Highlander in Her Bed (12 page)

A picture postcard of a Highland village of old, One Cairn Village would consist of a ring of whitewashed cottages, each one boasting a bright blue painted door with a window on either side. The most idyllic spot would be chosen, a special place thick with gorse and heather and views of both the sea and the surrounding hills.

A haven.

A cozy retreat to attract MacDougalls and other Scottish Diaspora, with each cottage hiding a tiny craft or workshop that would offer everything from Innes's handmade candles and soaps to Celtic jewelry, woolen goods, heather honey, and pottery.

Gaelic and piping lessons could be given, and one cottage, the largest, would house a state-of-the-art research center for those eager to trace their own Scottish roots.

MacDougalls willing to stay and work at One Cairn Village would be made welcome. Other visitors could stay in smaller, equally quaint holiday cottages or the Victorian-style lodge she hoped to build near the village.

An ambitious plan, but doable.

If MacDougalls aching for a piece of the Auld Homeland took the bait and came.

Determined that they would, she opened one of Lady Warfield's old-fashioned ledgers and ran a finger down the rows of carefully penned names and addresses.

Each one represented a member of Mara's extended family. Far-flung clan members who just might thrill to the thought of contributing a trade or talent to One Cairn Village.

Or at least wish to visit.

She'd scanned only a few pages when the spidery handwriting began to blur.

She couldn't concentrate.

"Not true," she grumbled, helping herself to another oatcake.

She was concentrating beautifully.

But on how good the hottie Scottie would be in bed, damn his gorgeous Highland hide!

Damn her for being attracted to him.

Frowning, she rubbed her hands together and blew on her palms. The temperature seemed to have dipped twenty degrees in the last two minutes.

Even Scottie and Dottie must've had enough of the frigid room, because Dottie suddenly gave a sharp little yelp and leapt off the window seat. Quick as lightning, she streaked out of the library, Scottie racing close on her heels.

Most likely
he'd
fled as swiftly, might even be halfway back to London by now. After the way she'd attacked him on the strand, she couldn't blame him.

What kind of a man would hang around after the woman he'd rescued from certain death thanked him by springing on him like a banshee?

Heavens, had she really
bitten
him?

Feeling shame about that part of it, she took a deep, unsteady breath. She'd sure blown it this time.

Not that she should care.

He had poked a finger against her clit, after all.

And a
circling
finger to boot!

She closed her eyes, stifled a groan.

Why did she always have such bad luck with men? Where was the knight in shining armor she'd been waiting for all her life?

And why couldn't she think about anything but Alexander Whatever-His-Name-Really-Was?

A man who thinks he's Sir Galahad.

That was a major problem.

Harboring secret fantasies about dashing knights was one thing. A modern-day man who claimed to
be
one was something else altogether.

That's where her Philly street smarts made her draw the line. She knew too much about loonies to allow herself to fall for one.

No matter how tempted she might be to go along with his little game, even for a short while. Knights no longer roamed the countryside, ravishing fortunate maidens. Those days were sadly over.

The chances of being swept off one's feet by a strapping, irresistibly sexy knight were about as likely as the odds of running into one of the many ghosts said to haunt the British Isles.

She bit back a hoot.

Her last tour had taken her to nearly every supposedly haunted manor house and pub in southwestern England, and she hadn't seen a single spirit.

Except the kind served in pint glasses!

Ghosts just didn't exist.

And neither did medieval knights… much as she might wish otherwise.

Truth was, she could use a few knightly kisses. Wild, searing kisses. Deep, open-mouthed zingers, full of breath and tangling tongues. And
intimate
kisses. Especially those. She'd only fantasized about such pleasure. Each time she did, a delicious tingly heat rippled across her sex. What bliss to have a knight slake such a blaze.

A Scottish knight whose husky-rich burr flowed through her like molten gold, warming and melting her. Just
remembering
his voice made her dizzy with need.

She just didn't want to be manhandled.

Or deceived.

