The ancient standing stones inscribed with faded pictish writings stood atop the rounded hill like fingers of the earth seeking to capture the sky. Between them a silent horseman kept a lonely vigil.

He sat upon a horse as black as coal looking out over the emerald green valley that swept away below. The surface undulated under an ethereal ghost like morning mist.

Leaning back in the saddle and stretching, he smiled at the familiar, almost comforting sound of leather and armor creaking. He craned and rolled his neck, tendons stiff and popping and tilted his head back while drawing a deep breath, taking in the scents of the fresh morning air, sweet spring grass.

He loved these rolling lands nestled among the harsh and unforgiving highlands and could not imagine anywhere else in creation as beautiful. Though he enjoyed the moment, he knew his being on the hilltop was critical to the Bruce and his rag tag army. Edward I's armies were scouring the highlands for them. His duty was to act as scout and watch the glen in the event the English sought to use it and outflank them and cut them off from the lowlands.

The horse wickered softly and pawed the ground with a massive hoof as though agreeing with its master's unspoken thoughts.

Reaching forward he patted the horse's neck with an affectionate hand and chuckled softly "Aye, m'lad, I ken, `tis a lovely morn." His brow furrowed beneath windblown locks as movement in the glen far below, caught his eye.

A figure was drifting quickly through the wet morning grass. It was a lass with flowing auburn tresses dressed in the fashion of a man, moving as though floating in the mists. He scanned back up the glen and surrounding hills looking for pursuers but could see none.

Resting his hands one atop the other on the saddle horn he watched the lass thread her way through the glen. Even at this distance he could make out her beauty as her long hair whipped to and fro in the breeze. She moved at a rapid but steady pace. "A ghost?" He wondered.

Memories of a tale told by his mother long ago came flooding back to him. "Could this be the shade o' the Maiden o' the Mist?"

He remembered bits and pieces of the story of how a local maiden of untold beauty had rushed down through the glen after her young lover who had ridden off to war and met his end at the hands of a neighboring clan. As she ran to stop him she fell into one of the hidden pools in the moor at the end of the glen and was never found or heard from again. It was said that in the early morning light she could sometimes be seen running through the glen in her never ending search for her love.

He sat motionless as he watched the lass approach the far end of the glen. Suddenly he stood in the stirrups with a look of alarm clouding his features as the lass abruptly disappeared.

Drawing a shuddering breath he whispered to the horse "M'lad, I believe we've jist had the pleasure o' seeing the Maiden o' the Mist." Both horse and rider jumped with a start as a scream pierced the still of the morning. Without hesitation he put spurs to the horse's flanks.

Thundering down the hillside as the scream came again. A scream teetering on sheer terror. He knew this was no ghost that had been running through the glen and set his jaw in grim determination as he urged the horse faster and faster.

As they neared the spot where the lass disappeared, the horse stumbled, nearly unseating him. The ground was a veritable morass of mud and water beneath the long grass. "The bloody moor!" he snarled as he reigned in the horse with a sharp tug.

Cursing his luck as he slipped from the saddle to the marshy ground. He found the footing treacherous as he moved through the hip high grass, the ground sucking at his boots, threatening to drag him down with each step.

Suddenly a slender shaking hand shot up out of the weeds and clutched at his boot. He clasped the straining forearm tightly and pulled. Slowly a wet, and muddied form appeared. Reaching down he slipped an arm around her tiny waist and lifted her to him.

Sobbing uncontrollably she raised her head slowly and looked into the weathered face of a hardbitten highland warrior. Her eyes suddenly went wide with terror as she loosed another scream and then fainted dead away.

Carefully he lifted her limp form into his arms and carried her out of the dangerous moor to his waiting horse. Gently he laid her across the horse's neck and swung into the saddle. Once again he lifted her and lay her against his chest with care and held her tightly with a protective arm. Taking up the reigns, he turned the horse away and galloped back toward his overlook upon the hill.

Back between the relative safety of the ring of stones he heard a soft sigh and smiled, satisfied that she was alright. He gently tucked his bearskins around her to make sure she was warm and went back to stir the broth he had put on to boil. Glancing up every now and again, keeping a wary eye on the mist shrouded glen.

