Highlander in Her Bed (28 page)

Her chances of losing it at the end of a year were now as remote as the moon, her future and the old castle's secure. A certainty that had infused everyone at Ravenscraig with jubilant triumph and purpose.

Even old Murdoch now walked with an added spring to his bandy-legged gait.

And shame on her for letting
moods
get her down. She should be as giddy-happy as everyone else beneath her roof. She stared across the library to the birch fire crackling in the hearth and drew a deep, back-stealing breath. Nothing should be bothering her.

Especially nonexistent nothings.

"Miss, I'm so sorry to disturb you," Ailsa-Agnes said with all Highland politeness, "but your father is on the phone."

Mara jumped, almost sloshed tea onto her lap. "My father?" She blinked at the girl. "He never calls. I always ring him," she said, her heart dipping. "Something must be wrong."

"I couldn't say," the twin puzzled, handing the phone to Mara. "But he does sound in fine fettle."

In fine fettle?

The last time she'd called home, Hugh McDougall was convinced his heart troubles would land him in the hospital any day. He even moaned that he'd been too weak to work on his book about their family history, a never-ending pet project he'd courted for years.

Mara stared at the phone, waiting until Ailsa-Agnes slipped away before she lifted it to her ear.

"Dad?" she queried. "Are you okay?"

"Am I okay?" her father's voice boomed through the line. "Lassie, I've never been better!"

Mara blinked, wondered if someone was playing a joke on her. But
it was
Hugh McDougall's voice.

Even if he sounded… different.

As strong and healthy as he had when she'd been a little girl.

"I'm glad to hear you so perky, but I don't understand," she said, her brow wrinkling. "Last time we talked you said you might be going in for bypass surgery again."

"That was then." Hugh McDougall snorted. "This is now. Everything's changed."

He had that right.

Only six months ago she'd been barely scraping by, running her one-woman tour business and just managing to pay her rent, and now she owned a Scottish castle and had worked to meet the stipulations necessary to keep her inheritance, and she'd fallen hopelessly, irrevocably in love.

With a ghost.

A sexy Highland ghost who'd treated her to the greatest sex she'd ever had and then walked out on her. Or whatever it was called when ghosts vanished and never returned.

She frowned. "I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't hear you. What were you saying?"

A laugh answered her.

A great, belly-shaking laugh that made the phone jiggle in her hand and hurt her ear. Muffled words as if someone else were there with him.

Mara held the phone away from her ear, her confusion complete. The garbled voice in the background sounded like a woman's. And her father's laughter was way too jolly to be normal.

Much as she loved him, her dad was a man who lived quietly. Little interested him beyond digging into his roots. He was also a card-carrying hypochondriac, a bit of a whiner.

Not a thigh-slapping baboon who guzzled beer with the boys and let loose jocular guffaws.

A sudden alertness tightened Mara's lips.

"Are you sure you're all right?" she demanded, her concern only reaping another hoot of transatlantic mirth. "What is going on with you?"

"Something wonderful," her father gushed, sounding almost moony eyed. "Something you will never believe."

Mara braced herself. Hugh McDougall's
something wonderfuls
were usually embarrassing.

Like the time he'd covered their entire house in plaid at Christmas and tied a giant tartan bow to the chimney.

"I think you better tell me what's up," she said.

"I'm coming over to see you, Mara-girl! For the cairn's unveiling ceremony," he sang out, his excitement carrying through the airwaves. "It'll be my honeymoon!"

"
Your honeymoon
?" Mara almost dropped the phone. "What do you mean your honeymoon? You're not married."

"Oh, yes, I am," he shot back. "Since last Saturday, and it's given me a new lease on life. I'm feeling fit enough to cross the Atlantic to see you and the
Auld Hameland
."

Mara's jaw went slack. "Why didn't you tell me? Do I know the woman?"

A pause. "I didn't mention it because we had a small civil ceremony and I know you're busy over there just now. I didn't want you fretting if you couldn't get away."

"But who is she?"

Her father cleared his throat. "Euphemia Ross."

"
The shrew
?" Mara's eyes flew wide. "That dried-up stick?"

