"Gavin! Gavin!" his father screeched from the four-poster bed as his body writhed, his long white hair tangled. It gutted Gavin to see his once strong, hearty, and brilliant father reduced to this shell of a man. The graybeards had said Lunn was the greatest chief and warrior this clan had seen in generations. But now, because of Wilona's damnable magic, his da could not even feed himself.
Gavin put a hand on his arm. "I'm here, Da. Calm yourself."
"The lass!" Lunn yelled, his wild blue eyes unfocused and gazing into some strange otherworld. "You must look for the lass, Gavin. You must marry. For the sake of the clan. For the sake of your very soul."
"What lass?" No female for miles around would so much as glance in his direction. He used to have to drag them from his bed and send them on their way. Now, he couldn't pay one to give him an hour's pleasure.
He would like as not turn them to stone, or they would end up possessed by the devil, as he was thought to be.
Gavin waited for his father to tell him which lass he referred to. But the older man now lay breathing calmly with his eyes closed, apparently asleep. Mayhap he'd meant the lass from Gavin's dreams. But she wasn't real, and he'd never seen her face.
Fingers of golden dawn light gleamed over the mountains, and Gavin's animal nature surged forth, beyond his control.
"Damnation! When will it end?" Gavin moved toward the open window, helpless to resist the call. Pain slashed through him. In an instant, his body transformed—great glossy-black wings appeared where once he had arms. Taking flight from the open window, he became one with the wind, the Highlands, and the bright colors of dawn.
∞∞∞
North Carolina, present day
"I will find him," Dani muttered under her breath, the swirling wail of bagpipes at the Grandfather Mountain Highland Games covering her words. She gazed out at the kilted athletes on the gaming field. "Either him or someone like him." Who was she kidding? A halfway good-looking single man wearing a kilt would do. Someone to fulfill her fantasy, or more likely destroy it, banishing it once and for all, so she could get her real life back.
She couldn't get through teaching a summer school class withouthiminvading her mind, trying to lure her back to his sinful indulgences. She had spaced out during one of her lectures and blurted out idiotic words—leave me alone—in front of dozens of college students. They'd all had a great laugh at that.
A visit to a psychiatrist might have been a better idea than the Highland games. Still, when she'd seen the advertisement for the games online, something had beckoned her, and she'd had a positive, uplifted feeling. She had no clue why. She had never been to any Highland games before, nor had she been to Scotland.
Because of the MacRae family's Scottish heritage, her dad and her late grandparents had always held a keen interest in Scottish history. But her dad couldn't attend the games with her. He'd gone on a beach vacation with her mom. It was for the best because she was determined to find a way to banish the wild daydreams. Her sister's wedding in June had gone well. Everyone was happy and settled, except for her.
She had always considered Highland games uncool. Not so. Men in kilts had an unexpected appeal, especially those with muscular calves, trim waists, and broad shoulders.
"Danielle MacRae," a male voice called out behind her.
She spun around, her gaze scanning the crowd of kilted and costumed Scottish descendants moving along with her in the thoroughfare between the colorful clan tents. Who had called her name?
"Danielle MacRae!" A man with a full white beard waved his arm high in the air. He looked like Santa Claus in a blue and red tartan kilt. A squat Balmoral hat sat perched on his head.
Who is he?
She navigated through the crowd and arrived at a tent with a Clan MacTavish sign. "Hi. Do I know you?"
He propped his hands on the table that separated them. "Nay. I'm Ranald MacTavish. Pleased to meet you." A Scottish accent colored his words, but she had no problem understanding him.
"Likewise, but how did you know my name?"
"Nessa showed me a picture of you a few years ago. And I notice you're wearing her brooch."
"Oh. You knew my grandma?" Dani touched the silver, amethyst, and citrine brooch that pinned a portion of her plaidearasaid, or traditional women's great kilt, to the shoulder of her handmade white peasant blouse. She'd bought both from a seamstress online.
"Aye, a fine woman, Nessa was," Ranald said. "She often came to these games. You have my deepest sympathies."
"Thank you. She always tried to convince me to come to the games with her, especially after my grandfather died, but I didn't. I regret it now."
"Well, I wouldn't fash over it, lass. I'm certain she's proud of you either way." He nodded at her shoulder. "'Tis an old MacRae brooch, you ken. 'Tis said to have magical powers."
"You're kidding." Dani didn't believe him for an instant, but she would humor him. "What kind of magical powers?"
"Legend says it will lead whoever wears it to their true love." He gave a cheeky grin.
She almost blew out a doubtful breath but stopped herself in time. She didn't want to insult the man.
