The wench was obsessing him no matter how swiftly he tallied up her faults. How could he have thought such a she-demon needed rescuing?
And that wasn't the worst of it.
She'd mocked him.
He'd seen the disbelief on her face when he'd told her his name, revealed his knightly status. His scowl deepening, he scooped up a piece of driftwood and hurled it into the surf. Alone the name Douglas should have impressed her. Hardly a greater, more noble race of men had e'er strode across the heather.
Leastways in
his
day.
Yet she'd gaped at him as if he'd declared the moon was about to fall from the heavens.
He blew out a hot breath, curled his fingers around his belt. Truth was, he'd ne'er told a falsehood in all his overlong life.
Not even to a MacDougall.
A Douglas had too much honor to lie. And neither did they make war on women. To be sure, he knew of knights who took occasional ease from an unwilling lassie, and even some who'd raise a hand to their own lady wife.
But not him.
The mere thought made his gut clench and his blood run cold. Such villainy simply ne'er crossed his mind. Not once in all the years he'd been cursed to guard his bed.
Frightening MacDougalls had always been enough.
Until now.
Like it or not,
this
MacDougall required more effective means of persuasion.
Not that he would make good his threat to skewer her with his sword.
But that did not mean he couldn't ponder the possibilities. Occupying his mind with such pleasing wickedness kept him from dwelling on the more base instincts the wretched female roused in him.
Of course, there was one tactic he hadn't yet tried on her.
The brilliance of it elated him.
Feeling better already, he stretched his arms over his head and flexed his fingers. Soon he would go to her. For the sake of his dignity, he would repeat
exactly
who he was
and
his reason for being here.
If she still didn't have the good grace to believe him and relinquish his bed, he would simply tell her that he was no longer of this world.
State in the king's good English that he was a ghost.
For the first time that day, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He could just see those amber eyes of hers widening in fear when she realized she stood face-to-face with a spirit. Indeed, imagining her reaction made him hard.
So he rocked back on his heels and closed his eyes, recalling the last MacDougall female he'd chased from his bed. A wrinkled old hag, she'd been, with flattened, withered breasts dangling near to her knees.
He shuddered at the memory. His rigid shaft shrank and softened at once. He reached down and adjusted the lay of his now-relaxed male-piece, all lecherous thoughts gone from his mind.
Even so, Mara MacDougall would be wise not to vex him.
If she once more treated him to a teasing glimpse of her nakedness, he would not be responsible for his actions.
There were only so many things a man should have to endure.
Viewing a tempting morsel like the current MacDougall in all her flaming, bare-bottomed glory and not having a piece of her was not one of them.
Alex tossed another bit of driftwood into the sea and smiled. Something told him his days of playing the monk were coming to an end.
He just hoped the anticipation didn't kill him.
"A maniac?"
Murdoch's tufted gray brows shot upward so fast, Mara thought they might fly off. "Havers, lass. There might be a few chancers hereabouts, they come up from the South, the most of 'em. But a full-crazed
Highlander
?"
Mara nodded. "If his butter-soft burr wasn't Highland, then I speak with a Texas twang."
Murdoch scratched his chin.
He'd been pacing in front of the library's tall, mullioned windows, his kilt swishing just above his knobby knees, but now he stopped, stood staring at her.
"A Highlander," he repeated, sounding doubtful.
"We can be a cross-grained lot when riled, I'll admit. Stubborn as the day is long. But mad?"
"Mad as a hatter." Mara folded her arms, sure of it.
Murdoch only shook his head, reached to flip on a wall sconce. "Just dinna fash yourself," he said, stepping away from the soft, golden light. "I'll ring Malcolm's mum's croft and have him and a few of the groundskeepers scour the gardens and woods."
"He won't be there." Mara flicked a glance at the high ceiling and tried to bite back her agitation.
Murdoch didn't believe her.
"The man was down at the shore," she reminded him, her face heating as she remembered the lout's slip-sliding fingers. The way he'd
rubbed
her.
She straightened her spine, willed her discomfiture not to show. "I last saw him where the cliff steps end on the strand."
Murdoch shrugged. "That may be, but he willna be there now, will he?"
