The red
hatchback came to a grinding stop at the bottom
of a desolate gravel road, and the driver flipped off the
meter.
Wide-eyed, Ali stared at the back of the bald man’s head.
“You’re kidding, right?”
The cabbie
shrugged. His eyes meeting hers in the rearview
mirror. “I canna’ make it up the hill, lass, on account of
all the rain we’ve had. My car’s too heavy you ken, but
Dunvegan’s
just up the road a bit,” he said in his thick brogue.
Ali leaned
forward, peering past the rhythmic swipe of
the windshield wipers to the mist-shrouded trees and the
faint outline of a stone tower just beyond them, and released
a resigned sigh. She shouldn’t be surprised. Lately, where
she was concerned, if something could go wrong, it did.
“Okay then, what
do I owe you?” she asked as she dug
her wallet from the bottom of her black leather satchel.
“Two hundred
pounds,” the older man answered as he
opened the door and heaved himself off the front seat.
Ali let out a
soft whistle before she followed after him,
her low-heeled shoes sinking in the mud. “Can you give me
a receipt, please?”
Her agent and
best friend, Meg Lawson, had told her the
magazine would pay all her expenses and Ali wasn’t about to
argue. It meant more money to go toward the hefty student
loans she’d accumulated while going to medical school. And
the sooner they were paid off the better. It was one of the
reasons
she’d agreed to take the modeling job in the first place.
The money was great, and she’d get a chance to see some of
Scotland—at the very least Skye, where the photo shoot was
taking place. She just wouldn’t think about why she had the
time to take the job. If she did, she’d cry, and she’d done
enough of that already.
“Aye.” He lifted
her luggage from the trunk and settled
the strap of her carry-on over her shoulder. “I wish I could
help with yer bags, lass, but I have a bum knee and wouldn’t
be much good to you.”
“No problem.”
Ali managed a tight smile as she dragged
the heavy suitcase around the back of the car, its wheels
getting
stuck in the mud. She thanked the man and shoved the
receipt he handed her into her bag before heading out on
what she hoped would be a short walk to Dunvegan Castle.
The trek was
slow going, with the wheels of her suitcase
getting stuck in every rut on the narrow, unpaved road. Her
mud-splattered black shoes were waterlogged from the
puddles she couldn’t seem to avoid. In an attempt to save
her jeans from ruin, she bent down and rolled them several
inches above her ankles. She buttoned the navy blazer she
wore over her white blouse—a blouse that had been crisp
and clean when she left New York twelve hours earlier, but
now was as limp and dirty as she was, or would be, after
her little adventure.
Five minutes
later she had to admit it wasn’t so bad. The
air was fragrant with the heady aroma of flowers, the misty
rain warm and gentle on her face, and the scenery amazing.
Some of the tension eased from her shoulders, and
then she heard an ominous rumble, and a bolt of lightning
crackled across the gloomy afternoon sky. Within seconds
the clouds opened up and the rain came down in
buckets. Ali shook her head and laughed. What else could
she do—cry?
Rounding a bend
in the road, a massive gray stone edifice
came into view, and she felt an unexpected spurt of
excitement. It looked like something out of a fairy tale
with its majestic towers reaching toward the sky. Maybe
Meg was right—the change of scenery would do her good.
Gripping the
suitcase with two hands, she hauled it onto
the pavers of the long driveway. The mud from the wheels
on her suitcase splattered her legs, but at least it no longer
felt like she was dragging a hundred-pound weight behind
her. Hiking up the strap of her carry-on, she dashed toward
the massive oak doors.
When she
received no response to her first tentative knock
she rapped harder, relieved when the door creaked open.
She’d begun to think the place was deserted. A tall, elderly
man stood framed in the doorway, staring at her, his bright
blue eyes wide in his grizzled face, his mouth hanging open.
Ali didn’t blame
him. She could only imagine what
she looked like with her long hair plastered to her head,
and mascara no doubt running down her cheeks. “Hi,
I’m Ali Graham.” She offered her hand, but he didn’t
take it. Ali didn’t think he even noticed—his gaze was
riveted on her face.
Splat.
