LOVING THE
HIGHLANDER
By
Janet Chapman
TOC
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4
Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8
Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12
Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16
Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20
Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24
For my two sons, Ben and Nick,
who are as comfortable in the civilized world as they are in the woods. What remarkable men you’ve become. Thank you for the laughter, for keeping me grounded, and for constantly reminding me to trust you. It has definitely been an adventure.
Oh, and thank you for stacking the firewood.
Acknowledgments
As I travel along the pathway of my life, I realize that I’ve been blessed with the greatest of family and friends, as well as with the many dynamic people I find myself working with now.
And so, I would like to thank Grace Morgan, my agent, for guiding me (with energy and patience and just enough compassion) through the wonderfully exciting—and to me, mysterious—world of publishing.
And thank you to everyone at Pocket Books—especially Maggie Crawford, Selena James, and Micki Nuding. Your confidence in me, your enthusiasm, and your encouragement, has made my journey most rewarding.
And thanks also to the Publicity and Art Departments at Pocket, and to the enthusiastic Sales Team who did such a great job of making sure my books reached all corners of the country.
Blessings to you wonderful people.
Chapter One
TOC
Present day, deep in the Maine woods
The old wizard sat in reflective silenceon the tall granite cliff, oblivious to the awakening forest around him, the roaring waterfall that shot from the precipice, and the churning pool of frothing water a good hundred feet beneath where he sat. Daar scratched his beard with the butt of his cane and sighed, his troubling thoughts completely focused on the lone fisherman below. He had done a terrible disservice to that young man six years ago. Aye, he was solely responsible for turning Morgan MacKeage’s life into the mess it was now.
Daar had cast a spell that had brought Morgan’s laird and brother, Greylen MacKeage, forward to the twenty-first century. It had been the wizard’s greatest blunder to date. Oh, Greylen had made the journey safely enough, but so had six of his enemies, two of his men, and his younger brother, Morgan. Even their disgruntled war horses had managed to get sucked into the spell, catapulting them all on an unimaginable journey forward through time.
Daar blamed the mishap on his advanced age. He was old and tired, a bit forgetful on occasion, and that was the reason his magic sometimes went awry.
Morgan MacKeage should have been eight hundred years dead, having had the joy of a couple of wives and a dozen or so kids. Instead, the Highland warrior fishing below was now thirty-two, still unwed, and lonely. It seemed nearly a sin to Daar that his wizard’s ineptness had caused such a fine, strong, intelligent warrior to be cast adrift without direction or purpose.
Daar hunched his shoulders under the weight of his guilt. Aye, that young man’s malaise was all his fault, and it was past time he fixed things.
A woman might help.
Then again, a woman might only add to the young warrior’s troubles.
Daar had discovered that twenty-first-century females were a decidedly peculiar breed.
They were brash, outspoken, opinionated, and stubborn. But mostly they were simply too damned independent. They dared to live alone, they worked to support themselves, and they quite often owned property and held positions of power in business and government.
How was a man born in a time when women were chattel supposed to deal with such independent women? How was a virile twelfth-century warrior supposed to embrace his new life in such an outrageous time?
The MacKeages had lived in this modern world for six years. Six years of adapting, evolving, and finally accepting, and still Morgan MacKeage stood alone. Morgan’s brother, Greylen, was happily settled with a wife, a daughter, and twins on the way.
Callum was courting a woman in town, and Ian was secretly seeing a widow two nights a week. Even their sole surviving enemy, Michael MacBain, had fathered a son and was getting on with his life.
Only Morgan remained detached, not only from the company of females but also from the passions of life itself. He hunted, fished, and walked the woods incessantly, as if searching for something to settle the ache in his gut.
“Give a care, old man, lest you fall and become feed for the fish.”
Daar nearly did fall at the sound of Morgan’s familiar voice behind him. He stood and faced the young warrior and gave him a fierce scowl.
“You’re a pagan, Morgan MacKeage, for scaring ten years off an old priest’s life.”
Morgan lifted a brow. “When I next see a priest, I’ll be sure to confess my sin.”
Daar attempted to straighten his shoulders and puff his chest at the insult but gave up as soon as he realized it made little difference. “You’re seeing a priest now.”
Morgan lifted his other brow. “What church ordains adrùidh into its ranks?”
“I was a priest long before I became a wizard,” Daar shot back, pointing at the warrior.
“And one is not contradictory to the other. Both roads lead in the same direction.”
Morgan merely chuckled as he turned and started up the path that led to Daar’s cabin.
“Come on, old man, if you want breakfast,” he said without looking back.
Eyeing the string of trout swinging from Morgan’s belt, Daar decided he’d school the warrior on his manners later. After all, this argument had been repeated often over the last two years, since Daar had been forced to reveal his wizard’s identity in order to save Greylen MacKeage’s wife from kidnappers.
And what thanks had he got? None. Not even an “I’m sorry” that his precious old staff had been cut in half and thrown into a high mountain pond. It was that same pond, by the way, that was the source of the waterfall shooting out the side of the cliff from an underground stream, creating the crystal-clear pool that had produced the tasty trout he was about to have for breakfast.
“Does that puny new cane have any real power yet,drùidh?” Morgan asked as he settled into a comfortable, unhurried pace toward Daar’s cabin.
Daar snorted. “As if I’d tell you,” he muttered, eyeing the leather-sheathed sword tied to Morgan’s backpack. The sword was more than three feet long, extending from Morgan’s waist to a foot above his head, the hilt cocked to the side for easy access. That sword was as large as Greylen’s sword and just as capable of destroying Daar’s new cane.
Morgan stopped and turned to help Daar over a fallen log in the path. “Can it even toast bread yet?” he asked.
“It’s powerful enough to gather stars in your head if I smack you with it.”
Apparently not worried by the threat, Morgan turned his attention to something he pulled from his pocket. “What do you know of these?” he asked, holding up a three-foot-long orange ribbon of plastic.
Daar squinted at the ribbon. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” Morgan leaned his fishing pole against his chest and used both hands to stretch the ribbon to its full length to show off the writing on it. “I found this one and several like it tied to trees all over the valley. And each one has numbers written on it.”
Daar dismissed the ribbon with a negligent wave, eyeing the trout instead. His stomach rumbled, loudly announcing his hunger. “It’s probably surveyors marking ownership lines,” he said. He started toward home again. He was hungry, dammit, and had no patience for puzzles right now. “That’s what they do in these modern times to mark their lands,” Daar continued. “A man’s word that he owns up to a river or to the crest of a mountain is no longer enough.”