Those sconces were not there last night. She would have noticed. Especially since they were equipped with real candles. Very dangerous in a bedroom. What the hell was going on? Had someone switched rooms on her? Without waking her?
She looked around and gulped. There were no electric lights. No...she ran to the other end of the room. A blank wall faced her where yesterday there had been three steps and a bathroom. A lovely bathroom with black-and-white tiles, along with a glass shower and separate bath.
She twirled around to find the man staring at her in awe, his finely molded lips parted in what appeared to be shock. Chestnut-colored hair pulled back into a ribbon-tied velvet bag at his nape emphasized the stark angles and planes of his face and high forehead. With shoulders as broad as an oak tree and wearing a kilt from which his knees, rough and dirty, emerged, supported by calves of curved iron muscle, he was an absolutely gorgeous hunk of Scottish male.
She swallowed. He had an enormous sword in a leather scabbard down his back. “Oh God.” She had to be dreaming.
“Saints preserve me,” he said. “I’ve died and I’m conversing with an angel.” He sank slowly to his knees and made the sign of the cross. “Forgive me, for I have sinned—”
“Whoa! Stop,” she cried. “I’m not an angel.”
He stared at her from eyes of brilliant blue. “Are you not? What are you then? One of the auld people? My mother always said they were to be found here at the castle.”
The auld people. Was this bloke joking? “No. I...I...”
He nodded encouragement.
For the first time in years, Moirag found herself stuck for words. “I’m an ordinary mortal woman. Please get up.”
With a grunt that had an edge of pain, he rose to his feet. “Then, who are you?”
There was only one explanation. Wasn’t there? This was a dream. Brought on by her bedtime reading. She glanced around for the book. Of which there was also no sign. But perhaps it provided the answer. She was dreaming about what she had read. She breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t had such a vivid dream since she was a child. Now, if she could just wake up. She pinched herself. It didn’t work. She blinked rapidly to clear her vision. If anything, the room seemed more solid and real than ever.
All right. She’d try a test. And when he failed, she’d know she was dreaming. “What year is it?”
“Seventeen fifteen,” he said, frowning. “October.”
The month was right. The year dinged a bell in her memory. “Did you fight at Sherrifmuir?”
He looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
Hah! Just a couple more questions and she’d go back to sleep. “Mar’s uprising. His march on Inverness.”
“Dear God!” Gavin drew his sword in the blink of an eye. He held the point to her throat, his face a fearful scowl and murder in eyes that had gone from warm blue to chips of ice. “What are you? An English spy? Answer me. Are there soldiers in the castle?”
Her heart pounded in her chest. Her knees felt weak. Did you get killed in dreams? You always woke up before it actually happened, right? She swallowed. “No soldiers.” She winced. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then how do you know about what the clans are planning?” The sword tip moved back a fraction. It shook very slightly, she noticed. Must be heavy.
“I overheard a conversation.” Well, she could hardly say she’d read about it, now could she?
The sword tip dropped and he winced and... Yuck, he had blood on his hand. And a rent in his coat. “Are you injured?”
“Naught but a scratch. Do not worry yourself.” He opened the lid of a chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out some folds of white muslin. Bandages. He wound one around his meaty biceps and tied a rough sort of knot with one hand and his teeth.
“Good Lord. Do you men always have to act so macho?” She made a grab for his arm.
He backed up.
Eyes narrowed, she pointed a finger at his chest. “Let me take a look.”
A bemused smile lit his handsome rugged face. “I have not been yelled at like that since my mother passed on.”
Good God. It was like being caught in a sunbeam on top of a hill being flashed that smile. The whole room lit up. Her limbs turned to jelly left outside in midsummer. She took a deep breath. “I’m not your flippin’ mother. Now, take off the sword belt and sit.”
He shook his head. “A virago. Just my luck.” Still, he unbuckled his belt and laid it and the sword carefully on the bed. Oh, God. Now that the weapon wasn’t pointed in her direction, she could see the blade looked wickedly sharp and real and surely that was blood on it. Don’t think about it. It was dream blood. She untied the rough-and-ready bandage and helped him peel the coat off one very brawny shoulder and then down a heavily muscled arm. A beautifully carved male arm.
Stop it.
“Sit down and let me take a look,” she said.
With no more than a muffled curse and a glare from beneath lowered brows, he sank onto the sofa. She moved in.
She stared at the bloody rag of sleeve around the wound. Standing between his hewn thighs with only a fold of fabric between him and his junk, inspecting the bloody mess, was having an unnerving effect on her stomach. It was fluttering as if an army of ants in hobnail boots were running around in there. Not that she was squeamish. Two older brothers had put paid to that. She’d cleaned more gravel out of knees than she’d had sex.
Heat rolled through her. Holy hell. The sensual pull of the man was the cause of the ants’ hopping around, not the sight of blood. Perhaps being celibate since she kicked Alec out was the cause of this dream. And yet, he just seemed so damned real.
