by Allie Mackay
But Mara froze on threshold, and gasped.
And not at the sweeping sea vista visible beyond a wall of tall, arched windows, nor at the beautiful painted beamed ceiling.
No, it was the strange-looking woman in the middle of the room who stole Mara’s breath.
Plump, frizzy-haired, and middle-aged, the woman looked more like she should be stirring the kettle in a gypsy camp than standing beside a dining table set for one in Ravenscraig’s quiet great hall.
Definitely Bohemian, her eyes were tightly closed and she held her arms out to the sides, her fingers wiggling as she rocked to and fro.
“I feeeel your presence,” she called in a low, keening voice. “I know you’re here.”
“Mrs. MacIntyre!” Murdoch’s face turned beet-red. “Do you want our new lady to think you’re daft?” he scolded, falling into a rich burr. “Get a hold o’ yourself and say good day to Miss McDougall.”
Prudentia MacIntyre snapped out of her trance-like state immediately. “Communing with the spirits is important, as you’d be wise to appreciate,” she charged, her dark eyes flashing annoyance. “Lost souls need compassion.”
The old man drew back his shoulders. “‘Tis you who’ll be the lost soul if you dinnae stop such nonsense.”
Ignoring him, the cook turned to Mara. “There’s a new presence here,” she announced. “A man. He is very angry and I think it has something to do with you.”
“Hell’s bells and damnation!” Murdoch shook a fist at her. “Out with you now, and dinnae show your face again until you’ve come to your senses!”
“I only wanted to warn the miss.” Prudentia scalded him with an indignant look before she sailed from the hall, her apron straps flapping behind her.
“She is Ravenscraig’s ghoulie, that one,” Murdoch muttered as he pulled out Mara’s chair. “She’s for hearing a ghost’s wail in every curlew’s cry. Pay her no mind.”
And Mara didn’t. Especially not when, a short while later, Murdoch returned to escort her to her room. Pleasantly full after her dinner of cheese, soup, and oatcakes, she pushed to her feet, the cook and her rantings forgotten.
She was already drowsy from the long journey, and the hearty soup had soothed her nerves. The two drams of fine Talisker whisky she hadn’t been able to resist, had her yearning for bed.
Her bed.
The wonderfully romantic medieval four-poster she’d fallen in love with in London.
She smiled as the steward led her up a winding turnpike stair and then through a maze of dim, musty corridors. On and on they went until, at last, he stopped before a dark, oak door.
He glanced at her as he opened it. “Nights can be cold here. One of the maids will have put a goonie and a hot water bottle on the bed for you.”
Mara started, hearing only one word. “A goonie?”
“A long flannel nightgown,” Murdoch translated.
“Oh.” Feeling a bit foolish and more relieved than she cared to admit, Mara stepped into the room.
It felt like a deep freeze.
Not that its cold mattered, with her new bed standing against the far wall, beautifully dressed and turned down in welcome. She could see the promised hot water bottle making a lump beneath the sheets and a carefully folded white gown waited for her on top of the bed’s richly-embroidered covers.
Murdoch spoke behind her. “We call this the Thistle Room because of the thistles decorating the ceiling.”
Mara near choked, her glance shooting upward.
Sure enough, thistles were everywhere. But the intricate plasterwork looking down at her had nothing in common with her stenciled thistles back home at One Cairn Avenue in Philadelphia.
“This room has the best view of the sea.” Murdoch indicated a row of tall windows to the left of her bed. “And you’ll have a fire every night,” he added, glancing at the hearth. “We burn wood in most of the castle, but we thought you’d appreciate the smell o’ peat? Most Americans do.”
Too cold to think straight, Mara nodded. “It does smell nice – dark and earthy-sweet, just as I imagined.”
The simmering peats glowed a fine, cheery red. That image, too, was exactly as she’d expected. Peat fires should be cozy, and this one was no exception. But to her shivering regret, the generated warmth didn’t chase the room’s cold.
Already chill bumps were rising on her arms.
“I can douse the fire if you prefer?” Murdoch cocked a brow. “It does make the room a bit over-warm.”
