Charming The Highlander

So while Grace lay there contented and in no hurry to move, she studied Grey’s bedroom.

She was back in a castle.

And she was the most modern thing in the room. The ceiling above her was at least twelve feet high and made of darkened wood. Two of the walls were of black stone like below, polished to brilliance. The other two walls were of honey oak paneling. And nowhere did she see an electrical fixture or switch.

There were candles in wall sconces, and on a table beside the bed was an entire candelabra of half-burned tapers and a box of matches.

There was a giant hearth on the far wall, flanked on both sides by narrow windows high enough up the wall that she wouldn’t be able to see out them if she were standing on her tiptoes. The bed beneath her was the size of her kitchen at home, and it was a good three feet above the floor.

And those were the more normal things she could see. The rest of the room looked as if it had come directly out of a picture book of medieval castles. A long, narrow length of cloth was draped over the mantel, its colors the same as the shirt she had stolen from Grey. There was an odd-looking saddle with a thick leather bridle hanging down the front of it on a wooden rack standing in the corner of the room.

And then there was a sword lying across the arms of a chair, as if it had been absentmindedly placed there after slaying a dragon.

A sword. She didn’t know much about antiques, but Grace would bet a pe

’d seen in museums but had the patina of age and use. The handle was not ornate by any means. It had a worn, comfortable look, perfectly designed for a large, masculine hand. The sword was obviously a service weapon, not a ceremonial decoration.

A sword. An antique saddle. Candles. And a castle.

Grace frowned at the hearth as she tried to assimilate what she was seeing, remembering Michael’s story of his supposed journey through time. Ten men, he had said, were caught in the storm. Six MacBains and four others he had refused to talk about, much less name.

A battle. Enemies. And seven years of hatred.

Naw. It couldn’t be. Not one of the four MacKeages had shown even the smallest sign of being delusional.

They were Scots, so why shouldn’t they want to live in a castle? It probably reminded them of home.

Castles were part of their culture, after all.

And besides, would Michael have moved here a year ago if Grey and the others were the enemies he’d been fighting during that storm?

But it was the MacKeages themselves who had told her about Maura. Seven years ago. Before Michael’

s…mishap.

Grace turned her head and looked at the man beside her. His eyes were open, watching her.

“You live in a castle, Greylen MacKeage.”

“Aye. I do.”

“Why?”

“I like castles.”

She waited for him to elaborate, but apparently that was all he had to say on the subject. Grace wiggled to see if he was ready to let her up. He wasn’t.

“This is your bedroom,” she said lamely.

“It is.”

“And this is your bed I’m in.”

“I so admire your mind,” he drawled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement.

Dammit. She couldn’t seem to find the willpower to move.

“How did I get in your bed?”

“I brought you here.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s where you belong.”

She had to look away from him then, so she could remember to breathe. She stared up at the ceiling.

“You don’t have a shirt on,” she thought to tell him, moving her free hand to the top button on her blouse.

At least she was still dressed. Why did that disappoint her?

“I was hot.”

She was getting a little hot herself. Why was he just lying there staring at her? She didn’t have to look at him to know those evergreen eyes were watching her with the intensity and the patience of a cat preparing to pounce.

She should probably pounce first.

Grace suddenly pulled herself out from beneath his leg and rolled on top of him, bracing her hands on his chest as she straddled his waist. That got his attention.

“I want to register a complaint about your resort,” she told him, swatting his hands away when he tried to take hold of her hips. “It seems your guests go to sleep in one place and wake up in another. Are you in the habit of carrying women up to your bed, Mr. MacKeage?”

Realizing she was going to keep swatting him if he kept trying to grab her, Grey conceded and folded his hands behind his head, giving her a negligent shrug.

“Not usually,” he returned. “Only the beautiful ones.”

Grace dug her fingers into his bare chest, determined not to be swayed by his compliment.

Or by that gleam of pure male lust sparking in his eyes.

Nor would she let herself be distracted by the growing evidence of his arousal she felt beneath her.

Dammit. She’d known that if she came to Gu Bràth she’d end up in his bed. But that didn’t mean she had to fall all over him like a love-sick schoolgirl.

But she did fall, when Grey moved so quickly that Grace only had time to squeak before she found herself flat on her back again, once more pi

Grey brushed the hair from her face and smiled at her with all the warmth of a preying cat who’d just caught supper. “I’ll consider your complaint registered, lass. And I’ll give ya one of my own. You’re taking way too long to kiss me.”

“I’m not in the habit of rewarding arrogance.”

He leaned back. “Arrogance? For giving you a comfortable bed to sleep in?”

“For it being your bed,” she countered. “And for being in it with me.”

He lowered his mouth to within inches of hers, smiled, and whispered, “Ah, lass. That’s not arrogance.

That’s belonging.” He lowered his head and covered her mouth with his.

Grace stopped blustering and kissed him back, cupping his face with her hands, splaying her fingers through his silky hair. She liked the way its wavy auburn length made her fingertips tingle. He had the softest hair.

And the hardest body. He was like hot steel, rigid with an escalating tension brought on by her teasing.

A tension that started to echo inside her own body.

“We…we should stop,” she whispered in blatant contradiction to her action, sliding her mouth over his jaw and tightening her arms around him.

“The hell we will,” he said through gritted teeth, pulling her lips back to his. Grace almost laughed at his anything but subtle desire for her. Loving Greylen MacKeage was such a natural thing, warm and fun and so very thrilling.

She opened her mouth and eagerly took his tongue inside. Her senses reeled as his scent assaulted her.

He smelled of nature, of the weather, and of himself. His chest radiated heat, and her breasts ached with longing to be naked against him. She wanted to feel the hair on his chest tickle her bare skin.

“We’re going to make love again,” she said, pulling away and staring up at him. It wasn’t a question.

He nodded. Curtly.

He was so unbelievably handsome. His eyes burned with the fire of passion, and his broad shoulders and marvelous chest radiated unimaginable strength. Grace shivered. She wanted him again with a fierceness that consumed her.

And he wanted her. She could feel his desire straining against his pants, pulsing at the very heart of her womanhood. Grace shifted to feel more of him push against her as she began unbuttoning her blouse, her eyes never leaving his, her whole body trembling with urgency.

As soon as she got her blouse open and her bra unsnapped, Grey lowered himself down until his chest covered hers. She moaned with pleasure.