Highlander in Her Dreams (11 page)

“She spelled herself here!” someone yelled.

Others chimed in, those standing near crossing themselves as they edged away from her.

“Cease!” Aidan slammed his fist on the table, jarring cutlery and tipping over wine goblets. “I'll no' have you babbling like women!” he roared, his fury squelching the foul-tempered rumbles.

For good measure, he put back his shoulders and looked round, letting his stare act as a further warning. Fear was something he couldn't condone within his walls. A MacDonald feared nothing. Even if his men seemed to have momentarily forgotten. He folded his arms, watching them. It also appeared to have slipped their minds that he didn't tolerate injustice. Another trait he expected all MacDonalds to adhere to.

Most especially in regard to females.

He drew a deep breath, schooling his features. He knew better than anyone else present that the woman was no witch.

Not that he meant to share how he knew it.

She
was
something he couldn't fathom. Not that he cared. All that mattered was that she stood before him. Scarce able to believe it, he came around the high table and put a hand on her arm, that one touch—her physical nearness—shooting jolts of white-hot flame all through him.

Fighting the urge to clutch her to him, he drew himself to his fullest height, feigning a look of fierceness lest his superstitious kinsmen doubt his ability to deal with a woman they held for a witch.

There would be time enough to win them over to her—if she wasn't an illusion.

Hoping she wasn't, he raised her arm and raked the hall with all the lairdly sternness he had in him. “I can feel this woman's warmth through her clothes. Even”—he jerked a glance at Tavish—“the thickness of Tavish's plaid. All ken witches have blood of ice. If she's of the Fae, or merely a troubled woman here to find succor, it will be for me to decide. No one else shall touch her or even glance askance at her. I forbid it.”

Displeased grumbles answered him. A sea of shifting, nervous manhood, all with doubting, belligerent faces. Only a few looked down, swatting at sleeves and hitching sword belts.

“Come, Aidan.” A gap-toothed man stepped forward, clearly speaking for them all. “You ken the damage a witch can wreak. Only last year, Widow MacRae's best cow started giving soured milk after the old woman granted a night's shelter to a witch. The same creature caused the widow's daughter to lose her bairn. And—”

“Nonsense!” Aidan cut him off, silencing the rest with another cold stare. “I'll have no such foolery spoken in my hall. The lass is no witch, and it will go poorly for the man who dares say so again. Mark it and be wary.”

Beside him, his
tamhasg
sucked in a breath. “Of course, I'm not a witch. Or a fairy,” Aidan thought he heard her say, though he couldn't be sure because the scent of her was clouding his wits. The closeness and heat of her sweet, lush body making him crazy.

“Your name.” He looked at her, hoping that only he heard the thickness of his voice. “I would know it at last,” he added, the words so low he wasn't even sure he'd said them.

Her eyes widened, the slight tremble of her lips telling him he had. “I'm Kira,” she said, saying her name for the second time that evening. “Kira Bedwell.”

“Kee-
rah
Bedwell,” he repeated, pronouncing the name as her champion had, only with an even richer, sexier burr. “'Tis an apt name.”

Kira blinked, not certain she'd heard a slight emphasis on the last words.

His scowl told her she'd imagined it.

Not that it mattered.

With a voice like that he could set a woman into ecstasy just by reading the back of a cereal box. He'd sounded sexy in her dreams. In person, he undid her. Six feet four inches of pure, wild, and savage Highland masculinity was almost more than she could take. Especially when those inches were put together so well. His tall, muscle-ripped frame made all the more irresistible by the thick, silky black hair just brushing his shoulders and his dark, smoldering gaze.

“Lass.” He looked at her, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I'll ask you again—how did you get here?”

“It was a time slip.” She lowered her voice, not wanting his men to hear. “One that…expanded. Or…oh, let's just say I've come a long way,” she blurted, too awestruck to manage anything better. “From Aldan, Pennsylvania.”

And I think I am going to faint
.

Her heart had surely stopped. And with it, her ability to breathe. She stared up at him, everything in her world slamming to a halt. Nothing existed except the man before her. His gaze held hers, commanding and possessive. He towered over her, all medieval male and gorgeous, the look in his eyes melting her.

