In Bed with the Highlander

Hotel Glencovie, 2013

Researching her family tree brings Moirag McLellan to the
Highlands and a foreboding castle-turned-hotel. She goes to sleep alone
surrounded by modern amenities, but awakens in a room lit only by candles—and
occupied by a gorgeous kilted man. And he’s far too real to be just an erotic
dream...

Glencovie Castle, 1715

Though Gavin MacIver doesn’t know how the lusty wench in
barely-there clothing came to be in his bed, he knows he never wants her to
leave. But if her story of time-travel is true, how can he stop the only woman
he’s ever loved from slipping through his fingers once darkness fades into
dawn?

In Bed with the Highlander

Ann Lethbridge

Dear Reader,

Have you ever wondered what it would be liked to be whisked
back in time? I know I have. As someone who creates stories set in the past, I
can’t help but wonder what it was really like. And that was my inspiration for
this flight of fancy. It also provided an opportunity to write a modern day
heroine and one of those gorgeous Highland warrior heroes most of us dream
about. The nice thing about dreams is that we can imagine them as we want them
to be. All I can say is, lucky Moirag.

If you are curious to know more about me and my writing, you
can find me at
http://www.annlethbridge.com
, AnnLethbridgeAuthor is likable
on Facebook and twittering
@annlethbridge
when the occasion warrants.
Your participation is always welcome.

Ann Lethbridge

Dedication

To my own personal hero, who has more than a little bit of
Scottish blood in his veins.

Contents

In Bed with the
Highlander

Historical
Undone BPA

Copyright

The object floating above the mist in Moirag’s
headlights might have been a UFO hovering over a landing pad, if it didn’t look
quite so much like a castle. Chilly fingers walked down her back. Because it
looked identical to something she’d seen as a child. Something creepy wobbling
on the surface of a bowl of water held by Granny “the auld witch” McLellan as
her mother had called her great grandma. Destiny put out in plain sight, the old
girl had breathed staring into the water at the image of a medieval castle. As a
child, she’d believed it. She’d even studied history at school at Granny’s
suggestion.

Not much call for history. Or superstitious rot as her mother
had called Granny’s strange ideas. A degree in business had proved more useful.
But history remained her passion.

And what she was looking at in her headlights was definitely a
castle, when there hadn’t been one marked on Google maps anywhere near the hotel
she’d booked. Probably one of those private places where they paid to be blacked
out from prying eyes. So where was her hotel? She had to be lost.

Moirag geared down to a crawl and rubbed at the windscreen. Not
fogged on the inside. She flicked the lever. The wipers did a quick one, two and
park. Nope. Not misted on the other side of the glass. Definitely a
pea-souper.

A glance at the Sat Nav on the dash didn’t help, either. It
remained stubbornly blank, having given up the ghost an hour ago. Must be out of
range. The dark shape ahead of her solidified, its stone walls and crenellations
looming out of the mist. There was a sign over a stone arched entrance in the
outer wall. Hotel Glencovie. Really? The description on the internet hadn’t said
a word about it being a castle and there had been no picture to clue her in.

And this place looked more like the setting for a horror flick
than your friendly B and B. The hairs on the back of her neck waved in a
nonexistent breeze. A creepy sensation she didn’t appreciate with fog snaking
over the road ready to swallow her and her car.

She shivered. Enough. She’d so been looking forward to this
little holiday. To exploring the local library and church, looking for family
connections. The finishing touches to her surprise for her parents’ twenty-fifth
wedding anniversary. The McLellan family tree went all the way back to seventeen
hundred and ten. All it needed were a few details about her ancestor, the first,
and apparently very naughty, Lady Moirag Breton.

A quick glance in the rearview mirror revealed a blank wall of
white. No going back to Glasgow tonight. She was here and that was that.

The road took a twist right, and then left, and her lights
picked out the jagged points of a raised portcullis. Water gleamed with an oily
incandescence on her near side. Must be the moat. A little too close for
comfort.

Slowing to a crawl, she eased the car across the wooden slats
of the drawbridge.

The car did a rock and roll number over the cobblestones in the
courtyard. Tarmac was invented by a Scot, but did anyone care about your
springs? Nah. It was all about atmosphere. No doubt she’d be greeted by some old
fogy in a kilt who had a Scottish accent as thick as a steak, only to discover
the man came from Kent or York. That was how it was these days. She pulled up to
the sign displaying the word
Reception
in Gothic
lettering, popped the boot and opened her door.

