The Ravenscraig Legacy Collection: A World of Magical Highland Romance Page 2

  Now she was hearing voices that weren’t there.

  Her preciously seized alone time was rapidly deteriorating. And even though this particular trip had landed her one-man touring company, Exclusive Excursions, a handsome profit, enough was enough.

  This was not amusing.

  She had neither the time nor inclination to start hearing things, and if her current clients posed a sampling of the kind of people who did, she didn’t want any part of such dubious capabilities.

  Shuddering, she became aware of the faint throbbings of an approaching headache and reached to rub her forehead. Soon she’d part company with the ghost-busters. One more day, a too-long plane ride across the Atlantic, and she’d never have to see them again, wouldn’t have to listen to any more of their outlandish stories.

  Still, the real-sounding slur had her peering into every corner of the dimly lit back room of Dimbleby’s Antique and Curio Shoppe.

  A simple precautionary measure, just to be certain that nothing but disorder and a few very good dust-covered pieces shared the room with her. Satisfied she’d scrutinized every possible hidey-hole, she turned her attention back to the unusual four-poster bed she’d been examining.

  Never in all her travels had she seen anything as remarkable. Fashioned of fine old oak, smooth and blackened by age, the bed’s sheer presence dominated the room.

  It had to be old, really ancient.

  Drawing an awed breath, she trailed her fingertips down one of the richly carved posts. Cool and satiny to the touch, the feel of the aged wood sent a tremor of excitement rippling through her.

  How many centuries had it taken to create such a patina? Whose skilled hands had so lovingly crafted the intricate design of thistles and oak leaves adorning the bed’s massive headboard and ceiling?

  She sighed, a wistful smile curving her lips. Who had been born, died, or made love, in such a regal bed? The possibilities were as endless as her imagination.

  “Magnificent, hmmm?”

  Once more, Mara jumped, her eyes flying wide. For the second time that day, a chill sped down her spine. But this time the male voice behind her didn’t sound angry.

  And certainly not as smooth and deep.

  Merely very English, and overlaid with the slight touch of superiority inherent to some antique shop owners.

  Straightening, Mara took a deep breath and squelched the flare of self-consciousness such haughty individuals sometimes roused in her.

  Then she turned around and her flash of insecurity slid away.

  The highly cultured voice belonged to a rather nondescript man somewhere in his fifties. Of slight build, he wore a rumpled suit of light gray and had carefully combed his thinning hair across a bald spot on the top of his head.

  And even though he was standing erect as if he’d swallowed a broom, Mara topped him by a good three inches.

  For once glad of her height, she nodded agreement. “Yes, it is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She glanced at the bed. “Is it Tudor?”

  The man rubbed his chin. “Could be, but I suspect it is much older, perhaps fourteenth century. I wouldn’t be surprised if it dates back even earlier. It’s most unique, the finest piece of medieval furniture you’ll find outside a museum.”

  He studied her with sharp blue eyes. “I’m afraid it’s quite dear.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to buy it,” Mara said, wishing she could. “I was just admiring it. Do you know its history?”

  “Only what I can surmise, Miss... ?”

  “McDougall. Mara McDou --” A resounding crash snatched her words, the loud bang reverberating through the room and jarring the glass and porcelain antiques.

  Mara froze. Her nerves sprang to life again, and icy little prickles broke out all over her. She looked at the Englishman, but he appeared totally unperturbed.

  “It’s only the window.” He indicated a milky double-hung affair across the room. “It’s a bit dodgy and sometimes slams down on its own,” he added, arching a brow at her. “I trust it didn’t alarm you?”

  “No-o-o, not at all,” Mara fudged, not about to admit the noise had set her reeling.

  Rubbing her arms, she regretted not wearing a sweater. A jumper as the Brits called it. Sheesh, of a sudden, she was freezing. Enough that she could hardly believe her teeth weren’t chattering.

  She hoped she hadn’t caught Nellie Hathaway’s cold. The ghost-hunting bookkeeper from Pittsburgh had been sneezing without cease ever since they’d spent the night in a cemetery outside Exeter.

