The Man of Her Dreams: A Sexy Shifter story.

by Robie Madison

  Three days. One wish. If the Fairy Queen keeps her promise…

  A Sexy Shifter story.

  Workaholic web designer Megan Jones exudes sensible and practical by day, but in her dreams she truly lives. Her nights are filled with erotic trysts with a dream lover—who also defends her against the dangerous wild stallion of her nightmares.

  When she inherits a Victorian-era Welsh locket, she opens it to a shocking revelation. The tiny portrait of a black-haired man with a sardonic smile is none other than the man in her dreams. There’s only one way to learn the truth about him—head to her ancestral home town in Wales.

  A member of the ancient race of Tylwyth Teg, Owain Deverell has spent the last 170 years suspended between man and beast—punishment for loving a human woman. Weary of his cursed existence, and longing to be more than the object of Megan’s dream desire, he strikes a bargain with the Fairy Queen. In exchange for retaining his human form, she grants him three days to win Megan’s unconditional love.

  Or remain the object of her nightmares. Forever.

  Warning: Contains graphic sex, dream sex, picnic sex, magic sex, a meddlesome Fairy Queen, and did we mention sex?

  eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  The Man of Her Dreams

  Copyright © 2009 by Robie Madison

  ISBN: 978-1-60504-614-3

  Edited by Angela James

  Cover by Natalie Winters

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: June 2009

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  The Man of Her Dreams

  Robie Madison

  Dedication

  To Norma and Tadge—thanks for the unforgettable summer in Wales.

  Chapter One

  The stallion galloped out of the trees and raced along the grassy edge of the river as if it believed it could outrun the turbulent waters. And maybe it could. Big and black as sin, clearly he’d never been broken.

  At the sight of him, Megan Jones’ breath caught in her throat. He was definitely untamed. She could tell by the spirited look in his wild eyes. No matter how many people tried, no one would ever control him.

  The horse’s sleek coat was shiny with sweat from his run. His tousled mane streamed behind him like a ragged cloak in the wind.

  Untamed.

  Unbroken.

  Wild.

  And headed straight for her. She felt lightheaded and slightly nauseous.

  The really stupid part was, she was in the throes of a nightmare and she knew it. But knowing didn’t stop the jolt of fear that pounded through her veins and turned her hands clammy and cold.

  She ordered herself to wake up.

  The stallion snorted and tossed its head. Probably in disgust, as if to say, “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

  She’d scream if she thought it would help. But it never had, so she didn’t waste her breath. Nor did she try to turn and run away.

  That was the really, really stupid part. She wasn’t even here. Wherever here was. She only recognized the trees and the river with its grassy bank because she’d visited the place so often. In her nightmares.

  In her more rational moments—like when she was awake—she couldn’t even be certain that the horse knew she was here. It was as if only her spirit transported to this place—a spirit who suffered from very corporeal anxiety attacks.

  Talk about ridiculous. A wild stallion was thundering towards her while she tried to rationalize a nightmare.

  The stallion stopped on a dime at least ten feet away from her. The way he always did.

  Steam seemed to billow from his heaving sides. He snorted again and stomped one great hoof. Then, without warning, he reared into the air and kicked out his front legs.

  A sound that could have been one of awe, caught in Megan’s throat.

  Knock, knock. Knock, knock.

  Distracted for an instant, she looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of what sounded like a woodpecker in one of the nearby trees. Seconds later the stallion dissolved and she was aware of her hand clutching a blanket.

  Her grip on the soft wool tightened infinitesimally. Although she was lying in bed and had been asleep, her body still hummed from the adrenaline rush following her dream encounter with the stallion. She took a deep, steadying breath of air and opened her eyes. Not that she was terribly worried about her racing heart—that reaction, at least, was familiar, even if her surroundings were not.

  Her immediate impression was of crisp, white walls accented with a splash of pinks and yellows from a bouquet of flowers that sat on a low dresser across from where she lay. At the continued soft, but insistent knock at the door, she sat bolt upright.

  “Come in,” she said, shoving aside the covers to scramble out of bed.

  The moment her sock feet hit the floor, she remembered exactly where she was. Trefriw. Her mother’s hometown situated in the Conwy Valley on the edge of the famous mountains of Snowdonia in Wales.

  Except for the denim jacket hanging over the back of a chair and her shoes, she was still wearing the outfit she’d worn on the red-eye flight into Manchester, England this morning. Her conservative, navy blue suitcase lay open at the foot of her bed and her laptop case sat waiting for her on a small desk by the window. As she stood absorbing the details of the room, the door opened and a face peeked in.

  “I’m sorry if I woke you, but you did say you didn’t want to sleep too late.”

  At a nod from Megan, the petite, chatty proprietor of the B&B Megan had booked online smiled and stepped into the room. “I brought you a cup of tea and a couple of Welsh cakes.” Mrs. Smith indicated the small tray in her hand. “It should tide you over since you missed lunch.”

