by Allie Mackay
Nary a keel mark to be seen.
***
Aidan slammed down his ale cup, well pleased with the decisions of his war council. “‘Tis settled, then.” He lifted his voice so it was heard not just at the high table and on the dais, but throughout Castle Wrath’s hall. “Conan Dearg’s time has come to pass. We ride for Ardcraig on the morrow. At first light and not a heartbeat later.”
“Aye, let the bastard’s days of bluster and swagger be ended!” someone yelled from the shadows.
“To his capture!” Another grabbed an ale jug, waving it in the air before taking a great swig. “May Wrath’s dungeon give him a foretaste of hell!”
Cheers rose to the rafters, the hall resounding with agreement as men stamped their feet and rattled swords. Aidan looked on, scarce hearing them. Only his own voice echoing in his ears. Unable to rid himself of it, he pinned a furious stare on the platter of spiced salmon set before him and did his best to fight back a grimace.
A groan, too, were he honest.
Not a heartbeat later.
He’d made a poor word choice. A thoughtless mistake that only reminded him that his heart still thundered with thoughts of her. Certainty that she was near pounded through him, despite the impossibility of such a notion. He felt her all the same. Even now when he could so easily swipe an arm across the table, sending feasting goods and ale hurtling to the floor.
At least the dogs would thank him.
And still she’d haunt him.
He scowled, his temples beginning to throb. “Thor’s blood,” he growled, snatching his ale cup and downing the frothy brew before such mooning got the better of him.
Now was not the time to dwell on her.
Now was-
The time for his world to upend. Spin around him, stealing his breath. The ale cup slid from his hand, landing on the table with a loud clack and spill of gold-tinged foam. Eyes wide, he shot to his feet. Uproar filled the hall, a ruckus unfolding near the shadowed entry. Scores of kinsmen shoved through the door, loud and boisterous. Murder on their faces. His best friend, cousin, what-have-you, led the fray, his dream lass clutched in his arms.
“By the gods,” Aidan bellowed, staring. “What goes on here?”
“A witch!” Mundy, his Irish-born ax-man raised his voice above the din. “We caught her dancing nekkid on the gatehouse arch, a horde o’ winged demons flying round her head.”
Hoots and guffaws accompanied Mundy’s outburst, one man slapping him hard on the back before leaping onto a trestle bench.
The trestle leaper’s mirth vanishing, he peered round, his eyes glinting in the torchlight. “That flame-haired vixen wasn’t nekkid and if Mundy saw flying demons, I saw none.” He raised an arm to point at the lass. “She is garbed like no maid I’ve e’er seen and Tavish is the only soul I ken able to vault to such heights. Seeing as she doesn’t have wings, there’s only one thing she can be – just what Mundy says. A witch!”
“She is none the like.” Tavish’s face darkened as he mounted the dais steps, Aidan’s beauty still cradled protectively in his arms. “Ne’er have I carried a more womanly female,” he vowed, setting her on her feet in front of the high table.
“I daresay you’ll agree,” he added, his gaze seeking Aidan’s.
“Without doubt!” Still staring, Aidan tamped down the urge to challenge his friend to a round in the lists for daring to touch his woman.
A thought that brought an immediate jab of guilt when he caught a closer look at his kinsmen’s faces. Murder wasn’t the only emotion painted on the fierce and bearded countenances he loved so well. Ranging from suspicion, to fear, to blood-lust, their expressions made it clear he owed Tavish much for coming to his tamhasg’s rescue.
“Where did you find her?” He glared at him all the same, the blood roaring in his ears making it hard to think. “How did she get here?”
“I don’t know how I got here.” His tamhasg answered, brushing at the plaid slung loosely about her shoulders. “Not exactly. I-”
“She spelled herself here!” someone yelled.
Others chimed in, those standing near making the sign against evil as they edged away from her.
“Cease!” Aidan slammed his fist on the table, jarring cutlery and tipping over wine goblets. “I’ll no’ have you babbling like women!” he roared, his fury squelching the foul-tempered rumbles.
