With Dreams Only of You

by Kathryn Le Veque, Suzan Tisdale, Eliza Knight, Cynthia Wright, Christi Caldwell, Eva Devon

  He blinked.

  “I’m sorry.” He shook his head, looking dumbstruck. “I—I’ll see you at dinner.”

  He turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction of the one they had come in.

  She stared at his retreating form feeling like she’d been suspended in air.

  He had.

  He’d been about to kiss her and, God help her, she’d wanted him to.

  She bit her lip, fighting back her disappointment. Why had he stopped?

  Maybe she should have been glad that he had. But she wasn’t. It didn’t matter if it made her a fool, she wanted to know the feel of James Reign’s mouth on hers. She allowed herself to smile as she shut the door. Maybe all this was more than just her dreams. She folded her arms across her chest and shook her silliness away. Too much hope for such an impossible thing was not something someone like she could indulge in. She knew all too well the disappointing pain of hope misplaced.

  * * *

  James stood in the dark crypt. He traced a hand over the cold stone. Sir Eryx’s face was bold. No doubt, the man had seen countless battles. He’d faced death and still found love in the arms of Lady Frederica. Somehow, they’d survived the curse. It didn’t seem fair that they had and his father hadn’t.

  Or was he simply imagining things. Had his father just simply been killed in a bloody war?

  What had these two been like? Their hands were intertwined, clasped for eternity. How had they found so much love in a world fraught with peril?

  He hadn’t mentioned it to Ms. O’Neil but his mother had been in that car with his father. They’d loved each other. Unlike most of the couples he knew, they couldn’t wait to be in each other’s company. Always touching. Always smiling. He should have considered it a blessing that one had never had to live without the other. He tried to tell himself that but he missed them. God, he missed them so much.

  There was that voice of reason again. The sword was just a sword. His parents had died purely from chance. Not chance. No. His father had been involved in a dangerous dance between two peoples that hated each other.

  James stared down at Sir Eryx and Lady Frederica, envying them and wondering if that damned therapist he’d gone to for one month had been correct.

  The therapist had asserted that James blamed the sword so he didn’t have to blame his father for taking such risks.

  There. A simple, clear answer. Psycho-babble solved it all. But it wasn’t true. He knew it in his heart. And now that Mac was here, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind.

  The sword had to be destroyed.

  Chapter Five

  The perfectly cooked salmon melted in her mouth.

  Mac nearly swooned. . . Did people still swoon? Oh my God. The fish flaked perfectly and had been drizzled with a light parsley sauce. She almost never ate salmon because, come on? What MFA student could afford to eat salmon? Only those with a trust fund, that’s who.

  She smiled.

  “You like it, then?” her host asked before he took a sip of white wine from a baccarat crystal glass.

  Drinking wine had never looked so sexy. She stopped herself from sighing. My God, his lips. They looked like they could kiss a girl brainless. And slightly wet with wine, it was all she could do not to jump up from her seat, head down to his end of the expansive, mahogany table, and taste the flavor of the vintage mixed with his tongue.

  She put her silver fork down. “Like is not the right word.”

  He gave her a slow smile. “Oh, please don’t use that all-encompassing, over-used hyperbole of a word ‘love’, you Americans are so fond of.”

  Despite that toe-curling smile, she scowled at him. “Don’t mock enthusiasm. It got us to space.”

  He raised his glass. “Point to you. British stoicism can be a bit wearing.”

  She nodded, doing her best to appear completely at ease and not utterly flustered by him and her surroundings. “Exactly.”

  “In all actuality,” he said, his posture impossibly straight as he took another sip of wine. “We English used to be quite passionate people.”

  She eyed his cool, controlled manner and raised her eyebrow.

  He laughed, a low rumble of sound.

  It caressed her skin and her insides tightened. Good God. How did he do that? How did he make her feel so alive. . . So turned on, with just a laugh?

  “It’s true.” He took another sip of wine.

