Bewildered by her nose, she turned around. A few yards from her sat a rider on horseback. He was a rather large man with strong thighs and muscular arms. His hair was as gold as the setting sun, with lowlights of dark auburn blending throughout. With the wind blowing it away from his face, a deeper shade of blond scruff covered the sharp angular ridge of his prominent jaw. He was a handsome man, quite different from the others she’d seen from the start of her trip. He was definitely not an Irish native, yet, by the way he sat on his jet-black horse—proud and content—he wasn’t a tourist either. He looked as if he belonged here. Like the rugged island was his and he was its stately proprietor.
Lorraine swallowed hard, blinking several times to adjust her eyes. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. The man with the striking good looks was also the very man from her dreams. He may not have been clothed in the medieval garb or possessed a broad sword at his hip, but he was, without a doubt, the man who had sprung from the bush and held her down.
Fear laced with adrenaline coursed through her veins. She tried to step away, to quietly withdraw from the cliff without him seeing her, but her legs wouldn’t move. Only her heart proved capable of stirring. It pounded so hard against her ribs, she thought she might vomit.
She swallowed instinctively, hoping the god-awful sensation of nausea would dissipate. The last thing she wanted to do was puke right in front of this guy and deface the beautiful Dún Aonghasa.
She was hot, sweltering in her rain coat, despite the constant breeze whistling in her ears. She felt her knees buckle and the ground spin. She threw her arms out to steady herself, but it didn’t help. As she teetered, her eyes drifted to nothing, a blackness seeping in from all around her. The last thing she remembered was the edge of the cliff. If she didn’t fall backward, she would plummet to her death.
****
Leif looked to his right, about to greet the woman in a flashy orange raincoat beside him, but saw her stagger as if she were trying to balance herself on a swaying tightrope. Her face was white and her eyes were wide with fright.
“You all right?”
Seasickness. That’s what it was. So many of these damn tourists come straight off the ferry and foolishly make haste for Dún Aonghasa before it closes, only to find themselves battling a bout of vertigo in the most dangerous spot they could put themselves.
He dismounted in haste. “I think you need to sit down.”
No eye contact. No reply. It was obvious she was too far gone to listen to him and she looked like she was on the verge of passing out. Just as he took a few steps toward her, her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed. Try as he may, he couldn’t catch her in time and she crumpled face-down on the ground.
Coming to her aid, he knelt beside her and rolled her over. A flash of hideous purple bruising on her forehead instantly caught his attention. “Bloody hell.”
He reached for her throat and checked for a pulse, a sigh of relief washing over him. As he sat there, he couldn’t help but notice the beautiful sight of purity and grace that lay before him. His eyes drank in the delicateness of her facial features, the fullness of her bottom lip, and the clean cut of her jaw that slipped into a graceful strip of feminine neck. She looked so unlike the other women he had known, and found the differences to be inviting, if not refreshing.
Her hair was gathered recklessly behind her and a few locks had fallen loosely across her chest where she lay. He reached down and stroked the dark tresses, feeling the softness between his fingers. Before he realized what he was doing, he had brought a lock of her hair to his nose and smelled it. He savored it, breathing in deeper this time, smelling the fragrant shampoo she used this morning mixed with the unique aroma of her spiced perfume. Still, none equaled her beauty.
A rumble of thunder shook him from his thoughts. What the hell am I doing? This woman needs help and I’m smelling her hair.
Leif looked around him. Not a soul in sight.
It figures she’d have to pass out at dusk when all the tourists had already made their way back to their Aran island hotels. No one was available to help him save for his trusty steed.
“Looks like it’s just you and me,” he uttered over his shoulder.
Slipping his arms beneath her back and knees, he lifted her and carried her toward his horse. She barely weighed anything and the thought of him carrying her in her unconscious state made him feel like a hunky hero in one of those romance books, whisking the damsel in distress off to safety.
As he stood next to his horse, he quickly realized whisking her away was not going to be such an easy task. He looked her over one last time, determining that her wounds were not life threatening, and tossed her over his shoulder.
Wrapping his left arm around the back of her legs, he slipped his foot in the stirrup. Since he’d never done this before, he thought the whole thing through before he clutched a firm grip around the horse’s mane and threw a heavy leg up over the saddle. As he settled in the seat and lowered her body to his lap, he sat relieved he hadn’t dropped the woman.
With her head cradled against his chest, he touched her cheek with drawn fingers, wondering who she was. He knew many of the natives who shared residence with him on the isle. If she wasn’t Irish, she was definitely a newcomer, one he admittedly wanted to know. She was a vision of heaven in his arms, and he could only anticipate the moment she would open her eyes. He never got a clear look at their color before she went out, but he imagined they were like crystal jade through the dark of the night.
Yes, he longed to see her eyes and already began planning his night; a crackling fire in the hearth, a tasty meal, and maybe even some wine.
Another rumble of thunder shook the ground and, just as he clicked his tongue to get the horse to walk, the rain poured down around him. He looked up into the sky. “Really?”
He pulled the woman closer to his chest, trying to shield her face from the onslaught of the sudden shower, and kicked his horse to run. With the sweet smelling woman pressed tightly against him, he tore across the craggy field toward his house.
