Highlander in Her Bed (2 page)

His fury now white-hot, Alex snarled, "Were you man enough to fight me one-on-one, I'd tear out your tongue for that, MacDougall."

But Colin only curled a hand around his belt and rocked on his heels. "The Bloodstone of Dalriada is magical," he crooned, clearly enjoying himself. "Some say it contains the blood of Saint Columba. Others swear the brooch came to MacAlpin by way of the fey ones.
Fairy folk
, who promised to grant the bearer three wishes so long as a year and a day passed between summons."

A red haze clouding his vision, Alex stared hard at the man he knew to be his murderer, his fingers clasped so fiercely around the brooch, its pin sank deep into his palm.

Ignoring Alex's glower, Colin rumbled on, his tone almost jovial, "If the tradition is true, mayhap you might attempt a last wish of your own."

"I'll see you in hell first," Alex growled, struggling against the men forcing him to the ground, but all his might and anger proved no match for the jabbing spear heads.

"Dastards," he seethed, casting a furious look around him. "You'll not get away with this."

"Some would say we already have." Colin stepped closer and raised his sword. "I shall pray for your soul before I take Isobel to your bed this night."

"You will rue the hour you e'er laid eyes on my bed," Alex vowed, glaring at his death. "I shall haunt you and your issue until the end of all days, that I swear."

"We will see," Colin said, and took a swinging blow.

"Bloody MacDougall bast—" Alex began before sinking down beneath a hail of flashing steel, his last mortal words forever silenced.

His curse on the MacDougalls etched onto eternity.

Chapter 1

London, the Present

Bloody MacDougall bastards.

Mara McDougall jumped at the angrily whispered slur. Her pulse racing, she spun around, but saw… no one. Nothing but clutter and dust stared back at her. A musty shop room brimming with other people's castoffs, each supposed treasure as silent as the grave.

Yet she would've sworn someone had hushed the words just behind her ear.

A masculine someone with a very deep voice.

A voice with a rich, curl-a-girl's-toes accent she couldn't quite place.

Pressing a hand to her breast, she strove for calm and hoped she wasn't becoming as unhinged as the characters she'd been escorting all over the English countryside for the past two weeks.

The longest two weeks of her life.

With a fortitude she hadn't known she possessed, she'd herded the group of would-be ghost hunters through more castles, stately homes, and supposedly haunted pubs than she could count. She'd sat through nonsensical discussions about cold spots, gray ladies, and things that go bump in the night. For the sake of her business, she'd even feigned interest.

And now she was hearing voices that weren't there.

Her preciously seized alone time was rapidly deteriorating and even though this particular trip had landed her one-woman touring company, Exclusive Excursions, a handsome profit, enough was enough.

This was not amusing.

She had neither the time nor the inclination to start hearing things, and if her current clients posed a sampling of the kind of people who did, she didn't want any part of such dubious capabilities.

Shuddering, she became aware of the faint throbbings of an approaching headache and reached to rub her forehead. Soon she'd part company with the ghost busters. One more day, a too-long plane ride across the Atlantic, and she'd never have to see them again, wouldn't have to listen to any more of their outlandish stories.

Still, the real-sounding slur had her peering into every corner of the dimly lit back room of Dimbleby's Antique and Curio Shoppe.

A simple precautionary measure, just to be certain that nothing but disorder and a few very good dust-covered pieces shared the room with her. Satisfied she'd scrutinized every possible hidey-hole, she turned her attention back to the unusual four-poster bed she'd been examining.

Never in all her travels had she seen anything as remarkable. The bed was fashioned of fine old oak, smooth and blackened by age; its sheer presence dominated the room.

The bed had to be old…
really
old.

Drawing an awed breath, she trailed her fingertips down one of the richly carved posts. Cool and satiny to the touch, the ancient wood sent a tremor of excitement rippling through her.

How many centuries had it taken to create such a patina? Whose skilled hands had so lovingly crafted the intricate design of thistles and oak leaves adorning the bed's massive headboard and ceiling?

She sighed, a wistful smile curving her lips. Who had been born, died, or made love in such a regal bed? The possibilities were as endless as her imagination.