She glared up at
the offending carved overhang from
which the water had cascaded to land on her head, then back
to the man blocking the entrance. “Uhmm, do you mind if I
come in?” She didn’t want to be rude, but she was drenched.
With a brief
shake of his head the befuddled look left
his eyes. “Sorry, lass, please . . . please come in.” He
ushered
her into the warmth of the cavernous entrance.
Ali set down her
bags on the slate floor and swiped her
dripping hair from her face. She pulled her wet clothing from
where it stuck to her body and shook it out. “It’s really
coming
down out there,” she said in an attempt to make conversation.
“Aye,” he
murmured, giving her an odd look before
closing the door.
The intensity of
his stare was beginning to give her the
creeps. She wondered if she’d made a mistake coming
inside—she was alone and didn’t know this man from Adam.
Not one to let things slide, Ali asked, “Is something wrong?”
“Sorry, lass,
it’s just that . . . och, you’ll have to excuse
an old man for his rudeness.” He gave her an embarrassed
smile. “I’m Duncan Macintosh, Dunvegan’s caretaker.
Who did you say you were?”
“Ali . . . Ali
Graham. I have a reservation,” she said,
searching her bag for the elusive piece of paper. “Somewhere.”
Ali grimaced and pulled the sodden reservation from
her jacket pocket. With a wry grin she handed it to him.
A frown creased
his brow, and he looked from her to the
paper. “Lass, you’ve come to the wrong place. It’s Dunvegan
Hotel you’d be looking for. You passed it a ways back.”
She looked at
the paper he handed back to her, the writing
barely legible, but there it was, plain as day, Dunvegan
Hotel. “I don’t know how I could have been so stupid.
Sorry for bothering you.” Ali bent down to retrieve her bags
from the puddle they’d left on the floor.
“It’s no bother,
Miss Graham. I was just about to have a
spot of tea. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”
“Please . . .
call me Ali, and a cup of tea sounds wonderful.
Would you have something I could dry off with? I don’t
want to . . . oh, no.” She groaned. “Look what I’ve done.”
The beautiful wool area rug beneath her feet was now
marked with her muddy footprints. “I’m so sorry.”
He chuckled.
“It’s seen worse. Don’t fret. I’ll get you
some towels and then you can come by the fire and warm
up. My wife is off on a wee shop, but when she returns with
the car I’ll take you over to the hotel. How does that sound?”
“Terrific.”
With her jacket
and mud-caked shoes disposed of, Ali
followed Duncan. She gazed appreciatively at the wood-
paneled room he led her into, noting its decorative ceilings
with interest. The antique furniture was tasteful and inviting;
muted greens and golds complemented the heavy
crimson draperies and ornate cherrywood bookcases that
ran the length of the drawing room.
“This place is
amazing, Mr. Macintosh. You must love
taking care of it.”
“Och, now,
Duncan will do just fine. And aye, it’s a
wonderful job I have,” he said as he dragged a high-back
chair closer to the fire and placed a forest green throw over
its delicate embroidered fabric. “Sit down, lass. Dry off a
bit and I’ll get us our tea.”
Ali sank
gratefully into the chair, then leaned forward
to warm her hands in front of the blazing fire. Its woodsy
aroma reminded her of a damp day in fall, even though it
was only the beginning of August.
Duncan reentered
the room carrying a heavily laden
silver tray. “Move that wee table over here, lass.”
“That’s quite a
spread. I hope you didn’t go to any trouble
on my account, Duncan,” she said as she placed the
table between them.
The older man
settled in the chair beside her. “No trouble
at all.” He smiled. Looking over the rim of the porcelain
teacup, he asked, “What brings you to Skye, Ali?”
“I’m doing a
photo shoot for Vogue. It’s a magazine.”
“I know of it.
They requested permission a few months
back to take photos here. So, you’re a model, then?”
Ali laughed.
“Actually, I’m a doctor, fourth-year resident.
But my friend is an agent and every once in a while
she passes a job my way. Helps pay the bills,” she said,
biting into a dainty sandwich.
“I thought you
residents were a harried lot. Was it not
difficult for you to get the time off?”
