WEDDING 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

Chapter 25 Chapter 26

To Delbert Byram,

for a lifetime of unbelievable patience and gentle devotion, and for always being a safe place to land.

I love you, Daddy.

And in memory of Ella Byram,

for her empowering guidance and love, her unique and always curious outlook on life, and for being the foundation I stand on today.

I love you, Mom. And, I miss you greatly.

Acknowledgments

I wish to thank Sihaya Hopkins for showing me the painstaking skill involved in working with glass. My visit to your Glass Blossom Studio in Harborside, Maine, was fascinating, and the generous gift of your time is greatly appreciated. Your jewelry is simply beautiful, and I cherish the glass Snowy Owl you made for me that day.

I also wish to acknowledge the Christmas Tree growers here in Maine, most especially FinestKind Tree Farm in Dover-Foxcroft, and Piper Mountain Christmas Trees in Dixmont. I don’t know how you do it, but no matter which tree gets chosen, the magic of the season always comes with it. Thank you for opening up your farms each year, and for helping create memories that bind generations together in a warmth of tradition.

And thank you, Esther and Chick, for your love, your beautiful photos that make my webpage come alive, and for your overwhelming support. Robbie and I are truly blessed by your friendship.

Chapter One

TOC

Pine Creek, Maine, October 22

Ashout woke himas he spiraled through the horrific void, twisting and clawing to find something of substance to hold on to. But there was only blinding white light and the terror of knowing his fate was beyond his control.

Michael MacBain opened his eyes, held himself perfectly still, and listened to the silence broken only by his own labored breathing. He slowly sat up and scrubbed the sweat from his face, then untangled his legs from the sheet, threw back the cover, and stood.

He walked to the window, lowered the top sash, and took slow, metered breaths of the crisp October air, letting it wash over his quivering muscles.

A full two minutes passed before his heart finally calmed and his head cleared. Michael sighed into the night. All was right with the world, he decided as he stared into the darkness; the moon-washed mountains still cast their shadow over his farm, the stars still shone from the heavens, his house stood peaceful. And his son, Robbie, was safe in his bed, and John was sleeping downstairs.

Michael scrubbed his face again with tired impatience. The dreams were becoming more detailed. And far more frequent.

They started with Maura—with her funeral. In the dream, Michael would see himself crouched on the hillside, hidden from the MacKeages, watching them bury his woman outside the fence that separated the sinners from the decent.

Ian MacKeage was placing his daughter in unhallowed ground. And as they covered Maura with unholy dirt and the dream progressed, Michael would relive the anger and utter impotency he had felt that day.

She hadn’t killed herself—she’d wandered onto the rotten ice of theloc by mistake because of the snowstorm. She’d been coming to him, running away from her clan to get married, so their child would be born with the blessing of the church.

And from there, the dream would change to his confrontation with Ian MacKeage that fateful day eight hundred years ago. Michael’s feelings of heartbreak had been compounded by Ian’s harsh reprisals. Michael had walked away, unable to reason with Maura’s father.

Aye, it was then he had decided to go to war.

The dream would shift rapidly, this time to agleann not far from the MacKeage keep.

Greylen, Ian, Morgan, and Callum MacKeage were on their way home from talks with the MacDonalds, looking smug in their success at gaining the other clan’s aid against the MacBains.

And so Michael and his five warriors had attacked—and his dream turned into a nightmare hellish enough to curdle a warrior’s blood.

The storm descended upon them without warning. The sounds of battle turned into a frenzy of shouting men, screaming horses, and deafening thunder. A godless wind came first, roaring down from the heavens, uprooting trees, and churning up dust that clogged their throats. Lightning sizzled through the air, and the rain started, ruthlessly pounding against them. And the last thing Michael remembered seeing was a small, aged man standing on the bluff above them, watching in horror.

Sometimes—if he were lucky—he’d wake up then. His own scream of terror was enough to jolt him from the nightmare, and he’d find himself in his bed, in the twenty-first century, safe but no closer to understanding how ten men and their warhorses could be hurtled forward eight hundred years through time.

Nor, even after living in this modern world for twelve years now, was he any closer to understanding why.

But sometimes he didn’t wake up, and the nightmare continued, settling back into a less violent but just as disturbing dream, with him standing on the summit of TarStone Mountain, at sunrise on Summer Solstice eight years ago.

In the dream, Michael was casting the ashes of Mary Sutter, Robbie’s mother, onto the gentle breeze, watching it carry her away. He was holding their infant son in his arms, surrounded by the MacKeage warriors who shared his fate, Mary’s sister, Grace, and Mary’s six half brothers. The priest, Daar, was there as well—the same man he had seen on the bluff in the storm eight hundred years ago.

Michael rubbed his now dry chest and looked toward TarStone Mountain. Daar was actually adrùidh named Pendaär. He lived halfway up TarStone now, hiding behind his priest’s robes and neighborly smile.

The four MacKeage warriors were also his neighbors, their ancient war superseded by their need to survive in this modern time. The blood tie of the eight-year-old boy sleeping down the hall now bound them together. Greylen’s wife, Grace Sutter MacKeage, was Robbie’s aunt. And to the man, the olddrùidh included, Robbie’s happiness came first.

Michael continued staring out the window, but his focus suddenly shifted to the soft footsteps coming into his room, and he waited until Robbie was about to pounce before he spoke.

“Ya best be heavily armed, son,” he said softly, still not turning around. “And prepared for the consequences.”

The footsteps stopped.

Michael looked over his shoulder and smiled at the boy standing three paces away, his hands on his naked hips and a scowl on his young face.

“A noble warrior does not use a weapon on an unarmed man,” Robbie countered, obviously insulted. His scowl suddenly changed to a diabolical smile as he raised his hands and wiggled his fingers. “It was a tickle attack I was planning.”

Michael closed the window, picked up his pants, and put them on. He faced his son as he slipped into his shirt. “How about you get dressed instead,” he suggested, “and we head for the summit now?”

“Now?” Robbie echoed, lowering his hands back to his hips and looking at the clock by Michael’s bed. “But it’s only two in the morning.”

Michael reached into the top drawer of his bureau for socks. “We might make it by sunrise,” he offered.

Never one to need an excuse for an adventure, Robbie clapped his hands. “Can we bring the swords?” he asked.