Hugh McDougall coughed loudly and then there was a scuffling noise as if he'd clamped a hand over the receiver.

"Now look here," he said after a moment, his tone conciliatory. "Euphemia is—"

"I'm sorry," Mara spluttered, horrified she hadn't checked her tongue. "You just surprised me."

"Well, I surprised myself," he admitted, sounding mollified. "With you away, I needed someone to help me with my book. Running errands to the copy shop and typing, that sort of thing. A bit of cooking, tidying the house now and then. One thing led to another and—"

"And now you've married her and you're coming here on your honeymoon?"

"That's the way of it," he confirmed, and Mara could almost hear his smile cracking. "Doctors say she's the best thing that's happened to me in years."

"Then I am happy for you both," Mara said, feeling as if she'd just swallowed a glass of vinegar.

A big glass.

"You'll warm to her," her father was saying. "And she's looking forward to researching her Ross ancestors."

"Ross was the name of her third husband," Mara couldn't help reminding him.

The one before him had been Cherokee. Back then the Cairn Avenue shrew had gone by the name Sunrise or Daybreak. Something to do with dawn.

But that hadn't made her a Native American.

Not that it mattered.

"Never you mind all that," her father said. "You'll like her once you get to know her better."

"I'm sure I will."

"Count on it." Hugh McDougall's voice turned gruff. "Have I ever lied to my little girl?"

"No," Mara admitted, a blasted lump rising in her throat.

"Then it's settled. We'll see you soon."

Then her dad was gone. No, not just her dad, but the Cairn Avenue shrew's fourth husband, and with that amazing transformation, she was quite certain the world had finally gone mad.

Totally bonkers.

With her leading the parade.

She set down the phone and pushed back her hair. Then she reached for her tea, only to discover she'd already drained the cup.

She frowned. For once, she could've used a fortifying gulp of the wretched brew.

"Ah, well," she said, mimicking one of Murdoch's favorite phrases.

She'd just have to make the best of it.

So long as her father and Euphemia Ross didn't act like love-struck fools and start rolling in the heather, everything would be okay.

She only wished
her
love life was running as smoothly.

Instead, it was just… running.

Away from her, out of control, and to places she couldn't begin to follow.

Not in this life, anyway.

"No kidding," she muttered, pushing up from her chair and pressing her hands against the small of her back.

She tried to swallow her bad temper, but it really just wasn't fair.

She took a deep breath and looked toward the windows, her heart giving a painful thump at the beauty of the bright blue day. No, not fair at all, she decided, her eyes beginning to burn again. If a thin-lipped terror like Euphemia Ross could bedazzle four men into marrying her, why couldn't she at least manage an occasional nightly tryst with Hottie Scottie?

But even that solace seemed beyond her grasp.

She might be wildly, madly, yearningly in love, but apparently he wasn't nearly as smitten.

There could be no other reason for his absence.

"But I still want him," she sighed, her composure breaking, its loss threatening to dissolve her.

Something nudged her leg then and she looked down to find Ben pressing his bulk against her, lending what comfort he could. "You miss him, too, don't you?" she said to him, her vision blurring.

Grateful for his devotion, she reached down and rubbed his ears. But even the old dog's soulful stare couldn't mend the ache inside her.

Or undo the glaring truth.

If her ghostly Highlander possessed the energy to spook around her bed for nearly seven hundred years, surely a few measly weeks shouldn't deter him?

But they had and she was bitter with it, weary of looking and listening for him.

Yet she did.

Every hour of every day.

And her nights were worse. Sleepless and lonely, each one proved an unending stretch of longing. Cold and dark hours filled with an agony that lanced beyond words. She just couldn't believe he was gone.

Even now she wrapped her arms around herself and cast a glance at the hearth, hoping to catch sight of him. Perhaps his tall, broad-shouldered form silhouetted against the glow from the birch fire. The dimmest outline would thrill her. As would just picking up a vibration in the air, the lingering trace of his scent.

Or his laughter. A naughty brush of wind against her nipples, a hushed word at her ear.

Anything would do.

