Return of the Highlander (Immortal Warriors) by Sara Mackenzie

never went into reprint. Not once in twelve long years of writing had this ever happened to her.
    “Five stars,” she whispered, and laughed.
    Not that the book didn’t deserve it. Martin’s Journey was the story of an obscure village in England whose inhabitants had struggled to survive the Black Plague in the fourteenth century. Bella had thoroughly researched the villagers who had lived and died there, putting together the story with a combination of parish and other existing records—the priest had written a heartrending account. Several villagers had stood out as heroes, but Martin in particular. She had written his story with verve and poignancy, lifting him from seven centuries of obscurity and giving him the respect she felt he deserved.
    And now everyone was reading about him.
    “Maybe this time,” she whispered. She’d been waiting for the rest of the world to catch on to her work. The minor figures of history who fascinated her had a strong appeal, but until now no one but her agent and publisher had seemed to recognize that. Martin’s Journey deserved to be a bestseller, but even moderate sales would help to get The Black Maclean onto bookshelves around the country.
    Her heart sank as she realized she had just faithfully promised to deliver the book on deadline when she was already way behind schedule. Why hadn’t she used Elaine’s good mood to her advantage and insisted she needed more time?
    The kettle began to boil, and Bella tipped the steaming water into her cup and jiggled the tea bag. Another thought occurred to her that was not so amusing.
    “I wonder if Brian knows about the five-star review.”
    Dear God, she hoped not. With luck, Brian was too busy with Hamish’s antiques, and her brief brush with fame would be over by the time he knew about it. He would still be livid that after all these years she actually had some recognition and he wasn’t here to bask in it.
    And Bella wasn’t the least bit sorry he wasn’t here. She could just imagine it: He’d be pestering her to get a complete makeover. She’d end up not recognizing herself. Bella Ryan, the new and glamorous version.
    Only it would still be the old her underneath, looking out.
    Her tea was ready, and she took out the bag and added milk and sugar. She glanced through the window at the sunshine outside. The loch was awash with gentle light, more of Gregor’s sheep cropped the moorland grass, and an eagle soared in the cloudless blue.
    She had another four weeks on the lease of the cottage. Where would she go then? To Edinburgh and Brian? No, that was over, whatever Georgiana believed. Perhaps it was better not to think too far ahead. Get the book finished first and then deal with what came after.
    Bella sipped her tea and forced herself not to turn and look over her shoulder. There’s no one there, there’s no one there…
    Maybe if she repeated it to herself often enough she might believe it.

Eight
     
    Bella had been working all day, shuffling through her pieces of paper, reading her books and staring at her machine. Whatever the voice on the other end of the talking box had said to her, it had driven her into a frenzy. She muttered to herself, she sang, she crumpled sheets of paper and pelted them across the room—one of them went right through him—and she drank lots and lots of her cups of tea.
    Cat’s piss, he called it.
    Tea was the fashionable drink he’d seen everywhere when he was visiting Edinburgh and Inverness, but he had never developed a taste for it himself. Whiskey and wine and coffee, they were drinks he enjoyed, aye, and in that order.
    Maclean didn’t like the way she was carrying on—it made him feel queasy. Instead he wandered about the cottage, pretending to take great interest in the stones from which it was made. They looked awfully like the stones from Castle Drumaird….
    “Thieves,” he snarled.
    After that he inspected the shiny white box which kept the foods inside it cold—the way the