The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance (67 page)

She reached again for her pen and notepad, pushing her Scottish hero from her mind.

Sometimes it didn’t pay to have such a vivid imagination.

But she was certain her hard work would always be rewarded.

If her
Armchair Enthusiast’s Guide
took off, she hoped to someday earn a living by immersing herself in the world she loved best -medieval Scotland, with all its mystery and magic, and where, she knew in her heart, she should have been born if only some cruel quirk of fate hadn’t plunked her down in the wrong time and place, leaving her filled with yearning for a life she couldn’t have.

But she
could
write books set there.

Once, that is, she made a name for herself as an expert on the must-see Highland hot spots of Celtic mythological fame.

And that wasn’t going to happen unless she stopped thinking about her romance novel’s hero and paid attention to the task at hand – studying next morning’s route to one of the most celebrated places on her two-week tour through Scotland’s ancient landscape.

She peered at the Ordnance Survey map that covered most of her bed. The map was a Landranger 9 and detailed every inch of Cape Wrath, the wildest and most remote corner of Scotland. Just seeing all the squares, lines and minuscule place names filled her with anticipation. This was the part of her trip that most excited her. She’d never been to Scotland before, but she’d dreamed of it all her life.

Scotland’s far north was where she belonged.

The next day’s journey would feel like going home.

Already, she knew each twist and turn of the way. Every curve of the shore road, the slender crescents of golden sand and even the forgotten homesteads, each one little more than a tiny dot on her map.

Looking at them now, her heart skittered. Though nothing thrilled her as much as the special place she’d explore in less than twenty-four hours. Said to be a portalto the Otherworld as well as a favourite haunt of the fey, Smoo Cave would be the highlight of her trip.

She also meant to make it the
pièce de résistance
of her book.

Levering up against the pillows, she pulled the map on to her lap. But before she could trace her finger along the pink-highlighted stretch of road she needed to follow around Loch Eriboll and along the coast to Durness where the cave was located, the wind picked up, slamming one of the shutters against the wall.

Or so she thought until she remembered the window wasn’t shuttered.

What if the banging noise had been the sound of her door flying open . . .?

Lindy’s heart stopped and the fine hairs on her nape lifted. This part of Scotland wasn’t exactly known for crime, but there were always exceptions. So she slowly looked up from the map and slid a cautious glance across the shadowy room.

What she saw took her breath.

A man stood silhouetted against the light from the lamp on the dresser. Tall, kilted and too rock solid to be her imagination, he wore a very real-seeming sword at his hip and had a dark, roguish air about him that made her mouth go dry and did funny things to her stomach.

He looked very much like Lore.

Especially when his mouth curved in a slow, sensual smile and he narrowed his gaze on her, his blue eyes staring with such heat she gulped.

“Ehhh . . .” Lindy’s attempt at speech failed pitifully.

The look in the man’s eyes became even more provocative, proving he didn’t mind. “You err, sweetness.” He took a step forwards, the lamp light gilding him. “I am no’ called Lore MacLaren. My name is Rogan.” He put back his shoulders, standing straighter. “Rogan MacGraith.”

“Your name doesn’t matter.” Lindy jumped to her feet, finding her voice at last. “For all I know, you could be an axe murderer.”

She highly doubted it. But drop-dead-gorgeous Highlanders didn’t materialize out of thin air regardless of the popularity of paranormal romance. She also doubted they ran around teeny one-blink-and-you’re-through-it Sutherland villages wearing great plaids and packing razor-sharp swords.

And she hadn’t noticed any medieval re-enactors staying at the Talmine Arms.

Word was the only other tourists were an elderly English couple and two German bikers.

The proprietor had told her so.

Which could only mean . . .

Lindy grabbed a pillow and held it before her. “I don’t have any money,” she stammered, wishing his searing gaze wasn’t so unsettling. “I’m at the end of my trip and—”

“Och, lassie.” Mr Medievalwas suddenly right in front of her. “If I wanted your coin—” he plucked the pillow from her hands and tossed it aside “—any sillers you might have would already be weighing down my purse.”

He grinned and patted a small leather pouch hanging from his sword belt. Then the look on his face turned wicked as he grabbed her and pulled her to him, holding her so tightly that she could hardly breathe.

“I’m that fast, see you?”

“I see you’re a mad man.”

“Aye, that I am, true enough!” He released her, his gaze absolutely smouldering now. “So mad for you that if you dinnae cease calling me Lore each time I kiss you, I may have to kill an innocent man.”

“Kiss me?”
The absurdity of his words gave Lindy the energy to dart away from him.

He caught her, his big hand gripping her arm, before she’d gone two steps. “You’ll no’ be denying our passion?” His gaze went meaningfully to the bed and Lindy was horrified to see that it was no longer the narrow, plaid-covered twin bed she’d been sleeping on.

It was a huge richly carved four-poster, its sumptuously embroidered curtains pulled back to reveala welter of furred throws, tangled sheets and a sea of tasselled cushions piled near the massive headboard.

Lindy blinked.

Rogan MacGraith’s grip tightened on her elbow. “You are mine, sweetness. I’ll no’ be sharing you with any man. Especially no’a foolnamed Lore.”

“Lore doesn’t exist.” Lindy couldn’t take her gaze off the bed. It looked so real. “I made him up. He’s fiction. Just like that bed and—”

“And what?” Rogan arched a brow, pulling her to him again. “This perhaps?”

Without warning, he lowered his head and kissed her, taking her lips with all the intimacy of someone who’d kissed, no
plundered
her mouth, many, many times. It was a hard, ravenous kiss, full of breath and tongue. Rogan held her tighter and deepened the kiss. Lindy’s pulse raced and her knees almost buckled.

