My Heart's in the Highlands

Chapter 1

Glasgow, Scotland

September 2016

His lips brushed across hers, restrained yet hungry. Rousing a kindred need in her unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Passion coalesced with tenderness. Not simple lust, but aching desire that burned deep within. Not just tenderness, but poignant emotion that stirred a sweet ache in her heart and brought hot tears to her eyes. Her throat tightened, fighting back a sob, yet at the same time she wanted to sing with joy.

Beneath her roaming hands, hard muscle bunched in his broad shoulders beneath his smooth, hot skin. He held her tight, flesh against flesh while his lips moved against hers, searching and exploring. Touching her soul. He tasted of heaven and promise. She wanted to beg him to never stop, to let her remain forever in the circle of his arms.

He lifted his head and brushed the hair back from her temple, curling a lock of hair around his finger. His dark gaze, warm as caramel, melted into hers. I love you, he whispered, a wealth of emotion weighed the words. My God, how I love you.

Her heart burst with happiness even as a single tear slipped down her cheek. And I lo...

Mikah Bauer woke with a start to the incessant beeping of the alarm she’d set on her cell phone. Reaching out, she swiped the dismiss button on the screen and lay back against the pillows with a sigh, trying to entangle herself once more in the sensual tendrils that had ensnared her moments before. But the dream was gone.

Come back, she whispered aloud, her voice quivering with longing, her body still thrumming with unfulfilled desire for him.

The dreams were getting worse...or better, depending on how one looked at it. For almost her entire life, Mikah had dreamed of this man time and again. However, the innocent dreams of her childhood had taken an erotic turn during the past week. Now they conveyed deep sensuality, passion more intense than anything she’d ever experienced. More consuming than any she’d thought herself capable of imagining.

But imagination it must be, for emotions so powerful were not part of reality. Real people weren’t capable of the depth of love that she encountered in these dreams.

That she had sensed from him.

No man had ever told her he loved her that way, as if the words were wrenched from his very soul. Was it any wonder that she wanted nothing more than to sleep forever and lose herself in her dream man?

But he was gone and Mikah didn’t know when he would come again.

Rolling over, she squinted against the sunlight beaming brightly through a narrow gap in the drawn curtains of her hotel room. The heated ardor that had invaded her heart yielded to the chilling sorrow of lost love. Hopeless fantasy. Damn, she whispered into the silent room.

Stepping out onto the street outside the Carlton George Hotel in Glasgow an hour later, Mikah was again suffused by heat, but of a different sort this time. The autumn day was a hot one and humid to boot. The normally clouded skies clear, allowing the sun to beat down on the pavement—and her—with unseasonal fervor.

Forget walking, she thought as she waved a cab down. Chalk it up to global warming or whatever, but she’d always heard that Scotland wasn’t supposed to be hot, even in the summer. Yet summer was long gone and it was scorching.

Pulling open the door of the taxi that stopped in front of her, she held out hope that there might be an air conditioner running in the car. She was sadly disappointed to find the cabbie sitting inside with only the windows down for ventilation. Where to, lassie? he asked.

Queen and Ingram, she answered, patting at her damp forehead with the back of her hand. She had spent only a few moments on the curb, yet already her silk blouse was clinging to her back. GoMA.

’Tis only a few blocks walk away, lass, the driver pointed out, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. Are ye sure ye dinnae just want to walk it?

Very sure, she answered, mentally willing him on with wild hopes that he would build up enough speed during the short trip to create a breeze.

The cabbie just scoffed and muttered something under his breath she couldn’t understand, though the word American leapt out at her. He accelerated into the busy traffic in a way that seemed the norm in the UK but terrified her. Gripping the armrest tightly, Mikah held on as he broke speedily into the noontime traffic. Thankfully his alarming velocity stirred enough of a breeze in the vehicle to momentarily provide some relief from the heat.

