Free Highlander in Her Dreams by Allie Mackay Page B

an elegantly dressed, hawk-nosed man loomed before her, his aristocratic stare haughty and cold.
    Kira blinked and he vanished, leaving her with a rash of goose bumps, alone on the path.
    Malcolm-the-red had left her, too. The cracked door of the Heatherbrae and the wedge of warm yellow light spilling out into the cottage’s little garden left no doubt as to where he’d gone.
    She also had no doubts that they’d been observed, for unless jet lag was playing tricks on her or her far-seeing gift was showing her yet another resident of Ravenscraig’s past, there was a white-haired woman peering at her from behind one of the soap-and-candle craft and workshop windows.
    A tiny white-haired woman, she discovered upon stepping inside the shop a few minutes later. A frilly-aproned, birdlike woman who beamed at her with a cheery, welcoming smile and a telltale faraway look in her bright blue eyes.
    â€œCome away in!” she enthused, scurrying from the window to a plaid-draped table set with a tea service and an array of what looked to be home-baked shortbread. “I’m Innes, maker of fine soaps and candles. And you’ll be herself, the young American Lord Basil told us we might be seeing,” she added, pouring the tea with a shaky, age-spotted hand. “Lord Basil likes Yanks.” She paused, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He even married one.”
    Kira looked at her, guessing she must mistake Mara McDougall’s Highland chieftain husband for someone named Lord Basil. No doubt the stuffy-looking aristocrat she’d glimpsed on the path. She was pretty sure her mother had said Euphemia Ross’s stepdaughter’s husband’s name was Alex.
    Sir Alexander Douglas.
    â€œYou are a Yank, aren’t you?” Innes came closer, holding out a rattling teacup and saucer.
    â€œI’m Kira Bedwell. And, yes, I’m American. From Aldan, Pennsylvania, near Philly.” Kira accepted the tea and took a sip. “Philadelphia,” she added, just in case the old woman had never heard the term Philly .
    â€œLord Basil comes from London,” Innes stated, as if she hadn’t spoken.
    Determined to be polite, Kira opened her mouth to reply, but the words lodged in her throat, all thought of Innes and her apparent delusions forgotten as she blinked at a small display of books on local history and fauna.
    A familiar face stared back at her.
    Wee Hughie MacSporran. The puffed-up peacock of a tour guide who’d accompanied her long-ago coach tour and repeatedly regaled the company with his claims to lofty ancestry.
    And there he was again, preening with self-importance on the cover of a book titled Rivers of Stone: A Highlander’s Ancestral Journey .
    Kira blinked again, half certain that this time jet lag really was getting to her. But when she looked a second time, there could be no mistaking.
    It was the tour guide.
    Even if he looked a bit more portly than she remembered. His name was on the book, too: Wee Hughie MacSporran, historian, storyteller, and keeper of tradition.
    Kira almost dropped her teacup. How like the swellhead to tack on so many distinctions to his name.
    Curious, she set down her tea and reached for the book, clearly a vanity-press job. Her fingers were just closing on it when a richly timbred voice spoke behind her.
    A deep Highland voice that sounded so much like him that her heart leapt to her throat.
    â€œA fine book,” the voice said in endorsement, “written by a local man well versed in our legends and lore. You can have a copy if you like. A wee welcome-to-Scotland gift.”
    Kira spun around, the book clasped to her breast. “Thank you. I know the author. He guided a tour I was on years ago. And you must be—”
    â€œNo’ Lord Basil,” the Highlander returned, stepping aside to make way for an aging collie when the dog shuffled in, then plopped down at his feet. “He was the late Lady of