She’d never forget that horrible summer or the catastrophe of her eighteenth birthday. She’d spent summer vacation mooning over the muscle-bound exchange student staying with her mother’s best friend.
Nessa realized now she had grown up an insecure child. And no wonder, the way her thoughtless parents had always maligned her with constant criticism.
“Develop what little mind you’ve got, Nessa. As plain as you are that’s all you’re ever going to have.”Those words had been their constant mantra for as long as she could remember.
However, her mother had noticed Nessa’s infatuation with Victor and had plotted a little birthday surprise. The night of Nessa’s party, Victor attended her every move. Everywhere she turned, Victor was there. Nessa was delirious. She was thrilled by his touch. She couldn’t believe he really liked her. But at the end of the party, the delightful fantasy shattered when Nessa saw her mother hand Victor a check. Her mother then bestowed a pitying smile upon her and told her, “Happy birthday”.
Nessa sobbed herself to sleep that night, the night she’d had the first dream. He had appeared as though in answer to her silent cry of despair, this man, this great, hulking warrior the size of a mountain. Soul-piercing eyes glimmered so green and haunting Nessa felt adrift in a sea of pines. High cheekbones, aquiline nose. She sighed. His features had struck her breathless. He had the reddish blond hair that bespoke of Viking ancestry, the strong Norse genetics forged when the marauding invaders overtook weaker villages and sowed their ancestral seeds. At eighteen years of age, Nessa didn’t know much about men. But she knew enough to realize this one was pure perfection.
He’d never spoken to her, not a single time. The first time he’d appeared, he’d stood a few steps away as though he didn’t wish to frighten her. His gaze had swept across her body, while the faintest of smiles had pulled at one corner of his mouth. The understanding in his eyes had pushed the loneliness from her heart. He’d reached out to her with the barest touch, brushing the back of his fingers across her arm. The trust had telegraphed like electricity across her skin. At last, she’d found someone who wouldn’t humiliate her.
As she’d grown older, his repeated visits had changed and evolved into something much more. The dreams had become a subtle courting, a gentle winning of her heart. He’d found clever ways to draw her close, pursue her with a sensitive glance. Always intuitive, he appeared when she needed him. He never pushed her but never failed to respond whenever her subconscious called out. Her Highlander soothed her with his silent caress. He strengthened her with his touch.
She didn’t realize her nocturnal visitor was a true Highlander by birth until one of her history classes touched upon the turbulence of Scotland. She’d always loved his unusual garb but had never placed it until one day when she’d opened to a particular chapter in her history book. His kilted plaid fit snugly about his narrow hips as though it were part of his body. His ancient claymore hung at his side as a silent warning. His hand often rested on the hilt as though he found comfort in its touch.
When he’d taken her hand and guided it over the ancient crest pinned at his shoulder, Nessa had fallen hopelessly in love with the man and all things relating to the Scot.
After that, she had been a soul possessed to find out everything she could about Scotland’s past. She’d spent months trying to find the elusive crest, in the hopes of identifying her Highlander’s clan. She’d found some that were close, but to her dismay, she’d never located an identical match. That’s when she’d decided he was just her fantasy. At least if he was only in her head, it meant he could never leave her. Her Highlander would always be hers.
Even though she’d accepted deep in her heart her Highlander couldn’t be real, Scotland remained the first love of her life. She studied its history with relentless passion, from its bloody past to its determined people, and how it had changed the course of civilization through the ages. The only drawback of her single-minded obsession, and a rather annoying side effect of her dreams, was the fact that any male met during her waking hours didn’t quite measure up against her perfect nocturnal Highlander.
Nessa blamed her continued solitude on the fact that apparently, her parents had been right all along. She must be too homely for any man to consider taking home to meet the folks. That is, any man worth having. Any man like the one in her dreams. There were plenty of them out there ready and willing to participate in messing up the sheets. If you weren’t too picky and had approximately ten minutes you didn’t mind donating to a total waste of time.