Bent with age but bristling with authority, he eyed her from beneath a particularly nasty-looking stag's head, the most moth-eaten such trophy to grace the library's book-lined walls. Every one of the bodiless abominations seemed to be watching her, their glass-eyed stares warning her not to dispute the old man's opinion.
"See you, lassie; any Highlander with a whit of sense wouldn't linger on that wee shingly bit o' shore with such a storm a-coming down," he declared, proving his wisdom.
Mara had to agree.
Behind him, beyond the vast, shadow-hung library, the day had turned dreich, sunless, and gray. Bursts of gusting rain pelted the window's mullioned panes, and wet, howling winds rattled the shutters. Somewhere, a loose one banged against a wall, and if the low, drifting mists were any indication, the sun wouldn't be showing itself again that day.
"Never you worry." Murdoch stepped closer to the windows, looked out at the streaming rain. "If the blighter is still out there, he'll be found."
"I hope so," Mara said, unable to keep the doubt from her voice. "The man is dangerous."
Shamelessly seductive.
A hot little rush shot through her and she swallowed, wished his image would stop haunting her. His deep, husky burr and the wicked things its smoothness did to her knees.
And other unmentionable places.
Mercy, a girl could climax just listening to him!
She frowned. Whether the brawny Highlander was ripped straight from her most secret fantasies or not, he was also amazingly rude. And quite possibly deranged.
No, quite likely deranged.
Her nerves tightening, she took a seat in a window nook, careful not to disturb Scottie and Dottie, Ravenscraig's Jack Russell terrier pair. The little dogs favored the cushioned coziness of the alcove's twin facing benches and were snuggled together, having made a nest of old plaids and tasseled pillows.
Smart doggies. The library
was
chilly, and growing icier by the moment.
So cold, she took a plaid from the opposite bench and draped it across her knees. Far below, the white-capped Firth of Lome tossed and churned, the wintry look of the leaden waves making her shiver. Freezing as she was, she may as well have been bobbing about in the firth rather than sitting here, tucked into a woolen plaid and with a well-doing log fire crackling in the large, green-marbled hearth.
She bit her lip, puzzled.
The cheery flames didn't spend a shred of warmth.
But they
looked
nice.
Like the ghastly stags' heads and the many gilt-framed portraits of tartan-draped MacDougalls, the open fire gave the room a delicious feel of previous centuries.
Almost as if she'd stepped into a time warp.
To Mara, even a pretend glimpse at the faded elegance of such long-ago days was worth a few shivers. So she drew her feet up beneath her and forced a smile for the kilted steward.
"Just please tell Malcolm and the others to be careful," she warned. "The man thinks he's a medieval knight."
To her dismay, Murdoch hooted. "Are you sure he wasn't telling you a tall tale?"
"No." She shook her head. "He was serious. At least I think he believes it."
"Well, then!" Murdoch looked down, flicked a bit of lint off his kilt. "Malcolm can just tell the laddie we aren't in need of knightly services."
"You don't believe me."
"Och, lassie, I dinna doubt you." He glanced aside, watched old Ben amble in and plop down on the hearth rug. "I'm just after thinking the lad found you fetching and meant to impress you."
He looked back at her. "Like as not, he's in Oban this very minute, nursing a broken heart o'er a fine dram." A mischievous smile lit the steward's eyes. "It's a rare Heilander what don't have a wee bit of the romantic in him."
Mara pressed her lips together.
Her
Highlander was pure walking sex. Not a Gaelic poet. A sensual predator. Virile and way too physical, he was a breathtakingly beautiful man filled with arrogance and dark urges she'd best not think about.
And his purpose was definitely not to impress her.
At least not favorably.
Her heart skittering, she pulled a pillow onto her lap. Penetrating cold was creeping up through the seat cushions, chilling her. She shivered again, clutched the pillow for warmth.
"The man is not a romantic," she said. "He wanted to frighten me."
"Humph!" Murdoch snorted. "Forget the scunner. If he's found, he'll be sorted. Why—"
"Sir! Prudentia needs you in the kitchens!" came a breathless voice behind them.
