In Bed with the Highlander. Ann Lethbridge

horrible impression of something gone wrong churned in her brain. The same one she’d had at her first sight of the castle. Only, worse. This time her stomach pitched and rolled along with a strangely tight feeling in her scalp. What was this man doing in her room? Was this some sort of nasty, stupid charade put on by the hotel?

      “I’ve had enough,” she said. “I’m calling the management.” Someone was going to be hung, drawn, quartered and scattered to the four corners of Britain for pulling this kind of stunt. Moirag stumbled across the room, found the door and hit the light switch. Er...hit stone. She grated her manicure against cold rough stone. Her hand brushed against a tapestry that was not there last night.

      “Damn and blast it. Where is the light?”

      The man, Gavin, made a scratching noise, then something flared, illuminating a square jaw shadowed by dark stubble and a fierce-looking nose. The flare died and a candle glimmered and flickered on the table at the end of the room. He picked it up and lit more candles in wall sconces until the room glowed like Valentine’s night. A very bad Valentine’s night. The kind where your date bought wilted roses from a street vendor and thought he had it made.

      Those sconces were not there last night. She would have noticed. Especially since they were equipped with real candles. Very dangerous in a bedroom. What the hell was going on? Had someone switched rooms on her? Without waking her?

      She looked around and gulped. There were no electric lights. No...she ran to the other end of the room. A blank wall faced her where yesterday there had been three steps and a bathroom. A lovely bathroom with black-and-white tiles, along with a glass shower and separate bath.

      She twirled around to find the man staring at her in awe, his finely molded lips parted in what appeared to be shock. Chestnut-colored hair pulled back into a ribbon-tied velvet bag at his nape emphasized the stark angles and planes of his face and high forehead. With shoulders as broad as an oak tree and wearing a kilt from which his knees, rough and dirty, emerged, supported by calves of curved iron muscle, he was an absolutely gorgeous hunk of Scottish male.

      She swallowed. He had an enormous sword in a leather scabbard down his back. “Oh God.” She had to be dreaming.

      “Saints preserve me,” he said. “I’ve died and I’m conversing with an angel.” He sank slowly to his knees and made the sign of the cross. “Forgive me, for I have sinned—”

      “Whoa! Stop,” she cried. “I’m not an angel.”

      He stared at her from eyes of brilliant blue. “Are you not? What are you then? One of the auld people? My mother always said they were to be found here at the castle.”

      The auld people. Was this bloke joking? “No. I...I...”

      He nodded encouragement.

      For the first time in years, Moirag found herself stuck for words. “I’m an ordinary mortal woman. Please get up.”

      With a grunt that had an edge of pain, he rose to his feet. “Then, who are you?”

      There was only one explanation. Wasn’t there? This was a dream. Brought on by her bedtime reading. She glanced around for the book. Of which there was also no sign. But perhaps it provided the answer. She was dreaming about what she had read. She breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t had such a vivid dream since she was a child. Now, if she could just wake up. She pinched herself. It didn’t work. She blinked rapidly to clear her vision. If anything, the room seemed more solid and real than ever.

      All right. She’d try a test. And when he failed, she’d know she was dreaming. “What year is it?”

      “Seventeen fifteen,” he said, frowning. “October.”

      The month was right. The year dinged a bell in her memory. “Did you fight at Sherrifmuir?”

      He looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

      Hah! Just a couple more questions and she’d go back to sleep. “Mar’s uprising. His march on Inverness.”

      “Dear God!” Gavin drew his sword in the blink of an eye. He held the point to her throat, his face a fearful scowl and murder in eyes that had gone from warm blue to chips of ice. “What are you? An English spy? Answer me. Are there soldiers in the castle?”

      Her heart pounded in her chest. Her knees felt weak. Did you get killed in dreams? You always woke up before it actually happened, right? She swallowed. “No soldiers.” She winced. “Not that I’m aware of.”

      “Then how do you know about what the clans are planning?” The sword tip moved back a fraction. It shook very slightly, she noticed. Must be heavy.

      “I overheard a conversation.” Well, she could hardly say she’d read about it, now could she?

      The sword tip dropped and he winced and... Yuck, he had blood on his hand. And a rent in his coat. “Are you injured?”

      “Naught but a scratch. Do not worry yourself.” He opened the lid of a chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out some folds of white muslin. Bandages. He wound one around his meaty biceps and tied a rough sort of knot with one hand and his teeth.

      “Good Lord. Do you men always have to act so macho?” She made a grab for his arm.

      He backed up.

      Eyes narrowed, she pointed a finger at his chest. “Let me take a look.”

      A bemused smile lit his handsome rugged face. “I have not been yelled at like that since my mother passed on.”

      Good God. It was like being caught in a sunbeam on top of a hill being flashed that smile. The whole room lit up. Her limbs turned to jelly left outside in midsummer. She took a deep breath. “I’m not your flippin’ mother. Now, take off the sword belt and sit.”

      He shook his head. “A virago. Just my luck.” Still, he unbuckled his belt and laid it and the sword carefully on the bed. Oh, God. Now that the weapon wasn’t pointed in her direction, she could see the blade looked wickedly sharp and real and surely that was blood on it. Don’t think about it. It was dream blood. She untied the rough-and-ready bandage and helped him peel the coat off one very brawny shoulder and then down a heavily muscled arm. A beautifully carved male arm.