“No-o-o, I’m comfortable,” Mara lied, declining his offer.
What she needed was about a wheelbarrow more peat tossed onto the hearthstone.
Trying not to let her teeth clatter, she rubbed her arms. If the steward didn’t soon leave to let her crawl into her bed, she’d grow icicles.
Silently willing him to go, she glanced at the four-poster, pleased to see that the night table held an electric tea maker and a plate of shortbread. She smiled. A steaming cup of tea would be just the thing to warm her.
“If there’s nothing else you need, I’ll be leaving you.” Murdoch moved toward the door. “Sleep well.”
“I’m sure I will,” Mara assured him, hoping her relief didn’t show.
Or her great weariness.
Half afraid she wouldn’t even make it to her bed before sleep overcame her, she closed the door behind him and turned around.
Then she screamed.
The hottie Scottie from Dimbleby’s lounged upon the bed!
Some ancient-looking plaid slung over his shoulder, he lay back against the pillows, his long, muscular legs crossed at the ankles.
If it were possible, he regarded her with an even more insolent smirk than he’d worn in London.
The smirk made her mad. Angry enough to overlook his incredible masculine beauty, the way her knees watered despite her shock and annoyance.
She glared at him. “What are you doing here?”
“Guarding my bed – as I told you I do.”
“The bed is mine,” she objected, disbelief coursing through her. “I bought it and you can get yourself out of it. Now!”
But he only folded his arms behind his neck and stared back at her. “I think not, wench.”
“Wench?” Mara’s face grew hot. “I am not any such thing, and you are mad. Stark raving mad!”
A muscle jerked in his jaw and his face hardened, but he didn’t seem inclined to let her rile him.
Nor did he budge.
Quite the contrary, he appeared annoyingly comfortable.
“We’ll see about this, you … you! O-o-oh, there aren’t words!” Spinning around, Mara yanked open the door. “Murdoch!” she cried, her heart hammering. “Please - come back here!”
But the old steward had already disappeared.
The corridor stretched dark and deserted. She’d have to deal with the dolt herself. More angry than afraid, she whirled to confront him, only to find him gone.
The room was empty.
Except for a jeweled dagger pinning the white flannel nightgown to the bed.
Shaking, she crossed the room and stared at the medieval-looking weapon. She needed all her strength to pull its blade from the mattress. When she did, she tossed it as far away from her as she could and sank onto the bed, the ruined goonie clutched to her breast.
Laughter, rich and masculine, filled the chamber then, the bone-chilling sound sending her diving beneath the covers.
Next time, wench, the deep Scottish voice whispered near her ear, it will be my sword and you will be wearing the gown.
Chapter Four
Mara awoke to the skirl of bagpipes. ‘Highland Laddie,’ she recognized, blinking the sleep from her eyes. No tap-tapping drums accompanied the lively tune, but the stirring tones were so Scottish, so right, that a thrill of excitement whipped through her. Her heart began to beat faster and she tilted her head, listening.
Could she be dreaming?
Did anyone really play pipes so early in the morning? Even
at a genuine Scottish castle like Ravenscraig? It was a heathen hour, especially for a night owl like her. She was still sleep-fuzzed, even jet-lagged.
She could be hearing what she’d like to hear.
Yet the pipes sounded so real.
No, they were real, she amended, her pulse quickening.
And nothing at all like the cheap CDs her father played in his tartan-hung house at One Cairn Avenue. Bought secondhand at Highland Games, the drone and wails of Hugh McDougall’s beloved pipe music blared daily in the narrow Philadelphia brownstone, each ear-splitting note shaking walls and offending ears, terrorizing the neighbors.
These pipes excited and welcomed.
Especially with such clean, exhilarating air pouring in through the tall, opened windows. Scottish air, pure and sweet. And invigorating enough for her to slide a glance across the room, something deep inside her softening and warming as she caught a glimpse of sparkling blue water, a swath of cloudless summer sky. The morning smelled of pine, new beginnings, and the sea, and she didn’t want to miss a moment of it.