So long as it reassured her that he was still here and existed, even if he couldn't appear to her.

But there was nothing, and the stinging heat jabbing into the backs of her eyes was growing too fierce for even a MacDougall to ignore.

A mere McDougall didn't stand a chance.

So she paced the room, not at all surprised that it'd lost its luster. Her world had lost its luster, so why shouldn't Ravenscraig's library go from warm, bright, and cozy to cold, dreary, and empty? No longer smelling of leather, ink, and age, but reeking only of heartache.

Losing her Highlander had done that to her.

She was going barmy.

But at least she was too busy to notice.

And if she paused in her work, the ever-present crowds, goings-on, and noise kept her distracted. Not otherworldly noises. Or even the incessant groan of water pipes and the creak of aged wood, but lively sounds.

Steps hurrying down corridors, the opening and closing of doors. Faint echoes drifting from the great hall, the clatter of cutlery and the scrape of pushed-back chairs. Happy voices and muted laughter as new arrivals enjoyed sandwiches and drams. From every corner came a stir and buzz.

The bustle of living.

Even here, in the comfy mustiness of the library, her onetime haven of peace.

Until just an hour ago, a chatty clutch of older guests had sat conversing before the fire. Cape Breton MacDougalls, they'd sipped tea, nibbled cheesy oatcakes, and repeatedly praised the room's nostalgic charm.

An ambiance reclaimed in recent days by Scottie and Dottie. Once again comfortable in the mausoleumlike room, the little dogs delighted in entertaining visitors. Always underfoot, they excelled in courting attention.

Reaping oohs and aahs.

At the moment, they cavorted in one of the window alcoves, darting in and out of a sunbeam, fighting over a fallen cushion. A frolic they'd never indulge in if they feared Hottie Scottie might suddenly materialize.

But that danger had passed, and nothing more ghostly looking than whirling dust motes disturbed the afternoon. Even the slight stirring of the wind against the shutters sounded annoyingly… normal.

As did the
chug-chugging
of a fishing boat making its way up the firth. The whirring of a vacuum cleaner in one of the guest rooms. Only the imagined sounds of medieval war play fell outside the usual afternoon noises.

Mara froze.
Medieval battle noises
. Could they possibly be real?

Her heart lurching, she tilted her head, strained her ears.

The distant clash of steel against steel ebbed and flowed, hovering on the edge of her hearing. A wild and furious clamor coming from afar and peppered with shouts and whoops, a few Gaelic curses.

Definitely real sounding.

But a ruckus too unlikely to be anything but a daylight manifestation of her troubled dreams.

A sign she really was going batty.

Noises far too reminiscent of
him
if she wasn't.

Then the sounds faded and she almost laughed at herself. Instead, she blew out a nervous breath and stepped away from the windows.

She started pacing again, determined to forget the strange din. Noises she'd only heard because she'd overworked herself. Or else she missed her sexy Highlander so much, her ears were playing tricks on her.

Cruel tricks, but ones Ben seemed to have heard as well.

Mara's senses sharpened. Unreasonable giddiness swept her, but there could be no mistaking. The old dog's gentle face wore a distinct look of… excitement.

Tongue-lolling eagerness.

"Oh, Ben," she choked, watching him trot toward the door, his plumy tail wagging. "It was nothing. And it's gone now."

Don't let him break your heart, too
, she almost called after him.

But something
was
hastening their way.

Hurried footsteps. A rapid approach that made Ben dance and sniff at the door, his swishing tail and doggy smiles giving her hope.

Foolishly, her heart started to pound and a lump began swelling in her throat, but when there came the sound of the latch being jiggled, it wasn't Hottie Scottie but Ailsa-Agnes who put her head around the door.

Even so, Ben gave a yelp and leapt past her, bounding down the passage before the girl could even step inside. All bright eyes and smiles, she hovered on the threshold, one hand pressed to her breast.

"O-o-oh, miss!" she blurted, her cheeks glowing. "You must come at once.
He's
down by the training ground and he's brought all his braw friends!"

Mara blinked. "Wh-what?" she managed, her voice cracking. "Who are you talking about? And what training ground?"