Hotter Than Hell (34 page)

She swallowed, concentrating on the soft, even rhythm of her breathing as she took in her surroundings. There was a build-up of melted wax running in thick rivulets down the sides of the bottle holding the candle, telling her it had been used for just that purpose many times before. She also noticed several more bottles strewn about…some empty, in a pile in the corner, others full or half-full, standing upright on the table or on the floor.

Along the far wall, there was a pallet—much like her own upstairs—made up of blankets and a single, ratty-looking pillow. Books and old food wrappers littered the floor.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that someone was living here.
Living here,
in this old, abandoned keep, where there was no running water, no electricity, no anything but stone and dirt, spiders and vermin.

Until this moment, she didn’t think she’d truly believe she’d find the person she sought. She’d hoped. She’d told herself she would just to bolster her own spirits. But deep down, she wasn’t sure she’d actually expected to find the infamous Dougal MacKay.

Now, though…Someone was living here, exactly where all of her research had led her. And who else could it be but the man the villagers both feared and revered? The man her great-grandmother had cursed to a life of isolation.

A scuffling sound near the stairs had her spinning back around as a tall, dark figure stepped out of the shadows. He blocked the only exit, her only means of escape, and she was chagrined to realize that her brain was indeed urging her to run for her life.

She stayed where she was, though, even as her heart lurched and a scream worked its way involuntarily into her throat. She locked her lips, holding it back, and did the same with her knees, which had turned to rubber.

He loomed over her, making her feel like Jack after he’d climbed his beanstalk to confront the giant. He was covered from head to toe with some sort of cloak, the hood large enough to hide his face from view, and heat seemed to emanate from him in waves, the same as it did in her dreams.

Her fingers flexed at her sides and she shifted slightly, fighting the urge to lift her camera and immediately begin snapping pictures of the man who, until this moment, had been more legend to her than flesh-and-blood fact.

“Hi,” she said cautiously, licking her dry lips. And then, because she couldn’t think of a single other thing to say beyond what was bouncing around in her head, she blurted, “You’re Dougal MacKay, aren’t you?”

Even in the muted light of this underground room, she could sense his surprise and sudden wariness.

“It’s all right,” she continued when he seemed unwilling to answer the question. “I’m not here to hurt you, or expose you, or anything like that. My name is Laura Tomescu, and I believe you knew my great-grandmother. The woman who cursed you.”

DOUGAL STARED AT THE WOMAN IN FRONT OF HIM.
Everything about her screamed
danger!
, and it took every ounce of bravery in his bones not to turn and make his escape.

Running did not come naturally to him. He had been no coward during his mortal years. But after nearly a century of being reviled and hunted, he’d learned well when to flee and how to hide from those who would do him harm.

Last night, when this woman had first encroached upon his sanctuary, he’d thought her dangerous only in the way that all strangers could be dangerous to his safety. If discovered, they would be terrified of his appearance and perhaps cost him his last refuge.

Now, however, he knew that she was a threat to him in much more dire ways.

“Get out,” he ordered, the words scalding his throat as fury and alarm mingled in his gut.

“Excuse me?” Her dark brows rose, and instead of fear, her expression conveyed only a whisper of shocked annoyance.

“You don’t belong here.” He took a menacing step forward, letting the full brunt of his rage sweep forward in his words and the heat of his fiery breath. “Get out or face my wrath.”

If possible, her brows lifted even higher, but she stood her ground, not the least intimidated by either his size or his wrath. Crossing her arms beneath the full swell of her breasts, she cocked her head and tapped an impatient foot.

“If this is how you talked to my great-grandmother Cosmina, I can understand why she put a curse on you.”

Because Dougal was used to people quaking in fear in his presence, he was unsure how to respond to this slip of a woman who not only didn’t flee in horror, but had the nerve to return his ire with a sharp retort of her own.

