In Bed with the Highlander

Duh. Alone was the story of her life, since she kicked Alec the Snake out of her bed and her apartment. And she was better off, too. She should just enjoy this unexpected little jaunt into luxury and pay up and look big in the morning.

The phone on the desk rang. She leaped sky-high. Well, not quite. Five-inch heels didn’t allow for sky-high. It was her heart doing the jumping. She picked up the receiver of an old phone with a dial. “Hello?”

“Given the late hour, Miss McLellan, you’ll be wanting your supper in your room.” The soft voice proclaimed the answer to a question she hadn’t asked. Why not? At least she wouldn’t have to mix and mingle and be polite to a bunch of starstruck tourists, if any had been lucky enough to stumble on this place. Stumble? They’d have had to fight the mist to find their way here.

She glanced at her watch. Almost ten. She hadn’t realized how late it was, or how long she’d been driving. “What’s on the menu?” she asked.

“There’s haggis, and deer and rabbit—”

“Whoa!” And yuck. “I’ll have fish—trout if you have it—vegetables, no starch and a half bottle of chardonnay. Is that possible at this hour?” She crossed her fingers behind her back.

“Yes, Miss McLellan. It is, with pleasure. It will be with you in half an hour.”

“Thank you.” She dropped the receiver into its cradle and kicked off her shoes. She wiggled her toes to restore some feeling. She loved those damned shoes, but not after five hours of working accelerator, brake and clutch.

Half an hour would give her time for a shower. After dinner a bit of news on the TV and a good night’s sleep would set her up for another drive in the morning. She glanced around and frowned. Odd? No TV. She poked in the cupboard in the desk and opened the armoire, which looked like an original antique, but didn’t find a television or even a radio in disguise. Instead she found a book on the history of the castle next to the teapot.

Well, she’d hoped to learn something about the district while she was here. Perhaps this would help.

First thing in the morning, she’d speak to the hotel’s manager, apologize for the misunderstanding and be on her way right after breakfast.

The shower turned out to be a wonderful gush of hot water, instead of the halfhearted trickle she’d expected and she’d eaten her dinner sitting on the bed in her pajamas. After half an hour of the history of Glencovie Castle, she could barely keep her eyes open. She flipped off the light and drew the bed curtains closed. Perfect darkness. Ah, she really was sleepy. All that driving....

* * *

Moirag’s eyes shot open. Her heart was pounding pneumatic-drill style. She felt nauseous, the way she’d felt as a kid when someone whirled you round and round before you pinned the tail on the donkey. Only, she never made it that far. To her it always felt as if she’d been sucked down the drain with the water from a bathtub. She recalled having the same feeling when Granny had shown her that image of a castle in the water. Why was she having it now, in bed? She must have been dreaming. She waited for the horrible feeling to subside.

God, it was dark in here. Where the hell was here? Right. Road trip. Castle. Bed curtains. She must have been mad to pull them closed against the draft from the open window. And what was she doing dreaming about being spun in circles?

A crash and a curse. Heart racing she sat bolt upright. It wasn’t a dream that had woken her. Was it someone in a neighboring room? She cracked the drapes an inch. A shadow against one of the windows cut off the searchlight-like moonbeams. A shadow that hadn’t been there when she’d turned out the light. She remained perfectly still, listening.

The shadow was breathing hard. Definitely male. There was a man in her room. A burglar? He must have scaled the walls and decided her open window was the perfect way in. She should phone Reception. Blast. The phone was on the desk at the other end of the room. The heavy-breathing shadow collapsed on the sofa cursing softly.

Impressive. She hadn’t heard anyone swear that fluently in Gaelic since she left the Outer Hebrides. She fumbled around on the bedside table, feeling for the lamp, or something good for hitting an intruder over the head. Dammit. She should have asked for her computer to be locked in a night safe. Stupid. So very stupid. And lazy. And introverted.

Her hand knocked into the lamp. No. Not a lamp...a...candlestick. With a candle in it. She didn’t recall seeing it when she went to bed. She flailed around. No lamp. What?

Bloody hell. Candlestick it was. She hefted it in her hand and slid out of bed and onto cold stone. “Who are you and what are you doing in here?”

Heavy-Breather froze. “I might be asking the same thing of you, lassie.” He unfolded from his seat, and unfolded and unfolded. His bulk made a very impressive black hole in the middle of the room.

“Th-this is my room,” she said. Now her teeth decided to chatter? Not helpful.

“Ach. A Sassenach. And here I thought the castle was still in Scots hands, or I’d never have climbed up the way. No doubt you’ll be calling for your soldiers then, lassie. I am too weary to care. And I’d as soon as join the laird as not.”

“Er...pardon me?”

“Granted. For it is my room you’ve stolen.”

“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?”