, and the Morrigan; no one had opposed their efforts to sow chaos. He asked the Celts why the gods hadn’t stepped in. Gwydion raised a bushy brow and reminded him, “We doona trouble ourselves with mortal concerns.”

“Even if the world is at stake?” Lachlan had asked, finding it hard to believe they’d turn a cold eye in the face of such a major a disaster.

“Even if,” Arawn concurred. “We can always retreat to the
Dreaming
.”

Probably egged on by the Morrigan—or maybe because he was feeling invincible—Rhukon finally made a significant error. In dragon form, he’d rained fire on a gathering of the Celtic Gods. They’d fought back, driving both black wyvern and red from their midst. They’d barred the Morrigan years before, when her bloodthirsty ways had disgusted even Andraste, goddess of victory.

Aye, ’twas only then, when Rhukon was hard pressed, that he withdrew power from the magic keeping Kheladin and me ensorcelled.

Lachlan’s brows knit together. He’d give a lot to know which god or goddess was behind making certain Maggie got to Scotland.
Mayhap not a god. Perhaps ’twas that witchy ancestry of hers.
Magic-wielding humans all had agendas, and their magic had a mind of its own. Sometimes everything meshed; more frequently the witches, druids, and human magicians were at cross purposes.

He rolled first one shoulder and then the other. The car was deucedly uncomfortable, and it was becoming unpleasantly warm from sun reflecting off its glass. He craned his head and looked out all the windows. The parking area appeared empty. He spoke a word to sever his spell. He’d wanted to make certain no one saw Maggie’s car appear where nothing had been seconds before. Manipulating the door handle, he got out and stretched to his full height. Even if the air stung his lungs, it was still better than being folded like a child’s doll in a metal box.

A few trees grew next to the building Maggie had disappeared into. He walked over to them and laid his hand on a large ash’s trunk. The tree sang into his mind, grateful for the touch of one with earth magic. Lachlan let his thoughts drift to Maggie. Heat flared in his loins, mingled with tenderness and a savage protectiveness. He’d never met a lass such as her. Women from his own time were more…submissive to men’s suggestions.

The way Maggie gazed right at him—and broke in whenever she wanted to say something—made him proud of her mettle. The lass must be made of steel to survive a dream visitation from Rhukon. Doubtless, the black wyvern had planned to enter her dream and shanghai her.
What happened? How did she fight him?

“Hey!” Maggie’s voice trilled from behind him. “I thought you were going to wait in the car. I nearly had a heart attack when I got there, and you weren’t in it.”

Lachlan spun and opened his arms. She shook her head. “Not here. It’s best if we leave before anyone sees you.”

He cocked a brow. “Really? But I am dressed as ye wanted.”

“That’s not it. I just don’t want anyone asking questions. The Scots think I’m odd enough as it is.”

He snorted. “Aye, and I can see how they might.” He followed her back to her vehicle and got in. “Can we park this somewhere near where ye found me yesterday?”

“Sure.” She started the noisy thing that made the car go and spun its wheel. The metal monster obligingly headed out of the parking area.