“That shirt will have to come off, too,” she muttered, miserably aware of the husky rasp in her voice.
“Right,” he said, and fumbled at his collar. No jabot, she noticed, just a plain white stock, similar to the strip of cloth she’d thought was a bandage. There was lace at his cuffs though—fine lace. So this was no common man. He was a fine Highland gentleman, if she recalled her history correctly. And why did that matter if she was dreaming?
Once he had the buttons undone at his throat, he pulled the shirt from inside his belt. There was enough fabric to make a sail for a dingy. He grunted as he tried to pull it over his head.
“Here,” she said. “Let me help.”
“Now, there’s a good thought,” he said from inside his sail. She dragged until his back and chest and head emerged.
Oh, God. He was ripped. Sculpted shoulders. A six-pack for abs. And a neck Atlas would have been proud to bend. Her stomach wasn’t fluttering anymore, her whole insides were clenched so tight she was practically orgasmic.
A bewitching smile curved his lips. “Something wrong, lass?”
Oh, he knew what was wrong, the vain fellow. But he wasn’t wholly unaffected, either, if the bump in his kilt was anything to go by.
“Hold out your arm.”
He looked a bit disappointed, but did as he was bid, looking down at the gouge in his flesh as he did so. “I told you it was naught but a scratch. More blood than anything.”
“What caused it? A bullet or a sword?” Not that she knew anything about either kind of wound.
“Spent shot. Lucky bastard. He shouldn’t have come anywhere close at that range.”
“It ought to be cleaned.”
“Nay. Just bandage it up. I’ll be fine.” He glanced longingly at the bed and then to the window. “Then I�
��ll be on my way.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll let me clean and bandage you, then you will rest.” What was she saying? She ought to be sending him packing, not inviting him to spend the night. But this was her dream. She licked her lips. “I’ll be gone in the morning anyway.”
“You are sure there are no redcoats in the castle this night?”
About to nod, she paused. This might be her dream, but for all she knew, there could be a hundred of them standing right outside her door. “There were none when I arrived last night.”
“Aye, well, it was only a small troop that I met. They should not have been so far into the hills.”
What on earth could she use to clean the wound? A ewer of water and a bowl sat on a table beside the mirror, a polished metal mirror, for heaven’s sake. On the table where there had once sat a kettle and packages of tea and coffee and tiny little milk pots, there now resided a glass decanter and a couple of tumblers. Whisky? Alcohol was a good disinfectant. Whisky it was. She picked up the bottle.
He sighed and a sensuous look of pleasure crossed his face. “Now, there’s a good idea. Let’s have a toast. Death to the English.”
The shocking words cleared the sudden fog that had rolled into her mind after all her blood had headed to her groin. “It’s not for drinking.” She unstoppered the decanter and splashed a generous amount on his arm.
“Sweet Mary!” He bolted out of the chair and caught her in a viselike grip around the shoulders. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“With Scotch?”
“What are you talking about? That’s good whisky, woman. I know. I bought it.”
“You have to buy your own whisky when you visit the laird?” She stared up at him, realized his face was a mere inch or two from hers. He smelled of whisky, peat fires and heather. The scents of her youth. And his arm was heavy and warm about her shoulders and not at all rough. Big as he was, she felt protected rather than threatened. He had the most beautiful jawline she’d ever seen, bold and angular beneath a day’s worth of stubble. He looked like a cross between Mel Gibson and Russell Crowe, both of whom looked excellent in skirts, she now recalled. Damned dream. Her gaze found his mouth.
The sensuous curve of his lips tempted her touch. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” she said, and rising to tiptoes, she brushed her mouth against his lips in apology, as well as to find out if they tasted as good as they looked. They did. Her stomach did a slow lazy roll.
He swallowed, his chest rising and falling against her arm as if he’d run a long race. “It’s no great matter,” he murmured. His hand cradled her nape and he bent his head. His mouth took hers in a gentle caress. A long slow lingering kiss, that sent trickles of fire licking down her veins.
She pushed against his chest and he stepped back, breathing hard. He winced. “I...I apologize. I don’t know what came over me.”
Lust. A bad case of lust. She’d caught it first and passed on the infection. And she had loved every minute of the disease. Why not? This was her dream. Why not make the most of it? “Let me bandage your arm, and then we will drink your toast.”
“A wench after my own heart.”
“Less of the wench, if you don’t mind, my name is Moirag. Hold out your arm.” Your lovely buff arm.
“Sassenachs,” he muttered
“Highland drunkard.”
He laughed. His gaze seemed to scorch her face as she wound the strip of cloth around his biceps. “Now, if I just had some scissors.”
Once more his expression turned questioning.
Did they have scissors in the eighteenth century? She certainly didn’t remember one way or the other from her history lessons. “To cut it.”
He reached down. “Use this.” He pulled a knife from the top of his sock.