She awoke slowly to see him sitting a few feet away tending to a small kettle suspended over a pit dug to hide the fire. The smell of broth tantalized her senses as her stomach constricted slightly in hunger.

Her eyes drifted over this stranger, from his boots wrapped in strips of muddied deer skin and dirty but muscular legs beneath his great kilt. The tartan was a combination of greens and blacks she recognized as a older design of the MacGregor clan. His arms were bare, with corded forearms, scarred from battle and hardships. Wrists were wrapped in the leather bindings preferred by warriors. His hands that had probably ended the life of more than one man gently, almost reverently toyed idly with a wildflower.

As she looked up at his face, she saw weathered features of someone used to living in the wilds. His dark hair was pulled back and tied off with a strip of leather, with two celtic braids hanging from his temples. But his eyes were hard, piercing, the type that could see into your very soul, yet when they turned toward her there was a gentle compassion residing there.

She noted that his weapons, a great sword and heavy dirk were laying atop a studded wooden shield next to the small cook fire but were still within easy reach.

He turned and smiled softly, seeing she was awake "Ye gave me quite a start their lass." He said with a chuckle. "Ye had me and ma horse scared nearly witless thinking ye were the Maiden o' the Mist."

She leaned up on an elbow regarding him carefully and though still frightened, sensed she was in no danger and whispered softly "And who says I'm not?"

He flashed a huge smile. "Lass, Ye be the most lovely Maiden I've e'er had the pleasure o' laying eyes on, but t' be sure, ye be flesh and blood."

She offered a small smile of her own and reached up to run her fingers through her hair only to discover it matted with dried mud and began to blush furiously.

Seeing her obvious discomfort and embarrassment he stood up and walked to his mount, pulling a large waterskin from the back of the saddle and offering it to her. "Here ye are lass, I ken how the bogs tend t' make ane feel oot o' sorts." He said with a soft careful voice.

Taking the waterskin she averted her gaze still feeling extremely self conscious. Pulling the stop she began to clean her hands and face with the sweet mountain water. Shortly, she had managed to clean herself and her hair as well and found that her savior had a wooden bowl filled with delicious smelling broth awaiting her.

He smiled as he watched her attack the broth, using a hunk of bread to dunk as she ate. "The name is Ian, Ian MacGregor." He said in a soft voice.

She paused in her repast and looked up. "Cathrine Campbell" she replied between chews.

While keeping an eye on the valley below he asked "Whit were ye doing running through the glen at this hour, Catherine Campbell? I thought ye were being chased at first but saw no sign o' pursuit."

She smiled and looked down "I was...I was just out for a morning run." Then she looked up, regarding him warily. "Why are you up here on this hill? And" looking around she continued "Looking as if You are prepared for battle?"

His blue eyes hardened a moment then softened again "That is exactly why I'm here, lass. I am watching this glen in the event the English attempt t' use it t' circle around the Bruce who is camped jist beyond those hills there." He said with a nod of his head.

Her eyes went wide with astonishment. "Robert? Robert the Bruce? You know...Robert the Bruce?"

"Aye, lass" he said with a soft chuckle. "I ken Robert the Rebel...but one day, mark Ma words, He'll be King o' Scotland."

She nodded, but then her eyes took on a mischivious glint "Would you mind telling me more of this Maiden of the Mist?"

He regarded her change in demeanor carefully as for a seemingly poor lass, she spoke with intelligence and confidence. Her attire was not of the latest styles causing a small cold streak to raise his neck hairs. But her beauty and disarming charm kept him at ease. He was wary for he knew that shades and dryads were said to try and ensnare a man with spells of seduction, keeping him captive forever. But he was not afraid. He smiled and related what he could remember of the tales his mother had told him, both delighting her and seemingly putting her more at ease.

She looked up and smiled softly "Would you mind if I took off these wet clothes and laid them by the fire?"

He quirked an eyebrow and smiled wryly "No' at all lass." Chuckling softly he turned his back to her and faced out between two of the leaning menhirs and stared into the mist filled valley below.

