by Allie Mackay
“Mara…” He couldn’t believe he’d used her name, her MacDougall name. But she gave him such stunning bliss. Awed by his need, he splayed his fingers over the fullness of her breasts, plumping and weighing them, then flicking his thumbs back and forth over the thrusting peaks, circling the tightly ruched rounds of her nipples. He gloried in the feel of her, half feared he might die from the pleasure – if only he could!
“Kiss me again, deeply.” She breathed the plea into his mouth, the shivery words nearly unmanning him.
“Lass, lass…” He obliged, sweeping his tongue against hers. Again and again, each velvety glide undoing him, making his blood run hot and thick.
Her desire ran as hotly, he could tell, for with each touch of his hands on her breasts, she quivered, desire rippling through her so that even he felt it. Every swirl of his tongue, catapulting her to greater levels of abandonment, awakening a passion in her that he wouldn’t have believed.
And he’d already known she’d be good!
“O-o-oh.” She pressed against him, her need palpable.
But when the rocking of her hips grew frenzied and her hands stole beneath his tunic, her nails scoring his back, Alex knew he could take no more.
Somewhere through the haze of passion, warning bells rang louder each time her tongue twirled around his. The tighter she clung to him, the more each soulful sigh she breathed against his lips tolled his coming doom.
He’d lost control.
He, the seducer, was being seduced.
The lass’s kiss more potent than the headiest Norman wine. He was intoxicated beyond redemption. Slaking his thirst for her body would never be enough. He wanted her heart and her soul as well. All of her. Her laughter and smiles, her hopes and dreams. Even her sadness and heartaches. Every one of her mortal years.
Nothing else would satisfy him.
The devil knew, he could never satisfy her. Not in the way she deserved.
“Enough!” He tore his lips from hers, breathing hard.
He looked down at her, revulsion sweeping him. Not because he’d kissed a MacDougall – because of what he was.
A ghost.
A creature. An abomination of nature.
Heaven only knew what quirk of fate allowed him to manifest as a solid man. He choked back a bark of bitter laughter. At the moment, he couldn’t be more solid!
He was also despicable.
Mara was melted against him, clinging, her hips still rocking against him in blatant invitation, her hitched breath begging him to continue what he’d so rudely interrupted.
“Sons of Hades!” He thrust her from him. Although it ripped his soul, there was nothing he could offer her.
Nothing to commend himself to any flesh-and-blood woman.
Even the spawn of the bluidy MacDougall bastards who’d cursed him deserved better than falling in love with a ghost. Phantom or no, he still possessed enough honor to cringe at damning any woman to such a fate.
His head clearing, he knew what he must do.
Gripping her arms, he looked deep into her eyes, steeling himself against the hurt he was about to inflict. “See hear, wench, I willnae be charmed,” he lied, his voice hard as he could make it. “I’ll admit you tempted me, but the ruse is over. I’ve seen through your wickedness.”
“What?” She blinked, her kiss-bruised lips forming a little ‘o’ of surprise. “I don’t understand. You kissed me! And it was perfect, beautiful...”
She let the words trail off, clapped a hand to her cheek, all color draining from her face. But she recovered quickly, her eyes snapping with fury.
Her agitation made her breasts rise in a way that nearly broke his resolve, but the anger coursing through her and her searing glare pleased him. Outrage would keep her from hurting, maybe even send her into the arms of a real man.
One who could give her more than heated kisses and a few wind-felt caresses.
Alex scowled, this time not needing to feign his displeasure. What kind of man used unearthly powers to bend the wind, borrowing its touch to stroke his lady?
A fiendish, unworthy man!
The kind of devil he’d become.
“You can’t say you didn’t enjoy it!” She looked at him from glistening eyes, her voice breaking. “I know you did.”
“Aye, because you’re a witch-woman,” he provoked her, the heart he hadn’t known he possessed, imploding inside him. “You spelled me. Be glad I’ll no’ see you stoned. Or worse!”
