Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures

by Heather Graham

  She sighed. These were proud people. And she was their leader. She needed the courage for the task, and she suddenly and fiercely prayed that she had it.

  Despite the fire, the room seemed cold to her. She found a long white flannel gown and slipped it over her naked shoulders, then plunged into the laird's large bed.

  She had never felt so alone, so tired, so uncertain.

  She swallowed hard, moving her hands over the expanse of the bed beside her. Who would come here? She shuddered fiercely. The MacNamara? God spare her! No teeth, no hair—

  No way to judge a man, she warned herself fiercely. But he was old and shrewd and cunning, his tanned face like leather, his old eyes frightening when they fell upon her.

  He was a deadly old warrior. That was why the clan would be wanting him.

  Then there was Geoffrey...

  She shuddered again. Aye, now there was a deadly man, too. He looked like a wolf. He had beaten Mary MacGregor, his first young bride, Marina was positive. And she had heard worse. She had heard that he practiced what were whispered to be "perversions of the harshest kind."

  Oh, God. She inhaled sharply. Her clan members would let no harm come to her. She was sure of it. But once she had been married to the man...

  She twisted over in the bed, slamming her fist into her pillow. Sleep. She just had to have some sleep.

  But for the longest time, sleep seemed to elude her.

  And when she did sleep, she dreamed.

  It was so very strange, for she was not sure when wakefulness and restlessness gave off, when she entered into the dream.

  She was suddenly in a field of mist. And she saw him.

  He was coming toward her. Riding hard, but in a slow, slow motion. She could see each rise and fall of his horse's hooves; she could see the mud and the earth torn up and flying beneath the great beast.

  She could see him. Study him, long and hard.

  Blue eyes blazed into hers. Keen, sharp. The wind caught his hair. Sun-gold hair, brilliantly blond. He rode the horse bareback, and he was nearly naked himself, clad only in some form of short pants or leggings. A silver bracelet curled around his forearm in the image of a snake. An amulet hung around his neck.

  His bare chest was bronzed so deeply it was near to brown in color. He did not seem to feel the cold. The closer he came, the more she could see the sheer ripple of the muscles in his chest and arms and shoulders. The sun played down on his chest, hard corded, riddled with short, coarse, red-gold hairs.

  And as he came...

  She felt a thrill rising within her, an unprecedented excitement.

  She wanted to fight with him...

  She wanted to touch him.

  The horse came closer. Came close to running her down where she stood, waiting. But she would not falter, she swore it. She would stand before him, she would best him.

  The hooves continued to thunder, closer and closer.

  She could almost feel the stallion's breath. She could feel the blue fire of the man's eyes, searing into her, warming her from head to toe, lighting some secret fire deep, deep within her.

  In seconds, the mighty hooves would fell her.

  She could feel the quaking of the earth.

  Feel the hooves rising, parting the air...

  He reined in, the horse reared, and the forelegs fell, just inches from where she stood.

  "Surrender to me now! Spare the isle from battle!"

  "Surrender? To you?" Her voice was imperious. She was riddled with the sweet fire that he had brought. "To you, a heathen? Never!"

  The great hooves of the war-horse pounded beside her. She stood her ground. Then she heard the thunder of his laughter, and before she knew it, she was swept up into his arms, and she was flying through the mist.

  "But you will surrender, because I will have you."

  The words were bold, determined. The huskiness of his voice rang with laughter.

  The mist swallowed them up.

  She tossed in her sleep. She dreamed, and she knew that she dreamed.

  But then she saw him again.

  Out of the mist, he walked to her like a stalking beast. More than his chest was uncovered then. He came to her naked as a panther, his long strides equally as sure as those of a great cat intent upon its pursuit. And like a great cat, he was completely, supremely confident in his nakedness, in the agility of his movement, in the ultimate victory of his quest. He came out of the silver of the mist, to the place where she lay...

  In her own bed.

  It was not real. It was a dream.

  She should scream. This was her bedchamber. He could not be here. No man had a right here. She was the...

