by Allie Mackay
She clung to him, thrusting her hips, her movements drawing him in another inch or so. “I’ve waited so long to have you.”
“Nae, lass.” Alex used all his strength to pull back until just the tip of him hovered inside her. “‘Tis I who have waited – an eternity. Ne’er did I think to give my heart, and for sure no’ to you. But I have and now I would savor you. Every precious moment we have.”
He locked his gaze on her stormy, lust-glazed eyes, tried to ignore the sensual windings of her body, the wondrous, velvety heat beating so close, waiting to sheathe him.
“I want to love all of you.” He palmed her breasts, circling a finger around one puckered crest, before lowering his head to lick and suckle the other, drawing it deep into his mouth.
The taste of her ripped away his restraint, his cock sliding deeper with each hot draw on her nipple until he’d plunged full deep. He lost himself at once, cried out at the hot, sleek feel of her wetness.
It’d been so long…
Yet felt so new for no woman had ever possessed him so completely, not just slaking his need, but claiming his heart and everything he was, even to his very soul.
His feelings for her stunned him, spearing him to the core, like nothing he’d ever known.
She was a bleeding MacDougall!
He didn’t care.
He only knew he wanted to pleasure her as no other man had ever done, and that he didn’t want this moment to end. Hoping for strength, he drew a sharp breath, her tight, satiny heat almost unmanning him. His world began to spin faster, each whirl letting him sink deeper into her slick, welcoming warmth.
He remembered to reach down and rub that special place, kept a questing, circling finger there as he stroked deeper, each smooth in-and-out glide claiming another piece of him, making his world splitter around him.
“Alex!” Her voice was breathless, a hitching cry somewhere in the madness, its sweetness wrapping round him, binding him to her as deeply as he rode her silken depths.
She arched her hips, turning wild, clutching at him and clawing his back, making it impossible to give her the slow, thorough loving he’d planned.
“Lass, I cannae hold back-”
“Then don’t!” She grabbed his face and pulled him down to her, planting a quick, hard kiss to his cheek.
“Harder, faster,” she pleaded, panting the words into his mouth as she kissed him deeply, her tongue matching the rhythm of their furious joining. “Don’t stop…” She went rigid then, gripping his shoulders, her sex clenching hotly around him. “Please, just don’t stop!”
But it was too late.
The whirling stars were exploding all around and inside him and his seed gushed into her in a furious, hot rush. “Mara…” He collapsed against her, every last drop of energy draining out of him. “Remember what I told you …”
I will do anything to have you.
The words shimmered in the air, hovering over the bed, silvery and true, but not near as bright as the glittering light of the splintered stars spinning around him. They whirled ever faster, their brilliance overpowering everything until he could see his words no more.
He couldn’t see Mara either.
Or his bed.
Not even the room. Only the blinding light piercing him so viciously, each hot, stabbing thrust a lightning bolt lancing through him, breaking him apart until the crackling light finally receded and he was left battered and broken, drifting in the familiar gray mists he knew only too well.
The dread world-between-the-worlds, and if the zinging lightning bolts were any indication, he’d landed in the place’s worst imaginable corner.
Now he truly was doomed.
So he clenched his fists against the pain, refusing to acknowledge the searing heat, the scorch marks branding his naked flesh. Each singed wound his price for having lain with a mortal.
He didn’t care.
And he’d meant what he vowed. He’d find a way to get back to her.
Do anything to have her.
***
Anything? Mara blinked, some still-coherent part of her catching his words. What else he could do for her? She already burned with stunning need, was hurtling toward the greatest orgasm of her life. He’d also given her his heart. She’d seen the love blazing in his eyes when he’d plunged into her.
She’d think about that later.
Just now, she couldn’t concentrate beyond the throbbing, heart-pounding pleasure spreading all through her. Sensations so powerful she couldn’t even feel him anymore. Only the hot pulsing surge of her climax as it swept over her, shattering her into a thousand tiny glittering pieces.
