Dogs ran like that only when they were making for their masters.
“Oh, God!” Mindy’s heart stilled.
She spun around just in time to see Gibbie disappear into the darkness. When happy barks and a man’s—Bran’s—deep, rich laugh came from inside the swirling, impenetrable mist, she could have whooped louder than the Long Gallery Threesome had done at the pub.
“Bran!” She shouted his name, not caring who heard her.
Then she ran, tearing down the road so fast that a stitch jabbed her side. But she kept on, nearly falling when she slipped on the slick pavement and her feet almost went flying out from under her.
“Mindy-lass.” Bran caught her, sweeping her up into his arms and pulling her hard against him. “I’d sworn no’ to come, but”—he pressed his lips to her hair, raining kisses from her temple to her ear, nuzzling and nibbling her neck—“I couldn’t stay away.”
Beside them, Gibbie barked. He was running circles around them, tail wagging.
Mindy thought her heart would burst. “I saw Gibbie in the pub. Then again at the Village Hall.”
Bran leaned back to grin at her. “And who do you think sent him?”
“Oh, Bran.” She twined her arms around his neck, her heart thumping wildly.
“I’ve been mad with missing you.” She clung to him, rubbing her face against his plaid. Its wool was rough against her skin and she’d never felt anything more wonderful. Her entire body was shaking, inside and out, but she didn’t care. He smelled of woodsmoke and the cold, frosty night.
She wanted to drink him in.
Bran looked ready to toss her over his shoulder and carry her off to his turret.
She wished he would!
“I didn’t think I’d see you again.” She couldn’t believe he was here. “I thought—”
“You thought wrong.” He smoothed her cheek with his warm, calloused hand. “I knew I’d see you. Nothing could have kept me away.”
His eyes blazed hotly. “I’ve got to kiss you now. Afterwards . . .” His voice was low and deep. The last word hung in the air, throbbing with promise. He pulled her closer against him and slanted his mouth over hers, plunging his tongue between her lips to kiss her ravenously.
The world dipped and spun.
Castlebay and its cottages and harbor vanished, leaving only the fiery heat between them. The hot and urgent kiss Mindy didn’t want to ever end.
“O-o-oh!” She reeled, her sigh lost in the blended breath of their kiss. She opened her mouth wide beneath his, needing the raging intimacy, the excitement of his tongue swirling and tangling with hers.
Nothing existed except the feel of his lips moving over hers, the racing of her heart, and her mad wish that he’d never stop kissing her.
She gripped his neck, digging her fingers in his hair. The strands felt cool and thick, smooth to the touch. She thrust her other hand inside his plaid, needing to feel his skin, the rock- hard muscles and crisp triangle of chest hair that had been the stuff of her dreams. Fantasies about stroking his chest hair had kept her awake at night, making her tingle and burn, aching to touch and explore him.
Then, without her even realizing they’d moved, he was setting her down on the edge of the quay, very near Jock’s little boat. Except that she saw now that it wasn’t Jock’s boat at all, but an even smaller one.
It was a rowboat.
But it resembled a cockleshell with oars. She stared at it, suddenly comprehending. It was medieval. She’d read somewhere—or maybe seen on a TV documentary—that such a teacup on water was called a coracle. And she could think of only one reason for it to be here.
Mindy swallowed.
Bran grinned, looking delighted.
“You can’t mean for us to get in that.” All the pleasure that had been sizzling inside Mindy congealed into a cold, tight ball of dread.
Bran gripped her arms with his big, strong hands. “I needed days to summon the energy to sift the boat here. Now that it’s bobbing in the water before us, do you think I’d let it sink beneath you?”
Gibbie hopped into the tiny boat, proving his own faith.
Mindy wasn’t reassured.
“Ahhh . . .” She looked from the dog to Bran, then at the bay. The water that only minutes before appeared mildly choppy now looked like heaving, plunging seas.
“Sweet lass, I want to show you my home.” Bran swept an arm around her, pulling her close. “The grandeur of my tower—”
“Your tower bedchamber,” Mindy finished for him, not missing the implication.
