Last night the dream had come again, as it had every night since he had met Ann. This morning, as he lay in a tangle of bedclothes—heart pounding, skin tingling, hunger clawing at his vitals like the talons of a hawk—he finally understood something that had escaped him before he had heard Ann’s sweet confession. The scene that kept unfolding in his mind each night had meaning in it—a meaning that defied logic; but logic had such an insignificant place in nature. The sea. The beach. The powerful need to possess Ann. The fact she was sharing his dream. It all made sense. If he was willing to accept the truth of a legend.
He lowered his gaze, sweeping the long length of her legs. Although she wore jeans, they were not the type that hugged her every curve. Her dark red sweater hung loosely from her shoulders, providing only a hint of the curves beneath. She never wore anything that exploited her natural loveliness. Yet it didn’t matter what she wore. He could imagine the woman hiding beneath the layers. He felt as though he knew each sleek curve of her legs, every intimate inch of her slender form.
Ann turned and caught him staring. Even though she stood in the shadows beyond the sunlight, he could still see the rise of her blush. She glanced away from him, as though she were afraid of what might happen should she hold his gaze. “I think I should… I don’t believe I have apologized for my behavior last night. And I should. I do.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t usually drink.”
“You did nothing to offend me.”
She glanced at him, then directed her gaze toward the stone floor. “You behaved as a gentleman. I appreciate the fact you didn’t take advantage of the situation.”
“It wouldn’t have been fair.”
“It is funny, the tricks the mind can play on a person when she is under the influence of whisky.” Ann rubbed her hands together. “You say and do things you normally wouldn’t.”
“You were simply enjoying yourself. There is no need for all of this regret.”
“I… it would probably… I would hope we can forget last night.” Ann cleared her throat and continued before he had a chance to reply. “It would seem I have managed to hit another brick wall this morning. The Sentinel isn’t here.”
“Would it really be so terrible if you cannot find it?”
“It would mean I couldn’t continue with Owen’s work.”
“Are you really chasing your own dream?”
“My own dream. What do you mean?”
Iain shrugged. “It seems to me that you have been chasing after Owen’s dream since you were a child. I wonder if your desire to see his dreams come to fruition might have caused you to ignore your own.”
“Of course it’s my dream to find Edaín.” Still, in spite of her words, she looked unsure of herself. She moistened her lips. “This is important to me.”
“And it’s dangerous. Except for Cameron Macleod, no one who has ever gone looking for Edaín has ever returned. And Cameron vanished when he went back for proof of what he had found. Perhaps the sidhe don’t want anyone to expose them.”
“Perhaps the sidhe don’t want anyone to expose them?” She rubbed her arms, as though she were chilled suddenly. “If Edaín exists, it hasn’t been inhabited for a few thousand years.”
He shrugged. “Time means nothing to the fairies.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I suppose you want me to believe that you actually believe in fairies.”
“And here you are, searching for a lost city of the fairies. I have read your great-grandfather’s journal. According to Owen’s notes, he believed these people existed. In fact, he believed it was possible that some remnant of the civilization of the Tuatha De Danann existed in his day. How do you reconcile your disbelief of the existence of these magical people with your quest to find their city?”
“There is often some kernel of truth in a legend. I suspect that is what my great-grandfather meant when he said these people existed. For some reason the people known as the sidhe, the Tuatha De Danann, the fairies, whatever you wish to call them, had technology that set them far ahead of most other people of their time. But there certainly is no such thing as magic.”
“I was born and bred in the Highlands. Raised upon tales of magic and mystery.” Iain glanced out the door, toward the castle that had stood for generations of his family. “Here we know there is more to life than what we can see and touch. Who is to say all the stories of fairies and magic are not true?”
“Magic has no basis in scientific fact.”
He looked at her, meeting her steady gaze. “Life is far more than science and fact.”
She held his gaze, as though she were trying to decide if he were being serious. “You actually believe in fairies?”
He drew in his breath, filling up his lungs with the salty tang of the sea, while he craved the scent of her skin. “I believe in the possibility of fairies. There are too many stories, too many myths, too many legends, to completely say they never existed.”
“The next thing you will tell me is that you truly believe your ancestor was a selkie.”
“I have reason to believe it is true.” Until he had met her, he had never truly given the legend much thought. Now, he could not ignore it. “Do you ride?”
She stared at him. “A horse?”
“Unless you have something else in mind.”
Ann pursed her lips. “I’ve ridden a few times. I am not an expert rider, but I’m not frightened of horses.”
“I have a nice gentle mare I think you will find to your liking. Take a ride with me after lunch.”
“I would like to keep focused on the matter at hand, not on the lark you have in mind.”
“You have so little faith in me. After lunch, take a ride with me, and I will show you something extraordinary.”
Ann looked at him warily. “Just what is it you want to show me?”
“Ah, now that would be taking a bit of the shine off the surprise. Come with me and I’ll show you.” Iain winked at her. “I promise, you’ll not be disappointed.”
