by Allie Mackay
Not waiting for an answer, he cupped her chin and lowered his head, kissing her again.
“Yes ...” Margo wasn’t about to argue.
This was her fantasy, after all.
As if from a great distance, she could feel the pounding cascade of her shower. She also felt his big, strong hands glide down her sides, to her hips. He splayed his fingers across her bottom, kneading her flesh, pulling her close against him.
She melted, wishing fervently this were real.
At least six feet four, he towered over her, his great height making her neck ache because she had to tip back her head to peer up at him. Unlike in the book illustration, he now wore his sleek raven hair tied at his nape, but his dark eyes burned with the same heat that had so captivated her at Ye Olde Pagan Times.
Only now that fire was one of desire, not fury.
And just looking up at him, dream-spun or not, made her heart race and her sex clench. She went liquid with want, everything female in her melting.
Urgent need pooled into a hot, throbbing ache that burned at the very center of her.
As if he knew, his fierce gaze turned even more heated. Pulling her closer, he gave her a slow half smile that could only be called provocatively wicked.
Dangerous.
“Tell me you want me.” He touched her wet hair, smoothing a strand behind her ear. “I am made of rock and ice, as strong”—his fingers slid along the curve of her cheek, then skimmed her chin—“as the cold steel of Vengeance, my sword. But you, lass, have the power to bring me to my knees.”
“I know. . . .” Margo couldn’t breathe.
His touch, now an oh-so-light caress across the sensitive skin beneath her ear, sent jolts of pleasure shooting all through her. Her lower belly grew heavy, tingling with female desire. Her nipples tightened, making it impossible to hide her excitement.
He looked out at the empty sea and then back at her. Holding her gaze, he slid the edge of his thumb across her lower lip and back again, teasing her. “I know what you want, sweet one.”
Then give it to me, she almost dared him. She wanted him. Every tall, strong, and handsome inch of him. She especially wanted the hard ridge of inches tenting his kilt. But as so often in dreams, her lips wouldn’t form the words. She also knew that any attempt to alter the natural flow of a dream could have adverse effects. Such as waking up alone, wet, and shivering in a shower that had gone icy cold. With her luck, she might then slip and conk her head on the edge of the tub, winning a goose-egg-sized bump and days of throbbing pain.
His dark gaze flicked over her. “You tempt me greatly.”
Margo swallowed, the hunger in his eyes stirring a storm of arousal inside her. His deep voice seduced her, its richness spilling through her, warming her, as if the smooth, honeyed tones held ancient magic. A spell that strengthened on each word he spoke and that left her hot, needy, and aching.
Everything else about him . . .
Just breathing in the same salt-kissed air electrified her and sent wicked-hot shivers spearing through her from head to toe.
Margo could see that he knew.
His smile was almost predatory.
She did want him to kiss her again. This was her fantasy and she might as well enjoy every moment.
But instead of pulling her even tighter against him and granting her wishes, he paced away from her and then whirled back around. His scorching gaze made her very aware that she was naked.
Thank God she exercised.
For every baked potato slathered with butter, sour cream, cheddar, and chives that she devoured—she was such a potato zealot—she made good her indulgence with a minimum of one hundred sit-ups and crunches.
Her belly was tight, her waist trim.
Her hot-eyed Viking Slayer was pure male perfection. She’d already given him a thorough head-to-toe sweep and knew by the fall of his kilt that his broad, plaid-draped shoulders and brawny arms weren’t the only well-muscled parts of him. He was more than amply endowed, and having once led the Bucks County Kilt Appreciation Society, she knew exactly what Highlanders wore under their kilts.
Better said, what they didn’t wear.
The thought almost made her climax.
Especially when he dropped his gaze to her Especially when he dropped his gaze to her breasts, letting his focus settle on her taut and straining nipples, so eager for his attentions.
Margo bit her lip again. The ache inside her was unbearable now.
