by Allie Mackay
Prudentia’s mouth tightened.
“That auld pest would do better to mind his tongue when spirits are present,” she snipped, sweeping out the door.
Mara watched her sail down the dimly lit corridor, then let out a long breath the instant she disappeared around a curve at the far end of the passageway.
Strange or not, the cook had sensed something.
And the implication chilled Mara’s blood.
Only a fool wouldn’t recognize the coincidence that the dowsing rods had gone crazy in the exact spot where Hottie Scottie had accosted her.
Kissed her.
She shivered. She didn’t believe in coincidences.
But she did believe in fate. And hers was beginning to trouble her.
A chill went down her spine at the direction her thoughts were taking, so she gave herself a shake and turned back to the library.
She didn’t step inside.
Tomorrow was soon enough to tidy the mess she’d made.
Even if she believed in destiny, she was also prudent. The shadows in the corners looked darker than before. Closer, too. Long black fingers stretching across the carpet and pointing at her, just like Prudentia’s dowsing rods.
And that wasn’t all.
Moonlight played over a high, wingback chair near one of the corners, and she could almost imagine a figure standing there. A masculine form, indistinct in the shifting light, but well enough defined to reveal height and broad shoulders.
And, impossibly, what could have been the gleam of mail.
Mara’s heart thumped. She swallowed hard and blinked, and the illusion was gone.
“It won’t work,” she said, closing the door. “I am not afraid.”
Especially not of a man-shaped moonbeam.
Even so, she took the winding steps to her bedchamber two at a time.
***
Alex materialized next to the wingbacked chair, all but choking on his indignation. He glowered at the closed library door where she’d stood framed on its threshold, every lush inch of her limned by moonlight and the glow of the table lamp.
Fetching, she’d been.
A woman of spirit, all curves and ripe temptation, her coppery-bright hair tumbling round her shoulders and those lusciously full breasts straining at him. The hint of fine, chill-tightened nipples. Her large amber eyes flashing wide when she’d looked his way, seen him watching her from beside the chair.
That’s what annoyed him.
She’d seen him but refused to admit it.
Too bad she hadn’t gone looking for him when she’d heard him play “Highland Laddie.” Had she seen him then, she would’ve been presented with an eyeful too bold to deny. He’d piped in full Highland regalia, hoping to catch her peeking at him from behind a curtain. If she had, he’d planned to conjure a stiff wind just to show her what a true Highlander wore behind his kilt!
But the wicked little spitfire hadn’t seized the opportunity, and just as well.
His naked man-parts would surely have betrayed him had she goggled him.
“The lass is a plague.” Sure of it, he strode to the table where she’d worked, digging up every lie that had ever been told about him. “Aye, the worst sort of plague.”
But her scent lingered in the room, its bewitching notes making him crazy. And hard. Until he recalled the shuttered look that had come down upon her face when he’d revealed the truth.
Something he’d done for no other MacDougall.
Yet she still hadn’t believed him.
“Lucifer’s bollocks!” he swore, turning to the windows. He stared out at the storm-tossed firth, its dark waters gleaming like burnished pewter. Cold-looking as the vixen’s soul. Nothing he’d said had convinced her.
Once more, he’d failed.
Even pinning her nightclothes to the bed with his best dirk hadn’t aided him in his quest to be rid of her.
Now, he also wanted to be in her. And not just once, but again and again. Long, fluid strokes, slow and deep, then ever faster until they were both depleted, sated from pleasure and need. He groaned, rammed a furious hand through his hair.
Lusting after a MacDougall not only infuriated him; the very notion twisted his gut.
Never would he have thought himself so spineless.
Soon, he’d be little better than Hardwick.
“Nae, it shall not come to that,” he vowed, dropping to his knees before the window seat. With a dark scowl and single swipe of his arm, he knocked the tasseled pillows to the floor.
Then he leaned forward and rested his head against his folded arms.
Not that he expected the gods to listen to his prayers. Not now, in this maligned existence.
Colin MacDougall, that black-hearted whoreson, had made him into a creature.
A ghost.
A travesty of flesh-and-blood manhood whose pleas for guidance would likely be ignored by the Dark One himself, much less the ancients who weren’t likely to bestow their magick on him. In all the centuries, his prayers went unanswered.
Even so, he muttered them.
After a time, he rose. Whether it pleased him or nae, he had work to do.
Mara MacDougall left him no choice.
It was time to give her irrefutable proof.
***
High above the library, in one of Ravenscraig’s oldest towers, Mara leaned against the closed and bolted door of the Thistle Room and heaved a great sigh. Silvery moonlight spilled across the floor and thin mists slid past the windows. Nothing stirred or stared back at her from the shadows, but a gullible sort could easily imagine the spirit of the past brooding all over the place.
A spooky ambience she’d just ignore.
“Angry ghosts and dowsing rods,” she panted, heart tripping crazily.
Soon she wouldn’t be hearing early morning renditions of “Highland Laddie,” piped by hunky Scotsmen, but the theme to The Twilight Zone.
Almost hearing it now, she pressed a hand to her breast, struggled to catch her breath. And her wits.
Her usual calm.