She blinked, swallowing against the fluttering in her stomach. The bite of so much smoke-filled air. An acrid haze that stung her eyes, while the reek of peat, overspiced food, dogs, and ale made her nose twitch. She stood frozen, taking it all in, her ears ringing with the grumbles of angry, tartan-draped men. Harried servants rushed past, their faces averted, the general, noisy chaos like nothing she could have imagined. It all whirled around her in a great, dizzying cacophony. The wild, torchlit, colorful place she'd dreamt of so long.

Diminished to nothing when compared with the wonder of
his
hand on her arm.

“See that no one disturbs us.” He spoke again, his voice smooth, deep, and flowing right through her.

Even if his words were directed at the man called Tavish rather than her. “Settle the hall—even if you must draw blood.”

Tavish nodded.

He
frowned and turned away, pulling her along beside him. Kinsmen and dogs made way as they passed, heading for the shadowed arch of a nearby stair tower.

“I'd have words with you in my privy quarters,” he told her, not breaking stride as he swept her off her feet, scooping her into his arms. “Words long overdue.”

Then he was carrying her up the winding, torchlit stair, mounting the steps two at a time. Kira slid her arms around his neck, holding fast and biting her lip. The truth of her situation becoming more clear the higher they climbed up the tight, circular stair.

A very
new
-looking stair, lit by stinking, sputtering rush lights and whatever pale light fell through the narrow, deep-set arrow slits.

This was for real.

She was no longer dreaming about the ancient past—she was in it.

And judging by Aidan's frown, he was anything but pleased to see her there.

Aidan was no longer scowling by the time he ascended the last few rounds of the stair tower and stopped outside his bedchamber door. Far from frowning, his countenance must now be thunderous. Indeed, he was certain of it, for he could feel the flames of anger licking the back of his neck and scalding his cheeks.

For two pins, he would tear back down to the hall, whip out his blade, and lop the heads off the first loose-tongued kinsmen who dared utter the word
witch
again.

Instead, he blew out a hot breath and kicked open his oak-planked door. Striding inside, his
tamhasg
still in his arms, he took some small satisfaction in slamming it behind them.

“So-o-o, lass.” He released her at once. “Tell me, what magic brought you here?”

“I already told you I don't know.” She stared back at him, her face as flushed as he suspected his must be. “Or rather, I'm not sure. I think I'm trapped in a time slip, though that's never happened before. All I know is that I was on the top of your arch and—”

“I know that.” Aidan frowned, not about to admit he hadn't understood half of what she'd said. Not just the words, but how she'd pronounced them. A problem he'd never had in their dreams. “'Tis how you got there that interests me.”

If you know me
.

Not that he was going to ask. Not yet anyway.

First he needed to know what the blazes was going on.

Doing his best to look as if he did, he folded his arms. “Well?”

“If I knew I'd tell you.” She shot a glance at the window arch, her eyes rounding at the dark outline of Wrath Isle. Recognition flashed across her face, her eyes widening even more when she turned back toward him and saw the colorful tapestry hanging so close to the window, his huge four-poster bed placed not far away.

“Holy moly.” She pressed a hand to her breast, looking around.

Aidan's frown deepened. He understood
holy
, but
moly
was new to him. Not that the word was of any great import. Her astonishment spoke worlds.

She knew his room.

And that could only mean one thing.

She'd lived their dreams as vividly as he had.

The possibility enflamed him and he reached for her, seizing her shoulders. “You've been here.” He tightened his grip on her, willing her to admit it. “I can see it all o'er you.”

She twisted free, turning back to the window. Stepping closer, she touched the shutter hinges. She examined them, flattening her hands on the stone of the embrasure before trailing her fingers down the tasseled edge of his tapestry.

“I can't believe how real all this is.” She glanced at him. “How real
you
are. For this long, anyway.”

Aidan harrumphed. “I'm as real now as I was when I woke this morn. 'Tis you I'm concerned about.” He looked at her, the whole situation making his head pound. “You're no' making a word of sense.”