“O-o-oh, lass.” He shook his head slowly, his gaze not leaving her nipples. “You would heat a thousand Highland nights.” He took a step closer, and another, pausing about three feet away from her. He stood at the sea’s edge and the surf broke white behind him, the foam swirling around his ankles as the water hissed across the sand.
He didn’t move or blink. He only held her gaze, and Margo knew he felt the awareness crackling between them. The pull binding them felt almost alive, burning the air, and the power of it sent delicious shivers along her nerves. Her heart beat wildly. Her pulse quickened at how conscious he was of her naked breasts.
Hearing him admit in his deep burr that he desired her made her breath catch. The seductive words reverberated through her body, touching her intimately.
“I need you, lass.” He clenched his fists at his sides, so tightly that his knuckles gleamed in the moonlight.
“In another place and time”—he spoke as if this were real, his gaze dipping to the juncture of her thighs—“I’d do more than kiss you. I’d drag my tongue o’er every inch of you, sating myself until your hot, womanly taste was branded on me forever.”
“Oh, God ...” Desire washed through Margo, a hard, fast torrent.
She’d been verging on a climax and his words—spoken in his husky Scottish accent—were speeding her close to that bright, looming edge of ecstasy.
She closed her eyes, almost there.
Then he suddenly slid his arms around her and pulled her close, slanting his mouth over hers in a hard, bruising kiss. He released her as quickly, stepping back as if she’d scalded him.
Margo frowned, not liking this turn of her dream.
“Now begone from here before I forget this isn’t real.” He dragged his sleeve over his lips, his gaze burning her. “If we meet again—where’er—I’ll no’ be responsible for what I might do.”
Before she could argue—or even blink—he turned and strode down the strand, slowing his pace only when the large scruffy dog she’d seen earlier bounded up to him. Without breaking stride, he reached down to pat the dog’s head. Together, they hastened along the water’s edge until they both disappeared into the mist, leaving her alone.
Except she still heard a Scottish male voice, soft and lilting, but nothing at all like Magnus MacBride’s deep, buttery-rich burr.
She was still cold.
Absolutely freezing ...
And—somehow—she was no longer in the shower.
She came awake slowly, not wanting to leave the cocooning darkness. She felt almost hungover, even though she’d had nothing stronger than Earl Grey Cream tea. Vaguely, she remembered coming into the living room, moving like a sleepwalker. Her grogginess told her she’d slept deeply. And that it was late. Rain still drummed on the roof, though the sound was only a light patter now. Somewhere, a Scottish voice did rise and fall, the musical tones filling her ears, pulling her from the hazy mists of her dream.
Crathes Castle’s ghost is a Green Lady. The voice droned on, clearer now. She’s most often seen in the room given her name, the Green Lady’s Room, where she paces back and forth, then pauses by the fireplace. . . .
Margo started when she recognized the voice. “Oh, no!”
Her eyes popped open. fully alert now, she found herself curled naked in her plaid wing chair. Well, wrapped-in-a-big-bath-towel naked. And judging by the cramp in her legs, she’d been wedged into the chair for hours.
Her feet had even gone to sleep.
She stared across her living room at
the soft glow of her television. A well-known Scottish medium peered back at her from the screen. She couldn’t recall his name, but he appeared weekly on a popular British ghost-hunting show.
Her heart plummeted as she stared back at him, watching him lead a small group of ghost enthusiasts through Crathes Castle in Scotland’s Royal Deeside.
She loved the show and had never missed an episode. Apparently she hadn’t skipped this night’s investigation, either.
But she had taken a shower.
And then, in the confused half-awake, half-asleep state that haunts the weary, she’d stumbled in here to watch Ghosting Britain.
There could be no other explanation.
Her hair was still damp. She’d even tended her nightly ritual of slathering on moisturizer. Her skin felt sleek and silky smooth. She could smell the fragrant jasmine notes of Sea of Nectar body lotion. She’d just been so tired that she didn’t remember flipping on the television.
What she remembered was dreaming of Magnus MacBride.
