Once Upon A Highland Legend

2nd Edition, July 21, 2014

This novella was previously published in the anthology The Winter Stone, April 21, 2014

Published by Oliver-Heber Books, LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both Oliver-Heber Books and the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Once Upon a Highland Legend Copyright © 2013 Tanya Anne Crosby

To all who still believe in faerie tales.

“Enchanting landscapes, breathtaking betrayal, and heartwarming passion herald Tanya Anne Crosby's triumphant return to ancient Scotland.”
–Glynnis Campbell, Internationally Bestselling Author

“Tanya Anne Crosby is a master of her genre …”
–Laurin Wittig, Internationally Bestselling Author

“Tanya Anne Crosby returns to writing historical fiction as only she can: superbly and beautifully.”
–Suzan Tisdale, bestselling author of Rowan's Lady

“Crosby’s characters keep readers engaged…”
–Publishers Weekly

“Tanya Anne Crosby sets out to show us a good time and accomplishes that with humor, a fast paced story and just the right amount of romance.”
–The Oakland Press

“Romance filled with charm, passion and intrigue …”
–Affaire de Coeur

“Ms. Crosby mixes just the right amount of humor … Fantastic, tantalizing!”
–Rendezvous

“Tanya Anne Crosby pens a tale that touches your soul and lives forever in your heart.”
–Sherrilyn Kenyon #1 NYT Bestselling Author

• Title Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Praise
  
• The Legend
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• The Winter Stone
  
• Books By Tanya Anne Crosby
  
• About Tanya
  

Once upon a time, in a place time forgot, the last Pict King was betrayed by one he loved. Mourning his ignoble death, the Mother of Winter wept with grief, her icy tears shattering as they fell to earth. One did not. This pale stone she gave to the Guardians of the Old Ways, so that by its light all truths might be known.

This is the tale of the Winter Stone…

Kingussie Scotland, Present Day

“A
re ye in Kingussie for the festival, lass?” the shopkeeper asked.

Blinking, Annie Ross peered up from the crystal she held in her hand, momentarily disoriented. It took her a muddled instant to recall exactly where she was—in a curio shop on High Street, waiting for her cousin to arrive. It wasn’t like her to be so spacey. “No, actually…heading up to Devil’s Point.”

The old woman gave her a bit of a smirk but didn’t comment; still Annie sensed she was amused by the choice of phrasing.

Okay, so she was actually headed to
Bod an Deamhain
. She and Queen Victoria’s consort had something in common. Even in this twenty-first century, Annie had copped out, using the more modest name for a nearby mountain peak. The literal translation for anyone who knew better, was the “demon’s penis.” Apparently, despite the fact that vaginas now had plays named after them, Annie still couldn’t say the word penis to strangers. But how ridiculous was that? She was a scientist after all. She blamed her pang of modesty on the skirt she was wearing. Somehow, it seemed entirely inappropriate to utter the word penis while wearing a short, plaid schoolgirl-type skirt that might have been better suited to a fetish poster than a Catholic schoolgirl.

As though to affirm her thoughts, the shopkeeper’s gaze swept down to the hem of Annie’s borrowed skirt. “American, are ye?” she asked, lifting the brow of her one good eye. The other had a patch over it.

Annie frowned. For some reason, the question left her feeling a bit defensive. As though only an American could wear such a getup, right? Well, her cousin—the previous and current owner of the skirt—was Scots to the bone, thank you very much.

Annie heaved a sigh. Unfortunately, her bags had been lost on the way to Kingussie and she’d had to borrow a clean shirt and a skirt from her cousin Kate, who didn’t appear to own anything longer than six inches. For that matter, Kate’s blouses didn’t seem to have enough buttons either, and Annie had had to use a safety pin to keep her breasts from public display—not that her skirt length was any of the shopkeeper’s concern, however.

Thankfully, Annie didn’t much care about clothes one way or another. If it covered her bits, and kept her from getting arrested for indecent exposure, if it didn’t smell like the boozer sitting next to her on the plane, well then she didn’t care what she wore. Her own wardrobe was quite practical, and her long black hair usually found its way into a careless ponytail—the horsetail, her ex used to call it. That was why he was her ex—and
not
as Kate liked to put it, that Annie had commitment phobia. She was hardly afraid of men; she just had no patience for one-way relationships.

“My family’s from here,” she offered as she studied the crystal in her hand.

“Aye? Whereabouts?” the shopkeeper asked. “Ye dinna sound much like a Scot. I do hope ye’ve brought something warmer for the climb, lass,” she said, chattering on. “The wind’ll freeze your paps.”

Annie wasn’t entirely certain what paps were, nor was she inclined to ask, but she lifted the arm her sweater was draped over, hoping it would be enough to convince the old woman to put away her maternal genes.

“Humph!” the shopkeeper declared. “Ye’ll catch your death w’ that! Ye’ll need something warmer, dearie. We’ve tartans for sale,” she suggested. “Certainly, one of the lot will match you’re wee skirt.”

Nice sales pitch, lady, but no thanks,
Annie thought. “Thanks,” she said, and went back to inspecting the crystal.

Bod an Deamhain
was probably an eight-hour climb, but Annie didn’t intend to go all the way up today. Only as far as she needed to go in order to survey the surrounding area. But she didn’t volunteer that information because it wasn’t anybody’s business. She’d had enough of people trying to talk her out of it, including her cousin. “I’ll be fine,” she reassured.

“I’m sure ye will be,” the old woman replied, and fell silent—finally—while Annie went back to examining the strange rock in her hand.

Unlike the rest of the crystals in the basket on the display case, this one was perfectly and unnaturally round, as though it had been created from a mold of some type. But it was heavy—not plastic. Testing its weight in the palm of her hand, she examined the striations at its center—milky ribbons. The first time Annie had peered into it, it had seemed colorless, though now it seemed to be turning a slight green…changing colors…like a mood stone. She glanced up to see that the shopkeeper was watching. The woman’s one good eye flicked back and forth from the crystal in her hand to Annie’s face…as though waiting for some reaction.

“Pretty,” Annie remarked.

The shopkeeper nodded agreement.

Minerals weren’t precisely Annie’s forte, but she did like them, and in a way, it was how she had begun her career. As a child, she had completely annoyed her parents by collecting every ugly rock she had encountered. A visit to Mammoth Caves had been her childhood version of Disney World. And in a way, it still was, though as far as careers went she had taken an entirely different path. Archeology and Linguistic Anthropology were the cornerstones of her studies. Currently—as always—she was obsessing over the origins of
Lia Fàil
, otherwise known as the Stone of Destiny
.
It was the subject of her senior dissertation, but while it had netted her a passing grade for the thoroughness of her research, her professor had deemed it completely unoriginal and took off points.