She stared at him, her cheeks a livid red. So much pain filled her eyes, he could hardly bear looking at her. “You bastard!” she raged, her anguish lancing him. “I didn’t pull you off that horse!”
Her entire body shaking, she jabbed her fingers into his chest, emphasizing each word with a sharp poke. “You could’ve killed us, jerking the horse to a halt like that. Then you dragged me down and kissed me. Plundered my mouth and nearly broke my ribs squeezing me so tight. You! Not the other way around!”
Alex shuttered his face, set his lips in a hard line. If he dared open his mouth, he’d recant every word. Drop to his knees and explain, begging her to forgive him and let them savor whatever bliss the fates might grant them.
But he held his tongue. His damnable honor not letting him speak.
She backed away, swiped her hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe I let you touch me. You’re not even real. A figment of my imagination!”
The words sliced Alex, wounding him a way no sword could ever harm him. The truth of her accusations damned him with an intensity that was nigh onto unbearable.
Still, he’d had to goad her, make her loathe him.
Only so would she find peace.
As for himself, it scarce mattered.
He had eternity to lick his wounds. She had but this one mortal life.
He had sacred vows to keep. He’d been a fool to think he could outrun a curse that had held him in its vise for so many centuries. And a greater fool not to realize how cruel his error of judgment would prove to her.
Seeing no other option, he moved with lightning speed, sweeping her into his arms and heaving her onto the mare’s back before she could protest. “Stay put,” he ordered, releasing her only long enough to swing up behind her. “Be still this time. Don’t squirm.”
She didn’t.
She sat before him as stiffly as a piece of wood, which was fine with him. And much better for her.
But as they pounded across the last stretch of open headlands, there where her damnable One Cairn Village would soon stand, she finally raised her voice.
“What are you going to do when we get back to the stables,” she demanded. “Someone might see you.”
“No one sees me unless I wish it. And you have the tongue of a bell clapper,” Alex snapped, hoping the insult would quiet her. Make her revile him enough not to care what he did when they reached the stables.
Above all, he wanted to vanish.
But first they had to put her infernal project site behind them, and riled or no, the place curdled his blood. Shuddering, he brought his open palm down on the mare’s flank and spurred across the naked, upturned earth, tried not to see the telltale signs of her dream.
His nightmare. A ringing slap in his face.
Just riding across the ground set his hair on end.
“I asked you a question, tin man,” she badgered, the quiver in her voice belying her strong words. “What will you do when we get back?”
“Sons of Lucifer,” Alex swore, urging the mare to greater speed as they sailed past the pile of stones for her memorial cairn. “I shall do what I have always done.”
“And that is?”
“Guard my bed.”
“You mean my bed.”
“Nae, it is mine,” he snarled, doing his best to ignore the way her bottom pressed against his still-roused manhood.
He grimaced. Her bed, she’d said.
His bed, he’d insisted, and his heart had split on the lie.
The bed was nei
ther his or hers.
It was theirs.
And he was the world’s greatest fool for admitting it.
Chapter Nine
Several nights later, Mara stood in her bedchamber admiring the changes she’d made. Not alterations so much as additions. Carefully selected items, strategically placed to ensure she need never again enter the room only to be seized by a strong awareness of unwanted company.
In particular, the six foot four, annoyingly seductive kind.
She also hoped to be rid of the room’s uncanny chill and the assorted creaks, groans, and thuds in the night she was certain Sir Alexander conjured to unsettle her. For three nights he’d plagued her with such trickery, at times causing bangs loud enough to shatter the window panes, then letting the lights flicker on and off.
Waking her in the small hours by the sound of the door opening and closing – although it’d been securely bolted!
“Such pranks are history, tin man.” She pushed a hair out of her face, kept pacing the room. Feeling more confident with each stride. “You’ve been outfoxed.”
She glanced at Ben, sleeping snug and content in the glow of the hearth fire. Oddly, the old dog hadn’t seemed to mind the knightly shenanigans.
