Highlander in Her Bed (8 page)

Laughter, rich and masculine, filled the chamber then, the bone-chilling sound sending her diving beneath the covers.

Next time, wench
, the deep Scottish voice whispered near her ear,
it will be my sword and you will be wearing the gown
.

Chapter 4

Mara awoke to the skirl of bagpipes. "Highland Laddie," she recognized, blinking the sleep from her eyes. No tap-tapping drums accompanied the lively tune, but the stirring tones sounded so Scottish, so' right, she couldn't help but smile. Nor suppress a little thrill of excitement. Her heart began to beat faster and she tilted her head, listening.

The pipes sounded so real.

No, they were real, she amended, her pulse quickening.

And nothing at all like the cheap CDs her father played in his tartan-hung house at One Cairn Avenue. Bought secondhand at Highland Games, the drone and wails of Hugh McDougall's beloved pipe music blared daily in the narrow Philadelphia brownstone, each ear-splitting note shaking walls and offending ears, terrorizing the neighbors.

These pipes warmed and welcomed.

Especially with such clean, exhilarating air pouring in through the tall, opened windows. Scottish air, pure and sweet. And invigorating enough for her to slide a glance across the room, something deep inside her softening and warming as she caught a glimpse of sparkling blue water, a swath of cloudless summer sky. The morning smelled of pine, new beginnings, and the sea, and she didn't want to miss a moment of it.

Feeling content, she puffed a strand of hair out of her face and stretched beneath the covers, eager to enjoy her first morning as "lady of the house." Chatelaine of her own Highland castle. A notion that still boggled her mind, but a status she suspected she'd like very much.

Until she remembered last night.

The shock of finding
him
in her bed.

At once, any remaining traces of sleep vanished. The sexy Highlander's image filled her mind, his stunning good looks making her heart pound, his rudeness and daring sending hot jolts of indignation streaking all through her. She sat up, clutching a pillow to her breast as she scanned the room. The innocent-looking windows staring back at her from three sides and the nearest wall with its heavy oak dressing table and wardrobe, a huge gilt-framed mirror.

Not wanting to peer too deeply into the mirror's polished depths, she let her gaze flick past an antique writing desk, graced now by an age-worn china bowl and matching jug. As swiftly, her attention moved to the splendid hearth. The faint scent of peat still rose from the long-cold embers, and its white marble mantelpiece gleamed in the morning sun.

She released a pent-up sigh.

Everything looked harmless.

But then she peered into the corner where she'd flung the medieval-looking dagger. And just as she'd suspected, it wasn't there. Nor anywhere else she could see.

She blinked, the back of her neck prickling.

That
part of her tingled, throbbed with delicious molten heat. Despite her aggravation. The dark-frowning scoundrel was simply that gorgeous, his deep Scottish burr that potently seductive.

Mara frowned, bit down hard on her lower lip.

Could she have imagined the whole thing?

The sinfully handsome Highlander she'd caught lounging in her bed? His bold and
sexual
stare?

The way his heavy-lidded gaze had slid over her body? Arrogant and knowing, each assessing, intimate sweep across her breasts or down her legs outraging her and making her feel… naked.

Undressed and exposed.

As if he knew how long it'd been since she'd enjoyed an orgasm. Maybe even that she'd never even had a real one. The world-stopping, heart-pounding, and rollicking release she suspected he gave every female he treated to the erotic thrills of his hard, beautiful body.

Yes, that was it.

The true reason for his searing, soul-piercing stare.

He'd not only wished to lay claim to her bed; his indecently brazen perusal declared he could have her as well.

In his bed, and beneath him.

Any way he wanted her.

Mara shuddered and touched cold fingers to her brow, pressed hard against her temples. No, he couldn't have been real. Hadn't been there one moment only to vanish the next. Truth was, she'd been through a lot lately. After all, it wasn't every day that a girl from Philadelphia inherited a castle.

Especially a girl from the
wrong
side of Philadelphia.

Frowning, she plucked at a loose thread in the bed coverings. Then, ready to blame the disturbing episode on exhaustion or an overactive imagination, she blew out an irritated breath and leaned back against the pillows.

Unfortunately, her gaze fell upon the nightgown.

The goonie.

A trickle of apprehension slid down her spine. If she'd imagined the incident, there wouldn't be a rip in the nightgown. A careful inspection of the material would prove whether or not the hottie Scottie from Dimbleby's back room had or hadn't been in her bedchamber.

Slowly, as if the crumpled white gown might turn into a snake and bite her, she inched her hand across the bedcovers, reaching for the goonie before she lost her nerve.

Then she pulled the thing onto her lap for a thorough examination.

Her probing fingers didn't have far to seek.

Four two-inch rips marred the gown. Two slashes at chest level, one on the front and one on the back, and two at thigh level, also on the front and back.

And the tears matched perfectly, as if a dagger had been thrust right through the folded gown.