For good measure, he put back his shoulders and looked round, letting his stare act as a further warning. Fear was something he couldn’t condone within his walls. A MacDonald feared nothing. Even if his men seemed to have momentarily forgotten. He folded his arms, watching them. It also appeared to have slipped their minds that he didn’t tolerate injustice. Another trait he expected all MacDonalds to adhere to.
Most especially when in regard to females.
He drew a deep breath, schooling his features. He knew better than any present that the woman was no witch.
Not that he meant to share how he knew.
She was something he couldn’t fathom. But all that mattered was that she stood before him. Scarce able to believe it, he came around the high table and put a hand on her arm. That one touch – her physical nearness – shot jolts of white-hot flame all through him.
Fighting the urge to clutch her to him, he drew himself to his fullest height, feigning a look of fierceness lest his superstitious kinsmen doubt his ability to deal with a woman they held for a witch.
There would be time enough to win them over to her. If she wasn’t an illusion.
Hoping she wasn’t, he raised her arm and raked the hall with all the lairdly sternness he had in him. “I can feel this woman’s warmth through her clothes. Even” – he jerked a glance at Tavish – “the thickness of Tavish’s plaid. All ken witches have blood of ice. If she’s of the fae, or merely a troubled woman here to find succor, it will be to me to decide. No one else shall touch her or even glance askance at her. I forbid it.”
Displeased grumbles answered him. A sea of shifting, edgy manhood, all with doubting, belligerent faces. Only a few looked down, swatting at sleeves and hitching sword belts.
“Come, Aidan.” A gap-toothed man stepped forward, clearly speaking for them all. “You ken the damage a witch can wreak. Only last year, Widow MacRae’s best cow started giving soured milk after the old woman granted a night’s shelter to a witch. The same creature caused the widow’s daughter to lose her bairn. And-”
“Nonsense!” Aidan cut him off, silencing the rest with another cold stare. “I’ll have no such foolery spoken in my hall. The lass is no witch and it will go poorly for the man who dares say so again. Mark it and be wary.”
Beside him, his tamhasg drew in a breath. “Of course, I’m not a witch.” She glanced out over the smoke-hazed hall, looked quickly back at him. “I’m not a faery either, just an ordinary red-blooded woman.”
Aidan didn’t like her worried frown, wished he could reassure her. Regrettably, he wasn’t even sure what’d she’d said. He couldn’t be certain because the scent of her was clouding his wits. The closeness and warmth of her sweet, lush body was making him crazy.
“Who are you?” He turned to her, tamped down the urge to lean in and breathe more deeply of her perfume. The fragrance teased his senses, more beguiling than any scent he’d ever known. “I would know your name at last,” he added, the words so low he wasn’t even sure he’d said them.
Her eyes widened, the slight tremble of her lips telling him he had. “I’m Kira.” She met his gaze, saying her name for the second time that evening. “Kira Bedwell.”
“Kee-rah Bedwell.” He pronounced the name as her champion had done, only with an even richer, sexier burr. “It is an apt name.”
Kira blinked, not certain she’d heard a slight emphasis on the last words.
His scowl told her she’d imagined it.
Not that it mattered.
With a voice like that he could set a woman into ecstasy just reading the back of a cereal box. He’d sounded
sexy in her dreams. In person, he undid her. Six foot four inches of pure, wild and savage Highland masculinity was almost more than she could take. Especially when those inches were put together so well. His tall, muscle-ripped frame made all the more irresistible by the thick, silky-black hair just brushing his shoulders and his dark, smoldering gaze.
“Lass.” He looked at her, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I’ll ask you again. How did you get here?”
“It was a time slip.” She lowered her voice, not wanting his men to hear. “One that expanded, or….” She let the words tail off, slid another glance at his men. When she looked back at him, he’d stepped closer. So near that her pulse leapt. “Let’s just say I’ve come a long way,” she blurted, too awe-struck to manage anything better. “From Aldan, Pennsylvania.”
And I think I am going to faint.
