Courage of a Highlander
Courage of a Highlander
Katy Baker
Published by Katy Baker, 2018.
While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.
COURAGE OF A HIGHLANDER
First edition. June 2, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Katy Baker.
Written by Katy Baker.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 1
Kara Buchanan shifted uncomfortably in her chair. It was one of those big brown leather ones that seemed far too big for any mere mortal and squeaked every time she moved. The huge reception area in this swanky high rise office was all but empty—just herself and the receptionist and a spectacular view of the skyscrapers of the city through the windows. Ostentatious wasn’t the word. Downright gaudy was more like it. She glanced at her watch and stifled a growl of annoyance.
He was over half an hour late already. Was this deliberate?
The receptionist, a pretty brunette showing way too much cleavage, let out a high-pitched giggle that made Kara jump.
“No way! He did not! So what did she do next?”
The young woman, maybe a few years younger than Kara herself, had been on the phone for the last ten minutes, giggling loudly at whatever her friend was saying. It was starting to drive Kara crazy.
“Um, excuse me?”
“Well, honey, if it were me I wouldn’t take him back. You tell her that from me. She deserves better.”
Kara cleared her throat. “Excuse me!”
The receptionist glanced up from behind her desk, seeming slightly surprised to see Kara sitting there. “Yes?”
“Will Mr. Devereux be long?”
The woman shrugged. “He’s a busy man. I can reschedule if you’d like.”
“No, no, that’s fine,” Kara said quickly. “I’ll wait.” It had taken weeks to pin the man down and Kara wasn’t about to squander this chance. If he wanted to play games, she’d play along. For now.
She picked up a magazine and began idly flipping through it, not really seeing the pages. Mentally, she went through all the questions she would ask Michael Devereux, all carefully designed to discover what she needed. She’d get the truth, she was determined about that.
Finally the intercom on the receptionist’s desk beeped. The woman put down her phone, placed her hands on the desk, and looked at Kara with a condescending little smile on her face.
“Mr. Devereux will see you now.”
Nodding her thanks, Kara grabbed her leather briefcase, making sure she had her voice recorder, notepad and pen ready, brushed down her business suit, and pushed through the big polished doors.
Inside she found a large office with a sofa by one wall, a large desk under the window, and almost every available space along the walls taken up with tall glass cases. Kara goggled despite herself. The cases contained treasures. In one sat a large golden goblet with rubies around the edge. In another she spotted a leather-bound book mottled with age. A third held a large sword, its blade neatly broken in half.
Kara snapped her mouth shut, determined not to gawk like an idiot. She knew Devereux was an avid collector but this was ridiculous! There was enough stuff in this office to kit out a museum!
“Ah, Miss Buchanan!” Michael Devereux rose from his seat behind the desk and held out a hand.
Kara crossed the room and shook it firmly, meeting his eyes and trying to project an air of confidence. She’d learned from experience that with predators like Devereux you couldn’t afford to show the slightest weakness. “Mr. Devereux, thank you for agreeing to see me.” She didn’t add, at last.
He waved a hand. “Call me Michael. Please, take a seat.”
Kara folded onto another over-stuffed leather chair, studying Michael Devereux. Somewhere in his 40s, he had dark hair with a sprinkling of gray running through it, ice-blue eyes and the kind of features Kara guessed many women would swoon over. But he didn’t fool Kara. That smile was a little too easy, a little too charming. What did it hide underneath?
Kara placed her voice recorder on the desk then settled herself on the edge of the seat, pad and pencil in hand. Just as her parents had taught her, Kara never relied solely on technology when conducting an interview. Sure, the device would record her interviewee’s words but what about the other nuances? The body language? The fleeting expressions that might cross their face? The look in their eyes? It was often these things that told a journalist far more than the words that came out of their mouth and Kara suspected this would be doubly important with a man like Devereux, so used to smooth-talking his way out of things.
A faint look of amusement crossed his face at her meticulous preparations. He steepled his fingers. “So, Miss Buchanan. You’ve hounded me into submission. I have to admire your persistence. What is it now? Around thirty emails and just as many phone calls?”
Kara smiled. Yes, she’d been persistent in her attempts to get an interview with this man. He was as slippery as an eel and had rebuffed all her attempts to pin him down. But Kara had refused to be brushed off and her stubborn streak had won out in the end.
“This is quite a collection you have here,” Kara said, glancing around the office. “I bet the local museum would give their back teeth to get a look at some of these pieces.”
He gave a small smile. “No doubt. But these pieces are far too important to allow some grubby museum curator to touch.”
“Oh?” Kara said lightly. “And why is that?”
Devereux laughed although there was no mirth in it. “Now that’s the question isn’t it? I’m afraid I can’t answer that. If I told you that I’d have to kill you.” He spoke jokingly but his eyes were cold.
Involuntarily, a shiver walked down Kara’s spine. She could easily understand how this man was able to intimidate so many people into getting what he wanted. He had the bearing and air of someone who expected to be obeyed, as though to do otherwise was preposterous. But Kara was used to dealing with such men.
