Free Highlander in Her Dreams by Allie Mackay Page A

photographs of days long past and forgotten. The kind of photograph she was always mooning over.
    â€œOh-my-gosh,” she said again, her eyes misting.
    The strapping young Highlander beside her chuckled. Setting down her bags, Malcolm, as he’d introduced himself, flashed her a dimpled grin. “That’s exactly what Mistress Mara said the first time she saw the castle,” he told her, his soft Highland voice almost as exciting as the Brigadoon -like village. “Looks like you have a greater heart for the simple things?”
    A greater heart . Kira sighed. Just the phrase, so old-fashioned and Scottish-sounding, thickened her throat. She blinked, tried to wipe the damp from her eyes as unobtrusively as possible.
    Seeing it anyway, the red-haired Malcolm reached to dry her cheeks with a strong, calloused thumb. “Dinna shame your emotion, lass. I’ve seen grown men shed tears hereabouts. Scotland does that to people.”
    Kira nodded, his words making her eyes water all the more.
    â€œI’ve always loved Scotland.” She blinked, unable to keep the hitch out of her voice. “The mournful hills and deep glens, heather-clad moors and hidden lochs. And, yes, it’s the simple things that stir me. A drift of peat smoke on chill autumn air or the laughter and song at ceilidhs. Real ceilidhs in crofts and cottages, not the kitschy Scottish song-and-dance evenings you see in big touristy hotels.”
    She paused, swiping at her eyes again. “I sometimes think I belong to another age. The time of clan battles and Celtic legends, back when a skirl of pipes and a war cry roused men to whip out their swords and—”
    She broke off, heat flaming her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I get carried away—”
    â€œYou feel the pull o’ the hills is what it is.” Malcolm-of-the-red-hair picked up her bags again. “And I’m a-thinking if you don’t have Scottish blood, then you did…atone time,” he added, the notion warming her like the sun breaking through clouds.
    Before she could say anything, he nodded toward one of the cottages, its blue-shuttered windows glowing with the flickering light of what looked to be candles. “That’s the Heatherbrae. Yours for the night, and nay, those aren’t real candles in the windows,” he said, as if he’d read her mind. “They’re electric. The cottages may look of another century, but they have all the comforts of our own.
    â€œAnd that up yonder”—he indicated a well-lit cottage at the end of the path, one slightly larger than the rest—“is Innes’s soap-and-candle craft and workshop. If you pop up there, you’ll find she keeps a platter of shortbread and fresh-brewed tea ready for visitors.”
    Kira cast a longing glance at the Heatherbrae. “But—”
    â€œI need a few minutes to ready your cottage.” The young man offered an apologetic smile. “We didn’t know for sure if you were coming, see you, and Mistress Mara and her Alex insist on a true Highland welcome for their guests: a warming fire on the hearth grate and a waiting dram at your bedside.”
    â€œThat sounds wonderful and so does Innes’s tea and shortbread. Still”—Kira glanced at the large memorial cairn, according to its bronze plaque, dedicated to some long-dead MacDougalls—“I don’t want to trouble the woman,” she finished, her gaze also lighting on a nearby wooden signpost marking the beginning of a woodland walk.
    An evening walk she was sure would give her a second wind.
    Following her gaze, Malcolm’s rosy-cheeked complexion turned a slightly deeper red. “Sorry, lass, but Innes will be expecting you. She…er…watches out her shop windows, having nothing much else to do the day. Just smile and nod if she mentions Lord Basil.”
    â€œLord Basil?” The words had no sooner left her lips than the image of