Highlander in Her Bed (29 page)

"The medieval practice grounds," the girl supplied, pausing for breath. "Some people call them the lists. It's the big grassy field near One Cairn Village. In olden days, knights used it to train. Your boyfriend is there now, with his reenactment friends. Everyone is there, watching them—"

"
My boyfriend
?" Mara could feel her jaw dropping. "I don't—"

"Ach, just come along and dinna worry. He's in right good trim." Ailsa-Agnes took her arm, pulled her through the door. "He told Murdoch everything. How you'd fretted what we'd think if we knew you had a partner, but you worried for naught."

She looked at Mara, flashed a smile.

But Mara scarce noticed the girl's pink-cheeked grin. She only heard her words, their impact whirling through her like a tornado.

In good trim? Her partner
? She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Her stomach began to flutter and she swallowed hard, her chest so tight she could hardly breathe.

It couldn't be.

Yet who else could the girl mean?

"Dinna look so fashed. We're more modern than we seem," Ailsa-Agnes was saying. "Even Murdoch had a lady-love for years. You should have seen them dance and jig at the
ceilidhs
, himself with his kilt a-flying. They were both widowed and shared a bed until she died just last year."

She flicked her apron, a touch of pride crossing her face. "Your boyfriend is a Highlander. How could we not like him? Especially since he's come with all his friends to entertain at the unveiling ceremony."

A Highlander.

The word rushed at Mara, whipping round her like a warm golden flood, its sweetness flowing into her, bringing her back to life. Making her
feel
again, but in good ways.

Ailsa-Agnes was still speaking, but Mara couldn't distinguish her words. Her eyes were misting too rapidly and her blood roaring so loud in her ears, she could barely hear her own thoughts.

She could only put one foot in front of the other and follow the girl down the passage, toward the stairs to the entrance hall and… hope.

Impossible, giddy hope, but irresistible enough to make her heart soar.

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, her knees shaking so badly she feared her legs would give out. "Are his friends
medieval
reenactors?" she asked, clutching the banister. "I-I've never met them."

"Aye, sure as I'm standing here," Ailsa-Agnes beamed, her answer cinching it. "And looking like they just walked off the set of
Braveheart
. But much more authentic."

Mara's heart slammed against her ribs.

"Oh, God," she cried, not caring who heard her. "It
is
him!"

Then the world flashed black and white before her eyes and the buzzing in her ears grew so deafening, she wondered her head didn't burst.

"Oh, Alex," she gasped, clapping a hand to her cheek. Her entire body trembled and even the soles of her feet tingled. Her pulse raced with incredible speed, its wild surging sure to break her apart.

He was here. Her ghostly Highlander had come back to her.

"Murdoch thinks he brought his friends so their swordplay will impress you." Ailsa-Agnes's voice came from afar, her words faint. Barely audible through the sparkling joy spinning inside Mara. "He said he'd bet his best sporran that your Alex is here to ask you to marry him."

Her Alex
. Mara's heart almost split upon hearing his name.

But she was already stumbling for the door, her fingers shaking as she fumbled with the latch. And then it flew wide and she was running, tearing across gravel paths and the lawn, making for the medieval training ground.

Ask her to marry him, Ailsa-Agnes had said.

The words haunted her, echoing in her ears, teasing and taunting. Urging her on.

Not that they really mattered.

She only wanted to see him.

That, and make certain he never left her again.

Mara ran along the track through gorse and broom thickets, Ben's barking and the spectators' cheers giving her strength. Her lungs burned and sharp pain jabbed at her ribs, each racing footfall costing her. She could feel Alex, sensed him with each ragged breath. His presence beckoned, vibrating all through her and fuelling her desperation to reach him.

She bit her lip, pressed a hand against the stitch in her side. Her heart pounded, a thudding agony in her breast, and thundering so loud even the wild clanking of steel and the excited roars of the crowd dimmed in her ears.

"Almost there," she panted, pushing herself as she ran harder.

Then she was there, the path widening to reveal the whole breadth of the brilliant sky and the wide expanse of the grassy, sun-washed training ground. The latter view blocked by the backs of what appeared to be every soul from within Ravenscraig's walls and their guests.