Her heart had surely stopped. And with it, her ability to breathe. She stared up at him, everything in her world slamming to a halt. Nothing existed except the man before her. His gaze held hers, commanding and possessive. He towered over her, all medieval male and gorgeous, the heat in his eyes melting her.
She blinked, swallowing against the fluttering in her stomach. The bite of so much smoke-filled air. An acrid haze that stung her eyes, while the reek of peat, overly-spiced food, dogs, and ale made her nose twitch. She stood frozen, taking it all in, her ears ringing with the grumbles of angry, tartan-draped men. Harried, scrambling servants rushed past, their faces averted. The general, noisy chaos like nothing she could have imagined. It all whirled around her in a great, dizzying cacophony. The wild, torch-lit, colorful place she’d dreamt of so long.
Diminished to nothing when compared with the wonder of his hand on her arm.
“See that no one disturbs us.” He spoke again, his voice smooth, deep, and flowing right through her.
Even if his words were directed at the man called Tavish rather than her. “Settle the hall – even if you must draw blood.”
Tavish nodded.
Aidan turned away and started forward, pulling her along beside him. Kinsmen and dogs made room as they passed, heading for the shadowed arch of a nearby stair tower.
“I’d have words with you in my privy quarters.” He didn’t break stride as he swept her off her feet, scooping her into his arms. “Words long overdue.”
Then he was carrying her up the winding, torch-lit stair, mounting the steps two at a time. Kira slid her arms around his neck, holding fast and biting her lip. The truth of her situation becoming more clear the higher they climbed the tight, circular stair.
A very new-looking stair, lit by stinking, sputtering rush lights and whatever pale moonlight fell through the narrow, deep-set arrow slits.
This was for real.
She was no longer dreaming about the ancient past – she was in it.
And judging by Aidan’s frown, he was anything but pleased to see her there.
Chapter Five
Aidan was no longer scowling by the time he ascended the last few rounds of the stair tower and stopped outside his bedchamber door. Far from frowning, his countenance must now be thunderous. Indeed, he was certain he could feel flames of anger licking the back of his neck.
For two pins, he’d tear back down to the hall, whip out his blade and lop the heads off the first loose-tongued kinsmen who dared utter the word witch again.
Instead, he kicked open his oak-planked door and strode inside, his tamhasg still in his arms. He took some small satisfaction in slamming the door behind them.
“So-o-o, lass.” He released her at once. “What magic brought you here?”
“I already told you I don’t know.” She stared back at him, her face as flushed as he suspected his must be. “Or rather, I’m not sure. I think I’m trapped in a time slip, though that’s never happened before. All I know is that I was on the top of your arch and-”
“I know that.” Aidan frowned, not about to admit he hadn’t understood half of what she’d said. Not just the words, but how she’d pronounced them. A problem he’d never had in their dreams. “It’s how you got there, that interests me.”
If you know me.
Not that he was going to ask. Not yet anyway.
First he needed to know what the blazes was going on.
Doing his best to look as if he did, he folded his arms. “Well?”
“If I knew I’d tell you.” She shot a glance at the window arch, her eyes rounding at the dark outline of Wrath Isle. Recognition flashed across her face, her eyes widening even more when she saw the colorful tapestry hanging so close to the window, his huge four-poster bed not far away.
“Holy moly.” She pressed a hand to her breast, looking round.
Aidan’s frown deepened. He understood holy, but moly was new to him. Not that the word was of any great import. Her astonishment spoke worlds.
She knew his room.
And that could only mean one thing.
She’d lived their dreams as vividly as he had.
The possibility enflamed him and he reached for her, seizing her shoulders. “You’ve been here.” He tightened his grip on her, willing her to admit it. “I can see the truth all o’er you.”
She twisted free, turning back to the window. Stepping closer, she touched the shutter hinges. She examined them, flattening her hands on the stone of the embrasure before trailing her fingers down the tasseled edge of his tapestry.
“I can’t believe how real this is.” She glanced at him. “How real you are. For this long, anyway.”