She’d had enough.
Especially since The Kiss that never should have happened. She shivered and rubbed her arms. At least she hadn’t actually seen him again.
Good riddance.
For all she cared, he could spend his time in the sea cave, bodysurfing incoming waves. Or better yet, howling away the hours in the gloomy unlit dungeon of some other gullible’s Highland castle.
Hers had just become out-of-bounds.
If Ben missed him, she’d play him some old videos of Casper the Friendly Ghost.
There were only so many insults a girl should tolerate, and she’d reached the end of her patience. Hottie Scottie, tin man, Celtic sex god, or whatever guise he chose would be in for a rude surprise if he dared to make a repeat appearance.
“No more trotting beside someone who isn’t there,” she huffed to Ben’s sleeping form. “No more sniffing ripples in the air or wagging your tail at nothing.”
And no more shivery sighs or devouring gazes for her. Enough tingling where she didn’t want sensations; an end to feeling as if he were touching her, caressing her everywhere, even when she couldn’t see him. Forget his knightly kisses. Blast his Scottish accent. Never again would his strong, medieval arms tighten around her.
Not that she cared, phony as every one of his smoldering, make-her-burn looks had been.
Hot Scot, indeed.
She frowned, nudged a piece of lint on the carpet. The ogly-eyed bastard had burned her all right. Even swept her to the edge of a tremendous, earthshaking climax only to plunge her into a shocking, icy void just when she’d started to shatter. And that without even undressing her.
It wouldn’t happen again.
Now she was prepared, had taken measures.
From what she’d been told, they were good. Highly effective and able to repel even the hardiest specter.
Hoping that was so, she went to the heavy oak dressing table and picked up a finely tapered candle. She sniffed it appreciatively. Handmade by Innes and delicately scented with lavender, it was a charmed candle.
An anti-ghost candle.
Or so the dotty old woman claimed, proudly informing her that Ravenscraig’s resident spook expert, Prudentia, had said spirit-cleansing blessings over Innes’s latest batch of special lavender candles. Her heather soaps, too, not that Mara wished to go to such extremes. She didn’t need Sir Alexander appearing in the shower with her, should Prudentia have erred with her spell castings.
Nor did she really trust in the cook’s self-proclaimed powers. No mumbled mumbo-jumbo could turn ordinary housewares into apparition deterrents.
But she was willing to try anything.
Even if employing such dubious methods incited Murdoch’s considerable wrath.
Although, much to his credit, with the exception of a few harrumphs and narrow-eyed glares at the cook and Innes, the bandy-legged steward had grudgingly allowed that Mara could do as she pleased in the Thistle Room.
And she did please.
So long as the mere thought of her medieval Highland knight still set her heart to pounding, she had little choice.
Furious or not, she was suffused with tingling excitement at just the memory of his hands plumping her breasts, his fingers toying with her nipples. Remembering his tongue swirling against hers, an agony beyond bearing. So she set down Innes’s purple anti-ghost candle, took a deep breath, and went to the tall windows across the room.
Great looping swaths of MacDougall tartan hung there since yesterday, and the sight filled her with satisfaction.
Immense satisfaction.
As much as the ghostly Highlander loathed her clan, the new window dressings should annoy him enough to keep him from seeking her chamber.
If not, she had other anti-apparition booby-traps in place.
Countermeasures she doubted even he could parry.
A nervous laugh rising in her throat, she pulled back a panel of the heavy plaiding and peeked outside. Blessedly, her special window treatments were still there: Braided clusters of large, pungent garlic bulbs lay in wait against the outer glass, as did fine bunches of freshly cut, red-berried rowan branches.
Mara smiled. Better doubly secure than unprepared.
Equally reassuring, the wall-walk looked empty, the whole of the battlements quite still. No mailed knights or hot-eyed Highlanders patrolled the flagged stones. Or, an even more daunting image, no Sir Alexander leaned arrogantly against a merlon, arms crossed and glaring at her.
