My Scottish Summer

by Connie Brockway

  Her anticipation-filled heart beat rapidly as she tried to keep up. But what excited her was something much more powerful than the prospect of seeing the secret room. It was the thought of being with Colin—of being loved by Colin and loving him back.

  Suddenly he scooped her into his powerful arms and ran up the circular stairs, past the gallery and the bedroom where she’d slept the last week, past nearly a dozen other rooms, until they reached the double doors at the end of the hall.

  Colin stopped, and she could feel the thrum of his rapidly beating heart against her breasts. “Here it is. The room you’ve been looking for.”

  He had to be mistaken. “But… isn’t this your bedroom?”

  “Aye. It’s the one place in the castle that you never bothered to search.”

  “Because you told me your bedroom was off limits, remember?”

  She couldn’t miss the blazing intensity—or the desire in his eyes—as he held her close. “I promised not to touch you, Emily. If I’d found you here—stroking my bed, photographing desserts on it, doing everything in your power to tempt me—no oath would have held me back.”

  “Is that the secret of the room?” she asked, threading her fingers through his thick, wavy hair, loving the feel of his body close to hers. ‘That people can’t keep from touching each other once they’re inside?”

  “I don’t need a secret bedroom to make me want to touch you,” Colin said. “If I did, I’d be sorely out of luck because there is no secret room in Dunbar Castle.”

  What? She pulled back just enough to hit him with a questioning frown. “Could you repeat what you just said?”

  He kissed her ear and whispered, “There is no secret room.”

  Emily angled her head until their noses touched, and felt her eyes narrowing as she glared at him. “You mean to tell me I spent a week searching for a room that doesn’t exist?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I made that perfectly clear when we met. Because I wanted you, and you wouldn’t have stayed here if there hadn’t been a room to search for.” His warm, tender lips trailed along her jaw, to the hollow beneath her ear, making her quiver inside. “I want you even more now, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were still more interested in the secret room than you are in me.”

  “I’m very interested in you.” She kissed him and a low, desire-filled sigh escaped her lips. “I’m anxious to strip you naked and make mad passionate love with you. I’ll feed you chocolates and fine whisky, and maybe, just maybe”—she sighed again—“you’ll tell me why so many people think there’s a secret bedroom in Dunbar Castle.”

  “All in good time.” He put the key in his bedroom door, shoved it open with his foot, and carried her across the massive, dark-paneled room to the huge, intricately carved four-poster bed.

  He was tender, loving, and a master of seduction, and in no time at all she was lying in the very center of the plushy mattress, caught in a swirl of black satin covers, and Colin—her devil—stretched his long, strong body over hers.

  “There is no secret bedroom,” he said, wrapping one of her springy red curls about his finger, “only a story about a bed—this bed—that’s been misinterpreted. Over the centuries it’s been told and retold so many times by the villagers that they no longer know the truth.”

  “Do you know the truth?” she asked, working his shirt out from the waistband of his jeans, and smoothing her fingers over the heated skin of his back.

  “Aye.” He kissed her, and she thought for a moment he’d forget to tell her the story, but he spoke as his lips softly caressed her mouth, her cheeks, her chin. “Remember Gillian telling her tour group about my ancestor Alexander having a bed specially made for him in France?”

  Emily nodded.

  “The bed was made in France. And it was made extra large. But Alexander had it made as a wedding present for his wife. He loved her and she loved him—an unheard of occurrence among the Dunbars. This was the bed they first made love in and Alexander believed it had special powers, because he never slept with another woman after his wife. More important, he never wanted to.”

  “And this had to be kept a secret?”

  “Just as Alexander created the secret recipe for Dunbar whisky and handed it down to his son, he also told his son that this bed would bring eternal love to any Dunbar laird and the woman he brought to it.”

  Colin laughed as he rolled over on the bed and carried Emily with him, holding her close, weaving his fingers through her springy hair and gazing into her eyes. “We Dunbars have been a sorry lot. Gamblers. Womanizers. Men who believed in myths and legends. Some believed them so strongly that they kept this bed hidden away in an unused part of the castle for centuries.”