Ali choked and
took a deep swallow of her tea before
she answered, “Not really.” Anxious to change the subject,
she pointed to a tattered piece of silk encased in glass
above the fireplace. “What’s that?”
“Ah, that would
be the fairy flag,” he said, gazing at the
box with reverence.
Intrigued, Ali
asked, “Fairy flag?”
“Would you be
wanting to hear the tale?”
“I’d love to. If
you’re sure you have the time.”
“I always have
time for this story, lass.” He made himself
comfortable; stretching out his long legs, he crossed
them at the ankles.
“A long time
ago, according to the legend, the Laird of
the MacLeods fell in love with a fairy princess.”
“Fairy princess?
You mean like in storybooks?”
“Aye. Do you not
believe in magic, Ali?”
She didn’t. As
far as she was concerned only children
who had been loved and protected had the luxury to believe
in magic and fairy tales. Not someone like her, who
had been slapped with the harsh realities of life at an early
age. But Duncan didn’t need to know that.
“Of course.” She
smiled. “Now don’t keep me in suspense,
what happened next?”
He studied her
with kind eyes, then went on with his
story. “The two wished to wed, but the King of the Fairies
refused to grant his permission. Noting his daughter’s
sorrow, he reluctantly relented, but on with one condition;
after a year and a day she must return to the fairy realm.
“Within that
year the happy couple were blessed with a
bonny baby boy. Their time together went quickly, and too
soon the heartbroken princess had no choice but to keep
her promise to her father. As she tearfully left her husband
and baby at the fairy bridge, she made the laird promise
never to leave their son alone, or to allow him to cry. Even
in the fairy realm, the sound of his sorrow would cause her
great suffering,” Duncan explained.
Flames shot up
from the fire with a loud crackle and pop,
and Duncan leaned over, taking a poker to the logs before
continuing. “Their laird was grief stricken, and his clan,
wanting
to cheer him up, organized a celebration. The maid who
had been left to mind the wee one could not resist the music
and left the bairn alone while she went to watch the
festivities.
The baby started to cry, and hearing his cries, the fairy
princess
came back to comfort him. She wrapped him in her silk and
was speaking to him in a lyrical voice when the maid returned.
The princess kissed her son good-bye, then vanished.
“Years later,
the lad came to his father with the story of
his mother’s visit, and repeated her instructions to him. If
ever the clan was in danger, the laird was to wave the silk
to call upon the fairies and their help. But the magic could
only be summoned three times, and—”
Curiosity
getting the better of her, Ali interrupted. “Has
it . . . did the MacLeods ever raise the flag?”
“Aye, they did,
back in 1570. The MacDonalds, an
enemy to the MacLeods, attacked them. Severely outnumbered,
the MacLeod unfurled the flag and its fairy magic.
To this day no one knows for certain what happened, but
the MacDonalds retreated. Some say it’s because the fairies
made the MacLeod’s army swell, but others say something
happened to the MacDonald’s wife and daughter that day,
drawing him from the field, leaving his army in disarray.”
“Well, Duncan,
that story alone was worth getting
soaked for. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
The older man glanced at her and
seemed slightly embarrassed. “I don’t know if you noticed,
but I was a wee bit disconcerted when you first arrived.”
Ali grinned.
“Now that you mention it, I did.”
Color bloomed in
the man’s heavily lined cheeks. “I should
have said something. Come, I’ll show you the reason.”
Ali padded
barefoot across the thick oriental carpet to
the far end of the room where Duncan stood in front of a
large gilt-framed portrait. He stepped aside and her jaw
dropped. At first glance it was as though Ali stood in front
of a mirror. The woman in the painting could have been her.
“That would be
Brianna MacLeod, wife to Rory. He
was laird in the latter part of the sixteenth century. The
resemblance is uncanny, don’t you think?”
“I do,” she
murmured, touching her wavy and still wet
platinum blond hair. The woman in the portrait’s long spiral
curls were a burnished gold and caressed her delicate heart-
shaped face. Her eyes were coffee colored, whereas Ali’s
were blue, but other than that, they could have been twins.
The man chuckled
at her expression before turning back to
the portrait. “She was a MacDonald. Their marriage brought
an end to the families’ long-standing feud, but they didn’t
have many years together before she died in childbirth.”
