Highlander in Her Dreams Page 7

  Kira spun around, the book clasped to her breast. “Thank you. I know the author. He guided a tour I was on years ago. And you must be—”

  “No’ Lord Basil,” the Highlander returned, stepping aside to make way for an aging collie when the dog shuffled in, then plopped down at his feet. “He was the late Lady of Ravenscraig’s English husband. And this”—he cast an affectionate glance at the collie—“is Ben. He’s the true master at Ravenscraig.”

  The dog thumped his tail and looked up, his approving brown eyes saying he knew it.

  “Myself, I’m Alex. Mara’s husband.” He took one of the shortbreads off the table and gave it to Ben. “You have to be Miss Bedwell? My regrets that we were unable to greet you, but”—he glanced at his kilt and shrugged—“we were having a folk afternoon for a gathering of schoolchildren at the Victorian Lodge.”

  He looked over his shoulder at the semidarkness framed by the shop’s half-open door. “You may have seen the turrets of the lodge on your way here. It’s a rambling old pile just the other side of the woodland walk.”

  Kira gaped at him, well aware he was talking, but hardly registering a word he said. Indeed, she was quite sure her jaw was hanging open, but she found herself unable to do anything about it.

  Sir Alexander Douglas had that kind of presence.

  Tall, well built, and handsome, he had rich chestnut brown hair just skimming his shoulders and the kind of deep, sea green eyes she would’ve sworn existed only in the pages of historical romance novels.

  She blinked again, surprised by his kilted perfection.

  And he wasn’t just wearing a kilt. Not like the kiltclad Americans she’d seen at stateside Highland Games. O-o-oh, no. This man really wore his tartan. He was the genuine article, decked out in full Highland regalia, every magnificent inch of him making her weak in the knees.

  Not because of himself, but because he reminded her of him.

  Her Aidan.

  Alex Douglas had that same medieval-y air about him. The only thing missing was the sword.

  But then that, too, was there. A great, wicked-looking broadsword flashing silver at his hip as his plaid seemed to stir in some unseen wind, its eerie passage even riffling his hair.

  Kira swallowed and the image slowly faded. The wind vanished quicker, but the sword lingered to the last. Then it, too, was no more, and the only flashing silver left on him was the large Celtic brooch holding his plaid at his shoulder and the cantle on his fancy dress sporran.

  A MacDougall clan sporran of finest leather and fur with tasseled diamond-cut chains—just like the assortment of various clan sporrans hanging on the wall behind the shop’s till.

  Kira’s heart thumped. Imagining Aidan wearing such a grand sporran nearly made her swoon. If ever a man’s best part deserved such an accolade it was his.

  She swallowed again, feeling heat blaze onto her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “It’s okay. Women always react to him that way.” A pretty auburn-haired woman with a Philly accent stepped forward, extending her hand. “Especially mad-for-plaid American women,” she added, her warm smile taking any sting out of the words. “I’m Mara—pleased to meet you. My father called and told us you might be stopping by. I’m glad you did.”

  Kira took her hand. “I am, too,” she said, her blush deepening because she hadn’t even noticed the woman standing there. “This place is like Brigadoon. Amazing.”

  Mara McDougall Douglas looked pleased. “That was our intent.”

  She threw a smile at her husband, then slipped behind the till to straighten a large framed print of three sword-brandishing Highlanders captured in the midst of what appeared to be a medieval battle fray.

  The print hung beside the display of clan sporrans, and on closer inspection, Kira saw that the sword-wielding Highlander in the middle was none other than Mara’s Alex.

  “That’s you!” She swung around to look at him, but he only smiled and shrugged again.

  “Yes, that’s him,” his wife confirmed, clearly proud. “Alex, and two of his best friends, Hardwic—I mean, Sir Hardwin de Studley of Seagrave—and the big, burly fierce-looking fellow, that’s Bran of Barra.”

  Kira’s brows lifted. “Hardwin de Studley?”

  Her hosts exchanged glances.

  Alex cleared his throat. “An old family name. Goes back centuries.”