Mara felt a stab of panic. She stared at the goonie, the morning's brightness spiraling away. Even the piper ended his jaunty tune, the lively skirls fading to nothingness as hot and cold chills swept her.

She swallowed hard, her heart thumping. She shouldn't be surprised. She'd known the dagger wouldn't be there. Just as she'd known the rips in the nightgown would be. But she also knew she'd be damned if she'd spend the day hiding under the covers.

She certainly wouldn't cower.

There had to be a logical explanation.

But without her morning coffee, she could think of only two possible courses of action.

First she'd search the room. If she found the dagger, she'd have to admit that hunky had been there.

If not, and she liked this idea best, the goonie was already torn before someone placed it on her bed. In that case, she'd simply ask the maids to verify the gown's condition.

That decided, she sent another glance into the corner and slipped from the bed. She made straight for the oaken wardrobe, but her eyes widened the instant she opened the double doors. Someone had arranged her things. Everything had been painstakingly folded or hung on padded hangers.

The scent of heather streamed out from the tidy shelves, and on closer inspection she saw tiny sachets tucked between her clothes. Like the padded hangers, the sachets boasted the MacDougall colors.

Staring at the familiar tartan pattern, a never-before sense of ancestral pride filled her. Ravenscraig was her new home. She belonged here and she wasn't going to let some darkly irresistible lout from a backwater London antique shop ruin it for her.

Six foot four inches of hunky Highland manhood or not.

Soul-melting stares and butter-soft burr or otherwise.

Blessedly, thoughts of the ill-humored Scotsman reminded her of her mission.

She had to find the dagger.

Her pulse racing, she rummaged in the wardrobe, snatching the first clothes her fingers encountered and donning them. Black stretch pants and a black top edged around the neck with a wide white band. She ignored her new waxed and waterproofed Barbour jacket and slipped her feet into flat black loafers, arranged her hair in a quick French twist, securing its unruly thickness with a wide tortoiseshell clasp.

Without even bothering with makeup, she began scouring the room, not leaving one inch unchecked. She even lifted the edges of the fancy Turkish carpet. But the mystery dagger remained elusive.

"It
has
to be here," she vowed, dropping to her knees and glaring under the bed. Regrettably, nothing but highly polished floorboards greeted her.

Not even a stray dust bunny.

Worst of all, someone chose that moment to knock on the door, opening it almost before she caught the soft rapping. Grimacing at the timing, she scooted out from under the bed and scrambled to her feet.

"Good morning." She forced a smile for the pink-cheeked maid hovering on the threshold, a heavy silver platter in her hands.

"And a fine one to you, miss. Cook thought you might prefer breakfast in your room." The girl came forward, set the tray on a table near the windows. But then she hesitated, the color in her face deepening. "I can take it away and come back later if you're busy."

"No, it's all right. I was just looking for my earring. It rolled under the bed," Mara improvised, her mouth watering at the smell of bacon and golden-brown Lome sausages.

"I'll look for it later," she added, eyeing the food.

"It's a full Scottish breakfast," the girl told her, pride in her voice. "Crisp streaky bacon, sausages, black pudding and haggis, mushrooms, tomatoes, and beans." She paused to pull back Mara's chair. "There's mixed toast, too, and a large pot of tea."

Mara gave the girl a smile she hoped was appreciative. She also bit back a request for coffee. She needed strong, black American Java to think straight, but the heavenly aromas rising from the breakfast platter more than made up for the tea.

Even so, she wouldn't be able to swallow a bite until she got a few answers. So she ignored her hunger and took a deep, silent breath.

"Who was playing the pipes just now?" She angled her head, hoped the harmless query would ease her way into asking what she really wanted to know. "It was 'Highland Laddie.' I recognized the tune."

The girl blinked. "Pipes? 'Highland Laddie'?" She looked at Mara, her brow knitting. "Begging your pardon, miss, but you must be mistaken. No one here plays the pipes."

The prickles at the back of Mara's neck turned cold. "No one? But I heard—"

"Och, Murdoch's a piper, that he is. Since he was a wee laddie. But he hasn't played in years. He says his lungs are too auld and weary." The girl glanced at the breakfast tray. "If you aren't hungry, I can—"

"No, leave it, please. I'm starving and this smells very good," Mara blurted, scarce aware of what she'd said. "Thank you for bringing it, Agnes… or is it Ailsa?"

"I'm Ailsa." The girl dipped a quick curtsy. "Agnes is cleaning the library this morning."

"Wait, please." Mara lifted a hand when the girl turned to leave. "I'd like to ask you something else."

"Aye, miss?"

Mara took the goonie from the bed and held it out before her. "Do you know if these rips were in this gown before last night?"

The girl's eyes widened. "Oooh, nay, that's impossible. I brought the gown up here myself. I would've noticed."

Mara's heart plummeted. "What about a jeweled dagger?"

"Sorry, miss, but I don't know what you're talking about."

"A gem-encrusted dagger… a dirk, you call them. A medievaly looking one. Have you ever seen anything like that in this room?"