How his voice had deepened when he’d talked about dragging his tongue over her or sating himself on her taste. She could still feel his kisses, so hard, rough, and plundering. His mouth crushing down over hers, stealing her breath, surprising her as his tongue plunged between her lips to twirl and tangle with her own, making her burn ...
She was still on fire.
She was also hungry.
So she scrambled out of her chair, ignoring the jabs of a gazillion needles shooting up her legs when she put weight on her feet. Quickly, she knotted her big purple towel more securely around her breasts.
Then she headed for the kitchen.
She was halfway there when she realized she could devour everything in her fridge—and even her cupboards—and she’d still be ravenous. She craved something a mere midnight snack would never satisfy.
And it was a hunger that would only worsen as the night progressed and she soon found herself alone in her bed.
This time, she wouldn’t sleep.
She’d spend what remained of the night reliving her dream and what it had felt like to be held and kissed by the Viking Slayer.
Chapter 4
Early the next day, across time and in a far-distant place, Magnus strode from Badcall Castle, making for a certain thick-walled cottage. Nestled atop a pine-clad knoll, Windhill Cottage required visitors to climb a rough track through dense bracken and to be wary of hidden bog slicks. But there were rewards for the effort. One of the finest was the welcoming curl of peat smoke that always rose from Windhill’s thatched roof.
A great, huge-bearded seer dwelt at the cottage, preferring seclusion to cast his runes, watch the roll of the sea, listen to the wind, or whatever else he did in his endeavors to unravel the mysteries of fate.
This man was Magnus’s reason for leaving his hall on such a chill and drizzly morn. And why he carried a basket of smoked herring on his arm.
Orosius was an unlikely prophet, but skilled at reading signs in elemental forces. Or through other means he didn’t care to divulge.
Most times, Magnus appreciated the seer’s wisdom.
Just now he only wanted to put an end to Calum’s blether about the realm of the dead and a naked, golden-haired siren he knew wasn’t Liana.
He hoped she wasn’t the temptress conjured by Donata.
The lushly curved vixen who’d appeared to him twice now. Once when he’d cut down Godred, and—he frowned—in the heated dream that robbed his sleep and left him so angry this morn. More than that, for ever since she’d visited him in the night, his tongue ached to tease and taste her. He’d wakened to find his entire body so tight that even breathing was an agony.
His loins ...
Magnus’s scowl deepened. He quickened his pace, glad for the damp air, the cold wind fretting his plaid.
And for Frodi’s loyal presence as the old dog trailed him up the steep rise. A journey that, thanks to the spume-flecked maid from the sea, had never struck him as so torturous.
Such intense, bone-aching lust hadn’t seized him since the first time he’d thrust his head beneath a woman’s skirts and breathed in the tangy musk of female desire. It galled him that he now felt an overwhelming urge to fill his lungs with the naked beauty’s feminine dew. Shoving the desire from his mind, he avoided a jumble of loose, moss-covered rocks and then leapt over a narrow, rushing burn.
Without doubt, the sea siren had cast magic over him.
He’d have been fine if she hadn’t taunted him by placing her hands on her hips, offering him such a grand view of her full, round breasts and her shapely, succulent thighs. The lush triangle of dark gold curls that set his blood to simmering.
Even then, he might have remained unaffected.
But his dream self had kissed her.
And she’d sighed her pleasure, parting her soft, ripe lips. Somehow, before he realized what was happening, his tongue was tangling with hers and they were sharing breath, the intimacy scalding him.
If the vixen hadn’t wished to seduce him, why had she kissed him back? Why deepen the kiss and let her tongue twirl so hotly with his, if not to drive him to madness?
Why burst into his life wearing naught but pearls of water and sea foam?
She’d even leaned into him when he’d seized her, melting against him so that he felt the delicious burn of her tightened nipples. The soft, beckoning heat of her woman’s place and the silky-wet delights waiting beneath her tangle of golden female curls.
He might have been dreaming, trapped in the thrall of Donata’s curse, but he could almost taste the naked beauty now. He knew she’d be honeyed nectar on his tongue. Sakes, he’d kill a man just to run a finger down the slick, molten center of her.