  He glanced at the print. “I’ve known him for…years. Bran as well. They were among the most fearsome fighters of their day, their sword skills second only to a certain Sassunach I also had the privilege to call my friend.”

  “Were?” Kira looked at the men on the print again. “You mean they’re dead?”

  “No.” Mara came out from behind the till. “He means they’re expert swordsmen. Alex and his friends are reenactors. They stage medieval battles for our visitors. Mostly in summer when we’re full up here.”

  “Oh.” Kira tightened her hold on Wee Hughie’s book, certain she’d caught Mara shooting her husband a warning glance.

  “I’m surprised Euphemia didn’t mention the reenactments to your mother.” Mara hooked her hand through her husband’s arm. “Alex and his company put on quite a show when she and my father visited last year.”

  Innes tittered. “Ach, that biddie was too fashed about bogles to pay much heed to aught else,” she asserted, pinning her gaze on Kira. “Be you afeart o’ bogles?”

  “Bogles?”

  “Ghosts,” Alex explained, a smile quirking his lips. “Innes is asking if they frighten you.”

  “Maybe a better question would be if she believes in ghosts.” Mara glanced from her husband to Kira. “In America, people aren’t as receptive to such things as over here, where every house, pub, and castle is simply accepted as having ghosts.”

  “Indeed?” Alex looked amused. “So, Kira Bedwell, what do you think of them?”

  “Ghosts? I rather like them. Or rather, the notion of them.” Kira smiled, leaving it at that. She wasn’t about to mention her talent and especially not having already glimpsed the previous Ravenscraig lord.

  If he’d indeed been a spirit.

  She could usually see through ghosts, so she suspected she’d only caught a brief glimpse of the past again, an image imprinted on a path the man often frequented.

  Sure that was the way of it, she turned to Mara. “Do you have ghosts at Ravenscraig?”

  “None that would bother you,” Alex answered again, this time clicking his fingers at Ben, then holding open the door so the dog could trot outside. “You’ll sleep well enough at the Heatherbrae. It should be ready now if you’d like us to see you there.”

  Opening her mouth to say she would, Kira was horrified when a ferocious yawn snatched the words. Blessedly, her hosts had already stepped out the door, and Innes appeared too busy humming to herself to notice.

  Not wanting to intrude on the old woman’s obvious happy place, she did allow herself a quick glance at Wee Hughie’s book before she started after Alex and Kira. Skipping what looked to be long passages of flowery prose about his illustrious ancestors, she flipped right to the illustrations and photographs in the book’s middle, nearly dropping the thing yet again when the words Na Tri Shean leapt out at her.

  Captured in a glossy black-and-white photo, the three fairy mounds sent an immediate shiver down her spine.

  She’d either been there before or would be at some point in the future.

  And in a way that had nothing to do with her assignment for Dan Hillard and Destiny Magazine.

  Giving herself a shake lest her hosts look at her and think she’d seen a ghost, she shut the book and left the shop, walking straight out into the next surprise.

  Scotland’s world-renowned gloaming.

  In the short time she’d been inside the soap-and-candle craft and workshop, the evening had turned a deep bluish violet and soft, billowing mists were descending, sliding silently down the hillsides. The whole Brigadoonish scene was now bathed in a gentle, never-to-be-forgotte
n luminosity she knew Highlanders thought of as the time between the two lights.

  A special and magical time full of mystical promise.

  Her heart jolting at the notion, she made her way down the path after Alex and Mara, hoping that the proximity to Castle Wrath and One Cairn Village’s own magic might let Aidan come to her in her dreams that night.

  He hadn’t visited her in weeks, and she needed him badly.

  Almost feeling his hot and hungry gaze on her, she hastened her steps. Heatherbrae Cottage and her bed loomed just ahead. Soon she might feel his heated touch, lose herself in the mastery of his kisses, and glory in the deliciousness of the Gaelic love words he whispered against her naked skin.

  Kira sighed.

  O-o-oh, yes, she needed him.

  Even if having him make love to her on Scottish soil might prove a greater sensual pleasure than she could bear.