“Ohmigod,” she cried, going rigid. Her body trembled and she clutched so fiercely to his shoulders that her fingers went right through him, her nails digging crescents into her palms.
She scarce noticed.
She was floating, beautifully sated. Satisfied, happy, and drifting slowly back to reality.
The Thistle Room and her empty bed.
Mara frowned, aiming a glance at her alarm clock. Barely three a.m. and the blasted thing was beginning to sound infernally loud again.
Rolling onto her side, she hugged herself and blocked her ears to the ticking. She also plumped a pillow for her head, closed her eyes, and treated herself to reliving every incredible moment of her dream.
After all, it was hers to enjoy.
She was already beginning to tingle again. One rollicking, earth-shaking release was not near enough for a girl used to faking the buggers with every bumbling, unskilled yo-yo she’d ever had the misfortune to sleep with.
Imagined sex or no, Alex topped them all. She stared up at the canopy of her bed, blew out a shaky breath.
Just thinking his name melted her.
Sir Alexander Douglas.
“Man-o-meter…” She flipped onto her back and stretched her arms over her head, wiggling her toes. Sweet, lazy tendrils of pulsating warmth still rippled through her, and if she concentrated really hard, she could even imagine she felt a bit sore.
No, she was tender.
Her eyes popped open. An impossible suspicion sluiced through her, the shock of it peeking at her from every shadowy corner of the room.
A chamber that still smelled of her wretched anti-ghost charms, but also of sex.
The hot, sweaty, down-and-dirty kind of sex she’d dreamt about.
Only dream sex didn’t make you ache inside. It certainly didn’t leave telltale scents in the air.
Her heart began to pound. “Impossible.”
She scrambled off the bed, flipped on the nightlight. But even before she looked down, she knew what she’d see. And she did. All over the inside of her thighs – the undeniable evidence of her own arousal, and his.
“Oh, no,” she cried, trembling. “It can’t be.”
But it was.
Even her bed screamed the truth. The sheets were damp. And the pillows. Almost wet, just as everything would be if he’d come to her straight from a shower.
That was exactly how she’d imagined him.
Full naked, his magnificent body glistening with water droplets. His rich, chestnut hair sleek and gleaming, damp and fresh smelling as if he’d just washed it.
Perhaps he had – to make himself more desirable before he’d appeared to her.
As if she wouldn’t run a hundred miles to hurl herself into his arms. Wouldn’t leap at him, almost knocking him down in her eagerness to be reunited with him.
She let out a shuddering sigh, accepting how deeply she’d fallen for him. How ready she was to believe in circumstances beyond all reason. No matter what he was, or the condition he was in. So long as it was him holding and kissing her, nothing else mattered.
But now he was gone.
She dropped back onto the bed, facing the grim reality. Her vision blurred, stinging heat pricking the backs of her eyes. Mara never-shed-a-tear McDougall was falling apart.
Because she was also Mara straight-thinking McDougall and
anyone with even a speck of sense would know that after such mind-blowing sex no man would simply disappear.
Not even a ghostly Highlander.
Unless he hadn’t had a choice.
And that possibility was more frightening than she could bear to think about.
Chapter Twelve
Six ghost-free weeks later Mara sat at the dark oak table in the middle of the library and considered the amazing state of her finances. Or rather, the incredible surge in the state of Ravenscraig’s finances.
Not hers personally, but the estate’s.
Even so, she couldn’t be more pleased.
She snapped shut the ledger she’d been studying and leaned back in her chair. Looking round, she tapped her pen against her chin, her gaze flicking over the many gilt-framed portraits crowding the book-lined walls. Be-kilted and proud, every one of her fierce, bushy-bearded ancestors seemed to beam approval at her.
Perhaps with good reason.
Never one to tolerate do-nothings, she had worked hard. She still was, pouring more time and energy into Ravenscraig than she’d ever devoted to Exclusive Excursions. Although she wouldn’t ever admit it, there were days her heart almost burst with pride.
