HIGHLANDER IN HER BED
Prologue
West Highlands, near Oban, 1312
He’d known not to trust MacDougalls.
Would that he’d calculated their number.
Now, in the gut of a deep ravine, the most harrowing way into their
benighted territory, Sir Alexander Douglas and his entire array faced
their respective ends.
Caught in the thickest of fighting, surrounded
by dying, cursing men and screaming, frightened horses, their fate
stood clear. Sealed
by both ill fortune and poor judgment. His surety that none would
suspect he’d choose such an ambush-prone defile as his path.
That, and the honor that forbade him to refuse
a king’s orders.
Furious, he swung his horse round, his blade arcing
without cease, run red with blood and dripping. And still it wasn’t enough. Trapped
indeed, he cursed every MacDougall to come at him, cutting down as
many as he could, and glaring at the steep-sided gorge that had so
quickly become a whirling turmoil of death and destruction.
On and on they came. An endless torrent of MacDougalls, streaming
out from every hidden crevice and surging down the braeside in a savage,
killing flood the likes of which he’d never seen.
And although his men were every bit as fierce, even superbly-armed
and accoutred, they did not stand a chance.
In only a few chaotic moments, a journey that should
have held such promise came to a dizzying, brutal end. All around him, his entourage
lay smashed and shattered, the lot of them unable to withstand the
crushing ferocity of hurtled boulders, the MacDougalls’ wild,
downhill charge.
Those who yet stood or sought to fight from the
backs of their steeds, knew well who’d won the day.
Then, from the midst of the sword-swiping clangor, a proud-faced MacDougall
came spurring to within a few yards of Alex, a handful of hot-eyed,
pike-bearing clansmen close at his heels.
“Hah, Douglas! I greet you!” the man called, his
eyes flashing scorn. “‘Tis a fine day to die, is
it not?”
“You do your line no service, Sir Colin,” Alex shot back,
recognizing the man from the bargaining table that had brought him
to this wretched pass. “Rather death than to see my name
sullied as you have now soiled yours.”
Coldly arrogant, the MacDougall flicked a glance
at Alex’s sword,
his sneer indicating without words that he’d not missed that
the great brand’s tip had snapped off.
“Drop your blade, man. ‘Tis now as useless as your
life,” he scoffed, nodding approval when his henchmen advanced
on Alex, pike-shafts lowered, swords at the ready. “A pity
you didn’t know better than to come riding hot-foot into our
territory.”
Tight-lipped, Alex scowled defiance. They could slice him to
ribbons before he’d reveal he’d known indeed. ‘Twas
his king, the Good Robert Bruce, who’d hoped for the MacDougalls’ honor. A
forgiving monarch, he’d trusted the querulous clan to grip a
hand extended in peace and put an end to the long-running feud between
the two great houses.
“Your error in judgment has sold your men’s lives dearly,” Colin
taunted him. “Your own as well.”
“And you shall suffer for your treachery, that I promise you!” Alex
jerked, well aware of the growing silence and its foul portent.
There would be no winning away, no unexpected turning of his fortune,
and, the Almighty as his witness, no yielding either.
A Douglas stood until he fell.
“‘Tis you who shall regret!” One of the lance-bearers
kneed his horse closer, jabbed his spear-tip into Alex’s thigh.
Ignoring the pain, Alex focused on their leader,
meeting Colin’s
glare with a scalding stare of his own. A circular ruby brooch
gleamed at the man’s shoulder, its glittering gemstones the same
deep red as the stain spreading down Alex’s leg.
“With such fine plunder laying about, I dinna think we’ll
be a-bothering with much suffering.” Colin gestured at
the blood-soaked hillside, the deep ravine now littered with the corpses
of Alex’s men, the shattered remnants of his baggage train. “Aye,
right good pickings.”
Alex bristled, swallowed the bile in his throat. “Too
good for the likes of you.”
Already men scavenged, bands of them moving amongst
the fallen to search for spoils worth harvesting. Rich booty
indeed, much of it gleaned from the unwieldy cargo Alex had insisted
on bringing despite the perilous journey.
The greatest prize, a magnificently carved four-poster bed, carefully
dismantled for the journey and packed with all its luxuriant trappings.
His wedding gift to a bride he’d never see.
A token offering of goodwill for a wife he hadn’t
wanted but had given his oath to claim.
Gall near choking him, he flung away his tip-less
brand and made to hurl himself upon the MacDougall, ached to curl
his hands around the other’s neck, but a ringed phalanx of steel-headed pikes stopped
him. In particular, the one pressing into the hollow of his throat.
