Must Love Kilts (7 page)

As soon as her ship came in, she’d be on her way.

It was so nice to dream. ...

Somewhere a dog barked.

Margo frowned as she stripped out of her clothes.

There weren’t any dogs at the Fieldstone House, regrettably. She really loved them and hoped to have one of her own someday. But she didn’t yet, though if she learned that someone had locked a dog out in the rain, she’d try and persuade the owners to let her adopt the poor thing.

Dogs were meant to be loved.

Not left to shiver in the cold, wet dark.

Fortunately, the dog stopped barking—Margo hoped that meant he was now safe and warm, curled before a fire or on someone’s comfy couch—and that was good because the night was turning fierce. Rain drummed on the roof and dense, gray fog pressed against the bathroom’s tiny window, turning the light of a nearby old-styled lamppost into a smear of glowing yellow haze.

Margo blinked.

For a moment, she would’ve sworn the edges of the luminous blur flared red. But when she looked again, the eerie light was gone.

Even so, she turned to the broad windowsill and lit three white pillar candles. Set in trays of small, river-polished pebbles, the arrangement was a gift from Patience, who always murmured warding spells over every candle to leave Ye Olde Pagan Times.

Patience believed in doing her part for the community by sending each customer home with a blessing. She claimed the spell would protect the patrons whether or not they realized they’d left with a charmed candle. Or scented oil and reed diffusers guaranteed to not only spend fragrance but keep negativity at bay. Himalayan salt-crystal lamps did more than lend cheer and ambience to a room with their soft, orange glow. They also soothed hectic lives, bringing balance and healing to body, mind, and spirit.

All thanks to Patience’s gentle murmurings.

No one ever guessed.

Margo knew.

And she hoped the white candles would chase the odd shivers racing down her nerves again. Watching Magnus MacBride quicken to life on a book page might’ve been beyond amazing, but something else had lurked in the shop’s dimly lit rows of bookshelves.

Something evil, she was sure.

And she wanted none of its residue tainting her.

Imagining a strange woman’s voice taunting her had been bad enough.

So she climbed into her heather-purple-painted claw-foot tub, reached for her favorite Ocean of Storms shower gel, and stepped beneath the hot, pounding water. A good vigorous scrubbing would revive her and—she hoped—cleanse and shield her aura.

Ocean of Storms did foam better than any other shower gel. Almost iridescent, the creamy bubbles reminded her of sea spume. The fragrance was a dream, filling the air with the mysteries of wild, windswept seas and just a touch of rich, musky amber. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, letting the scent soothe her, carrying her away. ...

“Precious lass . . .”

Margo’s heart thumped as she imagined how Magnus would greet her. His voice would be deep and richly burred. Every word would be buttery smooth, pure Highland seduction.

They’d be on the strand from the book illustration and he’d stride up to her, taking her face in his hands and kissing her deeply.

She could picture the scene so well, even the sheer black cliffs rising behind him. Her breath caught at the vividness of her imagination, fantasy letting the tile and wallpaper vanish until she saw only jagged, basalt crags. Mist wreathed the cliff tops and the air filled with the cries of seabirds and the roar of the surf.

Magnus would break the kiss then and look deep into her eyes.
“I’m waiting for you, lass. Come to me,
soon.”

Margo was sure that was what he’d say. And the thought sent a rush of feminine need racing through her.

“Kissing you is no’ enough. ...”
Margo bit her lip and stopped soaping herself as she imagined his voice. It’d be darker and sexier now, full of the soft, musical undertones that made a Scottish accent so curl-a-girl’s-toes irresistible.

Margo’s heart beat faster and she took a shallow breath. Desire stirred, her body heating as she let her imagination lead her onward.

She went willingly.

It was too tempting to pretend he was kissing her.

Too delicious, imagining his love words spilling through her like smooth, sun-warmed honey.

Seductive, molten, and so deliciously Highland that if only they were real, her heart would split wide, and she knew she’d ache with the pleasure of hearing him.

God help her if he spoke Gaelic.

Sadly, her imagination had its limits.

Much as she loved Scotland, she’d never learned Gaelic.