  She just hoped she’d have the chance to find out.

  Only a few hours to the north by car, but many centuries distant in time, Aidan MacDonald prowled the lofty battlements of Castle Wrath, his features set in a fierce scowl. He was feeling every bit the harsh and embittered soul his good friend Tavish had accused him of being. A dark-tempered, coldhearted beast, some of his younger squires had called him when they hadn’t known he’d heard. Remembering the incident now, he raked a hand through his hair and stifled a scornful laugh. Soon the wee kitchen lads would be claiming his eyes glowed red and he hid a tail beneath his plaid.

  Even his guardsmen had fled from him, the whole lot of the quivery-livered night patrol taking themselves off to the far side of the parapets as soon as he threw open the stair tower door and strode out into the mist-hung evening.

  Not that he blamed them.

  In recent days, even his favorite hound, Ferlie, had begun to eye him as if he’d run mad.

  And perhaps he had, he was willing to admit, stopping his pacing to stand before one of the open square-notched crenellations in the parapet wall.

  Full mad and unable to do aught about it.

  Lusting after a dream.

  “Blood of Saint Columba,” he growled, his folly cutting into him as sharply as the razor-sharp steel of his sword. Thoughts of her bestirred him even now, filling his mind with the warm smoothness of her skin and the fine, plump weight of her breasts, her nipples beautifully puckered and begging his caress. The damp, silky-soft heat between her thighs and her sweet moans of pleasure whene’er he touched her there.

  Her fiery passion. For him, his land, and everything he stood for.

  He saw it in the way she would reverently touch his plaid or run a finger over the intricate Celtic designs on his sword belt. How her breath would hitch, her eyes filling with wonder when his world intruded on their dreams and he knew she’d caught glimpses of his tapestried bedchamber, the glowing peat fire across from his bed or the black cliffs of Wrath Isle, visible through the room’s tall, arch-topped windows.

  Marvels, she called such things, shaking her head as if she’d ne’er seen the like.

  As if she loved them as much as he did.

  That passion blazed inside her, too, and knowing it made him appreciate her in ways that had nothing to do with how good she felt in his arms. How just looking at her made him burn.

  His loins heavy and aching with wanting her, needing her now, he jammed his fists on his hips and glared into the thick swirls of mist gliding past the battlements. Chill, cloying, and impenetrable, the mist seemed to mock him, its gray-white swaths blotting everything but the damp stone of the crenellated wall right before him.

  Just as his dreams had begun throwing up an unbreachable barrier, keeping him from reaching her and letting him see only the great void that loomed without her.

  Until tonight.

  Casting one last scowl at the mist, he started pacing again, as keenly aware of her as he’d been earlier, sitting at the high table in his hall, holding council with Tavish and several of his most trusted men, planning their surprise raid on Conan Dearg’s Ardcraig, when a jolt had ripped through him and he’d sensed her.

  Felt her presence, so vibrant and alive he would’ve sworn she’d somehow stolen into Castle Wrath and was suddenly standing right behind his chair.

  Her sweet feminine scent, so fresh and clean, had swirled around him, filling his senses and making his heart slam against his ribs. A scent with him still, even here in the cold dark of the parapets.

  To be sure, it wasn’t his.

  And with certainty not his guardsmen’s, the fools still busying themselves on the other side of the battlements. Each one of the impressionable buffoons doing their best to pretend he wasn’t there.

  Nay, it wasn’t coming from them. Their scent leaned toward armpit and old leather. Wool and linen that hadn’t been washed in the saints knew how long, the whole charming effect enhanced by a slight whiff of stale ale, horse, and dog.

  “Och, aye, ’tis you, my sweet,” he breathed, certain of it.

  His dream vision, tamhasg, or whate’er she was, was near.

  So near he could almost taste her.

  See her eyes light when she caught that first glimpse of him, feel her arms slide around him, drawing him closer, urging him to make her his.

  “Lass.” The endearment came choked, burning his throat as he clenched his hands, willing her to appear.

