The Last MacPhee
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by Dana Littlejohn
Description: Patrick MacPhee had lost everything: his family, his home, and the love of his life. He was the only one to survive the massacre of his family. During the long wait to avenge them he met Charlene and fell in love. With love in his life again he hesitates to do the duty he has patiently waited over a hundred years to do. Will Charlene be the loophole that will allow him to have love and revenge?
eBook Publisher: Red Rose Publishing/MC/IR, 2009 2009-01-01
eBookwise Release Date: March 2009
11 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [69 KB]
Reading time: 38-53 min.
She woke from her nap, gripping the pillow she was on tighter.
"Mmm, I've got to get me one of these beds."
With a soft sigh, she slid out of the bed and moved across the floor to the closet, to find something to wear. Once she was showered and dressed, she found her camera and left the room. The pictures on the walls were like a history class themselves, beautiful portraits depicting the Scotland of old. She giggled feeling like the tourist she was, taking pictures of almost everything and going onto each floor, but wished that her class were with her to share the experience. Then she came across a portrait of two men. She lowered her camera to get a better look at them.
An older man sat in a high back chair with a younger man leaning casually against it. The older man looked stern, seated with a sword on his lap. He wore a white shirt and his ankles crossed at his feet, keeping his bare legs closed. Her mouth dropped opened and her camera hung by her side.
They had the same red hair, but the boy's was overly long and untamed. The older and younger also shared the same blue eyes, and the older man wore the skirt as well. It came just above his scrawny knees. His skinny legs were hairy and crossed at his ankles with one foot resting on its toes. Her face contorted in confusion as her head tilted.
"I never understood the whole kilt thing. Why the hell would a man want to wear a skirt?" she asked under her breath.
"Tis not a skirt, lass; it is called a kilt."
She felt his warm breath touch the back of her neck. Embarrassed at first, she felt herself cringe, but the heated breath also sent a tingly feeling down her spine. Slowly she turned around to face soft male voice, ready to apologize, but her words died in her throat as she was captured by the man's masculine beauty.
His strawberry blonde hair was cut low around the back and sides, but long enough on top to curl across his forehead. His eyes were the bluest she'd ever seen. She was drawn into them and though she noticed his luscious pink lips moving, she hadn't heard a word he had said. When they stopped, she was removed from her trance.
"Huh? I'm sorry, what did you say?"
He smiled. "I was mentioning the situations in which we would wear the kilt. I take it you've never seen a man in a kilt?"
"No, I'm afraid not," she sent a quick look to the picture, "unless you're going to count this boy here." She let out a chuckle. "No disrespect to him, but if he is your representative, I am not impressed."
"Well then, I will have to wear mine for you. This way you can see how a man looks in one."
She shrugged. "Okay."
"Are you on your way to dinner?"
"Yes, I am."
He extended his arm as they walked down the hall. "Do you know of the party afterwards?" She nodded and accepted his arm as they walked. "I would be honored if you'd allow me to escort you to both then, Miss..."
"Thank you, that would be nice. My name is Charlene McNeal. What's yours?"
He stopped walking suddenly and stared at her. The surprised expression on his face only lasted for a brief moment before it was replaced by a beautiful bright smile.
"Welcome to Castle MacPhee, Charlene. I am Patrick."