In Bed with the Highlander (2 page)

“Your room?”

“Aye. This is my room. When I’m invited to stay by the
laird.”

“I can assure you, this room was assigned to me. I’m paying for
it.”

“Paying for it. Aye. I can see that. Money-grubbing
English.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Good God, lass. Watch your tongue. That’s no way for a wench
to be talking. And I’m Gavin MacIver. I hold lands for the laird on the other
side of the hill.” Something jingled and she sensed the motion of him shaking
his head. “At least, I hope I do. I did yesterday.”

A horrible impression of something gone wrong churned in her
brain. The same one she’d had at her first sight of the castle. Only, worse.
This time her stomach pitched and rolled along with a strangely tight feeling in
her scalp. What was this man doing in her room? Was this some sort of nasty,
stupid charade put on by the hotel?

“I’ve had enough,” she said. “I’m calling the management.”
Someone was going to be hung, drawn, quartered and scattered to the four corners
of Britain for pulling this kind of stunt. Moirag stumbled across the room,
found the door and hit the light switch. Er...hit stone. She grated her manicure
against cold rough stone. Her hand brushed against a tapestry that was not there
last night.

“Damn and blast it. Where is the light?”

The man, Gavin, made a scratching noise, then something flared,
illuminating a square jaw shadowed by dark stubble and a fierce-looking nose.
The flare died and a candle glimmered and flickered on the table at the end of
the room. He picked it up and lit more candles in wall sconces until the room
glowed like Valentine’s night. A very bad Valentine’s night. The kind where your
date bought wilted roses from a street vendor and thought he had it made.

Those sconces were not there last night. She would have
noticed. Especially since they were equipped with real candles. Very dangerous
in a bedroom. What the hell was going on? Had someone switched rooms on her?
Without waking her?

She looked around and gulped. There were no electric lights.
No...she ran to the other end of the room. A blank wall faced her where
yesterday there had been three steps and a bathroom. A lovely bathroom with
black-and-white tiles, along with a glass shower and separate bath.

She twirled around to find the man staring at her in awe, his
finely molded lips parted in what appeared to be shock. Chestnut-colored hair
pulled back into a ribbon-tied velvet bag at his nape emphasized the stark
angles and planes of his face and high forehead. With shoulders as broad as an
oak tree and wearing a kilt from which his knees, rough and dirty, emerged,
supported by calves of curved iron muscle, he was an absolutely gorgeous hunk of
Scottish male.

She swallowed. He had an enormous sword in a leather scabbard
down his back. “Oh God.” She had to be dreaming.

“Saints preserve me,” he said. “I’ve died and I’m conversing
with an angel.” He sank slowly to his knees and made the sign of the cross.
“Forgive me, for I have sinned—”

“Whoa! Stop,” she cried. “I’m not an angel.”

He stared at her from eyes of brilliant blue. “Are you not?
What are you then? One of the auld people? My mother always said they were to be
found here at the castle.”

The auld people. Was this bloke joking? “No. I...I...”

He nodded encouragement.

For the first time in years, Moirag found herself stuck for
words. “I’m an ordinary mortal woman. Please get up.”

With a grunt that had an edge of pain, he rose to his feet.
“Then, who are you?”

There was only one explanation. Wasn’t there? This was a dream.
Brought on by her bedtime reading. She glanced around for the book. Of which
there was also no sign. But perhaps it provided the answer. She was dreaming
about what she had read. She breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t had such a
vivid dream since she was a child. Now, if she could just wake up. She pinched
herself. It didn’t work. She blinked rapidly to clear her vision. If anything,
the room seemed more solid and real than ever.

All right. She’d try a test. And when he failed, she’d know she
was dreaming. “What year is it?”

“Seventeen fifteen,” he said, frowning. “October.”

The month was right. The year dinged a bell in her memory. “Did
you fight at Sherrifmuir?”

He looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

Hah! Just a couple more questions and she’d go back to sleep.
“Mar’s uprising. His march on Inverness.”

“Dear God!” Gavin drew his sword in the blink of an eye. He
held the point to her throat, his face a fearful scowl and murder in eyes that
had gone from warm blue to chips of ice. “What are you? An English spy? Answer
me. Are there soldiers in the castle?”