At the edge of the milling spectators, Ben squirmed beside Murdoch, and Mara could see that the garrulous old steward had a firm hand clasped around the dog's collar. Prudentia's broad, floral-printed backside loomed into view as well, but not much else could be seen.

Except for the tall, darkly handsome knight leaning against a drystone wall a short distance from the path. A true medieval knight, as Mara's slack jaw and goose bumps attested. Every inch of him a ghost… even if he did look as real as the day was long.

She just knew.

He appeared to know her as well because as she stood gaping at him, he pushed away from the wall and started toward her, his knightly spurs clicking softly, his gleaming mail brilliant in the afternoon sunshine.

Indeed, the only thing unusual about him was how diligently he held his studded medieval shield in front of his groin.

And it
was
a medieval shield.

A fine Highland targe, round and covered with leather, but not looking anywhere near as ancient as the ones decorating the walls of Ravenscraig's entrance hall.

Mara swallowed, frozen in place.

The dark knight smiled. A slow, lazy smile that would have melted her bones were her heart not soundly given. "Be not afraid, Lady Mara," he said, coming closer. "I am but a friend and wish you well."

"You know me?" she managed, still breathing hard, some sharp-eyed corner of her mind stunned at how easily she stood there conversing with a ghost.

Yet another ghost, she amended.

And a dashed good-looking one, too.

"To be sure, and I know you," he said then, his easygoing manner and the way he made her a little bow putting her at ease. "I am Sir Hardwin, longtime companion-in-arms to your Alex. He speaks of nothing but your beauty, wit, and charm. If we have not yet met in truth, the honor is mine that we may do so today."

"You… flatter me." Mara resisted the urge to smooth her hair, knew full well how disheveled she must look after half running, half stumbling all the way down here.

"Not flatter, but praise," he corrected, lifting a hand to ward off any objections. "And quite rightly."

"But not why you were waiting for me beside that wall over there?"

"Quite right again," he said with another smile. "I wished a word with you."

"A word—" Mara left the sentence unfinished, speech failing her as, somehow, he was suddenly behind her, gently turning her toward the line of spectators.

Only now they'd all vanished.

Mara's eyes widened, her heart pounding at the sight before her. Medieval clansmen and knights, for they could be nothing other, engaged in a rollicking mock battle with strapping young Highlanders who, for all their size and enthusiasm, were definitely of the flesh-and-blood variety, and clearly no match for the high-skilled swordery of the
ghostly
combatants.

Of those, a huge bearlike man with a shock of shaggy red hair and an equally wild beard laughed uproariously as he windmilled his blade, deftly holding off any and all attempts the younger men made to come at him.

"Bran of Barra," the dark knight identified the burly Islesman. "A friend, and one of the most greathearted chieftains the Hebrides ever saw. A man who hasn't left his isle-girt keep in centuries, but came here today as a favor to Alex. He brought a good score of seasoned clansmen with him, and the braw young lads challenging him just now are his grandsons, many times removed. He—"

"And Alex? Where is he?" Mara lifted a hand to shade her eyes, peered hard into the clashing tangle of brawn, plaid, and steel. "I can't see him."

"In time, my lady," the dark knight promised, tightening his fingers on her shoulder.

Mara swallowed, something in his tone making her wonder if he hadn't zapped away Alex as magically as he'd banished Murdoch, Ben, and everyone else who'd been there only moments before.

But he did seem kindly, so she tamped down her impatience, tried not to fidget.

"And that one there," he went on as if she hadn't interrupted him, "the tall scar-faced knight on the far side of the field, do you see him?"

He pointed, and Mara saw the man indeed.

She stared at him, her breath catching at his skill. "He doesn't look Scottish," she said, noting that he was clad like a medieval
English
knight.

"And he is not Scottish," Sir Hardwin confirmed. "But his heart resides firmly in the Highlands. North of here, in Kintail. He is Sir Marmaduke Strongbow, a Sassunach champion and a great friend to Clan MacKenzie in his day. His sword arm is unequalled in any century. Alex journeyed far to find him, though I doubt he did much arm-bending once he did. Sir Marmaduke is a gallant. He will not have needed much persuasion to come."

