Highlander in Her Dreams (10 page)

She shifted, the fine hairs on the back of her neck beginning to rise.

Never had she enjoyed such a lengthy viewing of the long ago. A medieval curtain-walled bailey no longer teeming with mere chickens, goats, and scurrying washerwomen, but now also filled with out-for-blood ferocious-looking dogs. Leaping, barking beasts larger than some ponies she'd seen at state fairs back home. Equally oversized and nearly as shaggy were the wild-eyed, gesticulating clansmen who appeared in the same moment as the dogs, the whole unruly lot of them looming up out of nowhere.

One instant there'd been only barking and shouts. The next, the barkers and shouters were there, bold as life, and wanting her.

At least that was the impression they gave her.

Kira's heart began to race again. Something was seriously not right. She blinked several times, but the men and the dogs remained.

Garrulous, frowning, and garbed in rough tartan clothing, the clansmen poured out of the wooden buildings lining the curtain walls or stormed from the keep, a flood of plaid-hung outrage bursting from a door she recognized as the one leading into Aidan's hall.

Her breath caught when she recognized it, but she had no time to digest the meaning of the stairwell's intact appearance. On and on the men came, hollering as they ran at her across the bailey, some wielding swords, others shaking fists.

All stared.

Looking furious, they crowded beneath the arch, gaping up at her as if she were some two-headed monster.

“A fairy!” one cried, pointing with his dirk.

“Nay, a witch!” another corrected, glowering at the other. “I'd ken the like anywhere.”

Kira stared back at them, too startled to move. Never had one of her past-glimpses felt so…real.

Or so threatening.

She shuddered.

This wasn't how she'd envisioned her return to Aidan's world. She'd hoped to sneak into the shell of his ruined great hall and catch a glimpse of him sitting there. See him lairding it at his high table, all sexy and magnificent. Perhaps even catching his eye and exchanging glances before the image faded.

Maybe even share one brief
real-time
kiss.

Facing a pack of raving, wild-looking Highlandmen who thought she was a witch wasn't her idea of bliss.

Especially when a great bearlike man with a mane of thick black hair and an even bushier black beard shouldered his way through the throng. He stopped at the base of the arch, where he stretched his arms above his head, loudly cracking his knuckles.

“Come!” he roared at his kinsmen. “If she's a witch, the laird will be wanting us to seize her. I'll hoist any souls brave enough onto the arch to get her.”

“O-o-oh, no, you won't,” Kira disagreed, scooting away from the arch's edge. She pushed quickly to her feet, knowing from experience that the sudden movement would break the spell, plunging Castle Wrath into splendid ruin and sending its long-ago occupants back into their own day.

To her surprise, nothing happened.

The image, and the angry men, remained.

“You aren't really there,” she said anyway, looking down at them. She shook her head against the cold knot forming in her belly. “Any moment you'll be gone—and so will I!”

But the icy wind kept whipping past her, the bailey dogs continued to bark, and the Bear was readying himself to hurl the first sword-swinging Highlander onto the arch.

“No swords, you lackwit!” He snatched the other man's blade and sent it scuttling across the cobbles, instantly endearing himself to Kira.

Until he swung the other man high into the air, informing him, “If there's any head-lopping to be done, I'll do it myself. Seeing as I'm the laird's own ax-man.”

“The laird won't want a hair on the maid's head harmed—whoe'er or whate'er she is.”

Kira froze, looking on as
he
cut a path through the crowd.

It was Aidan. Every inch of him just as bold and glorious as she knew him. Even if his eyes currently blazed with anger, not passion. Fury directed at his men, not her.

And o-o-oh was he beautiful in a rage.

Her heart flip-flopping, Kira released the breath she'd been holding and looked on, watching as he scorched the gathered men with a glare, then upbraided them.

“Your chief will have the tender parts cut off any man who'd dare lift a hand against a woman—any woman,” he warned, throwing back his plaid to reveal the wicked-looking long sword beneath. “As would I.”

His chief?
Kira's jaw slipped. She would've sworn Aidan was laird. The history books said so, too.

“Ach, Tavish,” the Bear argued, solving the riddle.

Looking disgusted, he set down the man he'd been about to hurl onto the arch. “Where'er your eyes?” the man said. “That be no woman on the arch—she's a witch, plain as day. Have a good look at her.”

And he did. This Tavish who looked so like her Aidan that Kira's heart was still galloping madly in her chest. He let his plaid fall back into place and tilted his head, staring up at her with Aidan's own dark eyes.

Intelligent, measuring eyes, she noted with relief.

“I can see she is…dressed oddly.” His gaze swept her from head to toe and back again. “She's also passing fair and nothing like any witch I've e'er had the discomfort to meet.”

“Bah!” Her would-be captor snatched up his fallen sword, resheathing it with a scowl. “The laird's gone off women—as well you know. He won't care how fair the wench is. Witch, or no'.”

“He'll care that no woman is mistreated on MacDonald soil.” The man called Tavish planted his hands on his hips and glared round again, raking the others with a cold stare until, one by one, they backed away.

“Be warned, my friends,” he added, “if you value your bollocks.”

Then, in a whirring blur of plaid and steel, he vaulted onto the arch, landing on his feet in front of Kira before she could even cry out.

“Have no fear,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her all the same. “I mean only to see you to my liege. He'll decide your fate, though it willna be beneath an ax-man's blade. That I can promise you—whoe'er you are.”

“I'm Kira.” She blinked at him, his resemblance to Aidan unsettling her, making her knees tremble. “Kira Bedwell of Aldan, Pennsylvania.”

His brow furrowed. “Pen-
where
?”