She gave a small smile of her own. “A different question then. What do you want with the estate of the late Margaret McQueen?”
Devereux’s jaw tightened. Good. She’d hit a nerve. “That is none of your concern.”
“Really? Mr. Devereux, you must know that there are all sorts of rumors flying around about how you acquired the McQueen estate. Those rumors mention extortion, racketeering and intimidation. The McQueen estate was promised to the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh but out of nowhere, you acquire everything she owned. I know the police didn’t find anything incriminating after her family accused you of fraud and intimidation but that doesn’t stop the rumors. Now you have the chance to tell your side of the story.”
And incriminate yourself, you smooth bastard, she thought. Come on. Men like you can’t help but show off. Tell me what I need to know.
“Margaret McQueen was the last of a noble Scottish line,” Devereux said. “Her collection of rare artifacts was far too precious to allow into a museum. She had no idea what she had in her possession. But I do.” His eyes glittered.
“And what is that?”
He regarded her for a long momen
t. Kara lifted her chin, forced herself to meet his gaze, and waited.
Devereux climbed to his feet, moved around the desk and perched on it, gazing down on Kara. “You should be sure you’re ready for the answers when you ask such questions. They might take you down paths you aren’t ready to tread.” Devereux leaned forward and whispered. “You really want to know?”
Kara swallowed. “Yes.”
His face was only inches away from hers now. He smelled of sandalwood and spices. “Power,” he whispered. “Power beyond your imagining.”
Kara blinked. “I...I.... How can a bunch of old Scottish artifacts bring you power? You already have more money than any sane person would ever need.”
He barked a laugh and sprang to his feet. Spreading his arms wide, he turned in a circle, indicating the cases around the room. “Money? You think that’s what power is? Oh, my dear, it is far more than that. These things might look like bits of broken treasure, heirlooms from a bygone age, but they are something else entirely.” He fixed her with a piercing gaze. “They were all made by the Fae and when I discover what I’m searching for, I will hold the greatest power of them all. The power of time.”
Kara stared at him. What the hell was he talking about? Was he totally crazy? Or was he just messing with her?
“Are you serious? Fairies? Magic? That’s insane! There’s no such thing as magic in the world.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? Are you sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Kara growled, annoyed now. “How about you stop playing games and tell me what is really going on?”
“I warned you,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “I warned you about asking such questions. You think yourself a tenacious reporter, Miss Buchanan. You see yourself as a champion of the downtrodden, bringing to light the evils of those who would exploit others. You think yourself wise in the ways of the world. You are none of those things. You are a child meddling in things of which you understand nothing.” He stalked across the room towards her and leaned down. His eyes flashed. “Go back to your stories of church fetes and school plays, Miss Buchanan. Do not step into my world. If you do, you will regret it.”
Alarmed now, Kara scrambled to her feet and backed away. “If you had no intention of giving me a proper interview, why did you agree to meet me?”
“To give you a warning,” he growled. “Go back to your life whilst you still can and do not meddle in mine. Your father never learned that lesson, and he paid the price.”
“My father?” she cried, caught off guard by this sudden change of topic. “What do you know about my father?”
“That he was a good journalist, as you are. But he didn’t know where the line was drawn. He didn’t understand that some stories are never to be told. Don’t make the same mistake.”
Kara’s heart began to thump in her chest. Grabbing her briefcase and equipment, she turned on her heel and headed to the door. Devereux’s derisive laughter followed her out.
***
All the way home through the city rush hour, Kara’s mind whirled. She replayed the conversation with Devereux over and over. She’d gone in there with such high hopes and instead he’d toyed with her, spinning all that crap about magic and Fae, rather than giving her any honest answers.
She should have expected as much. Men like Devereux didn’t give up their secrets easily and any journalist worth their salt would have realized that and found some other angle to come at him from. Instead, she’d floundered like a rookie, thrown off guard by that comment about her father. This is what he’d planned, of course. She was naive to think he wouldn’t have done his research on her. Naive and stupid.
Idiot! she chided herself, slapping the steering wheel as she sat at the lights. You should have realized he’d investigate your background and been prepared!
Now what was she going to do? There was no way she could approach any of her regular papers with the story of Michael Devereux collecting magical artifacts—they would laugh in her face. No, what her editors were after was a story about how a corrupt multi-millionaire was running some kind of criminal network collecting precious artefacts and national treasures. That was the story she was after. But she had no evidence. Yet.
She finally pulled into the parking lot of her little apartment block and turned off the engine. She was so lost in her own thoughts as she strode towards the door that she didn’t see the small elderly woman making her way along the path towards her. Kara smacked right into her, almost knocking the poor woman flying. Kara grabbed the woman’s wrist to stop her falling flat on her face.
“Oh! Sorry!” Kara cried, aghast. “I didn’t see you there. Are you okay?”
The old woman straightened herself and gave Kara a crooked smile. “Aye, I’m fine, lass,” she said in a broad Scottish accent.
“Good. Well, sorry again,” Kara replied and began walking away.