Everyone she’d talked to since arriving in Scotland had insisted that the current weather just wasn’t normal. The heat wave was causing fits and starts all across the country, where the average September temp was typically in the high fifties Fahrenheit with cloudy skies. When she’d packed her bags for this trip, Mikah had packed accordingly with those norms. A selection of cardigans and wool jackets. But it was in the nineties now and the sun was roasting the town—along with Mikah in her black silk blouse and charcoal pencil skirt. She didn’t even have the tiniest pleasure that might be taken from an open-toed shoe.

Even back home in Milwaukee, with the continual breeze off Lake Michigan, it didn’t normally get this hot. Especially in September.

Only once in her life could Mikah remember being so hot. She’d been about six years old and sick with the flu. Feverish, she’d been kept home from school. While napping on the couch with her head in her father’s lap, she’d woken dazed and delirious. She’d become aware of the movie that her dad was watching on the TV through the haze that surrounded her. Nothing of the city-set scenes had interested her and she’d been just about to drift off to sleep once more when the scene changed to a rocky landscape that caught Mikah’s attention. She didn’t listen to what the characters were saying, but focused on the backdrop. Even when the men broke into battle—their swords ringing against one another and their shouts loud and awful—her gaze remained on the lone mountain in the background.

I know that place, Daddy, she whispered drowsily.

Mikes, I thought you were sleeping, Sean Bauer scolded, using the remote to pause the movie.

I know that mountain, she slurred, still staring at the television. I’ve been there.

Mikah’s father looked back at the still frame of a dramatic pyramid-shaped mountain that back-dropped the initial battle scene between Connor MacLeod and Victor Kruger in the movie Highlander.

I’m sure it’s just your imagination, he said. This is too grown up a movie for such a little girl to have watched.

Not the movie, Daddy. That place. I’ve been there.

Her father only shook his head, chalking her insistence to her illness. He stood and scooped his daughter into his arms. Come on, Princess, let’s put you to bed.

Mikah wrapped her arms around her father’s broad shoulders and laid her head against his chest. "Buachaille Etive Beag."

What did you say? He frowned as the strange words emerged from his daughter’s mouth.

That’s the name of the mountain. She’d never wondered how she knew that, whether she was feverish or delusional.

You, sweet princess, have a wonderful imagination.

I want to go there someday.

Then someday you will, but right now you need to go to bed.

Okay, Daddy. Maybe I’ll dream of it some more.

Maybe you will, he said, thinking nothing more of it.

She’d been miserably hot and enraptured at the same time. Just as she was now. Scotland had become her secret love and over the years that fascination never faded. She’d had posters as a teen and read travel guides through college. She avidly collected movies set in Scotland and sometimes she caught sight of familiar places in films that weren’t even set there.

For years, Mikah had been saving up for a vacation to Scotland and now she was here. The culmination of years of longing to visit this place and now she was here. And she hadn’t even had to dip into her savings to do it after all.

In recent years she’d visited other museums across America, gathering works from those museums for special exhibits as a function of her position as collections curator with the Milwaukee Art Museum. However, this was her first major journey abroad. When her boss announced that they’d be putting together an anthology of the early Pop Art movement, she’d lobbied fiercely to be the one to take lead on the project.

Though it was technically a business trip and despite the unusual temperatures, Mikah had felt an odd sense of contentment upon landing first in England and now in Scotland. She’d been all across the UK in the past week, collecting works from some of Britain’s best modern art museums. While Americans like Warhol and Lichtenstein didn’t get started until the 1960s, the Pop Art movement had its birth in Britain in the 1950s with artists like Peter Blake, Eduardo Paolozzi, and Richard Hamilton.

The views, the sights, the people; everything seemed as familiar to her as those works of art. Comfortable. Like a long-lost friend.

The first lift of her hair by the summer breeze had caressed her skin familiarly. The smell of the Highland air had conjured vague images of people and places she’d never known. Though Mikah was single and considered herself happily so, the rugged romance of the Scottish Highlands surrounding her roused a heretofore untapped desire to have someone to share it with. She found herself longing to walk hand-in-hand with a man she loved, the scent of heather surrounding them.

Oddly enough, she felt as if she had come home.