  She couldn’t stop herself from staring at his strong fingers wrapped around the glass, wondering how they’d feel on her body. Not just her hand. But her body. All over.

  “Mac?”

  “Hmm?” His hands had to be strong. Really, really strong.

  “You look very far away and are you too warm?” He gestured toward the massive hearth framed with a carved marble mantel. “I could have the fire banked.”

  She sat up straighter and shot a glance at the huge fireplace alongside the dining table. The table was so long it could have sat at least sixteen. He was all the way at the other end. And he was still having this effect on her.

  She cleared his throat. “I’m fine. Fine. Just got distracted. You know. . .” She grabbed her wine glass and gulped. “Not enough sleep. Makes it hard to focus.”

  Oh God. She wanted to cringe at her own bad lies.

  His lips curved ever so slightly, as if he knew.

  “Uh,” she scrambled. “You were going to convince me the English were once passionate people.”

  “I’m sure you have an inking,” he replied, a jovial smile tilting his lips. “The likes of Shakespeare could never be written or produced by a repressed group of people.”

  “No. I guess not.” She’d never really thought about the contrast of contemporary British culture to that of the time period she loved. But he was right.

  “Sir Eryx and Lady Frederica, for instance,” he said. “There was nothing repressed about them.”

  No. That was clear from the way they’d been buried. Those two had wanted the world to know how much they loved each other.

  He raised his brows and wagged them. “I’ve another relative who went quite mad after her husband died.”

  “When?” she asked, curious.

  “The Tudor period. You realize, it wasn’t until Wellington came along that we started stiffening our lips.”

  She rested her fork on her plate. “You don’t sound like you think it was such a good thing.”

  He paused. “I think there have been many children who needed love and were given discipline instead.”

  Her throat tightened. It was such an emotional thing for someone so controlled to say.

  “Is that how your childhood was?” she dared to ask.

  He shook his head. “My childhood was blessed in every way. Magical if you will, growing up in a castle and having parents who adored me. My parents were different, however, than most of the aristocracy on this cold, little island.”

  She nodded, unable to form a reply.

  “I’m sure you had the effusive upbringing all you Americans seem to have. Hugs and ‘I love yous’ all day long.”

  She gripped her wine glass. She hated this moment. It happened in any relationship she had whether romantic or platonic. Sometimes even in job interviews or casual interactions. It was the moment that people stopped treating her like an equal and started treating her as if she was fragile or broken in some way.

  He cocked his head to the side, his dark hair caressing his cheek. “Mac? I do apologize. I think I’ve put my foot in it in some way.”

  She drew in a long breath and forced a smile. “No. No. I was adopted. My foster mother was very loving. Hugs and ‘I love yous’ all day long, for sure.”

  “You see?” he said without even a hint of pity. “You Americans.”

  That was it? Where was the “Oh, I’m so sorry.”? It was the first time she’d never had to assure someone that it hadn’t been that bad or that she was really okay. It felt. . . It felt wonderful.

  “You’re an od
d man, Lord Reign,” she observed.

  “I think you’d best call me James. And odd? You mean exceptional, don’t you?”

  He said it with such a straight face, she almost missed the teasing spark in his eye.

  She took a long drink of the delicious sauvignon blanc, astonished to realize that, yes, he truly was exceptional. Not just because he had a castle, or a title, or was gorgeous, but because he had managed not to make her feel as if she were flawed for being an orphan.

  “Shall we have coffee in my study?” he asked standing.

  Clearly, it was a rhetorical question. She put her napkin on the polished mahogany table then started to push her chair back.

  Before she could, he’d easily sprinted down the length of the table and was behind her, sliding her chair back.

  His scent, that expensive cologne made up of juniper and citrus, surrounded her. Just a light touch but so intoxicating. Even without him touching her, she could feel him. His presence was unbelievably strong. She stood and slid away from the table.

  He held out his hand to her. “Come with me.”

  Why was he doing that? This wasn’t Downton Abbey. She didn’t need to be escorted, but. . . Mac took his hand, loving the way his long fingers curled around hers.