Feeling content, she puffed a strand of hair out of her face and stretched beneath the covers, eager to enjoy her first morning as ‘lady of the house.’ Chatelaine of her own castle. A notion that still boggled her mind, but a status she suspected she’d like very much.
Until she remembered last night.
The shock of finding him in her bed.
At once, any remaining traces of sleep vanished. She could see the sexy Highlander as clearly as if her stood before her, his stunning good looks making her heart pound, his rudeness and daring sending hot jolts of indignation streaking all through her.
She sat up, clutching a pillow to her breast as she scanned the room. The innocent-looking windows staring back at her from three sides and the nearest wall with its heavy oak dressing table and wardrobe, a huge gilt-framed mirror.
Not wanting to peer too deeply into the mirror’s polished depths, she let her gaze flick past an antique writing desk, graced now by an age-worn china bowl and matching jug. As swiftly, her attention moved to the splendid hearth. The faint scent of peat still rose from the long-cold embers, and its white marble mantelpiece gleamed in the morning sun.
She released a pent-up sigh.
Everything looked harmless.
But then she peered into the corner where she’d flung the medieval-looking dagger. As she’d suspected, it wasn’t there. Nor anywhere else she could see.
She blinked, the back of her neck prickling. She frowned, bit down hard on her lower lip.
Could she have imagined the whole thing?
The sinfully handsome Highlander she’d caught lounging in her bed? His bold and heated stare?
The way his heavy-lidded gaze had slid over her body? Arrogant and knowing, each assessing, intimate sweep across her breasts or down her legs outraging her, even making her feel naked.
Undressed and exposed.
Laid bare for his delectation is how she’d felt, and just remembering made a certain part of her tingle and throb, delicious molten heat pooling between her thighs. Despite her aggravation. The dark-frowning, plaid-wearing scoundrel was simply that gorgeous, his deep Scottish burr that potently seductive.
And the wicked glint in his sea green eyes said he knew it.
Worse, he’d given her the distinct impression he also knew how long it’d been since she’d enjoyed an orgasm. Maybe even that she’d never really had a true one. The world-stopping, heart-pounding, rollicking release she suspected he gave every female he treated to the mastery of his lovemaking.
Yes, that was it.
The true reason for his searing, soul-piercing stare.
He’d not only wished to claim her bed, his hot perusal declared her could have her as well.
In his bed, and beneath him.
Any way he wanted her.
Mara shivered and touched cold fingers to her brow, pressing hard against her temples. No, he couldn’t have been real. Hadn’t been there one moment only to vanish the next. Truth was, she’d been through a lot lately. After all, it wasn’t every day that a girl from Philadelphia inherited a castle.
Especially a girl from the wrong side of Philadelphia.
Irritated, she plucked at a loose thread in the bed coverings. Then, ready to blame the disturbing episode on travel exhaustion or an overactive imagination, she blew out a breath and leaned back against the pillows.
Unfortunately, her gaze fell upon the torn nightgown.
The goonie.
A trickle of apprehension slid down her spine. If she’d imagined the incident, there wouldn’t be a rip in the nightgown. A careful inspection of the material would prove whether or not the hottie Scottie from Dimbleby’s back room had or hadn’t been in her bedchamber.
Slowly, as if the crumpled white gown might turn into a snake and bite her, she inched her hand across the bedcovers, reaching for the goonie before she lost her nerve.
Then she pulled it onto her lap for a thorough examination.
Her probing fingers didn’t have far to seek.
Four two-inch rips marred the gown. Two slashes at chest level, one on the front and one on the back, and two at thigh level, also on the front and back.
The tears matched perfectly, as if a dagger had been thrust right through the folded gown.
Mara felt a stab of panic. She stared at the goonie, the morning’s brightness spiraling away. Even the piper ended his jaunty tune, the lively skirls fading to nothingness as hot and cold chills swept her.
She swallowed hard, her heart thumping. She shouldn’t be surprised. She’d known the dagger wouldn’t be there. Just as she’d known the rips in the nightgown would be. She also knew she’d be damned if she’d spend the day hiding under the covers.
