by C. A. Szarek
She jumped up and down in place, trying to warm her chilled body. Her hair skimmed her shoulders and tickled her back, raising gooseflesh from biceps to wrist.
Nothing.
Only the beach. Not the blue walls of her bedroom or the high white ceilings of her little house.
“C’mon, Claire. Wake. Up. Now.” She pinched her own forearm. “Damn, ow.” Claire rubbed the pulsing spot and looked around. “What the—”
“Who goes there?” A deep, accented voice made her jump.
Her MP3 player crashed to the sand, the wires from her headphones ripping over her shoulders as they flew away from her body, but she didn’t go after the devices.
Claire’s heart kicked into overdrive, and she shot her arm across her naked breasts. Plastered her palm over her bare sex.
“Okay, don’t like this dream anymore.” Her voice jumped up an octave.
Why can’t I wake up?
Maybe a touch of fright would make her wake the hell up.
“Ummm….hello?” Claire ventured even though her pulse pounded in her temples. She didn’t see the voice’s owner, but she was stuck now.
Not like I can run and hide.
She wasn’t fond of a stranger seeing her nude, even if gym time had given her a rockin’ body.
Claire smirked. Her sister would’ve declared her egotistical right then and there.
Three figures came into view, standing atop a grassy overhang and staring down at her. Two men and a boy.
“Lass?” One asked.
Lass?
Okay, no more Scottish Highlander romance novels before bed for you, Claire McGowan. But at least she’d placed the accent.
All three were dressed in period clothing. Like—seventeen hundreds or something. The tallest one had a tartan kilt on.
The man who’d spoken was older, wearing a thick grey beard he was currently scratching, as if he was trying to figure her out.
Well, duh. Naked girl on the beach at the ass crack of dawn should do it every time.
The boy looked about ten. He scrambled down the incline, stopping about three feet from her and staring. Wide blue eyes. Dark, messy hair that needed a good cut.
Claire backed up, squeezing her eyes shut. “Seriously, wake up.” Though she should pat herself on the back for the vivid imagination—if she didn’t have to cover her tender parts—she would’ve so been on that.
This place looked and felt real.
“Are ye Fae?” The kid’s brogue was thick, but his voice was high, making him sound younger than she’d guessed.
“Wh-what?” Claire asked, taking another step back.
“Angus, hush.” The last man admonished. His voice was familiar; he’d been the one who’d called out first.
He jumped down to the beach with little effort.
Claire almost forgot to cover herself as she gazed up at him.
Had to be about six-five or six-six.
Definitely had a foot on her, for sure.
Blue eyes, like the kid. Long black hair that flowed in the wind. He was wearing a kilt, and had the same tartan pattern strewn across his body, shoulder to waist and held down with a belt, but no shirt beneath. A huge, defined pec peeked out and her stomach fluttered.
Good job, Claire. At least you dreamt up someone yummy.
The model on the cover of the book she’d been reading before bed had nothing on this guy.
“Lass? Are ye all right?” His voice was concerned, as was his expression. He spoke gently.
“M-m-m-me?”
Way to go on the stutter, Clair-bear. Her sister’s nickname popped into her head with ease. It should’ve grounded her, but she still didn’t wake up.
“She talks funny, uncle!”
How can he tell?
She’d said two words, literally.
“Where am I?” Claire whispered. The sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach made her shift on her feet.
“Isle of Skye.” The boy jumped up and down. “We were supposed ta go fishing. Bu’ I found ye, instead.”
“Hush, Angus MacLeod,” the man said, but there was amusement in his tone. However, he didn’t take his eyes off Claire.
A tremor slid down her spine when his gaze travelled her frame.
Still. Naked.
She wanted to sink into the sand, her earlier confidence about her body gone. Claire shivered, her teeth chattered.