Aidan harrumphed. “I’m as real now as I was when I woke this morn. It’s you I’m concerned about.” He looked at her, the whole situation making his head pound. “You’re no’ making a word of sense.”
The admission slipped out before he could stop it. But rather than laugh as he’d almost expected, she shook her head, looking as dumbfounded as he felt.
“It doesn’t make sense to me either.” Her gaze flit to his bed and then back to him. “If this happened at the Na Tri Shean, I might not be so surprised, but-”
“The Na tri Shean?” A chill sped down Aidan’s back. “That is a bad place, lass. Good folk would ne’er set foot there.”
“I’m not a witch.” She drew Tavish’s plaid more tightly about her. “I had business at the faery mounds. That doesn’t make me one of them.”
“I ken what you are.” Aidan closed his eyes, wishing he did.
He also tried not to breathe in her scent.
He wouldn’t have believed it, but it was even more wondrous than in their dreams. So enticing, it befuddled his wits. If he succumbed to her, he’d have her naked and beneath him in a flash and such a breach of honor would haunt him all his days.
MacDonalds wooed their women. Winning them with sensual prowess and charm. With the exception of a few aberrations like Conan Dearg, never would a man of Aidan’s race take an unwilling female.
And Kira Bedwell wasn’t just any woman.
She was special beyond words. No matter how many faery mounds she knew about. Everyone knew of such places. What mattered was that he wanted and needed her to desire him as much now as she did in her dreams.
Only then would he touch her.
Much as the waiting pained him.
He looked at her, his heart thundering. “You’re been here,” he said again, the truth of it pounding through him. “Tell me, Kira, admit you know.”
She swiped a hand through her hair, the movement sending Tavish’s plaid fluttering to the floor. “Of course, I know.” Color bloomed on her cheeks. “I’ve been here in my dreams. Our dreams.”
Aidan nodded. “Aye, lass. How much do you remember of them?”
Her throat worked. “I remember everything.”
“Even this?” He slid his arms around her, forcing himself to hold her gently. “You must tell me, Kira. If this, too, is familiar?” He smoothed one hand across her back and caressed the other down the curve of her hip, drawing her closer. “Or this?” He lowered his
head to lightly brush her lips with his. “Speak true, sweet. I would hear the words. Exactly what you recall happening between us, all of it.”
Kira’s face flamed. “I think you know.”
“That’s no’ an answer.” He watched her coolly, every inch the proud, self-assured laird.
So flesh-and-blood, staring-at-her real, she was sure she must be one big goose bump. And not just because of him and how the intensity of him charged the air around them, how his very presence, so bold and magnificent, made her more aware of her own femininity than ever before.
His room was ice cold.
She shivered, rubbing her arms. She glanced at his huge stone hearth, amazed it did so little to chase the chill. The peat fire ranked all kinds of prizes in the romance department, but those cozy orange-glowing bricks of turf couldn’t compete with central heating.
With the exception of her face, she was f-r-e-e-z-i-n-g.
He blazed like a furnace.
Somehow her hand had become trapped between them, her splayed fingers pressed against the rough weave of his plaid. He tightened his arms around her, pulling her closer against him. Blessed heat poured off him, warming her through the heavy wool. She could also feel the steady thumping of his heart and a bit lower, the hard buckle of his sword belt digging into her belly. A discomfort as tangible and eye-opening as the cold and one that underscored that he wasn’t just a real living and breathing man, he was a medieval man.
If she discounted Halloween and Ren Faires, there weren’t too many times a man in her world walked around with a giant broadsword slapping his thigh.
Aidan MacDonald looked like he was born wearing his.
She swallowed, just a bit daunted by so much muscle and steel.
“I’m waiting, Kee-rah.”
“Ahhh….” The words lodged in her throat.
No way was she going to recite the explicit details of their nightly encounters.
She slid another glance at the tapestry near the window. The one she knew from her dreams. Moon glow slanted across it, the silvery light gilding each bright-gleaming thread and breathing life into the nude and half-clad figures artfully blended into an idyllic forest scene.