The kiss was much better than any she’d ever written.

In fact, no real man had ever kissed her so masterfully either.

Whoever – or whatever – Rogan MacGraith was, he knew how to curla woman’s toes.

She wound her arms around his neck and leaned into him, not caring about anything but the delicious tingles whipping through her. His shoulder-length hair felt thick and smooth beneath her fingers, almost cooland sleek like the pages of her map. But she ignored that incongruity and concentrated on how wonderfully his tongue swirled and slid so hotly over and around hers. Or so she tried, until running footsteps sounded on the landing outside her room.

Lindy woke at once and peered into darkness. Her heart was pounding and – dear God – she still felt all tingly and roused.

Rogan MacGraith was nowhere to be seen.

And the narrow bed she was lying in wasn’t anything as magnificent as the curtained, black-oak monstrosity she’d glimpsed over his shoulder.

It’d all been a dream.

Except, perhaps, the hurrying footsteps she’d heard outside her door.

“Miss Lovejoy!” The innkeeper appeared at her doorway, proving that much. “Have you been disturbed? The storm blew out a window on the landing and—” he glanced over his shoulder, at the shadows behind him “—I’m checking for damage to the rooms. Looks like the gust threw open your door. I’m sorry if your sleep was—”

“I’m fine.” Lindy noticed that her Landranger 9 map was stillspread across the bedcovers. “I fell asleep studying my map and didn’t hear a thing.”

“Right, then.” The innkeeper looked relieved. “The missus and I will be up a while yet if you’ll be needing aught.” He gave her a nod, glanced quickly around her room, and was gone, disappearing as quickly as he’d come.

His footsteps faded into the distance, the night wind howled and shook the window glass, and Lindy fought the urge to laugh hysterically.

She’d lied when she’d said she was fine.

She doubted she’d ever be fine again.

Everyone knew characters talked to writers. The stories would be flat if they didn’t. Mere ink on the page and so boring that no one would want to read a single word.

It was also true that – sometimes – characters insisted on being named differently.

That, too, was pretty normal.

Stories only came to life once the names were right.

Kissing was something else entirely.

Yet she knew Lore – no,
Rogan MacGraith
– had kissed her. She could still feel his lips moving over hers, the silken glide of his tongue and the firm grip of his hands as he’d held her against him.

She’d even felt the rough weave of his plaid beneath her fingers. And – how could it be? – she’d breathed in his scent, finding the trace of the cold, brisk night that clung to him almost intoxicating.

But he couldn’t have been real.

Shaken, Lindy slipped from the bed and went over to the window. The Talmine road lay dark and silent, a narrow band stretching away into empty, rolling moorland. It still rained and curls of mist drifted across the shingled beach not far from the inn. The pier was deserted. No kilted, sword-packing Highlander stood in the blackness of the moon shadows, peering up at her.

The tiny village slept.

She touched a hand to her lips and trembled.

Her mouth was bruised.

Two

Centuries away – the early fourteenth, to be exact – but much closer otherwise, Rogan MacGraith stood in the shadows of his bedchamber and glared at the shutter that had dared to blow open, its loud crack against the tower wall rudely snatching him from a wondrous dream.

“Hellfire and damnation!” He strode across the room and yanked the shutter into place, latching it with much more force than was necessary.

He shoved a hand through his hair, keenly aware of his nakedness.

Not that sleeping unclothed was anything out of the ordinary.

Truth be told, he doubted any man in all broad Scotland would demean himself by wearing nightclothes. Certainly no man at his clan’s proud and formidable Castle Daunt.

Highlanders left such softness for Sassenachs.

But this night . . .

Rogan glanced downwards, his scowl deepening. His nude body only revealed how much he burned for the curvaceous, flame-haired vixen he’d just been kissing and was about to sweep into his arms and carry to his bed before the damnable shutter bang had shattered his dream.

“Odin’s ball s!” He clenched his fists and willed his manly parts to stop aching. When they did, he snatched his plaid off a chair and threw it on, not wanting any remaining vestiges of lust to embarrass him when he stormed down the tower stairs and into his father’s hall .

It would cause a great enough stir just disturbing the men’s night rest. The saints knew they deserved their sleep. But one of them might have heard the name Lore MacLaren.

If so, he meant to rout the bastard.

A lifetime of searching hadn’t produced the temptress who haunted his dreams, but if he could locate the man whose name she cried in passion, he might just find her. Only then would he know peace.

He’d make her his, insisting she wed him.

And if she refused or – saints preserve him – for some reason wasn’t able, he’d finally bend to his father’s will and accept a suitable bride of his family’s choosing.

He just hoped she wouldn’t be Euphemia MacNairn, his clan’s current favourite.

She was such a wee slip o’ womanhood that a man could blink and miss her presence in a room.

But her tongue was sharper than the best-honed sword.

A fault she kept well hidden, though Rogan had no trouble seeing through her false praise and simpering airs. Her eyes, when she thought no one saw her, held a chill colder than the blackest winter night. And – Rogan shuddered – he’d rather guzzle brine than take her to wife, even if her sire was his father’s staunchest ally.

At least the thought of her banished the painfulth robbing at his loins.

Grateful, Rogan hastened from his bedchamber. But before he reached the stair tower, a dark shape stepped from the shadows, blocking his way.

“Ho, Rogan!” His cousin Gavin’s smile was crooked. “Such a scowl! Are you on your way below stairs to announce that the sun willna be rising on the morrow? Or—” he waggled his eyebrows “—have you been dreaming of
her
again?”

“Her?” Rogan pretended innocence.

Gavin laughed. “Unless you cease blethering about the vixen each time you sink into your cups, you cannae think I know naught of her!”