The Dark Highlander by Karen Marie Moning Page A

Ireland. Scholars had dozens of arguments against their alleged existence.
    Still . . . Grandda had believed.
    A professor of mythology, he’d taught her that every myth or legend contained some reality and truth, however distorted it had grown over centuries of oral repetition by bards who’d adapted their recitations to the unique interests of their audiences, or scribes who’d heeded the dictums of their sponsors. The original content of uncounted manuscripts had been corrupted by shoddy translations and adaptations designed to reflect the political and religious clime of the day. Anyone who devoted time to a study of history eventually realized that historians had succeeded in gathering only a handful of sand from the vast, uncharted desert of the past, and it was impossible to vouchsafe the terrain of the Sahara from a few mere grains.
    “Do you believe in this stuff?” she asked, waving a hand at the jumble of texts, curious to know his take on history. As smart as he was, it was certain to be interesting.
    “Much of it, lass.”
    She narrowed her eyes. “Do you believe the Tuatha Dé Danaan really existed?”
    His smile was bitter. “Och, aye, lass. There was a time when I didn’t, but I do now.”
    Chloe frowned. He sounded resigned, like a man who’d been given incontrovertible proof. “What made you believe?”
    He shrugged and made no reply.
    “Well, then, what kind of curse?” she pressed. This was fascinating stuff, the kind that had led her to her choice of career. It was like talking with Grandda again, debating possibilities, opening her mind to new ones.
    He looked away, stared into the fire.
    “Aw, come on! You’re leaving soon, what harm is there in telling me? Who would I tell?”
    “What if I told you that ’tis
I
who am cursed?”
    She glanced about at his opulent home. “I’d tell you a lot of people would like to be cursed like you.”
    “You’d never believe the truth.” He flashed her another of those mocking smiles that didn’t reach his eyes. She realized that she’d give a great deal to see him smile, actually smile and mean it.
    “Try me.”
    It took him longer to respond this time, and when he did his gaze was filled with cynical amusement. “What if I told you, lass, that I’m a Druid from a time long past?”
    Chloe gave him an exasperated look. “If you don’t want to talk to me, all you have to do is tell me that. But don’t try to shut me up with nonsense.”
    With a tight smile, he nodded once, as if he’d satisfied himself of something. “What if I told you that when you kiss me, lass, I doona feel cursed? That mayhap your kisses could save me. Would you?”
    Chloe caught her breath. It was such a silly thing to say, as silly as his joke about being a Druid . . . but so hopelessly romantic. That her kisses could save a man!
    “I thought not.” His gaze dropped back to the text and the heat of it had been so intense she felt chilled by its absence.
    She frowned. Feeling like the biggest coward, feeling strangely defiant. She glared at the infernal envelope from the travel agency. “
When
are you leaving?” she asked irritably.
    “On the morrow’s eve,” he said, without looking at her.
    Chloe gaped. So soon? Tomorrow her grand adventure would be over? Though only yesterday she’d tried to escape him, she felt oddly deflated by her encroaching freedom.
    Freedom didn’t seem so sweet when it meant never seeing him again. She knew all too well what would happen: He would disappear from her life, and she would return to her job at The Cloisters (Tom would never fire her—not for missing a few days of work—she’d think of some excuse), and each time she looked at a medieval artifact she would think of him. Late at night, when she awakened filled with that terrible restlessness, she would sit in the dark, holding her
skean dhu
, wondering the worst question of all: What might have been? She would never again be wined and dined in a luxury penthouse on