A Highland Winter Wish (A Scots Through Time Romance #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Present Day

The chandeliers glittered like ice above Dawson Carrington’s head, throwing fragments of light across the marble floors of the Grand Ballroom—the same ballroom where he’d closed the Al-Rashid deal two years ago, where he’d celebrated a hundred victories that felt increasingly like losses.

All around him, Abu Dhabi’s elite sipped champagne and murmured polite congratulations as if he’d done something worth celebrating.

He hadn’t.

Oh, the award was real enough—some shining thing with his name engraved across the base, recognition for his latest philanthropic venture funding clean water systems across sub-Saharan Africa.

Important work. Necessary work. Work that his team had executed flawlessly while he’d stood on a stage and smiled for the cameras.

The emcee’s voice droned on through the speakers, listing his accomplishments like items on a grocery receipt.

“Youngest person to summit all Seven Summits... first solo crossing of the Empty Quarter... revolutionary advances in sustainable adventure tourism...”

Dawson took a long drink of sparkling water and wished it were something stronger. The bubbles stung the back of his throat, sharp and brief—like everything else in his life. The problem with having a great deal of money and doing everything was that eventually, you ran out of things left to do.

“Carrington! Hell of a speech.”

He turned to find Alex Harris grinning at him, a hedge fund manager with too-white veneers and a bespoke watch that cost over a hundred grand. They’d met on Kilimanjaro three years ago, back when Dawson still got a thrill from thin air and the endless sky.

“Appreciate it,” he said, because that’s what you said at these things.

“Listen, a few of us are heading to my yacht after this. You should come. Bring that energy, you know?”

Alex winked like they were old friends instead of passing acquaintances who happened to chase expensive hobbies and occasionally crossed paths in the wilderness.

“I’ll think about it.”

He wouldn’t. He’d go back to his hotel suite, answer emails until his eyes burned, and fall asleep watching the lights of the city blur into meaningless constellations.

Alex drifted away, and Dawson found himself standing alone near a column, watching couples sway on the dance floor.

A woman in emerald silk caught his eye and smiled.

She was beautiful and obviously interested in him—blonde, polished, with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly what she wanted.

A year ago, he might have smiled back.

Tonight, he felt like a man made of carved wood, going through the motions of being human.

She reminded him of Catherine. Of all the Catherines, really—a string of women who’d been perfect on paper and utterly wrong in real life.

Accomplished, gorgeous, ambitious. Women who matched his lifestyle, understood his schedule, and eventually grew tired of competing with mountains and oceans for his attention.

“You’re not looking for a partner,” Catherine had said the night she’d left. “You’re looking for someone to witness your life. That’s not the same thing.”

She’d been right. He’d known it even then. But he hadn’t known how to be any different, how to just be without already looking to the next exciting thing.

His phone hummed against his chest. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and read the text from Margaret, his assistant of eight years.

Board meeting moved to Thursday. The Mozambique well project needs your signature before the end of the week. Also, your mother called again.

He’d call her back. Tomorrow. Or the day after.

She’d only ask when he was coming home for his father’s seventy-fifth birthday dinner, and he’d have to admit he didn’t know where home was anymore.

The penthouse in Manhattan? The villa in Tuscany?

The eco-lodge he’d built in Costa Rica? He owned properties on four continents and felt at home in none of them.

Dawson slipped through the crowd toward the balcony, needing air that didn’t taste like perfume and ambition.

Outside, the December night was warm and thick, the Persian Gulf stretching out beyond the hotel’s manicured gardens.

The humidity clung to his skin, making his dress shirt stick to his shoulders.

He leaned against the marble railing and closed his eyes, listening to the distant sound of water lapping against the hotel’s private beach.

This is what winning feels like. Empty. For a moment he envied the guys who came home after work to find a woman waiting, maybe making dinner, happy to see them. What would a life like that feel like?

“Mate, I’m telling you, it changed my life.”

Dawson blinked and looked down. Below him, on the lower terrace, a group of men stood in a loose circle, drinks in hand. Tech sector, by the look of them—expensive casual wear and the kind of confidence that came from IPOs and venture capital money.

“What, learning to swing a sword?” one of them scoffed. “Come on.”

“I’m serious!” The speaker was young, maybe late twenties, with the fervor of the newly converted.