Sitting slowly he placed his back to the lichen covered stone and scanned the valley for movement, when a gentle hand touched his shoulder. Looking up he saw her standing beside him, bearskin wrapped tightly around her. She too was staring out into the valley, her soft doe like eyes twinkling in the morning sun, silken hair flowing and fluttering lightly in the morning breeze. He was taken by her unearthly beauty, the description of the Maiden of the Mist springing to his mind again.

She looked down, smiled softly and without a word sat slowly, straddling his lap, slipping her arms about his shoulders and kissed him softly, tenderly.

He moaned against her lips and wrapped his arms against her in turn. Unable to control his emotions. Her sweet lips, her beauty, the heat from her body all combining to set off raging fires within his soul, he kissed her hard, deeply, passionately. Rolling forward he lay her on the grass beneath him, slipping a hand into the furs and exploring her soft skin and gentle contours.

Running his hand over her taught belly and heaving ribs to the gentle swell of her breast. Kissing her roughly, he twisted his hand, feeling her hardening nipple burning against the palm.

She moaned into the kiss while lifting a thigh high on his hip, wrapping her arms about his shoulders, tangling her fingers within his wild mane. The head from his body and grinding hips causing her sex to spasm and wetness begin to flow.

Ian continued the passionate lust filled kiss while running his hand down her body, rough fingers slipping through the soft down crowning atop the gentle curve of her plump little Venus mound. He fairly growled when the soft slick petals opened at his touch. He thrust two thick fingers deep into her tight clasping sheath, causing her pelvis to rise and grind against his hand.

A small squeal of pleasure escaped her lips as she felt him stretching, filling her with his thrusting fingers. Wrapping a lithe leg over his hip and grinding her enflamed sex in wild abandon against his hand. Reaching down, she fumbled desperately in an effort to slip her hand beneath his kilt. Feeling his heated flesh beneath her searching fingers, she wrapped them about his throbbing shaft.

Catherine mewled as she felt its heat and the soft skin roll back over the blunt head, slick with droplets of his essence. She shuddered as his thrusting caused her sex to spasm and grip his fingers tightly as the raw emotion of her orgasm burst forth.

Feeling her spend, Ian pulled his fingers free and shifted his body, his hips settling between her creamy thighs. Pressing his lips to hers once again he kissed her with wild animalistic passion while rocking his hips, causing his shaft to slip along her slick furrow in a wanton sawing motion. He moaned deeply as the tip of his raging spear lodged in the entrance of her molten sex then thrust his hips, driving his length deeply in a single filling stroke.

She squirmed and ground her pelvis roughly against his as the electric shock of his thrust shot through her like a bolt of lightning. His manhood filling her and stretching her like never before. She forced her tongue deeply into his mouth, offering herself completely, wanting to be completely consumed by his lust.

Ian slipped a hand down gripping the curve of her upturned bottom tightly, his fingers cruelly digging into her tender flesh. Thrusting deeply again and again he drove his shaft into her slick sheath, groaning as the tightness brought his own emotions to a boil.

She felt his thrusts take on a wildness, indicating he was close to spending. Catherine placed her hands against his heaving chest and shoved hard, rolling him onto his back. Staring down into his eyes, she grinned and raised her hips with an agonizing slowness, then suddenly slammed back down, driving herself onto his impaling shaft.

Again and again she rose slowly then snapped her hips downward causing Ian to groan deeply with each thrust. He gripped her hips in his hands and thrust upwards to meet her downward thrusts. The air filled with their moans and the sound of heated flesh slapping together over and over again.

A snarl escaped his lips as he suddenly sat up and rolled forward. Lifting her easily as He fought to gain his feet. Catherine wrapped her legs around his waist as she bucked and ground against him. He took a few staggering steps then placed her back against one of the ancient standing stones and renewed his wild, deep thrusts.

Catherine felt the cold bite of the rough stone against her shoulders as she worked her pelvis in a twisting, grinding motion. Their wild thrusts echoed with the wet sucking sound as his shaft drove into her again and again.