“Jesu, lass. Yer freezin’.” The huge man unbelted the plaid from his waist and whipped it off his torso. It was a separate piece from his kilt, and now he stood before her bare chested. His accent was as thick as the boy’s, but she could make his words out clearer.
Sexy as hell.
“Yeah, kinda naked over here.” A nervous titter fell from her lips and made Claire wince.
“Is she Fae, Uncle?” Angus asked.
“Ye’ve been spending too much time wit’ my father. Da, stop clouding the lad’s head with faery tales,” the man called.
The old guy on the hill chuckled. “Och, then ye dinna leave tha lad with me when ye go off.”
“Like I’ve a choice.”
Claire’s focus scattered when he threw his plaid over her shoulders. Warmth enveloped her as well as his clean masculine scent.
Sandalwood and fresh peat. Earthy, yet delicious.
Like he’d stepped out of her damn book.
All she could see in front of her was a wide expanse of naked, well-defined chest. His arms and pecs were huge.
She stopped counting abs, when she got to four on each side. There was a dark strip of hair dividing his eight-pack, and disappearing into that kilt.
Claire had to swallow hard.
Gorgeous didn’t even cover it. She forbade herself from wondering what he had under the tartan.
“There, lass. Better?” He rubbed her arms up and down on the outside of the fabric.
She clutched the wool closer, making sure the front of her body was covered and fought a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill of the beach.
Their eyes locked, and one corner of his mouth shot up.
“I’m good. Thanks.” She forced words out. Claire’s mouth went dry. Her tongue was thick.
He paused, as if he was trying to make sense of her words. Then he nodded. “Duncan MacLeod, by tha by.” He inclined his head and smiled.
“Like the TV show from the nineties?” Claire blurted.
Way to be original in dreamland.
On the other hand, she’d loved that show.
“What, lass?” He cocked his head to one side, studying her like the kid standing beside him still was.
“Nothing.” Claire shook her head.
“She is Fae, uncle.”
Duncan MacLeod sighed and crossed his arms over his massive—bare—chest. “Angus, ‘nother word and I’m goin’ ta make ye join yer grandfa.”
The boy jumped up and down. “But Uncle, look a’ her. Fair of hair, like my—”
The man clamped a hand over the kid’s mouth. He grabbed him up against his broad chest. “Enough, lad.”
With a dramatic sigh, the kid deflated and nodded.
Duncan MacLeod set him to his feet, and Angus stared up at him. “Up on tha hill wit’ yer grandda.”
Angus’s little shoulders slumped but he obeyed. He dashed to the overhang and scrambled up like a gold medal rock climber. “Sorry, Uncle,” he muttered as he went.
“I’m sorry, lass. He’s…”
“Fine.” Claire had to smile. The kid was cute. “A normal little boy.”
When Duncan MacLeod grinned, her heart stuttered. “Da, take Angus back ta Dunvegan. Tell Janey ta have a warm bath drawn, and some clothing fer tha lass. A meal, too. We’ll join ye shortly.”
“What? No…” Claire shook her head.
“Nay protests, lass.” Duncan looked up to the ridge.
She snapped her mouth shut. His tone brooked no argument.
Hey, is this my dream, or what? She didn’t say the words.
&nb
sp; This didn’t feel like a dream anymore.
Duncan’s father nodded, resting a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “See ye, then.” The old man waved.
Claire shifted on her feet under the weight of Duncan’s gaze, when the others had left them.
“Now, lass. Ye an’ I needa talk. Who are ye, an’ where did ye come from?”
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About the Author
USA Today bestselling, award winning author of romantic suspense, epic and historical fantasy romance, C.A. loves to dabble in different genres. If it’s a good story, she’ll write it, no matter where it seems to fit!
She’s a hopeless romantic and always will be. Risking it all for Happily Ever After is what she lives by!
C.A. is originally from Ohio, but got to Texas as soon as she could. She’s happily married and has a bachelor’s degree in Criminal Justice.
She works with kids when she’s not writing.
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