Five hours on a trip that should have taken three locked her
knees when she pushed off the seat. Standing up, she rolled her shoulders to the
tune of cracking vertebrae. Ah, that was better. A blinding beam of light hit
her full in the face. She blinked madly. Oh, right. Sensor light. At least she’d
be able to pick her way across the courtyard. The heels of her favorite shoes
hated to be jammed between two blocks of stone on any day of the week.

The thick oak plank door opened and...yeah. There he was.
Knobby knees, hairy calves, a swath of green plaid and a foaming jabot. In her
book, the only men who looked good in kilts were the guys in the Willy Lawson
commercials.

Although Alec had looked great in a kilt, the bastard. Another
reason not to trust anything flauntingly Scottish. Thank God she’d discovered
what a rat Alec was and dumped him before he completely cleaned out her bank
account.

“Good evening, Miss McLellan,” the ancient doorman wheezed. “I
will lend you a hand, will I?”

The soft burr of his voice stroked her ears. She hadn’t heard
an accent like that since... God, she could barely remember. A real Highlander.
Things were looking up. “Good evening. Don’t worry, I can manage.”

“It is not a trouble.”

“Thank you, but I prefer to carry my own stuff.” A
top-of-the-line laptop required personal attention and she couldn’t think of
asking such a doddery old chap to carry her suitcase. She never had learned how
to pack light. She heaved her cases out of the boot.

“I’ll be getting the door for you, then.”

“Thank you.” She followed him in. He went behind the desk.
Porter and receptionist, then. A one-man band. Perhaps because she had arrived
so late. While he signed her in, she glanced around a reception area designed
like a medieval hall right down to hammer beams arching overhead, the faded and
tattered banners hanging from the walls and a couple of rusted suits of armor.
Welcome to tacky touristy Scotland. It would be so nice if these places invested
in some real antiques and gave them some loving care. Though, on closer
inspection, the chain mail looked genuinely ancient.

“Your room is on the second floor, Miss McLellan. Number two
hundred and ten.”

She let her gaze following his pointing figure to a set of
spiral stairs winding around a column of smooth gray stone.

Bloody hell. No lift.

Those stairs weren’t new, either. They’d been smoothed into
grooves by centuries of feet. It really was a medieval castle. Had she somehow
got her booking mixed up? Booked a millionaire’s retreat instead of a cheap B
and B in the middle of nowhere? Places like this usually cost an arm and a leg.
Her heart gave a lurch as she thought of the wee bit of room left on her Visa.
Thank you, Alec, the rat. Men. She’d never trust another one as far as she could
toss one with a caber strapped to his back. Tomorrow morning might well be
embarrassing.

What choice did she have? Going back out in the fog was not an
option.

“Right,” she said, shouldering both bags and trudging up and
around and around in ever-decreasing circles until she hit a narrow landing and
a door. Please let this be the second floor—otherwise she’d be tempted to throw
herself off a turret.

Out of breath, sweat trickling in all sorts of unmentionable
places, she opened the door labeled two-ten beneath a low Gothic arch and
stumbled down a step into her chamber. She dumped her bags and glanced around a
room with a ten-foot ceiling and windows at knee level set in walls two feet
thick. Then there was the four-poster bed. A four-poster bed with the drapes
pulled closed.

Hiding what? She whipped back the green damask and sighed.
Thank God. A sprung mattress. Not your twelfth-century straw-padded horror for
that authentic experience. And the pillows looked blissfully soft. And sheets of
pale lemon percale with a count of at least eight-hundred. She gave them a
pat.

Perfect, even if one night did leave her skint for a month or
two.

The narrow room stretched for forty feet, with two windows
overlooking the courtyard. Between them hung a landscape. “The view from these
windows on a summer’s day circa 1715” the caption beneath proclaimed. Smoky
hills and a loch, beyond the turreted walls. Not a person or a black house in
sight. Romantic and sanitized Scotland. Nothing like Grannie’s stories. She
shrugged and continued her exploration.

At one end, some kind soul had set an antique-looking sofa and
a table along with the makings for tea bedside an armoire. At the other, another
arch revealed three stone steps winding up to a door. Please let them arrive at
en suite plumbing. She didn’t fancy trotting down the corridor with her
lally-bag, toothbrush and towel in hand. She trotted over to investigate. The
steps did indeed end up in a bathroom—shower, bath, bidet and a
black-and-white-tiled floor expansive enough for a ball. Lovely. She’d survive
the night. And be on the road in the morning to find a place she could
afford.

Although, a few days might be nice in the back-of-beyond, in a
castle... Quite romantic. If she wasn’t alone.

Duh. Alone was the story of her life, since she kicked Alec the
Snake out of her bed and her apartment. And she was better off, too. She should
just enjoy this unexpected little jaunt into luxury and pay up and look big in
the morning.