  She followed him out of the dining room and into a dimly lit hall.

  She blinked. The strangest feeling came over her and she pulled on his hand.

  “What is it, Mac?”

  She frowned and looked up. There on the champagne, brocade covered wall was a painting of a woman, her gown some Tudor creation. She was beautiful, her face strong. And there, on her hand, was the ring.

  A wave of nausea hit her and she wavered.

  “Mac?” he asked suddenly, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.

  “T-that’s the lady, right?”

  He gazed down at her then up at the portrait.

  James shook his head. “I don’t understand. Who?”

  “The woman who went mad. Lady Mary de Reyne, Countess of Bedford.”

  He stilled. “Yes, it is. Mac, how do you know that? This portrait isn’t in any books or catalogues.”

  She dug into her jeans pocket. Her fingers touched the metal smoothed by countless wearings over centuries, except for the barely visible writing still inside the ring. She closed her eyes, feeling a sort of panic.

  She wasn’t mad. Not like the poor woman in the painting. And maybe Lady Mary hadn’t been either. There was something about the ring. Something that was happening that couldn’t be explained away by too much TV or surfing the internet.

  She slipped the ring free from her pocket and held it up.

  James shrugged. “And?”

  “Look at the painting.”

  He followed her request then tensed.

  She waited for his response. Any response. Instead he was silent.

  The air thickened with intensity. God, she could almost cut it with a knife.

  At last, she said, “James?”

  His jaw tightened and he turned to her. “We’re leaving for Scotland.”

  She followed James’ gaze, knowing exactly where it was locked.

  On Lady Mary’s ring finger was the exact image of the ring in her hand. A poesy ring of ancient origin.

  A ring that had driven a woman mad and had brought Mac to England.

  She curled her palm around the ring and knew exactly why they were going. There was only one reason, after all.

  To get the sword.

  Chapter Six

  Mac clutched the seat. When James had said Scotland, her heart had fluttered. It was a place she’d longed to go since she’d first seen Braveheart. Who cared if the movie was full of historical errors? Clearly, Scotland’s scenery was soul searing. She’d been ready to head down to the driveway and climb into her rental car so they could start the drive.

  Oh, how she wished.

  The helicopter blades beat a deafening rhythm and she forced herself to peer out the huge windows. The unfolding landscape was breathtaking.

  Purple heather decked the hills and rugged mountains beneath them. For the last twenty minutes they’d been in the Highlands and she was literally speechless.

  It might have been because she was terrified they would plummet from the sky and crash to the wild terrain below, but she was fairly certain it was actually the majesty of Scotland that kept her silent and absolutely captivated.

  James flew the helicopter easily, as if he was out for a casual trip.

  Why was she not surprised?

  In fact, she was beginning to feel that if James suddenly started swallowing flames or parasailing, or any other array of madcapped things, that she wouldn’t be shocked.

  The stoic, cool Englishman was hiding a vast quantity of skills.

  “There,” he said, pointing to the west.

  She squinted.

  Mist was rolling in off the coast.

  A sea loch stretched to the north and west of them and along the shoreline sat a castle.

  Another castle.

  Did all lords own such places?

  The massive stone structure was framed by the silver loch and the steep sides of a mountain behind it. A waterfall poured down the rocky face of the mountain, forming a river at its base and winding to the loch.

  The castle was no shabby ruin either.

  Its windows sparkled, diamond clear, even in the approaching clouds.

  “That’s where the sword is?” she asked.

  James nodded and began to descend.

  She clutched the seat harder, wishing she could close her eyes but not quite able to.

  For some reason, a tiny craft such as this was way more terrifying than the glorified sky greyhound she’d taken from the west coast to London.

  But James masterfully brought the helicopter down onto the landing pad near the loch.

  She let out a sigh of relief as soon as he turned it off and the engine powered down.

  A man ran up to her side of the helicopter and opened the door.