9
Curiosity. Ann kept thinking of what they said out cats while she rode beside Iain along a bridle path that wended through the woods. She swayed in the saddle with the gentle gait of Fennella, the chestnut mare Iain had given her to ride. The tang of cedar chips rose from the path, tingling her senses. It would have been lovely, if she could just relax. Yet she felt as though something alive were trapped inside of her, something wild and restless and frightening. She suspected it had something to do with Iain’s comments about following her own dreams. Unfortunately, the man riding beside her played far too large a role in those dreams.
When they left the woods and entered a broad field, Iain halted his horse and turned to look at Ann. “Do you think you can manage a little gallop?”
“I think I might.”
“Come on, then.” Iain urged his large black gelding into a gallop.
Fennella didn’t need any encouragement from Ann. She leapt into a gallop, following the gelding. Ann leaned forward in the saddle, trying to adjust to the rocking of the horse, while Iain looked as though he had been born in a saddle. Iain led the way across a wide meadow, scattering a flock of geese who had gathered around a large pond. A breeze heavy with the salty tang of the sea whipped the hem of Ann’s sweater and tugged at her hair, dragging strands free of her ponytail. Fennella’s mane streamed wildly in the wind, brushing against Ann’s hands. A wonderful sense of freedom filled her as she felt the horse stretch out beneath her.
Iain rode toward the sea and brought his horse to a halt near a twisted oak tree just beneath a rise that led up to the edge of the cliffs. When Ann joined him, he grinned at her. “You’re smiling. I like to see that.”
Ann tried to suppress her smile and failed. She stroked Fennella’s velvety neck. “She is a very gentle lady.”
“Aye, she is.” He dismounted, then lifted Ann from the saddle.
Iain held her just a moment longer than he needed— nothing overt, nothing threatening, but the simple touc
h of his hands on her waist was enough to set her legs trembling like gelatin in an earthquake.
After removing the horses’ bits to allow them to graze, Iain took Ann’s arm and helped her climb the steep rise that led to the edge of the cliffs. When they reached the cliff path, Iain glanced past Ann, directing his gaze toward the castle. The cool breeze had sketched color high upon his lean cheeks and tossed his hair into reckless waves. He looked like a handsome pirate straight out of an old movie, the kind who could steal a woman’s heart as easily as he could wield a sword. Her own poor heart kicked into a sprint just being near him.
“At times like this, it is easy to imagine that we have stepped back in time.” Iain kept his gaze on the castle as he spoke. “I like to think each of the Mathesons who have come before me once stood on this very spot and looked with pride at their home.”
Ann looked back at the castle. Mist swirled in from the sea, embracing the gray stones of the huge structure. Sunlight sparkled on the mist, like a sprinkling of fairy dust. Although she had never placed any credence in the Celtic myths and legends she had studied, looking at the many turrets and spires and towers of Dunmarin, Ann could almost believe it existed in a different realm, a place of mystery and magic. Since she had never been plagued with a belief in magic, her thoughts startled her—but not as much as the sensations swirling through her.
It was odd, this feeling of familiarity. As though she had stood here like this before, many times. She probed the thoughts, seeking clarity. Yet it was like poking at images reflected on mist. Each time she tried to get a clear view, they shifted. In each image flickering in her mind, Iain was always there. The fashions altered, the style of his hair changed, marking the passage of time. Yet the man himself did not change. He touched her arm, and she jumped.
Twin furrows creased the skin between his thick black brows. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” She was just having glimpses from lives that she had never lived. Memories she could not possibly have made. That was all. Just a bout of insanity. “Nothing is wrong.”
Although he looked doubtful, he did not question her further. Instead he led the way down a path that dipped toward the rocky beach. The soft barks of sea lions lying on the rocks offshore mingled with the crash of waves and the occasional cry of a gull. About fifty feet before they reached the beach, he turned into a cave, the entrance partially hidden by an overhang of stone.
The thin beam of his flashlight reflected against the smooth black stone of the cave walls, illuminating their way. Occasionally crystals embedded in the stone caught the light and sent it back in a sparkling rainbow of color. Although the walls were dry, the scent of the sea lingered here, fresh and tangy.
Iain followed a twisting trail through the cave, taking turns at each junction, as though he were as familiar with this place as he was Dunmarin. After about ten minutes, they came to an arched opening that led outside. They stepped out of the cave onto a wide shelf carved from the sheer rock face of the cliffs.
It was the size of the library at Dunmarin, with three walls of rock, the fourth open to the sea. Mist swirled in from the sea, embracing the sculpted stones that stood in a ring in the center of the clearing. Each obelisk stood five feet from the ground. Twelve stones in all shaped a circle open to the sky.
“A fairy ring,” she whispered.
“Aye. It is one of three I have found on the island. This is the only one still intact.”
Ann knelt to examine the symbols carved into the side of one of the obelisks. When she touched the carved black stone, sensation darted along her nerve endings, as though she had touched a softly vibrating tuning fork. She snatched her hand away, then touched the stone once more. The same vibrating sensation rippled along her arm.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Iain knelt on one knee beside her. “It is almost as if the stones were tapped into some hidden source of power.”
Ann rejected the doubts rustling inside of her. “There must be a scientific explanation for it.”