“How sad,” Ali
said, drawn to the woman in the portrait.
Although Brianna MacLeod radiated happiness in the
painting, an almost palpable sense of sadness washed over
Ali, and she took an unconscious step backward. She
looked at Duncan to see if he felt the same thing, but he’d
already moved away.
“And this is
Rory, her husband.” Duncan pointed proudly
to the portrait on the other side of the large picture window.
For one moment,
just as she turned away from Brianna’s
portrait, Ali sensed the coffee-colored eyes following her.
She shook off the feeling. Dismissing the notion out of
hand, she joined Duncan in front of the second portrait.
Her uneasiness faded the instant she looked at the man in
the painting. She sucked in an appreciative breath. Now
that was a highland hunk.
Rory MacLeod was
breathtaking. Wavy black hair accentuated high, chiseled
cheekbones and a firm jaw. The
sensual curve of his full mouth hinted at a man who
laughed often. His green eyes glittered with a penetrating
intelligence as he looked down his straight and aristocratic
nose at her. He exuded power and strength. A man’s man—
no metrosexual there.
A sudden draft
swirled around her bare feet and ankles.
The cold air enveloped her in its icy embrace, causing goose
bumps to form beneath her skin. Ali tried to contain the
teeth-chattering shiver by wrapping her arms around herself.
“Och, and look
at you, freezing in those wet clothes while
I blather on. Come, I’ll set you up in one of the rooms where
you can change.”
Ali nodded,
unable to tear her gaze from Rory MacLeod,
mesmerized by the powerful warrior he portrayed. She
jumped when Duncan patted her shoulder. “Oh . . . sorry.”
With one last look at her handsome highlander, she followed
the caretaker from the room.
“I’m going to
give you a special treat.” Duncan winked at
her as he unhooked the red velvet rope that blocked the
polished
wooden staircase. “But you must promise never to tell.”
“I promise.” She
smiled.
As they made
their way up the curved staircase, Duncan
relayed more of the MacLeod family’s history, but Ali
barely heard him, her mind filled with images of Rory and
Brianna. She thought if she closed her eyes she would see
them, young and in love, roaming the halls of Dunvegan
Castle. Touching the wood-paneled walls, running her hand
along the thick balustrade, Ali felt close to them, a part of
their history. Hundreds of years ago they had walked these
stairs; laid a hand on the same railing and walls.
Ali snorted,
shaking her head at her whimsical musings.
Totally out of character for her, she blamed it on jet lag.
“Here you go.”
Duncan opened the door with a flourish.
“The laird’s chambers.”
Ali quirked a
brow. “Are you sure, Duncan? I don’t want
to get you in trouble.”
“Don’t give it
another thought. The present day laird
doesn’t sleep here, but Rory MacLeod once did. And after
my behavior earlier, I thought it the least I can do.”
“Please.” Ali
shook her head with a smile. “It was no big
deal, but I’m not going to refuse. This is amazing,” she
said, stepping into the bedroom.
Duncan set her
suitcase beside the four-poster bed. “It’s
chilly in here,” he said as he crouched beside the stone
fireplace across from the bed. “I’ll get a fire going and
leave you to freshen up. You can take a wee lie-down if
you’d like, Ali. You’re probably tired from your long journey.
Afterwards you can join my wife and me for supper
and then I’ll take you over to the hotel, if you’d like.”
“If you’re sure
it’s no trouble I’d love to.” Her gaze was
drawn to the window and the breathtaking view. Dunvegan
sat on top of a rocky hill with a rain-swept lake at its feet
and cloud-draped hills beyond.
“There, you’re
all set, lass,” Duncan pronounced, rubbing
the soot from his palms onto the sides of his brown
corduroy pants before heading for the door.
As soon as the
door closed behind him, Ali stripped off
her wet clothing. She laid them over the chintz-covered
chair, but not before retrieving a white towel from the foot
of the bed to protect the obviously expensive piece of
furniture.
Everything in the castle looked as though it belonged
in a museum. Ali gave a rueful grin. It was a
museum, and if she planned on using her paycheck to pay
off her loan, she’d better not damage anything.