Anger burning hot within him, he drew himself as
upright as the thrusting spear-heads allowed. “Your Lady Isobel sought this union,
wished to see your house in the king’s grace.”
The men encircling him smirked at each other.
“So you say?” Colin raised his brows. “‘Twas
her da who favored such an alliance and he, God rest his soul, is no
more. Besides, the lady Isobel has been sweet on me since we
were both in swaddling. ‘Twas her own good self sent us
to intercept you.”
The back of his neck blazing, Alex fought to keep
his wits. A
near impossibility with the twisted body of his youngest squire sprawled
not far from the MacDougall’s feet, the poor lad’s eyes
staring unblinking at the sky.
Others of his retinue lay nearby, some heaped in
mounds, all equally still. Good and proud men, slain in their
dozens.
Alex shuddered, his stomach churning. “King Robert will
see you swinging from the nearest gibbet,” he swore, his voice
sharp enough to cut granite. “Every last one of you.”
Colin gave an exaggerated shrug. “That remains to be seen,
but I think not. See here, this is the Bloodstone of Dalriada,” he
boasted, rubbing his knuckles over the brooch at his shoulder. “A
sacred relic passed down from Kenneth MacAlpin, first King of Scots,
and wrest from your own Bruce’s cloak in a struggle at Dalrigh. Its
possession is the pride of all MacDougalls.”
Alex narrowed his eyes, his gorge rising. “I
have no interest in your brooch, however it came into your hands.”
“Och, but you should.” The other’s lip curled
with malice. “See you, with you dead and no witnesses to
naysay us, we will claim you absconded with the Bloodstone of Dalriada
on the eve of your wedding. Not even your upstart king will avenge
a man who’d so shame his bride.”
“God’s curse on you!” Alex cried, knowing the truth
of the man’s words.
Colin hooted a mirthless laugh, waved a hand at
the growing pile of plunder. “Ahhh, Lady Isobel will be mightily pleased with
your bride gifts,” he jeered, a wolfish smile spreading across
his face. “Yon bridal bed looks to be a fine piece. We
shall use it well.”
“You will not spend a single night in my bed,” Alex hissed,
rage surging in his chest. “Not in bliss. That I
swear on my mother’s grave.”
Unfazed, Colin removed his brooch and tossed it
to Alex. “Something
better than a light-skirted bitch to swear upon.”
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 spearheads.
“Dastards,” he seethed, casting a furious look around
him. “You’ll not get away with this.”
“Some would say we already have.” Colin 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 One
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 cast-offs, each supposed treasure 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-man touring company,
Exclusive Excursions, a handsome profit, enough was enough.
This was not amusing.
She had neither the time nor 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. 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 feel of 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, h’mmm?”
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 standing erect as if he’d swallowed
a broom, she topped him by a good three inches.
For once glad for 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 the noise had set her reeling.
Rubbing her arms, she regretted not wearing a sweater. A jumper as the Brits called them. Sheesh, of a sudden, she was freezing. Enough
so, she could hardly believe her teeth weren’t chattering.
Hopefully 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 a flutter. “You can tell that by the design?”
A pleased flush 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 Ft.
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,” he said,
his voice taking 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 Artic 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 disappearing through an opened door on the far side of the
room, closing it 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 and 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 semi-thriving 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.
His intensity wrapped around her, dark and seductive, his deep-seeing
gaze seeming to burn away her clothes until she felt fully exposed.
Naked.
Perhaps even a bit … tingly.
After all, it wasn’t every day a man’s mere gaze seared
her into feeling devoured, and in the most rousing, delicious ways. Titillating
things she’d best not dwell on, so she bit her lip before she
could sigh and risk revealing her weakness.
How easily her long-neglected femininity could
grow hot and achy if he did not soon stop looking at her in a way
that made her feel as if he’d stepped right out of her most heated dreams to tempt
her – and knew it!
Trying not to blush, she eyed him as well, her own measuring stare
sliding over him with equal daring.
Not only much taller than any man she’d ever seen, he was simply
beyond perfection. Full magnificent, he even looked like a knight
with his rich chestnut brown hair skimming his broad shoulders and
such an indescribable air of power thrumming through him that she could
hardly breathe.
Forcing herself to do just that, she resisted the
urge to reach out and twine her fingers in his hair. Just to see if it was real. With
shimmering highlights the color of sun-warmed honey and every strand
gleaming with such a lustrous sheen, his hair really did give him an
uncanny resemblance to a dashing hero in some fusty old museum portrait.
But more than his strapping build and handsomeness, it was the draw
of his incredibly intense eyes that captivated her.
