Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Hawk puts his duffel and my tote in the overhead and gives me the window seat.
It’s such a whirlwind that I’m still buckling my seatbelt when he orders a whiskey.
Not fifteen minutes later, our flight is taking off for London where we’ll have a short layover before catching a connection to Inverness.
“Get some sleep, Melissa. It’s going to be a long trip.”
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He swallows the whiskey, signals the attendant for more. “I’m fine.”
He’s not fine. He’s nowhere close to fine. But I remain silent as he orders glass after glass of whiskey before finally closing his eyes and laying his head back. He’s not sleeping though. His forehead is furrowed, and I know he’s deep in thought.
“Sleep,” he says, as if he can see me staring at him.
I do. Or try to at least. By the time we arrive in Inverness, I’m exhausted. I probably got about two hours of sleep on the various flights, and am only staying awake now because of the coffee I managed to drink in London. I’m not sure how Hawk’s standing as he loads the duffel into the trunk of our rented SUV.
He walks me to the wrong side of the car, and it takes me a moment to realize the steering wheel is on the other side here. They drive on the opposite side of the road.
We’ve barely spoken during the long trip, but once he situates himself in the driver’s seat and starts the car, I put a hand on his forearm.
“Should you drive?” I ask. Every time I opened my eyes, it seemed he had a fresh glass of whiskey in his hand.
He looks over at me. “I’m fine.”
“I just don’t know if it’s—”
“I can hold my liquor,” he snaps, and I quiet as he expertly pulls out of the tight parking spot, seeming completely at home with this opposite way of driving, shifting gears easily with his left hand, the SUV taking us smoothly onto the road.
It’s almost another three hours of driving until we near our destination. The sun and the rain intermingle, each giving way to the other as we near the western coast. There are fewer and fewer cars on the hilly roads as we seem to drive farther and farther from civilization.
And the nearer we get to our destination, the heavier Hawk’s mood grows, the quieter he becomes.
I look out the window, take in the beauty of this wild land.
Las Vegas has a dry climate. Here, the hills are the greenest I’ve ever seen and they seem to go on for miles.
“We’re in the Highlands,” he says, as if reading my mind.
“It’s beautiful.”
He makes a gruff sound of acknowledgement. “We’re almost there.”
“Where is there?”
“The MacLeod home. This is the nearest village. Mallaig.”
I sit up when I see the sign marking the boundary of the village.
I’ve never been out of the country. I haven’t seen most of the US and never anything like this quaint village along the coast with its stone houses and small bakery and butcher. A tea shop with pretty cakes displayed in the windows.
But we’re through it before I realize and I swear the weather in the direction we’re driving is darker, the unpaved road narrower.
Hawk’s hands are tight on the steering wheel. We bump along the road and after climbing one of the steepest hills, I see a lone structure in the distance. It’s ten more minutes until we reach the long stone bridge that connects what appears to be an island, upon which the MacLeod house is situated, to the mainland.
And I’m in awe.
“This is your…house?”
He only nods once and when I glance at him, I see how his brows are knitted together.
House.
This house takes my breath away. It’s not a house at all, but a fortress or castle, even. It must be hundreds of years old with stone walls that match the current color of the dark sky. And as we drive over the bridge, I wonder if we should, it’s so old.
I glance at Hawk again and I see him differently. In Las Vegas, he’s big. He’s brutal. He’s in command.
Here, he’s all of those things, but he’s a Highlander first. Born and bred here. It’s obvious now. Rough and rugged and fierce, but different.
Less sophisticated, less polished. Wild, like the landscape.
Even his name, it fits.
“Mother-fucker,” he mutters, his lip curling as he looks at the house.
The bridge gives way to a large circular courtyard. There are two other vehicles parked here. It’s strange, the cars too modern for this ancient place.
I’m distracted by the beauty of the castle that appears to be part ruin. The far walls have crumbled into the water beneath, but there’s smoke coming from two of the six chimneys and lights are on in the small windows of the first floor.
There are three floors in the front part of the building, more in that tower in the distance. But is the tower, too, crumbling? I can’t tell from here.