"Magnificent, hmmm?"

Once more, Mara jumped, her eyes flying wide. And for the second time that day, a chill sped down her spine. But this time the male voice behind her did not sound angry.

And certainly not as smooth and deep.

Merely very
English
, and overlaid with the slight touch of superiority inherent to antique shop owners.

Straightening, Mara took a deep breath and squelched the flare of self-consciousness such haughty individuals sometimes roused in her.

Then she turned around and her flash of insecurity slid away.

The highly cultured voice belonged to a rather nondescript man somewhere in his fifties. Of slight build, he wore a rumpled suit of light gray and had carefully combed his thinning hair across a bald spot on the top of his head.

And even though he was standing as erect as if he'd swallowed a broom, she topped him by a good three inches.

For once glad of her height, Mara nodded agreement. "Yes, it is amazing. I've never seen anything like it." She glanced at the bed. "Is it Tudor?"

The man rubbed his chin. "Could be, but I suspect it is much older, perhaps fourteenth century. I wouldn't be surprised if it dates back even earlier. It's most unique, the finest piece of medieval furniture you'll find outside a museum."

He studied her with sharp blue eyes. "I'm afraid it's quite dear."

"Oh, I don't want to
buy
it," Mara said, wishing she could. "I was just admiring it. Do you know its history?"

"Only what I can surmise, Miss… ?"

"McDougall. Mara McDou—" A resounding crash snatched her words, the loud
bang
reverberating through the room and jarring the glass and porcelain antiques.

Mara froze. Her nerves sprang to life again, and icy little prickles broke out all over her. She looked at the Englishman, but he appeared totally unperturbed.

"It's only the window." He indicated a milky double-hung affair across the room. "It's a bit dodgy and sometimes slams down on its own," he added, arching a brow at her. "I trust it didn't alarm you?"

"No-o-o, not at all," Mara fudged, not about to admit that the noise had set her reeling.

Rubbing her arms, she regretted not wearing a sweater. A
jumper
as the Brits called it. Sheesh, all of a sudden, she was freezing. Enough that she could hardly believe her teeth weren't chattering.

She hoped she hadn't caught Nellie Hathaway's cold. The ghost-hunting bookkeeper from Pittsburgh had been sneezing without cease ever since they'd spent the night in a cemetery outside Exeter.

"It's a bit cold in here," she said, still trying to rub away her gooseflesh.

"
Cold
?" The man gave her a quizzical look. "But it's quite stuffy, my dear." As if to prove it, he produced a white linen handkerchief and dabbed at his brow. "Word is, this is the hottest June we've had in decades."

Mara bit her tongue. Something was seriously wrong. It was so cold, she could hardly think straight. Only an Eskimo would consider the room even halfway warm.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the man was saying, clearly oblivious to her discomfort. "Donald Dimbleby, proprietor, at your service. It is a pleasure to see a young American interested in antiques."

Mara blinked, determined to focus on him and not the room's iciness. "A lot of Americans like antiques."

Donald Dimbleby sniffed. "Ah, but are they interested in a piece's origin and history or merely wanting a quaint bit of Merry Olde to take home with them?"

"I couldn't take home this bed even if I could afford it. I'd have no place to put it," Mara said, thinking of her minuscule Philadelphia apartment.

The massive bed wouldn't fit into her living room and bedroom combined—even if she threw out everything else to make room for it. A pang of pointless regret shot through her at the thought, but she shoved it aside and smoothed her hand along the bedpost again.

To her surprise, it now felt warm beneath her touch.

Slightly heated, and somehow charged… as if a strong electrical current sizzled and leapt beneath the wood's smooth surface.

"You don't know the bed's history?" she asked the proprietor, her fingers tingling.

"Unfortunately, I have not been able to trace its origin. A great pity, as I am certain it has a fascinating background." He pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket and donned them before moving to the elaborately carved headboard.

"Take a look at this." He touched a finger to the graceful swirls of decorative leaves. "These are oak leaves. They represent valor. Such symbols were chosen with great care because the qualities depicted were directly related to the bearer. Therefore, we can assume the bed belonged to a baronial family or perhaps a knight."