  “It’s a bit cold in here,” she said, still trying to rub away her gooseflesh.

  “Cold?” The man gave her a quizzical look. “But it’s quite stuffy, my dear.” As if to prove it, he produced a white linen handkerchief and dabbed at his brow. “Word is, this is the hottest June we’ve had in decades.”

  Mara bit her tongue. Something was seriously wrong. It was so cold she could hardly think straight. Only an Eskimo would consider the room even halfway warm.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” the man was saying, clearly oblivious to her discomfort. “Donald Dimbleby, proprietor, at your service. It is a pleasure to see a young American interested in antiques.”

  Mara blinked, determined to focus on him and not the room’s iciness. “A lot of Americans like antiques.”

  Donald Dimbleby sniffed. “Ah, but are they interested in a piece’s origin and history or merely wanting a quaint bit of Merry Olde to take home with them?”

  “I couldn’t take home this bed even if I could afford it. I’d have no place to put it,” Mara said, thinking of her minuscule Philadelphia apartment.

  The massive bed wouldn’t fit into her living room and bedroom combined - even if she threw out everything else to make room for it. A pang of pointless regret shot through her at the thought, but she shoved it aside and smoothed her hand along the bedpost again.

  To her surprise, it now felt warm beneath her touch.

  Slightly heated, and somehow charged, as if a strong electrical current sizzled and leapt beneath the wood’s smooth surface.

  “You don’t know the bed’s history?” She glanced at the proprietor, her fingers tingling.

  “Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to trace its origin. A great pity, as I am certain it has a fascinating background.” He pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket and donned them before moving to the elaborately-carved headboard.

  “Take a look at this.” He touched a finger to the graceful swirls of decorative leaves. “These are oak leaves. They represent valor. Such symbols were chosen with great care because the qualities depicted were directly related to the bearer. Therefore, we can assume the bed belonged to a baronial family or perhaps a knight.”

  A knight. Mara’s heart jolted, the very word setting her insides a flutter. “You can tell that by the design?”

  A pleased blush colored Mr. Dimbleby’s face. “Heraldry is a hobby of mine.” He cocked a speculative eye at the headboard. “Now, the thistles might mean the bed came from-”

  “Scotland?” Mara supplied, certain of it.

  After all, her genealogy-obsessed father had embarrassed her often enough by filling their modest suburban home with plaid and thistles, even once bribing her with a spring break trip to Fort Lauderdale if she’d stencil thistle borders around the bathroom ceiling.

  The proprietor lowered his glasses a notch and looked at her over the rims. “Quite right,” he agreed. “The thistle represents Scotland. But even though I acquired the bed at an Edinburgh antique show, I tend to believe it has its origins in England.”

  Mara ran a finger across one of the oak leaves. “Why? Because the oak is associated with England?”

  That, too, she knew. From her passion for medieval history and also from having escorted so many tours through English country manors.

  But Donald Dimbleby shook his head. “Could be, but I would say because of the bed’s fine craftsmanship.” His voice took on a slight edge of condescension. “
Nothing against our northern neighbors, but in those days, I’m afraid the English would have been far more advanced in creating such pieces. For instance, this bed can be completely dismantled and put back together with surprising ease. The Scots would not have been so skilled at that time.”

  “My ancestors came from Scotland,” Mara said, and a blast of Arctic air hit her full in the face. “I’ve never been there, though.”

  Mr. Dimbleby gave her an indulgent smile. “With a name like McDougall and hair such a lovely shade of copper, I’d already guessed you’d have Scottish roots. I-” He broke off at the shrill of a telephone.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, already disappearing through an opened door on the far side of the room, which he closed firmly behind him.

  Left alone, Mara turned back to the bed.

  It fascinated her. Grasping one of the posts with both hands, she rested her cheek against its solidity and closed her eyes, tried to envision the bed as it must have been centuries ago.

