Highlander in Her Bed (27 page)

He sucked hard, pulling strongly, the taste of her ripping away his restraint, his shaft sliding deeper with each hot draw on her nipple until he'd plunged full deep. He lost himself at once, cried out at the hot, sleek feel of her wetness.

He drew a sharp breath, her tight, satiny heat almost unmanning him. His world began to spin faster, each giddy whirl letting him sink deeper into her clinging, welcoming warmth.

But he remembered to reach down and rub that special place, kept a questing, circling finger there as he stroked deeper, each smooth in-and-out glide claiming another piece of him, making his world splinter around him.

"O-o-oh, Alex!" Her voice was breathless, a hitching cry somewhere in the madness, its sweetness wrapping round him, binding him to her as deeply as he rode her silken depths.

She arched her hips, turning wild, clutching at him and clawing his back, her writhings and cries undoing him, making it impossible to give her the slow, thorough loving he'd planned.

"Lass, I canna hold back—"

"Then don't! I can't either," she moaned, grabbing his face and pulling him down to her, smothering him with kisses.

"Harder, faster," she pleaded, panting the words into his mouth as she kissed him, her thrusting tongue matching the rhythm of their furious joining. "Don't stop," she screamed, going suddenly rigid, clenching hotly around him. "Please, God, don't stop!"

But it was too late.

The whirling stars were exploding all around and inside him and his seed gushed into her in a furious, hot rush. "Mara," he gasped, collapsing against her as he shuddered within her, every last drop of energy draining out of him. "Remember what I told you…"

I will do anything to have you
.

The words shimmered in the air, hovering over the bed, silvery and true, but not near as bright as the glittering light of the splintered stars spinning around him. They whirled ever faster, their brilliance overpowering everything until he could see his words no more.

He couldn't see Mara either.

Or his bed.

Not even the room. Only the blinding light piercing him so viciously, each hot, stabbing thrust a lightning bolt lancing straight through him, breaking him apart until the crackling light finally receded and he was left battered and broken, drifting in the familiar gray mists he knew only too well.

He clenched his fists against the pain, refusing to acknowledge the searing heat, the scorch marks branding his naked flesh.

He'd been a fool.

But he'd meant what he vowed. He'd find a way to get back to her.

Do anything to have her.

Anything
? Mara blinked, some still-coherent part of her catching his words. She lifted her hips, meeting his thrusts, her desire sharpening, turning fierce. But his words wouldn't let her go, and a tiny edge of doubt colored her pleasure.

What else could he possibly could do for her? Already she was burning with stunning need, his long, plundering strokes running deep, even touching her soul.

Branding her.

She cried out his name again, wrapped her legs even tighter around him, let him hurtle her toward the greatest orgasm of her life. He'd given her his heart, too. She'd seen the love blazing in his eyes when he'd first plunged into her.

A wonder she'd think about after her climax.

Just now, she couldn't concentrate beyond the throbbing, heart-pounding pleasure spreading all through her. Sensations so powerful she couldn't even feel
him
anymore. Only the hot pulsing surge of her orgasm as it swept over her, shattering her into a thousand tiny glittering pieces.

"Ohmigod," she cried, going rigid. Her entire body trembled and she clutched so fiercely to his shoulders that her fingers went right through him, her nails digging deep crescents into her palms.

But she scarce noticed.

She was floating now, the heated throbbing deep inside her sated. Satisfied, and slowing to a delicious lightly pulsing warmth that cushioned her so beautifully, even rocked her gently back to earth.

Back to the Thistle Room and her empty bed.

She frowned, aimed a glare at her alarm clock. Barely three a.m. and the blasted thing was beginning to sound infernally loud again.

Rolling onto her side, she hugged herself and blocked her ears to the ticking. She also plumped a pillow for her head, closed her eyes, and treated herself to reliving every incredible moment of her dream.

After all, it was hers to enjoy.

And she was already beginning to tingle again. One rollicking, earth-shaking release was not near enough for a girl used to faking the buggers with every bumbling, unskilled yo-yo she'd ever had the misfortune to sleep with.

Imagined sex or no, Hottie Scottie could shag circles around any one of them. She stared up at the canopy of her bed, blew out a shaky breath.

Just thinking his name undid her.

Sir Alexander Douglas. Even Hottie Scottie.

Perhaps her very own Pleasure Spender.

So long as her Highlander was meant, the name made her sizzle and burn. Mercy, if she could bottle or can such a dream as she'd just had, she wouldn't need One Cairn Village to help her keep Ravenscraig.

"Man-o-meter," she quipped, flipping onto her back and stretching her arms over her head, wiggling her toes. Sweet, lazy tendrils of pulsating warmth still rippled through her, and if she concentrated really hard, she could even imagine she felt a bit… sore.

No, she
was
sore.

And in a worse way than when she'd lifted her skirt in the backseat of Donnie Morton's blue Ford and given him her sixteen-year-old cherry.