Chapter Four
Kicking the door open, Leif slipped through his entryway sideways, careful not to catch her head on the frame, and booted it closed. They were drenched from the downpour and all he could think about was getting out of his wet clothes and building that roaring fire.
Catching sight of his old bearskin cloak draped across the seat of his rocking chair, he slid it off with his foot. It was a family heirloom, given to him by his great great grandfather and for a split second he thought twice about abusing it in such a way. But he was practically smitten with the woman. Truth be told, he’d offer anything in order to insure her comfort.
After clumsily spreading the furry hide with his boots, he dropped to his knees and laid her down, his eyes already glancing toward the turf neatly stacked beside his fireplace.
As he stood to gather the turf, he unbuttoned his shirt and ripped the clinging fabric from his body. He hated the feel of wet clothes adhering to him and no amount of living in Ireland had gotten him used to it.
In no time at all, he had the fire blazing, the unmistakable smell of the peat permeating his living room. He sat back on his haunches and gazed at the woman sleeping on his floor. Her inactivity troubled him and he wished she would soon come to.
Content with the fire’s growth, he made haste to tend his loyal horse still standing in the rain. He grabbed his raincoat off the hook and threw his arms in, reluctant to leave. With a tight grip on the door handle, it seemed the woman already had a tight grip on his heartstrings. He had no earthly idea why. Forcing himself to look away, he opened the door and stepped out into the rain, thoughts of her just a hair’s breadth away.
****
Leif checked his watch. Fours hours had slowly crept by since he came back in from the barn, changed into dry clothes, and waited for the woman to awaken. Still no sign of movement.
He sat across from her on a straight-back kitchen chair, m
eticulously rubbing neat’s-foot oil over every inch of his water-damaged saddle while he waited for her to awaken. Caring for leather tack can easily take a few hours, if one cares enough to do it properly, but a man can only oil a saddle for so long before its downright overkill.
He half expected the oil fumes, alone, would have been enough to rouse her. It became clear that this situation called for different measures. Frustrated, he capped the bottle and stood to put another log on the fire, this time being less careful of the noise he made in the process.
Kneeling beside her, he reached out and touched her shoulder. He opened his mouth to call her by name, but realized he didn’t get that opportunity before she went down like a sack of spuds.
****
Lorraine moaned and slightly opened her eyes, finding it hard to focus. She saw a figure of a man before her, calming her with his soothing voice. Patrick… It must be Patrick.
Forgetting she was more than three thousand miles from home, she relaxed as she felt his hands caress her hair and heard his voice speak quietly to her, reassuring her that she was safe from harm. It didn’t sound like Patrick’s voice, but she convinced her groggy self that it was probably in the middle of the night and he was soothing her after another dream. She closed her eyes to his pleasant words, a warm fire crackling behind her.
Wait—Patrick doesn’t have a fireplace…
She tried concentrating on the sound. Perhaps it wasn’t a fire. She opened her eyes again, blinking away the blurriness and squinting to join the double images into one. His face emerged from the haze; a sharply chiseled face with blond hair and kind eyes.
Blond hair?
Her smile erased instantly as she caught her breath, once again, looking at the man she remembered from her dream. It all came rushing back to her. She had been standing on the cliff of Inis Mór when she caught sight of this man on his horse. Her world had spun out from under her. The last thing she remembered was him dismounting and coming toward her, the threat of the cliff’s edge looming in the back of her mind.
But where was she now? Where had he taken her?
Panic shot through her, and she quickly looked around, trying to recognize anything. Nothing was familiar, save him. She felt extremely nervous and dreadfully alone.
Frozen with fear, she watched him stand and walk to the other side of the room—no doubt a small act of kindness to make her feel more comfortable. It did not slow the racing heart within her chest. His physical presence, no matter how far away he went, still terrified her. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
They gawked at each other, perhaps trying to read each other’s thoughts, until finally, he folded his arms across his chest and smiled boldly.
There he stood; a monument of beauty and power, sturdy as the ground beneath him. He had long blond hair, a well groomed beard, and skin darkened from the sun. His eyes revealed a sense of maturity and intrigue, but even the darkness could not hide their color for they were as blue as the ocean she had crossed to get to Ireland. His hands showed scars and calluses from years of hard work, yet his broad chest, bulging out from underneath a faded tight T-shirt, held most of her attention.
“Lochlannach,” she breathed.
“You’re Irish?”
Lorraine swallowed, wondering where that word had come from. Hell, she didn’t even know what it meant. “No, I-I’m American.”
“But you spoke Irish Gaelic and called me a Viking. Lochlannach means ‘lake dweller’—a term the Irish called the Norse foreigners a long time ago.”
Lorraine stared at him, still unsure of herself or what had come out of her mouth.
“It’s okay,” he said kindly. “It’s not an insult as far as I’m concerned. I’ve been called worse in my time. Just didn’t expect it.” A smile started to tug at his mouth. “I suppose the blond hair gave me away?”
Not exactly, she thought. She had more of a difficult time wrapping her head around the fact that the man from her dreams was real and talking to her.