“Nessa! You’re doing it again!” Trish dropped a stack of books on the floor.
Nessa jumped, jolted from her reverie.
“I mention dream dude and there you go, off into Nessa-land again.”
Fixing Trish with a threatening glare, Nessa tucked her reading glasses into the neck of her shirt. “You drop my textbooks like that again, and I’m gonna recommend you for the Research Department! I haven’t forgotten how much you just love disappearing into the archives for days—and nights—at a time.”
An opened letter on the desk caught her attention and Nessa’s irritation with Trish vanished. “You have to see this! Look! Are you up for an extended trip to Scotland?” Scooping up the paper, she pushed it under Trish’s nose, then slung the groaning bag over her shoulder. That multi-folded piece of paper held her magic genie. Her wishes were finally granted.
Trish shook her head as she unfolded the paper. “Come on, Nessa. You know I can’t afford airfare to Scotland right now. I’m still up to my eyeballs in student loans from getting my master's degree.”
Scanning over the well-worn letter, Trish wrinkled her nose as she read. Pinching the page where her reading had stopped, Trish’s face grew thoughtful with what she’d just digested. “Where exactly is Durness?”
Excitement bubbled inside Nessa as though she was a can of carbonated cola. All of her studying and long hours of solitude had led her to the land of her dreams. “Northwestern tip of Scotland. The Highlands. It’s finally happened, Trish! I finally got the grant!”
Trish’s grin spread into an excited smile as she glanced up again from farther down the page. “This is it? You finally got the grant from the University of Glasgow? This is the one you’ve applied for three years in a row?”
Snatching the letter out of Trish’s hands, Nessa waved it in the air. “You got it, my friend. I finally got the grant. I’ve received the funding to go on an extended archeological study of the Durness sites and the surrounding areas of Balnakiel. All I have to do is register all of my findings with the University of Glasgow. Anything I find will be tagged by their history department for use in further studies. And since you’re my assistant, your expenses are just as fully paid as mine.”
“Well then, woo hoo!” Trish hooted at the top of her lungs with a jab of her fist in the air. “That’s fantastic! You’ve been trying to get this grant forever. And Scotland…what is it you call it after you’ve had about half a beer? The land of your heart’s desire? Hey! Maybe you’ll meet the great-great-grandson of the guy in your dreams and finally have a sex life worth talking about.”
Great. She could always count on Trish to put things in perspective. Nessa laughed as she folded the well-worn letter and forced it into the outside pocket of the backpack. “Tell me, Trish. Why is it you can remember things like that but you can never remember what we’ve named our database files? And is sex all you think about? I think you’re the one who needs to find a guy worth taking to bed.”
With a wicked wink, Trish patted her shapely rump before she scooped up an armload of folders off the desk. “I’m not the one who has a problem with snoring, farting, ten-minute teeth suckers taking up space between my sheets.”
ChapterThree
Finally. Almost six hundred years in this accursed prison. Some would call it an eternity. The reward for his infinite patience was about to be received. He had turned her in the direction of the sphere and she was bound for the land of his birth. His freedom, the wife, and the children he’d always dreamed of having, all were within his grasp.
Latharn stripped to the waist. His kilt hung low about his hips as he worked with his ancient sword. The massive claymore swung like an extension of his arms. The hilt as good as melded to the palms of his hands. Latharn smoothed his fingers across the cold, hard steel with the gentleness of a lover’s caress. The blade had been his ever since his father had presented it when he had become a man. Slashing through the air with tireless rhythm, his body and soul tingled with the heat of the ancient dance.
The steel sang, whispered through the wind of the sphere, consoling Latharn in his isolation. Faster, harder, it severed the air, whistling a lonesome tune.
Hours of dueling unseen enemies had staved off the madness of centuries. The madness of isolation from the rest of humanity, but still being forced to watch their every move. No one could see within the crystal cell, but Latharn watched everything around him. The one-way walls showed his friends, his family, and all the orphaned children he’d ever saved. They’d lived their lives within his sight and also faced their deaths.