“Wait!” the old woman called.
Kara glanced over her shoulder.
The old woman was holding out Kara’s notebook. “Ye dropped this, dearie.”
“Oh,” Kara said, taking it from her. How had that happened? She’d been sure she’d put her notebook in her briefcase. “Thanks.”
“Nay bother, dearie. Tis nay wonder ye dropped it, lost in thought as ye were.”
The old woman had small black eyes that sparkled with good humor. A grey bun was pinned to the back of her head and a burgundy coat was draped over her shoulders that appeared at least two sizes two big. She looked every inch like someone’s eccentric grandma.
“Yeah. Sorry, I was miles away. It’s been one of those mornings.” Kara smiled ruefully.
The old woman cocked her head. “Aye, ye look like a warrior readying herself for battle, lass.”
Kara snorted. “Then it’s a battle I lost.”
“Nonsense. Ye may have lost a battle but the war still rages. Ye only truly lose when ye stop fighting.” She stuck out a wrinkled hand. “I’m Irene by the way, dearie. Irene MacAskill.”
Kara took the old woman’s hand and shook it. Her skin felt as dry as old parchment. “Kara Buchanan. Pleased to meet you.”
“Not half as pleased as I am to meet ye, my dear.” Her expression turned thoughtful and she tapped her lip as though thinking. “Aye,” she said. “Ye will do just fine. There is a strength in ye, girl. A strength ye will need if ye are to find yer destiny.”
“My destiny?” Kara replied, puzzled by the strange talk. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Irene stared at Kara, unblinking. A shiver of unease walked down Kara’s spine. Those eyes...they seemed to look right into her soul.
Then Irene blinked, the warm smile returning, and the moment passed. “Surely ye know what destiny means, lass?”
“Of course I know what it means,” Kara replied. “But I don’t believe there’s any such thing any more than I believe in fairy stories. You make your own fate.”
“Well said, lass,” Irene smiled. “And mayhap ye are right—to a degree. But there are other forces at work in this world, forces ye canna escape or deny. Destiny is one of them, whether ye like it or no. Blood will out. Yer path will soon fork, lass, and ye will have a choice to make. Do ye continue on yer lonely quest to save the world? Do ye continue to close out all others, to harden yer heart and walk alone? Or do ye take the second fork and open yer heart to yer true path, one that will take ye away from all ye know?”
“What...what are you talking about?” Kara stammered, alarmed at how the old woman’s words stirred something inside her. “Lonely? Quest? I’m dedicated to my job. What’s wrong with that?”
“Naught, lass, if it’s done for the right reasons. If it’s not done to fill a hole in yer heart or to fulfill yer parent’s legacy—something that canna be fulfilled.”
Kara’s eyes widened. “You knew my parents?”
“Nay, lass. Not personally but I’m sure they wouldnae want this life for ye. Not everything in this world should be done alone.”
&
nbsp; Right. Now she was officially freaked out. Who the hell was this woman to turn up out of nowhere and start lecturing her? Kara held up her hands. “Okay, I’m gonna go now. It was nice meeting you.”
She took two steps but Irene’s hand shot out and caught her wrist. The old woman’s grip was like iron. “Yer choice is coming, lass. Someone will come into yer life and lead ye to a crossroads. There ye must choose: continue on yer lonely path with only yer cause to fill yer heart or step aside, follow a different path, and in so doing, maybe find what it was ye were looking for all along. Destiny is reaching out for ye, lass. Will ye let it guide ye? Or will ye keep running?”
Kara snatched her wrist from Irene’s grip. “What the hell are you talking about? You don’t know anything about me!”
Irene smiled. “Oh, I ken more than ye think, dearie. And we are much more alike than ye might believe. Choices. It’s always about choices. Ye might want to start with what ye are holding.”
Kara glanced down and realized that Irene had placed a scrap of paper in her hand. What the hell? Kara glanced up, a hundred questions on her lips, and gasped. Irene MacAskill had disappeared.
Startled, Kara spun around, searching the parking lot for the diminutive old woman. There was no sign of her. It was as if Irene MacAskill had disappeared in a puff of smoke.
Kara rubbed her temple where a headache was starting to form. What a day. What a crazy-ass day. First her disastrous interview with Devereux and then being accosted by a strange old woman who was clearly a little unhinged. She curled her fingers around the bit of paper, crumpling it into a tight ball, and dropped it in her pocket.
Once inside her apartment, she kicked the door shut, slipped off her shoes, and made her way into the kitchen where she slung her purse and coat onto the table before crossing to the fridge and pouring herself a large glass of wine.
Hell, she thought. With the day I’ve had, I’ve earned it.
With a groan she settled onto the sofa in the living room. It was just about the only piece of furniture she owned besides a table in the kitchen and a bed and tiny wardrobe in the bedroom. Kara had never really given much thought to her apartment. It was small but suited her needs. There was Wi-Fi so she could work on her laptop. What more did she need? She was always too busy to spend much time here: chasing down her next lead, researching her stories, writing her reports.