Or suffer the equally pungent smell of some of the love potions and herbal treatments for masculine sexual dysfunction that were kept in a locked cupboard in one of the shop’s darkest corners.
Sweet lass, I need you . . .
Lore’s voice came low and husky. Lindy whipped around with a jolt, sure she’d felt his breath on her nape. Soft and warm, it had caressed her skin, making her tingle with desire and awareness. His words, deep and rough-edged, let her know that he wanted her with equal passion. But a quick glance showed that the room loomed empty. As before, nothing stirred except the damp wind outside her window.
She reached again for her pen and notepad, pushing her Scottish hero from her mind.
Sometimes it didn’t pay to have such a vivid imagination.
But she was certain her hard work would always be rewarded.
If herArmchair Enthusiast’s Guidetook off, she hoped to someday earn a living by immersing herself in the world she loved best -medieval Scotland, with all its mystery and magic, and where, she knew in her heart, she should have been born if only some cruel quirk of fate hadn’t plunked her down in the wrong time and place, leaving her filled with yearning for a life she couldn’t have.
But shecouldwrite books set there.
Once, that is, she made a name for herself as an expert on the must-see Highland hot spots of Celtic mythological fame.
And that wasn’t going to happen unless she stopped thinking about her romance novel’s hero and paid attention to the task at hand – studying next morning’s route to one of the most celebrated places on her two-week tour through Scotland’s ancient landscape.
She peered at the Ordnance Survey map that covered most of her bed. The map was a Landranger 9 and detailed every inch of Cape Wrath, the wildest and most remote corner of Scotland. Just seeing all the squares, lines and minuscule place names filled her with anticipation. This was the part of her trip that most excited her. She’d never been to Scotland before, but she’d dreamed of it all her life.
Scotland’s far north was where she belonged.
The next day’s journey would feel like going home.
Already, she knew each twist and turn of the way. Every curve of the shore road, the slender crescents of golden sand and even the forgotten homesteads, each one little more than a tiny dot on her map.
Looking at them now, her heart skittered. Though nothing thrilled her as much as the special place she’d explore in less than twenty-four hours. Said to be a portalto the Otherworld as well as a favourite haunt of the fey, Smoo Cave would be the highlight of her trip.
She also meant to make it thepièce de résistanceof her book.
Levering up against the pillows, she pulled the map on to her lap. But before she could trace her finger along the pink-highlighted stretch of road she needed to follow around Loch Eriboll and along the coast to Durness where the cave was located, the wind picked up, slamming one of the shutters against the wall.
Or so she thought until she remembered the window wasn’t shuttered.
What if the banging noise had been the sound of her door flying open . . .?
Lindy’s heart stopped and the fine hairs on her nape lifted. This part of Scotland wasn’t exactly known for crime, but there were always exceptions. So she slowly looked up from the map and slid a cautious glance across the shadowy room.
What she saw took her breath.
A man stood silhouetted against the light from the lamp on the dresser. Tall, kilted and too rock solid to be her imagination, he wore a very real-seeming sword at his hip and had a dark, roguish air about him that made her mouth go dry and did funny things to her stomach.
He looked very much like Lore.
Especially when his mouth curved in a slow, sensual smile and he narrowed his gaze on her, his blue eyes staring with such heat she gulped.
“Ehhh . . .” Lindy’s attempt at speech failed pitifully.
The look in the man’s eyes became even more provocative, proving he didn’t mind. “You err, sweetness.” He took a step forwards, the lamp light gilding him. “I am no’ called Lore MacLaren. My name is Rogan.” He put back his shoulders, standing straighter. “Rogan MacGraith.”
“Your name doesn’t matter.” Lindy jumped to her feet, finding her voice at last. “For all I know, you could be an axe murderer.”
She highly doubted it. But drop-dead-gorgeous Highlanders didn’t materialize out of thin air regardless of the popularity of paranormal romance. She also doubted they ran around teeny one-blink-and-you’re-through-it Sutherland villages wearing great plaids and packing razor-sharp swords.
And she hadn’t noticed any medieval re-enactors staying at the Talmine Arms.
Word was the only other tourists were an elderly English couple and two German bikers.