“Perhaps.” Iain tilted his head and regarded her a moment, a glint of mischief in his dark eyes. “And then perhaps it is magic.”
Ann shook her head, trying also to shake the odd feeling gripping her. “There is no such thing as magic.”
“Ah, lass. How can a woman with a name like Fitz-patrick not believe in the magic that is all around us?”
“Perhaps because I believe in science and logic.”
“Come with me.” He took her hand, helped her to her feet, then coaxed her into the center of the circle. “Close your eyes, lass.”
She narrowed her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t see the excitement surging through her. “What do you have in mind?”
“Nothing as black as you might imagine. Close your eyes for me.”
Although he kept his voice low, she saw the determination in his eyes. He was a man on a mission. “If you think I shall suddenly believe in magic because—”
He pressed his fingertip against her lips. “Humor me, Professor. Just close your eyes.”
Ann hesitated before she obeyed. She closed her eyes, feeling foolish and edgy. Still, she had no intention of allowing him to see how easily he could disrupt her thought functions. She sensed him moving around her, until he stood behind her, so close the heat of his body brushed against her. When he rested his hands on her shoulders, she looked back at him. “What are you dong?”
“Relax. I’m not doing anything but touching your shoulders. Now close your eyes.”
Ann turned back to face the ocean. Sunlight skimmed the rolling waves, tossing light in all directions. Strange, it felt as though that same sunlight flickered inside her. She took a deep breath, then closed her eyes, curious about what he had in mind.
“My grandmother Rose is fond of saying that there is a wee bit of enchantment in each of us.”
His dark voice washed over her, as though it were a tangible thing, like the thick warm fur of a Persian cat. “Superstition is more like it.”
“I found this place when I was ten. And even then I knew there was magic here.”
“Ten-year-olds often believe in magic,” she said, her attempt at sarcasm spoiled by the breathless sound of her voice.
“I still do, lass.” He brushed his lips against her hair. “I feel the magic when I am with you.”
It was a line. It could not possibly be true. Men such as Iain Matheson did not fall head over heels in love with women such as Ann, except in fairy tales. Still, she could not find the will to pull away from him. He was so warm, so powerful. And deep inside her, she wanted to believe in the sweet treason of his words. She wanted to believe in the magic she felt flowing through her each time he was near.
“Do you feel it, Professor?” he whispered.
She did feel it, a vibration that rippled softly through her. “The only thing I feel is the cool breeze upon my face and the warmth of you behind me,” she said, refusing to betray herself.
“My fine bonnie lass, open yourself up to the possibilities.” Iain rubbed her shoulders, his hands strong and sure, melting away her tension, even when she tried to remain stiff. She felt herself easing in his hold, her muscles shifting, her body seeking more contact with the man who stood so close behind her.
A warm smoldering scent of citrus and spices swirled through her senses. The warmth of Iain radiated against her, seeping through her sweater, drenching her skin. Somehow every touch, every scent, every whisper, seemed sharper, clearer, than she had ever experienced in her life. It was as if this place, these stones, were somehow magnifying each sensation. Certain sensations should not be magnified, not safely. A sane voice shouted in her brain, Run! Yet she could not find the will to pull away from his light grasp.
“Imagine for a moment that time has no meaning.” Iain slipped the elastic cloth-covered band from her hair. Slowly he combed his fingers through her hair, from her crown to her nape.
She should end this. Now. Yet the gentle touch of his hand upon her hair begged her to stay,
just a little while. He eased his long fingers through the thick, waving mass of her hair, skimming over her neck, sending shivers rippling across her skin, like a breath of breeze whispering across a silent pond. She held her breath, waiting for the next caress of his hand, shamelessly hoping there would be more. He slipped his fingertips into her hair, gliding upon her scalp, her neck, skimming the hairline, back and forth, sensation whispering over her skin.
“Imagine that you once stood here,” he said, his voice streaming over her like warm rain upon a parched garden, “in this place of enchantment, open to the power of the earth itself.”
The breeze brushed a lock of her hair against her cheek, the ordinary strands sliding like silk upon her skin. The warmth of his body spread over her, warm as sunlight. He glided his hands down her arms, grazing the dark red cotton of her sweater. Her skin simmered with the need to feel his hands upon her, bare except for the whisper of the breeze and the brush of sunlight.
“My bonnie Ann, do you have any idea how much I want you?”
His words rippled over the pool of longing hidden deep within her. He gripped her hips and lifted her, until she could feel the hard bulge of his arousal pressing against her bottom. She could feel herself weakening, her will dissolving in the heat he conjured within her. The need for him curled into a tight fist that pounded deep in her woman’s flesh with each quick beat of her heart. It took every last scrap of her will to keep from moving against that tempting ridge.
He was a notorious womanizer. She was crazy to stand with him this way. Yet even as the sane words formed in her mind, her body rejected them. For some reason she did not begin to understand, she felt as though she had known this man all of her life and beyond. For what seemed an eternity, she remained locked in his arms, trapped by her own wrenching need.
“I need you, Ann,” he whispered, sliding his hand inside her sweater. He cupped her breast, then brushed aside the lace of her bra.
My Scottish Summer Page 24