  She was...

  She could not remember her name, nor could she remember quite why men would leap to her defense, why they would fight for her, why they would die for her.

  She only knew that he was coming closer and closer, her golden panther in the night. And his eyes were on her, raking over her, ravaging her even as they traveled her length, creating fire.

  A scream rose to her lips. She closed her eyes. She dreamed...

  Dreamed... erotic, fantastic dreams.

  He crawled atop her, sleek, blatantly masculine. "Bastard!" she cried, and tried to fight him.

  But his lips touched hers. The softness of the mist swept around her, and she was sinking, sinking into the mist, into the downy softness of the bed.

  His mouth...

  It was not tender, but neither was it cruel. It demanded, it ravaged. It formed over hers, parted her lips to his. Hot and thirsting, it brought wildfire to her. Her temper soared with indignation and fury...

  Her body burned.

  His kiss went on, his tongue tempting, teasing. Breaking the barrier of her teeth. Thrusting evocatively into the very deep recesses of her mouth.

  His lips parted from hers. The fever of his kiss moved against her, discovering the pulse at her throat. She found some strength, and slammed her hands against his chest. He caught her wrists. She opened her eyes and saw him again.

  Saw the eternal, sky-blue blaze of his eyes. The handsome curve of his taunting smile.

  His fingers entwined with hers, bringing her hands flush back against the bed.

  And his kiss moved downward against her throat. Found the thundering pulse that beat there. Moved downward again, his mouth forming over fabric, over her collarbone over...

  Her breast. His mouth was so hot, so wet, just against the hardening peak of her nipple. She arched back, ready to scream, yet his kiss was suddenly on her lips once again, swallowing the sound of her cry.

  She was looking at him again. Meeting those eyes

  Eyes she knew.

  "Tonight, lady..."

  Was it a whisper? Was it the wind? Had she gone mad'? Did she dream?

  His rakish grin deepened. "Tonight!"

  With one swift movement, he caught hold of the edges of her gown, and with a rending sound, they were ripped asunder. Shocked, she sprang to action, trying to rise, trying in all earnestness to strike him.

  She was no match for him. No matter how she flailed, he caught her wrists again. She swore savagely and did not understand her own words. She did not sway him. Once again, his lips moved over her, flesh now naked and bared to him. His kiss traveled the long column of her throat. He breathed hot fire against the rise of her breasts.

  His mouth closed around the nipple; his tongue slowly traced erotic circles around it.

  Somewhere in the mist, she ceased to struggle. Somewhere in that same mist, she felt the soft, exotic movement of the clouds, of time, of night. She felt him, sweet and tender and savage.

  A kiss that would not be denied. A body fierce, hard-muscled, proud. Sliding against hers. Causing her to lose her breath.

  A kiss, a touch, that wandered places she'd never dared imagine.

  That brought sensations she'd never dared dream.

  Ah, but they were there. The feel of molten lava streaking through her body. The rippl
ing fire dancing along her spine, centering in her middle, arousing, wicked, fantastic...

  Then his eyes were on her again. Bold, blunt, demanding. And she cried out sharply as he knelt before her, sweeping up her knees, parting her thighs to his pleasure and scrutiny.

  She gasped, stunned, shocked... protesting, as his kiss so boldly seared flesh so intimate. But her protest fell to a series of gasps as the sensations burst into a miraculous climax that swept her breath away.

  She struggled against it. It was a dream! A dream, no one felt this from a dream...

  But even as she fought the feelings, a new one descended on her. A quick moment of startling pain. And she realized that he had become one with her. That her dream lover had entered her. That she was filled with the startling size and heat of the man, that bold strokes were seeming to tear her in two...

  She bit his shoulder. She tasted salt and blood. He whispered to her. She did not hear the words. The pain ebbed. Slowly. To her shock and embarrassment, the fire began to wind within her again. Brilliant, wicked, wild, rising and rising...

  Bursting in a shattering of stars, sweeping through her, filling her again with a touch of sheer mystery and magic and wonder...

