Her fantasy lover was back.
"Not now! Bad timing." She shook her head, trying to escape her daydreams.
He glanced at the sword on the floor, then back to her. "You think to kill me with my ownclaidheamh dà làimh, do you, lass?"
At first, she could hardly understand the words he'd rolled up in the thick Scottish burr, then decided most of them were English.
Huh?He never said things like that in her fantasies. In fact, he never spoke English; he only purred those intriguing Gaelic phrases.
"Explain yourself!" He sent her a glare such as she'd never imagined.
"No, I—"
Dang, he was completely naked, like in her dreams. But then she noticed the glinting blade of a long dagger in his other hand. An icy chill passed through her.
"This is the worst fantasy I've ever had." Blinking hard, she tugged tight at the reins of her imagination, but nothing happened.
"Who the devil are you?" he demanded. "And how'd you get in this time of night?"
In?In where? And how had night arrived so quickly? "Um." She shook her head and glanced at the dim room surrounding them. "Where am I?"
"Ha. I'm nay daft, lass. Ewan! Get your arse in here!" he roared at the door, then returned his glower to her.
"What's going on?" she asked.
"You tell me."
"This isn't real. Is it?" She retreated a few steps, and her derriere bumped a stone wall. She splayed her hands against it. Cold, hard stone. The rough texture rasped her fingertips. It felt real.
I stood in an open-sided tent only moments ago.
"Stay there." He backed away, then placed the candle and dagger on a table.
While he belted a rumpled plaid at his waist, her gaze skipped around the room with its darkened corners and landed on the curtained, four-poster bed—the piece of furniture she'd walked around.
The twisted ivory linen sheets had been thrown back. So inviting… but her fantasy man had morphed into a surly jerk.
Leaving the candle in the holder on the table, he picked up the dagger again, then moved toward her. He watched her as a falcon does its prey before diving in for the kill. His danger thrilled her but also… scared her a bit.
A whispering feeling grew stronger…this isn't a fantasy.
"How can this possibly be real?" she muttered.
He scrutinized her lips, then his dark and heated gaze drifted down her body, making her feel as if he could see straight through her clothing. She smelled candle tallow and him—his familiar musky, sandalwood, and cedar scent.
The door burst open, and a short, burly, balding man rushed into the room, rubbing his eyes. "Aye, Gavin—er—m'laird. What's all the ruckus about?"
Oh, crap. Yet another confirmation this wasn't a fantasy. No one else had ever been in her dreams except for the hunky warrior.
Wait! Gavin… the name Ranald had said. The sword had belonged to Gavin MacTavish.
"How are you thinking she got in here?" Gavin demanded of Ewan. Clearly, he was more annoyed than she would've imagined, finding a woman in his bedroom.
Ewan stared at her, his mouth gaping within his bushy brown beard. "I have nay inkling. She did nay walk past me. I would've seen her."
Gavin tilted his head. "You were asleep, Ewan. And she slipped in here, planning to kill me with my own sword."
"No, I was not planning to kill you!" Dani said. "Don't be ridiculous. I can barely lift that thing. I was only… admiring it."