One Cairn Village, secretly dubbed Brigadoon Revisited, was doing amazingly well, its progress astounding her. The lovely MacDougall memorial cairn at its middle would soon see completion, as would the special state-of-the-art genealogical center.
Several of the quaint little whitewashed guest cottages stood ready, some boasting their first starry-eyed occupants. MacDougalls and family history buffs, the most of them. Others, too, and new visitors arrived every day.
One Cairn Village bustled, and a dormitory of sorts had even been set up in Ravenscraig’s vaulted basement to house any overflow until the grand Victorian-style lodge could be built, most likely sometime next year.
Mara set down her pen and rolled her aching shoulders. Everything should be perfect, and that it wasn’t was something she shouldn’t be dwelling on.
There were some things even hard work and determination couldn’t make right.
Not wanting to go down that road, she slid a glance toward the tall, mullioned windows. Wispy clouds trailed across a brilliant late-summer sky, and each pane of leaded glass gleamed bright in the slanting afternoon sun.
She allowed herself a sigh and took a careful sip of steaming mint tea. Truth was, she had every reason to be happy. Deliriously so. The amazing stream of good things coming her way seemed endless. Blessings that sometimes arrived from the most unexpected quarters.
Like the nondescript, incredibly tweedy woman who’d popped up from southern England to research her own vague MacDougall connections. An art teacher and one of their first visitors, she’d surprised everyone by creating a beautiful tartan-ribboned thistle design as a logo for One Cairn Village.
A striking design she insisted was a gift.
The lovely beribboned thistle now graced the packaging of all Ravenscraig craft and gift items, and was even selling well on everything from coffee mugs and coasters to t-shirts and tea towels.
Mara forced a weak smile and took another sip of tepid tea. Never would she have expected Ravenscraig to thrive to such a stunning degree. Wonder of wonders, a portrait of Lady Warfield now hung over the library’s large green-marbled hearth, and she had yet to see a visiting MacDougall not stop to admire the old woman’s likeness.
Some even smiled.
Mara swallowed and swiped a hand across her cheek, dashing away a trace of foolhardy dampness. “Damn you, Alex.” She blinked hard until her vision cleared. “How dare you make me love you, then disappear?” I didn’t even care that you were a ghost. It was enough having you, however possible.
It’d been enough.
Sadly, not for him. His absence speared her daily, reminding her of what might’ve and should’ve been.
She’d failed with ghostly Highland lovers.
But she’d succeeded with Ravenscraig.
Her chances of losing the castle at the end of a year were now as remote as the moon, her future and the estate’s secure. A certainty that had infused everyone at Ravenscraig with jubilant triumph and purpose.
Even old Murdoch now walked with an added spring to his bandy-legged gait.
And shame on her for letting moods get her down. She should be as giddy-happy as everyone else beneath her roof. She stared across the library to the birch fire crackling in the hearth and drew a deep, back-stealing breath. Nothing should be bothering her.
Especially nonexistent nothings.
“Miss, I’m so sorry to disturb you,” Ailsa-Agnes said with all Highland politeness, “but your father is on the phone.”
Mara jumped, almost sloshing tea onto her lap. “My father?” She blinked at the girl. “He never calls,” she said, her heart dipping. “He doesn’t even have a cell phone, proudly calling himself a techy-dino. I always ring him.
“Something must be wrong.” Mara was sure of it.
“I couldn’t say,” the twin puzzled, handing the phone to Mara. “He does sound in fine fettle.”
In fine fettle?
Mara’s concern increased.
Her father’s greatest joy, besides ancestral research, was fussing about everything that ailed him.
The last time she’d called home, Hugh McDougall was convinced his heart troubles would land him in the hospital any day. He even moaned that he’d been too weak to work on his book about their family history, a never-ending but pet project he’d courted for years.