The admission slipped out before he could stop it, but rather than laugh at him as he'd almost expected, she shook her head, looking just as dumbfounded as he felt.

“It doesn't make sense to me, either,” she said, proving it. Her gaze flitted to his bed and then back to him. “If this had happened at the Na Tri Shean, I might not be so surprised, but—”

“The Na Tri Shean?” A chill sped down his back. “'Tis a bad place, that. Good folk would ne'er set foot there.”

“I'm not a witch.” She drew Tavish's plaid more tightly about her. “I had
business
at the fairy mounds. That doesn't make me one of them.”

“I ken what you are.” Aidan closed his eyes, wishing he did.

He also tried not to breathe in her scent.

He wouldn't have believed it, but it was even more wondrous than in their dreams. So enticing, it befuddled his wits. If he succumbed to it, he'd have her naked and beneath him in a flash and such a breach of honor would haunt him all his days.

MacDonalds wooed their women. Winning them with sensual prowess and charm. With the exception of a few aberrations like Conan Dearg, ne'er would a man of Aidan's race take an unwilling female.

And Kira Bedwell wasn't just any female. She was special beyond words. No matter how many fairy mounds she knew about. Everyone knew of such places. What mattered was that he wanted and needed her to desire him as much now as she did in her dream state.

Only then would he touch her. And only after a suitable wooing period. She deserved as much and, as laird, his dignity required it of him.

Much as the waiting pained him.

He looked at her, his heart thundering. “You've been here.” The truth of it pounded through him. “Tell me, Kira, tell me you know.”

She swiped a hand through her hair, the movement sending Tavish's plaid fluttering to the floor. “Of course I know.” Color bloomed on her cheeks. “I've been here in my dreams.
Our
dreams.”

Aidan nodded. “Aye, lass. How much do you remember of them?”

Her throat worked. “I remember…everything.”

“Even this?” He slid his arms around her, forcing himself to hold her gently. “You must tell me, Kira. If this, too, is familiar?” He smoothed one hand across her back and with the other caressed the curve of her hip, drawing her just a bit closer. “Or this?” He lowered his head to lightly brush her lips with his. “Speak true, sweetness. I would hear the words. Exactly what you recall.”

Kira's face flamed. “I think you know.”

“That's no' an answer.” He watched her coolly, every inch the proud, self-assured laird.

And so flesh-and-blood, staring-at-her real, she was sure she must be one big goose bump.

She shivered. His huge stone hearth and his peat fire ranked all kinds of prizes in the romance department, but those little orange-glowing bricks of turf couldn't compete with central heating.

With the exception of her face, she was suddenly f-r-e-e-z-i-n-g.

He
blazed like a furnace.

Somehow her hand had become trapped between them, her splayed fingers pressed against the rough weave of his plaid. Heat poured off him, warming her even through the heavy wool. She could also feel the steady thumping of his heart and, a bit lower, the hard buckle of his sword belt digging into her belly. A discomfort as tangible and eye-opening as the cold and one that underscored that he wasn't just a real living and breathing man, he was a
medieval
man.

If she discounted Halloween, there weren't too many times a man in her world walked around with a giant broadsword slapping his thigh.

Aidan MacDonald looked like he was born wearing his.

She swallowed, just a bit daunted by so much muscle and steel.

“I'm waiting, Kee-
rah
.”

“Ahhh…” The words lodged in her throat.

No way was she going to recite the explicit details of their nightly encounters.

She slid another glance at the tapestry near the window. The one she knew from her dreams. Moon glow slanted across it, the silvery light gilding each bright-gleaming thread and breathing life into the nude and half-clad figures artfully blended into an idyllic forest scene.

Figures entwined in intimate embraces that couldn't hold a candle to the kind of wild, uninhibited lovemaking they'd enjoyed in their dreams.

Unfortunately, at the moment she did feel a bit…inhibited.

And who wouldn't?

Getting down and dirty with a dream man was one thing, but getting all touchy-feely within minutes of a first real meeting, was a whole 'nuther kettle of fish, as her mother would say. Her mother also loved reminding her that no man bothered to buy a cow if the milk was free; whether Aidan had
dream-sampled
her offerings or not wasn't the question.