Mara released the breath she’d been holding and turned back to the room.
She hoped she hadn’t forgotten anything.
But Innes’s anti-ghost candles were already lit for the night, and their golden flames reflected nicely in the row of little mirrors she’d placed along the marble mantlepiece. Even the freestanding mirror wore its own red-ribboned cluster of rowan. A wooden crucifix adorned each wall, one even winking at her from the back of the bedchamber door.
She’d also placed small silver bowls of sacred well water on every available surface. This, Prudentia had insisted, was an incredibly powerful impediment to nocturnal visitors of the supernatural variety.
Mara sniffed, unable to squelch her doubts. The improbability of the water’s magic made a muscle beneath her eye twitch. Whether the water was charmed or not, she made a mental note to thank the twin housemaids, Agnes and Ailsa, for trekking into the hills to the ancient Celtic well.
Then, before she had time to feel even more foolish, she picked up the nearest bowl and began flicking the icy droplets about the room, taking special care to trickle a broad protective circle around her bed.
“Almost done,” she promised Ben, dribbling a circle around him, too.
Just for good measure.
She didn’t really believe Sir Alex would harm an innocent old dog.
Truth was, he seemed rather fond of Ben. Even of Scottie and Dottie, although those two only growled at him or nipped at his ankles, when they didn’t avoid him altogether.
Mara sighed, stroking her hand down one of her bed’s intricately carved posts.
No, he wouldn’t harm Ben.
Sir Alexander Douglas had clearly been a dog lover, a quality she usually credited highly. And one the kiss-her-senseless Highlander seemed to have retained into ghostdom.
That truth squeezed her chest, stirring emotions she didn’t want to acknowledge. At the moment she didn’t want to think anything nice about him.
Doing so left her feeling bereft.
So she turned away from the sleeping dog and set down the empty silver bowl. She’d done all she could, and there wasn’t any point in letting her heart fill with what-ifs and might-have-beens.
Especially when he was so insufferable.
She brushed off her hands, wishing
she could forget him as easily. Instead, her heart skittered and her mouth had gone way too dry. Her eyes burned with tears she refused to allow to fall, and she felt hollow inside.
But at least she was here and not cowering in some inn in Oban, afraid to enjoy her inheritance.
She was also enough a MacDougall not to let a ghost ruin her pleasure in sleeping naked. Well, almost naked, she decided, beginning to strip. She’d keep on her sexy black teddy. Though Highland nights never really darkened in summer, with so much thick MacDougall plaiding at the windows, the room was cast in heavy shadow.
Dim except for the glow of the fire and Innes’s candles.
Even so, she wasn’t of a mood to flip on any lights. If tin man was lurking somewhere, glaring invisible daggers at her, he could just strain his ghostly eyes.
In fact, maybe she’d encourage him by putting on a little show.
Feeling deliciously wicked, she flopped onto the bed. “My bed,” she challenged the silence.
Then, rolling onto her side, she began a set of leg lifts, raising and lowering her leg with deliberate slowness. He’d already revealed that he couldn’t resist peeking between them, so she’d just oblige him.
Hopefully he’d run so hard, he’d get blue balls.
Her naughty little black teddy should be worth that, at least.
An utterly decadent bit of sheer lace and froth, it had cost her a mint. She’d been unable to resist it from the moment she’d seen it displayed in a Covent Garden lingerie boutique. She’d bought it on plastic, intending to save the teddy for a night of sizzling seduction and hot, heart-pounding sex.
Wild, pull-out-all-the-stoppers, really-let-herself go sex.
The kind romance writers tried to make innocent readers believe really existed.
“Har, har, har,” she scoffed, flipping onto her back and folding her arms behind her head. Who’d she been kidding? The only men she ever met were anything but seduction worthy.
So far they’d all been nerds or nut cases. Or carried so much baggage they’d give an airline worker a double hernia.
The only gallant males to notice her sported four legs and wet noses.