Thrusting into her a final time Ian buried his face in her neck as his seed flooded her velvety sheath in soul wrenching bursts. She ground herself down onto his pulsing shaft as her own orgasm exploded in a white hot flush.

Afterwards, laying in his arms, kissing him with a contentment she had never known she heard the soft jingle of metal in the distance. Suddenly her eyes widened in shock and a scream was torn from her throat! Three soldiers wearing the emblem of the English crown on there tabards were rushing toward them with weapons at the ready.

Ian spun and shoved her roughly to the ground between the stones and leapt for his swordbelt, tearing the sword and dirk free then whirling to meet his attackers.

The first shouted an oath and stabbed at Ian's chest with a pike, which was batted aside with the dirk as Ian's flashing sword slashed across and opened the soldier's throat. The second swung a mighty overhead chop but missed the dodging and twisting highlander only to have the wind taken out of him for his troubles with a boot to the midsection. Ian dropped to the ground and tumbled coming back to his feet with weapons at the ready as the third soldier leapt forward.

The soldier stabbed and parried with his spear, forcing Ian back and on the defensive. Steel rang on steel as blows were struck and parried. Cathrine cowered behind a stone and watched, frozen with horror as the melee ensued. She saw Ian stumble and the soldier's spear slipped past his guard and into his hip. She screamed as she saw the spray of blood glistening in the morning light.

Ian grunted as the spear bit into his side just above his hip. Snarling he batted the spear aside with his dirk and swung a mighty overhead slash, bringing his blade down atop the soldiers skull, biting through the helm and splitting him to the teeth!

The second soldier had recovered by this time and was advancing on Ian who was struggling to free his sword, much weakened by the spear wound.

Seeing the soldier coming, Ian struggled to free the blade from the mangled skull but it was caught tight in the shattered skull and helm. Letting go the sword and staggering back a step he flipped the heavy bladed dirk in his hand catching it by the blade and grunted, throwing it with all his might.

It twirled end over end through the air as if in slow motion to sink into the onrushing soldier's breast with a resounding thump.

Seeing the last soldier drop to the ground dead, Cathrine rushed from her hiding place and into Ian's arms, kissing him hard as the tears streamed down her cheeks.

He reluctantly broke the kiss and stepped away limping over to gather up his gear, strapped on his sword belt and resheathed his weapons. With effort, as his leg was now covered in the blood streaming from the wound at his side, he swung into the saddle of his horse. Fumbling at the side of the saddle for a moment then bringing a bull's horn to his lips and blowing two long wailing notes that echoed through the valley and hills.

Walking the horse over, he leaned down from the saddle, a gentle smile on his lips but his eyes betrayed the amount of pain he was in. Laying a gentle hand upon her cheek and looked into her luminous eyes and whispered "I must go now, lass. But I will never forget these few precious moments I spent with the Maiden o' the Mist."

Brushing his thumb lightly over her quivering lip and then the tears starting down her flushed cheeks. Righting himself in the saddle he pressed the thumb to his own lips and gave her an 'Everything will be alright' wink then tapped his heels to the horse's flanks and they walked out between the ancient ring of stones.

He paused a moment to make sure he could be seen from the valley floor then shouted a battle cry of "The Bruce!". Waving his sword high above his head, he spurred the horse and leapt forth, thundering down into the mists below.

Her eyes brimmed with the sorrow of ages as she slowly turned and drifted away down the hill.

The warming sun rode high in the sky as a soft breeze gently caressed the soft spring grass. Among the swaying grass at the bottom of the hill stood a stone marker with a brass plaque, upon which was inscribed "In 1306 AD, on or about this spot, a unknown highlander sacrificed his life by attacking and leading the army of King Edward I into a moor. His sacrifice successfully slowed the English army and allowed Robert the Bruce and his small band of men the opportunity to escape capture and continue the struggle for Scotland's independence."

Catherine stood and smiled, her eyes still filled with tears and gazed down upon the marker. The name Ian MacGregor scratched into the plaque above "the unknown highlander". Looking up she whispered a goodbye into the breeze then turned and began loading her camping gear into the rented car. She had a long drive ahead of her.