Lorraine sat up straighter, uncomfortably hot next to the fire, and felt a strange dampness in her clothes.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he began. “I tried to get you under shelter as quickly as I could, but by the time I mounted my horse with you in my arms, the rain poured from the sky. I would’ve taken you to your hotel had I known where you were staying, but I didn’t even know your name. Is there someone you want to contact? Someone you’re vacationing with to let them know you’re all right? It’s very late, almost midnight. I’m sure they’re worried sick.”
His considerate words stole hers right out of her mouth. If she had any residual fear of him, it had readily diminished. To know he had picked her up in his arms and whisked her away on his horse, just so she wouldn’t get wet, astounded her. Could he really be her knight in shining armor?
“Um…I’m staying at the Man of Aran Cottage. But I’m not with anyone,” Lorraine clarified as she tried to stand up.
A little wobbly on her feet, he came rushing to her aid, bracing her elbows in the palms of his sturdy hands. “You came to Ireland by yourself?”
She blinked rapidly, her normal motor skills slow to react. In her delayed efforts, she staggered away from him.
“Here now,” he coaxed, putting his arm behind her back for support. “You need to sit.”
Lorraine looked up at him, his chiseled face only inches from hers, his large, brawny body hovering far too close, too quickly. She teetered clumsily backward.
Before she could fall, he caught her and pulled her upright into his arms, her face smacking the warm blunt plane of his chest. “Are you trying to hurt yourself? ’Cause at the rate you’re going, you’ll be spending the rest of your Ireland holiday in the hospital.”
Lorraine flinched at the approach of his hand, but he stopped short. “Your head…you passed out. Remember?”
She touched where he pointed and winced. “Oh…I fell out of my bed.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” he corrected. “You were standing on the cliff near Dún Aonghasa when you went down and I’m pretty sure I didn’t see a bed.”
“No, I mean this bump is from a few days ago when I fell out of my bed at home.”
His face drew back in surprise. “A grown woman falls out of her bed? Some dream you must have had.”
Lorraine froze, his tone sounding as if he knew something about her dreams. As if he were hinting he’d had the same. She studied him, peering into his beautiful blue eyes for a clue. After a few moments of silence, he cocked his head.
“Do you always make a habit of falling out of your bed?”
Though his jest made her smile with embarrassment, it confirmed she had hit her head harder than she thought. This man might have resembled the brazen warrior in her dreams, but she had to start realizing it was purely coincidence. Nothing more.
Backing slowly out of his embrace, she began making excuses. “I’m merely jet-lagged, I think. This vacation was a spur of the moment kind of thing. And…”
“Don’t worry yourself. I’m just glad you’re all right. Now, take off your wet clothes and then you can have my—”
She reacted as if his words seared through her like one of the red hot brands Patrick uses on his horses.
****
“I most certainly will not!”
“You cannot get warm in sodden clothing,” he proclaimed.
“I will do no such thing!”
“Listen, princess,” he retorted, beginning to take off his belt and boots. “You, above all, should know this rain will be holding us here for many hours, if not days. I am not going to sit in wet, uncomfortable clothes when I have perfectly dry blankets at my disposal. And I suggest you follow my lead.”
I hadn’t long to contemplate his candid advice before he had completely disrobed.
“Oh, my goodness!” I gasped, turning my head away from his nakedness.
“You might as well get used to it, my lady. Soon you will be seeing me this way every ni
ght.”
“I will not!” I argued over my shoulder.
“Will you close your eyes to me even on our wedding night?”
“You are a stupid heathen of a man! How can you possibly think that I will want to marry you?”
****
“Marry you?”
Lorraine’s eyes flashed open at the sound of the man’s sharp, deep voice resonating behind her. She half expected to look over her shoulder and see him completely naked in front of her. But when she peeked around, he stood there, fully clothed, hands on his hips, a look of bewilderment on his face.
“Don’t you think I should at least know your name before you propose to me?”
Lorraine brought both hands to her head. What the hell was that? One minute she was talking about being jet-lagged in this man’s living room and the next she was standing in a cave—from what she could gather—watching the same man remove his wet warrior clothing while demanding she do the same on account of rain. It all seemed like a dream, yet she clearly was not sleeping.
“Is it still raining?” she asked curiously.
The blond stranger narrowed his eyes. “It is…which is why your clothes are wet and why I suggested you remove them and get into dry ones.” He quickly pointed behind him. “In the bathroom, down the hall, of course.”
Relief washed over her. “I’m sorry…I’m…um,” she stuttered, words failing her.
“Are you sure you’re all right? There’s a doctor who lives up the road from here. At this hour I know he’s taken to his bed, but I think this would be considered an emergency. Clearly, you’re suffering from some mild head trauma.”
“No,” she said at once. “I don’t need a doctor. I’m fine. Really.”
He didn’t look convinced.
“Look, I just need a moment to gather my wits if you don’t mind.”
“Sure.” He reached for the pile of clothes from his coffee table and handed them to her. “I know they probably won’t fit you, but they’re dry. And I found a pair of pants with a drawn string so that might help. The bathroom’s two doors down on the left”
The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set Page 71