This was a home where she’d never lived, much less visited. But the feeling was heartwarming, nonetheless.

Though not so warming as the weather, she was reminded as the cab too quickly arrived at their destination, stilling even the feeble draft its movement had generated. She paid the man for his services and forced herself to step back out onto the radiant concrete of the street. Shading her eyes against the bright sunlight, she stared up at her destination. GoMA, or for those not in the know, the Gallery of Modern Art.

It, like everything else she’d seen in the past three days, was easily recognizable to her. She knew the neoclassic building with its marble columns and tall cupola on the roof as if she’d walked through its doors a dozen times before. Shaking her head at what she considered a burgeoning bit of insanity—most likely brought on by the stifling heat wave—Mikah shook her head with a self-derisive chuckle. Of course, she had seen the building before, just like everything else she’d seen so far. After all, she’d been scouring the web for weeks in planning this trip.

And if that wasn’t a reasonable excuse for the déjà vu moments that had been flying every which way since her arrival, her lifelong fascination with Scotland—and indeed all of Britain—could easily explain it. She’d read books, posted calendars, and searched websites on the topic for enough years to make it all achingly familiar.

Certainly that was all it was.

Pushing her scattered thoughts away, Mikah considered the building that had housed the Glasgow Exchange a century before. Historic Scotland, the historic preservation organization that was a driving force behind much of the cultural life in Scotland, must have had a bit of a laugh placing a modern art museum in a building that was reminiscent of a Greek temple. Or the Lincoln Memorial. It was an interesting juxtaposition.

Rushing past a bronze statue of a military man on his horse—both oddly wearing orange traffic cones on top of their heads—she made it through the doors of the museum in a record time for four-inch heels and into the blessed chill of the well air-conditioned building. A deep breath of relief drew the cool air in.

Thank God! She sighed and pulled her blouse away from her chest several times to air out her damp skin as she glanced around the lobby. It was incredibly easy to imagine the place as a busy hub of investments and trade. Almost too easy.

All the feelings of familiarity were beginning to make her apprehensive.

The muffled chorus of Queen’s You’re My Best Friend sounded and with a grin Mikah pulled her phone from her purse, answering the call with a bright, Hey, Kris! without even looking at the screen. You must be up early.

Haven’t been to bed yet, Mikah’s longest and dearest friend yawned out. I just wanted to wish you good luck with your meeting. This is the big one, isn’t it?

"Aw, Kris, you really do listen, she teased. That’s so good to know."

Funny, Mikes, Kris yawned again. I’m going to get some sleep, but call me when you’re done.

With mock astonishment, Mikah answered, And rack up your cell phone bill?

No, I said you call me; that way we can rack up yours, came the playful reply.

K, I’ll call you later, she said. I’ll want to hear all about what must have been one hot date, too.

Saying her good-byes, Mikah tucked her phone away, feeling a little more cheerful. There was nothing like a good friend to do that. Now, with a smile, she strode to the front desk, catching the eye of the young man at the counter.

Good morning, she said. Mikah Bauer here to see Myles Gordon.

Her smile faded and turned to a frown when the young man gave her the appreciative full body perusal that Mikah had come to view with annoyance in her professional years. It was difficult enough for a woman to prove herself in the workplace these days without being subjected to what crossed the border into harassment; she often wondered how the men she worked with would react if she were to give them that same inappropriate assessment.

Clearing her throat, she caught the young man’s attention once again, drawing his eyes upward. She arched a brow incredulously, and the man flushed. I’ll take you to Mr. Gordon. He’s been expecting you.

Good idea. She followed him down a hall, wishing she could recapture the buoyancy of moments before.

Myles Gordon, the museum’s curator, took care of that, though. Through their long day together, he was nothing but professional and pleasant. And almost as interesting as GoMA itself.

They talked art and debated the merits of certain styles as they toured the museum. They got so carried away that it was almost noon before they even turned the discussion to her mission. GoMA had a wealth of pieces that demonstrated the early Pop Art movement of the 1950s. Hours of touring the collection with the knowledgeable curator had put temptation before her at every turn. Mikah wanted to take them all and strip this strangely traditional building of all its modern goodies.