  She touched his face just as he touched hers. “You mean no one wanted to take the chance of falling in love?”

  “No Dunbar wanted to risk being with just one woman for all eternity. No Dunbar, that is, until me.”

  She smiled at his declaration of love, but worried that he had too much faith in the legend. “It’s just a myth, Colin. You don’t believe it, do you?”

  “I believe what I feel for you, that’s all that matters. I’d never been in love until you walked into this castle. I never wanted to fall in love, never wanted to marry. But since that day I saw you on the security monitors, I’ve thought of no one else. Myths and legends are fine for marketing and making money, but when it comes to love—the only thing that matters is what two people feel for each other.”

  “What do you feel, Colin?”

  “That I never want to let you go.” He drew her face to his and kissed her gently. “Of course,” he said, rolling over again in the massive bed and covering her body with his, “I believe in that myth enough to think we should make love in this bed—just a wee bit of insurance that you won’t ever go away.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Colin. I love you, more than I ever thought it was possible to love, and this is where I want to be—now and forever.”

  “Now and forever,” Colin repeated, and Emily sighed with happiness as her Highlander’s mouth swept over hers.

  She’d come to Scotland to find lust, seduction, and sin, but she’d found a most powerful and intoxicating love instead. He was delicious. He was Scottish. And oh, yes, at times he was a wee bit sinful.

  PATTI BERG

  Always a romantic, USA Today best-selling author Patti Berg spent her childhood dreaming about being whisked away by a knight in shining armor, a devil-may-care swashbuckler, a sheik on a shiny black stallion, or a broad-shouldered cowboy with a Stetson tilted low on his brow. Now she spends her days making up stories where her heroes do whatever she wants them to. It’s almost as good as a dream coming true, she confesses.

  Patti lives in northern California with her husband and real-life hero Bob and a very fat cat named Tootsie, who rules the house. She loves to hear from her readers. Please send email to patti@pattiberg.com or through her website at www.pattiberg.com.

  Maddening Highlander

  DEBRA DIER

  Dedication

  For my darling Sarah Louise, Mommy’s special inspiration.

  1

  “Aye this is a photo of Ann Fitzpatrick. Do you mean to say you actually had an investigator poking about in Ann’s life?” Rose Matheson looked indignant as she handed the photograph back to Iain. “You, a man who knows how dreadful it is to have people prowling about in his private affairs?”

  “I didn’t probe deeply into her personal life. I certainly did not violate her privacy.” Iain Matheson sat on the edge of the large claw-footed desk in his library, facing his grandmother’s displeasure. With her blue eyes wide behind the round lenses of her pink-rimmed glasses, she looked like a queen unhappy with one of her subjects. Over the years Iain had grown accustomed to this particular look of outrage in her eyes. He saw it each time his name appeared in one of the gossip magazines. Fortunately, he always managed to melt the icy
scorn. “I simply needed to know if Ann Fitzpatrick was who and what she said she was.”

  Rose raised an eyebrow imperiously. “Apparently you no longer trust my judgment.”

  “It is not that at all.”

  “Since I invited her to stay, it certainly appears that way.”

  “I was a little suspicious of her story.”

  Rose huffed. “Because of the company you keep.”

  “Gram, a woman comes out of nowhere and claims she has just found the long-lost journal of Adair Matheson in the attic of a house in Chicago, of all places. She convinces my grandmother to invite her to Dunmarin for the summer to search for the Matheson jewels. It seemed a good idea to find out something about her.” Iain winked at his grandmother. “For one thing, I needed to make certain she wasn’t a reporter.”

  “A reporter. I hadn’t considered she might be a reporter. After that incident at Christmas, I suppose I should have thought of the possibility.” Rose sank into one of the leather armchairs near the desk. She smoothed her hand over the knee of her tweed slacks while she fixed a chilling gaze on Iain. “Of course, our family never needed to concern itself with reporters until a few years ago.”