He wanted to make love to her.
No, he’d just told her he was going to. And that fine difference sent a whirl of flutters through her stomach and places lower.
But the cold, hard knot of fear of his coracle wouldn’t be budged.
“Aye, my bedchamber—and you know why I wish to take you there.” Bran spoke as if she couldn’t possibly have any objections. He released her to make a broad, expansive gesture, taking in the bay and his islet with its tower and curtain walls. “I also wish you to see my home before it becomes a Gaelic heritage center.”
His grin said how pleased he was about her plans.
“How did you know?” Mindy stared at him, the cockleshell forgotten. She flashed a glance at Gibbie. “Surely he couldn’t have—”
“Told me of your talk with a certain preening peacock scribe?” Bran planted his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Gibbie is a fine beast—the best—but the powers of speech are no’ one of his talents.”
He laughed. “It was thon three chieftain friends of yours who told me.” He glanced at the water where, just beyond the opening of the bay, a tiny yellow light and a large square sail could be made out, if one squinted and peered deeply into the night.
Mindy stared. “You met them?”
Bran followed her gaze. “This is my Barra, lass. No one comes here without my knowledge. No’ even other chiefs of my own proud race!
“To be sure, I spoke with them.” He leaned down to kiss her brow. “It’s in their interest, as it is my own, that this ends well. Though, just now, I happen to know they’re off to visit friends they haven’t seen in centuries.”
He slid an arm around her, squeezing her close as the galley sped across the dark water of the open sea. “Perhaps someday we’ll see them again. There truly is magic in Scotland, you know!”
He looked down at her, winking. The sword at his hip gleamed blue. “The scribe told you of my Heartbreaker, didn’t he?”
Mindy nodded. She could feel warmth streaming off the sword’s enchanted hilt. “I understand now why—”
He pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her. “Wee Hughie MacSporran isn’t as all-knowing as he’d like to think. Just so there aren’t any doubts in your mind”—he replaced his finger with his lips, giving her a hard, swift kiss—“the Heartbreaker only lets MacNeil men know where the woman of our heart is waiting for us.
“The sword’s magic doesn’t choose that woman. Our own hearts do that.”
“Oh, Bran!” Mindy blinked hard. She swallowed against the hot thickness in her throat. “I love you so. I—”
“I know that well!” He grinned again. “And you’re about to see firsthand how a Barra chieftain shows his woman how much he loves her.”
On the words, he swept her up in his arms again, depositing her into the coracle with Gibbie. Then he was in the boat beside her, taking the oars and rowing them swiftly out to his islet, where, she saw now, lights—looking like the flames from medieval torches—flickered in the square keep’s narrow slit windows.
Another torch appeared to hang on an iron bracket on the seaward wall near a small, sloping jetty, complete with stone steps and even a rail.
The light from that torch—the one at the jetty—shimmered brightly on the water.
And then they were there.
Gibbie sprang out of the coracle first. Bran followed as quickly and then turned to lift Mindy ashore. The tower—and it no l
onger even resembled the Folly she knew from Bucks County—loomed dark and solid before them. A magnificent place that, she knew, was not of her century.
She looked up at Bran, awe and wonder taking her breath.
“This is your Barra, isn’t it?”
“You know it is.”
“But how—”
The hot glance he shot her quelled her question. He grabbed her hand, was already leading her up the short and steep path to a massive, iron-studded door set deep into the curtain wall.
“Come, lass, it is time.” He pushed open the door and pulled her with him into the night-darkened bailey.
But it wasn’t really dark.
Here, torches blazed in archways and from high above them, on what she knew had to be the parapets along the seaward walling. The light was soft and luminous, shining in golden pools on the damp cobbles of the bailey.
Bran flashed a look at her. “Much finer than the cold lights of your day, eh?”
“Oh, my, yes.” Mindy meant it.
There was a difference. And it was to the disadvantage of her time.
