Highlander in Her Bed (3 page)

But she blinked and the sword was gone, leaving only him and his masculine beauty. His intensity wrapped around her, dark and seductive, his deep-seeing gaze seeming to burn away her clothes until she felt fully exposed.

Naked.

Perhaps even a bit… tingly.

After all, it wasn't every day a man's mere gaze seared her into feeling devoured, and in the most rousing, delicious ways.
Titillating
things she'd best not dwell on, so she bit her lip before she could sigh and risk revealing her weakness.

How easily her long-neglected femininity could grow hot and achy if he did not soon stop looking at her in a way that made her feel as if he'd stepped right out of her most heated dreams to tempt her—and knew it!

Trying not to blush, she eyed him as well, her own measuring stare sliding over him with equal daring.

Not only much taller than any man she'd ever seen, he was simply beyond perfection. Full magnificent, he even looked like a knight with his rich chestnut brown hair skimming his broad shoulders and such an indescribable air of power thrumming through him that she could hardly breathe.

Forcing herself to do just that, she resisted the urge to reach out and twine her fingers in his hair. Just to see whether it was real. With shimmering highlights the color of sun-warmed honey and every strand gleaming with such a lustrous sheen, his hair really did give him an uncanny resemblance to a dashing hero in some fusty old museum portrait.

But more than his strapping build and handsomeness, it was the draw of his incredibly intense eyes that captivated her.

Sea green eyes a woman could drown in.

She
could see forever in them.

Unfortunately, he did not appear equally enamored. Animosity poured off him, and he crossed his arms in an unfriendly posture. Worse, now that he'd practically melted her, he wasted every hunky inch of his appeal by pinning her with a frigid stare.

No more hot, body-roaming glances to beguile her and send long, liquid pulls tingling through her darkest, most secret places.

Now his burning gaze held only arrogance.

Perhaps even fury.

Annoyed, Mara drew a tight breath. His looks didn't matter at all so long as he glowered at her as if she had the pox. Her heart pounding, she swept her hair over one shoulder, her agitation growing. Maybe she could lose a few pounds, but she wasn't
that
bad.

Or perhaps he'd heard her talking and didn't like Americans?

If so, there was an easy remedy.

She'd smother him with charm.

"Hi," she said, flashing her best smile. "I'm Mara McDougall."

He remained stony faced, not even bothering to acknowledge the gesture. If anything, his frown deepened.

Mara swallowed, moistened her lips. Maybe he expected her to apologize? After all, she had plowed into him, and with considerable force.

Yes, that was surely his problem.

He wanted an apology.

"Look, I'm sorry I bumped into you," she said, happy to give him the boon. "It won't happen again."

"With surety, it shall not," he agreed, stepping closer. "The bed is mine, wench. Begone."

Mara's heart froze. There was that accent again. Warm, rich, and buttery smooth. The purest Scottish burr she'd ever heard, now recognizing the musical cadence she'd only caught a hint of before. And so annoyingly sexy, just listening to him sent another little rush of desire curling through her belly.

But
wench
and
begone
?

Not to mention
bloody MacDougall bastards
.

Bristling, she took a few steps backward. "Good looks aren't a license to be rude," she said, giving him a look she hoped would say even more.

She wouldn't have thought it possible, but his scowl darkened. Reeking hostility, he drew himself to his full height, threw back his shoulders, and glared at her.

Squaring her own shoulders, she stared back. "And the bed isn't yours. It belongs to Mr. Dimbleby and it's for sale. Maybe I'll buy it."

He narrowed his eyes. "You are a MacDougall."

"So? What's my name got to do with it?" Mara's foot began tapping. "I already know you don't like McDougalls."

"No one of that ilk will ever sleep in my bed. I forbid it."

"
Of that ilk
? And you forbid it?" Mara could feel her jaw dropping. "What is this, some kind of joke?"

He stalked to the headboard. "I jest you not," he said, his green gaze leveled on her in clear menace.

Mara shook her head. "You jest me not? What kind of English is that?"

"The king's English," he declared, his gaze burning her. "At least when he deigns to speak that foul tongue."

"The
king's
English?" Mara echoed, placing her fingertips on her temples and pressing hard. Either she was imagining this conversation or one of them was not quite right, and she hoped it wasn't her. "What happened to Queen Elizabeth?"

To her surprise, he blinked and an expression very close to perplexity crossed his face. But the slightly dazed look disappeared in a heartbeat, quickly replaced by another fierce scowl of displeasure.

A look scathing enough to send her on her way, and good riddance. She'd had her share of fruitcakes lately. She didn't need an encounter with another, especially an ill-mannered one. Whether he had an irresistible something about him that made her think naughty thoughts or not, it didn't matter. He was lucky she had enough restraint not to tell him to
bugger off
.

Determined to leave before her temper could activate the tic beneath her left eye, she whisked past him and made it halfway through Dimbleby's before she stopped in her tracks.

The black-frowning hunk had ruined the only free afternoon she'd had on this tour from hell, and she shouldn't let him get away with it.

