Highland Knight Of Dreams - Amy Jarecki
Chapter One
The Highlands of Scotland, 1670
“Did you see her?” Quinn’s gaze darted through the forest, honing like a falcon as he searched for the beauty. With a dig of his spurs, he cantered ahead, leaving his companions in his wake.
“Her? Are ye seeing selkies now, brother?” hollered Eachan, his horse losing speed behind.
Glenn MacGregor’s grandiose laugh resounded like cannon fire, the warrior’s mount nearly able to keep pace. “Quinn most likely saw a rabbit. No matter, I’m hungry and up for the chase.”
Certain his eyes hadn’t deceived him, Quinn lurched over his horse’s withers, demanding a gallop. “Haste, ye beast!” He scanned the foliage for any flicker of movement, for a glimpse of a blue gown. No, he hadn’t seen a vision. He’d seen a goddess.
To where had she disappeared? As plain as the nose on his face he’d spotted her standing in a clearing. The sun’s rays illuminated wisps of her waist-length hair as it glittered like gold. The wind set her skirts to sail, and they billowed in a surreal whirlwind of color.
For the briefest of moments she’d stood like a doe, her eyes wide, her stance majestic, yet sensing impending danger. When the nymph had spotted him, she’d turned and fled as if she thought Quinn the devil incarnate.
With a slight twist of his reins, he steered his horse inland and through the trees. Above, a ruined castle loomed over an outcropping.
Is that where you’re hiding, beauty?
Giving another tap of his heels, horse and rider ascended the hill. At the summit, he hopped down and ran up a set of unsteady barbican steps, taking two at a time. Nearly toppling to his death as old mortar crumbled beneath his feet, he caught himself on a merlon. A stone dropped from the side of the wall, thundering as it tumbled down the sheer slope overlooking the Firth of Clyde. Without a flinch, Quinn scanned the grounds and turned full circle.
“Ballocks!”
“Lost her, did ye?” shouted Eachan, who hadn’t yet dismounted.
MacGregor joined Quinn atop the unstable masonry—the henchman was rather nimble for a beast. “Must have been a selkie, sent from the waters to drive you mad.”
At six-feet, Quinn was formidable in any man’s eyes though he had to crane his neck to meet Glenn’s gaze. “She wasn’t a bloody creature. I ken what I saw.”
His friend gave a shrug. “I’m only disappointed it wasn’t a rabbit. I’m weary of dried mutton and oatcakes.”
“Stop your bellyaching,” Quinn said as he continued to watch for movement. “We’ve only been riding for a day.”
“Doesn’t matter.” MacGregor slapped his belly. “I’d welcome a rabbit or three cooked over an open fire.”
“Aye? Mayhap you’ll find one whilst we make camp.”
“Here?” asked Eachan, still sitting his mount.
“Why not?” After taking one last scan of the forest, Quinn climbed back down to what must have been the courtyard of a medieval fortress.
“These are the ruins of Toward Castle, that’s why,” said his brother, ever the wary one.
MacGregor grunted behind. “Lamont lands.”
“Campbell lands now,” said Quinn. “The Lamonts are long gone, and the crumbling keep beneath our feet is owned by our father.”
Eachan peered over his shoulder as if he expected to be set upon at any moment. “Do not say that too loudly.”
“Why? The selkies will hear us?” Quinn thrust his finger up the barbican wall. “I was just up there with a view that rivals Stirling Castle’s wall-walk and there’s nary a soul for miles.”
“Aside from the beauty you thought you sighted,” said MacGregor.
“Wheesht.” Quinn gave his friend’s arm a thwack. “I ken what I saw.”
Eachan finally dismounted. “Are you certain it was a woman? Last time you chased after a lass she ended up having a beard.”
“Aye, and you’re full of vinegar.” Perhaps he’d imagined the woman—God knew he hadn’t enjoyed company of the feminine variety in ages, something he hoped to rectify come the fête at Rothesay Castle. Regardless, the lovely was long gone and he’d never see her again.
Blast.
Quinn set to removing his mount’s saddle and hobbling the horse’s front legs. “MacGregor, since you have a taste for rabbits, why not go fetch us a few? Eachan and I will tend to making camp for the night.”
“I am at your command, Your Lordship.” God’s blood, the man liked to poke fun.
Just because Quinn was the firstborn son of an earl, didn’t mean he was one to shirk common duties. Being a laggard nobleman might work in England, but idleness had no place in the Highlands. “Would you rather I hunt?”
“Nay.” Heading for his