It'd be far too easy to lose her heart to a man who was the living, breathing stuff of her dreams.

Too bad in hottie Scottie's case, he was also a roaming nightmare.

She sighed. Her head ached and the dull throbbing at her temples was making her eyes hurt. Trying to ignore the discomfort, she reached for the ledger and stared at the faded writing until the squiggles and loops ran together.

"Blast!" she snapped, shoving aside the book.

She needed to get her mind on something else.

Such as figuring out why castles never seemed to have central heating. The chill in the library went right to the bone. A penetrating cold the participants on her last tour would have called otherworldly.

Having none of that, she shot to her feet and strode to the nearest wall of books, made herself examine the impressive leather-bound volumes.
The Age of Chivalry, Knights in Medieval Society, The History of the Tournament
.

She groaned.

The throbbing at her temples worsened.

Such titles were not what she needed to see. Even so, she somehow found
The Age of Chivalry
in her hands, its heavy, gold-leafed pages opening as if by magic to a color plate depicting a crusading knight from the thirteenth century.

He knelt on one knee, his hands raised in silent supplication. Crosses adorned his flowing surcoat and a wicked-looking sword hung from a belt slung low around his hips.

She stared at the crusader, her heart thumping. Her mouth went dry. The queerest tingles started racing up and down her spine. Not because of the beauty of the oh-so-romantic knight, his chivalry and valor caught forever in the pages of a book.

O-o-oh, no. That wasn't it at all.

Nor was it the sudden cold breeze blowing past her cheek. A chill wind that swirled round her, raising gooseflesh and letting her know something was in the library with her.

No,
someone
.

And she knew exactly who.

Her breathing stopped, the very world seeming to hold its breath.

It was useless denying it.

She spun around. "You!" she cried, the high-pitched voice impossibly hers.

He smiled. "Oh, aye, that is who I am."

Mara swallowed, not about to argue with a nutcase. The book fell from her fingers. She hardly noticed, just stared at him, wondering how such a strapping man could move so silently.

And possess such grace and yet thrum with so much incredible masculinity. Sheesh, every tall, broad-shouldered inch of him took her breath, and his slow, lazy smile sent a dangerous excitement coursing through her.

She frowned, narrowed her eyes at him. "How did you get in here?"

"Many are the ways," he said, the smile tilting. He stepped closer, his sea green eyes filling with silky menace. "Lady, you would be astounded by the wealth of my…
abilities
."

Mara clamped her lips and said nothing.

He laughed and whistled the tune to "Highland Laddie."

"You!" Her eyes flew wide. "You were the piper!"

He placed his hands on his hips, looking pleased with himself. "Did I not say my talents would astound you?"

She backed up, bumped into the wall of books. "Some might say I am more astounded by your audacity."

"Ahhh, but your wit pleases me, Mara," he said, smiling at her in a way that banished the cold. "Or rather, it would did you not carry such a blighted name."

The cold returned. "Men are searching for you." Mara stood as tall as she could, took care to pull in her stomach. "Even now, as we speak."

"And do you think they'll be finding me? Or will you be calling out for them?" He leaned close, brushed a velvety-smooth kiss across her lips. "Somehow, I dinna think you will be," he murmured against her ear.

Mara went still.

Of course she wouldn't be crying out. She couldn't speak at all.

He towered over her, his eyes darkening as he reached to touch her cheek. Watching her, he slid his fingers along her jaw, down the side of her neck. The intimacy of his caress undid her, made her heart beat wildly and her nipples tighten. Any moment, her knees were going to buckle.

She knew it, could feel it coming.

Her total capitulation.

And there didn't seem to be a thing she could do about it.

She swallowed. "Who are you?"

But he'd stepped back, his dark gaze no longer on her but on the fallen book at their feet. Somehow, it had landed still opened to the beautiful crusading knight. Her Highlander was staring at the page, a ghost of a smile playing across his lips.

"I have told you who I am, but you did not believe me," he said then, a harsh note in his voice. Sure enough, when he looked back at her, the smile was gone. "So I have come to give you a chance to redeem yourself. My honor demands it."