She certainly wouldn’t cower.
There had to be a logical explanation.
But without her morning coffee, she could only think of two possible courses of action.
First she’d search the room. There was still a possibility she might find the dagger.
Another option was that the goonie was already torn before someone placed it on her bed. In that case, she’d simply ask the maids to verify the gown’s condition.
That decided, she sent another glance into the corner and slipped from the bed. She made straight for the oaken wardrobe, but her eyes widened the instant she opened the double doors. Someone had arranged her things. Everything had been painstakingly folded or hung on padded hangers.
The scent of heather streamed out from the tidy shelves, and on closer inspection she saw tiny sachets tucked between her clothes. Like the padded hangers, the sachets boasted the MacDougall colors.
Staring at the familiar tartan pattern, a never-before sense of ancestral pride filled her. Ravenscraig was her new home. She belonged here and she wasn’t going to let some darkly irresistible lout from a backwater London antique shop ruin it for her.
Six foot four inches of hunky Highland manhood or not.
Panty-melting stares and butter-soft burr or otherwise.
Blessedly, thoughts of the ill-humored Scotsman reminded her of her mission.
She had to find the dagger.
She also needed to dress.
She didn’t expect him to reappear now, but she also wasn’t willing to take the chance. If he did return, she’d not give him the satisfaction of catching her unawares, naked and vulnerable.
Next time she’d be ready.
Her pulse racing, she rummaged in the wardrobe, snatching the first clothes her fingers encountered and donning them. Black stretch pants and a black top edged around the neck with a wide white band. She ignored her new waxed and waterproofed Barbour jacket and slipped her feet into flat black loafers. That done, she arranged her hair in a quick French twist, securing its unruly thickness with a wide, tortoise shell clasp.
Without even bothering with make-up, she began scouring the room, not leaving one inch unchecked. She even lifted the edges of the fancy Turkish
carpet. But the mystery dagger remained elusive.
“It has to be here,” she vowed, dropping to her knees and glaring under the bed. Regrettably, nothing but highly polished floorboards greeted her.
Not even a stray dust bunny.
Worst of all, someone chose that moment to knock on the door, opening it almost before she caught the soft rapping. Grimacing at the timing, Mara scooted out from under the bed and scrambled to her feet.
“Good morning.” She forced a smile for the pink-cheeked maid hovering on the threshold, a heavy silver platter in her hands.
“A fine one to you, miss. Cook thought you might prefer breakfast in your room.” The girl came forward, set the tray on a table near the windows. But then she hesitated, the color in her face deepening. “I can take it away and come back later if you’re busy.”
“No, it’s all right. I was just looking for my earring. It rolled under the bed,” Mara improvised, her mouth watering at the smell of bacon and golden-brown Lorne sausages.
“I’ll look for it later.” She eyed the food, hoping her stomach wouldn’t growl.
“It’s a full Scottish breakfast,” the girl told her, pride in her voice. “Crisp streaky bacon, sausages, black pudding and haggis, mushrooms, tomatoes, and beans.” She paused to pull back Mara’s chair. “There’s mixed toast, too, and a large pot of tea.”
Mara gave the girl a smile she hoped was appreciative. She also bit back a request for coffee. She needed strong, black American java to think straight, but the heavenly aromas rising from the breakfast platter more than made up for the tea.
Even so, she wouldn’t be able to swallow a bite until she got a few answers. So she ignored her hunger and took a deep, silent breath.
“Who was playing the pipes just now?” She angled her head, hoped the harmless query would ease her way into asking what she what she really wanted to know. “It was ‘Highland Laddie.’ I recognized the tune.”
The girl blinked. “Begging your pardon, miss, but you must be mistaken.” She looked at Mara, her brow knitting. “No one here plays the pipes.”
“But I heard-”
“Och, Murdoch’s a piper, that he is. Since he was a wee laddie. But he hasn’t played in years. He says his lungs are too auld and weary.” The girl glanced at the breakfast tray. “If you aren’t hungry, I can-”