  When she didn’t, he bit back a roar of frustration and whirled around, turning away from the empty night and striding toward the stair tower. The curving, torchlit steps that would take him back to his bedchamber.

  The massive oak-framed bed and the sleep awaiting him there.

  The dreams.

  His last hope of finding her this night.

  Several hours later, he believed he had, stirring in his sleep when soft kisses bathed his cheek, warm and wet, and hot breath hushed sweetly across his ear, waking him.

  But instead of his tamhasg’s shining eyes greeting him, the eyes meeting his were brown and soulful. Perhaps even a touch worried.

  Canine eyes.

  “Ach, Ferlie.” He sat up and rubbed a hand over his face, his love for the great beast keeping him from letting his disappointment show. “She was here—or somewhere close.”

  But her scent was gone now. His bed most definitely empty, save himself and his huge, shaggy dog.

  Only his surety remained.

  Something in his world had shifted. A current in the air, a ne’er-before-there ripple in the wind. He knew not, but whate’er it was, he’d wager his best sword it had to do with her.

  If the saints were kind, he would learn the answer soon.

  Chapter 4

  She was really here again.

  Kira Never-Give-Up Bedwell, finally returned to the Trotternish Peninsula on the Isle of Skye.

  Castle Wrath was no longer her dearest longing, distant and intangible, but a reality. Better yet, she was already halfway across the high three-sided promontory that held the ancient stronghold’s ruins. A trek she was finding much easier than years before, since this afternoon was calm and bright, without the fierce wind gusts that had made her last visit so treacherous.

  The sheep pats were still everywhere, though. A distinct quiver of ick slid through her, but she ignored it. She’d just watch her step and pretend the piles of black goop weren’t quite so prevalent.

  Not that she really cared.

  She blew out a breath that fluffed her bangs as she shot a sideways glance at the nearest such obstacle. Fact was, she’d march right through the stuff if need be.

  If doing so meant catching another true glimpse of her Highlander.

  Savoring the possibility, she inched as close to the edge of the cliff as she dared and peered down at Wrath Bay. Its waters glistened blue in the autumn sunshine, the deep scorings in the smooth flat rocks of the small, crescent-shaped strand staring back at her just as she remembered.

  Furrows that, according to Wee Hughie, tour-guide-cum-author, were caused by the keels of countless Clan Dona
ld galleys being drawn onto the shore.

  War galleys. She was sure.

  Greyhounds of the sea. Their heyday marked by grooves that must’ve taken centuries to form. Deep indentations in stone that might not even have been visible in her Aidan’s time.

  But they were there now—telltale remnants of long-ago days.

  Kira’s pulse quickened. Much as the past beguiled her, there was only one part of it she ached to seize.

  If only she could.

  Her heart pounding, she edged even closer to the precipice, a sheer and dizzying drop to the stony beach below. She squinted to see better, her gaze focused on the tide as it surged up and over the rocks and kelp. Brilliant sunlight glinted off the incoming swells, making the water glitter like jewels, but it was the ancient keel marks that continued to hold her attention. Each centuries-old groove was a not-to-be-denied reminder that he once walked there.

  He’d been a part of this place where she now stood, and knowing that made her want to pull the clip from her hair, throw off her jacket, and run the rest of the way.

  Fly across the grass until she reached Castle Wrath’s tumbled walls and moss-grown arches, then collapse before the remains of his stairwell. The dark, downward-winding stair that led, she was sure, straight into Aidan’s great hall.

  There, where for a brief, torchlit moment she’d seen him.

  Heard him speaking to her as he ascended the tight, corkscrew steps. She shivered, remembering how he’d reached for her, pulling her against him and lowering his head to kiss her, only to vanish before her eyes.

  A feat he could not possibly do again, she saw, reaching the place where she’d looked into his stairwell.

  The steps were gone.

  The inky darkness that had stared back at her only to suddenly blaze with torchlight was no more. Even the gap had vanished, leaving only a narrow crevice in its place. No longer yawning, it taunted her. A mere slit in the grassy, nettle-covered earth, the whole of it barely a foot wide and hardly adequate to peer into.