Sea-green eyes a woman could drown in.
She could see forever in them.
Unfortunately, he did not appear equally enamored. Animosity
poured off him and he’d crossed his arms in an unfriendly posture. Worse,
now that he’d practically melted her, he wasted every hunky inch
of his appeal by pinning her with a frigid stare.
No more hot body-roaming glances to beguile her and send long, liquid
pulls tingling through her darkest, most secret places.
Now, his burning gaze held only arrogance.
Perhaps even fury.
Annoyed, Mara drew a tight breath. His looks didn’t matter
at all so long as he glowered at her as if she had the pox. Her
heart pounding, she swept her hair over one shoulder, her agitation
growing. Maybe she could lose a few pounds, but she wasn’t
that bad.
Or perhaps he’d heard her talking and didn’t
like Americans?
If so, there was an easy remedy.
She’d smother him with charm.
“Hi,” she said, flashing her best smile. “I’m
Mara McDougall.”
He remained stony-faced, not even bothering to
acknowledge the gesture. If
anything, his frown deepened.
Mara swallowed, moistened her lips. Maybe he expected her to
apologize? After all, she had plowed into him, and with considerable
force.
Yes, that was surely his problem.
He wanted an apology.
“Look, I’m sorry I bumped into you,” she said, happy
to give him the boon. “It won’t happen again.”
“With surety, it shall not,” he agreed, stepping closer. “The
bed is mine, wench. Be gone.”
Mara’s heart froze. There was that accent again. Warm,
rich, and buttery-smooth. The purest Scottish burr she’d
ever heard, now recognizing the musical cadence she’d only caught
a hint of before. And so annoyingly sexy another little rush
of desire curled through her belly just listening to him.
But wench and be gone?
Not to mention bloody MacDougall
bastards.
Bristling, she took a few steps backwards. “Good looks
aren’t a license to be rude,” she said, giving him a look
she hoped would say even more.
She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his scowl darkened. Reeking
hostility, he drew himself to his full height, threw back his shoulders
and glared at her.
Squaring her own shoulders, she stared back. “And the
bed isn’t yours. It belongs to Mr. Dimbleby and it’s
for sale. Maybe I’ll buy it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You are a MacDougall.”
“So? What’s my name got to do with it?” Mara’s
foot began tapping. “I already know you don’t like
McDougalls.”
“No one of that ilk will ever sleep in my bed. I
forbid it.”
“Of that ilk? And you forbid it?” Mara could
feel her jaw dropping. “What is this, some kind of joke?”
He stalked to the headboard. “I jest you not,” he
said, his green gaze leveled on her in clear menace.
Mara shook her head. “You jest me not? What
kind of English is that?”
“The king’s English,” he declared, his gaze burning
her. “At least when he deigns to speak that foul tongue.”
“The king’s English?” Mara echoed, placing
her fingertips on her temples and pressing hard. Either she was
imagining this conversation or one of them was not quite right and
she hoped it wasn’t her. “What happened to Queen
Elizabeth?”
To her surprise, he blinked and an expression very
close to perplexity crossed his face. But the slightly dazed
look disappeared in a heartbeat, quickly replaced by another fierce
scowl of displeasure.
A scathing enough look to send her on her way,
and good riddance. She’d
had her share of fruitcakes lately. She didn’t need an
encounter with another, especially an ill-mannered one. Whether
he had an irresistible something about him that made her think naughty
thoughts or not, it didn’t matter. He was lucky she had
enough restraint not to tell him to bugger off.
Determined to leave before her temper could activate
the tic beneath her left eye, she whisked past him and made it halfway
through Dimbleby’s
before she stopped in her tracks.
The black-frowning hunk had ruined the only free
afternoon she’d
had on this tour-from-hell and she shouldn’t let him get away
with it.
She might have been pushed to her limits, but she was a McDougall.
And McDougalls weren’t cowards.
So she waited just long enough to set her face
in her best don’t-mess-with-someone-from-Philadelphia
expression, then whirled around and returned to the back room.
But hunky was gone.
Vanished as if he’d never been.
Her indignation swinging into something that felt
annoyingly like disappointment, she scanned the cluttered room, even
dropped to one knee to peer beneath the massive four-poster bed. But
the effort only served to prove how well dust bunnies flourished
in dark, protected places.
The hottie Scottie with his yummy accent and dark scowls was nowhere
to be seen.
Equally strange, the room was warm and stuffy.
Not a trace remained of the bone-numbing chill of only moments before.