She might have been pushed to her limits, but she
was
a McDougall.

And McDougalls weren't cowards.

So she waited just long enough to set her face in her best don't-mess-with-someone-from-Philadelphia expression, then whirled around and returned to the back room.

But hunky was gone.

Vanished as if he'd never been.

Her indignation swinging into something that felt annoyingly like disappointment, she scanned the cluttered room, even dropped to one knee to peer beneath the massive four-poster bed. But the effort only served to prove how well dust bunnies flourished in dark, protected places.

The hottie Scottie with his yummy accent and dark scowls was nowhere to be seen.

Equally strange, the room was warm and stuffy.

Not a trace remained of the bone-numbing chill of only moments before.

Common sense told her that this couldn't be happening, but a cascade of shivers spilled down her back all the same—until she spied the closed office door at the rear of the little room.

Relief washed over her, swift and sweet.

She wasn't losing her grasp on reality.

The lout had only slipped into Mr. Dimbleby's office and as far as she was concerned, he could merry well stay there.

For one tempting moment, she considered marching up to the door and yanking it open, but she dismissed the notion as quickly.

The handsome devil wasn't worth the energy.

Especially since he'd reminded her of how long it'd been since a man had made her melt and tingle, or had caressed and savored her curves before sliding deep inside her in a fine, slow electra glide.

How long it'd been since she'd yearned.

Yes, she'd simply remember him as the perfect ending to a less than stellar day and head back to her bed-and-breakfast. If she hurried, she'd have time to shower and change before she had to escort her ghost busters to Berkeley Square for their gala farewell dinner and séance.

But a short while later, her fortunes took an even wilder turn as she stood in the lounge area of the Buxton Arms and read the scrawled message the front desk clerk had handed her when she'd picked up her key.

Please call Mr. Percival Combe, Solicitor. Urgent.

Mara's brows drew together. The message gave a London listing, but who was Percival Combe? And what could a solicitor possibly want with her?

And the message couldn't have been for someone else. How many Mara McDougalls of Exclusive Excursions could be staying at the small inn?

Only one, and well she knew it.

Puzzled, she climbed the steep, carpet-covered stairs to her third-floor room. Not surprisingly, the phone rang the moment she opened the door. And as she sank onto the edge of the bed and reached for the receiver, her every instinct warned that something significant was about to happen.

"Mara McDougall," she answered, shutting her eyes.

"Ahhh, Miss McDougall," came a very distinguished reply. "Percival Combe here, with Combe and Hollingsworth. I'm so glad to have caught you."

Mara's eyes snapped back open. "There must be some mistake," she said, not at all sure she cared to be
caught
. "If this is about my current tour…"

She tailed off, her palms dampening. No way did she wish to discuss her England: The Uncanny and the Inexplicable tour with a London solicitor.

"This has nothing to do with your business," he was saying, sounding all business indeed. "At least not directly. And you are the young woman I've been seeking. Your father was kind enough to give me your itinerary."

Mara's stomach began to feel queasy. If a solicitor had gone to the trouble of contacting her father—in Philadelphia—then something must be seriously wrong.

"Miss McDougall, would it be convenient for you to dine with me at the Wig and Pen Club this evening? I have something quite important to discuss with you."

Mara's heart skittered with apprehension. "What sort of something?"

"I'd rather not say over the phone, but you can be assured it is nothing bad. Quite the contrary, in fact." He paused to draw a breath. "A driver can be at your hotel at half past six, and he'll also return you safely after we've had dinner and discussed the matter."

"Ah…" She hesitated, curiosity getting the better of her. And an evening at the exclusive dining establishment on the Strand sure beat attending a dinner séance with fifteen would-be psychics.

Besides, they'd be too busy looking for spooks to care whether she was there or not. Even so, she'd have to do some quick thinking. She couldn't just take off without ensuring that their evening ran smoothly.

She couldn't afford disgruntled clients.

Not even wacky ones.

Mr. Combe cleared his throat. "I hope you will not mind, but I've arranged for a friend of mine from the British Tourist Authority to accompany your… eh… charges to the dinner and séance in Berkeley Square this evening."

Heat shot up the back of her neck. "You seem to have thought of everything," she stammered, her pulse pounding with embarrassment.

"It is crucial that I speak with you; therefore, it was necessary to be certain you could get away." He waited a beat. "I am also aware this was to be your last evening in England."

Was to be her last evening?

Mara blinked. He'd said that as if she'd be staying on.

As if she wouldn't be flying back to Newark the next morning.

At once, a good deal of her mortification evaporated, replaced by a surge of fluttery excitement. If whatever he had to say would allow her to spend a few extra days in London, she was all for it.

"Can you be ready at half past six?" Percival Combe prompted.

Mara almost laughed out loud.

Visions of Harrods and Covent Garden and long strolls through Hyde Park danced through her head. Mercy, she'd sell her soul for a few extra
hours
in London.

"Miss McDougall?"

She tightened her fingers on the receiver, her decision made. "I'll be ready, yes."

I'll be ready with bells on.

Chapter 2