Talmine Village
Scotland’s Far North, the Present
Precious lass. You’re mine, do you hear me?
I won’t – I can’t – live without you.
Lindy Lovejoy, American tourist and expert on all things Scottish, heard the words in her mind. But they were real enough to make her heart thump against her ribs. Her breath caught, too, and her stomach went all fluttery. In fact, if she weren’t sitting on her bed, bolstered by pillows and surrounded by maps and writing paraphernalia, she was sure she’d melt into a puddle on the plaid-carpeted floor.
She did tilt her head and close her eyes, concentrating.
Her room, surely the tiniest in the entire bed-and-breakfast inn, was quiet. Darkness came early on autumn nights in Scotland and if anyone occupied the room next to hers, they weren’t making any noise. Outside, the wind had risen and fluting gusts whistled round the eaves and soughed down the narrow road beneath her window. A glance in that direction – she hadn’t yet bothered to close the curtains – showed a steady rain just beginning to fall.
But she could still hear the man’s voice. Deep, richly burred and dangerously seductive, his words slid through her like smooth, sun-warmed honey.
I’ll ne’er let you go, sweetness.
Lindy bit her lip, listening. He’d breathed the endearment as if he were right beside her, his chin grazing her hair and his breath warm against her cheek.
He was definitely a Highlander.
And he spoke with the kind of fill-her-with-shivers Scottish accent she thought of as a verbalorgasm.
To o bad he was a product of her imagination.
Lore MacLaren.
Hero of the Scottish medieval romance she’d been working on for years and that had only been rejected by – she opened her eyes and frowned – every agent and editor in the industry. At least the ones she’d targeted so carefully.
Not that it’d done her any good.
Biting back a curse she was not going to let pass her lips, she tucked her hair behind her ear and willed her character to stop talking to her.
Now wasn’t the time for guilty pleasures.
Even if she was sure that having such a hot, realistic, full-bodied hero – a Highland hero, for heaven’s sake! – had to be something really specialin the super-competitive business of writing and selling romance novels.
Lore MacLaren would have to wait until her vacation was over.
The research trip that – she just knew – was going to result in her big breakthrough into publishing. She plucked at a loose thread on the bed’s tartan duvet, almost afraid to acknowledge how much time, money and effort she’d vested in her plans. Anyone even halfway familiar with karma, knew how easy it was to jinx oneself.
But still. . .
Life could seem so unfair.
Some authors hit New York running.
She’d tried that and failed. Doing everything right and following all the rules had gotten her nowhere. Now she was going to take a detour.
IfHeather Aflamewasn’t wowing the powers-that-be, she’d knock them sideways withThe Armchair Enthusiast’s Guide to MythicalScotland. In lyricalbut concise, easy-to-follow language, she’d regale readers with insider tips on everything from how to drive on the left to finding hidden away entrances to Neolithic chambered tombs and other little known sites that most tourists never see.
Aspiring writers and maybe even some published authors would snatch the book off the shelves. Agents and editors would be impressed, hinting that she should pour her knowledge into writing a Scottish romance.
She’d sell Lore at last.
A fantastic two-book deal would be hers. She could then quit her job at Ye Olde Pagan Times, the New Age shop in her hometown of New Hope, Pennsylvania, where she worked such long hours some of the regulars often asked if she slept on a cot in the back room.
She’d never again have to urge someone to buy a sneeze-inducing bundle of bad-vibes-chasing sage.
