His heart thrummed in his ears, pounding hard against his ribcage as she began spreading out the sleeping bag and he realized she meant to stay. Here. Overnight. In his secret lair.
Fists clenching at his sides, he watched her, torn between fury at having his private sanctuary invaded and acute interest at being so close to another human being—a woman—for the first time in a hundred years.
Stifling a yawn, Laura Tomescu finished spreading out her things and creating a space on the ground to both sleep and work. Though she wasn’t entirely sure where to begin, she was itching to get started on the undertaking that had brought her here in the first place, and to explore Castle MacKay, which had apparently been abandoned nearly a century ago.
From the dirt on the floor and the cobwebs coating the ceiling, she could believe it. She shuddered at the thought of what was likely crawling around in this shadowed room. But she knew in her bones that this would be where she’d find the answers to all of her questions, and so she was ready to face almost anything…even the creepy crawlies living in this abandoned keep.
But it was late, and she’d already had a long day of traveling and talking with townspeople from the village below. It seemed that everyone in this part of Scotland knew of the half-man, half-beast who was said to haunt the area.
Whether he truly lived in Castle MacKay, no one could say for sure. What they would say, depending on who she’d asked, was that he was either a saint or a monster. Some claimed that he butchered sheep or stole children from their beds. Others swore that he left gifts of food or clothing on their doorsteps, or had saved them from harm in one way or another.
Laura didn’t know what to believe, and she wasn’t sure it mattered. She was here because of her family’s part in the legend of Dougal MacKay…or perhaps she should say her family’s part in the curse.
And because of the dreams she’d been having about him for the past several years. Dreams that were growing stronger and more vivid with each passing day.
So she would bunk down here for the night, then wake up early to begin her exploration. As eager as she was to solve the mystery eating up such a large chunk of her life, she wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about poking around a dark, dingy, supposedly haunted castle by herself, with nothing to light her way but a flashlight.
Better to wait until morning when she could see, and maybe, if she was lucky, when there would be less chance of running into things that went bump in the night.
Kicking off her boots and jeans, she shook out the hem of her t-shirt until it fell to mid-thigh. As sleepwear went, it was sorely lacking, but it would do for a single night, alone on a dirt floor.
Shoving her feet into the opening of her sleeping bag, she scrunched down and made herself as comfortable as possible. She closed her eyes and yawned again, a faint trace of uneasiness skittering down her spine.
Not for the first time, she felt as though she was being watched, and if her dreams and research could be believed, she had a pretty good idea what—or rather, who—her observer might be. The good news was, she didn’t think it—or he—would hurt her.
But since she couldn’t be positive, that was one more reason to put off her search until tomorrow. Confrontations of this sort were better left for the bright light of day.
Screwing her eyes tightly shut, she gave a slight shiver and snuggled deeper beneath the folds of her sleeping bag. If she started thinking about him, and rats, and all the other creepy-crawly things that might be sneaking around this place, she’d never get any rest.
And the sooner she fell asleep, the sooner it would be morning, so she could wake up and get started on her quest for—literally—the man of her dreams.
She’d been asleep only a few minutes when the dream began. And she knew it was a dream, knew it was one of those dreams, even as she drifted through that delicate space between slumber and reality.
She was in Castle MacKay, curled up in her sleeping bag, but she wasn’t alone. It was no rat or spider keeping her company, either, but a man.
Dougal.
He stepped out of the shadows, all six-plus-feet of him, and walked toward her.
He moved slowly, making no sound as he crossed the earthen floor, giving her a chance to study him. He was bare-chested, wearing nothing more than a kilt and soft-soled, worn leather boots. His hair was black, tousled, and long enough to brush his broad, well-formed shoulders. His green eyes glowed, looking serpentine in the dark, with their thin, vertical pupils.
And his flesh…every inch of that strong, impressive chest that she could see…was covered with a beautiful, almost iridescent sort of tattoo. But not of any picture or form she could make out. Instead, it looked like layer after layer of lovely, colorful…scales.
That might have seemed odd to her, probably had in the beginning, but after so many dreams of this man, she was not only used to the unique markings, but found them attractive and erotic to the extreme.
Even as that thought flitted through her brain, he was upon her, kneeling down and flipping back the top fold of the sleeping bag. Heat radiated from every pore of his body as he stared down at her, taking in her pale pink t-shirt with its hibiscus flowers and hula girl, advertising Hawaii as “a great place to get leied.” The hem had ridden up around her hips, leaving her stark white, French-cut bikini panties in full view.
He murmured a single word, low and emphatic, but in a language she didn’t understand, had never heard before she’d begun having these dreams. And then he was loosening the wide belt at his waist, kicking off his calf-high boots, and letting the blue, black, and green fabric of his family tartan fall to the floor. A second later, he was stretched out full length on top of her.
His mouth covered hers, furnace hot, sending flickering flames down her throat and to her very center. He bit, licked, sucked, devoured her like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet. The firm contours of his muscled chest and arms pressed in on her, his legs straddling her own, the rigid length of his arousal rubbing against the soft material at the apex of her thighs.
She had been wet long before he touched her. One glance at his rippling, masculine body towering over her, and she’d turned liquid with fiery lust. Her nipples were puckered and jutting beneath the cotton of her top as she writhed beneath him.
His lips and teeth burned her flesh, tugged at her lips, skimming her cheek, trailing down the line of her throat. He lifted up only long enough to grab the bottom of her shirt in his large, long-fingered hands and strip it off over her head. Then he lowered his head again and feasted at her breast.
Her back arched on a moan, her fingers threading through his black hair as his tongue circled her areola, the budded tip, and then drew her fully into his mouth.
“Yes, please.” She scratched at his back with her nails, lifting, reaching for more.
The heat of his long, seeking member brushing between her legs made her want him inside her now. Hard, hot, fast. She rotated her hips, trying to hurry him, trying to take him in, even before she was fully naked.
And—thank you, Jesus—he took the hint. His rough, callused fingers traced her waist, and then her legs, taking her underwear with them. Without ceremony, he shoved her legs apart, settled himself between them, and thrust home.
Laura gasped at the feel of him embedded so deeply and stretching her to accommodate his incredible size. She took a moment to concentrate on her breathing, and before she knew it, her body relaxed, going soft and loose around him.