A knight
. Mara's heart jolted, the very word setting her insides aflutter. "You can tell that by the design?"

A pleased blush colored Mr. Dimbleby's face.

"Heraldry is a hobby of mine," he said and cocked a speculative eye at the headboard. "Now, the thistles might mean the bed came from—"

"Scotland?" Mara supplied, certain of it.

After all, her genealogy-obsessed father had embarrassed her often enough by filling their modest suburban home with plaid and thistles, even once bribing her with a spring break trip to Fort Lauderdale if she'd stencil thistle borders around the bathroom ceiling.

The proprietor lowered his glasses a notch and looked at her over the rims. "Quite right," he agreed. "The thistle represents Scotland. But even though I acquired the bed at an Edinburgh antique show, I tend to believe it has its origins in England."

Mara ran a finger across one of the oak leaves. "Why? Because the oak is associated with England?"

That, too, she knew. From her passion for medieval history and also from having escorted so many tours through English country manors.

But Donald Dimbleby shook his head. "Could be, but I would say because of the bed's fine craftsmanship." His voice took on a slight edge of condescension. "Nothing against our northern neighbors, but in those days, I'm afraid the English would have been far more advanced in creating such pieces. For instance, this bed can be completely dismantled and put back together with surprising ease. The Scots would not have been so skilled at that time."

"My ancestors came from Scotland," Mara said, and a blast of Arctic air hit her full in the face. "I've never been there, though."

Mr. Dimbleby gave her an indulgent smile. "With a name like McDougall and hair such a lovely shade of copper, I'd already guessed you'd have Scottish roots. I—" He broke off at the shrill of a telephone.

"If you'll excuse me," he said, already heading toward an opened door on the far side of the room, which he closed firmly behind him.

Left alone, Mara turned back to the bed.

It fascinated her. Grasping one of the posts with both hands, she rested her cheek against its solidity and closed her eyes, tried to envision the bed as it must have been centuries ago.

Blessed with a vivid imagination, she soon conjured a dashing knight in a mailed hauberk carrying a fair-haired maiden up a winding turret stair, then gently lowering her onto the sumptuously dressed bed.

Chill bumps rose on her arms again, but this time her shivers had nothing to do with the cold.

These were
delicious
shivers, accompanied by a quickening of her breath and hot little rushes of sheer delight. To a lover of old things, such as she was, almost orgasmic.

If only she had lived in the age of romance and chivalry.

Instead, she was Mara luckless-in-love McDougall, fated to run a business that, at times, stretched her nerves just so she could catch occasional whiffs and glimpses of the long-ago world that so fascinated her.

She let out a heavy sigh. Like it or not, she lived in the here and now. And if she wanted to see England again after this trip, she'd better not indulge in flights of fancy. A combination of hard work and creativity had allowed her to build Exclusive Excursions into a semithriving business.

Not mooning over what-ifs and might-have-beens.

Somehow she'd survive this last evening of playing mother hen to the proud cardholders of the Society of Intrepid Ghost Hunters. And, as always, she'd pass the months until the next tour with a flurry of industrious advertising and planning. Then, before she knew it, she'd be back on the next London-bound plane.

Little else mattered.

With a distinct twinge of regret, she pushed away from the bedpost. She had just enough time to catch the Tube to Victoria Station, dash the few blocks to her bed-and-breakfast, then ready herself for the night's festivities.

No more time to fantasize about mail-clad knights with slow, lazy smiles and heated glances.

But when she turned to leave, she slammed into a wall.

A solid, well-muscled male wall.

Quite possibly the most beautiful man she had ever seen. And without doubt the tallest. Faith, she had to tilt back her head to look at his face. Something she'd done fewer times than she cared to admit, not being exactly a petite miss.

Mara stared at him, her heart making embarrassing little flip-flops. He wore close-fitting brown hose and a long-sleeved tunic of the same shade, with a wide leather belt slung low around his hips. Fine brown boots finished his outfit, and for one startling moment Mara imagined she'd caught the flash of a long sword at his side.