Mara blinked, the sensual spell he'd been weaving round her instantly broken. "Just what is that supposed to mean?" she demanded, jamming her hands on her hips. "Why am I supposed to
redeem
myself? You're the rude one, not me. And you're trespassing, too. I could have you arrested."

Unfazed, he bent to pick up the book, closing it with care. "Lady, were I not so wroth with you, you would amuse me," he said, arrogance streaming off him. "You are besotted with a painted knight and peruse books on chivalry, yet you know nothing of chivalrous behavior. A knight's honor."

Mara's cheeks flamed. "I know you're a first-class loony. And I'm not besotted!"

He arched a brow, still looking completely unimpressed. "Aye, you know nothing," he repeated, setting down the book. "If you did, you'd be wary of the words you choose."

Mara's heart took an uneasy little dip. Something about his tone and the hardness of his expression frightened her.

She drew a deep breath. "Then why don't you tell me what it is I'm supposed to know?" she challenged, forcing a bravura she didn't feel. "Just spare me the knight bit, will you? I'm not in the mood for jokes."

His face darkened. "I told you once that I do not jest, lady."

"So now I'm a
lady
! And twice already." She jutted her chin at him. "Thank heaven for small miracles. I was getting tired of being a wench."

" 'Tis a foul tongue you have, Mara MacDougall."

"All the better to give you a piece of my mind," she shot back. Angling her head, she waited for his rebuttal.

But it didn't come.

Instead, he folded his arms and stared at her. Carefully checked anger rolled off him in waves and an uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Her knees began to tremble, and the pounding of her blood in her ears was becoming deafening.

"Don't stare at me like that," she said, unable to bear his silent, burning gaze. "Say something."

"My name is Sir Alexander Douglas," he obliged, speaking in a low voice as controlled as it was smooth. "I am indeed a knight of the Scottish realm and it was my king, the good Robert Bruce, who granted me the holding of Ravenscraig Castle. On my journey here, to claim Isobel MacDougall as my promised bride, I was ambushed and killed by her cousin Colin and his men. Since then it has been my sworn duty to keep their benighted issue from my bed."

He took another step closer, capturing her chin so she couldn't look away. "The bed was to have been my bride gift to the bitch. And it was she who plotted my murder."

Mara jerked away from him, reeling backward until she collided with the table. She stared at him, too stunned to breathe. "Let me get this straight," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. "Are you telling me you're
dead
?"

"I am neither dead nor alive," he said, as calm as day. "That, my lady, is the pain of it."

"Then what are you?"

He cocked a brow. "You truly cannot guess?"

Mara shook her head. "I'm not sure I want to know. I—"

A great clap of thunder swallowed her words, an ear-splitting
boom
that shook the windows and floor and knocked out the power, plunging the library into inky darkness.

Mara gasped, her hands flying to her chest. She half expected him to pounce on her then and there, but when the lights flickered and came back on, he'd moved and now stood before the door.

"How did you get over there so quickly?" She pushed away from the table, bolder now that the long length of the room separated them. "No one can move that fast."

"Say you?" A corner of his mouth lifted in bemusement. "Did you not know ghosts have but to wish and can be anywhere they desire?"

"There's no such thing as ghosts," Mara insisted, freezing again.

"A pity you do not believe me," he said, looking anything but remorseful. "I shall now have to convince you otherwise."

Don't bother
, she tried to say, but the words jammed in her throat.

Hottie Scottie was making her a gallant bow, backing out through the doorway. "Until we meet again, my lady," his voice floated back to her.

And then all was silent.

She was alone once more.

She stood frozen, gaping at the empty threshold, the gloom beyond. Chills swept up and down her spine, and if her heart beat any faster, she feared she'd have some kind of seizure.

Sir Alexander Douglas
, he'd called himself.

A romantic-sounding name.

A knight's name.

And one of the great Bruce's own sworn men.