Ally laughed along with us and then raised her pint in salute. The flame from the candle on our table reflected on her bejeweled piercings, making her appear more elven or fairy than girl. As if choreographed, the slow strains of live bagpipes began to underscore her toast. “To Mackenna and Veronica and the beginnings of a marvelous new adventure. May new worlds be opened to them, and no matter where they roam, may they be vessels of something greater than themselves.”
“Here, here.” Ken and I clinked our glasses to hers before taking long drinks. My head began to feel like a balloon floating on a string. I turned to ask Ally if we could order some mozzarella sticks, or the Scottish equivalent, but her next comment swept away all thoughts of food.
She leaned forward, the sparkle of her emerald eyes eclipsing her facial jewels. “Now friends, are you ready to hear the real legend of the Brig o’ Doon?”
“Didn’t we just hear it?” Kenna asked before turning her attention back to the small stage where a fiddler joined the song, kicking up the tempo.
With a quirk of her perfectly arched brow, Ally caught my eyes. “The Tam is but a child’s tale. I’m talking about the true history of the Bridge of Doon … and what waits on the other side.”
The image of Jamie MacCrae swayed before my eyes, his boot-clad feet firmly planted on an arch of gray stone, his deep, rolling voice calling, “Verranica … Come to me.”
Ally’s rosebud lips quirked into a surreptitious smile before her intense gaze shifted to something behind me and she waved. “Alasdair! Come meet some new friends of mine from the States.”
The wizened old man approached our table and inclined his head in an old-fashioned gesture of respect. “Ladies.”
“Won’t you join us for a pint, Alasdair? My friends here were wantin’ to know more about the Brig o’ Doon.”
“Certainly.” He took the seat across the table from me, rubbed his white-stubble-covered chin as he contemplated each of us with keen, blue-gray eyes. “This tale is not for the faint of heart, lasses.”
Kenna’s lips tilted slightly as she met his challenge. “I think we can handle it.”
The old actor shifted his attention to me and I gave him a nod of assent, my voice trapped in my chest.
“All right, then.” A grin creased the man’s craggy face, lighting his countenance like a sunrise. “What most people dinna know, my fair lassies”—he rested his crossed arms on the table and lowered his voice in a theatrical whisper—”is that Robert Burns dinna create the legend of Brig o’ Doon. He borrowed it from an even older tale.”
I leaned forward and the clamor of the crowded pub faded away.
“Once upon a time, there existed a prosperous kingdom called Doon. It was rich with fertile lands and abundant mountain streams, its beauty beyond compare. The wise and just leader, King Angus Andrew Kellan MacCrae, was adored by all.”
A slow shiver crawled up my spine. What were the chances of my dream boy and this mythical king sharing not one, but two names? I glanced at Kenna, her foot tapping to the music as she drew a series of circles in the condensation on her mug. Could I tell her about the connection? The answer was an easy no. She’d make some crack about “obsessive delusions” then never surrender her aunt’s journal. I had to find out what Gracie knew.
With effort, I reigned in my focus and turned back to the old man. He angled toward me so that the candle’s glow distorted the plains and recesses of his face, giving the appearance that his jaw unhinged as he spoke.
“But what is seen as light will forever be coveted by the dark. And so it was that the kingdom o’ Doon was targeted by a coven of witches who desired to possess the realm for themselves. For years, they tried to seize the kingdom. No matter what strategy they employed—be it covert tactics to undermine the royal family or open warfare—they were thwarted at every turn.