But she didn’t have long to admire the bailey’s medieval ambience. Bran was leading her to his hall, where—her heart stalled, then galloped madly—she could hear loud pipe and fiddle music, raucous laughter and song. The sounds of many men enjoying themselves and, she thought, a few snatches of female laughter, as well.
They were nearing the hall now and she glanced at him, suddenly unsure.
Here—in his world, only steps away from the entrance to his keep—he looked even larger, more irresistibly rugged and proud than she’d ever seen him.
Yet she . . .
She looked down at her black pants and waxed jacket, her clunky hill-walking boots.
“Wait!” She dug in her heels, glancing round. Glad that they hadn’t yet encountered anyone else.
A medieval.
Dear God! She ran a hand over her hair, tugged at her jacket. “Bran—wait!”
He was already reaching for the door latch. “Aye?”
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly ash dry. “What if someone sees us? Sees me?”
“The whole of my hall shall see you, Mindy-lass. And”—he flashed that wicked smile—“I shall be damned proud when they do!”
“But my clothes—”
“Think you any friends of mine willnae ken you’re a modern?” He spoke as if that settled everything.
He reached for the door, but it swung wide before he could close his fingers on the huge, black iron handle.
“So you’re returned, at last!” An incredibly handsome man, with dark hair and laughing eyes, swept out an arm, welcoming them inside.
“Saor MacSwain, my lady.”
He bent a gallant knee, his charm almost physical. “ ’Tis long that we have waited for you!”
“Mindy Menlove.” Mindy felt like she’d stepped onto the stage of a costumed opera.
But the man’s flashing-eyed smile—and the firm grip of Bran’s hand—put her at ease.
“MacSwain, I know you’re eager! But you’ll have to wait longer still to properly meet my lady.” Bran started forward, pulling her with him across the crowded hall. “We’ve personal business to attend first.”
He tossed the words over his shoulder, looking straight ahead as he practically dragged her to a shadowy archway that, she saw at once, could only be the entrance to a torchlit stair tower.
Though, leading to the castle’s oldest tower, the archway had been walled up at the Folly.
Before she could digest that, Bran stopped. He flicked his wrist, producing a large beef rib, which he tossed to Gibbie. The dog had been trotting beside them. Now he leapt to catch the bone in midair, before loping off with the treat clamped in his jaw.
Bran turned back to Mindy. “I don’t want poor Gibbie blushing once I have you to myself.” He leaned down to kiss her quickly and—she gasped—swept a hand down her hip to squeeze her buttocks!
“Come, now.” He grabbed her hand again, tugging her along even faster than before. “I cannae wait much longer—”
“Ho, Bran!” Saor MacSwain rushed up to them just as they reached the bottom stair.
This time a woman hovered at his side. Her stare gave Mindy frostbite. Worse, she was the most beautiful female Mindy had ever seen. She had shining masses of sleek, raven black hair that tumbled to her hips, creamy golden skin, and incredible cleavage.
Mindy felt herself blanch.
The woman smiled cattily.
She was clearly some kind of exotic courtesan, judging from her almost-transparent clothes and the nearly overpowering musk perfume swirling around her like a cloud. She also had unnaturally red lips and heavily kohled eyes.
They were eyes that glared daggers at Mindy.
And Mindy saw now that Saor hadn’t chased them across the hall. The woman had. Bran’s friend had clearly hastened after her, a fact displayed by the way he held the woman’s arm in a fierce grip.
“Serafina prepared your chamber as you requested.” Saor spoke to Bran.
Serafina kept her feline gaze on Mindy. “I’ve readied everything,” she purred, her voice just as smoky and seductive as Mindy knew it would be. “Though”—she narrowed her dark eyes, taking in Mindy’s clothes—“I am sure you will not be in need of such accoutrements for long. Indeed, I wonder why you even wished me to take such trouble?”
Bran stepped between her and Mindy. His voice hardened. “If you do not treat my lady with respect, you will regret the next task I put before you. It would involve”—he slid a meaningful glance across the hall—“walking through yon door and never again—”
“I am sorry.” The woman simpered. She leaned into Saor, linking an arm through his and pressing her breasts into his side. “Lady”—she glanced at Mindy—“I wish you well here.”