Common sense told her this couldn’t be happening,
but a cascade of shivers spilled down her back all the same - until
she spied the closed office door at the rear of the little room.
Relief washed over her, swift and sweet.
She wasn’t losing her grasp on reality.
The lout had only slipped into Mr. Dimbleby’s
office and as far as she was concerned, he could merry well stay
there.
For one tempting moment, she considered marching up to the door and
yanking it open, but she dismissed the notion as quickly.
The handsome devil wasn’t worth the energy.
Especially since he’d reminded her of how long it’d
been since a man had made her melt and tingle, or caressed and savored
her curves before sliding deep inside her in a fine, slow electra
glide.
How long it’d been since she’d yearned.
Yes, she’d simply remember him as the perfect ending to a less
than stellar day and head back to her bed-and-breakfast hotel. If
she hurried, she’d have time to shower and change before she
had to escort her ghost-busters to Berkeley Square for their gala farewell
dinner and séance.
But a short while later, her fortunes took an even
wilder turn as she stood in the lounge area of The Buxton Arms and
read the scrawled message the front desk clerk had handed her when
she’d picked
up her key.
Please call Mr. Percival Combe, Solicitor. Urgent.
Mara’s brows drew together. The message gave a London
listing, but who was Percival Combe? And what could a solicitor
possibly want with her?
And the message couldn’t have been for someone else. How
many Mara McDougalls of Exclusive Excursions could be staying at the
small inn?
Only one, and well she knew it.
Puzzled, she climbed the steep, carpet-covered
stairs to her third floor room. Not surprisingly, the phone rang the moment she opened
the door. And as she sank onto the edge of the bed and reached
for the receiver, her every instinct warned that something significant
was about to happen.
“Mara McDougall,” she answered, shutting
her eyes.
“Ahhh, Miss McDougall,” came a very distinguished reply. “Percival
Combe here, with Combe and Hollingsworth. I’m so glad to
have caught you.”
Mara’s eyes snapped back open. “There must be some
mistake,” she said, not at all sure she cared to be caught. “If
this is about my current tour….”
She tailed off, her palms dampening. No way
did she wish to discuss her England: The Uncanny and The Inexplicable
tour with a London solicitor.
“This has nothing to do with your business,” he was saying,
sounding all business indeed. “At least not directly. And
you are the young woman I’ve been seeking. Your father
was kind enough to give me your itinerary.”
Mara’s stomach began to feel queasy. If a solicitor had
gone to the trouble of contacting her father – in Philadelphia – then
something must be seriously wrong.
“Miss McDougall, would it be convenient for you to dine with
me at the Wig and Pen Club this evening? I have something quite
important to discuss with you.”
Mara’s heart skittered with apprehension. “What
sort of something?”
“I’d rather not say over the phone, but you can be assured
it is nothing bad. Quite the contrary, in fact.” He
paused to draw a breath. “A driver can be at your hotel
at half past six and he’ll also return you safely after we’ve
had dinner and discussed the matter.”
“Ah ...” She hesitated, curiosity getting the better
of her. And an evening at the exclusive dining establishment
on the Strand sure beat attending a dinner séance with fifteen
would-be psychics.
Besides, they’d be too busy looking for spooks to care if she
was there or not. Even so, she’d have to do some quick
thinking. She couldn’t just take off without ensuring their
evening ran smoothly.
She couldn’t afford disgruntled clients.
Not even wacky ones.
Mr. Combe cleared his throat. “I hope you will not mind,
but I’ve arranged for a friend of mine from the British Tourist
Authority to accompany your ... eh ... charges to the dinner and séance
in Berkeley Square this evening.”
Heat shot up the back of her neck. “You seem to have thought
of everything,” she stammered, her pulse pounding with embarrassment.
“It is crucial that I speak with you, therefore it was necessary
to be certain you could get away.” He waited a beat. “I
am also aware this was to be your last evening in England.”
Was to be her last evening?
Mara blinked. He’d said that as if she’d
be staying on.
As if she wouldn’t be flying back to Newark
the next morning.
At once, a good deal of her mortification evaporated,
replaced by a surge of fluttery excitement. If whatever he
had to say would allow her to spend a few extra days in London, she
was all for it.
“Can you be ready at half past six?” Percival
Combe prompted.
Mara almost laughed out loud.
Visions of Harrods and Covent Garden and long strolls
through Hyde Park danced through her head. Mercy, she’d
sell her soul for a few extra hours in London.
“Miss McDougall?”
She tightened her fingers on the receiver, her
decision made. “I’ll
be ready, yes.”
I’ll be ready with bells on.