But she’d just careened through a maze of corridors and flown up three steep sets of stairs, one of which had been a dreadfully dark turnpike stair without a banister and with stone steps so narrow they must’ve been hewn for some very small people.
That stair had also been much too medieval for her taste.
Better said, her present taste.
Until recently, she’d swooned over anything even vaguely reminiscent of her favorite period. But now, since a certain someone’s arrival in her life, she much preferred things of a more modern era.
Safe things.
Normal things.
Such as people who neither claimed to be ghosts nor went in search of them.
She swiped a curl off her brow and tried not to hear the castle creaking and groaning around her. Night noises most likely caused by ancient water pipes, the wind, or the scuttling of insomniac mice.
Or perhaps him.
Alexander of the roving fingers and fleeting kisses. He’d proven how quickly he could move. In more ways than one, she remembered, her every sense snapping to attention. He’d already breached the Thistle Room’s tapestry-hung walls once.
That was before she’d known about the door to the battlements.
Now she knew better.
She was also aware that almost all Scottish castles had secret passages. And many of them led to and from bedchambers. Hot Scot could’ve taken advantage of such a passage and might already be hiding in the room.
But a careful glance around the antique-filled bedchamber said otherwise.
All the same, she checked the door bolt and the locks on each one of the windows, even shoving a heavy upholstered chair against the door to the ramparts.
Feeling safe at last, she dropped onto her bed with a weary sigh. Someone had lit a fire for her, and the smoky-sweet scent of peat lulled her into a cozy mood.
The Thistle Room felt good.
Toasty warm, sm
elling of Scotland, and welcoming.
Smiling for the first time in hours, she kicked off her shoes, letting them drop where they fell. Within seconds, her stretch pants and turtleneck followed. She wiggled her toes, releasing a contented sigh. She loved sleeping in nothing but skin and dreams.
Being naked was her guilty pleasure.
Well, at the moment, almost naked.
She still had on her black lace bra and matching panties. She’d keep them on for a while, wouldn’t get completely bare bottomed until she was absolutely certain she wouldn’t be disturbed.
Not that anyone could get inside, but someone could knock on the door. At the rate she was going, poor dotty Innes might stop by to offer her advice for her wedding night with Lord Basil.
If the sweet old lady didn’t faint from the shock of seeing Mara in her little-bits-of-black-nothing undies.
Hottie Scottie would surely have an entirely different reaction.
The kind that would make her heart pound, and slide right into her. Hot, hard, and deep. Slow and sinuous in-and-out glides, then fast and furious plunderings until she grew frantic and clutched him to her, screaming her need and losing herself in the glory of their pleasure.
The wild, uninhibited kind of sex that only happened in the pages of the steamiest romance novels.
And wasn’t going to happen with a man who thought he was a ghost.
Even if his silky-deep Highland burr did excite her.
She huffed in agitation, and flipped onto her stomach. Maybe she should break down and buy herself a vibrator. Getting all hot and achy over the sexy lilt of a crazy man’s voice was about as low as a girl could sink.
Her mood darkening, she wriggled across the covers toward the little stereo on her nightstand and punched a button. At once, the theme from Phantom of the Opera filled the room.
“I don’t think so.” She jabbed buttons until she found Tschaikovsky’s Pathetique. Satisfied, she rolled onto her back and stretched.
That was more like it.
While she adored Phantom, and made a point of seeing the musical every time she was in London, its soundtrack wasn’t what she needed just now.
She’d had enough phantoms recently. Pathetique suited her mood better.
Much better.
Closing her eyes, she let the music flow over her. As always, Tschaikovsky transported her. Straight into a romantic world filled with her most secret dreams.
A place brimming with bold, dark-eyed knights who flashed melt-your-knees smiles and lived their deepest passions. Brave and daring heroes who feared nothing and loved so fiercely they’d face down the Devil for the woman of their heart.
Men who would give their last breath for honor.
Or their lady.
Mara sighed. She could swoon for such a man. For now, she’d just listen to Tschaikovsky and dream.
Fantasize about the dashing knight she’d always hoped would come galloping down Cairn Avenue to rescue and ravish her. He’d never appeared, but she’d held on to the dream. Hauntingly beautiful music helped her conjure his image.
Only, for some reason, his brown eyes had mysteriously turned green.
Sea-green.
And they were staring at her.
She sat bolt upright, her own eyes flying wide.
He stood at the foot of her bed.
And in full knightly regalia.
Mara’s blood froze. “Oh-mi-god!”
He leaned against the bedpost and folded his arms. “My lady, I sorely doubt there is one.”
Her heart galloping, Mara shot a glance at the door.
It was securely bolted.
And the big upholstered chair still blocked the door to the battlements.
She swallowed. “You can’t be in here,” she rasped, clutching a pillow to her breast. “I’m dreaming. If I shut my eyes and open them, you’ll be gone.”
“You know that isn’t true, Mara.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“You should know,” he said, a tinge of reproach in his voice. “I came to prove my word.”
She blinked “Your word?”
“What I told you today was naught but the truth, yet you doubt me.” Beneath his helm’s raised visor, his eyes narrowed dangerously. “I do not lie.”