The young man from the front desk, Kevin—who she learned was a student from the University of Glasgow interning at the museum—brought them lunch while they went through the museum’s assets and worked out the loan of the exhibits ranking highest on her list. GoMA, the most visited modern art museum in Scotland, was a gold mine for her in that respect, and Mikah felt well satisfied with the nearly two-dozen works she had chosen. It was with a sense of accomplishment that she managed to obtain the loan of Paolozzi’s sculpture Four Towers (a 1962 work that she personally thought resembled something a five-year-old might make out of Lego bricks), one of the same artist’s collages called Mr. Peanut, a mobile by Kenneth Martin, as well as works by Turnbull, Passmore, and Tilson.

Their frequent conversational tangents turned what was meant to be a meeting into a full-day event. Still, it wasn’t until the museum was closing for the evening that Myles asked Mikah if she would care to continue their energetic conversation over a celebratory dinner.

He'd take her out to a real Scottish tavern, he said, for some local delicacies. A part of Mikah felt certain she shouldn’t overly examine the ingredients of any given dish, knowing as she did the true ingredients of haggis. The larger part, however, knew that the food would be wonderful, and her stomach growled in anticipation.

Good food and excellent company. What more might a girl ask for?

Ignoring the answering loneliness in her heart, she exited the museum and stood at the curb while Myles found his car and came around to pick her up. It was still light out, though it was nearly nine o’clock. Much like Milwaukee in the summer. Thankfully, the ravaging heat of the afternoon had dropped a few notches, leaving the city cooler though still warm. While she waited, she took in the sights around her. The museum stood alone in the center of the square, walled in by long four- or five-story buildings on each side. It was all very Georgian, historic. Again the affiliation she felt for Glasgow washed over her. Somehow she knew the layout of the surrounding area like the back of her hand, and suspected she might have a thing or two to say herself about where the oldest Scottish taverns might be found.

Feeling a bit uneasy again. Mikah pulled out her phone and dialed. She needed to regain her earlier zen.

Hello?

Hey, Kris!

Mikes, how did it go?

The line was a bit static, so Mikah plugged one ear to better hear. It was good, but I just wanted to let you know I’ll have to call you later instead. I didn’t want you to worry.

Is everything all right? Concern muted Kris’s animated tone.

Fine, she answered. It’s just that the curator sort of asked me out to dinner.

Really? I thought you hated it when guys from work asked you out.

You know, I normally do, but this one kept his eyes above my shoulders all day, so... She lifted a shoulder in a verbal shrug.

Is he gay? Kris asked. You know those artsy types...

No, I’m pretty sure he’s straight. Mikah laughed, knowing Kris had a good point. It wasn’t often she came across a man who could hold a meaningful conversation on art. American men tended to consider an interest in the subject effeminate.

Is he hot?

He’s not bad, she hedged and Kris’s laughter burst out.

"Not bad? Wow, high praise coming from my favorite pseudo-nun. Hmm, I can almost picture it: tall, dark, thirty-ish, in a kilt..." Kris sighed and it was Mikah’s turn to chuckle.

Tall, blond, and forty-ish. No kilt.

That’s too bad, Kris said mournfully. At least tell me he has an accent.

He does.

Now I’m jealous. Kris paused. Can you get pics?

With a honk, Myles pulled to a stop on the opposite curb and got out of his car. He waved an arm and Mikah held up a finger. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you later, okay?

One pic! And I’ll be waiting for it. You better be a good girl, though, Kris warned. Your dream man might not like you messing around on him.

Mikah rolled her eyes, pushing aside the guilt that was niggling at the back of her mind, as if she were being unfaithful to her dream man by going out to dinner with the handsome curator. I regret ever telling you about that.

You know I love you.

I know. She darted a quick look down the street to her left before stepping out into the street to dash across the four lanes of traffic between her and Myles. I love y—

The words were cut off with a startled cry as a long series of honks to her right reminded her abruptly that the traffic would be coming from the other direction. Cars swerved around her, wheels squealing and horns blaring.