Mara stared at the phone, waiting until Ailsa-Agnes slipped away before she lifted it to her ear.
“Dad?” she queried. “Are you okay?”
“Am I okay?” her father’s voice boomed through the line. “Lassie, I’ve never been better!”
Mara blinked, wondered if someone was playing a joke on her. But it was Hugh McDougall’s voice.
Even if he sounded different.
As strong and healthy as he had when she’d been a little girl.
“I’m glad to hear you so perky, but I don’t understand,” she said, her brow wrinkling. “Last time we talked you said you might be going in for bypass surgery again.”
“That was then.” Hugh McDougall snorted. “This is now. Everything’s changed.”
He had that right.
Only six months ago she’d been barely scraping by, running her one-woman tour business and just managing to pay her rent. Now she owned a Scottish castle, had worked to meet the stipulations necessary to keep her inheritance, and she’d fallen hopelessly, irrevocably in love.
With a ghost.
A sexy Highlander who’d treated her to the greatest sex she’d ever had and then walked away. Or whatever it was called when ghosts vanished and never returned.
She closed her eyes for a moment, drew a tight breath. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t hear you. What were saying?”
A laugh answered her.
A great, belly-shaking laugh that made the phone jiggle in her hand and hurt her ear. She also caught muffled background words as if someone else were there with him.
Mara held the phone away from her ear, her confusion complete. The other voice sounded like a woman’s. And her father’s laughter was way too jolly to be normal.
Much as she loved him, her dad was a man who lived quietly. Little interested him beyond digging into his roots. He was also a card-carrying hypochondriac, a bit of a whiner.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Mara’s concern only reaped another hoot of transatlantic mirth. “What is going on with you?”
“Something wonderful,” her father gushed, sounding almost moony-eyed. “Something you will never believe.”
Mara braced herself. Hugh McDougall’s something wonderfuls were usually embarrassing.
Like the time he’d covered their entire house in plaid at Christmas and tied a giant tartan bow to the chimney.
“I think you better tell me what’s up,” she said.
; “I’m coming over to see you, Mara-girl! For the cairn’s unveiling ceremony,” he sang out, his excitement carrying through the airwaves. “It’ll be my honeymoon!”
Mara almost dropped the phone. “What do you mean your honeymoon? You’re not married.”
“Oh, yes, I am,” he shot back. “Since last Saturday, and it’s given me a new lease on life. I’m feeling fit enough to cross the Atlantic to see you and the Auld Hameland.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Do I know the woman?”
A pause. “I didn’t mention it because we had a small civil ceremony and I know you’re busy over there. I didn’t want you fretting if you couldn’t get away.”
“Who is she?”
Her father cleared his throat. “Euphemia Ross.”
“The shrew?” Mara’s eyes flew wide. “She’s a pill!”
Hugh McDougall coughed loudly and then there a scuffling noise as if he’d clamped a hand over the receiver.
“Now look here,” he said after a moment, his tone conciliatory. “Euphemia is-”
“I’m sorry,” Mara spluttered, horrified she hadn’t checked her tongue. “You just surprised me.”
“Well, I surprised myself,” he admitted, sounding mollified. “With you away, I needed someone to help me with my book. Running errands, proofreading, keeping my notes in order, that sort of thing. A bit of cooking, tidying the house now and then. One thing led to another and-”
“You’ve married her and you’re coming here on your honeymoon?”
“That’s the way of it,” he confirmed, and Mara could almost hear his smile spreading. “Doctors say she’s the best thing that’s happened to me in years.”
“Then I am happy for you both,” Mara said, feeling as if she’d just swallowed a glass of vinegar.
“You’ll warm to her,” her father was saying. “She’s looking forward to researching her Ross ancestors.”
“Ross was the name of her third husband,” Mara couldn’t help reminding him.
The one before him had been Cherokee. Back then the Cairn Avenue shrew had gone by the name Sunrise or Daybreak. Something to do with dawn.