  “Thank you,” Megan murmured and meant it. The woman’s timely appearance had saved her from her worst nightmare. Literally.

  With another friendly smile, Mrs. Smith walked across the room, obviously intent on setting the tray on the dresser. Absently rubbing the goose bumps that pricked her arms, Megan stood beside the bed and watched. The nightmare, which had terrorized her since the age of five, always left her disoriented and slightly fearful, though the stallion had never hurt her no matter how often she visited him.

  She shook her head over her attempted rationalization. One of many she’d talked herself into over the years. Even though it was her nightmare, Megan always thought of it in terms of her visiting the horse instead the other way around, since the animal seemed so at home beside the river. Her subconscious attempt, perhaps, to both escape and confront the stresses in her life.

  “Oh, how beautiful.”

  Reflexively, Megan’s hand reached for her throat even though she remembered taking the locket off before succumbing to the effects of jet lag. She quickly crossed the room, the need to reclaim her inheritance strong within her.

  “Early Victorian, isn’t it?” Mrs. Smith said, more to herself than Megan, but then glanced Megan’s way. “May I?”

  Af
ter the briefest of hesitations, Megan nodded and Mrs. Smith picked up the fourteen karat gold oval, cradling it in the palm of her hand while the new chain Megan had bought only weeks before dangled between her fingers.

  “It’s a family heirloom. It originally belonged to my mother’s—my great-great-great aunt,” Megan said, gesticulating to indicate the Aunt Margaret in question had lived several generations ago. “It was a gift from a beau.”

  “The hand-etched design is quite exquisite,” Mrs. Smith said, her thumb rubbing gently across a flower petal. “It’s sad to think the romance ended and this is all your aunt had to remember her young man by.”

  “How did you know?” Because what Mrs. Smith said was true. According to family legend the beau had courted Aunt Margaret for some time and then suddenly disappeared.

  “Surely you’re aware of Victorian symbolism.”

  Megan shook her head. Until a few months ago, the locket had been the property of a relative she’d never met. And, although she’d heard the few details of Aunt Margaret’s love story from her mother several times, she knew very little about the locket itself.

  Mrs. Smith gently slid the locket into Megan’s palm and then pointed to the etching. “The butterfly represents the soul. It’s perched on a bouquet of forget-me-nots, which mean remembrance.”

  “Aunt Margaret never married,” Megan confessed. “And apparently she wore the locket every day for the rest of her life.”

  “How tragic. She must have loved him very much.”

  The observation startled Megan. For all the times she had heard the love story, she’d never made that connection. Her hand closed around the locket, holding it tight.

  “I think I’ll have that tea now,” she said.

  Mrs. Smith took the hint. “Right you are. You can get a decently priced dinner at the pub in town when you’re ready to venture out.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Megan said but the door had already closed. Uncurling her fingers, she ignored the tea and the Welsh cakes and examined the locket lying in her hand.

  “She must have loved him very much.” Had she? Megan wondered.

  Running her finger along the rim, Megan easily found the catch and the lid sprang open. Inside was a miniature—a portrait of a man with black hair wearing the unmistakable garb of the early Victorian era. His appearance immediately conjured the image of an untamable romance novel rogue.

  Not that she really needed to study the picture to know what the man looked like. She knew the stubborn jut of his chin. The sardonic upturn of his mouth, as if he challenged life on a daily basis, his aquiline nose, and the fierce brows that hooded his intense blue eyes.

  Intimately one might say, because the man in the picture was Owain—the man of her dreams. Mildly sensual when they’d first begun in her mid teens, their encounters had grown bolder and most definitely steamier the older she got.

  The dreams, and Owain himself, were also her secret.

  He was hers.

  Her dream lover.

  Her protector against the nightmares.

  And then she’d inherited the locket and discovered he’d belonged to someone else.

  By early evening she’d showered, changed into a fresh outfit, and logged onto her computer. First, she emailed her parents, informing them of her safe arrival and then checked for any messages from her clients. A website designer by profession, she was enough of a workaholic to miss the distraction of a new job—even if it was a simple update. But there were no messages, which left her with lots of time to think.

  And she definitely had questions. One remained uppermost in her mind after her conversation with Mrs. Smith. Namely, why a dead guy who’d supposedly been in love with her great-great-great and so forth aunt was making love to her in her dreams. But despite her desire to pursue her quest, Megan kept stumbling over her own reluctance. A part of her was afraid to learn the answers, which is why she hadn’t confronted Owain during one of her dreams.

  What if she discovered the truth and the dreams ended?

  What if she lost her dream lover and the nightmares took over?

  And yet the question of why had compelled her to cross an ocean in search of answers.

  Hungry and unwilling to pace her room in frustration any longer, she tucked the locket into her suitcase, grabbed her purse and headed out into the warm June evening. Maybe some time away from those mesmerizing blue eyes and that sardonic smile would clear her head.