“I’m surprised you allow such a poor use of your sgian-dubh.” The Highlander’s secret dagger. Her grandfather had owned one.
“For a Sassenach you certainly know a fair bit of Gaelic.”
“For your information, there is not a drop of English blood in my veins. I was born and brought up in the Outer Hebrides, South Uist, but I left there a long time ago.” First, to go to school, as did all the children, and then to find work in Glasgow. She tied a knot and tucked it inside the bandage as gently as she could. Even so, she must have hurt him, but he made no murmur of protest. Strong silent type obviously. Gotta love ’em.
“I have it,” he said, his face clearing. It was like seeing the sun come out from behind a cloud and she could only gaze in awe and bask in his light. “You’re a healer.”
Uh-oh. She remembered this bit. Healers were thought to be witches in his day and age. Not going there in this dream. “Nope.”
“Is that the same as no?”
“Holy crap! This is the strangest dream I’ve ever had.”
“Crap. That’s a saint I’ve not heard of. A healer’s saint?”
“I’m not a healer and crap is not a saint it’s...er...an expression. A curse.”
“So it is a witch you are.” She glanced up at his face. His eyes were alight with laughter.
She gave him a shove. “Stop teasing or I’ll find somewhere else to use the whisky.”
“Put it in two glasses and we’ll be drinking that toast.”
She poured them each a glass and handed one to him. He took the glasses from her nerveless hands and placed them on the table beside him, then caught her wrist. Slowly inexorably, he pulled her closer, and then down onto his lap. “Beautiful you are, Moirag,” he murmured.
A shimmer, like light and heat blasted in on a high wind, rolled over her skin. His full lips looked soft and inviting with their half smile. Half closed lids turned his expression from teasing to sensual, his hard jaw softened. A kiss hovered in the warm breath caressing her mouth. Yet he waited.
Oh, heck. If she was going to have a dream, it might as well be a good one. She twined her arms around his neck, the feel of his long hair strange and intriguing, and pulled his head lower. She claimed his mouth with a hunger she hadn’t known existed until that moment. Her body hummed with contentment as his tongue swept her mouth and his arms pulled her close against his broad chest. Fingers raked through her hair, large hands stroked her back, her hips, her thigh. She explored the warm satiny skin of his shoulders, traced the contours of his back, teased the nipples hiding in a sprinkling of crisp hair, until they hardened against her palms.
The kiss filled her with a strange kind of wonder. Each stroke of his hands seemed to set her skin alight. It was if she had never been truly alive before. Desire coursed through her in waves, leaving her dizzy and breathless and wanting so much more. And the rigid flesh pressed against her hip told his story. He wanted her, too.
Breathing hard, he broke the kiss. He stared down at her. “You’ll be the death of me, lass. Although, it would be a wonderful way to go.” He lifted her, shifting her position on his lap with a groan.
“What do you mean?”
“It is not right for a man to take advantage of a maid in her chamber.”
A sense of disappointment flooded through her, along with a kind of admiration. Damn the eighteenth-century idea of female morals. “What if the maid is willing?”
“Willing or no, you are a guest of the laird. I cannot take advantage of his hospitality.” He lifted her as if she weighed nothing and set her on her feet. He swept up the glasses of Scotch and handed her one. “Death to the English.” He downed the golden liquid in one swallow.
> “Och aye,” she said, and chugged. The heat of it hit the back of her throat and slid all the way to her stomach like a draft of liquid fire. It felt so real. It couldn’t be a dream. This was a hotel skit put on for tourists. And dammit, she was going to enjoy it. Even if it ended up in a video on the internet. “You are right. It is good stuff.”
His eyes opened wide. “You are a strange one.”
“You are not the first to think so.” Every man she’d ever got close to ran off in panic after a month or so. Except Alec, who’d realized he was on to a good thing.
He closed his eyes in a wince and, if she wasn’t mistaken, the pallor in his face had increased. She glanced down at the bandage, but no blood had seeped through. “Are you all right? You look a bit faint.”
“Faint,” he growled. “Women faint. Do you think I’m some sort of weakling?”
“Steady the buffs. I just thought you looked a little pale. When did you eat last?”
An expression of surprise entered his eyes. “This morn.”
“So if you feel dizzy, it might be lack of food?” Not to mention hot mind-blowing kisses.
“Och, aye. It is hungry I am.” The word hungry came out like a growl and lit another fire in her belly. She forced herself to ignore it. The man needed proper sustenance.
The kitchen would have closed hours ago. The little Scot who welcomed her hadn’t said a word about room service. She shook her head. How did one ask, when one didn’t have a phone? Or did she? She glanced around for her purse. No sign of it on the dressing table or anywhere else. Hmm. In the old days, to summon servants, they had a bell pull. No sign of anything like that hanging on the wall.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have any food.” Not even the remains of her evening meal, apparently.
In Bed with the Highlander Page 2