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She looked like a truck driver.
She was so tired she was giddy, and nothing seemed quite real. For the first time in eight months, her lips quivered with amusement. She didn’t laugh, but she was astonished at the impulse. Quelling it, she cleared her throat and looked up at Paul Bunyan. “Eight months. I’ve been driving for eight months.”
He gave her another pat. “Well, give it a little more time. It’s tough, being away from your family so much, but the freight has to move and somebody’s gonna get paid for hauling it. Might as well be us, huh?”
“Might as well,” she echoed. She nodded to him and escaped out to her truck. She hoped he didn’t see her driving off in an ordinary pickup, instead of one of the snoozing behemoths; she didn’t want to destroy his illusions about her.
The snow was falling faster, and more trucks were leaving the interstate, rumbling up the exit ramp to take overnight refuge at the truck stop. There was a small, ratty-looking motel next door, and its “Vacancy” sign was lit. Grace decided not to chance driving any farther, and to take a room before the new arrivals got them all.
The room was just as ratty-looking as the exterior. The carpet was worn and stained, the walls were brown, the bedspreads were brown, the lavatory bowl was brown—and it wasn’t supposed to be. But the heating unit worked, and so did everything in the bathroom; good enough.
She stuck the pistol in the waistband of her jeans and dragged out the computer case, and a change of clothes for the next day. If the rest of her clothes weren’t
safe in the truck overnight, well, she hoped the thief was small enough to wear them, because she didn’t have the energy to cart everything inside.
She undressed, then reloaded the pistol. Her hands trembled, and she fumbled the bullets. She thrust the gun under her pillow, then climbed into the lumpy bed and was unconscious even before her head hit the pillow.
She dreamed.
“And so came Grace to Creag Dhu.”
Niall wrote the words, the pen scratching across the page. He signed it, dated it, then turned to face her. “Aye, lass, that will bring ye to me.” His intent black gaze moved over her, starting at her feet and lingering at hips and breasts before reaching her face. She drew a deep breath, knowing what that look meant. He was the most intensely sexual man she had ever met, and the challenge of that burning appetite only fed her own sensuality. She could feel her body readying itself for him, growing warm, softening, her nipples standing upright and her cheeks flushing. Excited desire began coiling deep in her belly.
He knew it, saw it. His hard mouth took on a sensual curve and he dropped the quill onto the table, turning on the high wooden stool to face her. He held out his hand. “Dinna wait near seven hundred bluidy years,” he said softly. “I want ye now.”
Grace took the five steps that carried her to him, her hands lifting to sift through the thick black silk of his hair. He bent his head, and his mouth covered hers. No one else kissed like Niall, she thought dazedly. His taste was as potent as fiery whisky, his kiss was both dominating and seductive, taking what he wanted but giving pleasure in return.
His big hand covered her breast, his thumb rubbing gently over her extended nipple. Her hands clenched in his hair and she crowded closer to him, shivering.
They had already made love so many times he knew exactly how aroused she was, knew there was no need for love play. With a soothing murmur he pulled up both her skirts and his kilt, and lifted her astride him as he sat propped on the high stool. Their loins came together with ease, and she gave a little whimper of relief as his thick erection slipped up into her. Niall gasped, his teeth set, then he gathered her close and they clung together, their need deeper and sharper than physical desire.
’Twas her. Niall awoke, fiercely aroused and aching, but grimly triumphant. This time he had seen her face, this damned wench who tormented his sleep, who watched him from hidden places. He sat up in bed and thrust both hands through his hair, pushing it out of his face as he tried to firm his memories of the dream.
He had been sitting on a stool at a high table, writing something, while she stood off to the side. He couldn’t remember what he had said, he just remembered looking at her, and the wench looking back at him, and lust abruptly burning through him. He held out his hand to her and she came to him, into his arms, and he had not even carried her to bed but taken her there, lifting her skirts and hoisting her onto his shaft. She was like liquid fire, flowing over him, lovely blue eyes closed and her face tilted back, exalted, as she pleasured him and he pleasured her.
She felt fragile in his arms, her body tender, her skin silky. She had a great swath of dark hair hanging down her back, thick and sleek, and her eyes were as pure a blue as a Highland lake under a clear summer sky. Her face… a chill ran over him. Her face looked like an angel’s, solemn and slightly distant, as if she had some greater purpose. Her brow was clear and white, her delicate jawline slightly squared, and her mouth… “Ah, weel, perhaps not an angel after all,” he said aloud, relieved. That mouth put him in mind of a number of things, all of them very carnal.
Still and all, there was something about her that made him uneasy, and Niall was a man who trusted his instincts. He snorted to himself. Aye, and so he should be uneasy, for she was likely a witch; how else could she watch him without being seen, and slip into his dreams whenever she wished? Witch or no, should she ever appear in the flesh he would be glad to give her the measure of his shaft in truth as well as dream, but he would not trust her.
She had to have some purpose for watching him; perhaps she had somehow learned of the Treasure.
It would be her ill fortune if that was what she sought, for he was sworn to guard the Treasure against all threat, be that threat from male or female. He had yet to kill a woman for it, but her sex would not save her. If she came for the Treasure, though he ached at the necessity, she would have to die.
Grace slept past the eleven o’clock checkout, awakening only when the maid pounded on the door. She stumbled to her feet, told the maid to come back later, and fell back into bed. She woke for good at three, groggy from so much sleep.
She stood in the shower for a long time, alternating hot and cold water in an effort to dispel the mental fog. She felt physically rested but mentally tired, as if her brain hadn’t shut down all night. She had dreamed endlessly, it seemed, her mind going over the short, violent scene in the McDonald’s parking lot, replaying it like a loop of film. Time after time she saw herself reach for the sheet of paper, saw “Creag Dhu” on it. She would feel the wind coming, know what was going to happen, and over and over she grabbed for the paper but every time it sailed out of her grasp, straight into Parrish’s hands. He had looked at it, smiled, and said, “Why, thank you, Grace.” Then he pointed a pistol at her and fired, and the dream would start all over again.
She had also dreamed of Niall, of making love with him. His black gaze had pierced straight through her, as if he knew she had failed to protect the precious papers given to her. But he had held out his hand to her, demanding she come to him, and she had gone.
“Come to me,” he had said. “Now.”
A violent shudder wracked her, starting at her feet and moving upward until her entire body shook. Her knees gave out and she leaned against the shower wall, her mouth open and little whimpers coming from it. She couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t control the sensation of flying apart. Some external force pulled at her, tore at her, compelled her. Her eyes dilated and the dingy shower walls suddenly looked very bright, as if they were glowing.
Come to me. Travel the years, six hundred and seventy-five of them. I have given you the knowledge. Come to me.
The voice boomed inside her head, and yet it was from without. It was Niall speaking, but the voice that was low and devastatingly sexual in her dreams now sternly demanded, Come to me.
The glow began to fade, and the quaking in her muscles gradually weakened until she was standing upright and steady. Cold water pelted down on her and hastily she shut it off, grabbing a thin towel to wrap around her head. She used another to roughly dry herself. God, she was freezing! How long had she been standing like a dope, hallucinating, under the cold water? She had almost given herself hypothermia.