Her heart pounded in her chest. Her knees felt weak. Did you
get killed in dreams? You always woke up before it actually happened, right? She
swallowed. “No soldiers.” She winced. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then how do you know about what the clans are planning?” The
sword tip moved back a fraction. It shook very slightly, she noticed. Must be
heavy.

“I overheard a conversation.” Well, she could hardly say she’d
read about it, now could she?

The sword tip dropped and he winced and... Yuck, he had blood
on his hand. And a rent in his coat. “Are you injured?”

“Naught but a scratch. Do not worry yourself.” He opened the
lid of a chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out some folds of white muslin.
Bandages. He wound one around his meaty biceps and tied a rough sort of knot
with one hand and his teeth.

“Good Lord. Do you men always have to act so macho?” She made a
grab for his arm.

He backed up.

Eyes narrowed, she pointed a finger at his chest. “Let me take
a look.”

A bemused smile lit his handsome rugged face. “I have not been
yelled at like that since my mother passed on.”

Good God. It was like being caught in a sunbeam on top of a
hill being flashed that smile. The whole room lit up. Her limbs turned to jelly
left outside in midsummer. She took a deep breath. “I’m not your flippin’
mother. Now, take off the sword belt and sit.”

He shook his head. “A virago. Just my luck.” Still, he
unbuckled his belt and laid it and the sword carefully on the bed. Oh, God. Now
that the weapon wasn’t pointed in her direction, she could see the blade looked
wickedly sharp and real and surely that was blood on it. Don’t think about it.
It was dream blood. She untied the rough-and-ready bandage and helped him peel
the coat off one very brawny shoulder and then down a heavily muscled arm. A
beautifully carved male arm.

Stop it.

“Sit down and let me take a look,” she said.

With no more than a muffled curse and a glare from beneath
lowered brows, he sank onto the sofa. She moved in.

She stared at the bloody rag of sleeve around the wound.
Standing between his hewn thighs with only a fold of fabric between him and his
junk, inspecting the bloody mess, was having an unnerving effect on her stomach.
It was fluttering as if an army of ants in hobnail boots were running around in
there. Not that she was squeamish. Two older brothers had put paid to that.
She’d cleaned more gravel out of knees than she’d had sex.

Heat rolled through her. Holy hell. The sensual pull of the man
was the cause of the ants’ hopping around, not the sight of blood. Perhaps being
celibate since she kicked Alec out was the cause of this dream. And yet, he just
seemed so damned real.

“That shirt will have to come off, too,” she muttered,
miserably aware of the husky rasp in her voice.

“Right,” he said, and fumbled at his collar. No jabot, she
noticed, just a plain white stock, similar to the strip of cloth she’d thought
was a bandage. There was lace at his cuffs though—fine lace. So this was no
common man. He was a fine Highland gentleman, if she recalled her history
correctly. And why did that matter if she was dreaming?

Once he had the buttons undone at his throat, he pulled the
shirt from inside his belt. There was enough fabric to make a sail for a dingy.
He grunted as he tried to pull it over his head.

“Here,” she said. “Let me help.”

“Now, there’s a good thought,” he said from inside his sail.
She dragged until his back and chest and head emerged.

Oh, God. He was ripped. Sculpted shoulders. A six-pack for abs.
And a neck Atlas would have been proud to bend. Her stomach wasn’t fluttering
anymore, her whole insides were clenched so tight she was practically
orgasmic.

A bewitching smile curved his lips. “Something wrong,
lass?”

Oh, he knew what was wrong, the vain fellow. But he wasn’t
wholly unaffected, either, if the bump in his kilt was anything to go by.

“Hold out your arm.”

He looked a bit disappointed, but did as he was bid, looking
down at the gouge in his flesh as he did so. “I told you it was naught but a
scratch. More blood than anything.”

“What caused it? A bullet or a sword?” Not that she knew
anything about either kind of wound.

“Spent shot. Lucky bastard. He shouldn’t have come anywhere
close at that range.”

“It ought to be cleaned.”

