Read Online Return of the Highlander (Immortal Warriors) by Sara Mackenzie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sara Mackenzie
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where I am.”
Georgiana gave a loud sigh, as if she thought Bella was being childish. Perhaps Brian was right to covet Georgiana, perhaps they were made for each other.
“All right. If that’s what you want, I’ll tell him. Goodbye, Bella.”
The call disconnected. Bella pulled a face at it. Her good mood was spoiled now. She glanced at the mug on the floor. Maybe there was a very slight earth tremor? Bella glanced about her, but nothing else seemed to have moved. Her gaze fell on a stack of her heaviest books. She had put the replica of Maclean’s portrait under there to flatten out the creases after Brian had crumpled it. She removed it now and held it up to inspect it. Not too bad, she thought. Almost as good as new.
Her good mood restored, Bella replaced it on the wall above her desk, so that she could look up and see it as she worked. Her fingers lingered on the paper.
Och, Bella, ye are so beautiful.
If only dreams could come true.
Seven
Maclean was in a good mood, too. He had gotten the mug to sail off the desk very satisfactorily; it had caught Bella’s attention nicely. And now she had a picture of him she had placed upon the wall. He grinned in pleased amazement. It was the portrait he’d had painted in 1744, though Bella’s copy was far smaller and of poorer quality than the original, but it was definitely the same painting. Maclean remembered how the wee artist shook in his boots while it amused Maclean to play the savage bloodthirsty Highlander.
“Boo,” he’d longed to say, just to see the wee man wet himself, but he was the chief so he showed some restraint. But the artist had his revenge by making Maclean look as if he were about to reach out of the canvas and throttle someone.
And now he was on Bella’s wall.
Maclean was flattered that after two hundred and fifty years dead he could still occupy a woman’s thoughts sofully. What he didn’t understand was the why of it; what connection she had to his current predicament.
Bella had settled in front of the machine and was munching on a piece of toast while she flicked through her pieces of paper. Maclean came up behind her and stood waiting for her to begin talking to herself. Every morning Bella sat at the machine that clacked beneath her busy fingers and made words and sentences appear upon a square flat surface that rested upright in front of her. The words themselves danced like fireflies before his eyes, so he didn’t try to read them. It wasn’t that he couldn’t read—he had been educated well. As was the way with his memory that gave up insignificant details so easily and yet refused him the important ones, he could remember his first tutor. An enlightened man, he taught the young Maclean that there was a world that extended far beyond his borders. He introduced him to poetry and prose and ideas, but his father called such things a waste of time and the tutor had left, and another, far more “suitable,” was found.
Maclean found he enjoyed watching Bella’s face and the thoughts that flitted over it—her eyes changed with every emotion so that he did not need to guess what she was feeling or thinking. In any case she was one of those women who frequently spoke aloud to herself, even when she was alone, or maybe because of it. Maclean found a guilty pleasure in closing his eyes and pretending she was speaking to him.
“Why can’t I get it right?” she said with a sigh, and pressed the button that took away all the words again. She did that a lot.
He leaned forward, eager to answer. “What have you done now, woman?”
“I’ve never had this much trouble before.”
“Why do you no’ find a priest or a scribe? In my day, women found a man to do their writing for them.”
“It’s not as if this is my first book.”
“So you are a scribe yourself?” He was impressed. He had known of women who were well taught, but not many came to Fasail. Bella seemed exceptional. “Do you write down the works of learned
Georgiana gave a loud sigh, as if she thought Bella was being childish. Perhaps Brian was right to covet Georgiana, perhaps they were made for each other.
“All right. If that’s what you want, I’ll tell him. Goodbye, Bella.”
The call disconnected. Bella pulled a face at it. Her good mood was spoiled now. She glanced at the mug on the floor. Maybe there was a very slight earth tremor? Bella glanced about her, but nothing else seemed to have moved. Her gaze fell on a stack of her heaviest books. She had put the replica of Maclean’s portrait under there to flatten out the creases after Brian had crumpled it. She removed it now and held it up to inspect it. Not too bad, she thought. Almost as good as new.
Her good mood restored, Bella replaced it on the wall above her desk, so that she could look up and see it as she worked. Her fingers lingered on the paper.
Och, Bella, ye are so beautiful.
If only dreams could come true.
Seven
Maclean was in a good mood, too. He had gotten the mug to sail off the desk very satisfactorily; it had caught Bella’s attention nicely. And now she had a picture of him she had placed upon the wall. He grinned in pleased amazement. It was the portrait he’d had painted in 1744, though Bella’s copy was far smaller and of poorer quality than the original, but it was definitely the same painting. Maclean remembered how the wee artist shook in his boots while it amused Maclean to play the savage bloodthirsty Highlander.
“Boo,” he’d longed to say, just to see the wee man wet himself, but he was the chief so he showed some restraint. But the artist had his revenge by making Maclean look as if he were about to reach out of the canvas and throttle someone.
And now he was on Bella’s wall.
Maclean was flattered that after two hundred and fifty years dead he could still occupy a woman’s thoughts sofully. What he didn’t understand was the why of it; what connection she had to his current predicament.
Bella had settled in front of the machine and was munching on a piece of toast while she flicked through her pieces of paper. Maclean came up behind her and stood waiting for her to begin talking to herself. Every morning Bella sat at the machine that clacked beneath her busy fingers and made words and sentences appear upon a square flat surface that rested upright in front of her. The words themselves danced like fireflies before his eyes, so he didn’t try to read them. It wasn’t that he couldn’t read—he had been educated well. As was the way with his memory that gave up insignificant details so easily and yet refused him the important ones, he could remember his first tutor. An enlightened man, he taught the young Maclean that there was a world that extended far beyond his borders. He introduced him to poetry and prose and ideas, but his father called such things a waste of time and the tutor had left, and another, far more “suitable,” was found.
Maclean found he enjoyed watching Bella’s face and the thoughts that flitted over it—her eyes changed with every emotion so that he did not need to guess what she was feeling or thinking. In any case she was one of those women who frequently spoke aloud to herself, even when she was alone, or maybe because of it. Maclean found a guilty pleasure in closing his eyes and pretending she was speaking to him.
“Why can’t I get it right?” she said with a sigh, and pressed the button that took away all the words again. She did that a lot.
He leaned forward, eager to answer. “What have you done now, woman?”
“I’ve never had this much trouble before.”
“Why do you no’ find a priest or a scribe? In my day, women found a man to do their writing for them.”
“It’s not as if this is my first book.”
“So you are a scribe yourself?” He was impressed. He had known of women who were well taught, but not many came to Fasail. Bella seemed exceptional. “Do you write down the works of learned
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