Perhaps retreat was the best plan of action, after all, he thought, still somewhat taken aback by her behavior. With a huff, he turned for the stairs, intending to leave her here and find somewhere outside, deep in the woods, to hide until the wretched wench was gone. But just as his foot hit the first step, she reached out to grab his arm.

It wasn’t her attempt to stop him that did so, but the fact that she was touching him. No one had touched him in a hundred years. Not even those who had run him off from his own home with torches and pitchforks, screaming that he was demon spawn and cursing him back to the devil. And certainly no woman, of her own free will.

But this one…this one
was
touching him, not by accident, but on purpose.

A ripple of something he was afraid came too close to abject gratitude and relief shuddered through him and he locked his knees to keep from sinking to the ground. Turning slowly back to face her, he found her staring at him, full in the face, and her expression was not one of disgust or terror, but of awe.

“Don’t go,” she said softly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

Perhaps not, but that didn’t make her words any less true, did it? Had he learned nothing in the hundred years since he’d been transformed into a monster?

“I don’t even know…” She paused, licked her lips, seemed to struggle to put voice to her thoughts. “I don’t even know if the stories I’ve heard are true. If what the legends say my family did to you are fact or fiction.”

“Fiction?” he snapped, anger once again pushing the boundaries of his self-control. Pulling back his hood, he threw his cloak to the ground. “Does this look to you like the work of an imaginary tale?”

He expected to see revulsion in her eyes, to hear the shrieks that had grown so familiar to his ears over the years. Instead, he saw a strange curiosity. Fascination, even.

Her gaze roamed over him, over every inch of exposed skin that even now flushed with the shame of his disfigurement. She looked her fill, taking in the reptilian slits of his eyes, the multi-colored patches marring his face, the rough scales that covered his hands and arms.

And then she reached out…reached out and touched him, flesh to flesh. He made a sound of protest and tried to shrug away, out of instinct and self-preservation. But she held fast, her grip tightening on his wrist, not the least aghast by the feel of his flawed skin.

He held himself rigid, still awaiting the moment when she would realize he was a fiend and she needed to run for her life, but as the seconds ticked by, eagerness began to pour through his blood like an elixir.

She was touching him, caressing him now, and she wasn’t afraid. How long had it been since he’d experienced such a gift? Too long. A century, at least, since his last clear memory of human contact.

He swallowed, every muscle of his body growing tense as her fingers continued their exploration. His mind spun back to the evening before, when he’d watched her writhing in pleasure and imagined her touching more than his arm, stroking him with lust more than mere inquisitiveness.

“It really was you,” she whispered, the words breathy and low as she lifted her head and met his gaze.

Her fingers continued to move in slow circles over the roughened flesh of his forearm, sending streaks of longing straight to his groin.

“Last night. Every night. It really was you in my dreams.”

Laura didn’t think she imagined that they both stopped breathing at the same time. The entire situation was incredible to her.
He
was incredible to her.

He was real. The man who had been plaguing her…and pleasuring her…in her dreams for so long was real, and solid, and standing right in front of her.

Despite his appearance and the cruel reaction he seemed to expect from her, he was beautiful. Not something to be hidden away or scorned, but to be admired and celebrated.

The same colorful tattoo of scales that marked his arms circled his neck and fell in patches over his face. And his eyes…his eyes were like nothing she’d ever seen before. A bright, glowing green with black, almost serpentine pupils at their centers.

A shiver ran down her spine, but not from fear, from delight.

It
was
him. The man she’d been dreaming of for what felt like forever. The man who had touched her, held her, done unspeakably satisfying things to her body night after night.

She’d nearly convinced herself that he was some strange, erotic figment of her untamed imagination, but even she hadn’t truly believed her subconscious could concoct someone with eyes and skin just like his.

He was even hot to the touch, the same as he’d been in the dream.