She could paint his world vividly. With her mind’s eye, she could even see screeching seabirds speeding past, swooping low over her head on their way to the rocky, many-ledged crags.

She could almost believe she
was
in a rock-lined, cliff-hemmed cove.

Everything seemed so real.

Nearby, a dog barked again—it sounded like the same one as earlier—and from the corner of her eye, she imagined that she caught a glimpse of a large, scruffy-coated beast running along a black line of scruffy-coated beast running along a black line of seaweed near the water’s edge.

Big waves crashed there, the endless
whoosh
and booms echoing along the headland.

Margo’s heart began to thump, heavily. She inhaled deep, exhaled slowly.

It didn’t help.

She blinked, and the dog disappeared into the mist.

But glistening tidal rocks and steep cliffs met her eye no matter where she looked. Her bathroom had disappeared. And she still heard the sea.

The rhythmic pounding could be only her own blood rushing in her ears. It wasn’t every day she imagined herself up close and personal with a dream-spun hunk of pure Scottish sexuality. But real as it all seemed, it wasn’t. She hadn’t been transported anywhere, much as she wished she had been. She was still in her heather-clad bathroom.

Rain hammered on the roof and splattered the window, same as a moment ago. And the shower still splashed around her and spilled down her naked body. But the water chilled her now, as did the cold bite of racing wind.

Wind like none she’d ever felt and that smelled of deep, clean waters, full of ice and strong, northern currents.

A peek past her shower curtain showed that Patience’s candles still burned, though their flames now looked more like distant torchlight or even beacons. And the red-rimmed light of the garden lamppost was now a fire-edged moon, casting its lurid path across a sea that shone like beaten silver.

But her sexy-voiced Highlander was nowhere to be seen.

He’d left her dream.

Or so she thought until she pushed her dripping bangs back from her face. The air seemed to shift then, and he reappeared in all his kilt-clad glory. She blinked, her jaw slipping.

Her heart went wild, thundering madly. Exhaustion and soap in her eyes were surely playing tricks on her, for he looked even more magnificent now. Afraid the dream would shatter if she even breathed, she stood still. But a bit of shampoo slipped into her eyes and she reached to dash at the suds. At once, two large hands clamped around her wrists, lowering her arms to her sides.

“Stay with me. I’ll show you bliss as you’ve ne’er known.” His voice was darker now, richer than ever, and his eyes smoldered with passion.

He gripped her possessively, crowding her with his wide shoulders and big, hard chest. He looked like a mythical Celtic god, full of power and passion.

Glittering silver and gold rings banded the hard muscles of his upper arms. And his full, sensual mouth promised ecstasies beyond her wildest imaginings.

Wind whipped his silky black hair, drawing her attention to his bold, chiseled features. He had a proud, handsome face, strengthened by fierce slashing brows. His eyes were dark as midnight and, just now, staring straight into her soul, bridging forever as if time and distance didn’t exist.

Anything was possible in dreams.

Margo just wished this were reality.

She tried to say something, but the pure sexual magnetism of him fuzzed her mind. He stepped closer, the heat from his big muscle-packed body warming her, making her tremble. “You want this, aye?”

Not waiting for an answer, he cupped her chin and lowered his head, kissing her again.

“Yes ...” Margo wasn’t about to argue.

This was her fantasy, after all.

As if from a great distance, she could feel the pounding cascade of her shower. She also felt his big, strong hands glide down her sides, to her hips. He splayed his fingers across her bottom, kneading her flesh, pulling her close against him.

She melted, wishing fervently this were real.

At least six feet four, he towered over her, his great height making her neck ache because she had to tip back her head to peer up at him. Unlike in the book illustration, he now wore his sleek raven hair tied at his nape, but his dark eyes burned with the same heat that had so captivated her at Ye Olde Pagan Times.

Only now that fire was one of desire, not fury.

And just looking up at him, dream-spun or not, made her heart race and her sex clench. She went liquid with want, everything female in her melting.

Urgent need pooled into a hot, throbbing ache that burned at the very center of her.

As if he knew, his fierce gaze turned even more heated. Pulling her closer, he gave her a slow half smile that could only be called provocatively wicked.

