Highlander in Her Dreams Read Free

known as Skye, and one of the highlights of the tour. A rapidly vanishing highlight, as today was the tour’s only full day on the misty isle and she didn’t want to miss a single moment.
    They were driving north along the cliff-hugging, single-track road through the heart of Trotternish, a landscape of rock, sea, and brilliant blue sky almost too glorious to behold.
    The glistening bays of rocks and white sand, the black-faced sheep grazing the greenest pastures she’d ever seen. Shining seas of deepest blue and dark, rugged coastline. Cliffs, caves, and ruined croft houses, the fire-blackened stones squeezing her heart.
    The woman next to her touched her elbow then, offering potato chips, but Kira ignored her, making only a noncommittal mmmph . She’d eat later, when they stopped at Kilt Rock for a picnic lunch.
    For now, she only wanted to drink in the views. She was branding the vistas onto her memory, securing them there so they could be recalled at will when the tour ended and she returned to Pennsylvania, leaving her new love behind.
    The MacIvers had been right. They’d sworn that no one could set foot in their homeland without losing their heart to Scotland’s mist and castles. The wild skirl of pipes and vibrant flashes of plaid. She’d certainly fallen hard. Crazy in love, as her sisters would say.
    Crazy in love with Scotland.
    And crazily annoyed by the constant drone of the tour guide’s voice.
    A deep and pleasing Highland voice that she would surely have found appealing if the speaker hadn’t been such a bore. She glanced at him, then quickly away. That he seemed to be the only kilted Scotsman close to her age only made it worse.
    Rosy-cheeked, red-haired, and pudgy, he bore a rather strong resemblance to a giant tartan-draped teddy bear.
    Leaning back against the seat, she blew out a frustrated breath. If she’d harbored any illusions about romance on this tour, Wee Hughie MacSporran wasn’t her man.
    â€œâ€¦ancient seat of the MacDonalds of Skye, Castle Wrath stands empty, its once formidable walls crumbled and silent.” The guide’s voice rolled on, at last saying something that caught her attention.
    She sat up, perking her ears.
    Castle Wrath sounded interesting.
    She could go for crumbled walls. Especially if they were silent, she decided, trying not to notice that her seatmate was opening a second bag of potato chips.
    â€œSome say Castle Wrath is haunted,” Wee Hughie went on, seemingly oblivious to crackling potato chip bags. In fact, his chest swelled a bit as he looked round to see the effect of his tale. “To be sure, its walls are bloodstained, each stone a reminder of the past. The turbulent history of the ancient warrior-chiefs who once dwelt there.”
    Pausing, he pointed out the ruin on its cliff, clearly pleased by the tour-goers’ indrawn breaths. Their appreciative ooohs and ahhhs.
    Kira ooohed too.
    She couldn’t help herself. Etched starkly against sea and sky, Castle Wrath, or what was left of it, looked just as dark and brooding as Wee Hughie described it.
    Shivering suddenly, she rubbed her arms and nestled deeper into her jacket. She’d seen a lot of castle ruins since arriving in Scotland, but this one had her catching her breath.
    It was different.
    Romantic.
    In a spookily delicious sort of way.
    She turned back to the guide, for once not wanting to miss a word he had to say.
    â€œCastle Wrath was originally a Pictish fort,” he told the group. “A dun . This first stronghold was seized by invading Norsemen until they, in turn, were dislodged by the Lords of the Isles.” He looked around again, pitching his voice for maximum impact. “These early MacDonalds were fierce and powerful. Their sway along Scotland’s western coast was absolute.”
    He paused, his hands clenching the green vinyl satchel that Kira knew held his scribblings on Scottish history and lore.
    Looking ready