He tried not to frown.
He should have known his cousin would somehow twist any excuse he used, making it impossible for him to complete his intended mission.
Proving it, Gavin nodded and folded his arms. He clearly intended to stay where he was until Rogan turned and tromped back up the way he’d come. Damn his cousin for being such a long-nosed bugger of a kinsman.
Rogan felt the loon’s stare boring into his back even when he knew the tightly coiled stairs hid his retreat from the other man’s view.
He still felt eyes on him when, moments later, he let himself back into his bedchamber. But the gaze he sensed now wasn’t his cousin’s.
The eyes he knew were watching him were amber.
And they belonged to her.
The dream vixen who now, damn her luscious hide, was apparently no longer content to merely haunt his sleeping hours, but his waking ones as well.
Rogan could feel her everywhere. In his room’s darkened corners – the night candles had gutted hours ago and only a few cold embers glimmered in the hearth – and even right before him, tempting and beckoning, although he couldn’t see her.
Her presence shimmered in the air.
Rogan stopped where he was, just a few paces from his bed, and tore off his plaid, letting it drop to the rush-strewn floor. He half hoped his nakedness might call her. So he stood still, waiting, challenging the silence. But the only thing that came to him was the smell of rain on the cold breeze slipping in through the shutter slats.
Until the wind seemed to shift, turning even colder. Then, beneath the night’s chill, her scent slid into the room, teasing him.
Light and provocative, it was only a tantalizing promise. But just one slight hint of her was enough to fire his need and set him like granite.
She was near.
He knew it in the depths of his soul.
“Damnation.” Rogan sank on to the edge of his bed and put his head in his hands.
Don’t leave me.
Stay . . . I beg you!
The words – her words – came to him from a distant place. But although the beloved voice was hers, one so engrained on his heart that he’d recognize it anywhere, she spoke in soft lilting tones very different from the speech she used when she talked to him in his dreams.
You will be killed . . .
Rogan jerked, looking up. This time the words were close. No longer far away, her voice was as clear as if she’d spoken at his ear, pleading. And the words, so ominous and dire, had broken on a sob.
“Lass!” Rogan shot to his feet, glancing around, his heart thundering wildly.
How cruel that he didn’t even know her name.
But – he could scarce believe it – hecouldsee her!
She stood in the far corner, limned by moonlight. And unlike in his dreams, when she usually wore naught but a smile, this time she clutched a deep red cloak about her, holding fast to its voluminous folds as if a great gusting wind blew, chilling her.
Even more surprising, her lovely amber eyes were now deepest blue, glistening tears making them shine and sparkle like sapphires.
And her hair – Rogan stared, disbelieving – was no longer the deep, gleaming russet he knew and loved, but palest flaxen. She wore it in a single heavy braid that swung low, reaching to her shapely hips.
Ragnar . . .She looked right at him, calling him a strange name as she reached a hand towards him.
Rogan stared at her. How odd that she looked so different. And that she call ed him Ragnar and not Lore.
Frowning, he took a step forwards. But then his blood chilled, stopping him.