“It's a long way from here.” She tried to smile, but the way he was studying her made it impossible. “A distant place. You won't know it.”

“It matters not,
Kee-rah
.” He reached to finger one of the buttons on her jacket. “Though it wouldn't be wise to let the others see you as closely as I have,” he added, whipping off his plaid and swirling it over her shoulders. “This will shield you from the worst of their stares. I shall tell them you were shivering with cold.”

“They've already seen me.”

His lips quirked. “What men think they see can be corrected,” he said, patting his sword hilt. “Dinna fash yourself o'er those blunder-heads below.”

“And your chieftain?” Kira wrapped the plaid around her. It smelled of man and woodsmoke. “I can't imagine he'd be easily persuaded.”

“Aidan is a fair and reasonable man.” He looked toward the keep, then back at her. “Crazed as it sounds, I suspect he might even be expecting you.”

Aidan
.

The breath froze in Kira's throat.

She said nothing, her tongue too thick for words.

Her champion shrugged, his gaze dipping to her feet and the hill-walking boots she'd bought before leaving on her trip. “Och, aye,” he drawled, “I'd wager my soul you won't be a surprise.”

Kira took a deep breath. “Why not?”

“Would that I could explain it. 'Tis a feeling I have here.” Looking slightly sheepish, he pressed a hand to his heart.

Kira bit her lip, her own heart pounding so wildly, she wondered he didn't hear it.

Showing no signs of doing so, he stepped closer, his expression unreadable.

“Come now, let me get you down from here before you do catch a chill.” He reached for her, sweeping her into his arms. “Aidan's in the great hall, holding council, though I doubt he'll mind the disruption,” he added, hefting her over his shoulder as he made to jump from the arch.

But not before Kira caught a quick glimpse of Wrath Bay.

Wrath Bay, the incoming tide, and the little crescent-shaped strand.

A strand now crowded with colorful, square-sailed galleys.

Nary a keel mark to be seen.

 

Aidan slammed down his ale cup, well pleased with the decisions of his war council. “'Tis settled, then.” He lifted his voice so it was heard not just at the high table and on the dais but throughout Castle Wrath's hall. “Conan Dearg's time has come to pass. We ride for Ardcraig on the morrow. At first light and not a heartbeat later.”

“Aye, let the bastard's days of bluster and swagger be ended!” someone yelled from the shadows.

“To his capture!” Another grabbed an ale jug, waving it in the air before taking a great swig. “May Wrath's dungeon give him a foretaste of hell!”

Cheers rose to the rafters, the hall resounding with agreement as men stamped their feet and rattled swords. Aidan looked on, scarce hearing them. Only his own voice echoing in his ears. Unable to rid himself of it, he pinned a furious stare on the platter of spiced salmon set before him and did his best to fight back a grimace.

A groan, too, were he honest.

Not a heartbeat later
.

Lucifer's knees, but he'd made a poor word choice. A thoughtless mistake that only reminded him that his heart still thundered with thoughts of
her
. Certainty that she was near pounded through him, not letting go despite the impossibility of such a fool notion. He felt her all the same. Even now, when he could so easily swipe an arm across the table, sending feasting goods and ale hurtling to the floor.

At least the dogs would thank him.

And still she'd haunt him.

He scowled, his temples beginning to throb. “God's blood,” he growled, snatching his ale cup and downing the frothy brew before such mooning got the better of him.

Now was not the time to dwell on her.

Now was—

The time for his world to upend. Spin around him, stealing his breath. The ale cup slid from his hand, landing on the table with a loud
clack
and spill of gold-tinged foam. Eyes wide, he shot to his feet. Uproar filled the hall, a ruckus unfolding near the shadowed entry. Scores of kinsmen shoved through the door, loud and boisterous. Murder on their faces. His best friend, cousin, what-have-you, led the fray, his
dream woman
clutched in the lout's arms.

“By the Rood,” Aidan bellowed, staring. “What goes on here?”

“A witch!” Mundy, his Irish-born ax-man, raised his voice above the din. “We caught her dancing nekkid on the gatehouse arch, a horde o' winged demons flying round her head.”

Hoots and guffaws accompanied Mundy's outburst, one man slapping him hard on the back before leaping onto a trestle bench.

The trestle leaper's mirth vanishing, he peered round, his eyes glinting in the torchlight. “That flame-haired vixen wasn't nekkid and if Mundy saw flying demons, I saw none.” He raised an arm to point at the lass. “She
is
garbed like no maid I've e'er seen, and Tavish is the only soul I ken able to vault to such heights. Seeing as she doesn't have wings, there's only one thing she can be—just what Mundy says. A witch!”

“She is none the like.” Tavish's face darkened as he mounted the dais steps, Aidan's beauty still cradled protectively in his arms. “Ne'er have I carried a more
womanly
female,” he vowed, setting her on her feet in front of the high table.

“I daresay you'll agree,” he added, his gaze seeking Aidan's.

“Without doubt!” Still staring, he tamped down the urge to challenge his friend to a round in the lists for daring to touch his woman.

A thought that brought an immediate jab of guilt when he caught a closer look at his kinsmen's faces. Murder wasn't the only emotion painted on the fierce and bearded countenances he loved so well. Ranging from suspicion, to fear, to bloodlust, their expressions made it clear he owed Tavish much for coming to his
tamhasg
's rescue.

“Where did you find her?” He glared at Tavish all the same, the blood roaring in his ears making it hard to think. “How did she get here?”

“I don't know how I got here.” His
tamhasg
answered, brushing at the plaid slung loosely about her shoulders. “Not exactly. I—”