  She drifted down in amazement. Slowly, sensually. The mist crowded in around her. It billowed and deepened and darkened, despite the whisper of the wind.

  Mist...

  And then darkness.

  It had been a dream.

  She slept peacefully.

  * * *

  When she awoke in the morning, she didn't remember the dream at first. She felt so very groggy.

  She was worn, nearly as tired as she had been when she had gone to bed after the wearying days of travel.

  Perhaps it took a day or two to recover, she told herself.

  But light was suddenly streaming, and Peg was in the room with her. Peg had drawn back the tapestries over the eastern windows, and sunlight now touched her with its brilliance and warmth.

  "Tea's here, Marina," Peg said. "Angus and the others will await ye in the great hall this morning. Ye must ride and see the ranks of the MacCannans."

  "Are they ready for me yet?"

  "I don't know, but ye must take yer time, luv."

  "Nay, I'll hurry!" Marina said. She started to throw her covers back and stopped, her eyes widening in horrified amazement.

  She was naked.

  She quickly drew the covers around her. A misted remembrance of her dream rushed back to her, and she frowned with growing panic and confusion.

  "Marina—"

  "I—I'm fine, Peg," she said quickly. She jerked the covers back around her and tried to smile at Peg.

  Nay, she was not fine! She was losing her mind, and doing so damn decadently.

  "Peg, there's no way for anyone to reach this chamber in the night, is there?"

  "Indeed not, m'lady! At night, why, the hounds guard the door with one of the lads, and the men of the household sleep just down the next level!"

  Marina moistened her lips, fighting for a sense of sanity. It could not be. She had tossed and turned. She had imagined a hero, a man young and bold and beautiful because she was so very afraid of what was to come. That was it, surely.

  "Peg, see for me, please, if the chieftains are in the hall yet. Quickly now, I beg you."

  "But, m'lady—"

  "Now, Peg, please?"

  "But I told ye—"

  "Now!"

  Peg sighed, shaking her head. "Aye, m'lady."

  The second that Peg was gone, Marina leaped up to dress. She dug into a trunk quickly and slipped into a long cotton chemise, determined to be decent at the very least before Peg could return.

  She looked at her hands. They were ceasing to shake. She breathed deeply.

  Was she losing her mind?

  She ran her hands under the sheets, looking for her discarded gown. Her fingers curled around it. She sank down on the foot of the bed.

  Well, she hadn't lost her mind completely. She had gone to bed dressed.

  But as she lifted the garment to fold it, she started to shake all over again.

  The garment was torn, wrenched cleanly in half from the bodice downward.

  Chapter 3

  sShe had scarcely dressed and come downstairs before she heard the sudden clamoring of the church bells, bells that pealed out an alarm. Rushing straight into the great hall, she discovered everyone scrambling to his feet and heading from the fortress, as stunned as she that they seemed to be under attack at that very moment.

  One of the tower guards burst into the room even as Angus swore and Kevin leaped to his feet, buckling on his sword.

  "Be it the English?" Angus demanded swiftly.

  "Nay, it's Geoffrey's Camerons!" the young guard told them swiftly. "He's riding hard, demanding surrender, swearing that he will take Marina MacCannan and hold this fortress by nightfall!"

  "Why, the bloody wretched bastard!" Angus exclaimed.

  "He couldna' wait to negotiate; he would come and blast us all down when what we seek is strength?"

  "I think, cousins," Marina said calmly, "that Geoffrey Cameron does not want negotiations. He believes he can have the fortress unconditionally, and then perhaps better negotiate with the British himself."

  "By the Lord Jesu!" Kevin breathed to Angus. "She is right! Best us quickly, and he shall have everything! And he can use MacCannans as his own blood sacrifices in atonement to the German king!"

  "Then we had best fight him, and swiftly," Angus said, striding for the door. He paused, a gallant old warrior, before Marina. He took her hand in his and bowed low over it. "Fear not, Marina, for every man here would die ere letting this upstart come near ye by force!"