“I’m not calling you a liar.” Her fingers dug into the pillow. “What you claim is impossible.”
He whipped out his sword, let the hiss of steel answer her.
Mara gulped, inched closer to the headboard. “Look, I don’t know what your game is, but that thing looks too real for me to argue with you.”
“Make no mistake,” he said, his eyes glinting like emeralds. “ The blade is real and I do not play games. Shall I prove the sharpness of its steel?”
He advanced on her with slow steps and Mara felt her eyes widening. His sword gleamed as if lit from within, and even rheumy-eyed Murdoch would be able to see that its edges were razor sharp.
It was definitely not a reproduction or stage prop.
So when he lunged at her, she knew she would die.
Instead, she felt only a lightning-quick current of air at her ear. Before she could blink, he’d sheathed the sword and returned to the foot of the bed.
A lock of her hair dangled from his gauntleted hand.
He flashed a devilish grin. “Proof enough, wench?”
Mara stared at him, the grin irking her more than ‘wench.’
She lifted her chin. “That only proves that you rented an authentic costume. And that you’re quick on your feet.”
His grin vanished. “You vex me beyond endurance. Begone from my bed, lass, and now, or I shall slice off more than a lock of your hair.”
Mara flushed, not missing where his gaze rested. Too late, she realized she was scrunching the pillow so tightly, it’d slipped beneath her breasts.
Worse, one of her nipples had popped above the lacy edge of her bra.
She bristled, covering herself. “So you’re lecherous as well as rude.”
His face darkened. “A poxy infidel whore would stir me more than a female of MacDougall blood. But know this: Had I desired you,” he vowed, wiggling the lock of hair at her, “I could have taken you faster than my blade claimed its trophy.”
“Oh!” Heat shot onto Mara’s cheeks. “Get out of here! This instant.”
“As you wish.” He made her a low bow, then headed toward the wall next to the fireplace.
“Hey, tin man,” she called after him, “the door is the other way.”
He kept going.
But after a few feet, he stopped and glanced round at her. “I do not need the door.”
He gave her one more bow, a curt one this time.
Then he strode right through the wall.
Chapter Seven
Early the next morning, Mara hurried along a footpath through a grove of ancient yews. Wooden signposts placed at regular intervals promised she was heading toward Ravenscraig’s stables, but her doubts increased with every twist of the winding path.
Little more than a deer track, it cut through the thick-growing trees, each new turn giving her brief glimpses of the firth and the outline of the Inner Hebrides, endless isles stretched like hazy blue pearls along the horizon.
Her pulse quickened, the beauty of her new home squeezing her heart.
The air held a hint of rain and the woods glistened with dew. Mara breathed deep, scarce able to believe that she was here, living and breathing in such a special place, so removed from the world that had been her reality.
She’d come from a place of busy streets, buildings of concrete, glass, and steel, where traffic fumes and the smells of street vendor fare hazed the city air. Her ears were used to the trundle of buses, the whir of traffic, and honking of horns, and the bustle of pedestrians dashing about in an endless stream of motion.
American cities never stilled.
The woods here were beyond quiet, the peace almost soul-piercing.
Nothing surrounde
d Ravenscraig but stunning Highland scenery, cozy villages, and Oban, a large enough town by Scottish reckoning, but small and quaint to her.
Scotland was good.
And she was falling under its spell.
Better yet, the blue expanse of the firth that she kept glimpsing through the trees looked smooth as glass. None of the mist wraiths curling across the surface could be called man-shaped. That would’ve been the only crimp in her morning. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see him trying to frighten her anew by flitting along above the water.
Blessedly, he wasn’t.
Grateful for small miracles, she shook her head, annoyed she’d allowed the thought to cross her mind. Sure mist could look eerie, even conjuring images of otherworldly beings. But this day’s mist wasn’t the spooky sort.
It was a fine Scottish morning.
Somewhere nearby, she caught the rush of a fast-flowing burn. She could smell its sweet cold water, sensed that the burn’s track paralleled the path.
As did the uncomfortable sensation of being watched.
She frowned, unable to deny it.
She’d only miscalculated the direction. Hottie Scottie wasn’t out over the Firth of Lorne, floating about in drifting curtains of sea mist. He was much closer. Angry, dangerous, and maddeningly masculine, his presence eddied all through the grove.
Taunting and teasing until her pulse ran wild and goose bumps rose on every inch of her.
She blew out a breath, and then swiped at her hair. “Bunk and rot,” she muttered, repeating Murdoch’s assessment of the unholy as if the three words were a mantra.
“Utter bilge,” she added for good measure, borrowing that one from a soured shrew who’d lived at the corner of Cairn Avenue.
Not even topping five feet, the tiny woman with her sharp tongue and fierce stare packed a blistering quip for everything under the heavens.
But well-aimed barbs or not, her phantom Scot seemed unimpressed.
Certainly not intimidated.
Far from it, the powerful essence of him kept swirling around her. Tantalizing and proud, his awareness of her shivered across her every nerve ending, penetrating her shields and barriers. Forcing her to believe.
Question when he’d become her ghostly Highlander?