  Blessed with a vivid imagination, she soon conjured a dashing knight in a mailed hauberk carrying a fair-haired maiden up a winding turret stair, then gently lowering her onto the sumptuously-dressed bed.

  What would happen then would be the stuff of dreams, perhaps even legend. She could ‘see’ the knight undress his lady, pictured him admiring her nakedness. He’d touch her in ways that would cause beautiful warmth and tingly pleasure to gather at her center. Then he’d disrobe as well, pulling her hard against him, kissing her with so much heated passion…

  How she would’ve loved being such a gallant’s lady.

  Such a bed would be perfect for medieval lovers.

  Those long ago days were gone, but the four-poster had lived on and she could almost feel its heartbeat beneath her fingers. A pulse or remnant of distant times, and that was a connection she found positively scintillating.

  Chill bumps rose on her arms again, but this time her shivers had nothing to do with the cold.

  These were delicious shivers, accompanied by a quickening of her breath and hot little rushes of sheer delight. To a lover of old things, such as she was, almost orgasmic.

  She didn’t need designer shoes or the latest ‘in’ purse.

  Antiques did it for her, the past exciting her more than anything the modern age had to offer.

  She drew a tight breath, absorbing the little knight-and-his-lady dream she’d spun.

  If only she’d lived in the age of romance and chivalry.

  Instead, she was Mara luckless-in-love McDougall, fated to run a business that, at times, stretched her nerves just so she could catch occasional whiffs and glimpses of the long ago world that so fascinated her.

  She let out a heavy sigh. Like it or not, she lived in the here and now. And if she wanted to see England again after this trip, she’d better not indulge in flights of fancy. A combination of hard work and creativity had allowed her to build Exclusive Excursions into a semi-thriving business.

  Not mooning over what ifs and might have beens.

  Somehow she’d survive this last evening of playing mother hen to the proud cardholders of the Society of Intrepid Ghost Hunters. And, as always, she’d pass the months until the next tour with a flurry of industrious advertising and planning. Then, before she knew it, she’d be back on the next London-bound plane.

  Little else mattered.

  With a distinct twinge of regret, she pushed away from the bedpost. She had just enough time to catch the Tube to Victoria Station, dash the few blocks to her bed-and-breakfast, then ready herself for the night’s festivities.

  No more time to fantasize about mail-clad knights with slow, lazy smiles and heated glances. She didn’t need to think about what they might do with their hands. How hotly they’d kiss, curling a girl’s toes, making her melt.

  She had to be away.

  But when she turned to leave, she slammed into a wall.

  A solid, well-muscled male wall.

  Quite possibly the most beautiful man she had ever seen. And without doubt the tallest. Faith, she had to tilt back her head to look at his face. Something she’d done fewer times than she cared to admit, not being exactly a petite miss.

  Mara stared at him, her heart making embarrassing little flip-flops. He wore close-fitting brown hose and long-sleeved tunic of the same shade, with a wide leather belt slung low around his hips. Fine brown boots finished his outfit, and for one startling moment she imagined she caught the flash of a long sword at his side.

  But she blinked and the sword was gone, leaving only him and his dark, savage beauty. His intensity wrapped around her, bold and seductive, his deep-seeing gaze seeming to burn away her clothes until she felt fully exposed.

  Naked.

  Perhaps even a bit tingly.

  It wasn’t every day a man’s mere gaze seared her so intimately. She felt aroused, devoured deliciously. Titillating sensations she’d best not dwell on, so she bit her lip before she could sigh and risk revealing her attraction.

  How easily her long-neglected femininity could grow hot and achy if he didn’t soon stop looking at her in a way that made her feel as if he’d stepped right out of her most heated dreams to tempt her, and knew it!

  Trying not to blush, she eyed him as well, her own measuring stare sliding over him with equal daring.

  Not only much taller than any man she’d ever seen, he was simply beyond perfection. Full magnificent, he even looked like a knight with his rich chestnut brown hair skimming his broad shoulders and such an indescribable air of power thrumming through him that she could hardly breathe.