“Three days on the Isle of Skye. We trained with this ex-military guy—full Highland warrior experience. Archery, broadsword combat, hand-to-hand with dirks, horseback riding through the mountains. No phones, no distractions. Just you and the land and this... I don’t know, man. This feeling.”

“A feeling.” The skeptic in the vintage band t-shirt took a drink. “Very scientific.”

“Mock me all you want. I’ve been chasing deals for five years, and nothing—nothing—has made me feel as alive as standing on those cliffs with a sword in my hand.”

Alive.

The word hit Dawson like a stone to the chest. When was the last time he’d felt truly alive? Not the adrenaline rush of a dangerous climb or the satisfaction of closing a deal. The kind of alive that made you grateful to be drawing breath.

He pulled out his phone and typed.

Highland sword fighting Skye Scotland.

Half a dozen results appeared. He clicked the first one.

Highland Warriors Retreat. Experience life as a 17th-century Scots warrior. One week immersive program on the Isle of Skye. Limited availability.

Dawson scrolled through the photos—windswept cliffs, an ancient stone circle, men in kilts demonstrating combat techniques against a backdrop of mountains and sea. It looked dramatic. Possibly ridiculous. Definitely different from anything he’d done in the last few years.

Below him, the tech bros had moved on to discussing cryptocurrency. Dawson opened his calendar on his phone. He had meetings scheduled through New Year’s. Conference calls, investor dinners, a keynote speech in Singapore.

He could cancel it all. He had an excellent staff. The world wouldn’t collapse without him for a week.

His thumb hovered over the booking button.

Youngest person to summit all Seven Summits. First solo crossing of the Empty Quarter.

And for what? So he could stand on balconies at galas, watching other people pretend to live?

He pressed the button and paid, not even blinking at the astronomical cost.

The confirmation email arrived thirty seconds later, followed immediately by an itinerary. There was a connection through London that would get him to Inverness by tomorrow evening. From there, a car to Skye. He could be swinging a broadsword by Wednesday.

For the first time in months, something that felt almost like anticipation stirred deep in his bones.

Dawson pocketed his phone and straightened his tie. He had a gala to escape, a plane to catch, and absolutely nothing left to lose.

The Isle of Skye was every bit as dramatic as the photos had promised, but no camera could capture the way it felt—the wind that cut straight through to your bones, the smell of salt and peat smoke, air so clean it made your lungs ache, the sense that the land itself was watching you.

Dawson stood in the courtyard of the training center, a converted stone farmhouse that looked like it had been standing since the Middle Ages.

His breath misted in the air, and his ass was numb from the long drive up the winding coastal road.

He’d barely slept on the flight, too wired with an energy he couldn’t name.

“Right then.” The man who strode across the courtyard toward him was exactly what you’d imagine a Highland warrior instructor to look like—broad-shouldered, scarred, with a beard that would make Vikings envious and eyes that didn’t miss a thing.

“You must be Dawson. I’m Fletcher. Former Royal Marine, been teaching weapons combat for fifteen years. You ever handle a blade before?”

“Does a letter opener count?”

Fletcher’s mouth twitched. “We’ll make a Highlander of you yet. Come on then, let’s get you sorted.”

The first day was humbling in ways Dawson hadn’t anticipated. He’d climbed Everest, crossed the Empty Quarter alone, free-dived with great whites off the coast of South Africa. He was fit, disciplined, and generally capable of making his body do whatever his mind demanded.

But sword fighting was different.

“Your problem,” Fletcher said after watching him swing at a training dummy for the fifth time, “is that you’re fighting like you’re trying to prove something. A blade doesn’t care about your ego.”

Dawson lowered the practice sword, breathing hard. His shoulders burned, and his grip was already blistering despite the leather wrappings. “Then what does it care about?”

“Balance. Intention. Being present in the moment instead of trying to anticipate three moves ahead.” Fletcher demonstrated a basic strike, his movements fluid and economical.

“You’re in your head too much. Stop thinking and start feeling.”

It was the kind of advice that would have made Dawson roll his eyes coming from anyone else. But there was something about the weight of the sword in his hand, the cold bite of the wind off the sea, the way Fletcher moved like violence and poetry combined—it made him want to master the blade.