Highlander in Her Dreams Read Free Page A

to impart that lore, he cleared his throat. “Deep grooves in the rock of the castle’s landing beach attest to the MacDonalds’ prowess at sea, for the grooves are believed to have been caused by the keels of countless MacDonald galleys being drawn onto the shore. These fearless men were the ones who raised the new castle, and it is their ghosts whose footfalls, knocks, and curses can be heard—”
    â€œHave you seen our guide’s beanstalk?”
    Kira blinked. “Beanstalk?”
    She looked at her seatmate, certain she’d misunderstood.
    But the woman nodded, her gaze on Wee Hughie. “It’s quite impressive.”
    Kira could feel her jaw drop. True, she hadn’t seen that many naked men, but she’d seen enough to know that Wee Hughie’s beanstalk was the only part of his anatomy that lived up to his name. She’d caught a glimpse of his Highland pride when some of the tour-goers photographed him at Bannockburn. Striking a pose beside the famous statue of King Robert the Bruce, he’d looked regal enough until an inopportune gust of wind revealed what a true Scotsman wears—or doesn’t wear—beneath his kilt.
    A wind blast that proved Wee Hughie MacSporran to be anything but impressive.
    Wincing at the memory, she shot a glance at him. “I didn’t think he was all that—”
    â€œHe’s descended from the MacDonalds, Lords of the Isles,” Kira’s seatmate enthused, poking her arm for emphasis. “From the great Somerled himself. I know genealogists back home who’d sell the farm for such illustrious forebears.” She paused to press a hand to her breast and sigh. “He carries a diagram of his lineage in that green satchel. It goes back two thousand years.”
    â€œOh.” Kira hoped the other woman hadn’t guessed her mistake. She’d forgotten the guide’s ancestral pedigree. His supposed claim to noble roots.
    Kira didn’t believe a word he said.
    Any descendant of Robert Bruce and other historical greats would surely be dashing and bold, with dark, flashing eyes full of heat and passion. Beautiful in a wild, savage way. Sinfully sexy. Well-muscled rather than well- fleshed —and definitely well-hung.
    She squirmed on the seat, certain that her cheeks were brightening.
    Certain, too, that she wouldn’t be picnicking at Kilt Rock with full-of-himself MacSporran and the tour group. As if drawn by a force impossible to resist, she stared through the bus window at the ruin perched so precariously on the cliff-top. Bold men, mighty and strong, had called the romantic pile of stones their own, and if their echoes still lingered there she was of a mind to find them.
    Or at least enjoy her packed lunch surrounded by the solitude.
    The bus could return for her later. If she could persuade the driver to indulge her.
    Determination urging her on, she approached him a short while later during the obligatory roadside photo stop. A pleasant enough man about her father’s age, he turned when he sensed her hovering, his smile fading at the lunch packet clutched in her hand.
    â€œMy regrets, lass, but there won’t be time for you to eat that here.” He shook his head. “Not if we’re to make the craft and art shops on our way to Kilt Rock.”
    â€œI’m not interested in arts and crafts.” Kira plunged forward before she lost her courage. “I’d rather picnic here than at Kilt Rock.”
    â€œHere?” The bus driver’s brows shot upward. He eyed the clumpy grass at the roadside, the peaty little burn not far from where they stood. “Do you have any idea how many sheep pats are scattered hereabouts? Och, nay, here’s no place for a lunch stop.”
    Looking sure of it, he glanced at the other tour-goers, some already filing back into the bus. “I canna see anyone in this group wanting to picnic here.”
    â€œI didn’t mean the