  Forcing herself to do just that, she resisted the urge to reach out and twine her fingers in his hair. Just to see whether it was real. With shimmering highlights the color of sun-warmed honey and every strand gleaming with such a lustrous sheen, his hair really did give him an uncanny resemblance to a dashing hero in some fusty old museum portrait.

  But more than his strapping build and handsomeness, it was the draw of his incredibly intense eyes that captivated her.

  Sea green eyes a woman could drown in.

  She could see forever in them.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t appear equally enamored. Animosity poured off him, and he’d crossed his arms in an unfriendly posture. Worse, now that he’d practically melted her, he wasted every hunky inch of his appeal by pinning her with a frigid stare.

  No more hot body-roaming glances to beguile her and send long, liquid pulls tingling through her darkest, most secret places.

  Now, his burning gaze held only arrogance.

  Perhaps even fury.

  Annoyed, Mara drew herself up. His looks didn’t matter at all so long as he glowered at her as if she had the pox. Her heart pounding, she swept her hair over one shoulder, her agitation growing. Maybe she could lose a few pounds, but she wasn’t that bad.

  Or perhaps he’d heard her talking and didn’t like Americans?

  If so, there was an easy remedy.

  She’d wow him with charm.

  “Hi,” she said, flashing her best smile. “I’m Mara McDougall.”

  He remained stony-faced, not even bothering to acknowledge the gesture. If anything, his frown deepened.

  Mara swallowed, moistened her lips. Maybe he expected her to apologize? After all, she had plowed into him, and with considerable force.

  Yes, that was surely his problem.

  He wanted an apology.

  “Look, I’m sorry I bumped into you.” She was happy to give him the boon. “It won’t happen again.”

  “With surety, it shall not,” he agreed, stepping closer. “The bed is mine, wench. Begone.”

  “Are you for real?” Mara blinked. Her heart knocked against her ribs.

  There was that accent again. Warm, rich, and buttery-smooth. The purest Scottish burr she’d ever heard, now recognizing the musical cadence she’d only caught a hint of before. And he wended his burr in such an annoyingly sexy manner that another little rush of desire curled through h
er belly.

  But wench and begone?

  Not to mention bluidy MacDougall bastards.’

  Bristling, Mara took a few steps backwards. “Good looks and a hot accent aren’t a license to be rude,” she said, giving him a look she hoped would say even more.

  She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his scowl darkened. Looking hostile, he drew himself to his full height, put back his shoulders, and glared at her.

  Squaring her own shoulders, she returned his stare. “And the bed isn’t yours. It belongs to Mr. Dimbleby and it’s for sale. Maybe I’ll buy it.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You are a MacDougall.”

  “So? What’s my name got to do with it?” Mara’s foot began tapping. “I already know you don’t like McDougalls.”

  “No one of that ilk will ever sleep in my bed. I forbid it.”

  “Of that ilk? And you forbid it?” Mara could feel her jaw dropping. “What is this, some kind of joke?”

  He stalked to the headboard. “I jest you not,” he said, his green gaze leveled on her in clear menace.

  Mara shook her head. “You jest me not? What kind of English is that?”

  “The king’s English,” he declared, his gaze burning her. “Leastways when he deigns to speak that foul tongue.”

  “The king’s English?” Mara echoed, placing her fingertips on her temples and pressing hard. Either she was imagining this conversation or one of them was not quite right, and she hoped it wasn’t her. “What happened to Queen Elizabeth?”

  To her surprise, he blinked and an expression very close to perplexity crossed his face. But the slightly dazed look disappeared in a heartbeat, quickly replaced by another fierce scowl.

  A look scathing enough to send her on her way, and good riddance. She’d had her share of fruitcakes lately. She didn’t need an encounter with another, especially an ill-mannered one. Whether he had an irresistible something about him that made her think naughty thoughts or not, it didn’t matter. He was lucky she had the restraint not to tell him to bugger off.

  Determined to leave before her temper could set off the tic beneath her left eye, she whisked past him and made it halfway through Dimbleby’s before she stopped in her tracks.