"And why did he?" She was almost afraid to ask. A suspicion was beginning to burn inside her, and the glory of it, if true, had the power to undo her.

But she had to know.

"Why are any of these men here? The young ones and the—" she broke off, hot color staining her cheeks.

"The young lads and the ghosts?" Alex's friend finished for her, unfazed. His tone just as pleasant as it had been since he'd stepped into her path.

Mara nodded, the thickness in her throat as great a hindrance as her embarrassment in calling ghosts
ghosts
.

The knight cleared his throat, suddenly in front of her again. "Alex's fall to ruin was bright and deep," he said, his shield still in place. "Those who came here in friendship today love him enough to help him avoid another such disaster."

Mara's gaze shifted to the sword-swinging melee, relief flooding her upon seeing the spectators returned. "But I love him, too," she admitted, straining to see him through the crowd. "I would never turn away from him or—"

"The disaster we wish to avert comes not from you, my lady, but from the circumstances." The knight caught her hand and dropped a kiss on her knuckles. "Alex knows how much you care for him. But he couldn't exactly sally up to your door and announce himself, could he?"

"So you came with him as a foil?"

"Call it what you will." He gave her another slow, easy smile. "You only need to know he spent the last weeks seeking out amenable friends, then searching up their great-great-grandsons. The ones still Highland enough not to keel over when a ghostie relation slips into their dreams asking a favor."

"The favor of posing as medieval reenactors?"

One raven brow lifted. "Can you think of a better way for Alex to return to you?"

Mara couldn't.

She glanced at the training ground again, blinked against the blinding flash of weaving steel. "It was clever, yes. Medieval reenactment shows are popular."

"And something Alex can do to make himself useful." The knight looked pleased. "Once the younger lads are properly trained and our friends return to their respective haunts, Alex can run tournaments, perhaps give lessons in swordery."

He paused, tucked a curl behind her ear. "Do not look so troubled, lady. Alex will charm your guests. He can even offer piping instruction or teach knightly riding. Beguile with Celtic whimsy."

Mara's heart tilted. Hottie Scottie
could
beguile.

And seduce, her rapid pulse and damping palms reminded her.

"I just wish he'd told me himself." She lifted up on her toes, tried to see over the shoulders of the spectators. "He was gone six weeks. I missed him," she added, scanning the field. "I must go to him now."

She started forward, but a firm grip to her elbow stopped her.

"There is another reason I wanted to speak to you," the knight cautioned, once more blocking her way. "Alex is injured, though I am sure he'll try and conceal his pain. You must treat him gently. He—"

"
Injured
?" Mara stared at him, her chest tightening. "How can he be hurt? He's a ghost!" she blurted, then immediately snapped her mouth shut, heat scalding her cheeks.

To her surprise, a hint of color touched the knight's face as well. "There are mysterious forces in the otherworlds, my lady. Things Alex and I haven't begun to comprehend in all our years having to deal with them."

He took her hand again, this time drawing her toward the line of spectators. "Alex was punished for finding
enjoyment
with you. Pleasure he will seek again. As his friend, I ask you to have a care with him."

Mara's jaw slipped. "You mean no—"

"Precisely." He looked at her, the seriousness of his expression frightening beyond words.

But then a hint of his roguish smile returned. "There are many ways for a man and woman to enjoy each other," he said, his dark gaze holding hers. "Explore them until Alex's wounds heal. If he is pulled away again, he might not be able to return."

Mara gulped. "You mean that is why—" she got no further, found herself talking to thin air.

The dashing knight was gone.

Or rather, he now stood midfield, his rakish smile brighter than ever, his gleaming sword slicing the air, his every arc or thrust deflected by the whirling, quicksilver blade of a tall, vigorous man whose bold, high-spirited laugh almost brought Mara to her knees.

"Alex!" she cried, running onto the field.

He spun around and raised his sword in greeting, his devilish grin melting her. And then she was flying across the grass, barely registering the cheers ringing in her ears or how swiftly her love lowered and sheathed his blade.