Читать книгу In Bed with the Highlander - Ann Lethbridge - Страница 7

The object floating above the mist in Moirag’s headlights might have been a UFO hovering over a landing pad, if it didn’t look quite so much like a castle. Chilly fingers walked down her back. Because it looked identical to something she’d seen as a child. Something creepy wobbling on the surface of a bowl of water held by Granny “the auld witch” McLellan as her mother had called her great grandma. Destiny put out in plain sight, the old girl had breathed staring into the water at the image of a medieval castle. As a child, she’d believed it. She’d even studied history at school at Granny’s suggestion.

Not much call for history. Or superstitious rot as her mother had called Granny’s strange ideas. A degree in business had proved more useful. But history remained her passion.

And what she was looking at in her headlights was definitely a castle, when there hadn’t been one marked on Google maps anywhere near the hotel she’d booked. Probably one of those private places where they paid to be blacked out from prying eyes. So where was her hotel? She had to be lost.

Moirag geared down to a crawl and rubbed at the windscreen. Not fogged on the inside. She flicked the lever. The wipers did a quick one, two and park. Nope. Not misted on the other side of the glass. Definitely a pea-souper.

A glance at the Sat Nav on the dash didn’t help, either. It remained stubbornly blank, having given up the ghost an hour ago. Must be out of range. The dark shape ahead of her solidified, its stone walls and crenellations looming out of the mist. There was a sign over a stone arched entrance in the outer wall. Hotel Glencovie. Really? The description on the internet hadn’t said a word about it being a castle and there had been no picture to clue her in.

And this place looked more like the setting for a horror flick than your friendly B and B. The hairs on the back of her neck waved in a nonexistent breeze. A creepy sensation she didn’t appreciate with fog snaking over the road ready to swallow her and her car.

She shivered. Enough. She’d so been looking forward to this little holiday. To exploring the local library and church, looking for family connections. The finishing touches to her surprise for her parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The McLellan family tree went all the way back to seventeen hundred and ten. All it needed were a few details about her ancestor, the first, and apparently very naughty, Lady Moirag Breton.

A quick glance in the rearview mirror revealed a blank wall of white. No going back to Glasgow tonight. She was here and that was that.

The road took a twist right, and then left, and her lights picked out the jagged points of a raised portcullis. Water gleamed with an oily incandescence on her near side. Must be the moat. A little too close for comfort.

Slowing to a crawl, she eased the car across the wooden slats of the drawbridge.

The car did a rock and roll number over the cobblestones in the courtyard. Tarmac was invented by a Scot, but did anyone care about your springs? Nah. It was all about atmosphere. No doubt she’d be greeted by some old fogy in a kilt who had a Scottish accent as thick as a steak, only to discover the man came from Kent or York. That was how it was these days. She pulled up to the sign displaying the word Reception in Gothic lettering, popped the boot and opened her door.

Five hours on a trip that should have taken three locked her knees when she pushed off the seat. Standing up, she rolled her shoulders to the tune of cracking vertebrae. Ah, that was better. A blinding beam of light hit her full in the face. She blinked madly. Oh, right. Sensor light. At least she’d be able to pick her way across the courtyard. The heels of her favorite shoes hated to be jammed between two blocks of stone on any day of the week.

The thick oak plank door opened and...yeah. There he was. Knobby knees, hairy calves, a swath of green plaid and a foaming jabot. In her book, the only men who looked good in kilts were the guys in the Willy Lawson commercials.

Although Alec had looked great in a kilt, the bastard. Another reason not to trust anything flauntingly Scottish. Thank God she’d discovered what a rat Alec was and dumped him before he completely cleaned out her bank account.

“Good evening, Miss McLellan,” the ancient doorman wheezed. “I will lend you a hand, will I?”

The soft burr of his voice stroked her ears. She hadn’t heard an accent like that since... God, she could barely remember. A real Highlander. Things were looking up. “Good evening. Don’t worry, I can manage.”

“It is not a trouble.”

“Thank you, but I prefer to carry my own stuff.” A top-of-the-line laptop required personal attention and she couldn’t think of asking such a doddery old chap to carry her suitcase. She never had learned how to pack light. She heaved her cases out of the boot.

“I’ll be getting the door for you, then.”

“Thank you.” She followed him in. He went behind the desk. Porter and receptionist, then. A one-man band. Perhaps because she had arrived so late. While he signed her in, she glanced around a reception area designed like a medieval hall right down to hammer beams arching overhead, the faded and tattered banners hanging from the walls and a couple of rusted suits of armor. Welcome to tacky touristy Scotland. It would be so nice if these places invested in some real antiques and gave them some loving care. Though, on closer inspection, the chain mail looked genuinely ancient.

“Your room is on the second floor, Miss McLellan. Number two hundred and ten.”

She let her gaze following his pointing figure to a set of spiral stairs winding around a column of smooth gray stone.

Bloody hell. No lift.

Those stairs weren’t new, either. They’d been smoothed into grooves by centuries of feet. It really was a medieval castle. Had she somehow got her booking mixed up? Booked a millionaire’s retreat instead of a cheap B and B in the middle of nowhere? Places like this usually cost an arm and a leg. Her heart gave a lurch as she thought of the wee bit of room left on her Visa. Thank you, Alec, the rat. Men. She’d never trust another one as far as she could toss one with a caber strapped to his back. Tomorrow morning might well be embarrassing.

What choice did she have? Going back out in the fog was not an option.

“Right,” she said, shouldering both bags and trudging up and around and around in ever-decreasing circles until she hit a narrow landing and a door. Please let this be the second floor—otherwise she’d be tempted to throw herself off a turret.

Out of breath, sweat trickling in all sorts of unmentionable places, she opened the door labeled two-ten beneath a low Gothic arch and stumbled down a step into her chamber. She dumped her bags and glanced around a room with a ten-foot ceiling and windows at knee level set in walls two feet thick. Then there was the four-poster bed. A four-poster bed with the drapes pulled closed.

Hiding what? She whipped back the green damask and sighed. Thank God. A sprung mattress. Not your twelfth-century straw-padded horror for that authentic experience. And the pillows looked blissfully soft. And sheets of pale lemon percale with a count of at least eight-hundred. She gave them a pat.

Perfect, even if one night did leave her skint for a month or two.

The narrow room stretched for forty feet, with two windows overlooking the courtyard. Between them hung a landscape. “The view from these windows on a summer’s day circa 1715” the caption beneath proclaimed. Smoky hills and a loch, beyond the turreted walls. Not a person or a black house in sight. Romantic and sanitized Scotland. Nothing like Grannie’s stories. She shrugged and continued her exploration.

At one end, some kind soul had set an antique-looking sofa and a table along with the makings for tea bedside an armoire. At the other, another arch revealed three stone steps winding up to a door. Please let them arrive at en suite plumbing. She didn’t fancy trotting down the corridor with her lally-bag, toothbrush and towel in hand. She trotted over to investigate. The steps did indeed end up in a bathroom—shower, bath, bidet and a black-and-white-tiled floor expansive enough for a ball. Lovely. She’d survive the night. And be on the road in the morning to find a place she could afford.

Although, a few days might be nice in the back-of-beyond, in a castle... Quite romantic. If she wasn’t alone.

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?”

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.