Mindy nodded, not believing a word.
Serafina reminded her of everything she disliked—most especially women who were described as being catlike. Unfortunately, she also felt unbearably hot, and not in a good way.
Nor did it have anything to do with the general heat of the hall from the massive fireplace piled with logs that burned with a crackling roar.
She was flushing because the Serafina woman had made her feel like a great, galumphing amazon. Gads, even the she-wolf’s shoes looked like wisps of spun silk. The slippers were even beaded. With jewels! Mindy thought of her own sturdy, thick-soled boots again and wanted to die.
That was why the tops of her ears burned like flame. And why, she was sure, she’d run tomato red.
But before she could catch her breath and count to ten, Bran gathered her into his arms again and was carrying her up the winding tower stairs.
When he paused on the second landing and looked down at her, treating her to the full force of his most devastating smile, she forgot all about Serafina- the-Seductress.
“Forget her,” Bran said, as if he’d read her mind. “She is here for the entertainment of my friends. They are good men who, in life, weren’t always treated kindly and now deserve a spot of pleasure and fun.
“She means nothing to me.” As if to prove it, he lowered his head and kissed her, his tongue once again sweeping deep into her mouth, its mastery making her forget everything except that they were here, together.
And that they’d soon be naked on his bed . . .
It was going to happen fast, she knew, because they’d reached the top of the stairs and he was practically sprinting with her along a short corridor. He stopped before a door, shouldering it open. He set her down and stepped back, letting her take in the room’s astounding opulence.
“Wow.” Mindy’s jaw slipped.
Bran nodded, pleased.
No Hollywood films or even highly respected research books on the medieval period and castles could match the glory of his bedchamber.
The furnishings of the Folly were nothing like comparable.
Richly embroidered tapestries in dazzling colors hung from brig
ht, limewashed walls, and candles blazed everywhere, surely dozens and dozens of them. The room was a flickering wonderland of golden light.
A log fire blazed in the hearth. And—she’d never believed this was truly done, but she couldn’t doubt it now—the floor rushes had been strewn with sweet-smelling herbs and rose petals. The result was a feast for the senses.
A table near one of the tall, arch-topped windows held a different kind of feast. Jewel-rimmed wine and ale glasses had been set out next to large ewers, obviously filled with the finest libations. A tray of superbly roasted capons, still warm, smelled heavenly. There were also platters of cheese and fresh-baked pastries, and several small dishes of dates and sugared almonds.
Nothing looked less than sumptuous.
There were even water- filled finger bowls and carefully folded linen napkins.
Bran of Barra knew how to live.
But it was the bed that really took Mindy’s breath.
It was huge.
And so high there were steps to climb into it. Fourpostered and with its dark-gleaming wood intricately carved, the bed boasted thick, heavily embroidered curtaining and covers. A welter of equally fine bolsters and pillows rounded out the bed’s glory, while neatly folded furred bed rugs at the foot waited to spend extra warmth if desired.
It was a bed of dreams, straight out of a fairy tale.
Mindy’s heart thumped.
“Did you know . . .” The splendor made her sharply aware of the ordinariness of her twenty-first century. “. . . there was a time of greatness here, at your Barra, though later than your day, when the MacNeil chief would order his trumpeters to stand on the battlements at night and blast a fanfare? Their duty was to announce that now that he had dined, the rest of the world could eat their own supper.”
Bran’s eyes rounded. Then he grinned. “Come, sweet—”
“It’s true!” Mindy waved a hand. “You can read about it in any history book.
“I believe the words were, ‘Hear, O ye people, and listen, O ye nations. The great MacNeil of Barra having finished his meal, the princes of the earth may dine!’
“Now”—she looked about the lavish bedchamber—“I understand why they were so proud. Now—”
“Mindy-lass!” Bran put his hands on her shoulders and looked at her very intently. “I am torn between throwing back my head and laughing and turning you over my knee! To be sure, we are a proud race and I’ll no’ deny any such boast.
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