The phone on the desk rang. She leaped sky-high. Well, not
quite. Five-inch heels didn’t allow for sky-high. It was her heart doing the
jumping. She picked up the receiver of an old phone with a dial. “Hello?”

“Given the late hour, Miss McLellan, you’ll be wanting your
supper in your room.” The soft voice proclaimed the answer to a question she
hadn’t asked. Why not? At least she wouldn’t have to mix and mingle and be
polite to a bunch of starstruck tourists, if any had been lucky enough to
stumble on this place. Stumble? They’d have had to fight the mist to find their
way here.

She glanced at her watch. Almost ten. She hadn’t realized how
late it was, or how long she’d been driving. “What’s on the menu?” she
asked.

“There’s haggis, and deer and rabbit—”

“Whoa!” And yuck. “I’ll have fish—trout if you have
it—vegetables, no starch and a half bottle of chardonnay. Is that possible at
this hour?” She crossed her fingers behind her back.

“Yes, Miss McLellan. It is, with pleasure. It will be with you
in half an hour.”

“Thank you.” She dropped the receiver into its cradle and
kicked off her shoes. She wiggled her toes to restore some feeling. She loved
those damned shoes, but not after five hours of working accelerator, brake and
clutch.

Half an hour would give her time for a shower. After dinner a
bit of news on the TV and a good night’s sleep would set her up for another
drive in the morning. She glanced around and frowned. Odd? No TV. She poked in
the cupboard in the desk and opened the armoire, which looked like an original
antique, but didn’t find a television or even a radio in disguise. Instead she
found a book on the history of the castle next to the teapot.

Well, she’d hoped to learn something about the district while
she was here. Perhaps this would help.

First thing in the morning, she’d speak to the hotel’s manager,
apologize for the misunderstanding and be on her way right after breakfast.

The shower turned out to be a wonderful gush of hot water,
instead of the halfhearted trickle she’d expected and she’d eaten her dinner
sitting on the bed in her pajamas. After half an hour of the history of
Glencovie Castle, she could barely keep her eyes open. She flipped off the light
and drew the bed curtains closed. Perfect darkness. Ah, she really was sleepy.
All that driving....

* * *

Moirag’s eyes shot open. Her heart was pounding
pneumatic-drill style. She felt nauseous, the way she’d felt as a kid when
someone whirled you round and round before you pinned the tail on the donkey.
Only, she never made it that far. To her it always felt as if she’d been sucked
down the drain with the water from a bathtub. She recalled having the same
feeling when Granny had shown her that image of a castle in the water. Why was
she having it now, in bed? She must have been dreaming. She waited for the
horrible feeling to subside.

God, it was dark in here. Where the hell was here? Right. Road
trip. Castle. Bed curtains. She must have been mad to pull them closed against
the draft from the open window. And what was she doing dreaming about being spun
in circles?

A crash and a curse. Heart racing she sat bolt upright. It
wasn’t a dream that had woken her. Was it someone in a neighboring room? She
cracked the drapes an inch. A shadow against one of the windows cut off the
searchlight-like moonbeams. A shadow that hadn’t been there when she’d turned
out the light. She remained perfectly still, listening.

The shadow was breathing hard. Definitely male. There was a man
in her room. A burglar? He must have scaled the walls and decided her open
window was the perfect way in. She should phone Reception. Blast. The phone was
on the desk at the other end of the room. The heavy-breathing shadow collapsed
on the sofa cursing softly.

Impressive. She hadn’t heard anyone swear that fluently in
Gaelic since she left the Outer Hebrides. She fumbled around on the bedside
table, feeling for the lamp, or something good for hitting an intruder over the
head. Dammit. She should have asked for her computer to be locked in a night
safe. Stupid. So very stupid. And lazy. And introverted.

Her hand knocked into the lamp. No. Not a
lamp...a...candlestick. With a candle in it. She didn’t recall seeing it when
she went to bed. She flailed around. No lamp. What?

Bloody hell. Candlestick it was. She hefted it in her hand and
slid out of bed and onto cold stone. “Who are you and what are you doing in
here?”

Heavy-Breather froze. “I might be asking the same thing of you,
lassie.” He unfolded from his seat, and unfolded and unfolded. His bulk made a
very impressive black hole in the middle of the room.

“Th-this is my room,” she said. Now her teeth decided to
chatter? Not helpful.

“Ach. A
Sassenach
. And here I
thought the castle was still in Scots hands, or I’d never have climbed up the
way. No doubt you’ll be calling for your soldiers then, lassie. I am too weary
to care. And I’d as soon as join the laird as not.”

“Er...pardon me?”

“Granted. For it is my room you’ve stolen.”