But then Donnie Morton hadn't been anywhere near as endowed as Hottie Scottie.

Mara's eyes popped open. An impossible suspicion sluiced through her, the horror of it peeking at her from every shadowy corner of the room.

A room that still smelled of her wretched antighost charms, but also of sex.

The hot, sweaty, down-and-dirty kind of sex she'd dreamt about.

Only dream sex didn't make you ache inside. It certainly didn't leave telltale scents in the air.

"Oh, no." Her heart began to pound. "O-o-oh, nooo!"

She shot off the bed, flipped on the nightlight. But even before she looked down, she knew what she'd see. And she did. All over the inside of her thighs—the undeniable evidence of her own arousal, and his.

"Dear God," she cried, trembling all over. "It can't be."

But it was.

Even her bed screamed the truth at her. The sheets were damp. And the pillows. Almost wet, just as everything would be if he'd come to her straight from a shower.

And that was exactly how she'd imagined him.

Full naked, his magnificent body glistening with water droplets. His rich chestnut hair sleek and gleaming, damp and fresh smelling as if he'd just washed it.

Perhaps he had—to make himself more desirable before he'd appeared to her.

As if she wouldn't run a hundred miles to hurl herself into his arms. Wouldn't leap at him, almost knocking him down in her eagerness to be reunited with him.

No matter what condition he was in. So long as it was him, her precious Highlander, nothing else mattered.

But now he was gone.

And she was crying. Mara never-shed-a-tear McDougall was falling apart.

Because she was also Mara straight-thinking McDougall and anyone with even a speck of sense would know that after such mind-blowing sex no man would simply disappear.

Not even a ghostly Highlander.

Unless he hadn't had a choice.

And that possibility was more frightening than she could bear to think about.

Chapter 12

Six ghost-free weeks later Mara sat at the dark oak table in the middle of the library and considered the amazing state of her finances. Or rather, the incredible surge in the state of Ravenscraig's finances.

Not hers personally, but the estate's.

Even so, she couldn't be more pleased.

She snapped shut the ledger she'd been studying and leaned back in her chair. Looking round, she tapped her pen against her chin, her gaze flicking over the many gilt-framed portraits crowding the book-lined walls. Be-kilted and proud looking, every one of her fierce, bushy-bearded ancestors seemed to beam approval at her.

And perhaps with good reason, she allowed.

Never one to tolerate do-nothings and wannabes, she
had
worked hard. And she still was, pouring more time and energy into Ravenscraig than she'd ever devoted to Exclusive Excursions. And although she wouldn't ever admit it, there were days her heart almost burst with pride.

One Cairn Village, secretly dubbed Brigadoon Revisited, was doing amazingly well, its progress astounding her. The lovely MacDougall memorial cairn at its center would soon see completion, as would the special state-of-the-art genealogical center.

Several of the quaint little whitewashed guest cottages stood ready, some even boasting their first starry-eyed occupants. MacDougalls and family history buffs, the most of them. But others, too, and new ones arrived every day.

One Cairn Village bustled, and a dormitory of sorts had even been set up in Ravenscraig's vaulted basement to house any overflow until the grand Victorian-style lodge could be built, most likely sometime next year.

Mara set down her pen and rolled her aching shoulders. Everything should be perfect, and that it wasn't was something she shouldn't be dwelling on.

There were some things even hard work and determination couldn't make right.

Not wanting to go down that road, she slid a glance toward the tall mullioned windows. Wispy clouds trailed across a brilliant late-summer sky, and each pane of leaded glass gleamed bright in the slanting afternoon sun.

She allowed herself a sigh and took a careful sip of steaming mint tea. Truth was, she had every reason to be happy. Deliriously so. The amazing stream of good things coming her way seemed endless. Blessings that sometimes arrived from the most unexpected quarters.

Like the nondescript, incredibly tweedy woman who'd popped up from southern England to research her own vague MacDougall connections. An art teacher and one of their first visitors, she'd surprised everyone by creating a beautiful tartan-ribboned thistle design as a logo for One Cairn Village.

A striking design she insisted was a gift.

The lovely beribboned thistle now graced the packaging of all Ravenscraig craft and gift items, and was even selling well on everything from coffee mugs and coasters to T-shirts and tea towels.

Mara forced a weak smile and took another sip of tepid tea. Never would she have expected Ravenscraig to thrive to such a stunning degree. Wonder of wonders, a portrait of Lady Warfield now hung over the library's large green-marbled hearth, and she had yet to see a visiting MacDougall not stop to admire the old woman's likeness.

Some even smiled.

Mara swallowed and swiped a hand across her cheek, dashing away a trace of foolhardy dampness. "Damn you, Alex," she murmured beneath her breath, blinking hard until her vision cleared. "How dare you make me love you, then disappear?"

But she'd succeeded with Ravenscraig.