Mikes! Kris shouted.

One car continued to come straight at her and caught like a deer in the headlights, Mikah could only stare in horror.

It sped toward her.

It galloped toward her?

Wait! Were those... horses?

Mikes, Kris yelled again, in the background.

The world went dark.

Chapter 2

Lass? Lassie! a gravelly brogue cut through her unconsciousness. Are ye all right?

Mikah blinked her eyes open and stared up at the faces surrounding her, trying but failing to focus on any one of them. Stars burst painfully in front of her eyes and she squeezed them shut again, raising a hand to her temple. I don’t think so, she murmured, but even that little effort felt like it would split her skull.

My lady! a new voice broke through the haze that surrounded her. Mikah cracked her lids apart to squint at the newcomer, a youngish man in a red coat and black hat who looked like a cross between a member of the British Royal Guard and an equestrian rider. He pushed through the onlookers ogling the spectacle she was making and came quickly to her side, kneeling next to her.

He was followed by a young woman in a gray dress, who also dropped down at Mikah’s side. My lady, are you all right? I couldn’t believe my eyes when that wagon ran into you. Then to go on as if nothing were amiss!

I don’t... I’m not... Mikah stuttered, letting them pull her to a sitting position but then stared blankly at the red-jacketed man and the woman in the long dress. Who are you?

"Och, but the lass must have taken a blow to the head," the older man to her left declared, drawing her attention. He was dressed in rough clothing of browns and blacks and wore a day’s growth of gray beard and a cap on his thinning hair.

Do I know you? she couldn’t stop herself from asking. The effort brought further pain to her temple and she tried to rub it away. She heard Kris’s panic echoing in her mind. Where was her phone?

I think the question, lass, is whether ye ken who ye are, he said in his thick brogue.

Of course, I do, she responded immediately. I’m Mikah...

She halted with a frown, for that seemed suddenly wrong, though she couldn’t understand why. She was Mikah Bauer, no doubt about that, but at the same time, she wasn’t. It made no sense at all and merely made her head hurt more to contemplate the incongruity, so she just shook her head.

Taking her head shake for a negative, the older man grunted as if his theory had been confirmed, but the younger woman, seeming eager to please, said, This is Lady Hero Conagham.

The old Conagham of Ayr’s widow? one of the crowd asked, and the young man nodded in confirmation.

Thought she were down in Lundun these days, the old man argued. Been over a year since the old laird died. What’s she doin’ up ‘ere now?

Step aside! A new voice rang out over the chatter of the onlookers. The deep, aristocratic burr, unlike the comfortable brogue of those around Mikah, conveyed enough authority in those two words to part the spectators, allowing the newcomer to come to her side. Lady Ayr, he said. "Are you quite all right? I thought we were to meet you at the train station an—

It’s you, Mikah stared up into the man’s handsome face as he bent over her. His words staggered to a halt as he looked down at her in surprise.

She gazed intently at the handsome man hovering over her. It was him. The man who’d haunted her dreams her entire life and most recently with unimaginable passion. He was at once both familiar and foreign. She wanted to look him over, to memorize every detail before he faded away, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from his. Deep chocolaty brown, warm and mesmerizing, his eyes were filled with concern and more than enough surprise to match her own. Finally, she asked the question she’d long pondered: Who are you?

She doesn’t seem to know anyone, my lord, the woman in the long dress offered fretfully. Not even me.

It’s all right, the man replied without taking his attention away from Mikah. We hadn’t met before so, in this case, it’s a valid question. My lady, I am Ian Conagham. Are you injured?

His voice became slow and demanding, as he tried to gain her attention. Though she hadn’t stopped looking at him, he seemed to sense that her attention had moved beyond him, as she mentally drifted away from the crowd surrounding her.

Perhaps she had.

In her dreams, this man had always been blurred, hazy. Now he was right in front of her. Dark. Intense. Vitally alive.