  Iain grinned at his grandmother. “Father told me to enjoy myself while I was young. I am only doing what he advised.”

  “And a fine job you are doing of it too.” Rose folded her hands on her lap. “Ann is a dear sweet lass, genuine in every regard. I am certain you found nothing at all to incriminate her in any way. She certainly is not at all like most of the females you tend to keep company with.”

  Iain flinched at the well-aimed barb. Too many times he had discovered that people were not what they appeared to be. Ann Fitzpatrick seemed to be an exception. Aside from her career as a professor of archaeology at Chamberlain College outside Chicago, her interests centered on her family. She lived with her grandmother. She had two sisters—Carol, who was three years older, and Ellyn, who was two years younger. Both sisters had married and started families. Ann spent her free time baby-sitting for her nieces and nephews or taking the children out on excursions. Except for her reputation for being a little absentminded at times, her colleagues had nothing but praise for the pretty professor. “Apparently she—”

  “If you didn’t keep company with such unreliable women, you might be quicker to believe a dependable one,” Rose chided him. “If your great-grandfather thought it was all right to allow her great-grandfather to stay here, I am thinking it is all right to allow Ann to do the same.”

  “I don’t mean to say it isn’t, Gram. I just wanted to make certain Dr. Fitzpatrick is who and what she claims to be.” He leaned forward and kissed Rose’s cheek, inhaling the sweet scent of lavender. “And apparently she is. Your judgment was completely sound. I hope you can understand why I took the precaution of checking into her background.”

  A smile played about Rose’s lips, and warmth entered her blue eyes. “Well, now, I suppose you were just being cautious. Although cautious is hardly a word I am accustomed to associating with you. I suppose I can understand why you might have been doubting the honesty of a woman you did not know.”

  “I am glad you understand.” A woman he did not know. A woman he had never met. Iain glanced down at the folder lying open upon his desk. His investigator had included photos of Dr. Ann Fitzpatrick, photos that depicted a slender, rather serious-looking woman in her late twenties. He lifted a photo that showed her standing at the lectern in one of her classes. Although she was not beautiful in the classical sense, there was something about her that intrigued him. He could imagine being a young man in her class, watching her, wondering what it might take to make her smile.

  Iain couldn’t explain it, but each time he looked at her photo, he felt an odd sense of familiarity, as though he had known Ann all of his life. He had shifted three business meetings to come to Dunmarin earlier than he had planned, simply because he was anxious to meet the pretty professor from Chicago. “Where is the good professor this morning?”

  “Ann has gone exploring. I think she intended to take a look at the caves.”

  “The caves.” A chill crept through him. “She went exploring the caves. Alone?”

  “I don’t imagine she will do anything reckless. Ann appears to be a very sensible young woman. She knows how dangerous the caves can be. I’m sure she intends to just poke her head in and take a look around.”

  Iain glanced at the tall case clock standing against the oak wainscoting in one corner of the room. It was nearly ten. The rising tide would have devoured half the beach by now.

  “Is something wrong, dear?”

  Iain hoped there wasn’t. “I wonder if Dr. Fitzpatrick has remembered the tide.”

  “Don’t panic,” Ann Fitzpatrick whispered to herself, her voice swallowed by the roar of the sea. Morning sunlight glowed upon a fine veil of mist hovering at the mouth of the cave, less than ten feet away from where she stood. Safety lay in that mist. Yet it might as well be a hundred miles from her.

  Her hands trembled as she gripped her leg. She tried twisting her foot, hoping to free herself from a stone crevice in the floor of the cave. Her foot wouldn’t budge. Waves lapped at her knees, the icy water soaking through her jeans. Chills prickled across her skin, like frost painting a lacy pattern upon a windowpane. She had lingered in the caves longer than she had planned, distracted by a truly fascinating artifact she had found.