Dangerous.

“Tell me you want me.” He touched her wet hair, smoothing a strand behind her ear. “I am made of rock and ice, as strong”—his fingers slid along the curve of her cheek, then skimmed her chin—“as the cold steel of Vengeance, my sword. But you, lass, have the power to bring me to my knees.”

“I know. . . .” Margo couldn’t breathe.

His touch, now an oh-so-light caress across the sensitive skin beneath her ear, sent jolts of pleasure shooting all through her. Her lower belly grew heavy, tingling with female desire. Her nipples tightened, making it impossible to hide her excitement.

He looked out at the empty sea and then back at her. Holding her gaze, he slid the edge of his thumb across her lower lip and back again, teasing her. “I know what you want, sweet one.”

Then give it to me,
she almost dared him. She wanted him. Every tall, strong, and handsome inch of him. She especially wanted the hard ridge of inches tenting his kilt. But as so often in dreams, her lips wouldn’t form the words. She also knew that any attempt to alter the natural flow of a dream could have adverse effects. Such as waking up alone, wet, and shivering in a shower that had gone icy cold. With her luck, she might then slip and conk her head on the edge of the tub, winning a goose-egg-sized bump and days of throbbing pain.

His dark gaze flicked over her. “You tempt me greatly.”

Margo swallowed, the hunger in his eyes stirring a storm of arousal inside her. His deep voice seduced her, its richness spilling through her, warming her, as if the smooth, honeyed tones held ancient magic. A spell that strengthened on each word he spoke and that left her hot, needy, and aching.

Everything else about him . . .

Just breathing in the same salt-kissed air electrified her and sent wicked-hot shivers spearing through her from head to toe.

Margo could see that he knew.

His smile was almost predatory.

She did want him to kiss her again. This was her fantasy and she might as well enjoy every moment.

But instead of pulling her even tighter against him and granting her wishes, he paced away from her and then whirled back around. His scorching gaze made her very aware that she was naked.

Thank God she exercised.

For every baked potato slathered with butter, sour cream, cheddar, and chives that she devoured—she was such a potato zealot—she made good her indulgence with a minimum of one hundred sit-ups and crunches.

Her belly was tight, her waist trim.

Her hot-eyed Viking Slayer was pure male perfection. She’d already given him a thorough head-to-toe sweep and knew by the fall of his kilt that his broad, plaid-draped shoulders and brawny arms weren’t the only well-muscled parts of him. He was more than amply endowed, and having once led the Bucks County Kilt Appreciation Society, she knew exactly what Highlanders wore under their kilts.

Better said, what they
didn’t
wear.

The thought almost made her climax.

Especially when he dropped his gaze to her Especially when he dropped his gaze to her breasts, letting his focus settle on her taut and straining nipples, so eager for his attentions.

Margo bit her lip again. The ache inside her was unbearable now.

“O-o-oh, lass.” He shook his head slowly, his gaze not leaving her nipples. “You would heat a thousand Highland nights.” He took a step closer, and another, pausing about three feet away from her. He stood at the sea’s edge and the surf broke white behind him, the foam swirling around his ankles as the water hissed across the sand.

He didn’t move or blink. He only held her gaze, and Margo knew he felt the awareness crackling between them. The pull binding them felt almost alive, burning the air, and the power of it sent delicious shivers along her nerves. Her heart beat wildly. Her pulse quickened at how conscious he was of her naked breasts.

Hearing him admit in his deep burr that he desired her made her breath catch. The seductive words reverberated through her body, touching her intimately.

“I need you, lass.” He clenched his fists at his sides, so tightly that his knuckles gleamed in the moonlight.

“In another place and time”—he spoke as if this were real, his gaze dipping to the juncture of her thighs—“I’d do more than kiss you. I’d drag my tongue o’er every inch of you, sating myself until your hot, womanly taste was branded on me forever.”

“Oh, God ...” Desire washed through Margo, a hard, fast torrent.

She’d been verging on a climax and his words—spoken in his husky Scottish accent—were speeding her close to that bright, looming edge of ecstasy.