The crowd eased back with a murmur akin to awe that was apparent even to Mikah’s mulled brain, though he ignored them all. We need to get you out of the street, he said. Can you rise?

Home, she muttered, surprising herself in the process. It was as if a voice inside of her had forced its way out.

Home certainly wasn’t her first thought. Or even in the top ten. The part of her mind that wasn’t wallowing in pain was fixated on him. On touching him, ascertaining if he was real and not just another dream.

Yet the inner voiced pushed to the forefront again. Yes, I want to go home.

The man—Ian Conag... Cunningham? Mikah’s head throbbed painfully— pulled her to her feet as if her spoken words were a command to be acted upon without question.

Her rational thoughts rebelled. No, not home. First an ambulance followed by the most expedient route to a hospital. She tried to force the words out but her head swam and her mind blanked as they stood her on her feet. Mikah wavered, black spots flooding her vision. She was going to faint for sure. Her wonderfully handsome dream man must have thought the same, because he swung her easily up into his arms and carried her out of the street.

What’re ye goin’ to do wi’ her? the older man asked, his voice barely audible through the roar in her ears.

Don’t worry, her rescuer assured the crowd. I’ll keep her safe.

Braver than the rest of the crowd, the old fellow who’d first come to her aid stepped boldly forward. Hope yer no’ thinking to take her all the way to Dùn Cuilean tonight, m’lord. ‘Tis more than forty miles away. Ye’ll no’ make it, mark my words. Ye’d best get a doctor for her.

Ian’s steps paused and Mikah could almost intuit his desire to be home as well. She could see the hesitation his eyes before resolution set in. They wouldn’t be going anywhere that night. His gaze shifted back to the old Scot. I will have a physician attend her. Worry not.

What’s going on? she whispered as they loaded her into a black... wait, carriage? The woman climbed in with her. Mind foggy and unfocused, Mikah was unable to comprehend what was happening around and to her. Only Ian was in focus. A reversal of the norm where he was involved. A little part of her, deep inside, began to freak out.

You took a bit of a blow to the head when that wagon hit you as you were coming out of the Exchange, my lady, the woman answered, patting her hand. My lord is going to take you back to the hotel and call for a physician.

Hospital, Mikah muttered disjointedly, but the woman looked aghast at the suggestion.

Oh, no, my lady!

Why? Her voice was faint.

Because, unless you’re mad, that’s the last place you want to go, Ian said as he climbed into the carriage with them.

Head swimming, Mikah pressed her hand to her temple as she tried to focus on the man once more, but his image swam in duplicate spotted with black. But I know you, she murmured before oblivion beckoned her again.

Chapter 3

Back at the hotel, Ian sat at Hero Conagham’s bedside while she slept. So this was the former marchioness, or rather, since Ian wasn’t married, she remained the current Marchioness of Ayr. His cousin’s widow.

He couldn’t have been more surprised when he’d seen her lying there on the street. Far from her mid-fifties, as the old marquess had been, the marchioness appeared to be closer to his age. Late twenties perhaps, and as fair and slim and lovely as any imagined Sleeping Beauty might have been when first glimpsed by her prince. And, like any man in his position might be, Ian was seized by pure male appreciation.

Not only because she was so extraordinarily lovely that any man might stare.

No, Ian had another reason as well. He’d seen her face a thousand times already.

A large oil painting of her graced his bedchambers at his newly inherited castle, Dùn Cuilean. Since his arrival there a month before, he’d been captivated by the portrait and the woman it portrayed. With a wry smile, he admitted that he’d spent most of his nights staring at the portrait over his fireplace, wondering who she was and what she’d been thinking during the long hours of posing while the artist worked.

If he were entirely truthful, he’d also admit that he’d secretly lusted over the unknown woman who might have lived a hundred years past for all he knew. His disproportionate attraction was most peculiar. Not at all like him.

Never had he thought to meet the woman who inspired his desire and imagination so thoroughly. He’d never imagined her beyond oil and canvas. Yet here she was in flesh and blood. Her pulse beat visibly in her slender neck, and his fingers itched to feel that life beating through her.

This is the marchioness?