  It didn’t take a Ph.D. in archeology to understand the tide. From the watermarks on the stone walls, she knew the tide would rise in this part of the cave to at least six feet deep, a good five inches above her head. If she couldn’t pull her foot free, she would drown. It was that simple. She now understood why an animal caught in a trap would chew off his foot to free himself.

  Death by absentmindedness.

  “Please, don’t let that be my epitaph.” Ann pressed back against the wall of the cave, shivering, fighting the panic growing inside her. She tried to breathe, but the salt-tinged air hitched at the top of her lungs.

  Would Rose notice that Ann had not returned to the castle from her hike? Would she think of the tide? Ann only wished she had remembered the tide. Perhaps Rose would send someone looking for her. Of course, by then it could be too late.

  If she could loosen the laces of her hiking boot, then perhaps she could free her foot. She bent to work at the laces, her hands burning from the cold water. A wave crashed against the mouth of the cave, tossing foam into the air. The water roared, like a hungry beast wild with the scent of prey. The dark water plunged through the mist. It rushed into the cave, slapping the black stone walls. Before she could brace herself, the water slammed into her. Caught in the powerful grip of the wave, she threw out her hands, trying to save herself from the fall. Water flooded her mouth, her eyes, her nose, burning like salt in an open wound.

  The rushing wave tossed her toward the belly of the cave as though she were a piece of driftwood. She struggled, fighting the water’s pull, anchored to the floor of the cave by her trapped foot. The force of the rushing water pressed her down against the floor of the cave. She clawed her way through the water. She was not about to drown. Not here. Not now. She had not come to this remote island off the west coast of Scotland to end up as another tragic statistic.

  A shadow crossed her periphery. Her right hand connected with something firm and warm. In the next instant, strong hands closed around her arms. Someone lifted her, pulling her through the churning water. When her head popped up from the water, she gulped at the air, inhaling salt and spray along with it. A spasm of coughing gripped her as her rescuer lifted her to her feet.

  A man was holding her in his arms, shielding her from the pounding waves. She leaned heavily against his chest, her hands sinking into the thick soft wool of his sweater. He held her close against his big body, his arms cinched around her in a powerful embrace, his warmth radiating against her, while a paroxysm of coughing cleared her lungs of a small portion of the Atlantic.

&n
bsp; When the spasm passed, she drew air into her burning lungs. A fragrance of citrus and spices swirled through her senses, easing the burn of salt from her nostrils. She turned her head against his chest, instinctively seeking more of his scent, his sweater warm and soft against her chilled skin, a sharp contrast to the hard plane of muscle beneath the white cabled knit. In spite of the fear gripping her, she acknowledged an odd tingling sensation rippling through her, an excitement that came from the mere presence of this stranger.

  Startled by her own reaction, she tipped back her head and looked up at the face of her guardian angel. One look, and she knew if this man had ever been an angel, he had fallen from grace a long time ago. Hair as black and shiny as a mink fell in thick windblown waves around his face. Eyes darker than her deepest fear regarded her from beneath slanting black brows. Strong lines and angles shaped a face that could lead a woman straight to ruin— and had in fact done so on numerous occasions.

  Although the photographs Ann had seen of him did not do him justice, she recognized the finely chiseled features of this man. Only now, standing close against him, did she truly understand the reason women kept tossing themselves into the inferno that was Iain Matheson.

  She was a scientist. Her work dominated her time. Reason and logic ruled her life. She certainly was not the type of female who allowed a handsome face and splendid body to spoil her judgment. Yet here she stood, caught in a most peculiar web spinning around her, a force more compelling than the might of the ocean raging a few yards away from them.

  In spite of the cold grip of the ocean, heat simmered through her in a tingling, swirling current that turned the air in her poor abused lungs to steam and melted her insides into hot chocolate. The roar of the ocean faded to a distant hum in her ears. The world seemed to contract and expand all in the same moment. She felt oddly suspended, as if time had caught its breath, making the rest of the world pause for this one startling moment.