  She smiled and tenderly touched his graying beard.

  It was fine for the upstart to have her—if she had agreed. But they were under attack, and the Highlanders here would fight.

  The men were swiftly gone from the hall. Marina paused, watching from the entry as they mounted. Peg stood behind her with a silver tray and cup on it. "Fer Angus, luv; he be leading," she whispered to Marina.

  Aye! She had forgotten the proper way to see her men to battle. She smiled her gratitude to Peg and hurried out. Angus was mounted, at the front of the troops. She hurried to him with a smooth and dignified pace, offering up the cup as he sat his horse. "Godspeed, Angus MacCannan!" she called out. He raised the silver cup in a salute to her. "Aye, Godspeed! Hail the MacCannan."

  A cry went up, half cheer, half battle cry. Then Marina could hear the sound of the invaders. It was coming louder and louder, a sure pounding of horses' hooves.

  The tide was low, and Geoffrey Cameron knew it. He was riding across the shallow sea to take them.

  "We ride!" Angus called out. His sword flew into the air, and Marina stepped back as his huge war-horse reared into action. Behind him, Kevin, jaunty in his kilt and feathered and cockaded bonnet, saluted her with a promising smile. His horse followed Angus's, and then hundreds of men were racing on by her while the people waited behind, cheering on their warriors.

  Marina hesitated, then hurried to the stables. She found a young groom there. "I need a horse, and quickly. A mount who will not panic at the sounds of battle."

  "And what do ye think ye're doing?" came a voice behind her. She swung around. Peg was standing there with her hands on her hips, her eyes worried.

  "I'm riding behind the troops. I'll stay clear of the danger, Peg, I swear it, but I'll be there to support them as they ride."

  "Marina, ye cannot—"

  "Peg, I am the MacCannan!"

  That she was. The groom did not intend to insist otherwise, and even as she argued with Peg, he brought her the mount she desired.

  Perhaps she had never really prepared for war, but she had learned to ride. Any child of clan MacCannan knew how to ride the wild Highland ponies as soon as he or she could walk.

  She leaped onto her mount, and as she looked down at Peg and the young groom, she was every bit the v
ision of both a fine lady and the MacCannan of Fortress Glenraven. She wore a fine white ruffled blouse beneath a deep blue jacket, and one of the long skirts in the family plaid made from fine wool. Her small black bonnet was adorned with a brooch bearing the MacCannan motto—"God and courage shall lead." A jaunty feather danced above the pin, and both were held in place by a thin band of the plaid.

  Beneath the bonnet, her hair was free, a golden banner streaming down her back. Her chin was high, and the emerald of her eyes sizzled beneath the rising sun.

  "I am the MacCannan!" she said to Peg. Waving, she set her heels to her bay horse and followed behind the racing trail of men.

  Perhaps it had been a fool thing to do. Angus would have told her so. But she was determined that she should be seen.

  If men were to die for her, then it seemed only fair that she should, at the very least, ride with them.

  Yet as they plowed down the fields from the fortress, she saw that the forces were already engaged in the shallows. Marina led her horse back upward along the slope, looking for a vantage point from which to watch the proceedings. Her heart seemed to fall into her stomach and there burn, for seeing the battle was a horror. Gunfire roared, and men fell into the water, men in the green and blue and red of the MacCannan, and men in the Cameron colors. Together, they fell within the shallows. Swords were drawn, swords were slashed. Battle cries ripped the air.

  It was then that she saw their enemy, and saw him splitting his troops.

  Looking far across the shallows, she saw Geoffrey Cameron. He was far from the battle, as she was herself. He sat his large black horse and viewed the carnage. Dark and deadly, he lifted his arm, splitting his forces so that they would ride around the MacCannans and take them from the back.

  "Nay!" Marina cried out. Without thought, she rode down from her slope, crying out the warning. Her mount raced far across the fields and toward the shallows. Moments later, the salt water ripped up and flew around her as she began to pound through, seeking the attention of the chieftains.