She'd never been a first-date-bedding kind of girl and she didn't want to start now, no matter how strong and wonderful his arms felt around her.

No matter how kissable his lips.

How good he smelled.

Or how badly she really did want him.

So she lifted her chin and met his stare, hoping she didn't have take-me-I'm-yours flashing on her forehead.

To her dismay, his arched brow and the heated look he pinned on her indicated she just might.

“So, will you say the words? Tell me true what you remember of our dreams?” He smoothed her hair back from her face, his touch sending a cascade of pleasure through her.

Pleasure so sweet, each shivery wave of tingles put a major dent in her jitters.

She clamped her lips together, not quite ready to admit it.

He angled his head. “Come, lass, I already know you to be a bold-hearted maid.”

Kira glanced aside. If she looked at him, she'd be a goner. He was that intoxicating.

“Well?” He lifted a handful of her hair, letting the strands glide over his fingers.

Unnerved, she jerked her head back around. “There are no
wells
about it. No wondering, either. You know what I remember. Every bit of it, I'm sure!”

To her annoyance, he smiled.

Another of those conquering alpha-male hero smiles.

“O-o-oh, I believe I know well enough,” he admitted, his smooth, whisky-rich burr making it all the more difficult not to throw her arms around his neck and cling to him.

He was, after all, a very
clingable
man.

So curl-her-toes-clingable that she slipped out of his arms before she made a spectacle of herself. Much better to give herself a little space and do some pacing.

Besides, it wasn't every day she got to walk on medieval floor rushes. Not knowing how long she would remain in his time, she dug one toe into the thick layer of fragrant meadowsweet or whatever such herb-strewn rushes were called, then took care to step beyond his reach.

“You canna deny it, lass. Wearing a track in my floor willna change anything.” He folded his arms, watching her. His
voice
poured over and into her, the beauty of it making the impossible so incredibly real.

“I know that,” she said, pacing anyway. “But moving around helps.”

And she definitely needed help. Never would she have believed such a thing could happen.

A single fleeting glimpse…oh yes.

But never this.

She slid another glance at him, half expecting him to be gone, but he hadn't budged. He was still there. Bold as day and looking more fiercely handsome than the hottest hero she'd ever seen on the cover of a historical romance novel. Above all, he seemed so amazingly real, and she just couldn't wrap her mind around that.

Her Aidan. His Castle Wrath no longer a confused tumble of stones and broken walls, but a thriving,
living
place where he reigned supreme and had just tossed her over his shoulder and carried her up winding castle steps and into his bedchamber. An act that made the centuries between them as meaningless as a dust mote.

Her throat began to thicken and she swallowed. Never had she felt so overwhelmed.

She stopped her pacing to look at him. “You looked angry in the hall. As if you weren't pleased that I—”

“Angry?” His dark brows arced upward. “Precious lass, I was furious, but no' at you. I was wroth with my men and their foolery. What might have happened had Tavish not crossed the bailey when he did.”

He stepped close to caress her face. “Ach, sweetness, you thought wrong.” He smoothed his thumb over her lips. “Seeing you appear was like having the sun and the stars burst into my hall. I've burned for you, searching nightly. Waiting, always waiting, and ne'er giving up hope.”

Kira's breath caught, something inside her stirring as never before.

Making her bold.

“Hoping what? That I would appear?” She looked up at him, his touch melting her. Heating her. Even the room's chill seemed less biting. In fact, it was almost beginning to feel stuffy. Sure of it, she slipped out of her heavy waxed jacket and let it drop onto the discarded plaid.

He looked at the jacket, then at her. “O-o-oh, lass.” His eyes darkened. “You ought not ask what I hoped for—not if hearing the answer will frighten you.”

“I'm not frightened.” She flipped back her hair and assumed her most unfrightened expression. “I…only need time to adjust.”

His expression told her he wasn't buying her denial.

Would a kiss put you at ease?

Kira blinked, not sure she'd heard the softly spoken words.

“A kiss?” She spoke quickly before her courage fizzled.

He nodded.