  “Madam, may I assist you?” The tall, red-headed young man extended his palm.

  A servant. Mac was about to roll her eyes but she stopped herself just in time. This wasn’t her world. This was a world so far from hers she might as well be an alien. . . And well, she’d be a fool if she didn’t at least try to enjoy it.

  And she certainly didn’t want to be rude.

  She took the young man’s hand and jumped down. “Thanks.”

  It took her a second to realize her legs were shaking a bit.

  James came up behind her and slid his arm slowly around her waist. “Are you all right?”

  She nearly jumped. “Um. Yes. Just. . . Well, all this is new.”

  Just as she was about to decide if she should settle into that muscled arm wrapped about her middle, a voice called out, “King, you great loafer, have you nothing better to do than visit me?”

  Mac couldn’t help it, her mouth dropped.

  Jeez. What was this? Were there no average men around anymore?

  The owner of that voice strode up from the loch, his dark green, utility kilt swinging about legs. Legs as powerful as tree trunks. Long, black hair danced in the breeze and eyes the color of whiskey peered out from under rather menacing brows.

  He could easily have been James’ cousin. She leaned into Lord Reign. “Are you two related?”

  “Distant cousins,” he said, then he was headed towards the massive Scotsman. He grabbed the man in a bear hug. “You know I can’t resist your pretty hair and skirt.”

  The Scot pounded James on the back. “Kilt you arse. Kilt.”

  “You will roam about the hillsides seducing the tourists,” James drawled.

  Seducing tourists? She nearly laughed. He’d be any woman’s fantasy that was for sure. . . Though, to her surprise she didn’t feel anything except appreciation for his unbelievable, masculine beauty.

  Apparently, only James could make her act like a complete fool and as if she’d burn u
p on the spot from desire.

  James pulled away from the Scot.

  “Who’s this then?” the other man said.

  James nodded in her direction. “MacKenzie O’Neil. Mac, this is Laird Connor MacPherson, Duke of Aberoth, and many more titles than I’ve breath to list.”

  “Och, I doubt that man.”

  Mac bit back a grin. Had he just called James a windbag? From her experience, he was the opposite. Then, perhaps, Connor MacPherson, Duke of Aberoth, (at the rate of titled people she was meeting, next it would be a prince) had known him for a very long time.

  The Duke held out his large hand. “How do you do, lass?”

  James scowled. “Ease off the braw, Highlander bit will you, old man? You went to Eton for God’s sake and your mother lives in London.”

  The Duke grinned. “Aye, but the lass likes it, don’t you?”

  Mac pursed her lips. My, my, the man must think all women would fall at his feet. “I’d prefer you as yourself but you’re very entertaining.”

  James guffawed. “She knows you well.”

  “You cut me, MacKenzie.” The Duke clapped a hand over his heart. “Indeed, you cut me to the quick.”

  “I’m sure you’ll recover,” she replied.

  The Duke winked. “I’ll endeavor at any rate. Now, what brings you up to Scotland? Are you wanting a tour of my bonnie lands?”

  Mac bit her lip. Would the Duke of Aberoth think they were both totally crackers?

  James said flatly, “We’re here for the sword, Connor.”

  Connor’s joviality dimmed. “You said you never wanted to see it again, James.”

  James nodded. “Something has changed.”

  “What in God’s name could change your mind, man? That thing killed your parents.”

  Parents? Mac felt like the earth drooped out from under her. Both his parents were dead? Killed by the sword? So, in his own way, James Reign, was just like her.

  An orphan.

  * * *

  James could still remember the hell he’d been in when he brought the sword to Connor. It had been a dark period of his life. Too much fucking. Too much booze. Too much gambling. Too much everything. He’d been living on the edge, desperate not to feel the loss of his parents’ lives. He’d lived like that so long, he’d almost lost himself. He would have just been another victim of the sword. And so, after several years, trawling across Europe jet setting, he’d packed the sword in a case, traveled to the Highlands and begged Connor to hide it and never let it near him again.