“Nay. Just bandage it up. I’ll be fine.” He glanced longingly
at the bed and then to the window. “Then I’ll be on my way.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll let me clean and bandage you, then you
will rest.” What was she saying? She ought to be sending him packing, not
inviting him to spend the night. But this was her dream. She licked her lips.
“I’ll be gone in the morning anyway.”

“You are sure there are no redcoats in the castle this
night?”

About to nod, she paused. This might be her dream, but for all
she knew, there could be a hundred of them standing right outside her door.
“There were none when I arrived last night.”

“Aye, well, it was only a small troop that I met. They should
not have been so far into the hills.”

What on earth could she use to clean the wound? A ewer of water
and a bowl sat on a table beside the mirror, a polished metal mirror, for
heaven’s sake. On the table where there had once sat a kettle and packages of
tea and coffee and tiny little milk pots, there now resided a glass decanter and
a couple of tumblers. Whisky? Alcohol was a good disinfectant. Whisky it was.
She picked up the bottle.

He sighed and a sensuous look of pleasure crossed his face.
“Now, there’s a good idea. Let’s have a toast. Death to the English.”

The shocking words cleared the sudden fog that had rolled into
her mind after all her blood had headed to her groin. “It’s not for drinking.”
She unstoppered the decanter and splashed a generous amount on his arm.

“Sweet Mary!” He bolted out of the chair and caught her in a
viselike grip around the shoulders. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“With Scotch?”

“What are you talking about? That’s good whisky, woman. I know.
I bought it.”

“You have to buy your own whisky when you visit the laird?” She
stared up at him, realized his face was a mere inch or two from hers. He smelled
of whisky, peat fires and heather. The scents of her youth. And his arm was
heavy and warm about her shoulders and not at all rough. Big as he was, she felt
protected rather than threatened. He had the most beautiful jawline she’d ever
seen, bold and angular beneath a day’s worth of stubble. He looked like a cross
between Mel Gibson and Russell Crowe, both of whom looked excellent in skirts,
she now recalled. Damned dream. Her gaze found his mouth.

The sensuous curve of his lips tempted her touch. “I’m sorry I
hurt you,” she said, and rising to tiptoes, she brushed her mouth against his
lips in apology, as well as to find out if they tasted as good as they looked.
They did. Her stomach did a slow lazy roll.

He swallowed, his chest rising and falling against her arm as
if he’d run a long race. “It’s no great matter,” he murmured. His hand cradled
her nape and he bent his head. His mouth took hers in a gentle caress. A long
slow lingering kiss, that sent trickles of fire licking down her veins.

She pushed against his chest and he stepped back, breathing
hard. He winced. “I...I apologize. I don’t know what came over me.”

Lust. A bad case of lust. She’d caught it first and passed on
the infection. And she had loved every minute of the disease. Why not? This was
her dream. Why not make the most of it? “Let me bandage your arm, and then we
will drink your toast.”

“A wench after my own heart.”

“Less of the wench, if you don’t mind, my name is Moirag. Hold
out your arm.”
Your
lovely
buff
arm
.

“
Sassenachs
,” he muttered

“Highland drunkard.”

He laughed. His gaze seemed to scorch her face as she wound the
strip of cloth around his biceps. “Now, if I just had some scissors.”

Once more his expression turned questioning.

Did they have scissors in the eighteenth century? She certainly
didn’t remember one way or the other from her history lessons. “To cut it.”

He reached down. “Use this.” He pulled a knife from the top of
his sock.

“I’m surprised you allow such a poor use of your
sgian
-
dubh
.” The
Highlander’s secret dagger. Her grandfather had owned one.

“For a
Sassenach
you certainly know
a fair bit of Gaelic.”

“For your information, there is not a drop of English blood in
my veins. I was born and brought up in the Outer Hebrides, South Uist, but I
left there a long time ago.” First, to go to school, as did all the children,
and then to find work in Glasgow. She tied a knot and tucked it inside the
bandage as gently as she could. Even so, she must have hurt him, but he made no
murmur of protest. Strong silent type obviously. Gotta love ’em.

“I have it,” he said, his face clearing. It was like seeing the
sun come out from behind a cloud and she could only gaze in awe and bask in his
light. “You’re a healer.”