Murdoch swung round. "Och, she does, now?"
Ailsa, or maybe Agnes, nodded, her bright curls bobbing. "O-o-oh, sir, you must come. She's in a right dither."
The steward jammed his hands on his hips. "What's she railing about this time?"
Ailsa-Agnes moistened her lips. "She burned the stovies. And the lamb-pot."
"Then she's accomplished a wonder!" Murdoch started for the door, kilt swinging. "It's next to impossible to burn something on an Aga! The bleeding cookers run on a thermostat. There's not even a dial or knob to turn up the heat. How the devil did she—"
"That isn't what set her off." Ailsa-Agnes hastened after him. "It was the new ghost. She said—"
"The new
what
?" Murdoch froze on the threshold. "Dinna tell me she's going on about some bogey tale again?"
"She is, sir." The girl flushed, wrung her hands. "She says the ghost whispered in her ear just as the potatoes and the lamb burned to crisps."
"And what did the ghost say?"
Ailsa-Agnes's flush deepened. "Th-that he'd see the arse of every last MacDougall scorched just as black. And on the hottest hob of hell."
"What rot!" Murdoch exploded, shooting out the door.
The girl hovered on the threshold, threw Mara an apologetic look. "Will you be needing anything, miss?"
Mara shook her head.
What she needed was a stiff Bloody Mary. Or two. This couldn't be happening. The cook's ghost sounded like her Highlander. Enough so to make her skin tingle and her heart drop to her toes.
So she waited until Ailsa-Agnes took off after the steward, then glanced around to make sure
he
wasn't lurking in the shadows. Satisfied, she pushed to her feet and exchanged the window nook for a seat at a dark oak table in the middle of the library.
A table cluttered with her laptop, reams of files and books, Lady Warfield's private records, and stacks of correspondence with clan and genealogical societies. A plate of parmesan oatcakes and a long-cold cup of the requisite tea.
Her work.
And sustenance.
She reached for an oatcake, feeling better already. Plunging into work was an excellent panacea. Especially against oversexed Highlanders and sly-eyed cooks who imagined encounters with ghosts.
What better way to bust such stress-bringers than to busy herself with her plans for One Cairn Village, a project she secretly thought of as Brigadoon Revisited.
Her very own tartan-ribboned ticket to fulfilling the most difficult stipulation of Lady Warfield's bequest.
The one that required her to reunite the clan and assure that its members looked favorably upon Lady Warfield's memory.
Mara puffed a strand of hair off her face and allowed herself a moment of silent satisfaction. She glanced at an untidy pile of envelopes, the most of them bearing foreign stamps, then looked across the room to Ben.
Unlike Scottie and Dottie, the aged collie didn't seem bothered by the room's cold. He still sprawled where he'd plopped down earlier, snug and content in front of the hearth fire.
"Your lady will be well remembered," Mara promised him, not at all surprised when he thumped his tail on the hearth rug as if he'd understood.
It was a promise she meant to keep, too.
And not just for her own selfish reasons.
Ravenscraig was growing on her, she wouldn't deny. But so were its people. The mystery piper no one would admit to. The twin maids with their bright curls and blushes. The tiny white-haired Innes, who persisted in asking Mara after Lord Basil's health. Gordie, the one-armed gardener, who'd even given her a sprig of lucky white heather.
Even Murdoch.
No, especially the cantankerous old man, she admitted, a hot thickness tightening her throat.
Unthinkable if Ravenscraig were overtaken by strangers from the National Trust of Scotland and the bandylegged steward suddenly found himself displaced.
But that wasn't going to happen.
She wouldn't let it.
Cash donations for the MacDougall memorial cairn were already pouring in from all around the world. Some clansmen were even sending stones. Beautiful stones from every corner of Scotland and as far away as Cape Breton and beyond.
Her pulse slowing at last, she turned on her laptop and flexed her fingers. The memorial cairn was taking care of itself.
One Cairn Village was the project needing her best organizational skills.
Named in honor of the cairn she meant to see erected at its heart, One Cairn Village was also a nod to her genealogy-obsessed father, Hugh, and the plaid-hung house of her childhood: One Cairn Avenue.