  Her destination was the nearby pub recommended by Mrs. Smith. Walking along the main street, she passed the woolen mill for which the village was famous and then wandered down a side street, absorbing the sense of history. Low stone walls and cars—parking seemed to be at a premium—lined either side of the narrow streets. Up ahead she spotted an actual parking lot in front of a long, low building. A sign hanging out front prominently displayed the back end of a woolly sheep. Obviously the owner of The Sheep’s Tail had a sense of humor.

  Uncertain what to expect, she opened the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. Several people were milling around the bar, which was right across from the entrance, chatting with each other. A bald bartender glanced up and gave her a quick smile and a nod before someone hailed him with another order. A bit intimidated—crowds of strangers weren’t really her style—Megan made her way into the larger room off to the right in search of a table.

  The place was fairly full. Weaving through the crowd, she spotted a couple of men playing darts near the back of the room and beyond them an empty chair and table. Only she was mistaken. The table wasn’t empty at all. A half-finished pint sat on the table top and a man sat in the other chair, his back against the wall.

  She looked over, annoyed, though it was hardly his fault that the men playing darts had blocked her view of him. One glimpse and Megan froze mid-step. The air sucked right out of her lungs and she couldn’t seem to find her next breath. The man in the chair looked exactly like Owain.

  Chapter Two

  “Sweetheart.”

  Megan blinked. The man who looked like Owain was standing beside her left elbow, his forehead creased with concern.

  “Sweetheart, you need to breathe.”

  She frowned. Wasn’t breathing supposed to be automatic? But because the man who looked like Owain suggested it, she concentrated on filling her lungs. Her previously oxygen-deprived brain promptly thanked her by making her feel slightly intoxicated. Had The Sheep’s Tail put a little something extra in their air?

  She swayed on her feet, bumping against the man who looked like Owain. He didn’t budge, quickly caught her arm and held her steady. The heat from his palm seemed to burn through her denim jacket, warming her skin. Her breasts tingled and she was suddenly very aware of the proximity of his hand wrapped around her upper arm. All he had to do was flex his fingers and he’d be caressing her rather intimately.

  “Megan. Sweetheart, I think you better sit down.”

  Before she fell down, he meant.

  “That’s it.” He pulled out a chair and helped her to sit. Then he pulled his chair around so he could sit next to her. Thigh to thigh and not once did he let go of her arm.

  “Better?”

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  “I asked if you felt better.”

  “Before that.”

  “Before that, what?” His brow creased again, this time in confusion. A lock of his black hair, which was short at the sides and longer on top, fell across his forehead, making him look exactly like the Victorian bad boy of the locket. But his blue eyes glittered like sunlight on water, just like the Owain of her dreams.

  “What did you say before that?”

  “That’s it.”

  She shook her head.

  “I think you better sit down,” he said, repeating another one of his phrases.

  She shook her head again.

  The ends of his mouth curled up as if he was trying not to grin. His hand slid down her arm, his fingers intertwined with hers and his thumb caress
ed the back of her hand. He was trying to distract her from noticing the stubborn set of his chin, which looked just like Owain’s.

  “Sweetheart.” His voice grew husky and she detected a lilt that wasn’t quite like the Welsh accent she heard when Mrs. Smith spoke. But he sounded just like Owain whispering to her in the darkness.

  “Megan. You called me Megan.”

  He arched one eyebrow. “Well, that’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but—” Now she was the one who was confused. Unless… “Owain?”

  He tilted his head in a brief nod. “That’s right.”

  She started to shake her head rather emphatically then thought better of it. She could hardly dispute his veracity or that he looked like Owain, except that his features were sharper and more intense.

  “How old are you?” He looked to be in his mid-twenties, which made him about five years younger than her.

  He grinned. “Old enough to know my name. And yours.”

  She grabbed the glass of dark amber liquid sitting in the middle of the table and drank.

  “Hey, take it easy. That’s strong stuff.”

  He eased the glass out of her hand and set it at the far end of the small table. Then he caught her chin with his free hand and gently turned her head until she faced him and his intense blue eyes. Eyes weighted by experience far greater than his years.

  Strong stuff was coming face-to-face with Owain on her first evening in Wales.

  “This is—”

  “Crazy that you’re sitting right here next to me when I’ve only ever been able to visit you in your dreams.”

  “Oh. My. God.”

  Until he said the words out loud, she hadn’t quite believed, despite the evidence staring her in the face. She tugged her head free, but couldn’t look away. A slow heat burned her face the longer he stared at her. His eyes were definitely Owain’s eyes.

  Oh my God, he knows about my dreams.

  “I don’t believe you.” She blurted out the words as a purely defensive strategy. Her dreams were private, erotic, and none of his business, despite his claim that he was the Owain who appeared in them.