And that need fashed him greatly.
Especially as he was certain Sigurd Sword Breaker or Donata Greer had worked some kind of dark, carnal magic to send the seductress to plague him.
Donata would laugh when he succumbed to the vixen’s charms. Sigurd would wait until he mounted her and then plunge a blade through his back, piercing his heart.
Only his foes could hatch such a plan.
His own mind was too filled with his need to sharpen his sword on his enemies’ bones for him to bother conjuring bare-bottomed, pert-nippled females to addle his wits and rob him of his nights’ rest.
“Come, Frodi.” Magnus frowned when his dog stopped to sniff heather. “The female is a proper pest.
I want Orosius to banish her.”
Frodi swiveled his furry head, seeming to grin at Magnus before trotting back to his side. The dog’s swishing tail gave the impression he agreed that the seer could spin such magic.
If anyone could vanquish the sea witch, it was Orosius.
Magnus trusted in the seer’s power.
But his hopes dimmed when Orosius opened the door as he neared the cottage. The seer was known for his moods, and the way he scratched his tattered ear at Magnus’s approach didn’t bode well.
Orosius had lost much of his ear to an enemy’s sword years ago and believed the injury was the gods’ retribution for using his gift unwisely. He tugged the damaged ear only when he wasn’t of a mood to scry.
The fierce look he pinned on Magnus was equally telling. His wildly mussed hair signaled that he’d only just risen.
It was clearly one of those mornings when Orosius desired his peace.
Magnus didn’t care.
Letting his own brows snap together, he strode on toward the low, whitewashed cottage. “Orosius! I’ll be having a word with you.”
“Humph. I knew you’d be coming.” Orosius continued to scratch his ear. “Felt it in my bones, I did.” A huge man with piercing, silvery eyes, a bulbous red nose that had surely been broken more than once, and a great, bushy black beard, he filled the doorway.
He was also blocking it, deliberately.
His odd eyes narrowed. “Calum couldn’t keep his tongue from flapping, eh?”
Magnus forgot his intention to treat
the seer with respect. “I’d rather you put such tidings in my own ears before filling Calum’s head with nonsense.” Orosius gave him a chiding look. “As it happens, I meant to tell you. That long-nosed Calum darkened my door before I had a chance.”
“You could’ve come straight to Badcall.”
“Harrumph.” Orosius rocked back on his heels and glared at Magnus. “I need to sleep after seeing the like. And with everyone tromping a track to my door of late, I haven’t had my rest.”
“You can sleep after I’ve had my answers.” Magnus glowered back at him. “What’s this about seeing me dead?”
“Only what I saw, no more.”
“You erred.”
“Be the first time, if I did.” Orosius bristled. “I’m not a storyteller, spinning tales to fill a long, cold evening.” He swelled his chest, looking proud. “I speak true, whether or not my words are pleasing.”
“Then I’ll tell you what pleases me.” Magnus drew himself up likewise. “Standing in Godred’s blood was more than satisfying. And I’ll no’ be dying until I’ve danced in Sword Breaker’s guts.”
“Could be that’s so.” Orosius shifted and a waft of peat smoke drifted from the cottage’s dim interior. “I didnae see your end happening. I only saw—”
“I know what you saw.” Magnus’s gaze met the seer’s. “And it wasn’t me with Liana.” Orosius’s heavy black brows drew together. Instead of answering, he peered at the basket of smoked herring in Magnus’s hand.
“Be that your tribute for me?” Orosius’s sharp eyes narrowed on the fish. “I still have two strings o’ herring hanging o’er my fire from your last visit. What I need is more peat to burn.”
“You’ll have your peat.” Magnus turned a sour glance on a fresh curl of smoke whirling out into the cold morning. He knew if he peered around the corner of the cottage, he’d see a peat stack nearly as high as the one that supplied Badcall. “Truth is, you’re better supplied than most.”
Looking belligerent, Orosius folded his arms over his barrel-sized chest. “If my kettle isn’t kept simmering, there’s no steam to scry—”