It was startling, amazing, and though he was standing directly in front of her, with her hands resting gently on his arms, she still had a hard time wrapping her mind around the fact that fantasy had just become reality, and she had finally found the man she’d been dreaming of, the one at the center of so many of the stories her family told and the legends passed down from generation to generation.

“You…dreamt about me?” he asked, no longer looking as though he was desperate to get away from her. His voice was low and deep, and tinged with the Scottish brogue she was just beginning to get used to.

“Last night,” she responded with a small nod. “So many nights. I thought I was going crazy, but then…I remembered the stories I was told as a little girl, of the man my great-grandmother cursed to live as a beast, and I started to wonder. I’ve been looking for you.”

Confiding that to anyone else would have made Laura feel like a fool. But with Dougal, she felt completely comfortable, as if she’d known him for years. And though they were only fantasies that came to her in the darkest hours of the night, she’d had him inside of her too many times to count. If that didn’t build a certain level of familiarity, she didn’t know what would.

His lips twisted into a snarl and the rough timbre of his voice grew even rougher. “Your grandmother did this to me?” he asked—the words part statement, part question, all accusation.

Beneath her fingers, his muscles tensed, growing rock hard and hot to the touch.

“I’m afraid so. Will you tell me why and how?”

She knew the stories, knew what her family said had happened, but she wanted to hear it from him, hear his opinion and his telling of the tale.

Momentarily releasing him, she moved to the small table in the center of the room and set down her camera and tote. Reaching into the bag, she pulled out a couple of energy bars and cans of soda.

“Here,” she said, holding one of each out to him like a peace offering. “We can sit and have a bite to eat while you tell me what happened, why my grandmother felt the need to do this to you.”

He made a sound low in his throat, but followed her when she moved to the far wall and sat amongst the blankets and rags that made up his sleeping pallet. Taking a spot beside her, close but not touching, he opened the bar she’d given him and began to chew, slowly and methodically.

The minutes ticked by while she did the same, throwing them into an eerie but relaxed silence. When she’d finished her bar and sipped half the soda, she shifted slightly in his direction, once again meeting his dark, intense gaze.

“Tell me,” she pressed when he showed no signs of speaking, once again letting the tips of her fingers slide over the scaled flesh of his forearm. “Please, I really do need to know.”

Dougal finished off the chunk of granola Laura had handed him and tossed the wrapper aside. His lips pursed as he considered how much to tell her.

She was a stranger, yet she claimed to be a descendant of the woman who had damned him to this unending life of hell on earth. He had spent the last hundred years alone, in hiding, with only himself for company, yet the pain of that isolation was quickly giving way to the desire to speak, to share, to take advantage of the opportunity to converse with another human being.

And if he understood her earlier remark correctly, at the same time he’d been watching her—watching her pleasure herself while he, in turn, pleasured himself—she’d been dreaming of him, as well.

She’d never seen him before, had certainly never seen his markings and disfigurement, yet her subconscious had apparently caused her to dream of him in a most erotic manner. Not once, but multiple times.

Like a match tip flaring to life, heat raced through his body, bringing his shaft to rock-hard attention. His blood boiled with want and need and memory, and a sense of possibility he hadn’t experienced in a century.

Swallowing hard, he drew his attention back to her face, even as his mind lingered on thoughts of yanking down her trousers and having his way with her, pinning her to the wall and taking her until every ounce of pent-up passion and desire poured out of him.

“I was young,” he began. “Young and arrogant and foolish. I was the firstborn son of the great Laird MacKay, and I thought I had the right.” How wrong he had been. But then, with age came wisdom, and though his physical body showed no signs of the span of his life, he certainly had the years to claim great insight.

The wild yearning humming in his veins slowed to a low simmer as he spoke, and he expected the second, less pleasant memory he was being forced to recall to begin a sour roil in his gut and burn his tongue like acid. But a hundred years had apparently dulled the pain and degradation of that moment, for he felt himself relating the story as though it was just that—a story, an unfortunate incident that had occurred to someone else.